Viking Gold

by V. Campbell

  “Do you think we should listen?” Redknee asked.

  Sinead nodded and they went over to join them.

  Redknee spoke. “Please Sir,” he addressed his uncle, “can we listen too?”

  Sven’s eyes widened in surprise and for a moment, Redknee thought he was going to say no. But he nodded and motioned for them to join him on the furs.

  Sinead knelt beside Brother Alfred. He narrowed his strained eyes. “Please sit still,” he said, “and no fidgeting. I need my concentration.”

  Redknee sat beside Sinead and nodded.

  “Continue,” Sven said, “You were getting to the good bit, where Saint Brendan first sights the Promised Land.”

  “Yes, yes,” Brother Alfred said, and began reading again. “When Saint Brendan first saw the Promised Land his eyes lit with delight – for never before had he seen such a well-formed shore-line. Perfect for ships of all sizes to dock. And … and studded with well-formed bays, perfect for ships of all sizes to … to drop anchor and to protect them from the vagaries of the weather – storm, tempest, gale.”

  While Brother Alfred spoke, Sinead had been peering over his shoulder at the spidery black script. Brother Alfred stopped and glared up at her. “You’re putting me off,” he said. Sinead pursed her lips and sat back down properly.

  Brother Alfred frowned and began reading again. “Yes, and, er … when Saint Brendan, who was a strong Irishman, with flame red hair and arms as long as oars and legs as thick as oak trunks—”

  “I don’t remember that bit from before,” Sven cut in.

  “Well, that’s what it says,” the monk blustered.

  “And what about magic animals?” Sven asked. “Are there any?”

  Brother Alfred paused for a moment while he studied the text. “Yes,” he said. “It says further down here there are people who run well-organised farms, but they have the heads of … dogs.”

  Sven gasped. “Then it is true!” he said, his eyes brightening with excitement.

  Sinead had raised herself onto her heels again, trying to get a good look at the place on the page where Brother Alfred was pointing with his finger.

  “Show me,” she said. Brother Alfred looked startled. “Show me,” she repeated, “where it mentions dog-headed people.”

  “There,” Brother Alfred said pointing quickly to a knot of thick, spidery writing before slamming the book shut. “Really,” he said, rubbing his temple with his thumb and forefinger, “that is all I can do for today. The light is fading and reading takes it out of me. I’m not a young man.”

  Sven smiled and slapped Brother Alfred on the back. “Not to worry. You have done well. We shall do more tomorrow.”

  Sinead grabbed Redknee’s arm as Sven and Brother Alfred moved away. “I don’t think he was reading from the book,” she whispered.

  “What?”

  “Well, I tried to get a good look at the text, but I couldn’t see any of the things he was saying. I can’t be sure, but I think he was making it up.”

  “Why would he do that?” Redknee asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe he doesn’t want us to find the Promised Land and its treasure. Maybe he thinks it’s only for Christians, not heathen Northmen.”

  Redknee watched as Brother Alfred joked nervously with his uncle while his uncle locked the book safely inside his iron-riveted chest. Was she right? Was the little monk really leading them on a wild goose chase? If he was, he was taking a big risk with his life. Uncle Sven was the only person who would protect him against Matilda’s wrath. Redknee turned back to Sinead.

  “Well, there’s only one way to find out if he’s telling the truth. You’re going to have to get hold of that book and take a proper look at it.”

  Redknee watched Sinead saunter over to Brother Alfred while he ate his dinner and offer him a second helping of boiled whale-meat. Redknee could just hear what they were saying. She asked him which monastery he came from.

  Brother Alfred smiled as she spooned the dark meat into his bowl. “I come from Winchester in Sussex, my dear.”

  “Oh,” Sinead feigned interest. “I come from the great monastery of Rock Fells … in Ireland.”

  The little priest grinned. “I used to know the Abbot well. He kept pigeons.”

  Sinead rolled her eyes. “Hundreds of them. They made such a mess.”

  “And what did you do at the monastery?” he asked.

  “Various things: I worked in the kitchen garden, planting herbs, weeding. I also helped the apothecary make his medicines.”

  “Really my dear? What a responsible job. And how did you end up here, with these … these heathens?”

  “They came to Rock Fells this spring and took me, along with many others. Most of the others they sold, but Jarl Sven’s sister-in-law, Redknee’s mother, she took a liking to me. I’ve worked for her ever since. She was a good mistress – fair. But she was killed when Ragnar attacked our village.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. And I’m sorry to hear that you have not had the opportunity for Christian fellowship these last months past. Perhaps we can pray together?”

  Sinead nodded. “I would like that. I also enjoyed hearing you read from the Codex. I should like to listen to you again.”

  Brother Alfred grinned. “Why thank you. I’m delighted you are so interested. It’s a very special book – about one of your countrymen, if I’m not mistaken. A man of great faith.”

  “Yes,” Sinead said. “You know so much about it. Shall we pray now?”

  Redknee watched as they knelt together, clasped their hands and closed their eyes. He hoped Sinead chose her words carefully.

  There was one mouth onboard Wavedancer Olaf refused to feed. “We have few enough rations to last us,” he said, “without having to fill our enemy’s belly.”

  Redknee had deferred to his uncle.

  “Don’t look at me,” Sven had said. “Olaf is in charge of provisions. Toki is your captive. If you want him to eat, you’ll need to feed him from your own portion.”

  “Of course, we could just drop him over the side,” Olaf said.

  At this, Sven threw his hands up and said, “It’s up to you, Redknee. I’ve questioned him, he claims to know nothing of Ragnar’s plans. But he’s a big, strong man. Maybe you can sell him as a slave when we reach Iceland, though his teeth are black from too much mead.”

  Matilda turned out to be a beautiful singer. She knew all the old sea-faring ballads and sang long into the night about Siegfried and Orla. The men listened; awed such a lovely sound could come from such a foul-tempered woman. Even Thora, Koll’s wife, listened in silence, a rare occurrence for her.

  It was the afternoon of their third day at sea. Redknee watched as Sinead and Brother Alfred huddled beneath their cloaks, hands clasped together, eyes pressed shut. They looked strange, their pale lips moving in sync. Like sleep-talkers.

  “You look funny,” Redknee said, standing over them.

  “Be quiet,” Sinead said irritably. “He won’t hear us over your jabbering.”

  “Who won’t?”

  “Do you know nothing? God, of course.”

  “You’ve been sitting like that for ages. Are you sure He’s going to reply?”

  Brother Alfred opened his eyes. “It takes time,” he said. “Why don’t you sit with us?”

  Redknee hesitated. As part of her plan to get a good look at the Codex, Sinead had been spending a lot of time with Brother Alfred over the last three days. Of course, Sven had kept the book locked in his chest for that whole time, so the exercise had been pointless so far. But Sinead seemed to be enjoying herself – too much for Redknee’s liking. He was beginning to think she wanted to spend time with the strange little monk, doing her God-talking and generally acting strange.

  “No one is watching,” Brother Alfred said, seeming to read Redknee’s reluctance.

  Redknee slumped down on the deck beside Sinead. There was a great deal he could learn from the monk – after all, he was the only person ap
art from Sven who had seen the book properly.

  “You look like there is something you want to ask me,” Brother Alfred said.

  Redknee thought about the book – he had so many questions. Like what it said – if it mentioned anything about his father. It was a stupid thought, but it had occurred to him nonetheless. Then he remembered Sinead’s theory that Brother Alfred was a fraud and he bit his tongue. Instead, he asked about the God-talking.

  “The praying thing you were doing just there.” Brother Alfred nodded. “We saw some hermits living on top of a tiny rock off the coast of the Sheep Islands. Uncle Sven told me they do the God-talking all day long. Do you know if that’s true?”

  “Yes, it is. They are very spiritual men.”

  Redknee let out a long, low whistle.

  “You are surprised?” Brother Alfred asked.

  “Don’t they get bored – talking to themselves all day long?”

  “You liked to go up to the mountain on your own,” Sinead cut in. “Didn’t you ever get bored up there?”

  “It’s not the same thing. I was busy – hunting, looking for good bits of wood, that sort of thing. Even if I let my mind wander, my body was always at work.”

  Brother Alfred chuckled. “Perhaps we have found an ascetic in training.”

  “What did you call me?” Redknee asked.

  “Nothing … nothing. I just meant you could be like a hermit, going into the forest on your own.”

  Redknee wasn’t sure what to make of that, so he changed the subject.

  “Are you worried about landing in Iceland?” he asked.

  “Redknee!” Sinead said. “What a terrible thing to ask.”

  “No, child,” Brother Alfred said. “He’s quite right to ask.” The little monk turned to Redknee. “I am not afraid of going to the next world, if that is what you mean.”

  “But only great warriors have an honoured place with the gods.”

  “Those are your beliefs. But they are not mine. The way to heaven, the equivalent of your Valhalla, is not through fighting and killing, but through loving your fellow man and believing in Jesus, the son of God.” With these last words, Brother Alfred gazed skyward, as if this heaven place he spoke of was somehow located above, with the birds of the air.

  “That’s stupid. Isn’t it competitive to get a place? Just being loving is too easy.”

  Brother Alfred chuckled again, a habit that was beginning to annoy Redknee. “That’s where you are wrong, my child. It is the hardest thing, to love. Quite the hardest thing of all.”

  By the end of their fifth day at sea, Sven still hadn’t brought out the Codex for Brother Alfred to read again and it was driving Redknee crazy. All he could think about was the possible connection between the book and his father. He had to know what it said. So he confronted Sinead after their dinner of smoked fish.

  “This isn’t working,” he said. “I need to ask Uncle Sven if he knows the book once belonged to my father.”

  “No,” Sinead said, dragging him as far as she could from prying ears. “You mustn’t. Something is wrong. I don’t know why Sven hasn’t brought the Codex out for Brother Alfred to read again. Maybe he has his suspicions about the monk’s motives too. But you mustn’t ask Sven about the book’s connection with your father. He’ll know the information could only have come from me – I’m the only one Ragnar could have told.”

  “I don’t understand how Ragnar would know that.”

  Sinead shrugged. “Neither do I. But he did. And I don’t think anyone here knows about the history of the book, not even Olaf.”

  “Alright,” Redknee said. “If you won’t let me ask that, I’m going to tell him you can read.”

  “But Brother Alfred – that’s as good as killing him.”

  “You heard the silly monk. He’s accepted his fate – is even looking forward to going to heaven. If he didn’t start the fire, then he’s a fool to cover for whoever did. It’s not our problem. We need to know about the book. If what my mother said is to be believed, my father is out there somewhere. Alive. And I’ve a growing feeling he may need my help.”

  Chapter 11

  The following morning Redknee found his uncle going over the remaining food supplies with Olaf.

  “Ah, there you are, lad,” he said when he saw Redknee approaching. “It’ll be half rations from now on if we don’t reach Iceland soon.”

  “This trip has been madness from beginning to end,” Olaf grumbled behind him.

  “Thank you Olaf,” Sven said. “But I don’t remember anyone asking your opinion.”

  Olaf slunk away with a frown on his face, leaving Redknee alone with his uncle.

  “Please Sir,” Redknee said. “I need to talk to you about the Codex.” He so wanted to ask where his uncle first got the book – if he’d gotten it from his father. But he remembered his promise to Sinead.

  “Yes,” Sven said. “What do you want to say?”

  “Well, it’s just Sinead doesn’t think Brother Alfred is telling you the truth about what it says in the Codex.”

  “Really?” Sven looked intrigued. “And why does she think that?”

  “Because …” he glanced over to where Sinead was helping Thora and Matilda mend a tear in the sail. She frowned at him. Ignoring her, he turned back to face his uncle. “Because,” he went on, “because she can read.”

  “Land ahoy!” One of the Bjornsson twins shouted from up on the prow. Everyone ran forward, eager to sight Iceland. Redknee started to follow the others, but his uncle grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him back.

  “Not so fast,” he said. “Are you sure the girl can read?”

  Redknee nodded. “Well,” he said, less certain now. “I think she can. She said she used to help the monks in the apothecary with their medicines. They taught her so that she could read the formulas.”

  “It’s strange how she returned to us, don’t you think? I can’t help wondering if she’s a spy. But then, you’re good friends with the girl. You would know if she were a traitor.”

  Sven’s blue eyes seemed to pierce Redknee’s soul. If he was going to tell his uncle that it was Sinead who gave the Codex to Mord, then this was the time to do it, or forever be labelled an accomplice. His throat felt dry. But before he had the chance to speak, his uncle went on:

  “Well,” he said, shaking his head. “I do believe I’m becoming overly suspicious. Why would a slip of a lass like that want to double-cross us? And how would she even begin to do it? So yes, perhaps I will let her have a look at the book. Of course, this does mean one good thing.”

  “What’s that?” Redknee said, almost afraid to ask.

  “It means we no longer need that annoying little monk.”

  Redknee watched in amazement as the dark pip on the horizon ripened to a hot, angry orange. The fiery kernel the populace rather ironically called Iceland was at war with the gods. The belligerent rock puffed its cheeks and spat a brew of smoke and fire at the sky. As they drew closer, burning ash speckled their tunics; terrifyingly, these incendiaries appeared to be coming from the land up ahead. Sven ordered the sail lowered before it caught light. Silver whimpered. Redknee bundled the pup into his arms and brushed the hot flecks from his fur. The fiery air seared their faces, leaving them gasping, inhaling the sharp, unmistakable smell of sulphur.

  Brother Alfred’s hand trembled as he crossed himself. “We’ve been condemned to hell!” he whimpered, and began to pray.

  “Oh shut your trap!” Ivar said. “My daughter has told me of this fire mountain.” Then he grinned mischievously. “You’re not in hell little monk … not yet.”

  Ivar laughed at Brother Alfred’s terrified face. The little monk continued his praying in silence, but it didn’t escape Redknee’s notice that his book-shrivelled eyes kept darting towards the fiery peak of the mountain, as if a terrible dragon was about to soar forth at any moment and drag him, screaming, to the pits of hell.

  Reykjavik, big and messy, lumbered into view. More than t
hirty longhouses stood between the sea and the volcano, their inhabitants seemingly oblivious to the escalating fire show.

  They docked Wavedancer alongside an assortment of fishing boats and merchant vessels in Reykjavik’s busy port. Ivar and Matilda took Uncle Sven up to the town to find their daughter, leaving the rest of them at the docks under Olaf’s charge.

  A row of wooden pontoons stretched into the sea like fingers. Traders selling everything from juicy apples to cured meats and fresh fish crowded these narrow walkways plying their wares. But instead of shouting out their prices clearly, as the traders had done when Redknee visited the market town of Hedeby, here they coughed into scarves tied round their mouths as flakes of ash swirled in the air like grey snow. Redknee wasn’t sure he wanted to stay in Reykjavik. Not even for the night.

  “This place is bad,” Koll said, holding his hand over his mouth. “The air tastes like poison.”

  “We’ve been told to wait here,” Olaf said. “And that’s what we’ll do.” But even he glanced around uneasily as the smoke cloud creeping over the town seemed to thicken.

  Brother Alfred shuffled nervously, his leather-soled boots making a scuffling noise on the deck.

  “Not long now,” Harold said, sniggering as he drew his finger across his throat.

  Sinead glowered at Harold then laid her arm on the little monk’s shoulder, whispering something that seemed to calm him. Redknee turned his back on them; the Christian’s problems weren’t his. He hopped from the ship and motioned for Silver to join him in a walk along the black sand. He’d had enough of being cooped up.

  Ivar and Uncle Sven returned a short time later with a small group of armed men. The men were led by a young woman in a pale grey dress; a colour that Redknee fancifully imagined shimmered like ice. He knew from the way the fine silk hugged her graceful figure that she was rich. Years of work had not made her hunched and coarse, like most women. And yet, despite the easy life she’d led, and all the things she obviously had, including this reunion with her parents, her face seemed empty. Blank. The woman made a delicate sound in her throat, like a cough, and began to speak.