Jurgen acknowledged the joke. ‘Wait till you’ve been here eight months,’ he said. ‘You’ll be keen to get home too. And the Summer Gales could start any week now. I want to be round Cape Shelter before they do.’
‘Then let’s go and meet the local bigwigs,’ Hal said. He turned to the crew assembled behind him. ‘Thorn, you come with me. Stig, take charge of getting us set up in the small hut. Screen off a separate area for Lydia.’
‘I can sleep on board,’ Lydia said.
Hal shrugged. ‘Maybe. But if we can organise some privacy for you, you’ll be more comfortable.’ He turned back to Jurgen. ‘Shall we meet the locals?’
Jurgen gestured towards the village on the slope above the beach, and stepped to one side, allowing Hal and Thorn to proceed ahead of him. The men who had accompanied him joined Stig and the others as they unloaded their gear and led the way towards the small hut.
The village was a neat affair, and the houses and other buildings looked to be well maintained. They were all single-storey constructions, laid out along one main street, with side alleys running off to access small vegetable plots, worksheds and animal pens behind the houses. There was a common grassed area at the end of the main street, where a handful of sheep and three dairy cows were grazing.
Jurgen led the way to one of the larger houses, in the middle of the village. It was built of the same materials as its neighbours, and to the same general design. But it was nearly half again as big as those either side.
‘Headman’s house,’ Jurgen commented. ‘He likes to spread himself out. Thinks it makes him look important.’
‘Stands on his dignity, does he?’ Thorn asked warily, but Jurgen made a dismissive gesture.
‘Not really. He’s all right. They’re a pretty easy bunch to deal with, as a matter of fact.’
He paused at the door and rapped sharply on the frame. They heard the sound of a chair scraping on a wooden floor inside. Hal raised his eyebrows. A wooden floor was impressive, he thought. He would have expected the floor to be rammed, packed dirt.
The door swung open, hinges squeaking loudly, and an immensely tall man stooped to peer out at them. He regarded Hal and Thorn with a slightly puzzled look, then smiled as he recognised Jurgen, standing to one side. Comprehension dawned on his face.
‘Jurgen, come in. And you must be from the new duty ship,’ he added, addressing Thorn and Hal. ‘Please, come in, all of you.’
‘William, I’d like you to meet Hal and Thorn from the Heron wolfship. William is the headman here in Cresthaven,’ Jurgen added, by way of explanation.
William was well over two metres tall and incredibly thin, which made him seem even taller. He had to stoop to avoid the low beams of the house. He was aged about forty, and bald on top – probably from banging his head on the ceiling beams, Hal thought irreverently. There was a fringe of grey hair ringing his head below the shiny bare pate. He had thoughtful brown eyes and his face was lined with wrinkles – possibly from the strain and responsibility of being headman.
‘Welcome to Cresthaven, Captain,’ he said, addressing himself to Thorn.
Thorn grinned easily and held up a hand – his only hand, in fact – to stop him before he went any further.
‘Hal here is the skirl,’ he said. ‘I just carry the bags and peel the potatoes.’
William’s mistake was a common one. Most people assumed that Hal was too young to be a ship’s captain. He and Thorn were used to this and the light-hearted reply helped cover the confusion of people greeting them for the first time. Hal noticed William’s eyes widen slightly in surprise. But he recovered quickly enough.
‘Oh, of course. Welcome . . . both of you. Please meet my fellow councillors: Gryff Seeder and Sloan Wheelwright.’
The men stepped forward in turn. Seeder was some ten years younger than the headman, and had all his hair. He was blond and blue-eyed and had a muscular build. He was of average height, although alongside William, he looked quite diminutive. Wheelwright was around the same age, possibly one or two years older. He had massive shoulders and muscular arms. Obviously, the labour of making wheels was intense and helped develop the strength of the upper body. His waist was surprisingly narrow and he seemed to taper down from those wide shoulders to a thin pair of legs.
Both men mumbled greetings and Hal and Thorn shook hands with all three. The headman gestured to a table set by a window, to one side of the large parlour. There were several jugs and pottery drinking mugs set out.
‘Let’s sit and wet our whistles,’ he said. ‘I’ve got ale, and wine – oh, and water if anyone wants it.’
‘I’ll have water,’ Hal said.
‘Water for me too,’ Thorn said. In spite of his earlier comment to Jurgen, he only drank ale sparingly these days – and usually small ale, which had been watered down.
The others opted for ale and William poured the drinks, calling to his wife to come and replenish the ale jug. She was a small grey-haired woman who reminded Hal of a mouse – scuttling quietly about the room to do her husband’s bidding, making eye contact with the newcomers long enough to nod a greeting, then departing again without a word.
‘Right,’ said William, after a long draught of ale. ‘Time to talk business.’
‘I suppose you know what your duties are?’ William began, with an interrogative glance in Hal’s direction.
The young captain nodded. ‘In broad terms. Patrol the coast, keeping an eye out for pirates and wreckers –’
‘We call them Moondarkers,’ Wheelwright put in. ‘They operate in the dark periods of the moon, lighting signal fires and false beacons to lure ships onto the rocks.’
‘Nice folk,’ Thorn said, scowling. ‘I’d like to get my hands around their throats.’
‘Mmm, quite so,’ William agreed. ‘Problem is, a lot of ordinary people benefit from their activities, so it’s hard to get information about where they’re planning to operate.’
‘Benefit how?’ Hal asked.
This time Seeder answered. ‘Moondarkers tend to strip the ships they wreck of anything small and portable and valuable. But the rest of the cargo they leave to rot – or to the tender mercies of folk living near the wreck. There’s a lot of people will help themselves to lumber, cordage, canvas and such if it’s left lying around. And a lot of houses along the coast are built in part from the timbers of stranded ships.’
‘Fortunately, there aren’t a lot of Moondarkers these days.’ William took up the lead again. ‘The Rangers have pretty well put them out of business.’
Hal and Thorn exchanged a quick glance at the mention of Rangers. There was a tone almost of . . . reverence in William’s voice.
The headman went on. ‘Our main problems these days are piracy and slavers. There’s been an upsurge in the slave trade in recent years. The new slave market in Socorro has seen to that.’
Hal frowned thoughtfully, sifting back through his memory of the navigation notes and updates he had studied.
‘Socorro . . . that’s in Arrida, isn’t it?’ he asked.
‘On the west coast,’ William said. ‘Ships sneak across the Narrow Sea from Gallica and Teutlandt – even from Sonderland. They do a quick raid ashore, grab up half a dozen captives, head down the coast and do it all again two or three times, before selling them at the Socorro market.’
‘And you’re hoping we can stop them?’ Hal said carefully.
Jurgen let out an explosive snort. ‘Good luck with that. You never know where or when they’ll raid. They’re here and away within a few hours and by the time news gets to us there’s been a raid, they’re long gone down the Narrow Sea.’
Hal made a mental note to look into this further. His mother had been a slave and he had a heartfelt dislike for those who participated in the trade. Thankfully, Skandia had abandoned the practice when Erak had been elected Oberjarl. The thought of Erak reminded him of something else that nobody had mentioned so far.
‘I was told we’d also be chasing smugglers,’
he said. ‘Is there a lot of that going on?’
The three councillors exchanged a look before William answered in a dismissive tone.
‘Oh, we’re not so worried about them. I don’t see that they do any real harm. All they do is bring in a little brandy from Gallica. Or the occasional bit of lace and silk from Toscana. Who’s any the worse off for that?’
The King, presumably, Hal thought. After all, the smugglers were avoiding taxes charged by the crown for bringing goods into the country. And that meant the goods could be sold at a cheaper price than similar items that were imported officially. He could guess that the people of Cresthaven probably numbered among the smugglers’ keenest customers.
Hal surmised that it would not be viewed kindly by the locals if his ship were to become too efficient in catching smugglers. Jurgen caught his eye and obviously guessed what was going through his mind. He gave an almost imperceptible nod, and lowered one eyelid in a wink.
When he thought about it, he decided that his sympathies lay with the smugglers and their customers more than with the King’s agents. Skandians always had a healthy disregard for officialdom and its rules. In Hallasholm it was considered unpatriotic to pay the full amount of the tax owed to the Oberjarl. Everyone was expected to cheat a little.
And Erak could hardly complain about the practice. Before he was elected, he was one of the country’s more enthusiastic tax avoiders.
Some things are the same in every country, Hal mused. He realised that William was talking again about the tasks the duty ship might be called on to perform.
‘. . . that’s just the day-to-day stuff, of course. You also have to be ready for special missions that the King needs – transporting diplomats or carrying urgent messages – that sort of thing. But that doesn’t happen too often.’
‘We only did one of those missions in the eight months we’ve been here,’ Jurgen put in. Hal was a little disappointed at the news. The idea of carrying out secret missions for the King of Araluen had a definite appeal to his young, adventurous spirit.
‘Aside from that, you’re pretty much at liberty to arrange your own patrolling pattern. Just don’t spend too much time tied up alongside the jetty or the villagers will think they’re not getting value for their money.’
Hal nodded. ‘We wouldn’t do that anyway. I don’t want my crew getting rusty,’ he said. Then he glanced at Thorn. ‘Plus we need to give Stig and Lydia more time to practise with the Mangler.’
Seeder looked at him curiously. ‘The Mangler?’ he said. ‘Sounds dangerous.’
‘It is,’ Hal replied. ‘It’s a giant crossbow we’ve mounted in the bows of our ship. It fires a bolt about this long.’ He held up his hands, about a metre apart. ‘It’s proved to be very useful in the past.’
Jurgen showed some interest at that. Prior to Hal, Skandians had never thought to mount a major weapon on board their ships. The wolfships were seen as transport only, getting the sea wolves to the scene of a battle or a raid in the shortest possible time.
‘Interesting idea,’ he said. ‘I’d like to see that later.’
Hal nodded, and then turned back to William. ‘What do we do about provisions?’ he asked. ‘How do I feed my crew?’
‘We provide everything you need. You can do your own food preparation for the most part, but you’re welcome to eat in our inn one night a week. Just let us know what you like and we’ll deliver it each week.’
‘Who pays?’ Thorn asked. Hal was glad he’d thought of that.
William made a negative hand gesture. ‘It’s all paid for by the crown,’ he said. ‘Part of the treaty. Plus we’ve got a healer in the village who can tend to any injuries your men might sustain. In fact, anything you need, come and see me. We provide what you want and send a bill to Castle Araluen.’ He grinned. ‘It’s quite a lucrative business for us, so don’t feel you have to stint yourselves.’
Hal smiled in return. ‘I’ll try not to,’ he said, making a mental note not to chase smugglers and to make lots of demands on the village. William pushed his chair back and stood, although he had to remain stooped over.
‘Well, that’s about it. Oh, we do have a meeting every week on first-day, to let one another know what’s been going on. Aside from that, welcome to Araluen and we’re pleased to have you here.’ He nodded in Jurgen’s direction. ‘And sorry to lose you and your men, Jurgen. You’ve been good guests.’
Jurgen shook his hand as the headman offered it. ‘You’ve looked after us well. But we’re all keen to be getting home. I’ll take Hal and his crew out to show them the surrounding bays and sandbars. I imagine some of my men will be visiting the village this afternoon, to say goodbye to . . . special friends.’ He made his farewells to the other two councillors, then gestured for Hal and Thorn to precede him to the door.
As they reached the steep, winding path to the beach, Jurgen glanced back at the village with a sigh.
‘We’ve had a good year here,’ he said. ‘They’re good people and they’ll look after you. Make sure you don’t let them down.’
Hal nodded. In spite of Jurgen’s claim to be glad to be going home, it was obvious that he would miss Cresthaven and its people. Then the older skirl shook off his momentary melancholy and rubbed his hands briskly together.
‘Now let’s get going!’ he said. ‘I want to see if this ship of yours lives up to its reputation!’
Heron certainly did that as they took her to sea and Jurgen familiarised them with local landmarks, sandbanks, narrows, channels and shallows. They cruised several leagues north and south of the bay, getting the feel for the area. He showed them where the tide race built up over semi-submerged reefs, where the bottom rose sharply, ready to strand an unwary navigator. And he pointed out distinguishing features on the land, giving them their local names.
‘Handy to know the local names in case someone wants to tell you where they’ve seen a slave ship,’ he said.
‘Or a smuggler?’ Hal said, keeping a straight face.
Jurgen grinned at him. ‘I doubt anyone will want to tell you that,’ he said. ‘But I think you’d already guessed that.’
For his part, Jurgen was suitably impressed with Heron’s upwind performance, and the speed with which she went about from one tack to another. The fin keel fascinated him as he saw how it reduced the ship’s down wind drift. Although, like every other wolfship skirl, he raised his eyebrows in disbelief when he saw how the fin passed through the bottom of the ship.
‘You cut a hole in her bottom?’ he said incredulously, then shook his head. ‘Can’t say I think that’s too smart.’
Like all the others, he was also mystified by the fact that Heron didn’t simply fill up and sink. ‘Luck,’ he was heard to mutter. ‘Just beginner’s luck.’
They ran in close to a long beach that stretched along the coastline and they demonstrated the Mangler for him. Hal took over the big weapon. He wanted to impress Wolfspear’s skipper with its power and accuracy, and Stig and Lydia weren’t fully trained on the weapon yet.
He shot three bolts at a target set up on the beach and demolished it. Jurgen drew in his breath as he watched the missiles slamming into the wood and canvas target, sending splinters flying. He could obviously imagine the effect those massive bolts would have on a ship.
Finally, as an experiment, Hal shot one of the new pottery-tipped bolts, aiming at a rock at the end of the beach. The result was everything he had hoped for and there was a collective intake of breath from the Herons as the clay head shattered, sending a hail of fragments and shards in all directions, tearing down the small bushes that surrounded the rock, and sending sand fountaining into the air.
‘Remind me never to get on the wrong side of you lot in a sea fight,’ Jurgen said. He was half joking – but only half. He looked at the youthful crew with new respect. They were young, he thought, but they definitely weren’t boys. They had been hardened in battle and they knew how to fight.
Hal offered him the tiller as they cruised
back up the coast to Cresthaven. Jurgen had a sure hand on the tiller and he enjoyed the Heron’s instant response to his movements of the helm and her speed on a beam reach. He also noted the skill and precision with which her crew handled the sails, bringing one down and sending the other up as they tacked, then sheeting home to send the little ship surging through the water.
‘You’ve got them well trained,’ he said to Hal in an aside.
Hal couldn’t help feeling a glow of pride at the words. ‘They’re a good crew,’ he replied.
‘A crew is only as good as their captain,’ Jurgen said, looking at the young man with increased respect. Hal went a little red around the ears, but said nothing.
That night, there was a farewell for Wolfspear and her crew in the village. The Herons were invited, but they declined.
‘This is your night,’ Hal told Jurgen and his crew. ‘They want to say goodbye and we’d just be in the way.’
They were rolled up in their blankets when the other crew returned late that night. They were obviously trying to be quiet, but the idea of a Skandian wolfship crew being quiet after an evening of feasting and ale drinking was a totally foreign concept.
As a gesture to their sleeping countrymen, the staggering, stumbling, singing crewmen tried to stagger, stumble and sing in a whisper – with the inevitable result. They fell, they crashed into items of furniture that appeared to move in front of them without warning, and their whispered singing sounded like a chorus of huge snakes hissing and whistling.
The Herons sighed, rolled over and pulled their blankets over their heads.
The following morning, the bleary-eyed crew departed. An equally bleary-eyed group came down from the village to farewell them. Several attractive girls were openly weeping as they waved goodbye. Hal and the Herons stood by on the jetty and cast off the mooring lines, fending the ship away from the jetty with long poles.
The rowing crew raised their oars vertically. It was a manouevre normally done with precision and panache, the oars moving as one. This time, they moved as seventeen or eighteen. They came down to the horizontal jerkily and there was a series of muffled thuds and rattles as the oars were placed in their oarlocks.