Stormriders Page 8

  He caught the dog’s eye and stared at it, willing it to be quiet. The animal stopped barking, tilted its head on one side, and lay down. The farmer shrugged, and headed for the house.

  Oddo crept forward again. The house was built of turf dug from the earth around it. Oddo could see the raw cuts in the ground. On the river, he could see the longship rocking gently. And tied up behind it . . . Oddo gulped. There was a small rowing boat, with oars resting ready on the benches. There was nobody in sight. Now was the perfect time to slip the moorings, and quietly row it away.

  From inside the house came a clamour of Viking voices, and the tantalising odour of roasted lamb. Oddo hesitated. It was a long time since breakfast, and it would be longer yet before his feet were back in a Viking home.

  ‘Just a quick peek,’ he vowed, ‘and a tiny bite. And then I’ll steal the boat.’

  He tiptoed along the paved path, following the farmer into a tunnel cut in the thickness of the walls. The man was just pushing his way through the skin draperies at the other end. Oddo could hear men and women laughing and talking. He took a deep breath, patted his hood again, and stepped through the door.

  The scene inside was just like any farmhouse back home. Sprawled on benches around the table, a noisy crowd were eating, drinking and shouting with laughter. They were half in shadow, half lit by the lights of the flickering oil lamps. A thrall circled them, bearing a large jug, and hands rose and fell as the diners tossed back their ale and held out their horns for more. Three women bent over the firepit in the middle of the floor, faces red and perspiring as they turned a spit and heaved a heavy saucepan off the flames. Oddo’s tongue watered. When one of the women started to hack slices off the haunch of meat to pile on a wooden platter, Oddo sidled closer. The instant she twisted back to the spit, his hand flashed out, snatched a piece of meat and stuffed it into his mouth.

  Chewing happily, he crouched on the floor and began to listen to the rowdy conversation at the table. The hot fire made sweat trickle down the back of his neck, and he slid a finger under his hood to let in some air.

  ‘Dyflinn’s the place!’ shouted a man with grey locks and a face marked by a long scar. He thumped his fist, and a bowl of whey bounced and splattered.

  ‘That’s right,’ answered his neighbour. He was a pasty-faced fellow with a low, gravelly voice. ‘Irish make the best thralls. I say we check out the slave market in Dyflinn.’

  ‘What about a raid?’ an eager voice piped up. ‘Easy pickings anywhere in Ireland. Pick up our own thralls.’

  ‘Hear, hear!’

  Oddo sprang to his feet, quivering with rage. It was louts like these who’d kidnapped Dúngal, and dragged him to the market in chains. He glared round the table at their gloating faces.

  One man glanced his way, looked puzzled, and pointed.

  ‘Who’s that boy?’ he asked.

  Oddo grasped his head, and to his horror felt hair instead of goatskin. The hood had fallen away and now everyone could see him.

  They were silent, staring.

  ‘I . . . I’m a Viking,’ he said. ‘I . . . I was on a boat and it was wrecked and . . . here I am.’

  ‘A boat?’

  ‘What boat?’

  ‘Is there anyone else?’

  ‘Where did you land?’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  The questions flew at him like arrows and he stared back, feeling like a hunted animal. In his head he could still hear Dúngal’s frightened cry:‘If they see me, they’ll make me into a thrall again!’

  ‘How am I going to stop them finding the others?’ he thought in despair.

  One of the red-faced women slapped a platter on the table and glared at the men.

  ‘You ill-mannered boors,’ she scolded. ‘This poor lad must be famished and exhausted. Stop pestering him and let him sit down and eat.’

  There were rumbles as the men shifted along, making a space for Oddo. He slid onto the end of a bench, head bowed, cheeks burning with embarrassment.

  ‘There, dearie.’ The woman leaned across, smelling of sweat and smoke, and handed him a wooden plate heaped with bread and meat. Oddo could feel everyone watching him. The bread filled his mouth, doughy and sticky, and he had to gulp noisily to swallow it. At last, the men turned away and began to plan their raids again.

  ‘We should leave soon,’ said one of them,‘we want to journey there and back before the summer ends.’

  ‘And who’ll stay here?’ the woman demanded, as she plonked another platter on the table, straightened up, and crossed her arms. ‘There’s plenty to see to on the farms, and us three womenfolk can’t do it all.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Well, then, some of us will stay,’ said Pasty-face.

  ‘Hold on, not so fast!’ The grey-haired man wagged his finger. ‘If half the crew is stranded here, who’ll man the ship?’ He scowled around the table, and all the others grunted and frowned and tugged at their beards.

  The grey-haired man suddenly pointed at Oddo.

  ‘You, boy, you said you came here on a boat. Can you row? Can you sail?’

  ‘We’ll soon teach him, if he can’t!’

  There were hoots of laughter, and knife handles banged on the table.

  Oddo stared at the leering faces, his belly churning with fear and excitement. These men were offering him passage on a boat to Ireland. Only . . . he couldn’t leave Dúngal and Thora and Hairydog in this land of ice and fire. He had to find a way to take them too. He couldn’t go alone!

  21

  The plan

  Thora’s eyes flew open. There it was again – the sound of running footsteps. She peered through the juniper branches. It was Oddo, thudding up the hill towards them. To Thora’s dismay, she saw the hood had fallen from his head and was flapping behind him.

  He was hurtling past, when Thora called out in a hoarse whisper, ‘Oddo!’ He spun round. ‘Here, under the bush!’

  He knelt down and peered through the juniper needles. Dúngal was awake now too, and Hairydog wriggled out to lay her head on Oddo’s knee and gaze up into his face.

  ‘Oddo, do you know your hood’s fallen off ?’

  Oddo made a wry face. ‘I know.’ He glanced over his shoulder down the hill. ‘Let’s get away from here, and I’ll tell you what’s been happening.’

  When they were safe in a grove of birch trees, Oddo began to speak.

  ‘I found out the Vikings are just about to sail. And guess where they’re going!’

  Thora looked at him. ‘Home?’

  ‘No-o-o.’ A huge grin spread across his face. ‘To Ireland!’ he exploded.

  ‘But . . . how will that help me?’ said Dúngal. ‘Are you thinking I can hide on the boat?’

  ‘You won’t need to,’ Oddo gloated. ‘They want people to join their crew. They don’t have to know you’re Irish. You can speak like a Viking. We’ll call you . . . Dufnall.’

  ‘What about me?’ cried Thora.‘They won’t want a girl.’

  ‘Pretend you’re a boy, then.’

  Thora eyed him thoughtfully. ‘My name could be Thorvald,’ she said. ‘And I could cut my kirtle shorter to make it into a tunic. But . . . I don’t have any breeches.’

  ‘You can have mine,’ said Oddo. ‘Dúngal and I will pretend we lost ours in the shipwreck.’

  ‘What about Father Connlae?’ Dúngal broke in. ‘He can’t pretend to be a Viking. He doesn’t know your language.’

  ‘Father Connlae?!’ Oddo squeaked. ‘What about Father Connlae?’

  ‘We can’t leave him behind. He wants to go back to Ireland too. We have to rescue him before your horrid mates get hold of him.’

  Thora could see the frustration in Oddo’s face. She interrupted before he yelled at Dúngal.

  ‘Why don’t we . . .’ She racked her brain desperately for an idea, and then it came. ‘Why don’t we pretend Father Connlae’s hurt his tongue, or something, so he can’t speak?’

  She beamed in satisfaction.
>
  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Oddo.

  And then Thora remembered the priest’s shaven chin, and tonsured hair. Father Connlae certainly didn’t look like a Viking.

  ‘You can’t lose a beard in a shipwreck!’ said Oddo.

  ‘He can grow a beard,’ said Thora promptly. ‘He just has to stop shaving.’

  ‘He can’t grow a full beard in a couple of days!’

  They all stared at each other, then Thora lifted a strand of her own hair.

  ‘We could cut this off,’ she said slowly,‘and stick it on his chin.’

  She looked hopefully at Oddo. He heaved a sigh and shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘If you want, you can give it a try,’ he said.

  Thora bit her lip as Oddo lifted up her hair to make the first slash. From the corner of her eye she saw the glint of the dagger, then there was a ripping sound close to her ear. She felt short ends of hair flop against her cheek, and Oddo held out a fistful of honey-coloured strands. Thora gulped.

  ‘Next one,’ said Oddo cheerily, and he grasped another clump.

  A few minutes later, Thora stood up. Her neck felt cold and bare.

  Dúngal pointed at the cuttings lying on the ground. ‘There’s Father Connlae’s beard,’ he chuckled.

  ‘How are you going to stick them on his chin?’ asked Oddo.

  ‘Fish glue,’ said Thora. ‘I’ll boil up some fishbones.’

  Next morning, alone in the cave, Thora undid her bronze brooches and let her apron dress slide to the floor. She picked up the dagger and shortened the skirt of her kirtle till it hung to just above her knees. Shivering, she pulled on the breeches Oddo had given her to cover her bare legs.

  ‘Now, a belt.’ She knotted a cord around her waist. ‘And . . .’ She hesitated, slid the dagger into the belt and took a deep breath. ‘I’m ready.’ Dressed in this strange outfit, her short hair bouncing round her face, she felt like a new person – wild and daring. Heart pounding with excitement, she crossed the room, and stepped through the doorway.

  ‘How do I look?’ she called.

  Nobody answered. They were busy dismantling the goat pen and shooing the animals into the woods. Thora watched Oddo running between the trees, his bare legs long and spindly like the branches of the willows.

  ‘He’s grown nearly as tall as Arni,’ she realised with surprise. ‘And . . . Dúngal’s right, he does look like Arni!’ At home, Oddo’s hair was always brushed into a glossy, bronze cap, but now it was unruly and matted like her brother’s.

  Father Connlae toddled into view and she felt a mixture of laughter and terror bubble up inside her. She stared at the two plaits swinging from his chin and prayed the Viking raiders would believe that was a real braided beard.

  22

  Striker

  They headed down the hill towards the Viking farm. Dúngal saw the longship, sail unfurled, and the men loading her. They looked just like the raiders who’d captured him. He felt sick.

  ‘As soon as they see my hair and my freckles, they’ll know I’m Irish. They’ll know I’m a thrall,’ he groaned.

  ‘Pig’s piddle.’ Thora took a firm grip on his sleeve. ‘Farmer Ulf ’s got red hair, and he’s a Viking. Just remember – don’t say anything in Irish.’

  ‘I’m not stupid.’

  Dúngal glanced at Father Connlae. The priest’s knees were white and knobbly; he had a strange woollen cowl on his shaven head, and two silly plaits dangling from his chin. But as the old man tottered down the slope, he turned to Dúngal and winked.

  As they approached the house, a tall Viking appeared in the doorway. Below his shaggy grey hair, his face was puckered by a scar that ran from brow to chin.

  ‘Ah, my new crew,’ he said. ‘I’m Striker’s captain. Snari’s the name.’

  Oddo drew to a halt and the others clustered behind him.

  ‘These are my friends.’ Dúngal could hear the nervousness in Oddo’s voice. ‘Thor . . . vald, and Dufnall. And . . . er . . . Kolli the Quiet. We call him that, because he . . . can’t speak.’

  Dúngal could feel the tension of the others. They all waited for the Captain to jeer, or question them. But he just gestured to a pile of weapons.

  ‘Choose some gear,’ he said.

  Dúngal dived for a helmet and almost knocked himself out as he dropped it over his head. He teetered, the heavy weight of the iron bending his neck. The helmet was too big and hung down over his eyes, so he could hardly see, and the nosepiece reached to his chin. But he heaved a sigh of relief. His red hair and freckles were hidden.

  He peered out at the others. Father Connlae was struggling to untangle the laces of his leather jerkin from his fake beard. Thora’s jerkin hung below her knees, but her eyes sparkled with excitement beneath her iron helmet.

  ‘They’re coming,’ she whispered. ‘Here, take a spear.’

  There were loud voices and footsteps, and the next moment the rest of the crew crowded around, jostling for weapons.

  ‘Everyone ready?’ The Captain’s voice rose above the din, then the crowd fell quiet and shuffled apart.

  Dúngal realised the four of them had been left standing in a huddle, as the rest formed a circle.

  ‘Come on, you new lads.’

  A gap opened for them. When Dúngal moved, he felt as wobbly as if his arms and legs were just a jumble of bare bones, rattling together. Somehow, he stumbled into his place.

  Captain Snari began to speak. Dúngal straightened his back, trying to stand steady and proud. His hands holding the spear and shield were sticky with sweat.

  ‘Men, are you ready to swear your loyalty?’ asked Snari. His stern eyes travelled around the circle and each person murmured a yes. Everyone but Father Connlae. Snari breathed hard and glared at the priest.

  ‘Kolli the Quiet, can you hear me? Are you ready?’ he demanded.

  ‘Nod yes,’ hissed Dúngal. To his relief, the priest gently lowered his head.

  The Captain selected an arrow from his quiver, and fitted it to his bow. Dúngal began to tremble.

  ‘Odin shall have you all!’ bellowed Snari.

  The arrow flew from his bow and soared over the circle. Dúngal squeaked and leapt forward as the arrow thudded into the ground behind his heels. The Vikings roared with laughter.

  Dúngal’s eyes met Oddo’s and he felt the other boy’s sympathy flow towards him.

  ‘You are now sworn in,’ cried Snari. ‘Every man here pledges to avenge the others as he would his brothers, and not one of you, no matter how perilous things may be, shall speak a word of fear or dread.’

  Dúngal ran his eyes resentfully around the circle of Vikings. ‘You’re not my brothers,’ he muttered. Then his eyes lit on Oddo again. He stared at the thin boy with the heavy iron helmet on his head, the boy who’d despised his curach but come on the voyage in spite of his fears. The boy who’d nearly lost his life, just to help a strange Irish thrall.

  ‘You can be my brother,’ whispered Dúngal. ‘I make my pledge to you. I will avenge you, no matter how perilous things may be.’

  The Captain tugged his arrow from the ground and with a roar of cheering and a rattle of weapons the Vikings raced for the longship. Dúngal turned to take Father Connlae’s arm, and saw Oddo on the other side. The three of them hurried towards the ship.

  ‘Wait!’ Thora, in the heavy helmet and jerkin, was straggling behind. ‘Remember me?’ she said crossly, as she panted up to join them.

  As they drew closer, Dúngal was astounded by Striker’s size. The prow, carved in the shape of a striking eagle, towered over his head, and when he climbed over the black tarred sides he gaped at the rows of benches stretching from bow to stern. To his dismay, the four friends were separated. Dúngal found himself on a rowing bench beside a sullen man with a dark, weather-beaten face. He peered round worriedly for the priest and spied him a few rows back, sitting in front of Thora.

  ‘Thora, look after him!’ he pleaded silently.

  ‘Cast off!’ ordered Snari f
rom his raised platform in the stern.

  Dúngal’s mouth felt dry as the cables were slipped from the mooring posts and the longship pushed away from the bank.

  ‘Raise oars!’

  Striker rocked violently as each man stood and with a noisy clatter grabbed an oar from the rack. They lowered their oars over the sides, then sat down ready for action. Dúngal realised the muscles in his back were already tense and aching.

  The Captain nodded to the coxswain beneath him.

  ‘Ready-y-y . . . Stroke!’ cried the coxswain in a piercing voice.

  With all his strength, Dúngal plunged his oar into the water.

  ‘We’re not digging for oysters,’ snarled the man next to him.

  Startled, Dúngal heaved up his blade, splattering them both with water. He tried again, this time taking care not to dip so deep.

  ‘Stroke,’ called the coxswain. ‘Stroke . . . Stroke . . .’

  ‘Keep the beat!’ growled the man. ‘Listen!’

  Cheeks burning, Dúngal strove to keep time. From the corner of his eye, he could see the oars up and down the boat swinging in unison.

  ‘How long do I have to keep this up for?’ wondered Dúngal. His arms and chest were burning with pain. With a feeling of doom, he remembered Father Connlae’s shaky hands.

  Behind him, there was a splash and a cry. The coxswain halted in his chant. The even sweep of blades wavered, then broke into disarray.

  ‘Hold oars!’ bellowed the Captain.

  Dúngal twisted round and saw the priest, his face aghast, leaning over the side and trying to reach an oar that was floating away. There were rumbles of anger around him.

  At that moment, a gust of wind whistled through the longship. There was a loud snap from the top of the mast and the pennant streamed outwards, the wings on the black embroidered eagle stretching and flapping. Dúngal saw the Captain glance round in astonishment. A moment before, the weather had been still and calm. Now the wind was lifting cloaks, whipping hair, and sending waves crashing against the ship.

  ‘Hoist sail!’ bellowed Snari.

  Dúngal glimpsed Father Connlae’s look of startled relief as the men tossed their oars on the rack and sprang into action. In a moment, everyone was yelling, grabbing at lines, twisting and tugging. As the yard rattled up the mast, Oddo caught Dúngal’s eye, and winked, his face split in an ecstatic, toothy grin. Of course, the wind was Oddo’s doing!