The Wolf and the Raven

by H A CULLEY

  Edmund, Kenric and the other nobles waited patiently but there was no sign of the gates opening after the passage of what they estimated was most of the allotted hour. Then Bishop Eanbert arrived from Lindisfarne with three monks.

  ‘It’s good to see you back where you belong, my boy,’ he greeted Edmund, nodding to the other ealdormen before raising his right hand to bless them.

  ‘Not yet, Eanbert. Anson seems determined to hold Bebbanburg against me.’

  ‘Hmmm. Let’s see what I can do to change his mind.’

  The bishop strode towards the gates and halted well within bow range before raising his staff topped with a golden cross. His monks gathered around him holding bell, book and candle - the accoutrements necessary for the act of excommunication.

  ‘Anson, you have sworn an oath before God and the king that you would relinquish these lands and return to the vill from whence you came. By denying the rightful ealdorman entry to this stronghold you have broken your sacred oath,’ he began. ‘Unless you repent I shall be forced to pronounce a sentence of excommunication upon you, your family and all those who assist you in your rebellion. As you will also be sentenced to death, you will be executed unshriven and will go to Hell.’

  The bishop paused for a moment.

  ‘To all those within the walls, you can only save yourselves if you immediately repent and throw open the gates.’

  After another pause he continued.

  ‘Very well, I am forced to commence the act of excommunication.’

  ‘Bishop, I’m not certain that Anson understands what excommunication means; indeed I’m not sure that I do,’ Edmund muttered in his ear.

  ‘Really? It means that a person or persons are no longer members of the Catholic Church, they may not partake of the body and blood of Christ during mass, nor marry or receive a Christian burial. They are outcasts. It is a sanction more prevalent in the Eastern Church than in the West, but even our blessed Saint Columba was excommunicated in 562 for allegedly praying for the help of Christ for one side in an Irish War. The sentence was later lifted, of course.’

  ‘I see; perhaps you could explain what it means in more detail to Anson and his men, so that they understand the full import of the penalty that they are about to suffer.’

  The bishop did so in graphic terms and almost immediately afterwards they heard the faint sounds of a fierce argument coming from the other side of the main gates. A little while later the massive oak gates swung open and Anson rode out with a man carrying his banner flying above his head.

  He glared at both Bishop Eanbert and Edmund before bowing his head stiffly.

  ‘Bebbanburg is yours, boy. Allow me time to prepare and we will vacate the place within the hour.’

  ‘You will call me lord, Thegn Anson,’ Edmund said impassively. ‘You may have your hour, but no longer.’

  Anson stiffened but said nothing further. Just over an hour later he departed followed by his warband. The exodus continued for some time with carts piled high with possessions bringing up the rear.

  Edmund walked into his old home and wept at the destruction left behind by Anson and his men. The furniture had been broken up and the grain and other foodstuffs spoiled. Many had evidently defecated in his hall. Even the wine barrels had been broached and their contents spilled. He was only thankful that no one had thought to pollute the two wells.

  No one remained in the place. Even the lowest slave had been taken with him by Anson.

  Edmund fought to contain his fury and to think clearly. He had counted less than forty warriors with Anson, many more than he would be able to afford as a thegn. They would be seeking new masters before long no doubt and he wondered whether they would fight for Anson.

  ‘How many riding horses are there in the settlement?’ he asked Ordric, the thegn of the local vill.

  ‘Perhaps a dozen, lord, why?’

  ‘I want them rounded up now. I’ll pay for their hire of course.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Get Anson to return and clear up this mess and to give me back the slaves that belong here.’

  ‘With a dozen men?’

  ‘I’m sure that they’ll be enough,’ he replied grimly.

  -℣-

  As Ragnar’s ships sailed into the fjord that led to Bohus he could see the smoke rising from several places inland from the fjord. He ground his teeth in anger. Eystein Beli would pay dearly for this.

  In fact the King of Uppsala had been too old and infirm to conduct the war against Alfheim himself, so his army was commanded by Hákon, his nephew and the son of the dead Osten. He had been fourteen and too young to accompany his father as a warrior when he left to attack Paris. Now he was sixteen and he was determined to wreak vengeance on the man he blamed for his father’s death.

  His fleet had landed on the same beach that Ragnar had used all those years before when he had captured Alfheim. Like Ragnar before him many years previously, Hákon found the fortress at Bohus too formidable to capture by direct assault. He therefore left men to besiege it whilst he and his army lay waste the surrounding farms and settlements.

  Ragnar’s forces were depleted after Paris and the bondis living in Alfheim were dispersed, having been caught unawares by Hákon’s attack. Nevertheless, he had more than enough warriors to deal swiftly with the Swedes left to continue the siege of the stronghold.

  ‘What will you do with the prisoners?’ Bjorn had asked excitedly after the fighting was over.

  He’d been upset at being left aboard his father’s drekar under the care of Leofstan, now its captain, but he had been allowed to go to find Ragnar as soon as it was safe to do so. He had set off at a run like a young colt through the dead and dying, pausing only to thrust his dagger into the neck of any Swede who still showed any sign of life.

  ‘I’m not sure you should be here, Bjorn. There are still Swedes wounded but alive who would kill you given half a chance.’

  ‘Not any more, father. I killed half a dozen of them on my way to your side.’

  Ragnar laughed and ruffled his son’s hair.

  ‘Spoken like a true Viking.’

  ‘Now I’m blooded, can I be a warrior?’

  ‘No, Bjorn. You’re only nine and it’s a very different matter facing a fully armed man. He wouldn’t care how young you are and you’d be dead within minutes. Don’t be in such a hurry to grow up; your time will come soon enough.’

  Bjorn pointed to the dejected group of Swedes who’d surrendered.

  ‘Can I have one of them as a thrall, father?’

  ‘I need to chase down the rest of the Uppsalan invaders, Bjorn. I can’t afford to take prisoners; they are all to be hanged.’

  ‘Even the boys?’

  Ragnar sighed. He didn’t like killing children but even they would be a liability when he marched inland to confront the main Swedish army.

  ‘Very well. If there is a suitable boy your age or younger, you may take him as your thrall, but you are responsible for him. If he gives any trouble it will be you who has to kill him.’

  ‘I understand. Thank you.’

  There were several boys with the Swedes, mainly ship’s boys but one was eight, the son of a jarl who’d been brought along to witness what his father had thought would be an easy campaign with little danger. It’s what Hákon had told him, naively thinking that Ragnar would be too weak after the debacle of Paris to oppose his invasion in any strength.

  ‘What’s your name, boy,’ Bjorn asked him.

  The lad looked down at the ground and refused to answer, so Bjorn pulled out his dagger and pressed the point up under the young Swede’s chin. A thin trickle of blood ran down his neck and he was forced to look up into Bjorn’s eyes.

  ‘I asked you a question. Now stand up. You’ll either answer me of I’ll kill you.’

  The boy licked his lips nervously and carefully climbed to his feet looking Bjorn in the eye the whole time. Bjorn kept his dagger at his throat and, inevitably, the point dr
ew a little more blood as he got up.

  ‘I’m Erling,’ he said reluctantly. It meant son of a chief.

  ‘And are you the son of a jarl?’

  ‘Yes, my father died during the fighting. He was Jarl of Östra Aros, to the south west of Uppsala itself.’

  Bjorn could see that Erling was trying hard to stop from crying over the loss of his father. He pulled the point back from the young Swede’s neck, but kept the blade pointing at him, whilst he took his upper arm in a firm grip and led him away from the other captives. Ragnar watched with approval. It seemed that his son had a head on his shoulders wiser than his years would indicate.

  ‘Now, Erling, I’m going to give you a choice. You can become my personal thrall and serve me faithfully, or I’ll kill you with this dagger now. I’ll try and make your death as painless as possible but I can’t promise it won’t hurt. Now which is it to be?’

  ‘I’d rather die than serve Norse scum like you,’ Erling said, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice.

  ‘Very well, your choice.’

  He went to stab the boy in the neck but Erling ducked and the blade went over his head. He tried to run but his hands were tied and it didn’t take Bjorn more than a few seconds to catch him and kick his legs from under him.

  Ragnar’s son flipped the winded boy onto his back and knelt either side of his torso, pushing the blade into his neck again.

  ‘You’re a fool. What did you think you were doing? Trying to escape? Now, I’ll give you one last chance. Become my thrall or die.’

  Erling broke down in tears, all the fight knocked out of him.

  ‘I’ll serve you.’

  ‘I’ll serve you, lord,’ Bjorn corrected him, pressing the point a little further into the Swedish boy’s neck.

  ‘I’ll serve you, lord.’

  ‘Right, get up so I can cut your hands free. Then you can strip off those fine clothes and go and wash in the fjord. I’ll find you something more appropriate to wear as befits your new station in life.’

  ‘You trust me not to try and escape?’ Erling asked as his hands were freed.

  ‘Yes, you’ve given me your word and, besides, runaway thralls die a long and painful death.’

  -℣-

  It didn’t take Edmund long to catch up with the slow moving column, but he rode past the carts and the people on foot, ignoring them as they scuttled to the side of the road. However, when he reached the front of the line of people on foot he found just five mounted warriors and no sign of Anson.

  ‘Where is he?’ he barked at the man at the head of the dejected procession.

  ‘He’s abandoned us, lord. He said that he couldn’t afford to keep so many servants and warriors now that he only had the income from his vill to sustain him. He took his family and ten warriors with him, along with two chests of silver strapped to a packhorse.’

  ‘What made you decide to stay with the servants? And where are the other warriors?’

  The man shrugged. ‘I don’t know where the others have gone, probably to seek service elsewhere, but we are heading for Hexham to see if the abbot will employ us. The servants and slaves followed us, but I’m not sure why.’

  ‘I see. Very well; I’ll offer you employment if you swear to serve me loyally. If anyone breaks that trust he will hang.’

  All five warriors immediately sat taller in the saddle and assured him that they would be faithful to him.

  ‘Good; but you will swear an oath before Bishop Eanbert when we return to Bebbanburg. Meanwhile you can tell these people that they are to return to the fortress. I’ll forgive them if they clear up the mess that was left behind’

  ‘You are not coming with us, lord? How will the garrison know that we are now your men?’

  ‘I’ll send one of my warband with you to inform them. Now, in which direction did the other warriors head?’

  ‘Due south, lord.’

  ‘Hmmm, it sounds as if they might be heading for Eoforwīc.’

  ‘That makes sense, Edmund,’ Cynewise said, speaking for the first time. ‘The word is that Æthelred is hiring mercenaries, though I’ve no way of knowing if that’s true or not.’

  ‘Why would he be hiring? Mercenaries are expensive and I’m not aware that he is planning war.’

  The leader of the five former members of Anson’s warband, a man called Aldin, coughed politely to attract Edmund’s attention.

  ‘I believe that it’s Rædwulf of Cumbria who is hiring men, lord. He wants to build up his forces because he’s still threatened by Strathclyde and the Norse invaders.’

  ‘Then surely they would have headed west, not south?’ a puzzled Edmund asked.

  ‘I’ve heard that Rædwulf is at Eoforwīc at the moment, conferring with Æthelred,’ Aldin explained.

  ‘Thank you. How much of a head start do they have?’

  Aldin looked up at the sun’s position. Although it was hidden behind a wispy cloud at the moment he could still make out its position in the sky.

  ‘Probably about three or four hours, lord, but they weren’t moving in a hurry. They will need to hunt game or gather wild fruit as they travel if they want to eat this evening. Anson took all the supplies with him.’

  ‘Then I suggest that you halt here and do the same. You can retrace your steps to Bebbanburg tomorrow.’

  It took Edmund two days to find the other thirty former members of Anson’s warband. When he did they were only too willing to exchange the uncertainty of being recruited by Rædwulf for guaranteed employment by Edmund, especially as a few of them had women and children they’d been forced to abandon. Mercenaries might attract camp followers but they weren’t encumbered by families as a general rule.

  Now Edmund had enough men to garrison his stronghold and fully man his longship. It was a start, but he would need to recruit many more warriors, train them to fight at sea and build more longships for them to crew. It would take a long time before he was ready to tackle even a small flotilla of Viking raiders.

  Chapter Eighteen – The Land of Ice and Fire

  847

  Ragnar stood at the prow of his drekar with the wind blowing his greying hair around his face as the ship ran down the far side of another huge wave. It struck the bottom of the trough and the spray from the impact stung his exposed skin as the ship shook itself free and started to climb up the next huge wave.

  The water streaming down the king’s face was icy cold, but he relished it. His small fleet had left Orkneyjar four days previously, having been told that it normally took around a week to complete the journey to Snæland, where Aslaug had fled with her daughter, Åløf, or so it was said.

  Ragnar had been undecided which old score to settle first – revenge on his former wife for betraying him, or on Edmund of Bebbanburg for the death of his only son with Lagertha. She had urged him to kill Edmund first but his jarls and their men were exhausted after the war to conquer Uppsala and so he resolved to find Aslaug first.

  The voyage to the island of Snæland, called the land of ice and fire by some, was taking longer than he’d hoped. Space on a longship with a full crew was limited and normally they only carried provisions and water for a few days. By the end of the first week out from Orkneyjar both food and drinking water were running low and there was still no sign of land.

  Their course was north-west and so they had been able to use the wind from the south-west much of the way. It had died on the third day, but the following morning a cold wind from the north-east began to blow, increasing in strength hour by hour until the ship was flying along, heeled over and powered by the fully reefed mainsail.

  Just when Ragnar thought that they would have to lower the sail and start to row to keep the ship heading into the violent sea, the storm blew itself out. They all breathed a sigh of relief and Ragnar thanked Ran for their survival. The storm left behind a heavy swell with scarcely more than a light breeze to fill the sail. However, the wind was now laced with snow and, increasingly, hail.

  At fi
rst he couldn’t see the other five ships that had sailed with him, even from the crest of the waves, but as the day wore on four hove into view. The fifth one never did reappear and Ragnar was forced to the conclusion that it had been lost in the storm.

  On the seventh day they had to go onto half-rations, but at least they had been able to harvest the snow and ice to partially refill the water casks. As the sun rose behind them in the east the following morning a smudge on the horizon gradually resolved itself as a mountainous land with snow on the peaks, one of which was belching out fire and black smoke high into the air.

  ‘The Land of Ice and Fire,’ Olaf muttered as he came to stand beside Ragnar in the bows.

  ‘Indeed, it has to be Snæland. Where else could it be?’

  As they approached the island from the south east they could see more of the dramatic landscape: steep cliffs topped by barren hills and mountains and wide sweeping sandy bays with a mixture of grasses and fir trees growing in the bottom of the valleys behind them. There was, however, no sign of habitation.

  ‘What do you know of this place Ragnar?’

  The latter shrugged.

  ‘Not many have visited here. There was a trader I spoke to who told me that the first people to settle here were Irish monks who worshipped the White Christ. It seemed they sought a place of tranquillity away from the world where they could pray and meditate in peace.’

  ‘They sound like a load of old women,’ Olaf scoffed.

  ‘When the Swede Garðar Svavarsson discovered the island a few years ago he killed or enslaved the monks but he didn’t stay himself when winter threatened. One of his men, Náttfari, stayed on with a few thralls. Word spread about this new land and, over the decade that followed, others followed, attracted by the prospect of free land. One of these was the hersir Ingólfr Arnarson, the Norseman who fled here with Aslaug and her bastard daughter.’

  ‘It seems a large island,’ Olaf commented as they turned west and started to row into the teeth of the prevailing wind.