by Angus Donald
‘You will starve to death – or be eaten by something. Or both.’
Tor shrugged her thin shoulders.
‘Listen, just come into the camp and let me get you some proper food. Forget this Voyaging nonsense. You can sleep warm by the fire. You won’t be breaking any rules. This is not the Fyr Skola. You can march beside us, eat with us at night, and the Mikelgothi need never know about it.’
Tor gave him a steely look. ‘I have made my decision.’
‘I can see that. Look, I have to get back to the camp, I need to wake Ugo. Please, stay close to us. We march tomorrow for Thursby; I can bring food. Watch me, I’ll leave something out for you. May the Bear guard you.’
‘I am going to do it, oaf; I am going to become a Rekkr. You’ll see.’
Bjarki said nothing. He clambered to his feet, briefly gripped her bony shoulder and stepped back out of the wall of trees into the encampment.
Chapter Eleven
The bloody gift of Tiw
Bjarki peered out through the dense foliage of the old oak tree. He was about halfway up the trunk, lying along a thick limb, out of sight of anyone more than a few paces away. It was an hour before dawn on the second day after his meeting with Tor at the Troll Lake Stones – and he’d not seen her since.
Before he left the lake, he had hidden two loaves of bread, a dried sausage, a wedge of hard cheese and some dried apples in a sack under the exposed roots of a tree in the place they had met, and hoped she had been able to recover them. But he knew, deep inside himself, that it would not make the slightest difference in the end. The food might last Tor a couple of days, but she would die alone in the First Forest, one way or another. He wished he had tried harder to persuade her to take another course – although he knew well that when she made up her mind there was no changing it.
He pushed thoughts of her from his mind. He had a task to do. Before him lay the new Christian church and its fortified compound. Half a mile behind him, hidden inside a large wood, was the Saxon force under the command of Jarl Harald. His task – a signal honour granted to the Fyr Skola company, and thence given to Bjarki – was to scout out the enemy position.
The combination of the church and its defensive walls, watchtowers, barracks, storehouses, kitchens, a blacksmith’s forge, stables, granary, and so on was called a castrum by the Latin-speaking Christians, he’d been told.
He had never seen anything like it before. It reminded him in its unnatural regularity of the Hellingar Fortress, which guarded the Ox Road that passed through the Dane-Work. But, instead of a circular design, the Frankish castrum was a perfect square, each side a hundred paces long, with a square tower at each corner and a large gate in the centre of the north wall.
The walls were made of pine logs, twice the height of a man, as thick as his thigh, and each sharpened at the top into a wicked spike. He could see some Frankish soldiers – spearmen with dull red cloaks, round red shields and steel helmets – patrolling along the walkways that ran along the inside of the walls. He dutifully counted all the men-at-arms he could see – twenty-four. There were four soldiers in each tower and two patrolling each of the four walls, pacing slowly up and down. All of them seemed awake and alert.
This would only be the night watch, Bjarki reckoned. He had no idea how many other folk might be asleep in the buildings inside the wooden walls. A hundred? Two hundred? More? He felt a shiver of premonition. This attack on the castrum was going to be more difficult than they had assumed.
He looked left and right scanning the whole area. To his left, to the east, it was clear that the inhabitants of the castrum had been industrious. A large area of the First Forest – the size of three or four barley fields – had been cleared of timber and undergrowth. It looked naked, unnatural, and felt like a desecration. Bjarki wondered what Valtyr would say about this mass slaughter of the children of the Mother of Trees. These Franks clearly had no great respect for ancient woodlands of the North. They had chopped down hundreds of fine trees – many more than they needed, surely, and some of which had taken several men’s lifetimes to grow – and used their fallen carcasses to build this big wooden fortress and the many buildings inside.
The main structure inside the castrum was the large building at its very centre. This was the church of their Christian god. It was a long rectangular shape with a pair of stubby square arms extending on the north and south sides, making the shape of a cross, their holy symbol, according to Valtyr.
The church was built of thick, straight planks, painted with shiny black pine pitch and the building was situated on a raised-earth platform about three foot above the packed earth of the courtyard. The long pointed roof of the church was covered with tiles the colour of dried blood and adorned, at the eastern end, with a large golden cross, which was already catching the first rays of the rising sun and glowing as if it were made of molten metal.
From Bjarki’s oak-tree lookout, a hundred paces from the northeast corner of the castrum, he could see a big square window, its wooden shutter flung wide open, set in the eastern end of the church, high under its blood-tiled roof. Valtyr had once told him that Frankish churches were all orientated this way, east–west, and had a large window facing the dawn.
Bjarki could see a man standing on the other side of the open shutter, presumably on a platform or on an upper story of the church, and looking out to the east, watching the sun as it rose above the far horizon. Something about this figure was familiar to Bjarki; he’d seen him before…
The man was tall, well built, regular-featured and bald but for a fringe of hair round his ears. He was dressed in a pale robe, which almost seemed to shine. Then Bjarki recognised him. It was the apostle, the Christian priest he’d glimpsed walking through Snorri’s hall in Hellingar all those months ago. Even at this distance he was sure of it. That was a strange coincidence.
As the sun came up, filling the interior of the castrum with light, the man lifted his arms up in front of him and pressed his palms together. He seemed to be saying something – or perhaps singing – but Bjarki was too far away to hear.
The sunrise told Bjarki it was time to get down from his tree before he was spotted. He took one final look at the buildings in the area inside the castrum, at the kitchens with blue trickles beginning to waft upwards from the smoke holes – clearly the breakfast fires were being lit. He watched a red-cloaked Frank emerging from what looked like a barracks, a long, low, log-built building, his steel helmet tucked under one arm. The soldier yawned and called up something indistinct to one of the sentries. There was a wide, open-fronted stable over by the far, southern wall but Bjarki could only see one horse inside, and one tiny stable boy – the lad rubbing his sleepy face, stroking the far bigger animal’s silky black neck.
The castrum was waking up. It was time to return and make his report.
* * *
‘I cannot be precise, lord, about the strength of the enemy,’ said Bjarki. ‘But from the size of the two barracks I saw inside the fortress, I should guess at a total of about one hundred and fifty warriors. Perhaps more.’
‘Hmm,’ said Jarl Harald, ‘more than us then – but they don’t have, I would say, all that much of an advantage. What do you think, Ingvar?’
They were gathered, half a mile north of the new Frankish settlement, in a loose circle under a tall ash in a wood, Harald, the three Rekkar and half a dozen hersirs. Bjarki had told them all that he had seen – reporting that the castrum had been sited not far from the burnt-out ruins of the Saxon village of Thursby. The fields of barley and wheat to the west and north of the castrum had recently been harvested and were covered with golden stubble. So the Franks had already provisioned themselves for the coming winter.
‘Tell me again, lad, about the stables,’ said Ingvar. ‘Not a single horse in them, did you say?’
‘I saw one horse only. But there was enough stabling for two score at least. No sign at all of any of the other mounts. The stalls seemed empty.’
‘
You saw no cabellarii at all?’ asked Brokk.
Bjarki shook his head.
‘They’ve gone on a raid,’ said Ivar Knuttson. ‘They’ve ridden off to plunder the surrounding lands and left the castrum without any protection.’
‘Maybe,’ said Ingvar.
‘By Tiw, that’s it!’ Jarl Harald slapped his knee. ‘They’re out foraging. I’ll wager they’ve taken a few of their Red Cloaks with them, too. We’ve caught them with their trews round their boots, having a morning dump.’
‘If they have gone, lord,’ said Bjarki, ‘might they not come back?’
‘That’s enough, Barda,’ said Ivar, scowling at Bjarki. ‘None of your cowardly talk at the council. Hold your stupid tongue till you’re spoken to.’
Bjarki glared at the Rekkr. Harald seemed oblivious to the exchange.
‘Yes, it is surely a gift from Tiw,’ he said. ‘The war god shows his favour. We must attack. This morning. Before the cabellarii return from their raiding. Now, the walls – twelve feet high, did you say, young fellow?’
Bjarki nodded. He was still fuming from Ivar’s rebuke.
‘But there is a great big gate, yes?’ Harald seemed excited. ‘Could the Rekkar get inside and open it for the rest of us? You could, couldn’t you?’
Ingvar seemed to be infected with Harald’s enthusiasm. ‘As you command, lord. We can open that gate. Yes, we could certainly do that.’
* * *
The four of them sprinted towards the double gate: Bjarki and Brokk, Ugo and Ingvar; two Barda, two Fire Born. Four warriors to storm a fortress.
They were spotted the moment they left the tree line. A sentry on the walls began calling out the alarm when they were still a hundred paces from the gate, and before they had gone even a few strides further, whistles were blowing and trumpets sounding all along the line of the fortifications.
If they had ever had any chance of surprise, it was gone now.
It was the phrase ‘cowardly talk’ that had made Bjarki immediately volunteer to be one of the Barda who would assist the two Rekkar to open the big gates. Why? he wondered as he ran with the other three. They were just jabbing words spoken by his enemy. Well, it was too late for regrets. As he pounded forward towards the Frankish fortress, the iron rim of his big round shield battered at his lower back, the long sword-scabbard slapped painfully at his legs. It was quite different from the usual unencumbered morning runs in the groves. This was battle. This was the real thing – today they would find glory. Or death. Best not to think about it. Best just to run.
Bjarki had felt a jolt of icy fury when Ivar Knuttson had refused the invitation from Harald to be one of the two Rekkar charged with opening the gates. Ivar had demurred, feigning modesty, and insisted that the honour must go to Ingvar, since he was older, wiser and more experienced than he.
It was a sensible decision, logical, and no one could usefully disagree. But Bjarki could not help but feel that Ivar was just weaselling his way out of an extremely perilous – possibly even suicidal – mission.
‘I shall command the main Fyr Skola assault force,’ Ivar said grandly. ‘Once Brokk and Ingvar have done their duty, when the gates are open, my people and I shall charge through them and slaughter the garrison to a man.’
Nobody argued. No one sane would ever accuse a Rekkr of cowardice.
So it was the four of them – Bjarki, Brokk, Ugo and Ingvar – who were now sprinting towards an alert, ready, and well-manned Frankish stronghold. Bjarki could hear Brokk and Ingvar begin to hum the summoning tune, even over the thudding of their heavy boots. He began to hum along too…
At fifty paces out, the first arrows began to flick past the running men; one snagged in Brokk’s left vambrace, stuck in the thick fur and leather; another pierced the bottom of Ingvar’s Wolfskin cloak. At thirty paces out, a javelin slammed into the ground an inch from Bjarki’s right foot.
The shiny steel helmets on the battlements were multiplying; first it was ten men on the wall on either side of the big gate, then a score, now two score. Officers in plumed helmets were barking orders, war trumpets blared. More men were running along the inside of the walls, helms winking in the sunshine, coming to join the thickening line of defenders above the gate.
An arrow clanged off Bjarki’s own helmet; the blow felt like a hammer strike. But they were only ten paces away now. Bjarki could see the knots and whorls in the rough bark of the logs that made up the wall. They had made it. In the last few steps he and Ugo raced ahead of the two Rekkar, turned at the last minute and slammed their backs against the solid wall of logs. It was a manoeuvre they had practised dozens of time in the exercise yard at the Fyr Skola, taking turns first to be ‘booster’ and then ‘jumper’.
Bjarki laced his fingers together, cupped his hands at the level of his knees. Brokk did not even break his stride, he stepped with his right foot into the stirrup made by Bjarki’s interlinked palms and the instant Brokk’s boot touched Bjarki’s hands, he heaved his comrade upwards with all his might.
Brokk flew up into the air; he got his left hand on the top of the wall and hurled himself over. And a Rekkr was now among his enemy. Like a terrier hurled into a pit full of scattering rats, Brokk began his bloody work.
From the foot of the wall, Bjarki could see very little of the epic fight going on above him: but he immediately heard the screaming, and the meaty thuds as the Rekkr’s axe bit into flesh, the crack of bone under his heavy blade, the shouts, the curses, the clang of steel on steel, and he certainly felt the gentle red spray that pattered down on his shoulders. A fine bloody rain.
He looked across nervously at Ugo, on the far side of the gate, who had also successfully launched his Rekkr on to the wall directly above him. For a second their gazes locked. Then Bjarki jerked around as a severed head thumped down on to the ground next to him, still wearing a steel helmet and an expression of astonishment. A full-length severed arm was next, dropping like a tossed log and bouncing once on the bloody earth.
He looked up, saw a Red Cloak at the point of hurling a javelin down at him and leapt aside. The launch never came, the man was snatched away from sight, then seemed to leap from the battlements and soar up briefly into the blue sky before crashing to earth. He twitched only once and lay still.
Bjarki looked up again and saw Brokk, leaning over the wall, one long simian arm draped down over the rough logs. ‘Come, little bear,’ he said.
True to his Fyr Skola training, Bjarki did not hesitate. He made a gigantic leap upwards, his right arm reaching out at full stretch. He felt Brokk’s iron hand grip his wrist and he was whisked upwards, as if fired from a catapult. A moment later, he found himself with one boot on the walkway and the other inside the sliced-open chest of a lifeless Frank.
There were dead and dying men all around him; body parts were everywhere too, and glistening wet blood painted every surface.
In some places the corpses on the walkway were piled three men deep. Down below, in the open space before the church, two score or more red-cloaked enemies were gathering, in a disciplined company, spearmen, archers, some armed only with swords – and they were staring up at Brokk in astonishment. To Bjarki’s left, he saw that Ugo was also on the wall, but cringing slightly behind a blood-drenched Ingvar, who was frothing at the mouth and grimly chopping his way through a pack of terrified Red Cloaks.
‘Come on,’ growled Brokk. ‘You open gate. I kill these foreigners.’
Bjarki saw that the Bear Lodge Rekkr, too, was slathered in blood, and guessed that a good deal of the glistening red was his own. Brokk was still humming, the four-note summoning tune. He was gashed several times on his half-naked torso, some wounds deep, an arrow was stuck right through his left thigh, and a slash to the face had opened up a purple flap of skin below his right eye. But the Rekkr seemed to be oblivious to his wounds.
‘Open the gate,’ he said again.
Then Brokk resumed his humming – and Bjarki felt a corresponding shiver pass down his own spine. Brokk
jumped from the walkway, landing like a cat on the packed earth floor of the castrum courtyard. His humming grew in volume, rose in pitch and became a giant’s roar and, streamers of white froth flying from his lips, bearded axe in one hand, bloody seax in the other, he waded into the mass of Franks, heedless of their bristling weapons.
It was like watching a tiny autumn whirlwind driving through a pile of dry leaves. Brokk bored into the ranks of enemies, axe and seax swinging and slashing, gore flying, blood spattering, men falling away, jumping back, shouting, screaming, dying… Bjarki tore his eyes away from the appalling slaughter and stumbled down the set of stairs by the gate on jelly-like legs.
He reached the gate and, in the sunless gloom behind it, he suddenly saw a Red Cloak spearman come out of a little log room at the side. The man, an older fellow, his unshaven jaw stubbled blue, lunged at him with his long spear. Bjarki, who had his own sword out by now, knocked the point aside with his shield rim, entirely by instinct, then came inside the man’s range and hacked down into the fellow’s neck, half severing it, dropping his foe like a sack of wet sand. He stared down at the twitching strangeness of the fallen body. His first battle kill. So easy. He felt nothing. Nothing at all.
He was aware that Ugo was now beside him, chattering manically, saying something quite unintelligible about the barred gate, and waving his sword, and Ingvar – limping and as gore-slathered as a slaughter man – was hurrying over to join Brokk in the writhing, bloody scrum of their enemies.
But there were no foes within a dozen feet of the two Barda.
‘Help me lift the bar,’ said Bjarki.
Together they lifted the heavy twelve-foot-long oak beam from its brackets, hurling it aside. And then, taking a door apiece they began to drag the heavy portals open. An arrow twanged into the wood beside the iron bracket, then a second shaft thudded home higher up; he heard someone else calling an order at him from somewhere on his left in a weird but oddly intelligible accent – the man seemed to be shouting ‘No! No!’ at him.