by V. Campbell
“My name is Astrid Ivansdottr,” she said, her voice a curious mix of fragility and brittleness, like a highly polished shell. “My husband is Gunnar the Sailor, Jarl of Reykjavik. I’m sorry to hear your homes have been destroyed. But you’re welcome here; you’ll each be given quarters with one of our good families. I hope you will consider us friends.” She paused, fidgeting nervously with the tassels on her belt. She looked unused to directing a longship full of men.
Ivar nodded for her to continue.
“My husband is away,” she said, a shadow crossing her face. “I’m uncertain when he’ll return. In the meantime, please consider the resources of my household at your disposal. There will be a feast at my longhouse this evening to celebrate your safe arrival.”
A satisfied murmur went round the ship. Koll let out a belch and rubbed his stomach. The big warrior would sleep well tonight. There would be no such luck for Brother Alfred. Astrid’s men put the little monk into stocks and led him, stumbling, towards the town.
Sinead went over to Sven. “Excuse me, Sir,” she said. “What are they going to do with him?”
“They’re going to keep the fool locked up tonight, and try him tomorrow,” he said. “As luck would have it, there’s a meeting of their high court, the All-thing.”
“Please sir, I don’t think Brother Alfred caused the fire at Ivar’s farm.”
“Neither do I,” Sven replied. “But this isn’t my jurisdiction.”
“What about the Codex?”
“Ah, still thinking about your freedom, little one?”
Sinead blushed. “I only want to know who will decipher the book if we no longer have Brother Alfred.”
“You’re very keen to save his life.”
“I’m only thinking of the success of this voyage.”
“Then why haven’t you told me before that you can read? Eh?”
Sinead glared at Redknee, but he said nothing. What had she expected? The monk wasn’t his problem. He needed to know what the Codex said. She’d told him it’d once belonged to his father. Now the pages might hold the key to where his father was.
No, not might … they did hold the key. He felt it in his gut. Finding his father depended on it.
Redknee followed Astrid through the mud-soaked streets. He’d never seen so many people in one place before, hadn’t known there could be so many different faces. Stalls selling hundreds of goods lined the narrow streets, from soapstone bowls, to copper brooches, to thick bear furs the colour of snow, to great steel swords, to reams of linen and wool in every colour from the palest buttercup yellow to the deepest blood red. He stared openly, drinking in the sights, the smells. Everywhere, people jostled with each other, competing to find the best bargain. Redknee ran his hand across a display of seal-fur hats, luxuriating in their perfect softness. The stallkeeper glowered at him and he quickly shoved his hands into his pockets. He must look filthy after five nights at sea.
He ran to catch up with Astrid, who, used to the throng, had struck out ahead. A young swineherd slipped about in the mud, trying to drive his hairy black charges into their pen. But the pigs had minds of their own. Curses flew from the mouths of nearby stallholders as the pigs charged between them, threatening to overturn their wares. Redknee grabbed Silver by the scruff of thick fur at his collar and held him steady against the assault of greedy snouts.
Astrid stopped and stared back at Redknee, her blonde hair rippling in the breeze.
“I’ll only be a moment,” he shouted. He saw a piglet running towards him and deftly nipped out the way. Pleased with his dexterity, he grinned up at Astrid as a boar with huge tusks smashed into his calves, tossing him into the air.
Redknee thought he’d died; that the boar had pierced some vital artery in his leg. To be fair, wrestling with a pig was not the way he’d hoped to go. He doubted the Valkyries would let him enter Valhalla. Then he heard roars of belly laughter followed by a squelch as he landed in a pile of pig shit. Valhalla, he realised, would have to wait. Astrid’s lips curled into a wry smile.
Avoiding her gaze, he picked himself out of the mire and muttered to Silver. “Come on,” he said. “We must keep up with the lady.” His faithful companion, however, was keen to stay at a distance. This time the crowd cleared to let Redknee pass, and he could have imagined himself a great king, but for the sniggers and pinched noses.
A stone wall enclosed the yard to waist height. Redknee shivered in the wind. He was keen to change his stinking clothes. But all he could see leading off the yard was a door hewn into the hillside.
Astrid saw his puzzlement. “Covering our houses in grass keeps them warm in winter.” She smiled, but the warmth didn’t reach her eyes. “And there are no trees on Iceland with which to build proper roofs.”
He nodded as if he knew that already.
She paused in the doorway and pointed to Silver. “He stays outside.”
“Why?”
“Bleyõra doesn’t like dogs.”
“Who?”
“My cat.”
The longhouse was a strange mix of luxury and decay. The main room was large, but felt dark and underground, which, of course, it mostly was. Although fine tapestries hung from the roof, they were old and worn and did little to disguise the plain mud walls. A big pine bed strewn with thick furs, the ultimate in comfort, stood at the far end of the room, a white cat nestled between its folds. This, no doubt, was Bleyõra. Redknee eyed it with envy. After many nights at sea, such a bed would bring sweet dreams. But the room was dusty and cold, warmed only by the pitiful embers of a half-dead fire. Perhaps the absence of Astrid’s husband explained the air of neglect.
Astrid crossed the floor and pulled a fresh linen tunic and pair of wool breeches from a chest. Redknee took them tentatively, glancing round for a private place to change. There was nowhere.
“You’re not shy?” she asked.
Redknee blushed furiously. He was used to dressing in front of others. He just didn’t want Astrid to see him wipe pig shit from his body. That was all.
“There’s a curtain over here,” she said, lifting a tapestry from a dark corner to reveal a small alcove. It was tiny, but it would have to do. Replacing the curtain behind him, he shrugged off his stinking tunic and screwed it into a ball.
The curtain twitched. Astrid stood holding a bowl of steaming water. “I thought you might want this,” she said, smiling.
He took the bowl, and, aware of his nakedness, snapped the curtain back into place. He heard a giggle, and, a moment later, a hand snaked round holding a square of fresh linen. Redknee grabbed the cloth with a mumbled, “Thank you.” After he’d given himself a good wipe and a quick sniff just to be sure, he pulled on the fresh tunic and breeches.
When he came out, Astrid was lying on the bed, a wolf fur draped over her shoulders, her silk dress glimmering in the half-light. “Those clothes suit you,” she said.
“They do?” He examined the too long sleeves and the rolled up trouser legs.
“They were my husband’s,” she said, rolling onto her back and raising her arms above her head, so that the wolf fur slid from her shoulders. She stared up at him, blue eyes wide, lips slightly parted. He didn’t want to think about her husband, so he perched on the edge of the bed and tried to think of a change of subject.
Eventually he said, “I left my dirty clothes on the floor.” He knew he’d said the wrong thing as soon as the words left his mouth.
“Oh,” she said, her mouth puckering with distaste. “I’ll get one of the slaves to wash them.” She sat up then, and the moment was broken.
“Aren’t you worried about the volcano?” he asked.
“Oh … that! Mount Hekla is always blowing off. We don’t bother about it at all. The bile from her guts feeds our crops. Makes them grow strong. Frey treats our farmers well – gifting us the earth’s own gold. As long as we keep him happy, that is.”
“You’re lucky. In my experience, Frey is a fickle god, difficult to please. The crops were
dying in my village, yet Frey did nothing. We must have offended him, but we don’t know why.”
Astrid tilted her head thoughtfully. “Here, we are careful to always keep Frey …” she paused, seeking the right word, “… satisfied.”
The door opened and a blade of yellow light severed the gloom. Ivar and Matilda stomped in followed by Uncle Sven and Sinead.
Matilda went straight to the fire and started turning her meaty arms over the cinders like roasting hogs. “This is no good,” she scolded her daughter. “You must have a proper fire.”
Astrid rolled her eyes and turned away from her mother to where Ivar and Sven had settled themselves at the wooden table that ran the length of the room. “There is mead in that pitcher,” she said, pointing to a big jug sitting on the table.
“Thanks,” Ivar said, and began pouring. “Would you like some, darling?” he asked Matilda.
Matilda grunted.
“We’ll have food soon, dear,” Ivar said. “I know you’re starving.”
Redknee noticed Sinead hanging back in the doorway.
Astrid spotted her too and scowled. “What’s that slave doing here?” she demanded.
Sinead turned the colour of raw beetroot.
Redknee shifted awkwardly on the edge of the bed. Suddenly he didn’t want Sinead here, talking about the stupid monk, spoiling things for him.
“Oh, her?” he said carelessly. “She can sleep in the barn—”
Uncle Sven cut him off. “This is Sinead. Our house-slave. We take her everywhere.”
Astrid pursed her lips. “Well, it’s most irregular to have a slave sleeping in the jarl’s house. My husband will not be pleased.” She held out a basket of bread. “The slave will have to make herself useful. She can start by serving this.”
Sinead looked at Uncle Sven. He nodded and she scurried forward, head bowed, and proceeded to offer the basket round the small group. As she passed Matilda, Redknee saw the older woman stick a fat ankle under Sinead’s feet. She stumbled, jarring her knee. Ashamed, he avoided Sinead’s eye when she served him.
“We won’t impose on your hospitality for long,” Uncle Sven said, biting down on a chunk of black bread. “We’ll be away in a couple of days.”
“Where are you going?” Astrid asked. “Your son told me you offended Frey.”
Sven flushed. “My nephew,” he corrected.
Redknee blushed too. He supposed he did have the same colouring as his uncle. It wasn’t a difficult mistake to make.
“You are right about one thing, Astrid,” Sven continued. “We must have offended Frey because the rains didn’t come this spring and the wheat turned to dust before mid-summer.” Sven went on to explain about Ragnar’s attack and the promises made in the Codex. “So,” he said finally, “we’re going to find Saint Brendan’s treasure, and, we hope, a new place to live.”
“How exciting,” Astrid said. “My husband is on a voyage of discovery too. He’s gone to a beautiful island to the west called Greenland. Have you heard of it?”
Sven shook his head.
“Crystal waterfalls feed valleys overflowing with golden corn, and animals so fat they can’t walk. The sun bathes the fields in honey and the rain falls soft as a baby’s feet. It’s a renowned paradise.” Astrid’s face glowed with excitement as she described Greenland.
The description bore some resemblance to the descriptions of the Promised Land in the Codex. But Redknee decided to stay silent.
Matilda stirred beside the fire. “Enough of that crazy talk, daughter. Your husband’s not coming back.”
Astrid jumped to her feet, spilling her food on the floor. “That’s a lie!” she said, tears pricking her eyes. “Gunnar is coming back for me. And he’s going to make me Queen of Greenland.” With this, Astrid turned and ran out of the house.
Redknee jumped to his feet, ready to go after her.
“I wouldn’t do that, lad.” Ivar said. “Our daughter’s always been a bit weepy. She’ll be back soon enough.”
Redknee hovered, unsure what to do. Uncle Sven motioned for him to sit down. Reluctantly, he sank back onto the bed, watching dumbly as Sinead picked the spilled food off the floor.
“We’ll execute Brother Alfred tomorrow,” Matilda said, picking seeds from her teeth. “By blood eagle, I should think.”
Everyone nodded; everyone except Sinead who had become absolutely still.
Blood eagle was the most horrific method of death known.
Chapter 12
Astrid returned that afternoon in a better mood. “I want to go to the hot springs,” she said to Redknee. “They’re just outside Reykjavik. Won’t you come with me? Be my protector?”
Uncertain, Redknee looked to his uncle.
“Don’t look at me, lad.” he said. “I’ll be spending the afternoon buying supplies and making repairs to Wavedancer. The pup can keep me company. I don’t need you here.”
The road to the hot springs wound round the side of the volcano. Ash peppered the sky. Redknee tied his scarf over his face to block out the stench of sulphur. The soil here was black. His old nag nearly unseated him each time she stopped to chew on the stunted shrubs that clung to the desolate slopes.
“Give her a good kick the next time she does that,” Astrid grinned down at him from her sleek grey mare.
Redknee grunted. They rode on in silence. Why had she chosen him to accompany her? Couldn’t be for protection. There were plenty of bigger, stronger men. Besides, she had her own guards. Why not bring one of them? He opened his mouth to ask, when Astrid turned her horse into the yard of a neat looking longhouse and dismounted.
“I thought we were going to the hot springs,” Redknee said.
Astrid smiled. “We are. But I wanted to bring you here first.”
Redknee glanced round. Several horses were tied to a bridle post, their masters obviously inside. “What is this place?”
“It’s a tavern.”
His uncle had warned him about taverns. He hadn’t been allowed inside the taverns the time they went to Hedeby. “Dens of liars and pickpockets,” Uncle Sven had said. Then he’d left Redknee outside while he went in to complete his business.
“What’s wrong?” Astrid asked. “Never been inside a tavern before?”
“Of course I have,” Redknee mumbled.
Warm air, carrying with it the smell of good ale, roast meat and sweaty bodies greeted them as they entered the tavern. “Let’s find a table,” Astrid called above the noise. They pushed past several groups of men before they found a small table at the back of the room. Redknee noticed more than one set of eyes turning to stare. Apart from the serving maids, Astrid was the only woman.
“Is this a good idea?” Redknee asked in a low voice. “I mean, is it safe for —”
“Oh, don’t be such an old goose. I’ve been here before. Most of these men know who I am.”
Redknee relaxed. He didn’t fancy fighting off any of these brutes. A girl with straggly hair and broken teeth came over.
Astrid put a coin on the table. “Two ales, wench. And be quick about it.”
The girl put the coin in her pocket without saying anything and left. She returned a few moments later with two wooden tankards filled to the brim, handing Astrid’s to her carefully, and plonking Redknee’s on the table.
Redknee took a careful sip. He hadn’t had ale before.
“How does it taste?” Astrid asked.
“Good – sweet.”
Astrid’s ale sat untouched in front of her.
“Aren’t you drinking yours?” he asked.
“Later, I have to find someone first.” Astrid stood and waved to a small boy sitting near them on the floor. The boy hurried over. He was barefoot and dressed in rags. Astrid whispered something in his ear. The boy looked doubtful. “There’s a coin in it for you,” she said, loud enough for Redknee to hear.
The boy nodded and scurried away.
“What was that about?” Redknee asked.
“He’s g
oing to find the man I’m looking for.”
“You don’t know him?” Redknee asked, surprised. “We’re meeting a stranger?”
“Not exactly, it’s someone I used to know. But before we meet him … before you meet him, I need to know I can trust you. So can I? Trust you, that is.”
Redknee stared into his tankard. “I suppose you can. Though it depends what you mean. I won’t have to do anything, will I?”
Astrid laughed. “So gallant!”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“No,” Astrid said. “You won’t have to do anything. But I think you’ll be interested – really interested in what Ulfsson has to say.”
The small boy returned and held his hand out for the coin.
“Where is he?” Astrid asked.
The boy jabbed a dirty finger over his shoulder. Behind him, in the shadows cast by the whale oil lamps, was the outline of a tall, thin man with long dark hair. Astrid gave the boy the coin and shooed him away.
The man stepped into the light. Although he was tall and well built, his face was hollow and his skin hung loose on his bones. He looked haunted.
“Please,” Astrid said, pushing her ale across the table. “Sit down. Drink.” There was a spare stool at their table and the man took it. Astrid continued. “This is Redknee,” she said. “He’s a friend of mine. He can be trusted.”
The man nodded, but his eyes kept darting round the room, as if afraid others might be listening.
Astrid went on. “I want you to tell him what you told me. I want you to tell him why my husband might still be alive, and why it’s worth my while looking for him.”
Redknee stood. “You don’t need to tell me this. I believe you. It’s your mother who needs convincing.”
“Sit down,” Astrid said. “You’re being a fool. This will interest you. I promise.” Reluctantly, he did as she asked.
