‘What do you need silver for, Bear?’ I asked. ‘You can’t drink silver. And I can’t see many taverns around here to spend it in.’ I scratched my chin and frowned. ‘I am wondering if you will even make it all the way to Miklagard, seeing as you are already older than the stars and the Great City is still far away.’ Some of the Norsemen chuckled at that, but Bram glowered at me like a man dragged from his death barrow.
‘Wind in that tongue of yours, whelp,’ he rumbled, ‘or Bram’ll trim it down to size for you.’ He patted the knife sheathed at his waist. ‘Older than the stars? You mouthy runt! Hey, Svein, can you hear this?’
‘Raven has hit the rivet square, Bram,’ Svein said, studying his friend with a frown, ‘you are looking old these days.’
‘Son of a she troll!’ Bram rumbled. ‘I’m going to shit in your beard when you’re asleep tonight, Red,’ he threatened, at which Svein grinned. ‘As for you, runt,’ he warned me, ‘you’ll be lucky to reach next summer if you don’t learn to respect your betters.’ His beard bristled in the gathering wind. ‘Just remember the silver you owe us, Raven,’ he called out, stirring a few ‘aye’s and disgruntled murmurs, his eyes glinting. ‘No man likes to be silver-light.’ Even Svein nodded agreement with that.
And I sighed again.
But before long we were poking fun at Yrsa Pig-nose for the great red boil that had bloomed on the side of his snout, and after Yrsa it was the Wessexman Baldred’s turn to endure a good tongue-lashing because he had the shits and had grabbed the nearest bucket, which had happened to be one of our freshwater pails.
We were chaffing because we were nervous. Even I had been at sea long enough to smell a storm in the air and this one was coming our way, its fingers already grasping at us. I had seen it first as swaths of dark rippling water contrasting against a lighter blue, where current and wind fought over which direction the waves should move. Then the wind had whipped flecks of spume from those waves and Serpent’s bowline had begun to swing and the reefing ropes began beating the sail. Now we were talking too much, trying to make out that it was nothing more than a sniff of a breeze that would splutter itself out before long, when the truth was we were afraid. I think the only man aboard who was not afraid was Halldor, because he was already a dead man, but then again not even Halldor wanted a drowning death.
Ulfbert cursed when a gust swiped the bear-fur hat off his head, carrying it half a stone’s throw away before ditching it amongst the wave furrows.
‘What do you think, Uncle?’ Sigurd called from the stern where he stood beside Knut at the tiller. Olaf had ordered Osk and Hedin to check that our cargo was roped down securely and now he and Bothvar were lowering the yard in preparation to reef the sail.
‘I think that coast looks dangerous,’ Olaf replied, working the rope with practised ease. ‘I think these waters have swallowed men and boats since before the All-Father could boast a beard. I also think my grandfather was right when he said it is always cleverer to reef too early than reef too late.’
Sigurd nodded, eyeing the bruise-coloured cloud that was swelling in the north-east and bearing down on us with unnatural haste. I fancied it was the Emperor Karolus’s black rage coming to smite us. ‘Even so, Uncle, if we stay out here Rán is going to have her fun with us.’
‘Aye, she’s in a black mood,’ Olaf acknowledged, looking up at the rake as he lowered it a man’s height from the masthead.
Sigurd spoke to Knut beside him, who, with his free hand, pulled his long beard through his fist and replied, frowning. Then Sigurd nodded, his mind made up. ‘We will make our way in and look for a mooring,’ he called, to which Olaf nodded unenthusiastically. Then Sigurd nodded to Osten who took the horn from his belt and blew three long deep notes: the signal to the other ships that we were heading to shore. I saw the men of Fjord-Elk, Wave-Steed and Sea-Arrow make their own preparations, some going to the bows with fathom ropes and others peering over the sides into the depths, looking out for rocks or sandbanks. One of the Danes was even shimmying up Sea-Arrow’s mast to get a better look at what was below the waves, which was a brave thing to do in that swell.
Knut worked the tiller, calling to Olaf who barked at those working the sail, and I was glad my life was in their hands because there were few men with such sea-craft. The steersman turned Jörmungand, our prow beast, into an upsurging wave and we rode it well, but I knew that swell was just a taste of what was coming and I instinctively touched the Óðin amulet at my neck. Old Asgot was ferreting around beneath the skins that covered Serpent’s hold and after a while he emerged with a magnificent drinking horn, shaved and polished to gleaming perfection and bound with silver bands. It was a jarl’s horn and perhaps that was why Sigurd grimaced when the old godi dropped it over the side as an offering to Njörd. But even Sigurd knew it was wise to give the gods something precious and he took a handful of silver coins from his own scrip and scattered them into the billowing black water so that Rán, Mother of the Waves, might be placated and not seek to drown us all for the glittering things in our sea chests.
Then it seemed we hit an invisible wall, for Serpent lurched and skewed, her sail caught in a cross wind, so that the sheet was ripped from Ulf and Arnvid’s hands and the bottom of the sail flapped savagely and it seemed that the whole sail would collapse around the mast. But Olaf and Bothvar and some others were able to grip its thick edge, using themselves as weights to anchor it until sheet and block could be married again. Rain lashed into my face, which was a bad sign seeing as I was looking at the shore and that meant the wind had changed and was now against us.
‘Christ on His cross, this isn’t looking good!’ Ulfbert said, wincing from the stinging deluge, looking at the shrouds, which were creaking under the strain of holding the mast steady. Serpent had been built to ride the punch of the sea rather than fight back against it, and she was as brave and worthy a craft as was ever hewn, but even she seemed to shudder as the waves slammed into her and the current swirled below her and the wind determined to screw into her sail and twist her mast from its keelson. ‘Where did this bastard come from?’ Ulfbert asked, his eyes alert with fear. His friend Gytha was bailing with Father Egfrith, but it seemed to me that they were losing, as more sheets of water slapped on to the deck.
‘We’ll get to shore before it can sink us,’ I said, though I had no such confidence. I could not even see the shore now because it had vanished behind a grey shroud and the rain was hammering into my eyes. Ulfbert kissed the wooden cross that he wore under his tunic and I didn’t mind seeing him do it, because I thought it could not hurt to have his god on our side in case mine were ale-addled and feasting in Asgard, unable to hear our petitions and the plaintive creaks of Serpent’s timbers. He stumbled over to join me, gripping the sheer strake, then offered the cross to me on its leather thong, a grim smile touching his lips.
‘One kiss won’t hurt a brave young heathen like you,’ he suggested, water sliding down the thick twists of his sodden hair.
‘Get that thing out of my face before I throw it overboard and you with it,’ I said, and Ulfbert grinned, tucking the cross back into his tunic, and I thought it said much about Sigurd that he had taken this handful of Christians into his Fellowship. They were good men, despite their love for the nailed god, and I was glad we had not killed them.
‘Hey! To your oars!’ Sigurd bellowed against the wind’s roar, the waves’ crash and the sail’s snap. ‘Serpent has asked for our help and we owe her, so get to your benches and work! Three reefs, Uncle!’
The yard slid down the mast bit by bit, as smoothly as Olaf and his men could manage, and others reefed the sail as it came, and all of us kept our feet as best we could now that Serpent belonged to the storm. But it felt good to get my oar into that black sea. What was a slender spruce oar against that enormous fury? And yet with those blades in the water we were stating our challenge, bellowing our refusal to yield, and that is what the gods love: when mortal men bloom with the arrogance of believing themselves a m
atch for giants.
‘Row!’ Sigurd yelled, his drenched golden hair swept back from his scarred forehead. ‘Row, you wolves!’ He was standing on the raised fighting platform at Serpent’s stern, facing the fury of the driving rain and the waves that kept thumping into my back as I bent to the oar. The jarl could do nothing for his other ships now; they were on their own – but he could help Serpent and so he stood where we all could see him and he roared defiantly as though we were going into battle.
So we rowed. And Serpent turned, so that her prow was skewed against the wind, which meant that the swells were hitting us side on, rocking the ship violently, and only a finger’s length of freeboard kept the Dark Sea from swamping us. By now Olaf had reefed the sail three times, reducing its area drastically; what was left he could control, though we could not sail any closer to the wind.
‘Good to see her up and about,’ Penda said from the bench behind me, and I saw Cynethryth bailing with the others, her clothes, once fine but now tatty and torn, clinging soppingly to her frail-looking body. For weeks I had barely laid eyes on her, for she had been recovering in a makeshift tent at Serpent’s stern from the harm done her in the Frankish convent from which we had rescued her. Before, back in Wessex, she had warned us of her father’s betrayal and that had saved men’s lives, and now she was as much a part of the Fellowship as anyone. Besides which, men thought she was my woman. I had thought so too for a time. Now I knew I had been a fool. Perhaps Cynethryth had loved me once, or at least been fond enough. But perhaps she had bewitched me so that I would do her bidding, which I had done by saving her father. Though Ealdred was dead now, and by Cynethryth’s hand too, and that might have been too much for her to take. Or maybe the nuns in Frankia, who had thought the girl possessed by Satan, had cracked Cynethryth’s mind with their cruelty, for they had beaten and starved her half to death. Whatever the truth, Cynethryth had not come near me for weeks.
‘She hates me, Penda,’ I said gloomily, pulling the oar and watching Cynethryth through stinging eyes. She was on her knees in the frothing water, gripping the sheer as Serpent rolled. Olaf, Bothvar, Ulfbert and Wiglaf were still fighting with the reefed sail which was soaking wet and heavy, and I knew that the ropes would be tearing the skin from the Wessexmen’s fingers for they were unused to the work.
‘She was always too good for you, lad,’ Penda said. ‘But my guess is her hate isn’t sitting square on you. The girl’s been through rougher seas than this. She needs time.’ Serpent skewed again and surfed down an enormous wave and I turned to see that her steering oar was completely clear of the water; then we cut up the face of another wave and I heard Bjarni howl with the terrified joy of it. ‘And we need a wave to wash that old bastard overboard,’ Penda added and I knew he was talking about Asgot who was helping Cynethryth to her feet, his lank, bone-plaited hair stuck to his wolfish face. Somehow the old godi had sunk his claws into Cynethryth, which was the strangest thing because she was a Christian, or at least she had been.
‘Land!’ someone yelled and whoever it was had better eyes than me for when I turned I could see nothing but murk. But my job was to row until Sigurd or Olaf told me to stop and so I rowed and Serpent proved herself against that storm, so that we came to a narrow estuary, one of many inlets that looked to grow increasingly shallow from the breaking plunge of its mouth towards its head amongst the rocky hills.
‘Steady now!’ Olaf called from the stern. The yard was lying lengthways along the deck now that we needed the control that only oars can give, and Olaf and Asgot were either side of Jörmungand with fathom ropes, clinging to the sheer strake and continually testing the depth as we neared the shore; no easy thing in an angry sea. Even above the wind’s wailing and the men’s shouts I could hear the furious suck and plunge of the breakers amongst the rocks and that is a cold-terror sound when you are in a boat. Somewhere above, gulls were crying. I caught the tang of slick green weed. So close now. I half expected to hear the splintering of wood at any moment, but I bent my back and pulled the oar and then Sigurd roared ‘Whoa! Oars up!’ and I pushed down on the stave to lift the blade clear of the water and suddenly the tumult died.
We looked out, puffing and blowing snot, our breath clouding amongst the pelting rain and our knuckles white with cold. Rock rose from the frothing water either side of us and we winced as Serpent’s hull scraped against a shelf, but then she was free and we were out of the storm’s reach. I heard the calls of Fjord-Elk’s crew and it was not long before her proud prow pushed into that sanctuary, her captain, Bragi the Egg, bent over the sheer strake, his bald head almost touching the water as he worked the fathom rope.
We had tied bow and stern to the rocks, dropped our anchor and slaked our salty thirst by the time Wave-Steed and Sea-Arrow nosed in to the channel. The Danes looked as though they had been chased out of Hel, cold fear etched in white faces. We cheered them and when they heard us they grinned their salt-crusted beards off for they knew they had done well to come through that in their small boats.
‘They’re good seamen,’ Aslak said grudgingly.
‘Or lucky,’ Orm suggested.
‘Or both,’ Olaf said, ‘which is the best recipe if you ask me.’
Black Floki spat over the sheer strake. ‘Are they good fighters? That is what we need to know. Before we stand shield to shield with them.’ That was greeted with murmurs of agreement, for it is not a good thing if in a fight you do not know whether the man beside you has a twist of steel in his spine.
We rowed deeper into that fjord-like ria, the rock walls reaching into the grey sky, their inaccessible heights crowned with dark forest, and the Norsemen looked up appreciatively because they said we had at last found a place that could be compared with Norway. We passed countless other branching estuaries that looked dangerously shallow, until our channel became so narrow that when all four ships were berthed hull against hull, prows facing the sea, there was little water either side. But the currents were weaker here and the rocks sheltered us from the wind. We bailed the ships well so that we would know if they had sprung any new leaks and when we were satisfied we hunkered under wool blankets and greased skins to escape the rain.
The last to seek cover, Sigurd walked amongst us, slapping men’s shoulders and laughing and saying he was proud to sail with such a motley crew as us, his voice loud within those rock walls. And we found our bluster again now that we were safe, boasting that it had been barely a storm at all.
‘I have felt stronger winds blow from Svein’s backside,’ Bram Bear announced, raising a horn to Bjarni, who grinned and raised his in return.
‘And I have seen higher waves in my ale cup,’ red-faced Hastein said, tugging a comb through his stiff yellow hair, and this stirred a few ‘hey’s.
Men were set to their watch whilst others gave themselves to sleep. And beyond that safe harbour the storm raged.
CHAPTER TWO
AT LAST THE RAIN SPENT ITSELF, BUT IN ITS PLACE CAME A THICK fog that shrouded that bay and tumbled slowly from the great rock walls like unspun wool. Cold shadow clung to the ria because the sun had yet to surmount the high mountainous land to the east and we puffed into cupped hands and beat our arms and the warm breath of four crews rose, adding to the haze.
‘Who wants to go for a sniff around then, lads?’ Olaf called as men slurped steaming oats from spoons and bowls. The water was so calm in that bay that we had hung cauldrons above the ballast and made a thin gruel with the rainwater we had collected the previous day.
Black Floki nodded but no one else seemed excited by the prospect of clambering up the jagged rocks to better understand this coast.
‘There’ll be nothing worth taking around here, Uncle,’ Svein the Red said, giving a great belch and eyeing the wild, rugged cliffs around us. Men were moving from ship to ship, talking to friends and enjoying getting a feel for the other dragons.
‘You think we’re the first crews to run in here with our tails between our legs, Red?’ Olaf said, putting on his
helmet and tying the chinstrap. ‘That’s a mean old sea out there. I’ll wager she’s been ill-tempered longer than Bram’s Borghild.’
‘Aye, I’d rather cross the Dark Sea a hundred times than cross Borghild,’ Bram muttered into his beard.
‘And some of those who sheltered in here might not have been as lazy as you whoresons,’ Olaf went on, ‘and they might have had the fire in their bellies to have a look around. And some of them might have decided to stay.’ He bent to pick up his spear. ‘Frigg’s tits! For all we know there might be a village full of whores the other side of that rock, all sitting there growing cobwebs for the want of customers.’
Some of the men picked up helmets and spears. Black Floki rolled his eyes.
‘You coming, Sigurd?’ Olaf asked. The jarl was braiding his beard into a thick rope which he tied with a leather thong clasped with a silver wolf’s head.
‘It will be good to work the knots out of my legs, Uncle,’ Sigurd said through a half smile. ‘Today I feel as old as you look.’
I did not hear Olaf’s answer to that because it was drowned by a great splash off Serpent’s bow.
‘Njörd, what was that?’ Bram rumbled. We had turned to the sound but there was nothing to see.
‘A sea monster?’ Svein the Red offered as we went to the bow and looked out. The other crews did the same. Then a man yelled in pain and suddenly arrows were thudding into the deck and sploshing into the water around us. Another crash and this time a gout of water that soaked some of the men on Fjord-Elk. An arrow thwacked into Jörmungand’s head behind the prow beast’s faded red eyes.
‘They must be angry whores,’ Bram growled to Olaf, bending to fetch his helmet.
Raven Page 2
