by V. Campbell
“But none of us can read it.”
“Wait until you see this,” Sven said. He went to the chest and, unlocking it, brought out the parcel. Nearby, the others were starting to listen in on the conversation and a small crowd had begun to cluster round them, headed by Koll and his wife, Thora.
Sven removed the goatskin wrapping. Inside was what looked like a stone block covered in decorated leather. He opened the book to the first page and a cream-white unicorn with cornflower blue eyes stared out. Redknee didn’t think he’d ever seen anything more beautiful in his whole life. The unicorn sat on a bed of snowdrops and above its head were five large ivy leaves filled with gold writing that shimmered in the failing light.
“Coloured runes?” Koll asked.
“Not runes,” Sven said. “It’s the words of the churchmen. They spend all day copying this stuff, growing hunched and wan.”
“Why?” Koll asked.
“They’re rich,” Sven said. “They have a powerful god. They don’t need to farm. Or fight. And some clever ones have hidden the secret of their wealth in here.” Sven turned to the next page; it was filled to the edges with tiny black writing. “Most of the pages are like this,” he said, flipping past many more sheets bearing the same spidery hand. “But then I saw this one,” he said, stopping at a page decorated with an ornate compass, the western point of which was filled in with gold leaf and bore a neat inscription in the strange script, “and knew their treasure must lie to the west.”
The small band gasped.
“We’ve been listening,” Thora said, indicating the group behind her. “And we all want to help you look for it. None of us have families to return to. What do we have to lose?”
“Aye, woman,” Sven said. “I’m with you on that.”
Suddenly the men were energised by the prospect of this strange book and its treasure. A chorus of “Ayes!” went up and the men began talking excitedly amongst themselves. Sven raised his hand for silence and the noise died out.
“There’s nothing we can do tonight. We’re tired and outnumbered. Most of us have lost loved ones. We cannot turn around to attack Ragnar, it would be suicide. We will make our repairs at sea as best we can and head for the Sheep Islands, four days sail to the west. I have a cousin there with a good farm. He will give us shelter.” He glanced sideways at Olaf who was standing at the side with his arms folded across his chest. “Anyone who wants to return home can do so then.”
The sea obliged for the four days and four nights it took to reach the Sheep Islands. North westerly winds fed the big square sail ensuring its belly was always full.
At night, they huddled down in sheepskin sleeping bags. Redknee shared his with Silver, glad of the extra warmth. But even in a fair wind, sleeping at sea was akin to threading a needle while on the back of a galloping horse. Redknee wedged himself between two chests, but still woke each night to find he’d been swept half the length of the deck.
He wasn’t used to living in such close quarters with the others. Back at the village, his uncle’s longhouse was unusual in only sleeping the three of them and a couple of slaves. He was quickly learning to keep to himself. His adventure with Ragnar and knowledge of the book had given him a sort of fame. Thora asked him repeatedly to tell the story of how he surprised Ragnar in the caves. He was growing tired of it and wasn’t the only one. He’d seen Harold’s resentful looks. The balance of power between them had shifted and Harold crackled like pig rind on a spit.
It didn’t help that, at dawn on the third morning, Harold slipped on a hot, steaming pile of Silver’s mess. Redknee had been waterproofing the boards with sheep fat when Harold woke. Drowsy and barefoot, Harold stumbled out of his sleeping bag to take a pee over the rail when he stomped right through a big green turd the texture of porridge.
“Get that bloody mutt away from me,” he’d said, jumping around, trying to wipe his clogged toes on the smooth boards. “Before I skin and eat it.”
Redknee scooped Silver into his arms and left Harold to it. But from then on he started training the pup to go over the side.
They ate as well as could be hoped. Their bread gone by the end of the second day, they were forced to catch herring with sinew fishing lines which they cooked in a fire lit in a metal trough filled with sand. Silver helped chase the thin, scraggy seabirds that landed on deck, but he was too young and slow to catch them. Thankfully, Karl’s bow didn’t have the same problem.
There was a shortage of fresh water, but Olaf had loaded five skins of Koll’s mead, and these were doing a sound job of keeping the men happy. Normally only allowed buttermilk, Redknee got a kick flouting Sven’s rule under his nose. Not that he sought Sven’s nose, mind. He did his best to avoid him. A difficult task on a longship. It seemed wherever he turned, his uncle was there, ready with advice on whatever mundane task he was doing.
Working kept Redknee sane. While the others lounged on deck playing hneftafl and discussing how they would spend the treasure, Redknee kept his hands busy fixing ropes, gutting fish and cleaning the boards. Work stopped his mind wandering across the wide, boring expanse of sea. Stopped him thinking about his dead mother. Stopped him wondering if her death really was his uncle’s fault. But it didn’t stop him plotting against Ragnar.
Always, the black ship was on their tail. At times, she dipped below the horizon and Redknee would think they’d finally lost her. But, just as surely, her yellow sail with its crimson snakehead would jut back into sight.
Good.
Ragnar would not give up easily. That was his weakness. Redknee would use it against him.
On the fifth morning, they passed granite rocks that rose from the water like giant swords of the sea-gods. Redknee spotted a small hovel atop one of these cliffs. “Who would live there?” he asked Koll, as he helped mend a torn piece of sail.
An old man with nothing but a piece of ragged linen wrapped round his middle had come to look at the boat from the cliff edge.
Koll shrugged. “No idea. These rocks can’t supply much meat or ale.” He shivered in the damp air. “You’d have to be crazy to live out here.”
“He’s a hermit,” Sven said, coming to stand beside them.
Redknee ignored him.
“What’s that?” Koll asked.
“A loner monk – who spends all day on his knees talking to the White Christ,” Sven said.
“That one looks like he needs fattening up – and the company of a good woman, if you know what I mean.” Koll winked and jabbed Redknee in the ribs. “His God can’t be up to much. Not a patch on Thor, if you ask me.” The smithy rubbed the hammer pendant he wore around his neck and slunk away, leaving Redknee alone with his uncle.
“Your mother came here once. To the Sheep Islands, I mean. Not to these meagre rocks.”
Redknee spun on his heels. “Don’t you speak of her! It was your book that got her killed!” The words, festering on his lips for days, exploded off his tongue.
Sven began to reply, when the lookout called, “Land Ahoy!” and everyone on the ship strained to see.
Redknee pushed past his uncle. Three mountains stood proud against the sea, their peaks helmed in mist. Rough meadows, peppered with black-faced sheep, swept down to a wide, silver beach where a single longhouse surrounded by outbuildings nestled in the dunes.
Yet there was not a soul to be seen.
Chapter 7
A man ran across the beach towards them, his dark cloak flapping in the wind. Sven drew his sword and the others did the same. But the lone man kept coming, unaffected by the slicing rain or the steel of the welcome party. As the man neared, Redknee saw his avian features stretch into an enormous grin.
“Sven!” he shouted, his words carried by the wind. “I can’t believe it! How long have I waited for this visit?”
Sven lowered his sword and embraced the man in a bear hug. “Ivar! My cousin. How long has it been?”
“More than sixteen summers,” came the quick reply. “Too long – I’m no lo
nger a young man. I won’t be able to keep up with you.”
Sven laughed. “It has been too long. But you speak ill of yourself. You’re no old man. And it was you, not me, who thought up pranks to torment the wenches!”
“Ach! Little boys’ games. Matilda won’t allow them now.” Ivar batted the air with his hand. “But tell me, what brings the great Sven Kodranson to my little island?”
“Bad news. Jarl Ragnar burned our village. Ingrid is dead.”
Ivar’s face paled. “I’m sorry—”
“He’s chasing us. I fear, if you give us shelter, he’ll attack you too.”
Ivar squinted at the horizon. “I see the top of a sail.”
“That’s Ragnar’s ship.”
Ivar looked thoughtful. “Matilda won’t like it, but I know where you can hide. It’ll be like old times! Come on boys. There’s no time to waste.”
Ivar leapt aboard Wavedancer, an excited gleam in his grey eyes. He directed them through a channel at the far end of the bay, hidden on all sides from the sea. They sailed north until they reached a canyon of polished basalt. It was as if Thor himself had slashed a path through the cliffs. Ivar pointed to the opening.
Olaf scowled. “We’ll be dashed to pieces.”
“I’ll show you how,” Ivar replied.
Sven nodded and ordered Magnus to guide them into the canyon. The cliffs grew, looming overhead until they almost touched, making the sky seem a long, long way off. There was no room for oars. The water was strangely tranquil and Wavedancer stalled, unable to go on.
Ivar perched on the rail and pushed against the rocks with his feet as if he was walking sideways. “Now boys,” he shouted. “Copy me.”
They squeezed along like a great millipede, each man shuffling an inch at a time. Yellow-beaked gulls circled overhead, attracted by the gentle slap-slap of water as the ship edged along the canyon. After a while, Redknee’s backside grew numb. He dropped his legs and rocked from cheek to cheek, easing each buttock in turn.
“No slacking!” Sven shouted down the line.
Harold sniggered from his lookout post.
Redknee resumed pushing off from the rocks. He’d got his uncle his precious book, what more did he want? Couldn’t he just leave him alone for once?
“Beach ahead!” Harold’s tinny voice called out.
Redknee craned his neck. A short way off, the canyon widened to a lagoon framed by amber sands and high, vine-clad walls. No sound from the sea breached this citadel. The men whispered, as if afraid to waken some ancient monster long hidden beneath its emerald depths. Magnus guided the ship to the beach and they spilled onto the sand.
“This lagoon can only be entered from the sea, or by that path,” Ivar said, pointing towards a wall of twisted vegetation that rose from behind the beach.
“We’ll have to swim out,” Olaf said. “And we’ll be killed doing it.”
Vines as thick as a man’s arm slithered up the bank in a knotty dance, but Ivar just drew his sword and charged forward. “Time to work up a sweat, boys!” he said, diving into the fray and hacking wildly.
Redknee tore at the vines with his hands, while Silver barked at his feet. Soon his fingers were drenched in blood and sap. A short way off, Harold chopped methodically with his ivory-handled dagger.
“What happened to your sword?” he sneered. “A big boy take it away?”
“I don’t need a weapon to fight a plant,” Redknee replied. But losing Flame Weaver gnawed at him. Just one more thing Ragnar had taken.
They continued for some time, slicing and tearing at the vines as if they were the corpse of some loathsome dragon. Ivar broke free first, closely followed by Redknee.
Visibly exhausted, Ivar plunged his sword into the ground. “I’m not as strong as I used to be,” he said, shaking his head, then added, “You’re like her.”
“Who?” Redknee asked.
“Ingrid – same sandy hair. Same blue eyes. Same chin. Would’ve recognised you even if you’d turned up without Sven.”
“Did you know her?” he asked, desperate to hear any crumb about his mother.
“Ah, she was a fine woman. An accomplished swordfighter in her own right, you know. Now, take my Matilda, while she’s—”
Sven stumbled through the overgrowth. “What’s that about your Matilda?” he asked, joining them.
Ivar hesitated. “My Matilda … that’s right. She’s a good cook. Best on the island.” He started to walk away then paused. “You’ll need those seen to,” he said, indicating Redknee’s bloodied hands.
Smoke rose from Ivar’s farm. “Ah, my wife is cooking!” Ivar said, rubbing his belly.
Koll licked his lips. “A home-cooked meal,” he said, starting down the hill towards the smoke.
“Wait!” Sven shouted. “Ragnar and his men may be there.”
Ivar reached for his sword.
“Not yet, Ivar,” Sven said gently. He turned to his men. “We need a volunteer to check the farm.”
Redknee stepped forward. “I’ll go.”
“Don’t be daft, lad,” Sven said. “It’s too dangerous.”
“I’m the fastest on my feet. I’ll be there and back before you, or anyone else, know about it.” He didn’t add that he’d spent a lot of time creeping around recently and was getting good at it. Besides, if Ragnar was there, he wanted to be the first to know.
“The boy’s right,” Olaf said.
“Ah … very well then,” Sven said. “But mind and take care. I don’t want to have to rescue you again.”
Harold sniggered.
“I didn’t see you volunteer,” Redknee called over his shoulder to Harold as he ran down the hillside, Silver scampering at his heels.
He hunkered down as he neared the longhouse. Apart from the blueish wood smoke coming from a hole in the turf roof, there was no sign of life. Heart sinking, he pressed his body flat against the longhouse wall and peered round the corner. A young boy sat in the yard playing with a tabby cat. Seeing the cat, Silver made as if to yelp. Redknee grabbed his snout and held his finger to his lips. The pup seemed to understand. Redknee exhaled slowly.
He squinted through a crack in the wall. Grain sacks reached the ceiling. Ivar was well prepared for winter. Redknee shuffled further along towards the living quarters. The door of the longhouse was ajar. Careful not to attract the toddler’s attention, he crawled over and squinted into the dark interior. He expected to see Ragnar holding the women hostage. Instead, he saw a pair of thick, bear-like arms pour steaming water into a wooden tub.
Had Ragnar demanded a bath after his days at sea?
He waited as the woman sprinkled herbs on the water and pinned her hair behind her ears. The scent of myrtle reached his nose as she began to unclip the copper brooches securing her pinafore. Suddenly he realised the woman was bathing. Not Ragnar. Panicking, he stumbled backwards, knocking over a barrel of water. A group of startled brown geese flew, squawking, into the air.
All round the yard, people appeared. Hard eyes staring. He tried to explain but when he opened his mouth nothing came out. A shadow passed over the sun. He looked up to see the bear-woman glaring down at him. She held her under-dress tight about her sturdy body, her eyes bulging with fury.
“You were watching me as I took my bath,” she said, her fist mashing into his cheek, not waiting for a reply.
Laughter rang in Redknee’s ears as he tried to dodge her anger, but the blows came fast and he was slow to his feet. He heard Silver barking, but the pup was no match for this brute of a woman.
“Someone stop her before she kills him!” The voice came from across the yard. It sounded distinctly mocking.
A hand grabbed his ear, pulling him upright. The brute had him against the wall now, her stale breath curling his skin as she barked insults into his face.
“I wasn’t looking at you,” he managed to whisper through the onslaught. “Ivar sent me … to make sure the farm … hadn’t been attacked.” This seemed to have a moderately calming
effect, and she loosened her grip while she digested this information.
“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” she asked.
“Because I confirm it,” Ivar said hurrying across the yard, followed by Sven and the rest of the men. He turned to Redknee, laughter twinkling in his eyes. “I see you’ve met my lovely wife.”
That night Ivar ordered the slaughter of two fine black-faced sheep and they feasted with Ivar’s family in the warmth of the longhouse until their bellies ached. Matilda reluctantly forgave Redknee’s spying although she still cast him an evil look whenever she didn’t think her husband was watching.
After the feast, Redknee lazed on the rushes in front of the fire, Silver curled across his stomach. Matilda’s skill had not been exaggerated, and the taste of fragrant meat still lingered on his tongue. Stewed fish and scrawny sea birds could not compare to land food. He half listened, eyelids slowly closing, body still rocking to the rhythm of the sea, as Sven told Ivar the story of Ragnar’s attack.
Ivar waited until Sven finished, and asked, “So why don’t you just give Ragnar the book and be done with it?”
Uncle Sven sighed. “It’s not so simple. Ragnar is working for King Hakon. I fear he will have our heads on a spike no matter what we do. We’re behind with our taxes. We’ve lost our homes and families. We’ve nowhere to go. If we give Ragnar the book, what hope would we have?”
“But you can’t run forever. It’s not like old times. King Hakon has men everywhere.”
“I know. The only thing I can think to do is to keep going west, to Iceland. I think that’s what the book wants us to do. We’ll leave first thing in the morning so as not to put you and your family in any more danger.”
“My daughter is in Iceland,” Ivar said. “Astrid married one of Iceland’s great lords. He has his own differences with King Hakon. And she’ll give a warm welcome to any friend of her father’s. Iceland’s a big place. You could over-winter there while you decide what to do.”