by V. Campbell
As the night drew to a close, Toki pulled Redknee aside. “Aren’t you upset about Sinead?” he asked.
“Why should I be?”
Toki shook his head. “Just thought you had your eye on that little one, that’s all.”
“She’s going to be married well … to Prince Halfdan. I can’t compete.”
“Didn’t his last wife die in a riding accident?” Koll cut in.
Toki shrugged. “I didn’t know that.”
“Yes,” Koll said emphatically. “She did.’ He turned to Redknee. ‘Before I came to your uncle’s village, I used to work in a smithy near Prince Halfdan’s fort. He’s not that young – maybe five and thirty. And there were rumours.”
“What kind of rumours?” Redknee asked.
“Well … the horse that threw his wife. Some say he startled it deliberately.”
Too tired to make it back to Wavedancer, Redknee fell asleep in a space beneath the eaves. He’d had to pay the landlord extra for the peace. But it was worth it, he thought as he dozed off, Silver at his side. Brother Alfred had left the tavern early to sleep on Wavedancer. Redknee wasn’t sure where Toki and Magnus had gone, but Koll was sleeping downstairs with the chest of coin. It would be safe.
Redknee awoke to the sounds of a busy household: the milling of corn; squawking chickens; children playing. For a moment he thought he was back home in his uncle’s longhouse by the side of Oster Fjord. Then everything came flooding back. He rose and went downstairs. Koll was out in the yard washing his face in a bucket of water.
“Morning,” Redknee grunted. “Are the others awake?”
“No idea,” Koll said as Toki staggered, blinking, into the daylight.
“Anyone seen Magnus?” Toki asked.
Koll shook his head. “Thought he was with you.”
Redknee’s stomach sank. “Koll … do you still have the chest … with Thorvald’s coin?”
“Yes …” Koll said. “I hid it beneath the floorboards—”
They went to check where Koll had hidden the money. Koll stamped his foot to find the loose board.
“Here it is,” he said, kneeling.
Redknee stared into the hole. It was empty.
Koll’s face fell. “I don’t understand.”
Redknee ran to the door. “If we go now,” he said, we might still catch him.”
“But no one saw where I hid it.”
“You were right, Koll,” Redknee said, banging his fist on the doorframe, “Ragnar didn’t allow me … any of us … to go so easily. He sent his spy.”
Koll scratched his head. “I thought Harold was his spy?”
“Harold was Mord’s spy. Of course Ragnar wouldn’t leave his information-gathering to little more than a child,” Redknee said. “I should have realised there would be someone else – someone under his direct authority. Magnus went with Uncle Sven to Kaupangen; he must have met Ragnar then.”
“Do you think he killed Hawk … and the others?” Koll asked.
Redknee shook his head. “I still think Astrid killed Hawk. That it was always her intention. But if I’m right, she got the wolfsbane from Magnus.”
“Then you think he killed Thora …”
Redknee nodded. “Yes, I do,” he said gently.
“Well then, by Thor’s hammer – what are we waiting for?”
Redknee, Koll and Toki hurried to the docks, but they were too late. A knar had already left for the Northlands that morning with a new crew member on board matching Magnus’s description.
Chapter 39
Sailing Wavedancer with just four men would be a struggle, so they asked around the docks if anyone wanted free passage to the Northlands. Three burly Icelanders took up their offer.
The mood on board Wavedancer the day they sailed from Reykjavik was low. They’d discussed returning to the Promised Land for more timber, but the three Northmen were in consensus – they’d had enough and just wanted to go home. Brother Alfred, too, was keen to return to Winchester and tell the leaders of his church about the new land and strange people he’d found. He believed there might be an abbacy in it for him, which he explained to Redknee, was a bit like being a jarl for holy men.
Their plan was to press on for home, avoiding a stay on the Sheep Islands. They had plenty of food and water for the seven men and Silver.
The weather held for four days but on the fifth day ugly black clouds gathered on the horizon. On the sixth day, the skies broke, sending hard, lashing rain. The sea rose until the waves towered above the mast, then crashed with terrifying power across the deck. This time, lowering the sail made little difference and the storm tossed poor Wavedancer about as if she were a child’s toy.
They fought to tie down their belongings while the storm shrieked in their ears. Barrels smashed against the gunnels. The last of their food was lost over the side. The strakes in Wavedancer’s hull groaned as she battled to stay intact. Brother Alfred crossed himself; sure their end was near. Koll kissed his Thor pendant. Silver cowered beneath a rolled up sheet. One of the Icelanders started puking. Toki shook his head and got on with helping Redknee secure the deck – a fruitless task as the waves climbed ever higher, breaking over the side with a new ferocity.
One huge wave sent everyone skittering on their backs. The retching Icelander flew over the side. Redknee only stayed onboard by grabbing hold of the rigging. After this, he put a whimpering Silver into his bag with the Codex and tied the straps across his chest. Then, drenched and with numb fingers, he tied a rope round his own waist and fixed the other end of it to the mast, tugging on the knot to make sure it would hold. He saw Koll and Toki do the same as another huge wave pounded the deck. Brother Alfred vanished over the side in a flurry of black sack-cloth and flailing limbs.
Redknee and Silver stayed lashed to the mast for what seemed like hours. Wavedancer plunged bravely on, her red and gold dragonhead set proudly against a furious sea. And then Redknee saw them. Rocks; lots of them, like teeth rising from the deep.
There comes a time when we must leave the things we hold dear. The promise of a new life, a love, a beautiful ship, must each be abandoned in the fight to survive, lest we drown from the weight of our dreams. Redknee took out his dagger and, as he saw the first great rock loom overhead, sliced clean through the rope tethering him. It was the last he saw of Wavedancer.
When Redknee woke, his left cheek had been scraped raw and every bone in his body ached in a way he’d not thought possible. He groaned - his throat felt like he’d swallowed a vat of ashes. Coughing, he hauled himself to his feet. He was on a long sandy beach surrounded by high cliffs. Gulls arced overhead. The storm had passed. The air smelled fresh. He felt his back, the bag was still there with the Codex inside, but Silver was gone. He stared down the beach. It was empty, save for the body of a man lying nearby, face down in the sand.
Redknee stumbled across to the man and turned him over. It was Koll. His face was blue and puffy and his eyes rolled white in his head; a deep gash split his forehead. Redknee shook him hard.
Koll spluttered awake. “Where are we?” he asked, looking round.
“I don’t know. I think we must be near the Sheep Islands though. Do you remember the storm?”
“Aye,” Koll said, “she was fearsome as a Valkyrie with toothache.”
“Wavedancer is gone,” Redknee said, staring out to a grey-blue sea. “Smashed to pieces on the rocks.”
Koll shook his head. “A sore waste.”
They headed along the beach with Redknee calling for Silver at the top of his voice. The island was small, barely more than a boulder dropped into the high, foamy sea. Sharp cliffs climbed away from the beach. As they reached the south side of the island, the cliffs became less steep. Presently they saw smoke coming from inland.
“Let’s see who’s home,” Redknee said, making for a path that led up the hill.
“Wait for us!”
Redknee turned to see Toki and one of the Icelanders running towards them. They were both
barefoot and their clothes were torn. Redknee realised he must look a sight himself.
“We thought you were dead.” Redknee shouted back, his words carried on the blustery air.
“We thought the same.” Toki said as he reached them.
The path rose to form steps cut into the rock. “These have taken someone a lot of work,” Toki said, puffing as the climb became steeper. Redknee wondered what sort of people – fishermen or farmers, lived in such a remote, yet well-appointed place.
The steps circled the exterior of the island, twisting upwards, affording dizzying views of the sea. Whoever lived here valued safety over easy access to the water.
When they reached the top and saw the dwellings that created the smoke, Redknee sighed. He’d hoped for a grand monastery, or, at the very least, a finely carved longhouse fit to hold a hundred warriors. What stood before him, in a little hollow at the top of the island, were eight small roundhouses, made of stone and roofed in chipped slate. They looked like peasant hovels.
“Are we dead?” Koll asked, staring at the strange buildings. “Is this Valhalla?”
Redknee shook his head. “We didn’t die in battle.”
“If Valhalla’s like this, I’ll be sorely disappointed,” Toki said.
Koll laughed, the first time since arriving on the island. “Aye, there’ll be no feasting in this wretched place.”
As they debated the likelihood of adequate refreshment, the door of the nearest roundhouse burst open. A tall man dressed in a brown habit ran forward. He held his arms out in greeting and Redknee saw his left arm was smaller than the other, like a withered branch.
“Welcome, friends,” he said in Norse. “We are poor hermit monks with nothing to offer you but our fireside and a little ale. I pray you come in peace.”
Redknee told the monk their ship had been wrecked in the storm and that they did indeed come in peace.
Relief lit the monk’s face and he beckoned them inside. The room smelled of whale oil and animal skins. “We are a hardworking monastery,” the monk said, clearing rolls of vellum from a table. “My name is Brother Luke. Please,” he said, pointing to some stools by a roaring fire, “warm yourselves.”
It took a moment for Redknee’s eyes to adjust to the dark. A group of monks were already by the fire. “Brother Alfred!” Redknee exclaimed recognising him from amongst their number.
As Brother Alfred stood, a leather ball fell from his lap and rolled across the floor. Before Redknee had finished thinking how it looked like the one Running Deer had given Silver, Silver himself shot from behind Brother Alfred and leapt into Redknee’s arms. The pup covered Redknee’s face in licks.
“Aw,” Redknee said, holding him tight. “I thought I’d lost you.”
“I found him washed up on the beach,” Brother Alfred said. “He was unconscious but came round well enough when I got some heat in his bones. He’s been pining for you ever since.”
Redknee thanked him and set a reluctant Silver on the floor. He learned Brother Alfred had been washed ashore on the south of the island and that he’d been alone. They agreed Silver must either have been swept from Redknee’s bag or swam out himself for he’d been found near Brother Alfred.
“But isn’t this wonderful?” Brother Alfred said, gesturing to the dark, smoky room. “Can you believe? We’re in one of the foremost scriptoriums in all Christendom! When the Lord takes with one hand, he gives with the other.”
Brother Luke caught Redknee’s doubtful expression. “It’s true about the scriptorium,” he said, setting a bowl of hot porridge on the table.
Redknee noticed the monk’s fingertips were stained purple. “I don’t see any books here.”
“We keep them in a separate room,” Brother Luke said. “Do you have a particular interest in books?”
“I’ve only ever seen one; so I don’t know about others. Do they all tell of treasure and adventure?”
Brother Luke stirred the porridge slowly. “Not all,” he said, after some thought. “But reading a book, even one on mathematics or philosophy, is like an adventure – and as for what you learn, or experience through reading … that is the greatest treasure of all.”
Brother Luke held out the ladle. Redknee took it, filled a bowl and put it on the floor. Silver gobbled ravenously. Redknee turned back to Brother Luke. “I don’t think I know what you mean,” he said, “about books.”
“Where did you learn to speak Norse, Brother Luke?” Toki cut in. He had gone straight to the fireside where he was warming his bare feet. “I feel I’ve seen you somewhere before.”
Brother Luke laughed nervously. “Well, I grew up in the Northlands.”
“And you became a Christian,” Brother Alfred said, impressed, “and a monk, no less?”
Brother Luke tilted his head. “Yes. I do not find that surprising. The teachings of the Nazarene have something to tell us all.”
Toki frowned. “Where in the Northlands did you grow up?”
“Oh, I grew up in a very small village. Perhaps, if I can say so, I have been at a monastery you have raided?”
Toki shook his head. “I doubt any monastery I’ve raided. We always killed the monks.”
“I would like to see your scriptorium,” Redknee said, casting Toki an angry look. “If I may.”
After they had eaten and dried their clothes by the fire, Brother Luke showed Redknee to the scriptorium. From the outside it looked the same as the other roundhouses – small and squat and dark. But as soon as Brother Luke opened the door, the stench of lime hit Redknee.
“It’s really two buildings in one,” Brother Luke said. Scraped sheepskins hung from the rafters. Beneath them sat large barrels of the foul smelling liquid. Brother Luke stirred one with a paddle. Hides bobbed to the surface. “We treat the sheepskins here. Our sister monastery on the mainland has a large farm. They send us the hides; we make them into vellum – for writing on.”
Redknee coughed and nodded.
Brother Luke laughed. “Don’t worry,” he said, “the next room smells better.”
Brother Luke led him through a low door and across a covered yard. The next roundhouse was even smaller and sadder looking than the one before. Brother Luke pushed open the sea-weathered door. As soon as Redknee stepped inside, he knew he was somewhere special. It wasn’t the furnishings, for the room was bare save for three small desks and a large cabinet against the far wall. Somehow the place had an aura of serious study and reflection.
The doors of the cabinet were closed, but a whale oil lamp and quill sat on each of the desks.
“Where are the books?” Redknee asked.
“This is where we write them. Every book we make has to be copied from an original by hand. Mostly, we make copies of the Bible. It can take as long as two years to finish a single volume. And that doesn’t include the illuminations.”
Redknee looked puzzled.
“The illuminations are the pictures,” Brother Luke said patiently. “They take the longest and require a great deal of skill. Often we use precious materials like gold and lapis lazuli for an important scene. We make books for some of the great monasteries of Europe; each year a boat comes to take our work to them. That is why we have only a few books here.” Brother Luke walked over to the cabinet and opened it with a key he kept on a cord round his belt. The top shelves were filled with sheets of vellum; the lower ones with seven large volumes bound in midnight-blue leather. He pulled the top sheet of vellum from the uppermost shelf and laid it on a desk. “We lock our work away each night in case it gets damaged,” he explained. “But it is not private.”
Redknee gazed at a beautiful picture of a unicorn, its tail woven round the letter ‘H’ at the top left of the sheet. “I’ve seen work like that before,” Redknee said. Brother Luke watched Redknee in confusion as he rooted inside his knapsack and brought out the Codex, still dripping from its immersion in the sea.
“Careful,” Brother Luke cried, whipping away his sheet of vellum. “Water will destro
y the work.”
Redknee opened the Codex at the page with the unicorn illumination. “Oh no,” he said, staring at the smudged mess of colours in disbelief, “it’s ruined!”
He flipped through the rest of the book. Every page was the same. Where once neat black writing had stood, like an orderly shield wall across the page, there was now only the smeared confusion of a terrible rout.
“Wait.” Redknee fished in his leather pouch. “I can at least show you a copy of the border.” He pulled out his mother’s embroidery. It wasn’t much, but the colours had survived the shipwreck, the ivy leaves intact.
Brother Luke took the linen scrap; studying it closely. He didn’t speak for a long time, just rubbed the fabric between his thumb and forefinger as if he didn’t quite believe it was real.
Redknee shuffled awkwardly and cleared his throat, readying to ask for it back.
“That book,” the monk said, his hand starting to tremble, “before it was ruined, what was it?”
“The Codex Hibernia.” Redknee held out his hand, he was becoming concerned about the monk’s state of mind. “Can I have my embroidery back, please?”
“Oh, yes,” Brother Luke said, seeming to snap out of his reverie. As he handed it back to Redknee he asked in a low voice, “Is she still alive?”
Redknee edged towards the door. “Is who still alive?” Brother Luke was behaving strangely. He wanted to get back to the others.
“My wife … Ingrid … she sewed that when we were newly married. I remember her working on it as clear as if it were yesterday.”
Redknee’s mouth turned dry. “Your … wife … made this?”
Brother Luke nodded. “I wasn’t always a monk. I used to be a Northman – a Viking – a pirate. My brother and I, we used to sail across the sea, looking for easy targets to plunder. But then, one day, just like you, my ship was washed up here. And well, I liked the life so much … found it was my true calling …”