by C. R. May
‘Yes, lord?’
Erik indicated the place where Morcar, Oswy and Wystan were still guarding the king’s hall with a jerk of his head. ‘Lead half of the crew over to the garth. It looks as if Olaf Cuaran has made a gift of his treasury — it would be a shame to mislay it so quickly.’ Erik smiled. ‘While you are waiting for our return you can sample the ale in the buttery, and check that the pantry contains plenty of provisions while you are at it. If you feel the need, send men out to buy in additional supplies — the crews have fought well, and I have a reputation for open-handedness to maintain.’ Sturla nodded enthusiastically, and Erik turned his attention towards the centre of the city as his huskarl began to detail off those who would remain behind.
Helgrim had returned, and the king drew his leading guards about him as he prepared to lead those remaining into the heart of York. Fossgate stretched before him as he took up his place at the head of the column, the familiar dwellings and workshops which crowded the route throwing it into deep shade despite the approach of midday, and Erik exchanged a look and a nod with men at his side before stepping out. Within moments he had left the sun-drenched square behind, and as he plunged into the shadows his eyes stabbed the doors and alleyways to either side for any hint of treachery. Up ahead the first of the looters and cutthroats ferreted out by the crews were swinging lazily on makeshift gibbets, but Erik spared them scarcely a glance as the way opened up and he came to the crossroads at the centre of the city. A wheel to the right revealed the wide expanse of the main square, and beyond it the precipitous walls and towers of St Peter’s Minster, the creamy coloured stone studded with blues and reds as the sunlight played upon the great widows there. It was here that Gunnhild had ridden at his side the day of his coronation, when she had helped to face down the barracking from Cuaran’s place-men before joining the Erikssons to undergo baptism by the hand of Archbishop Wulfstan. The space was devoid of any kind of life this day, the populace of York well used to the dangers which stalked the streets when one king replaced another, and Erik walked boldly ahead despite his huskarls’ obvious twitchiness at the danger posed by a bowman hidden in the storied buildings at the heart of the city. But no arrows came, the doors and shutters remaining resolutely closed as they marched, and soon Erik was climbing the steps to the cathedral and entering the stillness and serenity familiar to any who had cause to enter a house of the Christian God.
Oswald Thane reappeared at the door to the nave, the archbishop’s representative now dressed in his finery following a predawn and morning spent in more warlike garb, and Erik reached behind his shoulder to draw Jomal as stewards came forward to collect his weapons. His face creased into a smile as did so. ‘The city is quiet with no sign of opposition,’ Erik said, flinching inwardly as his voice boomed throughout the cavernous interior. ‘My loyal Englishmen did their work well.’ The king’s voice dropped to a more measured tone as he continued. ‘I shall never forget it.’ Erik moved forward to lay a hand upon the man’s shoulder. ‘You can help me one last time today, Oswald,’ he said, ‘if you would show me a further act of kindness.’
Oswald looked surprised. ‘Of course King Erik, if it is in my power to do so I will aid you in any way I can.’
Erik snorted. ‘Have no fear — ’tis no great thing.’ His eyes took in the stout oak doors which flanked the vestibule to either side. ‘I presume these doors lead up to the tops of the towers?’ Oswald confirmed that they did. ‘I wish to survey my kingdom,’ Erik said. ‘Is that possible from within?’
‘There are stairways in both towers lord,’ Oswald confirmed. ‘Although only the northernmost tower has an uninterrupted view. The South Tower contains the great bell,’ he explained, ‘and the walkway which surrounds it is somewhat more precarious.’
Erik nodded. ‘The North Tower will suit my needs well.’
As the pair crossed to the door and Oswald fumbled with his keys, Thorstein and Helgrim moved to fall in at the king’s side: Erik held out a hand to stay them as he gave voice to a command. ‘I would be alone with my thoughts lads,’ he said as he patted the hilt of his short seax. ‘If there are any enemies hiding up there I still have this to protect myself, and if I should fall within the confines of the cathedral walls it could only be the Will of God.’
Ahead Oswald was fumbling with a keyring the size of a blacksmith’s fist, and as the correct key was teased clear of the bunch to grate in the lock, the door was pushed inward and Erik passed through into the room beyond. The big door closed with a boom which reverberated in the void sending pigeons and rodents scattering about the space, and as he craned his neck to peer upwards through a gentle rain of feathers and muck his eyes slowly grew accustomed to the gloom. A wooden staircase hugged the tower walls as it climbed upward through a latticework of supporting beams; high above specks of dust drifted slowly in the soft light streaming in from the wind holes high above. Erik climbed, marvelling that mere men could construct such a thing for the umpteenth time, and within a short while he broke out from the murk and into the full light of midday.
He crossed to the eastern casement first, the breath catching in his throat as he peered out across the rooftops of York far below. There, beyond the line of Fossgate he had recently travelled, out beyond the walls and the brooding stronghold of the king’s garth, the ships of the fleet were tawny pinpricks on the waters of the Ouse as they walked on slender oars towards the city.
A few paces later he was gazing south, his eyes following the line of the old Roman road to the distant marshes which straddled the River Humber. Beyond it lay the old kingdoms of Wessex and Mercia, and of the Danish Five Boroughs too. Ancient enemies, they were now under the sway of the king in distant Winchester, and if his return had taken the giant by surprise Erik knew that could not last. Since King Athelstan’s day the leader of the West Saxons had laid claim to the kingship of all the English people in Britain, from the Southern Sea to the Firth of Forth. They would march north again, but Erik would be ready this time when they did.
Westwards the hills lay under a drugget of clouds as grey as any wolf, but it was the view northwards which had caused him to climb to his lofty perch, and Erik rested his palms against the gritty stonework as he raised his chin to look. Out beyond the woodlands of the Wolds, past the silver line which marked the meandering of the River Tees, stretched the vales and moors of the old kingdom of Bernicia. An earldom since the Danish invasions in the last century, the rump of Northumbria was still ruled by the old English rulers from their rocky fastness at distant Bebbanburh. But it was a throwback now, a distant echo of a time when warlords could carve themselves a small kingdom from the chaos which had followed the order of Rome, and their Englishness only attracted the avaricious gaze of the southerners. Divided thus York and Bernicia must fall, swallowed up by either the Scots to the north or the English beyond the Humber. Archbishop Wulfstan, that champion of northern independence knew it, and so too did Erik. But let them make their plans the Norseman mused, as he gazed out across the lush fields and tree covered hills of his kingdom; he had not wasted his years in exile — with his treasury replenished and his army reinforced, he now had plans of his own.
3
Beasts of Oðinn
The king left the stony setts, his spirits soaring as he felt the spring in the wooden boards and his thoughts turned to ships and the sea. In the six weeks which had passed since his return, Erik had tightened his grip on the city and the surrounding countryside as his Norwegians and the loyal English earls had driven the last of Olaf Cuaran’s oath sworn beyond the borders. News had reached York of archbishop Wulfstan’s arrest, and strong war bands under trusted men had been sent across the Humber to look for signs of attack; everywhere they rode they had found only a land at peace, and Erik had recalled them gratefully as the long days of high summer approached.
Content that the kingdom was under no immediate threat he had sent word to Orkney, and his eyes came alive at the sight of his queen as the ship came about and poin
ted its snub bow into the Foss. Prone to seasickness as she was, Gunnhild had come south in the more stable hull of a trader’s knarr, her youngest sons Sigurd and Ragnfrod escorting her in their skei. With no sign of danger at home Gamli had gone too, the long sleek hull of the Vindálfr sweeping the seas clear of shipping as the little flotilla hugged the coast of Alba and Bernicia.
The trader was coming alongside now, the styrisman scattering coots and grebes like windblown leaves as he dragged the tiller to his chest and the ship swung in. Erik walked forward as the strakes nudged the landing stage, the mooring ropes flew, and the gang plank met the jetty with a clatter. Gunnhild was the first to cross, and Erik’s face broke into a smile of welcome as he watched her approach. ‘Hail Erik Haraldsson,’ she said as she came closer, ‘the rightful king in York restored.’
Erik’s eyes drank in her form as she approached. If her childbearing days were behind her Gunnhild still had the body of a woman far younger in years, and Erik looked on appreciatively as the silks and gold which clad his queen stood out in stark contrast to the more earthy colours of those all around. He took her hand, and all thoughts of grand speeches flew from his mind at the closeness of her after a springtime away and he uttered the words they had waited so long to hear. ‘Welcome home my queen…’
Gunnhild was a proud woman, the daughter and wife of kings, and he knew that she would be struggling to hide the feelings of elation she felt at her homecoming in front of her lessers. But her features softened at the words, and as her eyes began to moisten the king knew that the quicker they took the short ride to the garth the easier it would be for her. Exile, he knew, had been far harder on the queen than himself — four years spent on a gale blown rock off the western coast of Orkney while he had been off with their sons every summer, plundering any land which offered a coastline or estuary as they fought to restore the family to their rightful place in the world. They mounted quickly, and Erik paused only to exchange nods of greeting with his returning sons before he urged the horse into a walk.
Gunnhild was serene at his side, and Erik cast his thoughts back over the time in York since his return as the horses moved ahead and his sons mounted up to follow in their wake. The takeover had been remarkably smooth he reflected, as the populace crowded Fossgate and cheered his name. Familiar with the sound of sword fighting in the dawn and the meaning behind it, the inhabitants of the city outside-the-walls had already settled old scores and finished their robbing by the time the fleet had arrived following the battle at Bardolfsby. The Erikssons had led their crewmen through the maze of streets and alleyways in a show of strength, but the only sign of man had been the odd unclaimed corpse and they had joined Erik in the garth by mid afternoon. Erik snorted as he recalled the time. Even a morning in a place like York without a king would produce a month’s worth of rulings when authority returned, but the backlog was behind him now and he could leave the rest to Gunnhild. Tonight they would celebrate her homecoming, and in the morning he would ride once more to the southern border, sniff out any hint of trouble brewing there and plan his next move.
Erik drew rein at their approach, waiting patiently for the scouting party as they pearled the waters of the ford to urge travel-weary horses the final half mile. The king ran his eyes over the riders as they came. The River Aire had washed the road dust from legs and flanks, but the unmistakable signs of a hard ride still coated men and beasts in a dusting of greyness, and Erik made a call that ale be passed forward as the horsemen recognised the king’s banner and began to slow their headlong dash. He flicked a look skyward as he waited. The vault was the mackerel blue of a perfect day, and Erik watched the gyrations of the swallows and martins with joy as they slashed the heavens before swooping down to reap the summer bounty a hand width above the meadow. Erik hailed the leading rider as they reined in before him. ‘Hauk,’ he said. ‘Welcome home — what news?’
‘All quiet lord,’ the scout replied. ‘There is no sign that the southerners are mustering for an attack.’
Erik nodded. ‘How far did you ride?’
‘We have been out just over a week,’ Hauk said. ‘The farthest we rode was to a place called Werchesope, a hamlet a couple of days’ ride south of here, but we made sure to comb the countryside to east and west and question the inhabitants thereabouts.’ He shook his head. ‘Beyond that is a vast tract of woodland the locals call Scir Wudu — home to far more deer and wolf-heads than regular folk, we would discover nowt there. Nobody has heard a word — there has been no hint of a call-out or any orders to gather supplies to feed an army on the march. Nothing to suggest that campaigning is in the air.’
Thorstein was resting a skin of ale on the horn of his saddle, and Erik indicated that he toss it across to the thirsty scout. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘rinse the dust from your throats. We were about to stop and eat — we have fresh white bread and cold meats on the wagons. Join us and I will find a firkin for your lads, it will be enough to start the day until you can reach York and celebrate your safe return properly.’
Hauk beamed at the invitation. Scouts rarely drank anything more potent than small beer while away from the main army, the success of the errand and very survival depending on keeping their wits sword-blade sharp at all times. But a nine gallon barrel of the finest Yorkish ale should be a good start to the homecoming celebrations, and Erik smiled at the looks on the faces of the men before him even as he envied them their youthful appetite.
Erik urged the horse forward with a jab of his heels, and as the scouts parted the riverside flanking the crossing place at Ceasterford opened up before him. The weather here had been just as flawless four years before, the day they had trapped the English rearguard with their backs to the ford and cut them down almost to a man. It had been Erik’s greatest victory on English soil, but heavy fighting lay ahead if he was to realise his dream, and with his coffers full and the kingdom bristling with spears he ached for the war to begin again. Helgrim’s voice cut into his thoughts as they reached the causeway, the ancient road known as the Roman Rigg shimmering in the heat as it ran down to the ford. ‘That is a good place to stop, lord,’ he said. ‘Nice and flat, and far enough from the bone field.’
Erik looked. A grassy terrace cut across the roadway, the southern boundary falling away sharply where it joined the floodplain. ‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘have the wagons pull over.’ He slipped from the saddle as the Orkney brothers rode forward. Erland and Arnkel were kin now through the marriage of Erik’s daughter Ragnhild to their older brother Arnkel, and he had promised that he would show them the battle site that morning. The king and his leading warriors had gone shield to shield with the Kentishmen during the fight, far too closely engaged to gain an overview of the battle. But Erik’s banner man was also his skald, and Sturla Godi came across to lead them down to the scene of the fighting as Erik slipped from the saddle. He turned to his huskarls as they dropped to the ground all around him. ‘Go and grab something to eat boys,’ he said with the flick of a hand. ‘I am just going down for a look around.’ Erik tossed the reins of his mount across to Kolbein as he turned to go. Ahead Sturla was already in full flow, the skald’s arm arcing around as he described the moment of Gamli Eriksson’s flanking attack which had finally broken Kentish resistance. A knot of Orcadians were hanging on every word as Sturla described the fight, and Erik passed by unnoticed as he walked down to the place where the front ranks had stood that day. From here the bone field radiated out to east and west like ripples in a pond, the more distant showing just how far the last of the fugitives had travelled before they were ridden down by the Norse reserve under Arinbjorn and his men. His foster-brother was back in Norway and settled into his inheritance now that Thorir had died, rarely venturing abroad having made his peace with Erik’s half-brother King Hakon. Erik had toyed with the idea to visit him at his hall in Fjordane more than once during the past four years, or even the king in Avaldsnes to make his own accommodation with Hakon and revisit the scenes of his youth. But he had known it
was folly; there was nothing for him now back in Norway — whatever the gods had in mind for Erik Haraldsson it lay here, on this side of the sea.
A familiar voice broke onto his thoughts, and Erik turned to throw his huskarl a smile as he took the proffered food. The pair stood shoulder to shoulder in silent companionship as they ate, with only the muffled words of Sturla Godi drifting across from the far roadside to compete with the high pitched chir-rup of the swallows above.
Helgrim was the first to break the silence, his voice not much more than a murmur as his eyes remained fixed upon the scene of fighting. ‘You came as close to Valhöll here as anywhere, lord.’
Erik nodded as he recalled the fight. ‘The backwoodsman — I misjudged him and almost paid the price.’ He snorted. ‘It is a lesson to us all. The old hags care nothing for pomp and reputation — when the time is ripe and the shears sharpened, they will snip your life thread whether you are faced by king or thrall.’ Erik cast his eyes to the south. Beyond the drainage ditch which edged the causeway the bones of a defeated army lay in drifts. Four years in the open and the depredations of scavengers had been enough to strip the flesh from them, but the tattered remains of clothing and the odd patch of buff coloured hide still added a smidgeon of colour here and there. ‘I thought that I might seek out his remains,’ Erik said suddenly. ‘To carry him away for a Christian burial.’
