Viking Gold

by V. Campbell

  “But not tomorrow?” Astrid shot back. “And you have come so far just to tell some grubby peasants about a carpenter?”

  “If you’re so interested in our Christian stories,” Sinead cut in, “why don’t you read them for yourself?”

  Astrid curled her lip in disgust. “Reading is like collecting wood, or scrubbing tables. It’s work, and work is for slaves.”

  Sinead lunged forward and clamped her hands round Astrid’s throat. Astrid clawed at Sinead’s face, but the younger girl was strong and able to hold Astrid down, pushing her cheek into the sand.

  “That’s enough!” Redknee said, grabbing Sinead by the shoulder.

  But it was Olaf who gripped Sinead’s hair with one hand and dragged Astrid free with the other. “There will be no killing women.” he said. “If we’re staying, we’re going to need them.” Then he turned and resumed his place beside Harold.

  “She really gets to you.” Redknee joined Sinead at the far end of the beach where she stood near the water. The night was clear and the new moon cast a blueish glow over her features.

  “I shouldn’t let her,” she said, smiling.

  Silver, who’d followed Redknee, slunk off to investigate an interesting orange shell.

  Redknee sat in the sand. “Do you think this can work?”

  Sinead sat beside him, her hands folded in her lap. “Can what work?”

  “This … this settlement,” he said, lying back and watching as a wispy cloud passed in front of the moon.

  “So it’s decided – we’re going to stay here?”

  “Yes – at least for now.”

  “What about Saint Brendan’s treasure?”

  “We need to secure our camp before we can go looking.”

  She lay back beside him, her shoulders level with his, her eyes trained on the greyish white of the moon. It was a while before she spoke. “Once we find the treasure, Olaf will want to return home.”

  She was likely right, Redknee thought. There would be nothing keeping Olaf and the others in the Promised Land once they had Saint Brendan’s treasure. Nothing keeping him either. Not really. Only the draw of the land itself: hundreds, maybe thousands, of untouched acres – all for the taking. But then, there was Sven’s jarldom for him in the Northlands, if he had the wit to claim it. Sinead was unique in her desire to truly start afresh. He turned on his side to face her, watched as her chest rose and fell with each breath. He hadn’t noticed before, but her cheeks were spattered with the palest freckles.

  “Do you still think about Ireland?” he asked eventually.

  “Now that we’ve reached the Promised Land?”

  He nodded.

  “Before I was sent to work for the monks I remember a woman with bright green eyes and hair the colour of autumn leaves, much like my own. She sang to me. I think … if I try very hard … I can still remember some of the words to her song.”

  “Sing it.”

  “No.”

  “Go on,” he said, raising himself onto his elbow. “I want to hear it.”

  “Don’t tease me.”

  “I’m not.”

  “All right.” She sat up and took a couple of deep breaths. “I think the song went something like this:

  “Where get ye your dinner, my handsome young man?

  I dined wi’ my true-love; mother, make my bed soon.

  For I’m weary wi’ hunting, and fain would lie down”

  Her voice soared over the water like a heron in flight, all trace of her usual harpying gone.

  “You have a beautiful voice.”

  She stopped. “You’re making fun of me,” she said, shoving him in the ribs. “It’s a very sad song, about a young man who dies of a broken heart.”

  “You can’t die from love.”

  “Can’t you?”

  Redknee lowered his eyes. “I don’t know … I’ve never been in love.”

  “What about Astrid? I saw you kiss in the tunnels.”

  He shifted uncomfortably. “There’s nothing between Astrid and I. She’s married, she thinks only of her husband.” In truth, he had felt nothing when Astrid had kissed him.

  “Well then … you can’t talk about what you don’t know.”

  “So,” Redknee said, in an attempt to change the subject, “this woman, the one who sang to you, was she your mother?”

  “I think so. The sad thing is, I’m not entirely sure. I was so young when I was sent to work for the monks, no more than four years old. I can’t even remember.”

  “Why were you sent to work for them?”

  She shrugged. “The monks told me my parents couldn’t feed and clothe me. I suppose it makes sense.”

  “Do you ever wonder about finding her? The singing lady, that is.”

  “I do, yes. But how would I? I don’t have the same luxury of freedom as you. There is no fine dragonship at my disposal, no troupe of men to do my bidding.”

  Redknee flopped back onto the sand. “Sometimes I think it’s a curse. I wish my mother had never started me on this quest. It wasn’t great, having a coward for a father, but at least I knew who he was. Believed him dead. There was certainty in that. Now I don’t know what to think.”

  “You asked me if I’d ever wanted to find the woman I remember as my mother. And yes, I have wanted that. But at the same time, what does it matter? It wouldn’t change who I am. Nor would it change how my life has turned out. My past is not my future,” she laughed at this. “Heavens above, I of all people should know that; starting out as a treasured servant in a rich monastery and ending up here, beyond the ends of the earth, a slave to pagans.” She leaned over him, eyes serious. “I suppose I’m saying – does it really matter who your father is?”

  Redknee reached up and tucked a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear. “Finding my father was my mother’s dying wish.”

  Sinead said nothing, her expression telling him all he needed to know. Instead, she lay back down beside him on the sand and stared up at the huge, star-sprinkled sky.

  Just then a yelp came from a few paces off. They turned to see Silver, head down, ears flat, leaning on his back legs and growling at the strange shell. Redknee called the pup over. Blood oozed from the soft black pad at the end of his nose.

  “He’s been bitten,” Sinead said, glancing worriedly at the shell.

  Redknee checked the wound. There was a white splinter. “Hold him,” he said as he gripped the splinter between his thumb and forefinger and gave a sharp tug. Silver yowled as the splinter came loose and eyed Redknee reproachfully. Redknee held him close for a moment until the shock left the pup’s system, then he went over to check the shell. “It’s some sort of sea creature,” he said, easing it away with the toe of his boot.

  When he rejoined Sinead, he found Silver sprawled across her lap. They lay side by side for a long while, not speaking, just listening to the rumble of the waves beyond the lagoon.

  When the cold started to seep through his tunic, Redknee got to his feet and offered her his hand. “My lady,” he said, bowing slightly. “Your world awaits …”

  She stood, but instead of taking his hand, she stood on tiptoe and planted a soft kiss on his lips. When he leaned in, to deepen the kiss, she pulled away and ran laughing along the shore towards their camp, trails of spray flying in her wake. He wasn’t even going to try and catch her. That could wait.

  It was then he noticed them. Across the blank sand, further out than either he or Sinead had yet ventured, a set of footprints snaking into the distance.

  Chapter 28

  Redknee kept quiet about the footprints. He didn’t want to admit the existence of possible challengers. This island was his. He’d been first to land, hadn’t he? First to cleave the beach with steel. Nothing – and no one – was going to take that away from him. In any event, when he returned the next day to where he’d seen the footprints, they were gone, washed away by the tide. A fact he took as a good omen.

  His daring, however, did not extend to recklessness
and he insisted everyone arm themselves on their trip to the hills. It took the whole morning to climb the ridge behind the beach. On reaching the top, Redknee had expected to see the far side of the island and the sea beyond. Instead he saw trees. Wave after wave of burnished gold and bronze shimmered in the noonday sun, an arboreal ocean of precious metals that swept the pale autumn sky. A breeze whistled through the leaves, rippling the surface of the golden sea. Redknee felt the energy as a tingle in his fingertips. His island was huge: its depths swollen with the fruits of the earth. He – they all – would be rich indeed.

  Sinead’s eyes widened with excitement, her skin glowed. She took Redknee’s hand and squeezed. “It’s beautiful.”

  Redknee was about to agree, but Toki spoke first. “You still think we’re the first people to find a place like this?” he asked.

  Redknee shrugged. “We lost Ragnar ages ago,” he said vaguely. He did not want to be reminded of the footprints on such a fine day. With any luck, they belonged to some shipwrecked beggar: no more a claimant to this magnificent island than the eagles swooping above their heads or the worms that chewed the ground beneath their feet. For if his uncle had taught him anything, it was that the spoils belonged to the quick and the strong.

  ◊

  The forest stretched as far as the eye could see, so they decided to push on while there was still a good six hours of daylight. Beneath the canopy, the trunks of the great broad-leafed trees soared straight and tall, their highest branches arched in cloistered avenues. The air swam with the nutty perfume of decaying leaves, lightened only by the occasional sweet note of a bough laden with sticky dark fruits. The earth was soft and mulchy with its carpet of leaves, so that their footsteps were silenced as if in reverence to their surroundings. Where a spear of sunlight pierced the thatch, it seemed to set the very ground ablaze, as if, in illuminating the dead leaves, it had struck a constellation of fallen stars.

  “It’s like gold,” said Sinead, kicking a tuft of leaves into the air.

  Silver dived amongst them, tail wagging. Redknee watched as they fluttered to the ground. Streets of gold. That’s what Saint Brendan had spoken of in the Codex. He couldn’t have meant … Could he?

  Sweat trickled down Redknee’s neck and pooled at the base of his spine. He’d dispensed with his woollen tunic long ago and his skin glistened like a sea-pearl in the mid-day sun. Chopping wood was hard, but rewarding. Because of their limited manpower, they would only harvest a couple of the smaller trunks now. But they would be back tomorrow and the day after that.

  Choosing the wood for the longhouse was a skill in itself. The main supports had to be long and straight. That wasn’t a problem as the forest here was dense, forcing the trees to strain ever upwards to gain a share of the sun and rain.

  Redknee was currently attacking a young birch with a flat-bladed axe while Silver looked on. He spotted Sinead approach with a bucket of water as he drove the axe into the fibrous flesh one last time. “Watch out,” he said, pulling her backwards as the trunk swayed for a moment, then keeled over in a cloud of dust.

  He looked at his work with satisfaction before taking the bucket from her, gulping down a couple of mouthfuls and pouring the rest over his head.

  She folded her arms across her chest. “You’ll catch a chill.”

  “Don’t be a nag,” he said, plunging the axe into the felled trunk. “What’s for lunch?”

  Sinead sniffed and stalked away.

  So much for last night, he thought, following her towards the small cooking fire she’d started earlier. She seemed to have reverted to treating him with her usual disdain.

  “Smells good,” he said peaceably, settling himself down on an upturned log.

  Toki and Koll emerged from between the trees and joined them. Sinead began spooning clumps of thick porridge into wooden bowls. She handed the first one to Koll. He sniffed the mixture then began slurping it straight from the dish.

  “You know,” he began between mouthfuls. “There are more trees on this island than on all the lands from here to home.”

  “Quite a treasure,” Toki said, stirring his porridge with the handle of his eating knife. “Could make a man rich … if he owned it.”

  Redknee shuffled uncomfortably. He was beginning to feel cold and vulnerable without his tunic.

  “Reckon your claim to the beach entitles you to all this?” Toki asked, taking in the forest with a sharp sweep of his eyes.

  Redknee didn’t want to confront Toki over this. He’d assumed Toki had understood the rules of the trip. Redknee was his uncle’s chosen successor. It was his uncle’s ship that had brought them here. By rights that made the spoils Redknee’s to divide, in line with pre-agreed portions.

  Problem was, no one had expected to find all this. How did Redknee, just sixteen summers old, defend his claim against seasoned warriors? Friend or foe, this island was an awfully big prize to give up just because of some outdated rules. Honour had a price, and Redknee was certain it was a lot less than the miles of verdant forest that stretched before them.

  Before Redknee could answer, Sinead cut in. “What are you suggesting?” she, demanded, jabbing her wooden spoon at Toki.

  Toki nearly spat his mouthful of porridge into the fire. “Nothing,” he mumbled. “Nothing at all.”

  A shout came from the between the trees. They all turned to see Olvir and Magnus running towards them.

  “Leave some for us,” Olvir called, a big smile on his face.

  The tension dissipated as the newcomers noisily took their places by the fireside.

  Only when Redknee resumed eating his porridge did he see Koll’s hand wound tightly round the hilt of his dagger. Something told him it had been there all along.

  And so they worked on. Each day they marched into the forest and brought back timber for the longhouse. It was hard work and Redknee noticed his muscles grow. His body was changing. It was no longer that of a boy on the cusp of adulthood. Each morning, when he went to the sea to wash, he saw that coarse hair, the colour of wheat in August, brushed his chin. His torso lengthened, his legs became sturdy. And when he stood beside Olaf, he no longer faced the older man’s chest. Instead, he looked steadily into Olaf’s tired grey eyes.

  It was with this newfound confidence that he crept into the forest on the night of the first proper frost. The longhouse neared completion. Redknee wanted to make a carving for above the door. This would be an important symbol; Redknee had not forgotten Toki’s challenge that first day gathering wood.

  A breeze scratched nervously at half-naked trees. Silver’s ears pricked up. Redknee whistled to the pup to stay near. He pulled his cloak tightly round his shoulders. The forest closed in on a man at night. Though he’d only seen the footprints that one time, weeks ago, he was glad to have Flame Weaver at his side.

  He chose a fine tree with thick branches and a smattering of blood-red leaves. His first blow sent a spray of bark into the night. Chopping eased his nerves. Soon his cloak lay on the ground. As he worked, he turned Sinead’s song over. One bit stuck in his head, something about being sick at heart, and fain would lie down. Strange. He didn’t feel heart-sick. The deaths of his mother and uncle seemed a long way off – part of the old world, part of his old life. Instead he felt strong, invigorated – full of purpose. He remembered Sinead’s kiss and smiled. He’d need to convince her she wanted to repeat it.

  The branch creaked and slumped to the ground, leaving a pale gash. Redknee brought his axe down one last time to complete the amputation. He sat on the ground to shear off the bark; it flaked away easily. The grain beneath was tightly packed and strong. He’d chosen well.

  As his eyes adjusted to the dark he moved with quick, confident strokes, paring the branch into a regular shape. Satisfied, he put aside his axe and slid a long, wooden-handled chisel from his bag. Wood shavings littered the grass as his chisel flew over the emerging figure of a man. Silver’s amber eyes followed every stroke. Eventually he slowed – runes demanded care.
>
  A twig snapped to his left. Silver stood; every muscle in his little body taut as a bow. Redknee peered among the branches. He saw nothing, yet he edged back until his shoulders met the tree trunk.

  “Hey, little one,” he called, “there’s no-one there.” But Silver kept his vigil.

  Wanting to be back at the camp with the finished sign before the others woke, Redknee worked on. But he was alert now, listening for the slightest sound.

  It was only when he was nearly finished that he heard another noise, this time a gentle rustling, like fabric brushing the forest floor. He reached for his sword as a figure in a moss-green cloak, the hood pulled over its face, stepped into the clearing. Silver rushed forward, tail wagging. The moonlight shone on the figure’s hands as she, for it was clear now it was a woman, lifted them to reveal her face.

  “Sinead,” he said, breathing a sigh of relief. “What are you doing out so late?”

  “I could ask the same of you.”

  “How long have you been here?” he asked, thinking of the noises he heard earlier.

  “I just arrived. I couldn’t sleep and I thought a walk would help. Then I heard the sound of your chisel working on that—”

  Suddenly shy, his hands darted over the carving. “It’s for above the main door.”

  “Show me,” she said, sitting beside him on the ground. It was the first time they’d been alone together since the night on the beach. She pointed to the figure. “Is that your uncle?”

  Redknee nodded.

  “What does the inscription say?” Despite her skill with Latin, she still refused to learn what she called ‘the pagan letters.’

  “This place is named for Sven: a warrior who knew no fear.”

  She placed her hand on his arm. “I think … you miss him. More than an uncle … like a father.”

  For a moment he wondered if he should kiss her, but it felt wrong. Instead he stared at his carving. The work was rough. Unworthy of his uncle’s memory. It took him a while to speak and when he did, his voice was tight and serious.