by V. Campbell
“As you know, Uncle Sven thinks Karl discovered a traitor among us – sent by Ragnar – and that’s how he got his throat slit. Of course, there could be another explanation. A fight over a debt, a woman. But if Sven is right, all we need to do is flush out the real traitor.”
“Er, how is that easier than my plan?”
“You’re forgetting we already know one important thing about him, or her.”
“What’s that?”
“We know they probably want the book more than anything. That’s their weakness, and we can use it to trap them.”
The more Redknee thought about it, the more he became convinced the book was the key to everything. If he played his pieces wisely, he could use what he knew to trap the real traitor, flush out Karl’s murderer and get to the truth about the whereabouts of his father. He no longer doubted that his father yet lived, so convinced was he of the depth of his uncle’s lies.
Redknee had watched as Toki took his leave of Sven, a smile playing on his lips. It occurred to Redknee that Toki had been lying when he’d confronted him in the burning barn. Or least hadn’t told all he knew. But that didn’t matter now. He knew how he was going to play it.
Redknee heard a low moan. He turned to see Harold’s pale face poking from behind the tarpaulin.
“Please,” Harold said, “help me. My dressing has burst.”
Redknee looked round. Everyone else was busy preparing food, trimming the sails or trying to catch a fat, yellow-beaked gull that had landed on deck.
“Alright,” he said reluctantly. “What do I have to do?”
Harold led him inside the tent. It stank of raw flesh. Bloodied linens covered the floor; a bowl of salt water sat by the makeshift bed. Harold turned away and Redknee saw the linen bandages wrapped round his back were soaked through with blood.
“It isn’t healing,” Harold said. “I need to you change the bandages.”
Redknee slowly unwound the sodden linens, wincing as half-congealed blood and blackened skin came away with the cloth. He’d never been this close to Harold before, other than in a fight. He kept thinking Harold might suddenly draw a knife, or punch him in the face. But then he would catch sight of the injuries Ivar’s whip had inflicted, and he knew he was being stupid. Unfair, even. The boy was in so much pain. He could almost have been sorry. But wasn’t that what Harold wanted by calling him in? No, he thought. Harold wasn’t going to play him that easily. He knew what Harold had done, of what he was capable. True, the punishment had been harsh, but people could have died in the fire at Ivar’s farm. Harold had known the consequences of his actions.
Harold interrupted Redknee’s reverie when he handed him a fresh length of linen. Very carefully, Redknee wound it round Harold’s torso, securing it in a knot at his hip. “That’s it,” Redknee said. “I’ve done what I can.”
Harold laughed. “More than that, I think.”
Redknee stood to leave, but Harold grabbed his wrist. “I saw you,” he said.
“What?”
“I saw you help the cat-boy.”
Redknee didn’t understand him initially. Then it dawned. He meant Skoggcat.
“I didn’t realise the importance at first,” Harold continued. “But then I saw him again when Ragnar attacked the village. I know you’re the traitor, and I’ll tell Sven unless you convince him to turn Wavedancer round and go home.”
Redknee stood motionless. This was the real reason Harold had called him in. Eventually he said, “I’m not the traitor.” It was all he could think to say.
“We both know you are,” Harold said. “And I want to go home.”
Before Redknee could reply, the tarpaulin flew back. Olvir stood wide-eyed in the opening. “You’d better get out here,” he said. “The stew has been poisoned. Koll, Thora and the Bjornsson twins are sick.”
A crowd had gathered midship. Sinead stood in the centre.
“But I haven’t been near the stew,” she said, her shoulders thrown back, face held high. Redknee saw her hands trembled.
Sven stroked his chin thoughtfully. He’d ordered a barrel to be filled with sea water. “I know there’s a traitor among us,” he said. “Whoever it is, I believe they killed Karl because he knew their identity. And now the traitor is trying to sabotage this voyage by poisoning three of my best men.” He stared directly at Sinead. “You gave Mord the Codex Hibernia though you knew it to be of great value. Then you left with him of your own free will.”
Sinead shook her head. “Mord took me with him. I had no choice—”
“Silence woman!” Sven said. “I haven’t finished.” He paced the inside of the circle. “I allowed you to rejoin us because of your ability with the book words. But I have found myself unable to trust you. And now I hear you were alone at the time Karl was murdered.”
“I was browsing the market, was all,” Sinead said. “Tried some of their wares. I saw Karl’s body. A woman couldn’t inflict such wounds on a grown man.”
“She could if the man was drunk,” Olaf said, stepping forward, his face set hard, accusing. Others in the little group began nodding in agreement. “Karl had had more than his share of mead and sweet ale.”
“Indeed,” Sven said. “Likewise, you had the opportunity and the ability to carry out the poisoning. You worked in the apothecary at the monastery where you lived in Ireland. You would have learned all about herbs and poisons there.”
“But when would I have gathered them?” Sinead wailed.
“When you went up the fire mountain with Brother Alfred,” Olaf said with satisfaction.
Sinead laughed hysterically. “Even if that were my intention, that mountain was black and bare, strewn only with dead grass. There were no herbs of the kind I knew in Ireland.”
“Then you brought them with you,” Olaf snapped. “A conceited slave like you is always scheming to kill her masters.” He turned to Sven. “I say we do it now. Get her confession quickly.”
Redknee stared at the barrel of water standing before them.
Sinead saw it too and shrank back in fear. “I swear,” she whispered, “on the life of the Blessed Virgin, I did not murder Karl or poison the stew.”
Sven appeared to think for a moment then he nodded to Olaf, who grabbed Sinead by the wrists, dragged her to the barrel and forced her head under the water. She struggled, kicking and flailing her arms. Water slopped onto the deck. But Olaf held her fast, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Sven nodded again and Olaf let her up, gasping for air.
“Ready to confess?” Sven asked.
She coughed, defiantly shaking her head. “I won’t admit to what I haven’t done.”
Olaf started to plunge her under again—
“Wait!” Redknee shouted. It was too much. He knew Sinead wasn’t guilty, knew deep in his bones. He’d been with her right after Karl’s murder. She hadn’t seemed worried or out of sorts in any way. And most importantly, there had been no blood. “She’s not the traitor,” he said. “Whoever killed Karl would have been soaked in blood. I saw her - her dress was dry.”
Olaf’s hand hovered, holding Sinead’s head just above the surface of the water. Sven nodded for him to wait and he relaxed his grip.
“Go on then,” Sven said, “though if this is a ruse to help your little friend—”
“No, no,” Redknee said. “I speak the truth. Though I know nothing about the poisoning.”
Sven sighed wearily. He turned back to Sinead. “I’ll ask you one last time. Did you have anything to do with the stew?”
Sinead shook her head.
“Did anyone see who prepared the stew?” Sven asked.
Blank faces stared out from the little crowd. Eventually Magnus spoke up. “Thora made it herself.”
Sven groaned. “Well, we can hardly ask her.” He waved his arm to where Thora lay on the deck, shaking with fever, Brother Alfred hunched over her trembling form, dabbing her brow with a cloth.
“I would start by looking in Astrid’s pouch,” a male v
oice said evenly.
Everyone turned to see Toki standing a little apart from the others. He leant casually against the rail, his arms crossed loosely about his chest. The low sun behind him cast his face in silhouette.
“Look inside the pouch she carries on her belt,” Toki went on, “and you’ll find the poison.”
The ship fell silent as everyone stared at Astrid. Her men-at-arms had fallen in around her, but there were only four of them. No match for Sven and the others.
“Is this true?” Sven asked.
Astrid shook her head. “Why would I want to sabotage our voyage? I’ve as much interest in its success as anyone.”
“Because you don’t want to pay the coin you promised?” offered Toki.
“Oh, this is nonsense.”
“Then turn out your pouch,” Toki said simply.
“Will you allow us to have a look?” Sven asked.
Astrid nodded reluctantly. “I’ve nothing to hide,” she said, untying the ribbon holding the leather pouch to her belt and handing it to Sven.
He tipped the contents onto an upturned barrel. Little black seeds spilled out.
“See!” Astrid said. “Nothing but horseradish for flavouring meat.”
“Can I see those?” Sinead asked.
Sven nodded and Olaf held her while she peered at the seeds. A frown creased her forehead. “These aren’t horseradish,” she said. “They’re wolfsbane. I know it well. We used it in the apothecary to treat rheumatism. But it’s only safe if rubbed on the skin in small doses. This amount,” she said, her voice catching, “taken internally, could kill the entire ship.”
“No!” Astrid shouted. “She lies. It’s only seasoning.”
“Swallow it then,” Sven said calmly. “Gulp down a handful of these harmless-looking little black seeds and we’ll believe you.”
Astrid hesitated. “I’d rather not,” she said eventually. “Someone must have swapped my horseradish for this … this wolfsbane.” She stared accusingly at Toki. “How did you know of this?” she asked.
“Yes,” Sven said, joining in. “How did you know, and why didn’t you mention it before?”
Toki shrugged. “Simple. She was showing her men what food she’d brought. I saw then. I didn’t realise what it was until now. As Sinead said, the two are similar and I only saw them from a distance.”
Sven turned to Astrid. “How could anyone have changed the seeds in your pouch?” His voice had taken on a harder edge.
Astrid stared at him through the wall of her men. “I did not poison the stew.”
“It’s hard to believe you when you are caught with the poison.”
Astrid’s chief man-at-arms, one Egil, began to slide his sword from its scabbard. Redknee saw the telltale twitch of his uncle’s cheek. Anger. Olaf pushed Sinead aside, reached for his own sword—
Magnus stepped forward. “I can swear that neither Astrid, nor any of her men, left the stern all morning.” The quiet steersman stood, unblinking, beneath the onslaught of stares. “I have been at the tiller all day. None of them went forward; none could have poisoned the stew.”
Sven studied Magnus. The creaking groans of the ship filled the silence. Timber chaffed against timber, a discordant echo. “Very well,” Sven said eventually. Sighing, he tipped the poisonous seeds overboard. “But whoever is responsible for this, mark my words: you will not make me turn back. I will find the Promised Land and its treasure.” He looked at Redknee. “Come, lad. We shall see how Koll and the others fare.”
As his uncle turned to go, Redknee saw Astrid mouth a silent “Thank you” to Magnus.
As Redknee followed his uncle to the foredeck, Harold appeared, hunched and pale, at the opening to the tent. He stared at Redknee with pink-rimmed eyes. Redknee shuffled uncomfortably. He knew what Harold wanted him to do.
Harold stumbled forward, hands outstretched to clutch at Sven’s arm, mouth open, ready to spew forth his twisted truth.
“Wait,” Redknee said, glaring at Harold. Then he turned to Sven. “Do you think it wise, uncle, that we continue our quest when we don’t know who is killing us off?” From the corner of his eye, Redknee saw Harold smile. The manipulating toad.
Sven just laughed. “Oh, don’t worry lads,” he said, addressing Harold too, mistaking his pinched expression for concern, “we will find whoever is doing this. And when we do, I’ll personally see to it they’re hung, drawn and quartered … as slowly as possible. I’m not turning back.”
Harold scowled, but Sven was moving quickly down the deck towards Koll and the other poison victims: too fast for Harold’s mangled body to keep pace.
Koll, Thora and the Bjornsson twins lay side by side on the deck, their bodies pale and motionless. Brother Alfred sat by Koll; he held his head in his lap. The big warrior looked small, shrunken, somehow less than his six and a half feet. His fair hair was dark with sweat and plastered to his forehead. Brother Alfred dabbed his brow, his clothes, like Koll’s, were splattered with greenish-yellow vomit. Sven nodded in the direction of Thora and the Bjornsson twins.
Brother Alfred shook his head slowly. “I’m afraid they’ve given up the fight.”
“And Koll?” Sven asked.
As if in reply, Koll began wheezing, trying desperately to suck air into his mouth as fast as he could. Suddenly his breathing shortened, his face turned blue as convulsions twisted his body off the deck.
“He’s choking,” Brother Alfred said. “It’s what killed the others. We must do something to help him.”
Redknee glanced up at his uncle. “Sinead will know.”
Sven stared dully at his best warrior gasping and spluttering for his life. It was no way to go. To be denied the halls of Valhalla was a cruel end. “Get her,” Sven whispered, so quietly Redknee wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly until Sinead was actually there and Sven was urging her towards the patient
Sinead knelt beside Koll, pressed her ear to his chest and listened. “There’s no antidote for wolfsbane,” she said. “Our only hope is that he’s strong and hasn’t taken too much of it. All we can do is try to keep him breathing.”
Redknee and Sinead sat with Koll through the night. They kept him cool with water-soaked rags and held up his head so he wouldn’t choke on the stinking green vomit. With each breath, his chest rattled like dice in a cup but still he fought on. Eventually, as a small yellow sun rose on the horizon, Koll took his first clear breath. He had passed the worst.
Two more days were spent bringing Koll back to health. Sinead was a good nurse; efficient and kind. All thoughts of the Promised Land, of outing the traitor by baiting them with the Codex, vanished from Redknee’s mind as he assisted her in tending to his friend.
When Sven told Koll of Thora’s death, he roared like a mother bear with a dead cub, smashing two barrels against the side of the ship. In his grief, he refused to allow Thora to be buried at sea. Sinead eventually managed to persuade him of the sense in it by giving him a length of fine lemon coloured linen she’d embroidered with flowers to use as Thora’s shroud.
After the burial, Redknee found his uncle standing alone at the prow. He looked older. His skin hung heavy across his cheekbones. Redknee sensed it was the wrong time to ask about the Codex, but he had to know; couldn’t wait any longer.
“Uncle,” he said in what sounded, even to him, to be a pathetically feeble voice. “May I speak to you?”
Sven turned to face him fully. “Of course.”
Redknee gulped down his nerves. “When the old man in Kaupangen gave you the Codex, was that the first time you’d seen it?”
Sven nodded.
“Then what about this?” Redknee took his mother’s embroidered cloth from his pouch. “It has the pattern of five ivy leaves, the same as surrounds the unicorn in the Codex. My mother stitched it shortly before I was born as a gift for the infant Astrid.”
“Give that here,” Sven said.
Redknee handed over the yellowed square.
Sven turned pale. “Whe
re did you get this?”
“Ivar gave it to me,” Redknee said defensively. “He thought I should have something of my mother’s.”
Sven crumpled the cloth into a ball, turned to face the sea and drew back his arm. Redknee felt the blood drain from his face.
“Stop!” he shouted, dashing forward and snatching at the cloth. As Sven shrugged him off, he heard the rasp of snapping fibres. He stumbled backwards, staring at the ragged fragment between his fingers: it contained just two ivy leaves and a curl of green foliage. He looked up; anger coursed through his veins as his uncle calmly dropped the rest of the cloth into the sea.
“Why did you do that?” Redknee shrieked, gripping the rescued portion to his chest. “That was all I had left of my mother.”
Sven shook his head sadly. “It’s years since I saw that cloth. I’d forgotten it existed. I remember her sewing it quite clearly. It was high summer. Her belly was full with you and she found it hard to move quickly or to travel far. She used to berate herself for being so slow, for spending time in such womanly pursuits. She longed to be out in the forest, or on the mountains. Even training with her sword. Her spirit was wild. A bit like yours …”
His voice drifted off and Redknee was reminded of the time in the training yard when the same faraway look had come over him.
“I’m sorry I reacted the way I did,” Sven said, collecting himself. “It was a shock, seeing the cloth so suddenly.”
“So it’s true,” Redknee said. “My mother did see the Codex many years ago.”
Sven sighed. “I knew this time would come.”
“You did?”
“Yes,” Sven said, looking him full in the face. Sorrow clouded his grey eyes. “I don’t see what harm it does to tell the truth now. It was all so long ago and much has happened since. You’re right about the Kaupangen merchant. I didn’t get the book from him this spring. It was plunder from a monastery I raided with my brother about a year before you were born. We took our ship up the Irish coast. Times were different then. The monasteries were unprotected. Yet we heard tales they contained great wealth. It was too tempting. The place where we got the book; it is the place Sinead hails from.”