Crowbone o-5

by Robert Low

  ‘Well,’ growled Kaetilmund, ‘we have tried Frank and Norse and Slav and a bit of Wend and some Greek — even Murrough’s Irish, which you would think they would know, being even closer to them than the Franks, but unless you know Englisc or the Christ-tongue, then we are done with talking here.’

  Mar shrugged as Crowbone looked at him.

  ‘I know the prayers in Latin,’ he said. ‘Well, a bit, here and there.’

  ‘Well, we did not sail in here to stand and stare at Hoskuld’s ship,’ Crowbone said and jerked his chin at Kaetilmund. ‘Take two men and get aboard her. Murrough, you and Rovald come with me — there may yet be someone who speaks the Irisher tongue. Gjallandi, you speak well and know the Latin a bit. Berto, you can come as well, since it is the only way to get the dog — it is an ugly animal, but a wagging tail is a soothing sight.’

  Then he leaped over the prow into the shallows and sloshed his way to the shore, the others following him. Half-way up the shingle, he turned and called out to Onund.

  ‘If you see us coming back at a fair speed, it would be nice to think that folk were bending the oars for the open sea even as we leap aboard.’

  ‘Not too fast, all the same,’ Murrough added with a scowl. ‘For it would be nicer if we were actually aboard when you bend them.’

  The laughter was nervous and those left behind soon fell silent and watched Crowbone and his four men and a dog trudge up the shingle into the grass-stabbed dunes and over the sea wall. The gulls wheeled and screamed at the yellow dog as it ran back and forth, tail beating furiously.

  They came into the fringes of the place, cautious as old cats, past the drunken fences and the plots they bounded, up through the houses with the doormouths of them stoppered and the shutters closed. For all their blindness, Crowbone thought to himself, those wind-holes watch us.

  They prowled round a little, in wide, wary circles, stepping light-footed as wolves then went on up to the church which Crowbone thought more gull-grey than white. It had thick walls, small slits set high up and a single massive door, set in an archway and studded with iron-headed nails. As good a fortress as the one to their right, which men eyed warily now that they were far from the ship and in danger of being cut off if anyone sallied out from it.

  Gjallandi stepped up and banged the door, yelling out in Latin until a slat opened and eyes looked warily out at him. Men cheered mockingly.

  ‘Whisht,’ Crowbone ordered, not wanting to tip the balance of the door-slat into shutting again. Gjallandi gabbled and had an answer, then gabbled some more. Then the slat shut with a bang and he stepped away, his great lips pursed.

  ‘They are wary,’ he said. ‘I have promised that there will be no trouble and that all here are good Christmenn.’

  ‘Well,’ Crowbone declared with princely assurance, ‘half right is almost no lie.’

  The door of the stone church cracked open like a smile and spat out a priest called Domnall, a tall, thin streak of a man with cool grey eyes and the sort of chin that could never be shaved clean even with the sharpest knife. He had hair cut so that it looked like an upturned bird nest on his head and the centre of it was shaved, which was the way of most Christ priests. More to the point, he spoke Norse after a fashion.

  He saw through Crowbone almost at once, despite the prince’s attempts to turn his Thor Hammer amulet into something resembling a cross, and refused to speak further until the scowling youth agreed to be prime-signed at least into the company of Christian folk.

  For his part, Crowbone permitted the holy water cross-marking on his brow well enough and ignored the black looks of the good Odinsmen of the Oathsworn, though he had more trouble with Onund, who spat almost on the prince’s boots and offered the opinion that Orm would not have done this and would not be pleased to hear of it.

  Crowbone choked his rage in his throat and swallowed, though it burned his belly. He smiled at Onund, as sweet as his insides were sour.

  ‘Orm will understand,’ he said soothingly, while thinking that Onund was right — Orm would never have given in by as much as a finger-length to the Christ priest’s demands, for he had done it before and had annoyed, he thought, the gods in Asgard.

  Which is why Orm, Crowbone thought, will never amount to more than a raiding captain in this part of the world where he had never set his foot before, since Christ folk would never deal with him. Here, it seemed, the Tortured God held sway and it was a prudent prince who took note of it — prudent gods in Asgard, too.

  He dared to say as much, then had to duck under Onund’s scowl to go after the now talkative priest. He discovered that the church they had come up on was not the candida casa, but a smaller chapel for pilgrims of some Christ martyr called Ninian. Nor had they landed where they had thought to land — in Hvitrann town proper — but only at the port, which was at the end of a thin stretch of land that would have been an island but for the saving grace of a last narrow neck. He learned this sitting out of the wind in a wooden lean-to tacked on to the church wall, drinking nutty ale and eating cheese and bread while some hurrying girl went to fetch the commander of the borg, a keg-shaped belcher called Fergus.

  And all this, Crowbone marvelled, because he had muttered some praise for the White Christ and had his forehead wetted. That sort of matter was worth remembering.

  Crowbone already knew that Hoskuld’s knarr was empty as a blown egg and learned from this Fergus that Hoskuld had been grabbed by one Ogmund, who claimed to belong to Olaf Irish-Shoes. They had all left in a snake-boat.

  ‘Like your own, only smaller,’ Fergus offered, chewing bread and cheese while the priest sat with his hands in the folds of his sleeves and Crowbone perched on a stool opposite the pair of them, so he could reach the seax in his boot if matters spilled over.

  ‘Was his crew also taken?’ Crowbone asked lightly and Fergus grinned, showing two blue teeth in the front of his mouth. He was easier now that he had been assured Crowbone was no threat, but still cautious, for no northman could be trusted.

  ‘No. Held until my lord arrives from Surrby,’ he answered, ‘and judges whether they are the raiding men this Ogmund claims. Two at least are no traders, but fighting men and claim to come from Gardariki, though I think they are great liars. We picked them up on their own, from further down the coast, but they knew the trader’s crew at once.’

  Bergfinn and Thorgeir, Crowbone thought and kept his face as bland as fresh-scraped sheepskin.

  ‘The cargo?’

  ‘Held in safekeeping. Berthing fees. Tithes. Custom duties.’

  Crowbone was silent while he assembled the weft and warp of this. Hoskuld, for all his cleverness, had sailed into the arms of this Ogmund, who clearly had been sent to find him and bring him back to Olaf Irish-Shoes in Dyfflin. The fact that Ogmund had left knarr, cargo and crew behind told Crowbone he had all the clever in him of a stone; bring Hoskuld the Trader he had been told and so he did that and no more.

  Fergus had then seized crew, cargo and ship and thought himself no end of a fine fellow for having done so. Crowbone wondered, idly, why Bergfinn and Thorgeir had been on their own and not with the crew; he was pleased they were alive, but curious as to why that was, since it spoke of having done nothing much to thwart Hoskuld’s attempts to run away.

  A more worrying fact was that this arse Fergus, grinning and spraying crumbs as he stuffed food in his maw with thick fingers, had also sent word to his lord at Surrby — Crowbone wondered where Surrby was and how long it would take to get from there with armed men. The name of it soothed him a little for it was Norse, though it meant ‘sour land’ which did not have a happy ring to it.

  ‘It would be best,’ Fergus added, swallowing ale, ‘if you were gone when my lord arrives. Lest there is confusion over your own relationship to these raiders.’

  The priest cocked one disapproving eyebrow.

  ‘The holy chapel of Saint Ninian has offered succour to these Christians,’ he pointed out and Fergus shrugged.

  ‘There
is no confusion,’ Crowbone answered lightly. ‘Your prisoners are part of my crew and innocent of such charges. It surprises me that some Dyfflin men can land here and snatch away a trader so arrogantly. I am sure your lord will also see this when it is put to him — who is he?’

  The lord, he learned from the scowling Fergus, was called Duegald Andersson, a Dane by the sound of it, or one of those half-Norse the locals called fion ghaill — fair strangers — and it told Crowbone that this area called Galgeddil was more Norse than anything else. He said as much and Fergus shrugged and showed his blued teeth in a sneering smile.

  ‘I would not depend on anything coming from that,’ he offered, then rose abruptly, scraping the bench back with a screech. He was a lot less sure of matters than he had been when he had woken that morning and did not like this odd-eyed youth for having spoiled his day.

  ‘Get gone from here,’ he said, which was a flat blade smacked on the table to the likes of Crowbone, but he was enough of a prince to know that Fergus did it because he was confident of his borg being able to hold out against a shipload of Norse until this Duegald arrived. Since there was nothing to be gained from spitting and scowling, Crowbone smiled and nodded politely instead.

  Domnall saw the manners of it and considered that the prince was a better man than Fergus, which was not a hard thought for him; he knew Fergus as a farter and swearer, with nothing much in his head other than where his next drink would come from. Still — he had the right of it in this matter and Domnall said as much to the polite prince.

  ‘It would be best if you sailed, I am thinking,’ he added finally. ‘Fergus sent for Lord Duegald some days ago and he will be here tomorrow, or the day after.’

  Crowbone nodded and feigned sighs at having to leave his men to their fate, then went back to the cookfires and sail-tent camp on the beach and near their ship. He found the crew looking morosely at the canted dragon-ship and the great, slick expanse of seaweed, shell and mud that stretched from it; low tide sucked the water away entirely from the place and Crowbone cursed himself for not having thought of it. Baltic waters had no tide worth the name and all these men were Baltic raiders until recently.

  ‘Well, that is that, then,’ Mar declared moodily. ‘We should leave when the sea comes back, hoping it does before this lord and his men arrive from this Surrby.’

  ‘I have heard of that place,’ Stick-Starer answered, aware that he was also being blamed for not knowing about the tide. ‘It is a Norse borg, surrounded on three sides by marshes, which accounts for its name.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Crowbone snarled at him, ‘but of less use than gull shit on a rope end.’

  ‘What of the prisoners in the borg?’ demanded Berto, feeding fish scraps to the yellow dog.

  ‘What of them?’ Kaup asked, astonished that anyone would care; they were nothing to do with the Shadow’s crew and had been treacherous besides. Folk argued it back and forth while the wind hissed out of the dark land and flattened the flames of the fire.

  In the end, Onund silenced them with a smack of one hand on his thigh.

  ‘Bergfinn and Thorgeir are there,’ he pointed out and Crowbone saw the puzzled looks on more than a few faces, particularly those of the Christians. He sighed, for he knew it would come to this.

  ‘They are Oathsworn,’ he reminded them and saw the cat and dog chase of that across faces until they worked out the power of the oath they had sworn. Crowbone saw Mar and Kaup look at each other and knew what they were thinking — we have sworn only to the prince, so what is this oath to decent Christians? He saw that Onund had spotted this too, and decided it was a princely matter to speak up quickly.

  ‘We cannot leave them,’ he said. ‘Besides — they may know exactly where this Ogmund has taken Hoskuld.’

  ‘Which is what to us?’ demanded a tall man, a Saxlander called Fridrek. Good with a bow, Crowbone recalled.

  ‘I mean no disrespect,’ the man lied, his bold stare into Crowbone’s blank face a clear challenge. ‘I just wonder why we are pursuing this trader. I wonder why we are in this part of the world at all, trying to get to Mann. For some axe?’

  There was silence enough for the wind to seem to roar, then a stillness came down until it seemed even the world held its breath.

  ‘It seems to me,’ Fridrek went on, seemingly oblivious to any silence, ‘that we are following a youth of little fighting experience for no gain I can see in it.’

  Crowbone shifted a little and spread his arms. He was trying to be liked, though the matter of the tides and this Fridrek’s tone was a powering sea to the crumbling cliff of it.

  ‘We seek my destiny,’ he said finally, ‘which is to be king of Norway …’

  ‘Norway has a king,’ Fridrek interrupted. ‘You seem short on men and war skill to be claiming a throne. Now we are stuck in the mud and at the mercy of some Galgeddil men.’

  ‘It is true that I am a little light in the ways of battle,’ Crowbone said, smiling — then he lashed out with one foot and it was only then that folk realised he had shifted to balance himself on the other. The nail-studded sole of his boot took Fridrek in the sneer of his face; his nose burst with a great gout of blood and teeth flew when he went over backwards with a muffled shriek.

  ‘I have some skill in surprise, all the same,’ Crowbone added, fierce with the release of the moment. ‘Nor do I like folk yapping when I am speaking.’

  ‘You are a little mean-spirited tonight,’ Onund growled as men helped Fridrek up and began to look to his nose and mouth.

  ‘I am not,’ Crowbone countered. ‘I am the happiest of men, for I know how to take that borg away from Fergus and release both the men in it, Hoskuld’s cargo and all the other cargoes no doubt stored there.’

  Men leaned forward, glaured with the vision of all the plunder that might be to hand. Even those tending Fridrek let him bleed a little as they turned to listen.

  ‘Otherwise,’ Crowbone added, looking sourly at the Saxlander, ‘I would just have killed him.’

  Somewhere, a bleared sun smeared through the mist, making silhouettes on the road up to the borg. It was a cold sun, a dirty grey light that fell on the handcart being pushed by four weary peasants and preceded by two girls in decent overcloaks and white headsquares, carrying covered jugs.

  Maccus, who only liked this gate guard duty because of the morning girls with their milk, nudged Cuimer and nodded in their direction, licking his lips ostentatiously. Cuimer grinned, set his spear to one side and pulled off his helmet, the better to free his hair, which made Maccus frown. Cuimer had thick, wavy hair only slightly infested with nits, while Maccus dared not do the same, since the helmet, he swore, had worn all the hair from the front half of his head.

  Still, the girls looked winsome enough, and he thought they had probably come from Hvitrann proper, since he had not seen them before. New girls; the prospects made him lick his lips. One was short and plump — that one is Cuimer’s, Maccus promised himself, tonguing his loose teeth — but the other was tall and had started to sway lasciviously as she came up and across the raising-bridge.

  Not far away, Murrough and Mar turned their heads at the sweet sound wafting from the chapel, where most of the people had sensibly gone including two girls shamed and clutching themselves in their underclothes and four peasants worried about their handcart. Two hard men with spears made sure they stayed there, grinning at the girls and the discomfited monks.

  ‘Like honey to the ears,’ Murrough said softly.

  ‘The sound of swan-maidens,’ agreed Mar.

  Inside the chapel, Domnall led his charges in loud Latin, chanting sonorously that the borg was in danger until Gjallandi stormed in with the great scowl that was Kaup alongside him and gave the priest a look that let him understand the Norse skald knew Latin well enough, even when sung. Domnall shrugged — he had done his best and it had been a forlorn hope, since he knew no-one in the borg, especially keg-head Fergus, understood more Latin than the proper responses.

 
Yet he had done his duty so that he could face his God and Lord Duegald both with the knowledge that he had tried to thwart these raiders, while also keeping the raiders — who were now certainly in charge of matters — from burning God’s house or harming the innocents. Warriors would die, of course, but that was the nature of fighting men, Domnall thought to himself. Pater Noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen Tuum …

  The mist and the water blended with vague strokes of rushes, grass and trees. The guards were grey on grey stone as the peasants laboured the handcart of bread and the girls hefted the heavy jugs of milk, a rising-meal for the garrison.

  Cuimer, plump and pink, his helmet held in the crook of his arm and his hair flowing over his ears, stepped forward, grinning a yellow smile at the tall, slender girl. He said something the tall girl obviously did not understand, but his wink was lewd and he laughed, even though she had odd eyes, neither one colour nor another.

  Then, sudden as a flaring spark, he wasn’t laughing at all and the tall, slender girl had whipped a seax out from the jug she carried, slammed the earthware into the man’s face and followed it up with an expert slash across his throat.

  Maccus, who had been scowling at Cuimer as he stepped forward to talk to the winsomely tall maiden, gawped as the blade flashed, bright as kingfisher wings in the mirk and Cuimer fell backwards, the blood slushing from his throat and his face full of pottery shards. Maccus opened his mouth to shout and something darted at him from one side like the tongue of a snake, so that he reared back with a little scream, half-turning to see the round face of the plump girl, her eyes wide and bright. He thought he saw reluctant sadness there, but there was nothing reluctant about the fistful of steel she had. The strength went from his legs and then the plump girl stabbed him in the liver and lights and he fell, scrabbling away from this horror, pleading in a voice that wheezed because his lung was burst.

  ‘Leave him — get to the draw-weights!’