vines. Vines, Vinland, see? It’s all the same coast. This Gunnar must be making a second trip. I’ve heard you can bring back a fortune in timber and furs and grapes. I’ve got half a mind to go myself.”
“Ho, yes,” scoffed Einar. “And how would you know what a grape looks like? Have you ever seen one?”
“Arnë’s a wild one,” Bjørn said to Peer. “What’s he done with his fishing boat? Sold it, I suppose, to join this trip. Well, he’s crazy, that’s all.”
“He always wanted to go a-Viking,” Peer pointed out.
“I know.” Bjørn grinned suddenly. “That’s why I say he’s crazy!”
Peer nodded. And that’s why Hilde likes him, he thought, as a black-edged cloud slipped over the sun. The hills and the shore and the flashing water lost their colours. The jetty he had taken such pride in suddenly seemed a rough-and-ready thing of no interest. He wished he could do something exciting or brave.
How was it that Arnë always managed to do things that would impress Hilde? Of course, it helped that he was tall, strong and good-looking. And seven years older than Peer—girls took older men more seriously. If he’s sailing off to Vinland, I won’t get a word in this evening, then. She’ll be talking to Arnë all night.
The big ship came nudging up to the jetty. Seven or eight men were busy on board, stowing the yard fore and aft, lifting the oars in, collecting their gear. Arnë threw a rope up to Bjørn. “Nice new jetty,” he called, laughing. “Did you build it specially for us? It’s good, this’ll be easier for Astrid.”
“Astrid?”
“The skipper’s wife.”
Everyone stared. Peer got a glimpse of a girl in a blue cloak, huddled under an awning which had been rigged up behind the mast. Arnë climbed on to the jetty and wrung Bjørn’s hand. He clapped Peer on the shoulder and said, “Fancy a voyage to Vinland?” before turning to offer a helping hand to the girl. She was finding it difficult, clutching some kind of pouch or bag. A giant of a fellow with a shock of almost white fair hair tried to boost her up from the ship.
Peer watched scornfully. Hilde wouldn’t need helping out of a boat. She’d just kilt up her dress and jump out, laughing!
Hilde, Hilde! She teased Peer, bossed him about, and drove him crazy. Last spring, he’d made the mistake of impulsively kissing her, and she’d laughed at him. He hadn’t dared to do it since, except in dreams.
We belong together, he thought. She’d been his best friend and ally for years, ever since he’d come to Troll Fell as an orphan to work for his two brutal uncles at their dilapidated mill. Peer had helped to save Hilde’s young brother and sister from the trolls, and her family had taken him in and treated him like a son. Hilde was fond of him, Peer knew that. But she kept him at arm’s length.
One day, he swore to himself, one day when the time is right, I’ll go to Hilde and ask her…or perhaps I’ll say…
No, I’ll tell her: “We just belong together.”
But would she agree?
“Hey! You!”
Lost in thought, Peer didn’t notice the voice hailing him from the ship.
“You there—Barelegs!”
“Peer!” Einar jogged him in the ribs. “The young lord’s talking to you.”
“What?” Peer woke up. Had he heard what he thought he’d heard?
“He means you,” Einar chortled, pointing. “Anyone else around here with no breeches on?”
Barelegs? Peer turned round and met the light, cold gaze of a boy his own age—a youth of sixteen or so, wearing a dark chequered travelling cloak wrapped around his shoulders and pinned with a large silver brooch. Because the jetty was higher than the ship, his head was currently at about Peer’s waist level, but this disadvantage didn’t seem to bother him. He tilted up a tanned face as smooth as a girl’s, but wider in the jaw, heavier across the brow. Loose golden hair fell about his shoulders and cascaded in a wind-whipped tangle halfway down his back. But his eyes…they reminded Peer of something. Einar once had a dog with eyes like that, odd milky blue eyes—wolf eyes, he’d called them. And the dog was treacherous; you couldn’t get anywhere near it.
The boy snapped his fingers. “Are you deaf? I told you to help my father up on to the jetty. He’s not well.”
He took the elbow of a man standing beside him. This must be the skipper, the famous Gunnar Ingolfsson. He was a powerful figure, short-legged and barrel-chested, but he did look ill. His face was flushed and glistening. When he glanced up at Peer, his eyes were the same pale blue as his son’s, but the rims were slack, and the flesh under them was pouchy and stained. Impatiently, he stretched up his hand. Gold arm-rings slid back to his elbow.
Peer hesitated, but the boy’s rudeness didn’t seem enough reason to ignore his father. He reached down. Gunnar’s grasp was cold, and slick with sweat. And then Peer saw with a shock that Gunnar’s other hand was gone. The left arm swung short; the wrist was a clumsily cobbled-together stump of puckered flesh with a weeping red core. One hand, look, only one hand… the whisper ran through the crowd as Gunnar dragged on Peer’s arm, trod hard on the ship’s gunwale, and pulled himself on to the jetty with a grunt of effort. He let go of Peer without a word, and turned immediately to join his wife.
The boy sprang up after him. “That’s better, Barelegs,” he said to Peer.
“My name’s not Barelegs,” said Peer, his temper rising.
“No?” The boy’s eyebrows went up, and he glanced deliberately around at the villagers. “Does he actually own a pair of breeches?”
Einar snorted, Gerd giggled, and Einar’s eldest boy made things worse by shouting out, “Yes, he does, and they’re over there!”
There was a burst of laughter. Peer went red.
The boy smiled at Peer. “Now why did you have to take those trousers off in such a hurry? Were you caught short? Did our big ship scare you that much, Barelegs?”
Peer struck out, completely forgetting the hammer in his hand. The boy twisted like a cat, there was a swirl of cloak and a rasping sound. Something flashed into the air. With a shout, Bjørn grabbed Peer’s arm, forcing it down. He wrenched the hammer away and hurled it on to the beach.
Peer bent over, rubbing his numbed fingers. “I’m s-sorry,” he stammered to Bjørn. “I lost my—I wouldn’t have hurt him—”
“No,” said Bjørn in a savage undertone, “you’d have been gutted.” And he nodded at the boy, who stood watching Peer with dancing eyes, holding a long steel sword at a casual slant.
Peer gaped. He’d never actually seen a sword before. Nobody in the village was rich enough to have one. Subtle patterns seemed to play and move on the flat steel surface. The frighteningly sharp edges had been honed to fresh silver.
That could cut my arm off.
At the edges of vision he half-saw the crowd:
