The Raven Banner

by Tim Hodkinson

  For the second time in as many days Einar was on the ground taking a beating. He curled himself into a ball, trying to protect his face. The warriors were well practiced however and began directing painful blows at his sides and spine instead.

  ‘Enough,’ the same voice that had commanded the men to take him alive resounded through the hall. ‘He is no longer a danger. Get him up.’

  Powerful hands grabbed Einar and he was manhandled up into a kneeling position. Warriors held him by the shoulders, someone grabbed a handful of his hair and he felt cold metal slide across his throat. It was the edge of a sword blade so sharp it parted the skin beneath his beard. The slightest wrong movement would send the sword shearing through his flesh.

  ‘Don’t move,’ a Saxon voice hissed in his ear. ‘Don’t try anything or you’re dead.’

  For a few moments there was silence in the hall, except for the heavy panting of men fighting to get their breath back.

  Einar was facing Affreca across the hall. Warriors now held both of them.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she said.

  ‘I came to save you,’ Einar said.

  Affreca made a face. ‘Great job you’ve done. Thanks.’

  Between them strode the man Einar recognised as the one he had run into outside in the entrance hall. He was taller than Einar, good looking and though not old, the lines on his face and the white strands that streaked the brown of his hair and long, Aenglish-style moustache showed he had passed many more winters than Einar. His green cloak was of the finest wool, as was his linen shirt, woollen leggings and soft, deerskin boots. He looked at the scene before him with raised eyebrows, and Einar got the impression that it seemed he was unsure whether to laugh or explode with rage.

  ‘What in God’s name is going on here, Hakon?’ the man said.

  Einar noticed that the young blond lad was lurking near the dais, looking very like a naughty child hoping not to be caught. At the sound of his name, Hakon came across the room and bowed his head to the newcomer.

  ‘My lord,’ he said.

  Einar was reminded of a dog responding to his master’s voice.

  ‘We just caught this woman.’ Hakon nodded towards Affreca. ‘She was pretending to be a nun. Who this other man is, I have no idea.’

  ‘He’s my pupil,’ a voice from above floated down. They all looked up to see the half-dazed face of Ayvind at his window. ‘I teach him the skaldic art.’

  Einar regretted not hitting Ayvind harder.

  ‘Get down here,’ Hakon ordered. The skald disappeared from the window above.

  Einar tried to think. He and Affreca were in real trouble here and right now he could not see any way out of it.

  At that moment the door of the hall opened again. Three new men entered. Their jaws dropped open and eyes widened as they registered the scene before them. One of the newcomers was very fat, with a florid face and a nose the colour and shape of a ripe plum. His clothes were expensive and well made to fit around his corpulent frame. The two men with him were warriors. At the sight of the second one Einar sucked breath in through his teeth.

  It was Osric, one of the men who had attacked him the night before.

  Seven

  ‘Ah, Ricbehrt,’ the tall Aenglishman who seemed to have taken charge said to the purple-nosed fat man. ‘Forgive me. We shall discuss business in a moment. As you can see, I have something to sort out here first.’

  Einar, panic rising in his chest, tried to turn his face to the side so the newcomers could not recognise him. Osric was glaring straight at him. Einar gave up and returned the stare. Osric muttered a few words in his master’s ear. Ricbehrt’s eyes widened again.

  ‘What’s your name?’ the Aenglishman said to Einar. Einar wondered just who this man could be if a powerful jarl like Hakon, young as he was but a son of Harald Fairhair of Norway no less, deferred to him.

  ‘Lord King,’ Ricbehrt interrupted, pointing a pudgy finger in Einar’s direction. He spoke in the Saxon tongue but with the nasal accent of the Franks. ‘That man is Einar Thorfinnsson! He’s the son of your enemy, the Jarl of Orkney. He and his companions – heathen werewolf warriors of King Eirik of Norway – stole a valuable hoard of weapons from me in Ireland.’

  Lord King? Einar’s mind raced. He had already been surprised by the deference everyone in the room showed the older Aenglishman and the way he seemed to command the situation. Now Ricbehrt’s words confirmed what he had already begun to suspect but could scarcely believe. This must be Aethelstan, the King of Wessex, or to give him the title he had lately begun to use, the King of all the Aenglish and Emperor of Britain.

  Aethelstan looked at Einar with narrowed eyes, as if assessing him anew. The previous glint of mirth had gone. ‘Is this true?’

  ‘Jarl Thorfinn is my father, yes,’ Einar said.

  He heard sharp intakes of breath all around the hall.

  The doors opened and Ayvind staggered in, one hand holding his head.

  ‘Has wine so addled your mind, Ayvind,’ Hakon said in a voice like thunder, ‘that you’ve brought the son of Thorfinn the Skull Cleaver into Kings Gard?’

  ‘He told me he was an Icelander,’ Ayvind said, looking thoroughly confused.

  ‘What’s all this about poetry?’ Aethelstan said.

  ‘He’s got a superb voice and real talent, Lord King,’ Ayvind said, bowing his head to the Aenglishman. ‘With the right teaching he could be a famous skald someday.’

  ‘And the woman?’ Aethelstan asked.

  Ayvind shrugged. ‘I’ve never seen her before.’

  Einar shot a sharp glance at Affreca. If she revealed her true identity it would do them no favours.

  ‘I am Affreca Guthfrithsdottir,’ Affreca said, raising her chin. ‘Of the Ui Imair clan and the Kingdom of Dublin.’

  Einar rolled his eyes. Aethelstan sighed and looked at Jarl Hakon.

  ‘Hakon, my visit here is supposed to be a secret,’ he said, his voice edged with anger. ‘And yet I arrive to find the offspring of two of my enemies waiting for me. One of them even knocked me on my arse! Is there anyone else here I should know about? Perhaps your brother Eirik Bloody Axe is lurking behind the tapestries?’

  Hakon’s cheeks reddened and he looked at the floor. The king shot a look in the direction of the warriors holding Einar.

  Einar felt their grip tighten. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple sliding past the cold metal of the blade across his throat.

  ‘I have no love for my father!’ he shouted. ‘He tried to kill me and my mother. He wants me dead.’

  ‘And you’re really here to learn to poetry?’ Aethelstan said. His voice conveyed just how unlikely he thought that was.

  ‘Yes!’ Einar said.

  ‘And you?’ the king asked Affreca.

  ‘I came to take back the Raven Banner,’ she said.

  There were more gasps from the others in the room.

  ‘So you’re a thief,’ Aethelstan said. ‘I would not expect anything different from a pagan.’

  Affreca’s face was defiant. ‘You stole it first from my clan.’

  ‘And they are murderers, Lord King,’ Ricbehrt exclaimed. ‘They attacked my men last night. They killed one of them.’

  ‘So the body found in the ditch off Micklegate this morning was one of your men?’ Hakon said. ‘He had an arrow in him.’

  Ricbehrt nodded. ‘I want justice.’

  ‘A king must deliver justice,’ Aethelstan said. He looked up into the air and spoke in a tone that suggested he was discussing with himself as much as talking to Ricbehrt. ‘And Jorvik is part of my realm now, even if its people have not learned to love me yet. I can’t have brawling in the streets. At the same time this is all very messy. No one is supposed to know I am in the city.’

  Einar felt his heart pounding in his chest. He thought hard once more for some sort of plan to escape. The arms that held him were strong and there was at least three men on him. The blade was so tight across his neck that if he even moved, he
could cut his own throat and it would all be over. There was no way out.

  ‘What did you do with my swords?’ Ricbehrt said. ‘I want them back.’

  ‘These must be very special swords, Ricbehrt,’ Aethelstan said, ‘for you to be so anxious for their return.’

  ‘The value of those swords is worth half the taxes in this land,’ the weapon dealer said.

  ‘Hmmm,’ Aethelstan raised an eyebrow. ‘Ulfbehrt swords, were they? The type that are not supposed to be exported from the Holy Roman Empire? No wonder you’re so keen to get them back. If Prince Otto finds out you’ve been shipping them abroad, he would not be pleased.’

  ‘My lord,’ Ricbehrt dipped his head, an obsequious smile creeping across his greasy cheeks. ‘Prince Otto does not need to know. Perhaps if a few Ulfbehrts turned up amidst the order you wish to place with me for your upcoming campaign you would not be too disappointed?’

  Aethelstan grunted.

  ‘Indeed. I imagine your price will go up considerably too. Let’s discuss that later.’

  ‘I know where his swords are,’ Einar said. Perhaps now he had a chance to get out of this mess.

  The attention of everyone in the room returned to him.

  ‘Where are they?’ Ricbehrt spat through clenched teeth. ‘Tell me, you bastard!’

  ‘Ulrich’s crew took twelve of them but the hoard was weighing the ship down,’ Einar said. ‘We needed to sail fast for Iceland so we stashed the rest.’

  ‘Where!?’ Ricbehrt’s purple face looked like it was about to pop.

  Einar smiled.

  ‘Do you think I’m stupid? If I tell you, then I’ll be no more use to you. You’ll have me killed.’

  ‘Hanged for murder, actually,’ Aethelstan said, a half-smile forming on his own lips. ‘Barbarians like Eirik Bloody Axe or your father might execute people on a whim but we have laws here. If you’re to die, you will be put to death legally.’

  ‘It’s the same outcome, from my point of view,’ Einar said. ‘I will not tell you where the swords are but I will take you to where they’re hidden, Ricbehrt. It’s across the seas, that is all you need to know for now. So we need a ship. When we get you to the swords, then you’ll let us go.’

  ‘Well?’ Aethelstan looked at Ricbehrt. ‘It seems the Skull Cleaver’s son has something to bargain with. I would indeed like some of those swords if you get them back.’

  Ricbehrt ground his teeth. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But if you try anything, you’re dead. And I will make sure your death is far from legal and far from painless.’

  ‘What about the woman?’ Hakon asked Aethelstan.

  ‘She has to come too,’ Einar said.

  Aethelstan chuckled. ‘No. If she is an Ui Imair then she could prove a useful hostage.’

  ‘We can’t keep her here,’ Hakon said. ‘The people of Jorvik resent Aenglish rule enough as it is. If word gets out that she’s in Kings Gard we could have a mob outside demanding her release. It could spark outright rebellion.’

  Aethelstan looked at Affreca for a moment, regarding the habit she wore. Then he said, ‘She wants to be a nun, so let’s send her for safekeeping among the good sisters of Withern Abbey. They can save her heathen soul as well. Take them away. I have business to do with Ricbehrt.’

  Hakon’s warriors dragged Affreca out of the hall while Osric and Ricbehrt’s other bodyguard took hold of Einar. His hands were bound behind his back, then they shoved him towards the door.

  ‘The bitch’s arrow just missed me last night,’ Osric hissed in his ear, ‘which is bad luck for you. As soon as we get those swords, you’re a dead man.’

  Einar sighed, realising that all he had just achieved was to postpone the time and place of his death.

  Eight

  Avaldsnes, Residence of Eirik Haraldsson, King of Norway

  ‘Wrong! Do it again, you useless bastards!’

  Skarphedin Harsson – Skar to his friends – stood before a Skjaldborg, a defensive formation of shields formed by the five potential new recruits for Ulrich’s Úlfhéðnar company. On his command they had snapped their shields together fast enough but now, as he cast his experienced gaze across it, the big man could see it was not up to the standards he expected.

  ‘Call that a shield wall?’ he yelled. ‘My grandmother could split that open with her walking stick. And she’s been dead for fifteen winters.’

  ‘For Thor’s sake,’ Bragi, one of the new men said, dropping his shield out of formation and standing up. ‘We all know how to make a Shield Fort. We’ve done it thousands of times. You’ve made us do it thousands of times just today. We’ve done it when it really matters: In battle. We don’t need to do it over and over again in training.’

  The warrior’s eyes were wide, his nostrils flared. Breath snorted in and out in clouds that rose on the cold air.

  ‘You will do it again,’ Skar said, his voice dropping to a growl. ‘And again. Until you get it right.’

  Bragi locked gazes with him for a moment longer, then spat into the snow and went back into position.

  ‘Break,’ Skar shouted. The formation split apart. ‘Go!’

  Each of the warriors, their swords in one hand and shields in the other, began running in different directions. The drill was taking place in a training field that lay beyond the barns and the king’s feasting hall at Avaldsnes. King Eirik of Norway’s residence covered all of a peninsula, a ness, that jutted out into the waters of the strait of Karm. The ness was almost an island, defended on all sides by water except for a narrow strip of land connecting it to the mainland. King Eirik’s huge feasting hall dominated the highest point. It was surrounded by booths, barns and many other outbuildings necessary to maintain the running of the king’s main residence.

  Skar had been putting the men through their paces for some time now and the snow that covered the flat practice ground was smeared and churned by their footprints from end to end. The new recruits were supposed to scatter then come together in a moment at Skar’s command. However, their movements lacked real effort, their run was little more than a jog and their dispersal more of a wide bunch.

  ‘You lazy bastards look like a shoal of herring,’ he called to the jogging crew. ‘Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to. Part of the exercise is to teach you to get into formation fast. You’ll keep running ’til you spread out.’

  He turned to see a figure approaching. The newcomer was much shorter than Skar, though most men were. His dark brown hair was shorn short and receded from his forehead though he was not an old man. He was of wiry build and swathed in thick furs against the cold. Around the small man’s shoulders was a dark, almost black wolf skin cloak. In one hand he carried a spear that he was using as a walking staff as he clambered through the snow. Unlike most men, he was clean shaven. Some would have said this was unmanly, but no one would have dared to suggest that to this man. Skar straightened up as he recognised his old friend and leader of the Úlfhéðnar company, Ulrich Rognisson.

  ‘Well?’ Ulrich said as he joined Skar. ‘What do you think of the new lot? Any with potential?’

  Skar grimaced.

  ‘They’re supposed to be the king’s most fearsome warriors,’ Ulrich said. ‘He said he’d given us the best of the best.’

  Skar blew out his cheeks. ‘That’s part of the problem. They’re not used to taking orders. They’re dangerous men, no doubt about that. Hard men. They’re fit enough too. We made them row up and down the sound twice before we even started drills. They’re mostly all berserkers, though. I’m just not sure they have the right temperament. They definitely don’t have the discipline.’

  Ulrich did not reply but instead cast his gaze on the men who continued running in a tight group, openly flouting Skar’s commands. He reached into his fur cloak and withdrew a wineskin.

  ‘Never mind, eh?’ Ulrich said, uncorking the skin and handing it to his big comrade. ‘Here. From the king’s own collection. You deserve a drink for wasting your time nursemaiding th
is lot. I’m wondering how we tell the king his best men aren’t good enough for us.’

  At the sight of the wineskin Skar’s face lit up. He took it and glugged a swig from it. With an appreciative sigh he lowered the skin and wiped the back of his gloved hand across his beard.

  ‘This is the life, eh Ulrich?’ Skar said. ‘Here at King Eirik’s Court. Wine, beer, meat. No fighting. Not freezing our arses off sailing across some Gods-forsaken northern sea just to kill someone then sail back again. It’s good to take a break every now and again. The All Father knows we deserve one.’

  Ulrich snorted. ‘Don’t get too used to it. We leave for Jorvik soon. Eirik wants the Raven Banner.’

  Skar nodded. ‘How do you think the girl is getting on? Will she have found it by the time we get there?’

  ‘Probably,’ Ulrich replied. ‘She’s got potential that one.’

  Skar looked at him sideways. ‘Do you mean to join our company?’

  ‘Why not?’ Ulrich said.

  ‘Because she’s a…’ Skar trailed off as he thought about Affreca’s abilities. Then he turned his mouth down at the sides and nodded.

  ‘What about Einar?’ he asked. ‘You know he’s there too.’

  Ulrich shrugged but did not reply. Instead he reached for the wineskin and took a long swallow.

  ‘A ship arrived this morning,’ Ulrich said in a nonchalant tone as he wiped his own lips then passed the wineskin back. ‘Jarl Thorfinn of Orkney was on it.’

  Skarphedin paused for a moment as he brought the wineskin to his mouth, then proceeded to drink again. Passing the skin back, the tall warrior met Ulrich’s gaze.

  ‘So the Skull Cleaver has come to King Eirik,’ Skar said. ‘Do you think he knows what happened in Iceland?’

  Ulrich’s eyes flicked left and right then fixed on Skar again. ‘I don’t know. I’m surprised he has the balls to show his face here. Eirik knows about Thorfinn’s dallying with Guthfrith of Dublin. That makes him a traitor. I’d be surprised if he doesn’t end up fighting the Blámaðr.’