by V. Campbell
“So?”
“Well, it is thought by many revered monks, indeed by the Pope himself, that Christ will return to earth on the year marking the one thousandth anniversary of his birth. That year, my child, is but six months away.”
“I can’t listen to this anymore,” Redknee said, slamming his fist against the rail. “Your story doesn’t explain anything. It is next to useless. What use are stories anyway? They can’t wield a sword or sail a ship or feed a starving family. Do stories clothe you when you’re cold, or nurse you in sickness? Can a story build a village, or forge a river, or make the living from the dead? Even the greatest tales of gods and heroes are, in the end, nothing but words that wander in the wind. It is men, and only men, that keep them alive.”
Brother Alfred blinked in astonishment. “How well you speak for a boy of sixteen summers. You are moved by your experience, no doubt. Yes, that is the explanation. But I tell you, the end of days is near. You should heed my warning. We must all prepare. Christian or no, it is not too late to convert. I tell you, this spring shall see the one thousandth anniversary since the birth of our Lord. Christ will return. We are lucky to be living now.”
Redknee snorted. He did not feel lucky.
Soft, pliant sands wreathed the islands off the coast of Iceland. Those Wavedancer towed were able to walk the last few miles ashore with ease. From here, Mount Hekla’s fiery rage was nothing but an ember on the horizon.
Redknee sought Sinead among the hysterical families on the beach. He found her kneeling in the shallows, her curls flattened against her face; her eyes pressed shut in prayer. Goosebumps crinkled her pale skin.
He pulled her to her feet and pressed his warm body against her cold one. “You’re alive,” he gasped.
Her eyes flashed open in response and he felt a surge of pure bliss. In that moment he forgot his sorrow and despair. Hope is a simple animal. It will take the most meagre scraps and invent a banquet.
“Do you still think I’m a traitor?” she asked.
He cupped her head in his hands and stared into her eyes. “I never thought that,” he said. “We must find who really killed Karl and prove it to my uncle.”
Thirty-six townspeople had survived the sea; together with the sixty who’d managed to stow aboard Wavedancer, it was a sizeable catch. With the smaller boats also heading for the coastal islands, Ivar volunteered to stay with the Icelanders as their temporary Jarl. This would allow Astrid to sail west with Wavedancer to find her husband, Gunnar. Matilda agreed to look after Bleyõra.
They lit fires along the beach and huddled round for warmth. The Icelanders kept to themselves, leaving Sven and his men alone to discuss the next step in their voyage.
“This is madness,” Olaf said when he heard Sven still intended to press further west. “Our supplies are low. The Codex is lost. We should put an end to this stupid quest and return home, where we know what awaits us. By Thor’s hammer, if we sail too far we could fall off the end of the world, right into the jaws of Jörmungandr, the great sea-serpent! He waits for foolish travellers like us, you know, and can swallow a longship whole.”
Sven shifted uncomfortably. “Olaf, you’ve always been my right-hand-man and I hear what you say about Jörmungandr. It’s a risk. But your son is ill and … well, it seems you’ve lost your thirst for adventure. I will understand if you want to remain here, with Ivar. I won’t see it as you giving up.”
Olaf turned red. “I’m not afraid. I would gladly face Jörmungandr, Fenrir and all the monsters of Middle Earth if I thought there was any point to this stupid quest of yours.”
“I never said you were afraid,” Sven said mildly. “And while your concern about the serpent is valid, we’re unlikely to have to face the giant wolf Fenrir at sea. I merely meant that I know the value of family and I will understand if you want to look after your son while he recovers from his … ordeal.”
Olaf stood, upsetting his bowl of fish stew. “You’re obsessed with the legend of the Promised Land,” he said, jabbing his finger in Sven’s face. “You can no longer see the stories about it are preposterous. Have you heard the crazy tales the men tell to keep their spirits up? With each passing day of hardship, the stories become more ridiculous, more insane. Thora thinks she’s going to bathe each day in asses’ milk; Magnus thinks there will be emeralds the size of duck eggs; Koll thinks every meal will be a feast to rival midsummer; and, silliest of all, that slave girl thinks we will let her go free.” He sneered at the last.
“You are wrong about one thing, Olaf.” Sven said, a smile tugging at his lips. “I still have the book. I hid it on Wavedancer before that volcano blew its top. I tell you, we will find the Promised Land. We will avail ourselves of its riches.”
“Pah,” Olaf said. “You have no idea. Karl has already suffered for your madness. I for one am not going to throw my life away on rumours, or lose my only son, the last living member of my family, under the leadership of a fool.”
Magnus stood. Redknee noticed his hands shook. “I agree with Olaf,” he said, his voice feeble, like watered mead. “We don’t really know much about the Promised Land, or even if the book is reliable. If Ragnar wants the treasure, maybe we should leave him to it; not go seeking more danger.”
A few insipid “Ayes” trickled round the campfire.
There was a time Redknee would have sided with Olaf and Magnus. If it wasn’t for the prospect that his father might be out there somewhere, he would have stood and been counted with them. But as it was, the chance, albeit remote, that he was following in his father’s footsteps, was enough to spur him on. Ulfsson’s words had been enough to convince him of that.
Redknee spoke as Magnus sat down. “What the book says is true. I know this because I have met a man who I believe has been to the Promised Land.”
“When?” Olaf shouted
“In Iceland; Astrid took me to him. The man, Ulfsson was his name, had sailed with her husband. They left Reykjavik two years ago looking for Greenland. Instead they reached a land far to the west where the people spoke no known language.” He thought of adding the bit about the disappearing warriors, but decided it would not help the case.
“Where is this man now?” Olaf asked, his voice dripping with derision. “Find him, and let him speak for himself.”
“He can’t,” Redknee said. “He was killed in a tavern brawl.”
“How convenient,” Olaf said. “Tell me, how do we know this Ulfsson’s land, if Ulfsson even exists, is the same as the Promised Land of the Codex?”
Redknee had no answer to this, but Sinead saved him from providing one by climbing onto a rock and coughing.
“Some of you might not know me. I’m the servant girl you took from the monastery of Rock Fells in Ireland.”
Oh, by Odin’s all-seeing eye, Redknee thought, she might be pretty, but why did she have to stick her nose into everything? Others agreed, because a murmur went round the group, peppered with insults about her slave status. At least no one called her a traitor.
Sinead ignored the remarks and went on. “Olaf says the rumours about the Promised Land are lies. But I often heard the monks talk of the place. About how Saint Brendan was said to have visited it. There are no more learned men in the whole world than the monks of Ireland. We can trust their judgment. If they say the Promised Land exists, I believe them.”
“She lies!” Someone shouted.
A rotten apple sped towards her from the midst of the group; striking her on the forehead. She staggered; Redknee thought she was going to fall. He dashed forward, but Astrid was quicker. In a flash, she had stepped up and offered her arm for balance. She stared at Sinead the way a fox eyes a chicken. This was no act of charity.
“May I?” Astrid asked, nodding at the rock, though it didn’t sound much like a question.
Disoriented, Sinead nodded dumbly and stood down.
Astrid ascended the rock that had become their de facto hustings. Her cool stare silenced the hecklers. She began confidently, wi
th no trace of the hesitation or anxiety she’d shown on their arrival at Reykjavik. The contrast thrilled Redknee; it should have terrified him.
“As some of you may know, my husband is in Greenland. It is my belief that this is another name for the Promised Land of your legend. My husband is a great man – a respected leader and fearless warrior. I want to help him settle there and I will give a thousand coins of Arab silver to each man who helps me.”
Chatter rose from the crowd. Astrid’s offer had captivated them.
But Olaf wasn’t finished. He stood in front of her. “Are we going to take orders from these, these … women?” He spat the last word as if it was a piece of indigestible gristle.
Doubt twisted, knife-like, into the assumptions of every man present. Redknee could see it in their faces, the desire for riches, for adventure, for glory versus the safe, easy route that would preserve their lives but end forever their dreams of immortal renown.
In the end, Sven, who was the better diplomat and still held the respect of his men, saw his opportunity writ large in the big, simple faces before him. It was not bravery they lacked, but clarity. He would give them that.
“Astrid will grant a thousand coins of Arab silver to each man who will search for her husband. I will join her, but I will add this promise – that each man who helps me reach the Promised Land will receive forty acres of fertile land and as many jewels as he can carry.”
A cheer went up from the men. The decision had been made. They would continue on. Redknee prayed that hope had not, after all, fooled them into eating scraps.
Chapter 19
Olaf placed the alcohol-soaked rag across his son’s back with care. Harold juddered in pain. Olaf grabbed him to his chest and stroked his hair. The sway of the ship seemed to soothe the father but not the son. Harold’s eyes had withered. They were devoid of hope, like those of an old man. Death-bed eyes.
Redknee let the tarpaulin fall back into place and turned away. He still had Harold’s ivory-handled dagger hanging from a loop on his belt. It didn’t feel a like a prize now. It felt like a warning. Had revenge played a part in Olaf’s eventual, and somewhat reluctant, decision to continue on with them? It wasn’t like the big man to give in. It wasn’t like Harold to forgive a trespass. When Redknee had asked his uncle, he just laughed.
“Olaf is still my most trusted man,” he’d said. “He understands his son did wrong so I’m sure he harbours no grudge against you for Harold’s lashing. But he’s been through a lot. He needs time, and space, to see what an opportunity the Promised Land is. The fact he’s decided to join us, when he could have stayed with Ivar and Matilda, means he’s starting to come round.”
Redknee had nodded at Sven’s explanation. Privately he wondered if his uncle’s desire to find the Promised Land hadn’t begun to curdle his brain.
Dismissing these thoughts as best he could, Redknee tucked the dagger into the folds of his tunic and wandered along the deck. It was three days since they’d left Iceland. The seas grew colder. Frost dusted the planks, even at midday. When he woke in the mornings, he could see his life-breath floating in the air. Sinead reassured him the chill wouldn’t leach his inner vapours unless it became much colder. She delighted in puffing shapes from between her pursed lips and watching as her life-breath disappeared into the frigid sky. Wasteful, Redknee thought. And not quite believing her, he huddled up to Silver at night all the more.
As he approached the stern, Redknee saw Astrid exchange a word with Magnus at the tiller. The presence of Astrid and her four men-at-arms had upset the on-board dynamic. They kept to themselves near the stern; had their own rations of pickled mutton; duck eggs; even turnips and a small pouch of horseradish. But they didn’t share. This annoyed the rest of the men forced to survive on the scraps Olaf had scavenged from the tiny island where they’d sheltered from the volcano.
Seeing Redknee, Magnus gave Astrid a curt nod and turned to stare back out to sea, his eyes shuttered; blank and impassive as the dull waves.
Redknee avoided Astrid’s cool stare – she still hadn’t forgiven him for stopping her sacrifice to Frey – and turned back towards the prow. Thora sat with Koll and the Bjornsson twins, swaddled in bear furs, only the pink tip of her nose peeking out. The wind caught a scrap of their conversation. They were discussing the treasure. Not again, Redknee thought, when he heard Thora declare she would have brooches of jade and five slaves just to braid her hair.
Koll saw him. “Join us,” he said, waving. “We have a chunky fish stew.”
Redknee shook his head. It was time he spoke to Sven about the origins of the Codex and its links with his father. The unicorn and ivy embroidery on his mother’s cloth was evidence enough of a connection. Toki’s story about how Sven believed Redknee’s father had worked out the location of the Promised Land, perhaps even found it for himself, if Ulfsson was to be believed, made speaking to Sven critical. Since they’d left Iceland, the tale had burned in Redknee’s mind, hotter than the flames of Mount Hekla.
Redknee clenched his hand. Everything pointed to Sven having lied. How dare he keep the truth from him? His uncle was nothing but an interloper in his father’s longhouse, living, as he had done for the past sixteen years with Redknee and his mother. Living as jarl in his father’s stead. He’d put off speaking to his uncle long enough. Long enough by far.
Sven stood at the prow, his arm slung over the red and gold dragonhead, cloak billowing in the wind. His desire, nay, Redknee thought, desire wasn’t a strong enough word. Obsession, that was it. His uncle’s obsession to reach Greenland, lest it be the Promised Land, had made him impatient. Redknee could almost picture saliva dripping from his uncle’s mouth as he watched for that first glimpse of Greenland’s famous lush hills. Sven hadn’t sat, hadn’t slept, hadn’t turned his eyes from the horizon since they’d left Iceland. He even took his whale stew standing, oblivious to the brown liquid sloshing over his fine blue tunic.
As Redknee approached his uncle, Toki crossed the deck ahead of him and tapped Sven on the shoulder. Redknee paused. He would know what Toki had to say to his uncle. Until now, the big warrior had kept his distance from Sven, fearful, Redknee had assumed, of retribution for defecting to Ragnar’s band.
But when Sven saw it was Toki come to join him, he smiled and threw his arm round the younger man as if they were long lost brothers. Redknee halted. It was not the reception he’d expected for Toki, given Sven’s threats to him in the barn.
“You have to hear this!” a female voice called.
Redknee turned to see Sinead beckoning him to join her. Sinead, Olvir and Silver were sitting with Brother Alfred, listening as he told one of his stories. Green, blue and gold eyes wide, watching every hand gesture the little monk made as he wove his story in the air, like the weaver threads the weft into the warp.
“Come on,” she said. “It’s really good.”
Redknee glanced back at his uncle. He and Toki were deep in conversation. Redknee sighed. He supposed he could wait. Where, after all, could his uncle go on a longship?
Redknee joined Sinead on one of the thick furs. Silver nuzzled close. Try as he might to focus on the monk’s tale, Redknee couldn’t help straining to hear the conversation going on behind him. But the wind stole the meat. More disturbingly, Redknee could picture two sets of eyes further down the ship, father and son, marking his back.
Brother Alfred was wittering on about some land of milk and honey. Apparently, it was promised by Brother Alfred’s God to his favourite people many summers ago. Sinead was enthralled by the tale, but it left Redknee cold until the monk reached the bit about a sorcerer who caused a great sea to part, allowing him and his people to escape the evil king’s army.
“Once Moses and his people had passed safely through the Red Sea,” the little monk went on, “the waters came rushing back, drowning the pursuing soldiers.”
“Were the chosen people freed?” Sinead asked. “Did they find their land?”
Redknee huffed. Typi
cal. It had to be a story about slaves to keep Sinead interested.
Brother Alfred shook his head. “Not quite yet, little one. For the people didn’t appreciate everything God had done for them. They took to worshipping false idols made of gold and precious jewels. This enraged God and he banished them to forty years of wandering the desert.”
“So they never got their milk and honey?” Olvir asked with disappointment.
“Well, they did eventually. After their forty years of wandering were finished and they’d learned their lesson. But Moses, their leader, and the one who’d set them free from slavery, never got to see the new land.”
“Why not?” Sinead asked.
Brother Alfred shrugged. “He’d done his part. It was time for him to join God.”
“That’s stupid,” Redknee said. “Moses put in all the effort – he should have got the reward.”
The little monk pressed his hands together as if in prayer and tilted his head thoughtfully to one side. “Sometimes,” he said carefully, “a reward is not exactly what you expect it to be.”
Once Brother Alfred had finished his story, Sinead pulled Redknee aside. “I’ve been thinking about Karl’s murder,” she said in a low voice. “I’m worried your uncle might still accuse me.”
“But Karl was killed around the time of the horse fight,” Redknee said, placing a hand on her arm in an attempt to reassure her, “and you were with me then.”
Sinead shook her head. “No,” she said. “I wasn’t. You went off to speak to Ivar in the longhouse.”
Redknee remembered Ivar calling him inside and giving him the cloth embroidered by his mother. “I was only gone a moment.”
“Long enough to leave me open to accusations. So, I’ve been thinking. What if we ask everyone what they were doing then and double check their stories?”
“Too difficult.”
Sinead tilted her face up to his, a strange mix of fear and determination shone there. Redknee bit his lip. He’d been thinking about Karl’s death himself and had come up with a vague plan. But could he really trust her? How did he know this wasn’t all part of some act? As she’d said herself, there was a big hole in her alibi. He sighed. What choice did he have? Besides, if he played it right, his plan would work just as well on her. He cleared his throat.