Viking Gold

by V. Campbell

  “Perhaps – but go on.”

  “'The youth continued: “Just as this land appears to you ripe with fruit, so it shall remain always, without any shadow of night. For its light is Christ.’”

  Redknee stared at Sinead in silence; was this why King Hakon thought his leprosy would be cured? If even half of what she said was true, it was worth sailing a little further west to find this place. He was about to ask how they found the White Pine once they landed, when—

  “Come on you two lovebirds!” Redknee looked up to see Koll standing in the doorway. His beard glistened with wine and meat fat.

  “You’re about to miss the best part of the feast – a whole reindeer cooked in plum juice!”

  Redknee edged away from Sinead slightly. “We’ll be right with you.” Satisfied, Koll stumbled off in the direction of the main hall.

  Sinead closed the book and put it inside the chest Thorvald said they could use to store their valuables. Redknee could have sworn he saw a smile playing on her lips, but when she turned back to him, her face was serious, all hint of humour gone. “Have you thought any more about what your uncle said before he … before he died?” she asked gently.

  “No. I’ve been trying not to.”

  “Don’t you want to know who your real father is?”

  “Yes … of course. But without my mother … it’s impossible.”

  Chapter 22

  “We can’t hide down here forever,” said Koll, spooning clumps of steaming porridge into his mouth. They’d risen late after the feast and were taking breakfast in the main hall.

  “I’m worried about Olaf and Harold,” Sinead said, handing round a basket of rye bread. “And Toki, where is he? No one has seen him since the night in the hut.”

  Redknee took a chunk of bread from Sinead and used it to clean his bowl. They were both right. They’d hidden in this troglodyte maze for two days. For all they knew, Ragnar had found Wavedancer and destroyed her, killing Olaf and Harold into the bargain, and maybe Toki too.

  “I’ll go and find them,” Magnus said.

  Redknee had been watching the young tiller-man since Sinead mentioned the herring he’d given Thora on the day of the poisoning. Was that why he volunteered now? To make his escape? Or worse, meet with Ragnar and tell him of their hide-out.

  “Someone else should go with you,” Redknee said.

  Egil stood, already fastening the straps on his helmet. “I will,” he said. “This place makes me restless.”

  Astrid lowered her drinking horn. “Be careful,” she said. “And remember to ask after my husband.”

  A shadow flickered across Egil’s face and Redknee suddenly understood the nature of the man’s loyalty.

  “We’ll give you until the morning,” Redknee said. “If you’re not back by then, we’ll come and find you.”

  Magnus and Egil exited the tunnels through the well in the village. Gisela told them there were four entrances: the trap door in the fort, a cave on the beach, the well in the village and a hidden door that led to a riverbank. She’d shown them the village, although Redknee thought the term ‘village’ rather grand for a settlement of two small longhouses and a few bare fields. As far as he could gather, about twenty people lived above ground in the ‘village’ with a further fifteen or so sheltering in the tunnels. Thorvald, it seemed, was no more a king than Uncle Sven had been.

  Redknee spent a restless day with Olvir, helping Koll make repairs to their kit. Between them, they had a handful of daggers, a few swords and axes and one bow. Hardly the arsenal of an army. He still rued Flame Weaver’s loss. The sword he had now was old and poorly made; the tang and blade ill-fitted. Determined to enhance this paltry collection, and aware they may have to face Ragnar soon, Redknee went in search of Thorvald. As he passed their chamber, he noticed the door ajar and overheard Gisela talking to Sinead.

  “You have such beautiful red hair,” said Gisela in a sweet, singsong voice.

  “It’s very messy,” Sinead replied, trying to flatten the flyaway strands with her palms.

  “Nonsense,” said Gisela. “Sit on the bed and let me decorate it for you.” Gisela held a length of gold ribbon up to the torchlight.

  Sinead gasped. “It’s gorgeous. I’ve never worn anything so delicate.”

  “A trader brought it to us, all the way from a land call Persia. If you sit still, I’ll thread it through your hair.”

  Redknee watched in silence as Gisela first brushed Sinead’s hair with an antler comb and then, very carefully, began to weave the golden thread through her russet curls, starting at her crown and working round to the nape of her neck.

  “Why don’t you read to me as I work?” Gisela asked.

  “From the Codex?”

  Gisela nodded.

  “I don’t know …”

  “What harm can it do? I just want to hear you using your magic. And later … I’ll show you some of mine.”

  “Oh, all right.” Sinead fetched the book from the chest and opened it at a page containing a picture of a huge pine tree with silvery-blue needles.

  Redknee listened as Sinead read a passage that talked of the riches to be found in the Promised Land. She was reading in Latin, but every so often, she stopped and translated into Norse. He should have been angry with her for telling Gisela, but, as he listened to her soft voice dance over the words, somehow he didn’t mind. It was funny, he’d always thought of her voice as whiny. Maybe he was just used to hearing the complaints of a slave.

  “You shouldn’t listen at doorways – you never know what you’ll hear.”

  Redknee spun round to find Thorvald smiling up at him.

  “I … I was just coming to find you.”

  “I can see that.”

  “We need weapons, and tools to fix our ship.”

  “Why are you here, Redknee?”

  “I … I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Come with me,” he said. “I want to show you something.” Thorvald led Redknee through the tunnels until they came to a cave. Rock crystals hung from the high, arched roof in green stalagtites, dripping brackish water to the floor. “Careful,” Thorvald said, weaving his way between puddles, “it’s slippery.”

  “You seem to know your way,” Redknee said, following in Thorvald’s footsteps.

  Thorvald stopped at the cave mouth. “This is where I come to watch.”

  Sand, black as ashes, led from the cave to a calm, grey sea. But above, streaks of emerald, cerulean, crimson, danced high in the sky, swirling amongst a mist of deepest violet. He turned to Thorvald but the boy had a faraway look on his strange eyes.

  “Do you never go outside?” Redknee asked eventually.

  Thorvald shook his head. “I can’t; if I do, I will die. But I like to come here and sit. Especially now, at the end of the day, when the world looks peaceful and comfortable with itself and I can see the magic lights.”

  Redknee stayed silent, listening to the rhythm of the waves and the occasional cry of a gull overhead. When the sky deepened to the colour of a ripe plum and he could barely see his own hand in the gloom, he decided he’d indulged Thorvald long enough and stood to go back inside.

  “Wait,” Thorvald said. His voice sounded hollow.

  Redknee paused. It was getting cold.

  “What’s it like out there?” Thorvald asked.

  “You’ve never been outside?”

  “Not since I was a babe.”

  “The other night, in the fort, I saw—”

  “I creep around the entrance sometimes.”

  Redknee nodded. How did you describe the whole wide world in one sentence? “It’s big,” was all he managed.

  Thorvald laughed. “That’s hard for me to imagine.”

  “What, exactly, do you want to know about?” he asked, sitting back down.

  “Start with your village.”

  It felt like a knife in his gut. He didn’t want to talk about the dead, about his mother. That time was past. They were heading for
a new world now. After a pause he said, “My village burned.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Tell me about something good, then. Tell me about … tell me about the women.”

  Redknee smiled. “You’ve high hopes if you think they’re all good …”

  He spoke for a long time, the words tumbling into the growing darkness. He told of his mountain, how it teemed with rabbits and deer, and wild flowers so plentiful that in spring you couldn’t see the forest floor for a sea of bluebells. He talked of helping to build Wavedancer; of the team of men needed to make something so complex; about Koll’s speed with the rivets; Karl’s dexterity with the adze and his uncle’s ability to find the longest, straightest oak in the forest for the keel.

  “She sounds like a fine ship,” Thorvald said, “I should like to see her one day.”

  Redknee nodded and went on. He told Thorvald about the women; about a girl who wanted more than anything to be free and about another girl who seemed to revel in her cage. But most of all, he talked about the land beyond the sea, about his uncle’s dreams of a new world and of his own nascent dream, of a place to live where he would be free from the shadows of his past.

  “Thank you,” Thorvald said when Redknee ran out of words. “You’ve given me a glimpse of life beyond my mud prison.”

  “If it’s the sun that wounds you, why not go out at night?”

  Thorvald shifted uncomfortably. “It’s Gisela,” he said.

  “How so?”

  “She says it’s too dangerous – I could get caught in the open when the sun comes up – and there I would be – one roast piggy!”

  Thorvald laughed at his own joke. “But,” he whispered, “I did go for a walk along the beach once. I never told Gisela.”

  “Why do you heed Gisela? You’re the king.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Try me.”

  “It’s hard being king. Making decisions. Tough decisions. My subjects don’t respect me. I see it in their eyes. And Gisela is always there with her counsel. And her advice is sound.”

  Redknee spoke in a gentle voice. “Perhaps it’s because you defer to Gisela so often that people doubt your strength.”

  “But is it not a sign of greater strength to be able to consider the opinions of others, to weigh them up, and to come to the best conclusion?”

  “Yes. If that’s what you do.”

  “Gisela has been good to me. She was my nurse when I was a babe – my mother died giving me life. Gisela has always looked after me, fed me, clothed me … gave me counsel when my father died. And it was Gisela who first noticed how my skin blistered in the sun. It was only my second summer, and the air was unusually warm, so I am told.” Thorvald went silent and stared out at the darkness. After a long moment, he picked up his thread. “And I’ve been living under ground, in these tunnels, this tomb, ever since.”

  “So it was Gisela who first brought you down here?”

  Thorvald nodded.

  “Let’s go out, let’s go out now, and explore. I’ll show you Wavedancer.”

  “I don’t know …”

  “Come on.”

  “But I’m afraid.” He hung his head for a moment, thinking. When he looked up, Redknee saw a new determination on his face.

  “I didn’t tell you the whole truth before, when you arrived. Gisela stopped me. One of you asked, I think it was the girl, Astrid, whether we had had visitors before—”

  The sound of footsteps on the cave floor startled Thorvald. Redknee turned to see Gisela picking her way round the puddles.

  “What are you two talking about?” she asked, reaching them and folding her arms across her chest. Two men-at-arms followed behind her.

  “Nothing … just sailing.” Thorvald blushed as he stumbled over the words.

  Gisela placed her hands on her hips in a vaguely threatening gesture. “Thorvald, you’re needed in the great hall. Bera Helgadottir is complaining about her neighbour – the one who keeps stealing her eggs. You need to make a decision on the matter.”

  “What’s happened?” Thorvald asked.

  “Bera’s son killed one of the neighbour’s sheep practising with his bow. Says it was an accident.”

  “Was it?” Thorvald asked.

  Gisela shrugged. “As far as I’m aware. But the neighbour says she’s due compensation, and a few eggs are the least of it.”

  “It seems clear—”

  “The neighbour is also refusing to let us sink a tunnel behind her longhouse. We need that tunnel to strengthen our defences.”

  “Can she do that? Refuse to allow us to sink the shaft, I mean?”

  “She says she was given the land by her grandfather – one of the first settlers on the island. She says she needs the land to grow turnips for winter. But you’re the King. You can take the land – as a punishment for stealing Bera’s eggs.”

  Thorvald rose to his feet. He moved like an old man, not like a boy of thirteen summers.

  Gisela went on. “If you’re unsure as to the right outcome, I can cast the runes.”

  “Yes,” Thorvald said. “That would help me.”

  As Redknee expected, when Gisela cast the runes, the decision was clear. Bera’s neighbour must sacrifice her land for the tunnel. It was obvious who really ruled here. As Bera’s neighbour was led away screaming, Bera hung back, a look of uncertainty on her face. When the screams subsided into the softness of the earth walls, Bera approached the throne again.

  “Please, Sir,” she said, bowing low. “What is to be my compensation for the stolen eggs?”

  Thorvald began to speak, but Gisela strode across the dais until she was between him and Bera. “Compensation?” Gisela said, her lips curling like those of a she-wolf readying for attack. “You want compensation for a few dozen eggs after your son killed that poor woman’s sheep?”

  Bera cowered in fear.

  “You’re lucky I don’t have you flogged for insolence, and your son strung up for recklessness. Now, get out of my sight, and don’t trouble the king with your petty squabbles again.” Gisela had raised herself up to her full height and towered over the peasant woman like some monstrous Valkyrie.

  Bera nodded and scurried out the great hall. Sinead entered in her wake. “What was that about?” She mouthed to Redknee.

  He just shook his head and motioned for her to come stand beside him. Gisela remained on the dais.

  “I think,” she said, turning to Thorvald, “that was a good morning’s work.”

  Thorvald nodded glumly.

  Gisela scooped up the rune stones from the bone tray she had cast them into earlier. Each stone was roughly the size of Redknee’s thumb and contained one letter of futhark etched on its smooth side.

  “My magic is strong today,” she said, pointing to Redknee from the dais. “You,” she said. “Traveller boy. Step forward.”

  Redknee looked about him to ensure she really was pointing to him. There were about twenty other people in the room; other than Thorvald’s men-at-arms, there were a few peasants, Brother Alfred, Sinead and, he noticed from the corner of his eye that Astrid had also slid through the door.

  “Yes,” Gisela said again. “I mean you, Redknee, or should I say, Jarl of Kaupangen?”

  No one had yet referred to him by his official title. If he even had an official title. Yes, a Jarldom was inherited, but it also had to be earned. Besides, he no longer knew who his father was. Redknee was as far from being Jarl of Kaupangen as Sinead was from being the Queen of Sheba.

  A finger prodded his side. It was Sinead. “Go,” she said. “You’ve no choice.”

  He stepped forward. “Really, there’s no point casting the runes for me. I’ve already had them read.”

  “Silence,” Gisela said, raising her palm to face him. She took a small jewelled dagger from her belt and slowly drew it from the base of her forefinger to her wrist. A ribbon of scarlet blossomed across the whiteness of her palm. She squeezed her hand until several drops of blood had splashed
into the bone tray holding the rune stones. She closed her eyes and stirred the tray with her finger, coating the stones in her blood.

  “You’ve recently suffered a great loss,” she said. “Two losses, in fact.” Her eyes flashed open. “You’ve lost two people close to you.”

  Redknee nodded slowly. Everyone knew this.

  “The runes can make the dead live again. But you must make your choice … for I can only bring one of your loved ones back.”

  Brother Alfred dashed forward and pulled Redknee’s arm. “Necromancy is a sin,” he said.

  “Didn’t Jesus raise Lazarus from his grave?” Sinead asked. “And didn’t Jesus himself rise?”

  Brother Alfred blushed, unable to answer.

  “I shan’t choose,” Redknee said. “Because I don’t believe you can do it.”

  “Very well. But even if you do not believe, isn’t it worth the risk? You don’t have to do anything. Just think the name of the person you want to meet again.”

  “I don’t have to say their name aloud?”

  “Only in your head.”

  Redknee thought of his uncle, who died saving him from the whale and who’d lied to him his whole life, and he thought of his mother, who’d always loved and cared for him, and who’d died saving his uncle.

  “Are you ready?” Gisela asked, a broad smile on her face. “Have you chosen?”

  Redknee screwed up his eyes and nodded. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting – to see a body made flesh from the air before him?

  Gisela began to chant:

  “I see, up in a tree,

  a dangling corpse in a noose,

  I can so carve and colour the runes …

  that man walks and talks with me.”

  Redknee recognised Odin’s words. The words of the god of magic.

  When Gisela stopped her incantation the room was silent. Redknee opened his eyes slowly. But there was nothing. No apparition. No flames of hell, just Gisela standing quietly with her tray of runes. He heard someone laughing, and realised it was him.

  Gisela scowled. “You will see,” she said. “Real magic is not fire and ice. Real magic happens quietly. That is its power.”