The Raven Banner
Page 14
‘But Hakon is a Christian,’ he said, though his voice lacked conviction. ‘As is Aethelstan. They won’t want heathen Vikings in their army.’
Skar laughed and clapped a hand on his shoulder. The big man shoved the wineskin into Einar’s hand.
‘Take a drink, lad,’ he said. ‘They pay plenty of heathen Vikings to fight for them. They fix it all with a little wash.’
As Einar put the wineskin to his mouth Skar pointed at his Wolf Coat companions in turn.
‘We are the Vikings, lad,’ he said. ‘We’re the most dangerous, ruthless, mad bastards currently sailing the seas. The question is, are you one of us?’
Twenty-Four
Westness, Orkney Islands
The fall of the axe halted the stallion’s whinny dead. As the heavy iron cleaved through its neck, separating spine and flesh, the creature’s neigh turned to a short grunt. The beast dropped to the ground as if all the bones in its muscular body were shattered by the blow. Hot blood gushed from the wound, sloshing into the silvered cauldron that stood beneath the sacrificial stone and sending crimson splatters across the ground.
Jarl Thorfinn of Orkney lowered the axe and stood back, admiring his work as the horse gasped its last breath before him. A murmur of appreciation ran around the surrounding crowd. It was an impressive blow, especially considering how much ale the jarl had drunk.
Vakir the Galdr maðr stepped forward, a gnarled hand raised in blessing over the cauldron of blood. In a loud monotone voice, he began to intone the prayer invoking the Dísir, the light elves and the dark elves and the Gods themselves to bless the sacrifice. He called on Hel to preside over this funeral and make sure the spirits of the dead passed over to where they must go to and not linger here on the Middle Earth to haunt their surviving kin. At the mention of the name of the rotting queen of the dead, the watching crowd whispered fervent charms and incantations themselves, to ward off bad luck. Most then closed their eyes and joined in the galdr. The lonely, mournful cries of seabirds provided a suitable background to the chanting.
Thorfinn did not join in. Swaying slightly as the cold wind tugged at his unbound hair, he looked around him. The crowd stood on the seaweed-strewn rock shore of the bay of Swandro, on a little island that lay just a short row across the Eyinhelga sound from the largest of the Orkney islands, the Meginland. The sparse, green land rose up from the sandy bay to a hill inland. In between the beach and the hill was the burying ground. Folk had been coming here to inter their dead since the first person set foot on these islands, certainly from long before the Norse arrived, which was over a hundred winters before. On a little hillock was the ruin of a circular fort built by some ancient, now forgotten people. The grave mounds of that old people dotted the bay, as did the headstones of the Orcies, the short, dark haired folk who Thorfinn’s grandfather had taken these islands from. Their stones were carved with swirling patterns and twisting beasts, stark boars and strange lightening-like symbols as well as Christian crosses. Amid these now were the graves of the Norse, all marked out by a line of stones in the shape of a ship.
All the other graves were covered in grassy mounds but the one Thorfinn stood beside was open. The earth within the ship outline had been dug out so it looked as though a ship had sunk into the land. Lying like a used rag in the grave was the white, naked corpse of a slave girl. A wide, purple gash yawned across her throat and the blood from her body now mingled with that of the horse in the cauldron. Earlier she had been raped by all the most important men, Thorfinn’s hearth men, the best men in the Jarldom, while the others had drowned out her screams by drumming spear buts and sword pommels against their shields in a cacophony louder than Thor’s thunder.
Thorfinn had been last to take his turn, then the seiðkona, the old witch who worked with Vakir, had slit the girl’s throat.
As the blade carved her flesh the slave girl’s screeches had turned to a choked gurgling. This came as welcome relief to Thorfinn’s ears. The racket had quite put him off his stride and made it hard to concentrate on his prayers. The rape was no assault born of lust or savagery. It was a sacred funeral rite and needed to be approached as a solemn religious duty. The slave girl would take the life essence of the best men in the community to sustain and serve Hrolf in the Afterlife. Everything had to be done correctly, as custom dictated, or Hrolf’s spirit would not cross over and he would return from the dead, a hideous aptrgangr, an after-walker, to haunt his family and friends.
The ridiculous thing was that the girl had actually volunteered to play her role in the funeral. Had she not known what it involved? Or was the life of a slave so awful that such an end was preferable?
They had filled her with strong ale first. It befuddled her wits and made her more compliant. Until it had become apparent what her end would be, it looked like she had actually been quite enjoying the whole occasion. She had sung songs with the rest of the funeral party. All of them had been drinking, of course. They had been doing so since early morning. It helped to numb the grief and steel them for the bloodletting of the sacrifice to come. Later there would be even more drinking, when the special funeral ale, the sjaund, would be downed in huge amounts. Thorfinn was already unsteady on his feet but he felt that if there was any time it was fine for him to be drunk, it was at the funeral of his own son.
Around the dead girl were other grave goods, all placed there for his son Hrolf’s use in the next world. Weapons, clothes, a barrel of ale, a haunch of boar, great wheels of cheese and dried herrings were all stacked in neat rows, side by side. A sacrificed hen and cock were in there too.
There was everything expected to be found in a grave. Except the body of the man whose tomb it was.
A second merchant had arrived from Iceland while Thorfinn had been in Norway. He told the same tale as the last one and Thorfinn had known he must admit to his Jarldom that Hrolf was dead. He could not bring himself to admit publicly that Hrolf had died on a mission to murder Thorfinn’s former bed-slave, the mother of his bastard son, Einar. Instead he let the story be known that Hrolf had been lost at sea, along with the rest of the men Thorfinn had sent to Iceland with him.
So they had to hold a funeral; to honour the dead, give them grave markers and make sure their spirits were able to move on to the next world.
The jarl looked down at the grave goods and began grinding his teeth, a slow, deliberate action driven by the smouldering anger he felt inside. The sword was not even Hrolf’s sword. That had disappeared with him. The clothes were Hrolf’s second-best clothes, the ones he had left behind when going on the voyage to Iceland. The mail coat was his second best for the same reason. The men who had raped the slave girl were not actually Thorfinn’s best men. His best had gone to Iceland with Hrolf and died there. The hearth men who surrounded him now were his second best.
Einar and the Ulrich’s Wolf Coats had diminished Thorfinn. They had brought the jarl down a peg. It was an insult. A challenge. A threat. It was not to be endured.
Looking sideways he saw the crowd of tearful women, the widows and bereaved mothers and daughters, standing a little way off. His own wife, Gruaid, was among them. Her eyes were raw red like the others. Her face streaked with tears. She bore the same empty gaze. Thorfinn wondered why he did not feel the same unbridled emotion.
Gruaid had four women beside her, dressed all in black. Their grief was impressive. Thorfinn scowled as they screeched, wailed, tore at their hair and threw their hands up in the air as if in protest at the cruelty of the heavens above. They were professional mourners, paid by the jarl to be upset at Hrolf’s passing. It was some sort of Scots tradition that Thorfinn’s wife had insisted on.
Thorfinn threw his own head back and looked up at the grey clouds above, feeling the cold rain that dribbled from the desolate sky. Apart from anger there was a strange emptiness inside his chest and he wondered if it was possible he actually missed his arrogant, vain brat? Thorfinn shook his head, trying to drive the feeling away.
He could not
allow sentimentality to cloud his will. Hrolf had allowed himself to be beaten. That made him unworthy of his father’s respect. Perhaps this meant Hrolf was in fact his second-best son?
Vakir finished his chant and the crowd began to break up, filing back to the boats that lined the shore for the short trip back to the Meginland where the funeral feast awaited with its welcoming ale-drowned oblivion of their emotions. Thorfinn remained at the graveside. Vakir pulled up the hood of his white robe and approached his jarl.
‘I will call this island Hrolfsey, Horlf’s island, from now on,’ Thorfinn said to the magic worker. Vakir looked like he cared not a jot.
‘So, my Galdr maðr,’ the jarl said. ‘You are also my seiðmaðr. Tells me, what do you see? Is my son on his way to Odin’s Valour Hall?’
‘I cannot see beyond death,’ Vakir said. ‘That is why we must all just have faith that a glorious destiny lies beyond the grave. I can tell you one thing, though, which perhaps will help console you a little.’
‘Go ahead,’ the jarl said, folding his arms
‘It is an old saying that only a son can fill the place of a son to his father,’ the warlock said. ‘And I have news of your other son.’
Vakir reached out a bony hand. He held a stick of wood. Runes were carved on it.
Thorfinn looked at it but would not touch it.
‘Have no fear,’ Vakir said, his lips stretching into an unpleasant smile. ‘It’s not a spell. It’s a message. Gizur sent it from Jorvik. He gave it to a merchant who was sailing here.’
Thorfinn took the stick and ran his eyes and finger along the carvings in the wood. When he reached the end, he started again. After the second time he looked up at Vakir.
‘This says that Ulrich’s crew have sailed for Ireland to pick up Einar. After that they intend to sail back to Britain. Gizur says he will make sure they are waylaid in the Kingdom of the Scots.’ The jarl knitted his brows. ‘What’s that little prick Ulrich up to? He’s supposed to be trying to get the Raven Banner from Hakon in Jorvik.’
Vakir’s thin, bloodless lip stretched taut in what might have been a smile. ‘It seems Ulrich values Einar’s presence above the task Eirik set them. I would imagine, lord, that the king would be very displeased if he found out that Ulrich was off on his own adventures again?’
A smile crept across Thorfinn’s own lips as he understood his Galdr maðr’s intention. From the corner of his eye he caught Gruaid scowling at him, clearly wondering why he could have anything to be happy about on this day of all days.
‘Odin is smiling on us. We will not let this chance pass, Vakir,’ he said. ‘Ready my ships. King Eirik must hear of this.’
Twenty-Five
The Skerries off the North Irish Coast
The Wolf Coat snekkja rode the waves alongside Roan’s knarr. The sleek warship was lashed to the wide merchant vessel like a viper tied to a fat duck. Now they had two ships the company was split across the two vessels. Ulrich ordered King Eirik’s four berserkers to accompany the skipper, Roan, Gorm and Ayvind onto the bigger merchant ship.
‘Why are we being separated from the rest of the Úlfhéðnar?’ Narfi the berserker said. His brows were knitted in a frown and his eyes were wide and full of confrontation.
‘What do mean “the rest”? You’re not yet Úlfhéðnar.’ Ulrich returned Narfi’s glare with one equally unflinching. ‘Not until you’ve passed the initiation. If you pass the initiation.’
Ulrich called Einar, Affreca and Gizur to join him and the remaining Wolf Coats – Skar, Bodvar, Sigurd, Atli, Starkad and Kari – onto the Úlfhéðnar snekkja. Einar caught the angry looks that the berserkers shot in his direction.
‘What about him?’ Narfi levelled his forefinger at Einar. ‘He’s not a Wolf Coat yet, either.’
‘I’ve fought alongside him, Narfi,’ Ulrich said with a disinterested shrug. ‘I’m happier to have him on my ship.’
‘So how will this work, Ulrich?’ Bjarki, another of the berserkers, demanded. ‘An Úlfhéðnar company must have twelve Wolf Coats. You are five men short. There are seven of us. How will you choose who is worthy?’
Einar was about to say he was still not decided if being a Wolf Coat was really what he wanted but Ulrich responded first.
‘That’s what the initiation is for,’ he said as he tapped the side of his nose. ‘And you’re wrong. There are eight potential Wolf Coats here, not seven.’
Bjarki and Narfi looked around, their noses screwed up as they counted again the four berserkers, Gizur, Einar and Gorm.
‘Who else is there?’ Narfi said, his upper lip curling as he glanced at Ayvind. ‘The drunken skald?’
Ulrich laughed outright. Ayvind looked both annoyed and offended.
‘Not him,’ Ulrich said. ‘Trust me, though. There are eight in this race, not seven. You’re right about the number of places in the company though. There are only five.’
The berserkers glared around them at the others. Einar saw the unmistakable challenge in their eyes. He was left with little doubt that a deadly game had just begun.
‘Now enough of this talking,’ Ulrich said. ‘We must get under way.’
As the others clambered aboard the knarr, Einar pulled Ulrich’s sleeve and spoke to him in a quiet voice.
‘What about him?’ Einar said, flicking his eyes in the direction of Gizur. ‘He’s my father’s champion.’
‘I’m not too happy he’s here either,’ Ulrich said. ‘But Thorfinn would be a very silly man if he tries to interfere in King Eirik’s plans. Not if he doesn’t want to find himself in the fight circle with the king’s Blámaðr. Your father is many things, Einar, but I don’t believe he’s that stupid.’
‘Will my ship be all right on the northern whale roads?’ Roan shouted from the deck of the other vessel. ‘Those waters are infested with Vikings.’
‘Your ship is full of Vikings,’ Ulrich shouted back. ‘You should have nothing to worry about. Now loose those ropes. I want to be under way well before dark.’
Roan gestured towards the darkening sky. ‘There’s a storm coming too, I’d say.’
‘All the more reason to get away then,’ Ulrich said. ‘We can run before it. The wind will drive us faster.’
And so the voyage north began.
Einar was glad to be aboard the snekkja as it was so well equipped. Searching through the chests stored under the strakes, he soon found spare clothes, including a sealskin jerkin with a hood that would help keep him dry on the voyage.
As the day started to darken the wind picked up. Soon the mast was straining behind the full sail as the ship skipped over ever-higher swell on the dark green sea. Northward there were dark shapes on the horizon, rising from the sea. The crew of the snekkja busied themselves erecting a leather canopy that covered half the deck and would provide shelter for them in the bad weather to come.
‘Will we sail through the night?’ Einar asked. He could feel the customary tension he felt on sea voyages starting to gnaw at his insides already.
Ulrich nodded. ‘We need to keep going. I don’t want to miss Hakon’s fleet. Don’t fret yourself, lad. We’re never far from land. The land of the Scots isn’t far and there are islands everywhere. If the weather gets too bad, we’ll put ashore. We just need to be careful where.’
‘As long as it’s dry land it will do me,’ Einar said.
Ulrich raised his eyebrows. ‘I doubt you’ll be saying that when a Scotsman is cutting your throat.’
He pointed to the dark mounds of land that lined the horizon to the east.
‘The land of the Scots,’ he said, then swept his arm towards the various points of land that dotted the horizon to the west. ‘The southern isles. Ruled by Norsemen.’
‘The Scots call the islands Innse Gall,’ Affreca said. ‘It means islands of the foreigners.’
A memory of a leering Irish chieftain spitting contempt at him surfaced in Einar’s mind ‘Gall was what the Irish called me when they took me hostage,’ he said.
‘I forgot you speak the Gael’s tongue,’ Ulrich said. ‘Let’s hope we have no need of it on this voyage.’
As predicted, the weather got worse. As the sky darkened to night, rain began hissing down from the sky. The ship rolled and heaved on the big waves as the wind battered and whipped the leather cover and the woollen sail. Skar lit a fire on the big cooking stone and started re-heating the broth they had made from the head of the eel creature. The crew crowded under the cover to eat, leaving Ulrich alone at the steerboard, piloting the ship.
‘This is a beautiful ship,’ Gizur said. ‘Easily the fastest I’ve ever been on. I’d love to have a go at steering.’
‘Be careful what you wish for,’ Skar grunted. ‘Ulrich can’t stand out there all night on his own. We’ll all take turns. Let’s see how excited you are when you’re out there on you own in the wind and rain in the dark with the rest of us snoring in here.’
‘I hope none of the new lot snore,’ Bodvar said. ‘If I want to spent my nights with someone lying beside me grunting like a pig and snorting then I’ll get married.’
‘Can’t be worse than your farting,’ Sigurd said.
The wind howled outside and now was really battering the leather of the covering. The rolling of the ship became even more pronounced. Einar swallowed hard, his appetite dissolving into nausea. He placed his wooden spoon back in the bowl and set his broth down on the deck before him.
‘What’s wrong with your dinner?’ Skar said. ‘That’s good fish head stew that is. If you don’t want it, I’ll have it.’