Vulgar the Viking and the Rock Cake Raiders (2 page)

“How were the toilets this morning?” asked Helga, returning to her work.

Harald shuddered. “Ooh, they were proper blocked,” he said. “Up to my elbows I was, trying to get them unclogged.”

Crossing to the basin, Harald dipped his arms in the water. It immediately turned a murky shade of brown.

“You’re awake early,” he said to Vulgar. “Are you up to something?”

“No!”

“Because you’re
usually
up to something.”

“That’s what
I
said,” Helga told him.

“I’m not up to anything!” insisted Vulgar. “It’s History Day today. When we learn about proper Vikings.”

Harald dried his hands on his thin, wispy beard, then wrung them together nervously. “What, plundering and adventuring and stuff like that?”

“Exactly!”

“I tried it once,” said Harald. “Not my cup of tea. All those big waves. I get seasick just doing the washing-up, don’t I, dearest?”

“That’s your usual excuse,” grunted Helga, not looking round.

“You don’t want to bother with all that
old-fashioned stuff,” said Harald, with a wave of a brown-stained hand. “You want to get a proper job. Like me.”

“Cleaning toilets?” spluttered Vulgar. “That’s not a—”

“Vuuuuuuulgaaaaaaar!”

The shout came from outside, stopping Vulgar mid-sentence.

“Knut’s here,” said Vulgar, cramming the last of the bread in his mouth.

“Coming!” he cried to his best friend, spraying crumbs all over the kitchen table. “Grunt! Walkies!”

At the sound of the word, Grunt’s ear twitched, and the shaggy old dog leapt bolt upright.

Still chewing, Vulgar grabbed his cloak and helmet from the peg on the wall, threw open the back door and bolted out into the garden, not bothering to say goodbye.

This was it.

History Day had finally begun!

CHAPTER TWO

THE GREAT HALL

Vulgar and Grunt dashed along the path and cleared the garden gate in a single leap. Vulgar’s best friend, Knut Knutson, stood on the dirt track that ran past the hut. He was almost a whole foot taller than Vulgar, even though they were both eight, but Knut always slouched so the boys looked almost the same height.

Knut didn’t have a beard either. In fact, he looked even less like a proper Viking than Vulgar did. For a start, he was far too skinny. Proper Vikings needed to be broad-shouldered, with chests like rum barrels. Knut looked like a garden rake, with a turnip on top for a head. Even his helmet looked wrong. It was much too big. And Knut had accidentally broken off one of the horns. He’d stuck it back on, but because he wasn’t paying attention – Knut hardly ever paid attention – he’d put it back the wrong way up. Now one horn curved upwards, and one horn curved down. It made
Knut look like he had a giant letter “Z” stuck through his head.

“History Day!” announced Vulgar. “Excited?”

Knut shrugged. “S’pose.”

They hurried off in the direction of the Great Hall, with Grunt trotting along behind them.

“I wonder if there’ll be demonstrations,” said Vulgar.

“Demonstrations of what?” asked Knut.

“You know – proper Viking stuff. Like … like … pillaging!”

Knut considered this. “What exactly
is
pillaging?”

“Well,” began Vulgar, waving his hand about vaguely. “It’s like … um … it’s a bit like stealing. Only more, er…”

“More pillagey?”

“Exactly!”

“Here, Vulgar,” said Knut, “maybe
they’ll pillage us?”

Vulgar stopped in the middle of the dirt track, his eyes suddenly wide. “That. Would. Be.
Brilliant!
”

He hurried on, moving even faster than before. The track took them through the town, past old women weaving on their front steps, past younger women scrubbing moss from the wooden walls of their thatched huts, and past men of all ages tending their rock gardens.

“Look at that lot,” muttered Vulgar. “Weaving. Cleaning. Growing vegetables.” He shook his head in disgust. “I mean …
vegetables
!”

“Someone’s got to grow vegetables,” said Knut.

“Yes, but not
us
!” exclaimed Vulgar. “Not
Vikings
!
We should be sailing to other countries and taking all
their
vegetables, not growing our own!” 

Knut gave another shrug. They hurried on for a few more minutes, not even slowing down to admire the view of the snow-capped mountains across the fjord.

Finally, they arrived at the Great Hall – the huge building in the centre of Blubber. It was twice as tall as any of the huts around it, with life-size polar bears carved on to each corner. Grunt took one
look at the steep steps leading up to the doors, slumped to the ground and started snoring.

“Come on,” Vulgar said to Knut. “We don’t want to be late.”

Inside, the Great Hall looked even greater than usual. Banners had been draped between the massive wooden pillars that held up the roof. A huge fire crackled in the hearth.

The ceremonial weapons were all polished and gleaming. Long tapestries hung on the walls, depicting great battles of old. And the room was full of Viking children, all chattering excitedly about History Day.

Only one girl was not talking with the others. Princess Freya Gold-Hair, the only daughter of King Olaf, sat on a padded chair with her back resting against one of the pillars.

“Wotcha, Freya,” said Vulgar cheerily.

Freya’s delicate nose wrinkled, as if detecting an unpleasant smell. She turned her head, deliberately looking away from Vulgar and Knut.

“Helloooo!” said Vulgar, leaning around so Freya had no choice but to look at him. She met his eyes briefly, then turned away again.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Vulgar, grinning. “I forgot you don’t talk to us commoners.” He gave an exaggerated bow. “Forgive me, your high and mightiness.”

With that, Vulgar turned and scurried away. He’d only gone a few paces, though, when he stopped and tiptoed back towards the princess.

“
Watch
this
,”
he mouthed silently, grinning at Knut.

Knut covered his mouth with his hands
to stop himself laughing as Vulgar gently took hold of Freya’s long, blonde pigtails, one in each hand. Slowly, carefully, he drew them around the pillar behind Freya and tied them together in a big knot.

He had just finished when Freya felt her hair being messed with.

“Hey!” she cried, standing up. She stepped forward. “What do you think you’re—
Ow
!
”

Vulgar and Knut erupted into gales of laughter as Freya’s hair yanked her back. She gave another cry of pain as she fell back down on to the seat.

“I’ll get you for this,” she hissed, reaching behind her and working furiously to untie the knot. “Just you wait!”

Before Vulgar could reply, a frail-looking man, bent and crooked with age, hobbled into the hall, waving his walking-stick in the air.

“Right, quieten down, you lot,” snapped Harrumf, the steward of the Great Hall. “We ain’t got all day.”

The chatter of the children gradually
fell away into silence. Harrumf banged his stick on the wooden floor three times.
Thock!
Thock!
Thock!

“All rise,” he cried, “for ’is Most Majestic of Majesties. The greatest warrior wot Blubber ’as ever seen. The man wot put the
king
into
Viking
…”

Harrumf ran out of breath at that point, and had to stop to gulp down more air. He coughed loudly before continuing. “The one … the only … the flippin’ marvellous … Kiiiiiiiing Olaf the Unstoppable!”

The children who were already standing stood to attention. Even Knut’s slouch didn’t look quite so slouchy. The children who had been sitting leapt to their feet. Only Freya remained seated. She glared at Vulgar, still struggling to untie her hair. Vulgar gave her a friendly wave, just as the bulging stomach of
King Olaf appeared through the doorway at the back of the hall, closely followed by the rest of him.

The crowd of children began to whoop and cheer.

“Thank you, thank you,” muttered the king, swallowing down the last bite of a turkey drumstick. Tossing the bone over his shoulder, he gave a loud burp, then wiped his greasy fingers on his enormous red beard.

“Be seated,” he announced, in a voice that shook the walls, “and listen closely, for I am about to tell you tales so terrible and terrifying, they’ll make your eyes burst open and drip down your face!”

Vulgar’s mouth stretched into a wide, toothy grin.

Now
this
, he thought,
is
more
like
it!