Bloodaxe (Erik Haraldsson Book 1)

by C. R. May

  The bulk of the monastery church lay to the North, and Erik pursed his lips in frustration as he watched the great bronze bell swinging to and fro at the top of the bell tower as it alerted the countryside for miles around to their presence. Running along each side of the cloisters were the low buildings which catered for the more day-to-day activities of the inhabitants: dormitories; kitchens; scriptoria; even a piggery and smithy in the part furthest from the sanctity of the church building itself. In the open space below, his men were beginning to sort the inhabitants into those who could fetch a price and those whose futures were less obvious and possibly far shorter. Others were making a pile of anything else of value as two of the hird drove an ox drawn cart into the cloister.

  The first whiff of smoke came to him as he raised his gaze to the northwest, and his heart lifted as the golden prows of Isbjorn and Reindyr sailed into view. The first fronds of flame were beginning to show in the thatch of the roofs below him, and Erik watched the smoke thicken to cleave the roof line as the same morning breeze which was bringing the ships carried it eastwards. He nodded to himself in satisfaction. Skipper Alf and the men in the other ships would soon see the signal and abandon their own depredations, backtracking to the meeting place and leaving the army which had gathered against them aghast as they looked to the South, saw the pall of smoke hanging over their land and realised that they had been outwitted.

  In the cloisters below, the monks were now sorted into those who could fetch a good price in the slave markets and those whose future was arguably grimmer still. The monastery itself was almost a town made small: shepherds; stock men; brewers; smiths; it seemed as if there was very little that was not produced within the community. A large proportion of the men were young and fit, well fed and disease free, perfect for the market. In the midst of it all Erik saw the figure which he knew must be the Abbot himself. The man was attempting to put a brave face on the calamity which had overtaken them all in the dawn, and Erik found to his surprise that he admired him all the more for it. Despite what he had heard at home, Christians and the kingdoms they inhabited seemed surprisingly strong: wealthy, well ordered and thriving, despite more than a century of attacks by his own countrymen and others. Maybe he would find out more while he was in the South? Wise men always found room in their lives to accommodate another God.

  The muffled sound of splintering wood drew his attention back to the church, and Erik watched as his men poured into the building. Thorstein called from below that the room was clear, and Erik sheathed his seax as the tolling of the bell grew erratic and fell silent. He snorted at the wanderings of his mind. Oðin had given them the victory, and he asked nothing in return but that men recognise his existence and pledge to fight by his side at the end of days. What kind of God would expect men to grovel on their knees, day after day, and bask in his glory? He leaned forward and let a ball of spittle fall from his lips, watching as it tumbled end over end until it became a starburst in the dust. He had loitered long enough, it was time to go.

  ‘How are we doing?’

  The crewman looked up from his work and gave a curt nod. ‘Almost done, lord. That was a good haul, we needed to ditch some of the ballast before we loaded it aboard. It all being mostly metals, I have stowed it down near the keel. She’s a well found ship,’ he said, patting the side strakes with a hand made as rough as the oak itself by years of rowing. ‘But all ships leak a little, and she’s no different. Metals don’t care how wet they get, but you still need to balance the ship.’

  Erik nodded that he understood. Gold and silver were heavy; only the gods yet knew how long they would be away from home and which seas they would sail before they returned to Norway to share out the loot. Up on the headland the monastery was a sea of flame, long tongues of red and orange licking the now silent bell tower as greasy black smoke billowed high above. Away to the East the sun had long ago cleared the wooded hills, and Erik raised a hand as he estimated how much time had elapsed since his mad dash in the dawn. He looked back up the beach, up beyond the place where the men of his hird had thrown a shield wall across the place where a woodland outlier narrowed the meadow, to the rapidly growing number of spearmen who were gathering there. Kolbein was shepherding the sullen looking captives into line as they prepared to frogmarch them aboard, and Erik called across as the distinctive clatter of wood told him that the deck planking was being refitted to the ship. ‘Is there any sign of movement yet?’

  His question was rewarded with a smile, and the huskarl shook his head as he replied. ‘They still have less than half our number lord. They’ll not make a move until they outnumber us at least two to one, however important the churchman thinks he is. Of course, that could change in a moment if a local lord turns up with his levy.’ A voice came from the bows: ‘we are all set, lord, bring them up!’ Erik indicated that they start loading the captives with a jerk of his head.

  The Bretons at the head of the field began to grow agitated as they saw the holy men being bundled aboard the ships but everyman there, locals and Viking alike, knew that they had neither the numbers nor the weapon skill to intervene. Erik began to cross the shore, and Kolbein came to his side as he neared the defensive line. ‘Congratulations lord,’ he said. Erik threw him a look and his styrisman explained: ‘on the success of your first strandhogg.’

  Erik snorted. The practice of shipborne raiding had been prohibited within the regions of Norway by his father the king. It was one of the few things which Thorir Hersir and Arinbjorn had been unable to prepare him for, but raiding for slaves was a profitable business and a staple of their raids overseas. He raised his eyes to look beyond the defensive line. The enemy were still fixed to the hilltop but a number of them were moving backwards and forwards now, cajoling those whose bravery was found wanting as the departure of the raiders grew closer. ‘Shouldn’t we chase them away, it would only take a moment?’ he spat in disgust. ‘Standing down here while they try to pluck up the courage to face two ships’ crews. Either they want to save their priests or they don’t. If they lack courage they should have stayed at home with the women!’

  Kolbein plucked at Erik’s sleeve, drawing to a halt before they came within earshot of the defensive line. ‘Forgive me if I speak plainly lord, but I have been charged by the king with more than just honing your battle-craft. Your father did not become the first king to hold sway over all the lands of the Norse because he was the largest, meanest warrior.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘Although that helped!’

  Erik looked and saw that Kolbein’s gaze was still drinking in the details before him. The huskarl continued as his eyes darted about the field. ‘You’d have played tafl at foster?’ It was more a statement than a question; all boys of quality were taught the board game, but Erik confirmed that he had. ‘Then you know strategy. When you are the red player, what is the object of the game?’

  Erik shrugged. ‘To get safely to the corner of the board.’

  Kolbein nodded. ‘Outnumbered and surrounded by white pieces, the king and his plucky little army have to fight their way to safety.’ The huskarl lowered his eyes and looked at his lord. ‘And do you remember your greatest victories?’

  Erik nodded as he began to understand which way the conversation was going. ‘The times when I reached the corner of the board without losing a man.’

  Kolbein’s face lit up in a smile, and Erik could see that the man was recalling some of his own games as his voice drifted. ‘White pieces swarming all around you, probing, offering a chance to trade one of your men for two of theirs because they could afford the loss: attempting to draw you out; whittle down your defence. But you kept your discipline and won through; all together. It’s why some men call it hnefatafl, fist-table; the victory is not in killing the enemy or amassing loot, but in punching through their defences in a brotherhood of warriors. You are right,’ he went on as he raised his chin to look at the Breton spearmen again. ‘We could run these men off, that’s even if the collection of cobblers, thatchers and assor
ted shit shovellers stayed to fight once they saw us coming up the hill. But we could lose a man to a javelin before we reached them, another to a lucky spear thrust.’ He moved the point of his own spear towards the tree line in the West. ‘What if they have men hidden among the trees, or on the back slope where we gathered before the attack? How do we know that the local lord is not about to clatter down the road at the head of fifty horsemen? Either could cut us off from our ships, and then our position could begin to get very sticky, very quickly.’

  Erik nodded that he understood. ‘Just like tafl, do what you came to do and get the men away in one piece before they have to fight to keep what they have already gained by stealth?’

  Kolbein clapped him on the shoulder and gave a nod. ‘Make the men wealthy in gold, silver and reputation but value their lives above all and they will love you for it, lord. The time will come soon enough when Oðin sends his battle-maidens to carry off a soul or two. Show the men how much you value them, and when that time does arrive you’ll not find any shortage of men willing to take your place on old one-eye’s benches.’

  10

  KARVI

  A rumble of laughter rose into the balmy air as the men watched the Breton oarsmen stroke the sea. ‘That’s not a ship! Look at the tumblehome on the hull, that is a barrel!’

  ‘It’s as well for you that they are,’ Kolbein chided his friend. ‘Or we could be arranging to pay them to get your sorry arse back!’ Despite Alf’s scathing judgement the Breton ship was leaping the waves as it came on, a scattering of pearls girdling the prow as it fought to make headway against a freshening wind. Erik was the next to speak as he pointed to the masthead. ‘Why the branch?’

  ‘It’s their way letting us know that they come with peaceful intent, lord,’ Alf answered. ‘We used to do the same, back when my father was a lad, but now we use the white shield as you know.’ He gave a shrug. ‘I like it.’

  Erik stole a look back across his shoulder at the captives and tried to imagine what was going through their minds. He doubted that the men sat hunched in their forlorn group got the chance to discover their real worth, just how much value in hard, shiny silver their lord placed upon their head but that day had arrived; they were about to find out.

  His mind drifted back over the last few days as the Breton ship came close, and his heart lifted with pride as he reflected on the success of his first raid. They had boarded the ships and cast off from the beach below the burning monastery as soon as the captives had been loaded aboard. Pulling away from the headland they had watched as the roadway disgorged spearmen, and he had exchanged a look and a smile with Kolbein at his side that the king had punched his way through after all, the tafl game won. By the time that the sun was at its high point the broad waters of the bay had opened up before them, and obscenities and good-natured shouts had flown between the crews as Alf had brought the other ships out from the side bay to join them. They had left word with the monks who were deemed to be too old or infirm to fetch a price, back at the strand, that they would remain at the shield shaped island at the mouth of the bay for five days before sailing on. Now it would seem, their patience was to be rewarded.

  Erik turned to Kolbein as the Breton ship entered the calmer water in the lee of the island and the crew shipped their oars. Men leapt into the shallows as the hull made the shingle, and the Vikings lining the high water mark painted their faces with their fiercest scowls as the first men ashore tried not to cast nervous glances their way.

  Erik spoke sidelong as the Breton ship was hauled beam on to the shore and a gangplank splashed into the surf. ‘How much shall I ask for our friends?’

  Kolbein watched as the men who would do the negotiating appeared at the head of the gangway. ‘Take a moment to study those they have sent to broker a deal, lord,’ he replied. ‘We will set our price accordingly. If they look men of worth, we have a managed to nab a man they prize. If not we may as well cut the hands, nose and ears off the old abbott and ditch him on the beach. Then we replace him with the fittest men among this lot and set a course for the slave markets. Recall what I said last night and you can’t go wrong.’

  ‘About linking the value to the price of a well made helm?’

  ‘That’s right, lord, it’s the key to successful negotiation for men like us. By lucky coincidence the price of a good sturdy helm, one made of the best steel with a one piece nose guard that won’t get pushed back into your face the first time that it is struck, is roughly a pound weight of silver.’ He looked across his shoulder to the place where the men of the hird were lining the high water line and gave a smirk. ‘Tough bastards, and not all of them the cleverest that you will meet; but every man there knows the price of his kit and they can relate to it. If you manage to wring five hundred pounds of silver from these Bretons, they will know that not only have you filled the hull of the Isbjorn with gold and silver from the raid itself, you will have added the value of a new helm for each man here plus a hefty bonus by use of words alone.’

  Erik watched as the crew of the Breton vessel moved aside, and Kolbein purred at his side as the man sent by the local ruler to negotiate for the return of the captives was revealed. A pale blue tunic and leggings were edged in golden braid, and a cloak of midsummer blue was pinned at the shoulder by a large silver brooch of exquisite workmanship. If not a man of wealth and influence himself it was certain that he had been sent as the representative of such a man, and Erik could feel the satisfaction that they had managed to snare a prize worthy of such a reaction sweep through the men at his side.

  Kolbein spoke out of the corner of his mouth as the nobleman leapt the final few feet to land with a crunch on the shingle. ‘Two hundred and fifty pounds of silver for the abbott and as much as you can get for his monks, lord. That will make it a nice day’s work.’

  The Breton lost no time, striding along the beach as his companions struggled to negotiate the wobbly plank, and Erik smiled to himself as he suspected the mettle of the man he was about to face. The five styrismen in Erik’s little fleet: Kolbein Herjolfsson; Skipper Alf; Okse’s Ulfar Whistle-tooth; Thorfinn Kettilsson of the Reindyr; Gauti Thorodsson of the Bison, were at his side, and Erik watched with interest to see if the man would make the mistake he fully expected him to do.

  The prisoners were on their feet, the mixture of hope and excitement plain as their hoped-for earthly saviour approached, and Erik watched with amusement as the Breton stopped ten paces before them and his eyes flicked from face to face as he sought the likely leader. He saw the man’s gaze linger upon him for a moment before it moved swiftly on, and he snorted gently beneath his breath that he had likely predicted the opening move of this tafl game correctly.

  Alf was the eldest there, the telltale signs of a lifetime spent at sea etched into every inch of his hide, and Erik watched as the man’s gaze settled upon him and he began to make his introductions. ‘My name is Gwenneg seneschal; I am here as a representative of my lord, Alan, King of Brittany,’ he began. ‘I have been authorised by the king to conduct negotiations on his behalf regarding the return of the Most Holy Abbot, Huw of Landevennec, and of the brothers of his order.’

  A large rock stood at the waters edge, and Erik settled himself down to watch as amusement began to radiate from his companions. This man Huw seneschal may look the part of the experienced negotiator he mused as the man awaited a reply to his declaration, but he had already made an elementary mistake which would cost his king dear. He had looked at the group before him and seen what he had expected to see; a hardened band of cutthroats led by a gnarled and weather-beaten old pirate. He had not the wit to realise that the youngest in the group looked out of place among them. The mere fact that Erik was barely more than a boy despite his great size, would indicate to any experienced negotiator that he must someone of importance; only a fool would have discounted him so quickly.

  The silence which had greeted the Breton’s announcement stretched on, and the man himself was beginning to look around as h
e realised that he may have made a mistake. Kolbein had begun to suspect Erik’s ploy, and he was the first to break the silence. ‘Two hundred and fifty pounds of silver and you may have your Abbot back in one piece. A further two hundred and fifty and you can take the younger priests also.’

  Erik’s mind wandered as the Breton turned to his helmsman and began to argue the price with the special kind of oily charm which seemed to be a feature of courtiers everywhere. Twenty warriors had at last managed to disembark from the Breton ship and were waiting for their lord, a dozen paces away. It was the first time that Erik had seen Christian warriors up close, and he studied the men who were his natural enemies as Kolbein and Huw played out their word game. Tall and broad of shoulder, only the nut-brown hair, the lack of beards and the long droopy moustaches set them physically apart from the men of his hird, and Erik found that he was impressed by the quality of the arms they carried. Well led, they could prove a worthy foe.