The Raven Banner

by Tim Hodkinson

  Einar could see Ricbehrt’s confidence growing as he watched. Making deals was, after all, what he did best.

  ‘These swords have been promised to King Aethelstan,’ Ricbehrt shouted. ‘Would you make an enemy of the most powerful king in Britain? Aethelstan in gathering an army at Jorvik. He’s going to strike north against the Scots. I was meeting him there because he needs weapons to equip his army and that is what I can supply. These Ulfbehrt swords are part of the bargain.’

  ‘Help!’ Ayvind’s voice came from over the side. The poet was desperately clinging on to the anchor rope. He lacked the strength to haul himself aboard.

  Ulrich rolled his eyes. This did not enhance their threat.

  ‘Except you previously sold the same swords to King Eirik of Norway,’ Ulrich said.

  Ricbehrt became serious. ‘Then we must fight.’

  Ulrich looked at Skar.

  ‘The lame can ride a horse, the handless drive cattle, the deaf one can fight. Even the blind are more use than a corpse,’ Skar said. ‘So said Odin. We have no personal quarrel with these men. Sometimes it is better to walk away from a fight.’

  ‘All right, Ricbehrt,’ Ulrich said. ‘We’ll let you go.’

  The relief in the warriors at the far end of the ship was palpable. Their shields dipped slightly as their shoulders sagged. Einar could hear their sighs.

  ‘Drop your weapons and go,’ Ulrich said.

  ‘Go?’ Ricbehrt said.

  Ulrich levelled his sword in the direction of Ricbehrt. ‘I give you until I can count to twenty. If you’re not gone by then you’re all dead.’

  Confusion clouded the weapon dealer’s face. ‘What do you mean? What about my swords?’

  ‘King Eirik’s swords, you mean?’ Ulrich said.

  ‘In that case, no,’ Ricbehrt said, sliding back down behind the shields of his men. ‘We have no deal.’

  Ricbehrt’s men, however, were already lowering their shields and dropping their weapons. Two of them threw their helmets to the deck and dived over the side of the ship. Einar saw fear creep onto Ricbehrt’s face.

  ‘There go your most clever men,’ Ulrich said, pointing his sword at the men now in the water. He directed his speech to the remaining warriors gathered around the weapon dealer. ‘Ricbehrt pays you to fight for him but he’s not your Oath Lord. Does he pay you enough to die for him?’

  The expressions on the faces of Ricbehrt’s men showed clearly that by their reckoning he did not. They dropped what remaining weapons and armour they had and piled over the side into the sea.

  ‘Forget about the skerries, lads,’ Skar shouted after them. ‘Don’t stop swimming until you reach the beach on the mainland.’

  Only Ricbehrt and the skipper, who still clung to his steering tiller, remained at the stern of the ship.

  ‘Paid men seldom fight to the death unless they have no choice,’ Ulrich said.

  ‘You bastard, Ulrich,’ Ricbehrt said. ‘I’ll get you for this. I’ll get you all.’

  Ulrich grunted. ‘Will you?’

  There was a loud thump. An arrow thudded into the deck exactly between Ricbehrt’s feet. The merchant jumped in fright, raising his considerable bulk an impressive distance off the deck. When he landed, he whipped his head round and saw the archer on the rocks with another arrow notched and aimed directly at him.

  ‘Shouldn’t you join your men?’ Ulrich said.

  Casting one more scowl at everyone on the deck, the weapon merchant went to the side of the ship. After a short struggle to get over the strakes he dropped into the sea on the other side, sending up a tremendous splash that splattered water right back up onto the deck. After he resurfaced, he began splashing after his men who were already well on their way to the yellow sand beach.

  ‘Do you think he’ll make it?’ Einar said. The beach looked quite a distance away.

  Skar shrugged. ‘Whales swim long distances. He’s about the same size.’

  ‘You’re not going?’ Ulrich turned his attention to the wizened old skipper who still clung to the tiller.

  ‘This is my ship,’ the skipper said, raising his chin. ‘Besides: I can’t swim. You may as well kill me.’

  For a long moment there was silence. Einar felt there was something both admirable and pathetic about the sight of the defenceless, unarmed old man and his proud defiance. He did not stand a chance but still he did not even flinch as he glared back at each of them.

  ‘You’re a brave man,’ Ulrich said at length.

  ‘He shares our faith,’ Einar said.

  ‘Does he?’ Ulrich said. ‘What’s your name, old man?’

  ‘Roan,’ the skipper said. ‘In the Frisian tongue it means “raven”.’

  ‘Does it now?’ Ulrich raised an eyebrow. ‘The raven is the bird of Odin. Perhaps this is a sign. Tell me, Roan; how would you like to work for me? I probably can’t pay you what Ricbehrt did but that depends how much value you put on your life.’

  Roan frowned for a moment, then said, ‘I accept.’

  ‘Good choice,’ Ulrich said with a wolfish grin. ‘If you’d said no we’d have thrown you over the side.’

  Twenty-Three

  ‘Affreca?’ Einar’s tone betrayed his disbelief.

  Now he stood beside the ‘boy’ archer on the top of the skerry he realised that it was in fact the daughter of the late King of Dublin. Her previously long hair was cropped down to her skull and she wore a leather jerkin, sealskin breeches and a mail shirt. She had applied black make-up around her eyes but apart from her beautiful, fine features that was one of the few feminine aspects about her.

  ‘What are you staring at?’ she demanded.

  ‘I didn’t recognise you,’ Ulrich said. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I think she looks better with short hair,’ Skar said as he prodded the flesh of the creature from the cave with his knife. The thing was now gutted, its body skewered on a spit and suspended above a camp fire, its flesh roasting. The creature’s head bumped about in a pot of boiling seawater sitting over the same fire.

  They were sitting on the little island. The Úlfhéðnar and the others were sprawled around the fire, passing around wine skins and a jar of mead. Einar could see Skar and Bodvar were overcome by the strange lethargy that overtook them after fights when Odin’s Rage was unleashed. It was like it burned up all the energy within them and left them weak as children. Roan’s ship rode at anchor on one side of the island while Ulrich’s snekkja was beached on the short shore on the opposite, landward side. The sail and mast had been taken down so the ship was hidden when Ricbehrt and Einar had sailed to the skerries from the seaward side.

  The Wolf Coats had been lying on the top of the island, Einar learned, waiting for Ricbehrt to arrive.

  ‘Aethelstan sent you to the abbey at Withern,’ Einar said to Affreca. ‘How did you get away?’

  ‘She was in a monastery. We’re Vikings.’ Ulrich shrugged as if that was explanation enough.

  Affreca gave a visible shudder. ‘I understand now why monks and nuns fear Vikings so much.’

  Skar curled his lip. ‘We didn’t kill everyone,’ he said. ‘We saved your Welsh friend.’

  ‘Only because I pleaded with you,’ Affreca said.

  Skar ignored her. Instead he shoved his knife into the roasted flesh of the sea creature, twisted it and pulled a chunk out.

  ‘Looks just about done,’ he said,

  Einar looked at the big ugly head of the thing seething in the pot.

  ‘What is that thing?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s a type of eel,’ Ulrich said. ‘They live in undersea caves and reefs all along this coast. Scotland too. You poked your head into its home. What did you think it was?’

  Einar did not reply. Aegir and his wife were not the only horrors that custom taught lurked in the depths of the sea. A monstrous child of Loki called the Miðgarðsormr, the World Worm, waited down there somewhere. It was a huge, loathsome serpent, evil and vicious, that Odin had banished to the wet darkness
of the cold ocean depths. The thought had crossed Einar’s mind that the thing in the cave may have been it, or one of its offspring. He dared not voice this, though. He could imagine the mirth it would provoke in the Wolf Coats.

  ‘Vicious bastards they are,’ Skar nodded ‘He’s got big since the last time I saw him, too.’

  ‘You knew it was there?’ Einar said, feeling indignation rise in his chest.

  ‘Why do you think we were happy to stash our loot there?’ Ulrich said. ‘Not only was the cave hidden under the waves but it had its own undersea guard dog.’

  ‘Getting that chest in there without being bitten by him was hard,’ Atli said.

  ‘Well, he’s our dinner, now.’ Skar grinned as he began slicing up the carcass and the others gathered around to eat. ‘It’s us who’ll be doing the biting.’

  ‘You’re not angry you’ve lost your “guard dog”, then?’ Affreca asked.

  Ulrich shrugged. ‘That hiding place is no good now anyway. Ricbehrt knows about it.’

  He shot a sideways glance at the four warriors with the bear-skin cloaks and Gizur, Thorfinn’s champion. Skar had explained to Einar earlier that those in the bear skins were berserkers of King Eirik: Bjorn, Narfi, Ori and Bjarki. All had been sent as replacements for the Wolf Coats killed in their previous adventures in Ireland and Iceland.

  ‘And there are others who now know about it but who are not Úlfhéðnar,’ Ulrich added in a quieter voice.

  Narfi leaned over and clapped Ulrich on the shoulder.

  ‘Not yet, you mean, Ulrich?’ he said, a grin on his face. ‘We’ll soon join your crew.’

  Einar just caught a look of annoyance flash across Ulrich’s face before it was replaced by a forced smile.

  ‘Becoming a Wolf Coat requires passing the initiation ritual,’ he said. ‘Surviving that proves Odin approves that you will become one of us.’

  The Wolf Coats and the others had been waiting for them on the skerry for several days. The remaining Úlfhéðnar – Ulrich, Skar, Bodvar, Sigurd, Atli, Kari and Starkad – along with the berserkers had sailed from Norway to Jorvik in Ulrich’s snekkja. When they had been unable to find Affreca there as arranged they had sought out Einar, assuming she would have tried to contact him. A few questions around the town resulted in them learning that a talented young Icelander poet chanted for money in the inn of Gorm on Micklegate.

  ‘The whole time you worked for me, lad,’ Gorm said. ‘I had no idea you kept such illustrious company. An Irish princess and now Úlfhéðnar? If I’d know all that I’d have paid you more. Naturally I told Ulrich here what had happened with Aethelstan at King’s Gard.’

  ‘But how did you know what happened?’ Einar asked.

  ‘I told him,’ Ayvind said. ‘I felt bad about what happened, boy. Even if you did hit me a thump on the jaw. Hakon keeps me but doesn’t pay so well. He thinks I should be content with the honour of serving him. Honour doesn’t pay for wine, I can tell you that for nothing. When you went I also lost my main other source of income. I took your place entertaining in the inn for a few nights, as a way of recompense.’

  ‘The bugger nearly drank me out of wine,’ Gorm said. Ayvind pursed his lips and tried to look hurt.

  ‘So you two have joined this crew?’ Einar said to Gorm and Ayvind. ‘What’s in it for you?’

  ‘Adventure,’ Gorm said without hesitation. ‘I told you lad, that once I was a warrior. To tell you the truth I was getting bored running the inn. Many’s the night I found myself sitting by the fire, wondering if my life was done and serving beer and cheap stew to drunks was all that was left for me. But the Norns are still weaving the tapestry of my life. Ulrich and Skar walked through the door. I had the choice of staying in my safe little inn with my boring life or one more crack at fame and glory.’

  ‘The inn was losing money, wasn’t it?’ Einar said.

  ‘That too,’ Gorm said, looking down at his food. ‘Maybe I’ll win some gold along the way as well.’

  ‘Me?’ Ayvind said. ‘Similar to Gorm, I found myself thinking, Ayvind, you’ve spent your life reciting poems about the heroic deeds of others, but what have you ever done with your own life? You’ve travelled, yes, but what enemies have you defeated? What danger have you faced? Before you get too old you should go out into the world and taste life. See what all the fuss is about. Experience what heroes go through instead of just chanting about it.’

  With Gorm and Ayvind on board, the Wolf Coats had sailed to the abbey where Affreca had been sent and rescued her from there. Then they had sailed the snekkja on the route to Ireland around the north coast of Britain, the whale road that Ricbehrt had deemed too dangerous due to the risk of Vikings. This was not a concern to Ulrich. Most of those potential Vikings were bondsmen of Jarl Thorfinn, and Ulrich also had on board Gizur, the jarl’s champion. Ulrich had explained to Einar that was who the fifth stranger in his crew, a broad-shouldered young man with well combed red hair and beard, was. Einar had cast a wary glance in Gizur’s direction but the other man appeared oblivious to his presence.

  A combination of having a lighter, faster ship and a shorter distance to travel meant Ulrich’s ship had arrived several days before Ricbehrt’s. All they had to do then was stash the mast and hide out on the island while they waited for Einar and the weapon merchant to arrive.

  ‘So what now?’ Einar said.

  ‘We sail for Britain. We still have to get the Raven Banner,’ Ulrich said.

  ‘Back to Jorvik?’ Einar asked. ‘So it’s definitely there?’

  ‘The banner will go north for the war against the Scots,’ Ayvind nodded. ‘I’ve heard this discussed in Kings Gard.’

  ‘But Aethelstan’s army has marched north,’ Affreca said. ‘It will have already left Jorvik.’

  ‘Aethelstan will not take the banner. He mistrusts everything heathen,’ Ayvind said, his eyes lighting up. ‘But Hakon is still enough of a Norseman to see value in its magic. Aethelstan has commanded Hakon to lead a fleet of ships which will sail north along with the army. It will shadow the warriors, keep them supplied, and raid ahead along the coast. He will take the banner with him.’

  ‘We’ll join his fleet,’ Ulrich said, like it was a matter of just turning up. ‘Then when we get the chance, we can steal the banner.’

  ‘Why would they let us join this fleet?’ Einar said. ‘We’re foreigners. Norsemen.’

  ‘Aethelstan has sent word out all over the world that he is hiring warriors,’ Ulrich said. ‘He has the Saxon fyrd but he needs more men to take on the Scots. Warriors are flocking to his cause from all countries. Mostly for the money, of course.’

  ‘But you are Úlfhéðnar sworn to his brother Eirik of Norway,’ Einar said. ‘It’s well known Eirik wishes to kill all rivals to his throne. He’s already killed his other two brothers.’

  ‘That was never proven,’ Ulrich said, narrowing his eyes.

  ‘But you think Hakon will trust you enough to let you sail with his fleet?’

  ‘We’re not going to tell him who we are,’ Ulrich said. The expression on his face suggested he thought Einar had perhaps taken a heavy blow to the skull. ‘Besides…’

  A grin spread across his lips.

  ‘If you’re going raiding, who better to have with you than Vikings? And if you are looking for Vikings, who could be better than us?’

  Einar looked around at the motley crew of hardened killers, religious fanatics, drunkards and maniacs who surrounded him on the rocky island. He went quiet. A realisation dawned on him. Growing up in Iceland, he had been taught that Vikings were not men to be admired. Young men might go raiding in summer, sometimes even great men might do it. Indeed, many men in Iceland had made their fortunes that way. There was perhaps a sneaking regard for Vikings but it was not regarded as an honourable way of life. Anyone who indulged in it beyond one or two summers in their wild youth was regarded as a pest. Vikings robbed and murdered. They were freebooters. Respectable men settled down on good farms. They did not sail the
seas, living beyond the Law. Einar had always seen himself as a poet, a skald who someday might perform for kings in their great feasting halls. Instead of that, he now realised that in the eyes of the rest of the world and everyone he had grown up with, he was just one more of a band of sea-borne killers. Was this really his fate?

  ‘Look, I’m grateful you came to save me,’ he said. ‘But I’m a skald. A poet. That’s the path I’ve chosen. That’s why I went to Jorvik in the first place.’

  Ulrich tutted and looked away.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, lad,’ Skar said. ‘Ulrich won’t admit it but he believes Odin wants you to join us. I once told him that I’ve met many men who Odin had granted the gift of divine rage to, others who he had given the gift of being able to drink ale like the Midgard Worm and a few who he gave the gift of poetry to. I never met anyone he had granted all three to until I met you. It’s a sign you should be with us.’

  Ayvind took a long pull from and wineskin, then leaned towards Einar, fixing him with a bleary eye.

  ‘Einar, lad, that last escapade brought me back down to earth,’ the skald said. ‘I can drink, chant and sing but I can’t fight. It’s obvious now I’m not cut out for this sort of thing. Fighting, heroics and the like are not for me. I’m more of a lover. Put me in front of a buxom lass and I’m fearless. But when I fell in the water earlier, I actually pissed myself.’

  ‘You want to go home?’ Einar said, remembering with disgust how the sea had somehow seemed warmer around the skald earlier.

  ‘Oh no,’ Ayvind shook his head. ‘I’m staying. But I will be the skald of this company. I chant of heroes I never met, whose deeds I never saw. This is my chance to actually see real action. You’ll accomplish great deeds and I’ll compose poetry at them that will bring you eternal fame. That is the only afterlife any of us can be sure of. I am the poet of the crew. The crones are weaving another part for you to play. This is your destiny.’

  Einar’s mouth worked soundlessly for a moment as he tried hard to think of some other argument.