by C. R. May
Alf Karisson, skipper of the fleet and shipmaster of the Fjord-Ulf shook his head. ‘Not this early in the year, Kolbein, it would be pointless. The traders are on their way south full of furs, amber and ivory: we can get that anywhere.’
‘The towns are rich though,’ Kolbein countered, ‘full of silver.’
‘And well guarded,’ Skipper Alf replied. ‘The richer they have become on the eastern trade, the higher the walls have risen. All the silver is safely stored in the towns these days. Also,’ he added with a look, ‘we are not a couple of hulls filled with a lowly hersir and his hird, out seeking plunder until the summer is over and it is time to go home and make hay. We have the king’s son with us, remember? I doubt that King Harald will thank us for upsetting the king in Uppsala.’
‘Vindland then? Take as many captives as we can and head straight up to the slave market at Novgorod. They pay good silver for Vinds, strong men and even stronger women the Slavs.’
Alf shook his head: ‘not worth the hassle.’
They all turned their heads to the shipmaster, and he gave a shrug. ‘All the rivers are blocked by forts. I was up there a couple of years ago with Arne Gunnarsson from Hordaland. We spent a day and a half storming this fort,’ he took a sip of ale and raised a brow. ‘It was a hard fight too, we lost a couple of lads, and when we took it all they had there was a few iron pots and pans. All the valuable stuff is too far inland.’
‘England? The Danes have grown fat sucking on that teat.’
Alf rolled his eyes, and Erik snorted into his cup as he watched the other shipmasters let out a sigh.
‘What’s wrong with raiding England then?’
Alf gave them all a look of pity. ‘Not any longer they don’t. That tit has shrivelled up and run dry, ever since Edward Alfredsson took the king helm they have been fighting to keep the land they took in their father’s day. And that sister of his...’ He shook his head.
‘Athelthing?’ Kolbein offered.
‘Athelflaed,’ Alf corrected him. ‘Athelflaed Alfredsdottir, the Lady of the Mercians. She’s a valkyrie; I spoke to a Dane once, a trader out of York, who claimed to have seen her riding into battle on the back of an enormous ram. The Danes and a few of the old Dublin Norse tried an invasion a couple of years back; it cost them the lives of three kings and half a dozen of their jarls in a big battle at a place called Tettenhall. You will get nowt but a spear in the guts these days in England.’
‘Frankia?’
‘Not now that Hrolf the Ganger has been ceded the land around the Seine estuary.’
‘Ireland?’
‘Maybe,’ Alf conceded with a shrug. ‘Although Thorstein and his brother Sigtrygg the Squint-eyed have been run out of Dublin for a few years now and settled in Waterford, Man and the Wirral.’ He shrugged. ‘Most of the Norwegians in the area are only there because they were unhappy under King Harald’s rule.’ He glanced at Erik. ‘I am not casting any doubts on your courage lord, but there are plenty of men sailing the Irish Sea who would love to come across Fairhair’s son, men who could darken the sea with ships.’
Erik had heard enough. Leaning forward he fixed each man with a stare as he recharged the cups. The conversation fell away, and the shipmasters, experienced raiders, trusted huskarls of the king waited for the man they now regarded as their leader to speak. He let the silence stretch until he was sure that he had their attention and pulled a smile. A wolf-grey light washed across the beach as the clouds finally parted and the moon shone in the southern sky. Away to the East, the waters of the North Way took on a steely hue. ‘I want to sail due south,’ he said finally. He cast his eyes beyond the small group sat before him, out beyond the firelight where the men drank and joked. Three hundred Norsemen: axemen; swordsmen; bear shirts and wolf coats had been placed under his sole command. He knew, even at the age of twelve, that this was a test; Harald Fairhair had created a kingdom where before there had only been a disparate collection of chiefdoms and petty kings. His father had told him on the strand, back in Nausdal, that he fathered boys; if his life’s work had been the creation of a kingdom of Norway, he would be looking for a successor. There could only be one, and Erik knew the likely fate which would await those who failed to gain the prize.
His brother Guttorm had proven unequal to the task, hacked down by an enemy of their clan down in Gotaland. He was the eldest now, but the king’s new consort was producing a new son every year; he had been given the means to carve a future, to be the one king, and he meant to grasp the opportunity with both hands. His first act had been to take the life of Bolli Sigurdsson, the son of the king’s leading jarl. The next had taken even his father, the king by surprise. The men had expected him to take his place alongside Alf on the steering platform of the Fjord-Ulf as he learned the ways of the sea, but he had insisted that he travel on another ship. He was no longer a child to be wet nursed through life, and he thought that he had seen a flash of pride illuminate the face of the king as they had parted that day.
‘South,’ Erik said finally, ‘I want to go south. Not to Ireland, not to King Edward’s land of burhs, fyrdmen and craven Danes. Not to Vindland,’ he raised a brow, and a ripple of laughter rolled around the shipmasters as he finished his sentence; ‘despite the impressive strength of their women. And not to Scotland,’ he added, ‘before anyone suggests it. From what I hear it is all midges, damp sheep and porridge; we may as well stay in Norway. What lies to the south of Hrolf the Ganger’s lands? Alf?’
‘Brittany lies immediately to the South lord,’ the skipper answered with a raised brow. ‘It is well worth a look. There is a nice fat monastery there that I have had my eye on for a while now.’ His lips pulled back into a lupine smile which was slowly reflected in the faces surrounding him. ‘Yes,’ he said finally. ‘With five keels full of King Harald’s men, Brittany would be a fine choice.’
The ships wallowed in the swell like fat bellied gulls as Erik stood in the bow and raised the knife. One of the first lambs of the year kicked and squirmed in his fist until a slash of the blade opened the belly, and the watching men fingered gods charms as blue-grey ropes of gut slid free and lifeblood gushed to redden the waves. Kolbein Herjolfsson at his side emptied a barrel of ale into the waters as the carcass fell with a splash, and the sacrifices to Æegir the sea god completed, Erik indicated that the crewmen move forward to fix the beast head into place.
The rest of the crew watched with pride as the fang toothed head of a bear, the Isbjorn itself, was lowered into place on the prow and the retaining peg hammered into place. It was the first time that Erik had seen the snarling beast head atop the prow, and he wondered again at the transformation it wrought to a ship. No longer merely a means of travelling from one place to another, the ship had taken on a persona of its own. All around them the ships were coming to life as the sound of mallet on wooden pin echoed across the waves: the shaggy head and sweeping horns of the Bison; Fjord-Ulf - wolfish fangs and glint of eye; Reindyr - majestic, its golden antlers wooding the air; Okse - power, muscle and bullishness personified.
The ceremony complete, Erik ordered the spar hoist and the great sail shaken out and sheeted home. As the yard inched upwards men were looking at the weathervane, high up in the mast head, hauling at the braces as they angled the sail to catch the wind. Kolbein had the steering oar, and Erik hopped up alongside the big man as they watched the first breath of wind pluck at the sail. Moments later the great sheet billowed, and the crewmen exchanged smiles as the Isbjorn took its first great breath and shook itself free of the land. Erik hung from the backstay as he watched the other ships set their own sails, the crack as the great woollen sheets filled carrying to him across the waves despite the rush of the wind. Very soon they were flying south, the island of Kormt hazing astern as the snowcapped peaks of Rogaland came up on the beam.
The wind sang in the shrouds as the great bay which held Hafrsfjord opened up to larboard, and Kolbein showed him honour as he recalled his father’s great victory there. Th
e crew joined in as they lounged amidships, beating the rhythm with their boots as they belted out the Lay of Harald:
Did you hear in Hafrsfjord
how hard they fought
the high born king
against Kjotve the Rich?
Ships came from the east
craving battle,
with gaping heads
and prows sculpted.
That evening they were off the coast of Agder; Lindesnes, the southernmost landfall in Norway was a line to the East as Erik took the watch and pointed their prow to the South.
‘Strange fruit.’
Erik shared a look with Kolbein and snorted. ‘Who said that Vikings don’t grow on trees!’
The men were crowding the wale as the Isbjorn lost way, and Erik turned back. ‘I would like to take a closer look.’ He shot the styrisman a smile. ‘Let us see if the shore guard are as brave when faced with five snekkjur.’ He looked up at the weather vane. The sealskin tassels which hung along the lower edge were blowing steadily southwestwards. The gods were with them, if ships appeared they could lower the sail and be off in moments.
‘Brail the sheet, lads,’ Erik called as he made his way amidships. ‘We are going in to see what Hrolf the Ganger’s men have been up to.’
It had taken them a full month of easy sailing and harder rowing to reach the mouth of the river which the Franks called Seine, but with every mile of seawater which passed beneath their hulls the days grew a little warmer and a little longer as the southern spring cloaked the land in green. The wandering birds were in the sky, a full two months before they could be expected in far off Fjordane; swifts and swallows cut and dashed, clouds of starlings swept to and fro and the first puffins and gannets skimmed the waves.
The first lands which they had passed had, Erik had had to admit to himself, been a grave disappointment. There had seemed to be little to tell between the lands of the Frisians and the Flemings and the grey waters which were carrying them south. The sandy dunes and salt marsh which reigned everywhere along the bleak coastline appeared little higher than the sea itself to a man brought up among the steep fjords and high peaks of Fjordane. Wise men, men knowledgeable of things which had passed beyond the memory of most, told that this was a land which long ago had contained great trading centres: towns of stone buildings and high walls; jetties and wharfs piled high with exotic goods from the southern sea and beyond when the empire of Rome held sway hereabouts. But the days of greatness had passed, and a century of warfare and plundering by Northmen and others had left little more than the occasional rude hut or stone ruin visible in a land rinsed free of colour and men.
Passing the estuary of the Rhine things began to look up. Crosses appeared above the shoreline and perched on promontories as they reached the lands which had long been Christian; towns appeared, glowering behind their defences as they passed, and ships moved about at a respectful distance as the golden headed snekkjur arrowed south. By the time that the little fleet had reached the narrows where the high chalk cliffs of England and Frankia cast envious looks at each other’s wealth the clouds had cleared away, and the sun shone from a clear blue sky.
Skipper Alf had brought the Fjord-Ulf up on the beam, cupping his hands to his mouth as he called that they would do well to keep to mid channel and away from the English coast. Kolbein had agreed that they follow their friend’s advice. Alf’s love of raiding went to his very bones; it was a reason why King Harald had chosen him as Skipper of the fleet, and Erik knew that his father would be as interested in Alf’s reports as to his decision making as he would any other aspect of his leadership. As unlikely as it had been that King Edward’s ships would have left port to challenge his powerful flotilla, Erik knew that it would have been foolhardy to take the chance.
The men pulled the Isbjorn towards the wreck with easy strokes of the oars as the other ships stood off to windward, ready to come quickly to their aid if the need arose. Soon they were a short spear throw off, and Erik ran his gaze across the ship as the oarsmen worked the blades to keep station in the current. At ten oars a side the ship was smaller than his own, and a quick tally of the cadavers festooning the yard, prow and stern post told him that it was still fully manned by a crew of the dead. He had seen dead men before, that was not why he had closed on the wreck, but a comment from one of the men caused him to raise his eyes to the shore. A horseman had appeared on the dunes, and as he watched a dozen more came into view. He had the answer to his question, and he ordered the sail set as the oars were shipped and the sleek hull carved the waves. Alf had been right again, Hrolf the Ganger was taking his new duties seriously; it would seem that the kingdom of the Franks was safe for now.
8
STRANDHOGG
The haunting call drifted from the tree line, and Erik stifled a snigger as Kolbein gave an involuntary start and hissed under his breath. ‘Bastard owl: I will give him something to hoot about when I get ashore!’
Nerves were as taut as harp strings as the steering oar was worked and the Isbjorn turned its prow to the beach. Erik glanced up as a shadow fell across the ship, but the clouds were cobweb thin and the full light returned in moments. Behind them the Reindyr was making its turn, the oars causing barely a ripple as they stroked the glassy surface of the water as the tide stilled and prepared to ebb. Low to the water the hulls of the snekkjur should be all but invisible against the solid darkness of the land; the mast had been lowered and lay along the cross trees amidships, the brightly coloured sails safely stowed, but the prow beasts still glared landward to frighten away the spirits of the place and snarl their warlike intent.
The huge stone cross was just where Alf had said it would be, and Erik sent a plea to his own gods that the Christians would never realise just how helpful their displays of faith were to those who meant them harm.
Kjartan was in the bow, and the styrisman watched the man intently as he guided the craft through the rocky shallows. Erik glanced aside as the antlered head of their companion’s prow beast came up on the starboard beam, and he laid a hand on Kolbein’s shoulder as a gods-luck gesture as he took up his spear and began to move forward. The soft metallic chink of brynjur filled the air as the mail clad men who would follow him onto the beach rose from their sea chests and funnelled in his wake, and Erik saw Kjartan turn and flash a final smile and a thumbs up that all was well, before he too snatched up his spear and hefted his shield.
A last look ahead, and Erik was pleased to see that they were close enough now to make out the trunks and boughs of individual trees, and he drew back his arm and launched his spear into the darkness as the keel grated on land. Oðin, Allfather, had done the same when he had hurled his own spear at his foemen to start the very first war, and despite the warmth of the night and the dangers which lay before him Erik found that his mind was back in Thorir’s hall. A blizzard was raging as the skald stalked the benches; but the fire pit blazed, food and drink were plentiful, and the words had seared themselves into the young boy’s memory as he had hugged his knees to his chest and dreamt of the day he would do the same:
Oðin hurled down
and shot over the warriors,
that was yet the onslaught
of the world’s first battle,
the stockades were broken
of the High One’s fortress,
the Vanir stamped the ground
with their chants of battle.
The spear shaft was swallowed by the darkness and Erik drew his sword, vaulting the bulwark as the Isbjorn shuddered to a halt in the shallows. Before he could take a pace forward men were dropping from the bows to splash into the surf all around him, throwing their shields into a defensive ring around their king before any arrows could snicker from the shadows. Erik raised his own shield, hunkering down behind the boards as he waded the few yards to the strand. As the men from the Reindyr arrived at his side, Erik set off at a trot. The spring tide was at its high point, and within a few yards they were pushing their way through the
lower branches and into the woodland itself. Ankle deep in last autumn’s leafage the smell of the land, sappy wood, the musky smell of the earth itself, was like a half remembered tale after so long at sea, and Erik paused as the others fanned out to either side and searched the gloom for any signs of opposition.
To his surprise his mind began to swirl, and he reached out a steadying hand as his legs threatened to buckle beneath him, but he allowed himself a snort of amusement as a glance to either side told him that he was not alone. A deep breath was all it took to drive off the feeling of nausea which had threatened to overwhelm him, and he exchanged looks of amusement with a few of the others as they did the same. He regained his land legs as the memory of the rise and fall of the deck began to fade, and he began to relax for the first time in hours as he made his way back to the strand. Kolbein was ashore, deep in conversation with Thorfinn Kettilsson the styrisman of the Reindyr, and the pair looked across with a smile as he emerged from the tree line and stomped across. ‘Nothing,’ he said as he returned the smile. ‘No opposition at all, even Kolbein’s owl has seen sense and taken flight!’
The shipmasters exchanged a look, and Kolbein shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s a long story.’
Erik flicked a look at the moon. It was beyond its zenith, and a quick calculation told him that they could expect to have no more than a couple of hours of darkness in which to get in position to launch the attack at dawn. The bay had been larger than he had expected, almost as wide and long as those of the fjords back home, and it had taken more time than he had allowed for to reach the cove. Hugging the southern shore the flood tide had carried them safely over the rocks and sandbanks as the snekkjur had attempted to melt into the shadows, but it had been a close-run thing. Thankfully Alf’s diversion seemed to be working, and the nocturnal hunter which had frayed Kolbein’s nerves had been the only sign of life they had come across that night. Holed up in a nearby creek, the crews of the two ships had watched from cover as the lines of smoke which marked the passage of the Fjord-Ulf, Bison and Okse rose into the Breton sky as they ravaged the settlements surrounding the adjoining bay.