Catla and the Vikings

C
ATLA
and
the
V
IKINGS

M
ARY
E
LIZABETH
N
ELSON

ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

Copyright © 2012 Mary Elizabeth Nelson

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Nelson, Mary, 1937-
Catla and the Vikings [electronic resource] / Mary Elizabeth Nelson.

Electronic monograph.
Issued also in print format.

ISBN
978-1-4598-0058-8 (
PDF
)--
ISBN
978-1-4598-0059-5 (
EPUB
)

I. Title.
PS
8627.e575c38 2012         
JC
813'.6         
C
2011-907770-1

First published in the United States, 2012
Library of Congress Control Number:
2011943728

Summary:
An Anglo-Saxon girl saves her village from Viking invaders—and herself from an arranged marriage.

Orca Book Publishers is dedicated to preserving the environment and has printed this book on paper certified by the Forest Stewardship Council
^®
.

Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

Cover design by Teresa Bubela
Cover illustration by Juliana Kolesova
Author photo by Phil Walmsley, Forever Photography

www.orcabook.com
Printed and bound in Canada.

15   14   13   12   •   4   3   2   1

To the generations of spirited
women in my family who inspired Catla:
Rhoda, Dorothy, Laura and Clara.

Contents

Chapter One
Invaded

Chapter Two
The Decision

Chapter Three
In the Hills at Night

Chapter Four
Headlong into Trouble

Chapter Five
The Village in the Setting Sun

Chapter Six
Setting the Trap

Chapter Seven
A Swift Turn of Events

Chapter Eight
The Eyes of the Dragon

Chapter Nine
Turning Toward Home

Chapter Ten
Recrossing the Heath

Chapter Eleven
A Startling Discovery

Chapter Twelve
A Rest at the Standing Stones

Chapter Thirteen
In the Dark

Chapter Fourteen
The Wolf's Howl

Chapter Fifteen
Home

Author's Note

Acknowledgments

CHAPTER ONE

Invaded

Butterflies hovered around Catla as she sat in the shade of a late-flowering gorse bush. Tendrils of her long red hair clung to her skin. She lifted them off her neck, hoping for a cooling breeze. All morning she'd wandered on the headland above her village, scarcely glancing at the sea, where sunlight glinted on the waves. The fields were ripe for harvest, and she'd stroked the barley heads with their shiny beards. She'd watched a brood of young blackbirds, their black beaks open, demanding food. Autumn had arrived with the appearance of blue-faced asters and birds flocking for their departure south. She'd carefully tugged out some viola roots and added them to the late-blooming wormwood, yarrow and bits of lichen in the pouch that hung from her belt. Rebecca, the village healer, would be glad of the supplies. On most days these pastimes pleased Catla, but this morning her thoughts were far from her tasks. She struggled with the question her father, Athelstan, had asked again that morning as she cast her sleeping robes aside.

“Have you decided?”

His words played over and over in her mind. Olav, the peddler from York, had asked Arknell, steward to their lord, the Earl of Northumbria, if he could marry her. Arknell had agreed to the betrothal and had granted her two moon cycles to think on it. This privilege was not given to everyone, but her parents had forged friendships with both Arknell and the Earl during battles fought together over the years. Now, her time was up. This morning her father had said to her, “I'll decide for you and make the announcement at this night's council fire unless you give me good reason against it.” Then he added, “Some girls younger than you are already wed. He wants to marry you, Catla.” He looked at her mother and said, “Sarah, you'll stand with me.”

Father's face had been stern, and Mother, who always held that a bride should be willing, had turned aside when Catla sought her eyes. Yet last year when Lioba had married, Mother had said that thirteen was too young. That was before Olav. Father's words chilled her even with the sun warm on her back. Olav had been welcomed as a friend. Already, some of the people in the village regarded her as betrothed. She knew the rest of the village counted her lucky to have a successful peddler seeking her hand. But her heart was not convinced. And she was just thirteen.

“You've a dowry, unlike other girls,” her father had said, “but I think Olav desires you beyond that. He's a good man. His business is growing because he trades well and fairly. He has taken time from his business in York to stay a few days so you can know him better. You should feel grateful. He likes our village of Covehithe, and he likes you. It might be a long time before someone so suitable comes this way again. Think carefully, my girl.”

Why wouldn't he like Covehithe?
Catla wondered. It was beautiful and enjoyed a flourishing trade with the countries across the water. It would suit Olav well. Athelstan was a good headman, and people prospered here. She loved her village and the headland beyond it. She did not want to marry, not yet, and especially not Olav. He'd make her leave home and move to York. Last spring it had taken her family a day and a half to travel to York's fair to sell her mother's weaving. It was a rough, dirty place where slops were flung into the street. She'd returned home with the stench on her clothes and in her hair.

Norsemen who wanted land and a peaceful life as farmers, merchants and craftsmen had been settled close to and within York's old Roman walls for generations. But there were also runaway slaves and other rough men seeking their fortunes in Northumbria, the farthest northern realm of England. King Harold's own brother, Tostig, had welcomed many such men into his army. Father called all these marauders and looters
Vikings
, whether they were Norse, Danes or Swedes.

A few days ago Tostig had been killed in a battle at Stamford Bridge, just outside York
.
The few invaders that had been left alive had taken their injured and sailed home. Who'd want to move to York now?

“What will I say to Father?” She shouted her frustration and startled the butterflies. They flitted away, then rested on some yarrow going to seed. If only she liked Olav better. He said he longed for her and that she was beautiful, especially her blue-green eyes. No one had ever said that before, and she liked the way it made her feel. But he was old, his hair already gray. And he was bossy. He'd told her he would hold the family purse because she was not used to coins, that he'd make all those decisions. He'd hardly listened when she told him she'd helped Mother with her coins at the fair. That did not bode well in her mind. And another thing: he stank.

“You'll be able to persuade him to wash once you are married,” her mother had said. “You'll be taking care of his clothes.”

Catla was not convinced.

“I'll not be doing that,” Olav had informed her bluntly when she suggested he use a frayed end of a willow twig to clean his teeth and sweeten his breath. Would he take notice of any of her ideas?

Other people in her village listened to her, even though she was young. In the spring, Rebecca had taken Catla on as an apprentice. Already Catla was making suggestions for healing. She had added horseradish to the poultice for Martha's twisted knee, and it had helped. Being discounted by Olav seemed a poor beginning to a life together, but Father John advised her to obey her parents' wishes, and she did yearn to please them.

With a start, Catla noticed that the shadow of the gorse bush she sat beside had shrunk to almost nothing and was edging its way toward the other side of the clump. She was late! There were fewer demands on her time just before harvest; it was too early to start preserving vegetables and meats for the winter. She had the usual chores of stirring the dye pot, carding wool and spinning. But Mother insisted Catla help prepare food for the short-shadow meal, the main meal of the day. Her mother was right—Catla's head often was in the clouds. She had better hurry, but she still hadn't decided what to say to Father. Catla scrambled to her feet. Her shadow slanted away from the village. She was usually home by now.

Then she saw the smoke.

It billowed into a high gray pillar from behind the hill where the cottages sat on the benchland above the sea cliffs. Fires under cooking pots made much less smoke.

What was burning? There had been no talk of replacing the roof thatch or the floor-covering rushes. The grain was not yet harvested, so it wouldn't be the stalks. Smoke eddied and swirled. Her heart pounding, Catla ran along the sheep and goat trails. Father John had taught her to make the sign of the cross when afraid, and she wondered which gods were listening as her fingers flew across her body.

She picked up the skirts of her shift to run faster, her feet scuffling over loose stones, the drinking horn and pouch bouncing against her side. The smoke soared, thicker now. Nearly at the crest, she stopped, afraid to look. Then she heard a woman scream. Catla's legs buckled and she sat with a thump. Who had screamed? What was happening? There were more voices and shouting. Some words sounded like Norse, but she couldn't understand them.

Even at this distance, the smoke made her cough and sputter as some of it curled over the hilltop.
Care. Take care,
she cautioned herself. She flopped onto her belly and squirmed uphill on elbows and knees, following an instinct to remain hidden. Small stones and sticks dug into the tender skin on her forearms, but she hardly noticed. She kept low to the ground because the sun behind her would put her in plain view if she stood. At the brink of the hill, she shifted forward and peered down into the village.

Smoke eddied and surged around the cottages. Then she saw flames and more smoke. Fire licked the walls and ate its way into the thatched roofs. Smoke poured from cooking holes, curled around the edges of the roof thatch and swirled into spaces between cottages. There were cries of terror and pain and harsh words shouted in Norse. Terror tore through Catla's limbs, making them quiver. The smoke twisted, and she saw men in black tunics. Vikings. This was a Viking raid.
Nord-devils
. She pressed her fists against her mouth to stop the scream.

The smoke cleared briefly, and she saw the invaders prodding the huddled villagers with swords and axes, moving them toward the other end of the village. Her end. Where her cottage stood.
Nord-devils burning my village!
The smoke eddied. Someone wore a green shawl. Was it their neighbor, Martha? There was a tall man with red hair. Her father? A small child clung to a woman's leg. Was that her mother and little sister, Bega?