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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” (#ulink_e5bc9140-19e4-5922-b92a-4b1db19515a0)
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…)
