‘Why are we stopping?’ Einar demanded.
Their stealthy progress along the river back to the sea had been frustrating enough. Now, barely under way across the rolling waves of the ocean, Ulrich had ordered the anchor stone to be dropped.
The ship was alongside the seaward side of the largest of the line of skerries just off the coast near the long, dark headland they had passed on the way. The side of the island rose to just above the height of the mast of the ship. It was sheer rock that fell like a short cliff from the top of the island straight into the water.
‘We need to get rid of some weight so we can sail faster,’ Ulrich said. ‘With all those swords, gold and mail we’re like a floating armoury. We’ll stash as much of it as we can in a cave I know here and pick it up sometime when it’s safe to.’
Einar recalled Skar’s previous words about the cave. A puzzled expression crossed his face as he looked at the smooth, wet, black rock of the island.
‘Where is it?’ he asked.
Ulrich pointed at the water that surged and heaved against the stone. ‘Down there,’ he said. ‘The cave mouth is about the height of a man beneath the surface.’
Einar’s eyes widened as he looked down at the cold, green water.
‘The height of a normal man, that is.’ Skar said with a grin. ‘It’s down about the length of two Ulrichs deep.’
Everyone on board equipped themselves with whatever they needed to make sure they were fully armed and armoured. Einar was delighted to find himself with a new coat of mail, a spear, a visored helmet, a shield and an Ulfbehrt sword so sharp he felt it could cut the wind. As well as that he found a long-handled axe, its blade hooked, its metal decorated with swirling patterns of gripping beasts. It was beautiful. A weapon fit for a king. Or perhaps a jarl? For the first time he began to feel like a true warrior. He knew how to fight and he had the best of equipment worth an untold amount of silver and gold. His chest swelled at the thought and he burned to get to Iceland. There he would test himself against Thorfinn’s men.
‘Don’t be shy, princess,’ Ulrich said, seeing Affreca looking on. ‘If you’re in my crew then you’ll be expected to fight if needs be. We need an archer and you’re deadly with that bow so make sure you’re well protected too.’
Affreca nodded and with a smile set to work finding chainmail and leather breeches to fit her as best it could.
Everything that was left was packed away for storage. The Ulfbehrt swords in one of the chests were taken out, the chest lined with sealskin, then the swords put back in. Finally Ulrich turned to Atli.
‘You’re the best swimmer,’ he said. ‘You can get it all down to the cave.’
Atli frowned. He looked at the chest of swords, the bundles of armour and weapons as an expression close to dismay crossed his face.
‘Ulrich, this is madness,’ Atli said. ‘What are you doing? We should be taking the swords back to the king, not pissing about going to Iceland. For what? To help the farmer boy? What’s the sense in that? What if we end up having to fight Thorfinn’s men?’
Ulrich glared at his crewman. ‘Are you questioning my orders?’ he growled.
Both men locked eyes for a moment. Atli swallowed hard. Then shook his head.
‘Good. Now get over the side and we will lower the hoard down to you,’ Ulrich said, his voice still full of menace. ‘All you have to do is guide it into the mouth of the cave.’
Atli nodded. He shot a glance of pure poison in Einar’s direction, then began stripping off his woollen shirt.
Einar felt worried that a formidable Wolf Coat like Atli had apparently taken such exception to him. The man was taller than he was, his body packed with muscle and, when his shirt was off, several large scars across his torso told of past fights survived. The way he jumped without hesitation off the ship into the freezing, surging sea was testament to his courage and fortitude. All in all, it did not bode well.
It did not take too long to stash the hoard. As the ship rolled and pitched on its anchor stone, the Wolf Coats lowered the chest over the side on ropes. When it was under the water, Atli dived down to guide it into place. After long moments he resurfaced, waved to his comrades and the ropes pulled up again. This was repeated for the bundles of weapons and armour and then Atli was hauled back on board, cold water streaming from his breeches over the deck.
Then, to Einar’s relief, they were under way again.
The journey across the northern sea was both miserable and terrifying. Once in the open sea the ship ploughed up and down one huge wave after another. One moment it was tilted upwards to the point of capsizing backwards. The next it was pitching forwards to the point of her crew being ejected into the sea. Everyone except Ulrich vomited. Days passed as they sailed, driven by howling winds that filled the sail and lashed by rain that turned to sleet the further north they went. There was no sword practice now. Instead, Einar crouched on the deck like the others, hanging on to the sides for all he was worth, hoping to avoid a grim death. Sleep was near impossible, beyond the short bursts of exhausted unconsciousness that overcame all of them at some point, episodes that usually ended by the sleeper waking from a nightmare that the ship was sinking.
All the while anxiety gnawed at Einar’s guts like he had swallowed a couple of live rats. Would the ship sink? Would they get back to Iceland in time to save his mother?
Finally the weather calmed and the cold dawn light revealed a black shape, rising above the horizon.
‘Iceland,’ Ulrich said. ‘At least I hope it is. I’ve done my best to sail the right way through all that weather. At least the wind meant we’ve got here even faster.’
Despite the cold and the wet, Einar felt a thrill of excitement. This could mean there was still time to save Unn.
‘Head for the south-west of the land,’ he said. ‘That’s where our farm is.’
Ulrich steered the ship closer to the shore and before long they were tracking along the coastline, passing rocky, gorse-topped cliffs and beaches of both pebbles, shale and sometimes black sand. Einar grew more excited as they sailed, noting by the sight of familiar landmarks that they were drawing ever closer to his home.
Finally the ship rounded a long headland that Einar recognised straight away.
‘Ness!’ he shouted its name with an enthusiasm that was met with surly looks by the Wolf Coats. He pointed at the cluster of low, turf-covered buildings that clustered on the top of the Ness. ‘That’s Egil’s farm. We’re nearly home.’
His excitement was curbed all of a sudden as he remembered that Egil’s farm was near where he had met the travelling merchant, Thorkill Asmundarsson. The memory of Asmundarsson’s accusing gaze, locked on him as he fell to his death, rose before his mind’s eye. A stab of guilt ran through his chest. It seemed to him now like it had happened a hundred winters ago, yet it must have been not much more than a month.
Then Einar saw the two ships beached beside the headland. One a large Viking warship and the other a sleek, fast snekkja like the one he and the Wolf Coats sailed in. Even at the distance they were away, Einar could make out the image of the Raven that fluttered on the banners of both ships.
The Raven was Jarl Thorfinn’s standard.
They were too late.