Thora’s eyes flew open. There it was again – the sound of running footsteps. She peered through the juniper branches. It was Oddo, thudding up the hill towards them. To Thora’s dismay, she saw the hood had fallen from his head and was flapping behind him.
He was hurtling past, when Thora called out in a hoarse whisper, ‘Oddo!’ He spun round. ‘Here, under the bush!’
He knelt down and peered through the juniper needles. Dúngal was awake now too, and Hairydog wriggled out to lay her head on Oddo’s knee and gaze up into his face.
‘Oddo, do you know your hood’s fallen off ?’
Oddo made a wry face. ‘I know.’ He glanced over his shoulder down the hill. ‘Let’s get away from here, and I’ll tell you what’s been happening.’
When they were safe in a grove of birch trees, Oddo began to speak.
‘I found out the Vikings are just about to sail. And guess where they’re going!’
Thora looked at him. ‘Home?’
‘No-o-o.’ A huge grin spread across his face. ‘To Ireland!’ he exploded.
‘But . . . how will that help me?’ said Dúngal. ‘Are you thinking I can hide on the boat?’
‘You won’t need to,’ Oddo gloated. ‘They want people to join their crew. They don’t have to know you’re Irish. You can speak like a Viking. We’ll call you . . . Dufnall.’
‘What about me?’ cried Thora.‘They won’t want a girl.’
‘Pretend you’re a boy, then.’
Thora eyed him thoughtfully. ‘My name could be Thorvald,’ she said. ‘And I could cut my kirtle shorter to make it into a tunic. But . . . I don’t have any breeches.’
‘You can have mine,’ said Oddo. ‘Dúngal and I will pretend we lost ours in the shipwreck.’
‘What about Father Connlae?’ Dúngal broke in. ‘He can’t pretend to be a Viking. He doesn’t know your language.’
‘Father Connlae?!’ Oddo squeaked. ‘What about Father Connlae?’
‘We can’t leave him behind. He wants to go back to Ireland too. We have to rescue him before your horrid mates get hold of him.’
Thora could see the frustration in Oddo’s face. She interrupted before he yelled at Dúngal.
‘Why don’t we . . .’ She racked her brain desperately for an idea, and then it came. ‘Why don’t we pretend Father Connlae’s hurt his tongue, or something, so he can’t speak?’
She beamed in satisfaction.
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Oddo.
And then Thora remembered the priest’s shaven chin, and tonsured hair. Father Connlae certainly didn’t look like a Viking.
‘You can’t lose a beard in a shipwreck!’ said Oddo.
‘He can grow a beard,’ said Thora promptly. ‘He just has to stop shaving.’
‘He can’t grow a full beard in a couple of days!’
They all stared at each other, then Thora lifted a strand of her own hair.
‘We could cut this off,’ she said slowly,‘and stick it on his chin.’
She looked hopefully at Oddo. He heaved a sigh and shrugged his shoulders.
‘If you want, you can give it a try,’ he said.
Thora bit her lip as Oddo lifted up her hair to make the first slash. From the corner of her eye she saw the glint of the dagger, then there was a ripping sound close to her ear. She felt short ends of hair flop against her cheek, and Oddo held out a fistful of honey-coloured strands. Thora gulped.
‘Next one,’ said Oddo cheerily, and he grasped another clump.
A few minutes later, Thora stood up. Her neck felt cold and bare.
Dúngal pointed at the cuttings lying on the ground. ‘There’s Father Connlae’s beard,’ he chuckled.
‘How are you going to stick them on his chin?’ asked Oddo.
‘Fish glue,’ said Thora. ‘I’ll boil up some fishbones.’
Next morning, alone in the cave, Thora undid her bronze brooches and let her apron dress slide to the floor. She picked up the dagger and shortened the skirt of her kirtle till it hung to just above her knees. Shivering, she pulled on the breeches Oddo had given her to cover her bare legs.
‘Now, a belt.’ She knotted a cord around her waist. ‘And . . .’ She hesitated, slid the dagger into the belt and took a deep breath. ‘I’m ready.’ Dressed in this strange outfit, her short hair bouncing round her face, she felt like a new person – wild and daring. Heart pounding with excitement, she crossed the room, and stepped through the doorway.
‘How do I look?’ she called.
Nobody answered. They were busy dismantling the goat pen and shooing the animals into the woods. Thora watched Oddo running between the trees, his bare legs long and spindly like the branches of the willows.
‘He’s grown nearly as tall as Arni,’ she realised with surprise. ‘And . . . Dúngal’s right, he does look like Arni!’ At home, Oddo’s hair was always brushed into a glossy, bronze cap, but now it was unruly and matted like her brother’s.
Father Connlae toddled into view and she felt a mixture of laughter and terror bubble up inside her. She stared at the two plaits swinging from his chin and prayed the Viking raiders would believe that was a real braided beard.
