They Came On Viking Ships

by Jackie French

  ‘Run, Finnbogi!’ the woman called to the man, as though delighted by the chase.

  Hekja swerved. She raced past the chief’s hut, then along the track that led to the sheiling. Then suddenly she veered. That path led to the girls. She couldn’t lead the Vikings there! Reena had been right—the girls were safe, and Hekja had to keep them so.

  The man Finnbogi was winded already. He carried his heavy sword and shield, and hadn’t spent the summer racing after cows on mountain slopes like Hekja had. She could hear him gasping, but there was no time to turn to see how close he was. Through the cow field they ran, past the chief’s bull, then over the stone fence. The man lumbered across the fence too, then leant against it, panting.

  Hekja risked a glance. He’d given up!

  Then someone yelled behind her, ‘You’re past it, Finnbogi! Leave it to those with proper beards!’

  Another called, ‘Let me show you how it’s done, Finnbogi!’

  The man Finnbogi growled. ‘You see if you can catch her, Leif. She must have feet like falcon’s wings!’

  Suddenly another man’s footsteps joined the chase.

  ‘Go to it, Leif!’ It was the Viking woman, her voice high and clear above the men’s.

  Down to the beach they fled and along the shingle. The man Leif’s leather shoes slipped on the wet rocks but Hekja and Snarf’s feet were sure. Around the bay, and up the other side. It seemed to Hekja as though the world had narrowed to her feet pounding on the pebbles, breath tearing at her lungs and the speedy beat of Snarf’s feet at her heels. The cliff reared up before them, with its path of dirt and stones.

  The man was gaining now, as he was new to the chase and they were not. Even Snarf was panting, and Hekja’s breath seemed torn from deep within her body. It was impossible to go any faster up the path—any misstep might mean she slid back down, into the waiting arms of the Viking. But if she had to go slowly, so did he, and she knew this path and he did not.

  Up…up…For a moment Snarf’s feet slipped on the loose dirt, but Hekja reached down and hauled him up.

  The man was nearly on them. His sword flashed down, just behind Snarf’s tail. But now the girl and dog had made the cliff top. The wind lashed at them, smelling of storm and sea and the distant tang of blood.

  Back they ran, towards the village. Hekja tried to think. Which way now? There was one path that might lead them to safety, if only she could make it. It was a hunter’s path from the village, up into the hills. If she and Snarf could get up there they’d be safe, hidden among the cliffs and mountain crags.

  Hope gave her strength. Her feet pounded along the path, sure footed as a hare. The man was further behind now. The gap grew bigger as she neared the village. Hekja thudded down the path, towards the chief’s. No time to glance at the bodies either, only time to run, to force her legs to keep on going.

  Past the hut…Snarf was in the lead now, for he had four legs to Hekja’s two. Suddenly something slashed across her ankles. Hekja fell forward. Her knees crashed onto the ground, jarring her. Hekja had to scream. But there was only enough breath for a gasp of horror and despair.

  Hekja tried to rise. A hard foot held her down. Strong small hands grasped her wrists and tied them roughly.

  Hekja struggled to see who held her. Was it the man, Finnbogi, who had killed her mother? Would she suffer the same fate, the last of her village to be slaughtered? But when Hekja turned it was a woman’s face—the woman she had seen before. One hand held Hekja’s hair, close to her scalp, to stop her trying to run. The other held a sword. It was this that Hekja had stumbled over, held out flat to trip her as she ran.

  The man Leif was on them now. He leant over, trying to catch his breath, then looked up and grinned. ‘So you have caught my fish for me, little sister,’ he panted to the woman. He sounded his words strangely, but they were familiar enough for Hekja to understand.

  The woman laughed, and let the sword dangle by her skirts. She was young, her hair the same bright colour as the man’s. There were rings on her fingers and a gold band on her arm and brooches on her dress, and a necklace too, with almost enough metal to make a cooking pot.

  ‘You’re getting soft, Leif. Too much time sitting on your bum while on board the ship. Your legs have forgotten what they’re for.’

  The man—Leif—hauled Hekja up roughly by her hair. ‘She’s mine now, at any rate.’

  ‘She’s not,’ said the woman coolly. ‘I was the one who caught her. I claim her.’

  Hekja gazed frantically from one to the other trying to follow their speech. How could she escape? And where was Snarf? Please, she thought, please, Snarf, go to Tikka or the girls. You’ll be safe there. Go, or the Vikings will get you too.

  Leif stared at the woman. ‘Are you serious, Freydis? What do you want with another thrall?’ He looked at Hekja contemptuously. ‘She’ll be quite unskilled coming from a poor place like this.’

  The woman, Freydis, laughed again. ‘Did you see how fast she ran? She’s a runner, Leif. Faster than your man Hikki.’

  ‘No one is faster than Hikki,’ said Leif, amused. ‘He was a present from the king himself.’

  Freydis shrugged. ‘We will see,’ she said calmly. ‘Will you take the girl to my ship, dear brother, or will I?’

  For a moment it looked like Leif would argue. Then he dropped Hekja suddenly, so again she sprawled on the wet ground. ‘Take her,’ he said abruptly, and walked off, down to the shore.

  ‘Please,’ began Hekja. Surely a woman would be kinder than a man. ‘Please let me go…’

  There was a growl behind them. Snarf leapt, as he had leapt at the man Finnbogi and the wolf. His jaws met where the woman’s knees would be, underneath her skirts.

  But the cloth got in the way. Snarf reared back, to strike again. But the woman was swifter. She lifted her sword, and struck him hard against his neck.

  The dog collapsed.

  ‘No,’ whispered Hekja. ‘No.’

  The woman glanced at her. ‘He was trying to protect you, wasn’t he? That dog has courage.’ She gestured to one of the passing men. ‘Carry him to my ship.’ She looked around the village contemptuously. ‘He’s worth more than anything else in this place.’

  ‘He’s…not dead?’ stammered Hekja.

  The woman looked amused. ‘I used the flat of my sword on him, not the blade. Now, will you walk, or must you be carried too?’

  Hekja tried to understand. But the accent was so strong. Her mind was numb with pain and exhaustion. But the word ‘walk’ at least was clear.

  ‘I’ll walk,’ said Hekja. She had no choice. Snarf had tried to save her. She couldn’t abandon him.

  Besides, now he was all she had.

  The big ships bounced on the waves far out in the harbour, but there were smaller boats pulled up on the pebbles in the bay. One of the men shoved Hekja roughly into the nearest one. It was already piled with bags of barley, and the iron pot that Hekja recognised as the chief’s.

  It took two men to carry Snarf. They flung him into the bottom of the boat, then pushed it out into the waves.

  Hekja knelt by Snarf. She wanted to hold his head in her lap, or stroke him, but her hands were bound too tight. She gazed about her. Ships, so many ships, and the shore growing more distant. Tears stung her eyes. She looked down at Snarf instead. Was he moving?

  Suddenly his eyes opened. He blinked, and tried to get up.

  ‘Shh. Don’t move.’ She was afraid that if he tried to jump out they’d hit him again. ‘Stay, boy. Stay.’

  Snarf whined. He tried to sit up, then collapsed down again. The tears were blinding her now, but it didn’t matter. There was nothing she wanted to see. Hekja laid her face on Snarf’s fur as the boat bobbed out towards the waiting ships.

  Chapter 11

  THE SHIP

  They spent the night on board. Driftwood fires lit the darkness back on shore. Hekja had never smelt wood fires before—wood was far too precious to burn. They sparked higher than any fire she�
��d ever seen, like tiny stars reaching for the sky.

  She must have finally dozed from exhaustion, despite the bobbing motion of the ship, and the growing pain in her bound wrists, for it was dawn when she opened her eyes again. Snarf still slept, but his breathing was even, so it seemed he had taken no great harm. Hekja looked around.

  Ships, lots of ships, each one far longer than even the chief’s hut and as wide.9

  The ships smelt of pine trees. Each had a giant square sail of dripping woollen cloth across the middle that flapped and billowed as the men raised them to catch the wind, and two platforms either end, with bundles stowed underneath, and a deep middle bit, which was where Hekja sat, filled with bundles too. Oars dangled from the rowlocks at either end.

  Gulls screamed above them in the growing light and the clouds skidded across the sky. All around the Vikings were heading back to their ships, folding their tents on shore and splashing through the shallows, their arms full of whatever they had stolen—cooking pots and cheeses, calf skins and dried fish. Someone had even put a ramp down into the shallows from one of the ships and was leading the chief’s bull through the waves.

  The poor beast looked terrified and tried to bolt, till the man gave it a whack about the rear with the blunt of his sword.

  Hekja knew how the bull was feeling. Where had her life gone, the only life she’d known? Where were the villagers? Were they all dead, except the girls up on the great mountain and the witch?

  Hekja looked up the hill, but no smoke hovered up above the witch’s fire. Either she had the sense to put it out, or else they had killed her too.

  Men yelled. Two youths chattered in their strangely accented language, on the next ship. A man lumbered past. Hekja shrank back.

  It was the man Finnbogi, who had killed Hekja’s ma. He still had Ma’s blood on his shirt, but he didn’t even glance at Hekja as he passed. She was just one more piece of loot among the many.

  No one seemed concerned with her at all. They were busy setting sail, stacking goods and settling themselves comfortably against the bundles.

  Suddenly Hekja saw the woman Freydis who had captured her the night before. She was the only woman on board, standing amid ships and directing men to stow this here and stow that there. A tall, short-bearded man Hekja hadn’t seen before stood by her side, bellowing orders.

  Hekja looked on wide-eyed. What was happening? Where were they going now? To raid another village, or a monastery perhaps? Where did the Vikings live? But there was no one to ask.

  Finally the ships began to wallow out from the calm of the bay and plunged into the wild ocean waves. Hekja had lived her life by the sea, but this was the first time she had been on it. In her village, boats were for the men. Hekja stared at the distant shore as the village grew further and further away. But nothing moved there. The shore was still, except for the eagle circling above. Even the gulls seemed to have flown. Then suddenly she saw a figure striding out onto the cliff top above the waves, her cloak wrapped tight about her.

  It was the witch. As Hekja watched she lifted her arm and waved, a small woman growing smaller, and smaller still.

  One of the men yelled something and pointed. But they would not turn back for an old woman. They had got all that could be stolen from one poor village and had their sport. Now they wanted to be gone.

  ‘Arf?’ said Snarf softly. Hekja bit her lip. She would not let the Vikings hear her cry.

  How much had Tikka guessed, when she named a fat little puppy Riki Snarfari, thought Hekja. How far are we going to travel now?

  * * *

  9 These ships were of the kind known as knarr, or knorr, though that term may not have referred to a cargo ship until a century or so later; they were wider and deeper than a longship. Longships, or drekars, were longer and faster with oars all the way along each side, and were used for raiding along the coast of northern Europe; knarrs were used on long voyages across the Atlantic Ocean.

  Chapter 12

  UNDER SAIL

  The sky and sea swallowed the great mountain. Now there were only grey waves and the grey sky above.

  Finally Freydis strode across to Hekja. Even on the swaying ship her walk was confident, as though she had been born on one. She carried a dipper of fresh water and some dried fish dangled from her hand. She held the dipper up to Hekja’s mouth and let her drink deeply, and then she let Snarf drink as well.

  ‘Well?’ she demanded, staring down at Hekja. Even the Viking women, Hekja thought, were taller than a village man. ‘If I untie you, will you scream and jump overboard? It’s too far to swim to shore, you know, even if you can swim, which I doubt.’

  Hekja said nothing. Some of Freydis’ words were strange, so she was not sure what they meant.

  Freydis laughed. It seemed she liked laughing, though not everyone might like the things she chose to laugh at. ‘Hikki!’ she called. ‘Come here!’

  ‘Yes, mistress?’

  A young man, with dark hair and eyes the same colour as the villagers’, made his way uncertainly across the boat. His face looked slightly green from the motion of the ship. He was taller than any village man, even Bran, though he was not as tall as even the shortest of the Vikings.

  He glanced at Hekja curiously, then saw the dried fish in Freydis’ hands. He dashed to the side and vomited into the sea.

  Freydis laughed even louder. ‘Stop feeding the fish, Hikki!’ she shouted. ‘I ordered you to come over here!’

  The man wiped his mouth and staggered back. Freydis pointed to Hekja. ‘You’re from her land originally, are you not?’ she demanded.

  ‘Yes, mistress, though I have lived in Norway for many years.’

  ‘And now you no longer live in Norway. You are my brother’s thrall, on my ship, and you will do what I say. Untie her, explain things to her, get her to eat. Teach her our language.’

  Hikki stared. ‘She should understand you already, mistress!’

  Freydis shrugged. ‘These tiny villages on these islands only use half a dozen words. She probably doesn’t know a loom from a codfish. Tell her what she needs to know.’

  ‘That will take some time, mistress!’

  ‘Then the sooner you begin, the better,’ said Freydis without much interest. ‘Feed her too!’ She thrust the dried fish into Hikki’s unwilling hands then strode back to the front of the ship and sat staring at the sea, as though she could understand its waves.

  Hikki put the fish down and untied the rope from Hekja’s hands. The rope was wet and the knots hard to undo, but finally he managed it. Hekja gave a small groan as the blood flowed back into her hands and feet, then bit her lip. She wouldn’t give the Vikings the pleasure of hearing her pain. But none of them were listening; they were chattering to themselves, or pulling ropes about the sail.

  ‘Who are you?’ demanded Hekja softly, as Snarf sniffed the young man’s feet, rejected them, and took a fish to chew instead.

  ‘I am Hikki, runner for King Harald the Fair Hair,’10 said the young man proudly. ‘Now a gift to Leif Eriksson, the son of the great chief Erik the Red, the founder of Greenland. Leif brought many goods to trade with Norway, and Erik the Red sent his son to the king with gifts of walrus ivory and furs. The king gave me to Leif in return. I am the fastest runner in the whole of Norway. I took messages from one end of the land to the other.’

  ‘Norway? Greenland? What are these names?’ asked Hekja, bewildered.

  ‘They are countries, far from your village. Norway is where this ship has sailed from,’ said Hikki patiently. ‘Greenland is where we are going. It’s a new land, found only eighteen years ago. My master and your mistress have holdings there, near their father’s farm at Brattahlid. The Lady Freydis is your mistress now. She is my master’s sister.’

  ‘We are going to another land?’ Hekja had to force her voice to stay steady.

  Hikki nodded. ‘The Norsemen know how to sail far across the sea and find their way even when there is no land to guide them. From Stad in Norway it is sev
en days’ sailing to eastern Iceland, then four days’ sailing to Brattahlid in Greenland.’

  Hekja blinked. It was too much to understand.

  ‘We were sailing to Brattahlid but the storm blew us off course,’ Hikki continued. ‘The Vikings had to shelter in your bay, so my master says now we will sail well to the south of Iceland and, God willing,11 see land in eight days’ time.’

  Hekja shook her head. ‘Eight? Seven?’

  Hikki sighed. ‘They are numbers, for counting. You have a lot to learn.’ He held up his fingers. ‘You see—one, two, three, four, five. Ten are the fingers of two hands. But there are bigger numbers. Erik the Red took four hundred followers with him to Greenland. That is a larger number by far.’

  Hikki patted Hekja’s hand, till she drew it back. ‘I was as ignorant as you are when I was taken as a boy,’ he added.

  Hekja stared at him. ‘The Vikings captured you too?’

  Hikki nodded. ‘I am a slave, a thrall like you.’

  ‘A slave! Why didn’t you run away then,’ Hekja demanded, ‘when they landed at my village? You said you are the best runner in…in wherever it is!’

  Hikki looked superior. ‘And live among the rocks and hares? Greenland is an empty land, my master says. If I serve him well I will be freed and may claim land of my own,12 and have a proper farm, not a hut with a scraping of barley behind it. Even…’ he looked calculatingly at Hekja, ‘a wife.’

  Hekja ran her hands across Snarf’s ears. They at least were familiar and comforting. ‘So I am a slave,’ she said slowly. ‘What does a slave do?’

  ‘What her mistress tells her to do. What did you do back in your village?’

  Hekja shrugged. ‘I herded the cows, paddled the butter, made the cheese, dug the turfs…what everybody does.’