They headed down the hill towards the Viking farm. Dúngal saw the longship, sail unfurled, and the men loading her. They looked just like the raiders who’d captured him. He felt sick.
‘As soon as they see my hair and my freckles, they’ll know I’m Irish. They’ll know I’m a thrall,’ he groaned.
‘Pig’s piddle.’ Thora took a firm grip on his sleeve. ‘Farmer Ulf ’s got red hair, and he’s a Viking. Just remember – don’t say anything in Irish.’
‘I’m not stupid.’
Dúngal glanced at Father Connlae. The priest’s knees were white and knobbly; he had a strange woollen cowl on his shaven head, and two silly plaits dangling from his chin. But as the old man tottered down the slope, he turned to Dúngal and winked.
As they approached the house, a tall Viking appeared in the doorway. Below his shaggy grey hair, his face was puckered by a scar that ran from brow to chin.
‘Ah, my new crew,’ he said. ‘I’m Striker’s captain. Snari’s the name.’
Oddo drew to a halt and the others clustered behind him.
‘These are my friends.’ Dúngal could hear the nervousness in Oddo’s voice. ‘Thor . . . vald, and Dufnall. And . . . er . . . Kolli the Quiet. We call him that, because he . . . can’t speak.’
Dúngal could feel the tension of the others. They all waited for the Captain to jeer, or question them. But he just gestured to a pile of weapons.
‘Choose some gear,’ he said.
Dúngal dived for a helmet and almost knocked himself out as he dropped it over his head. He teetered, the heavy weight of the iron bending his neck. The helmet was too big and hung down over his eyes, so he could hardly see, and the nosepiece reached to his chin. But he heaved a sigh of relief. His red hair and freckles were hidden.
He peered out at the others. Father Connlae was struggling to untangle the laces of his leather jerkin from his fake beard. Thora’s jerkin hung below her knees, but her eyes sparkled with excitement beneath her iron helmet.
‘They’re coming,’ she whispered. ‘Here, take a spear.’
There were loud voices and footsteps, and the next moment the rest of the crew crowded around, jostling for weapons.
‘Everyone ready?’ The Captain’s voice rose above the din, then the crowd fell quiet and shuffled apart.
Dúngal realised the four of them had been left standing in a huddle, as the rest formed a circle.
‘Come on, you new lads.’
A gap opened for them. When Dúngal moved, he felt as wobbly as if his arms and legs were just a jumble of bare bones, rattling together. Somehow, he stumbled into his place.
Captain Snari began to speak. Dúngal straightened his back, trying to stand steady and proud. His hands holding the spear and shield were sticky with sweat.
‘Men, are you ready to swear your loyalty?’ asked Snari. His stern eyes travelled around the circle and each person murmured a yes. Everyone but Father Connlae. Snari breathed hard and glared at the priest.
‘Kolli the Quiet, can you hear me? Are you ready?’ he demanded.
‘Nod yes,’ hissed Dúngal. To his relief, the priest gently lowered his head.
The Captain selected an arrow from his quiver, and fitted it to his bow. Dúngal began to tremble.
‘Odin shall have you all!’ bellowed Snari.
The arrow flew from his bow and soared over the circle. Dúngal squeaked and leapt forward as the arrow thudded into the ground behind his heels. The Vikings roared with laughter.
Dúngal’s eyes met Oddo’s and he felt the other boy’s sympathy flow towards him.
‘You are now sworn in,’ cried Snari. ‘Every man here pledges to avenge the others as he would his brothers, and not one of you, no matter how perilous things may be, shall speak a word of fear or dread.’
Dúngal ran his eyes resentfully around the circle of Vikings. ‘You’re not my brothers,’ he muttered. Then his eyes lit on Oddo again. He stared at the thin boy with the heavy iron helmet on his head, the boy who’d despised his curach but come on the voyage in spite of his fears. The boy who’d nearly lost his life, just to help a strange Irish thrall.
‘You can be my brother,’ whispered Dúngal. ‘I make my pledge to you. I will avenge you, no matter how perilous things may be.’
The Captain tugged his arrow from the ground and with a roar of cheering and a rattle of weapons the Vikings raced for the longship. Dúngal turned to take Father Connlae’s arm, and saw Oddo on the other side. The three of them hurried towards the ship.
‘Wait!’ Thora, in the heavy helmet and jerkin, was straggling behind. ‘Remember me?’ she said crossly, as she panted up to join them.
As they drew closer, Dúngal was astounded by Striker’s size. The prow, carved in the shape of a striking eagle, towered over his head, and when he climbed over the black tarred sides he gaped at the rows of benches stretching from bow to stern. To his dismay, the four friends were separated. Dúngal found himself on a rowing bench beside a sullen man with a dark, weather-beaten face. He peered round worriedly for the priest and spied him a few rows back, sitting in front of Thora.
‘Thora, look after him!’ he pleaded silently.
‘Cast off!’ ordered Snari from his raised platform in the stern.
Dúngal’s mouth felt dry as the cables were slipped from the mooring posts and the longship pushed away from the bank.
‘Raise oars!’
Striker rocked violently as each man stood and with a noisy clatter grabbed an oar from the rack. They lowered their oars over the sides, then sat down ready for action. Dúngal realised the muscles in his back were already tense and aching.
The Captain nodded to the coxswain beneath him.
‘Ready-y-y . . . Stroke!’ cried the coxswain in a piercing voice.
With all his strength, Dúngal plunged his oar into the water.
‘We’re not digging for oysters,’ snarled the man next to him.
Startled, Dúngal heaved up his blade, splattering them both with water. He tried again, this time taking care not to dip so deep.
‘Stroke,’ called the coxswain. ‘Stroke . . . Stroke . . .’
‘Keep the beat!’ growled the man. ‘Listen!’
Cheeks burning, Dúngal strove to keep time. From the corner of his eye, he could see the oars up and down the boat swinging in unison.
‘How long do I have to keep this up for?’ wondered Dúngal. His arms and chest were burning with pain. With a feeling of doom, he remembered Father Connlae’s shaky hands.
Behind him, there was a splash and a cry. The coxswain halted in his chant. The even sweep of blades wavered, then broke into disarray.
‘Hold oars!’ bellowed the Captain.
Dúngal twisted round and saw the priest, his face aghast, leaning over the side and trying to reach an oar that was floating away. There were rumbles of anger around him.
At that moment, a gust of wind whistled through the longship. There was a loud snap from the top of the mast and the pennant streamed outwards, the wings on the black embroidered eagle stretching and flapping. Dúngal saw the Captain glance round in astonishment. A moment before, the weather had been still and calm. Now the wind was lifting cloaks, whipping hair, and sending waves crashing against the ship.
‘Hoist sail!’ bellowed Snari.
Dúngal glimpsed Father Connlae’s look of startled relief as the men tossed their oars on the rack and sprang into action. In a moment, everyone was yelling, grabbing at lines, twisting and tugging. As the yard rattled up the mast, Oddo caught Dúngal’s eye, and winked, his face split in an ecstatic, toothy grin. Of course, the wind was Oddo’s doing!
Dúngal grinned too, and then a line was thrust into his hand and he was told to make himself useful. The rope snaked through his fingers and the sail started to unfurl. Blue and yellow stripes rippled into view. Dúngal felt his heart thud with excitement.
‘I’m going home!’ he thought. ‘I’m really going home!’
