The big ship came nudging up to the jetty. Seven or eight men were busy on board, lifting the oars in, collecting their gear. Arne threw a rope up to Bjørn. “Nice new jetty,” he called, laughing. “Did you build it for us? It’s good, this’ll be easier for Astrid.”
“Astrid?”
“The skipper’s wife.”
Everyone stared. Peer got a glimpse of a girl in a blue cloak, huddled under an awning which had been rigged up behind the mast. Arne climbed on to the jetty and wrung Bjørn’s hand. He clapped Peer on the shoulder and said, “Fancy a voyage to Vinland?” before turning to offer a helping hand to the girl, who was clutching some kind of pouch or bag. A giant of a fellow with a shock of almost white fair hair tried to boost her up from the ship.
Peer watched scornfully. Hilde wouldn’t need helping out of a boat. She’d just kilt up her dress and jump out, laughing!
Hilde, Hilde! She teased Peer, bossed him about, and drove him crazy. Last spring, he’d made the mistake of impulsively kissing her, and she’d laughed at him. He hadn’t dared to do it since, except in dreams.
One day, he swore to himself, one day when the time is right, I’ll go to Hilde and ask her… or perhaps I’ll say…
No, I’ll tell her: ‘We just belong together.’
But would she agree? “Hey! You!”
Lost in thought, Peer didn’t notice the voice hailing him from the ship.
“You there – Barelegs!”
“Peer!” Einar jogged him in the ribs. “The young lord’s talking to you.”
“What?” Peer woke up. Had he heard what he thought he’d heard?
“He means you,” Einar chortled, pointing. “Anyone else around here with no breeches on?”
Barelegs? Peer turned round and met the light, cold gaze of a boy his own age – seventeen or so, wearing a dark chequered cloak wrapped around his shoulders and pinned with a large silver brooch. Because the jetty was higher than the ship, his head was currently at about Peer’s waist level, but this disadvantage didn’t seem to bother him. He tilted up a tanned face as smooth as a girl’s, but wider in the jaw, heavier across the brow. Loose golden hair fell about his shoulders and cascaded in a wind-whipped tangle halfway down his back.
But his eyes… they reminded Peer of something. Einar once had a dangerous dog with eyes like that, odd milky blue eyes, wolf eyes, he’d called them.
The boy snapped his fingers. “Are you deaf? I told you to help my father up on to the jetty. He’s not well.” And he took the elbow of a man standing beside him. This must be the skipper, the famous Gunnar Ingolfsson. His eyes were the same pale blue as his son’s, but the rims were slack, and the flesh under them was pouchy and stained. Impatiently, he stretched up his hand. Gold arm-rings slid back to his elbow.
And then Peer saw with a shock that Gunnar’s other hand was gone. The left arm swung short; the wrist was a clumsily cobbled-together stump of puckered flesh with a weeping red core. One hand, look, only one hand… the whisper ran through the crowd as Gunnar seized Peer’s arm, trod hard on the ship’s gunwale and pulled himself on to the jetty with a grunt of effort. He let go of Peer without a word, and turned immediately to join his wife.
The boy sprang up after him. “That’s better, Barelegs,” he said to Peer.
“My name’s not Barelegs,” said Peer, his temper rising.
“No?” The boy’s eyebrows went up, and he glanced deliberately around at the villagers. “Does he actually own a pair of breeches?”
Einar snorted, Gerd giggled, and Einar’s eldest boy made things worse by shouting out, “Yes, he does, and they’re over there!”
There was a burst of laughter. Peer went red.
The boy smiled at Peer. “Now why did you have to take those trousers off in such a hurry? Were you caught short? Did our big ship scare you that much, Barelegs?”
Completely forgetting the hammer in his hand, Peer struck out. The boy twisted like a cat, there was a swirl of cloak and a rasping sound. Something flashed into the air. With a shout, Bjørn grabbed Peer’s arm, forcing it down. He wrenched the hammer away and hurled it on to the beach.
Peer rubbed his numbed fingers. “I’m s-sorry,” he stammered to Bjørn. “I lost my – I wouldn’t have hurt him —”
“No,” said Bjørn in a savage undertone, “you’d have been gutted.” And he nodded at the boy, who stood watching Peer with dancing eyes, holding a long steel-edged sword at a casual slant.
Peer had never actually seen a sword before. Nobody in the village was rich enough to have one. Patterns seemed to play and move on the flat steel surface. The frighteningly sharp edges had been honed to fresh silver.
That could cut my arm off.
In sudden silence the villagers gaped, their grins wearing off like old paint. The sailors from the ship edged together, watchful, glancing at their leader, Gunnar. The tall girl, Gunnar’s wife, looked on with cool eyes, as if nothing surprised her.
Then the boy pushed the sword back into its sheath. He tossed his hair back and said in a light, amused way, “He started it.”
“And who are you?” demanded Bjørn.
The boy waited for a second, and Gunnar interrupted. “He’s my son, Harald Gunnarsson, my first-born.” His voice was gruff, thick with pride. “My young lion, eh, Harald?” Affectionately he cuffed the boy with his sound right hand. “Look at him, pretty as a girl, no wonder they call him ‘Harald Silkenhair’. But don’t be fooled. See this?” He lifted his left arm to show the missing fist, and turned slowly around, grinning at the villagers. “Seen it? All had a good look?” His voice changed to a snarl. “But the man who did it lost his head, and it was my boy here who took it off him.”
There was scattered applause. “A brave lad, to defend his father!”
“A fine young hero. And so handsome, too!” Gerd clasped her knobbly hands.
“But a little too quick with his tongue, perhaps,” said Bjørn drily.
Gunnar hesitated. Then he burst out laughing. “All right,” he coughed, “all right. We can’t let the young dogs bark too loudly, can we? Harald – and you, what’s your name – Peer? No more quarrelling. Shake hands.”
“Yes, father,” said Harald sweetly. He held out his hand. Peer eyed him without taking it. His heart beat in his throat and his mouth was sour with tension, as he met Harald’s bright gaze.
Harald grinned unpleasantly. “Come on, Barelegs. Can’t you take a joke?”
Peer nearly burst. He turned his back and shouldered his way along the jetty, leaving Bjørn and the others to deal with the newcomers. Down on the shingle, he pulled on his breeches while Einar’s little boys peeped at him round the posts of the jetty, giggling and whispering, “Barelegs, Barelegs.” He pretended not to hear, but it was the sort of name that stuck. He would never live it down.
Bjørn called to him. “Arne’s taking Gunnar up to Ralf ’s farm. Why don’t you go with them? It’ll be sunset soon, anyway.”
“Not me,” said Peer gruffly. “I’ll be along later. I’ve work to finish here.”
He watched them pick their way across the beach. Gunnar’s young wife Astrid clung to his arm, mincing across the pebbles. Her shoes were too thin, Peer thought sourly. How would she ever make it up to the farm, a good two miles of rough track? But perhaps they’d borrow a pony.
He walked back along the jetty, taking his time, unwilling to talk even to Bjørn. The tide was full. Water Snake had risen with it.
Against the sky the knob of the dragonhead stood black, like a club or a clenched fist. The angry wooden eyes bulged. The gaping jaws curved like pincers. An undulating tongue licked forwards between them, the damp wood splitting along the grain.
Peer glanced about. No one was looking. He quietly jumped on board.
The ship smelled of pinewood and fresh tar. The rope he clutched left a sticky line on his palm. There was decking fore and aft. The waist of the ship was an orderly clutter of crates and barrels: luggage and supplies. A white hen stuck its h
ead out of a wicker crate and clucked gently.
Fancy a trip to Vinland, Peer?
He clambered up the curve of the ship into the stern, where he stood for a moment holding the tiller and gazing west. The sun was low, laying a bright track on the water: a road studded with glittering cobblestones. It stung his heart and dazzled his eyes.
And Harald Silkenhair, no older than Peer, had travelled that road. Harald had sailed across the world, proved himself in battles, been to places Peer would never see.
He thought of Thorolf ’s ship, his father’s ship, the Long Serpent, beached on the shores of Vinland far across the world, and felt a surge of longing. What would it be like to go gliding away into the very heart of the sun? He closed his eyes and imagined he was out at sea.
“What are you doing?” Bjørn looked down from the jetty. Peer snatched his hand off the tiller, feeling every kind of fool for playing at sailing like some little boy.
“Looking at the, oh, the workmanship.” He made an effort. “The dragonhead’s not as fine as the one my father made. But it’s still good work.”
“Mm.” Bjørn paused. “And what do you make of Harald Troublemaker?”
Their eyes met. Peer said, “He just picked a fight with me. For no reason at all.”
“I know.”
“What was I supposed to do? Stand there and take it? Did you hear what he said to me?”
Bjørn blew out a troubled breath. “Peer, better to take an insult than a sword in your guts. You don’t have to play Harald’s games.”
“How can your brother sail with someone like that?”
Bjørn shook his head. “Arne’s a bit of a fool sometimes.”
“Let me get off this boat.” Peer climbed on to the jetty, feeling Water Snake balance and adjust as his weight left her.
“Don’t play Harald’s games,” Bjørn repeated.
“I won’t.” Half comforted, Peer straightened and stretched. “You’re right,” he added. What was the point of letting Harald get to him? Let him strut. Let Arne have his evening with Hilde. Tomorrow they’d both sail away.
Chapter 43
‘Be careful what you wish for”
HILDE RUBBED TIRED eyes. It was almost too dark to see the pattern she was weaving. Further up the room, in the glow of the long hearth, nine-year-old Sigrid was telling little Eirik a bedtime story.
“So there was a terrible storm. And Halvor’s ship was blown along until he landed in a beautiful country. And he got out, and he came to a castle where there was an enormous troll with three heads.”
“Isn’t he rather young for that story?” Hilde interrupted. “He’s only two.”
“He likes it,” said Sigrid. “And the troll said, ‘Hutututu! I smell the blood of a mortal man!’ So Halvor pulled out his sword, and chopped off the troll’s heads.”
“Chop, chop, chop!” chuckled Eirik. Hilde rolled her eyes.
“And he rescued a princess, a beautiful princess, and got married to her. And they lived in the castle together, ever so happily, till one day Halvor began to miss his poor mother and father, who would think he had drowned.”
Hilde wove a few more rows, half-listening while the princess gave Halvor a magical ring, which would carry him back over the sea, with a warning never to forget her. “‘Or I shall have to go away to Soria Moria Castle, to marry a troll with nine heads.’”
Eirik lost interest. He squirmed eel-like over the edge of the bed. Sigrid dragged him back. “Lie still, Eirik, or I won’t go on.”
Gudrun was slicing onions with streaming eyes. “Thank goodness Elli’s asleep. I’ll be so glad when she’s finished teething. All that wailing really wears you out…”
“Shall I do the onions?” Hilde asked. “I can’t see to weave.”
“No, go and help with Eirik, I’ve nearly done.”
“Eirik,” said Hilde, “sit on my knee and listen to Siggy’s nice story. Better chop off a few more heads,” she advised Sigrid from the side of her mouth.
“Halvor was so happy to get home that he quite forgot the poor princess was waiting for him,” said Sigrid rapidly. “And she waited and waited, and then she said, ‘He’s forgotten me, and now I must go to Soria Moria Castle, east of the sun and west of the moon, and marry the troll with nine heads.’”
“Excellent!” exclaimed Hilde, trying to stop Eirik slithering off her lap. “Nine heads coming off soon, Eirik.”
“So Halvor had to find Soria Moria Castle, but nobody knew the way. Oh, Eirik, I wish you’d listen!”
“Eirik!” said Hilde ruthlessly. “Listen to the end of the story. The prince chopped off the troll’s heads. Chop, chop, chop!”
“Chop, chop, chop!” chanted Eirik.
“You wrecked my story!” Sigrid cried.
“I told you, Sigrid: he’s too little.” She let Eirik slide to the floor. “And he isn’t sleepy. He wants to play. I don’t blame him, either. I know how he feels.”
Gudrun looked at her. “What do you mean?”
Hilde prowled the room. “Nothing. I’m sick of being cooped up indoors. Peer’s building that jetty with Bjørn. Pa and Sigurd are on the fell with Loki and the new puppy. I wish something interesting would happen to me.”
“Be careful what you wish for,” said Gudrun. “It was ‘interesting’ last summer, when the house was attacked by trolls, but I wouldn’t go through that again. Life isn’t fair, and you may as well get used to it.”
“You always say that! I’m so tired of being shut up in here, doing the same things, cooking and spinning and weaving, for ever and ever and ever.”
“Hilde,” said Gudrun in surprise. She set down the knife and smoothed Hilde’s hair with a damp hand. “We all feel low at the end of winter. But spring’s here, and the weather will soon be warm again. Think of sitting outside in the long evenings.”
“I suppose,” Hilde muttered.
Sigrid said, “Now your hair will smell of onions.”
“Well, thanks!” Hilde began, when there was a bang at the door. Gudrun’s hand flew to her mouth. “Who’s this, knocking after dark?”
“Trolls?” said Sigrid apprehensively.
Hilde got to her feet. “I’ll get it. And if there are any trolls out there, I’ll make them wish they hadn’t bothered.”
“Chop, chop, chop!” shouted Eirik. With a nervous giggle, Sigrid hoisted him into her arms, and Hilde grabbed a broom and flung the door open. “Who is it, and what do you want?”
Then she threw down the broom with a cry of delight. “Arne!”
Arne Egilsson ducked in under the lintel, pulling off his cap, a broad smile on his face. “Don’t hit me, Hilde! Is Ralf here? Gudrun, I’ve brought visitors. Gunnar Ingolfsson of Vinland, with his wife Astrid, and his son, Harald Silkenhair! Gunnar wants to speak to Ralf. Guess what, Hilde? I’ve joined Gunnar’s ship. I’m sailing with him to Vinland!”
Hilde gasped. “Arne, you lucky, lucky thing!”
“Yes, but I’ll miss you. Will you miss me?” he whispered. A moment later, people were crowding in. Gunnar Ingolfsson filled the doorframe, a thickset, sandy-bearded man in a heavy wolfskin cloak. After him came a tall, pale girl. Gudrun advanced to greet them, wiping her hands on her apron. And the last to come in…
Hilde blinked. In walked a boy who made Arne look like an overgrown, ruddy-faced farmhand. He wore his fine cloak with a confident swagger. Long golden hair tumbled over his shoulders and down his back.
Harald Silkenhair? He’s like a young hero from a saga. “He’s just like a prince from a fairytale,” Sigrid breathed. “Look, he’s even got a sword!”
Eirik struggled, kicking Sigrid with his bare toes till she put him down. He ran forward, a sturdy little figure in a nightshirt, blocking Harald’s way, and gazed up in wide-eyed admiration. “Show me your sword,” he demanded.
Harald’s lips quirked, and he went down on one knee. He slid his sword a few inches out of the sheath. “Meet Bone-Biter. No!” he warned, as Eirik’s chubby hand wen
t out. “She’s sharp. Touch the handle.”
Hilde watched Eirik stretch out a finger. The hilt of the sword was wrapped in silver wire. “Shiny,” said Eirik, his voice soft. He looked up at Harald. “Did you cut off the twoll’s head?”
Harald frowned. Hilde cut in. “It’s a story. He thinks—”
“He thinks you’re a prince who killed some trolls,” blurted Sigrid, blushing.
Harald pushed the sword back into its sheath. “Not trolls,” he said, laughing, “not trolls.” He leaned forward and ruffled Eirik’s hair. “When you’re a man, maybe you’ll have a sword like this.” And he got to his feet.
“Wasn’t that was nice of him?” Sigrid whispered to Hilde.
“I… suppose so,” said Hilde slowly. Sigrid was right. It was very nice of this young warrior to take notice of a small boy. Meet Bone-Biter. Little boys always worshipped heroes, didn’t they? What could be wrong with that?
Harald turned to Gudrun. “Lady!” He bowed over her rough hand as though it were the white hand of a queen, and declaimed with a flourish:
“Far have we fared on the wide ocean,
Where seabirds scream and the whales wander.
Glad of our landfall, thanks we give
To our fair hostess for this fine welcome.”
“Goodness,” Gudrun fluttered as Harald let go her hand. “Poetry!”
“His own.” Gunnar watched his son with a kind of rough delight.
“I’m honoured,” Gudrun exclaimed. “You’re most welcome. What a shame my father-in-law isn’t still alive. He was such a fine poet himself. He would so much have enjoyed this meeting.”
Would he? thought Hilde, watching her mother’s pleased pink flush. She looked at Harald, wondering how many times he’d used that verse. Could he possibly be poking fun? Before she could consider the matter any further, Arne tapped her shoulder. “Hilde, this is Gunnar’s wife, Astrid.”
Hilde turned, nearly bumping into a tall girl standing close behind her, muffled in an expensive-looking dark blue cloak with the hood up. A brown and white goatskin bag was slung over her shoulder on a long strap, which she clutched with long, thin-wristed hands. She had ice-maiden skin, so white and thin that the blue veins glistened through, wide grey eyes, a neat, straight nose like a cat’s with little curling nostrils, and pale, closely shut lips.
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