Viking Gold

by V. Campbell

  “She was injured.”

  Koll nodded and offered him a gull egg. Redknee shook his head, grabbing a chicken wing instead. As he ate, he noticed a white-haired woman slip into the hall. He recognised her as Brynhild the Old who lived in a mud hovel, a day’s walk from the village. It was unusual to see her at a feast.

  Beside him, Koll peeled the gull egg, swallowed it whole and washed it down with a long slug from his drinking horn. He grabbed a serving maid by the waist. “More mead, woman,” he said, burping and wiping his greasy face with his hand. The slave rolled her eyes and left. He turned to Redknee.

  “Bad business with that toad-licking coward. Would have liked to get my hands on his neck.”

  “You mean Ragnar?” Redknee asked.

  Koll nodded and mimed a throttling action, his fleshy upper-lip curling with intent. “But no matter, for we put Wavedancer into action tomorrow. And about time too – my hands are raw with popping rivets. By Thor’s hammer, the men could do with a bit of cheer.”

  No one had spoken to Redknee about setting sail. Had his uncle forgotten he was nearly of age?

  His face must have betrayed surprise, for Koll laughed. “You really are in a world of—”

  A dagger split the table beside Redknee’s hand. Harold pressed his face up to Redknee’s cheek. His breath stank.

  “Got your trunk packed for tomorrow?” he said.

  “I’ve … still got that to do,” Redknee stammered.

  “Mine is full of the best Frankish weapons.” He pulled his dagger from the table and waved it in front of Redknee’s nose. Redknee recognised it as the one he’d seen him sharpening the other day. It had a distinctive ivory handle carved with interwoven snakes.

  “My father bought it for me when we were in Kaupangen with Sven,” Harold said. “Layered steel – heated ’til it’s hotter than the sun then cooled in Saxon blood.”

  Redknee snorted. “Aye, pig’s blood, more like.”

  Harold flicked the blade against Redknee’s throat, anger flashing in his eyes. “What was that?”

  The sound of wood scraping against the floor echoed through the hall as Olaf rose to his feet. “My son,” Olaf boomed from Sven’s side at the top of the table. Everyone turned to watch. “Now is not the time. Save your energy for a worthy adversary.”

  Harold grudgingly slid his dagger into its scabbard.

  Olaf looked at Redknee. “I hope you will be on the beach tomorrow to wave us off.”

  “With the girls,” Harold sniggered under his breath.

  Redknee felt his cheeks redden and hung his head lest everyone should see. He would show Harold. Just give him time.

  “Now Olaf,” Uncle Sven also stood. “It’s not been decided we sail tomorrow.”

  The whole room watched Olaf’s face. As Sven’s right-hand-man, Olaf was usually the jarl’s strongest supporter.

  “But there’s been no rain for weeks,” Olaf said. “The lands are dry. If the harvest fails we will have to find food elsewhere.”

  A nod rippled through the hall.

  Uncle Sven made his way down the table, placing his hand on the shoulder of each man in turn. When he reached the end, he ruffled Redknee’s hair and turned to face the room. He spoke loudly so all could hear.

  “Olaf, you’re right to fear for the crops. But it’s too soon. Ragnar could still strike. And it’s not certain the harvest will fail. Why, there was a little rain only a couple of nights ago.”

  “Nothing but a miserable dribble!” Olaf said. “Besides, we need gold. When we were in Kaupangen last month, the price of grain was low. Even if our harvest is good, it won’t be enough. The abbey at Jarrow is rich in new coin from Rome. We should raid it now, before others hear of the consignment.”

  “And leave our women and children alone?” Sven asked.

  Magnus piped up from the back of the room, “They could come too.”

  “There isn’t space on Wavedancer for everybody,” Sven replied.

  Redknee saw his uncle’s fingers twitch round the hilt of his dagger, wary of the unprecedented challenge to his authority as jarl.

  All the boys longed to know whom, out of Olaf and Sven, would win in a fight. They didn’t call Olaf the Bear for nothing. Rumour had it he once killed a full-grown brown bear with only his hands. But while Sven was a celebrated warrior, he was an even greater tactician. He’d often used his fox-like cunning to outwit his enemies. The village boys loved to hear the story where he gained access to a walled Christian town while hidden in a coffin.

  “You want to go a-Viking,” Sven continued. “But the days of raiding are over for us Northmen. The soldiers of the White Christ are everywhere now. The abbeys and monasteries are not left unprotected as they once were. The King demands taxes from honest farmers. Things are not as they were when we were young. We must look to our future, to the future of our children.”

  “You’ve led many a raid before,” Olaf said. “Would you deny these men the chance to find riches?”

  A murmur went round the room. Redknee suspected the villagers were fed up with the hard toil of farmers – the idea of easy wealth appealed.

  Uncle Sven nodded. “In my younger days, no. But look how that ended.”

  “It’s not my fault,” Olaf lowered his voice. “Nor the fault of these good men, that you lost your brother fighting Ragnar. That was a long time ago. You … we all … must move on.”

  Olaf addressed the gathered men. “Who will sail with me on the morrow?”

  The sound of chewing stopped. Silver looked to Redknee, confused. Redknee pushed the pup back under the table.

  “There is no one willing to risk their life for your folly,” Sven said, turning back to take his seat at the head of the table.

  “I will come with you!” Everyone in the hall turned to see Karl the Woodcutter raise his axe in the air. Short and stout, like a boar, and with a quiet manner, he looked surprised at his own outburst.

  “I will come too!”

  “Aye!”

  A string of voices echoed Karl’s. Soon half the men were standing, excitement gleaming in their eyes at the promise of adventure.

  “So, we have some takers after all,” Olaf said.

  “You’re making a mistake,” Sven replied in a low voice. “Wavedancer was built for a greater purpose than stealing coin from helpless nuns.”

  Olaf laughed. “A great ship, for a great voyage. Is that it? Well, the Jarrow monastery is ripe for the plucking – but if you have proof of a better target, you should share it.”

  “I’ve only rumours to go on.”

  “We risk our lives for rumours now?”

  “You must trust me—”

  “Why, when your judgement at home is so flawed? If you think that boy of yours will lead us when you’re gone—”

  “You’re hasty in expecting the worst, dear friend. My body is strong and my heart will beat for many years yet. As for the boy, I wish only to say that my brother’s son is my son. And, with Odin’s guidance, I have raised him as my own. But fear not. Before a boy can voyage with me he must be master of the oar, the sword, and himself.”

  A murmur rose from the room. Many of the assembled feared they would only pass this test on a good day.

  “Too true,” Olaf said laughing. “As you say, the boy is not suited to being a Viking. By the gods, we have all seen that he cannot wield a sword. Why, my own pup took him for a fool but the other day.” He pointed to Harold, who grinned and nodded like a pampered cat.

  Redknee shrank behind Koll’s deerskin-covered shoulders. He wished Thor would strike a hole in the ground to swallow him.

  A growing murmur rose from the tables. One drunk shouted, “To Olaf the Bear and his son!” A few of the men drank to this toast.

  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 th
e 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.”