by V. Campbell
Damn. He wanted to speak to his uncle right now.
“Please,” Sinead said. “He’s innocent and he needs our help. Time is running out.”
Redknee sighed. His uncle could wait. “Where are they keeping him?” he asked.
“He’s in the barn with Toki. Does this mean you’ll come?”
“It’s no favour,” Redknee said. “I’ve seen something that could save his life and make mine a lot easier.”
“Well then,” Sinead said smiling. “There’s no time to lose.”
They pushed through the crowd, past four burly men carrying away the grey’s broken corpse. Magnus and Olaf were collecting their winnings. Magnus waved as they passed, both he and Olaf were splattered with blood. Not for the first time, Redknee shuddered at the fine line between life and death.
Sinead averted her gaze and hugged Silver close. He curled his lips and growled at the smell of the blood.
“Shh, little one,” she said, then turned to Redknee, a look of disgust in her eyes. “How can men be so cruel?” she asked.
A man led another horse past them, towards the big chestnut killer. Redknee shrugged. “They’re worse to people. At least they don’t subject horses to blood eagle.”
Sinead shook her head and started walking towards the barn. “When I became a Christian I thought I was entering a kinder world. But one day, when I was at the monastery, I heard the local Bishop condemn an old woman to death. She was burned as a witch; the villagers claimed she’d summoned the devil to blight their crops.”
“Maybe she did. Brother Alfred believes this Christian devil is powerful.”
She sighed. “It was no coincidence the old woman owned rich land next to the Bishop’s farm.” She paused beside the barn door. “This Promised Land your uncle seeks …”
“Yes?” Redknee asked.
Her voice hardened. “I go there not as a slave, but as an equal.”
“My uncle has already promised you freedom, if we find it.”
She smiled. “I should know better than to trust a Northman. Now,” she said, motioning to Silver to wait outside, then pushing the barn door open. “Tell me what you know.”
Chapter 14
Someone was already visiting the prisoners in the barn. Whoever he was, he didn’t see them enter.
“Who is it?” Sinead whispered.
“Shhh,” Redknee said, holding a finger to his mouth. He peered through the darkness. The man stood at the far end of the barn with the prisoners, the hood of his cloak masking his face. Brother Alfred and Toki sat tied back to back against an oak pillar.
“I can’t see. Let’s wait there,” Redknee said, pointing towards an empty stall. They crouched down in the wet hay and waited, putting the stink of manure from their minds.
The visitor spoke. “I know you understand the book. Tell me what it means or you’ll feel my boot in your face.” His voice was so low as to be unrecognisable.
“Bless you,” Brother Alfred said. “For you know only violence.”
“Don’t try me, monk,” the man said, and began pacing up and down the barn, cursing under his breath. “Look, I know you’re lying. You’ll be dead by sunset tomorrow, unless you tell me. Come on … talk. Are you protecting someone?”
Brother Alfred stayed silent this time. Presumably afraid of a boot in his face.
“Is it the Irish girl?” the visitor asked. “I know there’s a traitor. There must be, Ragnar’s attack was too much of a coincidence. It could be her. You’re close to her, you would know. And by Odin’s eye I’ve never liked Christians.”
No answer.
The visitor sighed. “I see I’m wasting my time. I’m going to go. Give you time to think. But I’ll be back soon. If you have any sense, any at all, you’ll make the right choice. Just think … we could do this together. You and me. Split the treasure between us. Forget the rest of those fools. I’ll leave you now, but when I return, I expect you’ll crow like a cockerel on the first day of spring.”
Redknee and Sinead huddled in the shadows as the visitor swept past them. The barn door opened and Redknee caught a glimpse of the visitor in the moonlight. He didn’t need a second look to recognise the battleaxe at his belt.
It was Uncle Sven.
Redknee and Sinead sat in the dark for some time, afraid to move in case the visitor returned. He didn’t think Sinead had recognised his uncle, and he wasn’t about to tell her. Besides, she had some answering of her own to do.
“Do you think I’m a traitor?” she asked, so quietly he almost thought he hadn’t heard.
“Someone does,” he replied.
“Do you?”
“Honestly?” he said. “I don’t know. I’m not even sure I know what the word means anymore.”
“Right. Well I’m not. Just because I’m different, it doesn’t mean I can’t be trusted.”
“I agree,” Redknee said.
“Do you think it’s safe for us to move now?”
“Yes. The longer we leave it, the sooner he’s coming back. And I don’t think we should be found here.”
They crawled over to the prisoners. Brother Alfred had a burst lip and black eye. Sinead swooped down on him and began dabbing at his cuts with the edge of her apron. “Oh, what have they done to you?” she said, tears springing to her eyes.
In contrast, Toki looked well, the wounds from his fight with Redknee and Olvir nearly healed. His lips curled into a grin at the sight of Sinead’s ministrations. “Is it my turn next?” he asked, a mischievous glint in his eye. “A man could get used to that kind of treatment.”
“Be quiet,” Redknee said, kicking dust in Toki’s face. “I don’t know what you’re smiling about. You’ll be next.”
Toki grinned, flashing a row of coal black teeth. “If you say so, Master.”
Redknee ignored him and knelt beside Brother Alfred. “I’ve information that will save your life.”
“Brother Alfred looked piously towards the roof. “My life is but God’s to save,” he said, then refocussed on Redknee. “But I’m listening to what you’ve got to say.”
“Courage deserted you, little monk?” Toki asked. “Where’s your God now?”
“I’ve already told you to be quiet,” Redknee said. He turned back to Brother Alfred. “You didn’t cause the fire at Ivar’s farm. But you knew who did, and yet you said nothing. Why?”
The monk looked thoughtful for a moment. “I wanted the person responsible to come forward on his own.”
“I know him, and he won’t,” Redknee said. “But worse than that, this person you’ve protected – he’s dangerous. I think he could do it again.”
“You really know who did it?” Sinead asked.
“I should’ve realised earlier,” Redknee said. “The first clue should have been the events of that night. Harold’s behaviour was strange. But that wasn’t enough in itself. His precious dagger gave him away; the one with the ivory handle. When he brought it out to cut the centre mark at the start of the horse fight, I saw the hilt was black, like it had been dropped in a fire.”
Brother Alfred nodded solemnly. “I came across the boy sharpening his dagger in the grain store. I told him, one spark in that place and the whole farm would go up in flames. But he didn’t listen to me. It was like he was under a spell. He was talking to someone who wasn’t there, a girl I think. Yes, that’s right, the name he said, over and over, was Aud.”
“Aud was his sister,” Redknee said.
Sinead let out a long, low whistle. “We have to tell someone.”
“Who would believe you?” Brother Alfred asked. “Everyone is convinced I’m to blame.”
“We can’t confront Harold on our own,” Sinead said. “He’d deny it. We have to go straight to your uncle. Ivar’s judgment is clouded by Matilda’s anger.”
Toki snorted. “You think Sven Kodranson will treat the monk fairly?”
“Stop listening,” Redknee snapped. “This is no concern of yours.” But he feared Toki uttered the t
ruth.
He spoke to Sinead in a low voice. “I don’t think we can go to my uncle on this one. It wasn’t his farm, it’s not his decision. He won’t want to tread on Ivar’s toes.”
“Then what?” Sinead asked.
“We confront Harold ourselves. But first, we need to get a promise from Brother Alfred.”
“What can you mean?” the little monk asked.
“Tell him, Sinead.”
“I don’t understand,” she said.
Redknee stood. “It’s quite simple really. Sinead thinks you’re not actually reading from the Codex. So, if we do this to help you, we want your word that you will read from the book truthfully.”
Brother Alfred nodded furiously. “Yes … yes … ” he said. “I give my word.”
Before he lost his nerve, Redknee dragged Sinead from the barn. Outside, the festivities were still in full swing. Silver hadn’t waited as asked. The daft pup was probably trying to catch gulls on the beach. They had no time to look for him. The crowd had grown bored of the horse fighting and were shouting at two youths wrestling. Olvir called to them as they pushed through the revellers.
Redknee kept his head down. “Don’t stop,” he said to Sinead. “The fewer involved the better.”
But Olvir was like a dog with a bone. “Hey!” He called again. “Where are you going?”
“We could do with the extra help,” Sinead said to Redknee.
Perhaps she was right. He’d seen the frenzied look in Harold’s eyes when the chestnut stallion tore the grey apart. Redknee stopped. “Alright, he can come.”
Redknee scanned the crowd for Harold while Sinead explained the situation to Olvir.
“I saw him go down to the beach after the horse fight,” Olvir said. “He was carrying a torch and some brushwood.”
Sinead glanced anxiously at Redknee. “Do you think—?”
“The violence,” Redknee said, starting to push through the crowd. “It’s what sets him off.”
They pressed through the drunken spectators towards the beach. The crowd thinned as they approached the bluff.
“I think he’s been obsessed with fire,” Redknee said, scrambling down the steep path, “ever since Ragnar burned our village.”
“There he is!” Sinead pointed to a figure at the far end of the beach heading towards a crop of jagged rocks. “He’s dragging something behind him.”
It looked like a sack, filled with … with something that seemed to be moving.
Redknee vaulted the last few feet and ran across the beach, oblivious to Sinead’s screams to wait for help. But by the time he reached the spot before the jagged outcrop where they’d spotted Harold, Harold had vanished.
Redknee tore on. He leapt the rocks and skidded to a stop in front of a large pyre with a stake in the centre. Harold had tied the sack to the stake; he held a lit torch in his right hand.
“What are you doing?” Redknee asked.
Harold glanced up, his eyes feverish with excitement. “Stand back,” he said, “this is none of your concern.”
The sack squirmed. Something inside was alive. “By Thor’s blood,” Redknee said. “What have you got in there?”
“Nothing.”
Redknee circled the pyre, his eyes trained on Harold. “I know about your obsession with fire,” he said steadily. “This is not the way.”
Harold snorted. “What do you know? You didn’t see your sister melt beneath the flames. Her skin black and curling like old leather.” Despair lined his face. “She was only nine.”
Redknee blanched at the image. He hadn’t known Harold had lost his sister. “I saw my mother die,” he said.
Harold’s eyes shone with interest. “How did it feel to hold her?” he asked. “As she took her last breath?”
Redknee shuffled uncomfortably. It was clear Harold had gone mad. “You relive it, don’t you? Over and over.”
Harold nodded slowly, lowering the torch a little. Redknee saw his chance. He leapt across the pyre and drove his fist into Harold’s nose.
Harold fell, blood trickling from his nostril. The torch landed in the sand. Redknee kicked it away and was on him in a flash. Fists clenched, he rained blows on Harold’s ribs. Harold twisted and clawed like a drowning stray but Redknee fought him down.
“Stop!” Sinead screamed. “You’ll kill him!”
Redknee turned round. Harold kneed him in the groin and followed with his fist in Redknee’s face. He flew backwards onto the sand. Harold came at him. Something shiny glinted in his hand.
The dagger.
Harold pressed the blade against his throat. As Redknee pushed back with all his strength, wisps of smoke reached his nostrils. The torch had made contact with the brushwood. He saw Sinead and Olvir running to help him.
“No!” he tried to shout, although his voice came out raspy and hoarse. “See to the fire first.”
Sinead nodded and began tugging on the ropes attaching the sack to the stake while Olvir fought the growing flames.
“I want to see your face when you die,” Harold sneered, madness shining in his eyes.
“Get off me!” Redknee shouted, squirming beneath his grip.
Harold laughed. “Will you cry, when I kill you? Like they say your father did when Ragnar killed him.”
Anger seared through Redknee. How dare Harold speak of his father? Blind with fury, he spat in Harold’s face. Harold thrust the dagger with new vigour. The blade nipped the soft skin at the base of Redknee’s throat; then the pressure was gone. Harold was being lifted off him and he had a clear view of the night sky and its endless tapestry of stars. Redknee took great gulps of air.
A moment later, Astrid’s pale face blocked the view. “You saved my darling Bleyõra,” she said, holding her white cat up to her cheek. “I’m forever in your debt.” She bent down and placed a kiss on his forehead. He felt himself blush as he wondered at her sudden appearance.
Uncle Sven stepped forward. “You all right?” he asked. It had been Sven, then, who had saved him.
Redknee nodded. He explained his theory about the fire at Ivar’s farm.
“It was the violence of the horse fight that set Harold off tonight,” he finished. “On the Sheep Islands it was the whale hunt.”
Uncle Sven’s face was a sombre mix of acceptance and sadness. “This will cause trouble with Olaf,” he said, as Astrid’s men led a sobbing Harold from the beach. “Which is all I need since Karl the Woodcutter has just been found with his throat cut.”
Chapter 15
Karl the Woodcutter lay behind the longhouse in a pool of his own urine, a gaping red smile parting the frigid skin of his throat. Redknee, Uncle Sven, Astrid and Ivar stared at the body. No one needed to ask what Karl had been doing before he was killed.
“Who was he last seen with?” Sven asked.
“With your men,” Astrid said. “I don’t know their names.”
“He was sitting with Magnus and the Smithy at the feast,” Ivar said. “But I saw him leave the longhouse alone, not long before the horse fight started.”
At this moment, Magnus and Koll appeared, their faces almost as white as that of their dead friend.
“Did he get in a fight?” Sven asked them. “Do you know if anyone had a grievance with him?”
Koll shook his head. “Not that I know of. Has he been robbed?”
Sven pointed to the silver Thor’s hammer still round Karl’s neck and the bronze ring on the third finger of his right hand. “No thief would leave items of such value.”
“They may have been disturbed in the act,” Magnus offered.
“True,” Sven said eventually. “But I think there’s more to it than that.”
“Reykjavik is such a busy place,” Magnus continued. “Karl was drunk. Any lowlife could have slit his throat hoping to line their purse.”
“No,” Astrid said, shaking her head. “My men aren’t murderers. It could just as easily be one of your men, Jarl Sven. A dispute brought with you from home, perhaps?”
“This is a sorry day,” Sven said. “I’ve known Karl for more than twenty years. He was a good man. I will find whoever did this and see he pays.”
“Aye,” Koll said. “I’m with you on that.”
Sven turned to Astrid. “Will you ask your women to see to Karl’s body?”
Astrid nodded and left. Heads low, the rest of the men followed her, leaving Redknee and Sven alone with the body.
“This wasn’t a robbery or a fight,” Sven said. “Someone murdered Karl. There’s a traitor in our midst, I can feel it in my bones. Whoever it is, they’re in Ragnar’s pay. It’s how he found our village.”
Skoggcat’s face flashed through Redknee’s mind. Traitor? What traitor. He was the traitor. “Sir,” he said, taking a deep gulp. “Maybe that was just bad luck.”
“No, lad,” Sven said, shaking his head. “You want to believe the best of people, and that’s a good trait. But if you’re going to survive in this world, you’ve got to be smart. You showed brains and mettle with Harold tonight, unwise though it was to go confronting him on your own like you did. I’ll not have you behave so recklessly again, you hear?”
Redknee nodded.
Sven crouched so that he was level with Karl’s face. Gently, he untied the silver Thor’s hammer from round Karl’s neck and closed it in his fist.
“Karl’s wife will be glad of this,” he said. “By Odin’s eye, I’m going to find the traitor. He has blood on his hands – the blood of many. And when I find him … or her, I’m going to make them pay.”
Harold’s bones shook in his skinny frame as the whip cracked across his bare back. It had taken four full-grown men to restrain Olaf. But Ivar had believed Redknee’s story when he saw the charred ivory dagger and after hearing Astrid tell of the near burning of Bleyõra on the beach. Ivar had given Redknee Harold’s dagger as a reward. Despite the fine workmanship, Redknee doubted it would bring him luck. Still, better in his hands than Harold’s.
It was only the respect Uncle Sven had for Olaf, and his years of loyal service, that had spared Harold from a worse fate. In the circumstances seven lashes was a light punishment. Redknee would have liked to say he couldn’t bear to watch, that he didn’t relish each desperate scream as the leather flayed Harold’s soft white skin to a pulpy pink mush. But it would be a lie.