by C. R. May
The pair lowered their eyes to peer down into the cargo hold amidships. The stallion was raising its head as it sought the breeze, its great nostrils flaring as it gulped down the tang of the nearby land. Erik nodded in agreement. ‘Let us hope that he has not been too weakened. Bolli Sigurdsson is insufferable at the best of times. If his nag wins this contest, we shall never hear the last of it.’
The challenge had been made a few days before. Warning horns had blared on the strand, and the men had hurried from the hall to watch the drekkar as it coasted down Sunnfjord with lazy strokes of the oars. The dragon ship carried no beast head atop its stem post and the white shield of peace hung at its masthead but it always paid to be sure, and before the ship was halfway to Naustdal the men of Thorir’s hird were set in their war gear and deployed for battle on the field below the hall known as the vang. It had been an uncomfortable day spent entertaining the boorish son of the jarl, he and Arinbjorn had never been friends and Erik had inherited his dislike, but all had agreed that the prospect of a horse fight at the autumn Thing would add spice to the week. Most of the important business that year had already been decided at the great summer Thing, and the final gathering of the year was often a dreary affair. The contest would offer a final flash of excitement before men hunkered down in their halls and the dark months of winter cloaked the northern land.
The Helga rounded the final ness, and a shout from the lookout drew Erik’s mind back from its meanderings. Gulen was in sight, the strand wooded by the masts of the early arrivals, and Erik pointed the bows inshore as he sought out the landing place. Arinbjorn gave him a nudge and raised his arm. ‘There he is!’
Erik lifted his eyes, nodding as he made out the signalman on the crowded shoreline. ‘I see him.’
One of Thorir’s men was perched in the upswept stern of the hersir’s drekkar, the scarlet of his cloak flame-bright in the sun as he held it high and guided them to their berth. Erik was gratified to see that his foster-father had thought to leave him plenty of room to manoeuvre; with a final tug at the tiller the bows of the Helga came about, and oars were shipped as the knarr coasted the final few feet to land. The crew spilled into the shallows as the keel plate grounded, and within moments the ship was being hauled beam-on to the shore.
Arinbjorn clapped his foster-brother on the shoulder and flicked him a look. ‘That was nicely done. Let’s get Bram ashore: the sooner his belly settles, the sooner we can fill it with oats. Nobody fights well on an empty stomach.’
Crewmen were already running out the gangway amidships, bridging the gap down to the stony strand as others slipped ropes through iron rings and released the horse from its tethers. As the crew made the ship fast the friends made their way ashore. A last glance back across his shoulder told him that Bram was on the ramp, and the pair shared a look as men came down to guide the stallion to the corral. ‘Come on brother,’ Arinbjorn said with a smile. ‘Let us take ourselves off to my father’s booth. We have a busy night ahead.’
Erik cast another look down the meadow. Arinbjorn gave him a playful dig with the goad and handed it across. ‘Here, you shouldn’t need this, but it is as well to have it to hand.’ He followed his foster-brother’s gaze and shook his head. ‘If they don’t hurry along, they shall miss the fun. It doesn’t look like the horses are prepared to wait!’
The pair turned back towards the corral. Bram was straining against the rope as he caught the scent of his opponent, the eagerness sending a buzz of excitement sweeping through the crowd as men lay wagers and crowded the paling. ‘It’s a pity,’ Erik frowned, ‘I should have liked Thorir to see my victory.’
Erik looked back towards the Thing. His foster-father was clearly visible on the Law Rock sat alongside Rognvald Eysteinsson, jarl of Moerr; men were thronging the roped off halidom which was the heart of the thingstead itself as the advocates for each man in dispute argued their client’s case in law. No weapons were allowed within the hallowed ground marked by the ropes and hazel withies, and Erik allowed himself a snort of amusement despite the pre-fight nerves which were beginning to build within him as the supporters of those in dispute gesticulated and argued their man’s case. It would be some time before Thorir would be free from his duties there and Erik clapped Arinbjorn on the shoulder. ‘Yes, you are right,’ he agreed. ‘Let us begin.’
The pair made their way through the crush, and Erik lifted his chin as he spied Bram’s opponent for the first time. At the far end of the enclosure Bolli Sigurdsson’s men were struggling to restrain a magnificent piebald stallion as it bucked and snorted, its nostrils flaring as it struggled to reach Bram. Arinbjorn smiled. ‘There is your boy, he looks a bit of a beast. Are you sure you still fancy it?’
Erik’s mouth turned up into a grin as he stooped low to slide between the rungs of the corral: ‘Bram can take him, just you watch!’
The noise from the men crowding the paling rose again as they saw Erik enter the ring, and the boy strode towards the centre as a cheer filled the air and Bolli too finally made an appearance. The man vaulted the top rung with ease, and his followers chanted his name as Bolli acknowledged the crowd and made his way down. Erik planted his feet just short of the midpoint and waited. To his surprise and anger Sigurdsson strode beyond the centre of the ring and came to a halt only inches from the toes of his own boots. Brays of asinine laughter came from Bolli’s henchmen at the far end of the corral as the jarl’s son towered above the son of the king. At nineteen Bolli was already a full-grown man, and his lips curled into a snarl as he stared down his nose at the eleven year old beneath him. Erik felt his cheeks flush at the deliberate humiliation, and he struggled against the overwhelming desire to take a backward step as he craned his neck to look his opponent in the eye.
Despite the forced laughter from Bolli’s lickspittles and the men come down from Lade, Erik stood his ground. Isolated from King Harald’s power base in the South by the mountains of the Uplands, the men of the Trondelag had always considered themselves to be a breed apart from the rest of Norway, and despite the friendship which existed between jarl and king, the potential for conflict ran beneath the surface like a dangerous riptide; unseen for the most part, but ready to sweep the unwary away to a grisly death before they could recover their wits.
Erik knew that to react to the deliberate provocation would only invite greater humiliation upon himself before help could arrive; he forced down the shame as he spat through gritted teeth. ‘I believe that you have a challenge to issue, jarl’s son?’ Erik saw disappointment flash across Bolli’s features that his adversary had failed to rise to the bait, but he recovered to give a mocking smile as he pushed again to draw a reaction from his young opponent. ‘Let us see if your horse has better breeding than yourself, king’s runt. Consider that challenge enough.’
Erik’s temper flared at the insult, and he managed to control it with difficulty as he snarled a reply. ‘Those words have cost you your life, but that is a matter for another day.’ He indicated the nearby crowd with a jerk of his head. ‘You may as well die wealthy, I suggest that you take the opportunity to wager silver on my victory. I understand that the odds are heavily in my favour.’
A sidelong glance told him that the watching men of Sogn and Hordaland, the other districts which sent representatives to the Gulathing, were as scathing in their opinion as those at his back, Arinbjorn and the men of Fjordane. But his comments drew a ripple of laughter, and Bolli had revealed himself to be little more than a braggart and a bully. It had been the first small victory of the day, and Erik’s open handed gesture of incomprehension towards those watching as he made his way back to the horse brought forth the first cries of support from the crowd.
To his satisfaction the mood of the onlookers seemed to have stirred Bram to an even greater degree, and the horse bucked against the restraining ropes as Erik threw his foster-brother a wink. The look of thunder fell from Arinbjorn’s face as he saw that Erik had turned Bolli’s intended insult against him, and his face came
alight with anticipation as Erik indicated that he slip the ropes to begin the fight.
It took a moment for the horse to realise that it was finally free, but a slap on the rump set it in motion and Erik danced aside as the animal shot past him towards his foe. Milking the crowd as he sought to drum up support Bolli had taken a little longer to regain his friends, and Erik watched gleefully as his men hesitated to release the beast while their lord was still between the pair. The excited cries of the crowd finally sent Bolli scrambling aside, but Erik’s quick thinking had not only caused him to lose face but left his horse at a disadvantage. Bram was almost up with them, and the added momentum told as he slammed into the flank of his opponent before the horse could turn to face him. Bolli’s men were sent flying backwards as the great bulk of the horse crashed into the paling; unequal to the task it gave way in a crack of splintering wood, and Bolli’s mouth gaped in horror as Bram rose onto his hind legs, poised to crash down on the vulnerable belly of his horse. The crowd sensed a quick end to the fight, and their cries fell away as the shadow of Erik’s horse darkened the body of his opponent; but a heartbeat later the silence was broken as a whip cracked out, and Bram, his attack forgotten amidst the pain, wheeled away.
Erik’s eyes went from Bram to Bolli as the victory was snatched from his grasp. It was expressly forbidden to take anything other than a goad into the fighting space, but the look of satisfaction on the face of the jarl’s son told them all that he was the type of man who thought that rules and convention belonged to other, lesser, folk. The men watching from the sidelines finally recovered from their shock, and the stillness which had hung over the battleground was shattered as they voiced their outrage.
Bolli’s horse was attempting to rise and his men rushed forward to help it back to its feet before Bram could return, but as they rolled the great body back on an even keel it was obvious to all that the fight was over. Blood pooled where the horse had lain amid the broken fencing, and Erik saw the cause for the first time as the horse struggled upright. Bolli had seen it too, and the man’s shoulders slumped as he realised that his efforts to prolong the fight had been in vain. Men were entering the corral now as they too saw Bolli’s horse impaled on the broken shaft, the blood pumping out to redden the grass all the confirmation they needed that the fight was already over.
A familiar voice sounded at his side, and Erik threw a final glare of hatred at Bolli before turning away. He gave Arinbjorn a look of puzzlement as he realised what his friend was asking of him. ‘What do I want done? What do you mean? Every man here can see that Sigurdsson has no honour; the tale of it will go back to the halls with their owners. Bolli is disgraced, there is no need for me to add anything in the eyes of the men here.’
Arinbjorn indicated Bram with a sigh. Erik looked across for the first time and saw that Thorir’s huskarl Horse Hair Gisli had come up from the halidom and was leading Bram across. As men parted before them they exchanged looks of disquiet; others were drifting away casting fearful looks back across their shoulders, sensing the trouble to come. Arinbjorn spoke again, and Erik looked at him in bemusement. ‘Men are going to fetch their weapons, brother. Will you accept compensation, or will the matter be decided at spear point?’
Gisli reached them before he could reply, and Erik saw for the first time what had prompted Arinbjorn’s question. Bram’s left eye had been destroyed by the tip of the scourge; all that remained was a gory mash set within a dark pit. He shook his head in reply. ‘Take an axe to the horse.’ He flicked a look back up the field. Bolli was back among his men, and it was clear now why he had brought two shiploads to witness a simple horse fight. Erik shook his head as Thorir’s words from the knoll came back to him. ‘Your father said that the Allfather spoke to him as he sacrificed at the grove at Hestad, remember?’
Arinbjorn thought for a moment before the light of understanding came into his eyes. ‘There will be blood, fire and death before the crops are sown in the spring.’
Erik nodded. ‘I will accept no compensation for that which has been done here: it was Oðin’s will. Come,’ he said. ‘Let us talk to Thorir. He will know what form our retribution must take.’
Erik stood on the bank, and a gentle laughter rolled from him as he watched the girl at her work. Gytha looked up as she noticed that he was there for the first time, the flash of her smile causing a flicker of happiness to run through him. Erik returned the smile as he ambled across and lowered himself at her side. ‘You are a long way from the strand fishwife,’ he said jokingly. Gytha picked another codfish from the basket at her side and tossed it across. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘there is plenty of work for two. I have to help prepare for the coming of age feast for the king’s son when I am through here, and the guests are already beginning to arrive.’
Erik snatched the fish from the air and slid his short seax from its scabbard. Gytha shook her head, pursing her lips with mock exasperation. ‘You can’t use the same knife that you would take to gut a man, the blade is too thick.’ She snatched up a spare knife and flung it onto the grass at his side. ‘Here, use this.’ Erik turned the short blade this way and that as he examined the cutting edge. Barely more than the thickness of a leaf, the knife tapered down to a wickedly sharp point. Gytha had a fish in her hand, and she held it belly side up as she explained the finer points of fish gutting to the son of Harald Fairhair, king of the Norwegians. ‘A flick of the wrist to open up the belly, slide your thumb inside like this and scoop out the innards.’ The fish guts slid into the pail between her feet as she made a sideways cut just behind the gills and lopped off the head. ‘The heads are collected in the pan to be made into stock, then a quick swish in the bucket of seawater to rinse the muck from the body of the fish and into the pail ready for hanging on the hjell. She shot him an impish smile. ‘They will be the wooden drying racks you may have noticed lining the foreshore when you beach your longship, lord.’
Erik looked at the fish in his hand, tossed it back into the bucket and pulled a face as he rubbed his hands clean on the grass. ‘Why is the daughter of a hersir gutting fish like a thrall woman?’
Gytha stopped what she was doing and crinkled her brow. ‘You mean that I should be inside at my loom with the other women of good stock, acting coy as I listen in and they trade tales of their menfolk’s battle cunning and bravery.’
Gytha picked up another fish and the blade flashed again. ‘I like learning all the things which make the household function as it should. One day soon I shall have a hall of my own, and I will know how to tell the difference between those who are pulling their weight and those who are slacking.’ She lowered her hands and looked back again. ‘You know me Erik, better than anyone else. I am not like them,’ she said, casting a glance back across her shoulder towards the hall.
Erik sidled across as he recognised the melancholy in her voice. ‘Yes, I know. That’s why I want us to be together.’ They had spent most afternoons these last few years exploring the hills and dales together or sailing the faering across the choppy waters of the fjord. His foster-sister was more than a friend, and he knew that she felt the same way towards him.
She put down the knife, and Erik was surprised to see the sadness in her eyes. ‘The other women,’ she said. ‘They want their husbands to be men of reputation; feared and admired wherever they go.’ She laid a hand on his sleeve. ‘If I were to allow myself to believe that we could be together I would have to wish for the opposite.’ He looked at her in confusion and she explained. ‘Erik, you are a Haraldsson, the son of the king. If you become a great man you will be too important to marry the daughter of a hersir from Fjordane, and if you fail to live up to the expectations of the king you will very likely not live at all. I hear that the king’s consort is producing a new son every year to add to those by-blows which are born to kitchen maids and the like.’ She shook her head sadly as the realisation that her words were true showed on Erik’s face. ‘Besides,’ she continued with a pointed look. ‘I overheard some of what my fath
er and Horse Hair Gisli were saying one night, after they had returned from sacrificing at Oðin’s Grove.’ She placed a hand on his cheek, leaned forward and kissed him tenderly. ‘It was as well they journeyed to Hestad. You will need the gods at your side if you are to survive the task they have set you.’
3
JOSTRUDAL
The hubbub in the hall had dropped to a murmur as the warriors crowded the benches, hanging on every word as the skald paced the hearth-side and wove his tale. Erik glanced across from his place at the top table, pride shining in his eyes as the wordsmith leaned into his staff and swept the room with his gaze:
The berserks were roaring,
THIS was their battle!
The wolf-coated warriors howling,
iron clattering…
The young prince had heard the tale of the ship fight at Hafrsfjord many times, but the treasure never lost its lustre. It had been the final great battle in his father’s bid to overcome the kings of the North Way, the last stand of those who opposed his will. Harald had pledged years before that he would neither cut nor comb his hair until the country was one under his kingship. With this victory his enemies were either dead or fleeing the land never to return, and Erik’s father had fulfilled his promise: Harald Lufa, Shaggy Harald became Harald Fairhair, the first king of Norway.
Arinbjorn laid a hand on his sleeve, and Erik turned aside as the skald chirruped on. ‘Father asks that we join him outside.’ Erik turned and furrowed his brow in question, reluctant to leave before the tale was concluded, but he saw the excitement in his foster-brother’s eyes and he drained his cup as he stood to go. ‘I thought that this was meant to be a celebration of my coming of age?’ he replied, but Arinbjorn was already out of earshot and Erik shrugged his shoulders and followed on. A wolfhound moved aside with an expectant look, hopeful of a morsel from the table; Erik tossed it a meaty bone, running his fingertips through the wiry coat as he passed. The cold air on his cheek told him that Arinbjorn was through the doorway, and Erik hesitated as he felt the tension rise in the room and even whispered conversations trail away: