by C. R. May
‘Arnkel is a good man,’ she replied. ‘He is down south still, chasing Scots all over Sudrland and Ross.’
Erik’s eyes wandered down to her midriff and back up again. The inference was obvious, and Ragnhild gave a shrug. ‘He does what is required, but nothing has happened yet.’
Erik nodded as his eyes drifted across to his own hall. ‘And your mother?’
‘Oh, she has no such problem,’ Ragnhild replied as quick as a lash. ‘I hear that her husband is a beast.’
Erik laughed. ‘So men say.’
He was glad that the layout of the bay meant that the fleet had had to put ashore on the mainland before he travelled across to his home. Erik and Ragnhild had always felt a special affection for one another; as was often the way, in a hall made chaotic by a troop of brothers his only daughter had shone like the North Star, a fixed point of calm in a vault of shooting stars.
She slipped a hand through his arm as they walked on. ‘Was your summer successful?’
‘Of course.’
‘And my brothers are safe?’
Erik pulled his head back and gave her a look. ‘They are Erikssons, Ragnhild Eriksdottir. Men fear them, and they have good reason.’
‘So,’ she said, ‘you think that you have had a successful summer?’
Erik’s raiding was always a success, and he was about to scoff when he recognised the change in tone. ‘Think?’ He narrowed his eyes as he turned them onto Ragnhild’s own, but the excitement he saw reflected there set his own heart racing. ‘You know something, what is it?’
‘It is not my place to say father. They are only rumours, and mother would call me a fishwife or a gossipmonger were I to spread such things.’
Erik hated being kept waiting; he was a king and kings were men with a well deserved reputation for getting everything they demanded the moment they demanded it. But Ragnhild could always bring out the better side to his nature, and he chuckled despite the air of mystery as he admitted that it was exactly what her mother would say.
She looked across to the causeway, and Erik watched as her eyes alighted on the grassy roofed building which was the hall for honoured guests. She was clearly searching for a sign there, a flag or some other thing which would identify who had come to Byrgisey while he had been away in the south, but her gaze moved back to him as all remained still on the isle.
‘You should get across before the tide turns father,’ she said with an impish smile. ‘She tries to hide it of course, but mother is very excited. It would not surprise me if I had another brother to add to my pack in the spring.’
Erik caught a glimpse of Gunnhild out of the corner of his eye and struggled to stifle a laugh. To his everlasting shame he found that he felt as nervous as a maiden as the priest, with white robes flapping like a sail which had slipped its cleats stood over him. The Christian certainly looked the part he had to admit to himself as the man incanted spell after spell in the unfamiliar tongue, and Erik tried not to catch the eye of any of his huskarls as the priest moved forward to make the sign of the cross on his forehead and breast:
‘Accipe signum Crucis tam in fronte, quam in corde-’
The wind howled, plucking at the rooftops all around as the priest chirruped on, and Erik blinked away his fears as it became clear that the ceremony was reaching its climax.
‘Preces nostras, quaesumus, Domine, clementer exaudi;
et hunc electum tuum, Erik Haraldsson.’
The mention of his name caused him to raise his head, and his gaze met those of Thorstein and Helgrim. The pair were stood side by side as if for mutual support, the looks on their faces all the confirmation Erik needed that this was the day that none thought they would live to see.
‘Crucis Dominicae impressione signatum, perpetua virtute custodi-’
Erik’s eyes moved on to Sturla Godi, the banner man pale faced in the throng; fingering the hammer of Þórr at his neck as he looked on aghast.
‘Per Christum Dominum nostrum.’
The Northumbrian Oswald Thane had been sent north by Archbishop Wulfstan to stand Catechumen, Sponsor, to those who were to receive the mark of Christ on the windswept sea mount of Byrgisey, and Erik’s eyes took in the face of his old acquaintance as the man struggled to cry Amen, such was the level of his joy. Sixteen winters had gone over since they had last met on a Northumbrian beach, the day after Erik’s first ship the Isbjorn had had her back broken by a whale. Despite their familiarity, little did the man realise that a clap of thunder or the sight of a raven or two at any moment during that long afternoon and the whole party would almost certainly be thrown over the cliff by the nerve-racked Norsemen. But the prize was worth the awkwardness of being on his knees before the men, and Erik’s mind was already imagining the splendour of the king’s garth in York even as priest and thane moved across to prime-sign his queen and sons.
Erik rose, brushing the dirt of the courtyard from his knees as he walked across to the Northumbrian warriors who had accompanied priest and thane to the north. Erik was pleased to see them, they were an impressive bunch; tough looking men who had clearly survived enough spear and sword work to be welcomed into any war band, regardless of the God they worshipped. Their leader, Morcar, was almost as big as Erik himself, and he ran an approving look over the man as he approached. Apart from the lack of arm rings and the crosses which hung at their necks, Northumbrian’s looked pretty much indistinguishable from his own hirdmen he decided. That of course was the reason why these particular men had been chosen by Wulfstan to escort the delegation to Orkney, to offer the kingship of Northumbria to Erik. The crown came with a price attached, prime-signing on Orkney to show good faith, followed by full baptism in St Peter’s Minster in York performed by the archbishop in person. But it was a price worth paying, and Erik knew that the wily Óðinn would be amused enough at the absurdity of Erik Bloodaxe on his knees in a minster to hold it against him when he finally pitched up in Asgard.
The warriors were clearly pleased that Erik had accepted the faith and vowed to become their new king, but the joy on their faces was tempered by the roughness of their spirit; Erik liked them already. The men dipped their heads as he approached, and he shot them a smile as the otherworldliness of incantations in latin filled the raw Orkney air. ‘Morcar, you and your men have enough food and drink I hope?’
The archbishop’s house man looked up and returned the smile. ‘Yes King Erik, it was very fine.’
Erik cocked his head. ‘So how does the ale compare to that which I will find in my new kingdom?’ Erik could see the man’s mind working as he judged how best to pitch his reply. The others had suddenly discovered more interesting places to look, and Erik knew that he had a chance to break the ice with men he would very likely be fighting alongside in the not so distant future. ‘It is good, but it is not as good as the ale in York?’
Morcar’s smile returned. ‘Nowt tastes as good as Yorkish ale, lord. Northumbria is God’s own land.’
One of the archbishop’s men handed the king a cup, and Erik took it with a nod of gratitude. ‘So, your name,’ he said to Morcar. ‘You took an English name at your own christening?’
To his surprise the big Northumbrian shook his head. ‘No lord, I was named at my birth.’
Erik blinked in surprise. ‘But you are Norse?’
Morcar grinned. ‘Only half Norwegian lord. My mother is a Northumbrian and my father came across from Agder many years ago, when your good father was king there. I was named after my mother’s father, a Northumbrian thane.’
The priest had finished his duties for now, and Erik saw that Oswald was making his way across even as the sound of the clergyman’s sing-song chanting floated away on the northern wind.
‘Welcome to the bosom of the mother church lord,’ he gushed as he came. ‘There is much rejoicing in the Kingdom of Heaven this day.’ He flicked a look at Morcar as he came. ‘You will have been discussing warfare I presume?’
‘Yorkish ale,’ Erik replied as he feign
ed annoyance. ‘Apparently it is better than Gunnhild’s.’
Oswald blinked in horror, but Erik laid his fears to rest with a smile even as the Northumbrian shot Morcar an admonishing glare. ‘Gunnhild oversees the brewing here like any good keeper of the hall keys, but she is not to be found up to her elbows in the mash tun. I look forward to sharing a horn of this fabulous Yorkish ale with you all.’ Erik may have had to wait to feel the weight of the crown of Northumbria press down upon his head, but he was already a king in his own right and he moved to take control of the conversation. ‘I am the king of the Sudreys, I spend the summer there and around the Irish Sea. I know all about the fighting that has gone on in and around my new kingdom.’ He raised his eyes to beckon his own men, stifling a snort as he saw the looks on their faces. His huskarls were fidgeting like expectant fathers, shooting pained looks his way as they struggled to cope with the sight of their lord alone among unfamiliar warriors. As they hurried gratefully to his side, Erik indicated that the Northumbrians accompany him to the hall. He studied their faces as they went, and Erik was impressed that each man possessed the self confidence and strength of character to hold his gaze.
He turned to Morcar and Oswald, as his own men reached them and fell in alongside. ‘We are going to empty a few barrels lads, and while we do you are going to describe the fighting in Northumbria, Mercia and Strathclyde over the past few years and the part you played in it.’ He turned to the thane. ‘Oswald, I want you to tell me the names of the English leaders, their reputation as fighters and leaders of men, and details of their levy system. I want to know everything you can tell me about Eadred’s ealdormen, thanes and fyrdmen. Morcar,’ he said switching his gaze. ‘I want to know how these Englishmen fight: tactics; numbers; the type of formations I am likely to face; use of horse thanes.’ The gable loomed up before Erik’s war troop and he turned to his own huskarls, flashing them a savage smile as they mounted the steps. ‘Whet your swords boys,’ he said happily. ‘We have another busy year ahead.’
18
SLAUGHTER ON THE BOYNE
Erik paused at the crest and looked back. The hill sloped away towards the River Boyne, now a ribbon of silver in the moonlight as it made its way down to the nearby sea from which they had arrived, and the uncrowned king of Northumbria took in the scene as he waited for the men of his hird to press hands and weapons to the circular wall of the tomb of Sí an Bhrú and invoke the power of the ancients. The six skei and a handful of the smaller snekkjur which rode bow on to the bank gave Erik a force of six hundred battle hardened warriors with which to strike at his rival; satisfied that the ship guard were in position he indicated to the Irish scouts that they lead on. The night was already advanced, it was vital that they be in position to launch the attack before the sun returned to expose their presence to the enemy, and Erik hustled the men into line as king Ruaidri’s guides began to move inland. Men came, sharing awestruck comments on the monument as they fell into line, and Helgrim and Thorstein gained his flank as they moved away. Within a few paces the column was through the standing stones which ringed the Sí an Bhrú, the men making final invocations to their own gods as they ran fingertips across the swirls and patterns which decorated the ancient standing stones, and Erik sent a plea to Óðinn, Þórr and Christ that they smile upon his great deception.
It had taken much coming and going on the part of his son Gamli to the court of the chieftain of the Uí Néill clan to arrange the alliance, but Erik was pleased and impressed with his son’s work, despite the fact that it had cost the last of the silk and spices which he had brought back from Lishbunah to seal the deal. But if he could kill his greatest rival for the Northumbrian throne while at the same time disguise the fact that he had any interest in the thing at all from Eadred, the powerful new king of the English, the treasure would have been well spent. Erik knew that if he had pitched up before the walls of York that spring, ready and eager to take up the offer of the king helm made by the archbishop and the Northumbrian Witan, the ‘Wise Men’ of the kingdom, that he would have faced the wrathful army of king Eadred on the field of battle before he could even gauge the workings of his new kingdom and the level of his support. A summer spent fighting in Ireland would act to dispel any rumours which must reach the English king’s ears from his network of informers in the North, so that when he finally did arrive in early autumn the fighting season would have already passed for that year. Erik was confident that he had the ability and means to raise an unconquerable army within the space of the winter months; when Eadred did finally come north in the spring he would be ready to send him scurrying back to his land of shires and hundreds.
The path narrowed as they descended the grassy hillside, and soon the column was two abreast as great trunks of oak and ash pressed in on either side. The desire for secrecy paramount they were taking the low path inland, little more than a woodland track rather than the main road from the coast which ran along the ridge top, but the moon was high in the southern sky and the path was streaked with its light as the army marched inland. Within the hour they had covered the three miles from the ships to the crossing place which was their destination, and Erik tossed pouches of silver to the grateful scouts; as the Irishmen melted away the king raised an arm to summon his leading men.
Helgrim and Thorstein moved aside, and the war troop bunched up as much as they were able on the narrow track to allow their leaders through. Erik glanced down at his battle banner as Sturla made way. ‘Keep my flag furled until the commencement of the attack,’ he said with a nod. ‘Once we are in the open, I want every man in both armies to know that Erik Bloodaxe has come among them.’
Gamli and Harald Eriksson were the first to reach him, and Erik threw them a wink as the other leading men pushed their way through the throng. Arnkel Torf-Einarsson was the last to arrive, the brother of Erland and Thorfinn the Orkney Jarl all smiles at the nearness of battle.
Erik’s gaze moved from face to face, and his own war lust soared as he saw the keenness reflected there. ‘I will just run through what we all hope will happen on the road before us a final time, and then you can get your men into position. As you know there is only cold food, but make sure they eat and then hunker down for the remainder of the night.’ He smiled. ‘We can’t have the smell of stew and pottage drifting all over the waterfront and spoiling our well laid plans.’ The men exchanged looks, reassured by their king’s pre-battle calmness. ‘The guides have confirmed to me that king Ruaidri and his army are in position, blocking the road north near the brow of the hill, so when Olaf Cuaran and king Conalach come into contact with them, this is what we are going to do…’
A hand shook him gently by the shoulder, and a familiar voice murmured the words they had all been waiting to hear as he rose from the leafage: ‘scouts.’ Erik was awake in an instant, jumping to his feet even as his hand closed about the shaft of his spear. A frenzied cuff drove the sleep from his eyes, and Helgrim watched keenly to ensure his lord was fully with it before he added to his alert. ‘They have just appeared lord, on the far bank.’
Erik looked as men began to rise from their slumber all around him. Two horsemen had reined in on the water meadow between the woodland edge and the river, and they watched from deep cover as the heads of the riders moved this way and that as they scanned the far bank for signs of life. The lack of it was the most likely thing to give them away Erik thought as he watched, and his mind began to run through the escape plan he had in mind if this king Ruaidri proved as untrustworthy as today’s adversary had within the walls of Dublin. Six falling notes from Sturla’s war horn would sound the retreat should they have walked into a trap, and each ship’s company would take it in turns to leapfrog the other as they fought a running action back to the waiting vessels. If the ship guard survived and the longships were still in place they would be safely away before they could be overtaken. If not? He allowed himself a fatalistic shrug; the Christ God would have revealed himself to be false, and the kingly barrow of Sí an
Bhrú would be a fine place from which to mount the rainbow bridge to Asgard.
The enemy riders began to converse and Erik thought that his worst fears were about to be realised, but the thunder of hoofbeats carried to them from the south and they watched as a score more riders spilled out into the clearing and began to mill about them. The first of the original pair began to explain his fears, but he was cut short with the chop of a hand from a well dressed newcomer, and Erik made a triumphal fist as he watched what was obviously the superior of the two order the scouts to lead them across the bridge. As the horsemen clattered across the wooden span Erik glanced aside. It was high summer in Ireland and the trees were heavy with leaf, perfect for the concealment of a large force of warriors, and he allowed himself a smile of satisfaction as he saw that even close up the men were practically invisible in the sun dappled shade. It was still only the third hour of morning and the sun was little more than a couple of spans above the horizon, but it was enough to clear the tree tops and Erik knew that the fact would only aid in their concealment as it shone directly down the valley of the Boyne.
The ground sloped steeply upwards on the northern bank and the roadway took a sharp dogleg to the west as it climbed away to become lost in the trees, and Erik switched his attention back to the south as the sound of tramping feet carried to him. King Ruaidri’s guides had told him the night before that the allied army was camped only a few miles from the crossing, and the closeness of the marching men to their scouts confirmed it; Erik began to relax as it seemed that he had less to fear from the Uí Néill alliance than he had had from his first dabble in the political machinations on the island.
The leading horse guards emerged onto the sun-washed meadow just as the first warning horns sounded from the woodland to the north, and Erik felt a shiver of tension in the air as the men stood in their ranks to either side of him prepared to attack. This was the moment they had waited all night for, the moment of contact between the rival claimants for the title of high king in Tara, and Erik was thrilled to see the reaction from the southern army that he had hoped for and expected. Surprised and horrified to find the enemy so close to their overnight camp the mounted warriors put back their heels, storming across the bridge in a tidal rush. As the riders took the bend and disappeared into the cover of the tree line the men on foot emerged, streaming in their wake as they sought to add weight and numbers to the attack.