Bloodaxe (Erik Haraldsson Book 1)

by C. R. May

  Beyond the men, the wide bay which formed the backdrop to the haggling was not unlike those of home, though the hills which ringed it had little of the majesty of the snow capped peaks there. The early summer weather was already as warm as the hottest days in Fjordane and the men had told him that the lands further south were hotter still. His countrymen were already raiding and trading southward, beyond the River Loire to the Christian kingdoms of Navarre and Leon. Beyond that he knew lay the lands of the Umayyad where the god of the East held sway and men were the colour of autumn leaves.

  The negotiations were coming to a close, and Erik gave a snort of amusement as he saw the look of satisfaction on Kolbein’s face. The price was about to be fixed, his styrisman had got the full five hundred pounds of silver, and he felt the merest pang of guilt as he finally added his first words to the negotiation. ‘No, that is not enough. The price is five hundred pounds of silver for the Abbot alone. You have two days to return here with the ransom or we sail with your precious churchman on board; the priests come with us.’

  If it had not been for the early start they would never have spotted them. As it was, the gilt weathervane on the leading ship glinted like ice as the sun lay low in the eastern sky. ‘Edge us over there,’ Erik said. ‘Let us get a better idea of their numbers before we commit ourselves.’ He shot Kolbein a wan smile. ‘It would be a shame to lose all of our hard won loot so soon, after all!’

  They had left the island which had sheltered them for the best part of a week as the first blush of dawn painted the eastern skyline. The Bretons had finally delivered the silver and taken their Abbot away as the sun had slipped beneath the western horizon the night before. The tide had been in full flow, and Erik had wondered at the timing as the crewmen on the southern craft laboured to make headway against the force of the incoming current. Kolbein and the rest of the men, hoary Vikings to a man had no illusions however, and the first pale light of the false dawn had revealed the sails of an avenging fleet appearing at the head of the bay as they rode the ebbing tide and had shaken out their own sails to quickly put the island behind them. Now, little more than an hour into the day, the danger had been left astern and the little fleet had become the hunters again. Pal was looking his way, and a nod from Erik sent the lithe young crewman scurrying up the mast. The other ships were closing up on the Isbjorn as they awaited his orders and Erik cocked his head as Pal’s face turned back. ‘Three ships, lord,’ he called as the following wind did its best to snatch the words away. ‘I don’t think that they have seen us yet.’

  Pal lifted his head, peering back to the West, and Erik shared the sense of anticipation with the other members of the crew as they waited for their friend to add flesh to the bones of his report. He shot a glance at the weathervane on his own ship as he waited. They were upwind, the sealskin tassels snaking away to the Northwest, and Erik ordered Kolbein to bring the ship about as he sought to close the distance between them before they were spotted against the glare of the sun. The other ships had bounded up on either beam of the Isbjorn, and Erik felt an overwhelming pride as he saw the experienced raiders aboard them hauling on war gear and fitting strings to bows.

  He looked back to the mast top as Pal cuffed the spray from his eyes and turned his face back to the deck. ‘I can see them clearly now, lord’ he said. ‘I thought that they were knarrs, but they are not: they are karvi.’

  Erik exchanged a look with Kolbein. Knarrs were the deep water traders of the North. Wide bellied and seaworthy, they were primarily sailing ships whose use of oar power was restricted to manoeuvring when beaching or in a port. They typically carried a crew of half a dozen or so; just enough to work the ship, but not so many that any profits need be split too many ways. Karvi were similar in outline, but whereas the space amidships on a knarr was taken up by an open hold, a karvi had one continuous deck running fore and aft with fifteen or sixteen oar ports a side and the crew to work them. Their versatility made them the ideal ship type for transporting high value cargo and the men to guard it, and both men recognised the glint in the other’s eye as they mentally totted up how much loot three such ships could be carrying.

  Any hopes that Erik’s fleet could close with the three vessels unseen were dashed a moment later as Pal called down from the masthead that they were bearing away to the West, and Erik began to feel the now familiar thrill of the chase course through his blood as the ship came about and the wind began to blow steadily from astern. Sails billowed, shroud lines thrummed as the five snekkjur crested the waves and bounded after their prey, and Erik called Pal back to the deck as the distance quickly closed and the hulls of the karvi grew on the horizon.

  Less than half a mile separated the two flotillas when Erik saw the moment when the opposing leader realised that they would never outrun his sleek warships, and he watched as the karvi shortened sail and began to lash themselves together as they prepared to fight the ship. Erik ordered his own sail shortened as they approached, and he walked past the prisoners towards the bow as the way came off the ship. Each of the five ships carried three of the crestfallen priests, men who had seen their last hopes of salvation receding astern only a short time before. Manacled to the mast, Erik could only imagine the fear among them as they prepared to become the helpless witnesses to a battle at sea.

  Skipper Alf was leading Fjord-Ulf out to starboard, and a quick look to larboard told Erik that the Reindyr was mirroring his action there. If it came to a fight, the numbers were perfect for the type of attack he had in mind; two ships to force their bows between the stern posts of the enemy, Fjord-Ulf and Reindyr to lay themselves alongside the outermost hulls with Gauti in the Bison free to exploit any opportunity which presented itself.

  The Isbjorn began to wallow as the ship slowed to a crawl, and Erik hauled himself up alongside the fang-toothed beast head, cupping a hand to his mouth as he hailed the ships ahead. ‘I am Erik Haraldsson: who has your oath and what is your business?’

  A helmeted head appeared at the stern of the karvi, and Erik thought that he could feel the crackle of anticipation at the closeness of action even through his own back as the skipper answered with a snarl. ‘My name is Asbjorn Einarsson; Sigurd Jarl has my oath, hall burner. My business is my own.’

  ‘If you know my lineage, you also know that your lord owes skat to my father on the goods you carry,’ Erik smiled in reply. ‘It must be your lucky day, Asbjorn, for I can easily steer a course for King Harald’s hall; transfer the third part of your cargo which rightfully belongs to the king and I will see that it is safely delivered.’

  Asbjorn lowered his head, sent a gobbet of phlegm spinning into the waves, looked up and scowled. ‘I would not give the king’s runt the breath from my arse.’ He raised his gaze and ran his eyes across Erik’s fleet. Alf and Thorfinn Ketilsson had already second guessed which way the exchange would go, and oars were stroking the waves as the long sleek shapes of the Fjord-Ulf and Reindyr moved around to outflank him. ‘I have heard it said that fate sometimes withholds a man’s doom when his courage holds.’ Asbjorn gave a fatalistic snort. ‘Let us see if that is true.’

  As the final word left his mouth, Asbjorn drew his shoulder aside. Before Erik could react a spearman leapt into the space and hurled his dart but Erik’s own men were faster, and he heard the thunk as Anlaf’s shield moved across to pluck it from the air. As he took a pace back, Thorstein and Anlaf Crow moved forward to shield him from further attack as the ship was oared forward and the wolf coats moved forward into the bow. Kolbein was steering the Isbjorn directly between the tall stern posts of two of the three ships before him, and Erik watched with satisfaction as grappling lines arced through the air and the ships were hauled together. Faces appeared at Asbjorn’s side, yelling their battle cries as the ships closed, and the moment that they touched Erik’s men surged forward.

  Erik looked to either side as the sound of fighting came from the front. Both of the flanking attacks were in progress, and although he could see that boarding t
he higher sided karvi was proving troublesome, superior numbers were telling and the first of Alf’s men were already aboard and fighting hard.

  ‘Come on,’ Erik said to his shield men. ‘I know that my place is directing the fighting, but if we dally here we will miss it completely!’ He stepped forward into the crush, raising his spear above his head as he attempted to bring it to bear on the enemy. The wolf coats were gaining a foothold despite fighting with the disadvantage of height, and a heartbeat later a cry of victory filled the air as Asbjorn was skewered and heaved overboard. With the death of their leader the heart went out of the enemy, and soon Erik was scrambling over the stern of the karvi and surveying his prize. Skipper Alf came up, a swelling above his eye already as large and shiny as a harvest apple and darkening by the moment. ‘It looks like we have wine, lord,’ he said with a lopsided grin; ‘lots of it.’

  Part II

  Ship Army

  11

  OSWALD THANE

  Erik and Kolbein shared a look, and the sea king saw the pain in his friend’s eyes as he spoke the words which every styrisman the world over hoped would never pass his lips: ‘Are we abandoning her, lord?’ Erik snorted a reply. ‘Not if I can help it. It’s been nigh on twenty years since I first stepped aboard, that day back in Nausdal when I was little more than a lad. We have watched too many miles go under her keel to give the old girl up without a fight. Let’s see what Thorstein has to say first, and then we can decide what to do.’ Kolbein clapped Erik on the shoulder as his worse fear was chased away, shooting out as he turned to go. ‘You see to the ropes, and I will see how much more room Gauti has on the Bison.’

  It had all seemed like great fun at first as some of the worst ideas often do, but now they were at serious risk of foundering and the smiles had been well and truly driven from the faces of the men on the Isbjorn. Bison had come alongside, and Erik waited amidships as the crew frantically transferred the heaviest of the treasure in an effort to lighten the load. Erik chewed his lip in worry as he stretched to look past the great curve of the bow. The other ships were beating back towards them but it would be some time yet before they could come to their aid, and Erik’s fingertips drummed impatiently on the sheer strake as he waited for Thorstein to reappear.

  An indistinct paleness shimmered in the depths, and moments later the huskarl popped to the surface in a gout of spray. Thorstein gulped down air before sweeping the hair away from his face with the wave of a hand. He took a moment to knuckle the water from his eyes, but when he moved his hands away Erik’s guts tightened as he saw the concern written there. Thorstein coughed up the last of the seawater as he held up a shard of oak. ‘Snapped, lord,’ he blurted out as he tossed the thing aside.

  Kolbein had heard the verdict and hurried across. The styrisman rested his elbows on the wale, and he shot off a question as the experienced swimmer made his way back to the ship with easy strokes despite the choppiness of the waves. ‘Thorstein, is it a clean break?’

  The man in the sea had reached the ship’s side, and he trod water as he splayed the fingers on both hands and wove them together. ‘Gnarled up,’ he coughed as a wave slapped against his face. ‘All knitted together like a twisted stick, bang amidships.’

  Erik was already running his eyes across the deck as he reached down to help Thorstein clamber back on board. Before he could yell the first command Erik realised that the crew were ahead of him, and he watched with satisfaction as two men worked the halyard, gingerly lowering the spar and the sail it supported to the deck. Willing hands reached up to take the weight off the yard as it came down, and Erik held his breath as the rakke bracket scraped down the mast and the hull gave a tortured groan beneath their feet. As the weighty woollen sail was released and bundled across the gap to the Bison and the yard made fast, Erik crouched and peered below deck. ‘How does it look?’

  Kolbein glanced up and pulled a face. ‘The good news is that the keelson is in one piece; it’s a hefty piece of oak, and it spans the place where Thorstein said the damage is.’ Two men were at his side, passing buckets of seawater up to willing hands on deck. As the water level dropped Kolbein pointed at the side strakes. ‘We have popped a few treenails but the strakes themselves are undamaged, so I can have a couple of lads down here replacing them as soon as the water level drops enough to let them see what they are doing.’ He blew out, raising his chin to study the clouds as the men worked at his side. ‘The weather looks like it should remain calm for the next few days. If the keelson can take the strain and we tighten up the fore and back stays, the standing rigging should hold her together.’ He shook his head and flashed a smile as the immediate fear that they were sinking began to recede. ‘Whales! he said. Let’s race them, it will be fun!’

  Erik snorted. ‘How was I to know they had calves with them? By the time I saw them it was too late.’

  A familiar voice hailed them and Erik stood and looked to larboard. The Fjord-Ulf was reefing its sail, and oars slid proud of the hull as the way bled off the ship and the prow began to turn. ‘Need a hand?’

  Erik grimaced. ‘The keel’s busted, but we think that we can make land.’ He watched as the Skipper ran a practiced eye across the hull. Finally Alf cupped his hand and called across. ‘She has settled a bit low in the water but there is no sign of hogging; let us hope that you are right.’

  Erik glanced fore and aft. The tops of the bow and stern posts still looked about the same distance from the water so Alf’s observation was encouraging. It seemed that the combined efforts of the keelson and the rigging were preventing the ends of the hull from drooping and taking on the distinctive arched pig back which seamen called hogging.

  The Fjord-Ulf came alongside and Alf asked for permission to board. In a moment he was on the steering platform, and Erik watched as he took in the state of the ship with an experienced sweep of the eye. Alf nodded, and Erik suppressed a smile despite the gravity of the moment as the man gave a grudging thumbs up to their efforts at keeping afloat. ‘Not bad; I had this happen to a ship with me once, off the coast of Frisia. Not mine of course,’ he added with a hasty sniff. ‘One of my lads grounded on a sandbank going at full clip. He was never in danger of foundering of course, so we had more time to think. What we did come up with though before we hauled her off and made for the coast, was removing the running rigging and using the ropes to pull the hull together.’

  Erik knitted his brow in question, and Alf skipped down from the steering platform. ‘Like this, lord.’ Moving to starboard, he unwound one of the seal skin ropes from a cleat and threaded one end through oar hole amidships. Moving along the deck, he threaded the rope back through the next, pulled it taut and reefed it off. ‘Repeat that all along both sides of the hull and it will pull the two halves of the ship together; it will help to keep the keel from pulling apart.’ He indicated to the Northwest with a flick of his head. ‘Northumbria is half a day’s sail in that direction, so we should reach it tomorrow; I can have Svein look at her then and see what he can do. He’s no shipwright as you know, lord,’ he said, ‘but he can fix most things up until we can get to a ship yard. If we lash the Fjord-Ulf to larboard and the Bison to starboard we will give you greater buoyancy. Of course,’ he sniffed again. ‘We will not be able use the sails, the speed would put too much strain on the keel. But even with only one bank of oars in use on both ships we should get there. Straight in, get her beached, and we can see how we stand.’ He raised a brow. ‘And hope that the man who happens to be king of Northumbria this month either never gets to learn of our presence, or has nothing against Haraldssons if he does.’

  The night had been cold but the sea had remained calm, and the crew began to stir as the coastline began to harden from the gloom. Soon Skinfaxi had hauled the sun above the horizon, and the men on the ships scanned the place where they would make landfall for any signs of life as the shrill cries of gulls filled the air. ‘As dour as it looks, I have rarely seen a more welcome sight, lord.’

  Erik nodded as
they began to believe that they would make it. Relieved of the need to steer or work the ship by their companions alongside, the overnight journey had been one of boredom for the most part, despite the fact that possible catastrophe lay only a heartbeat away. Men had sat beside the ropes which lashed the Isbjorn to her sister ships all night, the hand axe at their side testament to the speed with which they would have to sever the cord should the keelson give way under the pressure and the cold waters of the North Sea flood in. Everyman there knew that the ship would go under in moments, but men had kept baling as others used mallet and wedge to drive back the tarred rope which caulked the seams. ‘Let’s hope that the locals are friendly. It would be a shame to go to all this trouble, just to abandon the ship on the beach.’

  Kolbein pointed northwards. ‘Well, we will soon find out.’

  Erik looked. A bevy of small fishing boats had put their sterns to the wind and were racing for a small settlement nearby. ‘Gone to raise the alarm.’ He patted the sword at his side. ‘Well, they had better think twice if they think that we are going to be a pushover. It looks to be a reasonable size place, with any luck a shipwright will have his yard there; it will save us the trouble of trying to find one if we need to.’

  Within the hour they were splashing in the surf, lines of men hauling at bowlines as they heaved the Isbjorn clear of the sea. Bison and Reindyr rode at anchor below the low water mark, and although half of the crew had come ashore with Erik and his men, enough had been left aboard to remove the ships from danger should other warships hove into view or enemy spearmen appear on the low cliffs overlooking the beach in overwhelming numbers. Away to the north the Fjord-Ulf and the Okse were close inshore, following the curve of the coastline as Skipper Alf went in to investigate the nearby town.