The Raven Banner

by Tim Hodkinson

  ‘Monks,’ Einar said. ‘So Hakon came with the rest of the fleet? There were no monks with us on the ships.’

  Now it was Ulrich who frowned as he looked out the small round hole in the wall designed to let light in and smoke out. ‘Some more came, yes.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Come over here,’ Ulrich said.

  Einar struggled up to his feet. Pain stabbed through his head once more and his vision swam for a moment. Then it steadied and, like an old man, stiff and sore, he lurched over to Ulrich and peered outside. The daylight sent another jolt of pain through his head and he narrowed his eyes. The view revealed they must be on the second storey of a building in the fort at Cathair Aile as he could see over the ramparts and down to the harbour. The smashed ships he had last seen there were gone and the harbour now thronged with other vessels. More were beached on the little sandy cove beyond the harbour. Still more ships rode at anchor out to sea. There was something wrong though. There was no doubt a lot of ships had come to Cathair Aile, but it was not the vast fleet Einar has seen in the Firth of Fjorthur.

  ‘They didn’t all come,’ he said.

  Ulrich nodded. ‘I was on the rampart when the ships began arriving. They all sailed up the coast, but only some of them peeled off and came here. Over half of them kept on sailing. They went right on out to sea. I haven’t seen Hakon yet either. There were enough men on the ships that came to keep the Scots out when they counter-attacked, which they did the next day.’

  Ulrich gave a little laugh.

  ‘Their own fortress was too strong for them,’ he said. ‘They’ve been driven off again.’

  ‘Will they come back?’ Einar said.

  ‘Maybe,’ Ulrich said. ‘But if I was Constantine, knowing the strength of the force the Saxons have landed here, and with Aethelstan’s army on the way too, I’d not come back unless I was sure I had every last warrior in Scotland under my command. Until I did, I’d want to be as far away as possible, preferably behind the walls of another fortress. I’d say he learned his lesson here and he won’t be trying any other reckless attempts to get close to this force until he knows he can meet them in battle and win.’

  ‘What about the Raven Banner?’ Einar said.

  Ulrich turned to look at Einar. ‘It’s gone too. There’s something going on, lad,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what, but whatever it is, I don’t like it.’

  ‘What about the others?’

  Ulrich shook his head. ‘I haven’t seen them since either. Which isn’t good. After the first battle they brought all the wounded into the fort for the monks to tend to them. Because of my broken foot they said I needed treatment but the rest of the injured are all in the main hall. You and I are locked in this little room. The door’s barred from the outside. The fact that I haven’t seen Skar or any of the others means they must be prisoners somewhere else. At least I hope they are. Either that or they’re dead.’

  Einar flopped down on his bed again, once more wincing at the pain in his temples.

  ‘We did what they asked,’ he said. ‘But we’re still prisoners? It’s unfair.’

  ‘We weren’t exactly asked,’ Ulrich said. ‘We did what we were told to. But we’re warriors of their enemies. I’m surprised we’re not dead yet.’

  ‘What do we do?’ Einar said. ‘Jump the monks next time they come in? We could take their robes and get out of here.’

  ‘Every time they come in here, they have a minimum of four armed warriors with them,’ Ulrich said as he limped back to his own bed. ‘That’s how I’m so sure we’re prisoners. I can’t go anywhere fast with this broken foot, but it’s getting better by the day. We’ll have to wait until the opportunity to escape arises, or they put us to death. Whatever comes first.’

  Forty-Eight

  Days passed and neither happened. The bruise on Einar’s skull became less tender and his head stopped hurting every time he moved. Ulrich got ever more mobile, though the broken bones in his foot would still take time to knit properly.

  They conspired about the best way to escape but they were watched all the time and until Ulrich was able to move without limping there was little chance of them getting away without also getting killed. So they took turns at watching out the Wind’s Eye to see what was going on. Ulrich sank into a sullen mood that made him an uncomfortable roommate to be stuck with.

  ‘I’m a warrior,’ he said one day. ‘If I don’t die a warrior’s death, Odin’s valkyries will never notice my spirit. They won’t choose me. I’ll end up in Hel’s realm with all the other inglorious nobodies. All the pathetic little people who never tried to do anything with their lives. Odin will you not help me?’

  As their imprisonment dragged on, he slipped more into dark silence. Einar, meanwhile, became bored beyond belief. To pass the time he began reciting all the poetry he knew in this head. All the drápa, flokkr, dræplingr and lausavísa, tales of heroes and kings from ancient times. After a few days he had gone through every single tale in his memory and he started all over again. After he had done that a few times the boredom came back.

  ‘Thor’s balls! I wish they’d just kill us,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how much more of this I can stand.’

  Then one day he was lying on his back on his bed, hands behind his head, staring at the thatched roof above, reciting in his mind the drápa of Bodvar Bjarki, one of the legendary warriors who fought in the army of the legendary king, Hrolf Kraki. He blinked. Something was different. He was not sure what it was. An odd feeling had come over him. Then his weird mood shattered and he frowned. What was going on?

  He realised that he had not been reciting the correct words to the drápa. The Bodvar he had been chanting to himself about was not the great hero who could send his spirit forth from his own body in the form of a bear, it was the Bodvar who had stormed the ramparts of Cathair Aile with him.

  Einar sat up, blood pounding in his ears. Excitement coursed through his chest. Until now he had only ever recited the songs he had been taught, the poems of the ancestors or poets of fame. Now without thinking about it, without even being aware of doing it, he had composed his own verse.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ Ulrich said, noticing the change in his mood.

  ‘I wove my own verse!’ Einar said.

  Ulrich rolled his eyes. ‘You’re not still going on about being a poet, are you? Odin may be the god of poetry but he needs warriors more. Come over here and see this.’

  Einar, scowling, crossed to the Wind’s Eye to where Ulrich stood. He looked out and saw the harbour was busy with men. They were loading barrels, weapons and chests onto the ships.

  ‘I think they’re getting ready to leave,’ Ulrich said. ‘I just saw them carry a pole laden with mail coats on board. They glinted like the summer sun sparking on the sea.’

  ‘Who’s trying to be a poet now?’ Einar said.

  Ulrich was about to respond when the iron rattle of a key in the door lock made them both turn around. The door opened and a troop of warriors filed in. They wore mail, visored helmets and carried their shields unslung and ready. Their swords were unsheathed.

  Sweyn followed them into the room. He was not dressed for war. Like Ulrich he walked with a crutch. His leg was still swathed in bandages where the dog had savaged him. His face and hands likewise still bore the healing cuts, almost faded bruises and scrapes that were testament to the battle he had been in with them. His face looked pale, almost grey, the way some men go when they have bled a lot. There were lines and darkness under his eyes. The youthful man Einar had seen on the deck of the warship before the battle was gone, replaced by another version of Sweyn who looked ten years older.

  ‘Come with me,’ he said.

  Einar looked at the armed warriors and knew this was an order not an invitation.

  They were led out of the room and down a ladder that both Sweyn and Ulrich had some difficulty getting down. On the ground floor they found themselves in a wide, circular chamber that must have filled
the entire interior of the building. The stale air was thick with the smell of smoke, cold grease, boiled meat and stale ale. The floor was strewn with straw rank with the shit and piss of dogs. The room was very tall and there was a hole far above in the tapering ceiling that let in a little daylight. Apart from this light there were torches blazing in brackets on the walls and a huge fire right in the centre of the room. The wicker walls of the chamber were black with soot. There was a large, carved wooden chair on one side of the room and Einar realised this must have been the main hall of the fort and King Constantine would have resided there with those terrible hounds.

  The room was now filled with cots that had been created by chopping up the benches and tables of the hall. Wounded men filled them, some looking like they were on the way to recovery, some looking like they had not long to live. Eight or nine brown-robed monks moved among them, tending wounds, bringing water and saying prayers.

  Einar and Ulrich were herded across the room and out the door of the hall. Outside the clean air was sweet and the weather mild. Einar squinted a little against the sunlight as they were led around the outside of the hall until they came to another building.

  Inside, more warriors stood guard. Others were packing chests with the contents and furniture of the room, taking down a table and folding some canvas chairs.

  Also there, standing ringed by armed warriors, were Affreca, Skar, Bodvar, Sigurd, Atli, Kari, Starkad and Gorm.

  ‘Ulrich! Einar! You’re both still alive,’ Skar said.

  They pushed aside the men guarding them and there was much hugging and laughter, though the expression on Ulrich’s face suggested discomfort at such open shows of emotion.

  ‘Come on, Ulrich,’ Skar said, catching sight of his leader’s surly expression. ‘Brighten up. We’re not dead.’

  ‘Not yet, you mean,’ Ulrich said. ‘I’ve never seen condemned men so happy.’

  Einar turned to Sweyn, his smile fading.

  ‘Is that why you’re here?’ he said.

  Sweyn sighed and looked around at them all, meeting their eyes with his own steady gaze. He did not reply.

  Then two more men entered the room. Einar recognised the two Norse jarls, Siward and Thorketil.

  ‘Ah. You’re here,’ Siward said, straightening up at the sight of the Wolf Coats. ‘Ulrich, we have another task for you and your men. As you’ve no doubt worked out, we’re getting ready to leave. Aethelstan’s army is on its way. We’re sailing ahead to raid another settlement further north. You men will lead the attack, as before.’

  Ulrich grunted. ‘So is that our fate, then? We keep on fighting until our luck runs out?’

  Siward took a deep breath and nodded. ‘My orders were that if you survived the first battle, which you did, you were to keep leading us into battle bearing the banner.’

  ‘So even though we won the last battle for you,’ Skar said, ‘we’re still condemned men?’

  ‘You killed monks and nuns,’ Siward said. His face became deadly serious and he spat the words through gritted teeth. ‘Aethelstan does not forgive that. I do not forgive that. And you fight for our enemies.’

  For a moment Ulrich and Siward locked eyes, then Siward looked away.

  ‘Sweyn here will lead you to your ship,’ he said. ‘Now go and God be with you.’

  Sweyn’s men gathered round and led them out of the building. They trooped down to the harbour amid the throng of men preparing the ships for departure and battle. They went to the end of the quay, the stones beneath their feet still black with dried blood from the battle. A ship was tied up at the end of the harbour.

  Einar frowned, recognising the man who stood at the steering tiller. Roan, his wizened brown face cracked in a smile, looked up and waved.

  ‘Isn’t this our ship?’ he said.

  Sweyn turned to his men. ‘Go. I can handle this from here,’ he said.

  To the surprise of Einar and the others, the warriors obediently turned and marched off back up the harbour.

  ‘If I were you, I’d be sailing away from here by now,’ Sweyn said to Ulrich.

  ‘You’re letting us go?’ Ulrich said.

  ‘Einar saved my life,’ Sweyn said. ‘If he hadn’t killed that dog it would have ripped my leg off.’

  ‘Killed it?’ Bodvar said, grinning. ‘From where I was standing it looked more like the poor brute choked trying to swallow him.’

  ‘He did not leave me to be trampled by the horses either,’ Sweyn said. ‘If I carried out the orders I have been given, I’d have no honour. Take your ship and go.’

  ‘Jarl Siward won’t be happy,’ Einar said. ‘Are you sure about this? You’ll get a lot of trouble over this.’

  ‘I am sworn to serve Hakon, not Siward,’ Sweyn said. ‘Besides, what could I do? I’m injured, on a crutch, one man against all of you lot. How could I have stopped you?’

  Sweyn winked.

  ‘You could come with us if you want,’ Ulrich said. ‘We could do with a few more good men. Your religion might be a problem, granted, but you’re a Norseman like us. Why fight for Aethelstan?’

  Sweyn shook his head. ‘My father was a Norseman but I grew up in this land. This Aengland. And I am a Christian. Aethelstan is my king.’

  ‘All right,’ Ulrich said. He turned to the others. ‘Let’s get going before things change.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Einar said to Sweyn.

  Sweyn nodded. ‘We’re even now. You saved my life, I’ve given you yours back.’

  ‘All right,’ Einar said, realising this was not some new friendship forming, just an honourable man discharging his obligations.

  ‘Can we get weapons?’ Skar said.

  Sweyn shook his head. ‘There’s no time. Get whatever provisions you can from here and get under way.’

  They grabbed a few barrels from the quayside then scrambled down into Roan’s ship. They were about to push off when a small commotion started on the quayside. Looking up, Einar saw a figure pushing through the throng of men, he was shouting and waving his arms. He had a leather pack slung over his shoulder.

  ‘Wait! Wait for me!’ he shouted.

  It was Ayvind.

  ‘Well, well. The whole crew is here,’ Ulrich said. ‘Let him on, then we can get under way. We sail for Norway.’

  Forty-Nine

  Days passed as Roan’s knarr plodded northwards, pitching and rolling on the endless grey of the Northern Whale Road. Winter was moving to an end and the days getting longer but it was still a long time before sunshine and heat would drive away the darkness and cold. Instead of snow and hail, a constant gush of rain drizzled from the steel-coloured clouds that masked the sky above. The crew spent most of their time huddled under the awnings, trying to keep warm and avoid the wet, which was difficult when the wind drove spray and waves over the deck.

  Einar was delighted to find that he no longer suffered any seasickness. Nor was he frightened of the ship sinking any more. It seemed that now the worst had happened, he had been on a ship when it was wrecked, and he had survived, sailing no longer held any fear for him. However, this left him with a new challenge: Boredom.

  ‘How long until we get there?’ Einar asked Ulrich one day.

  Roan stood at the steering oar, impassive as usual, seeming oblivious to the rain. The rest were all gathered under the awning as Skar prepared the evening meal over the fire on the cooking stone. As usual, it was dried fish boiled in sea water. They had not had much time to choose which barrels of provisions they took from Cathair Aile so had grabbed those nearest the end of the quay. These had all contained much the same things which meant a rather monotonous diet. Some barrels had contained warm sea clothes though and all the crew were now wrapped in furs and sealskins which helped keep away the cold and wet.

  Ulrich heaved a sigh.

  ‘That must be the one hundredth time you’ve asked that,’ he said.

  Einar rolled his eyes. ‘I’m so bored sometimes I feel like jumping over the side.’

  ‘Well I w
ish you would,’ Ulrich said. ‘And give us all peace.’

  ‘Are we even nearly there?’ Einar said. ‘It feels like we’ve been on this ship for weeks. How long does it take to get to Norway?’

  ‘Depends on weather and tide,’ Skar said. ‘But don’t fret. We can’t be far off now.’ Ulrich made a loud tut and stood up.

  ‘What’s got you so worked up?’ Skar asked. ‘The lad’s bored. We all are. He just wants this voyage to be over.’

  ‘It’s what happens then that bothers me,’ Ulrich said in a low voice. He sat down again.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Skar said.

  ‘We’re almost back to Norway,’ Ulrich said. ‘King Eirik sent us to get the Raven Banner like he sent us to Ireland to get those Ulfbehrt swords before. We came back last time without the swords and now they’re at the bottom of the sea off Scotland. Now we’re coming back without the banner and the swords. We’ve failed. Again. I should have thought this through more.’

  There were a few moments of silence as the portent of his words sank in. Then Skar brightened. ‘Come on, Ulrich. We’ve served the king for years. We’ve done great work for him that the valkyries probably sing about in Odin’s Valour Hall. Do you think a couple of mistakes will make him forget all that?’

  ‘Two failures in a row, Skarphedin,’ Ulrich said. ‘To a king, a servant is only as good as the last task he did for him. I fear luck has deserted us. Evil Norns are working against us. I wouldn’t be surprised if the king’s witch of a wife isn’t working magic against us. Something is spoiling our luck.’

  Ayvind stood up. ‘Perhaps luck is still on your side, after all,’ he said.

  All eyes turned to the skald as he went to his leather pack and undid the ties. His hand delved inside and he pulled out a length of material. Even before he unfurled it, Einar felt a thrill of recognition.

  ‘The Raven Banner!’ he cried. ‘You brought it with you?’

  ‘I did, lad,’ Ayvind said. ‘Now you can give it to King Eirik after all.’