The Raven and the Cross

by C. R. May

  Erik looked across to the place where a rectangular building built of the same creamy coloured stone as the distant minster straddled the roadway. ‘And that?’

  ‘Ah,’ Oswald said with obvious relish. ‘That is the king’s residence, the konungsgarthr in your tongue, the king’s garth.’ He flashed a smile. ‘It is the last part of the old Roman defences to survive the passage of centuries on the eastern side of the city, and it is now home to King Erik Haraldsson.’

  They were close enough now for Erik to make out the details. A curtain wall lay across the roadway which had contained twin arches at some point in time; the larger of the pair was the width of the roadway and had obviously been a point of entry for carts and the like at some stage, the smaller archway, now sealed, must have provided access for those on foot. Twin blockhouses stood sentinel at each corner, and a good twenty feet above ground level a line of arched windows encircled them all. ‘So, that’s why I was guided away from the main waterfront of the city when we arrived.’

  Oswald confirmed that it was. ‘The ship we sent to meet you in the Humber was instructed to lead you up the River Ouse and then branch off into the Foss.’ The Northumbrian flicked a look at his new king. ‘You will already have noted the defensive qualities of this approach to the city, and the gatehouse itself is nigh on impregnable.’

  Erik nodded, it had been one of the first things he had noticed as the ships swept up the tributary he now knew was called the Foss. The River took a meander to the west at the point where the road bridged the waters, and in that loop of land Erik had surveyed the forward defences of the city. A bow shaped wall faced eastwards, the bank, ditch and palisaded structure straddling the flagstones of a roadway buffed to a sheen by the footfalls of half a millennia. If the outer defence fell to an attacking force, the river itself would continue to provide a formidable obstacle once the Foss Bridge had been either pulled down or defended in depth. Away to the left, filling the plain between the confluence of the two rivers, halls and shacks crowded upon one another where the later additions to the city had spilled out beyond the old line of the wall.

  Oswald had followed his gaze and he raised an arm to point. ‘Over on the south bank, beyond the warehouses and shipyards there is Skeldergate, a whole thoroughfare full of shield makers.’ Erik looked at him in wonder and the Northumbrian tried hard to hide his amusement. ‘We have areas dedicated to the production of various wares. Smithies producing sword and spear blades, rings for mail and steel plate for battle helms, in addition to the more mundane necessities of life. You will recall Morcar and his men from the time of your prime signing of course?’

  Erik confirmed that he did. The evening following the ceremony had been as riotous as any he could recall as the Northumbrian and his men had matched the Norwegians horn for horn. It had lain to rest many of the doubts he still harboured about the fighting men in the south, and the battle tales which had flighted back and forth across the hearth had whetted his appetite for the fights to come. ‘Yes,’ he snorted as he saw the twinkle in his companion’s eyes, ‘I remember them well.’

  ‘I shall ask him to show you around the city once the formalities of the crowning are over.’ He smiled again. ‘I am sure that he could fit in an ale house or two at the same time.’

  They were near to the garth now and Erik ran his eyes across the facade, thrilling at the quality of the masonry. A stone tablet bearing an inscription in the type of runes that the southerners called letters had been set into the wall above the entrance, and Erik pointed it out as they grew near. ‘What does it say?’

  Oswald looked up, and Erik rolled his eyes as the Northumbrian replied without a pause: ‘IMP CAESAR DIVI ERVA-.’

  He liked the archbishop’s choice for a go-between which bode well for their own relationship, and Erik was aware of the heartiness of his own men around him as they saw the developing friendship between the two men.

  ‘The Emperor Caesar Nerva Trajan Augustus, son of the deified Nerva, Conqueror of Germany, Conqueror of Dacia, pontifex maximus,’ Oswald translated as they paused before the arch and craned their necks; ‘in his twelfth year of tribunician power, six times acclaimed emperor, five times consul, father of his country, built this gate by the agency of the 9th Legion Hispana.’

  Erik had been told by a Finnish shaman that he would become a king five times over, so he was overly impressed that this Trajan Augustus had outshone him. ‘He was acclaimed emperor six times in twelve years?’

  Oswald appeared far less so and he gave a shrug. ‘Each time the Romans achieved what they themselves decided was a notable victory, the emperor was acclaimed again; the inscription is pretty standard stuff, Trajan did not even have to have been on the field of battle to earn the acclamation. Pontifex maximus means that he was the head of the priesthood in the same way you were yourself whilst king in Norway. God’s light had not shone on the empire at that stage and the people still worshipped devils, but the name pontiff persists to this day as a title for the Holy Father in Rome. I will teach you to read the latin tongue if you wish, lord,’ Oswald said as they made their way beneath the archway, before causing Erik to blink in surprise as he added an afterthought. ‘Your wife Gunnhild is already taking instruction in letters. We have many ancient works which I am sure would be of interest to you both.’

  The clatter of booted feet replaced the words of men as Erik finally entered the passageway which led to his new home, the sound loud in the enclosed space as the leading group came on. Very soon they had passed through into a courtyard beyond, and Erik ran an experienced eye over what passed for defences as Oswald pointed out the entrance to the main hall. Little more than an enclosure of stout paling separated the royal hall and its outbuildings from the huts and workshops of the general populace, and Oswald explained as he turned back, saw where Erik’s gaze had wandered and guessed his thoughts. ‘Yes, the city does crowd in on you a bit, but there is plenty of room for the king and his warriors. That is a common problem with settlements which are wholly or partly enclosed within walls of stone and oak; the safety they afford attract folk and traders like flies to a carcass, and that build-up gets squeezed into less and less room.’ He raised an arm and followed the neatly clipped ridge line of thatch on the roof before them. ‘The timber built hall where it abuts the gatehouse is the old hall, lord, the one which was the seat of the kings of Northumbria before they lost their independence to the Danes. The western extension you can see is king Guthrith’s work.’

  Erik followed the line of his arm, marvelling at the way the carvings decorating the two adjoining halls seemed to reflect the path of his own life. The older Anglian hall was intricately carved with saints, angels and heavenly spearmen while what he now knew was the Danish addition had been pushed out through the surrounding buildings, sweeping them aside to be replaced by posts and beams a-brawl with dragons and Óðinn tales.

  Erik felt the thrill of the realisation that the two traditions were combining in this son of Fairhair, but Oswald was still talking at his side and he only pushed the thought away with difficulty as the words washed over him.

  ‘King Guthfrith was sent to us by the Holy Spirit following Halfdan Ragnarsson’s expulsion in the last century, to heal the wounds of war which still existed between the various peoples in the city. He became a Christian but left the pagan icons on the hall to show that he was king of all men in York: Northumbrian; Dane and Norse alike. He is buried in the minster, you will see his tomb before your own Christening and crowning on the morrow.’

  20

  ERIK REX

  The twin gates were drawn inwards as Erik gave the nod, and the king raised his chin as the way ahead was revealed. Arinbjorn hersir led the guard, the man’s mail brynja and helm gleaming like newly struck coins in the unseasonal sunshine; Erik cast a glance towards the woman at his side and gave a soft snort at the look of pride he saw written on her face. Gunnhild had surprised him the night before with the depth of her enthusiasm for the new religion they were
about to embrace, but he had seen for himself the power of the written word when she had read a short passage from a book on the Roman wars. If the Christians did have access to the accumulated knowledge of centuries past it could well go some way to explaining their strength. While he never for a moment doubted the wisdom and guile of Óðinn, it was clear to all but the simplest minds that the Allfather worked mostly for his own good. Men were little more than tools to help him in his quest for personal knowledge, those fallen in battle added to his own army of the slain in preparation for the Ragnarök. Well, he would lend his axe to Christ if that was what it took to gain the kingdom of York, and see which god was the stronger.

  The same Fossgate which had delivered them from the ships now carried them into the heart of the old city, and if the new builds which packed the land between the confluence of the two waterways outside the walls were of widely varying quality, the buildings which now crowded in on either side had a far more permanent air. Despite the sensible act of grouping the various tradesmen which filled the city in designated areas several workshops studded the way ahead, and Erik watched with interest as Arinbjorn’s spearmen went before them, ordering the doors and shutters closed up as the royal party approached. Erik harboured no illusions that it was a necessary step. Not only the soon to be crowned king and his consort were to ride past on their way to the building which filled the skyline ahead. It had been a condition of the kingship of the still largely Christian land that Erik’s sons and heirs also submit to baptism that day, and the realisation that save for his daughter Ragnhild every member of his family shared a very few yards of Fossgate filled Erik’s heart with dread. Many had reason to wipe Erik and the Erikssons from the face of the earth: King Eadred; Olaf Cuaran; even his half brother Hakon, now king at Avaldsnes would sleep easier knowing that they had met their end here, and a spear thrust or loosed arrow from within the darker reaches of the buildings could never be discounted for any leader of the turbulent northern kingdom.

  The skittishness of Arinbjorn’s men would not have been lost on his wife, and Erik’s eyes moved across to Gunnhild as he sought to judge her reaction, but his face broke into a smile as she met his gaze and returned a wink even as the corners of her mouth turned up into a smile of her own. It would take far more than the possibility of a cowardly attack to upset the poise of a daughter of Gorm the Languid, and they both knew that their sons were no longer boys but men forging a reputation as fierce as their father’s with each passing year. Surrounded by their men, even if the buildings which lined the roadway suddenly disgorged enemies Erik felt a renewed confidence that together they would win through. He let his eyes run across the only woman he had ever truly loved as her attention returned to the road ahead. Flecks of grey showed now when she unbound her hair and her face had gained a wrinkle or two, but the marks of time mirrored his own and she shone like a jewel in the tepid sunlight of late autumn.

  The distance from the king’s garth to the minster was short, and Arinbjorn’s men soon turned right to disappear from view as they reached the place where the old Roman roads crossed at what would have been the centre of the original fort. Erik followed, glad to be out of the muck and shit which lay ankle deep on the roadway in the most densely populated part of the city. A short distance ahead the minster of St Peter now filled his view, columns of creamy Pennine stone rising cliff-like to the heavens, and Erik snatched a peek upwards despite his desire to appear nonchalant before the waiting crowd. But a soft voice whispered at his side as his mind swam at the precipitous height, ‘don’t gawp husband, you are a king not a pedlar,’ and Erik dropped his gaze back to the way ahead with a chuckle at the admonishment.

  The turn had brought them onto the main gate through the city, the roadway which had been built to carry the legions of Rome from the South to the untamed lands beyond the frontier, and Erik reflected as they rode that his mount was treading the same sets that had borne the weight of Trajan Augustus not long after Christians claimed that the son of God had walked the earth.

  The buildings here were storied, jettied rooms standing proud of those below as their owners strove to gain the maximum room size despite the small footprint of the building in this prestigious part of the city. As the way ahead opened up, the danger here was different from the confines of the route from the garth, and Erik watched as his foster-brother’s men surreptitiously nocked arrow shafts to bowstrings and jabbed the upper windows with penetrating looks. Armed warriors had formed a cordon at the head of the path, but despite their presence taunts and jeers were beginning to come from the back of the waiting crowd as the party came into view. Erik knew that the brickbats would only get worse as they neared the minster; clearly men were being paid to make a mockery of his arrival, and he made the snap decision that he would not slink into the centre of his own city like a whipped dog. Despite the crackle of danger in the air Erik felt irritation at the jitteriness of Arinbjorn and his hirdmen, and he cast a look back across his shoulder as he prepared to ride forward. ‘Gamli?’

  Erik’s eldest was riding just off his right shoulder, and he sensed the surprise in the young man’s voice as he made a reply. ‘Father?’

  ‘You are my designated heir. Demand that the Christenings and crowning go ahead if anything happens to me, with yourself as king in York. Arinbjorn and my own men will support you.’ Before Gamli could react, Erik had switched his attention to the brother at his side. ‘Harald, you were named for Harald Fairhair and sprinkled with water by the hand of the great king himself. Your grandfather lies alongside his own father in a mound outside Avaldsnes. His spirit demands that you recover the king helm of all Norway; see to it that you do.’

  Before the stupefied men could form a reply Erik had put back his heels, coaxing his mount into a trot as he tugged at the reins to bring it across to the place where the loudest catcalls were already beginning to coax the crowd to laughter. Erik swept past the startled faces of Arinbjorn’s outriders and towards the line of guards, allowing himself a nod of appreciation as he heard the familiar voice of their leader calling out to them to stand their ground and resist the impulse follow on. The crowd had quietened as he came upon them, all the bluster driven away as they came face to face with Erik Bloodaxe.

  The clatter of hooves on flags sounded loud in his ears and Erik’s eyes flared as he turned to snarl his anger, but his expression softened as the rider reached his side. ‘You will have to ride faster and further if you want to lose me again,’ Gunnhild said as her horse tossed its head and whinnied in its excitement. ‘I would rather die here at your side than spend another day sat in a windswept hall clinging to a sea mount in Orkney!’

  ‘Here wife,’ he said as he recovered from his surprise, loosening the purse which hung at his belt and handing the thing across. ‘You scatter the silver and I will awe them into silence with my battle trophy.’

  The pair swept along the line of the crowd, and Erik reached behind his back to draw Jomal as they rode. As the first of the silver coins flashed in the sunlight Erik raised the war axe, the same one which had been gifted to him on the strand by his father all those years before, and the boos and jeers were replaced by an audible gasp as the populace saw what fluttered from the shaft. Erik fixed them with a glare as he slowed his mount to a walk, challenging the troublemakers to utter another sound as the bloodied and soiled war banner unfurled in a breath of wind. Every man, woman and child in York knew the White Bull war banner of Olaf Cuaran, it had flown from the king’s garth now occupied by Erik and Gunnhild for many years. But no member of a war band would allow his personal banner to become despoiled, muddied and bloodied in such a way as the one now before them unless it was the result of a heavy and irrecoverable defeat, and Erik watched with satisfaction as the agitators began to slink away. Gunnhild’s coins were still spinning into the multitude, and as eager hands reached out to snatch them from the air Erik unhooked the bull-flag to send it following on in their wake.

  The ride forward had brought the
pair close to the minster steps, and Erik noticed what must be Archbishop Wulfstan for the first time waiting to greet him at their head. Dressed head to toe in the white robes common among the higher echelons of the Christian priesthood, the man stood gaping beneath a golden cross at the events which had just unfolded in the square before him, his face so ashen and drained that it resembled the garments of his office. As the baying of the crowd became a background buzz of acclamation and scuffling as the silver did its work, Erik drew rein before the churchman and slipped from the saddle. A moment later he had helped Gunnhild to his side, and his wife slipped dutifully into her place a pace behind him as the rest of the column reached the minster and the Erikssons dismounted to their rear.

  A gaggle of lesser ecclesiastics were gathered around the figure of the archbishop, and Erik ran his eyes over the man who had offered the crown as they came face to face for the first time. Considering the conspiracies and intrigues which seemed to have sprung from the man over the years and the power of kingmaker he undoubtedly wielded, Wulfstan was maybe a decade older than Erik had expected. But if age had not spared him the jowls of a scraggy hen and a head of wispy hair, one look at the old churchman’s eyes confirmed that the mind which lay behind them remained as sharp as Jomal’s blade, and Erik saw excitement flare there as he began to ascend the steps.

  ‘That was quite some entrance,’ Wulfstan said. ‘I applaud your sense of drama.’

  Erik inclined his head. ‘The flag was to be my gift to you, archbishop.’ He sketched a smile as his head came up and the two men came together. ‘I had hoped to remove the threat of Olaf Cuaran completely in Ireland, but he slipped through my net.’ A sparkle came into Erik’s eye as his mouth curled into the merest hint of a smile. ‘You could say that I am not worthy to be considered a fisher of men.’ As Wulfstan’s face lit up at the quip, Erik cast a look back across his shoulder to the place where the war flag of his rival was now a plaything of the crowd. ‘I daresay that you have seen enough of the white bull in York. Let us make plans to ensure that it never flies above the roofs of the city again.’ The look had taken in the whole of the square, and he ran through the dispositions he saw as he turned his face back to the prelate. His sons were two abreast as they climbed the steps, grim faced as they prepared to enter the high temple of the men they had always considered enemies and prey. Young Sigurd looked as if he had sat in a puddle, and Erik had allowed his gaze to rest upon the boy for a heartbeat as he shot him a heartening wink. Beyond them the crew of the Sea Stallion had formed a barrier where the watching crowds bunched up against the archbishop’s men, while his own hird from the Draki had mirrored Arinbjorn’s lads on the eastward edge of the square.