Norseman Raider (The Norseman Chronicles Book 4)

by Jason Born

  “You’re smiling,” observed Leif. I looked at him with one squinting eye. The late summer sun was yet warm, but the air was changing. The nights and our shadows during the day were longer. Leif’s red beard had filled in even since the start of that season. His scruff fluttered against his baby face. “You like manual labor so much?” he asked, pointing to the blades in my hands.

  Huh! Manual labor was better than sitting around thinking. A man’s thoughts, unchecked, could lead to all sorts of problems. I slowly moved my whetstone down the length of my sword. I should have replaced the weapon from one of Man’s traders, but instead I hid my middling wealth under a rock behind the tenth tree inside the last great forest on the island. I suppose I was saving for something larger; my farm, perhaps, or a bride-price, if ever I found a woman. “I smile because I dream of taking your place inside the queen,” I lied, mostly to pester Leif and his woman.

  Gudruna laughed. Leif stood and leaned on the gunwale as Magnus pushed the steering oar to send us in a more favorable direction for the wind. “It’s the queen’s choice,” Leif said. “And the king’s.” Leif sized me up with his eyes. “She’d not have you.” Gudruna was laughing more.

  “What’s wrong with me?” I asked, angry, though I could not have cared less whether or not Gudruna wanted me. She was too thin a woman for me. I wanted one with meat. They’re the ones who survive childbirth and have the fortitude to turn babies into men. I realized then that the king and queen had no children. I looked at Gudruna. Too thin for making children, I thought.

  Leif smiled and punched my shoulder. I smiled back. The three of us laughed.

  Tyrkr made some comment about the queen’s rump in his native tongue. He then used the whetstone and sword in some sort of demonstration of what he said. The queen, not knowing what he said, but understanding his motions, rolled on the baggage. Her laughter, sweet like that of most women, was infectious. The crew chuckled along with us.

  Soon we rambled to a halt. “I smile because we go to exact our king’s revenge. The hall of Odin will be filled with more men in a matter of days.” I was speaking like a true believer in the king, for I was in those days. “You and I were exiled from Greenland for an attack that was not our fault. Out of our disgrace the norns have seen fit to send us to a king who fights and wins. He’ll be a great ring-giver. Godfrey will be hallowed in the halls. His queen will be known as Gudruna the Wise. Skalds will talk of us in the tales. We’ll be victorious or wind up in Odin’s hall. What is there not to smile about? By dusk tomorrow it may well be over.”

  “Tomorrow?” asked Leif.

  “Or the next day,” I said, shrugging.

  “We go to Iona first,” said Leif.

  “The Christian monastery?” I asked. “Does Killian rule the king or Godfrey the priest?”

  “The monastery is still there, but Godfrey says that it’s been under Norse control for years. Sometimes he claims it as one of his isles.”

  “And other times?” I asked.

  “Dyflin controls it with the help of some of the friendlier Irish.”

  “So, why do we go there? And why wasn’t I told? I’m a commander of some of these men.”

  Gudruna shrugged. “You stayed behind to gawk at Edana’s fat corpse while we planned. Captains were told.”

  “And helmsmen,” called Magnus from the rudder. He pushed to change direction yet again.

  I cursed at being left out, though it didn’t really matter. Fate would shove us where she must. I set my stone into its pouch and stuffed my sword into its cracked scabbard. My pouting was as overdone as a rich noble’s spoiled child.

  “We go to gather a few more men, maybe even deepen our relationships,” explained Gudruna. “Godfrey says that Kvaran, the King of Dyflin, and occasionally the ruler of Jorvik, is there now. Our king hopes to form a quick alliance to bolster our numbers.”

  “Another sea king,” I muttered. “Isn’t one enough? Can we trust this King of Dyflin?”

  “Of course not,” shrugged Leif. “Godfrey’s under no illusions. He trusts you, Killian, and a few others.”

  “We’ll see,” I mumbled. “More kings, huh.”

  . . .

  Iona was a tiny, picturesque island. Small and situated as it was on the westernmost end of a much larger island, it was in no way protected from the constant winds sent from the far reaches of the ocean. From the time we made landfall to the time we put Iona on our stern, the wind steadily pulled and tore at us. Living in such a place would age a man, perhaps even more so than in the glacial fjords of my homeland. A man’s face would be tugged and prodded by the breeze. It would be pecked by the sharp beaks of the rain. In response an inhabitant of Iona would wince to protect his eyes and lips. His wrinkles would be fully formed before he’d seen twenty summers. Iona with its wind and its monastery would age a man.

  Five monks lived on the island in a series of buildings that obviously used to house dozens of their brethren. The wind had done its work on those five men. They were hard and wrinkled. Had they not been monks, they would have resembled our wicked-looking crews. These monks’ hands were calloused and worn. Their sandals and frocks were tattered. Life on the island had not been kind to those Christians since the coming of my ancestors many years before. They walked hunched. Even their tiny gardens were populated by plants that grew at angles due to the unending breeze.

  Two buildings still wore the black streaks of a former blaze set during a long-forgotten raid. Their crumbled heaps displayed the marks like badges of honor almost in the same way a mighty Norseman clings to his favorite sword in death. Providence had at least temporarily abandoned the Iona faithful.

  “Peace be unto you,” said one of the monks in greeting. He used my native tongue which proved just who had ruled the land for many winters. We’d left most of the men and weapons back at the ships, for it was to be a short, peaceful stay. Gudruna was among them. She had rightly said that if Godfrey found out about her now, he’d sail right back to Man and drop her off.

  “You say, ‘and to you,’” said Killian from behind as we walked over the sod toward the main monastery building.

  “I’ll say what I will,” I huffed, but otherwise I ignored the monk and the priest. Soon they ignored me and began babbling in Latin.

  I scanned the part of the island I could see. I saw no real settlements. I saw no one except a skinny boy aged perhaps ten years. To the monastery he carried a bucket of fish he’d caught with a small net that was draped over his shoulder. It dripped down his clothing, darkening it. The boy paid the wetness no heed as he walked. After he saw our menacing group of bristling men, he changed his course, giving us an extra wide berth. Up a small hill fifteen sheep tore at the spindly grass of late summer. Their wool was just beginning to fill for the coming months of cold. A ram mounted a ewe, assuring their kind would continue for at least another season. One ship, other than those in our armada, was beached on the shingle. Its tall mast angled lazily to one side. Its bulwark held no shields. If we could gather an additional army here in this desolate place, fortune was most surely shining upon us.

  “Welcome to the Order of Saint Columba,” said another weatherworn monk as we entered an ancient church. It had been built, destroyed, rebuilt, destroyed, and reconstructed many times over the years as evidenced by the different colored stones and varying quality and styles of construction. Though I still had no real understanding of their faith, seeing the obvious perseverance of the monks from one generation to the next was duly impressive.

  The monk who greeted us began to rub his hands together as he scanned our men from one face to another. He looked especially nervous whenever he looked on the newcomers. I’ve told you they were hard men. In truth, our new brigands and mercenaries made me just as wary. Scowls, frowns, and scars covered the men. The monk added, “All our wealth has been taken to Norway or Dyflin over the years. There is nothing here for you now.” He looked a second time at our mad, motley bunch. “And if you bring nothing but mayhe
m in your wake, know that Kvaran, King of Dyflin, is here convalescing with a retinue of his retainers. Any of our blood you wish to spill, we will gladly shed for our faith, but know this: Kvaran has become a faithful servant. He has become a friend and will not let an affront to Iona go unanswered. Many of you will die.”

  “Oh, Maclean!” came an exasperated, almost bored voice from a dark alcove along one of the church’s long walls. “Unless they are Ui Neill dung-beardlings, we’ve nothing to worry about. And besides, if they aren’t men who follow the One God, they’d welcome death by the sword. Your threats mean nothing.”

  “Kvaran?” shouted Godfrey. His voice echoed off the stone walls and saintly statues. Only one of the latter stood without a snapped limb or cracked face. My king stepped ahead, peeking into the recess that housed this second king.

  “Godfrey?” said the indifferent voice.

  “You don’t sound excited to see me,” said Godfrey, grinning while feigning distress.

  Killian tugged down on my arm. “I’ve never met a more apathetic man than Kvaran. He sees defeat in everything.”

  “Yet he’s a king,” I whispered.

  “A king who’s hemmed in by the Ui Neill. The Battle of Tara saw to that. Without the support of Godfrey and the Irish Leinster clan, Kvaran’s great city would be overrun in a matter of days.”

  “I had hoped for some peace and quiet here in the abbey,” answered Kvaran plainly. “I’m not looking forward to meeting with anyone, especially clingers and overly complimentary ones like you. When you’ve lived as long as I, we’ll see how thrilled you are to greet guests.”

  Maclean the monk brought Godfrey a chair. He sat. One of the legs was shorter than the other three. It clacked as it teetered back and forth against the flagstone floor. My king, for his part, waved us out in order to quell Kvaran’s nerves. “What is it friend?” asked Godfrey.

  The rest of the men who’d entered the church filed out after Maclean. I heard the monk begin to give lessons on the basics of Christianity and raising peas. Neither subject appealed to me at the time so I plopped down in the shadows to listen to what two kings said to one another. I’d not be left as the last one to know Godfrey’s plans this time.

  “A small wound,” began Kvaran. His foot was soon held out into the dim light. He wore a rich-looking shoe of red felt. One step into a puddle would ruin it. I thought it foolishly impractical. Above the low boot was a small bandage that wrapped around the lower leg of Dyflin’s king.

  “I am sorry. How long until you recover?” Godfrey asked.

  “It’s nothing.” The leg retreated back into the darkness. “I’m nearly well. My pride is hurt more than anything.” He sighed. “Great success early in life is difficult to follow. The last few years have been a challenge in Dyflin. I leave my son, Gluniairn, in charge while I’m away.”

  “How is Iron Knee?”

  “He’s well enough. I leave him. I’m ashamed to say that I hope that Dyflin falls while I’m away. Then it can’t be said that I let it fall. The weight my father’s words would kill me even if the damned Irish don’t. What do you want on Iona? Are you finally giving up the old gods for good? Done plowing other women and allowing other men to plow your woman?”

  Godfrey disregarded Kvaran’s taunt. “How is Gytha?”

  “My sister is fine,” Kvaran sighed again. He sounded exhausted with not only the conversation but life. “She is in need of a husband. Now why are you here?”

  “And Silkbeard?” Godfrey asked.

  “My youngest son is well!” Kvaran huffed. “Perhaps the fool Maclean was rightly concerned. Maybe there will be bloodshed here today. If you don’t answer me, a single call from my horn will bring my oath-sworn men to my side. They’ll cut long before they begin asking questions.” I heard a tap, tap against the hard floor. “These stones will be red.”

  Godfrey chuckled at the older, frustrated man. “There is no need for such a thing. We are already aligned in purpose and for that I am grateful. The gods show their favor on our union.”

  “You’re in a church. There is but One True God, Godfrey,” chided Kvaran.

  “Quite right.” Godfrey remained cheery. “When I am in our church on Man, I say the same. But you remember your father’s gods, no? You remember Thor’s Woods, just north of Dyflin? You remember the strength from the old heroes that our ancestors’ gods convey?”

  There was a long pause when all I could hear was the whistling of the incessant breeze against the church’s walls. Then, for the first time in the conversation, Kvaran sounded interested. “I do,” he whispered.

  “Let us make a tighter pact.” Godfrey tugged on his beard. “Let’s pool all our resources to build a kingdom that sits in the crown of the Irish Sea: Dyflin, the Kingdom of the Isles, even Jorvik far to the east. From there we step left and crush the whole of mainland Ireland. From our throne we move right and swallow the English pissers.”

  Again perturbed, Kvaran asked, “And who will be king? You? Am I to be your stooge? Your vassal? Maybe you’d like me to empty your dung bucket? Polish your mail?”

  “Nothing like that,” assured Godfrey. “I want whatever men you can spare while we move to finish off the bleeding corpse that is Dal Riata. Give me those men and you will rule our joint kingdom as the sole sovereign.”

  Kvaran laughed cynically. “And you will carry my shit for me? May I wed your Gudruna?”

  Firmly now, Godfrey answered, “I will rule as king once you pass on the battlefield or in your bed at a ripe old age.”

  I remember thinking that for a king to die at a ripe age sounded awful. Such a demise would bring a man into Hel’s hall quicker than any other death. Were I a king and if I made it to my good many years, I’d pick a fight with the strongest Norseman in the village just to be killed in conflict. How else would Odin populate his hall with valiant warriors? But Kvaran was a Christian.

  “And my sons? You think your kingship would be peaceful with Iron Knee and Silkbeard about? They are not monks who would be happy washing another man’s feet.”

  “I’ve thought of that. They’d serve me to be sure. One in Dyflin, not as king in title, but with more power and authority over the region than you, the current King of Dyflin, hold. The other would retain a similar position in Jorvik. From their strongholds we would launch our great, conquering raids.”

  “And if you take the rest of Dal Riata today, I rule it?”

  “Until the day you die of natural causes,” said Godfrey. He placed a hand on his heart after making the sign of the cross.

  “What’s more natural than a knife to the belly, eh?” accused Kvaran.

  “Truly natural causes, Kvaran. Have I ever given you reason to doubt me? Have I not brought trade, commerce, slaves, and wealth galore to the streets within your great palisade? My raids on the Ui Neill, have they not helped add to your strength while weakening them? I am a descendant of a Norseman. I am a man made by my oaths. By Hel, I’ll bring in my priest to verify all that I say and all my promises if it pleases you.”

  “No, I don’t need your priest.” A wrinkled hand came into the light and pointed to the statues that lined the walls. “The saints listen. I’ve got my monks here on Iona. I’ve got my own priests in Dyflin. That’s quite enough.”

  “Oh, Kvaran, my priest is a fighter,” countered Godfrey. “He’s a good man. You’d like him.”

  “Oh, I’m sure I would,” said Kvaran sardonically. Then his tone softened. “I’m sure I would. Priests and monks are no worse than any man. When they are good they lead men to the True Faith. When they are bad, like any man, they are prideful and greedy.”

  Godfrey was shaking his head. “I didn’t come to talk of churchmen. Do we have an alliance?”

  Kvaran was silent in his dark alcove. Godfrey let him stew. High above, a pigeon fluttered into the church through one of the gaping holes left behind by years of strife.

  “And after you take Dal Riata,” Kvaran chose his words carefully, “you’ll send y
our army of miscreants to Dyflin, not as conquerors, but as liberators? Together with the Leinster clan, we’ll drive the bastard Ui Neill into the thrall markets as the spent commodities they are?”

  Godfrey didn’t hesitate. “In the summer. It’s too late to plan a new campaign this year. By the end of winter Dal Riata will be secure on my back. I will turn my front to you and my men and I will bleed with you.”

  “Oh, I do hope that our side is not the one that bleeds.” Kvaran carefully said his words. “I give you what men I will. You give me a vast kingdom. You have an agreement.” I saw a thin arm extend out into the main part of the church. Godfrey clasped the forearm. The extended hand grasped my king’s forearm. They held each other’s arms for a solid heartbeat.

  “Now, I’ll wait for you to send word to Dyflin for your men,” breathed Godfrey as he stood tall in the church. “In a matter of days our vast armada will row from here and swamp Dal Riata.” Kvaran chuckled.

  Godfrey marched out through the door, leaving Kvaran and me behind. I could hear my king enthusiastically shouting to his men to gather for the good news.

  Inside the church, Kvaran mumbled under his breath, “He should have his woman do his negotiating. Better to look at and shrewder.”

  Kvaran gave a low whistle. One of his men walked out from another alcove. He’d been hidden the whole time. “What is it, lord king?”

  “The monster, too,” said Kvaran. I couldn’t see Dyflin’s king, but he must have pointed in my direction. The guard looked right at me and waved me over. I stood and as I approached saw that Kvaran used an existing gap in the wall’s stone carvings to peer out and see what was coming to him. He’d known I was there the entire time.