Warriors of the Storm

by Bernard Cornwell

  ‘He went to Ragnall?’ I asked.

  ‘To Jarl Ragnall, yes,’ she sounded disapproving.

  ‘With how many men?’

  ‘Sixteen,’ she said, ‘and who are you?’

  ‘Men summoned by Jarl Ragnall,’ I said evasively.

  ‘I hear he needs more men,’ she said scornfully.

  ‘Mistress,’ I asked, intrigued by her tone, ‘what have you heard?’

  ‘Njall will tell you,’ she said. ‘I suppose you’re about to rob me?’

  ‘I’ll pay for whatever we take.’

  ‘Which will still leave us hungry. I can’t feed my people on your hacksilver.’

  Njall proved to be one of the sixteen warriors who had gone south to join Ragnall’s army. He had lost his right hand at Eads Byrig and had returned to this lonely valley where he farmed a few thin fields. He came to the hall that night, a morose man with a red beard and a bandaged stump and a thin, resentful wife. Most of my men were eating in the largest barn, dining on three slaughtered pigs and two goats, but Lifa, who was the mistress of the steading during her husband’s absence, insisted that some of us join her in the hall where she served us a meal of beef, barley, bread, and ale. ‘We have a harpist,’ she told me, ‘but he went south with my husband.’

  ‘And won’t return,’ Njall said.

  ‘He was killed,’ Lifa explained. ‘What kind of enemy kills harpists?’

  ‘I was there,’ Njall said gloomily, ‘I saw him take a spear in the back.’

  ‘So tell your story, Njall,’ our hostess commanded imperiously, ‘tell these men what enemy they will face.’

  ‘Uhtred,’ Njall snarled.

  ‘I’ve heard of him,’ I said.

  Njall looked at me resentfully. ‘But you haven’t fought him,’ he said.

  ‘True.’ I poured him ale. ‘So what happened?’

  ‘He has a witch to help him,’ Njall said, touching the hammer at his neck, ‘a sorceress.’

  ‘I’d not heard that.’

  ‘The witch of Mercia. She’s called Æthelflaed.’

  ‘Æthelflaed is a witch?’ Finan put in.

  ‘How else can she rule Mercia?’ Njall asked resentfully. ‘You think a woman can rule unless she uses witchcraft?’

  ‘So what happened?’ Sigtryggr asked.

  We coaxed the tale from him. He claimed that Ragnall had us all trapped in Ceaster, though he could not remember the name of that town, only that it was a place that had stone walls, which he assumed had been built by spirits working for Æthelflaed. ‘Even so, they were trapped in the city,’ he said, ‘and the Jarl said he would keep them there while he captured the rest of Mercia. But the witch sent a storm and Uhtred rode the morning wind.’

  ‘Rode the wind?’

  ‘He came with the storm. A horde of them came, but he led. He has a sword of fire and a shield of ice. He came with the thunder.’

  ‘And Jarl Ragnall?’ I asked.

  Njall shrugged. ‘He lives. He still has an army, but so does Uhtred.’ He knew little more because, captured at Eads Byrig, he had been one of the men we had released after severing his hand. He had walked home, he said, but then added one more scrap of news. ‘The Jarl could be dead for all I know. But he planned to raid Mercia till his own witch worked her magic.’

  ‘His own witch?’ I asked.

  He touched the hammer again. ‘How do you fight a sorceress? With another sorceress, of course. The Jarl has found a powerful one! An old hag, and she’s making the dead.’

  I just stared at him for a moment. ‘She’s making the dead?’

  ‘I journeyed north with her,’ he said, clutching the hammer now, ‘and she explained.’

  ‘Explained what?’ Sigtryggr asked.

  ‘The Christians worship the dead,’ Njall said. ‘All their churches have an idol of a dead man and they keep bits of dead people in silver boxes.’

  ‘I’ve seen those,’ I said.

  ‘Relics,’ Finan put in.

  ‘And they talk to the pieces of dead people,’ Njall said, ‘and the dead people talk to their god.’ He looked around the table, fearing that no one believed him. ‘It’s how they do it!’ he insisted. ‘It’s how they talk to their god!’

  ‘It makes sense,’ Sigtryggr said cautiously, looking at me.

  I nodded. ‘It’s hard for the living to talk to the gods,’ I said.

  ‘But not for Christians,’ Njall said. ‘That’s why they win! That’s why their witch is so powerful! Their god listens to the dead.’

  Finan, the only Christian at the table, smiled wryly. ‘Maybe the Christians win because they have Uhtred?’

  ‘And why do they have Uhtred?’ Njall asked forcefully. ‘Men say he worships our gods, yet he fights for the Christian god. The witch has charmed him!’

  ‘That’s true,’ Finan said rather too enthusiastically, and I almost kicked him beneath the table.

  ‘He must be a lonely god,’ Lifa, our hostess, said thoughtfully. ‘Our gods have company. They feast together, fight together, but their god? He has no one.’

  ‘So he listens to the dead,’ Sigtryggr said.

  ‘But only to the Christian dead,’ Njall insisted.

  ‘But what can Jarl Ragnall’s witch,’ I almost named Brida, but avoided it at the last moment, ‘do to change that?’

  ‘She’s sending a message to their god,’ Njall said.

  ‘A message?’

  ‘She says she’ll send him a host of dead people. They’ll tell him to take away the Mercian witch’s power or else she’ll kill every Christian in Britain.’

  I almost laughed aloud. Only Brida, I thought, would be mad enough to threaten a god! And then I shuddered. She wanted to send a cloud of messengers? And where would she find those messengers? They had to be Christians or else their nailed god would not listen to them, and in many parts of Northumbria the monasteries and convents had been burned down and their monks and nuns either killed or driven to exile. But there was one place the church still flourished. One place where she could find enough Christians to send screaming into the afterlife with a defiant message to the nailed god.

  She had gone to Eoferwic.

  And there we went too.

  I had told Sigtryggr that Eoferwic lay in flat land and that was true, though that flat land was raised slightly above the rest of the plain where the city lay. It also lay between the junction of two rivers, and that alone made it a difficult city to attack. The walls made it almost impossible because they were twice the height of the walls at Ceaster. There had been great gaps in the wall when my father had led an assault on the city, but those gaps had been baits for a trap, and he had died in the trap’s jaw. Those gaps were filled now, the new masonry looking much lighter than the old. Jarl Ragnall’s flag of the blood-red axe hung from the walls and stirred idly on a tall pole above the southernmost gate.

  We were a ragged band, still mostly on foot though we had stolen or bought a dozen horses as we journeyed from Lifa’s steading in the hills. Most of us were barefoot, weary, and dusty. Some thirty men had fallen behind, but the rest still carried their mail, their weapons, and shields. Now, as we approached the city, we flew Sigtryggr’s banner, which was identical to his brother’s flag, and we mounted Orvar and his men on the stallions. Stiorra, dressed in a white gown, rode a small black mare with her daughter perched in front of her. She appeared to be guarded by Finan and by two of Orvar’s Norsemen, who rode either side of her. Sigtryggr and I walked among the mass of men who followed the horsemen towards the city’s gate.

  The wall was high, and built atop a bank of earth. ‘This is where your grandfather died,’ I told my son, ‘and where I was captured by the Danes.’ I pointed to one of the paler stretches of new masonry. ‘Your grandfather led an attack right there. I thought we’d won! There was a gap in the wall there and he stormed the mound and went into the city.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘They’d built a new wall behind it. It was a trap, and once o
ur army was inside they attacked and slew them all.’

  He stared ahead, noting the church towers topped by crosses. ‘But if it’s been Danish for so long why is it still Christian?’

  ‘Some of the Danes converted,’ I said. ‘Your uncle for one.’

  ‘My uncle?’

  ‘Your mother’s brother.’

  ‘Why?’

  I shrugged. ‘He ruled here. Most of his people were Saxons, Christian Saxons. He wanted them to fight for him, so he changed his religion. I don’t think he was a very good Christian, but it was convenient.’

  ‘There are a lot of Danish Christians here,’ Sigtryggr put in. He sounded gloomy. ‘They marry Saxon girls and convert.’

  ‘Why?’ my son asked again.

  ‘Peace and quiet,’ Sigtryggr said. ‘And a good pair of tits will persuade most men to change their religion.’

  ‘Missionaries,’ Finan said happily. ‘Show us your missionaries!’

  The city gate opened. Our leading horsemen were still two hundred paces away, but the sight of Sigtryggr’s great banner had reassured the guards. Just two horsemen galloped to meet us, and Orvar, who was pretending to be the leader of our small army, held up his hand to halt us as they approached. I edged forward to listen.

  ‘Orvar!’ One of the approaching horsemen recognised him.

  ‘I’ve brought the Jarl his girl,’ Orvar said, jerking a thumb towards Stiorra. She sat straight-backed in her saddle, her hands clasped protectively about Gisela.

  ‘You did well!’ One of the horsemen pushed through Orvar’s men to look at Stiorra. ‘And what of her husband?’

  ‘Feeding the fish in Ireland.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Cut to pieces,’ Orvar said.

  ‘Leaving a pretty widow.’ The man chuckled and reached out a gloved hand to lift Stiorra’s chin. Sigtryggr growled beside me and I put a cautionary hand on his arm. I had made him wear a helmet with closed cheek-pieces that hid his face. He also wore old mail, no arm rings and no gold, appearing to be a man not worth a second glance. The horseman who had come from the city smiled nastily at Stiorra. ‘Oh, very pretty,’ he said. ‘When the Jarl has finished with you, darling, I’ll give you a treat you won’t forget.’

  Stiorra spat in his face. The man immediately brought back his hand to hit her, but Finan, who was mounted on one of our few horses, caught the man’s wrist. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked, sounding friendly.

  ‘Brynkætil,’ the man said sullenly.

  ‘Touch her, Brynkætil,’ Finan said pleasantly, ‘and I’ll feed her your balls,’ he smiled, ‘fried, as a treat.’

  ‘Enough!’ Orvar kicked his horse to come between the two men. ‘Is the Jarl here?’

  ‘The Jarl is raping Mercia,’ Brynkætil said, still glowering, ‘but the old bitch is here.’ He gave the rest of us a cursory glance and was evidently not impressed by what he saw.

  ‘The old bitch?’ Orvar asked.

  ‘She’s called Brida of Dunholm,’ he growled. ‘You’ll meet her. Just follow me.’ He jerked his head towards the gate.

  And so, after many years, I came to Eoferwic again. I had known the city as a child, I had visited it often when I was young, but fate had taken me to Wessex, and Eoferwic lay far to the north. It was the second most important city in Britain, at least if you judge a city by size and wealth, though in truth Eoferwic was a poor place compared to Lundene, which grew fatter and richer and dirtier with every passing year. Yet Eoferwic had its wealth, brought to it by the rich farmlands that surrounded it, and by the ships that could sail all the way up the rivers to where a bridge stopped them. A Roman bridge, of course. Most of Eoferwic had been built by the Romans, including the great walls that surrounded the city.

  I walked through the gate tunnel and came into a street with houses that had stairways! Lundene had such houses too, and they always amaze me. Houses that have one floor piled on another! I remembered that Ragnar had a house in Eoferwic with two stairways, and his son Rorik and I used to race around and around, up one stair and down the other, whooping and shouting, leading a pack of barking dogs in a mad chase to nowhere until Ragnar would corner us, thump us about the ears, and tell us to go and annoy someone else.

  Most of the houses had shops opening onto the street, and, as we followed Orvar and his horsemen, I saw that the shops were full of goods. I saw leatherware, pottery, cloth, knives, and a goldsmith with two mailed warriors guarding his stock, but though the goods were plentiful the streets were strangely empty. The city had a sullen air. A beggar scuttled away from us, hiding in an alley, a woman peered at us from an upper floor, then closed the shutters. We passed two churches though neither had an open door, which suggested that the Christians of the city were fearful. And no wonder if Brida was ruling the place. She who hated Christians had come to one of the only two places in Britain that had an archbishop. Contwaraburg was the other. An archbishop is important to the Christians, he knows more sorcery than ordinary priests, even more than the bishops, and he has more authority. I have met several archbishops over the years and there was not one of them I would trust to run a market stall selling carrots. They are all sly, two-faced, and vindictive. Æthelflaed, of course, thought them the holiest of men. If Plegmund, Archbishop of Contwaraburg, so much as farted she chanted amen.

  Finan must have been thinking much the same thoughts as me because he turned in his saddle. ‘What happened to the archbishop here?’ he asked Brynkætil.

  ‘The old man?’ Brynkætil laughed. ‘We burned him alive. Never heard a man squeal so much!’

  The palace at Eoferwic’s centre must have been the place from which a Roman lord ruled the north. It had decayed over the years, but what great buildings left by the Romans had not crumbled to ruin? It had become the palace of the kings of Northumbria, and I remembered seeing King Osbert, the last Saxon to rule without Danish support, being slaughtered by drunken Danes in the great hall. His belly had been sliced open and his guts had spilled out. They had let the dogs eat his intestines while he lived, though the dogs had taken one bite and then been repelled by the taste. ‘It must have been something he ate,’ blind Ravn had told me when I described the scene to him, ‘or else our dogs just don’t like the taste of Saxons.’ King Osbert had died weeping and screaming.

  There was an open space in front of the palace. Six huge Roman pillars had stood there when I was a child, though to what purpose I never did discover, and as we came out of the street’s dark shadow I saw that just four of them remained like great markers at the edge of the wide space. And I heard my son gasp.

  It was not the high carved pillars that prompted the gasp, nor the pale stone facade of the palace with its Roman statues, not even the size of the church that had been built to one side of the open space. Instead it was what filled the great square that shocked him. Crosses. And on each cross a naked body. ‘Christians!’ Brynkætil said in curt explanation.

  ‘Does Brida rule here?’ I asked him.

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  ‘A man who deserves an answer,’ Orvar growled.

  ‘She rules for Ragnall,’ Brynkætil said sullenly.

  ‘It will be a pleasure to meet her,’ I said. He just sneered at that. ‘Is she pretty?’ I asked.

  ‘Depends how desperate you are,’ he answered, amused. ‘She’s old, dried up, and as vicious as a wildcat.’ He looked down at me. ‘Ideal for an old man like you. I’d better tell her you’re coming so she can get herself ready.’ He spurred his horse towards the palace.

  ‘Jesus,’ Finan said, crossing himself and looking at the crucifixions. There were thirty-four crosses and thirty-four naked bodies, both men and women. Some had torn hands, the dried blood black on their wrists, and I realised that Brida, it had to be Brida, had tried to nail them by the hands to the crossbars, but the hands could not take the weight and the bodies must have fallen. Now the thirty-four were lashed to the crosses with leather ropes, though all had nailed hands and feet as well. One, a youn
g woman, was still alive, though barely. She stirred and groaned. So this was how Brida sent a message to the Christian god? What a fool, I thought. I might share her distaste for the Christian god, lonely and vengeful as he was, but I had never denied his power, and what man or woman spits in a god’s face?

  I pushed alongside Stiorra’s horse. ‘Are you ready for this?’

  ‘Yes, father.’

  ‘I’ll stay close,’ I said, ‘so will Sigtryggr.’

  ‘Don’t be recognised!’ she said.

  I had a helmet like the one which Sigtryggr wore and I now closed the face-pieces, hiding my face. Like him I wore none of my finery. To a casual glance we both looked like lowly warriors, men who could fill a shield wall, but had never filled our own purses with plunder. Orvar was the best-dressed of us and, for the moment, Orvar pretended to be our leader.

  ‘No weapons in the hall!’ a man shouted as we approached the palace. ‘No weapons!’

  That was customary. No ruler let men carry weapons in a hall, except for his own housecarls who could be trusted with blades, and so we ostentatiously threw down our spears and swords, clattering them into a pile that we would leave our own warriors to guard. I laid Serpent-Breath down, but that did not leave me weaponless. I wore a homespun brown cloak that was long enough to hide Wasp-Sting, my seax.

  Every shield wall warrior carries two swords. The long one, the sword that is scabbarded in silver or gold and that carries a noble name, is the sword we treasure. Mine was Serpent-Breath, and to this day I keep her close so that by the help of her hilt I will be carried to Valhalla when death comes for me. But we carry a second sword too, a seax, and a seax is a short, stubby blade, less flexible than the long-sword and less beautiful, but in the shield wall, when you can smell the stink of your enemy’s breath and see the lice in his beard, a seax is the weapon to use. A man stabs with a seax. He puts it between the shields and thrusts it into an enemy’s guts. Serpent-Breath was too long for a shield wall, her reach too distant, and in that lover’s embrace of death a man needs a short-sword that can stab in the press of sweating men struggling to kill each other. Wasp-Sting was just such a sword, her stout blade no longer than my hand and forearm, but in the crushed space of a shield wall she was lethal.