The Raven Banner

by Tim Hodkinson

  The thick stone walls and height of Kings Gard made it a natural strongpoint. Everyone from the old Welsh to the Saxons and then the Norse kings had used it as both their residence and headquarters. The main entrance off the courtyard was flanked by three stone columns on either side. A flight of stairs, their steps worn smooth and dipped in the centre from centuries of feet marching up and down them, led up to an imposing set of iron-bound double doors.

  Inside was a short entrance hall, also lined on both sides by pillars of white stone. Einar and Ayvind crossed this and entered a gloomy, narrow corridor that was lit by torches that both scorched the stone of the walls black and filled the air with smoke. Ayvind next took Einar up a flight of stairs. Despite having been there before, each time he climbed these Einar felt a queasy lurch in his stomach. Why these Romans had needed to build upwards and not all on one level like normal people, Einar could not understand.

  On the first floor was a small room that Ayvind used for lessons. The skald liked to call it his ‘nest’ as it overlooked the main hall of the building. The hall was an enormous room that during the day served as a place for meetings and other activities of statecraft. In the evenings, when the hall was used for feasting, Ayvind could lean out a window in his little room that looked out over the hall and entertain the guests while they ate. Looking down, Einar saw a lot of movement in the hall below. Servants and the inevitable clerics hurried about, setting out benches, sweeping the floor and dusting. It was clear that they were preparing the room for something.

  ‘Dear me, lad, look at the state of that harp,’ the skald said, shaking his head as Einar pulled the instrument from its bag. Its wood was scraped and a crack worked its way along the sound box. ‘Your instrument should be dearer to you than your woman. Than your own life. It is through it that gold flows into your purse. Give it here.’

  ‘It got caught up in the fight last night,’ Einar said as he handed the harp over. While Ayvind went to work tuning it, Einar gazed at the wall. The incredible stonework was a source of endless fascination to him. Growing up in Iceland, everything he had ever seen was built from wood and turf. Nothing was made of stone except maybe some low farm walls and those were little more than collected mounds of rocks. The walls of Kings Gard were made of flat, smooth blocks, each one almost exactly the same size.

  ‘These Romans,’ Einar said as he ran his finger along the tiny, almost imperceptible join between two blocks, ‘How were they able to build like this? Were they Dwarves?’

  In the legends Dwarves were craftsmen whose skill was so great it seemed like (perhaps it was) magic.

  Ayvind grunted. ‘No lad.’

  ‘Or giants perhaps?’ Einar said. ‘These walls are like the one they say was built around the home of the Gods.’

  ‘They were men, just like us,’ Ayvind said. ‘Once they ruled the whole world except for the lands of the Scots and the Irish. This building was the Porta Principalis Sinistra of their city. Those are Latin words, by the way. If you want to get anywhere in the world, lad, you need to learn that tongue. By anywhere I mean anywhere that matters, not the freezing bogs of these northern regions.’

  ‘You know Latin?’ Einar said, more than a touch of scepticism in his tone as he regarded the skald’s stubbly chin and bleary eyes and smelled his wine-soaked breath. He had heard of this Latin. It was a common tongue used by folk from different Christian peoples to speak to each other.

  ‘Of course,’ Ayvind said, as he handed back the harp. ‘I’ve travelled all over the world. I’ve been poet to kings and jarls. If I didn’t know it, then how could I have read the runes the Roman’s left carved into these walls that tell me from down the centuries this was once their building? Now; are you paying me to talk about Rome or to teach you to be a skald?’

  The lesson commenced with Ayvind in his usual crabby mood, finding fault in almost everything Einar tried. As time passed, his temper improved, though Einar wondered if this was more to do with the wine his tutor knocked back in the course of the lesson than any improvement in his own performance. It was not yet noon but Einar did not really mind him drinking. The more Ayvind downed, the more passionate he became on the topic of the skaldic art.

  ‘The words are important, lad, but not the actual words,’ Ayvind ranted. ‘You have the story, and the kennings, the forms and the rhythms of the poetry, as any good poet does. But a truly great poet, now he will use them like a cook making a stew – no,’ the skald searched his wine-drenched mind for a more appropriate analogy ‘– like a witch brewing a potion. It’s all about how they’re mixed together, within the constraints of the verse. That is what casts your spell. That is what holds the audience in your power.’

  Einar nodded, but he did not understand a word.

  ‘Listen. Watch.’ Ayvind took the harp and began to chant.

  Within a few words, Einar understood. The older man still looked haggard, his yellowed eyes red-rimmed, but now his voice somehow captivated all of Einar’s attention. He listened, wrapped in the music and words, somehow unable to look away or stop listening. What Affreca had said was partly true; Ayvind’s talent was waning, destroyed by the barrels of ale and wine he had drunk over the years. Every now and again, though, at times like this, Einar could see glimpses of the talent that had once shone bright within the skald. If he could still create this effect now, what must he have been like when he was a young man?

  Ayvind chanted,

  ‘Now let us wind the web of war

  Where the Raven Banner forges forward

  The Valkyries watch and see

  The blood-spattered shields that guard the king.

  Do you see what I mean?’ Ayvind said as he finished.

  Einar blinked, as if waking from a dream. ‘You mentioned the Raven Banner?’ he said. ‘Do you know what that is?’

  Ayvind shrugged. ‘The ancient, Odin-blessed battle flag that grants victory to the army who marches behind it? Yes. Perhaps I should say Odin-cursed. Where did you hear about that haunted old rag?’

  Einar looked away.

  ‘I don’t know. Someone in the inn last night. One of the customers.’

  Ayvind looked at him for a long time without answering, then said, ‘You’re a terrible liar, lad. It’s none of my business, really, but I need the money from your lessons. Take my advice…’

  The skald paused and leaned forward, his eyes boring into Einar’s. The stink of wine from his breath made the younger man’s eyes water.

  ‘… have nothing to do with the Raven Banner,’ Ayvind rasped, then sat back once more as he handed Einar back his harp.

  ‘Why?’ Einar asked.

  ‘The Raven Banner is a very old, very evil thing,’ the skald said. ‘Older even than this place built by the Romans.’

  ‘I know. Odin made it,’ Einar breathed.

  ‘Odin?’ Ayvind shook his head. ‘No. It was old even before he found it. Actually he probably stole it, knowing him. Three ancient women made it. Some say they were Jotunns, monsters. Others that they were Dísir, valkyries or perhaps the Norns themselves.’

  At the mention of the three old crones who huddle at the roots of the world and weave a tapestry that tells the fate of us all, Einar caught his breath and grasped the metal of the amulet of Thor’s hammer he wore round his neck. The Norns could grant good luck or bad, depending on what fate they had in store for you.

  ‘When the banner is unfurled before battle,’ Ayvind said. He spoke as if he was chanting ancient lore rather than just imparting information. ‘If it hangs limp on the pole then victory is not assured. But if the wind catches it and it looks as though the black raven woven into it is flapping its wings, then the army who bears the banner will overcome their enemies, burn their homes and take their women. That’s why its other name is Landøyðan – the Land Waster.’

  ‘But you said it was evil,’ Einar said. ‘If it grants victory how can it be that?’

  Ayvind chuckled.

  ‘That depends on which side you’re
on, doesn’t it, lad? But old Odin is sleekit.’ He lowered his voice as if scared someone might overhear. ‘He never gives anything away for free. Everything has a price. Odin doesn’t care who wins our petty squabbles. All he cares about is gathering his own army. He needs the best and bravest of warriors for the final battle on the Day of Doom, Ragnarokr.’

  ‘The Einherjar.’ Einar nodded, remembering the reverence with which Ulrich and Skarphedin had spoken of Odin’s warband who would fight the forces of darkness and chaos on the final fateful day of the world. The Wolf Coats fervent hope was to be among that army when they marched to confront the hordes of the unworthy dead Hel would bring from her kingdom, along with giants of frost and fire and the other monstrous children of Loki.

  Ayvind nodded. ‘Odin grants victory but he has his price and he always collects his fee. The man who carries the banner, dies in the battle. That way old Odin gets one more warrior for his Einherjar.’

  ‘And so who would bear the banner but someone with total faith?’ Einar said, realising the grim logic of the deal. ‘The perfect man to lead the charge. So is the banner here?’

  ‘Here?’ Ayvind raised his eyebrows.

  ‘I’ve heard it’s here in Kings Gard somewhere,’ Einar said. ‘It was in Jorvik when the city fell to King Aethelstan.’

  ‘And who told you that?’ Ayvind asked. His eyes became hooded.

  ‘The… erm, same person in the inn,’ Einar replied, aware that he was starting to blush.

  ‘Well if it is, I’ve never seen it,’ Ayvind said. Then he sat-up straight and shot a furtive glance around again. ‘But I should not even be talking to you about such things. My master would not like it.’

  ‘Isn’t Hakon a Norseman?’ Einar wondered. ‘A son of Harald Fairhair? Why would he be offended?’

  ‘Harald had him fostered in Wessex,’ Ayvind said. ‘He grew up in Aethelstan’s Court. He’s a Christian, though he knows enough statecraft to not make too big a fuss about it now he is Jarl of Northumbria and half the people he rules follow the old customs.’

  A noise from the hall below interrupted the skald and he went to his window to take a look.

  ‘Come here and you will see what I mean,’ he said, keeping his voice low.

  Einar joined him at the window and saw that there had been a transformation in the room below. The hall was the whole length of one side of Kings Gard and reached up to the height of both storeys of the building. The servants had now gone and the benches and dining tables had been pushed up against the walls so that the floor was empty. Tall, white, candles burned in golden stands on both sides of the room, sending the scent of warm wax through the air. The walls were hung with rich, embroidered tapestries, each one telling stories of heroes of the past, battles won and adventures achieved. At one end of the room was a raised dais on which sat a chair. Unlike the High Seat of a jarl with its pillars studded with God Nails, this was simple and made of carved wood. A young man sat on it. He had long, blond hair, combed straight, and had managed to grew a rather pathetic wispy moustache that just about covered his upper lip. His fine woollen clothes spoke of wealth, as did the large gold brooch that pinned his red cloak back at the shoulder.

  ‘That’s Hakon Haraldsson,’ Ayvind whispered. ‘Ruler of Northumbria. My master.’

  Einar nodded. Even though he had been in Kings Gard several times now, this was the first time he had seen its current owner.

  ‘He looks young,’ he said.

  ‘Fifteen winters,’ Ayvind nodded.

  On either side of Hakon stood a bodyguard in ring mail. Before him was a man dressed in the strange robes of a Christian wizard, or ‘priest’ as Einar knew they were called, who stood beside a small table. On the table was a tall golden cup and a loaf of bread.

  As they watched, Hakon, who had been looking thoroughly bored, left his seat to stand before the priest, head bowed. At the opposite end of the hall, a column of ten women, all dressed the same in coarse white linen mantles and dark cloaks, their hoods raised, were filing into the room through the double doors.

  ‘They’re nuns,’ Ayvind said. ‘Christian witches. They come here every day to sing the Christian Mass for Hakon. It’s a magic ritual they do, a bit like galdr. I’ll say one thing for them. The sound they make is beautiful. It’s like the singing of the Light Elves themselves.’

  Once the nuns had all entered, the door closed behind them. The priest held up his hand and they began singing. Ayvind was right. The ethereal sound that filled the hall was enchanting. As the music filled the air, the priest began to make gestures over a large golden cup, his lips moving as if he were talking to himself. As the nuns’ song ended the priest raised both hands and began intoning words in a strange tongue Einar did not recognise.

  ‘Latin,’ Ayvind said into Einar’s ear.

  ‘You understand what he’s saying?’ Einar said.

  Ayvind nodded. ‘It’s magic spells about blood.’

  The priest stopped talking and the nuns began singing once more. As Einar listened, spellbound, he noticed how all the nuns, their hoods still up, fixed their attention on the priest with his raised gold cup. From having unwittingly taken part in a mass on Orkney, he knew that the cup was the focus of the ritual and the nuns were demonstrating their devotion.

  Except one.

  From his vantage point above, Einar could see that the nun at the end of the column was less intent on the priest saying mass and more concerned with having a good look around her. As she looked up, he got a glimpse of her face.

  It was Affreca.

  Six

  Einar’s jaw dropped open. What was she doing?

  The conclusion was obvious: He had refused to help her so she had decided to get into Kings Gard herself. How she had got the nun’s clothes he had no idea but he guessed there was an unfortunate woman lying tied up somewhere. Or worse. Affreca was pretending to sing along with the others but how in Hel’s cold kingdom she thought she was going to get away with this was beyond him.

  The nuns finished singing. Jarl Hakon dropped to one knee before the priest. The nuns formed a line behind him and also knelt.

  ‘They eat the bread now,’ Ayvind whispered.

  Einar recalled the Christian ritual he had taken part in under the hill in Orkney. He knew what was coming and sure enough, the priest passed a piece of the bread to Hakon, who placed it in his mouth then swallowed it. The priest then moved to the first nun in the line.

  The nun took her hood down and Einar was startled to see that the woman’s head was shaved. His first thought was that she must have had nits. As she took the bread and the priest moved to the next nun, she also took her hood down. Einar blinked seeing that her hair, too, was cropped to her skull. With a thrill he realised that this must be something nuns did. Did Affreca know this?

  ‘I have to go,’ Einar said.

  ‘What? Our lesson isn’t over,’ Ayvind said. ‘You can’t walk about the palace without me to vouch for you.’

  Einar took a deep breath.

  ‘I’m sorry about this. Honestly I am,’ he said.

  Ayvind was opening his mouth to ask what for when Einar’s fist crashed up into his jaw. In other circumstances Einar would have been pleased with his blow, as he watched the skald’s eyes roll up into his head and caught Ayvind’s body as he slumped, unconscious into his arms. This time he only felt regret.

  He laid Ayvind as carefully as he could on the floor then took another look down into the hall. There were now five shaved heads uncovered below and Affreca was flicking her head this way and that. She was panicking. It was obvious to him now that the lengths she had gone to in her disguise had not gone as far as shaving her head.

  Einar grabbed his harp and ran out of Ayvind’s room. He had no clear plan but just knew he had to help in some way. He had seen another door at the far end of the main hall so maybe he could get Affreca out that way.

  He bounded down the stairway, taking the steps two and three at a time. He sprinted down the glo
omy corridor then burst into the columned entrance hall.

  A group of six men had just come through the double doors from the courtyard. Einar was running too hard to avoid them. He just had time to catch sight of the surprised face of an older man dressed in expensive clothes before he barrelled into him. Both of them went sprawling across the floor. Einar looked up and saw a ring of shocked faces above him. Three of the men were helmeted warriors in mail.

  The expressions of all five changed in a heartbeat from surprise to anger. The two warriors who stood guard at the double doors of the main hall rushed forward to join them.

  Einar scrambled up onto all fours and darted forwards, trying to go through the legs of one of the men standing over him. With his wide shoulders Einar instead ended up knocking the man flat on his back. That opened up a clear way ahead and the guards were away from the doors. He jumped to his feet, dashing past the man he had knocked over and off towards the double doors of the main hall.

  ‘Murderer! Murderer!’ the men now behind him started shouting in the Saxon tongue. Einar heard the scrape of knives being drawn.

  ‘Alive!’ someone else commanded. ‘Take him alive! I want to know who sent him.’

  Einar gasped in air. His heart was pounding in his chest as he threw open the doors of the hall. Inside he saw Affreca, her hood now down to reveal her long braid of auburn hair, struggling in the grasp of Hakon’s two bodyguards. The priest and nuns were all gaping in complete astonishment at her. At the crash of doors most of them flinched.

  Einar ran into the hall then spun around to slam the doors in the face of his pursuers. He was too late. They were already upon him, snarling with rage and reaching out with grasping hands. Realising he still held his harp, Einar swung it with all his might at the first man’s head. The instrument shattered into splintered wood against the warrior’s iron-bound helmet but the force of the blow was enough to send him reeling sideways. Einar turned again to run but then the rest of his pursuers fell on him. Punches rained down, kicks drove into his back. He felt strong arms holding his shoulders while a blow to the back of his legs buckled his knees and sent him down to the flagstones.