The Raven and the Cross

by C. R. May

  Boleslav was eager to be away, and the men clasped forearms to seal their bond as the warriors of both nations began to say their own farewells. Parting gifts were being exchanged all along the line as friendships forged over the course of the summer came to an end, and a gold arm ring found its way from Erik’s forearm to that of Babushka as the Norwegian showed his appreciation for the older man’s friendship and rede.

  Boleslav was already moving off surrounded by his bodyguard, and Erik and Babushka exchanged a parting nod as he hauled the head of his mount around to the south and followed on. Shorn of the men on foot and the wider levy the bogatyri were soon drawing away, and Erik watched them go as his own bodyguard clustered around. The raid into the Saxon part of East Frankia had achieved all that they had hoped and more. Settlements lay in ruins, valuables and their erstwhile owners carried away beyond the Wilderness to enrich their captors and the year’s crop either burned or escorted east by the levy men to fill their own barns and stores. If the Slavs would eat well that winter, the coming of the dark months held even less joy than normal for those in the Christian land.

  ‘They were good lads after all, despite our fears,’ Anlaf said with a roguish smile as he watched them go. ‘I am glad we saved their hides.’

  The Norwegians laughed as Erik pointed the head of his own horse to the north. Kolbein piped up, the disappointment obvious from his tone. ‘We are not going to join the Danes sacking Ezehoe then lord? It would be nice to feel the sea moving beneath our feet again.’ The comment drew their eyes to the west. A dark line in the sky marked the place where the town was undergoing its martyrdom at the hands of king Gorm’s shipmen. It was far from the first, nor was it likely to be the last time that dragon ships had carried heathen men up the River Stoer to the little port. But it was testament to the wealth of the land thereabouts and the grit of the inhabitants that they rebuilt both the town and their lives within it again and again and got themselves back to work. ‘No,’ Erik replied. ‘I have had a bellyful of crop burning and rounding up runaways. The pleasures of the hall are calling me home.’

  A murmur of agreement rolled around the group, and the men of the hird perked up as the word was passed from man to man and the end of a long summer spent in the saddle hove into view for them all. They had ridden a fair way that day to reach the Army Road, and although the light was far from spent Erik’s thoughts turned to rest now that they were finally alone. He hauled at the reins, turning the head of his horse back to the east as he began to anticipate an afternoon of leisure before moving northwards in the morning. The move had surprised them all, but he recognised that they were of one mind as he asked a question. ‘Did anyone else notice that stray cow a few miles back, or did my appetite imagine it?’

  They all confirmed that they had. With nobody left to drive farm animals eastwards the fast moving horsemen, bogatyri and Norse alike, had not had the time to kill every animal which crossed their path. More and more were escaping to live another day, each one plump and healthy after a full spring and summer cropping lush green grass. Erik snorted as smiles broke out all around. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let us round her up and invite her to dinner.’

  ‘Are you sure we are on the right road?’

  Thorstein chuckled at Erik’s side. ‘As sure as can be, there is only one after all!’

  Erik looked aside. A small track led away from the main highway to lose itself in a small stand of elm, but a hint of white low down indicated the presence of a small hall and outbuildings. ‘Either that cow got word that she was destined to become the main course tonight or someone else got there first.’ Erik twisted in his saddle to look at the position of the sun. Arvak and Alsvið were little more than half way to the horizon; now that the column had come to a standstill the sun was hot on his back, despite the lateness of the year. Erik cuffed the sweat from his brow before prising the stopper from his canteen with a thumb. The contents had barely reached his throat before the flask ran dry, and Erik wrinkled his nose in disappointment as he upended it and shook the final drops out onto the road: ‘I am out.’

  Thorstein followed suit, poking out his tongue to catch the last droplet from his own canteen before turning back: ‘me too.’

  Erik called across his shoulder as he reached a decision. ‘Sturla!’

  The Romsdaler was up with his lord in a moment, and Erik indicated the road ahead with a flick of his chin. ‘Take Mord with you and find Olvir and Hauk. Tell them that if they have not come across our wayward dinner by now to return and we will rest-up here.’ He indicated the side path and Sturla nodded that he understood.

  Sturla whistled up his friend and within moments the pair were cantering eastwards in a pall of dust to bring in the scouts. Erik watched them go before hauling at his reins, gently guiding his horse towards the dusty track as the others followed on. A skein of geese drifted across the sky as the horses picked their way across the meadow, the cackles and honks as much a part of autumn as the first blush of russet on the leaves. The shade was welcome when it came, and Erik watched as Thorstein and Helgrim put back their heels and disappeared around a bend as the track crossed a burn and took a turn to the west. The column was not far behind and within a few moments the woodland drew back; Erik ran his eyes around the farm before him as he led them out into the clearing. Any hopes that Boleslav’s men may have missed this place as they ranged ahead of the main column were dashed as he saw that the barn had been burned to its foundations. All that remained was a haphazard lattice of charred timbers within a rectangle of ash, but time had been against the Obotrite raiders and the hall itself looked untouched. Erik slipped from the saddle as he watched Helgrim duck through the doorway sword in hand, and he walked the mount over to a small pond as the others dismounted to his rear. As the horse drank noisily, Thorstein reappeared from the far side of the little building and guided his own mount across. ‘All clear, lord,’ he said as he too dropped to the ground. ‘I checked the tree line just in case, but the undergrowth is undisturbed and there are no pathways to follow. We can relax, there is no one hiding there.’

  A neat paddock lay to the far side of the hall itself, with a deep stubble field beyond testifying to the fullness of the harvest which had perished along with the barn, and although the horses they had once contained were long gone Erik led his mount across as he sought to take advantage of the windfall. The corral was large enough to accommodate the majority of their horses, and he called to the more senior members of the hird to follow his example as he went. Safely contained within the paling it would allow Erik to release more men from picket duty, which was the more usual form of securing the horses for the night when on campaign. There was an air of celebration about the men as the long summer drew to a close and the fear of a Frankish counterattack receded. The mood would lift a touch with every mile travelled on the morrow as Erik led them north; by the end of the day they should have made contact with king Gorm’s army of Danes, and a few short days after that he would be supping in his own hall and sleeping in his own bed once again after months away.

  A heap of branches and timbers was already beginning to smoulder at the centre of the compound as men brought up the pack horses and unloaded the provisions, and Erik rubbed the growl from his belly as he anticipated the meal to come. Day after day in the saddle worked up a healthy appetite, and although they had been denied a bellyful of fresh steer meat by the disappearance of their intended victim, spirits were high as a flash of colour told Erik that Helgrim had come from the hall. Erik threw him a smile as his attention turned back towards the place where the horses were being led towards the paddock, but the animals were forgotten in a flash and his head shot back as he realised that his huskarl’s features were fixed in a frown. Erik’s hand moved instinctively to the hilt of his sword, but he quickly discounted any danger as he watched Helgrim walk steadily towards him. It would take a small army to bring down his father’s old huskarl and he was not the type of man to show his back to any threat; it was not f
or fearfulness that Harald Fairhair had bestowed the nickname Smiter on the man when he was still a youth.

  Erik walked across, his own expression now mirroring that of his underling. Thorstein and Anlaf, as watchful as any hounds, were already at his side as he came into the shadow of the building, and Helgrim hawked and spat the sour taste from his mouth before explaining his mood to the trio. ‘The family are still inside, lord.’

  ‘Dead?’

  Helgrim nodded: ‘very.’

  Erik shared a look with the huskarls at his side before turning back. ‘You have seen dead families before, we all have. What is so worrisome this time?’

  Helgrim fingered the silver pendant at his throat as he replied. ‘This one is different.’ He indicated the doorway with a flick of his head. ‘Come and have a look, I think it might be witchery.’

  A few paces and they were before the entrance, and Erik stepped across the threshold and into the cool of the building. Two doors led off to the right, and Erik had enough experience now of the southern house types to know that these would lead to the rooms known as the buttery and the pantry, the first a brew and store room for the household butts of ale, the second for foodstuffs. An oak screen separated the passageway from the main room of the hall itself, and Erik fought down the urge to move his hand to the silver hammer of Þórr at his own neck lest it be taken as a sign of fear as the others came into the cross-passage behind him. Unlike most of the men Erik had lost his fear of elves and witches long ago, personally slaying two warlocks, one his own half brother had certainly helped, but only a halfwit would blunder into any situation before he knew the type of threat he may be about to face and Erik was no fool.

  As soon as he crossed the sole plate the sour stench of loosened bowels made him hesitate to go further, but the others were at his back, and he shallowed his breathing as he stepped aside to sweep the room with his gaze. Anlaf crossed to the long wall, throwing the wooden shutters back to allow the daylight to stripe the floor, and the group moved to the banner man’s side as the cool air chased away the reek. The light revealed the grey heap of a hearth long since burned to ash, above which a small cauldron hung suspended from an iron tripod. Erik peeked inside, poking the remains of the family’s last meal with the wooden spoon which rested there, wrinkling his nose as the smell of rancid porridge wafted over him as the spoon pierced the crust. Their eyes accustomed to the light now, the men looked about them to discover that the floor of the hall was spattered by cakes of vomit as Helgrim drew back a curtain to reveal the space where the bodies lay.

  A glance was all Erik needed to tell that the dead had suffered neither swing of sword nor thrust of spear, and he asked Anlaf to see if he could spot Sturla in the courtyard and have him come across. As his huskarl gave a shout and beckoned at the wind hole, Erik took in the remains of the inhabitants of the farm. Huddled on top of the single bed lay a family of the dead; father, mother and twin daughters of perhaps nine or ten winters in age. All four had berry-blue lips drawn back into the rictus of a grin, and Erik knew that he was far from alone in feeling a chill at the macabre sight.

  Sturla hurried into the room, and Erik beckoned the man across as the others took a pace back. ‘We have a mystery, Godi,’ Erik said. ‘Helgrim thinks that it may be seith-work; what do you think?’

  Although no priest in reality, Sturla’s experience and knowledge of such things was second to none among the men of Erik’s hird, a legacy of his mother who had been the hedge-witch in his home valley. Sturla’s gaze took in the dabs of sickness spread across the floor of the room, before moving forward to examine the cadavers. As Erik and the huskarls looked on in silence, the hirdman peered into the unseeing eyes of the father before bending low to sniff at his mouth. Wordless he moved back, stooping to scoop a smidgen of the sick from the floor on the tip of his little finger before holding it close to his nose to take a cautious sniff. The cauldron followed, the Romsdaler lifting the wooden spoon to test the contents with the tip of his tongue. As the others stood frozen at the sight, Sturla turned to Erik and shared his thoughts. ‘It is not witchcraft, lord,’ he said, ‘unless Christian witches don’t know what they are about.’

  As the senior men shared looks of relief Sturla began to rummage inside a basket at the fireside, and Erik saw the look of satisfaction cross his man’s face as he fished out a handful of long white roots and held them up. ‘This is what did it,’ he said with a look of triumph: ‘Wolfsbane, some folk call it Old Wife’s Hood.’

  Erik looked across in surprise. ‘So someone poisoned them?’

  Sturla crossed back to the place where the bodies lay and threw back the sheet. ‘Not someone, lord,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Either one or both of the parents, although my silver would be on the father.’ Erik threw him a questioning look and Sturla explained. ‘There is plenty of dried blood staining the groin area of all three women, and we all know what that means. What with that and the loss of the year’s crop when the barn was burnt to the ground, it was either a quick end or a miserable drawn-out death over the coming months. The horses are gone too…’ He looked around the hall; all the telltale signs of ransack were present: upended storage pots; tufts of thatch lay about the floor where the raiders had searched the roof space for valuables. Sturla continued with his explanation as the others looked about them. ‘Unfortunately the man was no sorcerer and he had no idea of the correct dosage.’ He screwed up his face and looked about the vomit strewn floor; ‘hence the mess.’

  Anlaf added a question of his own. ‘Why do you think the father poisoned them? Women have far more knowledge of plants and their uses than men.’

  ‘Because they were Christians of course.’

  Sturla could see from the blank expressions of those around him that they were still none the wiser so he explained. ‘Christians are not allowed by God to take their own lives. They are put on Midgard to suffer, and the more they suffer the greater the reward will be when they finally ascend to heaven. By killing them all without their knowledge it becomes just plain old murder.’

  Erik nodded as he came to understand the motives of the unknown farmer whose earthly remains lay only feet away, and he wondered if he would have the courage to do the same for Gunnhild and the children should he ever find himself at such a low. ‘So, the father ensures that his wife and girls go to the Christ even though he cannot join them there.’

  Sturla nodded. ‘That’s the nub of it, lord.’

  ‘You know the ways of these people Godi,’ Erik said sadly. ‘Bury the women according to their customs so that the farmer’s last wishes are fulfilled.’ He flicked a look at the face a man made sallow by death. ‘We will burn the father on a pyre.’ He looked about the room and saw the acceptance there. ‘If Christ has no need for brave men, our gods may find a place.’

  6

  DANE WORK

  The lead group drew rein as the town came into view, and Erik exclaimed at the sight which greeted them. ‘They certainly look like they mean to stay!’

  Thorstein rolled his eyes. ‘After all the trouble we went through to retake the place, I would be disappointed if they didn’t!’

  Even from a distance Hedeby resembled an anthill made large, as men sweated to deepen the ring ditch and heighten the banks defending the town. Away to the east others were driving stout posts into the lakebed, as the frail paling which enclosed the harbour was replaced with something far more robust and defensible. All along the length of the great earthwork which the Danes named for themselves, Erik could see the soft light of autumn flashing from pick and adze as men worked feverishly to bolster the landward defences before winter made the soil iron hard. ‘Come on,’ he said as the huskarls clustered at his side. ‘Let us get down there; we have a brewhouse or two to drink dry!’

  Erik reflected on the journey they had just completed as the column wound its way from the cover of the trees and made their way towards the outlying sentinels. They had ringed the clearing with brands to ward off nátt-gangas, the sp
irits who walked by night, but they were men of war and most gave the small tragedy barely a moment’s thought as the body of the Saxon had burned on his pyre. Saddling up as soon as the first blush of pink came into the sky to the east they were soon back on the Army Road, the great North-South highway which would lead to their destination. The pockets of destruction increased with every mile travelled: farms reduced to blackened timbers; wells spoiled; harvested crops carried away by the invaders, that yet to be gathered in now windblown ridges of grey ash in the fields. Everywhere the gaunt faces of the survivors telling of their fears for the winter which was only weeks away. It was clear to the practiced eye of the Norsemen that the Danes, expecting little serious opposition, had streamed southwards once Hedeby had fallen and the Dane Work had been breached. Fast moving columns had fanned out into Saxony, burning, looting and enslaving as they went, the very speed of their advance causing quirks of fate where one village would be completely destroyed while another within clear sight remained untouched. It was, as Thorstein had remarked as they passed yet another cart crammed with sullen and fearful fugitives, as if “Þórr himself had peppered the land with his lightning bolts.”