Viking Gold (42 page)

“Bet she’d entertained a
few,” Koll shouted, eyes gleaming with mead.

Brother Alfred chuckled. “As
it happens, Penelope remained true to Odysseus for many years, but even her
patience had its limits. In Odysseus’ absence many suitors had arrived at her
door. Penelope refused to hear any of them until she had woven a memorial
shroud for her father-in-law. For three years, she wove by day and, at night,
crept back to her loom to unpick her work.”

“Canny little shrew,” Magnus
said, spitting berry pips on the floor. Redknee thought the comment out of
character for the straightforward steersman.

Brother Alfred tilted his
head thoughtfully. “But to Penelope’s suitors, her guile only made her more
desirable.” He took a slug from his drinking horn and continued. “Now, at this
point, Odysseus was ensnared by the beautiful nymph Calypso. She offered him
immortality if he would stay with her forever. But Odysseus wept every day for
his wife and son. So the gods helped him escape, but before he could return
home, he had to travel through Hades – where the dead go.”

“Greek warriors don’t go to
Valhalla
?” Koll
asked, concerned.

Brother Alfred shook his
head. “Nor do they go to the Christian heaven, my friend. Of course, this is
but a tale. In those days
everyone
, good or bad, heroic or cowardly;
they all went to the same place – to Hades. Now, in Hades he meets his old
friend Achilles. In life, Achilles had been a great warrior, obsessed with
risking death for eternal glory. But in Hades he states he would rather be
alive as a swine-herd than dead.”

“No!” Redknee jumped up.
“That’s a lie. It could never be better to tend pigs, than to die bravely, your
name on the lips of men forever.”

“Perhaps it was because he
was in Hades and not
Valhalla
,” Toki offered, grinning. “I’m sure it’s different
for a Viking.”

Brother Alfred raised his
hands. “I only tell the story as it happened. I cannot change Achilles’
feelings.”

Sinead tugged on Redknee’s
arm. Deflated, he sat down and let Brother Alfred continue.

“Before Odysseus reached home,
he passed the island of the Sirens. These women use their sublime singing to
entice sailors ashore and kill them. Odysseus ordered his men to block their
ears. He lashed himself to the mast, and though he heard the Sirens’ magnetic
trill, he was powerless to steer his ship aground. But what Odysseus heard was
terrible. Truly so. For the Sirens promised knowledge of all things.”

“But knowledge is good,”
Sinead said, frowning.

“Ah … my child, but what
would there be to
do
, once one knows
everything
? It would be a
kind of death, for certain.”

“You’re saying the Siren’s
knowledge would kill him?” Sinead asked in disbelief.

“Well … more that it would
stop him from going home. Stop him completing his destiny.”

Sinead bit her lip. Brother
Alfred’s explanation appeared to bother her.

“Odysseus arrived home
safely,” Brother Alfred continued. “Disguised as a beggar, he sets out to test
his wife’s loyalty. He creeps into the palace and sees how the suitors harass
her to accept their proposals. He corners Penelope and tells her that her
husband is still alive. She says she is holding a bridal contest … the
successful suitor must match her first husband’s ability in shooting an arrow
through a row of twelve crossed axes.

“The day of the test arrives.
Each of the suitors tries but none can string Odysseus’ great bow, let alone
shoot it. Acting the drunken fool, Odysseus stumbles forward for his turn. The
suitors cry in outrage. But Penelope nods.
What harm can it do? No one but
her husband can wield his bow anyway.
Grasping the familiar sweep of yew,
Odysseus strings his great bow and pulls. His arrow thrums through the twelve
axeheads.

“Silence falls over the room.
He grabs a second arrow and spins round. He draws back; the arrow snaps into
the chief suitor’s throat, killing him instantly. The other suitors try to
flee, but Odysseus mounts the table and reveals his identity. Then he draws his
sword and sticks the soft-bellied suitors like pigs. The only person spared is
the priest.”

“Cowpats!” Koll shouted. “He
would stick the priest too.”

“No, no. It’s a particular
sin to kill a man of God.”

Koll growled his dissent, but
he let Brother Alfred go on.

“Still doubting Odysseus’
true identity, Penelope asks a servant to bring their marriage bed for him to
rest. But this is a trick. He stops her by saying their bed cannot be moved for
it is built round a living olive tree. Penelope sinks to her knees; her hero is
home.”

“I’ll tell you a story of
real betrayal,” Toki said. Everyone turned; Toki had moved closer to the fire.
The flames glinted in his eyes. “It’s about two brothers.”

“Is there a wench?” Koll
asked.

“There’s always a wench,”
Toki said dryly. He leaned back so that half his face was cast in shadow.
Everyone in the room leaned in. He commanded their attention like a true
skald
.
“We will call the brothers Einnear and Sigurd,” he said.

Sinead’s eyes widened. “Are
those their real names?”

Toki glanced sharply at her,
but did not answer. Instead, he said, “Einnear and Sigurd grew up together and
loved each other as only brothers can. Einnear, the elder of the two, taught
Sigurd to swim, to ride and to hunt. Sigurd idolised his brother, copied him in
everything. And though Sigurd proved the better warrior, he didn’t show a speck
of jealousy when Einnear succeeded their father as jarl.”

Koll snorted.

“You doubt the strength of
brotherly love?” Toki asked.

“Only its endurance,” Koll
blustered.

Toki laughed. “Well, one day
Einnear heard about a monastery atop a rock in the middle of the sea. A place
said to hold more gold than all
Byzantium
. This was too good a tip-off for the brothers to
ignore. They gathered their men and set sail. The sea swooped down on their
longship, but the brothers kept their course true. They arrived while the monks
were at vespers. The men of God were helpless in the face of the Northmen.
Soon, only the aging abbot and a few servants remained alive.”

Koll raised his drinking horn
in a wide sweep. “
That’s
how to deal with Christians,” he shouted. “Show
’em for Verden.” 

Brother Alfred tutted.

Redknee felt Sinead shift
uncomfortably at his side. He ventured to put his arm round her shoulder. She
didn’t shrug it off.

Toki smirked then continued.
“The brothers searched for the famed treasure, yet they found nothing. Angry,
and thinking he’d been tricked, Sigurd raised his sword and told the abbot to
prepare to meet his God. Being a pragmatic man, the abbot quickly agreed to
take the brothers to the vault. Provided, of course, they would spare the lives
of his servants.

“A true man of God,” Brother
Alfred said.

“Indeed the abbot was.” Toki
said, flashing his coal-black teeth. “He led the brothers to a room deep in the
crumbling monastery. A casket stood against the wall. Sigurd opened it; it was a
quarter full of Arab coins. When he saw the pitiful amount, Sigurd struck the
abbot across the face with the back of his hand and demanded to see the rest.

“Blood trickled from the
corner of the abbot’s mouth. He knew not of what treasure Sigurd spoke. Their
most prized items, he said, were in the
scriptorium
. His voice faltered
over this word as if he feared uttering it in the presence of the Northmen.
Now, since the fall of
Alexandria
, this scriptorium knew no equal in all Christendom. And
the abbot, it was said, had been lucky enough to receive many treasures from
the demise of that great city.

“The brothers followed the
abbot back up the stairs. Neither Einnear nor Sigurd knew what a scriptorium
was. Whatever they imagined, they were not prepared for what they saw. Spread
out before them, on solid oak shelves, were row upon row of leather covered
blocks.

“Sigurd stared in surprise at
a leather-covered block that sat open on a desk, its flesh of yellow parchment
exposed. His eyes scanned the strange black marks on the top page. He realised
these so-called treasures were but rune-keepers. Angered, he turned to the
abbot and said he would only spare the lives of the servants if the abbot could
show him something truly worth his time: a rune-keeper encrusted with lots of
jewels.

“A sensible demand,” Koll
said. “What use have monks for such finery anyway?”

Brother Alfred shifted
uneasily. It hadn’t escaped notice that the wooden cross he wore round his neck
was inlaid with a tiny amethyst.

Toki tilted his head. “Well
put Koll, and indeed, that was also Sigurd’s opinion. Yet a fleeting smile
crossed the abbot’s face. He told Sigurd they had many books ringed with gold
and silver. Others still, with peridots and opals set deep in the covers. Fine
Flemish workmanship, to be sure. He took a slender volume from a shelf and held
it up for Sigurd to inspect. Swirls of silver, picked out in strange green
stones, glittered in the candlelight.

“While Sigurd had been
speaking to the abbot, Einnear had begun wandering through the scriptorium,
running his fingertips over the soft leather spines. He fancied them like silk,
and his eyes glazed over, trancelike, as he stared along the shelves.

“Just as Sigurd was about to
say such a quality piece would go some way towards sparing the servants,
Einnear asked the abbot which of the rune-keepers had the most important story.
Einnear believed such a book would be the most valuable.

“The abbot stared at the
be-jewelled volume in his hand. Regretfully, he admitted that it was not his
most valuable book. Sigurd’s cheeks flashed red. He accused the abbot of
lying.”

“That’s Christians for you,”
Koll said, burping.

Toki shook his head. “The
abbot was most apologetic. Explaining he thought the brothers wanted only the
books with fine jewels.”

“And they didn’t just kill
him then?” Koll asked. “For insolence.”

“They did not. For at this
point, a lookout came running into the scriptorium. Now, the brothers had a
friend with whom they’d agreed to share their spoils. The lookout had spotted
their friend’s ship approaching. Thinking quickly, Sigurd decided there wasn’t
enough of value to divide between the crew of two longships. He turned back to
the abbot and told him to show them the most valuable book right away.

“The abbot shuffled towards
the far end of the scriptorium. He stopped when he reached a small, undecorated
cabinet covered in a thick layer of dust. He fished in his belt-pouch and
produced a rusty key. Sigurd told him to hurry, yet the abbot remained calm. He
warned the brothers he kept the key about his person, because while the book he
was about to show them
was
the most valuable in the scriptorium, it was
also the most dangerous. And he felt it his duty to warn even heathens such as
them.”

“Pah,” Koll said, interrupting
yet again. “How can a book be dangerous?”

“Sigurd’s thoughts exactly,”
Toki replied a touch wearily.

“Is it like the Sirens in
Brother Alfred’s story?” Sinead asked.

Redknee stared at her, for he
did not see the connection.

Toki tilted his head. “How
so?”

“Because of the knowledge
inside the book,” she said.

“Perhaps,” Toki said. “The
abbot explained that when the book first came to the monastery it was left out
for the monks to read whenever they wanted. Much like the other books. But,
over time, the abbot observed a change in the monks. First came the tired,
bloodshot eyes, then grumpiness and irritability. They’d been staying up late
into the night, burning candles at great cost, just to read its words. Einnear
remarked the story must be a good one. Perhaps a tale of heroism and adventure.

“The abbot replied it would
have been fine if that was all it was. But one day a fight broke out among the
novices. One of them, a lad of only fourteen summers, stabbed a younger boy. It
was not a pleasant death. Bad humours, the abbot thought. The lad died in
agony.

“Sigurd failed to see how the
boy’s death related to the book. The abbot told him they’d been fighting over
whose turn it was to read it. Sigurd snorted, but the abbot shook his head. He
explained the book was written by an Irish monk who, long ago, travelled to the
Promised Land. It was said that whoever reaches the Promised Land will find
treasure beyond their wildest dreams and more – he said that in the Promised
Land no one could ever die.”

“Sigurd grabbed the key from
the abbot’s hand. “Sounds sellable to me,” he said. But even as Sigurd twisted
the key in the lock, the abbot warned him the book would drive anyone who read
it mad with longing.

“Sigurd laughed, telling the
abbot he’d take his chances. He grabbed the book. It was smaller than he’d
imagined and covered in dull brown leather. Then he hauled his brother from the
scriptorium.