GUNHILD FELT EXCITEMENT growing in her heart as she clambered over the slippery rocks. She had visited the treasure three times now, but for some reason each time she returned the feeling got more intense rather than diminishing with familiarity.
They had ridden up the path away from Wodnas’ hunting party, going on through the forest and further uphill. They had switched paths several times before eventually emerging from the trees amid the rock-strewn slopes and towering cliffs that marked the start of the mountains. By then it was deep into the night and Gunderic was on his third torch, the previous two having burned out.
They rode up the path of a river that tumbled from the heights above over boulders and rocks, until at last they came to a sheer cliff face about five times the height of a man. A waterfall gushed down from above into a wide pool at the head of the river. Here they had dismounted and tied up their horses, each of them unstrapping a leather saddlebag from their steed.
Gunderic, holding the torch high, led the way around the edge of the pool towards the waterfall. The rocks were wet and slippery and the spray of the water freezing, making all of them huddle under their hooded cloaks. As they reached the side of the waterfall the torchlight revealed that it tumbled from a slight overhang above, which left enough of a gap that they could walk behind the curtain of falling water, something that was not visible from the front.
Behind the waterfall was a narrow gap in the rocks, just wide enough for each of them to pass through one at a time. On the other side of this they found themselves in a cave that led downwards, deep into the cliff.
With Gunderic in the lead, they scrambled down, clambering over boulders and navigating around amazing columns of pointed rocks. Water dripped from above and the walls of the cave at times appeared to be covered in shimmering crystals or multi-coloured glass. Eventually the walls of the cave widened and they entered a large chamber. The flames of Gunderic’s torch cast ghastly flickers around the walls, illuminating strange paintings on the rock – stylised depictions of people and animals, as well as weird geometric patterns.
When the Burgundars had first arrived in Geneva an old man, one of the very few remaining of the Allobroges the Alemanni had not frightened away, had shown Gunderic this cave. He said the paintings were ancient: the work of witches or devils from deep within the earth. Realising he had the perfect hiding place for the Burgundars’ treasure, Gunderic had killed the old man and now only he, Gunhild and Sigurd knew of the cave’s existence.
Gunhild felt a little shiver at the sight of one of the cave paintings. It depicted a man in a sort of half-crouch, as if he were preparing to leap as high as he could into the air. Instead of a normal face, however, he was painted with two large spirals where his eyes should have been, and the horns of a stag sprouted from the top of his head. As with the last couple of times she had been here, Gunhild found the picture a little disturbing, as if this strange human-stag creature was watching from above, the sole witness to the secret the three people below kept within this chamber.
Then the torchlight fell on the treasure and Gunhild forgot about everything else.
Gunderic and Sigurd had hauled it up here themselves, doing the work twenty men had done for her father when he had stolen it from the Huns and brought it back to Vorbetomagus. Coins, necklaces, arm rings, amulets and jewels lay in heaps around the cavern. The torchlight danced across rubies, emeralds and garnets. The flames glinted on silver and their glow was reflected from the heaps of gold, bathing everything in a warm, orange hue. Her father had taken four wagonloads of treasure and most of it still remained, its vast wealth hardly even dented, even by the expense of repairing Gunderic’s hall and building a new kingdom.
Gunhild gazed at the treasure, feeling a strange fascination with it that made it difficult to look away. The thought flickered through her mind that there was enough wealth here for her to live as a queen for the rest of her days. A queen in her own right, not beholden to the crumbs a brother or husband deigned to throw her, and free of their whims and petty jealousies. The gold held her in a strange fascination. It was not just precious metal. It was freedom. A means to live life as she wanted to, not as a decoration possessed by some man. If she had it all to herself…
She glanced at Gunderic. He was glaring at the treasure, eyes wide, mouth ajar, his face wearing an expression not unlike the one she had seen on King Half of the Danes when he had regarded her naked body. His eyes rolled around, first towards Sigurd who was already shovelling gold coins into one of his saddlebags, oblivious to all else, then to Gunhild. They had a wild, savage look in them, as if he were about to lose all control.
Gunhild reached inside her cloak, her hand grasping the hilt of the dagger sheathed at her waist. Then Gunderic’s face relaxed. Gunhild let go of her knife.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s get started or we won’t be back before dawn.’
Gunhild nodded and set her saddlebags down. She stooped and began scooping handfuls of gold and silver into them as her brother did the same.
She had just finished filling the first saddlebag when a gold horse trapping caught her eye. It had the image of a bird stamped into it, depicted in the Hunnish style. Gunhild picked it up and regarded it for a moment.
‘Hagan wears something very like this, you know,’ she said, holding the round metal disc between her thumb and forefinger. ‘He says it was his mother’s.’
Gunderic stopped filling his own bag and looked up. Gunhild flicked the ornament to him, sending it spinning through the air. Gunderic caught it then looked at it, frowning.
‘His mother? How on earth did she…?’ he said, then looked up, meeting Gunhild’s gaze.
Then Gunderic stabbed his hands into the pile of treasure before him, grabbing two fistfuls of gold. He rose to his feet, letting the gold and silver coins, amulets and bracteates run through his fingers and clatter back into the pile.
‘I will not share my treasure with anyone,’ he said, as if forgetting the others were there. ‘No one, do you hear me?’
Then, like someone waking from a dream, he looked up again, seeming puzzled at the looks that both Gunhild and Sigurd now levelled in his direction.
‘What?’ Gunderic said. ‘Don’t just stand there looking at me. We need these bags filled.’
Gunhild stooped to begin filling her second saddlebag. As she did so she shot a sideways look at her brother. In her heart she knew something had just changed. She could no longer be sentimental. Here was the wealth of half the known world at her fingertips and she had as much right to it as her brother had. She wanted it, and if the cost of that was the death of old friendships and trusted relationships, then so be it.
It was time to start looking out for herself once more.