‘What book is that?’
‘It’s called a bestiary, a book about notable animals and their behaviour.’
In Carolus’s bestiary an eagle had been drawn on the page opposite the picture of the gyrfalcon, and I had read what was written underneath.
‘It claims that parent eagles train their fledglings to endure pain by holding them up and making them stare directly into the glare of the sun,’ I continued.
Ingvar held up the half-finished travel perch to check its shape. ‘Can’t say that I’ve ever seen eagles doing that. But if a cuckoo can get other birds to raise its young, why shouldn’t eagles have their own special way as parents?’
‘There was also a picture of a wild animal like a horse but with a horn. It’s white and very shy, yet it can be tamed. Have you ever seen or heard of such an animal?’
He paused, knife in hand, and regarded me thoughtfully. ‘Are you sure it’s a horse, not a deer?’
It was an echo of what Walo had asked when we set out from Aachen. He had said that if a unicorn shed its horn every year, then it was a sort of deer.
‘I don’t know,’ I said hesitantly. ‘The book doesn’t say.’
‘My mother’s people know of a wild deer that could be the animal you speak of. If you are gentle with it, the animal can be tamed.’
His mother’s people, I presumed, were the wild Finna. ‘And is this a white deer?’
‘Some are.’
‘Can you draw me a picture?’
Using a twig Ingvar scratched an outline of the animal in the dust. The body, legs and head could well have been a unicorn. But when he came to sketch a full set of branching horns, it was clear that this was not the creature of the book.
He saw the disappointment on my face. ‘It’s not the animal you are seeking?’
‘No. The animal I’m looking for has a single horn, a spike that springs directly from the forehead. You cannot mistake it. The horn is made in a spiral like the strands of a rope.’
Ingvar’s face was alert with sudden interest. ‘There is such an animal. Some years ago I came across a broken piece of its horn.’
My heart gave a lurch. ‘Where was this?’
‘I had gone to the coast to catch those birds whose flesh you so enjoy. A broken piece of its horn was lying on the beach, just a small fragment. Maybe the creature had been fighting with a rival and damaged the spike.’
‘Do you still have it?’
He flipped his knife in the air, caught it by the blade, and held it out to me.
‘Take a look,’ he said.
The handle was dark wood, much polished with use. Where it tapered towards the hilt was a creamy yellow band, the width of my little finger. I looked at it more closely. It had been inset into the wood, and was a section of pale horn or some sort of ivory. Without question, the surface bore the distinctive spiralling twist of the unicorn’s horn.
*
The moment I got back to Kaupang, I placed the gyrfalcons in Gorm’s care and hurried off to check on Walo and the two ice bears. Ohthere was standing in front of their cage, chewing on what I supposed was his favourite whale blubber.
‘If they get any bigger I’ll have to build them a larger, much stronger enclosure,’ he said as I joined him.
In the week I had been away, the two ice bears had thrived more than I would have imagined possible. They had grown several inches in height and length, put on weight, and their fur was losing its ugly yellow tinge.
‘So Walo’s doing a good job,’ I said.
Ohthere nodded. ‘Twice a day he crawls in there, plays that wretched pipe, gives them food and water, brushes their coats, scratches them behind the ears. I won’t be surprised to see him rolling around and wrestling with them one day.’
‘So he’s tamed the bears.’
‘Not at all! If anyone else goes near them, they start that snaky movement, side to side with their heads. A warning that they’re about to lash out. They won’t let anyone near them except Walo.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘With Osric. The two of them are helping Redwald. That crafty rogue drove a shrewd bargain over the price of my bears.’
As I walked away, heading into the town, he called out, ‘And tell Redwald that I want to talk with him about who’s going to pay for their food. They’re consuming eight chickens every day, and all the lard I can get my hands on.’
I identified Redwald’s place of work by a pile of quern stones. They were heaped outside one of the small, wooden houses just beyond the slave market. Inside I found Redwald standing in the light from the window, moodily rubbing a piece of broken silver jewellery against his touchstone. He looked round as I entered and treated me to a smile of genuine welcome.