The Raven Banner

by Tim Hodkinson

  Ulrich grunted. ‘There are only fifteen in our company. Only six of them are Wolf Coats.’

  ‘Jarl Siward here will lend you ships crewed with warriors,’ Aethelstan said.

  ‘And I will send good Welsh archers with you,’ King Hywel said.

  ‘Your men will follow us?’ Ulrich turned to the jarl.

  ‘They are Norsemen. They’ll follow the Raven Banner,’ Siward replied.

  ‘I will use the Devil’s own magic to do God’s work,’ Aethelstan said, his eyes glittering in the light from the burning torches.

  ‘How do you know Constantine will be there?’ Ulrich said, his eyes narrowed.

  ‘I have my spies,’ Aethelstan replied.

  ‘Are they reliable?’ Ulrich said.

  ‘Very,’ Aethelstan said, with a conviction that surprised Einar. From what he knew, spies were usually untrustworthy types; sly men or women who no one could be sure whose side they were really on. They normally acted for gold. What sort of spies did Aethelstan have that he could be so sure of their loyalty and trustworthiness?

  His eyes slid to the monk writing at the table nearby and he knew the answer. He remembered the clerics everywhere he went in Aethelstan’s realm. Who was it who could move freely between kingdoms? Who were connected and could send messages across borders? Who spoke a tongue, Latin, that was understood only by men like them all over the world?

  ‘The Christian priests!’ he said. ‘Is that who your spies are?’

  ‘As Affreca Guthfrithsdottir told us,’ Aethelstan said, ‘Constantine is attempting to reform the Church within his realm. But he’s making slow work of it. Let us just say that there are those within his kingdom who would like to see change happen faster. There are those who see my ultimate victory as a way of speeding up the Kingdom of Alba coming into the fold of the one, true Church.’

  ‘So this is some sort of Holy War for you?’ Ulrich said.

  Aethelstan nodded.

  ‘And you are going to help me win it for God. Or die trying.’

  Forty

  Einar did his best to get some sleep but it was hopeless.

  Soon he would be going into battle. Soon after that he might very well be dead.

  The others appeared not to share his disquiet.

  ‘Sleep while you can,’ Skar had said. Now, around Einar on the gently rolling deck of the ship the Wolf Coats, berserkers and even Gorm were bundled in their leather sleeping bags, snoring away.

  It was night but the bright beams from the full moon cast silver light all around. Four ships hissed through the waves, their sails full with a wind that drove them onwards. Somewhere ahead was the town of Cathair Aile with its fort and, hopefully, Constantine of Alba, sleeping just as soundly in his bed.

  The ships were skeiðs, owned by the Norse jarls who fought with Aethelstan. They were the fastest type of large warship, each with thirty rowing benches and crews of about ninety men. Earlier in the day they had raised their anchor stones and broken away from Aethelstan’s moored fleet, taking their time as they sailed up the Firth of Fjorthur and out into the open sea, making as sure as they could be that anyone watching from the northern shores saw them go. Once out in the open sea and the shoreline had disappeared beyond the horizon, the ships turned north, then, as darkness began to fall, turned west again, heading back towards the Scottish coast, now some distance north of the entrance to the firth. As the night wore on, they sailed on towards Cathair Aile, hugging the coast, approaching from the north, the exact opposite direction that would be expected of ships from Aethelstan’s fleet.

  ‘Can’t sleep?’

  Einar, who had been watching the dark Scottish coast as it slipped past, turned at the sound of Affreca’s voice. She was standing next to him.

  ‘No,’ he said with a sigh. ‘I can’t help thinking about the legend.’

  ‘Of the Raven Banner?’

  ‘Aye,’ he sighed. ‘It was in your family. Was there ever a man who carried it into battle who did not die?’

  Affreca thought for a moment.

  ‘Not that I heard of,’ she said.

  ‘How on earth did they ever persuade anyone to carry it?’ Einar said.

  Affreca nodded at the Wolf Coats. ‘Tell some men that such a death assures a space on the benches of Odin’s Valour Hall and they’re mad enough to do it. You met my father, though. More likely it was the same as the situation we’re in now. Simple coercion. A man will do a lot if his family are hostages.’

  She turned and looked over her shoulder. The Wolf Coats were not the only people on the ship, nor were Einar and she the only ones awake. The rest of the deck was filled with a contingent of about sixty of Jarl Siward’s men, as well as ten of Hakon’s bodyguards, including their leader, who had since introduced himself as Sweyn. They were all Norsemen but either settlers or sons of settlers to the kingdom of Jorvik or Northumbria. They were there to take part in the assault but their presence on the ship was also to make sure the Wolf Coats and Einar did not leave the ship.

  ‘Skarphedin persuaded me to take a long-bladed axe,’ Einar said. ‘But I’ve just realised it’s a two-handed weapon. If I’m carrying this stupid flag, I won’t even be able to defend myself.’

  ‘We’ll be around you,’ Affreca said. ‘But if anyone gets close you can always use the axe the Irish way. They grab the shaft one-handed near the bottom. It doubles the reach and triples the strength of the blow. It’s easier to lose your grip though.’

  Sweyn approached. He had his helmet held in the crook of his elbow. His mail coat rang with every stomp of his heavy boots on the deck. With a start Einar realised that Sweyn was perhaps only one or two winters older than himself. It was amazing what the effect of a few years of discipline, surrounded by professional warriors, could be.

  ‘It’s time to get ready,’ Sweyn said. ‘We need to wake the rest.’

  Einar and Affreca went around the crew, shaking each one awake. Sweyn’s men brought forward chests of equipment and the deck became a hive of activity as men began readying themselves for battle. All seasoned warriors, everyone went about their work with a calm reserve, not over-excited but deadly serious.

  Two of Sweyn’s men brought a heavy, iron-bound chest forward, carrying it between them. One also carried a very long pole that looked like a huge spear except if had some sort of cross-beam coming out from the top. The pole was perhaps two and a half times the height of a man. Its bottom end had a metal spike for planting it in the ground.

  Einar swallowed but his tongue rasped against his dry throat. It was a pole for carrying a battle standard. The warrior set it down on the deck and produced a key that he used to unlock the chest.

  ‘The Raven Banner,’ Sweyn said, as his man swept open the lid of the chest.

  As if handling hot coals, the warriors drew a long piece of cloth from the chest. It was triangular and woven of red wool. The image of a raven, wings outstretched, claws curled, was stitched into it in black. The two warriors attached it to the top of the standard pole, the top edge to the cross-beam and the side to the main pole.

  They raised it up. The wind caught it and the banner began to flutter in the wind. Einar stared, trying to see if it looked like the wings of the raven were flapping or not. It was hard to tell.

  ‘What do you think?’ he said to Affreca. ‘Is it signalling victory?’

  When she did not reply Einar looked around. Affreca’s face wore a puzzled expression.

  ‘That’s a raven?’ she said, her nose wrinkled. ‘I’ve a five-year-old nephew who might have drawn a better one with a knife on bone.’

  ‘Well lads,’ Ulrich said. ‘It’s not often you can say you’ve fought behind a flag sent by Odin himself. If you ever wanted to get his attention, when he sees this waving in the wind tonight, he can’t fail to look down with favour. Sweyn, you and your men are fortunate tonight. This banner leads the way to Odin’s Valour Hall.’

  Sweyn straightened his back. ‘My father told tales of Odin,’ he said. ‘My
mother was Aenglish. She had heard tales of Woden, the name the Saxons call him. My men and I call him Satan. Lucifer. The Devil. But if his evil pendant can work some good, then we will follow it to Hell and back.’

  Ulrich looked at Skarphedin and rolled his eyes.

  ‘Christian Vikings,’ he said. ‘Whatever next?’

  Skar threw back his head and laughed.

  ‘As long as they fight, who cares what God they follow?’ the big man said. Then he walked up the deck to the cooking stone. He returned with a pot of grease as well as soot and ashes from the fire. He mixed them together with the butt of a spear. Then the Wolf Coats began smearing the mixture over their faces, their hands, the blades of their weapons and mail, obscuring the white of their flesh and the gleam of the sharp metal under the black grease. Einar realised again that the wolf skins they wore would cover them more and in the dark of the night they would become almost invisible. Sweyn’s polished mail, in contrast, glittered in the moonlight like the stars in the sky above.

  ‘The Scots will see you coming a league off,’ Ulrich said. ‘We may as well blow horns and light bonfires to tell them we’re coming.’

  ‘They’ll know we’re coming when they see the ships anyway,’ Sweyn said. ‘Our best hope for surprise is to stay as close to the coast as possible until the last moment. That way they will have less time from when they see us until we hit the harbour.’

  ‘I’m sure there’s something you could do,’ Ulrich said. ‘Haven’t you any cloaks or something?’

  Sweyn thought for a moment, then nodded.

  ‘Tell your men to put them on over their mail,’ Ulrich said.

  ‘We can’t fight in cloaks,’ Sweyn scowled. ‘They’ll get in the way.’

  Ulrich shook his head. ‘It’s just to cover you until we get there.’

  ‘Why would that matter?’

  ‘Don’t tell me you intend to just sail straight into a heavily defended harbour?’ Ulrich said.

  ‘Aye,’ Narfi said as he sidled up beside Sweyn. He laid a large hand on the warrior’s shoulder. ‘The Viking way. Smash right into that harbour, rush the defenders and win through sheer aggression. I was advising Sweyn here. Giving the benefit of my experience.’

  ‘And you listened to him?’ Ulrich looked at Sweyn.

  The young man shrugged. ‘He’s one of King Eirik of Norway’s berserkers. He has a lot of experience in battle.’

  Now it was Ulrich who scowled.

  ‘Berserkers are Eirik’s blunt instruments,’ he said. ‘You point them in the direction of something that needs smashed and let them go. They don’t do tactics. Listen to him and we’ll all end up dead.’

  ‘So you’re scared of dying?’ Narfi snarled. ‘What sort of Odin’s man are you?’

  ‘I’m not scared of dying,’ Ulrich said. ‘I just don’t want to right now. And don’t preach to me about Odin. Both strength and guile are needed to grab Odin’s favour.’

  ‘Have you a better plan?’ Narfi said.

  ‘Of course,’ Ulrich said. ‘Listen to me and I’ll tell you how we can win this.’

  Forty-One

  Oengus Mac Loarn blew on his hands. He rubbed them together and held them up to the brazier that stood near the point of the stone quay in the harbour of Cathair Aile. It was cold, dark and not for the first time that night he cursed his luck at drawing the last watch.

  He consoled himself that dawn could not be too far off. When the sun rose, other warriors would relieve him and his companions. Then he could eat his breakfast and settle down into a warm straw cot up inside the fortress that stood on the headland above the harbour.

  The harbour was a rectangle of stone quays with one very narrow entrance where Oengus and his fellows stood guard through the darkest part of the night.

  Nechtan, one of the other warriors on watch, joined Oengus at the brazier.

  ‘It’s a cold one,’ Nechtan said. ‘I can’t wait to get to bed.’

  ‘What are we standing out here for anyway?’ Drest, the third watchman said. ‘No one’s going to attack. Aethelstan’s army is still far to the south. There’s been people watching the Saxon fleet all day. It’s not moving.’

  ‘Some ships left it this morning,’ Nechtan said.

  ‘They sailed on out to sea,’ Drest said. ‘We watched them.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have to remind you that we’re here to protect the king,’ Oengus said.

  ‘Well I hope old Constantine’s grateful,’ Drest said. ‘Lying up there snoring, his belly full of wine, in a nice warm bed. I bet he’s not sleeping in a straw cot. It’ll be sheets for him, fur blankets. Pillows maybe.’

  ‘Drest,’ Oengus said, ‘you speak of the king’s sleeping arrangements the way I’ve heard starving men talk about a feast. Or a monk talk about the naked flesh of a woman. Look, it won’t be long until the end of our watch. Dawn will break soon and that’s us done. Go and see if there is any sign of it.’

  Oengus and Nechtan watched as their younger companion walked off to the end of the quay. He clambered up onto the harbour wall and began staring out to sea eastward. They saw him raise a hand to his forehead as he sought for any sign of light creeping over the horizon.

  Nechtan shook his head. ‘Look at that idiot,’ he said. ‘He thinks shading his eyes from the moonlight will help him see better. Does he not realise that if the moon hasn’t set yet there’s still a way to go before dawn?’

  ‘Sure, it keeps him busy for a bit,’ Oengus said. ‘And away from us.’

  ‘Look at him now,’ Nechtan said. ‘He’s looking right and left. Does he think the sun’s going to come up in a different place for the first time since Creation? I know he’s a cousin of yours, Oengus, but dear God he’s a fool!’

  Then Drest froze.

  ‘Ships,’ he said, his voice sounding strange and high from the tightness in his throat. ‘Ships!’

  Nechtan gaped at Oengus. Then they both ran to join Drest at the end of the quay. When they got there Drest was pointing with his spear, not out to sea, but along the coast to the north-east. Oengus felt his heart sink. A little way along the shore the coast turned in a headland that hid everything beyond. Coming around the headland was a line of ships. The first had already come around and was sailing directly towards Cathair Aile. It travelled a few oar lengths from the shore. It was close enough that in the moonlight they could make out its narrow hull, the big, square sail and the carved dragon that rose from the prow. Three more of the same type of vessel followed behind.

  ‘Those are Viking ships,’ Oengus said. ‘Sound the alarm.’

  Nechtan jumped off the wall and ran to a rope that hung from a bell nearby. A moment later he was yanking the rope and the bell was clanging.

  ‘Stay here and keep watch on those ships,’ Oengus shouted to Drest. Then he too was running along the quay, slowing only to grab a burning brand from the brazier as he charged past. There were four more braziers set with wood and pitch along the harbour. Oengus set the brand to each of them in turn and they burst alight. Oengus lifted a horn to his lips and blew two short and one long blast: The warning signal. He repeated this twice then ran off the quay and onto the road that curled up from the harbour to the fortress. It was a short but steep climb past the hovels of fishermen and the larger residences of merchants to the gate of the fort.

  The fortress that covered the top of the headland was a large rectangle marked out by ramparts topped with a wooden palisade. Inside were several round wood and stone buildings. The gate was stone, with a fighting platform above it and stout, wooden double doors. Oengus’s horn blasts and the clanging of the bell had already had an effect as the doors were open. Beyond it, men were running to and fro, pulling on mail, grabbing weapons and racing to man the defences.

  ‘Oengus! What’s going on?’

  Oengus heard a voice calling him. He saw Talorc, the Mormaer of Mar striding towards him from the gateway. The Mormaer was the king’s war leader. He was already dressed for battle, his leather jerkin
strapped, a mail coat on top of it and a shield slung over his back. Oengus briefly wondered if Talorc slept in his armour. He had never seen him out of it. The cheek pieces of his helmet hung loose, as yet unlaced and his black, bushy beard tumbled out from beneath them. The brass that clad his helmet gleamed like gold in the fire and moonlight.

  ‘Ships, lord,’ Oengus said. ‘Four of them. Heading for the harbour.’

  ‘Saxons?’

  ‘They look like Vikings,’ Oengus said.

  ‘Enemies then,’ Talorc said.

  He turned and began yelling orders to others nearby in the fort. Oengus ran back down to the harbour which was now ablaze with light from the braziers.

  ‘Will there be a fight?’ Nechtan called to him. He was still yanking the bell rope.

  ‘Aye,’ Oengus said. ‘But we’ll be well ready for them.’

  The lead longship was not far from the harbour mouth now. It looked like there was a man standing near the prow, waving a flag or battle standard.

  ‘Drest,’ Oengus shouted to his cousin. ‘What’s that flag they’re flying?’

  There was no reply. Oengus frowned and looked up at the harbour wall behind him. There was no sign of Drest on top of it. Had the idiot fallen off?

  Then a stream of warriors came hurrying down from the fort. Talorc strode in the lead. Before long they filled the quay so there was barely enough room to stand. Talorc shouted orders, bringing spearmen and archers to the front.

  Oengus glanced out to sea again. He saw the lead ship was turning to enter the harbour. He breathed in through his nose as he fought to calm his thundering heart. He felt excitement but no fear. They had enough warriors to easily outnumber the crews of four ships. The quay they stood on was much higher than the decks of the ships so the raiders would have to try to climb up while the defenders rained arrows, spears and sword cuts on them. They would not stand a chance.

  ‘Whoever these men are,’ Talorc said in a loud, commanding tone so all his men could hear, ‘they must be eager to die.’

  He raised his right hand.