Viking Gold (6 page)

Redknee wished he hadn’t come
to the feast.

Uncle Sven looked shaken, but
he spoke again, “It takes more than a strong forearm to be a leader of men.”

“But it helps!” Someone
shouted from the far end of the table.

“Let us ask the rune-reader,”
Thora, Koll’s wife said. She put down her jug of mead and pulled Brynhild the
Old forward.

Brynhild’s
half-blind eyes blinked in the firelight. She tapped her walking stick on the
floor three times. Silence fell over the room. The reading of the runes was a
serious business. “Show me the boy,” she said.

Thora grabbed Redknee, pulled
him in front of Brynhild and stood back. The old hag sniffed the air round
Redknee’s face. Then she circled slowly, closed her eyes and began chanting.

“What is she doing?” Thora
asked. “I thought she was going to read the runes.”

Brynhild’s watery eyes flew
open. “This is no good.”

“She said the boy is no
good!” Thora shouted.

“No, I did not say that. This
place – it’s no good, there are too many people—”

“Just read the runes,” Thora
said.

“Very well.” Brynhild held a
dirty leather pouch in front of Redknee. “Pick three stones.”

Redknee nodded. He didn’t
believe any of this. Life held so many things even the gods couldn’t explain.
But then, he was interested to hear what she had to say. He felt inside the
pouch, picked three smooth stones and placed them in Brynhild’s gnarled hand.

She squinted at them. “For
those of you who know your
futhark
,” she began, “the first is raidō, the
rune of travel. The boy will journey far.” Everyone nodded solemnly, for what
Viking did not travel far … eventually?

She grasped the second stone
and held it to her face. “This is fehu, the stone of wealth. The boy will have
riches one day.” There was a murmur of discontent, for who likes to hear of
another being rich when you work the fields for twelve hours a day just to stay
alive?

Olaf stood. “This is rubbish.
The hag can tell us nothing. I tell you – the boy is no leader.”

“Be quiet,” Thora said. “The
rest of us want to hear this.”

Brynhild hovered over the
last stone then snapped it up between her fingers. “I think you will be
pleased,” she said. “This is othala – the leader of men.”

A cheer went up round the
room and Redknee felt his heart beat in his chest like a caged bird.

“Shh,” Brynhild said. “I have
not finished. This stone has two sides. It can mean leader, or … slave.”

After
the standoff between Sven and Olaf, the feast spluttered out like a campfire in
the rain. The men who had chosen to sail with Olaf withdrew to his longhouse at
the far end of the village. Those who elected to stay with Sven trudged to his
longhouse for a night of fitful sleep, for Sven still insisted on keeping a
lookout.

Redknee slumped on a bench
outside the feast hall while the womenfolk cleared the remains of the meal. It
was a good spot to keep watch. The night was chilly, and he was glad of
Silver’s warmth curled at his feet.

“Psst. Redknee.”

He
turned to see Sinead poking her head round the door, an old broom in her hand.
Her soft features sagged with exhaustion and her apron was splattered with
drops of fat.

“What is it? Want me to lift
something for you?”

“No.” Sinead glanced nervously
over her shoulder, then crept outside and joined him on the bench. “Look, I
think I know why Ragnar really wants to attack the village. When I was
kidnapped, Mord, Ragnar’s eldest son – the one with the chainmail tunic—”

“I remember him.” 

“Well, I heard him discuss a
book with Ragnar – it must be the same one Skoggcat told us about.”

“I heard him mention a book
too, said my uncle had it, but … I thought he was crazy. There are no books in
the village—”

“Oh, sometimes I can’t
believe I’m
your
slave. I’ve seen so many books. When I worked in the
apothecary at the monastery I used medical texts all the time.”

Redknee was silent. Sinead
had a way of making him feel stupid. After a bit, he asked, “Do you know if
it’s a book of healing they’re looking for?”

Sinead shook her head. “The
book Mord discussed with Ragnar is about a voyage by an Irish monk to an island
many days sail to the West. You know, the Irish are just as good at sailing as
you Northmen.”

“I doubt it.”

“Ragnar wants to follow the
monk’s voyage.”

“Why?”

“The island it talks of, the
one the monk sails to, the book calls it the Promised Land.”

Redknee had heard of
Iceland
, a
rocky island recently settled by outlaws and thieves seeking to escape King Hakon’s
new laws. He didn’t think any true Northman would need a book to find it. Just
sail west for several days and—

“I think we should look for
it.”

“What?”
Redknee said, his voice rising. “Go find
Iceland
?”
Silver glanced up startled. Redknee patted him on the head and he went back to
sleep.

“
Iceland
?
” Sinead looked confused. “No, the book, you fool –
Iceland
has
nothing to do with it.”

Redknee shook his head.
“Assuming this book really is in the village, searching for it could be
dangerous”

“But if we found it, we could
give it to Ragnar, stop any bloodshed.”

“Oh, so
now
you care
about my family.”

“That’s unfair. I’m sorry I
ever suggested running away.”

Redknee
shrugged. What did it matter now? Besides, his mind kept slipping back to his
uncle. Sven had been reluctant to believe him about Ragnar. Reluctant, that
was, until he’d mentioned the book.

“Does the Promised Land have
treasure?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Why do you
ask?”

“It’s just something my uncle
said when I told him about Ragnar.”

“What was that?”

“He asked if Ragnar had
spoken of hidden treasure.”

“Do you think that’s what
Skoggcat meant when he said ‘
The book has more value than you know?’
”

“Maybe.”

“It sounds like your uncle
knows more than he’s telling.”

Redknee shrugged. His uncle
had known Ragnar for a long time – even before he’d killed his father. Did Sven
know why Ragnar wanted the book? If he did, he wasn’t telling anyone.

And if Sven did have the
book, he was keeping it well hidden. Redknee sighed and ran his hand through
his hair. None of this made sense. His uncle couldn’t even read.

“Sinead! Get back to work.
There are still three boar carcasses to clear away, and ten times as many
chicken bones.” Redknee’s mother loomed in the doorway. Despite the late hour,
her corn-coloured hair was tucked neatly under a white linen cap, but her rosy
skin shone with exertion.

Sinead rolled her eyes and
ducked back inside the feast hall.

“Leif, why aren’t you
asleep?” his mother asked, taking Sinead’s place beside him on the bench.

Redknee shrugged.

“You’re not still worried
about Ragnar?”

“I
know
he’s coming.”

“But it’s been so long,” his
mother said gently. “They are old, forgotten scores.”

“But that’s just it, I don’t
think it has anything to do with the past. I think Ragnar wants something he
knows we’ve got.”

At the sight of the
conviction on Redknee’s face, she sighed and stared at the night sky. After a
long silence, she smoothed her apron over her dress and turned to him. “I see I
can’t convince you. But please, if Ragnar does come, I forbid you to allow the
rot of an old blood feud to infect your young life. I forbid you to seek
vengeance for what happened to your father.”

“But that’s just it. I don’t
know what happened to my father, other than it was Ragnar who killed him. But
why? I’m nearly sixteen, I’ve a right to know. You can’t make me promise if I
don’t know.”

“But Leif, darling, it’s
pointless to relive the past,” she said, shaking her head as if to dispel the
pain that burned in her eyes. “Besides, you know what happened. There was a
fight over plunder. Erik ran away, and Ragnar threw his axe, which struck him
in the back. It was dreadful.”

“Were you there? Did you see
this happen?”

She shook her head. “I was
sleeping.”

“But that still doesn’t
explain why.”

“I think you’re looking for
reasons where there are none.”

Redknee sighed. Maybe she was
right. Maybe Harold and the other boys were right too when they called him son
of a coward. “How could you do it?” he asked.

“Do what?” she said.

“Give me a father like that –
a coward?”

“Oh Leif, I’m so sorry. I do
hear the snide remarks. But you’re nothing like Erik. He thought the world owed
him something – why, he could start a fight in an empty longhouse! And he had
strange ideas. Such strange ideas. Whereas you …” She studied him for a moment
and he shuffled awkwardly under her gaze. “Brynhild is right,” she said,
nodding. “You’re not meant for this place. I think that’s why you’re friends
with the girl.”

“With Sinead?”

“Oh, maybe this is just a
mother talking … all mothers think their children are special, you know.”

Redknee wondered if the
lateness of the hour had affected her mind. “Is it Sven?” he asked.

“Is what Sven?”

“Is it because of Sven that
you can’t tell me what happened to my father?”

She looked shocked. “I’ve
told you everything I know. Your uncle has been a good father to you. You must
always remember that. It’s not every man who will take in his brother’s son and
raise him as his own.”

“Yes, I’m very grateful,” he
said stiffly. “It’s just … well, I just wondered, that’s all. I think Uncle
Sven knows why Ragnar is coming. Has he ever shown you a book?”

“A book! Goodness me, why do
you ask such a thing?”

“I think that’s what Ragnar
wants – a book that belongs to Uncle Sven.”

“Oh dear, I think you’ve been
spending too much time with that Irish imp. It doesn’t do any good to talk
about these things, you know. Bringing up the past – it can only cause harm.
But I do wonder if it was the right thing to keep it.”

“Keep what – a book?”

His mother fidgeted with the
cord of her apron and looked away, as if she was about to return inside.
Instead, she lowered her voice. “I have to finish cleaning the hall. But after
that, come and find me. I have a gift … it might go some way toward helping
you.”

The
low sun cast a cool, pink glow across the water. Redknee had slept fitfully on
the hard bench. Someone had placed a wool blanket over his shoulders, but the
chill had still seeped into his bones. The model of loyalty, Silver had huddled
at his feet the whole night.

“You’re learning where your
food comes from,” he said, giving the pup a gentle nudge. They ambled down to
the beach together. He needed to find his uncle. He’d decided he would just ask
him about the book.

Olaf’s men were already up
and preparing
Wavedancer
for their raid on the Jarrow monastery. They
had brought her back onto the beach. She held her new dragon figurehead high,
like a haughty Arab stallion. Painted red with gold leaf, her figurehead
gleamed, eager to meet the smooth mercury of the fjord.

Twenty or so brightly
coloured shields decorated the gunwale. Men busily loaded supplies – weapons,
oars, dried food and furs. Each man had his own chest to sit on while he rowed.
The chests contained their belongings and any plunder they were lucky enough to
steal. Agreement as to each man’s share would have been reached last night.
This would depend on prowess with a sword and fearlessness in front of the
enemy. The more you fought, the larger your pot.

Karl the Woodcutter shuffled
across the deck, a rope coiled in his hand.  He looped one end through the
corner of the sail and tied the other to the gunwale. Even at sea, the big
square sail could be raised or lowered in seconds. Coupled with the power of the
oars,
Wavedancer
would be quick, easily able to skip over to Jarrow in
two days. Maybe less.

“Not tempted to join us?”
Redknee looked up to see Karl laughing good-naturedly.

“She’s a fine ship,” he
continued. “Your uncle has done us proud. She’ll be a joy to sail.”

Before he could answer, Olaf
appeared carrying a bundle of oars. “Where’s your uncle?” he asked.

Redknee squinted into the
morning sun. “Don’t know,” he said.