Viking Gold (5 page)

“Come on, dreamer.”

Redknee jumped as Magnus
chucked the rolled up sail into the rowboat and leapt in after it. The slaves
followed, their arms filled with oars. Once they were back on the beach, they
dragged all the rowboats into the shallows and filled them with rocks. Better
to scuttle them than let Ragnar destroy them.

They
waited. Each man, woman and child prepared as best they could. Some hid,
praying to Odin that hiding places would not become graves. Hunched and tensed,
their hands clutching a jumble of farm tools, rusty axes and wooden clubs. Only
a few lucky men owned swords.

As the sun marched across the
sky, Uncle Sven kept his lookout through a flap in the side of his longhouse,
his eyes scanning for the smallest movement in the trees, his muscles ever
twitching.

Redknee watched as he ran a
finger along the blade of his battleaxe. If Redknee didn’t know him better, he
would have thought his uncle was looking forward to settling the score with
Ragnar once and for all.

By
nightfall, Redknee’s muscles ached. He’d been crouching at the far end of his
uncle’s longhouse all day. Huddled between the old women and the cows, he
couldn’t decide whether the stink came from the shaggy-coated longhorns or the
old crone whose papery skin hopped with lice. He stretched his left leg and
sighed with the relief, then repeated the exercise with the right one. The old
crone flashed him a toothless smile. He quickly returned to peering through a
crack in the wall.

He could see across the open
ground to the mantraps and treeline beyond, his eyes trained on the dark spaces
between the bushes. But nothing, nothing at all, had moved in the forest and he
was beginning to doubt he’d heard Ragnar correctly. Then he remembered Skoggcat’s
words of warning and he knew, deep in his bones, the attack was coming.

People
began moving about the main part of the longhouse. Redknee heard Harold’s
father, Olaf the Bear, challenge Uncle Sven.

“Come on Sven,” Olaf said.
“The boy was wrong. Ragnar isn’t coming. Not tonight, not ever.”

Redknee got to his feet and
let himself through the wattle gate that separated the animal pens from the
living quarters. The room was full of angry freemen. Redknee quickly realised they
were fed up waiting for an attack none believed would come.

“Ah, Redknee,” Uncle Sven
said. “You finished guarding those heifers?”

The men laughed.

“What a pong!” Harold gripped
his nose between his thumb and forefinger and made a face.

Redknee ignored the taunts
and faced Olaf. The big man carried one of the few swords in the village. “I
know what I heard,” Redknee said. “Ragnar
is
going to attack.”

Olaf stroked his pale beard
thoughtfully. He possessed the same hard blue eyes as his son. “Why are you so
sure?”

Everyone was staring at
Redknee now. “As I said . . .” His voice trembled, but he squared his shoulders
and spoke up. “I
know
what I heard.”

“But Ragnar doesn’t know this
part of the coast,” Olaf said. “He’d need to be lucky to find us.”

Redknee pushed the image of
Skoggcat running into the woods to the back of his mind. He opened his mouth, a
lie already formed, but Uncle Sven cut in.

“Come on, Olaf, Ragnar is no
fool. If he looks, he’ll find us.”

“Maybe, but doesn’t the boy
have a vested interest in all this?”

“How so?” Sven asked.

“His father’s death.”

“That was a long time ago.”
Sven cast an awkward glance at Redknee. “Come, Olaf, we mustn’t talk about such
things in front of him.” Sven clapped his palm on Olaf’s shoulder and directed him
towards the door.

Grudgingly, the villagers
returned to their lookout posts. They were learning that waiting was hard.

As a
second peaceful night gave way to a new day, Olaf continued to argue Ragnar
wasn’t coming. There was no need, he said, for the whole village to stay on
alert. Eventually Sven agreed.

The village buzzed with
relief as people crawled from their hiding places. Olaf said the launch
ceremony for
Wavedancer
should go ahead that night. The villagers
cheered – their spirits needed lifting. Sven approved the feast but quietly
placed six extra men on guard duty.

From
the way they scowled at him as he made his way to the feast hall, Redknee
assumed most of the villagers thought he’d made the whole story up. Inside, the
longhouse heaved with big, sweaty bodies. It seemed everyone in the village was
there. Uncle Sven sat at the top of a rectangular table loaded with plates of
boar, venison and hare. The men tore pieces of meat with their teeth; tossing
the bones to the floor. The women moved about the table, bringing more food;
filling the men’s drinking-horns with mead.

Redknee sat at the bottom of
the table, beside Koll the Smithy. Silver sniffed Koll’s boots then curled up
at Redknee’s feet and closed his eyes. Koll smiled at the pup and slipped him a
slice of ham. “Hear you killed this one’s mother, he said.

“She was injured.”

Koll nodded and offered him a
gull egg. Redknee shook his head, grabbing a chicken wing instead. As he ate,
he noticed a white-haired woman slip into the hall. He recognised her as
Brynhild the Old who lived in a mud hovel, a day’s walk from the village. 
It was unusual to see her at a feast.

Beside him, Koll peeled the
gull egg, swallowed it whole and washed it down with a long slug from his
drinking horn. He grabbed a serving maid by the waist. “More mead, woman,” he
said, burping and wiping his greasy face with his hand. The slave rolled her
eyes and left. He turned to Redknee.

“Bad business with that
toad-licking coward. Would have liked to get my hands on his neck.”

“You mean Ragnar?” Redknee
asked.

Koll nodded and mimed a
throttling action, his fleshy upper-lip curling with intent. “But no matter,
for we put
Wavedancer
into action tomorrow. And about time too – my
hands are raw with popping rivets. By Thor’s hammer, the men could do with a
bit of cheer.”

No one had spoken to Redknee
about setting sail. Had his uncle forgotten he was nearly of age?

His face must have betrayed
surprise, for Koll laughed. “You really are in a world of—”

A dagger split the table beside
Redknee’s hand. Harold pressed his face up to Redknee’s cheek. His breath
stank.

“Got your trunk packed for
tomorrow?” he said.

“I’ve … still got that to
do,” Redknee stammered.

“Mine is full of the best
Frankish weapons.” He pulled his dagger from the table and waved it in front of
Redknee’s nose. Redknee recognised it as the one he’d seen him sharpening the
other day. It had a distinctive ivory handle carved with interwoven snakes.

“My father bought it for me
when we were in Kaupangen with Sven,” Harold said. “Layered steel – heated ’til
it’s hotter than the sun then cooled in Saxon blood.”

Redknee snorted. “Aye, pig’s
blood, more like.”

Harold flicked the blade
against Redknee’s throat, anger flashing in his eyes. “What was that?”

The sound of wood scraping
against the floor echoed through the hall as Olaf rose to his feet. “My son,”
Olaf boomed from Sven’s side at the top of the table. Everyone turned to watch.
“Now is not the time. Save your energy for a worthy adversary.”

Harold grudgingly slid his
dagger into its scabbard.

Olaf looked at Redknee. “I
hope you will be on the beach tomorrow to wave us off.”

“With the girls,” Harold
sniggered under his breath.

Redknee felt his cheeks
redden and hung his head lest everyone should see. He would show Harold. Just
give him time.

“Now Olaf,” Uncle Sven also
stood. “It’s not been decided we sail tomorrow.”

The whole room watched Olaf’s
face. As Sven’s right-hand-man, Olaf was usually the jarl’s strongest
supporter.

“But there’s been no rain for
weeks,” Olaf said. “The lands are dry. If the harvest fails we will have to
find food elsewhere.”

A nod rippled through the
hall.  

Uncle Sven made his way down
the table, placing his hand on the shoulder of each man in turn. When he
reached the end, he ruffled Redknee’s hair and turned to face the room. He
spoke loudly so all could hear.

“Olaf, you’re right to fear
for the crops. But it’s too soon. Ragnar could still strike. And it’s not
certain the harvest will fail. Why, there was a little rain only a couple of
nights ago.”

“Nothing but a miserable
dribble!” Olaf said. “Besides, we need gold. When we were in Kaupangen last
month, the price of grain was low. Even if our harvest is good, it won’t be
enough. The abbey at Jarrow is rich in new coin from
Rome
. We should
raid it now, before others hear of the consignment.”

“And leave our women and
children alone?” Sven asked.

Magnus piped up from the back
of the room, “They could come too.”

“There isn’t space on
Wavedancer
for everybody,” Sven replied.

Redknee saw his uncle’s
fingers twitch round the hilt of his dagger, wary of the unprecedented
challenge to his authority as jarl.

All the boys longed to know
whom, out of Olaf and Sven, would win in a fight. They didn’t call Olaf
the
Bear
for nothing. Rumour had it he once killed a full-grown brown bear with
only his hands. But while Sven was a celebrated warrior, he was an even greater
tactician. He’d often used his fox-like cunning to outwit his enemies. The
village boys loved to hear the story where he gained access to a walled
Christian town while hidden in a coffin.

“You want to go a-Viking,”
Sven continued. “But the days of raiding are over for us Northmen. The soldiers
of the White Christ are everywhere now. The abbeys and monasteries are not left
unprotected as they once were. The King demands taxes from honest farmers.
Things are not as they were when we were young. We must look to our future, to
the future of our children.”

“You’ve led many a raid
before,” Olaf said. “Would you deny these men the chance to find riches?”

A murmur went round the room.
Redknee suspected the villagers were fed up with the hard toil of farmers – the
idea of easy wealth appealed.

Uncle Sven nodded. “In my
younger days, no. But look how that ended.”

“It’s not my fault,” Olaf lowered
his voice. “Nor the fault of these good men, that you lost your brother
fighting Ragnar. That was a long time ago. You … we all … must move on.”

Olaf addressed the gathered
men. “Who will sail with me on the morrow?”

The sound of chewing stopped.
Silver looked to Redknee, confused. Redknee pushed the pup back under the
table.

“There is no one willing to
risk their life for your folly,” Sven said, turning back to take his seat at
the head of the table.

“I will come with you!”
Everyone in the hall turned to see Karl the Woodcutter raise his axe in the
air. Short and stout, like a boar, and with a quiet manner, he looked surprised
at his own outburst.

“I will come too!”

“Aye!”

 A string of voices
echoed Karl’s. Soon half the men were standing, excitement gleaming in their
eyes at the promise of adventure.

“So, we have some takers
after all,” Olaf said.

“You’re making a mistake,”
Sven replied in a low voice. “Wavedancer was built for a greater purpose than
stealing coin from helpless nuns.”

Olaf laughed. “A great ship,
for a great voyage. Is that it? Well, the Jarrow monastery is ripe for the
plucking – but if you have proof of a better target, you should share it.”

“I’ve only rumours to go on.”

“We risk our lives for
rumours now?”

“You must trust me—”

“Why, when your judgement at
home is so flawed? If you think that boy of yours will lead us when you’re
gone—”

“You’re hasty in expecting
the worst, dear friend. My body is strong and my heart will beat for many years
yet. As for the boy, I wish only to say that my brother’s son is
my
son.
And, with Odin’s guidance, I have raised him as my own. But fear not. Before a
boy can voyage with me he must be master of the oar, the sword, and himself.”

A
murmur rose from the room. Many of the assembled feared they would only pass
this test on a good day.

 “Too true,” Olaf said
laughing. “As you say, the boy is not suited to being a Viking. By the gods, we
have all seen that he cannot wield a sword. Why, my own pup took him for a fool
but the other day.” He pointed to Harold, who grinned and nodded like a
pampered cat.

Redknee shrank behind Koll’s
deerskin-covered shoulders. He wished Thor would strike a hole in the ground to
swallow him.

A growing murmur rose from
the tables. One drunk shouted, “To Olaf the Bear and his son!” A few of the men
drank to this toast.