by C. R. May
Harald nodded that he had the right of it as he finished the sorry tale. ‘Now the brief rule of king Tugimer is reduced; he is now no more than a duke like the old kings in Frankia, and count Geri ranges far and wide over the old lands of the Slavic federation, stamping out any embers of resistance before they can flare into open revolt, suppressing the old gods and building churches.’ Harald Bluetooth glanced across, and Erik saw that his earlier reluctance had been replaced by the harder features of a man who was responsible for making tough choices for the common good. It was the first time that he had noticed the change in his brother-in-law’s mien, and he began to wonder if the decision not to help Erik regain his rightful kingship in Norway had been his father’s after all. Harald was growing in strength, even as old king Gorm waned. The situation echoed his own all those years before, but although Erik sympathised, he knew that he would need to tread more carefully around the man from here on in. The nearer to the ultimate prize a man came, the more ruthless he needed to be lest the flames of ambition scorch him too. Erik himself was as fine an example of that as men would need; in the course of one short conversation a close ally and kinsman had become a threat.
They shared a look, and both men saw the reality of the moment in the other’s eyes. Harald’s expression cooled for an instant before he painted his face with an unconvincing smile. ‘Overwinter with us Erik,’ he said brightly. ‘It would show us honour to entertain such a man as yourself over Jule.’ The Dane raised his eyes to look beyond the Norwegian. Out beyond the line of islands which necklaced the western coast of Jutland clouds as grey as slate scored the horizon. ‘It looks like the first blow of autumn is already upon us, we would be poor hosts to allow a kinsman to sail away at such a time. Yes,’ he said, warming to the theme, ‘entertain us with tales of Dublin and the south lands, and make your way home in the spring.’
Kolbein glanced across as the Draki rounded the headland of Katanes and the islands came into view. ‘It looks about as calm as it gets, lord. Straight across?’
‘Yes, there are no novice seamen manning the helms of any ships in this fleet. Take us between Swona and Muckle Skerries and we shall be in my hall before nightfall.’ Erik swept the horizon even as he spoke. The day was as calm as it got in these parts, but the currents and eddies of Petlandsfjord were killers, even of experienced Orcadians like themselves. ‘And steer well clear of Svalga,’ he added with a look. ‘I may have let the Moskstraumen claim one of my ships, but losing any more to a whirlpool would look bad when I finally pitch up in Óðinn’s hall!’
Kolbein chuckled wistfully into his beard as he recalled the tale from his own childhood. It was the story told to children throughout the north of how the sea became salty. An argument between brothers had resulted in the sale of a magic quern stone which could grind anything a man could wish for. Knowing that he had bagged a bargain the buyer, a greedy trader, took off as fast as he could, putting to sea before the brothers had the chance to tell him how to stop the quern from grinding. He had set the hand mill the task of filling his knarr with salt, but when the hold was full the quern kept on grinding until the ship sank beneath the weight. Men hereabouts said that Svalga, the Swallower, was that place; the whirlpool which claimed the lives of the unwary as the quern stone ground on, swirling the waters above it from its resting place on the sea bed.
With the wind on the starboard quarter the ships bounded across the strait like a pack of homesick hounds, and soon any danger posed by the sea floor quern was behind them. The grassy slopes of Rognvaldsey reared up before them even as the waters sucked and pulled at Muckle Skerries to starboard. Shooting the strait they came into Hoxasund, and a little while later Erik and Kolbein shared a grin as Skalpafloi opened up before them and the wide waters echoed to the cheers of men a year away. Safe now from the witches broth of swell waves, overfalls and races between the Orkneys and the mainland to the south, men relaxed as lookouts ashore saw the powerful fleet for the first time and warning beacons winked into life on the high points all around them.
Helgrim Smiter was at Erik’s side and the huskarl leaned in as men rushed about, giving brynja, helm and weapons a final sheen; sweeping the deck and coiling ropes as they prepared to awe the men ashore with the magnificence of their ship and the manliness of their arms. ‘This reminds me of the day you returned from Bjarmaland, lord,’ he said with a smile. ‘Back at Avaldsnes.’
Erik snorted. ‘Yes, what was it I said when you came striding down from my father’s hall to greet me?’
‘Helgrim Olavsson! This is not the homecoming we expected, warning beacons and deserted strands. What news have you brought us?’
The pair shared a laugh as Kolbein worked the steering oar to bring the ship onto a new heading. The prow looked bereft with the dragon head stowed, but the land wights who lived in the rocks and hills needed to see that the strange fleet meant them no harm. Erik looked back as the ships pivoted about the Draki and turned their own prows to the west. It was a sight which seemed as familiar to him now as the faces of the men who shared his waking hours: Skuli’s knarrs in line astern, fine ships, sturdily built and speedy for their kind. He snorted; if their owner had held his greed in check he would be wealthy now and the crewmen who depended on him would not be slaving under a merciless sun. Out to starboard only the Sea Stallion was absent, Arinbjorn hersir back in his hall in Norway. Erik had already discounted his foster-brother’s aid from any attempt to regain his crown there; now Ulfar Whistle Tooth had sought out king Hakon and pledged his troth. What with the reluctance of the Danes to become involved, Erik could see the already slim chances of ever again ruling the land of his birth from the hall at Avaldsnes slipping further from his grasp with every year. He pushed the thoughts aside, the smile returning to his face as he watched the fleet manoeuvre in his wake; Auk and Reindyr as attentive still as any shepherd’s dog despite the closeness to home. Iron Beard and Bison to larboard, the gap between them which had been taken by the Okse left purposefully clear.
Thorstein had heard Helgrim’s reply and he sauntered across. ‘That was an adventure that trip and no mistake, not to mention that night walker on the way home.’ He gave a shiver as the glimpses he had snatched of the thing flashed into his mind. ‘Hairy bastard; I wonder what it was?’
Erik shrugged. ‘Some things are best left unknown.’
‘And some things need to be out in the open,’ Thorstein countered with a look.
Erik nodded. He knew what his huskarl was asking and he deserved a reply, but the truth of the matter was that he was as yet unsure of the answer himself. The man had been with him almost from the start, ever since the day he and Anlaf Crow had joined a young Erik Haraldsson in a mad dash down through the gates of Landevennec Abbey in the grey light of the dawn. Anlaf may have been the one to snare the ladder even as it was about to disappear inside the tower, but Thorstein’s spear work had surrounded the pair with a ring of death and it was thanks to them both that Erik’s very first raid had not ended in ignominious retreat. Anlaf was gone, his ashes standing a lonely watch over a windswept sea, and no man would feel that loss more keenly than his old shield brother. ‘Before we left Denmark Queen Thyra took me to a grove; I spoke with a volva, one of their priestesses.’ Erik nodded as the hands of those around him instinctively moved up to clasp silver hammers and charms. ‘As you all know she is Gunnhild’s mother, and as such she keeps a special place in her heart for my wife and her grandchildren.’ He shot them a smile. ‘Even if she thinks that her husband is a bit of an oaf.’
The rumble of laughter ran around the group at their king’s self deprecating comment, but Erik’s next words quickly drove the smiles away. ‘This volva repeated the words of the Finnish shaman, the one on the beach where my war axe gained her name.’ His eyes moved from face to face before alighting on his banner man. ‘Sturla,’ he said, ‘how good is your memory?’
Sturla nodded. ‘Good enough lord. I can’t recall it word for word, but I remember the gist of it. He
said that he had been sent dreams of that day all his life, that you were the Bloodaxe and you were a king of Norsemen; that you will be five times a king, but that what the gods give with one hand they can take away with the other.’
Erik shook his head in amazement. ‘Sturla, you never cease to astound me.’ As his huskarl beamed at the praise, Erik carried on. ‘Each time the gods disapprove of the direction I am taking, they put obstacles in my way.’ He looked again at his most trusted companions. ‘What if the king helm of Norway was but one of those crowns?’ Erik grinned, and his heart leapt as he saw that the men were still with him. ‘We have the core of a powerful fleet of battle hardened Norsemen; three knarrs packed to the wales to pay for an army, a loyal jarl and a secure base. There are greater prizes to be had than a land of fjords, mountain peaks and herring gutters.’ He grinned again as he sensed their excitement at his words. ‘Another opportunity, a better one is about to present itself to us,’ he said. ‘Our Óðinn luck still holds, I know it!’
Part III
CYNING
17
GOD’S OWN LAND
As the last headland in the Sudreys disappeared astern, Erik crossed the steering platform to stare off into the distance. Out there somewhere, hidden from view by a squall was the Hvarf, the final nib of land which marked the northern limit of the mainland, and he reflected on the summer just gone by as the Draki led the fleet home before winter set in. He had some reason to be content with his lot he mused as the ship cleared the Isle of Lewis and began to buck and roll in the Atlantic swell. His great friend and ally Thorfinn Skull-Splitter still ruled the northern seas from his fastness on Orkney and the Southern Isles were still firm in their allegiance to Erik. He allowed himself a smile as he thought on the efforts of his younger sons while the fleet had been in the south the previous summer. The jarl had tasked Guttorm and Sigurd Eriksson with the duty of gathering the skat owed to their father the king throughout the disparate islands which made up the Sudreys, and the boys had performed their duty with care and diligence. Sigurd now had a ship of his own, a fine snekkja of twenty oars, and the brothers had used their new-found freedom well, raiding all around the Irish Sea, filling their hulls with silver and letting all who dwelled in those parts know that the name of Eriksson was one to be feared. Now both of Erik’s sons who had sailed north after the Dublin attack were seasoned raiders, experienced fighters able to act as part of a fleet or independently as the need arose.
King Edmund of England, whose raiding army and fleet Erik had watched waste Strathclyde on his way to attack Dublin the previous year, the king the English had started to call ‘the Magnificent,’ had been stabbed to death by a wolf head early that summer. The whole of the island of Britain had been thrown into turmoil by the killing, and Erik’s eyes slid away to the south as he pondered the opportunities which he felt certain would follow as men waited to see how the murder would reshape the pacts and alliances which held sway there.
In Ireland Olaf Cuaran had returned from Northumbria following the attack on Dublin, ousted his cousin Blacaire, and allied himself with the very man who had sacked the town, Erik’s one time ally Conalach Cnogba, the high king in Tara. Erik was in no doubt that that had been the plan all along, despite persistent rumours that archbishop Wulfstan in York had instigated an uprising there against the English place-man Olaf. Not for the first time, Erik congratulated himself that he had the foresight to grab what he could and be away from Ireland, before he too fell foul of the shifting loyalties in that madhouse of tribal politics and warfare.
The clouds parted at that moment to drag his mind back as a sunburst of light turned the waves from shale to green. Ahead a flock of puffins beat their way seaward, dark shapes against a leaden sky now that they had discarded their colourful summer bills. Kolbein had seen them from his place at the steering oar and he gave voice to his thoughts as the ship ploughed on. ‘I wonder where they go?’
Erik looked across. ‘Puffins?’
The big styrisman nodded. ‘Yes, I wonder where they go in wintertime?’
‘Where do all the wandering birds go?’ Erik replied with a shrug. He had never been one to ponder or care where birds flew off to at the end of summer, but he was always as pleased as the lowliest thrall when their return heralded spring.
‘Well, most birds head south,’ Kolbein replied as he watched the seabirds become an indistinct smear to the west. ‘We know that because we watch them head that way in the autumn. But puffins head out west, right out into the wintry wastes.’
Helgrim had been listening in and he added a comment of his own. ‘Maybe they go to Iceland?’
Kolbein shook his head. ‘No, I was in Iceland once and spoke with the locals; they leave there too.’
Erik and Helgrim shared a look of amusement. ‘You met with Icelanders and had a chat about puffins?’ Helgrim laughed as he continued. ‘I know the winters can drag on a bit up there, but it can’t get that bad surely?’
‘I know a bit about puffins,’ Kolbein answered defensively, ‘I used to help my brother Ljot take the eggs and chicks from the nests on the cliffs when I was a lad. We used to collect up the coloured bills too if we could. They shed them after the breeding season; our ma used to make necklaces and the like out of them. Anyway, Ljot used to say there was another land to westwards, way out to sea, where they go in the winter.’ He shrugged. ‘It makes sense.’
There was just so much that Erik could stand to hear about the habits of puffins and his limit had been reached a few sentences before. He threw a parting comment as he made a grab at the backstay and hoist himself up onto the wale. ‘There is nothing but Jormungand beyond the western horizon, the Midgard Serpent.’ He raised his chin to look out to the north-east where the smudge of sandy brown cliffs on the distant horizon made his heart beat a little faster. ‘But there is land yonder,’ he said with a flick of his head. ‘Men call it Haey, the high island. Let us see how quickly we can put it off our starboard bow.’
Men sprang to work the braces, angling the spar to catch the wind as Kolbein brought the ship onto a new heading, and soon the fleet was surging ahead as the cliffs and inlets of home grew on the horizon. Before the sun was much past its zenith the styrismen were changing course again, hauling at the wide paddle blades to run parallel to the coast. Byrgisey, fortress isle, hove into view as the ships rounded the point to put the Bay of Skaill behind them, and Erik watched for signs of welcome as Kolbein worked the oar to bring the ship safely home. ‘Beach her before Jarl’s Garth with the rest of the ships,’ Erik said as Byrgisey Bay itself opened up before them. ‘The tide is on the ebb and I will have plenty of time to cross the causeway before the seas come together again.’
Erik was ashore the moment that the keel grounded, moving up the beach as the crew splashed into the shallows behind him. A quick glance across his shoulder to his own hall on the island opposite drew a smile and a snort from the sea king. Gunnhild must have received reports that the ships were approaching, and even the most shortsighted lookout must have seen the bloodied axe banner flying proudly from the masthead of the leading ship. But he knew that she would receive him in the hall as was fit and proper for a queen, and he returned his gaze to the foreshore before him as the rest of the ships made the strand, grinning with joy and pride as he saw the woman who awaited him there. Thorstein, Helgrim and Sturla had hurried to his side, but they dropped back a pace when they too saw who waited to welcome them home. The strand was a cacophony of sound as ships ran ashore, men tumbled from their sides to cry their joy at another safe homecoming: gulls screeched and called overhead; Erik’s banner snapped. But they all faded to nothing in his ears as Erik scrunched up the last few yards and reached out to take the horn from the young woman’s hand. They exchanged a look, and Erik sank the contents in one before moving forward to kiss Ragnhild lightly on the cheek. ‘Thank you,’ he said as he stood back to drink in her beauty. ‘For the best welcome home a father could have.’
The king’s thir
st satiated, for the moment at least, Ragnhild indicated that the barrels that had been carried down from the stores be tapped with a waft of her hand. Erik looked on with pride as men jumped to do their mistress’s bidding, and soon the strand was filled with the raucous sounds of men quaffing the first cup of many that day. As the beach filled and spirits rose, Erik indicated that they move closer to the hall itself. Fresh bread was being carried down from the bakehouse and Erik’s hand shot out to snatch a loaf as the cart trundled past. He gave a shrug at his daughter’s look of surprise. ‘You would scarcely believe just how good fresh crusty bread can taste when you have had to soak stale in broth or ale for months.’
Jarl’s Garth, the hall gifted to Ragnhild and her husband loomed above them, and Erik picked at her sleeve, drawing her to a halt before they got too close. ‘How are things?’