Viking Gold (41 page)

Choosing the wood for the
longhouse was a skill in itself. The main supports had to be long and straight.
That wasn’t a problem as the forest here was dense, forcing the trees to strain
ever upwards to gain a share of the sun and rain.

Redknee was currently
attacking a young birch with a flat-bladed axe while Silver looked on. He
spotted Sinead approach with a bucket of water as he drove the axe into the
fibrous flesh one last time. “Watch out,” he said, pulling her backwards as the
trunk swayed for a moment, then keeled over in a cloud of dust.

He looked at his work with
satisfaction before taking the bucket from her, gulping down a couple of
mouthfuls and pouring the rest over his head.

She folded her arms across
her chest. “You’ll catch a chill.”

“Don’t be a nag,” he said,
plunging the axe into the felled trunk. “What’s for lunch?”

Sinead sniffed and stalked
away.

So much for last night, he
thought, following her towards the small cooking fire she’d started earlier.
She seemed to have reverted to treating him with her usual disdain.

“Smells good,” he said
peaceably, settling himself down on an upturned log.

Toki and Koll emerged from
between the trees and joined them. Sinead began spooning clumps of thick
porridge into wooden bowls. She handed the first one to Koll.  He sniffed
the mixture then began slurping it straight from the dish.

“You know,” he began between
mouthfuls. “There are more trees on this island than on all the lands from here
to home.”

“Quite a treasure,” Toki
said, stirring his porridge with the handle of his eating knife. “Could make a
man rich … if he owned it.”

Redknee shuffled
uncomfortably. He was beginning to feel cold and vulnerable without his tunic.

“Reckon your claim to the
beach entitles you to all this?” Toki asked, taking in the forest with a sharp
sweep of his eyes.

Redknee didn’t want to
confront Toki over this. He’d assumed Toki had understood the rules of the
trip. Redknee was his uncle’s chosen successor. It was his uncle’s ship that
had brought them here. By rights that made the spoils Redknee’s to divide, in
line with pre-agreed portions.

Problem was, no one had
expected to find all this. How did Redknee, just sixteen summers old, defend
his claim against seasoned warriors? Friend or foe, this island was an awfully
big prize to give up just because of some outdated rules. Honour had a price,
and Redknee was certain it was a lot less than the miles of verdant forest that
stretched before them.

Before Redknee could answer,
Sinead cut in. “What are you suggesting?” she, demanded, jabbing her wooden
spoon at Toki.

Toki nearly spat his mouthful
of porridge into the fire. “Nothing,” he mumbled. “Nothing at all.”

A shout came from the between
the trees. They all turned to see Olvir and Magnus running towards them.

“Leave some for us,” Olvir called,
a big smile on his face.

The tension dissipated as the
newcomers noisily took their places by the fireside.

Only when Redknee resumed
eating his porridge did he see Koll’s hand wound tightly round the hilt of his
dagger. Something told him it had been there all along.

And
so they worked on. Each day they marched into the forest and brought back
timber for the longhouse. It was hard work and Redknee noticed his muscles
grow. His body was changing. It was no longer that of a boy on the cusp of
adulthood. Each morning, when he went to the sea to wash, he saw that coarse
hair, the colour of wheat in August, brushed his chin. His torso lengthened,
his legs became sturdy. And when he stood beside Olaf, he no longer faced the
older man’s chest. Instead, he looked steadily into Olaf’s tired grey eyes.

It was with this newfound
confidence that he crept into the forest on the night of the first proper
frost. The longhouse neared completion. Redknee wanted to make a carving for
above the door. This would be an important symbol; Redknee had not forgotten
Toki’s challenge that first day gathering wood.

A breeze scratched nervously
at half-naked trees. Silver’s ears pricked up. Redknee whistled to the pup to
stay near. He pulled his cloak tightly round his shoulders. The forest closed
in on a man at night. Though he’d only seen the footprints that one time, weeks
ago, he was glad to have
Flame Weaver
at his side.

He chose a fine tree with
thick branches and a smattering of blood-red leaves. His first blow sent a
spray of bark into the night. Chopping eased his nerves. Soon his cloak lay on
the ground. As he worked, he turned Sinead’s song over. One bit stuck in his
head, something about being
sick at heart, and fain would lie down
. Strange.
He didn’t feel heart-sick. The deaths of his mother and uncle seemed a long way
off – part of the old world, part of his old life. Instead he felt strong,
invigorated – full of purpose. He remembered Sinead’s kiss and smiled. He’d
need to convince her she wanted to repeat it.

The branch creaked and
slumped to the ground, leaving a pale gash. Redknee brought his axe down one
last time to complete the amputation. He sat on the ground to shear off the
bark; it flaked away easily. The grain beneath was tightly packed and strong.
He’d chosen well.

As his eyes adjusted to the
dark he moved with quick, confident strokes, paring the branch into a regular shape.
Satisfied, he put aside his axe and slid a long, wooden-handled chisel from his
bag. Wood shavings littered the grass as his chisel flew over the emerging
figure of a man. Silver’s amber eyes followed every stroke. Eventually he
slowed – runes demanded care.

A twig snapped to his left.
Silver stood; every muscle in his little body taut as a bow. Redknee peered
among the branches. He saw nothing, yet he edged back until his shoulders met
the tree trunk.

“Hey, little one,” he called,
“there’s no-one there.” But Silver kept his vigil.

Wanting to be back at the
camp with the finished sign before the others woke, Redknee worked on. But he
was alert now, listening for the slightest sound.

It was
only when he was nearly finished that he heard another noise, this time a
gentle rustling, like fabric brushing the forest floor. He reached for his
sword as a figure in a moss-green cloak, the hood pulled over its face, stepped
into the clearing. Silver rushed forward, tail wagging. The moonlight shone on
the figure’s hands as she, for it was clear now it was a woman, lifted them to
reveal her face.

“Sinead,” he said, breathing
a sigh of relief. “What are you doing out so late?”

“I could ask the same of
you.”

“How long have you been
here?” he asked, thinking of the noises he heard earlier.

“I just arrived. I couldn’t
sleep and I thought a walk would help. Then I heard the sound of your chisel
working on that—”

Suddenly shy, his hands
darted over the carving. “It’s for above the main door.”

“Show me,” she said, sitting
beside him on the ground. It was the first time they’d been alone together
since the night on the beach. She pointed to the figure. “Is that your uncle?”

Redknee nodded.

“What does the inscription
say?” Despite her skill with Latin, she still refused to learn what she called
‘the pagan letters.’

“This place is named for
Sven: a warrior who knew no fear.”

She placed her hand on his
arm. “I think … you miss him. More than an uncle … like a father.”

For a moment he wondered if
he should kiss her, but it felt wrong. Instead he stared at his carving. The
work was rough. Unworthy of his uncle’s memory. It took him a while to speak
and when he did, his voice was tight and serious.

“He was the closest thing I
ever knew to a father.” He ran his hand over the crude rendition of his uncle’s
face. “And now I know he wasn’t even my uncle.”

Sinead bit her lip. He knew
she was thinking of something to say that would soothe him. She should know he
didn’t want to be soothed
.
 He wanted to be angry. “And he gave you
no clue who your father might be?” she asked gently.

Redknee shook his head. “I
don’t think he knew.”

“Well that’s it, don’t you
see?”

“Not really.”

“He knew you weren’t his
brother’s child. Maybe not even family.
Still
, he wanted
you
to
succeed him.”

Redknee thought Sinead’s
logic about as convincing as a feather knife.

They
arrived back at the longhouse at first light. Sinead helped him fix the sign
above the door. It fitted perfectly.

“Your uncle would be
pleased,” she said, standing back and admiring. Redknee only nodded, he did not
have the words to say what he felt.

Koll was the first to rise.
He stroked his beard as he studied the new addition. At first Redknee thought
he was angry. But Koll turned to him, smiling, and drew him into a
back-slapping hug.

“It is a good likeness of
your uncle. He would be proud of you. From now on this settlement shall be
known as
Svensbyan
.”

Redknee
needn’t have feared the others’ response. Everyone, Toki included, admired the
carving and agreed
Svensbyan
was a good name. After that day, the speed
of their work seemed to increase. The day of the first snowfall saw the
completion of the outbuildings, only the protective wall remained to be
finished. Brother Alfred blessed the new settlement in the name of the
Christian God. Koll, unsure as to whether such a blessing would carry any
weight in Asgard, the land of the gods, declared that they should also have a
feast in honour of Odin.   

Brother Alfred had no
objections. He liked a feast as much as anyone, and it was well known
throughout the camp that Koll had just completed his first brew of Promised
Mead.

And so began the
preparations. Olvir took his bow into the forest and brought back a great stag.
Toki, who was a better fisherman than hunter, took his lines to the shore and
returned with a sackload of fat pink salmon. Brother Alfred laid traps around
the camp, catching squirrels. Sinead, used to keeping a kitchen garden at the
monastery, rummaged in the forest for fruits, returning with a heap of shiny
red berries that tasted sharp on the tongue.

So, although they had found
no chickens, cows, sheep or pigs on this new island, they had plenty to fill
their table. The only missing ingredient was bread. They had searched
thoroughly, but failed to find wheat.

On the day of the feast,
Redknee helped Sinead decorate the longhouse with evergreen branches and
pinecones. Olaf lit the fire in the centre of the room and everyone huddled
round. Koll burst through the door, a barrel of mead slung across each
shoulder. Smiling, and attuned to the drama of the event, he began walking
slowly down the hall towards the dancing flames.

“A better burden, no man
can bear,”
he boomed, looking round
the room and drinking in the rapt faces,
“than his mother’s wit: and no
worse provision can he carry, than a draught of mead.”

Everyone laughed at the last
line, for Koll always seemed to have a stash of mead. Odin’s famous poem could
be Koll’s motto.

Koll
pretended to stumble the last few feet under the weight of the barrels, gaining
one last laugh, before placing them, very carefully, on the floor. The barrels
were opened and everyone began filling their drinking horns.

“Dew of the Gods …”

“Sweeter than honey …”

“Fiery and true …”
…were just some of the accolades won by Koll’s mead
that night. Sinead served up the feast and soon everyone lay sleepily round the
fire, their bellies full. Redknee sat beside Sinead; Silver chewing a bone at
his feet. He felt warm and content, yet strangely lost for words. “Tell us a
story,” he called to Brother Alfred.

“Don’t you want to hear of
Valhalla
tonight?” the little monk asked.

A cheer went up and everyone
drank a toast to the gods. Once the noise died down, Redknee repeated his
request. Soon everyone was goading the little monk to tell a story – and make
it a good one.

“Oh, all right,” Brother
Alfred said, dabbing the corner of his mouth with his sleeve. “Will it be a
tale of guts and gore … or honour and love?”

“Honour and love!” Sinead
called. Redknee fancied she cast him a quick glance. 

“Guts and gore,” Koll
shouted.

Brother Alfred listened until
the rest had called their preference. “Very well,” he said, “I think that was a
tie.” He rubbed his hand over his bald head. “Let me think … love
and
gore, honour
and
guts. That really calls for the Greeks. Then again, the
Bible has its fair share—”

“Just get on with it,” Olaf
shouted. The festivities had done little to lighten his mood.

“Very well. I shall tell you
of the homecoming of Odysseus. Odysseus was a seasoned warrior – he’d been away
from home for twenty years fighting the Trojans. This war finished, he decided
it was time to return to his beloved wife and son.”