by C. R. May
The scathing stopped abruptly as they reached the River Eider. This was the traditional boundary between the Danes and the Saxons, and if it was true that it was a difficult border to defend, the claim to ownership of the land to the north of the waterway could not have been more powerfully made. The first scouts had appeared, the Danes giddy at the success of the great enterprise, and the happy riders had pointed out the road which led to Hedeby where they assured Erik that his foster-brother had taken Gnupa the Swede’s hall for his own. After a brief stop to burnish steel, oil leather and brush the mounts to a silky sheen it had been little more than a morning’s ride to make the town, and Erik was thrilled to see spears raised in greeting on the ramparts as they cantered across the wide meadow and the sound of horns filled the air. Workmen paused at their labours, straightening their backs to watch as the Norsemen rode by beneath their war banners; the black raven of Óðinn and the bloodied axe of Erik Haraldsson. The twin doors to the town were flung open before them as they cantered across the causeway, the oak boards honey-gold in their newness, but Erik curbed his mount as a familiar voice hailed him above the clatter.
‘Where have you been? You took your time.’
Glancing up, Erik’s mouth widened into a grin as he looked at the face he knew so well. ‘We thought that we would allow you time to brew good Norwegian ale before we returned.’ He cast a look about his companions and saw the humour of the moment reflected there. ‘But we brought you a gift from Slavic lands in case we arrived too soon.’
An earthenware crock was making its way forward, each man in the hird taking a sip as it passed. Erik took a draught, suppressing a shudder as the drink went down. Stopping the container, he swung it in an arc and launched it skyward. Arinbjorn plucked it from the air as it slowed at the top of its flight, leaning forward as he worked the bung free. ‘What is it?’
‘The Slavs call it wódka,’ Erik replied as he sensed those around him struggling to contain smiles. ‘You will like it. Take a good draught, it will do you good.’
Erik spat the sour liquid from his mouth, but as soon as it hit the grass it seemed to have been replaced drop for drop. He spat again, his cheeks burning with embarrassment as he felt the amused eyes of his companions upon him. Try as he might, his body could just not cope with the drink that Babushka had called either wódka or gorzalka, the burning water, and he slipped from the saddle as he felt the telltale tightening of his stomach muscles once again. Despite his best efforts all that appeared on the ground before him was a spoonful of green bile, and he looked up through blood red eyes as he cuffed the drips his mouth. ‘Who said it would be a good idea to drink it all last night?’
Arinbjorn chuckled and smiled sympathetically. ‘I think you will find that was you brother.’
Despite his pounding head and the fact that his insides felt as dry as old bones, Erik managed to pluck what would have to pass for a smile from his misery. ‘Well, if I do so again remind me of this day.’ He looked across to Thorstein. ‘Pass me some more of that witchy muck that Sturla prepared for me.’ He squinted as the light hurt his eyes. ‘What is in it?’
‘Honey and something called fennel made into a paste with egg yolk,’ his huskarl replied. ‘I have used it before, it does the job.’
‘Well,’ Erik replied, ‘in that case I am sure that it will do me good if I can keep it down long enough.’ He spooned the mixture, washing it down with a mouthful of ale despite the protestations of his body. Erik felt his stomach churn as the concoction settled, but he pushed the feeling aside as he remounted and clicked the horse forwards.
‘Tell me about the Dane Work brother,’ he said as the little group began moving westwards again, ‘while we still have a little time. It’s bad enough that I will meet up with Gunnhild after all this time away puking my guts up like a downy cheeked lad. The least I can do is show that I have a little knowledge and interest in the work which has occupied her while we have been away.’
Arinbjorn threw him a look of amusement. ‘What again? I told you all I know last night.’
Erik pulled a face. ‘Remember what your father used to say about drink and ageing?’
Arinbjorn chuckled as the others shared looks of amusement. ‘That the best thing about getting older is that you can hold the same conversation with the same people again and again when you are in your cups, and no one ever recalls a word the following day.’
Erik nodded. ‘So you can spend a lifetime with friends and kin and never run short of stories.’
‘Except that I am older than you, and I can recall every detail.’
‘But you already knew it when you were sober,’ Erik replied with a wry look. ‘That’s how it works.’
As Arinbjorn was forced to agree, Erik realised that the conversation was doing him some good. Breathing deeply and steadily he paused only to sink another mouthful of ale, before raising the canteen as he delighted the men with a heartfelt declaration. ‘It’s this stuff, mead and wine for me in future,’ he said as his stomach began to settle. ‘Where’s the fun in feeling like your throat is on fire and then like shit all the next day?’
They had all known a few riotous nights in their time, but the previous evening must have ranked up there with the best. It had been midmorning before the first revellers had dragged themselves from the floors and benches to find their king still matching younger men horn for horn, and despite the price he was now paying for his staying power, he had seen the look of respect and pride in their eyes that their lord was a man who could drink past cockcrow and sup on. Told that Gunnhild was overseeing the reconstruction of the western Dane Work he had gathered his bodyguard, and accompanied by his foster-brother and his house men Horse Hair Gisli and Helgi, they had put back their heels and sought to drive the drink from their bodies and minds. Even if the attempt could be judged less successful than he had hoped, now that Erik was back among the men of his army he had used the time in the saddle to reflect on his next move.
He had used up some of the hoard he had brought south from Avaldsnes three years previously to replace the venerable old snekkjur which had been a gift from his father, and reward the men who had stayed loyal to his family in exile with fine gifts and weapons. Gauti Thorodsson and Ulfar Whistle Tooth had already been handed the ships Erik had taken from Bjorn Farman’s harbour, the night he had repaid his half brother’s scorn with fire, sword and death. Renamed for their old ships, Bison and Okse, that left only Thorfinn Ketilsson’s Reindyr to be replaced, and Erik had paid for a fine new Reindyr from king Gorm’s own shipbuilder as soon as they were settled in Jutland. Alongside Arinbjorn’s Sea Stallion and his own Draki, that gave Erik five big skei and their crews; it was the ideal size for his needs, powerful and flexible but not so large that it would be a constant drain on his treasury. He had replaced numbers with a lean and hungry wolf pack awaiting the chance to strike whenever opportunity arose, and Erik had been overjoyed when he found that all the crews were in Hedeby together for the first time since early summer. Gnupa, the Swede who had held the town on behalf of the Franks, had escaped king Gorm’s wrath when Erik and Harald Bluetooth had retaken the town but his hall was voluminous, the food and drink he had lain in for the coming winter plentiful, and the Norwegians had made good use of it to celebrate the victorious end to the campaigning season.
Gamli had come of age the year before, and Erik had gifted the latest man of Fairhair’s line the old Reindyr and a handpicked crew. Renamed the Isbjorn, Ice Bear, in honour of Erik’s very first ship, Erik had added a further four snekkjur to his son’s fleet and sent him out to make his name, echoing the action of his own father what seemed like a lifetime ago.
‘So,’ Arinbjorn said as they neared their destination and the horses took the opportunity to catch their breath after the mad dash west. ‘Do you really want me to go through it all again?’
Snatches of the previous evening’s conversation were returning bit by bit as Erik’s stomach settled and Sturla’s remedy began to drive th
e fog from his mind. But Arinbjorn had celebrated as hard as he had himself, and Erik could sense the reluctance in his old friend’s voice as he began to rediscover his own sense of mischief. He gave a shrug and a self-pitying look. ‘No, it’s gone brother.’
‘What, all of it?’
Erik made a line with his lips and nodded. ‘I can only recall the odd snippet here and there.’
Arinbjorn admitted defeat with a pained look, took a last slug from his own ale flask and began to repeat his explanation of the night before with a sigh. ‘The Dane Work is what remains of the old defensive bank and ditch which the ancients built here long ago. King Gorm’s plan is to rebuild it as fast as he can, so that when the East Franks have finished with their own infighting and head this way to repay us for the destruction we have caused this summer past, they will be faced by a formidable obstacle which will delay their march long enough for the Danish army to muster and hurry south.’
Erik looked about him as Arinbjorn spoke. Even this far from Hedeby the earthworks were already complete, and woodworkers were topping the great bank with the framework which would soon carry the timber walkway and palisade. ‘And this stretches all the way to the German Sea?’
Arinbjorn shook his head. ‘No only as far as the Trene, then the river itself becomes the defence down to where it joins the Eider. The land to the north and west of the river is marsh or thickly wooded, so an army would get bogged down there without the need for anything man-made to stop or slow them down. Queen Thyra is in charge of the construction from Hedeby to what they call the Karlegat, the Warrior Gate; it’s the only place where the wall is pierced, appropriately enough by the Army Road, the same highway which you used to travel north after you left the Obotrites.’
‘And Gunnhild is doing the same for this section, that which runs from the Warrior Gate to the River Trene?’
Arinbjorn nodded. ‘You have to hand it to these Danes Erik, they are well organised. King Gorm ordered the islands of Zealand and Funen to provide the workforce to build the eastern section; those from Scania the following part under the watchful eye of Gunnhild.’
Erik laughed for the first time that day. ‘I don’t envy them that. No one ever accused my wife of being a slacker! So I suppose that the men of Jutland provided the levy men to bolster the numbers of warriors raiding southward?’
‘That, and the food and drink for the workers doing the construction work.’ He threw Erik a look. ‘As I said, they are well organised.’ Arinbjorn took another swig from his canteen, and Erik suppressed a smile as he saw his foster-brother give an involuntary shudder.
‘It’s an impressive feat,’ Erik agreed as he attempted to disguise his mirth. ‘Twenty-four miles is a long way.’
Arinbjorn narrowed his eyes as his features creased into a frown. ‘Who told you the Dane Wall ran for twenty-four miles?’
Erik attempted another question in an effort to disguise his mistake, but his face creased into a smile and gave the game away. ‘I am sorry brother,’ he said, ‘it was mean spirited of me, but you should know me well enough to realise that I never get so drunk as to be left witless. I will make it up to you,’ he said with a smile. ‘I shall gift you the last of the wódka!’
A collection of tents came into view as they rounded a small copse, the earthwork gave a kink and continued into the distance. Set on the highest point was a larger spread of canvas, the crossed gable boards which braced each end topped by snarling beast heads of gold and blue. It was obvious that they had reached their destination for the day, and Erik and Arinbjorn shared a look of amusement as Thorstein called out to confirm that they were all in agreement; ‘I think we have found her, lord.’
At the foot of the rise a smattering of far more rustic tents showed where the workers spent their nights, and in the midst of it all a man was calmly stirring a large iron cauldron suspended above an open fire. The smell of the meaty broth covered the camp, wafting over to the riders as they came to a halt, and Erik saw the gratitude reflected in his men’s eyes as he bade them fill their bellies while he sought out his queen. Arinbjorn tagged along as he made his way up the bank, the pair chewing on strips of pork crackling they had carried from Hedeby to settle the bile in their own bellies until they could rejoin the others. Men moved away, dipping their heads in deference as they climbed, the magnificence and sheer size of the Northmen all the introduction they needed.
As they crested the bank Erik’s eyes widened in surprise, and he pulled Arinbjorn aside and forced down a laugh as the view which greeted them finally chased away the last traces of nausea from the night before. Steering his foster-brother away, the pair sat themselves down on a stack of lumber as they enjoyed the sight.
‘What a woman,’ Erik said proudly, ‘just look at those muscly arms!’
‘How long do you think it will be before she notices us?’
‘The way that she is getting stuck in, it could be some time!’
Ragnhild, Erik’s only daughter was alongside her mother, and he put a finger to his lips as the lass sensed his presence and her head came about. The girl’s cry of joy stuck in her throat as she saw the gesture, but her round face lit up at the sight of her father returned from war before she turned back as Gunnhild snapped out a plea for help. Erik’s heart swelled with love and pride as he watched their efforts. Ragnhild looked every inch her mother made young again as she struggled to hold the heavy beam above her head, and Erik gave a snort as he recognised a spearman outlined against the skyline. His second born son was there, and the lad threw him a cheery smile and a wink as he left all the hard work to the women. At ten years of age Harald would normally be away at foster, but times were far from normal; Gamli had only survived Ragnar Jarl's treachery by dint of his foster-father’s kind-heartedness and bravery, returning the boy to his family rather than handing him over to king Hakon’s henchmen. In truth there were few places safe for Erikssons until he could regain a kingdom of his own, but he recalled the prophecy of the Finnish shaman as he watched the pair at work; other king helms had been foretold before his death, and he used the knowledge to drive down the sudden sense of shame that his wife and bairns had been reduced to the level of workmen scrabbling in the mud.
A sudden dig in the ribs from Arinbjorn dragged him back, and his face broke into a smile as the sight of her drove the melancholy from him. Gunnhild was making her way across, the joy of his homecoming shining in her eyes as she wiped the earth and sawdust from her hands, and Erik and Arinbjorn rose from their perch as she drew up a few paces before them. ‘Welcome back, lord,’ she said brightly, ‘I have plenty of work for strong men.’
‘We are well, thank you wife,’ he replied as Arinbjorn chuckled at his side. ‘And we have come to take you away from all this.’ Erik drank in the sight of her as she rebuked him for presuming her work was of little importance as he knew she would. Her finery had been laid aside for the moment, and if it were not for the paleness of her skin and the armed guard who accompanied her it would have been hard to tell she was the daughter of the king. The hem of her skirts were a sludgy mess and a line of mud had been smeared across her cheek as she had wiped away a spatter.
‘I have a tent set up,’ she was saying, ‘on the far side with the others. I will clean myself up and come to you there when I can.’
Erik could smell the sweat and grime on the woman even at half a dozen paces, and the blush of pink the physical work had brought to her neck and cheeks added to the muskiness of her body was having a powerful effect on him. Gunnhild recognised the look which came into his eyes of old, lowering her own for an instant, and Erik recognised her efforts to smother a smile.
‘No,’ he said as his own cheeks flushed and his discomfort began to show. ‘Come to me just as you are.’
7
THE OFFER
Erik gazed out from his high seat as the performance neared its end. The skald’s voice had dropped to little more than an undertone, but such was the heft that the sound seemed to fill every n
ook and cranny:
‘King Haki bore so many wounds that he saw the days of his life could not be long;
Then he ordered a warship which he owned be brought up; bade it laden with his dead and their weapons, floated on the sea with steering-oar shipped and sail hoisted-’
The storyteller took up his staff and swept it in a circle before bowing low to the lord in his hall; it was the sign that the tale was all but told, and the warriors lining the benches rose in silence, dipping their own heads towards their leaders as they drifted away. The great doors were hauled by the wards, and the skald began to utter the final few sentences as the men filed from the building and he backed towards the light:
‘The king was carried aboard, touched flame to pitch wood and ordered a pile to be heaped up over it.
The Uppsala king was not yet dead when he was laid upon this balefire-’
The poet paused at the threshold, throwing his arms wide as he spoke the final line into the narrowing gap:
‘The wind blew off the land; the ship flew; burning in clear flame between the islets and out into the wide sea beyond.’
A weighty boom resounded as the hall doors came together, and Erik let his gaze wander around the hall as silence reigned. The tale had been masterfully told, and although his own ancestors the Ynglings of the Fold had been defeated in the battle, there was no shame to be had if they had marched forward and faced their foe with whetted steel and stout hearts.