Bloodaxe (Erik Haraldsson Book 1)

by C. R. May

  Between them, the ships now contained more than three years’ worth of booty gained from this voyage alone, raiding all along the coastline of southern Frankia and beyond; although it seemed unlikely that a back of beyond place like this could put enough men into the field at such short notice that they could threaten almost two hundred experienced fighters, it always paid to be sure.

  With the Isbjorn now clear of the sea and the likelihood that they would live to tell the tale of their great escape from the monster of the deep looking increasingly likely, the men crowded around to take their first look at the whale damaged keel as others lent their weight to tip the hull on its side. The last of the seawater was still draining onto the shingle from the damaged hull, but it was clear to them all just how close they had come to disaster. The heavy oak beam was as Thorstein had said, cracked and splintered where the great humped back of the animal had crashed into it, and Erik waited for Alf’s crewman to give him the verdict. Svein ran his hand along the splintered oak and turned back with a frown. ‘I was hoping that it was a cleaner break than this, then I could fit an oak plate to either side of the break, bore through the lot and treenail them together.’ He shook his head as he picked a strip of splintered oak from the Isbjorn’s keel and held it up for examination. ‘Not like this lord, Thorstein was right; it’s all mashed up. There is no way that the wooden pins would hold together long enough for us to reach home. Our hulls are made to flex with the sea, they would soon pop out and then you would be swimming before you knew it.’ Svein took a few paces back, his hand worrying his beard as he thought and his gaze flicking from stem to stern. ‘What I can do,’ he said finally. ‘Is cut a length from the stern post and scarf that in; after all it’s already been cut and shaped to match, it’s just a projection of the keel itself. I will have to be careful that I don’t damage any of the garboard strakes, the planks which are attached to the keel itself, or we could be back were we started.’ He pursed his lips and blew out through his nose as he worked through his plan again. Finally Svein nodded. ‘It will take me the good part of a day, but I think that I can get you home, lord.’

  They had feared the worst but Svein seemed confident enough, and the men on the beach exchanged smiles as they began to hone their stories in preparation for a lifetime retelling any that would listen of the day they had battled the Midgard Serpent Jormungandr and lived to tell the tale.

  Erik left Svein to it and rounded the hull. Peering inside he could see the smaller pieces of treasure beginning to emerge from the muck which had collected there in the years since the ship had last been overhauled, and Erik wrinkled his nose at the smell as he began to toss the sodden remains of looted wall hangings and spoilt supplies onto the beach. The sun was higher now and the men were beginning to set fires as they prepared to cook the first food of the day. Kolbein had already led fifty men to the top of the low sandy cliff which edged the beach, and Erik watched as they made their way to the higher points to get a better view inland. Satisfied that all seemed well there, he called to those remaining with him. ‘Crew mates!’ As the men turned his way he shot them a mischievous smile. ‘We have been given the opportunity to give the Isbjorn a good clean. Let’s not let it go to waste, we don’t know how much time we have.’

  ‘Still only five then? There are no signs of others hiding in the shadows?’

  Kolbein shaded his eyes with the sill of his hand and swept the forest edge from left to right. ‘It certainly looks that way. Five horsemen riding straight towards us, with their shields hanging at the crupper and the points of their spears pointing to the ground indicating that they come with peaceful intent.’

  Erik cocked a brow. ‘It’s what…half a mile between here and the tree line?’

  Kolbein shrugged: ‘about that.’

  ‘Well,’ Erik said, ‘as soon as they get far enough that we can be sure that it is not a trap I will go and see what they want.’ The styrismen of the Bison and Reindyr had come ashore with most of their men, and Erik called to them as he walked proud of the line. ‘Gauti, Thorfinn; I am going to meet them with an equal number and see what they are up to. Hold your position here at the top of the cliffs, but keep an eye on the beach in case they are drawing our attention away from a flanking attack. Alf and Ulfar Whistle-tooth will be back with the other ships soon. Let them know what is happening.’ He called to four of his spearmen to follow as he threw a smile back across his shoulder. ‘Oh…and someone run down and tell Svein to hurry up with his woodwork. We may have to make a quick escape after all.’

  The four outriders accompanying the central figure were clad in mail and helm, and Erik ordered those following him to do likewise as the distance between the two groups closed. Erik ran his eyes across the horsemen as they came together, and was pleased to see that they appeared to be Englishmen. Ironically fellow Norsemen were far more likely to be a threat due to the actions of his father, back in the homeland. The leading figure’s round face was clean shaven in the manner of a Christian priest, and while one of his escort sported a full beard, the other three had shaved their cheeks leaving just the distinctive full moustache of the southern warrior class. The clothing and weapons clearly told of their wealth, and Erik was intrigued to discover the reason for their visit as the men dismounted fifty yards away.

  The leader handed his reins to a companion, surprising the big sea king as he walked forward alone and greeted them with an open smile. ‘My name is Oswald Thane, lord. Have I the honour to be addressing the atheling, Erik Haraldsson?’ Erik confirmed that he had. ‘I bring greetings from my own lord, Wulfstan, Archbishop. He has asked me to convey his disappointment that he is unable to leave York at this time to greet you in person, but hopes that that happy day may come in the near future.’ As Erik looked at the man in astonishment, he continued. ‘My lord also asks that you receive this small gift to share among your men as you see fit.’ The Englishman raised his arm, and Erik sensed the men at his rear stiffen as a cart rumbled forward into view from the shadows of the trees. The land was a little higher where Erik stood, and he moved to calm his guard with a flick of his hand as he saw that the cart was piled high with tuns of ale and flitch of bacon. ‘You must be our guests of course,’ he said as the ox drew nearer. The food and ale were welcome gifts for men who had just spent weeks at sea, but he was long enough in the tooth to realise that they could easily be poisoned. He studied the man before him and saw to his satisfaction that no hint of fear crossed his features.

  ‘That would be an honour, lord.’ Oswald beamed before continuing, the first part of the task set him by his master obviously accomplished. ‘If I may be so bold, we have much to discuss.’

  Gulls skimmed the breakers, the harshness of their cries at odds with the mood as Erik splashed through the shallows. Willing hands reached down to haul their king aboard, and he turned to give a parting wave to the small party of men lining the clifftop. Reaching the mast fish he jumped up and down, shooting the men a smile as he saw their confusion. ‘If Svein’s workmanship is to be found wanting, I would rather it happened in the shallows than the deep! Come on,’ he said as the oarsmen sat braced at their stations, ‘let us go and join our friends.’ He gave Kolbein the nod, and the ship began to inch away from the land as the styrisman called time. In deeper water the steering oar gained traction, and Kolbein hauled the great blade, swinging the prow seaward as the men in the other ships whooped and called.

  By midday the coastline was lost in the haze astern, and Erik reflected on his conversation with the friendly Northumbrian as the Isbjorn cleaved the waves. In the years that he had been away his brothers had grown to manhood; now they were beginning to push for the kingship of the Norwegians itself. He had no doubt that he could quash their ambitions, he was a warrior of reputation, even a churchman in York had known who his ships contained from the description of their prow beasts alone.

  Twenty years raiding along the shores of Frankia, Wendland and beyond had filled his hall with treasure; soon it seeme
d the time would come when he would need a land army at his back and he smiled a rapacious smile as he looked forward to the fight for the ultimate prize, Fairhair’s king helm itself. Just one fly floated amid the suds that topped his ale horn; Hakon, his youngest half-brother now at foster with the king of the southern English. King Edward had left Midgard to simper at Christ’s feet if the Christian priests were to be believed and a new king ruled there now, his son Athelstan. Men said that he was just as warlike as his father and grandfather and more pious too; they were testing times for Norse and Danes alike.

  Sigurd Jarl still ruled at Lade and he had had a hand in the boy’s removal from the kingdom. There was scheming there Erik knew, he would have to keep an eye on the situation. Oswald had held out the offer of an alliance with Northumbria who already felt the power of this Athelstan, should Erik inherit his father’s gift stool. In the hazy workings of his mind an idea began to harden from the miasma. The dream of a kingdom stretching from Dublin in the West to Finnmark in the North began to form, a realm to surpass the greatness of his father. Erik’s eyes flashed fame-bright as the ship crested the waves and the tafl pieces began to move in his mind’s eye.

  12

  THE HUSTING

  The raven banner was brought forward as the body of the stallion was hauled away, reddening the grass in a bloody trail as it was dragged towards the cauldron.

  Kolbein spoke with reverence as the ceremony approached its climax. ‘The oath ring from Þórr’s temple was a good idea.’

  Erik shot the huskarl a smile. ‘Yes, I thought so too. A man thinks twice before he makes a pledge if Thor has come among us.’

  Kolbein snorted. ‘Or your father. A man thinks thrice or more when he comes under Harald Fairhair’s eyes.’

  Erik looked across, back towards the hall. A high seat had been brought out, and Erik looked with pride upon the burly figure of his father as he regained his place surrounded by guardsmen. Even at almost four score years of age the king still dominated those around him by the force of his presence alone. As king and father of the nation King Harald had shown honour to his eldest son by performing the blóð, beheading the horse with one crushing sweep of a magnificent bearded axe before skirting the perimeter of the hustings, the house Thing, flicking the sacrifice’s lifeblood onto the hazel wands which marked the limits of the sacred space. Between King Harald and the war banner the prow beasts of the fleet had been set up to overlook the sanctified area, each golden face a snarl as the firelight danced across fang, bull neck or antler.

  Anlaf Crow was ready and waiting, and Erik gave his huskarl a nod as others covered the ground with hides. As the man put the battle horn to his lips, Erik looked out across the waters of the fjord to the grey capped peaks beyond. The summer was all but spent, the harvest newly gathered; soon the uplands would wear their cape of snow. But before they did so, one last duty remained for the men who had returned from abroad that autumn. The length of Norway, ship’s crews would be gathering in scenes such as this, parcelling out the year’s gains before they dispersed to gather in smoggy rooms as the wind howled and roared to swap tales of another summer spent raiding or trading in the rich lands to the South.

  As the doleful note trailed away men appeared on the foreshore: singly and in pairs; knots of friends; full ship’s companies. His most trusted warriors, his personal guard the huskarls: other men of the hird. Struggling beneath the weight of booty or walking swiftly to the gathering as their luck, skill or duty that year had ordained.

  The hustings hallowed, the pair moved across to the shrine as the warriors gathered under their styrismen. Seeing the men in their divisions Erik gripped the silver ring on its pediment, the first to speak the oath as was right:

  ‘I, Erik Haraldsson, king of this company, swear under Thor’s eyes that the treasure which I place before you all is the complete and full amount which I have gathered on this season’s Viking. I vow that I have hidden away nothing for my own use, and I further pledge my word that I have no knowledge that any other man here has done, or intends to conceal that which belongs to us all for his own use and pleasure.’ Tightening his grip, Erik swept the gathering with his gaze before continuing with a look of pride. ‘Furthermore I submit myself to your judgement, by offering to lead everyman here who will pledge the oath of fastness to me in next season’s raids.’

  Erik turned and made his way back to the place where the booty which he had accrued over the past summer’s raiding was piled high. Unaided as was the custom, he shifted the pile across until all was littering the ground before the raven standard. As he took a pace back Kolbein moved in to grip the temple ring and repeat the oath, adding his own pledge of allegiance and becoming the first man in the hird to renew his vows for the coming year. The men came forward in order of seniority to mirror his actions: Skipper Alf; Ulfar Whistle-Tooth; Thorfinn Ketilsson; Gauti Thorodsson, styrisman of the Bison. Soon the hoard was knee high, and Erik looked on with pride as man followed man and they had reached the fluffiest cheeked warrior without losing a single man.

  As the men returned to their companies the air began to crackle with anticipation as Erik ran his eyes across their number. He had spent a heady evening the night before with his leading men, retelling the tales of the summer raids; choosing who had shown valour or distinguished themselves in such a way that they stood head and shoulders above their companions. He had seen most of their actions with his own eyes of course and had his own ideas, but he was happy to accommodate the views and opinions of his most trusted underlings as any good leader should. As the ale had flowed the names of the chosen dozen had been hammered out under the roof of his hall, and Erik let the tension in the hustings rise as he lingered over the announcement. Twelve men were chosen, the hirdmen stepping forward proudly from the throng as their names were called to cries of joy and back slapping from their shipmates. These were the men who had proven their trustworthiness by their actions and battle fury, and as the warriors came forward to begin the task of dividing up the loot the styrismen began to do likewise with the men under their command.

  First the treasure and men were divided into two equal lots, and then divided again as the scales clanged and groaned under the weight of silver. Erik’s fourth part was set aside, and he basked under the proud gaze of his father as the pile grew higher. No man begrudged him the greater part which had been gained by their collective efforts. All men knew that a leader’s duty to them went far beyond leading them in battle and they would receive the majority of it back, either directly by way of the gift stool or less obviously through the food which they would eat, the ale they would sink, the provision of a sturdy keel beneath their feet or a roof above their head.

  The quarter part which would be divided among the styrismen was removed, and as the remainder was divided again into five equal parts by the chosen men the ceremonial cloth known as skaut was brought forward and laid before the banner. In his final act of the ceremony Erik moved forward and placed five plumb weights, one for each of the ships under his command, onto the centre of the skaut. Each was angled towards the place where a single ship’s company had gathered together, and Alf as skipper to the fleet moved forward to point out the order in which the crews would come to choose which pile to carry away for distribution among themselves.

  As the last crew carried away their share Erik raised the first horn of the evening, and the hustings shook as the answering cry of skál came back in a full throated roar. The styrismen came together as the ale barrels were tapped, and Erik showed them honour as he filled each man’s horn in turn. The vessels came together, and each man drained his drink in one as they toasted their success. At the edge of the clearing the sacrifice had already been butchered, and the tantalising smell of the meat drifted across the hustings as it simmered in great iron kettles.

  Laughter swept the group as they jostled at the tap, ale sloshing from horn rims as a hand gripped his shoulder and Erik recognised the voice of the king. ‘You will excuse me if I
spirit away your lord for a short while lads. I have a great deal to discuss with my son.’ The men pulled themselves up as they recognised to whom the voice belonged, and Erik and his father shared a laugh as they saw the ill disguised impatience written on their faces as their eyes roamed from king to ale tap. ‘Don’t stop for us,’ Harald snorted. ‘But make sure you leave a drop or two!’

  Harald led Erik towards the foreshore as thralls hurried away with buckets of sacrificial blood. Mixed with oats they would be brought out again as a treat at the yuletide feast along with the blood sausage they would produce. The king inhaled deeply as the aroma of simmering horse flesh drifted across the hustings. ‘That was a fine display,’ he said wistfully as they walked. ‘Oh, to be a young man again.’

  Erik made to tell his father that he still had many years left in him but stopped himself. It was becoming clearer with each visit to the homelands that the king was ailing and the man had never been a fool; he would not insult his intelligence to suggest otherwise and he waited patiently for his father to continue. Down on the beach faces turned their way as they passed, the smiles, boozing and lighthearted banter a universal feature of men who had just been paid. Smiths had set up their camps on the strand, and already they were doing a steady trade as men handed over their silver: coin clippings; rings cut from dead fingers; a winged woman prised from a Christian book cover, and had them smelted down and recast as arm rings and small ingots. Further along the shingle women loitered, ready to relieve the men of a little silver in exchange for something altogether more fleeting. Harald snorted at the sight. ‘Women have always been my weakness.’ He turned his head, and Erik was surprised to see a look of regret flit across the king’s features; ‘and now you will have to deal with the results of that appetite.’