by C. R. May
The tail end of the column was just filing into the space, and Erik allowed himself a moment of pride as he looked out across the massed ranks of his followers. If the crowd had posed any danger to either himself or his brood only moments before they had clearly missed their chance, and he began to relax as Wulfstan motioned that he accompany him through the gaping doorway before them.
As the pair passed from light to shadow, men came forward to gather in Norwegian weapons. The practice was common in the halls of his younger days where the buildings themselves were often too middling to accommodate the egos gathered beneath the roof, and although Erik handed his across willingly in this most holy of places, he was grateful when the archbishop indicated that he could retain the short seax which hung at his belt. The formality over they moved forward into the cavernous body of the minster proper, and Erik fixed his gaze upon the distant font which he knew contained the holy water lest he gape like a bumpkin at the airiness of the nave and the splendour which surrounded him. A young cleric had moved to their head, and the footsteps echoed loudly as he led them between great columns of stone until they stood before the gaily coloured partition of the rood screen. Above it all loomed the figure of Christ on the cross, and Erik’s eyes were drawn to the spear wound in the son of God’s side as Wulfstan reached the font. Oswald Thane, continuing his role of Catechumen from the prime signing the previous year had joined Erik and his family at their cups the night before, running through the sights and duties he would see and perform the following day. Now, as Gunnhild and the Erikssons settled into place at his rear and the archbishop’s lilting intonation began to fill the air, Erik thrilled as a passage from Óðinn’s Rune Song flitted into his mind like a bat from the shadows:
I know that I hung on a windy tree
nine long nights,
wounded with a spear, dedicated to Óðinn,
myself to myself,
on that tree of which no man knows from where its roots run.
The Allfather was at his side, here, at the very heart of this bastion of Christianity, and Erik relaxed a touch as he came to see the similarities between the god-tales. Both had sacrificed themselves by hanging, both had been pierced in the side by a spear, had spent time in darkness before returning to perform deeds for the greater good; they were too great to be mere coincidence, and Erik let the words of the ceremony wash over him as he waited to be accepted into the Christian church. Without warning archbishop Wulfstan was extending a hand, and Erik felt the empowerment of the moment as the sign of the cross was made on his upturned forehead for the second time in his life. A further incantation in latin and he joined the congregation to chant the Amen as Wulfstan indicated that Erik take his place on the ancient frith-stool of Northumbria, the stone peace-seat polished smooth by innumerable kings, as the archbishop turned his attention to Gunnhild.
With the eyes of the congregation elsewhere for the moment, Erik allowed his own eyes to drink in the wonders of the interior of the great building. Columns of finely worked stone marched away towards the porch where Jomal rested in silent menace. Flanking the columns ran twin aisles containing chapels, smaller rooms of worship which studded the exterior walls at irregular intervals. But it was the decoration which caught the eye of the Norseman in him as he supposed it was meant to do, and he took in the scenes depicted in all the hues and colours of a rainbow as he joined in the chant of Amen and watched the archbishop move on from Gunnhild to Gamli. Oswald had told him that each depicted a scene or lesson from the gōdspel, an English word which was close enough to the Norse for Erik to recognise meant good-news, the good news of God’s word, and he thrilled at them as his gaze moved from one to the next: Christ Risen; an army of winged men marching to war; ruddy skinned dæmons sending naked sinners tumbling into a monster’s gaping maw; a ship overloaded with animals breasting tempestuous seas.
On the ceiling of the nave itself a more familiar image of a king wearing nothing but a crown and loincloth, shot through by arrows loosed by smiling bowmen. Here was a tale he already knew, and he recalled the mirth it had caused when recounted by skalds in smoky northern halls. King Edmund, the last English king to rule in East Anglia, had chosen death over apostasy when he had come into the power of the Micelhere in the last century. But despite setbacks and disasters the southern English had fought with bear-like tenacity to retain their lands and God, driving the invaders back battle by battle, year by year, decade by decade until the descendants of the great heathen army were largely as Christian and loyal to the king in Winchester as the West Saxons themselves. There was a lot to admire in the English, Erik reflected as he sat and watched his sons receive the mark of the cross. Doggedness and a refusal to be beaten despite the hopelessness of their cause were qualities to be admired, and he laboured under no illusion as to the ferocity of the struggle to come.
A thrill coursed through his blood as the crown was carried in and he saw his own pride reflected in the countenance of his wife and sons before him. This was why Harald Fairhair had chosen him above all others to become his heir, the fire and lust for glory within him burned no less brightly than his father’s own. That the gods had involved him in their own battle for supremacy was no fault of Erik’s, but he relished the challenge and began to make his plans. Tonight he would feast his men as Cyning in York; tomorrow he would ride out to mark the borders of his land.
21
UNDER GREY SKIES
‘This is it, lord,’ Morcar said as they drew rein and peered across the waters to the far bank. ‘That is the River Tees, and beyond it,’ he added as he raised a hand to wipe the rainfall from his face for the thousandth time that morning, ‘is the old kingdom of Bernicia, now reduced to an earldom ruled by Oswulf Ealdulfing in Bebbanburh.’
Erik nodded and withdrew his neck even further inside the folds of his thick woollen cloak. He had long ago given up any pretence that he would mark his lordship by carrying fire around the boundary as was the way of his people, but he would ride the border and see for himself the type of land he ruled over before the snows came and the high passes became impassable until the spring thaw.
Three days had passed since they had met with Morcar and his men near the northern gate of York and put the first few miles of Dere Street under their hooves, days in which the clouds rapidly piling up in the west changed hue from dove grey to slate. It felt good to be away from the city, despite the rain which had set in within the first half a dozen miles travelled, and he allowed himself a snort of irony as his mount shook its sopping mane and the musky smell of wet horse washed across him once more; no man who had grown up in the fjord lands of western Norway: Moerr; Romsdal; Hordaland; kingly Rogaland or Fjordane as he had himself, would ever hide away in his hall for the sake of a downpour however hard it fell, lest he never get another chance to leave the place at all!
Having witnessed Erik crowned king in York, Gauti Thorodsson and Thorfin Ketilsson had finally left his service after what felt like a lifetime of support and devotion, ploughing the waves to seek out king Hakon at Avaldsnes to pledge their troth and see out what remained of their life in the land of their birth. Erik had given them good leave, piling the Bison and Reindyr with fine gifts and more than enough silver to see them through to when the valkyrie called as she surely must. Now only Kolbein remained from the styrismen who had given Harald Fairhair their oath on the strand at Nausdal that they would help guide his son to manhood.
They had made good time on the Roman road, despite the best efforts of wind and rain to slow them down. Passing the previous night at the hall of the local earl, a reassuringly brutish Northumbrian named Regenwold, they had risen early, crossed the River Swale and pushed on northwards to the border. Now the rain had truly set in, and Erik made a decision even as his eyes took in the scene before him. ‘We will take a break here,’ he said, drops flicking from his brow as he looked across to Helgrim Smiter. ‘Get the lads to make a fire or two; we may as well warm our bellies with broth though the rain chills ou
r bones.’ He indicated that Morcar join his huskarls with a jerk of his head as road weary men began to slip from saddles and scour the roadside for firewood. The leading men clicked on their horses as tinder was collected from panniers and fire steels flashed, making their way down to the place where the Tees slid by on its way to the sea.
A haphazard scattering of worked stone showed where a small building had stood on the riverbank in days gone by, and Erik guided his mount across with a squeeze of his knees and brought it to a halt. Sturla’s horse was a pace behind, and Erik’s gaze flitted from the bloodied axe sigil above him and across the river to another tumbledown building on the northern bank.
Morcar saw where the king's eyes had come to rest, and he supplied the answer before Erik could ask the question. ‘That is what is left of the old Roman fort which guarded the crossing. It’s unlikely that Oswulf will keep men at the border, lord,’ he said with a sniff. ‘At least not in an out of the way place like this. The earl keeps a few men on the far bank opposite Miydilsburh near the estuary to collect tolls and the like, but as you can see since the bridge came down I doubt that many folk use this road.’
Erik nodded as he looked out across a river surface puckered by rain. Jetties poked out from both banks of the Tees to facilitate the ferry used for crossing now that the Roman bridge had gone the way of its makers, silent witness Erik supposed to the wars which had swept the old imperial territories once the people on their borders had tested the defences and found them wanting. A small boat was tied to a mooring post on the far bank and Erik saw the ferryman for the first time as Morcar waved him away.
‘Poor sod,’ the thane muttered beneath his breath as the man returned to his hut, ‘what a way to live. They are mostly sheep farmers and the odd chapman who live around here,’ he added, switching his gaze across to the remains of the bridge; ‘you will find that they have little use for rowboats.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘It would take a long time to get a flock across, one by one! Pilgrims use the ferry now, on their way down to York or St Wilfrid’s ancient church at Hrypum. The River Tees used to form the border between the older kingdoms which existed here before they united to form the kingdom of Northumbria,’ he said, wringing the moisture from his beard again as he did so. ‘As I mentioned before, across there was the kingdom of Bernicia, from here down to the River Humber the kingdom of Deira; that’s where Dere Street gets its name from, lord.’ Morcar spat into the grass, almost as if he had a nasty taste in his mouth. ‘When the Danish Great Army arrived back in the last century, they found Northumbria split into two rival factions. The earl of Bernicia, a man called Ælle, had driven the rightful king Osberht from York. Although they managed to bury their differences to face the threat it was too little, too late; they both died in battle at York and the kingdom fell. Ever since that day,’ Morcar said with a look of regret, ‘Northumbria has remained split here at the Tees. If the truth be told lord, it has been difficult for either to thrive without the other. Bernicia is more rural, but upland farmers and drovers make excellent fighters. Deira, what men now call the kingdom of York, is wealthy through trade; but many of the inhabitants are more used to handling scales than weapons, and the wealth they produce attracts war lords and foreign kings like bees to honey. With Bernician warriors and Yorkish gold, a reunified Northumbria could once again become the greatest power on the island.’
Erik nodded that he understood. He was thankful that he had the big Northumbrian within his ranks; the man was a virtual repository of knowledge, a vital asset if he was to persuade the populace to accept his kingship. Archbishop Wulfstan had warned him following the dual ceremonies in the minster, that although he had the backing of the church and leading men of the kingdom who yearned for the days when they were free of the constant threat from the south, many of the traders had done well during the years of Olaf Cuaran’s rule. Wealth had flowed out from them to the people of York: brewers; smiths; shipyards; even makers of household goods and nicknacks had made healthy profits from the links to Dublin and the other Norse towns in Ireland where he had his power base. As far as the English kings in Winchester were concerned, if they could not rule Northumbria directly Olaf was their preferred choice for under-king, being the godson of the murdered Edmund the Magnificent. Not for the first time Erik regretted how close he had come to removing the threat once and for all on the banks of the River Boyne.
Erik’s attention drifted back across the river. So Earl Oswulf ruled a land poorer but similar in size to his own, and although he realised that they had been helped by the reality of their impoverishment as much as their remoteness, Erik felt a grudging respect that the leaders of the earldom had retained their independence from their avaricious neighbours, squeezed as they were between the kings in York and Alba to the north. Only a succession of wily leaders could do this, and although the feat was one which demanded respect it also made them untrustworthy. It was a situation which demanded vigilance on his part, despite the more immediate threat from king Eadred’s southern army.
A beefy smell wafted down from the campfires and Erik exchanged hungry looks with the men around him. ‘Come on,’ he smiled as the rain pelted down. ‘It looks like it’s clearing up. Let us eat our fill, and then up onto the moors.’
Erik nodded as he took in the lay of the land. ‘And this is the only route north you say?’
‘It’s not the only way,’ Morcar replied. ‘But it is by far the easiest if you want to move a large force in either direction without getting their feet wet.’ He raised his chin and pointed away to the east. ‘Ermine Street runs North-South, all the way from London, through Lincoln to the south bank of the Humber. From there ferries ply back and forth and the road starts again on the north bank and carries on to York.’ He threw his king a look as Erik raised himself in the saddle to get a better view. The land shimmered to the horizon as the rain of the past few weeks found its way to the Humber and thence to the sea, and Erik nodded as he came to understand.
‘From here, pretty much all the way to the coast the land is low lying, marshland and bog between major rivers: Trent; Ouse; Aire; Calder; the Humber itself,’ Morcar continued. ‘So the Romans widened and improved an ancient track which kept to higher ground. If they needed to move reinforcements quickly into the area, they could force-march straight up Ermine Street, bounce the crossing and be in York in no time. If the need was less urgent, they had a large supply train in tow or they thought they might face a hostile force at the river crossing they could still move north by bypassing the wetlands and Humber completely along the road we call the Roman Rigg.’
Erik was impressed at the man’s grasp of strategy and said so to the big Northumbrian’s delight.
Thorstein had been listening in and he asked a question of his own. ‘So this is where the archbishop and the Northumbrian witan pledged to take king Eadred as their father and lord and pay tribute while we were in Ireland?’
Morcar shook his head. ‘No, that was at Tateshale, a few miles further south, this place is called Ceasterford. The stonework you can see belongs to the Roman fort which guarded the crossing. Many of the places which contained Roman forts are known as Ceaster in England, the ford, well,’ he shrugged ‘just means ford. So this is the fort by the ford.’
Thorstein and Helgrim exchanged a look of amusement. ‘Makes sense.’
Erik looked out along the rise as the men began to rib the Northumbrian about the simplicity of his language, and his mind began to turn over the guide’s words as the men of the Draki unstopped water skins and grabbed a chance to empty bladders and stretch tired legs. Despite the discomfort of the previous week spent in the high country of the Pennines, a place of lush green valleys, long grassy ridges and hummocky hills girdled by limestone scars and scree, it would appear that the incessant rain which had swept in from the Irish Sea would prove beneficial after all. The rivers had swollen as they flowed south and the rainfall turned the tracks and pathways to runnels, and now, now that they had reached the lower lands
of Airedale and the valley of the Trent, every fold in the land was exposed to his view, every dip, bog or marsh laid bare before his eyes from the vantage point of this Ceasterford. Even here the bridge and roadway were flanked by low-lying water meadow, the fields glistening where the Aire had burst its banks.
The ribbing of the men at his side stopped abruptly as their king asked another question. ‘And this is the only route without using ferries you say?’
‘At this time of year, if you want to move an army this is the path you beat. Of course,’ Morcar added, ‘Eadred will not come in winter, so there will be other options available to him.’
‘Such as?’