The Day of the Wolf

by C. R. May

  The door came open, interrupting the wanderings if his mind — specks of dust danced in a rectangle of light. Erik exchanged a nod with the brothers as he ducked out into the cool morning air. His closest companions were waiting, as faithful as any hounds: Thorstein, Sturla and Helgrim alongside Kolbein Herjolfsson, the last to remain from the meeting on the strand at Naustdal where Fairhair had gifted young Erik a fleet to prove himself a Haraldsson. As the group began to haul themselves to their feet Erik held out a hand in an unmistakable gesture that he wished to alone. ‘That was deeply moving,’ he said, turning his face to the man at his side. ‘You have my heartfelt thanks Your Excellency.’

  Bishop Aldred opened his mouth to speak, but the reply was stillborn. They exchanged the look of two men who had shared a humbling experience, before the churchman moved to return to the hall. He stopped a short distance away, turning back when he realised that he was walking alone. ‘Will you not join me in breaking my fast King Erik? I have missed Matins and Lauds, I am sure that the Lord will overlook my absence at Prime after a night spent in the presence of a Saint. Later I have promised your son Harald I would show him my work, adding an English gloss to the gospel book we brought from Holy Island for safekeeping.’ The bishop smiled, and a look of contentment stole across his features as he regarded the old Norseman. ‘Truthfully King Erik, I had heard conflicting reports as to the depth of your devotion to the one true God, but our time together has laid those fears to rest. Your son Harald is a joy, and I am thrilled to see the descendants of the folk my predecessors were forced to flee, taking a keen interest in the word of the Almighty.’

  Erik pulled a bashful smile in return. ‘I should like to spend a few moments alone with my thoughts Bishop,’ he said softly. ‘Then I would describe the wonders of our vigil to my closest friends while they are still fresh in my memory.’ Erik patted his belly, the smile widening as a growl came from within. ‘As you can hear, we shan’t be far behind and we can break our fast together.’ Aldred chuckled and nodded that he understood, but the moment that he had turned his back Erik shot his guards a wink. To a man the Norwegians had looked aghast at the sight of their king cosying up to a Christian holy man, and it was all Erik could do not to laugh aloud at the sight despite his tiredness. But the gesture had brought the colour back to their cheeks, and Erik allowed himself a snort of amusement as he doubled the corner and picked out a spot.

  It had been a long night and an even longer morning as he had squirmed and shifted to keep the contents of his ageing bladder where they belonged, and as he hurriedly loosened his breeks to piss into the ground Erik’s face came up to bask in the warmth of the morning sun. It was true, he mused as he splashed the soil — the small stone room which contained the body of the saint had been imbued with a sense of power. But it was not the power of the Christian God — at least not for one with only a part-time adherence to the creed such as himself, but the dominion of earthly men. The kings of the southern Saxons who had left the treasures in the vault below had not beaten a path to the old Roman storehouse just to pay homage to the dried out husk of a man long since dead. Scorned by his under king Constantine of Alba, Athelstan — the same king who had not only fostered Erik’s half-brother Hakon, but had helped him to overthrow Erik’s kingship in his homeland — had stopped by at the head of an army and fleet on the way to waste the kingdom as punishment for the sleight. A decade later Erik had watched from seaward as his successor Edmund the Magnificent had carried fire and sword against the men of Strathclyde, and following that king’s murder Eadred his brother had spent a summer harrying Erik’s own kingdom while he had been forced to pace the King’s Garth at York in impotent rage. These were the type of men whose actions Erik wished to emulate, and if he could add the support of the Christian church to the invasion of the North then so much the better. But a heap of fire scorched brands in a bloodstained glade, and the butchered remains of a pure white stallion near York showed where his heart really lay, and he murmured an invocation to Óðinn and Þórr as he retied his trews and crossed the dewy grass to his men.

  13

  A Wish Fulfilled

  The huskarls crowded around the king as the destination hove into view, the riders yammering in their excitement like hunters at the kill. Erik’s eyes shone as they drank in the scene. Harald spoke at his shoulder. ‘They made it! Now that is a sight.’

  Away to the West the army of York stood in ranks, covering the hillside beneath wind driven clouds the colour of lead. Kolbein shot Erik a look. ‘Are you sure you want this crown lord? It will be the fifth.’

  Erik’s eyes slid across to the old campaigner. ‘Fifth or not, I shall wear it. No man lives forever.’

  Bishop Aldred caught his eye, clearly intrigued by the conversation and Erik explained. ‘A long time ago when I was scarce more than a bairn, I led an army to the land of the Finns to repay an injustice suffered by my father Harald Fairhair. A sorcerer named Svasi ruled a kingdom known as Bjarmaland, and he had used witchcraft to trick king Harald into marrying his daughter, a woman called Snofrid.’ Erik half smiled as he saw the faces of his veterans take on a faraway look, their minds drifting back over the years to days when they had been infused by the vigour of youth and a riverside temple flanked by a ship army of Norse. ‘I took the king’s head and lifted the curse,’ Erik went on, ‘but before I did so a woodland shaman foretold that I would wear five crowns in my lifetime.’ Erik rode on, but Kolbein noisily cleared his throat to indicate that the tale was not yet complete. The king laughed. ‘That’s all I recall.’

  ‘If I remember rightly lord,’ Sturla put in, ‘he also said that you would die on a windswept fell and few would mourn it. It earned him a prick from Anlaf’s spearpoint when I made his words into Norse.’

  The mention of Erik’s old huskarl quietened those who had known him in life, and Erik explained to the Bernician churchman as the column left the shelter of the woodland and began to descend a grassy slope. ‘Anlaf Crow was one of my huskarls, my very first standard bearer. He was killed by a poisoned arrow in Dublin many years ago, but we still drink to his memory and fill a horn for him when we are at our ale.’ Erik ran his eyes around the group, exchanging a look which only men who had stood shoulder to shoulder in harms way could really understand. ‘Loved or not; if I die on a lonely fell, far better that than a straw death a’bed.’ Death’s long shadow had stolen some of the levity from the moment, and Aldred knew enough of fighting men to pull a sympathetic smile and leave them to their thoughts.

  Clear of the tree cover the wind shrieked and howled, and soon the riders were dipping their chins as the first rainfall drove in from the west. Erik reflected on the journey as the leading men reached the valley floor, the horses splashing through the mire as they made for the far bank. The first morning out from Conceastre had been a pleasant ride — the skies as blue, the air as warm as the week which had just gone over. But the wind had begun to rise as they rode, and within the day dark clouds were forming a rampart over the western hills, thunder drumming along its leading edge as the storm rushed in to gobble up the sun. The storms had dogged their journey north, and although the rain had slowly eased the winds had continued to rise until the gentle breezes of York and Conceastre had turned to gales.

  Erik’s stallion had crossed the shallow valley as he reminisced, and as the animal gained the ridge his horse guards rode forward to form a protective screen. Up on the hog-back now the wind was a demon, and as the landscape opened up before him Erik narrowed his eyes against the blow. Away to his left the spearmen of York striped the heights, the boundary wall of a hill fort built by the ancients just visible beyond as a white line beneath the racing clouds.

  The army of Bebbanburh had gathered half a mile to the East, and as Erik looked a knot of riders detached themselves and began to make their way across beneath the banner of their earldom. Erik flicked a look across his shoulder, exchanging a look with Sturla Godi as his standard bearer struggled manfully to hold the sigil
of Erik Haraldsson upright in the gale. Erik drew rein, Harald and bishop Aldred moving to his shoulders as the riders approached, and as they grew nearer the king’s eyes searched out the figure of the earl. A savage gust blew a curtain of rain across the group, and when it cleared Erik’s eyes widened in surprise. Despite being forewarned by the bishop and others who had met the man, the king was still shocked by the sight. Oswulf Ealdwulfing was quite possibly the paunchiest man he had ever laid eyes upon, and despite the magnificence of his arms and armour Erik understood for the first time why the man had cried off accompanying the army on this summer’s campaign and was thankful for it. The Yorkish outriders drew aside as the group came up, funnelling the Bernicians towards the fold in the land where the king and his party were sheltering from the worst of the gale.

  The earl slowed as he approached Erik, curbing his horse several lengths shy of the king before bowing his head low. Maccus the Easterner was at his lord’s side, and Erik watched for any hesitation in the man’s demeanour as he followed the action and was heartened to see there was none. Erik let the moment of submission stretch until he was sure that all had seen; it had taken a year of negotiation and no few threats, veiled or otherwise, to winkle the man from his rocky bolthole, and Erik was going to make the fact of his overlordship plain to all whether the earl liked it or not. When he judged that the point had been made, Erik spoke. ‘Earl Oswulf, this is a momentous day — the day the ancient kingdom of Northumbria is reforged under one king.’ The king’s words were the signal for the men before him to raise their heads, and the Bernician earl’s features broke into a smile as he replied. ‘It was my father’s dearest wish, and his before that that they would live to see this day King Erik.’ Oswulf flicked a look at bishop Aldred, and up to the cross of Saint Cuthbert on its gilt staff. ‘That the Lord in Heaven should make that dream reality during my lifetime is a thing of which I am unworthy.’

  Erik slipped from the saddle, gesturing that the earl join him with a wave of his hand. A flurry of movement caused the Norwegians to stiffen but Erik was closer, and he raised a hand for calm as he watched a retainer hurry forward to help the earl dismount. Oswulf just had time to straighten up before Erik was upon him, and the king embraced the earl before taking a rearward pace and regarding the man who was about to swear allegiance. Erik smiled, and the answering smile seemed honest and true; despite the well meant warnings of Oswald Thane and others, Erik had met enough men during his long lifetime to judge a man’s character, and he pushed any doubts aside as he threw a look at the sky. Above them the clouds were as dark as iron, but a band of light above the distant Cheviots was coming on apace. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Let us do that which needs to be done — I have a kingdom to ravage, and the army to do it.’

  Erik took his place on the royal seat of Northumbria and looked out to the west. The storm had cleared away but the hour was late, the horizon aglow; a little to the north, beyond the River Glein, rain fell in sheets — but the long hill on which the combined army of Northumbria had gathered was in the clear for now, and each and every man was grateful for that. The anointing already performed, Erik looked about him as the bishop approached, shifting the weight of the orb and sceptre in his hands as he prepared for the culmination of the ceremony. Ringed by the leading men — the thanes, earls and gesiths of York and Bernicia — Erik imagined the ghosts of the kings who had gone before him joining the throng, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the golden king helm they had worn in life on this very spot named Gefrin — the Hill of Goats. The halls and buildings had long gone — burned again and again by Picts, Scots and Danes — with just the odd charred beam poking through the rain lashed grass to remind men that this had been one of the most important sites in the old kingdom. Some of those kings had been heathen he now knew, back in the days when the English had first come to this land and Óðinn, Þórr and Njörðr had held sway over their devotions. Bishop Aldred had enthused over the mass conversions which had taken place in the little River Glein at the foot of the hill, but the site was far older still, and if the land hereabouts had borne witness to a plethora of gods the fact suited Erik and a good part of his army well.

  As the bishop came closer to the steps the gaggle of priests following on broke into song, and Erik allowed his eyes to savour the beauty of the golden helm of the Northumbrians as Aldred raised it high for all to see. Gleaming dully in the failing light, a circuit of decorated plates enclosed the bowl of the helm: an army of spearmen on the march; dragons writhing on the cheek pieces and nasal; boar heads guarding the eyes. But it was the crest made from the hair of the same animal which drew gasps of wonder from tough fighting men, and Erik’s heart skipped a beat as the last of the day’s light finally broke through to paint the bristles the colour of blood. Bishop Aldred had reached him now, and Erik straightened in the ancient seat as the man moved to his rear. This was the moment on which he had pondered throughout the upheavals of his life, the instant the fifth and final crown rested upon his head. A picture of his foster-brother came into his mind as the chants of the brethren hung on the air, and a trace of a smile appeared despite the gravity of the occasion. For a snippet in time he was back in Norway, treading the jetty at Avaldsnes as the first of the fleet turned their bows to the south and prepared to carry him into exile. Arinbjorn Thorirsson was fixing him with a stern faced glare, and he heard the words again as the song became a chant and he felt the weight of the crown rest upon his head:

  ‘If the shaman told you anything about the future Erik, he did so out of mischief; it was a curse…’

  Well, curse or not the augury had run its course, but a new Bretwalda - the Britain-wide-ruler of old - had risen to add his name to the great Northumbrian emperors of the past: Edwin; Oswald; Oswiu; Erik. But if the act of carrying the ancient helm from its place of safekeeping within the high walls of Bebbanburh had been a sign of earl Oswulf’s submission there was one more act to follow, and the chants and acclamations of churchmen and warriors alike petered out as the king turned his eyes on the man.

  Oswulf dipped his head in acknowledgment, and as he began to make his way forward and bishop Aldred came up to recover the orb and sceptre, Helgrim Smiter and Harald Eriksson hefted their spears and moved in to stand at the king’s side. Sturla moved forward to fly the bloodaxe standard alongside the cross of Saint Cuthbert, and as earl Oswulf drew up before him King Erik spoke:

  ‘Oswulf Ealdwulfing — is it your intention to offer an oath of allegiance, to forsake all others and become my man?’

  The Bernician met the king’s gaze and straightened his flabby shoulders. ‘Aye, lord.’

  The king nodded. ‘Share with us your lineage — regale us with your deeds, that all may know what type of man you are.’

  The request was a formality — Erik had worked ever since his return to York for this moment — and his eyes wandered across the throng as the earl said his piece, acknowledging the look of satisfaction in the countenance of the leading men in his newly restored kingdom, until they alighted on the face of the man he wished to see the most. Erik saw the pride shining in the eyes of his favoured English earl, the man who had stood shoulder to shoulder alongside him through all the trials and shifting loyalties in the madcap kingdom of York as he recalled Regenwold’s fervent wish:

  With Bernician warriors and Yorkish gold, a reunified Northumbria could once again become the greatest power on the island…

  Oswulf had completed his boasting by the time Erik looked back, and although the wind was a cats-paw compared to the earlier gale, he filled his lungs in the hope that all would hear his reply:

  ‘Oswulf Ealdwulfing, we recognise your worthiness. Do you swear by the deck of a ship and the rim of a shield, the withers of a horse and the point of a sword to become my man and forsake all others?’

  As the earl confirmed that he did, Helgrim handed the king a fine sword which he laid upon a thigh. With the handle facing towards the supplicant Erik trapped the point between the right side
of his body and arm, laying his forearm along the length of the blade until his hand gripped the hilt.

  ‘Then speak your oath.’

  Earl Oswulf knelt before the king, reaching out to place his right hand beneath the hilt. His oath of allegiance made, the man who had arrived on the windswept hill as sole ruler in these parts leaned in to kiss the hilt of his overlord’s sword, and as Erik nodded in satisfaction he reached across to remove a heavy gold ring from his arm. Sliding the hoop onto the tip of the sword he held the point forward, and as the precious gift slid down the blade with a rasp Oswulf drew and raised his own. The sword points met, the ring sliding from one to the other. Oswulf retrieved the ring and slipped it onto his arm, and Erik spoke the final words of warning against the treacherous breaking of the oath just uttered as he gripped the blade with both hands and presented it to his earl:

  Bíti-a þér þat sverð er þú bregðir

  nema sjalfum þér syngvi of höfði.

  May the sword pierce you which you draw!

  May it sing only around thine own head.

  A peal of thunder rolled down from the North as the king completed the curse, and the heathen among his army — already thrilled by the sound of their own tongue after all that had gone before — exchanged looks of wonder as the air crackled and fizzed. Þórr had come among them, and as the wheels of the god’s goat drawn chariot rumbled across the sky again, hands moved up to clasp silver hammers and charms and the sound of thunder filled the air. Earl Oswulf withdrew and Erik raised Jomal, stalking the flatbed of the wagon which had carried the ancient king-stool of Northumbria from its usual place in York. Sturla hoist the king’s battle banner aloft, following in his steps, and Erik waited for the cries of acclamation to lessen before lowering the war axe to speak.