The Pagan Lord. Bernard Cornwell
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said, then turned and pretended to look towards the big central hearth where flames leaped up to meet the rain spitting through the roof-hole. Father Byrnjolf was deep in conversation with his two big companions, but even as I watched they turned and hurried towards the tavern door.
‘What’s the tide?’ I asked Finan, still watching the priest.
‘Be high tonight, ebbing at dawn.’
‘Then we leave at dawn,’ I said.
Because the Middelniht was going hunting.
We left at dawn on the ebbing tide. The world was sword grey. Grey sea, grey sky and a grey mist, and the Middelniht slid through that greyness like a sleek and dangerous beast. We were only using twenty oars and they rose and fell almost silently, just a creak from the tholes and sometimes a splash as a blade dipped. The wake rippled behind us, black and silver, widening and fading as the Middelniht
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