by C. R. May
The first man’s gaze fled to the ground before him as Erik reached them, but the king gripped him by the hair and raised his face to his own as he snarled an order. ‘Stand up.’ His neighbours were inching away, and Erik swept them with a look which froze them to the spot as he took a backward pace. Olaf’s man climbed shakily to his feet and Erik became aware through the red mist which had descended upon him that Arinbjorn was at his side. He spoke sidelong as the captive quailed beneath his gaze. ‘How many are here?’
‘Around fifty, Erik,’ his foster-brother replied.
Erik shook his head in disgust. ‘More than enough to crew a snekkja,’ he spat. ‘Almost enough to fully man a skei, but no skei of mine.’ He ran his eyes up and down the captive’s body. ‘Turn around.’
The man did so as Erik looked for evidence that he had fulfilled his oath to his lord, whether Olaf Cuaran had deserved it or not. ‘Where are your wounds?’
The man made to reply but no sound came before Erik snapped out a command. ‘Get down on your knees and bend your head.’
Erik ran his eyes over the remainder as the first man sank back down to the grass. Several of the men before him bore obvious wounds from the fighting, angry red gashes and the puckered smile made by spear or sword point, and those men met Erik’s gaze as he came to a halt. ‘You,’ he said. ‘What is your name?’
‘Leif Palsson, lord,’ the fighter replied in a calm and steady voice.
‘Why are you still alive?’
Leif raised his chin to indicate Arinbjorn’s men, now gathered together to watch what they must be certain was their late opponents’ last moments on Midgard. ‘Those girls couldn’t finish me off, lord.’
A twinkle came to Erik’s eye, and he pushed down a smile with difficulty at the man’s grim humour. ‘But you gave Cuaran an oath to give him the victory or die in the attempt?’
Leif sniffed. ‘I honoured that oath until he ran away King Erik. If any man is an oath breaker, it is not I.’
Erik turned his head aside. ‘Did he fight well?’
Arinbjorn nodded. ‘It is as he said. He stood in the first rank until his lord deserted him.’
‘Which god do you honour?’
‘I am from bonder stock, Þórr is my lord.’
Erik slipped his own silver hammer from his neck and handed it across. ‘Here, Leif Palsson; hunt giants and trolls together.’
As Leif gripped the pendant and wrapped the leather thonging around his fist, Erik looked up and spoke again. ‘All of you,’ he spat as he fingered his war axe. ‘Kneel in a line and stretch your neck.’
Erik gripped the doorpost, squinted up at the sky and wrinkled his nose. ‘This is making me homesick!’
Gamli and Harald were alongside their father, and the pair exchanged a look as the rain pelted down.
‘It’s Þórr’s punishment,’ Gamli said. ‘He is the god of weather after all.’
Erik gave his son a look of pity. ‘For taking the head of a follower? The gods should be pleased; if Leif was as great a fighter as he claimed, he will be of use to them.’
Harald ignored the gods talk, running a forefinger along the door head before flicking the droplets away. ‘I recall Norway from seaward, but I only remember snatches of my time there.’
Erik studied his sons’ faces closely and was pleased to see not melancholy and loss but a gritty determination. ‘My brother Hakon cannot live forever, and Arinbjorn tells me that God has not seen fit to provide him with an heir. The time will come when one of you will reclaim our ancestral land, but it will not be I.’ Erik looked out across a courtyard turned to mud by rain and the passage of hundreds of feet, out beyond the River Aire and the horses picketed there to the tree covered hills beyond. The rain fell in curtains, but the stock which had given the settlement of Sheptun, sheep farm, its name were uncaring as they bent their necks and cropped the lush grass. ‘This is my land now,’ he breathed before turning to paint his face with a smile. ‘King Eadred and his legions may seek to rid the land of Erik Haraldsson and such is his power that he may even succeed for a while, but I was crowned in the ancient minster of St Peter not he, and I will always return and take back my God-given right.’
A thought occurred to him then and his mind drifted back to a Finnish strand when he too was young and vigorous and life was an adventure devoid of responsibilities and duty, and he shook his head in wonder as he totted up the summers which had passed since that day. ‘Two score years,’ he muttered as he glanced down at the backs of his hands, sighing inwardly at the creases and liver spots as he straightened and flexed the skin. ‘Two score years…’
‘Father?’
Erik snorted as his mind came back from its drifting. ‘It was two score years ago that I stood on a beach in Bjarmaland and gave Jomal its name.’ The Erikssons still looked bemused and Erik chuckled and spoke again. ‘A shaman told me that day that I would be a king five times over. Well,’ he said, ‘by my reckoning I have been king of Halogaland, Moerr and Romsdal, king of all Norway, king of the Isles and now king of Northumbria.’
‘So there is another yet to come?’ Harald said.
‘Maybe you shall drive the English back across the Humber and take Eadred’s crown for your own?’ Gamli’s eyes flashed as the thought grew in his mind. ‘Our kinsman Harald Bluetooth owns land in Danish Mercia. With his help we can yet raise an army that will bring back the glory days of our grandfathers on this island, a time when the king in Winchester was forced to hide in a marsh to save his head.’
A voice carried to them, and Erik turned to flash his old styrisman a smile. Kolbein was the last of them now, the five helmsmen who had carried a plump cheeked prince down Sunnfjord and turned their prows to the south. ‘A king once proved his mettle as he stood on my steering platform and I carried his hopes and dreams to safety. Óðinn protects his own he said, that the tafl pieces were moving and the game had just begun. Whatever happens Erik,’ the huskarl said. ‘I mean to finish that game at your side.’
26
GOD SPELLS
Olvir shaded his eyes and peered across to the east. ‘Yes, that is them,’ he said, ‘and it looks like they have Morcar’s lads, Oswy and Wystan with them.’
‘At last,’ Arinbjorn said. ‘I thought they had forgotten us.’ He made a face. ‘What has it been? Four days?’
‘Five if you count the time we spent riding across from Tadceaster. Still,’ Erik said, ‘it gave the victor of the battle the opportunity to pitch his tents for a full day at the place of slaughter, and Guttorm and Sigurd enough time to burn Cuaran’s ships and return safely.’ He sniffed in disgust. ‘If Olaf likes my country so much let him wander it for a while like the landless beggar he is. No one can ever deny the completeness of our victory over the pretender.’
Men were rousing themselves as word spread, moving out into the courtyard, as eager for news as their king as the riders began to move across the valley. Erik turned his head. ‘Olvir?’
‘Lord?’
‘Use those eagle eyes of yours to see if you can spot any more of Orm’s ale for our guests. They will have ridden through the night, and I would be a poor host if I had no drink ready to quench their thirst the moment they arrived.’
The Erikssons were drifting across as word spread, and Erik turned to clear the barn of men with a jerk of his chin. ‘Out you go lads. You will find out anything you need to know soon enough.’
Hauk was leading the messengers into the compound as the last of Erik’s men dipped their heads and joined their friends outside, and Erik felt a sudden chill as he saw the Northumbrians’ tightlipped smiles. ‘Not good news then?’ he said lightly as the men hauled travel-weary bodies to the ground and bowed their heads to their king. ‘We find our king hale and hearty, victorious in battle,’ Oswy replied. ‘We have endured harder days than this since you left us, lord.’
Erik indicated the barn with a flick of his head. ‘Come inside boys, we will tap a barrel and you can tell us your news.’
The men filed inside, and Erik waited while Olvir drove the wooden tap into the barrel he had rolled across from the dead earl’s dwindling stores. The king poured the first cups himself and handed them across with a smile. ‘The first ones are a little frothy, but they will still do the job.’
The messengers sank their drinks as the Norsemen waited to discover what news they had carried from York, and it was Oswy again who lowered his cup to begin the report. ‘The archbishop sends his greetings lord, and offers you heartfelt congratulations on your victory over our enemy.’
Erik nodded impatiently, keen to get to the cause of the messengers obvious sense of glumness. ‘But?’
Oswy took the hint and moved on quickly. ‘King Eadred has brought damnation upon his soul by burning the ancient church built by Saint Wilfred at Hrypum, and carrying away the reliquary containing the bones of the saint himself.’
Erik looked from Oswy to Arinbjorn and back again. ‘Is that it?’
The Northumbrians looked aghast before Oswy could stammer a reply. ‘St Wilfrid was the first to bring the word of God to the Frisians and the South Saxons, lord. He was a man of Northumbria and archbishop at York. Eadred’s attack is a calculated strike aimed at the heart of Northumbrian liberty.’
Erik shrugged. ‘We can build a new church and buy the reliquary back. Archbishop Wulfstan has influence among the churchmen in the South, he will retrieve the bones in good time.’ The king pinned Oswy with a stare as he asked the only questions which interested him. ‘Where is Eadred now, and have my earls engaged him?’
‘The English are withdrawing back down Dere Street, lord,’ Oswy replied. ‘Earls Regenwold and Gunderic are shadowing them on the Swale road before rejoining the rest of the army protecting York.’
Erik cast a look around the other Norwegians gathered there, and saw the look of disbelief written on their faces that he was certain found reflection on his own. ‘So, neither a spear nor sword has been raised against the army who has harried my land?’
Oswy swallowed as he saw the depth of his king’s anger. ‘The witan is of the opinion that if we allow the English to retire without further provocation, they may be persuaded to accept your kingship in return for the annual tribute promised them last summer at Tateshale.’
Erik started to blink as the words sank in and his mind tried to form a response, but such was the depth of his disbelief that all he could utter was a single word. ‘What?’
Oswy began to explain again as the men in the room fidgeted in their discomfort, but Erik chopped the air with the ledge of his hand to cut him dead. ‘The witan, the so-called wise men want me to be an under king?’ Erik’s voice became a growl. ‘They obviously had another Erik in mind when they sent Oswald Thane to Orkney. I am Erik Haraldsson, the most favoured son of Harald Fairhair and I bow down to no man.’
The tension in the barn was as thick as a winter stew as men waited to see where the confrontation would lead next, but to Norwegian amazement the men of York began to smile. ‘Forgive me, lord’ Oswy said. ‘I was ordered to inform you of the witan’s proposal and gauge your reaction.’ His smile broadened. ‘I think that it is safe to assume that you reject the suggestion.’ The Northumbrian raised his chin proudly before continuing. ‘Archbishop Wulfstan hoped and believed that you would find the terms unacceptable, in which case he would like to confirm his lifelong admiration and friendship. Earl Regenwold has asked me to…’ Oswy’s voice faded as he struggled to couch his instructions in a formal way. Finally he gave up and flashed a grin. ‘Earl Regenwold said to let him know when and where you want his sword and it will be there!’
Sturla Godi popped his head inside the barn door and hailed his king. ‘We are all set lord!’
Erik nodded, tossed the ale cup aside and took up his spear, striding to the doorway as his remaining huskarls followed on. The air outside fizzed and crackled with menace as the army of Erik Bloodaxe gird itself for war, sending the livestock and dogs into a frenzy of bleating, yapping and tail chasing as they too sensed the change in the men’s demeanour. All heads turned his way as he came into the open, and Erik felt the power of the moment as men beat their shields and a spontaneous roar of acclamation rolled around the meadow: Blóðøx!…Blóðøx!…Blóðøx!
Erik raised his spear to stab the air in acknowledgment of the host’s chants, and the sound redoubled as men crowded round to see. Harald appeared before him, and Erik turned his gaze on the young man as he raised his voice above the din. ‘Father,’ he said, ‘may I ask something of you before we ride to war?’
Erik smiled the smile of a doting father. Despite his best efforts to learn from the mistakes of his own father, Harald’s prowess in battle allied to his natural charm and intelligence was fast making him a favourite son. ‘Of course.’
‘Would you pray with us?’
Erik blinked in surprise; spread out before him an army of spear-Norse was practically hopping from foot to foot as the counterattack drew closer, and with their blood aflame he was loathe to drive the feeling away. He had attended enough Christian services now to know that they were tranquil affairs as the congregation listened intently to the words of their priest, despite the fact that much of it was spoken in the old Roman tongue and was a complete mystery to them. Erik pulled a face. ‘Here?’
‘No father, at the church.’ Harald raised an arm to point out a lime washed building squatting at the high point of Sheptun itself. Recently thatched, the roof shone a honey gold in the evening light slanting in from the west. Harald pressed his father as Erik hesitated. ‘It would mean a lot to the Christians in the army; you are their king.’
Erik nodded as he tossed his spear to Sturla. ‘Here, look after this while I placate the ladies.’
Harald turned to whistle up the archbishop’s men before hurrying after his father. ‘Those ‘ladies’ worship the same God as the army which has your earls cowering behind the walls of York, father. They wish to fight for you and they deserve your respect.’
Erik paused mid stride, snapping his head around to admonish his son for speaking out of turn, but he saw the earnestness in Harald’s expression and his anger crumbled as he came to see the truth contained within the words. ‘You are right,’ he said, flicking a look at the dying light, ‘they do. Come on, let’s get this done before we run out of time and miss our chance to remind Eadred we are here.’ Erik cast a look across his shoulder as he entered the outskirts of the town. To his surprise a sizeable group were hurrying along behind him, the gratitude that their king would lead them to prayer animating their features, and Erik felt the sense of joy he had given them warm him too. He slowed down a touch lest he look too much like mother duck leading her brood to the village pond, and the men formed into ranks and began to look like the disciplined force they were.
Pale faces gawped from doorways and rufous haired children hung from palings as they watched Christian warriors climb the hill to the church, and soon Erik was leading the men through the gateway and into the grassy burial ground beyond. To Erik’s surprise the priest stood waiting in the doorway to welcome them, and he rolled his eyes as a glance towards his son marching proudly at his side confirmed that Harald had warned the holy man to expect them. Up close the church looked far smaller than he had imagined, but everything was neat and tidy in the Christian way and he acknowledged the priest’s words of greeting with a fixed smile of his own as he leaned forward and growled a warning. ‘I don’t have all day father or very much of it left at all, so no long sermons.’
The priest retained his beatific smile as he flicked a look at Erik’s son and back to the king. ‘No, King Erik, we have already discussed this have we not Harald? A quick blessing, and away to smite the foe.’ He continued as Erik exchanged a look with his son. ‘As you can see lord,’ he said, throwing an arm wide, ‘my church is no lofty minster but a humble place of worship. Perhaps it would be quicker if we held the blessing in the open? This is a moment of wonder for my flock, a thing to thrill bairns not yet bor
n, the day they took mass with the king.’
Erik’s eyes widened in question, but Harald plucked at his father’s sleeve and motioned back the way they had come with a movement of his head. Erik looked, and caught his breath. The people of Sheptun had come from their homes to worship alongside their king, gathering silently at the wattle fence as he had spoken with their priest. A fist of emotion clenched Erik’s throat as he saw for the first time that these folk, the shepherds, carpenters, drovers and alewives of the moors and dales of Northumbria, saw in him a man who would put an end to the burnings and killings and drive off the braggarts from the south.
Two lads were carrying a heavy staff from the church as he looked back, the gold painted cross at its head drawing a sigh from the crowd as it gleamed in the sun, and before he could think Erik had joined Harald on his knees before it. As the Norseman brought the hands of a killer together in prayer the priest was already making the blessing, and Erik winced at the memory of his own father and wondered what he would make of it all from within his mound in far off Haugar.
The priest’s voice soon cut into his thoughts, and Erik looked up into the kindly face as he realised that the man had been good to his word, the blessing was already over and he was speaking directly to him. ‘Would you lead us all in saying the Lord’s Prayer King Erik?’
Erik was horrified. ‘I doubt that my English is up to the task, father,’ he mumbled awkwardly in reply, but the priest’s eyes took up his smile as he spoke softly. ‘I will guide you my king, nice and slowly; just follow my lead.’ He glanced across to the place where the young lads still held the cross of Christ upon its pike and cleared his throat. ‘There is one last thing I would ask of you lord. Not for myself,’ he added hastily, ‘but for my flock and those who will come after us.’