Viking Gold (11 page)

“So my father
is
dead?”

“I’m sorry if she gave you
false hope. Your mother was at his funeral. Lit the burial pyre herself.
There’s no reason why she should think he is still alive. By Thor’s blood, I
saw my poor brother killed by Ragnar with my own eyes. There’s no question what
happened. I’m only sorry people have been so reluctant to talk to you about it
over the years. We were trying to be sensitive – my brother was killed running
away from a duel. I’m sorry to say that he was a coward. We wanted to spare you
that – I can see now it was a mistake.”

“But—”

“There
is
no secret.
You have to forget what your mother said and get on with your life – live in
the present.”

Before Redknee could reply,
Olaf came over and stuck his head between them. “Why’s Ragnar so bent on
chasing us?” he asked.

“You know Ragnar. Always
looking for trouble.”

“We’re risking our lives for
you, Sven. We should know why.”

“They’re only hounding us
because of that stupid book,” Redknee said, pointing to the wooden chest where
Sven had locked it earlier.

“What’s so special about it?”
Olaf asked.

“Ragnar believes it holds the
key to treasure,” Redknee said. “He means to use the book to find it.”

Olaf frowned. “Does your boy
speak the truth?”

Sven frowned. “When I went to
Kaupangen last month, an old merchant there didn’t have the silver to pay me
what he owed. Gave me the book instead. I laughed at first, for what would I
want with a book? But he said it was worth more than all the gold in
Christendom.”

Olaf let out a long, low
whistle. “And when were you going to tell us this?”

“What was there to tell? When
I returned home, I realised how foolish I’d been and hid the book away – I
didn’t know until now that Ragnar wanted it. I’d come to think the stories
about the treasure were just that, stories.”

“Well,” Olaf said. “I’m not
dying over rumours. I say we toss it to them and scarper home. It’s already
soaked in blood, no point adding ours.”

“Home to what?” Sven asked.
“The village is gone, our families butchered. I say we find this treasure for
ourselves. Must be truth in it if Ragnar wants it so bad. Think about it -
avenging our dead by denying Ragnar what he most wants.”

“But none of us can read it.”

“Wait until you see this,”
Sven said. He went to the chest and, unlocking it, brought out the parcel.
Nearby, the others were starting to listen in on the conversation and a small
crowd had begun to cluster round them, headed by Koll and his wife, Thora.

Sven removed the goatskin
wrapping. Inside was what looked like a stone block covered in decorated
leather. He opened the book to the first page and a cream-white unicorn with
cornflower blue eyes stared out. Redknee didn’t think he’d ever seen anything
more beautiful in his whole life. The unicorn sat on a bed of snowdrops and
above its head were five large ivy leaves filled with gold writing that
shimmered in the failing light.

“Coloured runes?” Koll asked.

“Not runes,” Sven said. “It’s
the words of the churchmen. They spend all day copying this stuff, growing
hunched and wan.”

“Why?” Koll asked.

“They’re rich,” Sven said.
“They have a powerful god. They don’t need to farm. Or fight. And some clever
ones have hidden the secret of their wealth in here.” Sven turned to the next
page; it was filled to the edges with tiny black writing. “Most of the pages
are like this,” he said, flipping past many more sheets bearing the same
spidery hand. “But then I saw this one,” he said, stopping at a page decorated
with an ornate compass, the western point of which was filled in with gold leaf
and bore a neat inscription in the strange script, “and knew their treasure
must lie to the west.”

The small band gasped.

“We’ve been listening,” Thora
said, indicating the group behind her. “And we all want to help you look for
it. None of us have families to return to. What do we have to lose?”

“Aye, woman,” Sven said. “I’m
with you on that.”

Suddenly the men were
energised by the prospect of this strange book and its treasure. A chorus of
“Ayes!” went up and the men began talking excitedly amongst themselves. Sven
raised his hand for silence and the noise died out.

“There’s nothing we can do
tonight. We’re tired and outnumbered. Most of us have lost loved ones. We
cannot turn around to attack Ragnar, it would be suicide. We will make our
repairs at sea as best we can and head for the
Sheep
Islands
, four
days sail to the west. I have a cousin there with a good farm. He will give us shelter.”
He glanced sideways at Olaf who was standing at the side with his arms folded
across his chest. “Anyone who wants to return home can do so then.”

The
sea obliged for the four days and four nights it took to reach the
Sheep
Islands
. North
westerly winds fed the big square sail ensuring its belly was always full.

At night, they huddled down
in sheepskin sleeping bags. Redknee shared his with Silver, glad of the extra
warmth. But even in a fair wind, sleeping at sea was akin to threading a needle
while on the back of a galloping horse. Redknee wedged himself between two
chests, but still woke each night to find he’d been swept half the length of
the deck.

He wasn’t used to living in
such close quarters with the others. Back at the village, his uncle’s longhouse
was unusual in only sleeping the three of them and a couple of slaves. He was
quickly learning to keep to himself. His adventure with Ragnar and knowledge of
the book had given him a sort of fame. Thora asked him repeatedly to tell the
story of how he surprised Ragnar in the caves. He was growing tired of it and
wasn’t the only one. He’d seen Harold’s resentful looks. The balance of power
between them had shifted and Harold crackled like pig rind on a spit.

It didn’t help that, at dawn
on the third morning, Harold slipped on a hot, steaming pile of Silver’s mess.
Redknee had been waterproofing the boards with sheep fat when Harold woke.
Drowsy and barefoot, Harold stumbled out of his sleeping bag to take a pee over
the rail when he stomped right through a big green turd the texture of
porridge.

“Get that bloody mutt away
from me,” he’d said, jumping around, trying to wipe his clogged toes on the
smooth boards. “Before I skin and eat it.”

Redknee scooped Silver into
his arms and left Harold to it. But from then on he started training the pup to
go over the side.

They ate as well as could be
hoped. Their bread gone by the end of the second day, they were forced to catch
herring with sinew fishing lines which they cooked in a fire lit in a metal
trough filled with sand. Silver helped chase the thin, scraggy seabirds that
landed on deck, but he was too young and slow to catch them. Thankfully, Karl’s
bow didn’t have the same problem.

There was a shortage of fresh
water, but Olaf had loaded five skins of Koll’s mead, and these were doing a
sound job of keeping the men happy. Normally only allowed buttermilk, Redknee
got a kick flouting Sven’s rule under his nose. Not that he sought Sven’s nose,
mind. He did his best to avoid him. A difficult task on a longship. It seemed
wherever he turned, his uncle was there, ready with advice on whatever mundane
task he was doing.

Working kept Redknee sane.
While the others lounged on deck playing
hneftafl
and discussing how
they would spend the treasure, Redknee kept his hands busy fixing ropes,
gutting fish and cleaning the boards. Work stopped his mind wandering across
the wide, boring expanse of sea. Stopped him thinking about his dead mother. Stopped
him wondering if her death really was his uncle’s fault. But it didn’t stop him
plotting against Ragnar.

Always, the black ship was on
their tail. At times, she dipped below the horizon and Redknee would think
they’d finally lost her. But, just as surely, her yellow sail with its crimson
snakehead would jut back into sight.

Good.

Ragnar would not give up
easily. That was his weakness. Redknee would use it against him.

On
the fifth morning, they passed granite rocks that rose from the water like
giant swords of the sea-gods. Redknee spotted a small hovel atop one of these
cliffs. “Who would live there?” he asked Koll, as he helped mend a torn piece
of sail.

An old man with nothing but a
piece of ragged linen wrapped round his middle had come to look at the boat
from the cliff edge.

Koll shrugged. “No idea. These
rocks can’t supply much meat or ale.” He shivered in the damp air. “You’d have
to be crazy to live out here.”

“He’s a hermit,” Sven said,
coming to stand beside them.

Redknee ignored him.

“What’s that?” Koll asked.

“A loner monk – who spends
all day on his knees talking to the White Christ,” Sven said.

“That one looks like he needs
fattening up – and the company of a good woman, if you know what I mean.” Koll
winked and jabbed Redknee in the ribs. “His God can’t be up to much. Not a patch
on Thor, if you ask me.” The smithy rubbed the hammer pendant he wore around
his neck and slunk away, leaving Redknee alone with his uncle.

“Your mother came here once.
To the
Sheep
Islands
, I mean. Not to these meagre rocks.”

Redknee spun on his heels.
“Don’t you speak of her! It was your book that got her killed!” The words,
festering on his lips for days, exploded off his tongue.

Sven began to reply, when the
lookout called, “Land Ahoy!” and everyone on the ship strained to see.

Redknee pushed past his
uncle. Three mountains stood proud against the sea, their peaks helmed in mist.
Rough meadows, peppered with black-faced sheep, swept down to a wide, silver
beach where a single longhouse surrounded by outbuildings nestled in the dunes.

Yet there was not a soul to
be seen.

A man
ran across the beach towards them, his dark cloak flapping in the wind. Sven
drew his sword and the others did the same. But the lone man kept coming,
unaffected by the slicing rain or the steel of the welcome party. As the man
neared, Redknee saw his avian features stretch into an enormous grin.

“Sven!” he shouted, his words
carried by the wind. “I can’t believe it! How long have I waited for this
visit?”

Sven lowered his sword and
embraced the man in a bear hug. “Ivar! My cousin. How long has it been?”

 “More than sixteen
summers,” came the quick reply. “Too long – I’m no longer a young man. I won’t
be able to keep up with you.”

Sven laughed. “It
has
been too long. But you speak ill of yourself. You’re no old man. And it was
you,
not me, who thought up pranks to torment the wenches!”

“Ach! Little boys’ games.
Matilda won’t allow them now.” Ivar batted the air with his hand. “But tell me,
what brings the great Sven Kodranson to my little island?”

“Bad news. Jarl Ragnar burned
our village. Ingrid is dead.”

Ivar’s face paled. “I’m
sorry—”

“He’s chasing us. I fear, if
you give us shelter, he’ll attack you too.”

Ivar squinted at the horizon.
“I see the top of a sail.”

“That’s Ragnar’s ship.”

Ivar looked thoughtful.
“Matilda won’t like it, but I know where you can hide. It’ll be like old times!
Come on boys. There’s no time to waste.”

Ivar leapt aboard
Wavedancer
,
an excited gleam in his grey eyes. He directed them through a channel at the
far end of the bay, hidden on all sides from the sea. They sailed north until
they reached a canyon of polished basalt. It was as if Thor himself had slashed
a path through the cliffs. Ivar pointed to the opening.

Olaf scowled. “We’ll be
dashed to pieces.”

“I’ll show you how,” Ivar
replied.

Sven nodded and ordered
Magnus to guide them into the canyon. The cliffs grew, looming overhead until
they almost touched, making the sky seem a long, long way off. There was no
room for oars. The water was strangely tranquil and
Wavedancer
stalled,
unable to go on.

Ivar perched on the rail and
pushed against the rocks with his feet as if he was walking sideways. “Now
boys,” he shouted. “Copy me.”

They squeezed along like a great
millipede, each man shuffling an inch at a time. Yellow-beaked gulls circled
overhead, attracted by the gentle slap-slap of water as the ship edged along
the canyon. After a while, Redknee’s backside grew numb. He dropped his legs
and rocked from cheek to cheek, easing each buttock in turn.

“No slacking!” Sven shouted
down the line.

Harold sniggered from his
lookout post.

Redknee resumed pushing off
from the rocks. He’d got his uncle his precious book, what more did he want?
Couldn’t he just leave him alone for once?