Viking Gold

by V. Campbell

  Skoggcat stood a short distance away. Redknee eyed him warily. Sweat glistened on his painted skin. Up close, he was even stranger than Redknee had first thought. Naked, save for a pair of wool breeches and an amber necklace; black stripes criss-crossed his chest and arms.

  “They make me strong … like a big cat,” Skoggcat said, following Redknee’s gaze. “I got them in the east … where they have cats the size of cows.”

  Redknee nodded. He wanted to be on his way – to warn the village of the impending attack. It didn’t pay to talk to the enemy – he didn’t want to know someone he might have to kill later.

  “Is Ragnar your father?” Sinead asked.

  Skoggcat nodded.

  “Did the bear get him?”

  “I … don’t know … I was stalking you …”

  “Come on,” Redknee said, scowling at Sinead. “We should go.”

  “Wait!” Skoggcat called after them. “My father is coming to your village to find a book. He says it has more value than anyone knows. Maybe if you give him the book, he won’t destroy your village.”

  “Thank you,” Sinead called over her shoulder.

  “What are you doing?” Redknee asked. “We’ve done enough damage. And he’s probably feeding us lies.”

  As Redknee hurried home, people, little more than specks in the distance, were already outside feeding chickens and starting for the fields. Redknee’s stomach did a somersault. When it came to it, Harold the Thin had been right. He was a coward. He hadn’t believed Skoggcat’s promises, yet he’d been too weak to let him die.

  Now Ragnar was coming, and it was all his fault.

  Chapter 2

  Redknee burst into the longhouse as Uncle Sven spooned great lumps of broth into his mouth.

  “We have to get ready!” He shouted, running past his startled mother and pulling his uncle’s bowl away. “We’re going to be attacked at first light!”

  “What’s this?” Uncle Sven said, snatching his breakfast back. “Where have you been all night? Your mother was worried sick.”

  The longhouse was empty apart from his mother and uncle. The big fire in the centre of the room crackled with newly chopped wood. His mother stood at her iron pot. She put down her ladle, wiped her hands on her linen apron and bustled over. The scent of fresh rosemary filled his nostrils as she enfolded him in her arms. “I was so worried,” she said, raining kisses on his forehead. “I thought I’d lost you, just like—”

  “Quit your clucking, woman.” Uncle Sven stood. “You fuss too much over that boy. He’s nearly a man. A night in the woods will have done him good.” He slapped Redknee on the back so hard he almost fell. “Well then?” He looked at Redknee. “What do you say?”

  “Sir, we need to—”

  “Your night in the woods. Do you good? Toughen you up?”

  “Er, yes Sir. But—”

  Uncle Sven turned to Redknee’s mother who was filling another bowl from her pot. “See. Best thing for him.”

  His mother rolled her eyes. “Oh yes - what doesn’t kill him makes him stronger,” she said wryly, handing Redknee the bowl of steaming porridge.

  He inhaled deeply then remembered Sinead. He turned to see her hovering in the open doorway. He held out his bowl.

  “What’s this?” Uncle Sven’s eyes narrowed. “The Irish slave girl!” He laughed. “I would never have—”

  “Sinead.” Redknee’s mother spoke quickly. “You’re late for your duties. Take your porridge in the milking shed.”

  Blushing, Sinead took the bowl Redknee offered and retreated hurriedly.

  Redknee turned to his uncle. “Sir,” he said, more forcefully this time. “When I was in the forest, I came across Ragnar and his men. I overheard him say he was planning to attack us at first light. He intends to steal Wavedancer.”

  Uncle Sven pushed aside his empty bowl. His grey eyes took on a faraway look and Redknee wondered if he was remembering something from long ago. Eventually he asked, “How do you know it was Ragnar?”

  “I heard the men talking.”

  “I see. How many men did he have?”

  “About fifteen, Sir. All mounted and armed.”

  Uncle Sven paced the room, his hands clasped behind his back. “And how do you know Ragnar means to attack us, and not some other village?”

  “I heard him mention you by name, Sir …” Redknee’s voice trailed off as his mother busied herself with pots and pans.

  Uncle Sven ceased pacing. “Spit it out boy. What else did he say?”

  “He said he wanted to … to run you through, Sir, as he did my father.”

  The clatter of pots falling to the earth floor filled the room. Redknee’s mother gripped a big cooking pan to her chest like a shield. “Oh Sven,” she said, her face tensed with fear, “it’s not happening again, is it?”

  “Mind yourself, woman.” Sven leant on the table and his long hair fell across his face, hiding his expression.

  Redknee hadn’t known his father, but he’d often wondered if he had looked like this man. Six and a half feet of tightly thatched muscle, with wide grey eyes carved in a face the colour of sandstone. Redknee reckoned most of the villagers would do anything for Sven. They would stand their ground and defend the village to the death, if that was what Sven asked of them. Redknee wondered if his father had mustered the same respect when he was jarl.

  Sven straightened to his full height and turned to Redknee. “Did Ragnar mention anything else at all? Think Redknee, did he talk about hidden treasure?”

  “Er … other than wanting to steal Wavedancer?”

  Sven nodded.

  Redknee remembered Skoggcat’s words about the book. He should probably mention that, no matter how crazy it sounded. “Erm … I think he also said something about a book. But I’ve never seen a book in the—”

  Sven slammed his hand on the table. “Damn it, Redknee!”

  “Sorry,” he said, hanging his head. “Does that mean he really is coming to … to kill you?”

  “I thought I’d seen the last of Ragnar sixteen years ago,” Sven said quietly. “I should have killed him when I had the chance.” He took his battleaxe from an iron hook on the wall, slung it over his shoulder and crossed to the doorway. He paused, his hand on the oak frame. “It seems I’ve failed.”

  Uncle Sven stood beneath the village oak and bellowed orders. Everywhere Redknee looked, people were readying for the attack, their faces pinched with fear, their hands shaking. Two boys scurried past laden with scythes, axes and lumps of wood. Makeshift weapons.

  Gudrid the Healer and Thora, the Smithy’s wife, women Redknee knew as his mother’s friends, were gathering rocks and piling them inside the door of the feast hall. Their faces shone with the effort and sweat darkened their coarse brown dresses.

  Redknee recalled the fine tempered swords Ragnar and his men had carried and his heart sank. There were only five seasoned warriors in the village. The rest of the free men were just farmers, used only to the occasional summer raid. There were the slaves, too, of course. Wends from the Rhineland and Celts from Ireland. In total Redknee estimated there were maybe twelve male slaves. But they couldn’t be trusted. And Uncle Sven would never give them weapons.

  Add to this the fact that Koll the Smithy had spent the spring helping build Wavedancer instead of making new weapons or fixing the old ones. True, the village would have the advantage of numbers – it boasted the thirty free men needed to sail a longship. But everyone knew that, even under Uncle Sven’s direction, farmers and part-time raiders, even ones strong and willing to defend their homes, were no match for Ragnar’s warriors.

  At the edge of the village, just short of the treeline, a group of men were digging knee-deep pits. Redknee watched as they filled them with wooden spikes and covered them with grass – a trap that would lame a horse or snap a man’s leg like a twig.

  Something soft pressed between Redknee’s shins. He patted the pup on the head. “Hey, Silver,” he said. The pup nuzzled his
hand and he knew the name Sinead chose fit. “There’s going to be a fight here this morning. I’ll need you to help me defend the village.”

  Silver blinked and rubbed his cheek against Redknee’s boot. “I’ll take that as—”

  The scrape of iron on granite made him look up. Harold the Thin sat on a big stone sharpening his dagger, his hard blue eyes trained on Redknee. Harold uncoiled and swaggered over. “Where’d you get him?” he asked, pointing at Silver with his dagger.

  “The forest,” Redknee said, pushing Silver behind him.

  One of the younger boys came over too. “That’s a wolf pup,” he said, eyes widening in his round face. “Did you take it from its mother? Did you kill her?”

  “Maybe.” Redknee shrugged, his eyes focussed on Harold’s dagger.

  Harold sneered. “You didn’t kill a wolf.”

  “Its mother’s dead,” Redknee said, challenging Harold to disagree.

  Harold beckoned the pup over. “Let me see him.”

  Silver squashed between Redknee’s legs and began licking Harold’s fingers.

  The younger boy laughed. “He’s friendly,” he said, and tried to pat Silver himself.

  Harold pushed the younger boy away, grabbed Silver by the neck and squeezed. Silver whimpered and his big paws went floppy.

  “Stop that!”

  “Make me,” Harold said, grinning.

  Redknee shoved Harold to the ground and grabbed Silver. The pup looked at Redknee with confusion in his amber eyes. He was too trusting by far.

  Harold scrambled to his feet. “I’m watching you,” he said. “And your stupid mutt.”

  The muscles in Redknee’s right hand clenched into a ball of anger. He knew he had to show Harold or the teasing would never end. But he couldn’t start a fight here, now …

  The younger boy hurtled down to the shore, to where the men were pulling a sheet over Wavedancer’s bow. “Redknee killed a wolf! Redknee killed a wolf!” He shouted, over and over, as he tore along the sand. Redknee cringed at the false credit.

  “Stop fighting!”

  Redknee turned to see Uncle Sven bearing down on them.

  “We’ll see how you fare in a real battle,” Harold said. He tucked his dagger into his boot and scuttled off towards his father, who was overseeing the digging of the pits.

  Redknee looked up to see Uncle Sven looming over him. “What am I going to do with you?” He folded his arms across his chest. “You warn me Ragnar is making an imminent attack, then I find you mucking around. Why aren’t you helping with the defences?”

  “I, er …”

  “Look at Harold. He’s helping Olaf prepare the ditches.”

  “I was—”

  “You were just doing nothing, as usual. Go help Magnus ready Wavedancer.”

  Redknee trudged down to the beach, Silver trailing at his heels. He didn’t notice Sinead walking towards him, a basket of arrows balanced on her hip, until she was right beside him.

  “How’s your arm?” she asked.

  Redknee moved his elbow to show he could still use it. “Not as bad as I thought. Gudrid gave me a paste. It stinks of mustard, but it seems to be working.”

  She nodded then asked, “What did Harold want?”

  She must have seen his telling off. “Nothing,” he replied, ashamed.

  Sinead looked doubtful. “I think you’d better watch your back during the attack.”

  Redknee glanced over to the pits. Harold was knee deep in mud, his skinny frame taut as he drove his spade into the earth.

  “Don’t worry,” Redknee said. “I’ll be ready for him. Besides, this is all my fault.”

  “With Harold?”

  “No – Ragnar. If I … if we, hadn’t helped Skoggcat, none of this would be happening.”

  She shielded her eyes from the rising sun. “You saved a life. No one can criticise you for that.”

  Redknee shook his head. “Look, you won’t tell anyone about it … will you?”

  “Who would I tell?”

  He studied her for a moment, her face half-hidden by her hand, inscrutable. In truth, Ragnar would have found the village by himself eventually. Redknee nodded, dismissing her.

  Redknee hurried down to the beach where he found Magnus pushing Wavedancer into the fjord. He already had a few slaves helping him. “We taking her out?” Redknee asked.

  “We’ll leave her just past the headland,” Magnus said. “It’ll keep her safe from attack. Will you follow me in a rowboat?”

  Redknee took one of the rowboats and followed Magnus to the centre of the fjord. Only a couple of years older than Redknee, Magnus already had the unblinking gaze of a steersman. He guided Wavedancer expertly to the calmest part of the fjord and dropped anchor. Redknee brought his rowboat portside and waited while Magnus unhooked the sail.

  As he waited, he ran his hand along the overlapping strakes of Wavedancer’s hull. Sixteen on each side – one for each summer since his birth. It was only a coincidence, but he fancied it linked them. Her keel was made from an oak as tall as twelve men. It was the longest he’d seen. Tonight was to have been her launch ceremony. They had been saving their food for weeks. He doubted it, but maybe the village would be as proud of him one day.

  “Come on, dreamer.”

  Redknee jumped as Magnus chucked the rolled up sail into the rowboat and leapt in after it. The slaves followed, their arms filled with oars. Once they were back on the beach, they dragged all the rowboats into the shallows and filled them with rocks. Better to scuttle them than let Ragnar destroy them.

  They waited. Each man, woman and child prepared as best they could. Some hid, praying to Odin that hiding places would not become graves. Hunched and tensed, their hands clutching a jumble of farm tools, rusty axes and wooden clubs. Only a few lucky men owned swords.

  As the sun marched across the sky, Uncle Sven kept his lookout through a flap in the side of his longhouse, his eyes scanning for the smallest movement in the trees, his muscles ever twitching.

  Redknee watched as he ran a finger along the blade of his battleaxe. If Redknee didn’t know him better, he would have thought his uncle was looking forward to settling the score with Ragnar once and for all.

  By nightfall, Redknee’s muscles ached. He’d been crouching at the far end of his uncle’s longhouse all day. Huddled between the old women and the cows, he couldn’t decide whether the stink came from the shaggy-coated longhorns or the old crone whose papery skin hopped with lice. He stretched his left leg and sighed with the relief, then repeated the exercise with the right one. The old crone flashed him a toothless smile. He quickly returned to peering through a crack in the wall.

  He could see across the open ground to the mantraps and treeline beyond, his eyes trained on the dark spaces between the bushes. But nothing, nothing at all, had moved in the forest and he was beginning to doubt he’d heard Ragnar correctly. Then he remembered Skoggcat’s words of warning and he knew, deep in his bones, the attack was coming.

  People began moving about the main part of the longhouse. Redknee heard Harold’s father, Olaf the Bear, challenge Uncle Sven.

  “Come on Sven,” Olaf said. “The boy was wrong. Ragnar isn’t coming. Not tonight, not ever.”

  Redknee got to his feet and let himself through the wattle gate that separated the animal pens from the living quarters. The room was full of angry freemen. Redknee quickly realised they were fed up waiting for an attack none believed would come.

  “Ah, Redknee,” Uncle Sven said. “You finished guarding those heifers?”

  The men laughed.

  “What a pong!” Harold gripped his nose between his thumb and forefinger and made a face.

  Redknee ignored the taunts and faced Olaf. The big man carried one of the few swords in the village. “I know what I heard,” Redknee said. “Ragnar is going to attack.”

  Olaf stroked his pale beard thoughtfully. He possessed the same hard blue eyes as his son. “Why are you so sure?”

  Everyone wa
s staring at Redknee now. “As I said . . .” His voice trembled, but he squared his shoulders and spoke up. “I know what I heard.”

  “But Ragnar doesn’t know this part of the coast,” Olaf said. “He’d need to be lucky to find us.”

  Redknee pushed the image of Skoggcat running into the woods to the back of his mind. He opened his mouth, a lie already formed, but Uncle Sven cut in.

  “Come on, Olaf, Ragnar is no fool. If he looks, he’ll find us.”

  “Maybe, but doesn’t the boy have a vested interest in all this?”

  “How so?” Sven asked.

  “His father’s death.”

  “That was a long time ago.” Sven cast an awkward glance at Redknee. “Come, Olaf, we mustn’t talk about such things in front of him.” Sven clapped his palm on Olaf’s shoulder and directed him towards the door.

  Grudgingly, the villagers returned to their lookout posts. They were learning that waiting was hard.

  As a second peaceful night gave way to a new day, Olaf continued to argue Ragnar wasn’t coming. There was no need, he said, for the whole village to stay on alert. Eventually Sven agreed.

  The village buzzed with relief as people crawled from their hiding places. Olaf said the launch ceremony for Wavedancer should go ahead that night. The villagers cheered – their spirits needed lifting. Sven approved the feast but quietly placed six extra men on guard duty.

  From the way they scowled at him as he made his way to the feast hall, Redknee assumed most of the villagers thought he’d made the whole story up. Inside, the longhouse heaved with big, sweaty bodies. It seemed everyone in the village was there. Uncle Sven sat at the top of a rectangular table loaded with plates of boar, venison and hare. The men tore pieces of meat with their teeth; tossing the bones to the floor. The women moved about the table, bringing more food; filling the men’s drinking-horns with mead.

  Redknee sat at the bottom of the table, beside Koll the Smithy. Silver sniffed Koll’s boots then curled up at Redknee’s feet and closed his eyes. Koll smiled at the pup and slipped him a slice of ham. “Hear you killed this one’s mother, he said.