Bloodaxe (Erik Haraldsson Book 1)

by C. R. May

  ‘In what way father?’

  ‘While you have been away, raiding and forging a reputation, and even before that,’ he chuckled as he rediscovered his humour. ‘I have been producing sons. Some of them are already dead,’ he conceded with a shrug. ‘Guttorm we have spoken of before, killed down in Gotaland by that bastard Solvi the Splitter. Frodi and Thorgisl were killed long ago in Ireland.’ He raised a brow. ‘Never trust a man from one of the Irish tribes. If there are no enemies at hand, he will pick a fight with himself!’

  The pair shared a laugh. Erik’s second voyage had taken him as far as the islands of the Sudreys, off the western coast of Scotland. He had sighted the northern tip of Ireland but Skipper Alf had cautioned against landing there as the place had become hostile to Haraldssons since Sigtrygg the Squint-Eyed had retaken Dublin from the natives.

  ‘Others too have died,’ the king went on. ‘Halfdan Highleg was blood eagled by Torf-Einar the Orkney Jarl and a good thing it was too.’ King Harald spat his contempt. ‘All of my sons by that Finnish witch are a bad lot.’ He flicked a look at Erik. ‘But I am getting ahead of myself. You will know that he burned in Torf-Einar’s father, Rognvald Eysteinsson, jarl of Moerr and sixty of his men. Rognvald and I were great friends, it was he who finally cut my hair so that I earned my eke name Fairhair. Now I am growing old it is becoming harder and harder to keep the survivors under control.’

  King Harald opened the palm of his right hand and flexed it. Erik was surprised to see that the king could barely uncurl his fingers. ‘It’s something that my father had and his father before him,’ Harald explained with a sigh. ‘Don’t ask me what it is, it must be the work of a witch or a god-curse on the men of our family from long ago. As you age you develop these gristly lines in your hands, and as they grow so your hand begins to curl into a claw.’ He sighed. ‘I can just about grip a sword, but my days of fighting are in the past.’ He fixed Erik with a stare. ‘So I would like to name you as my heir. I think that you are the only one who has the strength in body and will to hold the kingdom together when I am gone. I have given most of my surviving sons kingdoms to rule on my behalf, but I have kept the best for you: Halogaland, Moerr and Romsdal.’ He looked at Erik and saw the pride there. ‘It will honour my own foster-brother Thorir Hersir; he and Arinbjorn will gladly rule Fjordane and collect the skat. Bring your own household down to Avaldsnes. I have a hall there which you can use, and we can rule together from Rogaland until you lay me in my barrow.’

  Erik was electrified as he realised the importance of the conversation, but he was experienced enough now in the ways of men to know that the offer would come with a price attached. Harald looked at his son, and Erik saw the cold gleam in his father’s eyes which betrayed the hard man within. No ordinary man could have defeated the kings and jarls and forged the first kingdom of the Norwegians. It took ruthlessness towards his enemies as well as open handedness towards his friends to achieve such a great thing, and Erik listened intently as his father continued.

  ‘Before I go to my grave there is one thing remaining which I wish to accomplish, a debt which needs repaying. Many years ago I was bewitched by Snofrid, a daughter of a king of Finns, and tricked into marrying her. King Svasi was a guest at the midwinter feast, and I provided one of the halls at Avaldsnes for his use as any good host would. On midwinter eve as we sat at our cups, Svasi told me that he had brought a fine gift south and it was waiting for me at his hall. My guards went across and could find no sign of treachery, so I accompanied him there.’ King Harald spat in disgust as he recalled the night and its consequences. ‘When we came to the place it was barely lit, but mindful of the reassurances of my men and trusting to my sword arm should they have missed any threat I went in. A scent permeated the hall, sweet smelling, the sort of cloying smell which sticks in your craw.’ The king pursed his lips. ‘Just like the smell of death; I should have known then that there was more to this gift than I should like, especially with the Finnish reputation for seith.’

  Erik nodded. All men knew that the Finns were accomplished in the ways of the dark sorcery men called seith, and he could see the regret which his father still felt reflected in his eyes as he continued the tale. ‘A young woman was standing before the hearth, the light from the flames glossing hair as black and burnished as a raven’s. She smiled and held up a silver chased cup as I came towards her and I was smitten. The movement had caused her shift to tighten across her body, and with the backlight provided by the hearth fire…’ He shook his head and pulled a wry smile. ‘It was as if she was wearing nothing at all. A voice in my head told me not to drink from the cup, that the moment I did I would be lost, but…’

  Despite the gravity of the subject they shared a smirk as Erik formed his father’s thoughts into words before adding a question of his own. ‘Women have more subtle ways than seith to cast their spells over a man. And this king Svasi still lives?’

  Harald nodded. ‘In a region known as Bjarmaland, far to the North, beyond the place where the coast of Finnmark trends to the East.’

  Erik looked away to the West as he thought. Skinfaxi the sun horse had almost done its work for the day and the sky there was the colour of an angry bruise. ‘I will send forth the war arrow in the spring. Bjarmaland will be looking for a new king before the next harvest is gathered.’

  Harald beamed before twisting to beckon forward one of his guardsmen. The man hurried across, passing the king’s own war axe to his lord before retiring back into the shadows. ‘Here,’ Harald said. ‘Accept this blade; carry it always and tell men that it was a gift from Harald Fairhair to his favourite son.’ The king cradled the axe, still smeared with the blood of the sacrificial stallion, and held it forward.

  Erik took it from his hands and studied it with pride. The body of the blade had been chased by smith cunning into a mass of writhing ormr, the black infill which men called niello causing the serpents to leap forth from the blade. He had already witnessed the effectiveness of the hardened steel cutting edge, back at the blóð, and he smiled again as he felt the heft of the weapon and found it to be perfectly weighted. ‘Thank you father,’ he said. ‘I shall treasure it always.’

  ‘If you can,’ the king was saying, ‘try to take that bastard Svasi’s head with it.’

  Erik glanced up from his prize. ‘I shall.’

  Harald laid a hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘I know that you will. That’s why I have gifted it to you of all my sons.’ The sounds of carousing men drifted down to them from the field before the hall, and the king snorted as his mind drifted back to the gatherings of his own youth. But he had found his successor, he was sure of it, and Harald stood and brushed the earth from the seat of his breeks. The mood had grown reverential with the giving of the gift, and the king sought to lighten it again before they retraced their steps and rejoined the throng. ‘You will need a name, one to cower your enemies.’

  Erik looked up. ‘Haraldsson has always worked in the past, father.’

  Harald snorted again. ‘But there are still a dozen or so Haraldssons…’ He thought for a moment and gave a shrug, ‘that come immediately to mind at least. I did say earlier that women were my weakness! You will need a distinctive name, one which men will remember and set you apart.’

  Erik rose, and the shingle crunched beneath their feet as king and under king began to make their way back along the strand. ‘If I throw a name at you, forgetting your own men for the moment,’ Harald said as they walked, ‘what nickname springs into your mind?’

  ‘Bjorn?’

  ‘Ironside.’

  Harald nodded. ‘And Magnus?’

  ‘Barelegs.’

  Their eyes met, and they both saw the amusement there as Erik realised the importance of his father’s lesson. Harald rattled off another few names as they walked, and Erik supplied the answers.

  ‘Ragnar?’

  ‘Shaggy-breeches.’

  ‘Ivor?’

  ‘The Boneless.’

  ‘So what’
s it to be,’ the king said. ‘Which name shall Erik Haraldsson bear as he forges his name as the king of Norse?’

  Erik shrugged. ‘It’s not for me to say father. A man cannot give himself an eke name.’

  ‘That is true,’ Harald conceded with a nod. ‘I daresay that the Jarl in Orkney would have been met with laughter if he had sent word instructing everyone that he wished to be called Skull-splitter.’ Harald glanced down. ‘It will need to strike terror in the hearts and minds of your enemies when I am gone. Something distinctive,’ he mused, ‘something worthy of the Fairhair’s chosen son.’ He pointed at the gift with his chin. ‘How about War-axe?’

  Erik was about to agree, but a look of inspiration lit his father’s features as the last of the day’s light flashed to add a crimson sheen to the bloody blade. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I have it. The next king of Norway will be known as Erikr blóðøx. Erik Bloodaxe.’ Before Erik could answer the king slapped his thigh and beamed as he repeated the name, obviously well pleased with his choice, but it was Harald’s following statement which caused his son to gape like a freshly landed codfish. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘Erik Bloodaxe will do just fine. You will also be pleased to learn that I have arranged for you to marry the daughter of a Dane king, Gorm the Languid, down in Jutland. You are to leave for Jelling to negotiate the dowry and set the date of the betrothal before the winter storms can interfere with the crossing.’

  13

  GUNNHILD

  Harald Gormsson paused, raised his chin to look out beyond the lip of the pool and let out a sigh. ‘It’s certainly a magnificent looking country,’ He shot Erik a look, and the Norwegian snorted as he recognised the twinkle of mischief in the Dane’s eyes. ‘Hard work for farmers though.’

  ‘It’s as well that I am not a tiller of soil then,’ Erik replied. ‘Somehow I doubt that you would have delivered your sister up to her grisly fate if I was.’

  The Dane laughed. ‘I think that you would be the one fated to meet a grisly end if that was the case. My sister has led a charmed life where marriage is concerned, she only dodged a betrothal to a prince of the East Franks because they decided that they would rather attack us instead.’ Harald smirked. ‘I doubt that the two were linked, but you never know! There was talk at one time of her being married off to an Englishman, a thane from Mercia, but the poor man met with an accident while out hunting.’

  It was Erik’s turn to spring a surprise on his guest, and Harald gave a nod of recognition that the man who was destined to become his brother-in-law in a few short hours was not lacking in knowledge of the world beyond his own shores. ‘That would be Hereweald, thane of Tamworth. It’s a funny thing, but Hereweald is the English equivalent of your own name, Harald. I thought that you would have liked him. True,’ he added with a look. ‘The union would have brought the whole of the upper valley of the River Trent firmly under English control, maybe beyond Repton up to the walls of Derby, or even Nottingham itself. Very close to your own estates at Torksey.’

  The Danish king sniggered with delight, and the two men, both under-kings and intended heirs to their father’s wider kingdoms shared a look of mutual satisfaction with the other. If their families were to be joined together in kinship it was always desirable that the two men who would one day head those dynasties liked and respected the other. It was the reason why King Gorm in Jelling had encouraged the two young men to spend so much time together while Erik was in the South the previous autumn. Hunting in the forests and moorlands of Jutland had forged feelings of mutual respect between them, a bond further strengthened by the Viking raid they had undertaken against the lands of Gnupa, son of Olof the Brash, the Swedish warlord who had overrun Danish lands in Scania a decade before. Erik continued with his explanation as the pair idly watched the wakes made by yet another rowing race cream the glassy waters of Karmsund.

  ‘Is it true that Thor himself wades across the strait on his way to visit Yggdrasil each dawn?’

  Erik chuckled. ‘So they say, but if he does I have yet to witness it.’ He cocked a brow. ‘A good attempt, but I am not finished with our conversation about poor Hereweald yet. If I am to marry Gunnhild, I need to know if I will have to sleep with one eye open for the rest of my days!’

  Harald gave a shrug. ‘If a man loses his life during a hunt he has proven himself to be unworthy of marrying into the family of Gorm Hardeknudsson.’

  ‘So, this accident was nothing to do with the man the English call Harald Blue-thane?’

  If Erik had hoped to surprise the Dane with his knowledge of the far off land he was about to be surprised in turn.

  ‘Is that what Oswald told you?’

  Much to the Danish prince’s delight Erik gave Harald a blank look, unable to conceal the fact that he could not place the name. Suddenly he had it, and his face lit up as he recalled the man from the Northumbrian beach. ‘Oswald Thane, archbishop Wulfstan’s linkman!’ He laughed again. ‘No, I have other sources of information. They tell me that the English near the border live in fear of this Harald Blue-thane, the Dark-thane; mothers hush troublesome children with the threat of his coming to carry them off in the night.’

  It was Harald’s turn to laugh at the description, and he gave a shrug of his powerful shoulders as he conceded that it was he. ‘It’s a reputation that I am trying to lose,’ he admitted. ‘Before someone decides to call me Harald Child-bane. Blue-thane is bad enough, by the time that it gets spoken of in the Danish tongue the thane has often become tan, tooth.’ He pulled his lips back into a lupine snarl and spoke through his teeth. ‘Can you see any blue teeth there? I catch just about every man I speak to looking to snatch a glimpse of a blue tooth when I open my mouth to speak.’

  ‘So, what can you tell me about this archbishop?’ Erik asked. ‘You have estates in England.’

  ‘Wulfstan?’ Harald replied with a snort. ‘The archbishop is as wily as a fox and as sharp as a blade.’ He shook his head, but Erik could see the admiration in the Dane’s eyes. ‘For a Christian to cling on to power and even prosper in that madhouse of a kingdom must be like holding a wolf by the tail; let go and you will end your days in a whirl of gnashing teeth and slashing claws. Northumbria is a hotchpotch of people: English; Norse; Dane. Even Irish and Scots. But the thing to remember is they fall into two factions. The landowners headed by Wulfstan the kingmaker want above all else to keep the country independent of the southern English. The traders based in York don’t care who calls themselves king so long as they make a tidy profit from their dealings. They want York to be the centre of a trading hub which runs from Dublin in the West to the North lands, Christendom and beyond. What’s more they are the ones who bring prosperity to the good folk of York; they spend more silver in the town because their wealth is more easily spent and not tied up in land and hall. They tend to have the support of the townsfolk in any showdown and they are not afraid to use that power. Take my advice,’ Harald said earnestly. ‘Keep away from Northumbria, they have grave fields full of kings.’

  Erik looked back across the strait. The ships had finished the final race and were heading in as the sun hung low in the western sky; the guests would be itching to get started with the wedding feast after a full week of games, trials and events. ‘It is time to head back I think, before this waterhole develops a crust of ice. If we spend much longer here they will be calling you Harald blue-prick,’ he said, flicking a look at the knot of guardsmen nearby. Danes and Norwegian, Erik was pleased to see that the men were beginning to mingle at last. Traditional enemies it was understandable of course, but if the upcoming kinship between the houses of Hardeknudsson and Fairhair was to work at all the men would need to lay their prejudices aside. The kings hauled themselves back onto the grass, shaking the icy water from their hair and bodies like hounds caught in a downpour. Erik looked across as they began to dress. ‘Come north with me next summer, we can campaign together. There is nothing like warfare to forge a bond between fighting men, it will stand us in good stead when we are full kings.’<
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  Harald snorted. ‘That sounds like a fine thing, but the truth is that I cannot afford to go on adventures. We are fighting the Swedes in the East and Henry the Fowler and his Saxons in the South. Add to that the chances that this new king in England will overrun our remaining settlements there and we will be faced with powerful men returning home with their followers.’ He gave a shrug, and Erik saw the concern in Harald’s face for the first time. It was clear that the Danes needed this alliance more than they did themselves, and he stashed the thought away for future use. The lands which owed his father allegiance stopped at the Gota River; maybe that could be pushed further south? The problem was the number of half brothers his father had sired over the course of his lengthy lifetime. It was true that a few were already dead, but the surly demeanour of those who had attended the wedding feast told of their dislike for the close relationship which had developed between Erik and their father. Erik’s sworn enemy, Sigurd Jarl up in Lade, had sent his apologies; the coastal districts were under attack from Vikings and he would be failing in his duty to the king if he were to abandon the rich lands at such a critical time. To be truthful he was relieved that the man had stayed away, but he had doubled the number of his bodyguards as it became clear that time had still not dulled the jarl’s thirst for vengeance.

  Erik clapped Harald on the shoulder as they walked. The shadows were stretching before them now as the sun sank in a brawl of reds. ‘This English King Athelstan has my youngest half-brother at foster, a brat called Hakon. We have common cause, Harald. Maybe we can teach him a lesson?’ Erik looked at him with a gleam in his eye. ‘Erik Bloodaxe and Harald Blue-prick, carrying fire and sword to the over proud English.’

  Harald laughed as the comment lightened the mood as it had been intended to do. ‘Maybe Bluetooth is not so bad after all!’