Raven: Sons of Thunder

by Giles Kristian

  Olaf and Sigurd exchanged words, then Olaf turned to the rest of us, a grim smile cracking his bird’s-nest beard.

  ‘Put your combs away, you whoresons,’ he called, ‘it’s about time you earned your keep.’ Here, where salt water and fresh wove together, the estuary had narrowed, providing shelter against the sea winds so that there was no longer enough to make it worth keeping the sails up, especially with the river flowing against us. With a clatter of oars from both ships we made ready to row as Olaf, Black Floki and Bram lowered Serpent’s sail and then took to their own benches. Wind-heaped dunes rose on either bank so that it felt as though we were passing through a gateway, and upon those hillocks marram grass stood stiff as an angry hound’s hackles. On either side, where the river’s banks met the water, the tides had carved steps into the sand and above these I could make out, even from a distance, hundreds of dragonflies streaking madly, making the air shimmer strangely. Fat gulls squawked and dived to Serpent’s sternpost, hungry for the fish guts men throw overboard when they come in from the sea. A flock of swifts shot across our bow like a flight of arrows, veering suddenly as one over the brow of a sandbank. Then, as I rowed, my muscles bunching and spreading – knots of heat radiating their warmth through my body – we saw the first of them. They were sprouting one after another from the dune’s summits, growing from the marram grass and standing stone still, like a great host of haugbui, the undead, risen from their howes. For luck I touched the amulet at my neck, the small carving of the All-Father’s face, which had once belonged to Sigurd.

  The beautiful, rhythmic sound of oars – ours and Fjord-Elk’s – dipping into the water in unison was as much a statement to the Christian god as it was to those who now watched us from the banks, their thoughts known only to themselves – though I’d wager they were fear-soaked, for Sigurd’s wolves had come to Frankia.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THERE WAS SOME ARGUMENT ABOARD AS TO WHETHER THE FRANKS’ bows could land their arrows in our hulls if it turned out we weren’t welcome, but in the end it was agreed that because we were a fair distance from the banks and moving well, the archers would have to judge expertly, aiming out in front of us. It would take rare skill or Thór’s luck to make a killing shot.

  ‘Let’s hope in aiming for us they end up hitting those goat turds on Fjord-Elk,’ Bjarni joked, thumbing over his shoulder, but few smiles reached men’s eyes. For there were now so many Franks tracking us along the banks that regardless of the strength of their bows, we would be in real trouble if we made landfall and things went bad.

  It is a bladder-loosening thing rowing up a river like a salmon into a withy trap. I was thinking as much when Penda cursed under his breath behind me.

  ‘If these Franks have enough boats they could put them across the river behind us. Bung us up like mead in a flask,’ he said.

  ‘And we’d slice through them without even slowing,’ I replied, though I did not believe it would be as easy as that. ‘Sigurd is more sea-bold than any Frank,’ I added and this I did believe, but Sigurd was also pale and pain-tired. Even now as we came to a new land he sat wrapped in a fur by Knut at the tiller and it was a hard thing seeing the jarl like that. Sweat glistened sickly on his face, which was carved with shadows. His hair, usually golden as Baldr’s, lay flat and greasy against his head.

  And so I looked back to the river road we followed. It twisted and turned, gnarly as a man’s gut rope, but Knut worked the tiller skilfully, with Olaf calling from Serpent’s prow warnings of shoals and silt bars and the strange currents that they can cause. Uncle also kept a keen eye out for sunken vessels, for this was an ancient river and must have claimed many ships and only the locals would know where they sat.

  The English at the oars were puffing like oxen and must have been glad that the pace Olaf had set was deliberately slow. Slow because we did not want the Franks to think we had come to raid, which they might if our oars churned their river, even though we were not wearing helmets. I smelt woodsmoke and heard dogs barking and looked over my shoulder to see that we were coming to a busy place. The sky was palled by the grey-brown smudge of hearth smoke, whilst gulls swarmed in shrieking clouds at the banks where men unloaded skiffs, mended nets, and worked on upturned hulls. There were a hundred Abbotsends – the Wessex village I had lived in for two years – which meant more people and more life than I had ever seen. The thought stirred my blood and quickened my heart as I watched those men at the river’s edge stop their work to eye us warily. Beyond them, behind manmade earth ramparts that were protection against floodtides rather than raiders, it seemed to me, sat thatch-roofed dwellings, the straw blackened by years of smoke and made ragged by coastal weather. Then across the water from the land came a solemn clang, the sound decaying yet lingering faintly as another clang rang out. This was answered by the same sound but now from the opposite bank, so that it seemed two mighty blacksmiths competed to create a god’s sword. The Norsemen listened with puzzled expressions.

  ‘The sound of faith!’ Father Egfrith yelped, his little eyes suddenly greedy and feverish. ‘The chime of hope against the dark horizon,’ he said, gripping the ship’s sheer strake, for he was not worthy of an oar even though there were empty row benches.

  ‘Óðin’s hairy arse!’ Bram exclaimed. ‘Sounds like Völund’s own hammer bashing the anvil.’ Some of the men looked to the sky warily, or at Father Egfrith. Others searched the banks for the source of the rhythmic iron song. More than a few touched amulets or rings for luck.

  ‘They’re church bells, Bram,’ I called, pulling my oar’s blade through the sea, ‘made of cast bronze if the church is wealthy enough. Hammered iron if not.’

  ‘I would like to think that awful din is nothing more than a coincidence,’ Bjorn said, looking straight ahead as he rowed. ‘But my water tells me it might have something to do with us, hey.’ I didn’t have to see his face to know he was smiling.

  ‘The Christians are pissing in their breeks, Sigurd,’ Olaf called from Serpent’s prow where the wooden cross rode forth with a strange, quiet, empty arrogance. ‘Even now, the little Christ slaves run around their churches, hiding their silver and gold and farting fear down their skirts.’

  ‘You think they believe we’re followers of the White Christ?’ Sigurd called back, nodding towards the cross and coughing with the strain of shouting the length of Serpent.

  ‘I think even the Christians are not so stupid,’ Olaf yelled. And yet we hoped they were, as warriors were appearing amongst the crowds on the shore now, their shields clearly visible even from a distance, and these men began to trudge dutifully along the river’s banks in the direction our prows pointed.

  ‘Christ preserve us,’ Egfrith muttered, and I saw Sigurd shifting uncomfortably, a black cloud across his brow.

  ‘Here we go, Raven,’ Penda said with some foreboding, un-twisting his neck back round to stern. At first I thought he was referring to the levy knörr, which seemed to be cutting away from the far shore towards Fjord-Elk riding in our wake, but then I knew he was not.

  ‘Plan, Sigurd?’ Olaf yelled in English to fool the Franks in case they were in earshot, even though the name Sigurd would scupper that shallow cunning. I twisted but could not see above Serpent’s curved prow.

  ‘Three boats, lad,’ Penda said. ‘Coming hard and fast.’

  ‘Keep rowing!’ Sigurd barked. ‘Raven. Here, now!’

  I pulled in my oar, sliding its blade through the slotted port, then laid it up with the spares across the oar trees before joining Sigurd, who grimaced in pain as he climbed unsteadily to his feet and gripped the taut back-stay.

  ‘Find something for this goat’s dick that will make him look important,’ Sigurd said in English, thumbing at Ealdred who sat like a lump of shit in the hollow of Serpent’s stern. The ealdorman’s frayed moustache twitched round a smile as tight as a nun’s sheath as I turned and hurried to the hold, pulling up several loose planks to get to where the most precious or fragile cargo was stowed. I lift
ed the lid of a chest, pulled back a grease-stinking skin, and let my eyes drink in the sight of enough silver coin to pay for another Serpent or Fjord-Elk. But coin was no good to us now and I moved to the next chest and flung it open. Beneath that oiled skin was a treasure hoard any Norseman would trade his mother’s teeth for. There were silver bowls, silver neck and wrist chains, finger rings, a dozen or more brooches set with amber, emeralds, and fine spirals of brass, several gold arm rings, silver torcs, silver Christ crosses – some set with jewels, some plain – the beaten-gold cover of a book long gone, and an assortment of ingots and silver fragments, many as long as my finger and as thick as my thumb. All bore nicks where previous owners had tested their quality and I supposed not a few of those late owners’ bones were being nicked themselves now by raven’s beaks or rat’s teeth. To my eyes, though, the prize was a great, thick jarl torc that looked like a short length of silver rope. I could not resist lifting the thing from the hoard, just for a moment allowing my thumbs to trace the twisted cord, which was cold to the touch even on that warm day, and heavy enough to anchor a boat, or so it seemed to me. It was a torc fit for Thór, and I would have given anything to put it round my neck, to let its cool weight sink into me. But such an act would be even heavier with arrogance for I was not worthy of a thing even half as fine, and to wear a jarl’s torc if you are not a jarl is likely to stir the wrath of the gods and hasten your own doom. So I replaced the torc gently, grabbing instead a round brooch of silver and bronze big enough to fill my open palm, and a wooden White Christ cross set with rubies and hanging on a leather thong.

  ‘Play the part well, Englishman,’ Sigurd growled at Ealdred, who glowered back as he pinned the brooch to his cloak and slipped the thong over his head so that the cross sat above his heart. ‘You are an English lord and you have business with the emperor.’ Sigurd nodded towards the largest of the Frankish ships, which had split from the other two and was approaching Serpent along her steerboard side. This ship was no dragon and nor were the others, but they were broad and packed with armed men, many of whom, we could see, carried war bows.

  I joined Ealdred’s household warriors at the mast step. ‘If you men want to live, you’d better remember to be good Christians,’ I said in English, gripping the sword hilt at my hip, and one of them, the big man who had been spared Asgot’s knife, pulled a wooden cross from inside his tunic and laid it on the outside. This prompted two of the others to do the same and I nodded, hoping that this along with the crosses at our prows would be enough to fool the Franks.

  With his hands to his mouth, one of the Franks in the lead ship shouted to us in a language that was one part English to two parts something else. The other ships held off, wary of getting too close to us or to Fjord-Elk, but staying near enough to join the fight with just a few strokes of the oars. The man shouted again. He wore an iron helmet and a blue cloak but I could not see his face other than its long moustache. We looked at each other with shrugs and head-shakes, then Father Egfrith grinned his weasel grin at me and crossed himself.

  ‘Alea iacta est,’ he said. ‘The die is cast, Raven,’ and with that he went to the steerboard side and spewed a stream of noise, which sounded like an infant’s meaningless gabbling but which we now knew to be Latin, the ancient language of the Romans. ‘Dominus vobiscum! Gloria in excelsis Deo, Dominus illuminatio mea!’ The little monk was full of the stuff. It tumbled out of him like droppings from a deer’s arse.

  ‘If he’s betraying us I’ll rip out his throat,’ Black Floki growled between gritted teeth as he rowed. But Egfrith was smiling and waving his arms joyfully and I believed that far from betraying us as heathens he was enjoying selling the lie to the Franks that we were men of the White Christ come in peace to share the wonders of our faith.

  When Egfrith had finished, Blue Cloak raised a hand, weaving an invisible cross in the air, then called back in the same slippery tongue, at which Egfrith turned back to Sigurd.

  ‘His name is Fulcarius and he commands the emperor’s shore guard. Says he and his men might as well nail their feet to the deck, as the Lord Christ’s were nailed to the cross, for they spend every waking hour at sea.’ Egfrith pointed downriver, back from where we had come. ‘The threat of heathens lingers like a dark cloud, always on the horizon,’ he said. I could have sworn the monk was chewing a smile. ‘Only this morning they chased a ship full of Danes out into the channel before the devils could pillage some house of God or do murder to some poor soul.’ I remembered the long thin dragon ship we had seen earlier and wondered if this Fulcarius knew that he had not chased those Danes far enough. Beyond the reach of this Frankish knörr, that slender dragon was no doubt stalking the shore for easier prey. Perhaps Fulcarius knew it and did not care. Or perhaps it ate at his heart to know that his handful of vessels were not enough to guard the whole coast. Still, there were probably others like Fulcarius, men charged with defending Frankia against raiders. As for Fulcarius himself, the man had swept down upon us sure enough, like a sharp-eyed owl dropping from a mead hall’s rafters to snatch a creature from the floor rushes. And his ship was within bow-shot now, her oars slow and even as she passed by so that her captain could get a better look at us.

  ‘Raise oars,’ Sigurd said, tying back his hair and revealing his lean raw-boned face; ‘let the dogs sniff around us.’ Leaning on his ship’s sheer strake, Fulcarius prattled on, no doubt asking more questions for which Egfrith seemed to have a stockpot full of answers, but I could see the Frank clearly now and his eyes and his men’s were all over us like a nettle rash. They were backing oars, working against the currents to remain broadside to us. Fjord-Elk nestled in our port side three oar-lengths off, whilst the other three Frankish ships held some distance away, their decks bristling with spearmen and archers. A breeze from the north-west brought the acrid stink of Frankish sweat and grease to our noses, the latter telling us that at least one of the shore guard crews had recently weatherproofed their sail and cloaks with melted pig’s fat. A cared-for ship usually speaks of a good crew.

  We tried to appear calm, unthreatened and unthreatening, but I knew our men’s eyes were beady as chickens’ as they gripped their oars, hoping the lead knörr did not come any closer. Even if it stayed put, a swell might lift the boat high enough for her crew to see into our hull and if it did they would see the weapons and mail we had laid out at our feet. Luckily the water was flat, but that did not stop Knut and Sigurd scheming in low voices. I guessed they had already chosen an escape passage in case the emperor’s men attacked. Having seen how the Norsemen fight at sea I was sure we could win even against four ships, but these Franks were not unprepared as Ealdred and his men had been, and chances were there would be heavy casualties. Even if we broke away and out-rowed the Franks there was a chance we would have to face more of them before we reached the open channel.

  ‘Fulcarius says we look like Danes. He says these look like Danish ships, even with their homage to the holy Rood,’ Father Egfrith said, pointing a thin finger at the cross at Serpent’s prow, ‘but I have explained how Ealdorman Ealdred here, bravely and by the grace of God, fought and destroyed the heathens who came to plunder the kingdom of Wessex.’ One of Ealdred’s men swore loudly and began to pull in his oar. ‘I have told him that our business is with the great emperor himself, the light and lord of Christendom,’ Egfrith went on, as the Englishman’s oar thumped and clattered on to the deck, ‘may God protect him and keep him.’ Egfrith could still have been speaking Latin as far as most of the Norsemen were concerned, but the agitated Englishman stood and, gripping the cross on his chest, faced the Franks like a storm.

  ‘You dirty Frankish whoreson!’ he yelled. ‘Who are you to call us Danes? My sword still rings from crushing heathen skulls! Those scum came like hungry dogs to our land and we beat the bastards! Gave them each seven feet of earth, we did, and if you call us Danes again I’ll swim over there and cut out your rancid tongue. Fucking Franks!’

  The Norsemen tensed and some reached for he
lmets, thinking we had been betrayed, but the other Wessexmen on the steerboard side lifted their oar blades from the water and, with one hand, gripped the crosses hung around their necks, holding them up for the Franks to see. Good lads, I thought, hurrying across and throwing an arm over the Englishman’s shoulder.

  ‘Calm down, Leofmar,’ I said, smiling. ‘Fulcarius is just doing his duty and means no offence.’ Egfrith glanced at me with raised eyebrows, then his eyes flashed shrewdly and he looked back to Fulcarius, who was talking to a fat man beside him. ‘It is a bad thing to call a Wessexman a Dane, Fulcarius,’ I called with a shrug of my shoulders. ‘We Wessexmen are God-fearing but quick to anger. He is a fool who pokes a bull with a sharp stick.’ The fat man spoke again to Fulcarius and I realized that that man spoke English and Ealdred realized it too.

  ‘I have business with the emperor and very far to go, Fulcarius,’ the ealdorman called, spitting on his fingers and smoothing the errant hairs of his moustache. Because he was not a big man, the silver cross on his chest stood out even more. ‘If there is a tax to pay, let us be done with it, for we must be on our way.’ Again Fulcarius talked with the fat man.

  Beside me, Egfrith held out his palms helplessly, shaking his head and frowning. ‘Auribus teneo lupum, Fulcarie!’ he crowed to the shore guard knörr. ‘I hold a wolf by the ears!’

  Fulcarius had chewed this meat enough and understood then that he risked starting a fight with a Christian lord of Wessex and his two ships of warriors. I guessed he decided he was not getting paid enough for that, for he spoke to the fat man, who smiled and nodded.

  ‘Two pounds in silver coin is the tax for going upriver,’ the fat man called. ‘Three in hack silver if that is all you have.’