‘How do you know where this river is?’ Einar asked Pol, who stood at the prow, giving directions by hand gesture to Ulrich steering at the stern.
‘I’ve travelled this road many times,’ the priest said. ‘It’s a pilgrim route to a holy shrine of Saint Patrick in a kingdom to the west.’
‘What’s a pilgrim route?’ Einar frowned.
‘It’s what we Christians do,’ Pol explained. ‘We travel to the holy sites where saints trod the earth. The journey itself is a form of prayer.’
‘So by sailing up this river we’re praying to your God?’ Einar said, feeling slightly uneasy at the thought.
Pol laughed. ‘I suppose you are. Does your heart feel lighter already, brother?’
‘Far from it,’ Einar said. ‘My heart is black and heavy with worry. My mother could already be dead while we waste time in this adventure. If it turns out she is, I swear by Thor’s blood I will make the man responsible pay for it. I fear he is too powerful, though and I will never be able to get near him. How can someone like me attack a jarl?’
Pol replied, ‘“Vengeance is mine”, says the Lord, “I will repay”.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Einar screwed up his face.
‘It means you should leave revenge to God,’ Pol said. ‘Your father will get his just reward after death.’
Einar’s frown deepened. ‘When he goes to Valhalla, you mean? It’s too late then. That’s why we must get revenge now.’
Pol laughed. ‘The reward that God will give the wicked is far from Odin’s magical feasting hall.’
‘You don’t think the glorious dead go to Odin’s Valour Hall?’
‘Yes and no, my friend.’ Pol said. ‘I believe that all those men who died thinking they would go there are indeed now together in the afterlife, but it’s far from the place of feasting and glory they thought it would be.’
Einar, fearing this was turning into a religious discussion, moved away down the ship.
Under Pol’s guidance, the ship sailed around a spit of land and then into the mouth of a wide river estuary surrounded by high yellow sand dunes on both sides. The river snaked inland, twisting like a serpent as the dunes turned into gorse-covered hills and green fields.
A little way along they spotted smoke rising above the river bank and Pol said there was a settlement ahead. Ulrich dropped the anchoring stone and announced they would wait until dark before proceeding.
Darkness fell and, with the clouds above spitting rain down on them, there was very little light to go by, even once their eyes had become accustomed to the gloom. As they would be sailing right through the heart of enemy territory, Ulrich ordered everyone to dress for battle. Then they lifted the anchor and the ship was under way once more. Einar felt a thrill of fear as he looked down at the stygian water sliding by.
‘What if we hit a rock in the dark?’ he wondered.
‘Then you can walk to the riverbank,’ Skar said. ‘The water probably only comes up to your chest.’
Einar marvelled once again at how skilfully the snekkja had been constructed that it was able to travel with so shallow a draught. Ulrich ordered Atli to the prow where he stood with a long pole, eyes fixed on the river before the ship, scanning for rocks or other hazards that could snare the boat. Einar hoped he could see well in the dark.
The wind was still with them as they travelled upriver. Around a bend they passed the settlement where they could see the lights of a few fires winking through cracks in the daub-and-wattle walls and doors. Thankfully all was quiet; the dark and the rain was keeping everyone indoors while the ship glided silently past. The further inland they journeyed, the narrower the river became. Both banks were thick with undergrowth, reeds and ferns, still lush despite the oncoming winter. These blocked the view of anything beyond a few paces from the river’s edge. Einar felt his skin crawl as he kept constant watch on the thick vegetation. He expected at any moment the undergrowth to explode with Irish warriors howling for their blood. Nothing happened however and the only eyes that watched the dragon ship pass by were those of the occasional little cow or some bemused sheep.
They continued all night. Every low of a cow, sheep’s bleat or whisper of the wind in the reeds sent nervous fingers twitching towards sword hilts or spear shafts. The wind dropped and the crew had to switch to the oars. It was hard going, given that there were so few of them and they were pushing the boat against the flow of the water.
The river first got narrower then expanded into a wide, meandering run with many little islands. This puzzled Einar and the Úlfhéðnar. It seemed to be the wrong way round.
‘This river doesn’t flow down from a mountain,’ Pol explained. ‘Instead it starts in a vast lake, so huge some think it’s a sea. That’s where we’re heading.’
Ulrich consulted with Pol for a moment, then announced, ‘It will be dawn soon. We’ll find somewhere to lay up for the day.’
Even Einar did not object to stopping. The constant tension of the night journey had left everyone’s nerves stretched to breaking point. They anchored the ship amid a forest of tall bull rushes then did their best to cover it with branches and undergrowth. They lowered the sail and stacked foliage round the mast so it looked like a barren tree trunk. As the sun rose on the grey winter morning all but two of the exhausted crew lay down to sleep under the canopy. The unlucky pair left began a spell on watch, keeping an eye out in case some locals discovered them, a duty that would be rotated round the crew throughout the daylight hours.
No one found them. At the end of the short, dreary winter day when the sun sank once more, they shoved the ship back out into the river and the stealthy journey began again.
As the moon rose, the ship slid from the mouth of the river into an enormous lake. Einar could see that Pol had not been exaggerating. The lake was vast, almost like a sea, though the dark shapes of hills could be seen in the far distance against the blue-black sky. Silhouettes of wood-covered islands dotted the moon-dappled waters. The longship slid out into the middle of the lake, silent as a viper, as far as possible from either shore. A strong wind caught the sail, sending her southwards at a rapid speed.
The shores of the lake were dark and quiet. From the black, twisted shapes Einar could make out that they were heavily wooded. The only sounds were the slapping of the waves against the hull and the creaking of the ropes that strained with the sail. Pol stood beside Ulrich at the steering oar, pointing directions which Ulrich followed. As they journeyed towards the middle of the lake Affreca nudged Einar and pointed ahead. He looked in the direction of her finger and saw the flickering of orange flames far away on one of the islands.
Ulrich let out a low whistle and beckoned that everyone should gather around him at the stern.
‘Pol tells me we are near to the hoard,’ Ulrich said. His voice was a hoarse whisper. All knew how far the sound of a man’s voice could travel across water. He nodded to the priest.
‘The place you seek is an island at the southern end of the lake,’ Pol said, gesturing towards the fire lights Affreca had seen. ‘The Irish call it Coiní Island in their tongue. The kings of Uladh used to imprison hostages and dangerous enemies there so it’s well defended. There’s a pier but it’s overlooked by a wall and fighting platform. Trying to land on it if they don’t want you to will be suicide. All other possible places to beach a ship are equally well defended or filled with traps meant to break the hull of a boat.’
‘How do we get onto the island then?’ Skar said.
‘First we must find somewhere to get ashore,’ Pol said, ‘then make our way around the lough side until we come to a point opposite the island.’
‘And what do we do then?’ Hallgrimr said. ‘I’m a good swimmer but I’ll sink like a stone in my brynja; but there’s no way I’m attacking a fortress without my war gear.’
‘Then, my friend,’ Pol said, his teeth glinting white in the weak star shine, ‘we will follow in the footsteps of Saint Patrick. We will walk across th
e water.’
Forty-Six
A serious intensity fell upon the remaining Úlfhéðnar as they began preparing themselves for the task ahead. No one spoke, no orders were issued, yet all knew exactly what they had to do.
As Ulrich brought the ship as close to the shore as he dared in the darkness, the rest pulled open trunks and chests and began preparing for war. Normally a warrior going into battle liked to strut like a peacock. He wore gold, polished mail and carried burnished weapons. His shield was painted in bright colours and his cloak and tunic were just as colourful. It was all about showing off, to draw attention to yourself and show your enemies that you had no fear of them. Tonight, the Úlfhéðnar did none of this. From chests they pulled dark clothes; black, loose tunics that they pulled on over their brynjas to hide any glints of metal from the rings. They changed into similar dark breeches then covered their shields in black cloth covers. Einar marvelled at the thought of what this special clothing must have cost. Dark-coloured dyes, and black especially, were always the most expensive. Skar mixed a pot of grease with the soot from the cooking fire and soon the men were smearing the black concoction on the blades of their weapons and over their hands and faces.
Skar passed similar dark clothes to Einar and Affreca then gestured to the black grease, indicating that they should do the same as the others.
Pol joined them.
‘You’re going to fight with us?’ Einar whispered.
Pol shook his head. ‘If everyone else is invisible in the darkness I don’t want to stick out like a sore thumb. The Irish have cruel ways of killing and I’ve no desire to get caught. I’m not afraid of a martyr’s death but all the same I’d like to avoid one as long as I can.’
‘What’s the matter with you, your highness?’ Skar hissed, catching sight of the look on Affreca’s face.
‘I’m not getting undressed in front of you lot,’ she replied.
‘Worried we won’t be able to control ourselves if we get a glimpse of your flesh?’ the Viking leered.
‘What’s the hold up?’ Ulrich whispered, walking closer so he did not have to raise his voice.
‘Her majesty here doesn’t want to get changed in front of us lads,’ Skar said.
‘Don’t flatter yourself, woman,’ Ulrich said. ‘I for one like a bit more meat on a woman than you have on your scrawny bones.’
Affreca did not move.
‘For Odin’s sake we don’t have time for this!’ Ulrich rolled his eyes. ‘Go to the prow. We will all look the other way.’
Affreca went off to change. Einar and the Wolf Coats, most wearing a bemused smile on their faces, dutifully turned their backs. There were a few muffled sniggers. After some moments Ulrich winked to the others and flicked his head. As one they all turned round again.
Affreca, had moved fast. Her dress was off and replaced by the black tunic. She was halfway into pulling the breeches up as she looked up to see the line of Wolf Coats all now looking at her, grinning, nodding their heads in mock appreciation. Skar, careful not to make any noise, pretended to clap his hands.
Affreca dropped the breeches, grabbed her bow and notched an arrow in one swift movement. The Wolf Coats scattered in all directions.
Affreca sighed and completed pulling up her breeches.
‘Enough messing about,’ Ulrich became serious. ‘We’ve work to do.’
Sigurd pulled what looked like a very large leather bag from under the strakes near the bow. He unfolded it and inside were wicker poles. He worked at it for a few moments, tugging in different directions, then all of a sudden it popped into a shape and Einar’s eyes widened as he realised he was looking at a very light, highly portable boat.
‘It’s like Skíðblaðnir!’ he breathed, thinking of the magical folding ship owned by the Lord Freyr of the Aesir.
Skar, standing beside him, gave a low chuckle. ‘It’s not magic lad. Just a few sticks and leather. It’s not exactly stable but on a calm night like this it will help us sneak ashore without waking up the locals.’
While Skar and Hallgrimr heaved the anchor stone overboard, Sigurd tied a rope to the back of the skiff then lowered the little boat into the water. He then climbed into it, a feat of impressive dexterity given how unstable the boat was. Even on the placid black mirror of the lough it lurched and pitched with every shift in his weight. Once he was in, Skar clambered over the side and Sigurd helped the big man settle into the skiff. Ulrich passed them their weapons and shields, handed them a coil of rope and a pair of oars and then they took off for the shore. The only noise as they pulled away from the ship was the rhythmic splashes as each man dipped his oar into the water on either side of the boat. In no time they were swallowed by the gloom where the water met the tree-covered land.
A short time later two owl hoots came from the shadows. Einar guessed this was a signal as Ulrich began pulling on the rope that the skiff had trailed behind it, dragging the now empty little boat back into view and across the short distance to the longship. This time there was also a rope trailing from the front of the skiff back to the shore.
Pol and Hallgrimr climbed in next. The rope attached to the front of the skiff snapped tight and Einar guessed that Skar and Sigurd were pulling on it. This time there was not even the noise of the oars dipping as the skiff glided, silent as death, to the shore. The shuttling back and forth continued and soon it was Einar and Affreca’s turn. Einar’s heart was in his mouth as he clambered with extreme care into the little boat, painfully aware that the slightest movement could tip the unstable vessel, pitching him into the black waters of the lake. His heavy clothes and weapons would take him to the bottom in an instant.
He raised a silent prayer of thanks to the Aesir when, after a very short journey, he felt scraping as the leather bottom of the skiff came aground at the shore. Affreca, lithe as a cat, jumped out without upsetting the boat. Einar was slightly clumsier but he was quickly ashore too. Before long, the whole crew of the longship were gathered on the shore, which consisted of a short rocky stretch barely three strides across then it turned into head-high grass and tangled undergrowth.
The Úlfhéðnar slung their shields on their backs and pulled the hoods of their wolfskin cloaks up over their heads so the ears of the beasts stood up against the night sky. Einar looked around and felt a thrill of mixed fear and excitement as he saw the outlines of the dangerous men around him. The whites of their angry eyes were the only features discernible in their blackened faces. They were a very small band in the midst of hostile, enemy territory but Einar was glad he was with them and not an Irishman crossing this lonely wasteland in the darkness of night, perhaps to run into this ferocious band. When he was a boy the thought of travelling at night had evoked terror at the idea of what monsters lurked in the dark. Trolls, witches, dark elves and, the most fearsome of all, the dreadful walking dead, the draugr, who rose from their burial mounds at night and haunted the darkness, waiting to pounce and kill. This night, however, Einar was in the company of the monsters.
The only one not ready for war was Pol. His face was blackened but he wore no armour and in his hand he bore his long staff like a walking stick.
‘I will show you the way, but I will not spill blood,’ he said as he waved away the sword Ulrich offered him.
Ulrich shrugged, touched a finger to his lips to signal silence, then they started off. At first they were slow, pushing through reeds and thick undergrowth, branches and thorns that grabbed and tore at their cloaks as they passed. Before long the way eased and they broke into an area with more room where the ground seemed less cluttered. Whether it was a track used by people or animals it was hard to say. Einar’s eyes were getting used to the darkness but it was still hard to see what was round them. He felt a tug on his elbow and turned. Someone stood beside him. Einar felt his presence, rather than saw him but looking up he could see the man’s head outlined against the star shine above. From his height it could only be one man.
‘Try not to look directly at what
you want to see,’ Skar leaned forward and hissed in a whisper. ‘You will see it better in the dark if you don’t. As you walk, sweep your feet forwards, close to the ground. You are less likely to trip that way.’
Einar nodded but realised the gesture was probably redundant in the dark. Then they were off again, travelling down the track in single file. They jogged along at quite a rate considering the darkness and Einar found himself just hoping that the men in front of him could make out the route better than he could. Otherwise if one went down they would all come tumbling after. He also tried to put the thought out of his head of the snapping of bone and flood of pain that would come with a stray branch or log catching his foot.
They travelled for some time until the path emerged into what looked in the moonlight to be open heathland. A little cow, startled by their sudden emergence from the bushes, took off down the field.
‘Where there’s cattle there’ll be people,’ Ulrich said. ‘Don’t the Irish take their livestock in for the winter?’
‘No need,’ Pol said. ‘It doesn’t get really cold till nearly Christmas. Jól as you people still call it.’
‘You people?’ Ulrich sneered. ‘There was a time when you celebrated the Jól feast.’
‘I have no time for ghost stories and drinking now,’ Pol said.
Einar felt a pang of homesickness as he remembered Jól festivals in days gone by. Friends and neighbours from all over had come to his mother’s house for feasting, ale and giving of gifts. It was such a warm, happy time in the midst of winter’s dark days. Then, as the fire burned low, they had whispered tales of ghosts and spirits of the night who, it was said, returned to the hearths of their families on that night. Folk had laughed off such stories as a joke, but when everyone had retired to their beds, their bellies full of ale and meat, some oat cakes and ale were left on the hearth stones, in case any supernatural visitors came in during the night.
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