They Came On Viking Ships

by Jackie French

  To Lily, a dog of total loyalty, and perfect manners

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Dedication

  Map

  Chapter 1 The Naming

  Chapter 2 Hekja

  Chapter 3 The Rescue

  Chapter 4 The Problem of Food

  Chapter 5 Up the Great Mountain

  Chapter 6 A Hunter at Last

  Chapter 7 Danger on the Mountain

  Chapter 8 A Song for a Hero!

  Chapter 9 Raiders!

  Chapter 10 Attack!

  Chapter 11 The Ship

  Chapter 12 Under Sail

  Chapter 13 Storm

  Chapter 14 The Iceberg

  Chapter 15 Out From the Fog

  Chapter 16 A Land of Snow

  Chapter 17 The New Home

  Chapter 18 Greenland

  Chapter 19 Strange Ships

  Chapter 20 The Traders

  Chapter 21 The Race

  Chapter 22 Mist!

  Chapter 23 A Feast and a Challenge

  Chapter 24 A Greenland Winter

  Chapter 25 Yule Feast

  Chapter 26 A Hero’s Farewell

  Chapter 27 After the Funeral

  Chapter 28 Freydis’ Followers

  Chapter 29 Leaving Greenland

  Chapter 30 The Journey

  Chapter 31 Land!

  Chapter 32 The First Night in Vinland

  Chapter 33 Exploring Vinland

  Chapter 34 The Skraelings

  Chapter 35 The Skraelings Arrive

  Chapter 36 Vinland Days

  Chapter 37 Winter Feasting

  Chapter 38 The Attack!

  Chapter 39 After the Raid

  Chapter 40 A Child is Born

  Chapter 41 Finnbogi

  Chapter 42 A Decision

  Chapter 43 The Battle

  Chapter 44 The Death of Honour

  Chapter 45 Leaving Vinland

  Chapter 46 A Song for Freydis

  Author Notes

  About the Author

  Other Titles by Jackie French

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Map

  Chapter 1

  THE NAMING

  When a witch gives you a True Name, it sticks.

  The witch was called Tikka, and she lived at the foot of the tallest mountain on the island. It was Tikka you’d go to for spider webs to staunch a cut or crushed black snails to cure a spider bite.

  The witch had come to the chief’s hut that day because the chief’s youngest son had cut his foot on a clamshell. Even the witch came when the chief ordered.

  He wasn’t much of a chief, just lord of a cluster of stone huts that stood by the bay. Nor was his hut much either. It was round, like the other huts in the village, dug deep down into the rocky soil, so the lower half walls were dirt and the upper parts were rocks all fitted together, with a cowhide across the doorway and a smoke hole above the fireplace.

  The chief had sent his oldest son, Bran, to fetch the witch, and the witch had hobbled down from her hut and had bound up the boy’s foot with a scrap of soft leather dipped in crushed shell and her own urine, muttering all the time so that the chief and his wife would think that she was wise.

  Once the wound was bound and the boy had stopped snivelling, the witch accepted a horn of ale and a barley cake with cheese and looked around the hut.

  A witch doesn’t ask for a fee. People give what they like, but if you don’t give her what she wants a storm will blow up next time your man is out fishing and the sea will have his bones. Or that was what the witch hoped you would think.

  There wasn’t much to see inside the hut—just the peat fire glowing and the iron pot simmering with stew for the evening, the fish hung up from the rafters to dry, and the chief’s fine hunting dog1 with all her little puppies crawling round her lying in the corner by the hearth.

  ‘Would you name the puppies for us, Tikka?’ asked the chief’s wife.

  Old Tikka laughed and picked up one of the puppies. It growled, and tried to lick her nose. ‘I’ll call this one Courage,’ she said.

  ‘That’s the dog for me then,’ said Bran boastfully. He was the tallest boy in the village, and the strongest, with thick brown plaits to his waist. His father had promised him the pick of the litter.

  The witch picked up another puppy and held her up so she could see her in the light from the open doorway. ‘Ah, a fine bitch this,’ she said approvingly. ‘I’ll call her Faithful Long Legs. May she always…’

  That’s when it happened.

  It was the smallest pup of all, the one with the fattest stomach and the longest ears, feet the size of barley cakes and a nose that looked like it had been stubbed on the floor. He’d been suckling his mother long after the others finished, and there was milk dribbled all down his front.

  He toddled a step or two, just far enough so he didn’t widdle in the bed, then crouched and let fly.

  The witch let out a yell, and lifted up her foot, all wet and dripping.

  Bran chuckled and so did the chief, though he stopped when Tikka glared at him. Even the chief wouldn’t cross a hag. His wife raced up with some soft cowhide and mopped Tikka’s foot. The witch put the bitch down, and picked up the other pup by the scruff of his neck.

  ‘Arf arf arf,’ he barked, sending a spray of milk all over the witch’s face.

  Tikka stared at the puppy thoughtfully. ‘As for you,’ she said, ‘I’ll call you…’ She grinned, showing her long white teeth. ‘I’ll call you Riki Snarfari,’ she decided. And with that she put him down.

  Bran let out a yell. ‘Riki Snarfari.2 That pup will never be a mighty rover! He’s the laziest pup of the litter!’

  The witch held his eye. ‘Are you arguing with me, boy?’

  Bran subsided. ‘No, Tikka,’ he muttered.

  Riki Snarfari, the Mighty Rover, crawled back to his mother’s side, and tried to hide his head under her warmth. He peered out at the witch, who was filling up her second cup of ale, and accepting the best of the barley cakes.

  The witch saw him peering at her, and laughed.

  * * *

  1 The dogs of this time were giant, long-legged dogs, the ancestors of Scottish Wolfhounds or Deerhounds.

  2 Literally Mighty Sailor, or Rover, who travels fast.

  Chapter 2

  HEKJA

  Hekja sat on the rock by the shore and let her eyes follow the clouds as they floated on the far horizon. Pa had once sung a song about a land of cloud, where fish swam through the air and jewels grew on the trees.

  Hekja wasn’t sure what jewels were—a type of cheese, perhaps—for Pa had died before she could ask him. But every time the clouds hung on the horizon, Hekja dreamt that they were the island Pa had told her about. One day, she thought, when I am married, I’ll ask my husband to sail his boat out to the horizon. We’ll step out onto the cloud land and pick the jewels…

  Hekja smiled to herself, and picked up her cockle3 stick again. At this rate the tide would be in before she had her basket half full.

  Then she saw the puppy.

  He was the smallest dog Hekja had ever seen. He had the fattest belly too. It almost dragged along the pebbles as the puppy stumbled from the chief’s hut down to the shore.

  Hekja put down her bag of shellfish and watched the pup toddle across the salty, damp stones, sniffing as he went. And then he found it. A dead seal pup, half buried in a drift of seaweed, with the waves lapping just below.

  None of the village folk ate seals—too many of their families, they said, were descended from seal ancestors. Which meant rich and meaty as this seal was, no one had come to eat it.

  Hekja watched as the puppy nu
zzled at the seal, trying to find a way in to the good meat. But the furry sealskin was too tough for his small jaws and tiny milk teeth. He was almost ready to give up when he found a soft patch, where the skin had rotted through…

  ‘Craaaarrrrk!’

  The pup paid no attention.

  ‘Carwwkkk!’ The seagull was closer now, and angry. It wanted that seal for itself.

  ‘Grrr,’ snarled the puppy warningly, lifting up his tiny nose.

  ‘Keeerk!’ shrieked the bird. It flew at the pup and pecked his eye.

  The puppy screamed. The bird pecked again, this time at the pup’s leg and rounded stomach, and then once more at his eyes. The pup tried to stumble away. He couldn’t run, for one leg dragged behind. Nor could he see because of the blood.

  Hekja grabbed a stone, and threw it as hard as she could. ‘Get away from him!’ The bird gave a startled squawk, and flapped away. The puppy cowered, whimpering, by the drifts of seaweed.

  Hekja ran towards him, her shellfish forgotten, and picked him up carefully. Blood welled from above his eye, and his torn leg dangled limply. The puppy yelped with pain.

  ‘Let me see!’ It was the chief. He grabbed the pup by the scruff of the neck. The puppy yelped louder as the chief’s hand pulled at his injured leg.

  ‘He’s lamed and blinded. Stupid animal, he’s good for nothing now.’ The chief’s voice was angry. The pup had been worth a good calf, or more. ‘He’s not worth feeding. There’s only one thing for him…’ said the chief as his hands closed around the puppy’s throat.

  ‘No!’ Hekja’s voice was high and fierce. ‘You can’t kill him!’

  The chief stared at her. ‘He’s mine. I can do what I like with him.’

  ‘I’ll look after him! Please! I’ll make him better!’

  ‘Pa?’ It was Bran. He must have been watching from the hut. ‘Let Hekja have the pup if she wants it. It’s no good to us.’

  The chief paused, then dumped the puppy in Hekja’s arms.

  The pup had stopped whimpering now, and was limp and still. Was he dead already?

  The chief shrugged. ‘Keep him then. He’s done for anyway.’ He turned and stamped off up the shore.

  * * *

  3 Shellfish that live in the sand.

  Chapter 3

  THE RESCUE

  Hekja ran along the shore to the hut she shared with her mother. Once there had been five of them in the hut. But Hekja’s brothers had been drowned when a storm raged across the islands, and Pa’s back had been broken when he’d fallen from the cliff when the men were collecting eggs. So now there was just Hekja and her ma.

  Ma sat in the doorway, grinding the barley flour for their meal. She stared at the bloody bundle in Hekja’s arms. ‘What in all the islands is that?!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘It’s a puppy! He’s hurt. Ma, please! Please let me keep him!’

  Her ma stood and peered at the puppy, then shook her head. ‘He’s hurt too bad, love.’

  ‘I’ll look after him! I’ll make him well!’

  Her ma picked up the quern4 of barley flour and began to mix it with water to be baked on the hearthstone for their dinner. ‘He’ll die and break your heart,’ she said softly. ‘And even if he lives, what would we feed him? Barley bread and fish heads? There is little enough for ourselves.’

  Hekja stroked the puppy silently. Her ma gazed at her without speaking. Finally she said, ‘You know what it was like with your pa, after his accident. It’s not easy, love, tending someone you love, watching them die.’

  ‘I know,’ whispered Hekja. ‘But I can’t just leave him. I have to try to make him well.’

  Hekja’s ma bit her lip. Then she nodded. ‘Alright. You can try.’

  ‘Could you fetch Tikka for him? Please, Ma!’

  The woman’s voice was firm now. ‘Tikka would need rewarding. I’ll not be asking her to come all this way, just for a pup that won’t last the night.’

  ‘Then I’ll take him to her myself!’

  ‘Hekja, love…’ pleaded her ma. Then she bit her lip. ‘If you will.’

  It was cold outside. Hekja hugged the puppy close to keep him warm, and began to run.

  Hekja was good at running. She’d had a lot of practice, chasing the cow as it nosed after pasture, and running down to the fishing boats to beg the scraps from other families who still had strong men to fish for them. Sometimes she ran along the pebbles of the bay when there was no one else to see, feeling the foam lap at her toes, just for the joy of running, to pretend that if she ran fast enough she could catch the sunset.

  But this run was different. There was no time to enjoy the wind in her face today. The scent of the sea changed to cattle smells and heather. The puppy whimpered in her arms, and then was still.

  Tikka’s hut sat by the burn5 that bubbled down from the snow-melt great mountain. The witch had lived by herself as long as Hekja could remember, picking her herbs by moonlight, when their magic was the strongest, muttering her curses if the men forgot to bring her share of fish, or if the chief was late bringing his bull to her cow. Today the witch’s cow was grazing across the burn, near to calving. It stared at Hekja, then bent its head to the grass.

  Hekja paused by the cowhide door. She’d just have called and gone in to any other hut. But no one entered Tikka’s uninvited. Hekja caught her breath, then called as politely as she could, ‘Tikka, please, it’s Hekja. I have a puppy. He’s hurt.’

  The tattered cowhide moved, and the witch’s face emerged. She looked at the pup, and grinned. No other woman the witch’s age had all her teeth, but Tikka’s were long and white. The other girls said Tikka had charmed them from a wolf, up on the great mountain.

  ‘Ah, that one is it?’ said Tikka, the toothy grin pushing the wrinkles on her face into new patterns. ‘Riki Snarfari, the Mighty Rover. I knew that he’d be trouble.’

  ‘Riki Snarfari?’ Hekja glanced at the pup doubtfully. He didn’t look like a mighty anything.

  ‘Named him myself. It’s a True Name too.’ The witch stepped out of her hut, bringing with her the scent of fish oil and old herbs, and just a breath of barley beer. She lifted the pup’s nose, then twisted his leg. The puppy howled in pain.

  ‘Will he die?’ whispered Hekja.

  ‘Yes,’ said Tikka. And then she cackled, just like a witch should, and the smell of herbs and beer became stronger. ‘But not for many years yet! Bring him inside, girl, and let’s see to him.’

  Hekja hesitated. ‘I have nothing for you.’

  ‘You have your legs, girl,’ said Tikka. ‘You can take my cow with your mother’s up the mountain in summer. Now bring him in here.’

  It was dark in the hut, with the hide across the doorway blocking out the spring sunlight. A pot bubbled on the smouldering turf fire underneath the smoke hole. Hekja blinked at it. ‘Those look like…snails…’

  The witch peered at her, then cackled again. ‘Most girls would scream at a pot of snails. Nothing wrong with snails, girl. Cook them with their shells and mush the lot and eat them once a week and you’ll have teeth as good as mine, no matter how many babies your husband gives you.’

  ‘The girls said you have wolf teeth.’ Hekja could have grabbed the words back, but the witch just grinned, her white teeth glowing in the dimness. ‘I’m happy they think so, so don’t go telling them otherwise. But they’re my own, every one of them. How’d I get wolf teeth to stay in? Now, let’s see this pup. How did you end up with him?’

  ‘I rescued him. The chief said I could have him.’

  ‘Generous. Bet he’ll wish he hadn’t when the pup gets bigger.’

  Hekja felt her heart pound louder than the bubbling burn. ‘Then he’ll recover?’

  Tikka nodded. She laid the puppy on the stone bench, and he whimpered with the cold and the pain of being moved. ‘The eye’s bad,’ she muttered. ‘Nothing we can do about that, except help it heal.’ She bent down and sniffed Snarf’s blood-stained stomach. ‘Can’t smell guts, so nothing’s punctured. That�
�s how you can tell how bad a wound is, girl. If you can smell guts then there’s no hope.’

  ‘Will he be able to walk?’ said Hekja anxiously.

  ‘He might limp a bit. But his bones are still soft because he’s young, so they should heal. Aye, he’ll recover, if you care for him enough.’

  ‘I will,’ promised Hekja.

  The witch stirred up the turf fire. She poured the boiled snails into a wood jar, and refilled the pot with water from the bucket by the door. Next, she selected herbs from the long lines drying from the roof, and threw them into the water to heat.

  ‘See? You’ll have to do this too.’ She thrust the herbs at Hekja’s nose. ‘Smell! Think you can find those again?’

  Hekja nodded. ‘Yes. That’s wild garlic and that—’

  ‘I know what they are, girl! As long as you do too. Now, cook them for as long as it takes to sing two verses of the “Fisherman’s Lament”. Wait for the potion to cool and wash him with it. Then mix the herbs with honey to cover up the wounds. You’ve got honey at home?’

  Hekja shook her head. The witch sighed. ‘There’s a pot of it behind the door. Take it. But this autumn you look out a hive, mind, and pay me back.’

  ‘I will,’ promised Hekja.

  ‘Mind you don’t burn him—the herbs should be hot. And you bandage him like this, just firm enough to hold the herbs. Change the dressing twice a day,’ instructed Tikka, ‘until the wounds start to scab, then leave them clear.’

  ‘What about the magic?’ asked Hekja timidly. ‘Don’t I have to say words over him or something?’

  Tikka laughed. It was a real laugh, not her witch’s cackle. ‘The power’s in the herbs, not me. Magic is good to trick the foolish into doing what they should have done if they’d had sense in the first place. Though sometimes…’ The witch paused suddenly, and frowned. ‘Hekja…’

  ‘Yes, Tikka?’

  ‘Tell your ma this dog will be useful. He’ll be worth the feeding. Tell her you’ll be needing him.’

  ‘To help watch the cows?’

  ‘For that too,’ said the witch cryptically. ‘Now be off with you.’