by C. R. May
‘He could come through the district known as the Peaks just to the south-west of here or he could bypass the high ground completely and come at us from the west.’
Erik recognised the doubt in Morcar’s voice and asked him to explain.
‘The way that the southern armies muster makes it almost certain that they will use this route, lord. It was not so many years ago that the lands ruled by king Eadred were independent kingdoms ruled by their own king. All that was swept away by the Great Army in the last century, but a man’s sense of nationhood is not so easily extinguished and they still take the field under their old banners. The king will gather the army of Wessex and march to London. As I said before Ermine Street starts from London at the Bishop’s Gate. The men from Kent will muster in London and the armies of the Danelaw and Mercia will join up with them as they march north.’ He sucked his teeth as he thought before shaking his head as he reached his conclusion. ‘They could split the army with the West Saxons, Kentish Men and Danes coming the way I have described and the Mercians and any Welsh allies skirting the Peaks to the west, outflanking us by taking the East-West passes through the hills.’
‘Is that likely?’
Morcar shook his head. ‘It would be a sound strategic move and they have done it before, but I doubt they will this time. The Welsh make good use of mounted warriors, horswealas we call them in English, and there are no better bowmen on God’s green Earth. If it was not for the singing I would take them as allies any day.’
Erik’s eyes widened in question and the Northumbrian explained. ‘Every time they have a drink, and it only takes a cup or two, they burst into song. Even if he sounds like a hog with his bollocks on fire you will never convince a Welshman that he doesn’t sing like an angel, and he just won’t stop warbling, all night long. Take my word for it,’ he said. ‘Never get into a sing-song with the Welsh.’
Erik joined in as laughter rolled around the group, thankful that the archbishop’s house man had lightened the mood if only for a moment. There was a fine line to be trod between uncovering the strengths of an enemy and spying out the lie of the land, and fostering doubts in the minds of his hirdmen that the task before them in the new year was insurmountable. But he needed to know, and he could see again why Wulfstan had sent the man along. ‘But you are certain in your own mind that Eadred will come this way?’
Morcar nodded again as minds returned to the matter at hand. ‘I would stake my life on it lord.’ He snorted and pulled a fatalistic smile. ‘The archbishop and the witan bent their knee and pledged to take king Eadred as their rightful lord only this summer.’ He pinned Erik with a look, and the Norwegian saw the weight of the man’s concern and the size of the task which lay before them all the following spring in his eyes. ‘Eadred has been humiliated in the presence of his ealdormen, thanes and the jarls of the Danelaw. He must know now that we had no intention of honouring our oaths, and that we were playing for time. He will come to crush us, here, with full force.’
Erik looked along the table and traced the ghost of a smile, despite the problems which had overshadowed his return to the city. For the first time he could recall his wife had been wrong-footed, but the fine judgement which he had always admired in Gunnhild had returned with her suggestion, and the night had all the makings of becoming a great success. Swine and lambs turned slowly above long fire-pits, fats and juices bubbling on their flanks before dropping to sizzle on the hot faggots below. Men sat at their cups, swapping tall tales of raiding or wenching as the aroma drifted across to set them salivating.
It was the eve of the Christ Mass, and despite the thick heads which most still entertained following the downing of the Jule ale only a few days previously, all the important men in the kingdom had gathered in the city to honour the Christian God, renew friendships and pay homage to the man most had only seen at the crowning ceremony a few months previously. It was the least she could do Erik mused, as he watched the skald prance and leap reciting some fantastic tale. All the men, high and low, were in agreement; there would be a price to pay because of her heavy-handedness in the fighting to come.
Troublemakers had come to the garth soon after he had left to survey his new kingdom with tales of tax avoidance and other skullduggery among the traders and merchants who inhabited the sprawling quarter down by the docks. For once Gunnhild’s judgement had deserted her and she had risen to the bait, despatching spearmen to take what was rightfully the king’s by force. Erik had returned to find the city in uproar just when he was desperate for unity.
Erik pushed the thought aside as he swept the hall with a look, the deed was done and there was no use wishing it undone, and his eyes flashed with pride and excitement as he noted the quality of men who had gathered beneath his roof. Arinbjorn was there of course, his foster-brother as loyal a supporter as any man could wish for despite his acknowledgment of Hakon’s kingship in Norway, his huskarls Helgi and Horse-Hair Gisli too. Beyond them Erik’s sons sat among their men: Gamli; Harald; Guttorm; even Sigurd were now fighting men to be feared, staunch supporters of their father the king. Erik snorted; he would not make the same mistake as Harald Fairhair, doling out sub-kingdoms throughout the land to placate his wolfish offspring. If they hankered for a crown to decorate their princely heads they would need to fight for one as he had done. The Northumbrians: Morcar, Archbishop Wulfstan’s house thane with his hearth warriors, men the southern English and Northumbrians alike called gesith, Oswy and Wystan; Earl Gunderic deep in conversation with the same Earl Regenwold who had hosted Erik during his ride to the Tees. Oh, to be a fly on the wall eavesdropping that head-to-head! That their families had prospered despite the upheavals of the past century with their power and lands intact called for respect and wariness in equal measure. Godfred the Dane: his father and brother held bocland, bookland, in East Anglia directly from the English king; would he march for or against Erik when the time came? Earl Orm, solidly Norse, but then again so was Olaf Cuaran to whom Gunnhild had recently discovered the man had wed a daughter. It was true, Erik mused as he watched the earl laugh and joke, he had been quick to offer the hand of another to an Eriksson, but still, he would need to be watched.
A playful dig in the ribs chased the worries of kingship away, and his mouth curled into a grateful smile as he saw his own lads crowding around. ‘Come on lord,’ Thorstein blurted through a beard made tacky by mead. ‘This time last year we were sitting on a rock in the middle of nowhere, listening to the shriek of the wind and the roar of Helgrim’s farts.’ He thrust out a horn, and Erik chuckled as he watched Sturla Godi close one eye and pour all his concentration into guiding the spout. Erik admired the craftsmanship on the mouthpiece even as his banner man slopped drink all over it. A warrior hides in a pit, plunging a sword upwards into the heart of a dragon as birds chirrup in the trees all around. Erik recognised it as the tale of Sigurd, Fáfnir bane; it should have been an unequal fight, but the hero had slain the dragon against the odds and he promised himself that he would do the same.
22
THREE MILKY
Erik lay back, exhaling softly as Gunnhild raised the subject again. If God in heaven or Óðinn himself added a spearman to his army every time he had had to explain his reasoning to the woman, he would be facing the might of the southern king feeling a lot more confident than he did. For such a canny lass he was at a loss to see what she failed to understand had gone wrong the previous autumn, but he let her say her piece as he studied the roof beams and waited for the gale to blow itself out. Her hand drifted back beneath the throw when the words finally stopped and he guessed that she had said too much, but he had not the heart to tell her that he had not heard a word as she began to caress him back into life. Erik thought to move her hand away as he prepared to make his point for the hundredth time, but decided against it as he began to swell; he turned his face to hers, and all the anger and disappointment at the problems she had caused were driven away in an instant by the love which still burned brightly after a lifetime together.
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‘I will explain again, and then you can choose to agree with me or not,’ he said. ‘But either way it will be the last time we have this conversation. There is always more than one solution to a problem, and kings and queens find themselves having to weigh up the benefit or otherwise of a course of action more than most. None of us are infallible; we have greater concerns now and you need to let it go.’
Gunnhild removed her hand, and Erik laughed as he saw the mischief dancing in her eyes. He laid his own hand against her cheek, and he found to his surprise that he was overcome by emotion as he held her gaze. ‘I still love you,’ he breathed, his voice quivering at the intensity of the moment, ‘more than ever.’ Her face flushed as she leaned in to kiss him tenderly, and for a moment in time the years of toil and struggle rolled away and they were young and free again with a lifetime of adventure before them. Her hand sidled back as they parted, and Erik drew a giggle as he made a quip to cover his moment of unmanliness: works every time! Erik sighed with pleasure as Gunnhild drew the cover aside, her scent filling the air as she rest her head upon his chest to get a better view.
He took a deep breath and began, confident now that he had her attention. ‘My actions over the past few years have disrupted the trading routes from the West and cost the merchants here in York not a little profit. First I took off with the best of the slaves from the holding pens in Dublin, not only depriving them of their stock but ruining the market in the south. Last summer I swept the Irish Sea clear of shipping as I isolated Olaf Cuaran in Ireland and attempted to kill him in battle. Make no mistake,’ he said, ‘these men know the price of everything from a longship to a single nail. You cannot command their loyalty like normal men; they harbour neither a desire for land, a reputation as a battle winner nor high office. They are driven by a lust for silver and gold, and no other. I had planned to buy at least their neutrality in the upcoming fight, by either making a payment in the fine new silver coins the moneyers are producing to each and every man in York or cancelling the skat owed for a full year in compensation. I cannot do that now because it would be seen by all, especially the archbishop and the earls, as the action of a weak king desperate for support. They wanted the Blóðøx, the king who would recover the lost days of glory and independence from the monster in the south; now all my plans are ragged.’
Gunnhild sighed sadly, and Erik’s suspicion that she had finally listened well enough to his arguments to fully understand were confirmed as her head slid further down his torso. Even as he felt the warmth of her mouth close around him raised voices reached his ears from the hall beyond, and Erik pulled the throw back across to cover her as the door was rapped and Thorstein’s voice called his name.
‘Yes, what is it?’
The clamour redoubled as the door creaked upon its hinges, and the expression on his huskarl’s face when it appeared made him rise to one elbow and listen intently. ‘Erik…lord-,’ he began, his gaze shifting from the king to the mound in the centre of the bed and back as Gunnhild froze at the sound of another man in the room. The men exchanged a look, and Erik watched as Thorstein struggled to suppress a smile before clearing his throat to speak again. ‘They are on the way.’
The road dust hung in the still air, and Erik’s huskarls instinctively closed about him as a score of mounted men thundered past to reinforce the scouts. The nearest was clearly in view and he appeared as calm as could be expected, but it paid to be sure and the detachment was soon lost from view as they urged their mounts up the incline before clearing the crest at the gallop.
Helgrim threw Erik a look and sniffed. ‘It should be some of our lads coming in; it’s about time, we could do with a better idea of what is happening.’
‘I will take fifty men, lord,’ Thorstein put in, tugging at the reins to pull his mount back into line as it picked up the change in mood. ‘We can race to the ford and hold it until you come up.’
Erik pulled a face. ‘Against who? We don’t know who or what we are facing yet. Let the scouts do their work; they are good at it.’ He smiled as he sought to lay the fears for his own safety reflected in the faces surrounding him. ‘That is why they are scouts. We shall go forward at the trot and see what we shall see.’
Erik was aware of the men riding at his shoulder loosening the bindings which secured swords in scabbards as they rode, but Jomal bounced at his back and the reassurance it gave him was enough to spur him on as the crest of the rise came nearer. They were soon there, and Erik called the army to a halt as he recognised the approaching riders as men loyal to him, taking the opportunity to unstop the flask as he waited for them to reach him. He craned his neck as he drank, looking back along the long line of the column and revelling in the power of the moment as he saw the battle flags and the men who rode proudly beneath them: Arinbjorn hersir; the Erikssons: Gamli; Harald; Guttorm and Sigurd: bringing up the rear Morcar and his Northumbrians, the only force other than the king’s own men available in the city. The war arrow had gone out as soon as he knew, but the news was about as bad as it could have been; the English and their allies had stolen a march; they were already past Lincoln and coming on fast.
The men being escorted in were those who had been sent south, beyond the crossings at Ceasterford and Tateshale where the Northumbrians had submitted to Eadred the year before. It could only be the news he had hoped for, and he sent pleas to God and Óðinn that the invaders were still as far away as possible if he was to have any chance of containing them before they broke through into the heart of the kingdom. As they got closer Erik could see the flanks of the horses lathered with sweat, the great ribcages pumping like bellows as they recovered from the dash north; it was obvious to all that they had been ridden hard, and the men surrounding him exchanged knowing looks as the little group came up. A dip of the head was all that Erik received from the senior scout as he lost no time in making his report. ‘The leading outriders were five miles south of Tateshale when we spotted them lord,’ he said, ‘coming on at the gallop.’
‘Did you see the army itself?’
‘We couldn’t hang about too long, lord,’ he said apologetically, ‘or we would not have got the news back to you. As I said the enemy scouts were not sparing the lash, but I could see the dust cloud hanging in the sky to the south and I estimate that the horse thanes are only two or three miles behind.’
Erik nodded as he fished inside his purse and tossed a silver coin to each of the men. It was one of his own bearing a central cross and the wording Eric Rex in the English style, a first for the great Norseman made by the moneyer Rathulf, up by the minster where the only threat to a man’s silver was the rapacious appetite of the church itself. ‘Thank you, well-done,’ he said as the grateful men plucked the spinning discs from the air. ‘Rest your horses while you can, and grab some food and drink before we move on.’ He turned to Sturla, snapping out an order as the scouts dismounted and led their weary horses across to a nearby beck, placing their needs above their own as any good horseman would. ‘Summon the leading men.’
The yip-yip-yip of the battle horn sounded in the warm spring air as the banner man called the assembly, and Erik took the opportunity to slip from his own saddle, loosening his trews to splash the grassy verge as he waited. Everyman there had a lifetime’s experience of raiding and fighting and they recognised the action for what it was; within a short time Erik was surrounded, men grabbing what was likely to be the last chance for a while to stretch legs or leach canteens and bladders.
Erik cast a look skywards as he waited for the riders to reach him at the head of the column. The sun was westering as the sky horses galloped on, and although the days were lengthening noticeably now that the Easter festival had been celebrated by Christian and pagan alike, twilight was not far off when he had finally led them across the Ouse and down Micklegate to confront the invader. He had hoped to gain the ford at Ceasterford in good time to deny the crossing to the enemy, but he was running short on daylight and he still had a way to go. Excited chatte
ring drew him back and he looked about to see that most of the leading men were standing before him. Morcar was the last to join the group and he shot the Northumbrian a nod as he retied the fastenings and hurried across. ‘Good,’ Erik said as the patter died away, ‘we are all here. For those of you who are unaware our scouts spotted their opposite number just south of Tateshale, with the main column coming on a few miles to their rear.’ The king fixed Wulfstan’s thane with a look. ‘Morcar, you know the distances involved better than any man here. How long until we can expect to meet up with our friends from the South?’
Morcar’s eyes widened at the revelation, but he reasserted his composure before replying. ‘If the English were say five miles from Tateshale, that puts them only eight miles from Ceasterford itself.’ He pulled a face. ‘Considering the fact that our own scouts have had to ride and find us we can be sure that they will be there already.’
Erik nodded. ‘How close are they to us?’
Morcar’s head swept the surroundings as he looked for a landmark. The shadows were lengthening quickly as the sun clipped the higher ground to the west, and they all watched as the thane attempted to pierce the gathering gloom. ‘We are fifteen miles from York, lord,’ he said finally. ‘That puts us still ten miles shy of Ceasterford.’
Erik watched as the shoulders of those facing him drooped at the news, but the mark of a leader was how well he handled setbacks and he had a backup plan already in mind. He had thought it a strong possibility that Eadred’s army would reach the ford before the Northumbrians could rush forward to defend it in depth, ever since he had learned of the speed of their march north that morning in the king’s garth, and he had the perfect place in mind to block the route to York. ‘We fall back to the wooden bridge we passed a few miles back.’