The Eye of the Viking God Read online

  Contents

  Chapter One Fleece

  Chapter Two Odin’s Eye

  Chapter Three The Traveller

  Chapter Four Accident

  Chapter Five Sacrifice

  Chapter Six Flight

  Chapter Seven The Boat

  Chapter Eight Home

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  Fleece

  Norway, 793

  The girl had no name. She had been snatched from her family when she was a small child and had never known what her father and mother had called her.

  She had been taken by the Viking raiders to be a slave back on their ice-blown, grey-grassed, mud-pathed, stony-field village across the sea. They had thrown her in the bottom of their longboat. She was too shocked to cry. If she died on the cold sea journey, she died, the Vikings said.

  But the girl lived and was kept as a slave by one of the raiders, a Viking farmer. The farmer let her eat scraps from his table. He made her feed the chickens and gather firewood. She slept in the loft of his barn with the warmth of the cows below to keep her warm.

  The farmer’s family hardly ever spoke to her. Sometimes the small, round-faced, spiteful son shouted at her.

  “Fetch me some bread and cheese. Understand, English slave? Bread. Cheese. Fast. Or I beat you with my stick.”

  His name was Sigurd, and he was about her age.

  When the girl grew older, she was sent out into the bleak boulders of the hills to look after the sheep and lambs. She built herself a small hut from rocks for shelter. It was high on the hill, and looked down on the village below and over the sea towards England and the home she had forgotten.

  When an old sheep died, the girl skinned it with a sharp stone and made herself a coat to keep out the winter winds. She wore it with the wool on the inside and was the only person in the village to have such a coat. They called her ‘Fleece-girl’ and then ‘Fleece’. Now the girl had a name. Of sorts.

  In the summer, the warriors sailed away in three longboats the villagers had built. Before the autumn gales arrived, they returned with stolen corn, cows and sheep. Sometimes they had golden crosses and silver cups, which they’d taken from the monks, they said.

  That last autumn they had returned with barrels of honey-wine the English monks had made.

  Sigurd had sneered at the girl. “We are having a great feast in the hall tonight. I’ll be there. We’ll roast a whole ox and drink the English honey-wine. If you are good, I may save you a bone to chew on. Would you like that, Fleece?”

  “Yes, Master Sigurd,” she said quietly. If she didn’t call him ‘master’ he would kick her till she ached.

  “Now go and gather wood from the hills. We’ll be having a huge fire to roast that ox. I will eat and eat till my belly is stuffed,” he smirked.

  Fleece turned and went to fetch a sledge. She would load it high with broken branches and drag it over the rocky paths back to the village.

  Some warriors wandered through the village and she had to step aside to let them pass. If she didn’t, they’d slap her with their swords. It would hurt her more than Sigurd with his soft-booted feet. They were huge men with arms thicker than any branch she could lift. Their beards were ragged and matted, their bodies smelled of stale sweat and fish. Their eyes were colder than the North Sea.

  Fleece ran to the hills.

  Chapter Two

  Odin’s Eye

  That night, Fleece was told to serve at the feast.

  “I’ll be watching you,” Sigurd hissed, as she passed his table. “Take one crumb from the plates you’re serving and I’ll have you thrown into the sea.”

  The girl gave a single nod and carried on running from the tables to where the cooks were carving the meat.

  The ox was on a pole over the fire. It took two boys to turn the animal as it sizzled and dropped oozing fat into the fire pit below. Slaves waited with wooden plates ready to be filled with food.

  As Fleece hurried to serve Sigurd, a huge hand reached out to grab her wrist. “I’ll have that plate, slave,” the man said.

  His fair hair and beard were as greasy as the ox and his pale eyes sparkled in the light of the flickering torches. It was Askold, the warrior chief. Fleece passed him the plate. He tore at a piece of meat with one hand and held a drinking cup in the other.

  Fleece hurried back to the fire to take a new plate to Sigurd. The boy passed her a rib bone. “There you are, slave girl,” he said. “There is your payment.” The boy’s eyes were as damp as the stream that ran through the river. He had been supping at the honey-wine and it was dribbling from the corner of his mouth.

  Fleece tucked the rib bone into a small pocket she had made in her coat. There was a great crash from the table behind her. Askold had slammed his sword onto the table and risen to his feet. The other Vikings fell quiet.

  “A tale,” the warrior chief demanded. “Let the poet begin!” He sat down heavily, spilling his cup of wine.

  A thin old man walked slowly to the end of the hall as the Vikings cheered. He stood on a small platform and looked around. “What is it to be?” he asked.

  “Odin!” someone cried out, and the crowd cheered.

  Fleece sat on the earth floor by the platform. No one would be eating while the poet told his tale … which was Fleece’s favourite.

  The poet began to chant the story of the great Viking god Odin.

  “And the god he came to the Wisdom Well

  That stood in the land of the giants.

  He was dressed like a traveller, in cloak of blue,

  And in his hand a wooden staff.

  A giant stood guard at the Wisdom Well

  He would not let great Odin drink

  Unless he gave a single eye

  And let it fall in the water deep.”

  Fleece was warmed by the fire, but she shuddered because she knew what came next.

  Odin let the giant pluck out an eye and then he drank the magical water. As he drank, the god saw the past, the present and the future. He saw all the sorrows and troubles that would fall upon both men and gods.

  When the tale was ended, Askold rose to his feet and held his wine cup out to be filled. Slaves hurried round the hall to fill the cups. Fleece carried a jug to Sigurd, but the boy had already fallen asleep.

  “Praise to the great god Odin,” Askold cried, “who gave his eye so he could drink from the well of wisdom and make sure the Vikings would rule the world!”

  The Vikings cheered till the reed roof shook. They drank till all the barrels were running dry and one by one they fell asleep in the smoky air.

  Chapter Three

  The Traveller

  The cockerel crowed next morning. Fleece jumped up from the straw and hurried down the ladder. She gathered a handful of corn and fed the chickens. Then she collected the eggs. There were more than usual this morning. She cracked one and swallowed it whole.

  Fleece clutched the rib bone in her pocket. She would have that as a special treat when she’d done her morning’s work. Her mouth became wet at the smell and thought of eating meat. She placed the rest of the eggs in a basket inside the empty farmhouse.

  The village was quiet. No smoke rose from the chimneys and no women rushed to milk the cows. Even the dogs were silent, feeling fat and sleepy with the bones from the feast.

  The girl hurried past the hall and heard the sound of snoring. Someone coughed, another man groaned. They would sleep till the sun was high in the sky.

  Fleece crossed the bridge over the stream and headed up the hill to a clump of trees too small to be called a wood. As she turned onto the path to gather wood, she saw a leather sheet stretched between two small trees.

  A man sat on the ground
, striking flints to make a fire. He wore a large hat with a wide brim that shaded his face. “Good morning,” he said in a strange voice.

  Fleece knew he wasn’t from this part of the world. “Good morning,” she said quietly.

  “You’re out early,” the man said.

  “I’m gathering wood so the farmer and his family will have a fire when they get back from the hall. They’re still sleeping after the feast last night.”

  The stranger gave a sigh. “I once went to feasts. I loved roast ox. Now I live on any berries and nuts I can find in the forest. You don’t have any roast meat, do you?”

  Fleece clutched her rib bone. “I … I … I’m just a slave.”

  “I wouldn’t ask,” the stranger said. “But I haven’t eaten for two days.”

  “Two days?”

  “My boat was wrecked on the shore and I’ve been looking for shelter and food till I can find a way back to England,” he explained.

  “England?”

  “I’m from England. I was fishing. The first of the winter storms blew me too close to the Viking shores. If they find me, they’ll make me a slave for sure. But if I can steal a sailing boat, I should be able to get back home.”

  “Will you take me with you?” Fleece asked.

  She saw the man’s mouth spread in a smile. “Yes, if I live long enough. But I may starve first.”

  The girl reached into her pocket and pulled out the rib bone. She held it out to the stranger. “Here – take this.”

  The man took it. “You’ve saved my life,” he said.

  Fleece stretched out an arm and pointed down to the village below. “See the large hall in the middle?” she asked. “Meet me there after sunset. I’ll show you where the Vikings keep their boats. I’ll help you.”

  The man chewed hungrily on the bone. “Thank you, my child. Until sunset.”

  Chapter Four

  Accident

  Fleece ran down the hill. Her sledge of logs was heavy, but her feet were light. To escape to England – that was the dream that came to warm her coldest nights.

  Now it was so close.

  As she crossed the bridge over the stream, she noticed the handrail had been smashed. She leaned over and looked down. A large man was lying in the water, face down. From the huge sword at his side, the girl knew it was Askold.

  Fleece dropped the rope from the sledge and jumped into the shallow stream. She gripped the man by the shoulders and tried to lift him, but he was heavy with water. She tried to roll him, then she tried to lift his head clear of the stream, but it was up to her knees and just too deep.

  Fleece struggled through the icy water and back onto the bank. She raced over the paths, jumping over a stray pig and tripping over chickens.

  The hall was dark with all the shutters closed and the torches long burned out.

  “Help!” she called. “It’s Askold. He has fallen in the stream. Help. He’ll drown!”

  Slowly, the sleeping Vikings stirred. Grumbling men rose on their shaky legs and wandered towards the door. They rubbed their eyes and blinked in the light from the lemon-grey morning sky.

  Fleece tugged at sleeves and pushed legs to get the men moving towards the bridge. At last they reached the stream and stirred themselves into action.

  It took four men to drag the warrior chief out of the water and throw him on his back. The pale eyes stared at the sky, as lifeless as the grey stones on the bed of the stream.

  The men shook their heads. “Dead,” one muttered. “He must have staggered out in the night and fallen.”

  “Drunk,” another nodded.

  “Poor Askold,” a warrior sighed.

  “It’s better to die in battle,” another agreed. “At least if he dies in battle, he goes straight to the afterlife. He feasts and fights forever more. What happens to a man that dies like this, drunk in a stream?”

  “He goes to the icy halls of Hel, I guess.”

  The men dragged their dead leader back to the hall. Weary Vikings were spilling out onto the muddy square of earth outside. They looked grim and miserable.

  “It looks like Hel for him,” they all agreed.

  “No!” a voice cried from the doorway.

  The warriors turned and looked at the poet, who was standing there, wild-eyed and grinning.

  “No,” he repeated. “There is a way to send Askold to a better place. I was in the country of Rus and I saw the way they buried their leader. Come inside, light some torches, and I will tell you.”

  Chapter Five

  Sacrifice

  The villagers gathered at the door of the hall. They stood in a circle around the grey-haired poet.

  “In the land of Rus,” he began, “they have a special Viking funeral for their chief. They make sure he goes to the Viking heaven, Valhalla.”

  “That’s where the great god Odin lives,” a woman said. “The god of war and magic.”

  “And every day the Viking warriors fight the trolls, the serpents and the giants,” a farmer nodded.

  “A wonderful life,” the woman agreed. “Each warrior has a maiden to carry his weapons. If he dies in battle, he comes back to life the next morning. It’s a lovely place.”

  “Ah, but our chief Askold isn’t going there. He died in a stream.”

  “He did,” the woman sighed.

  “Shut up,” the poet said suddenly. “I am trying to tell you about the Vikings of Rus.”

  “Ooooh, sorry,” the woman muttered.

  “The Vikings there place their chief in a boat. They fill it with his weapons, so he can fight in Valhalla,” the poet explained.

  “Can’t Odin give him some weapons when he gets there?” the farmer asked. “Odin must have lots of weapons.”

  The poet glared at the farmer. “Every warrior likes to fight with his own weapons. Now, as I was saying … they fill the ship with food and wine for the journey to Valhalla, then they stuff the ship with straw.”

  “That’ll be to feed his horse in Valhalla?” the woman asked.

  “No,” the poet sighed. “It is because straw burns well. They tow the boat out to sea, set it on fire and the chief’s spirit is free to go to Valhalla.”

  “Sounds like the waste of a good ship,” a fisherman grumbled.

  “There’s an old boat on the shore,” the woman said. “It won’t last the winter. We could use that. I mean, Askold has brought us a lot of food and treasure and slaves. We owe him a boat.”

  The villagers nodded.

  “Let’s get it loaded then,” the farmer said.

  “Wait!” the poet cried. “The chief has to have his own maiden to carry his weapons.”

  “I thought you said there were maidens in Valhalla?” the woman reminded him.

  “For the warriors who died in battle… If we’re going to sneak Askold into Valhalla, we need to send him with a maiden. That’s what they did in Rus. There was a slave girl on the ship when they set fire to it.”

  “Dad!” Sigurd cried. “We can give our slave girl, Fleece, can’t we?”

  “I suppose so,” his father agreed.

  The villagers muttered and decided this was a good idea.

  “We load Askold and his weapons into the boat, we fill it with food, tow it out and set fire to it,” the farmer said.

  “That’s right. So where is the girl?”

  The villagers looked at Sigurd. He shrugged. “She was standing next to me a few moments ago,” he said. “She’s gone!”

  Chapter Six

  Flight

  Fleece didn’t know where she was going. She heard the Viking plan and ran. Over the bridge and the stream, across the dew-damp fields and up the path to the trees.

  The English man in the hat was gone. She had to stay away from the village till sunset. Then she could slip back in the dark, meet the stranger and escape with him.

  There was nowhere to hide in the little wood. The leaves were falling and the trees were almost bare. It was too cold to hide on the hillside, and if they set o
ut to search they would see her.

  “The shelter,” she said. “I can stay in the stone sheep shelter till dark.”

  Fleece set off through the trees. If she ran over the hill, they would see her from the village. She headed to the valley beyond the hill. It would take her half the morning, but that didn’t matter. That way she could get to the shelter without being seen.

  As the sun rose higher in the sky, it gave a little warmth. She reached the sheltered side of the hill. It was just a few hundred paces to the shelter now.

  Her sheep gathered round, waiting for the girl to lead them to a new grazing spot.

  “Go away,” she said. They started bleating and trotting around her. Over the noise, she heard voices shouting.

  “She must be over there with the sheep. Go and look!”

  Fleece took off her jacket and turned it inside out so the wool was on the outside. Then she threw herself down on her hands and knees in the middle of the flock. She peered over the backs of the sheep and saw a warrior looking down at the flock.

  “No,” he cried over his shoulder. “She’s not here!”

  Another villager shouted, “There’s someone in the trees where she gathers firewood! Maybe that’s her…”

  The warrior ran off and the voices faded. Fleece stood up and ran to the top of the hill. She saw the backs of the running hunters. The shelter was ten paces to her left.

  She hurried across to it. It was a small stone hut. She had covered it in earth to keep out the draughts and it was dark inside.

  The doorway was small and low, just big enough for her. She slipped into the warm safety and sighed. The hunters must have looked in here when they were on the hill. They wouldn’t search the same spot again.