Viking Gold

by V. Campbell

  Chapter 3

  The low sun cast a cool, pink glow across the water. Redknee had slept fitfully on the hard bench. Someone had placed a wool blanket over his shoulders, but the chill had still seeped into his bones. The model of loyalty, Silver had huddled at his feet the whole night.

  “You’re learning where your food comes from,” he said, giving the pup a gentle nudge. They ambled down to the beach together. He needed to find his uncle. He’d decided he would just ask him about the book.

  Olaf’s men were already up and preparing Wavedancer for their raid on the Jarrow monastery. They had brought her back onto the beach. She held her new dragon figurehead high, like a haughty Arab stallion. Painted red with gold leaf, her figurehead gleamed, eager to meet the smooth mercury of the fjord.

  Twenty or so brightly coloured shields decorated the gunwale. Men busily loaded supplies – weapons, oars, dried food and furs. Each man had his own chest to sit on while he rowed. The chests contained their belongings and any plunder they were lucky enough to steal. Agreement as to each man’s share would have been reached last night. This would depend on prowess with a sword and fearlessness in front of the enemy. The more you fought, the larger your pot.

  Karl the Woodcutter shuffled across the deck, a rope coiled in his hand. He looped one end through the corner of the sail and tied the other to the gunwale. Even at sea, the big square sail could be raised or lowered in seconds. Coupled with the power of the oars, Wavedancer would be quick, easily able to skip over to Jarrow in two days. Maybe less.

  “Not tempted to join us?” Redknee looked up to see Karl laughing good-naturedly.

  “She’s a fine ship,” he continued. “Your uncle has done us proud. She’ll be a joy to sail.”

  Before he could answer, Olaf appeared carrying a bundle of oars. “Where’s your uncle?” he asked.

  Redknee squinted into the morning sun. “Don’t know,” he said.

  Olaf handed Karl the oars. “There’s six there,” he said. “Mind, I’ve counted them.”

  Karl nodded and disappeared to the other side of the deck.

  Olaf turned back to Redknee. “Still worried about Ragnar, boy? It’ll do you no good. Now take my lad, he doesn’t waste time thinking about things that might never happen. He just gets stuck in. That’s why he’s coming on this raid. I know I can trust him to focus. I won’t find him mooning about the woods with some silly slave girl.”

  Redknee stared into Olaf’s hard eyes. He’d never understood why Sven chose him as his right-hand-man. Was his uncle afraid of him? “Do you …” he asked, “do you have something to say to my uncle?”

  “Nah,” Olaf said, slapping Wavedancer’s hull with his hand. “We’ll bring this slippery fish back to him in a few days. See if he still wants to go on his adventure.”

  “Adventure?” Redknee asked.

  “You really don’t know?” Olaf said.

  Redknee shook his head.

  “Your uncle wants to take Wavedancer north to the ice sea.”

  “Why? Is it because of a book?”

  “A book?” Olaf said laughing. “You’ve been spending too much time alone. All that thin mountain air has fuddled your head. I’ve never heard your uncle talk about a book. No, I think he’s dreamt up the whole trip. But I say there’s no gold up there. Fat monasteries – that’s where we should be going. But why do you ask? Has he shown you a book?”

  “I need you now, Leif!”

  Redknee turned to see his mother hurrying down to the beach, her goatskin boots slipping on the wet pebbles.

  “Come on,” she called, puffing heavily.

  “Aye,” Olaf said, waving his hand. “Go help your mother with her chores.”

  His mother led him to her weaving hut at the far end of the village, behind the feast hall. It was dark inside and she lit a whale-oil lamp. The hut was little bigger than a rowing boat, and smelled of damp wool and pine kernels. The loom stood against the far wall. A length of drab brown fabric hung from the crossbeam, the warp threads held taut by hooped stone weights. Large baskets of raw wool crowded the earth floor. She picked a small bowl off the only table and held it out.

  “Take some,” she said. “You’ll need breakfast.”

  Redknee took a handful of the roasted pine kernels and stuffed them into his mouth. They’d always been his mother’s favourite. He remembered her teaching him to count with them when he was little more than a babe in arms. He held out a second handful for Silver.

  His mother smiled and turned towards the far wall. At first, he thought she was looking for something on the floor, then he realised she had opened a secret door beneath the loom. He peered over her shoulder and saw the door hid a shallow compartment hewn in the dirt.

  She pulled out a long, thin bundle of rags. “I didn’t want the men to find this,” she said. “And what man ever comes into the weaving hut?”

  Redknee smiled, for it was true.

  She unwrapped the parcel and Redknee gasped. A blade as long as a man’s leg and straight as an arrow, shone in the lamplight. The sword was the finest he’d ever seen. As he took it in his hands, heat surged along his arms and spread through his body. Every nerve tingled. He made a sweeping motion with the steel blade that seemed to split the air in two. Silver’s amber eyes followed its every move.

  “Was it my father’s?” he asked.

  His mother tilted her head to one side, studying him. “Your father used it for a while,” she said eventually. “But it belonged to my father – your grandfather.”

  Redknee inspected the workmanship more closely. A pattern of interlaced copper decorated hilt and pommel. He turned it in his hand. A shallow groove ran the length of the blade, the better to collect blood and aid withdrawal from spasmed muscles.

  “It’s yours to keep.”

  “Mine? But you’ve heard the men, I’m no fighter—”

  “You’re my only child. And, much as I wish it wasn’t true, I’ve a feeling you’re going to need it. But you must promise me you will never use it in vengeance.” Redknee nodded.

  “No,” she said. “You must say the words, for it will not be easy.”

  “Alright,” Redknee said, shrugging. “I’ll never use it for revenge. But what about Uncle Sven?”

  She folded her hands beneath her cloak. “What about him?”

  “He would have more use for it.”

  “My father didn’t want it to go to Sven.”

  Redknee digested this. From the stories he’d heard, he couldn’t understand anyone favouring his father over Uncle Sven. Strong and clever Uncle Sven who had taken Redknee under his wing as his own son and who led the village so ably. “Why?” Redknee asked. “Why did grandfather not want the sword to go to Sven?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, tensing. “But it belongs with you.” As she said these last words, her eyes darted towards the door.

  His mother knew more, but he nodded slowly, in a kind of understanding. She had kept the sword for him – she believed in him. That was enough. Perhaps his grandfather had too, though he didn’t remember the old man.

  He thought about pushing her again for answers about his father. But her pinched face warned him not to. He would bide his time – ask her again when the time was right. Eventually, he asked, “Does the sword have a name?”

  “If it does,” she said smiling, clearly more comfortable with this question, “I don’t know it.”

  Redknee held the sword aloft. Sunlight streamed through a crack in the door and reflected off the blade. “I shall call you Flame Weaver,” he said, “after this place where you have hidden, waiting for me.”

  Shouts came from outside the weaving hut. “Wait here,” Redknee said, pushing Silver into his mother’s arms as he sped through the door.

  Women and children were running for the longhouses, their faces pale with fear. Equally terrified men ran towards the approach road. He saw Magnus struggling into his leather breastplate and grabbed his arm. “What’s happening?”
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br />   “Ragnar is coming,” Magnus said, fumbling with a complex arrangement of straps. “Will you help me into this damn thing? My hands are shaking.”

  Redknee secured the tapes at Magnus’s waist.

  “How long?” he asked, glancing across the open ground separating the village from the forest. He got his answer before Magnus could reply.

  Hooves thudded against dry earth; the riders emerging from between the trees as one. They sat high on their mounts, driving them on, their hair and clothes streaming behind them, their heavy weapons clanking at their sides. Dust enveloped the pack like a shield wall as it crossed the open ground. Ragnar pulled to the front, the morning light sparkling on his pointed helmet and breastplate. He held a shield painted red and blue on one arm, and a spear in the other. And even as his grey stallion tore across the scrub, his eyes scanned the villagers like a greedy hawk.

  Redknee held his breath – if only one horse fell into the pits, their order would be broken. But Ragnar led his warriors along the curve of the road, and they charged into the centre of the village, beneath the oak, without casualty.

  Redknee counted twelve heads. Skoggcat was at the rear but his brother, Mord, was absent. Redknee caught the smug look on Skoggcat’s face. He had betrayed them after all.

  Ragnar halted his stallion in front of the feast hall. He stood high in his stirrups, the sun pouring across his face and Redknee saw the damage the bear had done. Angry furrows scoured his cheek from brow to chin. Redknee hoped Sinead had the sense to stay hidden.

  The villagers stood shoulder to shoulder, facing Ragnar’s men. None had had the chance to mount, and only Magnus had donned armour.

  Koll stood on Redknee’s left, a hungry grin on his broad face. “Fun at last!” he said and winked.

  Redknee shuddered in horror. He would rather be anywhere else. He felt Flame Weaver in his hand. His uncle would expect him to use it if things turned bad. Where was his uncle? He looked round. Sven was nowhere to be seen.

  Ragnar shouted, “Sven, Son of Kodran the Wolf, brother of Erik the Fearful, I call on you to show yourself.”

  The villagers waited silently to see what Sven would do. For a moment, Redknee thought his uncle had run off. Then he heard the familiar deep voice and the tension in his spine eased.

  “Who asks?” Sven boomed from the far side of the village. He stepped forward slowly, his battleaxe in his hand.

  Ragnar pulled his horse in tight. “Come, old friend. You know me.”

  “I knew a Ragnar Hrolfson once. I know not this so-called Overlord of the Northlands that stands before me.”

  “I must speak to you, Sven,” Ragnar said, his voice sweet as willow sap. “In private.”

  Sven strode up to Ragnar and looked him in the eye. “I’ve nothing to say to you.”

  “Come friend—”

  “We’re not friends. You killed my brother.”

  “A curious thing … such a shame he died of his wound – most unlucky.”

  Sven raised his axe to strike—

  “Come,” Ragnar said, raising his hand peaceably. “You know it was unavoidable … and very long ago. Now, will you spare a few moments for one who has travelled far to see you?”

  “As I said—”

  “I ride under King Hakon’s colours.” Ragnar pointed to the red and blue stripes on his shield. “It is on his authority that I seek you.”

  At this, Sven’s body seemed to slacken, and he sighed. “You have ten minutes,” he said. “Tell your men to dismount and hand over their swords.”

  Ragnar waved his arm to indicate his men should comply. Magnus darted forward to collect their weapons.

  Sven led Ragnar to his longhouse. “Come inside,” he said. “Grown men should not chatter in public like silly maids.” But when Ragnar’s men made to enter, Sven raised his arm to bar their way. “Just you,” he said to Ragnar. “Your men can take refreshment outside.”

  Ragnar froze in the doorway. “My men must accompany me. I’ve nothing to say which they can’t hear.”

  “Very well,” Sven said, and waved to Olaf, who had been watching from the beach. Despite their disagreement, Olaf ran forward with Karl the Woodcutter and two others. It seemed Olaf was still Sven’s right hand man.

  “These men will join me,” Sven said. “You may bring three of your men inside. The rest must wait here.”

  Ragnar nodded and the group entered the longhouse. The village breathed a sigh of relief as the door slammed behind them. Most went back to work, but some, including Koll and Magnus, stayed to watch the rest of Ragnar’s men. And Redknee too, stayed close, for he’d seen an uncharacteristic tremble in his uncle’s hand.

  Magnus wiped the sweat from his brow. “That was a close one,” he said.

  Koll laughed. “Thought you were going to faint. You might have a year or two on this little one,” he said, prodding Redknee in the shoulder, “but he stood fast, didn’t you, lad.”

  Redknee said nothing – he’d been shaking inside.

  “What’s happening?” a female voice asked.

  Redknee turned to see Sinead standing a little way off. He went over to her. “Did you see Ragnar’s face?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I was hiding.”

  “You’ve got to stay out of sight … if he sees you—”

  “But I want to know what’s happening.”

  Redknee watched as Ragnar’s men joined some of the villagers drinking mead on the beach. Koll and Magnus followed them, their weapons drawn and ready. Satisfied the men were well guarded, Redknee waited until they were settled, then whispered to Sinead, “Alright, I know how we can find out.”

  He led her into the grass at the back of the longhouse. “There’s a loose board here,” he said, crouching. “I used it to watch for Ragnar’s men before. When no one believed they were coming.”

  “I believed you,” she said, kneeling beside him.

  “You don’t count.”

  “Why not?”

  “You were there, you knew they were coming. Besides, you can’t fight.”

  “The men don’t think you can fight either,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “Guess that makes you no better than me.”

  “Shh, they might hear us. Besides, I have Flame Weaver now.” He pulled his sword from its scabbard.

  “Where did you get that?” she asked, quickly adding, “it doesn’t make you a warrior.”

  “Maybe not,” he said. “But you might be glad I have it one day.” He returned the sword to its scabbard and eased the board open. A longhorn stuck its nose through. “Away with you, stupid beast,” he said, pushing it back.

  They pushed their faces through the gap and stretched their necks until they could just see the men moving about the far end of the longhouse.

  Ragnar spoke first. “I must raise the, ahem … delicate … matter of an unpaid debt.”

  “I owe you nothing,” Sven replied.

  “Sit down, old friend, and hear me out.” Sven remained standing, but Ragnar continued anyway. “Now, if I remember rightly, your longship got to that monastery first—”

  “First?” Sven sniffed. “I didn’t know it was a race.”

  “Come, let’s not fight over old scores. You won, after all. But I hear you went back this spring – why?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Ah well, nothing, it seems, remains secret forever,” Ragnar said, a sadness in his voice. “But I would like to know why you returned.”

  “Slaves – it’s an easy target.”

  “Come now, you’re an experienced raider. You can get slaves anywhere. There must be more to it.”

  “What does all this have to do with King Hakon?” Sven asked. “We’re allowed to raid who we like, so long as it doesn’t affect him.”

  “He’s been baptised.”

  “So?”

  “The religion of the White Christ is … different. It frowns, unfortunately, on the raiding of abbeys and monasteries.”

/>   Sven snorted. “My heart bleeds—”

  “Yes, well. He believes the spoils from any religious institutions should go to a true Christian. This brings me to the, ahem, point of my visit. There are rumours you have … a book.”

  “A book?” Sven asked. “What interest does a book hold, compared to gold and silver?”

  “Funny question. This one tells of a land where the rocks are made of sapphire, the flowers of ruby, and every raindrop – a pearl! A land promised to the followers of the White Christ.”

  Sven laughed. “Pure fantasy.”

  Ragnar slammed his fist on the table, his tone suddenly changed. “You forget, Sven. I know what you did. And I want the plunder that’s rightfully mine. I want … the book.”

  The scrape of swords being drawn filled Redknee’s ears.

  Sinead’s eyes widened. “They’re going to fight!”

  “Shh,” he held a finger to his lips and listened. Silence. “Something’s wrong.”

  “What?”

  “Not sure.” He looked to the treeline. Where was Mord? The question had been gnawing at him since Ragnar arrived. “Listen.”

  “I don’t hear anything.”

  Silver bounded round the wall of the longhouse and began tugging at Redknee’s tunic. “I’m busy,” Redknee said, gently pushing him away. “Go back to my mother.”

  “He wants you to follow him,” Sinead said.

  Reluctantly, Redknee followed Silver to the front of the longhouse and stopped. Was he imagining things? No. It was faint, but unmistakeable: the sound of oars rowing across water. His eyes met Sinead’s as realisation dawned – Ragnar had been stalling.

  “Stay out of sight,” he said to Sinead as he raced down to the beach, waving his arms in the air and shouting “Attack! Attack!” as loud as his lungs could bear.

  A black warship crept from behind the headland. The villagers on the beach drew their weapons. But Ragnar’s men had hidden swords beneath their cloaks and were already bearing down on their stunned hosts.