‘That’s an Orkney ship,’ Ulrich said. ‘Einar; if your father is here then you need to stay out of the way.’
Einar nodded, but inside he wondered if he really could. If Thorfinn was here could he just sit in the background and not even speak to him? Perhaps this was a chance for reconciliation. They could bury their grievance and he would no longer have to worry if Thorfinn was trying to kill his mother while he was away from home and unable to protect her.
As they got closer, a ship came to meet them. It was sleek and fast and cut through the water like a viper. Einar recognised it as a snekkja like the one they had been sunk on off Scotland. This snekkja was filled with warriors clad in shining mail and iron helmets. To Einar’s consternation he saw many had drawn swords. The others on his own ship seemed non-plussed, however, so he relaxed again.
‘Drop your anchor stone,’ a warrior on the prow of the snekkja shouted to them. ‘No one is to come any closer to the ness.’
‘Grettir, is that you?’ Ulrich said, recognising the lanky build and the long grey hair of the warrior on the prow. ‘It’s me, Ulrich. Are things so bad that the king’s bodyguard are intercepting ships now? You know us. We can sail on into the harbour, right?’
Grettir shook his head. ‘King Eirik’s orders,’ he shouted back. ‘No ships must come ashore. These are dangerous times, Ulrich. The king is surrounded by rebels and traitors. Drop your anchor and we’ll take you to him.’
Ulrich sighed. ‘On your head be it,’ he said. ‘I have urgent news for the king about his brother Hakon. When Eirik hears you’re pissing me about like this he’ll have you fight a bout with the Blámaðr.’
Einar felt an involuntary shudder at the mention of the Blámaðr. Skar, Ulrich and the others had told him many tales on the voyage there about the mysterious, black-skinned giant the king kept in chains to punish those who wronged him.
Ulrich sighed and ordered Roan to drop the anchor stone. The rest of the men furled the sail and as the stone dropped to the bottom of the sea the ship slowed to a halt. The snekkja drew alongside and warriors on board it grabbed the sides of the ships to hold them together.
‘Come across,’ Grettir said and the crew of the knarr scrambled over into the already crowded snekkja. Einar looked around. He did not like the hostile eyes that glared from behind the visors of the warriors’ helmets. An uneasy feeling crept through his guts.
‘Where’s the king going?’ Ulrich said, gesturing towards the ships preparing to leave the harbour.
‘He’ll tell you himself, soon enough,’ Grettir replied. ‘Now hand over your weapons.’
Ulrich raised his eyebrows. ‘Here we go again. We’re not in a holy place this time, Grettir. We’re not before the king yet.’
‘Just do what you’re told,’ Grettir said. His voice was cold. It was clear that his words were an order, not a request.
‘We’ve only got this one sword between us,’ Ulrich said, holding up the weapon that Bodvar had taken from Ayvind.
‘You expect me to believe that?’ Grettir said.
Einar could sense something was wrong. He saw that Ulrich was starting to think the same way. The Wolf Coat narrowed his eyes.
‘This time, I will tell you to fuck off,’ Ulrich said.
‘Get them!’ Grettir yelled. In an instant his men surged forward, flooding like a steel waterfall towards the Wolf Coats. They went forward shields first, swords and spears ready. Einar felt panic grab his chest. With no armour or weapons, they stood no chance against Grettir’s warriors.
Ulrich dropped his crutch and raised Ayvind’s sword. Grettir’s warriors were already upon him before he could strike. They surrounded the Wolf Coats, Einar, Affreca and Roan, their big, round shields pushing against him, overwhelming them by the sheer weight of their numbers. Those with spears reversed them and began battering the Wolf Coats with the butts.
With a roar Ulrich launched himself against the wall of shields that surrounded him, hacking and slashing with the sword, trying to hit heads, feet, any exposed body part that could send its owner sprawling and open up an escape route for him.
A group of the king’s warriors closed on him together, pressing their shields against him. Ulrich was squashed in the middle, unable to move or swing his sword arm. The warriors kicked his legs from under him. He cried out as a boot struck his injured foot. Ulrich toppled and with practised ease the king’s warriors used their shields to push him down flat to the deck. Ulrich kicked, roared and spat but there was nothing he could do. Hands reached down and tore the sword from his grasp.
It was the same for the others. Einar staggered as he was hit from all sides, blows striking his ribs, stomach and knees. He lost sight of the others as he too was pushed to the deck. He felt a hard blow above his right eye and stars exploded before his vision. He could hear grunts and shouts from all around and saw Bodvar not far off, face down on the deck like he was, amid a forest of legs that drove kicks into his unprotected body.
Einar felt hands grab his arms and force them behind his back. Rope scraped his skin as it was wound round his wrists and tied to secure his hands.
Then the warriors pulled back. Einar looked around and saw the others from Ulrich’s crew were all like him, panting, lying beaten on the deck, their hands tied behind their backs. One of the warriors handed Ayvind’s sword to Grettir.
‘You’ve really come down in the world, Ulrich,’ Grettir said, running a critical eye along the blade. ‘Last time I took a sword off you it was an Ulfbehrt.’
‘Eirik will kill you for this,’ Ulrich said. His face was twisted with impotent rage.
Grettir smiled.
‘No, Ulrich. Quite the opposite. He intends to kill you.’
Fifty-Two
Grettir’s men rowed their snekkja back towards the ness. They steered around the other ships on the crowded sound but it soon became apparent their course did not take them to a dock in the harbour. Instead the ship sailed towards a bare, rocky skerry a little way from the shore. There were poles chained to the wet stones and the little island was draped in seaweed. Here and there were rock pools full of water. There were bones scattered over the rocks. Human bones.
‘The witches’ skerry?’ Ulrich said when he caught sight of it. ‘You can’t be serious.’
‘Serious as the plague, Ulrich,’ Grettir said.
‘What is it?’ Einar asked.
‘They chain up those who work evil witchcraft on it,’ Skar said. ‘When the tide comes in it’s under water. Anyone bound on it, drowns.’
A warrior dropped the anchor stone overboard and the ship halted beside the skerry. They threw down a gangr plank to walk ashore over, then Grettir’s men grabbed hold of Bodvar and Skar and dragged them, kicking and struggling, off the ship onto the skerry. Two wooden poles were chained to the top of the rocks. They were arranged in parallel, just over the height of an average man apart. Grettir’s warriors kicked aside a tangle of bones that lay between the poles, then forced the Wolf Coats to lie on their backs with their arms above their heads. They bound their already tied hands to one of the wooden poles, then tied their feet to the other so they lay flat on their backs on the skerry. Atli, Roan and Sigurd were carried onto the rock in the same fashion. Then the warriors came back and picked up Kari, Starkad and Ulrich.
When they returned and moved towards Einar and Affreca, Grettir held up a hand to stop them.
‘Not those two,’ he said. ‘There’s a special fate waiting them.’
‘This can’t be the king’s wish,’ Ulrich shouted from the skerry. ‘Eirik would never condemn us to such a shameful death.’
Einar noticed a hint of panic in Ulrich’s voice. He could understand why. To die in battle and go to Odin was the Wolf Coat’s most fervent hope. Drowning, tied to a rock in the sea, would never attract the attention of Odin’s choosers of the slain.
‘Why don’t you ask him,’ Grettir said. ‘Here he comes now.’
A long rowing boat was heading out to the sker
ry from the harbour. More mailed warriors strained at the three banks of oars. At the prow stood a tall man with long braided hair. Einar realised this must be King Eirik. He was like an older version of his half-brother Hakon. He had the same stature, the same broad-shoulders and handsome features, except where Hakon was fair, Eirik was dark. Behind the king stood another man Einar did not recognise. He was stick thin and dressed in the long white robe of a religious man or magic worker. His head was bald apart from a ring of long white hair that reached to his shoulders. Beside this man stood Gizur.
Einar glared at them. Gizur returned his gaze with an insolent smile, his face a mask of triumph. An even smaller row boat came beside it. In it were the two berserkers, Narfi and Bjorn.
The skiff pulled alongside the snekkja and the warriors lashed the two boats together. Those on the smaller vessel clambered onto the snekkja, then King Eirik, with Grettir beside him, continued on down the plank to the skerry.
Eirik stood, feet apart and arms behind his back, towering over Ulrich who lay before him, bound to the wooden poles on the rock.
‘High One,’ Ulrich said. ‘What is the meaning of this? We’ve returned from the quest you sent us on bringing urgent news that is vital to your personal safety. Yet this dog Grettir tied us to the witches’ skerry like traitors?’
‘Like unbelievers and workers of evil magic, actually,’ Eirik said. ‘Traitors have to fight my Blámaðr.’
‘What have they said about us?’ Ulrich cried, bobbing his head in the direction of Gizur. ‘Whatever it is, its lies.’
King Eirik sighed and looked at the heavens for a moment. Then he said, ‘Perhaps it is, Ulrich. But let’s not pretend any more. I now know exactly what happened in Iceland. You joined forces with this Einar Thorfinnsson and Guthfrith’s rather wilful daughter and killed Thorfinn’s men in Iceland. You also killed Thorfinn’s other son, Hrolf. You did all this without my permission.’
‘We’ve brought back the Raven Banner for you,’ Ulrich said. ‘Does that count for nothing?’
Eirik shook his head. ‘You’ve brought me back a Raven Banner. News has reached me that my brother Hakon has landed with a fleet of ships in the north. He has also raised a Raven Banner and is telling everyone that all other banners are not the true banner of Odin. It’s funny in a way. Little Hakon, Aethelstan’s fosterling, the good Christian, waving a heathen banner because he knows the people of Norway still follow the old customs. He’s a clever little shit, I’ll grant him that.’
‘The people will see through his ruse,’ Ulrich said. ‘If they don’t, Odin will. He will not grant victory to a Christian.’
‘Perhaps, Ulrich,’ King Eirik said. ‘But Hakon’s not just waving a magic banner. He’s told all the freemen he will return the land rights our father took from them if they will name him as king instead of me. This news flies like fire in dry grass through Norway. That traitor, Sigurd, the Jarl of Hlader, has already pledged him his support, of course. You know what else those fools of peasants are saying? That Hakon’s arrival is like our father come back from Valhalla. He’s like Harald Fairhair come back to us, they say, somehow grown young again. It’s pathetic.’
The king ground his teeth so hard Einar heard the noise from where he stood on the deck of the snekkja.
‘Lord King, it was this we came to warn you about,’ Ulrich said.
Eirik grunted. ‘You have my gratitude. But you’re too late. Hakon has taken us all by surprise. Now news comes that my other brothers have finally found their backbones and declared themselves kings as well. Gunnhild was right. I should have killed all of them when I had the chance. But Fate goes ever as it must. I must now make the best of a bad situation.’
‘We can still fight him,’ Ulrich said. ‘You need us now more than ever. Send us to kill Hakon and the rebellion will crumble. It’s what we’re best at.’
Eirik looked down at Ulrich for a long moment, as if turning over many thoughts in his mind. At length he spoke again. ‘So many of those ungrateful peasants have already joined the cause of Hakon that the north is as good as lost already. I am going to sail to Viken to see how many men I can raise from the south but I fear it’s already too late. The only powerful jarl I now know I can rely on is Thorfinn of Orkney.’
‘Thorfinn conspired with Guthfrith against you!’ Ulrich said.
‘And he has seen the error of his ways. He has come back to my fold,’ Eirik said, his face a placid mask. ‘And he is very welcome. I cherish his loyalty.’
‘What has he offered you?’ Ulrich said, his voice flat.
‘You always were far too clever for your own good, Ulrich,’ Eirik said. ‘I will fight this war and I intend to win it. But victory is far from certain. Many ungrateful bastards have turned against me. But if perhaps I lose, it is not just me who falls. I have a wife and children to think of, Ulrich. Do you think my enemies will be forgiving to my family? Do you think Hakon’s gentle Jesus god will stop him cutting the throats of my sons and daughters? No. Norway will not be safe for them. I need somewhere over the sea, strong enough that Hakon, Sigurd, Sigrod, Olaf and the other rebels cannot strike at them. And if I lose and I survive, I can go there too. To regroup and build my power again.’
‘Somewhere like the Jarldom of Orkney?’ Ulrich said.
‘Exactly. Vakir here,’ Eirik nodded at the strange man in the white robe who now stood on the snekkja, ‘is Jarl Thorfinn’s Galdr maðr. Thorfinn proved his loyalty to me by sending him here to tell me what you were up to. And he will take my wife and family to safety in Orkney. If things don’t go well in the south and I live I will join them there later. Sadly we must all say farewell to Avaldsnes for a time.’
‘But let me guess,’ Ulrich’s lip curled into a sneer. ‘This loyal gesture of Thorfinn’s comes with a price?’
Eirik chuckled. ‘Of course. I would think less of him if it didn’t. Thorfinn must have revenge for his son, Hrolf. Otherwise he will look weak. You or I would do the same. He demands the deaths of all those responsible. That’s why you’re here.’
‘When we swore an oath to follow you, you also swore an oath to be faithful to us,’ Ulrich said. ‘And this is how you repay our years of loyalty? No wonder Hakon is gathering followers like wildfire. You’re not worthy to be king.’
King Eirik’s expression of serene reasonability slid into a mocking smile.
‘Grow up, Ulrich,’ he said. ‘The need I have now for Thorfinn’s help outweighs your service by a great deal. This is statecraft. You of all people should understand. What was it you used to say? We’re all just tafl pieces on the gameboard of the Gods. Skarphedin! Have you any last things you want to say? Now is your chance. I’ve known you as long as Ulrich.’
Skar looked up at the king from where he was tied to the rock. He thought for a moment, then shook his head.
‘Fuck you,’ he said.
Eirik grunted, a half-annoyed, half-amused expression on his face. Then he raised his hand in the air, as if he was blessing an animal before the sacrifice.
‘Ulrich, you and your men have served me well,’ he said in a loud voice. ‘But now I must release you from your oath of service so you can go to serve the All Father. When you see him, ask him to keep me a seat at the mead benches of the Valour Hall.’
Ulrich spat in his direction but the king was too far away for it to hit him.
‘All Father Odin will turn you away from his door!’ Ulrich shouted. ‘A shirker. An oath breaker! You will never see the inside of the Valour Hall. I’ll make sure the door is barred. Hel keeps a special cold, wet, dark cave in her frozen world for oath breakers like you.’
Eirik’s placid composure vanished completely and the snarl of the killer he really was curled his upper lip. His nostrils flared and his brow furrowed.
‘Odin owns you now,’ he said. ‘Goodbye, Ulrich.’
The king turned on his heel and strode back up the gangr plank onto the snekkja. At the same time Narfi rowed the little boat onto the skerry. He and Bjorn clam
bered out. Both were dressed for battle. Their helmets gleamed in the sun and their mail coats clinked with every step.
‘Well, Ulrich,’ Narfi said. ‘We’re here to make sure you die. We have a bit of a wait until the tide comes in and you all drown but I will enjoy every moment of it.’
Einar watched on in disbelief. Events had taken this turn so suddenly it was hard to comprehend. The fires of anger at the injustice of it all were already blazing in his chest.
‘And what about Affreca and I?’ he said, speaking through gritted teeth. ‘What is to be our fate?’
Eirik looked over his shoulder as he clambered over the side of the snekkja onto his skiff. Grettir followed him.
‘Your father made a special request for you,’ the king said. ‘Vakir will explain.’
Gizur and the man called Vakir approached Einar as the king’s skiff headed for the shore.
‘Your father, the Jarl Thorfinn, sends his greetings,’ Vakir said. ‘He said to assure you that once the royal family are safe with him in Orkney and you are dead, he will go to Iceland and make sure himself that your bitch of a mother dies.’
Vakir made a strange half-smile.
‘His words, not mine,’ he added.
Einar straightened his back and pointed his chin at the strange-looking man in white.
‘I’m not dead yet,’ he said.
‘No, but we are about to remedy that,’ Vakir said. He turned to Gizur.
‘Take them to the Blámaðr,’ he said.
Fifty-Three
Gizur was joined by a warrior armed with a bow. Between them they shoved and prodded Einar and Affreca through the woods. Einar stumbled along in a daze. He felt like he had been punched in the face.
He was vaguely aware of Affreca saying his name over and over again but did not answer. He hung his head, eyes down. His world shrunk to the few paces in front of him. He felt empty inside. Nothing mattered any more.
All this was his fault. If he had not lost his temper in a stupid fight at a ball game in Iceland he would never have been exiled. He would never have sought out who his father was, never opened the old wounds that had ultimately led to this.
The Raven Banner Page 28
