by C. R. May
Four years had now passed since he had boarded the Draki and left Avaldsnes with all the dignity he could muster. King Gorm had received Erik well, honouring him with lands and a fine hall to rule them from; but he had been a king in his own right, and he sometimes felt as though his very bones ached to be so again. Alone now with his most trusted companions, Erik left the high seat and bade them follow him to the hearth side. Low benches had been placed there before the thralls had departed, ringing the glow, and Gunnhild moved around the group, passing the ceremonial drinking horn from man to man; brightening expressions again as she worked her own spell to lift the aura created by the skald with a well placed compliment or quip. Sat circling the hearth all were of equal standing, and flames played upon the features of his own company of heroes as the fire was fed and Erik felt his heart quicken at the sight. His kinsman Harald Gormsson and foster-brother Arinbjorn Thorirsson alongside his oath sworn: Thorstein; Anlaf; Helgrim Smiter; Kolbein Herjolfsson. The newcomer closed the circle, and Erik watched as he dipped his head in thanks and Gunnhild cradled the giant vessel in both hands and sketched a smile in return.
Spring had come early to Danish lands that year, and although it would be sometime yet until the wandering birds returned to fill the sky with their shrill cries, the first green shoots were hazing tree branch and ploughed field alike as they shook the heavy cloak of winter from their backs. Arnkel Torf-Einarsson, a brother of the Orkney Jarl was the guest who completed the group, come south to deliver skat owed to his lord along with news and fine gifts, and Erik had grasped the opportunity to include the man in the upcoming discussion both for the depth of his knowledge and as a mark of the respect and gratitude due his kin. Practically alone among Norway’s leading men Jarl Thorfinn, who men called Skull-Splitter, had remained steadfast in his loyalty towards Erik and had refused to be bought off by Erik’s half brother Hakon and his lackeys. It had been in Erik’s mind for some time to reward the family for their fealty. With the Christians chased from Hedeby and the Dane Work bolstered against the day they would return to seek vengeance for the harrying of their Saxon province, Erik knew that he had fully repaid King Gorm for his succour when his own fortune was at its lowest ebb.
Helgrim was still stuffing his face with boar meat, but a look from his lord saw him place the trencher at his feet, throwing them all a cheery smirk as he sucked the juices from his fingers. ‘Now that we have all finished eating-’ Erik said as the others exchanged smiles, ‘we can begin.’
Erik ran his eyes around the group a final time before he went on. Sat before him were some of the toughest fighters in the North, men who had hewn foemen on wave tossed decks, cleaved skjald-borg from the sun baked plains of the Umayyad in the south to the shores of Finnmark and beyond. ‘Harald owns land in England, and Arnkel knows the Sudreys and lands bordering the Irish Sea better than any man here, so we are well placed for advice. As you know I sacrificed to Óðinn at the grove, and the godi there advised me of the path I should tread.’ He continued as several of the men spontaneously fingered charms or pendants at the mention of the hooded god’s name. ‘But we all know the ways of the Allfather; he has an eye for chaos and it would be foolish to blunder forward trusting to his will alone.’ Nervous laughter drifted on the smoky air, and Erik flashed a smile at their reaction to his little quip. All men knew that the Allfather had sacrificed an eye to drink from Mimir’s well, the spring of wisdom which issues from the roots of the world-tree, Yggdrasill; Óðinn had but the one eye chaotic or not, but Erik was a son of Fairhair, of that ancient tree from which all true kings of the Nor’ Way were but offshoots, the Ynglings. If he could not offer a little joke at an ancestor’s expense, who could?
The great aurochs horn had completed its circuit, and Gunnhild held it forward for Erik to drain the last of the sweet mead. The ritual completed, the queen retired as Erik set his features and began:
‘You all know the offer which has been made on behalf of the English king; I know my own thoughts, but they are at odds with the priest’s direction. I would be grateful to hear those of my closest friends and companions before I decide on the matter.’ Erik turned to his brother-in-law at his side. ‘Perhaps you could start by telling us all you know about the situation in England following the battle last autumn?’
Harald Bluetooth stroked his chin, sipping from his cup as faces turned his way and he shared his thoughts. ‘You are all aware of the outcome of what men are already calling the Great War. King Athelstan and his brother Edmund led an army of the southern English to victory over a force led by the kings of Dublin, Alba and Strathclyde. Great slaughter was made among the invaders, but the victory came at a heavy price in men and silver for the English king.’ Harald turned his face to Erik. ‘My friends tell me that the kingdom of York is under southern rule in name only. Athelstan is too weak to bring the country completely under his sway; hence his offer to you.’
As heads bobbed in agreement, Erik turned to the Orcadian. ‘If the northern alliance was as heavily defeated as we are led to believe, what do you know of the situation now in their homelands?’
Arnkel took a long pull at his ale cup, slapping his lips before replying. ‘Olaf Guthrifhsson is back in Dublin.’ He gave a smirk of satisfaction. ‘Without five men who called themselves kings and a further seven jarls.’
Erik’s eyes widened at the news. If so many Norsemen had been killed, both in the battle and the mounted pursuit which had followed, the losses among the king of Dublin’s followers must have been overwhelming. The huskarls belonging to the senior men would never have left the field if their lord had fallen, they would have died to a man lest their survival bring shame not only to themselves but to their wider kin. If Óðinn’s benches in Valhöll had gained a few extra heroes, it was certain that despite his own survival there would be plenty of empty spaces on the king of Dublin’s benches. Arnkel was still speaking, and Erik returned from his thoughts as the scale of the allied losses was laid bare. ‘Constantine of Alba lost his son and heir, along with some of his most powerful lords and other members of his family. Men say that the English broke through to Owen of Strathclyde and managed to wound him before he was dragged to safety by his guardsmen. The guards stayed true to their oath and died where they stood, but the stricken king was shepherded to safety, and seeing the king’s banner going back the Britons broke and ran.’
Erik felt a thrill course through him as the weaknesses of the various kingdoms across the German Sea were revealed. This was the opportunity he had been waiting for, he was sure of it despite the direction from the seith-men at the grove. A look about the hearth side told him that the men there shared his feelings, and Erik gave a nod of thanks to the man from Orkney as he stood to address them all. ‘You are all aware that I have been offered the crown of York by King Athelstan. It is a chance to live in a king’s garth once again, to restock my treasury with skat from traders and landowners alike; to amass enough gold and silver with which to raise an invincible army and chase Hakon and his turncoat jarls from Norway.’ Erik’s gaze drifted from face to face as he asked the question which had brought them to this place. ‘But every man here knows that Athelstan would never allow me to move against Hakon, his own foster, the man he planted to bring Christianity to Norway. The moment he got wind of our intentions, we would be faced with a southern army marching on York. This offer is nothing less than an offer of captivity, a gilded cage which will keep my half brother in Norway safe, while at the same time using my own name and battle cunning to form a buffer against English enemies while Athelstan rebuilds his strength.’ His fears made plain, Erik’s expression hardened. ‘Other opportunities have also risen like froth on good Jule ale. You are my most trusted friends; I am almost certain in my own mind of the course I wish to steer, but I would value your rede nevertheless.’
‘So,’ Erik said as the group watched the flames take hold. ‘Do you think he has guessed my reply yet?’
Thorstein chuckled at his side. ‘We could he
ad south and burn Winchester.’ His lips pulled back into a snarl. ‘You know, just to make sure he got the message.’
Kolbein had been listening in and he added an idea of his own. ‘Shall I put about then Erik? We could be inside the walls within the week.’
Erik threw a glance back across his shoulder as the oarsmen pulled the Draki clear of the stricken knarr with measured strokes. ‘Let’s put some green water beneath our keel.’ He looked outboard to where the waters of the German Sea merged into the greyness of the sky with barely a change in hue. Off to the north the chalky cliffs of Flamborough Head formed a low rampart on the horizon, but the land to westward was barely a green line separating sea from sky. Erik hawked and spat over the side. ‘Only the gods know how much I have missed snow-capped peaks, iron grey rock, skirts of scree and the roar of a following sea. All this,’ he said with a shake of his head and a dismissive sweep of a hand, ‘is a soft land, fit for a soft God. It may well be that we ourselves shall rule here someday, but that day has not yet arrived; I still yearn for the Northlands.’
A full month had passed since Erik’s fleet had slipped their moorings and put the coast of Jutland behind them. Arrowing across the wastes of the German Sea, the crews manning the six powerful skei had watched with amusement and pride as any ships which lay close to their course had scattered before them like prey before the hunt. King Athelstan’s envoy may or may not have reached Winchester with Erik’s reply before they had fallen on the lightly defended towns of England’s east coast, but there could be little doubt now that the victor of the previous year’s battle at the place called Brunanburh was still searching for a sub-king to help him subdue the unruly northern kingdom of York. The proposal had almost caused Erik to gasp at its audacity when the house thane had first come before him and relayed the Christian king’s offer, and the look on the Englishman’s face as Erik flushed with anger told him that he was well aware that it was only Gunnhild’s intervention that had kept his head from making its own way home while his body awaited the second coming of the Christ in heathen soil.
That the king who had equipped and financed his half brother’s return to Norway had sought to make him an under-king in return had taken the Norseman’s breath away, and he was unsurprised that not a single man among those he had consulted had thought it worthy of a moment’s consideration.
Arnkel’s proposal that Erik come to Orkney had much to commend it to both parties. The jarldom of Orkney included territories on the mainland opposite, Sudrland and Katanes, in addition to the islands of Hjaltland to the north. It was an extensive area, strategically well placed and a rich source of income for both the jarl and his acknowledged overlord, king Erik himself. However, faced with the burgeoning kingdom of Alba on its southern border it was sometimes found wanting for fighting men. Now, with the losses sustained by the northern alliance in the great battle in England, the whole of the western seaboard of Scotland and the area of the Irish Sea lay ripe for conquest and plunder. The islands which the Norse knew as the Sudreys, the Southern Isles of which Lewis, Uist, Skye, Mull and Islay were only the largest, had been all but stripped of warriors by their lords to fight in the south. They were returning in dribs and drabs, but such was the totality of the English victory that many would not and of those that did, the likelihood was that more than a few would yet succumb to wounds or disease. King Constantine of Alba would be busily rebuilding his strength and mourning the loss of his heir; Erik knew that there was a northern kingdom waiting to be carved from the carcass of the wounded beast which was the lands of the defeated allies, a kingdom where he would be beholding to no man, much less the instigator of his replacement in his own homeland.
Helgrim spoke, ‘she is going-,’ the wonder contained within his voice dragging Erik’s mind back from its scheming, and he raised his chin to look aft just as the mast of the trading vessel succumbed to the flames and toppled over the side. The fire had been set amidships, down in the belly of the ship where the cargo was stowed, just where the mast was stepped and the keelson strengthened the keel itself. Stoked by the barrels of fish oils which they had discovered there the heat had been intense, and the crews of the lithe skei crowded the wales as they watched the cargo ship’s final moments. A crack carried to them above the roar of the flames, and the watching raiders knew even before the midpoint of the ship settled and the great arcs of the stern and stem posts rose to draw together that the knarr had broken her back. As the sea poured in and the flames disappeared in a harpy’s brume of smoke and steam the bow and stern rose to the vertical, pausing for a heartbeat before pivoting in a macabre death-dance to slip beneath the swell.
All that remained where there had been a ship only moments before was a frothy patch where escaping air and the last pieces of debris made their way to the surface. The sea heaped up a final time, and when it finally broke to shower the surface with spray it seemed to be the signal for every man in the fleet to exhale. Erik realised that he too had held his breath as the drama played out before them all, and he swapped a look with Helgrim, both men recognising the flare in the other’s eyes which told just how much fascination all men instinctively felt when confronted by death and destruction.
Arnkel’s skei Iron Beard was off the beam, and Erik crossed to the wale as faces turned his way and they awaited orders. The Orkney man was at the stern, and he turned his face to his lord as he too prepared to depart. Erik cupped a hand to his mouth as Kolbein listened in, as keen as any to discover their next destination, and Erik snorted as he saw the disappointment flash across his friend’s face as he pointed and made a reply: ‘set a course northwards!’
‘You are not tempted by the Humber then lord?’ the Orcadian called in reply. ‘It’s awash with ships, big fat knarrs just waiting to be relieved of their cargo.’ Erik glanced at the weather vane at the mast head, thrilling again to the sight of his own war banner as it curled and snapped in a gust of wind. The blow was onshore, and a quick look at the mouth of the estuary told him that the tide was full. They could sail upriver and ride the ebb tide back to sea before the day was through; the sandy arm of Spurn Head was off to larboard, the great waterway itself not much more than a bow shot beyond. In the near distance the boat containing the crew of their last victim was inshore, the oar strokes visibly more coordinated as the threat to their lives receded. Lifting his gaze, Erik could just make out a cluster of dark specks showing where men were gathering to learn the identity of the Viking leader offshore.
Satisfied, Erik turned back as his decision was confirmed. ‘No, our work here is done. Word is already spreading throughout the kingdoms of Britain. Before we lay our hulls alongside the jetties of Orkney, all men will know. Erik Bloodaxe has returned.’
Part II
SEA KING
8
BYRGISEY
Erik’s eyes ran along the cliff face, out beyond the Bay of Skaill to Haeysund and the grassy dome of the island beyond. On clear days such as this there were few places he would rather be, but the fleet had gathered in the calmer waters beyond Straumsnes in the haven at Hamnavoe and it was time to join them. He turned to the man at his side, laying a hand on his shoulder as he read his thoughts. ‘You could have remained at Nausdal, Arinbjorn hersir,’ he said. ‘A lord should reside in his hall, distributing wisdom and silver to those who owe him allegiance.’
Arinbjorn snorted and threw his foster-brother a look. ‘And worry about crop yields? Train yokels to use a shield and spear so that they are not completely clueless when the levy is summoned to chase off a raider or two?’ He spat into the grass, and Erik thrilled as he saw the excitement in his oldest friend’s eyes. ‘This summer promises to be something special,’ he added as his eyes took on a faraway glaze. ‘I wouldn’t have missed it, even if your brother had confiscated my ship and I had to swim here! Now that the king has confirmed my inheritance, there will be time enough to grow fat in my high seat when I am old and grey.’
Erik knew that this conversation had to take pla
ce; both men had been sidestepping the matter ever since Arinbjorn had returned from Norway the previous month, and he realised that the newly confirmed hersir was offering him the opportunity to do so now, before the wound could fester and poison their relationship. He raised his eyes and looked southwards as his mind put up a last ditch defence, recoiling from the need to form the words. The sea was calm, almost as if the sea gods had got wind of their plan and were catching their breath as they anticipated the bloodshed to come. Shearwaters lived up to their name, skimming the surface as Cormorants plummeted to punch beneath the surface in a cloud of spray. Nearer to hand the harsh cries of Fulmar and Guillemot carried from the breeding colonies on the sea cliffs of Byrgisey itself.
He gave a snort as he realised that it was cowardly to lay aside the matter any longer, and although he had done many questionable things in his life no man could ever accuse him of that ultimate betrayal of manhood. Erik turned his face to Arinbjorn, and he felt a weight lift from his shoulders as he said the words that he never thought to utter and his smile was returned tenfold. ‘And how is the king?’
‘He is well, King Erik!’ Arinbjorn replied with weight added to the title, the pride the man felt at the strength shown by his friend shining in his eyes. ‘He is a good king and an honourable man; a son of Fairhair.’
Erik laughed at the description, shook his head and snorted again. ‘My brother may be as you say, but Hakon Haraldsson and Harald Fairhair are as alike as summer and winter, as fire to ice. Our father hammered out a kingdom where none had existed before using Þórr-strength and Loki-guile.’ Erik caught the look of concern flit across Arinbjorn’s features as the hersir feared that he was about to fail the test, but he tossed him a wink of reassurance as he explained how the passing of the years had scarred the wound. ‘It’s a middling thing now,’ he said. ‘I fulfilled my father’s wish. I won the right to rule the Nor’ Way on the field of battle at Tunsberg and elsewhere; you should know, you were there. That lesser men valued the weight of their purses above their honour-.’ He gave a shrug. ‘Well, that is a matter for their own conscience. When they fetch up before Óðinn’s shield-roofed hall, they had better have a good explanation ready why they abandoned their rightful lord for such a base thing.’