as if nothing surprised her.
Then the boy pushed the sword into its sheath. He tossed his hair back and said in a light, amused way, “He started it.”
“And just who are you?” demanded Bjørn before Peer could reply.
The boy waited for a second as if he expected Bjørn to add, “young master”, and Gunnar interrupted. “He’s my son, Harald Gunnarsson, my first-born.” His voice was gruff, thick with pride, and Peer saw, without surprise this time, that he too was wearing a sword. “My young lion, eh, Harald?” Affectionately he cuffed the boy’s head with his sound right hand. “I’ll get me other sons one day, perhaps, but none to equal this one. Look at him, pretty as a girl, no wonder they call him ‘Harald Silkenhair’. But don’t be fooled. See this?” He lifted his left arm to show the missing fist, and turned slowly around, grinning at the villagers. “Seen it? All had a good look?” His voice changed to a snarl. “But the man who did it lost his head, and it was my boy here who took it off him.”
There was scattered applause. “A brave lad, to defend his father!”
“A fine young hero. And so handsome, too!” Gerd clasped her red hands.
“‘Bare is back without brother behind’,” old Thorkell quoted in pompous approval.
“Well said, Grandad.” Gunnar nodded. “And a good son will guard your back as well as any brother. Quick with his sword, and quick with his tongue too; he can string you a verse together as fast as any of the king’s skalds.”
“A little too quick with his tongue, perhaps,” said Bjørn drily.
Gunnar hesitated. Then he burst out laughing, his red face darkening as he fought for breath. “All right,” he coughed, “all right. We can’t let the young dogs bark too loudly, can we? Harald—and you…What’s your name—Peer? No more quarrelling. Shake hands.”
“Yes, Father,” said Harald, to an appreciative mutter from the villagers. He stepped forward, holding out his hand. Peer eyed him without taking it. His heart beat in his throat, and his mouth was sour with tension as he met Harald’s bright gaze.
Harald grinned unpleasantly. “Hey, come on, Barelegs. Can’t you take a joke?”
Peer nearly burst. He turned his back and shouldered his way along the jetty, leaving Bjørn and the others to deal with the newcomers. Down on the shingle, he hastily pulled on his breeches while Einar’s little boys peeped at him round the posts of the jetty, giggling and whispering, “Barelegs, Barelegs.” He pretended not to hear, but it was the sort of name that stuck. He would never live it down.
Bjørn called to him, “Arnë’s taking Gunnar up to Ralf’s farm. Why don’t you go with them? It’ll be sunset soon, anyway.”
“No,” said Peer gruffly “I’ll be along later. I’ve work to finish here.”
He watched them pick their way across the beach, heading for the path to the village. Gunnar’s young wife Astrid clung to his arm, mincing across the pebbles. Probably her shoes were too thin, Peer thought sourly. How would she ever make it up to the farm, a good two miles of rough track? But perhaps they’d borrow a pony.
He walked slowly back along the jetty, taking his time, unwilling to talk even to Bjørn.The tide was full. Water Snake had risen with it.
Against the sky the knob of the dragonhead stood black, like a club or a clenched fist. The angry wooden eyes bulged outwards as if likely to explode. The gaping jaws curved together like pincers. An undulating tongue licked forwards between them, the damp wood splitting along the grain.
The ship was empty—the crew had all disappeared to the village. Peer glanced about. No one was looking. He quietly jumped on board.
The ship smelled of pinewood and fresh tar.The rope he clutched left a sticky line on his palm. There was decking fore and aft. The waist of the ship was an orderly clutter of crates and barrels: luggage and supplies. A white hen stuck its head out of a wicker crate and clucked gently.
Fancy a trip to Vinland, Peer?
He clambered across the cargo and up the curve of the ship into the stern, where he stood for a moment holding the tiller and gazing out westwards. The sun was low over the fjord, laying a bright track on the water: a road studded with glittering cobblestones. It stung his heart and dazzled his eyes.
And Harald Silkenhair, no older than Peer, had travelled that road. Harald had sailed across the world, proved himself in battles, been to places Peer would never see.
He thought of Thorolf’s ship, his father’s ship, the Long Serpent, beached on the shores of Vinland far across the world, and felt a surge of longing. Life was a tangle that tied him to the shore. What would it be like to cut free, shake off the land, and go gliding away into the very heart of the sun? He closed his eyes and tried to imagine he was out at sea.
“What are you doing?” Bjørn looked down at him from the jetty. Peer snatched his hand off the tiller, feeling every kind of fool for being discovered playing at sailing like some little boy.
“Looking at the, oh, the workmanship.” He made an effort. “I don’t think the dragonhead’s as fine as the one my father made. But it’s still good work.”
“Mm,” said Bjørn. After a moment he said, “And what do you make of Harald Troublemaker?”
Their eyes met. Peer said, “He just picked a fight with me. For no reason at all.”
“I know.”
“What was I supposed to do? Stand there and take it? Did you hear what he said to me?”
Bjørn blew out a troubled breath. “Peer, better to take an insult than a sword in your guts. You don’t have to play Harald’s games.”
“How can your brother sail with someone like that?”
Bjørn shook his head. “Arnë can be a bit of a fool sometimes.”
“Let me get off this boat.” Peer climbed over the side and on to the jetty, feeling Water Snake balance and adjust as his weight left her.
“Don’t play Harald’s games,” Bjørn repeated.
“I won’t.” Half comforted, Peer straightened and stretched. “You’re right,” he added. What was the point of letting Harald get to him? Let him strut. Let Arnë have his evening with Hilde. Tomorrow they’d both sail away.
CHAPTER 3 “Be careful what you wish for”
Hilde rubbed tired eyes. It was almost too dark to see the pattern she was weaving. Draughts snuffled and whined under the door. The wooden shutters were tightly fastened. The fire smoked. She longed for a breath of air.
Further up the room, in the glow of the long hearth, nine-year-old Sigrid was telling little Eirik a bedtime story.
“So there was a terrible storm. And Halvor’s ship was blown along and blown along until he landed in a beautiful country.
