The Day of the Wolf

by C. R. May

  Erik’s maudlin tone drew an immediate response. ‘It is not like you to think too deeply about the fate of your enemies Erik, and it would not sit well with the men if they knew.’ Helgrim teased out a grisly piece of meat from his meal and tossed it aside. Within moments a magpie had hopped across to carry it off. The huskarl placed a friendly hand on his lord’s shoulder as he prepared to go. ‘I am off back to the lads, lord,’ he said. ‘Do your thinking and leave it here, the men look to you for leadership in more ways than one Erikr Blóðøx. You are a battle winner, a lord of war — that is why they follow you.’ He smiled as he turned to go. ‘If they had wanted to follow a deep thinker they would have become novices or skalds.’

  Erik rolled his eyes at Helgrim’s advice, but a quick look at the crowd filling the terrace as he watched the big huskarl go confirmed the wisdom of his words. Most were happily at their cups, hunks of meat or bread in hand as they swapped tall-tales and quaffed ale with their friends. But more than a few heads were turned towards him, a solitary figure now that Helgrim had gone, and he knew that the number would grow with every moment away. A dozen paces to the West, Sturla was still describing the fight to enthusiastic Orkneymen and he thought to walk across — but a king sometimes needed to be alone with his thoughts if he was to govern well, and he knew that this was such a time. Away to the Southwest a dark cap of clouds was building over the higher ground of the Peaks; beyond it lay the heartlands of king Eadred’s kingdom of the southern English. Erik’s return and the manner of it had been a humiliation for that king — archbishop Wulfstan’s disappearance was proof of that. That there would be a reckoning was obvious despite the king’s ill health, and Erik ran through the steps he had taken to preserve his own kingdom as he watched the distant rainclouds gather.

  Gamli was already back at sea, Erik and Gunnhild’s eldest son leading a strong force south along the coast to guard against any reaction from that quarter. If no opposition was forthcoming they had agreed between them that his son would sail as far as the Thames, waylaying traders sailing to and from London in an effort to discover what preparations were being made there to challenge Erik’s return to York. Despite the fact that he had been shorn of the best part of his army, Olaf Cuaran must still be considered a threat — especially as he had the backing of the southerners. In addition his old enemy also had kin in Dublin to turn to for succour, along with widespread holdings within Cumbraland in Britain’s north-west. Harald Eriksson had left York that morning to scour the western hills, but it was the journey made by Oswald Thane on which Erik pinned most of his hopes, and he sent an invocation to Óðinn and Christ that the archbishop’s experienced go-between be successful in his endeavour. Sent north the moment that Erik’s position in York was secure, Oswald had been tasked with persuading the earl of Bernicia, the fellow Englishman Oswulf Ealdwulfing, to form an alliance with Erik’s kingdom of York, a wide ranging cooperation which would not only help both leaders to counter the military threat presented by the powerful kingdoms of England and Alba which bordered them, but enable the pair to take the offensive. For far too long, ever since the fall of York to Danish Vikings in the previous century and the subsequent division of Northumbria into its ancient regions, the lands between the Humber and the Firth of Forth had been riven by division. Thus weakened they had provided easy pickings for the burgeoning powers of Alba and England, a weakness they had been quick to exploit. But Erik knew that if the earl could be persuaded to remake the old realm, to restore the Northumbrian kingdom of old, then it would be they who held sway over the island of Britain and the centre of power would return to the city of York where it belonged.

  Erik cast a last lingering look to the south before turning aside. The time away from the men had helped to clear his mind, and reinvigorated by the steps he had taken to safeguard the kingdom he began to make his way back along the Roman Rigg. At the roadway’s edge Sturla Godi was still in full flow, and Erik marvelled at his craft as the skald’s words hung in the sultry air:

  The Rigg lay narrow under the feet of men;

  the mail clad troop burst forth into battle.

  When the iron-grey úlfheðnar rushed down, slavering beasts of Óðinn;

  great was the slaughter at Ceasterford.

  Within a few short paces he was nearing the riverside terrace and its cargo of Norse. Erik watched as conversations trailed away at his approach, and mindful of their gaze he painted on a grin as he passed the horses and left the roadway. The men brightened to see their king in high spirits, the earlier concerns now chased away as he moved through the crowd, hailing them by name and lauding their kin. The nagging concern that he had abandoned the archbishop to his fate still tugged at his conscience, but there was little he could do until he received news from the South, and satisfied now that he had done all within his power to safeguard his land he crossed to his friends and took up a cup of his own.

  4

  Hreyrr Camp

  Erik crossed to the window, the morning sun warming his face as he rested his elbows upon the sill. Cupping a hand to his mouth he called out to the guards on the roadway below. ‘Stand fifty paces from the wall, and remember; no-one is to come closer than that under any circumstances until I tell you otherwise.’

  The sentinels nodded that they understood, and Erik watched as their leader began to pace out the distance. As the spearmen began to shoo the travellers and bystanders away, Erik stepped back into the shadows of the king’s garth and turned his face to the men sat there. ‘Let us have these closed too,’ he said with the waft of a hand. ‘The fate of us all could very well rest upon the decision we take today. The fewer men who know our plans the better, even guards have ears.’ The king crossed to the high seat and took his place, watching as the sunbeams which lined the floor were snuffed out one by one. Erik gave Gamli a nod of thanks as the final screen closed with a clatter and the motes of dust dancing in the air before them disappeared from view, waiting until his son had regained the bench opposite before flashing the group a smile. ‘Everyone got a drink?’ The raised cups and horns told him they had, and with Arinbjorn back at his hall in Norway, Erik paused to run his eyes along the men who remained from his most trusted companions. The Erikssons: Gamli; Harald; Guttorm; Sigurd and Ragnfrod alongside his own huskarls: Thorstein Egilsson; Helgrim Smiter; Sturla Godi and the ever loyal styrisman Kolbein Herjolfsson. The Orkney men Arnkel and Erland were there, brothers of the jarl Torfinn Skull-Splitter. The English trio Regenwold, Morcar and Oswald Thane had proven their loyalty time and again over the years and he was glad to have them alongside his Norse. Erik fingered his beard as his mind sifted the names. A dozen men he could count on, almost half of them kinsmen, may not appear so many after a lifetime spent dispensing gold and silver from his gift-stool, but it was a reflection on the loosening of the ties of honour which bound fighting men he decided, rather than any fault of his own. The words spoken by Helgrim Smiter came back to him, the day they had crushed the fleeing garrison of York earlier that summer. He needed the help of the Christian church now to rule effectively, the teachings and lessons of the priests were chipping away at the old loyalties which bound fighting men together in a brotherhood of warriors, eager to tread the rainbow bridge as a company. He was growing more convinced by the year that the wolf days of Harald Fairhair and Erik Haraldsson were drawing to a close, as what churchmen called “civilisation” closed in on every side.

  Erik’s eyes came into focus as his mind returned from its wanderings to be met with a line of quizzical expressions. He gave a snort of embarrassment at the lack of attention at such a time, raising his own horn to drain the contents in a single draught in the time-honoured sign that the council of war had begun. The equally customary belch and slap of the lips out of the way, Erik refilled the horn from the pitcher at his side and addressed the men. ‘So, it seems that the expected retaliation for the king of York regaining his rightful throne is to be an invasion, not from the South as expected, but from the people to the N
orth. Oswald,’ Erik said with a nod in the Northumbrian’s direction. ‘Would you share the news you received today, so that we may look to our response?’

  The archbishop’s thane answered with a nod, and rising from the communal bench he took the floor; a final swig from his ale cup and he addressed the room. ‘As you are all well aware, my lord and patron has been detained by king Eadred in the South for what I am informed they are describing as: “certain accusations which have often been made to the king against him; that he connives at the shifts of allegiance of his compatriots.”’ Oswald threw them a smile which was reflected back by those present; ‘that would be us. As you also know,’ he continued, ‘the archbishop still has many friends within the southern church, so although his confinement in the old Roman fortress at Iudanbyrig may be frustrating to a man of his intelligence and energy, it has its uses. His gaolers talk freely about matters of statecraft unaware that the archbishop has friends close by who can deliver messages to us here in York. It would seem that king Eadred’s health is worsening, almost by the day, and as such we can rest assured that we are safe from attack from that quarter this year. However the archbishop has discovered that the southern king has required Mael Colm mac Domnaill, the king of Scots, to honour the agreement made several years ago by his brother king Edmund following the invasion of and subsequent seeding of both Strathclyde and Cumbraland to his kingdom of Alba.’

  As the men remaining on the bench began to chatter at the revelation, Erik rapped the ale horn on the arm of the high seat to gain their attention. ‘Listen up! Grizzled veteran or not, the king of Scots and his whelps will not be coming alone.’

  Oswald acknowledged his king’s intervention with a nod and continued. ‘Archbishop Wulfstan has sent word that he has discovered that king Eadred has shipped large quantities of silver north to pay for the participation of earl Oswulf and his Bernicians in the coming invasion.’

  A growl came from the men lining the bench, but Erik held up a hand to still them. ‘It would seem that we may have the answer to the messages of friendship we have been sending to the earl in Bebbanburh over the course of the summer, but let us not jump to hasty conclusions. A powerful army is about to attack us here in the kingdom of York and the quickest, most direct path they can use to reach us is along the Roman roads which cross the northern earldom.’

  ‘The last time the Scots came south under old king Constantine,’ Oswald offered, ‘the Bernician thanes who hold lands in Lothian, north of Bebbanburh, joined forces with the invaders. Earl Oswald remained holed up in his coastal fortress, but at least he refrained from adding his army to the host so there may be hope of an alliance yet.’

  Erik nodded. ‘If the earl does take southern silver and joins the invasion, we shall give him the benefit of any doubt for now.’ Erik paused and swept those sat opposite with a look of determination before continuing. ‘As soon as we beat back this attack, we shall redouble our efforts to bring the Bernicians over to our side. Experience tells them that they have every reason to fear the power of their northern neighbours and their puppet-masters in Winchester and London. That may well have held true in the days of Olaf Cuaran and his kin who sat in York in days gone over, but their complacency may well work to our advantage and it falls to us to prove them wrong.’ Erik smiled a rapacious smile which was reflected back from the faces opposite. ‘Thankfully we are about to be handed the perfect opportunity to do just that.’ He turned his eyes to the earl. ‘Regenwold — how do we usually respond to a northern invasion?’

  The earl hauled his giant frame from the bench and moved across to take the floor as Oswald regained his seat. ‘The war arrow is sent out as usual lord,’ he replied, ‘and the army musters in my earldom — along Dere Street just north of my hall in Catrice. It’s a short hop from there to the border at the River Tees, as you will recall from the time we rode it together.’

  Erik nodded that he did. The weather had been sullen the day they had ridden to mark the borders of his new kingdom five years previously — rainy and windswept under a cloak of leaden clouds. The fast flowing river and absence of any useable bridge made an ideal bulwark against an invader and he could see the sense of it, but it was a gutless approach to warfare and his mind was already working on a plan as he pushed the earl for more. ‘Do we ever move across the river to confront them? Or are we always on the defensive?’

  Regenwold’s mouth became a line and he shifted awkwardly. ‘The Great Army rode over the land of course, back in the last century, but the last time that a major battle was fought in Bernicia was over thirty years ago when I was a lad. Ragnall ua Ímair came from Ireland and defeated the Scots and Bernicians at a place called Corebricg on the River Tine, and then came south to rule here in York for a couple of years before he died. Naturally on his death,’ he said with a look of exasperation, ‘Northumbria split again.’

  Erik set his features into a scowl as his mind continued to sketch out a plan for the upcoming war. ‘That depends on the mettle of the king here in York. What can you tell me about this place Corebricg?’ Erik asked the Englishman. ‘Why did the fight take place there, is it another river crossing?’

  Regenwold took a sip of ale before replying. ‘Three important roads converge at that point lord; Dere Street itself passes through on its way to Lothian, a good Roman made road leads north-east to Bebbanburh and another called Stane Gate skirts the southern side of the wall of Hadrian to Cair Ligualid, the main town in Cumbraland.’

  Erik’s eyes flashed as the battle plan began to come together in his mind. He ran his gaze along those seated opposite as he attempted to control any outward signs of the excitement which was building within, but his face creased into a smile as he saw that Harald Eriksson too had realised the opportunity which was presenting itself. If Erik’s second son was thinking along the same lines the plan was sound — the young man’s mind was as sharp as a blade. He turned his face to Oswald Thane. ‘The archbishop is certain that we will be facing the combined armies of Alba, Strathclyde and Cumbraland, and in all probability earl Oswulf too?’

  The man nodded. ‘That is the information I have lord. I received the correspondence this morning and hastened here to share the news.’

  Erik switched his gaze. ‘Regenwold, where is it most likely the men from Cumbraland and Strathclyde will join their Scottish overlords?’

  ‘King Dyfnwal of Strathclyde should lead his host eastwards to link up with the Scots at the northern limit of Dere Street and head south together. Despite the fact that Cumbraland is ruled from Strathclyde, I doubt that the men levied there will also take the same route.’

  Erik shared a look with Harald. ‘No, it is unlikely,’ he agreed. ‘That would mean they would be marching in a great circle, north, east and back south, ending up practically where they began, tiring out the army and using up valuable provisions.’ He turned back to Oswald. ‘When did Wulfstan’s letter say that the enemy intended to assemble?’

  ‘On the Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross, lord.’

  Erik rolled his eyes, drawing a rumble of laughter from those present.

  ‘This month King Erik, the fourteenth day of September; they clearly have it in mind to carry off or burn the harvest as part of their treaty obligation to the English king.’

  ‘And when does this exalted feast occur?’

  ‘Nine days from now lord.’

  ‘But the archbishop did not mention where this meet up was to take place?’

  Oswald shook his head. ‘I am afraid not, no lord.’

  Erik raised his eyes to take in those opposite, and was gratified to see that more of the men sat there were realising his intention to carry the fight to the foe. ‘Nine days…’ he breathed, drumming his fingertips on the arm of the high seat as the plan hardened in his mind. ‘Regenwold,’ he said finally as he reached his decision. ‘What size force can we expect to face from Cumbraland alone?’

  ‘Three, maybe four ships’ companies.’

  ‘So — t
wo hundred men at most?’

  The big man nodded. ‘Cair Ligualid is the only settlement of note in the entire region. Most of the men are hill farmers in the valleys and dales, a few Norse and Angles but mostly Britons whose ancestors were tending sheep thereabouts before the Romans came.’

  Erik switched his gaze. ‘Oswald, change into your travelling clothes and be ready to leave York at midday — you are riding with me. Everyone else,’ he said with a ravening look. ‘Listen closely: this is what I intend to do.’

  Erik slipped from the saddle and arched his back, blowing out as the muscles protested and a joint somewhere made a loud crack. He was well past his half century on Midgard now, but he consoled himself with the thought that that still gave him thirty or forty more years if he were to outlive his father. Whether he would need that long to fulfil the Finnish sorcerer’s prophesy and gain his fifth and final crown remained to be seen, but another realisation surprised him when it came as the image of a white haired Erik Haraldsson secure in his garth in York came into his mind — he cared far more for the wellbeing of the folk in this kingdom than he ever had for those in the fjords and uplands of his motherland. Oswald Thane was having a last word with the scouts, and Erik waited patiently until they looked his way. ‘All set?’

  A chorus of youthful voices assured him they were, and Erik smiled a fatherly smile as he prepared to set them loose. ‘Remember, we are all counting on you. Stick to the uplands and keep as far away from folk as you are able. As soon as you locate the enemy hightail it back to us here with the news, but for the sake of us all don’t get spotted. If we can catch them by surprise we shall have a great victory, but if they are ready and waiting it will be our bodies feeding the eagle and the wolf. It’s forty miles from here to the road we expect the Cumbrians to travel to the muster, so you will have to move fast if we are to have any chance of intercepting them. But you were chosen because you are the best,’ he added with a look, ‘and I know you will repay our trust.’ Erik jerked his head to the north as the scouts stretched their backs to sit a little taller in the saddle at their king’s praise. ‘Off you go then lads,’ he said as the riders hauled the heads of their mounts around, ‘and deliver them up to our blades.’