Viking Gold (55 page)

They fought to tie down their
belongings while the storm shrieked in their ears. Barrels smashed against the
gunnels. The last of their food was lost over the side. The strakes in
Wavedancer’s
hull groaned as she battled to stay intact. Brother Alfred crossed himself;
sure their end was near. Koll kissed his Thor pendant. Silver cowered beneath a
rolled up sheet. One of the Icelanders started puking. Toki shook his head and
got on with helping Redknee secure the deck – a fruitless task as the waves
climbed ever higher, breaking over the side with a new ferocity.

 One
huge wave sent everyone skittering on their backs. The retching Icelander flew
over the side. Redknee only stayed onboard by grabbing hold of the rigging.
After this, he put a whimpering Silver into his bag with the
Codex
and
tied the straps across his chest. Then, drenched and with numb fingers, he tied
a rope round his own waist and fixed the other end of it to the mast, tugging
on the knot to make sure it would hold. He saw Koll and Toki do the same as
another huge wave pounded the deck. Brother Alfred vanished over the side in a
flurry of black sack-cloth and flailing limbs.

Redknee and Silver stayed
lashed to the mast for what seemed like hours.
Wavedancer
plunged
bravely on, her red and gold dragonhead set proudly against a furious sea. And
then Redknee saw them. Rocks; lots of them, like teeth rising from the deep.

There comes a time when we
must leave the things we hold dear. The promise of a new life, a love, a
beautiful ship, must each be abandoned in the fight to survive, lest we drown
from the weight of our dreams. Redknee took out his dagger and, as he saw the
first great rock loom overhead, sliced clean through the rope tethering him. It
was the last he saw of
Wavedancer
.

When
Redknee woke, his left cheek had been scraped raw and every bone in his body
ached in a way he’d not thought possible. He groaned - his throat felt like
he’d swallowed a vat of ashes. Coughing, he hauled himself to his feet. He was
on a long sandy beach surrounded by high cliffs. Gulls arced overhead. The
storm had passed. The air smelled fresh. He felt his back, the bag was still
there with the
Codex
inside, but Silver was gone. He stared down the
beach. It was empty, save for the body of a man lying nearby, face down in the
sand.

Redknee stumbled across to
the man and turned him over. It was Koll. His face was blue and puffy and his
eyes rolled white in his head; a deep gash split his forehead. Redknee shook
him hard.

Koll spluttered awake. “Where
are we?” he asked, looking round.

“I don’t know. I think we
must be near the
Sheep
Islands
though. Do you remember the storm?”

“Aye,” Koll said, “she was fearsome
as a Valkyrie with toothache.”

“
Wavedancer
is gone,”
Redknee said, staring out to a grey-blue sea. “Smashed to pieces on the rocks.”

Koll shook his head. “A sore
waste.”

They headed along the beach
with Redknee calling for Silver at the top of his voice. The island was small,
barely more than a boulder dropped into the high, foamy sea. Sharp cliffs
climbed away from the beach. As they reached the south side of the island, the
cliffs became less steep. Presently they saw smoke coming from inland.

“Let’s see who’s home,”
Redknee said, making for a path that led up the hill.

“Wait for us!”

Redknee turned to see Toki
and one of the Icelanders running towards them. They were both barefoot and
their clothes were torn. Redknee realised he must look a sight himself.

“We thought you were dead.”
Redknee shouted back, his words carried on the blustery air.

“We thought the same.” Toki
said as he reached them.

The
path rose to form steps cut into the rock. “These have taken someone a lot of
work,” Toki said, puffing as the climb became steeper. Redknee wondered what
sort of people – fishermen or farmers, lived in such a remote, yet
well-appointed place.

The steps circled the
exterior of the island, twisting upwards, affording dizzying views of the sea.
Whoever lived here valued safety over easy access to the water.

When they reached the top and
saw the dwellings that created the smoke, Redknee sighed. He’d hoped for a
grand monastery, or, at the very least, a finely carved longhouse fit to hold a
hundred warriors. What stood before him, in a little hollow at the top of the
island, were eight small roundhouses, made of stone and roofed in chipped
slate. They looked like peasant hovels.

“Are we dead?” Koll asked,
staring at the strange buildings. “Is this
Valhalla
?”

Redknee shook his head. “We
didn’t die in battle.”

“If
Valhalla
’s like
this, I’ll be sorely disappointed,” Toki said.

Koll laughed, the first time
since arriving on the island. “Aye, there’ll be no feasting in this wretched
place.”

As they debated the likelihood
of adequate refreshment, the door of the nearest roundhouse burst open. A tall
man dressed in a brown habit ran forward. He held his arms out in greeting and
Redknee saw his left arm was smaller than the other, like a withered branch.

“Welcome, friends,” he said
in Norse. “We are poor hermit monks with nothing to offer you but our fireside
and a little ale. I pray you come in peace.”

Redknee told the monk their
ship had been wrecked in the storm and that they did indeed come in peace.

Relief lit the monk’s face
and he beckoned them inside. The room smelled of whale oil and animal skins.
“We are a hardworking monastery,” the monk said, clearing rolls of vellum from
a table. “My name is Brother Luke. Please,” he said, pointing to some stools by
a roaring fire, “warm yourselves.”

It took a moment for
Redknee’s eyes to adjust to the dark. A group of monks were already by the
fire. “Brother Alfred!” Redknee exclaimed recognising him from amongst their
number.

As Brother Alfred stood, a
leather ball fell from his lap and rolled across the floor. Before Redknee had
finished thinking how it looked like the one Running Deer had given Silver,
Silver himself shot from behind Brother Alfred and leapt into Redknee’s arms.
The pup covered Redknee’s face in licks.

“Aw,” Redknee said, holding
him tight. “I thought I’d lost you.”

“I found him washed up on the
beach,” Brother Alfred said. “He was unconscious but came round well enough
when I got some heat in his bones. He’s been pining for you ever since.”

Redknee thanked him and set a
reluctant Silver on the floor. He learned Brother Alfred had been washed ashore
on the south of the island and that he’d been alone. They agreed Silver must
either have been swept from Redknee’s bag or swam out himself for he’d been found
near Brother Alfred. 

 “But isn’t this
wonderful?” Brother Alfred said, gesturing to the dark, smoky room. “Can you
believe? We’re in one of the foremost scriptoriums in all Christendom! When the
Lord takes with one hand, he gives with the other.”

Brother Luke caught Redknee’s
doubtful expression. “It’s true about the scriptorium,” he said, setting a bowl
of hot porridge on the table.

Redknee noticed the monk’s
fingertips were stained purple. “I don’t see any books here.”

“We keep them in a separate room,”
Brother Luke said. “Do you have a particular interest in books?”

“I’ve only ever seen one; so
I don’t know about others. Do they all tell of treasure and adventure?”

Brother Luke stirred the
porridge slowly. “
Not all
,” he said, after some thought. “But reading a
book, even one on mathematics or philosophy, is
like
an adventure – and
as for what you learn, or experience through reading … that is the greatest
treasure of all.”

Brother Luke held out the
ladle. Redknee took it, filled a bowl and put it on the floor. Silver gobbled
ravenously. Redknee turned back to Brother Luke. “I don’t think I know what you
mean,” he said, “about books.”

“Where did you learn to speak
Norse, Brother Luke?” Toki cut in. He had gone straight to the fireside where
he was warming his bare feet. “I feel I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

Brother Luke laughed
nervously. “Well, I grew up in the Northlands.”

“And you became a Christian,”
Brother Alfred said, impressed, “and a monk, no less?”

Brother Luke tilted his head.
“Yes. I do not find that surprising. The teachings of the Nazarene have
something to tell us all.”

Toki frowned. “Where in the
Northlands did you grow up?”

“Oh, I grew up in a very
small village. Perhaps, if I can say so, I have been at a monastery you have
raided?”

Toki shook his head. “I doubt
any monastery I’ve raided. We always killed the monks.”

“I would like to see your
scriptorium
,
” Redknee said, casting Toki an angry look. “If I may.” 

After
they had eaten and dried their clothes by the fire, Brother Luke showed Redknee
to the scriptorium. From the outside it looked the same as the other
roundhouses – small and squat and dark. But as soon as Brother Luke opened the
door, the stench of lime hit Redknee.

“It’s really two buildings in
one,” Brother Luke said. Scraped sheepskins hung from the rafters. Beneath them
sat large barrels of the foul smelling liquid. Brother Luke stirred one with a
paddle. Hides bobbed to the surface. “We treat the sheepskins here. Our sister
monastery on the mainland has a large farm. They send us the hides; we make
them into vellum – for writing on.”

Redknee coughed and nodded.

Brother Luke laughed. “Don’t
worry,” he said, “the next room smells better.”

Brother Luke led him through a
low door and across a covered yard. The next roundhouse was even smaller and
sadder looking than the one before. Brother Luke pushed open the sea-weathered
door. As soon as Redknee stepped inside, he knew he was somewhere special. It
wasn’t the furnishings, for the room was bare save for three small desks and a
large cabinet against the far wall. Somehow the place had an aura of serious
study and reflection.

The doors of the cabinet were
closed, but a whale oil lamp and quill sat on each of the desks.

“Where are the books?”
Redknee asked.

“This is where we write them.
Every book we make has to be copied from an original by hand. Mostly, we make
copies of the Bible. It can take as long as two years to finish a single
volume. And that doesn’t include the illuminations.”

Redknee looked puzzled.

“The illuminations are the
pictures,” Brother Luke said patiently. “They take the longest and require a
great deal of skill. Often we use precious materials like gold and lapis lazuli
for an important scene. We make books for some of the great monasteries of
Europe
; each
year a boat comes to take our work to them. That is why we have only a few
books here.” Brother Luke walked over to the cabinet and opened it with a key
he kept on a cord round his belt. The top shelves were filled with sheets of
vellum; the lower ones with seven large volumes bound in midnight-blue leather.
He pulled the top sheet of vellum from the uppermost shelf and laid it on a
desk. “We lock our work away each night in case it gets damaged,” he explained.
“But it is not private.”

Redknee gazed at a beautiful
picture of a unicorn, its tail woven round the letter
‘H’
at the top
left of the sheet. “I’ve seen work like that before,” Redknee said. Brother
Luke watched Redknee in confusion as he rooted inside his knapsack and brought
out the
Codex
, still dripping from its immersion in the sea.

“Careful,” Brother Luke
cried, whipping away his sheet of vellum. “Water will destroy the work.”

Redknee opened the Codex at
the page with the unicorn illumination. “Oh no,” he said, staring at the
smudged mess of colours in disbelief, “it’s ruined!”

He flipped through the rest
of the book. Every page was the same. Where once neat black writing had stood,
like an orderly shield wall across the page, there was now only the smeared
confusion of a terrible rout.

“Wait.” Redknee fished in his
leather pouch. “I can at least show you a copy of the border.” He pulled out
his mother’s embroidery. It wasn’t much, but the colours had survived the
shipwreck, the ivy leaves intact.

Brother Luke took the linen
scrap; studying it closely. He didn’t speak for a long time, just rubbed the
fabric between his thumb and forefinger as if he didn’t quite believe it was
real.

Redknee shuffled awkwardly
and cleared his throat, readying to ask for it back.

“That book,” the monk said,
his hand starting to tremble, “before it was ruined, what was it?”

“
The Codex
Hibernia
.”
Redknee held out his hand, he was becoming concerned about the monk’s state of mind.
“Can I have my embroidery back, please?”