Catla and the Vikings (2 page)

Her eyes strained past the village to the cove below the sea cliffs. A red-and-white-striped sail fluttered in the breeze over a long ship—a Viking warship. It was much longer than the merchant ships she was used to seeing in her cove. Oars poked from holes along its sides. The prow was hidden from sight below the cliffs. A figure of a sea monster ended the long curve at its stern, reaching half as high as the mast. Were its eyes searching for her? She ducked her head even though she was sure the smoke hid her.

But she had to watch. Dogs circled, snarling and barking. Glints of metal flashed. One sharp yelp cut off. A dead weight hurtled from a sword tip. Stoutheart? Her chest tightened.

More sounds carried but no clear words. The breeze shifted and though her eyes streamed from smoke and shock, she kept watching. Where was her family? She tried counting people, moving her fingers one by one as her eyes darted from group to group. It was hopeless. Whirls of smoke obscured the village.

“Oh ye gods, help them,” she whispered. Was anyone inside the cottages? Maybe these Nord-devils did not kill as quickly as she had heard.

Two small figures about the size of her young brothers, Cuthbert and Dunstan, darted after a few pigs. Guarding next winter's food in the midst of all this? Her brothers might do that. A dog snapped at the invaders. Was that Bentleg, their brown one with the curly tail?

“Don't kill them, leave them alone, don't kill them!” Catla found herself standing and shrieking. Horrified at herself, she clapped her hands over her mouth and dropped below the brim of the hill, her body quaking. Had she been heard?
Foolish girl
.
Are you to be killed too?

She eased back for another view.

She would sneak down to help.

No, that was a poor idea. She'd be caught too.

What could she do? She must do something. What could she do alone?

Alone.

Maybe that was good. Alone.

The thought cut through her shock.

She could get help. The invaders might not know she was missing, even if someone had called her name. No one in the village knew where she was.

Aigber. Go to Aigber, beyond the standing stones, by the river. The village in the setting sun. Aigber
.

Her father was a longtime fighting companion of Hugh, Aigber's headman. For years Aigber and Covehithe had celebrated the Longest Day at the standing stones. They'd all been together there three moon cycles ago. Her village had taken half a day to get there, and Aigber the same. She could be in Aigber in less than a day, without babies, children, dogs and carts of food and bedding to slow her down.

The thought of leaving her family now in such danger made her stomach twist. She hadn't paid attention on the way to the standing stones; she had never been all the way to Aigber. What if she couldn't find it? What if she got there and the Nord-devils had arrived first? She wrapped her arms around her middle and hugged her sides.

Squirming her way a little farther down the hill, she sat with her head in her hands, elbows propped on her knees, her body shaking. It was getting late. The sun was dropping lower in the sky. She had to make up her mind.

One thought skittered after the other. She had to get help. She was the only hope for her family, her village. A voice inside her head said,
You'll get lost. The Nord-devils will find you and take you away. Wolves will eat you
as you cross the heath. The barrow ghosts will steal your mind. It will be dark.
In the midst of her anguish, she sensed her father's presence and the words he'd once said came back to her: “There will be times in your life when you are afraid, but a brave person does what has to be done in spite of fear. You, my daughter, have the makings of a brave person.” She hadn't believed him, but maybe he'd seen something she didn't know was there. The words gave her courage. She would go.

She turned her back on the cries and the smoke. With the warm afternoon sun on her face, she turned, put one foot in front of her and felt the breeze cool her cheeks where the tears had run.

CHAPTER TWO

The Decision

As she moved farther from her village, Catla's resolve faltered. Should she check to make sure everyone was alive? Were the Nord-devils herding them into the goat pen? It had looked like that to her. Maybe the Nord-devils were slavers.
Oh, let that be true
. Then she recoiled. Slaves! But it was the better fate. They would be alive. Or would they? Would the Nord-devils take everyone, even little Bega and her brothers? What would they do to her mother and the other women and girls in the village? Resolutely, she stopped imagining more, but tears started to form again and she almost turned back. Her mind argued as her feet continued down the hill.

Alone, she could do nothing against the Nord-devils with their axes and swords. But if she stayed, she'd know what was happening. What if the villagers were killed or loaded onto ships before she returned? She'd never see them again. She gasped. Her little sister's face swam in front of her eyes. Catla's words, last evening, had not been kind. “Stay away from my things, Bega.” Why hadn't she been even-tempered like her mother?

She'd turned her back on Bega's apology. Even the tears trickling down Bega's plump little cheeks hadn't softened Catla's heart. Bega hadn't meant to put another crack in the pot that held Catla's stone collection.

If she were home now…She shook her head at her foolishness and clenched her teeth in determination. Her steps lengthened as she continued down the slope she'd so recently run up.

She didn't see the mole's mound. Her foot caught the loose dirt and she slid, then stumbled forward and skidded downhill. Twigs and rocks scratched her arms and legs, and a boulder gouged her thigh just above her knee. She thumped to a stop on her side. This time she didn't try to stop the sobs. Tears trickled into her ears and ran down her neck as she wailed. Finally she lay still. She opened her eyes but didn't focus on anything. Could she find a place she'd never seen? She was an herb and flower gatherer, a baby-bird counter. Mother called her a dreamer. And if she did find Aigber, what if they didn't believe her? What if—?

She sat up and swore an oath, using words only the men in her village uttered. She caught her breath in uneven gulps.

“I have to do this. I am the only one who can. I have to.” She chanted, “Have to, have to…” and wiggled her ankle to see if it hurt.

She stood to test it. A twinge of pain ran up the outside of her leg, but it held her weight.

She squared her shoulders.
I'm lucky. It could have been worse.
What was it her mother always said?
Knock on wood
. Catla bent down and rapped her knuckles against a stout branch blown from an ash tree—Odin's tree—for protection. She picked up the branch to help her walk, feeling a pang of guilt as she remembered Father John's teachings. She made the sign of the cross, just to be safe.

The sun was in her face as she started across the heath. As she walked, her mind filled with the scene she'd witnessed. The Nord-devils all wore the same black tunics. Likely, they all served the same lord. Father told her once that different armies wore different colors so they could find their friends on the battlefield.

But her thoughts were mostly with her family. They would be helping everyone, the way they always did. “You're part of this family, and this family cares for everyone in the village.” Her father repeated these words too often for Catla's liking. “My father did this, and so will we.”

She'd tried to close her ears when her father told her to do something tedious or unpleasant, like picking bugs from the bedding robes. Or awful, like emptying Old Ingrid's slops from her cottage every morning into the communal pit. She still felt guilt at her relief when Old Ingrid had died.

“The lord granted my family this land many generations ago for our use, so long as we serve his needs,” her father had said. “It was given for valor in battle. The villagers honor him as a just and godly man.”

“But, Father, it's you who are the headman, not me.” Catla had tried to argue when the sickness sped through their village last winter. “It's not fair. Ruth's my age. She gets to play while I wash cloths to mop up vomit.” Now her heart ached as she thought of Ruth, her best friend. She had succumbed to the illness, not Catla.

The villagers paid their geld price to their lord, but they gave their trust and love to her mother and father for the fair leadership that allowed them to live as freemen. Catla thought about the helmets, swords and shields in the village, carefully wrapped in skins to keep the damp off the shiny metal. She wondered if the Nord-devils would find the hiding places.

She hoped God's ears were open when she promised that if she returned and found her family safe, she would never complain again about anything her parents asked her to do. Yes, she'd even marry Olav. She crossed herself again and closed her eyes to seal the bargain.

A sudden gust of love for her small village with its gardens, grain crops and small cottages stirred her. She loved the sea and the food it provided. Smoked fish and village-made wares were bartered at fairs in Scarborough and York for things they couldn't make themselves, like metal tools, salt and some of the colors for their famous dyes. If the people were taken, Covehithe would disappear. Her heart dropped.

She'd been so deep in thought, her fear had been pushed aside. It came back when she turned and saw the smoke, lifting high and dark in the afternoon sun. She'd traveled a good distance and felt a sudden hope and pride. Her family was brave.
I'm my father's daughter, and my mother's too
, she thought. Her mother was a warrior who'd fought alongside Catla's father and was famous for using the short stabbing sword and catapult. All the village women owned knives, but her mother's was beautifully crafted, a gift from the king.

It was hard to imagine her mother in the midst of a battle with a short sword in her hand. Her mother would never talk about it. “When you're older, Catla. You're too young to understand.” But she'd promised to teach Catla to use one this autumn, after the harvest. Catla had used a catapult for a few years, and even Father had said she had a good eye. She put her hand into her pouch to make sure the coiled strings, leather rock-pocket and the few smooth rocks had not tumbled out when she'd fallen. Her fingers found the catapult alongside the plants she'd gathered. With a long deep sigh her mood shifted back to grim, and she ran again to flee her shadow.

A few villagers had asked her, “How do you dare to go up onto the heath with just your catapult and stave to keep you safe from wolves and wild things? You're brave, like your mother.”

She felt safe on the heath. Besides, she wasn't like her mother, even though she yearned to be. Her mother was helpful, kind and even-tempered, most of the time. Catla longed to have hair like her mother's: brown and wavy, rather than red and tangled. Right now she wished she knew how to handle a short sword. What if someone threatened her? Suddenly she longed for an older person to appear and take this burden away. How could she, the dreamer, save her village? Her mother would know what to do. But she was not like her mother.

Nothing had ever threatened her on the heath. The wolves stayed away and no one said what the wild things were. She'd never seen a wild boar, although some hunting dogs had died after being gored last winter. Does and stags kept their distance because the men of the village hunted every creature. She didn't argue with her elders, but she wasn't convinced she was brave.

She wrapped her arms around her sides, gave herself a hug for encouragement and tried to ignore her hollow belly. She'd find berries. She'd find the standing stones and the path on the other side. She'd get to Aigber. The elders there knew her elders and her parents. Everyone knew about her father's father, a storyteller and wise leader. People would help when she told them about the Nord-devils.

Why have these Nord-devils come anyway?
she wondered. The Northern traders were often at Covehithe, but they didn't have monster heads on their ships and they didn't come to wage war. They exchanged salt for goat's cheese, cloth and Mother's beer. They loved her beer. Catla remembered the last group and the way they'd pushed for more. “Move on!” they'd shouted at each other. “You've had enough. It's my turn, Erik!”

They'd laughed when her mother said, “I'll take my broom to the lot of you if you can't get along.” The men seemed to love it when her mother spoke to them like children.

Catla's gut twisted and burned, this time not with hunger but with hatred. The feeling was new and disturbing.
Love your enemies
. The words came unbidden, and she pushed them aside. Should she love men who burned her village?
No!
She felt no love for these enemies. It must mean enemies who hurt your feelings, not burned your village.

The sun slipped lower in the sky. Birds sang and hares bounded across the path. She caught sight of a fox's furry tail as it disappeared around a bushy feverfew going to seed. The calm of her beloved heath slowly lulled her fury, and her thoughts moved back to wondering why Covehithe had been attacked.

She knew that King Harold had won the battle at Stamford Bridge and that Northumbria was secure again. King Harold's brother, Tostig, who wanted the crown, had been killed, and no one mourned his passing. Olav had brought that news, and Catla had tried to understand it to please him. She wished she'd paid more attention. Maybe then she would understand why the Nord-devils had come to Covehithe.

With the sun sinking lower, she walked as quickly as her sore leg would let her, using her walking stick to support some of her weight. The leg throbbed, and when she stopped and lifted her shift, she saw an ugly bruise forming. Without Rebecca's daisy ointment, there was little she could do. She trudged on, hoping to reach the standing stones before dark. The stones would be a safer place to spend the night. Her mind skittered at the idea of a night alone out-of-doors. No one in her village ever wanted to do that. But the standing stones might give her some protection from the will-o'-the-wisps, goblins and ghosts the villagers feared. She'd dared to go up to the heath alone at night twice this summer. Now she reminded herself that nothing had bothered her except her fears.