by C. R. May
The guards fell in behind them as they scaled a low rise and the halls came into view. People stopped to look, conversations fell away as they came, and it was obvious that all were eager for the night’s carousing to begin in earnest as the Norwegian spoke again. ‘Erik Bloodaxe and Harald Bluetooth it is then; names that will resonate down the centuries.’
‘So did the folk of Geatland, his hearth companions,
mourn for the lord who had been laid low.
They said that of all the kings upon Midgard
he was the most open-handed and beloved,
gracious to his people and keenest for fame.’
A long drawn-out silence fell upon the hall as the recital reached its conclusion, the speaker taking up the proffered ale horn with a grateful nod to quench his thirst. King Harald Fairhair was the first to react, reaching forward to beat the tabletop with a ham like fist. Slowly at first the beating was joined by others, faster and faster, until the rafters of the hall shook with the sound.
As the thunderous boom made by hundreds of fists began to subside, Fairhair, king of the Norse, raised himself from the high chair and swept the hall with his gaze. Within moments the air was still, and men turned their faces to the king and waited to hear his words.
‘King Harald Gormsson you honour not only this occasion, but your father and the Danish people with your skill at word play.’ Erik and Gunnhild, the groom and bride, were sat to either side of the great king, and Harald placed a hand on each before continuing with his praise. ‘My heart soars that I have lived long enough to witness the joining of our clans in the form of these fine young people. Tell me,’ he said, ‘where you first heard such a tale. It is new to us here and believe me,’ he said as he cast a cheery eye along the benches packed with warriors, ‘when you reach my age it is a notable day in itself when you discover something that is new.’
Harald Bluetooth bowed his head in recognition of the praise as a rumble of laughter at the high king’s words rolled around the benches. ‘It is a tale I first heard when I was little more than a lad growing up in Britain, from an English skald lord. It comes from a kingdom they still call East Anglia, although the last of their native English kings fell fighting against my countrymen around the time that a mighty king was driving the last of his enemies from these lands at a place called Hafrsfjord.’
It was the turn of the Norwegian king to acknowledge praise with a dip of his head, and the walls of the hall echoed once again to the staccato beat of pumping fists and booming voices as the spearmen acclaimed their venerable lord. ‘And this Beowulf,’ he replied. ‘He was a king of Geats, down by the River Gota?’
‘Legend has it he was the last and greatest of their kings, but many still believe that he was none other than Oðin himself in the guise of a man.’
King Harald raised a brow, and the Dane explained. ‘The Angles and Saxons have long been Christians lord, but they still hold their ancestors in high esteem. Even the pious West Saxons are at pains to trace the ancestry of their kings back to the Allfather.’
Fairhair nodded, satisfied that the true gods still clung to a place of honour, even at the heart of the lands claimed by the Christ. Many merchants he knew had already prime signed, a half conversion which allowed them to trade in Christian lands, and he had received embassies from the Saxons both in Britain and Germany promising great rewards in return for allowing Christian priests to preach in his own kingdom. He had allowed them free rein and reaped the rewards. As long as men paid their taxes and answered the war arrow it was of little consequence; every free man belonged bodily to the king, his soul was his own. ‘Well,’ the king beamed, ‘that was a tale fit to end the evening.’ He rubbed his hands with glee as he ran his eyes across the treasures piled high in the centre of the hall. ‘Harald has delivered the dowry and Erik has added the bride price.’ He smiled again. ‘And a goodly amount it is.’ He raised his voice to carry as men hastily charged their cups. ‘Have we all eaten well?’
‘Yes!’
‘Have we drunk our fill?’
‘No!’ came the answering cry, and although the reply was expected thunderous laughter still filled the hall as the men pummelled the tables again.
‘Well,’ the king smiled, ‘that can be rectified shortly. But for now it is time to invite the goddess into our company.’ The hall fell silent once again as the culmination of the weeklong festivities reached its conclusion. Harald took up a large silver hammer, the head a gleaming knotwork of interlaced serpents inlaid with gold. Turning to face the couple he led those in the hall as they chanted the words which would invite the goddess of oaths and the thunder god to witness the union :
‘Bring in the hammer
to hallow the bride;
On the maiden’s knees
let Mjollnir lie,
That both the hand
of Var may bless.’
Harald moved forward to place the hammer onto Gunnhild’s lap, looping the handfasting ribbon around their wrists as they exchanged their vows. The oath taken he turned back to the room with a grin. ‘Is that it then?’
An answering cry and a smattering of ribald suggestions assured him that there was still one important ritual which remained to be completed. The king looked nonplussed and the guests lining the women’s benches covered their faces with their hands to hide their bashfulness, but their shoulders shook to betray their mirth as he held his hands wide and replied. ‘Well, she will soon have that on the move, what with all the poking and prodding she is about to get down there.’
Erik sought out the figure of Gytha among the women at the far end of the hall as the king entertained them. Their eyes met, and they exchanged a look which told them that they were both feeling the passing of the years as Erik’s mind drifted back to recall a few of their adventures together as children. At that time he had naively hoped that she would be the one bound to him by the wrist, but both of them had known all along that he was too important to marry the daughter of a hersir, even one as highly thought of as his foster-father. Thorir was swapping a comment with his son only a few feet from his side, both men laughing at the king’s jesting, and Erik gave a snort as Arinbjorn shot him a smile and a wink. Gytha was long married herself now, to a son of the jarl of Moerr; it was a happy union by all accounts and he found that he was joyful for it.
King Harald was still holding the room in thrall with his descriptions of the ongoing nuptials, and Erik’s mind came back as he listened in again. A huskarl called out from a side bench, and the hall looked on gleefully as the king leaned in, poked a finger into his ear and gave it a good waggle. Removing it he gave the tip a look, screwed up his face in disgust and wiped the finger against the side of his breeks as he cocked an ear and replied. ‘What?’
The spearman stood and jerked his hips back and forth as his friends egged him on, and the king’s face broke into a mask of understanding as those in the hall laughed again. ‘Consummation! I thought that you all said constipation! Harald allowed the sentence to peter out as the laughter redoubled, and Erik gave Gunnhild’s hand a squeeze of sympathy as he felt her squirm at his side. ‘Well, come on then,’ King Harald was saying, ‘bring the broom forward.’ He held up his cup, upending the empty vessel and throwing the room a look of disappointment. ‘The quicker we can get the whole thing over, the quicker we can return to the important business.’
Thorir hersir had been given the honour of sharing the duty with Gunnhild’s brother, and the pair held the broom low as the newlyweds took the bride leap. Brands were being raised all along the hall, and Thorir and Harald Bluetooth flanked the couple as they made their way between ranks of raised drinking horns.
Soon they were through the big doors, putting the noise and reek of a thousand bodies behind them as the cool night air pecked at their cheeks. Erik’s hall lay alongside that of his father, a clear statement to all of his preferred status among the sons of Fairhair, and the coiled and twisting forms of beasts and heroes which adorned the doorposts
came alive as they approached beneath a serpent of flame. The night sky was a vault of stars as Erik bent to sweep his bride into his arms, and Gunnhild moved her own arms to his neck for the first time as Erik stepped across the threshold.
A solitary hearth blazed along the centreline, and Erik carried Gunnhild beyond it and laid her down upon the bed which had been moved into the centre of the room for that auspicious night. The pair quickly undressed and slipped beneath the bearskin as the witnesses ringed them with flame. Soon the final act of marriage was completed, and Gunnhild arched her back as Thorir and her brother slid the bottom sheet from beneath her. Satisfied that they had witnessed the moment that Erik and Gunnhild had become one, the men began to troop from the hall; there the sheet would be passed from bench to bench so that all could bear witness that the husband had taken his wife’s maidenhead.
Erik began to move aside as the shadows returned, but to his surprise Gunnhild’s calves coiled around his waist to hold him in place. ‘The women who care for me tell me that tonight is fortuitous.’ She teased his beard with a hand as the other floated across his groin. ‘We have the whole night ahead of us, Erik,’ she breathed, ‘to get me with child before the sun returns.’
14
MOSKSTRAUMEN
Kolbein glanced across as he eased the steering oar amidships. ‘It is up to you of course, lord, what with you being the king of Halogaland and all. I did say that I would show you it if we were ever in the area, that first day after you had shot the gap in the old Isbjorn.’
Erik thought for a moment, but his face creased into a smile as the memory hardened from the mists of time. ‘Of course!’ He gave a chuckle. ‘Our first day together when we were running south to escape the retribution of Sigurd Jarl.’ He chewed at his lip as he thought. ‘That was…what…’
Kolbein had the answer ready. ‘Twenty years ago now, when we were on our way to our first raid together, the big monastery in Brittany.’
Erik nodded. ‘Landevennec; and you told me that if we were ever in the Lofotens you would take me to see the great whirlpool of Moskstraumen. That settles it. What kind of king would I be if I had never set eyes upon such a wondrous thing in my own land, the gateway to Ægir’s seabed hall?’
Erik raised the horn to his lips and blew a long note. As the styrismen on the other ships in his fleet turned their faces his way he exchanged a grin with his foster-brother on the steering platform of the Sea Stallion to starboard.
Erik was king of Fjordane now of course, and his old foster-father Thorir hersir collected the skat owed to both Erik and King Harald in their halls down in Rogaland. It had been a moment of great pride when he had rounded the old familiar headland, and the hall which held so many fond memories of childhood hove into view on its ledge of land overlooking Naustdal. His own father the king had gifted him a magnificent drekkar before they had left his hall to come north, and Erik’s eyes wandered to the dragon headed prow as the ships began the turn. Named Draki after the very first dragon ship which had carried his father to victory at Hafrsfjord, only the more elaborate decoration set Erik’s new ship apart from Arinbjorn’s Sea Stallion, the other skei in the fleet, but it was enough to show the new realities of their social standing. The men of Romsdal too had answered the war arrow, and Erik lifted his gaze to watch as the snekkja Falki, the Falcon, bucked and rolled in the swell as she too came on to the heading. Soon they would be joined by a final ship as the men of Halogaland met their obligations to their king, and they would begin to steer a course for Bjarmaland and war.
‘How far is this place then?’
Kolbein turned back and squinted into the sun as he gauged their position. The land was little more than a broken line on the eastern horizon as the fleet had taken advantage of the benevolent weather conditions to move offshore. With the increased sea room available the ships had fanned out into a loose gaggle, and the crews had ridden the deep ocean rollers like horsemen at the gallop as they ploughed their way north. Kolbein had finished his calculations, and he centred the tiller as he replied. ‘It’s still early in the summer and the sun is still low on the horizon, but we are close to noon and I am certain we are drawing near. Those lands which you can just make out to north-west will be the southern tip of the Lofotens. We should reach them long before dusk, even at this speed.’
Erik laughed. ‘Well, that’s good news at least. I would rather not arrive there after dark!’
‘It would make no difference if you did, lord. The Moskstraumen only appears twice a day, you’d sail over it and just think that it was a tricky current at any other time.’
‘We had best get a move on then,’ Erik replied. ‘I would hate to miss my chance to knock on the sea god’s door.’
Skipper Alf had edged across in the Fjord-Ulf, and Erik suppressed a smile when he saw the enquiring look on his old friend’s face as he gripped the stern post and peered across. Despite the fact that the years spent under the tutelage of Alf and the other styrismen had honed Erik’s seafaring skills to the point where he had very little to learn from any man who travelled the whale road, he still valued the old seaman’s advice. Alf, if not quite of his own father’s generation was not far off it, and Erik was astute enough to recognise the need in the man. Although still a skipper of reputation, Alf’s usefulness was ebbing away as younger, more vigorous men learned his trade. Erik knew that it must be a difficult thing for a proud man to accept and always ensured that he gave his advice and council the attention it deserved. He cupped a hand to his mouth and called across the waves. ‘We are going to the Moskstraumen.’
Even at a distance Erik could see the roll of the eyes as Alf reacted to the news, and he snorted at the old man’s world weariness. He called out again. ‘We will race you there old friend.’
Alf ran his eyes along the sleek hull of the Draki, and then back to his own ship. He turned back and pulled a face. ‘Some race,’ he called across the gap. ‘Me and my lads in this old tub, and you in a dragon ship.’
‘I will shorten the sail to give you a chance,’ Erik called back.
The men on both ships were listening in and Erik could see the desire on their faces. With one eye on the crews lining both wale’s he upped the stakes. ‘There is a barrel of ale for the winning crew.’
The men on the Fjord-Ulf gave a cheer, and Erik could hear the cries for acceptance come from the little snekkja even as his own men stood-to. Alf’s face broke into a soppy grin as he saw that he had little choice but to accept, and Erik called the order as the men flew to the sheets. ‘Double reef the sail lads and lower the yard, halfway will do.’ He shot them all a grin. ‘Let’s work up a thirst.’
Alf called across as the crews got to work. ‘Kolbein! We had best make the finishing line the first to pass the southern tip of Vaeroy!’
They shared a grin before Alf turned away, and Erik’s styrisman explained. ‘The Moskstraumen occurs in the strait between the northern shore of the island and Lofoten Point to the North.’ He gave a snort. ‘Go north of Vaeroy at the wrong time of day and we may end the day swimming with the fishes. We have no local pilot until the ship from Halogaland joins up with us.’
Thorstein skipped up onto the steering platform, and within moments he and Erik were working the handle of the halyard. As the yard clattered down on the rakke bracket Erik threw a look outboard, watching as the crew of the Fjord-Ulf worked the braces, angling the spar as they hunted the wind. As the way came off the bigger ship the little snekkja bounded forward, and within a heartbeat ribald cries were crisscrossing the waves as the ships drew apart.
Despite the efforts of the wind and waves to drown them out, catcalls and laughter carried to Erik’s ears as the other ships in the fleet got wind of the contest and threw their support behind the smaller vessel. The Draki settled down as the crewmen manning the sheets sought the wind, and the long lithe skei began to live up to her name as she slipped through the waves like a knife.
Erik raised his chin and looked out past the upswe
ep of the bows as Kolbein worked the steer board at his side. Alf’s ship was a couple of lengths ahead, but the gap was already closing inch by inch as the slimmer hull of the Draki creamed the surface. The snekkjur was left astern as the pair pounded on and, raising his eyes further, Erik was surprised to see that the island chain was already beginning to grow distinct from the haze.
The Sea Stallion bounded past on the starboard beam, its sail full and taut, straining against the sealskin ropes which held it in place as Arinbjorn threw them a mocking wave. A voice came at his elbow, and Erik snorted as he turned to see the look on his styrisman’s face. ‘This is the hardest thing I have ever done, Erik,’ Kolbein said with a grimace. ‘Only being able to use half the sail in a race. I feel about as much use as a one legged man in an arse kicking contest.’
‘Just hold your station here,’ he replied with a wink. ‘Alf and the rest think that they have the better of us, but I have an idea which should wipe the smirks from their faces and win us that ale.’ The wind was blowing steadily from the Southwest, and Erik flicked a look outboard as the island of Vaeroy began to fill the view ahead. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘It will be easier and quicker if I take the tiller than explain what I want to do. Besides,’ he said with a wink, ‘it will give you a better chance of watching the smile of victory drop from the faces of Alf and his lads.’
Erik slipped into Kolbein’s place, and he braced his foot against the sheer strake as he waited for the moment. The Fjord-Ulf began to move across his line of sight, edging to starboard as it gave the outlying islands in the archipelago a wide berth, and Erik worked the steering oar with a deft hand as he shadowed the little snekkja’s movements. Clustered along the centre line where they would have a greater stabilising effect on the long, lean craft, the crew of the Draki had grown quiet as the Fjord-Ulf held its lead, but the time had come for Erik to make his move and with a flick of the wrist he slotted into position broad on the larboard quarter of his opponent. A gap had opened up between the Fjord-Ulf and the first of the rocky outcrops which marked the beginning of the Lofotens, and Kolbein shot his king a look of concern. White water ahead showed the presence of underwater hazards, razor sharp rocks which would rip the bottom out of the drekkar in a heartbeat, despite its shallow draught.