by V. Campbell
Ulfsson spoke quietly. “It began two years ago. Astrid’s husband here, Jarl Gunnar – we called him Gunnar the Sailor – heard tales of a land far to the west where there was treasure to be had, and easy living. He got a couple of ships together and enough men to sail them; promised us all great riches if we found this place. Greenland, he called it.”
Redknee sat up. This bore a close resemblance to the stories in the Codex. “Did you?” he asked, excitement in his voice. “Did you find this Greenland?”
Ulfsson slumped in his seat. “We found no land matching that description. We did find a vast island, rich in soil and rain, but populated by fearless warriors who can vanish and re-appear at will.”
Redknee let out a snort.
“What?” Ulfsson asked. “You doubt me?”
“Vanish and re-appear at will,” Redknee said incredulously. “You expect us to believe you?”
Ulfsson shrugged and continued. “We left Reykjavik on a fine spring morning with two ships and more than seventy men. Fighting men. Of those seventy, only myself and Jarl Gunnar remain.”
“Really? And how is that?” Redknee asked.
“I was lucky. I caught a fever. The others left me to die. But I recovered and made my escape on one of our abandoned longships.”
“And what of Jarl Gunnar?” Redknee asked.
“That’s easy,” Ulfsson said. “He went native.”
The men at the next table had stopped playing their game of dice. One of them stood and came over. He put his hand on Astrid’s shoulder. “That husband of yours not coming back?” he asked.
Astrid frowned and tried to remove his hand, but he just tightened his grip and leaned in so that his wine-stained lips nearly touched hers. Astrid tried to twist her head away, but he only leaned in further. Ulfsson chose this moment to taste his ale. A moment later, he was on his feet, yellow liquid shooting from his mouth, spraying the leery stranger in the face.
“By Odin’s eye,” Ulfsson shouted. “That’s not ale – it’s piss!”
The stranger wiped the foul-smelling liquid from his face, drew back his fist and punched Ulfsson square on the nose. Ulfsson staggered back into a table of drunken sailors. The biggest of them leapt to his feet and took a swing at Astrid’s suitor. A moment later men from two other tables joined in. Soon the whole bar had erupted. Astrid and Redknee stood with their backs to the wall as stools and tables flew about in front of them. There was no way they could make it through the mêlée to the door without being floored, or killed.
Redknee felt a sharp tug on the hem of his tunic. He looked down to see the small boy who had found Ulfsson. The boy motioned for them to follow him. He led them out through a back door. When they reached the front of the longhouse, the fighting had spilled outside. Ulfsson lay on the ground, his head split open. Redknee stared at his body in horror. He might have been a deluded liar, but there was so much Redknee had wanted to ask him.
“We’re here,” Astrid said, sliding off her horse and looping its reins over a jagged black rock.
Redknee blinked. He’d never seen anything like it before. Steam rose in great white clouds from a lake of the palest milky blue.
“Come on,” Astrid said, slipping her tabard over her head. “Don’t tell me you can’t swim.”
Redknee dismounted and kicked off his boots. The sharp rocks cut into his feet.
Astrid was already at the water’s edge wearing only her under-dress. “Turn round,” she said.
“What?” Redknee asked, confused.
“You can’t expect me to disrobe with you watching.”
Redknee blushed and turned his back. How long should he give her? He bit his lip. If he turned round too soon …
“Alright,” Astrid shouted.
He spun round. She was submerged up to her neck. Her pale hair dark with water. Disappointment coursed through him. He rebuked himself. What had he expected?
“Aren’t you coming in?” Astrid’s voice interrupted his thoughts.
He quickly shrugged off his tunic and threw it over a rock. But when he reached down to untie his breeches, he froze, suddenly unsure what to do. Should he keep them on? He glanced up at Astrid. She was swimming further into the lake, her back to the shore.
Damn. It was his decision.
Leaving his breeches on, he hopped over the sharp rocks and submerged himself slowly beneath the warm waters. Every muscle in his body relaxed. Astrid had been right; this was a truly wonderful place.
She had swum almost to the centre of the small lake and he started to swim after her. She was treading water when he reached her.
“You decided to join me after all,” she said.
“Why are we here?” he asked.
She raised an eyebrow.
“I’m being serious. Why did you bring me to meet Ulfsson? What does your husband’s voyage, and the ramblings of a mad man, have to do with me?”
She dipped her head below the surface and rose with water spouting from her mouth. “Kiss me,” she said.
She was playing games. It felt dangerous.
Good dangerous, or bad dangerous? He didn’t know. She looked up at him with her clear, blue eyes and, before he could change his mind, he was leaning forward.
Astrid giggled. “Follow me,” she said, turning and diving beneath the surface.
Taking a deep breath, he plunged after her, kicking as hard as he could. Astrid’s dark shape snaked through the milky waters. Eventually she surfaced, and Redknee followed, his lungs gasping for air. She laughed, water streaming down her face. “You swim well,” she said.
He looked round nervously. She’d led him out deeper still. Past a small island made of the brittle black stone that seemed to cover Iceland. “What do you want?” he asked.
She circled him slowly, her skin glistening in the strange light. “Why do you think I want anything in particular?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I don’t, I just thought …”
“I’m going to tell you a story,” she said, winding her hair into a knot on top of her head. Myriad droplets streamed across her neck and shoulders. He looked away. “Do I displease you?” she asked.
He shook his head. His tongue felt weak, like soggy bread. He doubted his ability to speak.
“I needed you to hear Ulfsson’s tale so you didn’t think me mad. It’s a shame he was killed in that brawl. He could have been useful to us.” She tilted her head thoughtfully to one side. “No matter, we shall do without him - back to my story. Not long after I was married to Gunnar, a ship arrived here in Reykjavik, carrying a band of Norse warriors much like yourself. They came seeking a great treasure. A treasure said to be worth more than all the gold in Byzantium. They knew this treasure existed because, they said, it was spoken of in a famous book – a book written by monks. They also had a scribe with them, a hermit monk, I think. He’d studied this book well. He said it spoke of the treasure being hidden in a vast land to the west. He called it the Promised Land.
“Naturally, my husband’s interest was aroused. He asked if he could join them on their quest. They said any strong, honest man was welcome to throw his lot in with theirs. He sailed with them on midsummer, taking two ships and more than seventy of our best men with him. That was two years ago.”
Redknee listened to her tale in silence. The book she spoke of had to be the Codex Hibernia. But was it too much of a coincidence?
“You look pale, like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“These men, these Norse warriors that came to Reykjavik; was one of them called Erik Kodranson? Their leader perhaps?”
Astrid shook her head. “I don’t remember that name. But there were quite a number of them. Why do you ask?”
“I think,” Redknee said, his voice growing hoarse. “I think one of them was my father.”
Chapter 13
“They say my husband is dead. But I don’t believe it,” Astrid said. “I will help you find your father if you will help me find my husband.”
�
��How can I do that?” Redknee asked.
“I want to go west with you. Will you take me?”
“I’m afraid it’s not up to me. You would have to ask my uncle. He isn’t keen on having women on the ship.”
“Pah! My mother went with you – and there’s that slave girl. And the coarse one, the wife of your blacksmith.”
“Thora,” Redknee provided.
“If you say so, come on.” Astrid said, smiling again. “It’ll be fun. We’d be a team. And who knows, we might even find this treasure for ourselves!”
“I’ll ask my uncle,” Redknee said. “But I can’t promise—”
“Oh, by Thor’s hammer, I’ve seen the way your uncle treats you. Like a son. He’ll grant you this request. Now, come on, I’ll race you to the shore.”
As Redknee followed her retreating figure, he wondered just what, exactly, he had promised to do.
Astrid laid on a magnificent feast for them in her longhouse that night. Having had his fill of meat and preposterous stories, Redknee had escaped outside with Silver. He was planning which direction to take his walk: along the beach or into the town, when Sinead caught up with him.
“You disappeared this afternoon,” she said. Her cheeks were flushed, and her auburn curls were escaping from beneath her linen cap.
“I was with Astrid.”
“Oh, right.”
“Why do you ask?”
“I wanted to speak to you about Brother Alfred. I can’t believe they’re going to execute him by blood eagle,” she said, her voice shaking.
Redknee had never seen anyone actually killed this way. But he knew the method. First, they opened the victim’s back and cut the ribs away from the spine with a sharp sword, fanning them out so they resembled the blood-stained wings of an eagle. Then they fished out the lungs and placed them on the victim’s chest for the birds to eat while the still conscious victim watched in horror. It usually took several hours for the man to die.
It was a torture of last resort – reserved for those guilty of the worst crimes. It surprised him they were going to use this most heinous of devices for Brother Alfred. The fire hadn’t even killed anyone.
“It’s harsh. But it’s not my problem,” Redknee said. “Aren’t they giving him the benefit of a trial at the All-thing tomorrow?”
“Matilda is baying for his blood. Do you really think he’ll get a fair hearing?”
“I don’t know Sinead? What’s fair? Was it fair that you helped Mord slaughter my village?”
She blanched. “You know I gave Mord the book to stop the killing.”
“I’ve been thinking. How did you know where the Codex was hidden?”
“I looked for it – like I said I would. Found it hidden beneath the old loom in the weaving hut. Most likely your uncle, being a man, didn’t know the women used that space to keep spare scraps of fabric. There are lots of things us women know that pass you men-folk by.”
A group of drunken men spilled out of the longhouse. Olaf, Magnus and the Bjornsson twins were among them. They disappeared between the buildings, returning moments later with a mangy chestnut stallion.
“They’re too drunk to ride,” Sinead said.
Redknee shrugged. “If they want to break their necks, I’m not going to stop them.”
The drunks formed a circle.
“You’d better stand back!” Magnus shouted cheerily. “That is, if you value your skulls in one piece.”
Redknee and Sinead moved away as Olaf led the stallion into the ring. Scars criss-crossed its mud-spattered coat. Seeing the small crowd, the horse snorted, drew back its lips and sunk its teeth into Olaf’s hand.
“By Odin’s eye!” he cursed, smashing his fist into the soft, pink tip of its nose. The horse staggered, its hooves skidding in the mud. It took a couple of juddery steps to regain its balance. But as soon as it did, Olaf dragged it back to the middle of the circle. Olaf’s blow had angered the creature; rage glittered in its eyes as it pawed the ground.
“What’s happening?” Sinead asked.
“Don’t know,” Redknee said as one of Astrid’s men led a grey stallion, a hand or so smaller, towards the chestnut. “I think they’re going to make the horses fight.”
The grey’s eyes shone with fear as it whinnied and tried to back away. But its handler dragged it by its mane until it cowered before the big chestnut. The crowd had swollen to more than forty. Voices clamoured for attention as one of Astrid’s men took bets.
“Talking about the book,” Redknee shouted above the noise. “Have you been able to get a look at it? See if what Brother Alfred said about the Promised Land is true?”
Sinead shook her head. “Your uncle has kept it locked away on Wavedancer, guarded by the Bjornsson twins. I don’t know how I’m supposed to get a look at it when you’re flouncing about with that snooty cow. I need your help.”
“I’m sure my uncle will ask you to read from the Codex soon. Besides,” Redknee said, pulling Sinead to one side so they were standing on the fringes of the crowd, “I was making good use of my time. I found out valuable information from Astrid. Two years ago a ship of Northmen came here searching for the Promised Land. They even spoke of a book. Astrid’s husband left with them.”
“So?” Sinead said. “We know Ragnar wants this treasure, why not others?”
“Because I think one of those men could have been my father.”
A weary sort of sympathy flashed across Sinead’s face.
“Oh Redknee,” she sighed. At that same moment, a hush came over the crowd. All bets had been placed. Harold rushed out, made a line in the mud with his dagger, and retreated. A whip cracked through the air and both horses reared, their powerful front legs clattering together mid-air.
Sinead looked away. “I can’t watch this.” She turned to go then paused, laying a hand on Redknee’s sleeve. “I know you want to believe your father is still alive,” she said softly. “And I know I fed that desire when I told you Ragnar spoke of a connection between your father and the book – that he’d owned it at some point. I regret that now. It was just idle talk. Even if there was some link, your father is dead, Redknee. He’s been dead to you for years.” Then she disappeared into the crowd, taking Silver with her.
Redknee stayed a few moments longer. Perhaps Sinead was right. Certainly, if his father was alive, he’d abandoned his mother to raise a baby on her own, hardly the act of a hero. He pushed the thought from his mind. That he would find his father had been his mother’s dying wish. A wish he would honour.
He watched as the chestnut snapped at the grey’s ears; blood spurted across the smaller horse’s flanks onto the ground. The crowd roared. Harold was at the front, urging the chestnut on, his face delirious with pleasure. Redknee sensed something different about Harold.
The cross in the mud. What a clean cut his dagger had made. That ivory handle was Harold’s pride and joy, he was always cleaning it. But now, it looked dirty, black. The dagger. That was it!
He turned and pushed through the crowd after Sinead. She had been right about Brother Alfred’s innocence after all.
“Redknee!” He heard someone call his name.
He looked round to see Ivar waving to him from the door of the longhouse. Damn. He had to find Sinead quick.
“Come here, lad,” Ivar shouted. “I’ve something for you.”
Redknee sighed and crossed the yard. Sinead and Brother Alfred would have to wait. Ivar beckoned him inside the longhouse, which was eerily quiet with all the men outside watching the horse fight.
“Remember I told you that your mother lived with us for a few months before you were born?”
Redknee nodded.
“Well, she was a very skilled craftswoman. She made many beautiful gifts for us.” Ivar had crossed the room and was looking inside a big linen chest. He brought out a yellowed square of cloth and held it to the light. “I think this is it,” he said squinting. “Yes, superb workmanship.” He looked up at Redknee. “Come here lad, an
d see for yourself.”
Redknee went over to him and took the cloth. True enough, the embroidery was exquisite. A border of white snowdrops encircled a rather self-satisfied looking unicorn. Above the unicorn were five ivy leaves picked out in gold thread. It looked exactly like the page from the Codex that had so beguiled Redknee just days before.
He couldn’t believe it. His brain struggled to digest its import. After a long moment, he glanced up at Ivar who looked pleased with himself, and a bit drunk.
“This embroidery,” Redknee said, his voice shaking with incredulity. “It was made by my mother before I was born?”
Ivar nodded. “She finished it while she was, you know, expecting you.”
Redknee stared at the cloth again. It was fine, soft linen, perfect for covering a small table, or adorning the cradle of a newborn. If his mother had sewn this design, it meant she must have seen the Codex – been familiar with the image of the unicorn. And if she’d spent the time embroidering this image, there must have been a reason. It must have been important to her.
However he looked at it, this scrap of cloth was proof of his family’s connection to the Codex. And it began before he was born.
“Thanks,” he said to Ivar. “This means more to me than you can know.”
He turned and ran from the longhouse. Sven claimed the Codex had been given to him only last month, by an old merchant in Kaupangen. Claimed that it was the first time he’d seen it. Redknee now knew he had lied.But why? He had to find his uncle and make him speak the truth.
He found Sinead at a jewellery stall. Some of the local merchants, sensing an opportunity, had brought their wares out for the visitors. Sinead picked a soapstone cross and tied it round her neck.
“The green complements your eyes,” the stallholder said.
Redknee came upon her quickly and he saw a flash of embarrassment on her face.
“Have you seen my uncle?” he asked. “I must speak to him.”
Sinead hurriedly untied the pendant. “No,” she said. “I was just going to visit Brother Alfred. Will you come with me?”
