by Peter Fox
Thorvald slumped onto his crutches, the energy draining from him as he took in the implications of what they were saying.
‘Lost?’ he whispered.
Sigvald nodded.
Thorvald looked at his son and let out a sad sigh. ‘Ironically, I had decided to give it to you. I brought it into the house on the night of the avalanche, but in the end, I couldn’t bring myself to do it.’ He reached out and gripped Rathulf’s forearm. ‘I changed my mind at the last moment because I thought it would hurt you too much; and, if I were truly honest, me. I’m sorry, Ra. I suppose I put it in the byre in the hope that perhaps you would find it yourself and take the decision from my hands. It seems the Gods have done that for me.’ His frown deepened. ‘Only why has it turned out this way? Why have they caused you to know that it existed, but only through its loss?’
‘Ah, yes, we have been wondering that same thing ourselves,’ Sigvald began, throwing a glance at Alrik.
His nephew, in turn, was looking at his friend’s father strangely. ‘The byre?’ he said, a note of surprise in his voice. ‘But I found it in the house.’
‘What?’ Thorvald said, confused. ‘You said it had been lost in the avalanche.’ He looked from Alrik to Sigvald. ‘What’s going on?’
‘We had a bit of an accident on the boat,’ Alrik said.
‘Alrik!’ Sigvald said curtly.
‘An accident?’ Thorvald said, frowning at Sigvald, more confused than ever.
‘I’m sorry, Thorvald,’ Alrik said. ‘I just wanted Ra to have his trunk. You weren’t going to give it to him, and nor was Sigvald. I wanted him to know who he was, so after the avalanche, I went back to the house to find it. I looked in the boatshed first, because that’s where I’d heard uncle Sigvald say you’d hidden it, but I didn’t find it, so I looked in the house and found it there. I grabbed it, got into my boat and headed back home to give it to Ra. Only Sigvald caught us on the way back. We were trying to hide it when Arni dropped it into the water.’ His words spilt out in a rush.
Thorvald blanched. ‘You lost it overboard?’
Alrik shrank under Thorvald’s accusing gaze. He nodded, his expression desolate. ‘I’m sorry Thorvald,’ he said.
‘Now wait a moment,’ Sigvald interrupted. ‘Alrik, you say you took it out of the house. Thorvald says he hid it in the byre. I thought it was in the boatshed. Maybe you were confused, Thorvald. You’ve been through a lot after all.’
Thorvald frowned. ‘No, I definitely took it to the byre. Rathulf and I’d had a conversation about the poor state of the building, and I remember thinking how much the sheep stank. I had just put it away when I heard Rathulf yelling something about a troll, which, as you know, turned out to be Leif.’
‘But it was in the house,’ Alrik countered. ‘You can’t have put it in the byre.’
Thorvald looked at his son. ‘You didn’t find it and bring it inside and not tell me?’
Rathulf shook his head, his mouth suddenly feeling dry. ‘We didn’t go back outside after we found Leif, remember?’
Thorvald turned to Alrik. ‘Where exactly did you find it?’
‘Lying on its side on the floor with a pile of other stuff against the far wall, near where Ra’s sleeping place was.’
Thorvald closed his eyes. ‘Describe it,’ he said quietly.
Rathulf felt his stomach beginning to churn.
Alrik shrugged. ‘It was an oaken trunk, bound with a leather strap.’
‘And?’ Sigvald prompted.
‘I don’t know what else to say,’ Alrik said, his face revealing his discomfort. ‘It was big and heavy and rattled.’
Thorvald opened his eyes and studied the boy for a while before asking, ‘was this trunk quite old, with a long score in the lid, with three hinges on its back?’
Alrik thought for a moment. ‘It was scratched, yes, but I can’t remember how many hinges it had. Like I said, it was heavy, and it rattled.’
Thorvald pulled away from Helga and hobbled over to Alrik. He clutched the lad’s wrist, insistent now. ‘The lid. Did it have any other carving on it? This is most important Alrik. Was anything cut into the lid?’
Alrik frowned, trying to recall what he had seen in that brief period between finding it and losing it again. Rathulf meanwhile had stopped breathing. Eventually, Alrik shook his head. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said, searching Thorvald’s face for the right answer. ‘It might have I suppose, but I just can’t remember.’ He glanced at Rathulf, unsure whether he was saying the right thing or not.
‘And the strap,’ Thorvald continued urgently. ‘Was it about so wide?’ He indicated the measure by holding up his thumb and forefinger. ‘With a buckle of the type old Olaf wears?’
Alrik was able to confirm that, and he nodded confidently.
Rathulf looked away, realising like Thorvald what had happened.
Sigvald, however, hooted with glee and slapped his hand into his fist.
‘What’s so funny?’ Alrik demanded.
‘It wasn’t my trunk,’ Rathulf answered slowly, barely able to speak.
‘That’s right,’ Sigvald cried. ‘That chest you dropped overboard, Alrik, was Thorvald’s carpentry box. All he’s lost is a few rusty old tools!’
Alrik stared at Sigvald, his astonishment almost matched by his uncle’s relief. ‘I did?’ he asked, his voice higher in pitch than usual.
‘You did,’ Sigvald grinned. ‘Mind you, not only is Thorvald a failed farmer but now he’s lost his only means of making a livelihood as well.’
Alrik turned to Thorvald for confirmation.
‘It’s true,’ Thorvald answered, then he looked up at his son. Rathulf gazed back at him, his expression fraught.
Alrik sat down on the damp shingles, himself overcome with relief. ‘Then where is it?’ he asked.
‘It must still be in the byre,’ Sigvald said, ‘or what remains of it. But at least it isn’t at the bottom of the fjord. Thorvald’s had his wish; it’s well-buried after all. But by Odin’s good graces we’ll find it.’ The big chieftain turned to Rathulf. ‘This is the best news we’ve heard in ages, hey boy?’
4. Adopted son of a slave
Aurlandsfjorden, Norvegr
Rathulf stood on the steering deck of the repaired Wave Skimmer, not at all convinced this was a good thing. He had only just become used to the fact that the accursed trunk had been lost, and now here they were all excited again, rushing back to his ruined home to find it. One part of him sincerely hoped the byre had been wiped from existence, whilst another, less hopeful part wanted desperately to find it so that he might hold in his hands the things that linked him to his mother, father and the place of his birth. He couldn’t quite bring himself to use the word ‘home’ to describe that distant land. Rathulf quickly brushed those dangerous thoughts aside, knowing he could ill afford to entertain those desires, now or ever. His family was gone, and it would serve no useful purpose to go chasing them after all this time. He closed his eyes and drew in a lungful of salt-spiced air. Let it be forever lost, he prayed.
The sudden squawk of a diving seagull tore Rathulf from his thoughts, and he opened his eyes to see it plunge into the water ahead of the ship. It reappeared in the boat’s wake, neck stretched upwards as it swallowed its catch. Rathulf smiled and closed his eyes again, leaning over the side to enjoy the sensation of speed and movement as the ship raced across the water. Spray stung his cheeks as he listened to the slap and hiss of the water against the hull and the thump and creak of the sail under the stiff breeze. This is home, he thought. This is who I am. A warrior of the seas. A Viking.
He glanced to his left and Ingrith smiled back at him, her long blonde hair streaming attractively in the breeze. Seeing her lovely face fuelled his determination to find a way of gaining Sigvald’s approval to take his daughter’s hand in marriage. To his astonishment and annoyance the jarl had persisted in his refusal to hear any talk on the matter whatsoever, despite the fact that he had been sincere about freeing Ingr
ith of any obligation to Gunnar; not that such a union would ever have happened. Rathulf could not understand why Sigvald could be so stridently opposed to what was obviously an excellent match. Ingrith could shed no light on the matter either, and she was just as confused and angry as her boyfriend. All she knew was that Sigvald seemed to be going out of his way to keep the two of them apart. He had only agreed to her joining Rathulf on the Wave Skimmer because the two of them would be in plain view for the entire journey.
‘Hey, you up there! You’re supposed to be steering, not off in dreamland.’
Rathulf snapped out of his musings and looked to the opposite end of the ship. Alrik stood up at the prow with his cloak flapping around his legs, oblivious to the spray, his good arm wrapped around the carved dragon-head. His green eyes gleamed with excitement, and Rathulf was both pleased and relieved that their friendship had returned to a more even keel. Alrik had been impossible to bear since it had been revealed that he was not, in fact, responsible for the loss of Rathulf’s precious trunk. Indeed, Alrik had immediately claimed back his yacht and its complement of slaves now that he was in the clear, much to the young Briton’s disgust. Worse, he had hinted at seeking to reckon for Ra’s attack on him, citing Tariq as suitable compensation. Sigvald had, of course, told Alrik that it would only happen over his dead body. It was good to see Alrik back to his irrepressible self because it meant that things were returning to normal, and it was normality that Rathulf so desperately craved.
It had taken nearly three weeks to gather everything and everyone together for the expedition, Sigvald insisting they return at once to Thorvaldsby. True to her word, Helga had prevailed upon Ottar immediately upon his return to patch up the Wave Skimmer so that at least she would be sea-worthy, with a view to making more permanent repairs in the following winter. During that time one of Erik’s men had brought news that Leif had returned home, that he was alive and well, and that Eirik had reiterated before witnesses that if harm came to Leif whilst under Horik’s care, then Eirik would ensure that the same harm befell whoever was the bringer of it, including Horik.
Rathulf had immediately petitioned Sigvald to go at once to Eirik to ask that Leif be transferred to Sigvaldsby, but Sigvald had remained firm. ‘One thing at a time, Rathulf. This is something we need to do properly and rushing over there and grabbing him is not the answer. I’d have thought you’d learnt that after your previous catastrophe. As I said, we shall wait until your birthday, whereupon we shall proclaim before the entire gathering how Leif saved you and the debt that you owe him. Thorvald will then state his intention to foster him. How could Horik turn you down in the face of Leif’s bravery? And how much better for Leif to stand the hero in the presence of all those people? Better we do this properly, yes? Leif will thank you for it.’
Rathulf had only reluctantly agreed, for even though Sigvald’s suggestion was undeniably sound, the young Norseman felt deeply unhappy about the notion that Leif would bear more months of hardship at his father’s garth. Sigvald had eased his worry somewhat by asking Grinir to drop in on Horik on his way past to check on Leif. Grinir had reported back that the boy was pale and wan, but definitely alive.
One disturbing thing happened during the preparations for the expedition, and it left Rathulf increasingly worried about the wisdom of this exercise. Thorvald gradually lost his good humour as the preparations grew in intensity. It was as though the revelation that the trunk had survived had changed something in him. He began to withdraw into himself, and the more excited people grew, the more detached he became. He didn’t seem to notice that his son did not actually share the others’ enthusiasm in the search for the trunk. Thorvald also became increasingly frustrated that his legs remained useless to him. Sigvald put it down to Thorvald’s return to good health – the fellow was just being his cantankerous old self, he said – but Rathulf knew that Helga too was troubled. Perhaps Thorvald had finally realised the implications of Rathulf’s learning of the trunk and whatever secrets it contained. When Rathulf raised his concerns with his foster-mother, however, Helga reassured him that his father was going through a perfectly understandable reaction to the loss of his ability to walk unaided and that he would get over it in time. Rathulf left it at that, but it nevertheless worried him that his father was becoming so introspective.
Then, at last, the day had arrived when Sigvald declared the weather fit for sailing, and on that same morning, everyone piled into the longships and set off for the ruined farm. Rathulf, Alrik and Ingrith led the way in the refurbished Wave Skimmer; Sigvald, Thorvald, Helga and the rest of the girls followed in the Vixen; whilst Bardi and his other two sons brought up the rear in Bardi’s big trader. The two longships carried full complements of slaves, not so much for rowing as for digging and construction, and Bardi’s ship carried all the heavy equipment, tents and provisions required for an extended stay under the cold spring nights.
Rathulf turned his gaze from Bardi’s knarr back to Alrik, who had made his way up to the stern of his ship to join Rathulf and Ingrith. Alrik grinned back at his friend.
‘What’s the matter?’ Alrik asked. ‘This is exciting!’
Rathulf shrugged. ‘Is it? You’re just glad you didn’t chuck it overboard. And why is everyone making such a fuss? It’s just some stuff from my birthplace.’
Alrik frowned back at Rathulf, a little hurt. ‘It really isn’t,’ he said.
‘Well, I was happy not knowing about it, so it’d better be worth all this palaver.’
Alrik’s mouth curled into a conspiratorial smile. ‘Oh it is, believe me.’
He refused to elaborate, so Rathulf rolled his eyes at him and turned back to the other ships. His father sat rugged up under the shelter of the high prow of the Vixen. Rathulf threw Thorvald a wave, but his father didn’t respond.
‘I don’t think he should have come,’ Ingrith said, her voice concerned rather than disapproving, ‘and I don’t care what mother says. He still looks awfully frail to me, and he’s not been getting any happier these past days. He’s going to throw a fit when he sees what’s left of his steading.’
Rathulf pulled on the tiller to follow the sharp curve of the fjord, ducking as one of the halyards snapped taught when the big square sail shifted position in the breeze. ‘It’s his home too, you know. Besides, I want him here with us. Helga says it’ll do him good to get out into the fresh air.’
‘Well he’s going to get plenty of that over the next week or so,’ Alrik grinned. ‘I reckon we’re in for another cold snap.’
Rathulf had to agree. It may have been the first month of spring, but Skadi was stubbornly refusing to let go of her hold on the world. ‘I don’t see why this couldn’t have waited ‘til summer,’ Rathulf muttered, and not for the first time. ‘It’s not as if anything’s going to change in the meantime. There’d be a lot less snow for a start.’
Alrik considered him for a moment, then he shook his head with a wry grin. ‘You really don’t want us to find it do you?’ he asked, clearly unable to understand why Rathulf could be so daft. ‘Can it really be that bad to know who you are?’
‘I already know who I am. I don’t need a bunch of trinkets to tell me.’
‘Trinkets? Have you any idea what’s in that box of yours?’
‘Yeah, well if you had your way it’d be filled with gold and jewels enough to buy half of Byzantium.’ He grinned. ‘Which as you know I don’t need since Sigvald has already bought it for me.’
Alrik laughed. ‘I still say he was ripped off. I saw Tariq’s face when you took him out into the snow; one sniff and he was back inside before you could say boo.’
‘He’s just not used to it yet,’ Rathulf responded defensively. ‘You’d be cautious too if you’d never seen snow before.’ Unfortunately, Alrik had a point, as Rathulf was all too aware. Tariq had responded none too well to the snow when they had taken him out of his stable for a leg-stretch just two days past. There was still plenty of it lying about, and when Tariq had come upon the
first big drift, he had pawed it with his hoof suspiciously, sniffed it, even stuck his tongue into it, then he had let out a dismissive snort and stepped onto it confidently. His arrogance had been short-lived. A few paces on he sank up to his knees in the stuff. He had frantically backed his way out of it, whinnying and snorting in surprise, whilst his human companions fell about laughing. All but Rathulf of course, who had been greatly hurt by Tariq’s obvious shortcoming and subsequent humiliation. Then, to acquit his failing even more completely, he slipped on a patch of ice by the river and lost his footing, causing Rathulf, who had been leading him at the time, to fall unceremoniously into the freezing water. Tariq had bolted back to his stable, clearly unnerved by the whole experience, and Rathulf had stalked off to the house to change into dry clothes, angrily fending off gibes from Alrik and the others. At least Sigvald had said nothing disparaging; his pride was as much at stake as Rathulf’s, but the big chieftain was unable to hide his obvious disappointment in his purchase.
Rathulf sighed. ‘He’ll come good,’ he said, as much to convince himself as his friend.
Alrik eyed him sceptically. ‘You do know there’s no way you’ll be taking him over the Leap this summer, don’t you? He’s not going to be nearly ready. Aside from his fear of snow, he hasn’t been worked all winter. It’ll take forever to get him back into condition.’
Rathulf frowned at his friend, unwilling yet to concede he would be forced to abandon his hopes of riding Tariq to glory. ‘Yes, he will.’
Alrik just smiled at him, his expression revealing that he thought Rathulf hopelessly misguided.
They arrived at the ruined homestead late in the afternoon. Sigvald took charge, and to Rathulf’s surprise, completely ignored the buried house and outbuildings. He instead turned everyone’s efforts towards setting up camp. Before long they had tents erected, torches strategically placed on posts around the compound, fires built, makeshift seats arranged in circles around the hearths, and the requisite pot of mead warming over the main cooking fire. By the time that was all done, the sun had set, and Helga and her team of cooks had dinner well on the way. Alrik was immensely disappointed that they had not even been allowed to have a look at anything, but Sigvald was insistent that their search would be methodical. It would be carried out in full daylight and with the due care warranted by a site wrecked by an avalanche. The last thing the jarl wanted was for his nephew to end up buried under a collapsing building. ‘There’s also the trolls,’ he reminded them, smiling.