Troll Blood
Katherine Langrish

For all my family

Many thanks to:Phil Scott for telling me about the Viking Ship Museum,

the staff of the Viking Ship Museum, Roskilde, Denmark,who showed me how to sail a reconstructed Viking-age ship,

Diane Chisholm of the Mi’kmaq Resource Centre,University of Cape Breton, Nova Scotia,who patiently answered my many enquiries,

Dr Ruth Holmes Whitehead, who kindly read the manuscriptand made many invaluable suggestions concerning Mi’kmaq lore.

As always, any remaining mistakes are my own responsibility.

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Dedication

Map

CHAPTER 1 Murder in Vinland

CHAPTER 2 Water Snake

CHAPTER 3 “Be careful what you wish for”

CHAPTER 4 The Nis Amuses Itself

CHAPTER 5 The Journey Begins

CHAPTER 6 The Winter Visitor

CHAPTER 7 Ghost Stories

CHAPTER 8 The Nis at Sea

CHAPTER 9 Lost at Sea

CHAPTER 10 Landfall

CHAPTER 11 Spring Stories

CHAPTER 12 Serpent’s Bay

CHAPTER 13 Seidr

CHAPTER 14 Disturbances and Tall Tales

CHAPTER 15 A Walk on the Beach

CHAPTER 16 Single Combat

CHAPTER 17 Losing Peer

CHAPTER 18 “A Son like Harald.”

CHAPTER 19 Down the Dark River

CHAPTER 20 Thorolf the Seafarer

CHAPTER 21 War Dance

CHAPTER 22 The Fight in the House

CHAPTER 23 Death in the Snow

CHAPTER 24 Peace Pipe

The Background to Troll Blood

Glossary

BEYOND THE BOOK

Also by Katherine Langrish:

Copyright

About the Publisher

CHAPTER 1 Murder in Vinland

The Mist Persons are busy, crouching on wave-splashed rocks out in the gulf, blowing chilly whiteness over the sea. Their breath rolls like a tide over the beach and the boggy meadowlands near the river mouth, and flows far up the valley, spreading into the dark woods on either side.

A birch-bark canoe comes whirling down river through the wet fog. Kneeling in the prow, Kwimu braces himself against the cross-piece. He lifts a long pole like a lance, ready to fend off rocks. Each bend, each stretch of rapids comes as a surprise. Even the banks are hard to see.

The canoe bucks. Kwimu feels the river hump its back like an animal. The canoe shoots over the hump and goes arrowing into a narrow gorge, where tall cliffs squeeze the water into a mad downhill dash. Spray splashes in, and Fox, curled against his knees, shakes an irritated head. Fox hates getting wet.

A rock! Kwimu jabs the pole, swaying to keep his balance as the canoe swerves lightly away. It hurtles down a sleek slope and goes shivering and bouncing into roaring white water at the bottom. Again and again Kwimu flicks out the pole, striking here and there, turning the canoe between the rocks. Sometimes a whirlpool catches them, trying to hold them back and pull them down, but Kwimu’s father Sinumkw, kneeling behind him, gives a mighty thrust with his paddle and sends them shooting on.

A bend in the river. More rocks. Kwimu throws back his wet hair, every muscle tense. They dart down, twining into the curve, hugging the base of the cliff where the water is deeper and smoother. It’s cold here; the wet, grainy stone drips, and the mist writhes in weird shapes. There’s a splash and an echo, and it’s not just the paddle. The canoe tilts, veers. Fox springs up, snarling, showing his white teeth and black gums, and for a heartbeat Kwimu sees a thin muddy hand clutch at the prow. A head plastered with wet hair rises from the water. It winks at him with an expression of sullen glee, and ducks under.

Cold with shock, Kwimu flings a wild glance back at his father. But Sinumkw simply shouts, “Look what you’re doing!” And they’re snatched into the next stretch of rapids.

They hurtle into the cross-currents, Sinumkw paddling grimly. Kwimu thrusts and fends with dripping hair and aching arms until the gorge widens, the cliffs drop back, and the canoe spills out into calm water flowing between high banks covered with trees. On either side, the grey-robed forest rises, fading into mist.

Kwimu twists round, panting. “Did you see?” he bursts out. “Did you see the Water Person—the Grabber-from-Beneath?”

Sinumkw frowns, but says calmly, “I saw nothing but the rocks and the rapids.”

“He was there,” Kwimu insists. “And Fox saw him too.”

His father nods. “Maybe. But if you’d taken your eyes off the water for a moment longer, we’d have capsized. So his trick didn’t work. Anyway, well done! That’s the worst stretch over. No more rapids between here and the sea. And we’ll land here, I think.”

He drives his paddle into the water. The canoe pivots towards the shore.

“But I thought we were going all the way down to the sea. Can’t we go on in the canoe? It’s so much quicker than walking,” Kwimu pleads as they lift the canoe out of the water.

“Quicker, yes,” says Sinumkw drily. “Speed isn’t everything. Just look around. Somebody’s been cutting trees.” Kwimu looks up in surprise, and his father is right—the bank is littered with chips of yellow wood, and studded with stumps like broken teeth. Piles of lopped branches lie in the trampled undergrowth.

Sinumkw picks up some scattered chips. “These aren’t fresh. This was done moons ago, before the winter.”

“Who would need so many trees?” Kwimu asks quietly. His scalp prickles.There are Other Persons in the woods. One of them cuts down trees. Sometimes, in lonely parts of the forest, hunters hear the sound of an axe, chopping—and a tree comes crashing down, though no one is visible.

But his father is thinking along more practical lines. “See here. They rolled the trunks into the river and floated them downstream. Who did it? It could be enemies: the Kwetejk, perhaps. What if they’ve built a stockade at the river mouth, in just the spot we want to use?”

“Oh!” Kwimu thinks with a shiver of their fierce rivals from the north-west woods. “What shall we do?”

His father shrugs. “This is why we came, n’kwis, ahead of everyone else, to find the best place for the summer camp, and to look out for danger. Imagine if the whole clan was with us now—grandmothers, babies, cooking gear and all! No. We’ll leave the canoe and come back for it later. We’ll circle into the woods and climb the bluffs above the river. We can look down on the bay from there.” He turns, setting off on a long uphill slant into the forest.

Kwimu follows. The encircling fog fills the woods with secrets. It’s a shape-changer, turning the trees into looming giants that drip and tiptoe and creak and murmur. Anything might lurk there, or stealthily follow them at the edges of sight. But if there was danger, Fox would sense it; Fox would warn them. Reassured by the thought, Kwimu strokes Fox’s cold fur, and hurries after his father.

Snow still lingers under the hemlocks and firs, and the buds on the birches aren’t open yet. The forest is colourless, black, white and grey. A dozen paces ahead, Sinumkw climbs silently through the swirls and pockets of vapour, like a ghost passing through world after world.

The woods are full of mysteries…

Grandmother said that yesterday evening, her bright bird-like eyes blinking in her soft wrinkled face. Kwimu thinks of her now, as he trudges uphill under the dripping trees. He can see her in his head, like a little partridge with bright plumage, wrapped in her big beaver-fur cloak with the coloured quillwork glinting in the firelight. She’s so tiny, but so strong. And she has the Sight. Everyone listens when she speaks.

Long ago, in the time of the Old Ones…

All the stories begin like this.

…in the old days, two brothers go hunting. And they find a deep ditch, too wide to jump. A strange, smooth ditch, scoured out of sticky red mud, twisting along between the trees. The track of a Horned Serpent: a jipijka’m track.

Now this track is full of power.

One of the brothers climbs into the ditch to see what sort of thing made it. Aha!

At once, his body changes. It bloats and swells and pulls out like an earthworm, growing longer and longer. His eyes widen and blaze, and two horns sprout from his head, one yellow, one red. He fills the ditch from top to bottom, he raises his head and hisses at his brother, he slithers away like a snake. The track leads into the lake. He plunges deep into the water, and no one ever sees him again.

The woods are full of mysteries…

In spite of his thick moose-hide robes, Kwimu is cold. Why did Grandmother tell that story? What does it mean? Everywhere he looks he sees omens. Layers of fungus, like thick lips that might open and speak. A rotten log like a corpse rolled up in birch bark.

Can anything good happen on such a day?

The slope steepens, broken by small ravines where icy creeks hurry down to join the river. There are voices in the creeks, Kwimu is sure, quarrelsome voices that squabble and bicker. Perhaps it’s the Spreaders, the nasty little people who peg you to the ground if you fall asleep by the stream-side.

They cross one creek near a waterfall. Spray has coated the boulders with ice, and the pool boils and froths like a black kettle. Just the place for Grandmother’s story to come to life! What if a huge head crowned with twiggy horns emerged from the water, snaking towards them on a long slimy neck? In this haunted fog, anything seems possible.

It grows lighter. The woods thin. Kwimu follows his father along a knobbly headland that juts out from the forest into the white nothingness of the mist. He feels giddy, as if walking out into the Sky World. He knows that down there, where the ground plunges steeply away, there’s a fine gravel beach and grasslands beside the river. The bay: their summer home, where the women will gather shellfish, and the men and boys will take the canoes out past the sandbars and right over deep water to the islands, to fish and to gather birds’ eggs. Right now none of that is visible. A mother-of-pearl sun peers through the haze.

All is quiet except for the hushing of the sea. But the mist tastes of smoke, sweet dry smoke floating up from below.

Fox growls quietly. His fur bristles, full of prickling, warning life. Kwimu and his father exchange anxious looks.

They hunker down in the wet bushes, ill at ease. Smoke means people, but a friendly village would be noisy with dogs, children, women chattering—so why the silence? If only the mist would clear. Straining his ears, Kwimu begins to think he can pick up the muffled sound of voices. Men talking—or arguing, for the sound becomes louder and sharper.

And then an appalling scream tears through the fog. Kwimu grabs his father. The scream soars into bubbling hysteria, and breaks into a series of sharp, yipping howls like a mad wolf. The morning erupts in shouts of anger and alarm, and a ring-ding, hard-edged clashing. Flocks of screeching birds clatter up from the forest.

As if their wings are fanning it away, the mist thins and vanishes. At last Kwimu and Sinumkw see what is going on below them, down by the river mouth.

The earth has been flayed. Instead of grassland, pits and scars of bare red soil show where the turf has been lifted.Two strange lumpish sod houses have been thrown up on a rising crescent of ground between the edge of the forest and the sea. They look like burrows, for the withered grass grows right over them, but smoke rises from holes in the tops. Between these houses—these burrows—men are swarming.

Men? Their faces are white as paint, and they seem shaggy round the head, like a lynx or bobcat.These are not the Kwetejk, nor like any men Kwimu has ever seen. Are they the dead then, returned from the Ghost World? But some are pursuing others, hacking them with long axes, stabbing with lances. Some lie motionless on the ground.

Sinumkw taps Kwimu’s shoulder. “Look!” His voice is awed, shocked. “In the river. Jipijka’maq!”

Kwimu drags his eyes from the scene below, and the hairs rise on his neck. Floating in the wide shallows where the river meets the sea are two things—bigger than the biggest canoe—and surely they are alive? For each has a head, staring shorewards from the top of a long neck. Each head is that of a Horned Serpent.

The smaller of the two is painted red, and the horned head snarls open-jawed from the top of a slender curving neck.The larger one is painted in red and black stripes, and it lifts a goggle-eyed head, beaked like a screaming eagle.

“Grandmother’s story,” whispers Kwimu. “This is what it meant.”

These people are Jipijka’maq—Horned Serpent People, shape-changers. They come from out of the water and under the ground. Their whiteness is not paint, but the bleached pallor of things you find under stones. But why are they fighting, and why are they here? Kwimu moistens his lips, staring at the sprawled figures on the ground. Perhaps they’re not dead. Perhaps, any moment now, their feet and hands will vanish, their bodies will swell and lengthen, and they will slither off on their bellies into their dark earth houses?

But they never move.

“Hah!” With a cough of disdainful laughter, Sinumkw points suddenly. “See the coward there!”

A man in a green cloak is escaping, running away from the fight. He’s dragging a child along with him, a young boy. Just past the end of the nearest house he stops, and pushes the child, pointing to the woods. The message is clear. “Run!” he’s saying. “Run and hide yourself. Go!” The child hesitates, and is sent staggering with a hard shove between the shoulder blades. The man whirls and goes racing back.

So he’s not a coward after all; he was trying to save the child. And he’s unarmed, except for a knife. His enemies are coming to meet him. In the lead is a burly, bear-like man, obviously a chief. By his side is a boy no older than Kwimu, with long loose golden hair that floats behind him as he runs, yelling. The burly chief shouts an order to his warriors. They spread out to catch the man in green, who dodges two of them and dashes on like a hunted animal, heading for the river. And then he trips and falls.

The chieftain shouts again and points. His men scatter sideways. The chieftain’s right arm comes up, balancing his spear. He pauses a second, and throws.

There’s a ragged chorus of whoops and howls from the men. They run forward, closing in on the crumpled green bundle. The spear stands straight up, a marker pointing at the sky. It twitches suddenly, it wags to and fro. The green bundle is still moving, trying to crawl away. Kwimu’s breath hisses through his teeth.

The boy with the golden hair strolls up behind the men. He looks no older than Kwimu, maybe fifteen winters old. His weapon is shaped like the long-bladed leaves that grow in the marshes—red with blood. The others part to let him through; the burly chieftain puts an arm round his shoulders. Together they gaze at the man on the ground. Then the chieftain tugs his spear out. The golden youth hooks a foot under the body, rolling it on to its back. The man’s pale face comes into view. Still alive. His fingers open and close like claws.

Warriors taunt each other when they fight. If the man on the ground can still speak, this is the moment for his final defiance. And perhaps he does gasp something out. But the golden-haired youth laughs.The high, shrill sound echoes upwards. He puts the point of his long red blade to the man’s throat, and shoves it in. Kwimu shuts his eyes. Only a blink, but when he opens them again, it’s over.

He turns his face away, and freezes. That child—the child the man in green was trying to save! He hasn’t run off; he’s peering round the corner of the nearest house, clutching the sod walls with both hands, craning his neck to see what’s happening. He sees the dead man, and shrinks like a snail when you tap its shell.

The burly chieftain gives orders, pointing this way and that. His men fan out and start searching between the houses. Kwimu sucks in his bottom lip. They’re hunting for the child. And they’ll find him; there’s nowhere to run.

The child presses against the wall. Any moment now the men will simply come round the building, and there he’ll be.

Then Kwimu almost shouts. The child turns and flings himself at the soft sod wall, digging fingers and toes into the cracks and crannies. He scurries up like a mouse, pulling himself on to the roof just as the nearest man rounds the corner. He lies flat. His light hair and clothes blend with the pale grasses growing on the turf roof, but he’s still completely visible to anyone who glances up. In fact, Kwimu can see one of his feet sticking over the edge.

But the man doesn’t look up. He strides along with his head down, staring at the ground. Kwimu bites his lip, hardly able to breathe. Don’t move. He’s gone, but there’s another one coming. Don’t move!

Neither man looks up. It seems crazy, but they don’t. Kwimu sighs silently, surprised by the strength of his feelings for this strange foreign child. Beside him, Sinumkw shakes with admiring laughter. “That little weasel! To fool all those warriors with one simple trick! Look, they can’t think where he’s gone.”

And it is funny, in a way, seeing the men poking and prodding around the houses, and gazing into the woods, when all the time he’s a few feet above their heads, as still as a sitting bird. All the same, Kwimu’s nails are cutting into his palms by the time the men give up. Maybe their hearts are not really in this search for a small boy. They return to the chief and his golden son, empty-handed.

The chief shrugs. It’s clear he thinks it doesn’t matter much. He gestures to the bodies lying on the ground, and goes on talking to his son. Obediently the men drag the bodies down to the water’s edge. They wade yelling into the cold river, carrying the dead out to the smaller, slenderer of the Serpents, which jerks and snubs at its tether as if outraged at being given such a cargo. One by one, the bodies are tumbled in.

Where’s the child?

Sidling up the roof like a crab.

At least he’s pulled his foot in—no, don’t go near the ridge!

As if he hears, the child sinks down just below the ridge, but he keeps popping up his head and peering over. Kwimu bites his nails in agony. Stop doing that, they’ll see you!

The chief gives another order. Whatever it is, the child on the roof understands: he flattens himself again, and the men troop back to the houses and begin emptying them. Everything is carried out. They stagger down to the river under bundles of furs, and heave them into the belly of the second Horned Serpent, the big one with the eagle’s beak. They bring out gear, pots, sacks, weapons. Shouting, they load up with timber: logs and planks from a pile on the other side of the houses. The creature—vessel: it must be some kind of vessel—sways this way and that as they adjust the cargo till it’s riding level, a lot lower in the water.

“They’re leaving!” Kwimu says with a gasp of relief. “They’re going away!”

Sinumkw makes a brushing movement with his hand: quiet. He watches the scene below with a hunter’s intensity.

At last, all is ready. A small, fat canoe collects the burly chieftain and his golden son—they don’t have to wade through the freezing water. The chieftain hoists himself aboard the big Serpent, but his son is ferried to the smaller vessel, and nimbly leaps aboard. Kwimu shades his eyes. The boy strides up and down, pouring something out of a big pot. He upends the pot, shakes out the last drops, and tosses it overboard. With an arm twined around the Horned Serpent’s painted neck, he leans out and catches a rope that uncoils through the air from the bigger vessel. He knots it at the base of the neck, and jumps down into the waiting canoe. In moments, he’s back with his father.

The men lift out long, thin paddles: it’s as if the Serpent is putting out legs like a beetle. Slowly it turns away from the shore, swinging with the current till it’s pointing out to sea.

Kwimu has never seen paddling like this before, with all the men facing the wrong way. How can they see where to go? But it seems to work. The red and black jipijka’m is crawling away out of the river, loaded with furs and timber, and towing its companion behind it—the red Serpent of the Dead.

So they’re going, and they haven’t found the child. Does he know he’s safe? Kwimu glances down at the roof.

The child is sitting up, staring.

Get down, get down—they might still see you…

But the child gets slowly to his feet. He stands in full view of the river, conspicuous on the rooftop. He lifts his arm, both arms, and starts to wave and scream. He’s dancing on the roof, yelling in a shrill voice.

“He mocks his enemies!” says Sinumkw in deep appreciation.

But Kwimu isn’t so sure. He’s got a cold feeling that if he could understand, the child might be screaming, “Come back, come back! Don’t leave me!”

For a second, the crawling motion falters as some of the men lift their arms to point. Then it picks up again. They’re not stopping; they’re not turning. They’re leaving the river now, heading into the bay. There’s still a lot of haze on the water; you can’t see the horizon.

They’re doing something else now: casting off the rope. A feather of fire flies through the air, curving into the red Serpent. A moment later, flames splutter fiercely up.

“Oil.” Sinumkw nods. “They poured in oil to make it burn.”

Kwimu can actually hear it, crackling like a hundred spits. Black smoke pours up in a tall column. The neck and proud horned head show clearly, but the long serpent body seems writhing in flames.

Down below, the child is scrambling off the roof. He drops the last few feet and goes racing down over the ravaged grasslands towards the beach.

“Let’s get him!” Kwimu turns to Sinumkw. “Please, Nujj…”

His father shakes his head. “No.”

“Oh, please, Nujj. He’s only little, and he’s brave…”

“A bear cub is little and brave,” says Sinumkw grimly, “and if you take one for a pet, it will grow up into a big bear and claw your arm off.”

Kwimu swallows. “I know, but…can we leave him to die?”

“They have.” Sinumkw nods towards the bay. “He’s not one of the People, Kwimu. Not one of us.”

“You like him, though,” says Kwimu desperately. “You laughed at the way he tricked the warriors. See—Fox approves!” Fox twists his head and licks Kwimu’s hand suddenly, as though to encourage him. Kwimu hardly dares to go on, but the words come anyway, forcing their way up from deep inside him, like a spring of water that has to bubble out. “He might become your son, Nujj. My brother.”

Sinumkw looks at him. His chest rises and falls in a sigh. “Well, we can try. Perhaps the cub is young enough to tame. Don’t be surprised if he bites you.”

They turn, for the slope ahead is too steep to descend, and it will be necessary to go back into the woods and find another way down. Kwimu casts a backward glance at the burning vessel, and is in time to see it tip up and slide neatly backwards under the water. The snarling serpent head vanishes last, and then it’s as though it has never existed, except for the smoke drifting higher and higher, a fading stain against the sky.

The other jipijka’m is already out of the bay and turning up the gulf towards the open sea; and from this distance it looks more like a serpent than ever—a living serpent, swimming quietly away through the haze.

Down on the shingle, nine-year-old Ottar, young son of Thorolf the Seafarer, stands knee-deep in the cold waves. Tears pour down his cheeks. He’s alone, orphaned, desperate, stranded in this horrible place on the wrong side of the world. He hears a shout from the beach behind him. He turns, his heart leaping in wild, unbelieving hope. Somehow it’s going to be all right—it’s been a bad dream or an even worse joke—and he won’t even be angry. He’s going to run to whoever it is, and cling to them, and sob until the sobbing turns into laughter.

And then he sees. His mouth goes dry. Coming towards him on the rising ground between him and the houses are two terrible figures. Their long hair is as black as pitch, and tied with coloured strings. Their clothes are daubed with magic signs. Furs dangle from their belts. They are both carrying bows. But the frightening thing—the really frightening thing about them—is that you can’t see their expressions at all. Half of their faces are covered in black paint, the other half in red. Their eyes glitter white and black.

“Skraelings!” Ottar whispers. “Dirty Skraelings!”

He prepares to die.

CHAPTER 2 Water Snake

The green sea wrapped itself round Peer Ulfsson’s waist, and rose to his chest with a slopping sound. “Yow!” he yelled. As the wave plunged past he sucked in his breath, and bent quickly to look through the water.

There! In the heaving, brown-green glimmer he saw it: the hammer he’d dropped, lying on the stones. He groped with his arm, his fingers closed on the handle, and the next wave swept past his ears and knocked him over. There was a dizzy moment of being rolled backwards in a freezing froth of bubbles and sand. He struggled up, spluttering but brandishing the hammer in triumph.

“Got it!”

“So I see.” Bjørn’s face was one wide grin. “If you’d tied it to your wrist like I told you, you wouldn’t have had to do that. Get dressed; you look like a plucked chicken.”

Peer laughed through chattering teeth. He bounded back to shore and dragged his discarded jerkin over his head, fighting wet arms through the sleeves. It fell in warm folds almost to his knees, and he hugged his arms across his chest. “Aaah, that’s better. I’ll leave my breeches till I’ve dried off a bit…What’s that? Who’s shouting?”

Torn by the wind, an alarmed cry had reached his ears. He couldn’t make out the words. Up on the jetty Bjørn stiffened, shading his eyes to look down the fjord. “It’s Harald. He’s seen a ship.Yes—there’s a strange ship coming.”

Peer jumped up beside Bjørn, noticing with pride how firm and solid the jetty was. The two of them had been building it for almost a month now, in between their other work, and in Peer’s opinion it made the tiny beach at Trollsvik look like a proper harbour. It was a stout plank walkway between a double row of posts. Bjørn’s new faering, or fishing boat, bobbed beside it.

He joined Bjørn at the unfinished end, where the last few planks waited to be nailed down. It was late afternoon, the tide flowing in. Out where the shining fjord met the pale spring sky he saw a large, reddish sail, square-on, and the thin line of an upthrust prow like the neck of a snail. A big ship running into Trollsvik before the wind.

“Who is it?” he blurted.

Bjørn didn’t take his eyes off the ship. “I don’t know. Don’t know the sail. Could be raiders. Best not take chances. Run for help, Peer. Tell everyone you can.”

A lonely little village like Trollsvik could expect no mercy from a shipful of Viking raiders if they took the place by surprise. The best thing was to meet them with a show of force. Peer turned without argument. Then he saw a scatter of people hurrying over the dunes. “Look, Harald’s raised the alarm already. Here he comes, with Snorri and Einar…”

“Hey, Harald!” Bjørn bawled at the top of his voice. “Whose ship is that?”

A bandy-legged man with straggling grey hair raised an arm in reply as he puffed across the shingle and climbed painfully on to the jetty. “No idea,” he wheezed, bending double to catch his breath. “I was cleaning my nets—looked up and saw it. Shouted at you and ran for the others.You don’t know it, either?”

“Not me,” said Bjørn. Peer looked at the ship—already much closer—then back at the little crowd. Most of the men had snatched up some kind of weapon. Snorri One-Eye carried a pitchfork, and old Thorkell came hobbling along with a hoe, using the handle as a walking stick. Einar had a harpoon. Snorri’s fierce, grey-haired wife Gerd came limping after him over the stones, clutching a wicked-looking knife. Even Einar’s two little boys had begun piling up big round stones to throw at the visitors. Peer wondered if he should join them.Then he realised he was holding a weapon already. His hammer.

He hefted it. It was long-handled and heavy. The dull iron head had one flat end for banging big nails in. The other end tapered to a sharp wedge. When he swung it, it seemed to pull his hand after it. As if it wanted to strike.

Could I really hit anyone with this? He imagined it smashing into someone’s head, and sucked a wincing breath.

The neighbours were arguing. “No need to fear!” yelled Gerd, lowering her knife. “See the dragonhead? That’s Thorolf’s ship, that is, the old Long Serpent that Ralf Eiriksson sailed on.”

“It never is!” Snorri turned on his wife. “Thorolf’s been gone two years now, went off to Vinland.”

“So what?” Gerd was undaunted. “He can come back, can’t he?”

“Fool of a woman,” Snorri shouted. “That’s not his ship, I say!”

“How d’you know?” Gerd shrilled.

“Because this one’s as broad in the beam as you are, that’s why—the Long Serpent was narrower…”

“That isn’t the Long Serpent,” said Peer. “I should know. My father helped to build her.”

“This ship looks like a trader,” Einar said. “Built for cargo, not war.”

“That’s all very well, Einar. Plenty of traders turn into raiders when it suits them—doesn’t mean her crew won’t fight.”

“What do you think, Bjørn?” asked Peer in a low voice.

Bjørn gave him an odd glance, half-humorous, half-sympathetic. “I don’t know, Peer. Let’s just put on a good show and hope they’re friendly.”

Peer stood unhappily clutching his hammer. The ship was so close now that he could see the sea-stains on the ochre-red sail. The hull was painted in faded red and black stripes. A man stood in the bows, just behind the upward swoop of its tall dragon-neck.

We could be fighting in a few minutes. A gull shrieked, swooping low overhead and its keen cry made him jump. Odd to think that the gull might soon be swinging and circling over a battle, and that its shrieks might be joined by the screams of wounded or dying men and women. I might die… And with a jump of his heart he thought of his best friend Hilde, safe for the moment at her father’s farm on Troll Fell. What if he never saw her again? And what would happen to her if these men were dangerous?

There was a flurry of activity on board. The yard swung and tipped, spilling wind. Down came the sail in vast folds. Oars came out to guide the ship in. Behind Peer and Bjørn, the villagers bunched like sheep.

The man in the bows leaned out, cupped a hand round his mouth and yelled, “Bjørn!”

Bjørn threw his head up. “Arnë!” he shouted back. “Is that you?”

Arnë, Bjørn’s brother! The villagers broke into relieved, lively chatter. Peer unclenched stiff fingers from the haft of his hammer. He wouldn’t have to use it as a weapon after all. And a good thing, too, said a secret little voice at the back of his head, because you know you couldn’t have hit anyone.

The thought bothered him. Was it true? Would he be no good in a fight? The word coward brushed across his mind. Then, with a shrug that was half a shudder, he dismissed the idea. It didn’t matter now.

“The ship’s called Water Snake,” Arnë shouted across the narrowing gap of water. “Gunnar Ingolfsson’s the skipper. I’ve brought him here to meet Ralf Eiriksson.”

“Who’s this Gunnar? Why does he want Ralf?” Peer wondered aloud, as the ship closed on the jetty.

“Gunnar Ingolfsson. Gunnar…” Bjørn snapped his fingers. “He’s the man Thorolf took on as a partner, a couple of years ago. Got a name as a sea rover, a bit of a Viking. Thorolf and he sailed off to Vinland together in two ships. So what’s he doing here, and why’s Arnë with him?”

Peer shrugged. He wasn’t curious about Arnë.

“Vinland? Vinland?” muttered Einar. “Where’s that?”

“Don’t you remember?” Snorri said helpfully. “A few years back, Ralf and Thorolf got blown off course and found a new land all covered in forests…”

“The land beyond the sunset,” Peer said eagerly.

“I knew that,” Einar huffed, “but I thought they called it Woodland.”

“They did!” Snorri waved a triumphant finger. “But other ships went there and found vines. Vines, Vinland, see? It’s all the same coast. This Gunnar must be making a second trip. I’ve heard you can bring back a fortune in timber and furs and grapes. I’ve got half a mind to go myself.”

“Ho, yes,” scoffed Einar. “And how would you know what a grape looks like? Have you ever seen one?”

“Arnë’s a wild one,” Bjørn said to Peer. “What’s he done with his fishing boat? Sold it, I suppose, to join this trip. Well, he’s crazy, that’s all.”

“He always wanted to go a-Viking,” Peer pointed out.

“I know.” Bjørn grinned suddenly. “That’s why I say he’s crazy!”

Peer nodded. And that’s why Hilde likes him, he thought, as a black-edged cloud slipped over the sun. The hills and the shore and the flashing water lost their colours. The jetty he had taken such pride in suddenly seemed a rough-and-ready thing of no interest. He wished he could do something exciting or brave.

How was it that Arnë always managed to do things that would impress Hilde? Of course, it helped that he was tall, strong and good-looking. And seven years older than Peer—girls took older men more seriously. If he’s sailing off to Vinland, I won’t get a word in this evening, then. She’ll be talking to Arnë all night.

The big ship came nudging up to the jetty. Seven or eight men were busy on board, stowing the yard fore and aft, lifting the oars in, collecting their gear. Arnë threw a rope up to Bjørn. “Nice new jetty,” he called, laughing. “Did you build it specially for us? It’s good, this’ll be easier for Astrid.”

“Astrid?”

“The skipper’s wife.”

Everyone stared. Peer got a glimpse of a girl in a blue cloak, huddled under an awning which had been rigged up behind the mast. Arnë climbed on to the jetty and wrung Bjørn’s hand. He clapped Peer on the shoulder and said, “Fancy a voyage to Vinland?” before turning to offer a helping hand to the girl. She was finding it difficult, clutching some kind of pouch or bag. A giant of a fellow with a shock of almost white fair hair tried to boost her up from the ship.

Peer watched scornfully. Hilde wouldn’t need helping out of a boat. She’d just kilt up her dress and jump out, laughing!

Hilde, Hilde! She teased Peer, bossed him about, and drove him crazy. Last spring, he’d made the mistake of impulsively kissing her, and she’d laughed at him. He hadn’t dared to do it since, except in dreams.

We belong together, he thought. She’d been his best friend and ally for years, ever since he’d come to Troll Fell as an orphan to work for his two brutal uncles at their dilapidated mill. Peer had helped to save Hilde’s young brother and sister from the trolls, and her family had taken him in and treated him like a son. Hilde was fond of him, Peer knew that. But she kept him at arm’s length.

One day, he swore to himself, one day when the time is right, I’ll go to Hilde and ask her…or perhaps I’ll say…

No, I’ll tell her: “We just belong together.”

But would she agree?

“Hey! You!”

Lost in thought, Peer didn’t notice the voice hailing him from the ship.

“You there—Barelegs!”

“Peer!” Einar jogged him in the ribs. “The young lord’s talking to you.”

“What?” Peer woke up. Had he heard what he thought he’d heard?

“He means you,” Einar chortled, pointing. “Anyone else around here with no breeches on?”

Barelegs? Peer turned round and met the light, cold gaze of a boy his own age—a youth of sixteen or so, wearing a dark chequered travelling cloak wrapped around his shoulders and pinned with a large silver brooch. Because the jetty was higher than the ship, his head was currently at about Peer’s waist level, but this disadvantage didn’t seem to bother him. He tilted up a tanned face as smooth as a girl’s, but wider in the jaw, heavier across the brow. Loose golden hair fell about his shoulders and cascaded in a wind-whipped tangle halfway down his back. But his eyes…they reminded Peer of something. Einar once had a dog with eyes like that, odd milky blue eyes—wolf eyes, he’d called them. And the dog was treacherous; you couldn’t get anywhere near it.

The boy snapped his fingers. “Are you deaf? I told you to help my father up on to the jetty. He’s not well.”

He took the elbow of a man standing beside him. This must be the skipper, the famous Gunnar Ingolfsson. He was a powerful figure, short-legged and barrel-chested, but he did look ill. His face was flushed and glistening. When he glanced up at Peer, his eyes were the same pale blue as his son’s, but the rims were slack, and the flesh under them was pouchy and stained. Impatiently, he stretched up his hand. Gold arm-rings slid back to his elbow.

Peer hesitated, but the boy’s rudeness didn’t seem enough reason to ignore his father. He reached down. Gunnar’s grasp was cold, and slick with sweat. And then Peer saw with a shock that Gunnar’s other hand was gone. The left arm swung short; the wrist was a clumsily cobbled-together stump of puckered flesh with a weeping red core. One hand, look, only one hand… the whisper ran through the crowd as Gunnar dragged on Peer’s arm, trod hard on the ship’s gunwale, and pulled himself on to the jetty with a grunt of effort. He let go of Peer without a word, and turned immediately to join his wife.

The boy sprang up after him. “That’s better, Barelegs,” he said to Peer.

“My name’s not Barelegs,” said Peer, his temper rising.

“No?” The boy’s eyebrows went up, and he glanced deliberately around at the villagers. “Does he actually own a pair of breeches?”

Einar snorted, Gerd giggled, and Einar’s eldest boy made things worse by shouting out, “Yes, he does, and they’re over there!”

There was a burst of laughter. Peer went red.

The boy smiled at Peer. “Now why did you have to take those trousers off in such a hurry? Were you caught short? Did our big ship scare you that much, Barelegs?”

Peer struck out, completely forgetting the hammer in his hand. The boy twisted like a cat, there was a swirl of cloak and a rasping sound. Something flashed into the air. With a shout, Bjørn grabbed Peer’s arm, forcing it down. He wrenched the hammer away and hurled it on to the beach.

Peer bent over, rubbing his numbed fingers. “I’m s-sorry,” he stammered to Bjørn. “I lost my—I wouldn’t have hurt him—”

“No,” said Bjørn in a savage undertone, “you’d have been gutted.” And he nodded at the boy, who stood watching Peer with dancing eyes, holding a long steel sword at a casual slant.

Peer gaped. He’d never actually seen a sword before. Nobody in the village was rich enough to have one. Subtle patterns seemed to play and move on the flat steel surface. The frighteningly sharp edges had been honed to fresh silver.

That could cut my arm off.

At the edges of vision he half-saw the crowd: Gerd disapproving, Harald worried; Einar and Snorri, their grins wearing off like old paint; the sailors from the ship edging together, watchful, glancing at their leader, Gunnar; the tall girl, Gunnar’s wife, looking on with cool disdainful eyes, as if nothing surprised her.

Then the boy pushed the sword into its sheath. He tossed his hair back and said in a light, amused way, “He started it.”

“And just who are you?” demanded Bjørn before Peer could reply.

The boy waited for a second as if he expected Bjørn to add, “young master”, and Gunnar interrupted. “He’s my son, Harald Gunnarsson, my first-born.” His voice was gruff, thick with pride, and Peer saw, without surprise this time, that he too was wearing a sword. “My young lion, eh, Harald?” Affectionately he cuffed the boy’s head with his sound right hand. “I’ll get me other sons one day, perhaps, but none to equal this one. Look at him, pretty as a girl, no wonder they call him ‘Harald Silkenhair’. But don’t be fooled. See this?” He lifted his left arm to show the missing fist, and turned slowly around, grinning at the villagers. “Seen it? All had a good look?” His voice changed to a snarl. “But the man who did it lost his head, and it was my boy here who took it off him.”

There was scattered applause. “A brave lad, to defend his father!”

“A fine young hero. And so handsome, too!” Gerd clasped her red hands.

“‘Bare is back without brother behind’,” old Thorkell quoted in pompous approval.

“Well said, Grandad.” Gunnar nodded. “And a good son will guard your back as well as any brother. Quick with his sword, and quick with his tongue too; he can string you a verse together as fast as any of the king’s skalds.”

“A little too quick with his tongue, perhaps,” said Bjørn drily.

Gunnar hesitated. Then he burst out laughing, his red face darkening as he fought for breath. “All right,” he coughed, “all right. We can’t let the young dogs bark too loudly, can we? Harald—and you…What’s your name—Peer? No more quarrelling. Shake hands.”

“Yes, Father,” said Harald, to an appreciative mutter from the villagers. He stepped forward, holding out his hand. Peer eyed him without taking it. His heart beat in his throat, and his mouth was sour with tension as he met Harald’s bright gaze.

Harald grinned unpleasantly. “Hey, come on, Barelegs. Can’t you take a joke?”

Peer nearly burst. He turned his back and shouldered his way along the jetty, leaving Bjørn and the others to deal with the newcomers. Down on the shingle, he hastily pulled on his breeches while Einar’s little boys peeped at him round the posts of the jetty, giggling and whispering, “Barelegs, Barelegs.” He pretended not to hear, but it was the sort of name that stuck. He would never live it down.

Bjørn called to him, “Arnë’s taking Gunnar up to Ralf’s farm. Why don’t you go with them? It’ll be sunset soon, anyway.”

“No,” said Peer gruffly “I’ll be along later. I’ve work to finish here.”

He watched them pick their way across the beach, heading for the path to the village. Gunnar’s young wife Astrid clung to his arm, mincing across the pebbles. Probably her shoes were too thin, Peer thought sourly. How would she ever make it up to the farm, a good two miles of rough track? But perhaps they’d borrow a pony.

He walked slowly back along the jetty, taking his time, unwilling to talk even to Bjørn.The tide was full. Water Snake had risen with it.

Against the sky the knob of the dragonhead stood black, like a club or a clenched fist. The angry wooden eyes bulged outwards as if likely to explode. The gaping jaws curved together like pincers. An undulating tongue licked forwards between them, the damp wood splitting along the grain.

The ship was empty—the crew had all disappeared to the village. Peer glanced about. No one was looking. He quietly jumped on board.

The ship smelled of pinewood and fresh tar.The rope he clutched left a sticky line on his palm. There was decking fore and aft. The waist of the ship was an orderly clutter of crates and barrels: luggage and supplies. A white hen stuck its head out of a wicker crate and clucked gently.

Fancy a trip to Vinland, Peer?

He clambered across the cargo and up the curve of the ship into the stern, where he stood for a moment holding the tiller and gazing out westwards. The sun was low over the fjord, laying a bright track on the water: a road studded with glittering cobblestones. It stung his heart and dazzled his eyes.

And Harald Silkenhair, no older than Peer, had travelled that road. Harald had sailed across the world, proved himself in battles, been to places Peer would never see.

He thought of Thorolf’s ship, his father’s ship, the Long Serpent, beached on the shores of Vinland far across the world, and felt a surge of longing. Life was a tangle that tied him to the shore. What would it be like to cut free, shake off the land, and go gliding away into the very heart of the sun? He closed his eyes and tried to imagine he was out at sea.

“What are you doing?” Bjørn looked down at him from the jetty. Peer snatched his hand off the tiller, feeling every kind of fool for being discovered playing at sailing like some little boy.

“Looking at the, oh, the workmanship.” He made an effort. “I don’t think the dragonhead’s as fine as the one my father made. But it’s still good work.”

“Mm,” said Bjørn. After a moment he said, “And what do you make of Harald Troublemaker?”

Their eyes met. Peer said, “He just picked a fight with me. For no reason at all.”

“I know.”

“What was I supposed to do? Stand there and take it? Did you hear what he said to me?”

Bjørn blew out a troubled breath. “Peer, better to take an insult than a sword in your guts. You don’t have to play Harald’s games.”

“How can your brother sail with someone like that?”

Bjørn shook his head. “Arnë can be a bit of a fool sometimes.”

“Let me get off this boat.” Peer climbed over the side and on to the jetty, feeling Water Snake balance and adjust as his weight left her.

“Don’t play Harald’s games,” Bjørn repeated.

“I won’t.” Half comforted, Peer straightened and stretched. “You’re right,” he added. What was the point of letting Harald get to him? Let him strut. Let Arnë have his evening with Hilde. Tomorrow they’d both sail away.

CHAPTER 3 “Be careful what you wish for”

Hilde rubbed tired eyes. It was almost too dark to see the pattern she was weaving. Draughts snuffled and whined under the door. The wooden shutters were tightly fastened. The fire smoked. She longed for a breath of air.

Further up the room, in the glow of the long hearth, nine-year-old Sigrid was telling little Eirik a bedtime story.

“So there was a terrible storm. And Halvor’s ship was blown along and blown along until he landed in a beautiful country. And then he got out, and he came to a castle where there was an enormous troll with three heads.”

“Isn’t he rather young for that story?” Hilde interrupted. “He’s only two.”

“He likes it,” said Sigrid. “Anyway, it’s keeping him quiet. And the troll said, ‘Hutututu! I smell the blood of a mortal man!’ So Halvor pulled out his sword, and chopped off the troll’s heads.”

“Chop, chop, chop!” chuckled Eirik. Hilde rolled her eyes.

“And he rescued a princess, a beautiful princess, and got married to her. And they lived in the castle together, ever so happily, till one day Halvor began to miss his poor mother and father, who would think he had drowned.”

Hilde wove a few more rows, half-listening while the princess gave Halvor a magical ring which would carry him back over the sea, with a warning never to forget her. “‘Or I shall have to go away to Soria Moria Castle, to marry a troll with nine heads.’”

Now there was less bloodshed in the story, Eirik lost interest. He lay kicking his legs in the air, then turned on his stomach and began squirming eel-like over the edge of the bed. Sigrid dragged him back. “Lie still, Eirik, or I won’t go on.”

“Ma,” grumbled Hilde, “I can hardly see.”

“Then stop,” said Gudrun. She was slicing onions, and paused with the knife in her hand to wipe her streaming eyes. “Thank goodness Elli’s asleep at last. I’ll be so glad when she’s finished teething. All that wailing really wears you out…”

“Shall I finish the onions for you?”

“No, go and help with Eirik, I’ve nearly done.”

“Come on, Eirik,” said Hilde, “sit on my knee and listen to Siggy’s nice story. Better chop off a few more heads,” she advised Sigrid from the side of her mouth.

“Halvor was so happy to get home that he quite forgot the poor princess was waiting for him,” said Sigrid rapidly. “And she waited and waited, and then she said, ‘He’s forgotten me, and now I must go to Soria Moria Castle and marry the troll with nine heads.’”

“Excellent!” exclaimed Hilde, trying to stop Eirik slithering off her lap. “Nine heads coming off soon, Eirik.”

“So Halvor had to find Soria Moria Castle, which was east of the sun and west of the moon, but nobody knew the way. Oh, Eirik, I wish you’d listen!”

“Eirik,” said Hilde ruthlessly, “listen to the end of the story! The prince chopped off the troll’s heads. Chop, chop, chop!”

“Chop, chop, chop!” chanted Eirik.

“You’ve wrecked my story!” Sigrid cried.

“I told you, Sigrid: he’s too little.” She let Eirik slide to the floor. “And he isn’t sleepy. He wants to play. I don’t blame him, either. I know how he feels.”

Gudrun looked at her. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing.” Hilde prowled up the room. “Just—I’m sick of being cooped up indoors. Peer’s having fun on the beach, building that jetty with Bjørn. Pa and Sigurd are on the fell with Loki and the new puppy. It isn’t fair. I wish something interesting would happen to me.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” said Gudrun: “you might get it. It was interesting last summer when the house was attacked by trolls, but I wouldn’t want to go through that again. Life isn’t fair, and you may as well get used to it.”

“You always say that!” Hilde wailed. “I’m so tired of being shut up in here, doing the same things, cooking and spinning and weaving, for ever and ever and ever.”

“Hilde!” said Gudrun in surprise. She set down the knife and smoothed Hilde’s hair with a damp hand. “We all feel low at the end of winter. But spring’s here, and soon the weather will be warm again. Think of sitting outside in the long evenings.”

“I suppose,” Hilde muttered.

Sigrid said, “Now your hair will smell of onions.”

“Well, thanks!” Hilde began, when there was a bang at the door. Alf, the old sheepdog, struggled up with a startled bark.

Gudrun’s hand flew to her mouth. “Who’s this knocking after dark?”

“Trolls?” said Sigrid apprehensively.

Hilde got to her feet. “I’ll open it. And if there are any trolls out there, I’ll make them wish they hadn’t bothered.”

“Chop, chop, chop!” shouted Eirik.

With a nervous giggle, Sigrid hoisted him into her arms, and Hilde grabbed a broom and flung the door open. “Who is it, and what do you want?”

Then she threw down the broom with a cry of delight. “Arnë!”

Arnë Egilsson ducked in under the lintel, pulling off his cap, a broad smile on his face. “Hello, Hilde—don’t hit me! Is Ralf here? Gudrun, I’ve brought visitors.” He paused before announcing grandly, “Here’s Gunnar Ingolfsson of Vinland, with his wife Astrid and his son Harald Silkenhair. Gunnar wants to speak to Ralf. Guess what, Hilde? I’ve joined Gunnar’s ship. I’m sailing with him to Vinland!”

Hilde gasped. “Arnë, you lucky, lucky thing!”

“Yes, but I’ll miss you. Will you miss me?” he whispered, leaning close. She stepped back with a bright smile. (If my hair really smells of onions, I’ll kill Ma…)

A moment later, people were crowding in. Gunnar Ingolfsson filled the doorframe, a thickset, sandy-bearded man in a heavy wolfskin cloak. After him came a tall, pale girl. A flustered Gudrun came forward to greet them, wiping her hands on her apron. And the last to come in…

Hilde blinked. In walked a boy who made Arnë look like an overgrown, ruddy-faced farmhand. He wore his fine cloak with a confident swagger. Long golden hair tumbled over his shoulders and down his back.

Harald Silkenhair? He’s like a young hero from a saga.

“He’s just like a prince from a fairy tale,” Sigrid breathed. “Hilde, look, he’s even got a sword!”

Eirik struggled, kicking Sigrid with his bare toes till she put him down. He ran forward, a sturdy little figure in a nightshirt, blocking Harald’s way, and gazed up in wide-eyed admiration. “Show me your sword,” he demanded.

Harald’s lips quirked, and he went down on one knee. He slid his sword a few inches out of the sheath. “Meet Bone-biter. No!” he warned, as Eirik’s chubby hand went out. “She’s sharp.Touch the handle.”

Rather uneasily Hilde watched Eirik stretch out a finger. The hilt of the sword was wrapped with silver wire. “Shiny,” said Eirik, his voice soft with awe. He looked up at Harald. “Did you cut off the twoll’s head?”

Harald frowned. Hilde cut in. “It’s just a story he’s been listening to. He thinks—”

“He thinks you’re a prince who killed some trolls,” blurted Sigrid, blushing.

Harald ran the sword back into its sheath. “Not trolls,” he said, laughing, “not trolls.” He leaned forward and ruffled Eirik’s hair. “When you’re a man, maybe you’ll have a sword like this.” And he got to his feet.

“Wasn’t that nice of him?” Sigrid whispered to Hilde.

“I…suppose so,” said Hilde slowly. Sigrid was right. It was very nice of this young warrior to take notice of a small boy. So why should she feel so uncomfortable about it? Meet Bone-biter. Little boys always worshipped heroes, didn’t they? What could be wrong with that?

Harald turned to Gudrun. “Lady!” He bowed over her rough hand as though it were the white hand of a queen, and declaimed with a flourish:

“Far have we fared on the wide ocean,Where seabirds scream and the whales wander.Glad of our landfall, thanks we giveTo our fair hostess for this fine welcome.”

“Goodness!” Gudrun fluttered as Harald let go her hand. “Poetry!”

“His own.” Gunnar watched his son with a kind of rough delight.

“I’m honoured,” Gudrun exclaimed. “You’re most welcome. What a shame my father-in-law isn’t still alive. He was such a fine poet himself. He would so much have enjoyed this meeting.”

Would he? thought Hilde, watching her mother’s pleased pink flush. Or would he have thought Master Harald Silkenhair was a young whippersnapper?

She looked at Harald, wondering how many times he’d used that verse. Could he possibly be poking fun? But before she could consider the matter any further, Arnë tapped her shoulder. “Hilde, this is Gunnar’s wife, Astrid.”

Hilde turned, nearly bumping against a tall girl standing close behind her, muffled in an expensive-looking dark blue cloak with the hood up. A brown and white goatskin bag was slung over her shoulder on a long strap, which she clutched with long thin-wristed hands. She had ice-maiden skin, so white and thin that the blue veins glistened through, wide grey eyes, a neat straight nose like a cat’s with little curling nostrils, and pale closely-shut lips.

Their eyes met. For a second Hilde felt she was looking into the eyes of a deer or a hare, a wild animal who glares at you before bolting.

Then Astrid pushed her hood down. Out sprang a bright cloud of amber hair, frizzing and fizzling, catching the light in a million fiery glints. The hair transformed her cold, still face. With her hood down, she was beautiful.

Hilde held out her hand, puzzled. Gunnar’s wife? She doesn’t look much older than me. She can’t possibly be that boy’s mother!

Astrid touched Hilde’s hand with chilly fingers. There was a pause, and Hilde racked her brains for something to say. “Have you been to Vinland too?”

“No!” said Astrid in a low, curt voice. After a moment she added with reluctance, “Gunnar and I were only married in the fall. He’s an old friend of my father, Grimolf Sigurdsson of Westfold. He came to stay with us, and—I suppose he liked the look of me. I’m his second wife.”

So that’s it. Poor girl. Gunnar looks older than Pa. I’m glad I don’t have to marry an old man just because he’s rich. Aloud Hilde said, “How exciting! And now you can travel with him right across the world.”

But perhaps Astrid could tell what Hilde was thinking. Instead of answering she merely raised a scornful eyebrow. Then she stared at the floor. Hilde pursed her lips in annoyance.

“Not everyone wants to travel across the world, Hilde,” Arnë said with a smile. “Seafaring is hard for women.”

“I’d love to go to Vinland,” said Hilde immediately, determined to show Arnë that whatever most women were like, she was different.

Astrid looked up quickly, but before she or Arnë could reply, the door opened. A half-grown black puppy tumbled in and dashed around the room barking excitedly, followed by Peer’s dog Loki. A cheerful voice called, “Hey, hey, what’s this? Visitors?”

“Ralf,” cried Gudrun. “Get down, Gryla, stop barking! Sigurd, tie your puppy up. Ralf, look who Arnë’s brought to see us!”

The girls were left together. Hilde was about to make an excuse and slip away when Astrid touched her arm, and said stiffly, “Did you mean that? Would you really like to go to Vinland?”

Hilde opened her mouth to give some airy reply. Nothing came out. The warm, stifling world of the farmhouse wrapped around her throat like a tight scarf. She stared at Astrid, choking on the unfairness of it. Here was this awful boring girl, with her grand snooty manners, sailing off to Vinland while Hilde had to stay at home.

She doesn’t know how lucky she is. Oh, if only I had her chance. I want to see something new. I want to go far away. I want to—I want to find Soria Moria Castle, east of the sun and west of the moon!

Astrid was watching her like a cat. “Come with me!” she said.

Hilde made a strangled noise between a laugh and a hiccup. “What?”

“Come with me. Ask your mother. I’ll do my best to help you. I’ll tell Gunnar I want another girl for company. It’s true anyway.And then you’ll be on my side, won’t you?”

“On your s-side?” Hilde stammered, taken aback.

Something flashed at the back of Astrid’s eyes. “Nobody asked me if I wanted to come to Vinland. Nobody asked me if I wanted to marry Gunnar. Well, my father asked, but he certainly wasn’t listening for an answer. He’d already agreed. He wouldn’t insult a man like Gunnar.”

“Was—was there somebody else you liked?”

“There may have been,” said Astrid warily.

“My father would never do that to me,” said Hilde, appalled.

Astrid shrugged. “Lucky you. I thought of putting the cold curse on Gunnar, but someone’s done it already. He’s never warm. See?”

The cold curse? Hilde twisted round. Gunnar, still wrapped in his thick cloak, was hoisting Ralf’s big chair closer to the fire.

Astrid tossed her head. “Anyway, you needn’t feel sorry for me. I’m married, and I’m making the best of it. After all, Gunnar’s a famous man. You’ll never marry anyone half so well known. He treats me well, too. He’s never once struck me. The men say he’s as tough as Tyr, who put his hand in the wolf’s mouth. But he needs me. He has fevers, and sometimes he tries to stay awake because of bad dreams. And he hates being alone in the dark.” Her eyes narrowed. “I haven’t found out why yet, but I will. I know herbs; I know how to mix draughts to give him peaceful sleep. I can wind him round my little finger,” she boasted.

“What about Harald?” asked Hilde.

Astrid gave her a sharp glance. “Don’t be fooled by his looks. His own mother died years ago, so he didn’t mind me at first—he thought I was just a pretty little thing that his father might as well have. Now he knows better, and he’s jealous. What do you think of him?”

“Um. Isn’t he a little bit pleased with himself?”

Astrid laughed. “Oh, yes. There’s no one quite like Harald Silkenhair. Well! You might do.”

“Do?” Hilde decided all over again that she didn’t like Astrid. “What for?”

Astrid raised her eyebrows. “Don’t be like that. We could have fun together.You want to come to Vinland, don’t you? Or was that just talk?” she added scornfully.

“No! I meant it.” Hilde swallowed. “But…”

Astrid seemed to realise that she hadn’t been making a great impression. She looked at Hilde for a moment, as if wondering what to offer her. “I want you to come. Do you like secrets? If we’re going to be friends, I’ll tell you one.”

“Go on,” said Hilde, intrigued in spite of herself.

Astrid hesitated. “Shall I? Remember, I’m taking a risk, I’m trusting you. Are you easily shocked? No? All right, listen.” Her pale eyes opened wide. “There’s troll blood in me. Oh, yes, there is—a long way back perhaps, but it’s there. And I can see things other people can’t.”

“Troll blood?” A fascinated shiver ran down Hilde’s back. “What do you mean?”

Astrid gave her a conspiratorial smile. “What I say.” She leaned close and whispered, “My mother’s mother was the daughter of Thorodd Half-troll, and his mother was a troll out of the Dovrefell. My mother’s dead now. But she passed down all kinds of tricks to me.” She patted her big goatskin bag. “Gunnar thinks this is just herbs and medicines. Well, some of it is, and some of it isn’t.”

Hilde drew back in sudden suspicion. “You’re making it up.”

“Oh, am I?” Astrid looked around, but their low-voiced conversation was easily drowned by loud laughter from the men chatting and joking by the fire. “All right then.” She unbuckled the flap and plunged her arm into the bag. “Hold this.”

She handed Hilde a little square box, yellowish in the dim firelight. Hilde rubbed her fingers over it. It was made of smooth bone or ivory, but there were some scratchings on the lid, runes or patterns. She looked up at Astrid. “Well?”

“Listen to it,” said Astrid. “Put it to your ear.”

Hilde did. The box buzzed. She almost dropped it, and listened again. Yes, when her ear was pressed close, the box was buzzing or humming. Or was it even a sleepy, angry voice, singing or chanting a very, very long way off?

“What’s inside?” Hilde burned with curiosity. She pried at the lid.

“Don’t open it!” Astrid snatched it back. “My mother gave it me. It tells me things. Now do you believe me?”

Looking at Astrid in the flickering firelight, Hilde found she did. There was a slant to her eyes, a play of shadows on the cheekbones that reminded Hilde of the troll princess who lived underneath Troll Fell.

“Does Gunnar know you’ve—got troll blood?” she almost whispered. Astrid smiled, showing a line of sharp little white teeth. “Oh, no, he’s much too shockable. I told you, it’s a secret. He only knows I can do a little seidr—magic. Are you wondering if I’ve got a tail? Don’t worry, I haven’t. But the troll blood’s there. It makes me different. And I can see this, Hilde Ralfsdaughter. Like it or not, you’re coming with us to Vinland.” She pinched Hilde’s arm. “You wait and see. Let’s talk again later.” She walked away to the fire.

Hilde’s fingers prickled from touching the little buzzing box. Her breath came short. A smile of pure excitement curled her lips. The cold curse. Troll blood. Like it or not, you’re coming with us to Vinland. And to think that only a short while ago she had thought Astrid conventional and dull!

Oh, she thought, I do want to go with her. I must!

CHAPTER 4 The Nis Amuses Itself

As Peer came out of the wood there was a rustling and pattering in the bushes: trolls probably, out foraging now that night had fallen. Troll Fell loomed above the farm like a dreaming giant, asleep with his head on his knees. Just over the giant’s shoulder, a scraped-out moon bobbed in a flood of clouds.

Peer hesitated by the farmhouse door. All the way up the track he’d hurried along, imagining Harald picking a quarrel with Ralf, insulting Hilde, frightening the twins. He’d pictured himself striding in to the rescue. But now his imagination failed. Harald had a sword and would use it. It would be no good trying to pull him outside for a fist-fight.

He wished now he’d come home earlier. He could have found Hilde, and told her all about it. And yet…the story made him look such a fool. What if Harald called him Barelegs in front of Hilde? How can I stop him? What shall I do?

“You don’t have to play his games,” Bjørn had said. But Peer had a feeling that Harald was good at pushing people into games they had no wish to play.

Reluctantly he lifted the latch, and something scampered across the yard and mewed at the bottom of the door like a hopeful cat. The Nis—their touchy little house spirit! It must have been accidentally shut out. As the door creaked open he got a glimpse of its beady eyes, skinny outline and little red hat before it shot past his ankles and whizzed up the wall into the rafters.

He closed the door. The room was hot, bright and crowded, the atmosphere unnaturally hushed. Peer’s taut nerves twanged. What’s going on? Trouble?

A strong voice chanted:

“The hound of heaven, the ship-seizer,Hunted us over the wild waters.Weary wanderers, we fled beforeThe wide jaws of the wind-wolf!”

It was Harald, the centre of attention, standing at the long trestle table reciting his poetry to the family. He made a brave sight, gold gleaming at his neck. Everyone listened in apparent admiration. No one had eyes for Peer.

Peer waited by the door, hungry and cross. In full flow, Harald chanted on. It was all about the voyage to Vinland, and he was making it sound pretty stormy and adventurous. Once he caught Peer’s eye, and a faint smirk fled across his face.

Would the poem never end? Was Harald deliberately spinning it out to keep him waiting? Something scuffled overhead. Dust dropped in a fairy cascade. Suppressing a sneeze, Peer rubbed his eyes and saw flickering movement along the roofbeams. It would be the Nis poking about amongst the cobwebs, chasing spiders—one of its favourite games. Good. At least the Nis couldn’t be bothered with Harald Silkenhair!

At last Harald’s voice rose in triumphant climax:

“But our sleek ship, our proud sea-serpent Bore us swiftly to a safe haven,An empty land, fleeced in forests,Land for our labours, land for claiming!”

Everyone but Peer clapped and cheered. Harald flung himself back on the bench, lifted his cup and tossed down a draught of ale. “Great stuff!” roared Ralf, pounding the table. “Grand! ‘Our sleek ship, our proud sea-serpent!’ I’ve always wished I could make poetry. My father could, but I can’t. ‘An empty land, fleeced in forests.’ That’s not right, though. Vinland isn’t empty. There are people there.”

Harald’s laugh was a jeer. “People? You mean the Skraelings?”

Peer didn’t know what a Skraeling was, but nothing would have induced him to ask. He squeezed down the room and reached over Arnë’s shoulder to grab some food. Gudrun smiled at him, and Hilde flipped him a wave, but the benches were full, so he folded himself into a corner near the fire, sitting on the earth floor with his back against one of the big wooden posts that held up the roof. Loki came out from under the table to greet him. Peer pulled him close and fed him a piece of cheese.

Sigurd was asking loudly, “What’s a Skraeling?”

“Skraelings, laddie?” Gunnar set down his horn cup with a crack. “A Skraeling is a wretch, a pitiful rascal. It’s what we call those creatures who live in Vinland. No better than trolls. They live in tents made from bits of tree bark. They dress in skins. Your little sister knows more than the Skraelings do. Why,” he guffawed, “at one place we stopped they were so ignorant that they bartered good furs for a few miserable pieces of red cloth. And when we ran short of cloth, we tore it into thinner and thinner strips, and still the Skraelings paid in furs.”

“That’s not what Pa told us,” said Hilde. Peer nodded agreement. Ralf’s stories had made these people sound like tall forest spirits, flitting between the trees with bright feathers in their black hair.

Ralf said mildly, “I thought they were fine people. And why shouldn’t they barter furs for cloth, if cloth was a rarity? I don’t call that proof of ignorance.”

Gunnar stared as though he wasn’t used to being disagreed with. Gudrun broke in, “But aren’t they dangerous? Isn’t that how you lost your hand, Gunnar—fighting Skraelings?”

“Skraelings? No!” Gunnar’s face darkened. “No. It happened in Westfold before I left. An argument in an ale-house.” Here his wife gave him a cold glance, Peer noticed—perhaps she didn’t approve of ale-house fights. “The man jumped me before I was ready for him. Luckily I had my boy here with me.”

“What did Harald do?” Sigurd asked eagerly.

“Oh, I just cut the fellow’s hair for him. With this,” said Harald with a lazy wink, patting his sword. Sigurd laughed out loud, and Ralf grinned. Astrid studied her nails, and Gudrun shook her head. Peer stared at Harald in deep dislike.

Harald twitched. He brushed at his shoulder, frowning. A moment later he shook his head, combing his fingers through his hair.Then Peer realised.The Nis, perching in the rafters, was amusing itself by dropping things on to Harald’s head—dead spiders and bits of grit and cobwebs. Brilliant! He tousled Loki’s ears, grinning.

“Anyway, tell us about your settlement,” exclaimed Ralf. “What’s it called? What’s it like? And how’s my old friend Thorolf?”

Peer looked up. It would be good to hear news of Thorolf; he remembered him as a tall, pleasant-faced man who had often spoken to his father in the boat sheds at Hammerhaven.

A glance passed between Harald and Gunnar. “We’ve had no news of Thorolf since we left him in Vinland last year,” said Harald, yawning. “Have we, father?”

“How could we?” Gunnar shivered suddenly, and the cup shook and splashed in his hand. He set it down. “Harald’s right. We left him there last year. Haven’t been back since.”

“Ah, then you don’t know what he’s up to now,” Ralf pointed out. “He may have come after you.”

Gunnar mumbled something. Peer, who was sitting near him, saw in surprise that his face was beaded with sweat. He noticed Astrid giving her husband a sharp, curious glance.

Harald shook his hair. “I think we’ll find Thorolf and his men right where we left them,” he said, smiling. “I don’t think he had any plans to leave.”

Ralf leaned forwards, rubbing his hands. “Didn’t he, now? Maybe you’re right. It’s a wonderful land. Those green forests, full of game—the rivers bursting with fish. No wonder Thorolf wants to make a home there. And you, you’re on your way back?”

Harald nodded. “We have two good solid houses in a sheltered bay, with a river running out of the woods, and good anchorage in the river mouth. We named it Serpent’s Bay—because of the two ships, Long Serpent and Water Snake.”

And I suppose that was your clever idea, thought Peer, watching mesmerised as a dried bean bounced off Harald’s shoulder and skittered across the table. Sigurd noticed it this time. He nudged Sigrid, and the pair of them glanced upwards and giggled.

Arnë broke in eagerly. “Ralf, why don’t you come with us? That’s why I brought Gunnar here. He’s looking for another man, and I told him you’ve always talked about another voyage.”

Gudrun, who’d been going round the table with the jug, knocked Arnë’s cup over. Ale washed across the table. Sigrid jumped up for a cloth, but Gudrun stood stock-still, eyes fixed on Ralf.

“Arnë’s right.” Gunnar wiped his face and looked steadier. “It’s like this, Ralf: my old crew split up over the winter. On the profits of the last trip, some of them got married or bought land, and didn’t want to set out again this season. So I’ve been looking for new men. Picked up a couple in Hammerhaven—Arnë for one—but there’s room for another. Interested?” He didn’t wait for Ralf to reply, but went on,”Here’s the plan. Setting out this early, we ought to reach Vinland by midsummer. The Greenlanders will pay anything for good timber, and it’s there for the taking, great tall oaks and pines. Spend the winter trapping—fox and beaver. The place belongs to no one. No kings, no laws. It’s all free. You can carve yourself a piece of land and be absolute master. Think about it. You could come home and buy Gudrun a gold necklace. Or a couple of cows or more land, whatever you like. What do you say?”

“I knew you’d ask,” said Ralf slowly. “I’ve been thinking about it all evening, deciding what to do…”

Gunnar sat back. “Good! Let’s drink to it.”

”…but I’m needed on the farm,” Ralf went on. “Sigurd’s not old enough to manage, and the last time I went away Gudrun had all sorts of trouble with the trolls. I can’t leave her to cope alone.”

Gudrun’s eyes shone, but Gunnar’s whiskered cheeks creased uneasily. “Trolls? You have many trolls here?”

Ralf laughed, and waved his hand. “We live on Troll Fell, Gunnar.”

“Trolls.” Gunnar shuddered. “I hate ‘em. Unnatural vermin.”

Astrid seemed to stir. Her lips parted, but before she could speak another dried bean dropped from the rafters, splashing into Harald’s cup as he lifted it to his lips. Harald threw down the cup.

“That’s enough, you!” He pointed at Peer, who scrambled to his feet. “Do you think I’m going to put up with this?”

Everyone stared. Harald put his hands on the table and leaned forward menacingly. “You’ve been throwing beans at me, haven’t you, Barelegs? And you think it’s funny?”

“I didn’t do anything,” said Peer, seriously alarmed.

“It wasn’t Peer!” Sigrid cried.

“No. There’s something dodging about in the roof,” said Astrid, to Peer’s great surprise. Most people couldn’t see the Nis.

Everyone looked up into the smoky dark roof-space, cluttered with fishing nets, strings of onions, old hay-rakes and scythes.

The Nis flung down its fistful of beans. A stinging shower rattled on to Harald’s upturned face, and as he cursed and ducked, the Nis followed it up by bouncing some small wrinkled apples off his back. Then it could be heard drumming its heels against the beam, and sniggering: “Tee-hee-hee!”

Astrid’s face sharpened into a triangular smile. “There it is!” she breathed, fixing her eyes on a spot above Harald’s head. The sniggering broke off.

“Where?” Harald spun round, golden hair spraying out. He dragged out his sword and angled it up, craning his neck to see into the rafters.

Everyone leaped to their feet. The dogs began barking. “Put that sword away,” called Ralf. “Someone’ll get hurt!”

“No swords in this house!” cried Gudrun.

“My apologies,” said Harald between his teeth. “There’s something up there. Stand back, and let me deal with it.” He put a foot on the bench, obviously preparing to spring up on to the table. Peer heard a frightened squeak from the Nis.

“There it goes!” Peer shot out his arm and pointed. “Look, a troll! Running along that rafter, can’t you see?” His finger followed the imaginary troll from beam to beam. “It’s over the fire—oh!” He let his arm drop.

“What? Where?” gasped Gudrun, half-convinced.

“It went out through the smoke-hole,” said Peer with disappointment in his voice.

“Then it’s on the roof.” Harald sprang for the door, Arnë and Gunnar and the dogs close behind him. Ralf followed more slowly, giving Peer the flicker of a wink.

Peer thought he had better dash for the door, too. He caught Hilde’s eye and said loudly, “Let’s hope they catch it!” Hilde was laughing silently.

The twins were already crowding outside, while Gudrun tried to pull them back: “Harald’s got a sword out there!”

Then the wind was fresh on Peer’s face. The moon skimmed between the clouds like a stone skipping over water, filling the yard with scuttling shadows. Harald was making Arnë give him a leg up on to the farmhouse’s thick turf roof. Gunnar stood squarely in the patch of light from the open door, squinting up under his good hand. “Go on, son,” he shouted. “A roof’s no place to hide. We’ll not be fooled by that again…”

“I never thought he could have climbed up,” said Harald over his shoulder.

What were they talking about? Peer looked at Ralf, who shrugged and said in a low voice, “I guess they’ve had adventures before.”

Harald walked along the roof ridge, sword in hand, a sinister silhouette against the sky. The moonlight silvered his blowing hair. Peer shivered suddenly, and Ralf too must have felt uncomfortable about this prowling figure on his own roof, for he called out, “It’s gone; you’ve missed it. Come on down.”

But the dogs, who had been running about eagerly with their noses down, began to bark and growl, and make little dashes at a blackly-shadowed corner of the yard near the cowshed.

“Don’t tell me they’ve found a real troll,” Ralf muttered. He crossed the yard in a couple of quick strides, Peer beside him, Gunnar close behind.

In the angle of the wall was a crawling darkness the size of a small child. “Gods!” Gunnar’s voice clotted with horror. “Look at that. Where’s its head?”

Peer’s skin prickled. Then he saw the troll had merely crouched down, wrapping skinny arms protectively over its head. Its bare flanks gleamed dimly like oiled leather. There was a sound of chewing, and a strong stink of old herrings. So it had been robbing the fish-drying racks!

Ralf clapped his hands. “Go on! Get out of here! Shoo!” he shouted.

A pair of luminous green eyes winked open. The troll gaped in threat, and produced a dry, frightening hiss, accompanied by an even stronger smell of fish. Ralf dragged the dogs away by their collars. “Stand back, Peer—give it a chance to run.”

Behind them, Harald leaped into the yard. He staggered, touching a hand to the ground to steady himself; then he was up, his naked blade glinting. “Out of my way!” he shouted, running at the troll.

The round green eyes scrunched into terrified half-moons. The troll dived away, fat sides pumping, long bald tail curving and switching. It scrambled around the corner of the cowshed. But Harald was faster. He threw himself forward and stamped down heavily on its tail, jerking it to a halt. The troll tugged and writhed to get free, squealing dreadfully. “Let it go! Let it go!” Ralf shouted. But Harald struck.

As the blow flashed down, the troll gave a final desperate wrench, and leaped crazily up the hillside as if shot from a catapult, leaving its narrow, tapering tail thrashing horribly under Harald’s boot. There was a sickening smell of stale armpits and rotten eggs.

Harald leaped back in disgust and slammed his sword into its sheath. Ralf and Arnë broke out coughing, and the dogs whined, wiping their noses on their paws. With a shiver of loathing, Gunnar turned away from the jerkily wriggling tail. Peer rubbed a hand over his eyes. What had he and the Nis begun?

“I need a drink after that,” said Ralf drily. He held open the farmhouse door and nodded for everyone to go in.

Gudrun, the twins and Hilde and Astrid clustered around the door.

“Was there really a troll?”

“What happened?”

“What was that noise?”

“Poof!” Sigurd clutched his nose. “What’s that awful smell?”

“There was a troll, all right,” Peer said to Hilde.

“Harald was so fast,” said Arnë in admiration. “What a warrior! He nearly got it!”

“He got its tail,” said Peer with bitter sarcasm.

Soft-hearted Sigrid gasped. “Oh, the poor thing! Oh, that must have hurt so much! Will it be all right?”

“It will grow a new one,” Hilde soothed her.

Harald overheard. “Yes, a pity,” he said to Hilde lightly. “Your little brother wanted me to kill a troll, didn’t he? How the tales do come to life!”

“Why didn’t you let the dogs pull it down?” Gunnar growled at Ralf. “You could have nailed the head to your barn door to scare the others. Like hanging up a dead crow. The best way to deal with vermin.”

Ralf poured himself a cup of ale, and pushed the jug towards Gunnar and Harald. He looked as if he was struggling for words. “I didn’t want it killed,” he said at last, politely enough. “The trolls may be a nuisance, but they’re our neighbours, Gunnar. We’ve got to live here with them. We’ve all got to get along.”

“Get along with trolls?” Gunnar showed a set of brownish teeth through his bristly beard. “Root ‘em up, smoke ‘em out.That’s what I’d do.”

Peer thought of the labyrinthine passages underneath Troll Fell. Smoke ‘em out? We’d have hundreds of trolls down on us like angry bees.

Gunnar sat down suddenly. His chest heaved. “Anyway,” he got out between harsh breaths, “what about my offer? Be a man. Come with us.”

Ralf and Gudrun looked at each other. She dropped on to the bench beside him, and he reached across and squeezed her hand. “No, I can’t,” he said firmly. “But ask in the village. Maybe there’s someone there who wants to go.”

Gunnar gave him a black look. “I see I’ve wasted my time. Arnë swore you’d come, that’s all. Well, I warn you, if the wind’s right, we’ll be leaving tomorrow. I won’t lose a good wind in the sailing season. After tomorrow it’ll be too late to change your mind.”

Ralf shrugged. Peer beat his fist on his knee in silent satisfaction. Good for Ralf! We don’t want anything to do with them, any of them!

Hilde stood up. “Ma, Pa…”

Peer saw her resolute face and his heart stopped. He knew what was coming.

“Astrid wants me to come to Vinland with her. And I’d like to go!”

The shocked silence stretched…and stretched. With a rustle, a half-burned log shifted in the fire like a sleepy dragon. Its bright underbelly flaked, shedding golden scales which dimmed and died.

Gudrun found her voice. “Hilde, you can’t go to Vinland. It’s ridiculous.”

“It’s not,” said Hilde. “Astrid is going, so why shouldn’t I?”

“But Astrid is married,” exclaimed Gudrun.

“And I’d be with her.What’s wrong with that?”

Gudrun spun round. “Ralf—say something!”

“Hold on, hold on.” Ralf tried to sound soothing. “Hilde, your Ma doesn’t like this idea, and I can’t say I blame her…”

Peer stopped listening. He knew Hilde would get her own way. She would go to Vinland, without him.There’d be no news. He’d miss her every day, but he’d never know if she got there safely, or when she was coming back. When Ralf had sailed away years ago, they hadn’t known if he was alive or dead until the day he came home.

He felt someone’s gaze, looked up and saw Harald watching him.

“Gudrun, I know you’re worried,” Astrid’s cool voice cut across the hubbub, “but please, please let Hilde come.” Her eyes opened, wide and pleading. “We’ve made friends already. I swear we’ll be just like sisters.” She laid one hand on Gunnar’s shoulder. “Gunnar wouldn’t take me if it wasn’t safe.”

Gunnar grasped her hand. “Of course it will be safe,” he declared.

“See!” Hilde turned to Gudrun. “If it’s safe for Astrid, it’s safe for me.”

“Hilde, be quiet!” Gudrun was red and flustered. “Your father and I will judge what’s safe.”

“Why should I be quiet?” Hilde flared up. “It’s so unfair! You expect me to stay at home, don’t you, and—and drudge all my life? Now I’ve got this chance—Vinland, Vinland—and you won’t let me go…”

Gudrun dropped back on to the bench and put her hands over her eyes. “You know,” Ralf said to Gudrun, as quietly as if no one was listening. “Hilde’s like me. She wants to see the world a bit. She’s nearly grown up. This is the chance of a lifetime for her, Gudrun. I think we should let her go.”

“But it’s so dangerous!” Gudrun looked up in tears. “All that sea—and when they get to Vinland, those Skraeling creatures, creeping about in the woods…”

“It’s dangerous here, too,” said Hilde more calmly. “Trolls under the fell, and Granny Greenteeth down in the millpond, and lubbers in the woods. If I’ve survived all those, I daresay I’ll survive a few Skraelings.”

“That’s true,” Ralf said to Gudrun. “She’ll be safe enough. Gunnar’s a sound skipper and the sort of man who—well, who looks after his friends. And when they get to Vinland, there’s Thorolf; I’d trust him anywhere. And now I come to think of it, Thorolf’s little son must be in Vinland with him. Ottar, he’s called. He’s about the same age as Sigurd. Isn’t that right, Gunnar? Is Ottar there?”

“Of course,” said Harald, before Gunnar could answer. “Remember Ottar, Father, the day we left? Climbing on to the roof of the house and waving to us?”

Gunnar grinned and nodded.

“His little boy is there?” asked Gudrun doubtfully.

Hilde flung her arms around her mother and gave her a squeeze. “Oh, please, Ma, let me go. Please?”

Gudrun faltered. It was hard for her to resist this sudden embrace.

Peer took a breath. He ought to tell Gudrun and Ralf everything he knew about Harald. Surely they would never let Hilde sail away with someone who had forced a quarrel on him, and threatened him with a sword. And yet…Hilde wanted to go so very badly, and he loved her for it—for being herself, adventurous and brave. How could he wreck her chances?

“Oh, Hilde.” Gudrun’s voice trembled. “How can we let you go when we don’t know these people? Of course, they seem splendid, and I can see that Astrid ought to have another woman with her, but…” She stopped and tried again. “If your father had been going, he could have looked after you, but as it is—”

“Ma, you do know Arnë,” pleaded Hilde.

“Arnë isn’t one of the family,” said Gudrun desperately.

Peer’s heart pounded. He looked across the table and met Harald’s bright, amused, contemptuous stare. He saw himself through those eyes—Someone who builds boats, but never sails in them. Someone who won’t take chances. Someone who might dream about crossing the sea, but would never do it. Someone who’d stay behind while Hilde sails away.

“I’ll go with her,” he said.

Hilde swung round with wide, incredulous eyes. “You, Peer?”

Ralf gave him a long, steady stare. “You really mean this, Peer?” he asked gravely. “You’ll take care of Hilde? You’ll look after her?”

“Yes.” It was like swearing an oath: the most serious thing he’d ever done. He didn’t know how he’d manage, but he’d do it, or die trying. “I will. Don’t worry, Ralf. Gudrun, I promise I’ll bring her home again.”

There was a moment’s silence. Then Ralf gave Peer a tiny nod, and looked at Gudrun. With an enormous sniff, Gudrun nodded too.

“Thank you! Oh, thank you!” Hilde nearly danced on the spot.Then she threw herself at Peer and hugged him. “Oh, Peer, I never thought you might want to come too. But you do, and it’s perfect—absolutely perfect!”

She let him go. He looked dizzily around the room. No one else seemed very happy. Arnë was scowling. Harald lifted an ironic eyebrow. Gunnar frowned. “Who is this?” He jabbed his thumb at Peer as though he’d quite forgotten meeting him on the jetty. “What use will he be to me? Why should I take him on my ship?”

And Hilde said cheerfully, pulling him forward with her arm around him: “Oh, this is Peer. He’s terribly useful. He can do anything with wood. His father was a boat builder. He’s helped Bjørn make a new faering. And he’s my brother. He’s my foster brother!”

CHAPTER 5 The Journey Begins

Peer opened his eyes and saw a dark roof-space criss-crossed with sunbeams like golden scaffolding. Straw prickled under him. To one side of him was a plank partition. Behind the planks something large was champing and stirring.

Slowly he remembered. He and the twins were sleeping in the cowshed to leave more room for the guests. “Do you mind, Peer?” Gudrun had whispered last night. He’d minded very much, but of course he’d lied and said he didn’t.

He remembered more, and a pit of dread opened in his stomach. What had he done? Had he really promised to go away for an unknown period of time, on a strange ship, to a strange land? Spring was on the way. He’d been looking forward to seeing the lambs being born, watching the barley come up, rowing out of the fjord with Bjørn and Sigurd to gather seagulls’ eggs from the islands. Now all that would go on without him.

He sat up. On mounded straw between him and the door, the twins slept, cocooned in blankets. Behind the partition, Bonny the cow swung up her head, rolled a large brown eye at him, and returned to munching and breathing and switching her tail. From a warm nest in the straw beside him, Loki got up, stretching and yawning.

Peer stared at his dog in dismay. How could I have forgotten him? But is it fair to take him on a ship, for weeks at sea?

Loki lifted a paw and scraped at Peer’s arm, probably hoping for breakfast. Peer took it, feeling the dog’s pads rough on his fingers. “Loki, old fellow,” he murmured. “What shall we do? Do you want to come with me?” Loki’s tail hit the ground, once, twice.

“Good boy!” Peer hugged him. He was fooling himself, and he knew it: Loki always wagged his tail when Peer spoke to him. But he didn’t care. He could never leave Loki behind.

At least that was decided. He lay back in the straw, stared upwards, and wished he could carry on sleeping—that today need never start—that he didn’t have to remember what Hilde had said last night. Peer’s my brother.

He burrowed under the blanket, trying to dive back into sleep and escape the aching throb of the memory. A brother! A safe, dependable brother, to be relied on and ignored. Didn’t Hilde know how he felt about her?

Perhaps not: he’d been so careful to keep things friendly all year. Perhaps she thought he’d got over it. He wished he’d kissed her again, even if she’d been angry. He wished he’d tried.

Oh, what was the use? Peer’s my brother! It was hopeless.

“Psst,” came a piercing whisper. “Peer! Are you awake?”

He raised his hot face from the crackling straw and saw Sigrid sitting up, arms wrapped neatly round her knees.

“Are you really going away to Vinland, Peer?”

“Looks like it,” he said gloomily.

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

“But Hilde wants to, and I’ve promised to go with her.”

“Oh, Hilde,” said Sigrid crossly. “Why do you always do what she wants?”

“I don’t!” He thought about it. “Do I?”

“Yes, you do.” Sigrid sat up straighter and wagged her finger at him. Peer almost smiled, but she was quite serious. “You’ve got to be tougher, Peer. Sometimes Hilde ought to do what you want.”

Peer stared at her, speechless, until Sigrid wriggled and said, “What?”

“You’re a very clever girl, Siggy,” he said slowly. “And you are absolutely right!”

She beamed with surprised pleasure, and Peer threw back his blankets. “Time to get up!” And he pulled open the creaking cowshed door and stuck his head out.

The morning was sunny, but a wind with ice in its teeth blew down from the mountains. A seagull tilted overhead, dark against the blue and white sky, then bright against the hillside as it went sweeping off down the valley. Peer watched it. A fair wind for sailing west. So we really are leaving. Today.

But Sigrid’s simple words had acted like magic. He set his jaw. I’ve messed about long enough, trying to be whatever Hilde wants. From now on, I’ll act the way I feel!

He stepped out, alive and determined, and nearly trod on something shrivelled and whip-like lying by the corner of the cowshed. Loki ran to sniff at it, and backed off, sneezing. It was the troll’s tail. Peer poked it with his foot, and when it didn’t move, he picked it up gingerly by the tip. It was heavier and bonier than he’d expected, and cold to the touch. He threw it on the dung heap with a shudder. A rusty smear stained the bare earth where the tail had lain. Blood. He scuffed dirt over it so that Sigrid would not see, and went on into the house.

Gudrun and Hilde were sorting out clothes. Peer put away his faint hope that Hilde might have changed her mind. Astrid sat like a queen in Ralf’s big chair, watching them. She had little Elli on her knee, and was letting the baby play with a bunch of keys that dangled from her belt, jigging her up and down and humming some strange little song that rose and fell. Ralf, Gunnar and Harald were nowhere to be seen.

“Peer! Eat something quickly. Gunnar wants to catch the morning tide.” Gudrun’s voice was brittle.

“The men have gone down to the ship. Gunnar wants to load up more food and fresh water. We’re going to follow as soon as we can,” Hilde added. She glanced at Gudrun guiltily, but Peer could tell she was bursting with excitement.

“I don’t know.” Gudrun bundled up a big armful of cloaks, shifts and dresses. “You’d better just take everything. Peer, you can have some of Ralf’s winter things. You’ve grown so much this year. I was going to make new clothes for you, but now—” She broke off, folding her lips tight.

“Where’s Eirik?” asked Peer.

“Pa took him along to show him the ship,” said Hilde. “It would have been tricky to manage him and Elli and the baggage too. And of course Ma wants to come down to the ship as well because—” She stopped.

But for once Peer wasn’t interested in sparing Hilde’s feelings. He completed the sentence for her: “You mean, because she wants to say goodbye?”

Hilde flushed. There was a moment when no one spoke, and in the interval they heard Astrid singing to Elli, clapping the baby’s hands together at the end of each line:

”Two little children on a summer’s night,Went to the well in the pale moonlight.The lonely moon-man, spotted and oldScooped them up in his arms so cold. They live in the moon now, high in the air.When you are old and grey, darling,They’ll still be there.”

“I’ll take her, shall I?” Peer almost snatched Elli away from Astrid.

“What a strange rhyme,” said Gudrun nervously.

Astrid looked up: “It’s one my mother used to sing. What a lovely baby Elli is. Why has she got webbed fingers?”

“She’s Bjørn’s daughter,” Peer snapped, as though that explained it. His friend’s tragic marriage with a seal-woman was none of Astrid’s business.

Gudrun must have thought so too, for she said, clearing her throat, “Now, I wonder where the Nis is. I haven’t seen it this morning.”

Peer made a startled, warning gesture towards Astrid. But Hilde shook her head. “It’s all right, Astrid knows.”

“Knows about the Nis?” Peer looked at Astrid in suspicious astonishment.

“I saw it,” Astrid said. “I knew it wasn’t a troll. And don’t worry, I haven’t told Harald.” She gave him a sweet smile. “You’re a good liar, aren’t you, Peer? You fooled Gunnar and Harald, anyway. But not me. I asked Hilde, and she told me it was a Nis. I even put its food down last night—Gudrun showed me how after everyone went to bed. It likes groute, doesn’t it? Barley porridge with a dab of butter? And then it does the housework.”

“Or not,” said Gudrun,” as the case may be.” She put her hands on her hips. “Well, if Gunnar wants you on that boat before noon, we’d better move.”

There seemed mountains of stuff to load on to the pony. “We’ll never need all this, surely?” Hilde laughed.

“I’m sure you will,” said her mother grimly.

“What’s this?” Peer picked up a tightly rolled sausage of woollen fabric.

“That’s a sleeping sack,” said Gudrun. “Big enough for two. It’s for you, Peer—we’ve only the one, and Astrid says she’ll share hers with Hilde. Ralf used it last, when he went a-Viking.”

“Thank you, Gudrun,” Peer said with gratitude. He hadn’t thought about Loki. He hadn’t thought about sleeping arrangements. What else had he missed?

“My tools—I’d better bring them.” He dashed back into the empty house and looked around, caught by the strangeness of it all. Would he ever come back?

“Nis,” he called quietly, and then, using the little creature’s secret name, “Nithing? Are you there?” He listened. Nothing rustled or scampered. No inquisitive nose came poking out over the roofbeams. “Nis?”

Perhaps it was curled up somewhere, fast asleep after the shocks and excitement of last night. “I’m going,” he called, raising his voice. “Goodbye, Nis…I’m going away. Look after the family.” Again he waited, but only silence followed. “Till we meet again,” he ended forlornly.

He picked up his heavy wooden toolbox and went out, closing the door behind him. The pony lowered its head and snorted indignantly as this last load was strapped on.

“On guard!” said Gudrun to grey-muzzled old Alf, who settled down in front of the doorstep, ears pricked. Hilde carried Elli. Astrid was wrapped in her blue cloak again, shoulder braced against the weight of her bulging goatskin bag.

Peer held out his hand. “Give that to me, Astrid. I’ll carry it for you.”

“No!” Astrid clutched the strap. “I’ll carry it myself. It’s quite light.”

It looked heavy to Peer, but he didn’t care enough to insist. “Are we ready, then? Off we go.”

Through the wood and downhill to the old wooden bridge—each twist of the path so familiar, Peer could have walked it with his eyes shut. Past the ruined mill, where a whiff of burning still lingered in the damp air, and into the trees again. On down the long slope, till they came to the handful of shaggy little houses that made up Trollsvik. They swished through the prickly grass of the sand-dunes and dropped down on to the crunching shingle.

The fjord was blue-grey; beyond the shelter of the little harbour it was rough with white caps. Short, stiff waves followed one another in to land, turning over and collapsing abruptly on to the pebbles. And there was the ship, Water Snake, bare mast towering over the little jetty, forestay and backstay making a great inverted “V”. It was a shock to see her, somehow—so real, so—

“So big!” Gudrun gasped.

Astrid stopped, her cloak flapping in the wind. Her face was sombre, and she braced her shoulders. “Here we go again!”

Most of the village was there on the shore, trying to sell things to Gunnar. “Chickens—you’ll want more chickens. Fresh eggs and meat for the voyage!” That was old Thorkell, gripping a couple of hens by their legs and brandishing them, flapping, in Gunnar’s face. The jetty bristled with people, onlookers jostling against cursing sailors who were manhandling barrels of fresh water and provisions into the ship.

There was Harald, his long hair clubbed back in a ponytail, heaving barrels and crates around with the crew. Peer’s eyebrows rose in grudging respect: he’d thought Harald too much the “young lord” to bother with real work. He noticed with relief that neither Harald nor Gunnar were wearing swords this morning. That would even things out a bit. Of course, those long steel swords would rust so easily; they’d be packed away in greased wool for the voyage. I suppose they got them out yesterday to impress us all, he thought sourly.

Ralf and Arnë came to unload the pony. Ralf seized Hilde. “Are you sure about this?” he asked. And before Peer could hear her reply, somebody grabbed him, too, and swung him round.

It was Bjørn, a tight frown on his face. “What on earth are you doing?” he demanded. “How can you think of sailing with Harald?”

Peer’s gaze slid past Bjørn’s shoulder to where Hilde was standing with Ralf. “I’ll be all right, Pa,” she was saying in an earnest voice. “I really, truly want to go.”

“Ah,” said Bjørn. “So this is Hilde’s idea, is it? I might have known.”

“Not entirely,” said Peer, blushing.

Bjørn shook him. “I thought we were going to work together. I thought you wanted to build boats, like your father.”

“I do.” Peer touched the silver ring he always wore, his most treasured possession. It had been his father’s, and it never left his finger. He added earnestly, “And I do want to work with you, Bjørn. When I come back—”

“When you come back!” Bjørn exploded. “If you come back! Peer, this is no fishing trip. Whatever they say, Gunnar and his men are Vikings, and that ship is—is like a spark from a bonfire that goes floating off, setting trouble alight wherever it lands.” He added wryly, “Well, I’m not usually so poetical. But you see what I mean?”

“Yes,” said Peer. “But your brother’s going, isn’t he? This is a trading voyage, not a Viking raid. Gunnar has his wife with him. He’s not going to fight anyone in Vinland, he’s just going to cut down trees for a cargo of timber. Besides—”

He broke off. Who am I trying to convince? And yet he still felt the unexpected longing that had squeezed his heart yesterday evening as he looked westwards from the stern of Water Snake. “Bjørn,” he said awkwardly, “the very last ship my father worked on, the Long Serpent, she’s in Vinland now. Think of it, she sailed all that way! He’d have been so proud of that. I’d like to follow after her, just once. I’d like to find Thorolf and say, ‘Remember me? I’m the son of the man who built your ship.’”

Bjørn began to speak, then shook his head.They stood looking at each other for a moment, while the gulls screamed and circled, and the men shouted on the jetty.

“One thing you should know,” Bjørn said at last. “Gunnar’s own men have been gossiping that he and Harald killed a man in Westfold and had to run for it. No wonder they’re on their way back to Vinland.”

“But that’s no secret,” said Peer. “He told us about it. That’s when he lost his hand. It was self-defence. The other man started it.”

“You mean, the same way you ‘started’ that fight with Harald yesterday?”

“You might be right,” said Peer after a pause. “But I won’t back out now.”

Bjørn sighed. “Arnë won’t change his mind, either. He’s always been crazy, but I thought you had sense.Well, stick together.” He caught Peer’s expression. “You can trust Arnë. You know him. But keep out of Harald’s beautiful hair.” He clapped Peer on the back. “Maybe you’ll come back rich! And now we’d better go and lend a hand—before Gunnar decides you’re nothing but a useless passenger.”

“Don’t touch the sail,” Astrid said to Hilde. “That red colour comes off all over your clothes.”

“Where shall I go?” Hilde looked around, wondering where she could sit. The ship was full of scrambling seamen.

“Just try and keep out of their way.” Astrid perched on a barrel, forward of the mast, and began to tie her hair up in a headscarf. “It’ll be better when we’re sailing.”

“Mind out, Miss.” One of the men pushed past Hilde. “Here, you, son”—this was to Peer—“give me a hand with these oars.”

Hilde craned her neck to see if Ma and Pa were still watching. Of course they were. She gave them a desperate little wave. This is awful. If only we could just get going.

A rope flipped past her ears. Arnë jumped down into the ship and pushed off aft. Bjørn tossed another rope down to him. Harald took the tiller. A gap of water opened between the ship and the jetty. Hilde stared at it. It was only a stride wide. She could step over that easily if she wanted.

With a heavy wooden clatter, the oars went out through the oar holes—only three on each side, but Water Snake was moving steadily away. For a moment longer the gap was still narrow enough to jump—then, finally and for ever, too wide.

Pa’s arm lifted. Sigurd and Sigrid waved, and she heard them yelling, “Goodbye, goodbye!” Even Eirik opened and closed his fingers, and Sigrid was flapping Elli’s arm up and down. But Ma didn’t move. Hilde raised her own arm and flailed it madly.

Too late to say the things she should have said. I love you. I’ll miss you all so much. Too late to change her mind. Ma, please wave…

And at last Gudrun’s hand came slowly up. She waved, and as long as Hilde watched she continued to wave across the broadening water, till the jetty and all the people on it dwindled with distance to the size of little dark ants.

Hilde blinked, carefully, so as not to spill tears down her cheeks. Her throat ached from not crying. She turned a stiff neck to look round at the ship: her new world, her new home.

And there was Peer, wrenching away at one of the oars. He looked up and caught her eye, and gave her an odd lopsided smile, and she knew that he knew just how she was feeling.

It’s going to be all right, she thought, comforted.

“Oars in,” Gunnar bellowed. “Up with the sail!”

Thankfully Peer dragged his long oar back through the oar hole. Water Snake began to see-saw, pitching and rolling over steep, choppy waves. He laid the wet oar on top of the others in a rattling pile, and went scrambling down to the stern to help haul up the sail.

“Hey—up! Hey—up!” Each heave lifted the heavy yard a foot or two higher. When it was halfway up the mast, Arnë yanked the lacing to unfurl the sail, and swag upon swag of hard-woven, greasy fabric dropped across the ship. “Haul!” Up went the sail again, higher and higher, opening out like a vast red hand to blot out the sky and half the horizon: a towering square of living, struggling, flapping cloth. The men on the braces hauled the yard round, fighting for control. The sail tautened and filled, and the ship sped forwards so suddenly that Peer had to catch at the shrouds to keep his balance.

“Good work!” shouted Gunnar. He seemed glad to be at sea again: his face had a healthier colour; he straddled forwards, his good hand on Harald’s shoulder to help his balance, bad arm tucked under his cloak.

“Right, lads, listen up! Some of us are old friends already. Magnus, Floki, Halfdan…” His eye roamed across the men, who grinned or nodded as he named them. “Anything you others want to know about me, ask them—but don’t believe more than half of it. The way I like to run things is this: you jump when I say jump, and we’ll get along fine. We’re going a long way together, and if you don’t like the idea, you’d better start swimming.” He bared his teeth ferociously, and the men laughed. “I lost my hand a few weeks ago. But if anyone thinks that makes me less of a man, just speak up now.” The men glanced at each other. No one spoke. “We’re going to Vinland, boys, and we’ll come back rich! That’s all, except—we’re the crew of the Water Snake, we are, and there isn’t a better ship on the sea!”

The men cheered. Even Peer felt a stirring in his blood. The crew of the Water Snake—sailing to Vinland, across the world!

Waves smacked into the prow. Spray sprinkled his face. The dragonhead nodded and plunged. They were out of the fjord already, and the wind was strengthening.

He looked back. There was the familiar peak of Troll Fell, piebald with snow-streaks, but behind it other mountains jostled into view, trying to get a good look at Water Snake as she sailed out. As the ship drew further and further away, the details vanished, and it became more and more difficult to pick out Troll Fell from amongst its rivals, until at last they all merged and flattened into a long blue smudge of coastline.

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