Viking Gold (18 page)

“Really?” Sven looked
intrigued. “And why does she think that?”

“Because …” he glanced over
to where Sinead was helping Thora and Matilda mend a tear in the sail. She
frowned at him. Ignoring her, he turned back to face his uncle. “Because,” he
went on, “because she can read.”

“Land ahoy!”
One of the Bjornsson twins shouted from up on the
prow. Everyone ran forward, eager to sight
Iceland
. Redknee started to follow the others, but his uncle
grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him back.

“Not so fast,” he said. “Are
you sure the girl can read?”

Redknee nodded. “Well,” he
said, less certain now. “I think she can. She said she used to help the monks
in the apothecary with their medicines. They taught her so that she could read
the formulas.”

 “It’s strange how she
returned to us, don’t you think? I can’t help wondering if she’s a spy. But
then, you’re good friends with the girl. You would know if she were a traitor.”

Sven’s blue eyes seemed to
pierce Redknee’s soul. If he was going to tell his uncle that it was Sinead who
gave the
Codex
to Mord, then this was the time to do it, or forever be
labelled an accomplice. His throat felt dry. But before he had the chance to
speak, his uncle went on:

“Well,” he said, shaking his
head. “I do believe I’m becoming overly suspicious. Why would a slip of a lass
like that want to double-cross us? And how would she even begin to do it? So
yes, perhaps I will let her have a look at the book. Of course, this does mean
one good thing.”

“What’s that?” Redknee said,
almost afraid to ask.

“It means we no longer need
that annoying little monk.”

Redknee
watched in amazement as the dark pip on the horizon ripened to a hot, angry orange.
The fiery kernel the populace rather ironically called
Iceland
was at war with the gods. The
belligerent rock puffed its cheeks and spat a brew of smoke and fire at the
sky. As they drew closer, burning ash speckled their tunics; terrifyingly,
these incendiaries appeared to be coming from the land up ahead. Sven ordered
the sail lowered before it caught light. Silver whimpered. Redknee bundled the
pup into his arms and brushed the hot flecks from his fur. The fiery air seared
their faces, leaving them gasping, inhaling the sharp, unmistakable smell of
sulphur.  

Brother Alfred’s hand
trembled as he crossed himself. “We’ve been condemned to hell!” he whimpered,
and began to pray.

“Oh shut your trap!” Ivar
said. “My daughter has told me of this fire mountain.” Then he grinned
mischievously. “You’re not in hell little monk …
not yet
.”

Ivar laughed at Brother
Alfred’s terrified face. The little monk continued his praying in silence, but
it didn’t escape Redknee’s notice that his book-shrivelled eyes kept darting
towards the fiery peak of the mountain, as if a terrible dragon was about to
soar forth at any moment and drag him, screaming, to the pits of hell.

Reykjavik
, big and messy, lumbered into view. More than thirty
longhouses stood between the sea and the volcano, their inhabitants seemingly
oblivious to the escalating fire show.

They docked
Wavedancer
alongside an assortment of fishing boats and merchant vessels in
Reykjavik
’s
busy port. Ivar and Matilda took Uncle Sven up to the town to find their daughter,
leaving the rest of them at the docks under Olaf’s charge.

A row of wooden pontoons
stretched into the sea like fingers. Traders selling everything from juicy
apples to cured meats and fresh fish crowded these narrow walkways plying their
wares. But instead of shouting out their prices clearly, as the traders had
done when Redknee visited the market town of Hedeby, here they coughed into
scarves tied round their mouths as flakes of ash swirled in the air like grey
snow. Redknee wasn’t sure he wanted to stay in
Reykjavik
. Not even for the
night.

“This place is bad,” Koll
said, holding his hand over his mouth. “The air tastes like poison.”

“We’ve been told to wait
here,” Olaf said. “And that’s what we’ll do.” But even he glanced around
uneasily as the smoke cloud creeping over the town seemed to thicken.

Brother Alfred shuffled
nervously, his leather-soled boots making a scuffling noise on the deck.

“Not long now,” Harold said,
sniggering as he drew his finger across his throat.

Sinead glowered at Harold
then laid her arm on the little monk’s shoulder, whispering something that
seemed to calm him. Redknee turned his back on them; the Christian’s problems
weren’t his. He hopped from the ship and motioned for Silver to join him in a
walk along the black sand. He’d had enough of being cooped up
.

Ivar
and Uncle Sven returned a short time later with a small group of armed men. The
men were led by a young woman in a pale grey dress; a colour that Redknee
fancifully imagined shimmered like ice. He knew from the way the fine silk
hugged her graceful figure that she was rich. Years of work had not made her
hunched and coarse, like most women. And yet, despite the easy life she’d led,
and all the things she obviously had, including this reunion with her parents,
her face seemed empty. Blank. The woman made a delicate sound in her throat,
like a cough, and began to speak.

“My name is Astrid
Ivansdottr,” she said, her voice a curious mix of fragility and brittleness,
like a highly polished shell. “My husband is Gunnar the Sailor, Jarl of
Reykjavik. I’m sorry to hear your homes have been destroyed. But you’re welcome
here; you’ll each be given quarters with one of our good families. I hope you
will consider us friends.” She paused, fidgeting nervously with the tassels on
her belt. She looked unused to directing a longship full of men.

Ivar nodded for her to
continue.

“My husband is away,” she
said, a shadow crossing her face. “I’m uncertain when he’ll return. In the
meantime, please consider the resources of my household at your disposal. There
will be a feast at my longhouse this evening to celebrate your safe arrival.”

A satisfied murmur went round
the ship. Koll let out a belch and rubbed his stomach. The big warrior would
sleep well tonight. There would be no such luck for Brother Alfred. Astrid’s
men put the little monk into stocks and led him, stumbling, towards the town.

Sinead went over to Sven.
“Excuse me, Sir,” she said. “What are they going to do with him?”

“They’re going to keep the
fool locked up tonight, and try him tomorrow,” he said. “As luck would have it,
there’s a meeting of their high court, the All-thing.”

“Please sir, I don’t think
Brother Alfred caused the fire at Ivar’s farm.”

“Neither do I,” Sven replied.
“But this isn’t my jurisdiction.”

“What about the
Codex?
”

“Ah, still thinking about
your freedom, little one?”

Sinead blushed. “I only want
to know who will decipher the book if we no longer have Brother Alfred.”

“You’re very keen to save his
life.”

“I’m only thinking of the
success of this voyage.”

“Then why haven’t you told me
before that
you
can read?
Eh?
”

Sinead glared at Redknee, but
he said nothing. What had she expected? The monk wasn’t his problem. He needed
to know what the
Codex
said. She’d told him it’d once belonged to his
father. Now the pages might hold the key to where his father was.

No, not
might
… they
did
hold the key. He felt it in his gut. Finding his father depended on it.

Redknee
followed Astrid through the mud-soaked streets. He’d never seen so many people
in one place before, hadn’t known there could be so many different faces.
Stalls selling hundreds of goods lined the narrow streets, from soapstone
bowls, to copper brooches, to thick bear furs the colour of snow, to great
steel swords, to reams of linen and wool in every colour from the palest
buttercup yellow to the deepest blood red. He stared openly, drinking in the
sights, the smells. Everywhere, people jostled with each other, competing to
find the best bargain. Redknee ran his hand across a display of seal-fur hats,
luxuriating in their perfect softness. The stallkeeper glowered at him and he
quickly shoved his hands into his pockets. He must look filthy after five
nights at sea.

He ran to catch up with
Astrid, who, used to the throng, had struck out ahead. A young swineherd
slipped about in the mud, trying to drive his hairy black charges into their
pen. But the pigs had minds of their own. Curses flew from the mouths of nearby
stallholders as the pigs charged between them, threatening to overturn their
wares. Redknee grabbed Silver by the scruff of thick fur at his collar and held
him steady against the assault of greedy snouts.

Astrid stopped and stared
back at Redknee, her blonde hair rippling in the breeze.

“I’ll only be a moment,” he
shouted. He saw a piglet running towards him and deftly nipped out the way.
Pleased with his dexterity, he grinned up at Astrid as a boar with huge tusks
smashed into his calves, tossing him into the air.

Redknee
thought he’d died; that the boar had pierced some vital artery in his leg. To
be fair, wrestling with a pig was not the way he’d hoped to go. He doubted the
Valkyries would let him enter
Valhalla
. Then he heard roars of belly laughter followed by a
squelch as he landed in a pile of pig shit.
Valhalla
, he realised, would have to wait. Astrid’s lips
curled into a wry smile.

Avoiding her gaze, he picked
himself out of the mire and muttered to Silver. “Come on,” he said. “We must
keep up with the lady.” His faithful companion, however, was keen to stay at a
distance. This time the crowd cleared to let Redknee pass, and he could have
imagined himself a great king, but for the sniggers and pinched noses.

A
stone wall enclosed the yard to waist height. Redknee shivered in the wind. He
was keen to change his stinking clothes. But all he could see leading off the
yard was a door hewn into the hillside.

Astrid saw his puzzlement.
“Covering our houses in grass keeps them warm in winter.” She smiled, but the warmth
didn’t reach her eyes. “And there are no trees on
Iceland
with
which to build proper roofs.”

He nodded as if he knew that
already.

She paused in the doorway and
pointed to Silver. “He stays outside.”

“Why?”

“Bleyõra doesn’t like dogs.”

“
Who
?”

“My cat.”

The
longhouse was a strange mix of luxury and decay. The main room was large, but
felt dark and underground, which, of course, it mostly was. Although fine
tapestries hung from the roof, they were old and worn and did little to disguise
the plain mud walls. A big pine bed strewn with thick furs, the ultimate in
comfort, stood at the far end of the room, a white cat nestled between its
folds. This, no doubt, was Bleyõra. Redknee eyed it with envy. After many
nights at sea, such a bed would bring sweet dreams. But the room was dusty and
cold, warmed only by the pitiful embers of a half-dead fire. Perhaps the
absence of Astrid’s husband explained the air of neglect.

Astrid crossed the floor and
pulled a fresh linen tunic and pair of wool breeches from a chest. Redknee took
them tentatively, glancing round for a private place to change. There was
nowhere.

“You’re not shy?” she asked.

Redknee blushed furiously. He
was used to dressing in front of others. He just didn’t want Astrid to see him
wipe pig shit from his body. That was all.

“There’s a curtain over
here,” she said, lifting a tapestry from a dark corner to reveal a small
alcove. It was tiny, but it would have to do. Replacing the curtain behind him,
he shrugged off his stinking tunic and screwed it into a ball.

The curtain twitched. Astrid
stood holding a bowl of steaming water. “I thought you might want this,” she
said, smiling.

He took the bowl, and, aware
of his nakedness, snapped the curtain back into place. He heard a giggle, and,
a moment later, a hand snaked round holding a square of fresh linen. Redknee
grabbed the cloth with a mumbled, “
Thank you
.” After he’d given himself
a good wipe and a quick sniff just to be sure, he pulled on the fresh tunic and
breeches.

When he came out, Astrid was
lying on the bed, a wolf fur draped over her shoulders, her silk dress
glimmering in the half-light. “Those clothes suit you,” she said.

“They do?” He examined the
too long sleeves and the rolled up trouser legs.

“They were my husband’s,” she
said, rolling onto her back and raising her arms above her head, so that the
wolf fur slid from her shoulders. She stared up at him, blue eyes wide, lips
slightly parted. He didn’t want to think about her husband, so he perched on
the edge of the bed and tried to think of a change of subject.