The Raven and the Cross

by C. R. May

  Erik glanced across to the place where the Draki rode at anchor. Dragged from the naust where she had sheltered from the winter storms, her graceful lines had come to life the moment salty water had lifted her keel clear of the strand. Now the tide was flowing, and a look across to the wild boar banner of Thorfinn Jarl flying above the hall on the mainland confirmed that the wind was in the north. ‘We had best make a move brother,’ he said. ‘Before the causeway floods.’

  Six winters had passed since they had left Jutland to make their home in the Orkney Isles and confirmed the jarl’s vassalage. Only ten miles north of the Scottish mainland the isles were only three days’ sail from Hakon’s hall at Avaldsnes, and despite his younger half brother’s predilection to Christian forgiveness, Erik had taken no chances with the safety of Gunnhild and the children.

  Just offshore of the north-western tip of Hrossey, Horse Island, the largest of the scores of islands which made up the Orkneys, the steep sided island of Byrgisey glowered above the Atlantic rollers. Cut off from Hrossey at high tide the island was nigh on impregnable for the short time it would take the jarl to live up to his eke name of Skull-Splitter and rush to their aid, and Erik and the jarl’s brothers Arnkel and Erland had used the years to carve a kingdom for themselves from the islands which girded the western coast of Alba. The northernmost islands had quickly fallen to the powerful combined fleet: Lewis; Uist; Barra; Skye; even Eigg and Tiree had been annexed to the landholdings of the men of Orkney. Added to those already under the sway of the Orkney Jarl: Hjaltland to the north and Sudrland and Katanes across the waters of Petlandsfjord on the Scottish mainland, never had the title of sea king been more apt than it was when applied to Erik. It was, he knew, the third of the king helms foretold by the Finnish shaman long ago on a far off beach, and the realisation that the predictions were coming true had gone some way towards making up for the loss of his homeland.

  Erik and Arinbjorn walked towards the causeway as the cries of gulls filled the air. Horse Hair Gisli was already mounted, the concern in his eyes obvious even from distance as Arinbjorn’s huskarl switched his gaze back and forth from the approaching figure of his new lord to the rapidly swelling tide and back again. Erik threw him a smile and a few words of reassurance as they came within hailing distance. ‘Don’t fret old friend,’ he said, ‘you will make it. You don’t live as long as I have on the island without mastering the tides in all their moods!’

  Erik followed Gisli’s gaze towards the mainland only a couple of hundred yards away. Near to Byrgisey the two arms of the sea were coming together a little more with every tidal surge, but bare rock still reigned beyond and the pathway to Hrossey would be open awhile yet. Hamnavoe lay little more than a dozen miles to the south. Arinbjorn had already sent the rest of his men to the fleet, with orders that they prepare to put to sea the moment that Erik had reached his decision. The seas were calm, the wind in the north; Arinbjorn would carry the word and the ships would sail on the flood tide.

  A final few words and Fjordane’s new hersir was in the saddle, hauling the nose of his mount around and down onto the causeway. The incoming tide had merged into a foam flecked sheet, but the pair splashed through the shallows as Erik exchanged a parting wave and turned back to the hall.

  The buildings stood out as stark outlines against the skyline, washed as they were by the full light of the morning sun, and he flashed a smile as he saw the little group waiting for him there. Gunnhild surrounded by their youngest alongside Thorstein and Anlaf Crow, the men who had fought at his side ever since that dimly remembered day when they had first stormed the monastery at Landevennec in his youth. The huskarls led the children away as he came up, and Erik nodded his thanks to them as he went to his wife.

  ‘I thought that you had forgotten us,’ she said as she attempted an indignant pout, but her face creased into a smile as her inborn strength and optimism pushed it aside. Erik returned the smile, cupping her chin with a hand as he bent to exchange a loving kiss. He shook his head as they parted, the emotion of the moment causing his voice to quiver as he moved the hand up to tuck a flyaway strand of hair inside her headdress. ‘That could never be.’

  The face he looked upon had gained a few lines, her swannish neck the odd wrinkle since the days of their youth, and living on a storm-lashed rock in the northern ocean had perhaps left her cheeks a little more wind chapped than men in the South would expect of a queen; but he saw the strength of her reflected in her gaze and knew that he would never exchange her love for any other on Midgard. Gunnhild’s hand wandered down to his groin and gave a squeeze, and he snorted softly as he saw again the cheekiness of her youth reflected in her eyes, but her voice hardened again as the queen in her returned and made a parting plea. ‘Go and win us a kingdom, Erik.’

  Erik looked across to his huskarls as they drew apart and the time to make their way to the shore arrived. Hefting their sea chests the pair gained the path, and Erik fought down a smile as little Ragnfrod fixed his face into a frown and struggled down with his father’s own. The boy was almost ten now and yammering to come along; lanky like his mother and sister with the same ruddy hair and a smattering of freknur, the summer-spots which he knew the English called freckles. His older brothers were already with the fleet: Gamli; Harald; even Sigurd was sailing to war for the first time on his brother Guttorm’s ship the Crane, and Erik had taken pity the night before and promised the lad that he could accompany him on next season’s raids despite the protestations of his mother.

  The Draki was already wallowing in the flow as the trio reached the foot of the sandy cliffs, and willing hands reached out to help them aboard as the rowers sat braced at their station. Kolbein was at the tiller, and the styrisman’s face shone with happiness as the gangplank was shipped, time was called, and the oars began to pull the longship out into deeper water. Coming clear of Byrgisey the incoming tide threatened to push the ship onto the lee shore, but Kolbein knew these waters now as well as any man alive, and a deft flick of his wrist brought the Draki back on course. Out past the eddies the ship gained the deep water channel, and Erik raised his chin as the deck settled, the spar was hoist aloft and the sun disappeared as the great woollen sail was shaken out. As crewmen hauled at the praire and belayed the sheets, others were working the braces, angling the yard to catch the wind as the ship turned her prow to the south. Beam on now to the incoming tide the first spray came inboard as oars were shipped and stowed, and Erik looked out to larboard as Byrgisey slipped astern. Ragnhild was where he had hoped she would be, his daughter a woman now and mistress of her own hall. Married to Arnfinn, the eldest son of Thorfinn Skull-Splitter, the union had strengthened the bond between the king and the jarl of Orkney, and Erik watched with pride as she took a last look at her father’s departing ship and turned to shoo the other onlookers back to their work.

  Standing out to sea the wind rose by degrees as the ship shook herself free of the land, and soon the Draki was porpoising south as the channel which separated Hrossey from the southern island of Haey opened up on the larboard bow. The crewmen crowded the wales, everyman keen to be the first to spot the fleet coming out, and the gleeful cries competed with those of the gulls above as the ship drew level and they saw the channel clouded with sail. Erik exchanged a grin with those surrounding him on the steering platform as Kolbein worked the steering oar, zigzagging the ship, bleeding the speed away as the fleet reached the Ocean and began to turn their prows southwestward. Within the hour they had come up on the king’s ship, and the peaks of Sudrland and Ross beyond came into view off to larboard beneath their mantle of cloud as Kolbein steered the ship to double the cape known as hvarf, the turning point, and lead them south to war.

  The warning cry barely had time to leave the lookout’s lips before the ship was upon them. Kolbein threw his weight into the tiller as the unknown warship emerged from the fog bank, guiding the Draki away to starboard as the crew withdrew the larboard oars before they were crushed and rushed to arm. Thorsten, Anlaf
and Helgrim were already moving, snatching up the closest shield to hand as they rushed to throw a cordon around their king. Erik sucked in a breath as his own hand went to his sword hilt and he made to order an assault, but a glance outboard told him that the chance had already passed. The line of faces told Erik that this was no planned attack, the gaping mouths of the crew all the confirmation needed that they had been taken completely by surprise by the sudden appearance of the snarling beast head of a dragon ship. Erik just had time to take in the Cross fixed to the masthead and the golden dragon banner of Wessex beneath it before they were past, the stern post disappearing back into the embrace of the sea fret as quickly and completely as it had emerged.

  Erik turned back, his eyes darting this way and that as they strained to pierce the miasma and the warning note for enemy in sight sang out from Anlaf’s battle horn. A quick look confirmed that his crew were all set, alert and ready for war as they too swept the fog ahead for any sign of further enemies. Forewarned, the sound of fighting came from astern as the West Saxons were engulfed by those following on, and Erik watched the crew raising their ears like dogs awaiting a command as they followed the course of the fight in their mind’s eye. The clash of steel and the high pitched shrieks of the dying rose to a crescendo before petering out almost as quickly as they had begun, and Erik watched with amusement as he saw the looks of satisfaction on the faces of the tough warriors on the deck before him.

  With the oars shipped the surroundings were as quiet as they would ever be in the midst of a fleet at sea, only the soft slap of the waves against the side strakes broke the heavy silence; but no more prows hardened from the gloom, and Erik began to relax as they came to realise that the English ship must have been a singleton.

  Anlaf Crow raised the signal horn once again and looked across, lowering his voice to a murmur in the unnatural hush. ‘They were following the sound of this, lord,’ he said. ‘You know what that means.’

  Erik nodded as the others exchanged knowing looks. ‘They were not always alone. Our Saxons were expecting to find friends but came across a gaggle of big hairy Norsemen instead.’ He flicked his chin out past the prow of the Draki to the fog there. ‘There is an English fleet somewhere hereabouts.’ Erik nodded again. ‘You are right, lay off the warning note; if the others are nearby we don’t want to give away our position.’

  With the crew back on the oars the ship was soon exiting the fog bank, and those not on rowing duty stood to their arms as the mist drew back and the reason for the southern ship to be so far from home waters was slowly revealed. Thorstein clicked his tongue and spoke. ‘Well, at least we know where the our unlucky friends were heading.’

  Erik sucked at his teeth, hanging from the backstay to get a better view. ‘They are really catching it. King Edmund is living up to his nickname, the Deed-doer.’ He turned to flash the men on the steering platform a wicked smile. ‘This could play right into our hands. Olaf Cuaran in York will have his eyes fixed in this direction; his cousin is about to get a nasty surprise.’

  Away to the east Strathclyde burned from end to end, tall columns of smoke rising to become a pall above the beleaguered British kingdom. Deed-doer was not the only eke name applied to the pious Christian prince of the southern English: the Just; the Elder and the Magnificent had all been used to describe the warlike king in the six years since he had inherited the throne on the death of his half brother Athelstan. It had been six years in which the king’s sword had barely slept in its scabbard as the kingdoms to the north had struggled to retain the independence they cherished from the Imperial ambitions of the English king. But, he reflected as the men on deck pointed and stared at the winks of light which told of the destruction being wrought on land, Gunnhild had been right. If the years spent in the South and West had taught him anything, it was that there was more to being a king than bringing as much land under your sway as the length of your life thread and the will of the gods allowed. The kingdoms here were wealthier in every way: rich farmland supported a burgeoning population; trade was diverse and extensive. With the development of towns and even cites both could be easily regulated, and the resultant tax flowed into the treasuries of the lords and kings who controlled them. Why fight to gain a country made of bare rock, woodland and lakes, wringing skat from an unwilling and transient population when the people of the south had long been inured to the reality of their servitude?

  Erik allowed his gaze to drift across the destruction in Strathclyde and back to sea. Yes, Gunnhild was no less shrewd and canny than she had been in her youth; the time to regain a mainland kingdom of their own was at hand. King Edmund’s harrying of the Britons could not have come at a better time. All eyes would be on the north when the fleet and army of Erik Haraldsson and Conalach Cnogba, high king of Ireland, arrived before the walls of Dublin.

  9

  ARROW STORM

  ‘Here comes the mouth of the Boyne,’ Kolbein said as the Draki cleared the rocky foreland of Clogher Head, ‘and that looks like our boys.’

  Erik peered around the great spread of sail, smiling at the sight as Olvir cupped a hand to his mouth and confirmed the identification of the oncoming ship from the lookout’s place in the bows. The Okse was riding the waves as it beat to windward, the bows of the sleek Skei throwing back plumes of spray as it buried its head in the swell, rose to shake the water from its flanks and struggled on. As the fleet cleared the last of the crests known as the Three Sisters to starboard, Erik watched as the Okse made deeper water and put her bows to the south. With the wind and current now astern of her Erik looked on as the sail billowed, the styrisman doglegging south until the Draki bounded up on her starboard quarter.

  Erik skipped down from the steering platform, making his way to the larboard beam as the helmsmen on both ships eased them together. As catcalls and brickbats flighted between the crews Ulfar Whistle Tooth shouldered a leather sack and launched himself across the gap, landing with a thud on the deck as both crews voiced their disappointment that he had not ended up in the drink. Erik and Ulfar exchanged a grin as his old companion rubbed a knee. ‘I am getting a bit old for all this Erik,’ he said as the smile became a grimace. ‘That high seat and long hearth are looking better by the day.’

  Erik clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Nonsense, you are as sprightly as a man half your age.’ He nodded at the sack. ‘Are those the flags?’

  ‘Three of them,’ Ulfar replied. ‘The high king’s shipmaster returned from the Isle of Man the day before last; one for each of the three jarl’s remaining on the island.’

  Erik pulled a pained expression. ‘Only three? That’s going to cause a few problems. Not only does the fleet contain more men whose rank deserves to be recognised, but we have far more ships than three jarls would likely command.’

  The pair walked aft as the ships gained sea room, and Erik listened in as Ulfar told of the situation in the lands surrounding the Irish Sea in more detail.

  ‘The whole region is in uproar, lord,’ Ulfar explained. ‘An English army just marched through the north and fell upon Strathclyde. King Edmund demanded that the army of Olaf Cuaran accompany them to fulfil his obligations as under king in York. Norsemen from the settlements around the Solway are very likely to be involved too, the men of Man certainly are.’

  Erik nodded. ‘Yes, we know about the English invasion. We saw the harrying from seaward and we came across one of their ships.’ He threw his underling a savage smile. ‘The English fleet is a ship lighter than it was a couple of days ago.’

  They had gained the steering platform, and Erik tore open the fastenings to reveal the flags within. ‘A boar, a bear and a raven?’ He sniffed with distain. ‘No one can accuse Blacaire and Olaf of having jarls with a sense of originality. Well,’ he said as his mind attempted to untangle the various threads of King Edmund’s war plan, ‘it would seem that we can rest assured that Olaf and his men are safely out of the way at least.’ Erik looked again at Ulfar as Helgrim and Sturla Godi stepped up from t
he main deck. ‘And what is the situation before Dublin?’

  ‘Ah, that I can say with certainty,’ the old styrisman replied, ‘but it would be easier if I showed you.’ Ulfar searched about until his gaze alighted on a loose fleck of tar on the halyard. Picking it free he crouched and quickly sketched an outline of Dublin and its surrounds on the sun bleached decking of the Draki, as Kolbein looked on aghast from his place at the steering oar. ‘This is the River Liffey, and here on the southern bank is Dublin, enclosed on two of the remaining sides by a smaller river called the Poddle. In the southeastern corner of the town there is a fortified area where the lord and his retainers live, opposite a wider stretch of water which the Irish call the Dubhlinn. It means the black pool, it’s where the town gets its name from.’ Erik nodded as his huskarls crowded around. Every man there was a seasoned warrior, each well aware that Ulfar’s information could mean the difference between surviving the assault or ending the day as just another stripped and ransacked cadaver in a stinking ditch. ‘Further up the Liffey,’ Ulfar said as he slashed through the river upstream of the town with two parallel lines, ‘is a place called the Ford of the Hurdles. King Conalach has already taken this crossing and moved his army over to the southern bank where they are investing the only part of the town to have a land facing wall.’ He squinted up at the men crowding around, clearly stifling a smile at the look on Kolbein’s face as Erik’s styrisman suffered the agonies of watching someone sketch a plan of attack on his pristine planking. ‘They have made a couple of half-hearted assaults to lull the defenders into a false sense of wellbeing, while they wait for us to turn up and play our part.’