by C. R. May
The light was snuffed out as the latch dropped into place, and back in the gloom of early morning Erik crossed to the hearth. Sparks and embers glimmered as he stoked the ashes, and as the wood caught and fresh flames lit his features with a fiery glow he turned his face to the queen. ‘After you had retired, word came that Oswald Thane had gone to God. It seems that I was the last to have any meaningful words with him before the end. It was fitting really,’ Erik said sadly. ‘He was the first Englishman I ever spoke to.’
Gunnhild propped herself against the headboard, tugging the covers up to her chin to ward off the chill. ‘If he was always the archbishop’s man, he was also of use to us,’ she said. ‘We should mark his passing in some way Erik, perhaps we could build a church in his memory? He would have liked that.’
Erik snorted. ‘I think that York has enough churches already.’ He crossed to the settle and sat at the foot. Illuminated once again by the flickering flames, the figures on a wall hanging came to life as threads of gold and blue shone in the firelight. It was one of the tapestries he had brought out of Harald Fairhair’s hall in far-off Avaldsnes, the day that he had been forced from his first kingdom by English gold and scheming. Known to all as Völuspá — Prophesy — Óðinn sat at the feet of a seeress as she answered the Allfather’s questions of the creation, destruction and rebirth of everything. He spoke a passage as his eyes fixed upon a scene:
‘She saw Valkyries arrive from afar,
ordained to ride to the race of the gods.
Future clasped a shield, Stabber was another:
War, Battle, Weaver and Spear-prodder…’
Erik’s face lit up as his wife completed the passage:
‘Now they are counted,
the war-maker’s handmaids;
Valkyries fated to ride the ground.’
‘The old days,’ he lamented as the pair shared a look, ‘when the world was a simpler place. It would be quicker to heap earth over his corpse, to build a barrow like my father shared with his own though no less costly. If I filled it with gold it would be only part payment for the services he has rendered me over the years. But I have already thought of a fitting tribute to the man,’ he added, ‘over the past few days when it became obvious that Oswald’s time here was coming to an end. He told me once that he had but one remaining kinsman, a younger brother — a leper who lived off alms at a monastery outside Hrypum. The rest of his family had been taken by plague and warfare, so the church took them in as children.’
‘All dead? So much for a merciful God,’ Gunnhild scoffed. Swinging her legs clear of the bed, she reached for the pot. ‘Christ may be winning the war for men’s hearts, but I think that the old gods still have the best tales.’ She rolled her eyes as she pissed. ‘Loaves and fishes…’
Erik shrugged. ‘The gods have their own reasons for doing things, and sometimes just for the fun of it. They scheme and plot just like men. If Oswald’s family had survived and he had grown to take over the running of the farm or whatever their trade was, maybe we should not be living here in the King’s Garth.’ He continued his tale as the queen covered the pot with a linen kerchief and slipped back beneath the blankets. ‘Thankfully the place was spared when Eadred’s army torched the church and town during our first reign here, and I thought that a purpose-built wing to house the sufferers could be added in Oswald’s memory. I will speak to the abbott later today when I return the thane’s body for burial, and if it pleases him I will arrange for building work to begin in the spring.’
Gunnhild’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘You are still going north, despite all we said last night? What if all this talk of the day of the wolf does not refer to the plots of archbishop Wulfstan and the sword arm of Erik Haraldsson? What if it is Óðinn’s trickery to add that sword to the einherjar, his army of the battle-slain, while you are still of fighting age?’
A thunderous look had flashed into Erik’s features, but the queen carried on, determined to make her point. ‘Oswulf is a wolf too,’ she said, ‘as was his father Ealdwulf — the old wolf. And who is Ealdwulf’s grandson other than Indulf — soon to be king of Scots? Wulf — Ulf, they both mean the same, perhaps the Allfather means the day to be theirs?’
Erik had heard enough. ‘I have already accepted the invitation to feast, and I am not about to disappoint a man who has shown me nothing but loyalty and steadfastness in peace and war for fear of our fat friend in Bebbanburh, nor his Scottish kin. Once earl Oswulf has been disposed of Indulf will either come to heel, or he will discover that this summer’s harrying was little more than a nuisance raid.’ Her worries had taken the king by surprise, and he struggled to hide his irritation. ‘You expect me to cower in York because you fancy there may be a plot against us in Bebbanburh or,’ he snorted, ‘in Valhöll?’ His expression clouded and she knew that she had said too much, but she had made her fears known and all their futures were now in the hands of the gods. ‘Hrypum is only twenty miles from York, and Regenwold’s hall outside Catrice only twenty miles beyond that,’ he snapped. Erik sighed as the anger left him as quickly as it had arrived, his shoulders slumping in regret. ‘I am sorry,’ he said, turning his face to her. ‘A foul temper can help to earn you the reputation of a fighter as a young man; later in life it just makes you a bore. I know you mean well,’ he said. ‘But some things are more important to a man than the number of days he can eke out his lifespan.’
Gunnhild sat upright, leaning forward to kiss him lightly on the cheek. ‘You will never be a bore to me Erik Bloodaxe,’ she breathed, ‘and I would not trade a moment of our time together for another hundred years of life.’ The movement had freed her breasts, and for once the cool air was welcome as she felt them firm. Despite the years of childbearing, Gunnhild had always ensured that nursemaids had helped her retain a youthful figure. She cared not what Erik did while he was away Viking; but in York she was his queen, and she would use every womanly wile to remain so. Erik cupped a tit, moving closer as all thoughts of plots and memorials were driven away. Gunnhild’s breath quickened as she ran her fingertips along his inner thigh. ‘Why don’t you come back to bed,’ she cooed, ‘and show me how sorry you are?’
The heavy oak door closed behind him with a thud, and Erik exchanged smiles with the men as he crossed the frosty grass and came back to the camp.
Thorstein carved a nugget from the dried meat in his hand, popping it into his mouth as he handed the rest across. ‘Eat well, lord?’
Erik pulled a face as he took out his knife and pared a sliver of his own. ‘You know the answer to that question full-well. As an honoured guest I was offered something called a pittance, which was little more than a palmful of black bread and a rude clay cup of water.’ He frowned. ‘It was either that or some muck they called dowcet made out of milk, cream, fruit and egg. They only eat one meal around midday, otherwise as the abbott kindly explained: the brethren are too satisfied to concentrate on their prayers.’
Thorstein laughed at Erik’s impression, the sound drawing the rest of his huskarls across. With the promise of a weeklong bout of feasting, drinking and fine entertainment in the offing, Erik’s kinsmen Erland and Arnkel had tagged along with their own huskarls. The sound of laughter had them turning their heads, and the pair threw Erik a wave from the horse lines as they helped to remove the blankets from the beasts.
Thorstein had seen them too, and he made a remark as the Orcadians rolled up the sheets and began stacking them on the wagon. ‘I will wager you slept better than the rest of us though lord, it was bloody freezing last night.’
Erik feigned concern. ‘Since you are so fretful, yes it’s true I slept like a bairn. The abbott was most pleased with my plans to become a benefactor of his little community, so much so that he insisted that I take over his own private lodgings for the night.’ Erik threw his huskarl a wink. ‘It is a privilege of rank — I am a king you know.’ Beyond the tents and horses the eastern hills wore a crown of their own, as the celestial horses Arvak and Alsvið drew the s
un’s chariot back into the sky to herald the start of a new day. Nearby the lads had tapped a barrel, and Kolbein sauntered across with a horn of ale for his lord as the others exchanged small talk. Erik took it with a smile of gratitude. ‘Another dawn,’ he said. ‘How many of those have we seen in together old friend?’
Kolbein returned the smile. ‘Not enough Erik — let us drink to a few more yet.’
Erik snorted. ‘Aye,’ he said raising the horn, ‘let us do just that.’
The others had seen Kolbein at the tap, and they waved their cups to-and-fro as they called across for a refill. Erik left them joshing, taking the opportunity to walk through the camp as he worked the dry meat around his mouth and washed it down with a gulp of his own. He had been a leader of men long enough now that he could move among them exchanging quips and banter with barely a thought, and his mind began to wander as he went. A hundred and fifty horsemen was considered a here, a raiding army in the laws of the southern English, and it had been enough to lay Gunnhild’s worries despite her fears the previous morning. That he had agreed to leave the elder Erikssons back in York had helped, with only the youngest Ragnfrod tagging along to show the northern earl honour at the feast. With such a large following Olvir had been dispatched to ride the twenty miles along Dere Street to Catrice, sent north to warn Regenwold of the number of bellies he would be expected to fill over the next few days. Erik let out a snort of amusement as he imagined the frenzied preparations which would have followed the news, but he would be sure to restock the earl’s larder from his own before the Jule ale was tapped.
The sun had cleared the hills now, and he paused to breathe in the cool morning air as hoar frost was shaken from guy ropes and tent panels, and icy water was carried from the nearby burn to extinguish the campfires with a hiss. The scouts Hauk and Mord appeared before him, and Erik’s mind returned from its journeying as the welcome sound of leather tents clattering on flatbeds came to his ears. He smiled. ‘All set lads?’
The pair nodded happily. Independent and as reliable as night following day, they had been his eyes and ears for as long as he could recall.
Hauk answered for them both. ‘Yes, lord, all saddled up and ready to go.’
Erik’s gaze dropped to the satchel at his side.
Hauk patted the bag and pulled a cheeky grin. ‘Just a few things for the journey, lord,’ he explained. ‘A joint of swine flesh, and a fresh loaf from the town.’
Erik opened his mouth to protest, but the look in the scout’s eyes stilled his tongue before he uttered a sound. The trio shared a laugh, and all about men exchanged smiles to see their king in such a fine mood.
Mord indicated the wagon with a flick of his head. ‘We brought back a couple of sackfuls for the rest of you King Erik, enough for the men to share a good sized chunk apiece.’ He smiled. ‘Most of the loaves should still be warm, despite the chilly start — a sacrifice worthy of a silver penny.’
‘Aye Mord,’ the king replied, ‘you have the right of that!’ Erik placed a hand on each man’s shoulder as they walked across to the horses. ‘Don’t be in too much of a hurry lads,’ he said. ‘It has been light, what? An hour or so? That still leaves us a good ten hours to cover the twenty miles to Catrice before dark. We will ride at the pace of the wagon and give Regenwold and his household a little more time to prepare for our arrival.’
The pair hauled themselves into the saddle, guiding the horses onto the path which led eastwards back to the Roman road as the king turned away. Eager faces greeted him, and now that he knew the reason for their good humour he gave a nod that they should recover the bread sacks from the wagon and share the contents among them. ‘We will eat in the saddle boys,’ he called as the first of the loaves sailed through the air. He took a final look around him as Sturla Godi, as attentive as ever, began to lead the king’s horse across. Erik mounted as the last of the tents and cooking pots were loaded, and as his guardsmen rode on ahead Ragnfrod guided his horse alongside the king. The youngest Eriksson cast a look across his shoulder as they began to ride away. ‘Did the abbott agree to the building of a hospital father?’ Erik nodded. ‘There is a suitable stretch of ground on the far side of the cloister.’ He turned back, stretching an arm to point out the place. ‘On the level ground between the monastery buildings and the burn. I even had a conversation with Oswald’s brother.’
Ragnfrod’s eyes widened in alarm.
Erik laughed. ‘From a distance!’
‘How was he?’
‘He has leprosy — he looked like shit.’
‘You know what I meant — how did he take the news of his brother’s death?’ Before Erik could reply Ragnfrod threw his father a stony look. ‘And please don’t say that he laughed his head off or some such thing — I know that you are tempted, and temptation is the Devil’s work.’
Erik chuckled happily at his son’s dry wit. Lepers often shed body parts as the disease spread, usually extremities like ears and noses. ‘Surprisingly calmly,’ the king replied. ‘When I told him about my plans to have a leper hospital built in memory of his brother, the man was positively jubilant.’
Erik’s son was delighted. ‘That was the Holy Spirit; Oswald’s name will be remembered for all time, and men’s prayers of thanks will raise him up to the Lord’s right hand.’ He glanced across as the wagon waddled across the field to the track, the ox’s breath pluming as it shouldered the load. ‘For a grizzled heathen, you do much that is good father.’
Erik snorted. Of all his sons only the eldest, Gamli, had spurned Christianity completely. But he knew their devotion to the eastern god was a necessity — the gods of their forefathers were receding everywhere like a passing storm on a summer day, and his sons would need to follow the Christ if they were to have any future in the rich lands of what Oswald had called Christendom. ‘I am honouring a friend,’ he replied, ‘nothing more.’
The pair rode on in silence as the wagon made the track, the only sounds left to disturb the tranquility of the morning hoof falls and the rumble of wheels. Within a few miles the ash-grey line of Dere Street came back into view, and as the sun rose higher to burn off the frost and the fields disappeared beneath a vaporous brume, the column turned their mounts to the north. With the king’s scouts already sent on ahead, Erland’s man Arnald Styrsson led a handful of Orkneymen a half mile or so forward to spy out the roadway, and with a full belly and the promise of a raucous night to come Erik settled down to enjoy the ride.
Within a few miles any chatter had died off, and Erik took in the fields and woodlands of his kingdom as the clatter of hooves filled the vale. It was a fine land, wealthy in a rugged sort of way, and if the inhabitants were less ordered and dutiful than their counterparts south of the Humber he liked them all the more for it. With the wan winter sun warming his back the miles sluiced away, but if the king’s mind was at peace his reverie was soon shattered as the scouts came back into view. Thorstein and Helgrim appeared at his side as they too recognised the urgency in their movements, and the sound of weapons and helms being taken up replaced the steady ring of horseshoes on stone as Erik’s guards rode forward to form a screen. Within a few moments the onrushing horsemen were curbing their mounts as they approached the forward defence, and closer now Erik felt a stab of unease as he recognised his own man Hauk among them. Despite the disquiet he felt Erik forced down the urge to hurry forward, drawing rein as the guards satisfied themselves the riders were friendly. Erik’s closest men had identified Hauk now, the rider’s drawn features betraying the nature of his message, and they guided their horses aside as the scout trotted forward to make his report. Erik gave him permission to speak before his horse had come to a halt.
Hauk swallowed. ‘Regenwold has been burned in, lord,’ he blurted. ‘It is all ash: hall; barn; everything.’
Aware that all eyes were upon him and mindful of his outburst with Gunnhild the previous day, Erik took a moment to quell his anger before replying. ‘Have you seen the earl’s body?’
; Hauk shook his head. ‘No lord — the moment we saw what had happened, we shied away and took cover in a nearby copse.’
Erik’s eyes widened in question at the action, but he had known the man half of his life and trusted that he had good reason. Hauk had seen the look, and he supplied the answer quickly. ‘Scouts don’t blunder into places of danger, lord,’ he said. ‘Our job is to gather what information we can without getting caught or killed, and report back to our leaders.’
Erik nodded that he understood. ‘Where is Mord?’
‘We split up,’ the scout explained. ‘Mord went forward to see what he could find out, while I raced back here to warn you. They must have left a trail, and Mord is as good a tracker as any man alive.’
Movement all around him caught the king’s eye, and Erik glanced about to see that he was surrounded by his leading men. ‘Regenwold’s hall has been burned, but there is a chance he has been taken.’ As the riders shared horrified looks, Erik spat a promise through gritted teeth. ‘When I find whoever has done this, they will beg for death long before I grant it.’
22
Hangi
He could smell smoke on the wind before the remains of the hall came into view. With his mind clouded by thoughts of vengeance Erik had charged ahead, oblivious to the cries of his huskarls as they spurred their horses in his wake.
Dressed for speed and lightly armed Hauk was already in the clearing when he arrived, and Erik swept the perimeter for signs of opposition as he hurled himself clear of the saddle. Moments later the oppressive silence was torn asunder as heavily armed horsemen spilled from the tree line to send a cloud of crows and magpies cawing with annoyance into the air, the riders cleaving to left and right around the figure of the king as they enclosed him in a ring of steel. Jomal was in his hand, and Erik stomped across to the smouldering remains of Regenwold’s hall. Hauk dropped to the ground as he passed, his eyes already lowered as he read the telltale marks in the grass, and as his huskarls reached his side Erik’s gaze took in the devastation.
