‘I came up here to pray for her,’ the monk said. ‘She is lost, Raven. She is lost and Asgot will find her.’
I did not turn round, but kept walking across the rock, through bristling patches of grass and down through clumps of sea kale. And the monk’s words, She is lost, Raven, repeated in my head like waves against the shore, or spruce oars churning a Frankish river.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
I FOUND CYNETHRYTH SITTING ALONE IN THE WIND-SHADOW OF A large rock on the east side of the island. Beside her a small fire crackled and gave off an acrid filthy yellow smoke that caught in my throat. Burning hair. She had cut off her hair and thrown it into the flames where it blackened and withered and stank.
‘How do you feel, Cynethryth?’ I said gently, sitting down beside her. She was looking out past the half-submerged rocks where the currents converged, throwing the water up in spumy gouts that never made the same pattern twice, towards one of the much larger islands we had sailed past. We had not moored there for such a place was likely to be inhabited and thus patrolled by the emperor’s war ships. I asked again, thinking that her mind must be elsewhere. I turned to her and she to me, and my flesh shivered then so that to my shame I had to look away. Her eyes, once green as spring buds, were hard and dim as old ice, and the skin of her face stretched tight over the bones, giving her even more of that wildness, that peregrine look, than before. ‘What did they do to you, Cynethryth?’ I asked, watching the burnt threads of her hair pulse red and black in the flames. I felt those eyes penetrate me like a biting north wind. Somewhere a carrion crow croaked three times, its rough voice grating against the sea-bashed rocks.
‘Never ask me that, Raven,’ she said. ‘Never ask me for I shall never speak of it.’
I was chewing my lip. Hard. ‘One day I will kill them,’ I said clumsily, feeling like a boy stealing a man’s words.
This poor motherless girl. Ealdred had poisoned her life with betrayal and the killing of her brother Weohstan and now he was dead by her hand. Then the Christ slaves had beaten her and done Óðin knows what other unspoken things so that now the girl’s soul seemed still locked in some foul place, preyed upon by vicious memories that clung like ferrets on a rabbit’s neck. I cursed myself for ever having saved Ealdred from Asgot’s knife, though I had only done it for Cynethryth.
‘Have you eaten?’ I asked, wanting to touch her but lacking the courage.
‘I’ll eat when I’m hungry,’ she snapped, her glower deflecting me like a shield. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, the words empty as chaff. ‘Please leave me, Raven.’ She forced a smile that did not crack those ice eyes. ‘I will come to you when I am ready.’
I stared into the flames awhile, searching for words that were as elusive as the smoke drifting up towards the dark clouds floating westward after the sun, their bellies black as pitch. I used my knife to shift the unburnt ends of the sticks into the flames, then stood as a ragged skein of geese cut south-west, screeching like a loose wheel on Thór’s chariot. ‘The ting will have begun,’ I said. ‘Are you coming?’ But Cynethryth was somewhere inside those flames and I might as well have been the other side of Bifröst the shimmering bridge. So I left her and made my way back to the moorings, glad to be away from the stench of burning hair.
‘Hold on to your coins, lads,’ Bram Bear said, feigning panic and clutching the leather scrip at his belt when I came amongst them. ‘Young Raven will have them off you and in some fish’s belly before you know you’re silver-light.’ Some of the men laughed, but others frowned at being reminded, not that they could have forgotten.
‘I’m steersman on the wrong fucking ship,’ Kjar jeered. ‘I should have jumped aboard one of Raven’s silver rafts and taken it back to Norway.’
‘You could not find your way back to Norway,’ Olaf said, stirring more taunting and laughter and carving a scowl in Kjar’s hound-narrow face. I looked over at Rolf, who now wore a good cloak over his rags, a gift from Sigurd to bolster his pride now that he was amongst the legendary sword and axe men of Norway. He had the look of an honest man did Rolf, if not a war leader or even much of a warrior. He had cut his red hair and beard short, as had all the Danes after washing off the filth of that Frankish prison, and now he stood saying nothing but watching much, which a wise man is wont to do amongst strangers. The rest of the Danes, some thirty-six men in all, sat a little distance off amongst the birch, moss, and grass hackles further up from the water, watching us with parched, sunken eyes, like dogs waiting beside the mead bench to be fed.
I looked around me. ‘There’s no watch,’ I said to Penda. Every bearded face, every hard sword-Norse and Wessexman had gathered there in that hollow on the flat rock, where men’s voices were made louder so that you ought to be sure what you wanted to say before you said it.
‘Uncle told me that Sigurd wants every man to have his say,’ Penda replied, his eyebrows arched. ‘A rare thing in a lord. I’ll wager he regrets it afterwards.’
‘All but a few of these men are oath-tied to Sigurd,’ I said, ‘and must follow him back to Frankia should he choose to return there.’
‘Oaths can wear thin as the sole of your shoe, lad,’ Penda said with a grimace as Olaf called for tongues to be still.
‘Jarl Sigurd son of Harald will speak first,’ Olaf announced, fiercely eyeing the hard men around him, challenging them to dispute their jarl’s authority. ‘Those of you who have words in your bellies and edges to sharpen will get your chance. The Dane will get his chance, too, and you’ll let him speak or you’ll have me to deal with.’ Then Olaf stepped back and nodded to Sigurd, who nodded back.
Sigurd stepped into that circle of warriors and stood for a while, his left hand resting on his sword’s pommel and his right clenched behind his back. He eyed his men, those he had fought beside, with whom he had killed and bled, and they eyed him back, proud men all.
‘When we left our fjords in the north we were empty like a sail on a still day. We had nothing but our own boasting which filled my hall like farts and made our women hoist their brows and shake their heads, for they thought our words men’s bluster, nothing more. We had all been boys listening to our fathers’ and grandfathers’ tales of times when Norsemen were hard as seasoned oak and Týr-brave. Like me you tired of white-haired men’s saga tales and thirsted for your own.’ Men grunted and nodded at this. ‘Patiently, we filled our boasts with sweat, building Serpent and Fjord-Elk whilst our women worked their fingers to the knuckles weaving their sails. We raided in the north and burnt many halls until we could afford ringmail and fine swords and helmets. Then we ploughed the whale road and I knew that the Norns had been as tireless as our womenfolk, for our story began to grow as we killed our enemies and filled our journey chests.’ There were more affirming ayes and murmurs.
‘We lost good men, too,’ Ulf said, and men nodded and touched their amulets and sword hilts for luck.
‘Too many, Ulf,’ Sigurd agreed, holding the man’s eye until Ulf withered beneath that gaze and looked away. ‘Now you are pride-hurt. The shame comes off you like a stink,’ Sigurd said with a grimace. ‘But know this. If we had not set our hoard adrift on that ill-lucked river we would have had a hard fight of it. There would be many empty benches and oars left in their trees.’ I felt eyes on me but I kept my own on Sigurd. ‘But that means nothing to you who stand before me, for a man rarely counts himself amongst the dead, some not even when they are stiff in the ground.’ Some chuckles at that. ‘We have lost the hoard that would have seen us return home with a greater saga story than our fathers ever told, and I know this is a hard thing to swallow. It sticks in my throat more than any man’s and I will fight the one who says otherwise.’ No one said otherwise. ‘Oh, we have some silver and good bone and enough trinkets to please our womenfolk. Frigg knows they would strut around the market like hens, flapping their wings and clucking to get noticed. But it is not enough for us. Our fame-thirst clamours for more than cold silver and gold torcs. If we skulk back to our hearths now and l
et our swords and brynjas rust the gods will turn their backs on us and it has all been for nothing. I am no farmer. I am a sword-Norse and my saga tale has many twists yet, like the world serpent devouring his own tail. This is why I will not be going home.’ With that Sigurd stepped back, showing that it was the turn of others to wag their tongues.
‘I have lost good friends,’ Halfdan said, scratching his beard nervously. ‘And it seems to me that they died for nothing seeing as Serpent’s belly is empty but for the stuff you would find at any decent market.’ Some rumbles – though whether for or against I couldn’t tell. ‘I would go home to my woman and bairns while I still can. Maybe farming is not so bad. Valhöll can wait for me.’
‘The All-Father’s favour blows in and out like the wind,’ Asgot said. ‘If you don’t know this by now you are a fool.’
‘You a farmer, Halfdan?’ Black Floki spat. ‘You couldn’t grow a hard-on.’ Men laughed at that, but Sigurd held up a hand and they held their tongues. These men had fought for Sigurd in the kingdoms of Mercia and Wessex. They had bloodied the valleys of Wales and bent their backs to Sigurd’s oars, and they sensed the weight of the moment.
‘I understand, Halfdan,’ Sigurd said with a nod.
‘But we are oath-tied, lord,’ Arnvid said. ‘No man here would break that bond.’
‘Most of you are oath-tied to me,’ Sigurd agreed, looking into men’s eyes as though through them he could see their hearts, and maybe he could. ‘But as from today that old oath is dead. I release you all from it. Those who wish to go home are free to go.’
Men’s jaws unhinged and those who had been drinking mead stopped, dragging their hands across their beards in stunned silence. Sigurd’s blue eyes remained calm but his heart must have been hammering as ours were.
‘If there are many who want to return, they can take Fjord-Elk and their fair share of the silver and booty we have won,’ he said, ‘for there would not be enough strong arms left to take both ships where I am going.’
Every man’s eyes were riveted to the jarl at those words.
‘Where is that?’ Bragi the Egg asked, dark-browed.
‘Miklagard,’ Sigurd said, glancing at Rolf the Dane. There were murmurs at that word and I could tell that some men had heard of the place.
‘Miklagard?’ Bram said, his hairy brows woven together. ‘It means the great city, Bear,’ Olaf said. ‘I know what it means, Uncle,’ Bram growled, ‘but where in Óðin’s hairy arse is it?’
Sigurd nodded to Rolf and the Dane stepped forward, half starved and vulnerable as a goat amongst wolves. ‘It is far away in the east,’ Rolf said, looking at Bram but speaking to all. ‘In Grikaland. Some call it the Golden City for even the buildings are made of gold and the streams run with molten silver.’
‘Then the folk of Miklagard must be thirsty,’ Bothvar said, scratching his balls as men laughed to relieve the tension, for the air itself was taut as a full sail.
‘I have seen coins from this city and they shine like Freyja’s eyes,’ Knut put in, straight-faced as a woman washing her man’s breeks. ‘And an emperor rules there whom the people worship as a god.’
‘Not another fucking emperor!’ Yrsa Pig-nose complained, shaking his head.
‘You know the way to this city?’ Bram challenged the Dane.
‘I do not,’ he admitted, raising a chorus of jeers and moans. ‘But there is a man amongst us whose brother claimed to have been there.’
‘And where is this brother?’ Pig-nose asked, craning his neck to search amongst the Danes. ‘I expect he’s the one in the golden brynja with the silver cock and giant rubies for balls.’
‘He is dead,’ Rolf said simply. ‘He died with many others in Frankia.’ He glanced at me, for I had known the horror of that stinking hall where men lay in their own filth and rats and insects chewed on their pride. ‘But perhaps his brother can show us the way, for Trygve spoke of his journey before he died.’
Bram shook his shaggy head, his face, battered as an old shield, gloom-shadowed. ‘We are not the Fellowship we were,’ he said. ‘Too many have gone.’ Some uttered in agreement.
‘My Danes will join Sigurd,’ Rolf said. ‘We do not want to return to our women with empty sea chests.’ I could barely believe my ears and I was not alone. When had Sigurd and Rolf cooked this up? Then I remembered Bjarni saying he’d seen them together. Looked like scheming to me, he had said.
‘Your Danes are half dead!’ Bram accused Rolf. ‘You are lucky Sigurd has allowed you to join this ting, for you are nothing.’
Sigurd let the insult stand and watched Rolf to judge his response.
The Dane, swordless and stupid, squared up to Bram, which showed he had pride at least, if not brains.
‘We rowed as hard as you did and with empty bellies,’ he said. ‘Our hearts are as strong as yours and our limbs will catch up given meat and mead.’
It was well said and men nodded as much. Even Bram had nothing more than a ‘pah!’ for him before he turned back to Sigurd.
‘I am with you, Sigurd, you know that,’ he said. ‘And if the sea road keeps my ears out of reach of Borghild’s biting tongue then I am happy. I’ll row you to this Miklagard even if the houses are made of mud and the rivers run with piss. But even better if there is silver at the end of it. I’ll not have Danes pilfer fame meant for me.’
‘Those who come with me will swear a new oath. The Fellowship will be re-forged,’ Sigurd said. ‘We will raid and we will fill our journey chests. We will carve our wyrd in the land, raising rune stones to mark where we have been. One already stands in a forest in Frankia and I doubt those beardless Christians will forget about us in a hurry.’ He grinned his wolf grin then and I noticed that Bram was half smiling too, and I wondered if he and Sigurd had arranged for him to voice those doubts so that other men would feel that their own misgivings had been led out, all the while with Sigurd holding the reins. I would not put it past a man with Sigurd’s low cunning.
‘I am with you, lord,’ Svein the Red boomed, thumping his spear’s butt into the earth with a little too much show.
‘You know me, Sigurd,’ Olaf said with a shrug of his broad shoulders. ‘I go where the wind takes me and where there is no wind I will row. You’ll have my oath.’ Sigurd nodded curtly, as though it was only natural that men such as these would follow him even to the world’s edge.
‘I am not going home until I have filled Bjorn’s journey chest as well as my own,’ Bjarni said.
Then the others declared their loyalty, each man out-boasting the next and claiming riches he had not yet clapped eyes on, so that even those who had had half a mind on going home forgot all about it and even Halfdan laughed at his earlier talk of farming. Old Asgot went off to scatter the runes and Black Floki simply nodded at Sigurd, his eyes dark and edged with malice, and Sigurd nodded back, for that was all that was needed between those two.
‘I go where you go, lord,’ I said when Sigurd looked at me.
‘Of course you do, Raven,’ he said, ‘for we have a saga tale to weave and we are joined, you and I.’
So I joined the others greasing their tongues with mead so that they might glide across the words of the oath we would give, and perhaps so that the speaking of them might weigh a little less, for an oath is a soul-heavy thing. And then I walked to the west side of the island to watch the sun slide into the grey sea, holding my breath in case I could hear the far-off hiss of fire quenching itself, like a red-hot sword plunged into a barrel. And in Valhöll the gods laughed.
EPILOGUE
IT’S ALL RIGHT, GUNNKEL, YOU CAN BLINK NOW. WASH THOSE MILKY opals of yours before they dry and shrivel like an old man’s breeks snake. Take a breath, Arnor, and whilst you’re at it have one for me, would you? It has been a rare ride, hey! You all look rough as oak bark and wild as trolls – as if you’ve ridden the back of this night in Thór’s own chariot pulled by the goats Tanngnjóst and Tanngrísnir and them with their tails on fire! But I suppose it’s only natural y
ou should sit there like that: mead holes catching flies, eyes round as pennies and hair on end like hedgehogs. For it is some saga tale and don’t I know it. Most of you, I’d wager, have never been past your own privies. There are rocks that have travelled further. There are snails that have seen more of the world than you hearth lovers. Ah, don’t give me that sour milk face, Hallfred. I heard you only found Hildr’s honey pot because she drew you a map, isn’t that right, Hildr?
So, you now have your teeth in the tale and a taste for those old days. And yet the feast is still to come. As you see, I am no young Baldr, wet behind the ears and boasting my first bristles. I have lived a very long time and you have only just jumped aboard. We are barely off the jetty and into the fjord. The mooring ropes have yet to snake out their kinks and the anchor is still weed-slimed. Listen to me trying to spit it all out before it’s too late! You would have thought age and patience were kinsmen, but I have found them to keep company less as the years roll by. Come again tomorrow night, but only if you have the stomach for it, for the next chunk of my tale will take some swallowing. Like the ox-head Thór used to bait his hook when he went fishing for Jörmungand. As for today, if the chill in my bones is anything to go by we will have snow before dark. We’ll be breaking ice on rain barrels and bringing our animals inside. Perhaps it will be the beginning of Fimbulvetr, which will mean many kin-slayings and battles and all sorts of degradation, the chaos that begins Ragnarök. If that is so I will be ready. You think I’m a hoary old wolf who has outlived his wyrd, but you know my sword is still wicked sharp. Only a fool lets his blade dull or waits to watch the rust spots appear before cleaning it.
Tomorrow night then. If we are not all snow-tombed by then. And bring me some of that wine you’ve got stashed away, Olrun. Even I will need to take the edge off that tale’s telling.
Raven: Sons of Thunder Page 30