The Raven Banner

by Tim Hodkinson

  ‘This lad’s good,’ Gorm said, nodding at Einar. ‘One of the best poets we’ve had here. The customers love him.’

  ‘And Gorm pays me well for entertaining them,’ Einar said. ‘I use the money to pay for lessons so I can get even better.’

  ‘You look like you’ve been in a war, lad,’ Gorm, whose own pock-marked, scarred and cratered bald head spoke of a lifetime of violence, said. ‘The streets of this town are dangerous after dark. It’s a shame that honest men can’t walk them without being attacked by rogues and thieves.’

  Einar shook his head.

  ‘Those men were looking for me. I’m sure two of them were Saxons and one maybe a Frank. They must work for Ricbehrt the weapon merchant.’ He glanced at Affreca. ‘He wants his swords back.’

  ‘The ones we stole from him in Ireland?’ Affreca said.

  ‘You know of any others?’ Einar said.

  ‘I’m sure you gave a good account of yourself to them,’ Gorm said.

  ‘My friend here might have killed one of them,’ Einar replied. ‘We left him in the ditch.’

  Gorm made a face. ‘Then you deserve a drink. It’s not murder to kill Saxons in my eyes. The way they lord it over us these days I’m surprised more don’t end up in ditches. There’ll be trouble over this though. When the body’s found the Reeve’s men will be around the town like hounds after a fox. I’ll get us a fresh jug of ale.’

  Affreca shook her head.

  ‘So the Skull Cleaver’s son now sings for coins in an inn?’ she said with a sneer. ‘We thought you had come here to learn more about being a warrior. Or perhaps to win allies to get revenge on Jarl Thorfinn. King Aethelstan of Wessex is gathering an army to march north. We thought maybe you saw that as a chance to take what’s rightfully yours; the Jarldom of Orkney.’

  Einar scowled. ‘I know nothing of Aethelstan. Besides, how could I take Orkney? I would need my own army. Jarl Thorfinn is too strong. I can’t waste my life hoping that someday I’ll be able to match him.’

  He saw the expression on her face and blushed a deep red.

  ‘There are other ways to win fame and glory than fighting,’ he said, the words tumbling from his mouth without his mind getting in the way for a change. ‘Odin gave me the gift of poetry. I can make a name for myself through that. And it will be a fame that lives as long as any warrior’s.’

  Affreca sniffed. ‘And what about honour, Einar? What about revenge?’

  ‘Revenge for what?’ Einar said. The shame that had reddened his cheeks was turning to anger. ‘Thorfinn didn’t actually kill my mother, remember?’

  ‘He tried,’ Affreca said. ‘He tried to kill us all.’

  ‘And we killed the men he sent to do that,’ Einar said. ‘Including his son – my own half-brother Hrolf – in case you’ve forgotten.’

  ‘You think Thorfinn will just give up?’ Affreca said. ‘He’s out there right now, looking for you. Are you just going to wait for him to come and get you?’

  Einar sighed. The excitement of the night’s events was starting to drain away leaving him feeling weary. It was time to get to the point. He fixed her with a steady gaze and said, ‘What are you really here for, Affreca?’

  Three

  Affreca looked around as if to check no one was listening. Then she said, ‘You go into the Kings Gard here in Jorvik, yes?’

  Einar narrowed his eyes. ‘How long have you been watching me?’

  ‘A few days,’ she said.

  ‘Without telling me you were here? What in the Queen of Hel’s name are you up to?’

  Affreca leaned across the table. Her eyes sparkled with anger. Einar could not tear his gaze away from them.

  ‘King Eirik sent us here on a vital task that involves getting inside Kings Gard,’ she hissed through clenched white teeth. ‘Yesterday I was watching the gate of Kings Gard and who do I see sauntering up and walking right in? You.’

  She prodded his hand with an extended forefinger.

  ‘Ayvind Finnsson, my teacher, is skald to Hakon Haraldsson,’ Einar said, surprised at the thrill even her hostile prod sent through his heart. ‘Hakon rules Jorvik from Kings Gard. I go there for my lessons.’

  ‘Hakon is no more than a lapdog of the Saxons!’

  Gorm’s voice made them both look around. He had returned with a pot of ale and three wooden mugs.

  ‘Aethelstan orders him around like a house servant. To think a son of Harald Fairhair of Norway would hold his own people in thraldom. It’s such a shame. I blame religion.’

  ‘Ayvind Finnsson is this great teacher of yours?’ Affreca said to Einar.

  Einar nodded, relishing the sense of pride he felt at being associated with someone so famous. ‘You’ve heard of him?’

  ‘Yes.’ A bemused smile spread across Affreca’s face. ‘Isn’t he known as Ayvind Skáldaspillir? Ayvind “the poet spoiler”?’

  Einar folded his arms. ‘To some, perhaps. Those who have never heard him perform.’

  ‘He was once a great poet, I’ve heard that,’ Affreca said. ‘Before ale addled his wits. Isn’t he best known today for re-hashing the work of others and ruining it in the process?’

  Einar sighed. ‘He is perhaps past his prime, yes. But he’s the best I can afford.’

  He looked at the table, all of a sudden keen to change the subject.

  ‘So you went to King Eirik Bloody Axe, then?’ he said. ‘What’s he like?’

  The last Einar had seen of Affreca, Ulrich, Skar and the other surviving Wolf Coats of Ulrich’s crew had been months before on the Føroyar islands, the little cluster of inhabited rocks that lay in the whale road of the northern seas halfway between Iceland and Norway. They had left Iceland together after the battle with Thorfinn’s men at Einar’s mother’s farm. Despite the dangers of sailing in winter, Ulrich had been keen to get back to King Eirik in Norway to make peace with his overlord before anyone else – Jarl Thorfinn of Orkney in particular – could get there before him. Einar had not been in a position to argue. He was still under a two-year sentence of outlawry from Iceland so needed to leave the country as soon as he could.

  Goði Hrapp, Einar’s new stepfather, was sympathetic. However, the Law was the Law and Hrapp was also chieftain of the district. He could not be seen to be harbouring a law breaker. So Einar had joined Ulrich’s Úlfhéðnar on their longship.

  Bad weather had driven them to break the journey at the Føroyar islands. It was there, stuck indoors, guest of a local nobleman and with nothing to do but drink and sing for days on end, Einar had fallen into the company of an old skald.

  You’re the best poet I’ve heard in years, lad, the old man had said. Better than I was when I was your age. You could go far and really make a name for yourself.

  He had gone on to tell Einar how the famous skald Ayvind Finnsson was in the city of Jorvik in Britain and Einar should seek him out to learn from him. And when the storm had passed, Einar had parted company with the Úlfhéðnar. He took passage with a merchant headed for Britain while Ulrich steered his ship towards Norway.

  Affreca turned down the sides of her mouth. ‘King Eirik? He’s of middling winters, but still strong. He’s tall and good looking, like they say his father Harald was,’ she said. ‘But he’s sullen. He doesn’t say much. Mind you, that’s not surprising. He’s surrounded by enemies. He has two half-brothers who think they deserve the throne more than him. Several of his jarls openly defy his rule. There is rebellion in the land.’

  ‘I’ve heard that might be Eirik’s own fault,’ Einar said. ‘It’s said here in Jorvik that he is a hard ruler. Unjust even. You’re happy to serve such a king?’

  Affreca made a face as if to say what had that to do with her.

  ‘His wife’s a complete bitch as well,’ she said. ‘A real nightmare of a woman.’

  Einar raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Really, she is,’ Affreca said. ‘She’s a lot younger than him. And she’s a seiðkona. A witch woman. She was fostered by Sami wizards in som
e far off, weird kingdom in the north. I swear it’s twisted her mind. Odin alone knows what they did to her.’

  ‘Earlier, you said we?’ Einar said, picking up on what she had said before. ‘Have you joined Ulrich’s band of killers then?’

  A faint smile flickered across Affreca’s lips. Einar longed to lean across the table and kiss them. He came to the sudden realisation how lonely he had been, even in the midst of the thronging population of such a big city as Jorvik. He had missed her. The rest of Ulrich’s crew too.

  ‘Ulrich says I might have potential,’ she said.

  ‘So where are the rest of them?’ Einar asked.

  ‘They sent me ahead to gather information,’ Affreca said. He could see how proud she was of being given this responsibility. ‘They thought I’d stand out less on my own.’

  Einar nodded. It made sense. Even reduced to seven as they were, the arrival of a company of Wolf Coats in the city was bound to cause a stir. Elite Norse warriors of the King of Norway would not be particularly welcomed by the current Saxon rulers of Jorvik.

  Gorm poured out three cups of ale.

  ‘Gorm,’ Einar laid a hand on the innkeeper’s shoulder. ‘Let me introduce—’

  He flinched as a sharp kick struck his shin.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said to Affreca. ‘We can trust Gorm. I promise you. We’ve been through a few scrapes together.’

  The innkeeper grinned, revealing a couple of missing teeth. ‘Einar here doesn’t just entertain the customers. If there’s any trouble in the inn I can rely on him to help me throw the culprits out. I know he’s Thorfinn the Skull Cleaver’s bastard son. By Thor’s balls I’ve seen him split a few skulls in here on rough nights.’

  Both men chuckled.

  ‘And this,’ Einar continued, ‘is Princess Affreca Ui Imair.’

  ‘Irish?’ Gorm said, raising his eyebrows. ‘Though from the look of you, you have strong Norse blood like us. You must be from Dublin, lady. Or perhaps Limerick?’

  Affreca just nodded.

  ‘I’m sorry but I’m not familiar of the Irish way of naming,’ Gorm said. ‘We call people after their father.’

  ‘It’s the same in Ireland,’ Einar explained. ‘Though in this case the “UI” tells you who her grandfather was.’

  ‘Imair?’ Gorm looked confused, then his eyes widened and his jaw dropped open. ‘Ivar? My lady, you are of the Ivarssons?’

  Affreca made a reluctant nod. ‘I am Affreca Guthfrithsdottir. My father was Guthfrith Mac Sitric Ui Imair, King of Dublin.’

  Mouth still agape, Gorm looked at Einar for confirmation. He also nodded.

  ‘This is indeed an honour,’ Gorm said, his voice reduced to a breathy whisper. ‘I’m so sorry! I only brought my everyday ale. Please, let me get my best for you!’

  Despite the look of consternation on her face, he snatched the cup of ale back from Affreca and emptied the contents back into the jug.

  ‘Or perhaps you’d prefer wine?’ he said.

  ‘Ale is fine,’ Affreca said.

  ‘Your father ruled Jorvik too, for a short time,’ Gorm said. ‘He was the last Norse king we had. We were free then. With our own king of our own faith. Since Aethelstan drove him out we’ve been under the yolk of the Saxons. Or rather the Aenglish as Aethelstan wants us to call them. Lady, there is danger here for an Ivarsson. Don’t worry, though,’ he tapped the side of his nose. ‘My lips are sealed. You’re safe when you’re in my inn.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Affreca said. ‘My father only ruled Jorvik for a few months. They used to joke in Ireland that he just came here to ask what day it was then went home again. They didn’t dare say that to his face, of course.’

  Gorm’s face fell. ‘And now I hear that Guthfrith is dead. My lady, you have my condolences for the loss of your father.’

  Affreca nodded then glared pointedly into her empty cup.

  ‘I’ll get you that drink.’ Gorm got her hint.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind some wine,’ Einar said.

  ‘Unlike her, you’re not a descendant of Ragnar Loðbrók,’ the innkeeper said as he went off to his store room. ‘You can have the everyday ale.’

  Einar laid a hand on Affreca’s as it rested on the table.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear about your father too,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know he had died.’

  Affreca wrinkled her nose and pulled her hand from under his. ‘The bastard tried to kill us both too, remember? I’m only sorry I didn’t get to kill him myself.’

  ‘Perhaps you’ll get the chance in Valhalla,’ Einar said.

  ‘I doubt it,’ Affreca said. ‘I’m told he died in his bed of the sweating fever. The valkyries will not have chosen him from a heap of battle slain warriors.’

  ‘Does that mean you could now be Queen of Dublin?’ Einar asked.

  Affreca shook her head. ‘By rights the kingdom will fall to my brother Olaf.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had a brother,’ Einar said.

  ‘I have four,’ Affreca replied. ‘They’re half-brothers really. Had four, I should say. Two of them are dead. And Olaf spent most of his life in the north. He was fostered by the Ui Neills. It’s an old Irish tradition. But enough about my family. Tell me,’ she leaned forward across the table again, ‘when you were in Kings Gard, did you ever see a banner? A battle standard with a picture of a raven on it?’

  Einar frowned and shook his head. ‘Not that I recall. But Kings Gard was once the residence of the kings of Jorvik. The walls are covered in tapestries and banners. There are so many of them I can’t be sure.’

  Gorm returned with a fresh cup of ale for her. Einar could not help noticing how much clearer and sparkling it was than the sludgy flat contents of his own cup.

  ‘What’s so special about this banner?’ Einar said. ‘Why has it got a raven on it?’

  ‘You speak of the Raven Banner?!’ Gorm said. His tone was reverential.

  ‘You’ve heard of the banner?’ Affreca turned her attention to the innkeeper.

  ‘Of course,’ Gorm said, his chest puffing up. ‘I once marched behind it. I was a warrior in the service of King Sitric, back in the days when we were ruled by Norse kings, not Saxons. Do you think I got all these scars on my head from throwing drunks out of my inn?’

  ‘What’s so special about this banner?’ Einar said again.

  ‘In ancient times, the banner was given to King Volsung by Odin himself,’ Affreca said. She spoke as one talking with patient indulgence to a child. ‘It’s also called The Land Waster because when it’s unfurled, red destruction is unleashed on the world. It was a treasure of my clan.’

  ‘It brings victory to any army that fights behind it,’ Gorm said. ‘It was passed on to Ragnar Loðbrók and he passed it on to his son Ivar. It was borne at the head of Guthfrith’s army when he fought for Jorvik. It has powerful magic within it.’

  ‘Now it has disappeared,’ Affreca said. ‘My father lost it here at Jorvik when the city fell to the army of Aethelstan.’

  ‘Did the magic stop working, then?’ Einar asked. ‘Otherwise how did Aethelstan win?’

  Gorm scowled. ‘Trickery. Aethelstan did not fight for this city. There was no battle. His army sneaked in rather than taking the city by storm. They looted Jorvik and my guess is that the banner was part of their booty. Aethelstan now rules us like the worst tyrant. He put Hakon Haraldsson over us as jarl because he thinks we’ll be fooled into thinking we’re being ruled by a fellow Norseman. But we all know it’s Aethelstan holding Hakon’s leash. It’s a bad time to be Norse here. The Saxons lord it over us. We have to keep our heads down. We can’t even worship in public. I remember the days when every shop or house on this street would have a God post outside and a sacrificed animal hanging from it. Proud displays that showed how faithful the house owner was. Now we have to sneak out of the city walls just to carry out our own customs. Do you know he wants to stop the Yule festival?’

  Affreca raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Aye!’ Gorm said
, warming to his topic. He began prodding a finger on the table with every word. ‘The one we held this winter could be the final time Yule is allowed here. He wants us to honour his God instead. Wants us to call it the Christ Mass. Well, let me tell you this; I don’t care who’s on the throne. They won’t stop me celebrating Yule. In my house come next mid-winter, we’ll be exchanging gifts, drinking and feasting until we burst, just as our forefathers have done at Yule since Odin was a boy.’

  ‘I’m here to get the Raven Banner,’ Affreca said. ‘King Eirik is beset by enemies. Some are strong. His wife has convinced him that he needs the magic of the banner if he is to survive. He’s obsessed with getting it. If Aethelstan took it then it must be somewhere in Kings Gard. Einar you go in there for your lessons. Will you help me get it?’

  ‘So it’s me, now, not we, is it?’ Einar said, sticking out his bottom lip. ‘Shouldn’t we wait for Ulrich and the others?’

  ‘If we already have it when they arrive, Ulrich would be impressed, don’t you think?’ Affreca said.

  ‘Are you so desperate to join his crew?’ Einar said.

  Affreca sniffed and looked away.

  ‘What other choices do I have? Go home and get married? If you help me, Ulrich might look favourably on you too. He might forgive you for leaving us.’

  Einar folded his arms and shook his head. ‘As I said, I’m here to learn how to be a better skald. You’re asking me to help steal something from my teacher’s master. Someone who has welcomed me into his house. It would be a breach of hospitality.’

  Affreca looked at him for a long moment, then she stood up.

  ‘Grow up, Einar. This poet dream is nonsense,’ she said. ‘To fight Thorfinn is your fate. It will happen sooner or later and whether you want it to or not. When it does, if I were you, I’d rather be standing beside some of the finest warriors on this Middle Earth – Ulrich’s Úlfhéðnar – than alone and armed only with a harp. Goodnight.’

  She strode to the door, pulled back the bolts and then left.

  ‘Be careful out there,’ Einar called after her. ‘Ricbehrt’s men might still be about.’

  As the door closed behind Affreca, Gorm let out a low whistle.