The Yelling Stones

by Oskar Jensen

  His words now rose to take in the whole hall. ‘And so it is my wish,’ Haralt went on, ‘that, to comfort you in your work, and as a sign of the love between my family and that of your kinsman, King Otto, that I give you –’

  ‘Skita,’ whispered Astrid. It had come at last.

  ‘That I give you the hand in marriage of the only kin I have left to me. My sister, Astrid.’ She just had time to turn to Leif, before they led her to the high table. ‘Stuff your plan. We leave at first light.’

  ‘It’s all prepared. We’re packed. Hestur’s ready.’

  ‘And Valvigs is with him,’ said Astrid. ‘I’ve got my harp. Now all we need is a decent sleep. I’m pretty sure I can wake before the dawn.’

  ‘Just check the bags,’ he said. ‘You’re good with knots.’

  She turned, bending over the twin sacks of dried food, silver trinkets and warm clothing.

  As Leif looked down at her, he thought of something they’d once said to each other.

  ‘Please … Astrid … trust me?’

  ‘All right,’ said Astrid. ‘All right. I trust you.’

  And he blinked away a tear, as he gripped a log from near the fire between his palms, and brought it down on the back of her head.

  ‘There’s just one thing I have to do,’ he whispered to her fallen form.

  It was hard. But he thought of the stones’ pain at the blows of the chisel, of the butchered troll, and of all the deaths that might still come if Folkmar wasn’t put in his place.

  And he set down the log, and strode, silent, from the room.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Large and low, the church loomed up before him. Leif smiled. First had come the Yelling Stones, back in the bad old days. Then the giants’ stone-ship, the mound, the hall – and now this. All because people had always been drawn to this spot. But these monuments weren’t witnesses to the power of gods, or witches, but to the strength of those who had built them. This church might have been raised in honour of Folkmar’s Christ. But it had been made by human hands, and he had been there, and seen it done.

  He was not afraid.

  But his heart jolted as two ghostly shapes flitted out of the church. He ducked into shadows, grateful for his dark skin. The shapes were two girls – thralls – Fala and Feima.

  He held his breath as they went by. Good. They couldn’t have seen him.

  Leif pushed them from his mind; they’d left the church door ajar, and he snuck inside.

  His eyes widened, searching to see in the ill-lit room.

  There wasn’t much to the building, just a nave and a chancel, an inner square of pillars stretching up into the blackness. Oil lamps flickered, uncertain and dim, and the air hung heavy with sharp foreign scents, overlying a nastier, less exotic smell.

  The chancel, where the altar was, was shut off by a screen, hanging from a cross-beam, on which was carved a cross. The screen itself was only linen; Haralt’s first church was a rough and ready affair. Folkmar was using that part to sleep in, until the Danes were baptised and he had a congregation.

  Something was stirring behind the screen.

  Leif tiptoed over, his skin crawling as he crossed the fresh-dug grave of twice-dead Gorm. Cautiously, he lifted a corner of the screen, and peered through.

  Folkmar was kneeling with his face to the altar, dressed in a hairy brown shirt – a far cry from the robes he wore around the court. He was holding a many-thonged crop.

  And it was this crop he raised, as he turned to look Leif full in the eye.

  ‘Ah, the little poet. I presume this is not a social call …?’

  ‘We have a score to settle, you and I,’ said Leif.

  Folkmar groped behind him, till his searching fingers found his massive crook. Leaning heavily against it, he rose to his full height. In that small space, he towered over the boy.

  ‘You cannot think I am afraid! You hardly have the use of your hands.’ He brandished the crook in the boy’s face.

  Leif glanced at the massive staff. If I know a thing, then it is my friend. ‘Gold is snuggest in rock – go back to the river. Shimmer for your own sake; scorn this greedy master,’ he said.

  Folkmar gaped, as the heavy gilt head of his crook softened, streamed to the floor, and was gone. Then he recovered, reversing his weapon, levelling its wicked iron point at the boy.

  ‘We’re both born of this land,’ said Leif, to the iron. ‘Be not hard for the soft.’

  The iron, too, vanished, and Folkmar was left holding a plain wooden staff. Grimly, the priest shifted his grip, and swung it at Leif’s head. But Leif had done this one before.

  ‘Ash, be yourself again.’

  As the staff swung, it budded and blossomed, twigs and leaves shooting forth. Folkmar lost his hold, and it flew away, striking the wall, a small tree now clinging to the timbers of the church.

  The priest flicked his eyes back to the boy – but Leif had let fall the screen, and was gone. Folkmar tugged it aside and stepped across, into the nave, staring hard.

  Leif darted behind one of the wooden pillars. He whispered to the oil lamps, ‘Why flit so fast, young bloods? For night gives rest to all.’ And, as one, they went out.

  It was almost too easy.

  Now the only light in the church came from the lamps behind the altar; in front of Folkmar, darkness pooled.

  ‘You are rash to quarrel, boy – have I not displayed the strength of my God?’

  ‘You seemed to favour the strength of your staff,’ said Leif, flitting from one pillar to another. ‘What are you going to do now – squash me?’

  For the first time, Folkmar smiled. ‘Phanuel?’ he called.

  And up among the rafters, something stirred. Leif glanced up, seeing nothing. But he could hear a scratch, and a rustle, as of the unfurling of enormous wings.

  Leif froze. His whole plan hinged on what he had learnt: that power came from belief. He had to not believe in the angel if he was to defeat Folkmar. But then, wasn’t fear a form of belief?

  The heavy, spiced air stirred as the wings started to beat, and up above, a light began to glow.

  ‘Where are the flippant remarks now?’ called Folkmar, and Leif bit his lip.

  ‘Where are your Odin and your Thor? Let them show themselves, and Christ will strike them down, as Archangel Phanuel has struck down the demons of this pagan land!’

  The light was swelling. The angel was near. It was coming for him. Leif closed his eyes, felt the cool wood against his back.

  From belief, came power. The pagan Danes had been quick to accept Folkmar, with his Christ and his angel. Leif had to reject that.

  But it wasn’t just belief: it was fear. That was how belief got in. As a small child, Leif had once been afraid of the dark. He had beaten that fear.

  Now, he needed to defeat his fear of the light.

  ‘Descend!’ cried Folkmar, and the angel landed. Whiteness filled the room. Leif heard the thud of heavy feet on clay, and the crackle and rasp as the burning sword was drawn. In his mind’s eye he saw the perfect, beautiful, hideous face turn in his direction, staring cold and pure through the pillar. In two heartbeats, it would come for him.

  Beat one.

  And Leif stepped from his hiding place, straight into the circle of light.

  That terrible head swivelled towards him, a spear’s length away, perfect mouth opening to scream.

  ‘You know, I think I’ve had enough of gods,’ said Leif. And he turned his back on it, to address Folkmar. ‘Of angels, draugurs, visions, all of that.’

  He could feel the beast’s breath on his neck, hot and dry, the arid wind of deserts and of dust. He tried to ignore it. I’ve no faith in your god; you can’t hurt me. But if he turned, or if he ran, he was done for.

  ‘I’ve had enough of all the silly games that men like you and Knut and Haralt play. The prayers, the fights, the power that you crave.’ Folkmar’s face was one fat puzzle.

  ‘I had a sword, and I gave it away,’ said Leif. ‘I coul
dn’t care less about “souls” and “sin”. The best thing that I did was for a girl.’

  And he took a step towards the priest.

  ‘If power lies for you in secret books, and in the burning blade of your winged pet, then so be it. Just don’t think I’m impressed.’

  Another step. He no longer felt the breath on his back.

  ‘I’m no hero. I wasn’t raised by dwarfs. My skin is dark. I call no king my kin.’

  With each sentence, another step.

  ‘My power lies in words that all men know, in calling kin the trees, the earth, the stones. In understanding what it is I touch; the nature of the things I need to live.’

  Behind him, the harsh white light was dimming.

  ‘You think this is your church. But where were you when it was being built? Tucked up inside, too busy saying prayers, and praising kings, and stuffing your fat face to even watch!’

  Leif smiled then. ‘But I watched, and my hands ran through the flax they spun into that screen. I saw each tree as it was being felled, and smelt its bark, and held it while the tools were hard at work. I trod the clay beneath my bare feet, as it was being laid wet from the river.’

  As Leif said ‘flax’, the linen screen stirred, and wound itself around Folkmar’s quivering body.

  As he said ‘tree’, the planks from either wall stretched out new branches, and seized Folkmar’s hands.

  And as he said ‘clay’, the floor itself grew hands, and took firm hold of each of Folkmar’s ankles.

  The priest was stammering, spitting, struggling to speak. His eyes avoided Leif’s, straining to see into the returning darkness. ‘O, Phanuel …’ he gasped.

  ‘“O, Phanuel”! Is that even his name?’

  Fear, defiance, even hope, all danced across Folkmar’s features. ‘Then get on with it, damn you. But know this: my work will not end with me. Kill me, and my soul is going to Heaven. But on earth, more will come to tame this land. Priests! Angels! And a thousand thousand German spears! So do not think I am afraid of death.’

  ‘Oh no. I think you’d like that far too much. To be a “martyr”, then to be a “saint”. Oh yes, you see I know the words. Back home, a better Christian than you’ll ever be described to me the good parts of your creed. That’s why I know just what to do with you.’

  ‘Listen, boy –’

  ‘My name is Leif. The son of Ibrahim. And I –’ and here Leif leant in very close, so near that he could smell the red wine and veal on Folkmar’s breath – ‘and I forgive you.’

  Folkmar reeled, coughed, retching for air. As Leif turned on his heel the linen, wood and clay let go their hold on their prisoner.

  ‘I forgive you, Folkmar,’ he called back over his shoulder. ‘Remember that, when you baptise the Danes. I had you in my power, twice, and I showed mercy.’

  As Leif strode from the church, Folkmar wheezed, red-faced, clutching at his chest. If the angel still stood in the shadows, or if not, Leif never even noticed.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Leif awoke at first light to find a spear at his throat. Well, that settled it: the witch had been right. His third choice had been wrong as well …

  From somewhere nearby, Astrid was groaning as she came to, her head throbbing. Leif sighed. ‘He didn’t choose to turn the other cheek,’ he muttered, as two mail-clad men hauled him to his feet.

  He was dragged before a bleary-eyed Haralt. Few other people were about so early; the dawn was grey, cheerless, muted.

  ‘Where’s Folkmar?’ said Leif.

  ‘Bishop Folkmar,’ replied Haralt, ‘is dead.’

  Leif’s eyes widened. ‘Dead?’

  ‘Silence! A thrall found his body when he carried in his breakfast. The bishop likes – liked – to be woken early, with a cooked meal.’

  ‘I’ll bet he did,’ came a low snigger nearby, and Haralt glared.

  ‘He was found slumped upon the altar – upon the altar! – with his hands clutching at his chest and throat, and an expression of supreme pain upon his face. The body was quite cold. And you –’ Here the king stood, and pointed a damning finger, apoplectic with rage. ‘You were seen in the dead of night, breaking into the church, and by God you will pay with your life!’

  For the first time, Leif noticed the two thralls, Feima and Fala, cowering, avoiding his eye. And then Astrid exploded.

  ‘I killed him, King Haralt,’ she shouted, stepping between Leif and her brother.

  Even in the heat of the moment, she had wits enough to stamp down on Leif’s foot, turning his protest into a yowl of pain. She’d have to be quick, if this was to work.

  ‘I killed him, not Leif, and I’ll swear it on … on the Cross, or his old book, or a silver ring or clod of earth or whatever poxy thing you want me to, I’ll swear it. And you’ll take my word above that of a pair of thralls. You have to. That’s the law.’

  ‘But how …?’ said Haralt, sinking back into his throne.

  ‘I …’ She snatched at a stray memory. ‘I took henbane from the garden, back at midsummer! I’ve been saving it up, in case you ever asked me to marry Folkmar. I put it in his wine!’

  She was on the edge of tears. Behind her, Leif tried to speak again. Without looking, she drove an elbow back into his ribs.

  Her head felt like Thor had hit it with his hammer. And that was Leif’s fault. He’d betrayed her trust for the sake of revenge – but what did that matter, against everything else he’d done? She could forgive him that.

  They could hang her if they liked. But at least, this time, she had been there for him. She would not let him down.

  Haralt mopped his brow. ‘Astrid, Astrid. You are all the kin I have left …’

  He stood once more. ‘I cannot send my own flesh and blood to the gallows. I, who have lost father, mother and brother in so cruel and swift a fashion, cannot condemn to death all that remains of my family.’

  The tension sagged loose in the hall.

  ‘But,’ Haralt went on, ‘I cannot let so foul a crime go unpunished. Astrid Gormsdottir, you are found guilty of murder by your own admission. As punishment, you are banished from my kingdom.

  ‘You have one month to leave the land of the Danes. After that time, if ever you set foot inside my realm, your life will be forfeit, and any man may kill or enslave you without fear of censure from the law. Now get out of my sight.’

  She bowed her head, heart still racing.

  ‘Oh, and, Leif,’ Haralt added, as he turned to leave the hall.

  ‘Yes, my liege?’

  ‘You’re banished too.’

  THIRTY-SIX

  It was the first day of spring. Dawn rose low behind the dunes, and somewhere, a curlew called a welcome. The strip of white sand ran away on either hand, fading out of sight to north and south, and to the west rolled the green-grey ocean.

  Two figures trod the lonely shore. One led a horse; the other held a falcon. Together they stopped. Together, they watched the pale sunlight strike the breaking waves.

  ‘This must be the great sea-longing,’ one said.

  ‘We’re free at last,’ said the other. ‘We can go anywhere. How about Iceland? You always used to go on about Iceland …’

  ‘“To Iceland or anywhere …”’

  ‘To Iceland or anywhere!’ And they laughed.

  The falcon mewled, impatient.

  ‘Let’s let him out. He might even catch us breakfast …’

  Astrid let slip the hood, and the white bird soared, higher and higher and ever higher, till white was black against the scudding clouds. Its cry was harsh, and young, and free. They watched as it wrote circles on the sky.

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  THE YELLING STONES is a true story. Well, more or less. The two stones still stand, between the church and the mound, in Jelling. Though now, unlike when first I saw them, they’re trapped within glass.

  I have taken events of 958–63 and squeezed them into a single year. Gorm, Thyre, Haralt and Knut all lived and – in two cases – died much as
they do in the book. Knut was shot in an ambush when preparing to attack Dublin. Haralt succeeded his father as king, moving Gorm’s body from the mound to the church, burying him with his favourite cup. Gorm’s bones bear what might be the marks of his final encounter with his son. Scholars still argue over whether Gorm wrote the runes on the smaller stone for Thyre, or if Haralt had them forged.

  Folkmar really was the missionary who braved an ordeal to convert the Danes. Better known by his nickname, ‘Poppo’, he lived to reap an earthly reward, becoming archbishop of Cologne. All the beliefs, practices, events, places, and most of the people – Jarl Tofi, Egil Skallagrimsson, Arinbjorn, Haakon of Norway, Grey-cloak, King Otto, even Leif’s father – are real too. Only Leif and Astrid have escaped the attention of historians. Until now.

  One last thing. The runes scattered throughout this book contain a hidden message. It is the message written on the smaller of the stones of Jelling – which Astrid reads on page 208.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thank you to everyone involved in the making of this book. To everyone at Hot Key, especially Jenny and above all my marvellous editor, Emma. To Joanna, who first hoiked me from the slush pile – I have put you in the books! To Jules, to Stephanie and my agent Chris, without whose indefatigable resolve, nous and good cheer, none of this would be.

  To Lesley Abrams, a legend-worthy tutor who rekindled my Nordic passion. To Kate, who gave frank advice, and David, who honed the final sentence.

  To my Mama and Papa, my Oma and my sister Freyja, on whose love and assistance most of my life, including this book, may be blamed. To Emma, who read over every word before even I did, and was sure to praise first, and criticise later. And to Nils Jensen, my Opa, who told me the stories.

  OSKAR JENSEN

  Oskar was born, and lives, which is always nice. Having spent the seven years since school studying history in Oxford, he has finally escaped to London, where he and his girlfriend live the dream, or at least a dream, in a little Bloomsbury flat.