by C. R. May
A mournful howl filled the air as a strong gust found the smoke hole, and the men sat at the benches shared a look and a smile as they called for more ale. If the winds were strong enough to worry the foundations of a hall as great as Nausdal, even the North Way would be a horror of white horses and spindrift. They were safe for now.
Gytha was moving among them, topping up cups and lifting the winter gloom with her smiles. Erik reached up and pulled her to his side as she came up, laughing along with the rest as the action was met with good-natured catcalls and laments. ‘Come and talk,’ he said with a smile. ‘The men have had enough of your father’s ale for now.’ At almost fifteen, Erik’s foster-sister was only a few years older than he was himself. Universally loved by the warriors of her father’s hird, Erik had grown as close as any to the girl in the five years he had spent in Thorir’s hall. ‘Sit down, have a drink and tell me about your day,’ he said with a twinkle in his eye. Gytha laughed, and Erik pulled a face as the men nearby snorted into their ale.
‘My day?’ the girl said. ‘You very know well how my day went, Erik Haraldsson!’
He pressed a cup to her and flashed a smile. ‘Tell me anyway.’
‘Well,’ she replied with mock excitement, ‘I just don’t know where to begin.’
Erik chuckled as she took a sip from her cup and another gust shook the building. He knew full well that her days were even more mundane than those of the men if that were possible. Cooped up like chicks in a hen house by the winter blow, the months before the spring thaw could seem to stretch without end. A log settled in the long hearth, the resultant glow blushing the young girl’s cheeks as she began to rattle off the events of her day. ‘After overseeing the work in the kitchen,’ she leaned in and dug him playfully in the ribs with a finger, ‘so that the men could wake from their drunken slumber to a hearty breakfast, I set to with my needle. Apparently,’ she said, ‘there is a new Sigurd the Dragon Killer hereabouts, whose first act of manhood was to set the North aflame. I, of course, have been given the duty of helping my mother record the deed for all time with our needlework so that this hero will be remembered for all days, while the wielder of the needle itself will be little more than dust.’
Erik attempted to hide his smile behind his cup as he questioned her again but his eyes betrayed his amusement. ‘Is that all? That seems very little for a strong girl like you.’
As a reply he received a sharp intake of breath, and Gytha gave him a playful slap as rumbles of laughter came from the men within earshot. ‘And then I poured ale for men who had little better to do than boast of their manliness, drink, belch and sit around scratching their balls!’
Erik gave her an affectionate hug. Despite the fact that he was now a man and a prince of Norway, his early time at Thorir’s hall had been carefree days of fun and laughter as Bergthora had smothered him in the love the death of his own mother had denied him. Harald his father was a man with a voracious appetite where women were concerned, and although he was now the eldest surviving son of the king, even at a tender age Erik had quickly realised that the gods had smiled upon him the day that he had been sent to foster among the close-knit family. The shared triumphs and disappointments of the years had forged a bond between Thorir and Bergthora which, even as a small child, had been obvious to him.
‘So, as you can see, my day has been much the same as yesterday and the day before that, and the day before that...’ Erik laid a hand on her sleeve as Gytha’s voice brought him back and smiled again. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I think that I understand.’
She took another sip of her ale and fixed her gaze upon him. ‘Erik,’ she said earnestly, ‘we have always been the best of friends, ever since the day I watched you leap into the shallows from the prow of the ship which carried you north to us.’ She dropped her voice so that none but he could hear. ‘I ask you this because I know that you will answer me truthfully, without hiding the truth of it from me however grim. My mother and father think that smiling and making light of our situation will stop me from worrying, but it does the opposite.’ Her brows drooped as the frown which he knew so well came to her face. Erik stifled a smile of affection; he well-knew all of her moods and knew her to be a girl who chafed to be treated as an adult. He nodded that he would do so.
‘Jarl Sigurd will come against soon, either overland, by way of the straits or even both.’
He pursed his lips and gave her a nod.
‘Is there no chance that the jarl will accept wergild for the death of his son?’
Erik shook his head. ‘If I was unwilling to accept compensation for the death of a horse at the Gulathing, then no, I doubt very much that Sigurd Jarl will be open to a payment in gold and silver for the lives of his son and three score of his finest huskarls.’
A look of disappointment clouded Gytha’s face and Erik felt a stab of remorse that his actions had placed all those that were dearest to her in danger, but she recovered quickly to lean in and brush his cheek with a kiss. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘for your honesty.’
Arinbjorn was passing, and he knitted his brows in question. Erik shrugged. ‘I am a hero. All the girls love a hero.’
Erik and Gytha returned to their drink as he ducked through the doorway, each one unsure how to continue the conversation now that the truth had been spoken aloud. Luckily Gytha’s brother had only gone to piss, and he reappeared before the silence became too uncomfortable. ‘It was a summer well spent when father had the midden built on the back of the hall.’ Another gust howled at the smoke hole and he pulled a face. ‘I daresay that the women are even happier about it than the men, especially in weather such as this.’
‘They are certainly happier that they no longer have to watch men who can’t be bothered to make the trek to the outhouse piss into the hearth night after night,’ Gytha replied.
Arinbjorn snorted. ‘You are just envious, there is nowt wrong with a bucket if you don’t fancy the walk. Come on,’ he said, ‘shift up. I want to hear what is so deserving of a kiss on a bleak day like today.’
Erik shuffled along the bench and Arinbjorn settled down next to his sister. Gytha was the first to speak. ‘As nobody else thinks that I am strong enough to hear the truth, I asked Erik whether he thought that Sigurd Jarl would accept compensation for his loss.’
Arinbjorn looked across the front of his sister. ‘You got a kiss for telling her that we are all dead in the spring?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘He got a kiss for treating me like an adult and giving me an honest answer.’ She raised herself to kiss her brother on the cheek. ‘And you can have one too for confirming it. We shan’t all die anyway, only the men. I shall be taken as a thrall and spend the rest of my life milking cows.’
Erik and Arinbjorn shared a look. ‘It looks as if we got the best of the deal then.’
As the cups were refilled, Erik gazed about the hall. Thorir’s household warriors lined the benches, their cups and ale horns nestling amid the slops on the tables before them. Each man’s shield, spear and sword hung from the wall to his rear, Thorir Hersir’s emblem of the black horse proudly proclaiming his allegiance. Twin posts marched the length of the hall, each decorated with tales of gods and men: Thor and the Midgard Serpent; Balder’s death and Oðin’s ride to Hel. At the head of the hall sat Thorir Hersir on his high seat beneath the sigil war flag which flew above him in battle, and beyond that the twin gods-pillars carved into the images of Thor and Oðin and the entrance to the lord’s private quarters. Sconces set into the side walls threw out a greasy light, although what little they emitted was almost matched by the amount of smoke from the whale blubber candles they contained.
The days were lengthening now; each and every time that the clouds cleared away to reveal the pale orb of the sun it had risen a little higher in the southern sky. Very soon the weather must break, the snows melt and the first buds of spring scent the air. It was usually a time of joy in the North, as ploughmen toiled, halls were aired and frozen rivers became torrents
of icy meltwater. This year it would be different; spear and sword would replace hoe and adze. Erik looked around the hall at the faces before him and wondered who among them would pay the blood price.
The spearman ducked his head inside the hall, his gaze flitting from face to face as he searched out his lord. Erik was sitting with Arinbjorn and Horse Hair Gisli, and the trio shared a look as they recognised the interruption for what it was. Arinbjorn was the senior, and he caught the man’s eye to ask the question which had come into their minds the instant that he had appeared. ‘Is this it?’
The huskarl hesitated, but gave a slight nod of confirmation to the hersir’s son before he turned to find Thorir. As the men in the hall leapt to their feet, Arinbjorn called after the departing sentinel. ‘You will find my father down by the river.’
Men were already taking down their shields from the wall, resting the great boards against the wainscoting as they retrieved mail and helm from their personal chests. Erik’s everyday sark and breeks were already on the floor as he went to fetch his own, and he called across to Gytha as she emerged from the women’s room to see the cause of the commotion, oblivious to his nakedness. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘you are just in time. Help me into my war clothes. If I am going to meet my ancestors I want to look my best.’
The girl knelt and pulled the trunk from its place below the benches, flipping up the lid with a clatter. ‘Which breeks do you want?’
Helgi was already struggling into his mail shirt and he gave Erik a dig. ‘Whatever you do, do it quickly.’ He dropped his gaze for a moment and winked at the girl. ‘You are right breeks would be a good place to start, he is not going to scare anyone off with that.’
Gytha chuckled, despite the tension which crackled in the air about them and reached into the chest. ‘Red or blue?’
‘Red…no blue,’ he replied, ‘the ones with the gold braiding at the sides and bottom; and the padded undershirt.’
As the clothes came flying his way, Erik’s mind raced. If the men on watch high above the waterway had lit the warning beacon the moment that ships had entered the fjord they should still have plenty of time to prepare to receive the attack. As was usual the wind was in the West, and although it had dropped in strength significantly from earlier that winter, the sleek hull of a longship needed very little tailwind to cleave the waters like a ploughshare. He rattled off the clothing he had decided upon as Gytha continued to rummage in the chest: the red and silver gaiters, red tunic, and knee length mail shirt.’
Gytha paused and raised a brow, her reply dripping with sarcasm: ‘yes lord.’
Erik snorted and gave her a wink. ‘And don’t forget the purple cloak, the one edged with marten fur.’ His weapons were still in place on the wall above his chest space, and Erik ran through the best combination of arms before he shrugged and decided that he would take them all: sword; seax; spear; bearded axe.
As the first of the men began to file from the hall, Erik was being helped into his brynja, the close-linked mail shirt of a warrior. As it unrolled down his body to fetch up against his knees, Gytha was already holding out his sword belt. He was buckling it around his waist in a trice, and he placed his battle helm upon his head as the young woman retrieved his shield from the wall with a grunt of effort.
‘Set?’
Erik glanced aside, and was grateful to see that Helgi had waited until he was ready. The room was almost empty of men now, but the news had reached Bergthora and her women and they were filing from the women’s bower, their expressions betraying their anxiety as they went to watch the men decide all their fates.
Erik hefted his shield, and Helgi stood aside to let the son of King Harald lead him to the battlefield. The last men to come filed in his wake as Erik left the smoky building and filled his lungs with the salty tang of the fjord. A quick look to the West told him that the enemy ships were yet to round the final headland, and his eyes swept the area as he strode down to take up his position in the shield wall. Thorir was already on place, bent forward with arms outstretched as Horse Hair Gisli helped him into his own brynja; Arinbjorn was pacing the line, checking that nothing had been forgotten in the rush and offering words of encouragement. Beyond them the waters of Sunnfjord gleamed in the sun. He glanced at Helgi, still stood at his side: ‘come on,’ he said, ‘let us find our place in the wall.’
Ahead the fjord was still free of ships, and Erik felt like a king as he strode down the length of the hayfield towards the men he had come to know so well. Thorir was lifting his chin as he fixed the ties which held his helm in place, and he called across as his foster-son reached the battle line:
‘Erik! I want you with me.’
Erik’s heart sank, but the hersir was already stomping across before he had a chance to make his feelings known. ‘I know that you want to be in the frontline, but accept that I may know what I am doing and follow my orders,’ he said with the ghost of a smile, ‘just this once. Here,’ he said, ‘stand beside me on the knoll and tell me what you see. This is your first fight, if you survive it you will learn more in the next hour than I have been able to teach you in the last five years.’
Helgi went away to join the defenders, and Erik cast a longing glance in their direction before he followed Thorir with leaden feet. The grassy mound, the same place where they often breakfasted after weapons practice had been kept clear of the plough for just this reason, and Erik turned and looked out across the heads of the shield wall to the flatter land of the vang and the fjord beyond. Gisli was banner man, and the black horse sigil snapped in the breeze as Erik began to go over the dispositions before them. ‘The men are drawn up two deep the length of the lower wall, on the inner side so that they can benefit from its protection. Arinbjorn has placed himself at the centre of the roadway where it cuts the wall with his closest companions to defend the weakest part of the defences.’ He pursed his lips and looked at Thorir. ‘We are twenty paces back from the main battle line where we can oversee the fight and quickly come to the aid of any place where the enemy are threatening to break through.’
A growl went through the men lined up in their ranks below him; it could only mean one thing, and Erik’s head followed the others as they looked towards the sea. A magnificent drekkar was clearing the headland, and within moments the waters were a cloud of sail as the enemy fleet swept into view. It was an overwhelming force, and Erik pushed down the feelings of guilt with difficulty as they threatened to overcome him and he came to know that those he had grown to love, the people who had welcomed him into their hall and made a man of a callow boy, now faced annihilation as a result of his pride.
6
FIVE KEELS
The blaze sawed with each fresh gust; spear points became flames, helms aglow in the firelight as Erik reached the end. He sank the horn of mead and dashed it to the ground, and a heartbeat later the king was on his feet. Harald reached down as Thorir leapt up at his side, and the sound of a thousand spears beating against a thousand shield rims thundered about the vang as Fairhair raised the hersir’s arm and made his gratitude plain.
Giddy with pride Erik drank in the atmosphere as the recital came to an end and his father Harald, king of the Norse, came across and flashed a smile. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘walk with me.’
Harald led Erik down towards the strand as his men began to erect tents and start blazes of their own to warm themselves during the night ahead. A cool breeze was blowing in from the fjord, and Erik pulled his cloak a little tighter about his shoulders as he waited for his father to speak.
‘You have caused me a problem,’ the king began. ‘A very big one, and one I could well do without.’
Erik listened as his father went on, unsure which direction the conversation would take. Was he about to bear the blame for the events of the winter?
‘Sigurd Jarl is an old friend of mine, a shield brother from the wars of unification. A powerful man, the headman of a powerful region; his support is crucial to me.’ To Erik’s surprise a rumble of lau
ghter came from the king, and his face broke into a grin. ‘And you killed his rat of a son!’ The king laughed again. ‘The looks on the faces of Thorir’s men when we fetched up on the strand; all riled up and nobody to fight!’ Harald glanced down at his son. ‘How did we look?’
Erik beamed with pride as he recalled the sight. ‘Magnificent father. The big drekkar came clear of the headland, and before we even had time to realise that it carried no beast head at the prow our eyes widened at the sight of a fjord filled with snekkjur, the smaller warships bounding along like wolfhounds around the huntsman. And then,’ he added with a sense of wonder, ‘when you all struck your sails together, wheeled prow on to the shore and ran out the oars.’ Erik paused as the sight replayed in his mind. Finally he shook his head, and his voice wavered with emotion as his minds-eye saw again the long blades rising and falling in time. ‘I was overawed, lord.’
It was the king’s turn to look overjoyed, and he balled a fist and gave his son a light punch on the shoulder. ‘That’s good,’ he said, ‘that’s what a king of Norway needs to be.’ He stopped and looked at Erik, studying his son as he thought. The boy felt the power of the man as he withered beneath his icy blue gaze, but the king nodded as a decision was made. ‘You saw how the men reacted as you described the horse fight and Bolli’s burning in.’ The king shook his head. ‘And that trip across Jostrudal in midwinter, even my heart was in my mouth,’ he chuckled. He opened his great hand and looked at Erik again. ‘You held them there,’ he said proudly, ‘every one of them hanging on your every word. These are not mild men, Erik, these are men of war; hard men, men who go Viking, men who know what it is to face overwhelming numbers, heft their weapons and bravely march forward.’