The Raven and the Cross

by C. R. May

‘Tadceaster,’ Morcar said.

  Erik nodded. ‘If that is what it is called, yes, Tadceaster. Cross back to the Yorkish side of the river, demolish the bridge and send to the city for reinforcements.’ He raised his eyes again, the sun was a crescent as it sank below the western hills. ‘We can demolish the bridge tonight and be ready to repel them when they arrive in the morning. It is too late in the day now for them to cover the distance from Ceasterford to York, which is-what-?’ Erik made a face as he ran the figures through his mind again. ‘Twenty-five miles?’

  Morcar gave a curt nod as he confirmed the calculation. Not for the first time Erik was thankful that the archbishop had seen fit to lend the king his services. ‘Yes lord, twenty-five miles; fifteen from Ceasterford to Tadceaster and a further ten to the city.’

  ‘They will have to make camp tonight and renew the advance at sunup. If they are moving as fast as our scouts say, they will have left the majority of their men on foot tramping along halfway to Lincoln. Even if a few come in during the night it is a good day’s march from Ceasterford to Tadceaster, so we will only have the mounted contingent to face for a day or two. By the time that the levies arrive we should have bolstered our own forces by at least the hearth troops of the earls, with the men of our own levy arriving as and when they can get there. Who knows,’ he added as the plan began to grow in his mind. ‘If we can contain them at Tadceaster, we may be able to spare men to outflank them and attack the weaker elements to their rear, footsore warriors struggling in weary from the long march, wagoners and the like. We shall be close to York and easily resupplied, while they will be deep in hostile territory. If we can hit their supplies and fire the food and crops within reach of their foragers, Eadred’s petulant war may end in a face-saving climb down.’

  The sun had finally dipped below the hills to westward leaving just an angry welt to mark its passing, but a full moon had risen to the east to paint the faces of his men a steely grey. Erik cast a look across his shoulder as the shadows turned from East to West. ‘The moonlight will be helpful, both to help us work and make it harder for any outriders to approach us unseen. Sturla,’ he said, ‘you are our moon expert. Which moon is this?’

  ‘That is Three Milky, lord,’ he replied with a smile. ‘The calves are born this month, so the cows produce enough milk to be milked three times.’

  ‘So,’ Erik said, ‘we can count on Three Milky’s help to be ready to receive our guests in the morning. Is there anything else?’

  Harald stepped forward from the crowd, and all eyes turned to him as he cleared his throat and spoke. ‘I don’t think that they will be coming this way, father.’

  Erik’s eyes widened in question and his son explained his reasoning.

  ‘We are assuming that the English king has ridden north to remove you from your throne.’ Gamli clumped his younger brother on the shoulder, but Erik held up a hand to let Harald say his piece. ‘I don’t think that this is the case.’

  ‘And why do you think that?’

  ‘It was the archbishop, earls and thanes of Northumbria who were false to their pledges and oaths, not Erik Haraldsson. It will be they who will reap the whirlwind. I have been studying the ancient volumes on warfare contained in the minster libraries,’ he said as Gamli rolled his eyes at his side. ‘It helps me with my latin.’

  ‘We have a priest on our hands, father,’ Gamli scoffed, ‘spouting gibberish just when we need axemen. Fourteen winters on Midgard and he thinks that he can teach us how to fight. Give me a troop of horsemen and I will attack them tonight.’

  Erik silenced his first born with an icy look. It was true that it was becoming more obvious with each passing day that the two Erikssons were as different as two men born from the same womb could be, but Midgard was a big place and it had room to accommodate them both.

  Erik nodded. ‘So, what do you suggest we do?’

  ‘Return to York, father,’ Harald said brightly. ‘Wait for Eadred to show his hand, and then sally to counter the threat. Even if they should march on York, an army cannot take a walled city without the aid of siege engines or subterfuge. The English have long forgotten the use of siege towers, rams and onagers,’ he gave a gentle laugh as he warmed to the theme, ‘much less giant wooden horses filled with Greek spearmen! Let them camp outside until our earls can assemble their forces to lift the investment, or sit tight and allow disease and starvation to win the fight for us.’

  Erik watched as the men surrounding the lad exchanged looks of wonderment. Gamli gaped like a codfish, and Erik felt his mouth slowly curling into a smile as Harald stood before him awaiting his decision. He was sure that it was the most that the majority of the men ranked before him, tough men, fighters and shipmen who had riven shields to kindling and faced down the worst storms that Njörðr could throw at them had ever heard his son say. But he sensed something else in their expressions as the words sank in. Most of them had witnessed the lad at the forefront of the fight where a leader must be, from the ship fight off Al-Andalus to Dublin, the Boyne and elsewhere. But it was a rare man who could combine the qualities of the fighter and the thinker, and those men could become the greatest of all.

  ‘All of these things which you say are true,’ Erik replied. ‘But there is more to leadership and kingship than can be gleaned from the pages of books, whether those books are the collected wisdom of men long since dust or not. It may surprise you that I have thought of these things already, but how would it look to the population of York if they witnessed their new king ride out to save the city, encounter a problem and be back in his own bed, tucked up nice and snug that same night? What if you are wrong, and Eadred is indeed mustering his forces at Ceasterford before moving on to sack York? After all,’ Erik said, ‘it is most likely that myself, the archbishop and the leading men will all be found there. York is the kingdom, without it I am a ruler of damp sheep on rain lashed hills. Eadred knows that I must defend the city, and if that lays bare the remainder of the kingdom to the depredations of his army then that will have to be. If we can blunt the point of his spear at Tadceaster and then fall back on York, we will have killed a good number of his best troops and lifted the hearts and hopes of those who may yet have to endure a siege.’

  The sound of hoofbeats interrupted the king, drawing all eyes back to the road as the men of Erik’s hird ran forward to throw a cordon of shields around the group. Within moments the horses hove into view, and the men relaxed a touch as the moonlight revealed the riders to be the last of their own scouts coming in. Erik walked across as the horsemen drew rein, throwing Harald a heartening comment as he passed. ‘Come on Caesar, let us see what news they bring.’

  23

  SCIR-MEN

  Harald caught his breath as they gained the hilltop, but an admonishing glare from his father the king changed the sharp intake into a cough before the others could come close enough to hear. Erik looked back to the south, running his eyes over the enemy encampment as his huskarls reached his side. ‘There are a lot of banners,’ he said as the Northumbrian trio joined them. ‘There are a lot of warriors beneath them,’ Morcar quipped in reply. ‘But we have seen them off before, and we shall do so again lord, with your guidance.’

  Erik looked out across the rising ground north of the crossing place where the army of the English and their allies had camped overnight. Eastwards the wolf light of the pre-dawn was chasing the last of the stars from the heavens, but Sturla’s Milky Moon still shone brightly above the distant Pennines to silver the hills and treetops. ‘They are starting early,’ Helgrim said as they watched the men in the valley below begin to gravitate towards their flags and banners. ‘Maybe they still have a ways to go?’

  Erik nodded. ‘That is what we rode through the night to discover.’ He indicated that Morcar move to his side with a flick of his head. ‘Run through the war flags for me would you,’ he asked the Northumbrian thane. ‘Let us see who we are up against, and we can make our dispositions accordingly.’

  Thorsten hauled
his mount aside as Wulfstan’s man edged across, and Erik watched bitterly as foreign flags wooded the air of his kingdom. ‘Tell me who fights beneath each banner, Morcar. It will give me a better understanding of the men we are about to face.’

  ‘King Eadred will advance beneath the wyvern of Wessex,’ the bluff Northumbrian began, ‘the draco at the centre of the army.’

  Erik looked, easily picking out the long tail and gaping mouth of the dragon banner as it flashed golden in the first rays of the dawn.

  Morcar raised his chin to sweep the area surrounding the draco, but finally shook his head. ‘I cannot see the king. Our tormentor appears to be still at prayer.’

  Erik turned to Harald before Morcar could continue. ‘Why are they known as Draco?’

  Harald’s expression went deadpan but Erik made a fist to punch him lightly on the shoulder. ‘Don’t be churlish, that is not the way I brought you up to be. Any knowledge can be a powerful weapon, that is why I brought you along.’

  Reassured that he was not being made fun of, Harald brightened as they group listened in. ‘Draco means dragon or serpent in latin. A draconarius was the standard bearer of the equites Romani, the mounted formations of the Roman army. He rode beneath a draco in the same way that each legion marched behind the eagle standard known as aquila. They are thought to have originated further east, either in Dacia or Scythia and been adopted by the Romans in the early centuries following the birth of our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ.’

  Erik’s eyes widened at the explanation and a quick glance along the line of mounted men confirmed that he was not alone, if not for the description of the war banner than the apparent depth of the young man’s devotion to the Christian God. Erik was taken aback, but although Harald’s father was rendered speechless for the moment, a deep voice spoke a verse as Helgrim Smiter found his own:

  ‘Averagely wise a should man be;

  let him not wax too wise;

  for he lives the best sort of life

  the man who knows a moderate amount.’

  ‘A saying of the high one,’ Helgrim explained calmly as faces turned his way. ‘Óðinn knows that most men are fools, simple sheep to be driven this way and that at the whim of their betters. To be born a poor man but saddled with a sharp mind; now that is a curse. It is better that a bonder or thrall live out their lives taking pleasure from simple things like family and friendship, a sunny evening when work is over for the day or more Jule ale than was wise, lest they become aware of the reality of their bondage and hanker for freedom.’

  Erik flashed his huskarl a wintery glare as Thorstein, Kolbein and Sturla Godi exchanged triumphal smiles. There had been an air of boastfulness in Harald’s explanation and the admonition had been skilfully done, but it was not a lowborn huskarl’s place to chastise an Eriksson and Helgrim flushed as he realised that he had spoken out of turn. Almost by definition the vast majority of fighting men Harald would lead in his lifetime were the sons of freemen and bonders, and he would need to discard his loftiness if he was to command their respect. Erik knew that Helgrim was the son of a lowly freeman but his words had shown that he possessed a sharp mind nevertheless, and the king made a mental note to speak to the prince of such matters when they were alone. Irked by the interruption, Erik moved to put the affair behind them and steer minds back to more important matters. ‘We have not ridden all night to discuss the finer qualities of gods, nor the lot of underlings; we have an invader to see off.’

  Unlike Helgrim the Northumbrians appeared thrilled by Harald’s display of piety, and Erik noted the spark which came into their eyes as they looked at his son. Of all men, Erik knew full-well the dangers posed by close kin to a king’s crown; Harald had made a favourable impression on influential men, he would need to be guided in his responsibilities but kept close. The gods-play had steered minds from the matter at hand, and Erik forced a smile to his face despite the irritation he felt as he called on Morcar to continue with the identification of his enemies.

  The man’s finger began to stab out as minds returned to war, and he told-off the various armies gathering around their sub-kings, ealdormen and thanes as they prepared for the day’s march. ‘Next to the king, the golden cross will belong to Oda, archbishop of Canterbury.’

  Erik’s eyes widened in surprise, but he sighed inwardly at the revelation that the English too were never very far from a priest. ‘They have their own archbishop who accompanies them to war?’

  ‘As we do ourselves,’ Morcar replied proudly, before shooting a look of admiration across to the place where Harald Eriksson sat watching the English army gather. ‘You are still new to Christ, lord. But you will soon come to realise that our God is the God of victory.’

  ‘Even though both armies have their own archbishop?’

  ‘In the same way that Helgrim would claim that Óðinn chooses the victor on the field of battle by the manliness of their war chants, so God decides which army’s cause is righteous.’

  Erik nodded, eager to move the conversation on as he sensed his huskarl bristle. It was clear that he faced a monumental task to rid the kingdom of the southerners without losing his newly won throne as it was. Gods and their meddlesome ways were a complication he could do without. ‘And the white horse banner behind the archbishop?’

  ‘That is the flag of Kent, lord,’ Morcar replied, before reeling off the war flags following up as the banner men gained the roadway, ready for the day’s advance: ‘the white dragon is the flag of English Mercia; crossed axes the five boroughs, sometimes known as Danish Mercia; the golden crowns beyond belong to East Anglia followed by the triple seax flag of their southern neighbours the East Saxons, while next up is the red dragon of Eadred’s Welsh allies.’

  Erik nodded as he totted up the men assembling beneath them. ‘What about the others, are they the flags of individual warlords?’

  ‘Some are lord, but mostly they are the flags of the ancient kingdoms, the sticklebacks which have since been swallowed up by larger fish.’ He moved his finger across as the Norwegians looked on in interest. It was only in Harald Fairhair’s time that the regions of their homeland had been united for the first time under one king, and they were both surprised and impressed that the English of the South still retained a sense of otherness within the kingdoms of Wessex, Mercia and beyond despite the passing of a hundred years or more since their loss of independence. ‘Hwicce, Westerna, Cilternsætna from the Mercian lands and the Meonware, Hæstingas and the scir-men from Eadred’s ancestral country, the men of the West Saxon shires: Hamtun; Wiltun; Somersæt…’ Morcar made a face. ‘Myself, Oswy or Wystan could name most of the others you can see, but maybe it would be best to leave it there?’

  Erik snorted, despite the grimness of the moment. Eadred’s army covered the near bank of the River Aire, just downstream from the place where the smaller River Calder joined it from the north-west. The rising ground was now aglitter as the returning sun reflected from helm and spear blade, and Erik had the vision of the river in flood, bursting its banks in an unstoppable torrent of spear and sword men until they lapped the walls of York itself. ‘You may be right,’ he agreed, ‘that will do for now.’ The sun had risen high enough to light the flanks of the hill and the first horsemen in the vale below were beginning to shout and point in their direction. Erik spoke again as they watched a mounted man begin to gather others beneath his banner as he prepared to challenge their presence. ‘Numbers?’

  ‘Around ten thousand or so,’ Helgrim replied as Thorstein added a comment of his own. ‘About that, it’s difficult to see clearly through all those flags and pennants.’

  Morcar murmured an estimate as he twisted in the saddle, exchanging a look and a nod with his gesith before turning back. ‘We can be a little more precise, lord. We know the southern banners and the likely numbers who will be riding beneath each.’ He pulled a weary smile. ‘They come calling quite often. We make it more like twelve thousand in all, of which maybe a thousand to fifteen hundred will only
snatch up a spear if their situation becomes desperate: carters; smiths; priests and the like.’ He shrugged, and the Norwegians smiled along with their Northumbrian friends as the thane added a quip to his reply. ‘You never know, it could happen.’

  In the vale the unknown horseman had gathered his war band and was crossing the first field; it was time to go.

  ‘Let us be away then,’ Erik said as he hauled at the reins. ‘And look to our response.’

  If the size of the host spread throughout the fields and town had disappointed the king as Tadceaster came into sight, the quality of the men he discovered there had more than made up for it. Arinbjorn caught his eye, turning to throw his lord a wave from an adjoining field as he checked on the battle worthiness of the newcomers as any good leader would. Gamli, Guttorm and Sigurd were nowhere to be seen, but Erik pushed the worry aside that his elder sons had left the army to hunt down the enemy as a figure ducked through a doorway into the soft morning light. ‘Welcome back, lord,’ he spat through a mouthful of mutton, and Erik thrilled at the sight. Earl Regenwold’s greeting was as warm as the morning sun, and Erik thanked whichever god was listening that he had men of such mettle in his ranks. It was the first time that he had seen the earl dressed for battle and he ran his eyes across the Northumbrian as his gesith tumbled from the hut in his wake. As stout and solid as a Yorkish oak, the earl shone brighter than one of Erik’s newly minted coins in a knee length brynja over a tunic bluer than any summer sky, while swirling designs at the cuffs and hem glittered in threads of red and gold. A silver disc brooch showing two beasts clasping a warrior’s head in their paws pinned an ochre cloak, while arm rings bearing the triangular punched decoration common throughout the northern lands ringed his forearms. But this was no strutting peacock Erik’s experienced eye saw in an instant, come hither to be seen to fulfil his duty but steer clear of the place where swords bit harder than any watch dog and boards were hacked to shards. Patches of newer ringlets scattered like stars told of a life spent in the press of shields, and a line where a great slash had opened the mail coat over a shoulder told the tale of a lucky escape. Regenwold’s own features echoed the hardiness, a beard as full and red as Þórr’s and a ruddy mop newly trimmed shaggy at the front and shaven at the rear in Viking style. But it was the great man’s nose which set him apart and gave him the look of a fighter, and Erik’s eyes were drawn to it as the earl approached. Busted up so many times that it had given up any pretence of looking the way that God had intended, Regenwold’s nose snaked across his face looking for all the world like the last sausage at a feast.