Bloodaxe (Erik Haraldsson Book 1)

by C. R. May

  The three leaders shouldered their shields and hefted their spears as the last of the assault party disappeared into the trees. A last word of encouragement with the ship guard and they were off, leaving the glum faced men behind them as they plunged into the trees. Twenty men had been left behind, a quarter part of each ship’s crew; chosen by drawing lots twenty men was a sizeable force, more than he would have liked to have taken from the attacking force, but they were enough to mount a stout defence of the ships or row the hulls into deeper water should they be discovered. The first sign of dawn would see them fixing the mast and hoisting the sail; if the winds were favourable they should be at the beach below the monastery in time to recover the raiders and their booty long before a counter-attack could be organised from any Christian forces still in the area.

  Kjartan was waiting for them, and the huskarl nodded in greeting as they came up. ‘We have reached the road, lord,’ he reported. ‘It’s just beyond that fallen oak.’

  ‘Just where the Skipper said it would be.’ Erik shook his head. ‘Remind me to stand him an ale or three when we meet up again.’

  The road shone in the moonlight, the ancient stones polished smooth by the tramping feet of men long since gone to dust. Skipper Alf, who Erik had by now concluded must know everything worth knowing about the southern lands, had told them that the old roadway had originally been built to connect the ancient lookout station which guarded the entrance to the river ahead with the nearest town. The old stone tower had been converted by the Christ priests to build the bolthole which was their ultimate goal that night, and Erik counted down the mile markers as the moon dipped and the first hint of grey lit the eastern sky.

  The roadway rose before them, and Erik raised a hand to bring the column to a halt before they reached the crest. ‘Wait here lads,’ he said as they grabbed the chance to sip from their water skins. ‘The monastery should lie on the far side of this hill. We will take a quick look.’ Erik indicated that Kolbein and Thorfinn come along, and the trio slipped their shields from their shoulders and propped them against a tree as they began to push their way back into the greenwood. Within a few yards the cover was dense enough to conceal them from any early risers on the lee, and the Vikings pushed through the underbrush until the woodland opened out onto a scrubby meadow before them.

  As they had expected men were moving about, despite the early hour, and Erik ran his eyes across the buildings before him as he began to formulate his plan of attack. This was the moment that he had trained for, years of spear and sword work in the hayfield before Thorir’s hall, all the stories of past raids; words of advice and guidance which had come from his foster-father and brother as they had broken their fast on the grassy knoll. The three shared a smile as they saw that their brothers in arms had done their work well. Every armed freeman for miles around would be rushing towards the smoke stained sky as they sought to drive the heathen attackers from their land.

  Kolbein leaned in and lowered his voice to a murmur. ‘The old watch tower is where they will keep the best stuff lord. You can see the stone walls lighten in colour where they have raised the height. You can’t see from here but the original door will have been sealed. The only way in now will be through that door halfway up the side.’ He sighed. ‘If we don’t reach that before the ladder is pulled up we won’t have time to winkle them out before we have to leave, we can’t risk being trapped in the bay.’

  The monastery lay undefended before them, and Erik nodded that he understood. He had seen enough. The light on the eastern horizon had taken on a blush of pink as the sky horse Skinfaxi, Shining Mane, pulled the sun towards the world of men; the ships would be shaking out their sails and poling themselves into deeper water about now. He would have liked the cover of full darkness, but the months of early summer were firmly in the southern lands and the nights were shortening by the day. There had simply been no time to reach the anchorage, come ashore and get the men within striking distance of the monastery walls before the dawn was upon them. Ideally he would have had the hours of darkness in which to encircle the walls, sealing off each gateway before moving in to take the main prize, but he had an idea that he thought might work and he itched to set it in motion. But they would have to move, and move quickly. The moment that the ships appeared around the headland surprise would be lost, and the raid would fail.

  Pushing their way back through the undergrowth they were soon back at the road, and Erik allowed himself a smile as he saw the mien of the wolf on every face there. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I will outline what you will see when you crest this rise and then Kolbein Herjolfsson will assign each man his part in the attack.’ He noticed a few of the men exchange looks of surprise that their young king was to plan the assault, and he noted their faces and pushed on. They may have expected or even hoped that a more experienced man would take command at this point but this was his hird and, although he would always be open to well meaning advice like any wise lord, he would lead from the front. ‘The road runs as straight as a spear from the crest behind me to the monastery itself. There is a low wattle fence around the perimeter but no gate, so once we are through spread out and cause mayhem. The main building lies nearest the bay on the left and the dormitories where the monks sleep come off it at each end forming what they call a cloister; the road leads directly to this.’

  Erik ran his gaze around the group. ‘I need the fastest half a dozen runners. Who thinks that they are up to it?’ Erik began to untie his helm as the men stepped forward. He nodded in satisfaction as he saw that he had pretty much guessed who they would be from their build. Two were shipmates, Thorstein Egilsson and Anlaf Crow, the others from the Reindyr. He was beginning to learn the names of those on the other ships in the fleet but these were unknown to him, and he committed their names to memory before he gave his instructions. ‘Right lads. Leave anything which will slow you down here: helms, brynja and ask a friend to look after your sword, we don’t want them to get in the way when we run. We shouldn’t encounter armed opposition but if we do we will hold them off with a little spear work before the rest come up and take care of them.’ He pinned them with a stare. ‘We must reach the old signal tower before they can raise the ladder to the doorway. The quickest of us grabs it and holds on tight.’ The corners of his mouth curled into a smile, and the men chuckled as he made a prediction. Years of racing Arinbjorn, Helgi and other members of Thorir’s hird across the fells above Nausdal had bequeathed him the strength of a man far beyond his years: ‘that man will be me.’

  Erik was already pulling the mail shirt over his head to fall with a chink alongside his sword and helm at the road’s edge as Kolbein spoke. ‘Shall I detail a man to take care of the shepherd boy, lord? He will carry a horn and blow a warning the moment that we appear on the roadway.’ Erik’s mind raced. It was obvious that he had seen no shepherd when they had spied out the monastery buildings from the tree line and that his huskarl was attempting to spare him any embarrassment. But if it was plain to him, then it would be just as obvious to an experienced war band; he decided that attempting to conceal the fact would do more harm to his reputation than admitting that he had missed the lad. ‘You are right,’ he said as he felt himself flush, ‘I did miss him.’

  Kolbein nodded. ‘It was easily done, lord. The boy was sitting in the deep shadow, I could hardly make him out myself.’

  ‘But you had the wisdom to realise that a field full of sheep would very likely be under guard, I didn’t.’ He looked at the men of his hird and could see that he had made the right choice between bluffing it out and admitting his oversight. ‘I made a mistake, but I promise you all that I will never make the same one twice.’ As the men rechecked straps and fittings, Erik turned back to Kolbein. ‘Yes, hurry a man over there to take care of our friend.’

  Kolbein jerked his head and a dark shape plunged back into the trees. ‘Thorfinn saw him too, lord. He will be there in no time.’

  ‘You know the men better than me. Assign the leader
s to each group and let them know their target.’ He clapped the man on the shoulder and threw him a parting smile. ‘Let’s go and stir things up!’

  The last of the men who would accompany him in the mad dash to the stone tower were placing their brynjur and helms in the underwood, scooping up handfuls of dun coloured leaves to hide the costly items from view. Erik began to do the same as he realised the sense of it. A well made mail shirt such as his own was worth twenty ounces of silver; a sword would cost double that to replace, but the loss of what may very well be a family heirloom would be a thing of shame. It was the reason why they had handed their swords to another man for safekeeping but brynja were just too heavy, they would have to take the chance.

  As he stood again, Erik could see that the skyline was now feathered pink and scarlet as Skinfaxi approached. The ships would be on their way, the monks in the clearing below beginning to make their way to the next of their interminable devotions, and he made his way to the centre of the road as the rest of the hird gathered in their own groups, rolling their shoulders, warming blood and muscles after the chill of the night for the work ahead.

  A glance to either side to check that his men were in position and Erik hefted his spear and broke into a run. Bearded faces, grim and alert; wide boards, the bosses a dull silver in the gloom flashed past on either side, and before he could get into his stride Erik gained the brow and came out into the full light of dawn. The roadway fell away in a gentle slope as it ran down to the simple gateway he had seen from the tree line, and Erik gathered speed quickly as his legs pumped for all they were worth. As he thundered down the back-slope the sun disappeared from view; he was back in the shadows, and he swept the area before him as he closed in.

  The first faces were beginning to turn their way as Kolbein led the rest of the hird out into the wolf light of dawn and Erik recognised the moment when the first of the monks realised that they were under attack, but he was through the gateway now and closing quickly. The nearest Breton was cupping a hand to his mouth as he prepared to shout a warning and Erik raised his spear to skewer him, but he thought better of it as he came closer and he dropped a shoulder to send the man spinning away. Any loss of momentum now could cost them their prize, and he scanned his surroundings as they broke out into the courtyard. Grey robed figures were scattering about the space like a flock of startled hens, but Erik’s heart leapt as he raised his eyes to look beyond them and saw that the ladder which was their goal was still in place.

  A face appeared at the doorway just as he looked, its mouth gaping in surprise, and Erik redoubled his efforts as he saw the monks hands move towards the rungs of the ladder. They still had twenty yards to go as the gangway jerked into the air and the thought that he could aim his spear at the man flashed through his mind, but the Christian was no fool and Erik could only look on in despair as he pulled back into the interior.

  Anlaf came past him, and Erik watched as Thorstein speared another, but the ladder was already above head height and one more heave would leave them stranded at the base of the tower. Erik’s heart sank. His very first raid had left him looking like a fool.

  9

  THE RED KING

  As he started to check his stride, Erik realised that Anlaf was still running full pelt towards the sheer face of the tower. A heartbeat before the hirdman dashed himself against the stone wall, his spear clattered to the ground and he launched himself into the air. Erik watched as the ladder began to move upwards again but Anlaf was as tall as any in the hird, and he willed the man’s outstretched hand to grab the ladder before it could be heaved out of reach. Despite the mayhem all around, Erik’s world narrowed down to encompass only the diminishing gap between the bottom rung of the ladder and the warrior’s fingertips. Sure now of their success, the monks in the tower paused as they moved their hands down the side rails for the final heave which would see the ladder safely stowed within; but Anlaf’s palm was closing around the bottom rung, and Erik thrilled to the sight as he saw the huskarl’s fingers curl and his knuckles whiten as they tightened their grip.

  Thorstein shouted at his side, ‘get ready!’ and Erik let his own spear drop to the ground as his men formed a protective screen around him. Anlaf was dropping back to the courtyard, and Erik had the madcap sight of one of the monks from the tower arrowing through the air etched into his memory as the unexpected downward movement plucked him from his eyrie.

  The ladder crashed to the courtyard, and Anlaf moved to hold it steady as Erik began to move forward. Half a dozen paces and he leapt into the air to land with a crash midway up the ladder. A moment of panic as he began to fall back, but his hand fixed itself to a rung and he grasped it with sweaty fingers as his feet scrabbled for purchase. A face appeared above him, the horror of the situation writ large upon it, and Erik began to climb as he felt the ladder shudder as his men threw themselves against it below him. Sandalled feet appeared above him as the remaining Christian sought to kick the ladder away, but the weight of those below him held it in place. It was the action of a desperate man, and Erik saw the fear on the monk’s face as he reached the doorway and threw himself inside. Rolling to his feet Erik bunched his fists as he prepared to take on the holy man unarmed, but the man had backed away and he spun on the balls of his feet as he searched the room for an unseen opponent. The room was bare, but for a coil of rope and a single chair placed against one of the white washed walls. It was obviously used for little more than a place to store the ladder in times of need such as this, and Erik’s eyes moved from the unmoving monk to the dark portal at his side. A staircase curled away there, and a shaft of light confirmed that there was a further room above.

  ‘Don’t worry, lord,’ a voice came from behind him, ‘once you break in they all stand stock still like frightened mice.’

  Erik looked across as Thorstein’s face appeared at the top of the ladder. A moment later he had heaved himself into the room and stood there grinning widely. ‘You ran like a hare, but I think that Anlaf had the beating of you lord.’

  Erik snorted. ‘It’s as well that he did. I would never have jumped high enough to grasp the ladder, and even if I did I doubt that I have the weight yet to winkle these Christians out of their shell.’ He looked back at the monk and wondered to see the look of calm acceptance on the man’s face. Thorstein had noticed his surprise, and he moved to explain. ‘Christian monks never put up a fight, they usually make do calling down curses from their God and the like. Even if you give them a good working over they rarely tell you where the treasures are kept. They believe that by suffering on his behalf, their God will admit them to heaven.’

  Erik raised a brow and Thorstein gave an explanation. ‘Heaven is a bit like Valholl without the drinking and fighting.’ He shrugged. ‘Not every man is a fighter, lord. At least this one is quiet, I can’t do with flying spittle and curses. If I wanted to hear that all day I would have settled down with a woman!’

  A bell began to toll, irregular and muted at first, but the unseen bell ringer soon got into his stride and the sound rolled across the surrounding countryside. ‘It looks like they managed to close the door to the bell tower before our lads could reach it, lord. It is best we get a move on before horsemen turn up.’

  Thorstein had drawn his seax, the short bladed stabbing sword which most warriors wore at their waists, and pointed across the room with it. ‘Best we get upstairs, lord. Grab what you can see and toss it out of the window. The lads in the cloisters can sift through it, there are more of them and it will be quicker.’

  Erik drew his own seax and crossed the room. The monk was still standing next to the inner doorway, the joy in his eyes plain to see as the sound of the warning bells filled the air outside and Erik shot him a look of warning as he approached. The man backed away, and Erik ducked through and began to mount the staircase as Thorstein ordered him down the ladder to the courtyard before following on.

  The staircase was not much more than the height of two men, and Erik stole a look and q
uickly drew back his head as the room above opened out. Despite Thorstein’s assurances even a man with little weapon skill or bravery would have him at their mercy as he climbed; without even a shield to protect him, any attacker would not even have to come close to loose an arrow as he emerged into the light. But the quick glance had been all that he needed to see that the room was empty of life, and he climbed up into the room and looked around him. Small square shelves lined the far wall, each cavity containing a tightly rolled scroll; in the far corner a heavy chest rested against the wall. Several staves were stacked in one corner, each one topped by a silver cross, and a large book, the binding embellished with gold and gemstones shone in the wan light of the early dawn. Windows had been cut in each of the four walls, but their narrowness made it obvious that they had been made more for observation than allowing light to lift the oppressive gloom in the room. A wooden staircase led upwards to a hatchway in the ceiling, and Erik was about to cross to it as Thorstein came up into the room. The huskarl’s eyes lit up at the amount of booty there, and he shot Erik a smile as he came across. ‘Let’s make sure that we are alone, and then we can start chucking this little lot down the stairs, lord.’

  Erik nodded. ‘Make a start and I will check the next level.’ He crossed to the hatchway as the first of the staves clattered down the stairwell and paused beneath it. Constructed from thick oak planks, the hatch was hinged on one side and secured on the other by a pair of heavy iron bolts. Erik examined the ironwork as the sound of the chest being dragged across the floor filled the room. All were coated with a fine patina of rust, cobwebs and the husks of long dead insects filled the cracks between the boards. It was clear that the hatchway was rarely used, and Erik relaxed a touch as he lifted his arm and began to work the first of the bolts. They grated back in a cloud of fine red dust, and he jumped down to the floor as he let the cover swing down to hang into the room on its hinges. Immediately the room was flooded with light, and it became clear that the next level up must be the roof of the tower itself. He climbed the stairs, bobbing his head in the hatchway as he ensured that the space really was clear of men. Satisfied that he was alone, Erik mounted the steps and came out onto a flat roof and into the full light of the early morning. A crenelated bulwark ringed the space and Erik walked to the edge, eager to see just how well the raid was going.