The Raven Banner

by Tim Hodkinson

  There were a few moments of silence.

  ‘Now, the question remains, what shall I do with you lot?’ Hakon broke the quiet.

  Skar straightened his back and pushed back his shoulders.

  ‘Do what you want,’ the big man said. ‘We’re not afraid of death.’

  ‘I realise that,’ Hakon said. He glanced at Einar, then added, ‘And one of the many things Aethelstan taught me was that you should never waste an opportunity. He also taught me that a king should employ the strengths of other men to best achieve his own ends. I’ve no doubt you are magnificent warriors. To simply kill you would be a waste when I could use you. We are embarking on a very dangerous adventure. I believe there will be work for you in the war to come. You say you have come for the Raven Banner?’

  Skar nodded.

  ‘No doubt then you know the legend?’ Hakon went on.

  ‘That it brings victory to the army it leads into battle? Yes,’ Skar said.

  ‘It’s been a great help to Aethelstan in persuading the Norse jarls of Jorvik and Northumbria to join our army,’ Hakon said. ‘But you must also know that the demon that empowers the banner also demands a sacrifice. Whoever bears the banner into the battle, dies. Naturally while all our warriors are eager to follow the Raven into battle, no one wants to be the man who carries it. The arrival of you fellows has solved this problem for me. You men will lead the attack against the Scots.’

  Hakon clapped a hand on Einar’s shoulder.

  ‘And you, my fellow bastard,’ he said with smile, ‘will be my new standard bearer.’

  Thirty-Eight

  Hakon’s men bound the hands of Einar, the Wolf Coats and the others. Then they were marched into the settlement. They were taken up a steep hill past houses and a marketplace to the gates of the burh.

  Unlike the much smaller burhs Einar had stayed in to the south, Edin’s burh was an impressive fortress perched on the top of a rock that looked impregnable. It was surrounded by a wooden palisade with a fighting platform behind it along which warriors patrolled. The defensive walls looked about three times the height of a man.

  Through the fortified gate they were led to a stone building. Inside, steps led down to a line of rooms that must have been carved into the rock the burh stood on. The iron bars on the doors showed they were made for keeping prisoners in. Before long they were inside one of these dank rooms, surrounded by slime-covered rock walls, the door closed and was locked behind them.

  Einar kept some hope alive that at least they were not all prisoners. Ulrich and Ayvind were still somewhere outside. However, not long after, the door clanged open and Ulrich, now with a more serviceable crutch under one arm, hopped into the room. The door slammed shut behind him and they heard the rattle of the lock once again.

  Soon after that, the door opened again and Ayvind was shoved into the room.

  ‘Like you suspected, Einar, Jarl Hakon did not approve of what I’ve been up to with you lot,’ the skald said, a glum expression on his face. ‘It seems I will be sharing the fate of this company.’

  From the redness of his face and the smell of his breath, Einar surmised that Ayvind had spent the time since leaving them to be baptised touring the taverns of the town.

  With no windows in their cell, it was hard to tell how long they were locked in. Einar judged it to be at least one night. Despite the miserable surroundings they were well fed. Several times meat, bread and ale were delivered into the room by guards. They also got new clothes, cloaks and fresh straw for the floor, as well as leather bags for sleeping in.

  ‘They’re making sure we don’t die of hardship, anyway,’ Skar said.

  Einar was dozing on the floor when the door was unbolted once more and a warrior poked his head in.

  ‘Come with us,’ he said.

  Hakon’s armed cohort waited outside. Einar and the others were marched out of their prison and into the courtyard of the burh. Like other burhs there were barrack huts, stores, stables and the other buildings you would expect in a stronghold manned by warriors. Unlike many of the other newly built burhs, Edin Burh had grown from an existing stronghold that had guarded the rock for centuries and had many buildings.

  First, they were led to a long house fronted by a pair of heavy wooden doors and more guards. Inside was a treasure trove of weapons. Everything from mail coats, helmets and leather jerkins to shields, spears, swords and knives were laid out on tables, stacked in piles or spilled from inside chests.

  ‘Choose what you need,’ the commander of Hakon’s men said.

  ‘You’re going to arm us?’ Ulrich said.

  Hakon’s man smiled. ‘We can’t have you going into battle in just those wolf skins. Don’t get any ideas though. You won’t be getting any of this today. Once you pick what you want it will be packed and sent on the ship you’ll be sailing on.’

  Einar saw the Wolf Coats all look to Ulrich. It seemed like they were talking with their eyes and he knew exactly what they were thinking. Should they grab the weapons before them and try to break out?

  He caught his breath as anxiety rose in his chest. No matter how good the Wolf Coats were, they were outnumbered several times over. Even if they managed to overcome Hakon’s men they were still in the middle of their enemy’s fortress, which was within a hostile town, in a foreign country. They would not get far.

  To Einar’s relief he saw Ulrich make a brief shake of the head. The other Wolf Coats accepted his order and set to work choosing swords and trying on armour.

  Einar was in the process of admiring a sword with the word INGELRII embossed in runes on the blade when Skarphedin laid a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘A word of advice, lad,’ the big man said. ‘Unless you’ve got an awful lot better with the sword since that last fight in Iceland, I’d recommend you look for a good axe.’

  Einar frowned and was about to object. It was a beautiful sword and he longed to wield it. He would look like a great hero. Then he thought more. They were going into battle. Decisions like these could result in life or death not just for him but those who relied on him. He needed to use his head not his heart. He nodded to himself, deciding to take both.

  Bodvar held up a Saxon helmet, running his hand through the wolf’s tail that hung from the top as a crest.

  ‘This is good war gear,’ he said. ‘We’re going to look a bit Aenglish though.’

  ‘Make sure you get yourself a decent bow, your ladyship,’ Ulrich said to Affreca. ‘We’ll need more than you slinging stones this time when we fight the Scots.’

  When they were done, some of Hakon’s men began packing the gear they had chosen into chests. Einar and the others were then led out of the building and over to a large feasting hall.

  ‘Are you going to feed us again?’ Ulrich said. ‘This is the best captivity I’ve ever had to endure.’

  The commander just smiled and pushed open the doors of the hall. They went in, past the barrels of ale stacked in the entrance hall and into the main part of the building.

  The room was longer than it was wide. Wooden pillars lined the floor, supporting the roof above over the open space of the hall. There were long benches, tables and fire pits but there was no feasting here today. Instead the air was musty with old grease and stale ale. The fire pits held only cold ashes.

  Around a table in the centre of the hall was a group of men. They were dressed in rich clothes, comfortable furs and colourful woollen shirts. They were not lined on benches but each had his own seat around a table that bore silvered drinking horns. They held themselves in the confident, relaxed manner of men used to commanding respect. Hakon was there. The big lad lounged in his chair, chin resting on his fist as if he was battling to stay interested in what was going on around him. There was a short, dark-haired man with no moustache but a square black beard sitting beside him. Next were four men with long, Aenglish-style moustaches, two who were clean shaven and a man dressed in the robes of a monk, though they were trimmed with fur. Another two men with long
hair whose blond beards had been woven into plaits that hung down to their chests completed the company. Einar also noticed several other Christian priests and monks lurking not far from the table and another seated at a nearby desk with a writing parchment before him. Even here in the far north, it seemed, Aethelstan’s network of clerics was at work.

  Sitting at the head of the table was the man himself. Einar recognised straight away the same tall man with the lined face and white streaks in his brown hair and long moustache he had last seen in Jorvik. It was Aethelstan, King of Wessex. He recognised Einar as well and he watched him in particular as they all filed in and lined up before the table.

  ‘Ah,’ the king said, leaning back in his chair. ‘So here are the heroes who will lead us into battle.’

  Thirty-Nine

  ‘Kneel before the king!’ Hakon’s chief bodyguard ordered.

  ‘No,’ Ulrich said.

  There were gasps around the table.

  ‘Why should we?’ Ulrich said. ‘You’ve already told us we’re dead men anyway. What are you going to do?’

  Hakon’s bodyguard reached for his sword but Aethelstan, already on his feet, waved at him to let it go. The warrior sighed and dropped his hand.

  ‘I already know you, Skull Cleaver’s son,’ Aethelstan said to Einar. ‘And I see the lovely daughter of the King of Dublin is here too. That drunken rascal who acts as your skald, Ayvind, as well. But who are these others?’

  ‘I am Ulrich Rognisson,’ Ulrich said. Despite his injured foot he straightened up as he gestured to the others. ‘We are the Úlfhéðnar of King Eirik of Norway. Those others are his berserkers. The last is Gizur Kalfsson, Champion of the Jarl of Orkney.’

  ‘You are the leader of these men?’ Aethelstan said.

  Ulrich nodded.

  ‘Well I am the leader of these men,’ the king said, sweeping his hand around those sitting at the table. ‘Hakon you already know. Then there is Hywel ap Cadell, King of the Welsh, the jarls Thorketil and Siward of Northumbria, my thanes, Byrtnoth, Edmund, Wulfric, Leofwin and Eadwy, and Bishop Brinstan.’

  ‘Ah,’ Einar could see realisation dawning on Ulrich’s face as the little Wolf Coat spoke. ‘That must mean you are—’

  ‘I am Aethelstan of Wessex,’ the king said. ‘King of all the Aenglish and Emperor of Britain.’

  Ulrich raised his eyebrows. ‘Emperor of Britain? I think King Constantine of Alba and Owain of Strathclyde might disagree with that.’

  ‘Indeed they do,’ Aethelstan said. His eyes became hard like stones. ‘However, my army contains men from all the kingdoms of the Aenglish. Hywel here is King of all the Welsh and we have six northern jarls from the Danelaw. All these men are under my command. We represent nearly all of Britain. Constantine and Owain rule what is left, which isn’t very much. I think I have a better claim to the title, don’t you agree?’

  Ulrich did not reply.

  ‘And that wily old Pict, Constantine…’ the king continued, his voice taking on the hard edge that was already in his eyes. ‘… is about to learn just how wrong he is.’

  ‘It’s certainly an impressive force,’ Ulrich said. ‘I commend you, Lord Aethelstan.’

  Aethelstan smiled again. ‘This is just the fleet. My army is yet to arrive. When it does, with the fleet to support from the sea and the army ravaging inland, we shall be unstoppable.’

  ‘It’s a good strategy,’ Ulrich said. ‘It should work.’

  ‘Thank you but I can’t take all the credit,’ Aethelstan said. ‘Have you ever read Tacitus?’

  Ulrich laughed. ‘I’ve never read anything.’

  The king shook his head. ‘Of course not. You’re a pagan barbarian. Tacitus was a Roman writer. He recorded the campaign by his father-in-law, the general Agricola, to the land of the Scots. Agricola was the first to realise the need for support from an offshore fleet if you want to take Scotland.’

  ‘What was it the Caledonian king – Calgacus wasn’t it? – said before the battle with Agricola?’ Ulrich said, rubbing his chin. ‘Ah yes, these Romans, they plunder, butcher, steal, and they call it an empire. They make desolation and they call it peace. I wonder if Constantine has read Tacitus?’

  Aethelstan’s smile became fixed. He glared at Ulrich for a long moment.

  ‘Very good,’ he said at length. ‘You’re not as ignorant as you look.’

  ‘Our learning is carried in the hearts and memories of men,’ Ulrich said. ‘And passed from mouth to ear. Just because we don’t read does not mean we are ignorant.’

  ‘But you are Úlfhéðnar and berserkers,’ Aethelstan said, his expression turning to one of disdain. ‘Vikings. Gentiles. Heathens. Killers and pirates.’

  ‘You’ve heard of us then?’ Skar said with a grin.

  ‘Oh I’ve heard of you,’ the king said. ‘I’ve heard all about you. I know the damage you’ve caused. My family and my people have been at war with your kind for three generations. In my forefathers’ time you almost stole half of Britain. Thanks to our faith in the Lord, however, Wessex has prevailed. To speak of your crew in particular, my guess is that you are the Vikings who sacked the abbey at Withern? Lady Affreca Guthfrithsdottir’s presence among you is proof of that.’

  Ulrich did not reply.

  ‘That was a wicked deed,’ Aethelstan said, his smile gone again. ‘Many innocent souls sent to Heaven. Armed warriors against defenceless monks. You must be very proud of yourselves. If Archbishop Wulstan knew you were in my power now he’d be dancing up and down insisting you be hanged from the nearest tree.’

  ‘My daughter, though, spoke very highly of you, lady,’ King Hywel, the dark-haired man at the table, said. He was looking at Affreca. ‘I thank you for sparing her.’

  Aethelstan shot a glance at his Welsh counterpart. Hywel reddened and went quiet again.

  ‘And yet you have Norsemen in your army?’ Ulrich said. ‘You hate us but you need our swords.’

  Aethelstan looked pained. ‘I do not hate you, Ulrich. Or your people. I hate your religion. That is why we fight. But how can I hate you as a people? You’re our cousins. The Lord says we must love our enemies. These two jarls, Thorketil and Siward,’ he gestured to the men with the braided beards, ‘are Norsemen. They are the sons of Danish settlers. But they now serve the One True God and rule in my name as my vassals. Thus we must all learn to share this land between us.’

  As long as you’re in control, you mean, Einar thought, but he kept his mouth shut.

  ‘Isn’t Constantine of Alba a Christian like you?’ Ulrich said. ‘What’s your excuse for going to war with him?’

  Aethelstan sighed. ‘Constantine, alas, clings to older, deviant ways. He is too close to the heretical Irish form of our faith. He is in error and as a king that means he leads his whole people astray.’

  ‘A Scots nun in Withern Abbey told me he is reforming the Church in his kingdom,’ Affreca said.

  Aethelstan turned to look at her.

  ‘So, Affreca Guthfrithsdottir: You still seek this Raven Banner,’ he said. ‘This Devil’s Pennant?’

  ‘It rightfully belongs to my clan,’ Affreca said.

  ‘And now it belongs to me!’ Aethelstan thundered. All the previous reserve and slight sense of amusement disappeared in a flash. ‘Are you all really so arrogant that you thought you could just walk into my army and steal the banner?’

  ‘What use have you for a heathen banner?’ Ulrich said. ‘Aren’t you fighting for your own God? What use have you for a banner that came from Odin?’

  ‘I don’t have to stand here arguing with you,’ Aethelstan said.

  ‘Neither do we. What’s all this pissing about for?’ Ulrich said, his voice techy. ‘If you’re going to kill us then get on with it. Don’t feed us, give us new clothes and let us choose weapons. What do you want of us?’

  ‘I see you have no fear of death,’ the king said. ‘Good. That’s exactly what we need. However, injured as you are you won’t be much use to me. I hope your crew however are o
f similar conviction.’

  ‘I go everywhere my men go,’ Ulrich said.

  Aethelstan looked at each of them in turn. Einar felt as if his dark brown eyes were looking deep in his very soul.

  ‘An opportunity has arisen to shorten this war,’ he said after a few moments. ‘In fact, perhaps finish it before it even starts. Constantine is a fox. You don’t survive as long as he has on the throne of Alba if you don’t have cunning. He knows how powerful my army is and my spies tell me that the chances are he won’t fight us. As soon as we cross into Scotland, he’ll run to Dùn Ottar and hide behind its walls until the summer ends and my army has to go home to harvest our crops.’

  Einar remembered the fortress on the clifftops and how impregnable it had looked.

  ‘And damn him he might just survive,’ Aethelstan said. ‘Dùn Ottar will be hard to take. Very hard. Even with an army like mine. However, I’ve got word that Constantine has come south. He knows my army is not yet here and wants to see our fleet for himself so he can reckon our threat. He is currently in a fortress in a town called Cathair Aile not far north of here. If we can take him by surprise we could capture or kill him there and the war will be over before it even starts. We have most of the fleet here and ready. I want to strike while the opportunity is there.’

  ‘If he’s watching, then as soon as the fleet starts to move, he’ll run for it,’ Ulrich said.

  ‘Correct,’ said Aethelstan. ‘However, if a small force of ships leaves and sails east while most of the fleet stays at anchor it will not arouse suspicion. Those ships could then turn around, attack Cathair Aile in the night while Constantine is still in his bed and hold the place. The main fleet would then follow.’

  Ulrich shrugged. ‘It might work. Attacking at night though, against what is no doubt a very well defended harbour and fortress? Very dangerous. Probably suicidal.’

  Aethelstan grinned, but the expression lacked all warmth. ‘And exactly the sort of thing your men are very good at.’