Part One: To New Lands

Chapter One

‘HAVEN’T WE SEEN THAT ISLAND BEFORE?’ shouted Erik Sigurdsson from the stern.

The sun was setting mistily in the west, its light drifting like blood in water over the misty tangle of islands that petered out into the wind-lashed rocks and skerries of the Atlantic. As the trading ship ploughed wearily on through the Inner Hebrides, and the crew busied themselves about deck, the three owners stood at the helm and bickered about the route.

‘We’ve been this way about five times today,’ Gudrun Ragnarsdaughter confirmed from the side, where she was gazing ahead through the mist. ‘Don’t you get the feeling we might be lost?’

‘We followed the instructions my father gave us exactly,’ complained Halldor Kalfsson, folding his arms and glaring angrily at the island, as if daring it to contradict him.

‘Well,’ said Gudrun, ‘either he got it wrong, or someone misremembered his instructions.’

‘Don’t look at me,’ muttered Halldor.

They had set out from the Port of Chester the previous morning with a cargo of bacon and butter to sell to the Danes of Hedeby. It was their first trading voyage, and Erik was already regretting deciding to set forth. Things had gone pretty well when they sailed past the Isle of Man, and rounded the Galloway coast. But it was when they started picking their way through the Western Isles that the instructions Halldor’s father had given them began to run awry.

Of course, they didn’t have to circumnavigate Scotland in order to reach Denmark - they could have just as easily gone round Wales and passed through the Channel. Unfortunately, the trouble with the Danes on the east coast had flared up again, and King Ethelred - who they nominally accepted as overlord of their own lands in Wirral - had taken to boarding all vessels he could get his hands on off the coast, and levying a strict scot. And since the ship’s crew and owners were almost all of Scandinavian blood, descendants of Earl Ingimund and the Norse-Irish settlers who had colonised north-west England ninety years earlier, they could expect to get short shrift from the Saxons.

So they had resolved to brave the waters of the Atlantic in a light, fast trading ship, in design not unlike a longship, but lacking the oars and broader in the waist to accommodate the hold. Disregarding the many perils, contrary currents, whirlpools and storms, Vikings and other pirates that plagued the Hebridean seas (perhaps even the legendary Ulf-Hedin, who was rumoured to use the powers of witchcraft to loot other ships), they had set forth one misty morning, with hope in their hearts. But by now Erik was wondering if it hadn’t been a better idea to just hand over two thirds of their cargo to the avaricious King of England. At least they would have had a chance to win through relatively unscathed.

Night was falling fast, turning the mist into a dark blanket of impenetrable gloom. Time to weigh anchor.

‘Head for that island,’ he told Sverting Kroksson the steersman, a younger son of the Lawspeaker. ‘We’ll find somewhere to pull up, an inlet or firth, and stay there for the night. We might even be able to contact the locals, and see if they'll advise us on our route.’

Either that or eat them, he reflected to himself. The Hebrideans had a nasty reputation. Legend had it they were worse for witchcraft and wizardry than any other folk except the Finns, and dark rumours whispered of highly unwholesome eating habits. But there was no point worrying the crew with stories that might have no foundation in fact.

They sailed closer to the island, cutting speedily through the misty waters as darkness swooped down around them. After a while, they began to circle the coast.

‘There!’ cried Gudrun from the prow after a couple of minutes. ‘I see a firth! Make for it! We should be able to shelter there.’

Erik relayed the order to the steersman in the stern, and turned to his two companions.

‘If we see any indications of inhabitation in the morning, I suggest we land and question the natives as to our route,’ he said.

‘It might be an idea to go quietly,’ said Gudrun. ‘The locals may not be too friendly.’

‘If they attack us, I’ll kill them all!’ boasted Halldor. ‘All warriors fall to my mighty blade…’

‘Aye, Halldor,’ said Gudrun scornfully. They all knew that Halldor had no more battle experience than the rest of them, although he had proved himself in practice-sessions to the great approval of their elders.

By now they were passing the nearest headland of the sound. As they came closer to the dark island, Erik told the crew to reef the sails. Soon they had reached the head of the firth.

‘Weigh anchor here,’ Erik ordered, ‘and put up the awnings. We’ll spend the night out here, then continue in the morning.’