TWELVE

‘I think it’s a dragon,’ said Astrid, and then, ‘Pass me the soap.’

They had slipped through Jelling unseen – it was still early – and crept into the privacy of the steaming bathhouse to get clean.

Leif recounted his conversation with the stones as best he could. He seemed distracted by something, and kept looking at a bare patch of wall.

Astrid had no idea why: all she was doing was having a good scrub …

‘Not a dragon. The stones said “something new”,’ said Leif.

‘They weren’t exactly helpful,’ Astrid said. ‘And I mean, they’re only stones. They’re just as much in the dark as we are.’

‘I wish the troll-mother had been clearer,’ Leif said.

‘Well, poems are your lookout, after all. Towel?’

He handed it to her, averting his eyes. ‘Um … yes … I mean … I mean, let’s think. How did she put it?’

He was bright red, she noticed. And they weren’t even in the steam room yet.

‘Your turn to wash,’ said Astrid, dropping the towel to the floor as she moved towards the sauna. Leif, overcome, leapt back – onto the soap – and pitched, fully clothed, into the cold pool.

Side by side in the sauna, it was Astrid who had to remember most of the troll’s poem. Leif, clinging to the towel and staring at his feet, was still having trouble concentrating.

‘So,’ she said, ‘if we’re going to go out searching for this beast, we need to work out what the troll-mother meant. So far we’ve remembered:

‘It hailed from the hawk-land,

High and grim and shining.

It brought the bright hall-wolf,

Bad thiever of forests.

‘Its fast battle-fire

Fell swift on my Aurnir,

A flurry of wind-oars

Overcame his attacks.’

‘Well,’ she went on, ‘the hawk-land is obviously the sky, even I can tell that, so of course it was “high”. What about “shining”?’

‘Those next two lines just mean “fire”,’ said Leif.

‘Then why say “fast battle-fire” as well? Stupid troll …’

‘No,’ said Leif, ‘I think that one means “sword”. And “wind-oars” are wings. Well, we knew that.’

‘So: the beast came from the sky, with fire, and attacked Aurnir with a sword. And its wings. Hmm,’ said Astrid. ‘The question is, how much do we rely on the poetic ravings of a half-mad troll. I’ll repeat that: troll.’

‘If it weren’t for the wings, she might have been describing a lightning bolt,’ said Leif. ‘You saw the blasted trees. It all makes sense.’

‘And the … the body … It was definitely burnt.’

‘Maybe the wings were poetic licence? But then, they came into all my visions …’

‘I’m still saying dragon,’ said Astrid. ‘That wouldn’t be so bad. Imagine how happy it would make Knut, getting to fight a dragon!’

‘We can’t tell Knut of this, nor your parents,’ said Leif. ‘The stones said they would never ask their help.’ No; they had chosen him as their champion. His chest swelled secretly at the thought. ‘You’re always saying how you’re overlooked,’ he pointed out. ‘This is our chance to prove ourselves, Astrid.’

‘Oh, I’m ready for the fight, if you are,’ she said. ‘And what’s more, I can prove it!’

Leif gulped when he saw what was in her hand, and he remembered the traditional ending to a sauna … ‘Ow! Astrid, put those birch twigs down! Astrid!’

They emerged, blinking at the sunlight, to the blare of horns and the thud of many hoofs.

Astrid paused. ‘We can’t present ourselves like this,’ she said. ‘At least, I can’t.’ They were loosely robed in thin linen shifts.

‘If something’s happening, I want to watch,’ said Leif, and tugged her after him. Together they scampered to the shadowed side of the hall, flattening themselves against the smooth wooden posts that slanted down from the outer wall. From here, they could see it all.

A swirl of horsemen poured from the road into the space before the hall doors. First among them, flanked by his Norwegian nephews, was Haralt. He wore a fine white tunic, edged with beaver, that Astrid had not seen before. ‘Maybe Jarl Tofi’s started a new fashion,’ she smirked.

Haralt reined in his mount, calling for grooms, his sparse blond beard glinting on his jutted-out chin in the brilliant morning light. The din of a dozen flapping cloaks crowded with the sound of restless hoofs, breaking up the clean and quiet air.

Behind the riders, a wagon yawed into the yard. There was something odd about it, and Astrid scrunched her eyes up against the sun to make it out. The cart was a simple, rickety affair – nothing she hadn’t seen before – except that above it flew a yellow banner emblazoned with a black, two-headed eagle, wings spread. Below the banner stood a high wooden cross.

The wagon slewed to a halt behind the horsemen, and again, the horns brayed out. By now, a large crowd had gathered, and the pair had to crane their necks to see past them.

The hall’s high doors creaked apart, and Knut strode out, all furs and helm and gold around his arms. ‘What news, brother?’ he called. ‘What brings you back so soon, and in such a clamour? Some of us, lustier for the yeast-sea than you, have sore heads to stand such tootings!’

Haralt slid from his saddle. ‘Where’s Father? I’ve a guest to greet him; we met his ship on the way to Odense.’

‘Within,’ growled Knut. ‘Will this guest not see me first?’

The horns sounded again, more cautiously this time, and a man descended from the wagon as an avalanche descends a mountain.

‘You’re enormous,’ whispered Astrid, as she had before the wolf.

He was a real whale of a man, and his robes were black waves, flowing over and around his massive girth as he lumbered towards Knut.

If Knut is a like a bear, then he’s a boar, thought Leif. The man’s short black hair bristled out from beneath the top of his robes, creeping over mighty folds of neck to circle a bald head. He had no beard. Just small, dark eyes sunk deep in wobbling cheeks.

He’s got sausages for fingers, thought Astrid. The stubby digits of his left hand gripped a gilded crook, its wicked metal point scoring the soft spring earth.

The man juddered to a halt before Knut, spread his arms, and slowly passed his pudgy right hand back and forth across his body.

Knut took half a step backwards, and they could see how hard his own hands were clenched. A spasm flicked over his face.

‘This is Bishop Folkmar, emissary of Otto, King of Germany,’ said Haralt. ‘And he’s come to speak to the king.’