axes and struck; Harald between the stallion ’ s eyes, and Guthrum at its neck such that the sound of the blows was one, and none could tell who made the killing wound. So mightily did Guthrum wield his axe that the stallion ’ s head was wholly struck off, and the wise ones said that the fall of the blood was good, for the dragonhead tasted blood before ever a bowl was brought to its mouth.
Then Harald knew that the gods would sail with them, and would find them even in the furthest reaches of the sea, for the dragonhead was truly consecrated to the Æ sir .
I: GEORGE
George Fenton enjoyed early mornings at Furzey Marina. She ’ d take a start-of-the-day turn around the boatyard, seeing who was around, while she savoured the plinkplinkplink noise of halyards slapping against aluminium masts in the wind. The sound always made her smile inside and think ‘ Why the feck aren ’ t I on the water? ’ but she didn ’ t sail at weekends. Weekends were for rich folk who could afford to keep a boat idle during the week while they made their dosh : the clients who expected her and Chippy Alan the shipwright to work their arses off looking after them. There was always something that needed fixing before they could put to sea, and there was usually someone she wanted to find, like when they hadn ’ t paid their bill.
It was mainly couples at weekends. A friendly bunch, for the most part. The men would smile at her boobs and forget they had a tide to catch. The women in their wake would roll their eyes in a way that reminded George of a stained- glass window she ’ d seen in a church : some martyred saint with her eyes on heaven and a big, open ‘ O ’ of a mouth. She ’ d looked as if she was only pretending to be suffering, and really having way too much fun under her robes.
George didn ’ t like strangers wandering around the boatyard. Stuff went missing, and she had to answer to the owners even though she was just the Office Manager. So when she saw some guy put a ladder against Mad Eddie ’ s boat she swore to herself and wandered over. Draca had been beached for years, propped up on timber legs on an old, tidal hard at the edge of the boatyard. Mad Eddie Ahlquist had paid the yard to unstep her broken mast, take out her ballast and float her in at the top of a ‘ spring ’ tide. She ’ d been there ever since, with her ballast put back to hold her down. She wetted her keel every tide and looked sorrier whenever George strolled that way. Green, slimy stains ran down her cheeks from her hawsepipe at the bow and from the cockpit drains under her counter, so that she looked like she was crying at one end and shitting herself at the other.
By the time she reached Draca , the man was leaning over the gunwale like a bum on stilts. When she challenged him he came down the ladder slowly, one rubber-booted step at a time, as if he was unsure of his footing.
‘ Jack Ahlquist, ’ he introduced himself. That checked her. She ’ d been about to get all aggressive. Now he ’ d turned, she could see the likeness. Same shoulders, same Nordic cheekbones. And totally fit enough for a girl to put her shoulders back.
‘ George Fenton. ’
He blinked at the ‘ George ’ .
‘ My mum called me Georgia. George seems to have stuck. I ’ m also known as Georgie Girl to my more sexist customers, and the Boatyard Bitch to the ones what don ’ t pay their bills. ’ She was talking too much.
He had a nice smile. ‘ This is my grandfather ’ s boat. ’ He touched the hull and frowned at the smear his fingers left in the dirt.
‘ Then tell him to let us do some work on her. It ’ s a crying shame to leave her like this. ’ The dirt matting the hull would wash off. Other decay might be more fundamental.
‘ I would if I could. He ’ s dead. ’ He turned, pretending to move away from the ladder, but probably hiding his face, like he was being brusque to mask his feelings.
George wasn ’ t surprised about Eddie. She made sympathetic noises at Jack Ahlquist ’ s back, but she ’ d known it was coming when she last saw him, around Christmas. They ’ d had a weird conversation about rigging a jury mast in Draca so that she could carry a square sail again and put to sea like a Viking longship . Just one trip, he said. He never did anything about it, though. That day he ’ d asked Chippy Alan to unstep the figurehead, and he ’ d taken it away with him. George thought about Eddie, afterwards, because he reminded her of her m um before she died. Masses older than her, of course, but when George shut her eyes there ’ d been a greyness about Eddie in her mind. Not the grey of age, which can be quite healthy, but a dark, sick grey turning black at the edges. George knew what that meant. She ’ d seen it in her mum . The black takes over and then they die.
Now here was his grandson. An outdoorsy type, maybe an Aries.
‘ Got the key? ’ she asked him. ‘ Want to look? ’
He hung back, so she went up the ladder first and regretted it halfway up when her shorts and bare legs went past his face. She looked down from the top, half expecting Jack to be staring up at her bum, but he was touching the hull again with his fingers splayed to show his wedding ring. George got the message. Arrogant sod. More of a Taurus, perhaps. She turned away as he began to climb.
Draca was a fair size : at least twelve feet in the beam and perhaps forty in length, plus her bowsprit, and flush-decked, with just the cockpit, a ‘ doghouse ’ cabin hatch and a skylight to break the sweep of teak. When George had first come to the yard about four years before, Draca ’ s deck had stretched away like a dance floor. Now it was a lumberyard of spars, draped with ropes. Drifts of leaf pulp had blown into corners, rotted and grown seedlings. Then, she ’ d had a mast and rigging. Now, she was a hulk.
Jack moved aft unsteadily, at a crouch, keeping well away from the edge. True, it was about twelve feet down to the hard, and there was only a shin-height wooden rail, but he looked nervous, like he was unsure of his footing. When they reached the cockpit, they found it half- full with a dirty scum of water, deep enough to cover the gratings and lap over the top of Jack ’ s boot as he stepped down into it. He didn ’ t seem to notice. The drains must have been clogged with leaves or debris, and he had to wade around in a mess of sodden rigging that had probably been there since they took out the broken mast.
‘ Shall I lead on? ’ Jack fumbled for the key, his boots trailing water as he stepped over the companion ladder coaming. George slipped off her trainers.
‘ How old is she? ’ She ’ d never been below deck in Draca . Her mast had sprung the last time Eddie took her out, which was soon after George arrived, and she ’ d been laid up ever since.
At the bottom of the steps, Jack turned in a space that had a chart- table to starboard and was cramped by a large, cast-iron engine casing just off the centre-line to port. George had seen similar spaces in other, classic boats, a kind of working ‘ wet space ’ where the watch on deck could come in oilskins and boots to look at charts or make a brew.
‘ Nineteen oh-five. One of the last of the sailing pilot cutters. ’
‘ What kind of engine is that? ’
‘ That, ’ Jack said, ‘ is Scotty. ’ He made it sound like a pet dog.
‘ As in “Beam me up, Scotty ” ? ’
‘ Nah . As in good, Glasgow engineering. Pre-war vintage. ’
‘ And it still works? ’
‘ It used to. Bit temperamental. Grandpa wanted to change the ship as little as possible, so he kept it. ’
Jack tapped a narrow door, port side, forward of the engine. ‘ Heads in there. Bit cramped. Fold- down basin and no shower. Foul- weather gear on the other side. ’
He swung open mahogany double doors and went forward into the saloon, leaving a trail of wet footprints. He seemed even taller, now she was barefoot, and broad enough to fill the doorway. She followed, and stepped into