The Day of the Wolf

by C. R. May

  THE DAY OF THE WOLF

  ERIK HARALDSSON

  C. R. MAY

  Copyright

  This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it, while at times based on real figures, are purely the work of the author’s imagination.

  It is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the writer’s prior consent, electronically or in any form of binding or cover other than the form in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Replication or distribution of any part is strictly prohibited without the written permission of the copyright holder.

  Copyright © 2020 C.R.May

  ISBN 978-1-9996695-3-9

  All rights reserved.

  In Memory of Thomas William May

  Glossary

  Brynja - A mail shirt.

  Drekkar - A large warship similar to a skei but heavily ornamented. A dragon ship.

  Ealdorman - A high ranking royal official holding civil and military duties directly from the king. The English equivalent to the northern earl or Scandinavian jarl.

  Gesith - An English rank similar to the Scandinavian huskarl.

  Hird - The armed retinue of a Scandinavian warlord or king.

  Huskarl - House-man. A bodyguard or retainer to a powerful chieftain, jarl or king.

  Jarl/Earl - A regional lord responsible for administrating a province on behalf of the king for whom he collected taxes, duties and owed military service.

  Knarr - An ocean-going cargo ship.

  Skat - Tax, tribute.

  Skjald-borg - Shield-fort.

  Skei - ‘that which cuts through water.’ A large sleek warship mounting thirty oars and above.

  Snekkja - ‘thin and projecting.’ A small warship mounting twenty to thirty oars.

  Styrisman - The helmsman on a ship.

  Svinfylking - Swine or Boar-snout: a wedge shaped attacking formation used in battle.

  Thane - A minor nobleman in Anglo-Saxon England.

  Úlfheðnar - A wolf-hide warrior, similar to the more widely known berserk or bear-shirt.

  Contents

  I. THUNDERBOLT

  1. Bardolfsby

  2. Return to York

  3. Beasts of Oðinn

  4. Hreyrr Camp

  5. Vísundr

  6. Red Beard

  7. Flank Attack

  8. Maccus the Easterner

  9. A Corpse is no use to Anyone

  10. Bone-Fires

  11. Viking

  II. KING OF THE NORTH

  12. Vigil

  13. A Wish Fulfilled

  14. Alba Aflame

  15. Skulissons

  16. The Fox is Flushed

  17. Dun Foither

  18. Spears and Shields

  19. A King at Bay

  III. OÐINN´S WOLF SMILE

  20. Old Bones

  21. Mornings

  22. Hangi

  23. Cenwulf Thane

  24. Svinfylking

  25. Treachery

  26. Today is full of Surprises

  27. Eriksmál

  Afterword

  Characters

  Places/Locations

  About the Author

  Also by C. R. MAY

  Spear Havoc

  Sorrow Hill

  Wræcca

  Monsters

  Dayraven

  Fire and Steel

  Gods of War

  The Scathing

  Terror Gallicus

  Nemesis

  Bloodaxe

  The Raven and the Cross

  Part I

  THUNDERBOLT

  1

  Bardolfsby

  Wessex

  Spring 952

  ‘The sunshine is pleasant.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘And the fields are nice.’

  ‘Yes, they are very nice fields.’

  The pair, archbishop and king, returned their gaze to the road ahead as the awkward silence returned. Of all the things Wulfstan had done to safeguard the independence of his homeland during his long and dutiful life, the long ride south with Olaf Cuaran must rank up there with the most disagreeable. Most folk in the kingdom of York were aware that the two leading men had little time for one another. It was an open secret that the prelate had come close to delivering up the nape of Olaf’s neck to Erik Haraldsson’s axe blade only four years before, when the Church of St Wilfrid had burned and king Eadred’s armies had harried the land. Now they were on the final leg of their journey, summoned to appear before the southern king; only Wulfstan among the riders knew the instruction to be a ruse.

  The archbishop’s gaze took in the rolling hills as they rode. Lambs gambolled beneath a sky rend by swifts and swallows: in the middle distance shirtsleeved rustics broke off from their labours to gawp. The Northumbrian closed his eyes, savouring the scent of the hedgerow — bluebells and lady’s smock — but as the sun warmed his old bones and he began to doze, the idyl was shattered as an exclamation from the man at his side cut the air. Wulfstan’s lids flickered, his eyes following the dusty track until they picked out a knot of horsemen resting in the dappled shade of a hornbeam. Olaf exchanged a smile with his leading huskarls as the West Saxons urged their mounts into a trot. ‘I was beginning to wonder,’ he said, as the guards’ hands went instinctively to the handles of their swords. ‘Whether this kingdom contained any men who knew something of the world beyond the crest of the nearest hill.’

  It was obvious even from distance that the Englishmen were men of importance, very likely the local thane and his hearth companions by the fineness of their appearance and the quality of their mounts, and the archbishop began to relax as Olaf’s outriders moved to intercept what must be an escort sent to usher them before the king. Wulfstan watched them go, allowing himself a smile as he came to accept he had done all he could to delay the meeting between the two men.

  The ride to Winchester had taken the best part of a week. Knowing what was to follow Wulfstan had told king Olaf that he was leaving his own armed retinue back at York. Made wary by a lifetime spent dodging enemies and assassins, the king had reacted to the news by increasing the number of his own guards for the long ride south. A hundred of Olaf Cuaran’s finest troops, his heavily armed huskarls, had accompanied the two leaders down Ermine Street, denuding the garrison at York of the majority of its experienced fighters and leaders. Told by the Winchester ealdorman that king Eadred was at his estate in Wantage, Wulfstan had spent a very agreeable night as an honoured guest at the bishop’s palace while Olaf and his men had attempted to drink the burh dry in time honoured fashion. Now, two days later, it would seem they were finally drawing near to their goal.

  Despite the furore which would undoubtably follow when his scheming was laid bare, Wulfstan was confident he could weather the storm. He had done so many times before he reflected as the horsemen came together on the road up ahead, and the old archbishop allowed himself a gentle snort of amusement as he pictured the faces of the men riding in column to his rear when they came to realise the truth. Betrayed and angry or not, what could they do to a man of his eminence in a most Christian land? String him up? Lock him away?

  With the identity of the powerful force come into the shire confirmed and reassured of their peaceful intent, the young West Saxon and his gesith were soon up with them. The Northumbrian cast them a flinty glare. These were men who would have been party to the harrowing only a few short years before; but the meeting was cordial, no doubt the archbishop reflected with a barely concealed scowl, due to the fact that Cuaran was king Eadred’s lackey. To
ld that the royal estate stood at the head of the adjoining valley Olaf increased the pace, but as Norse thoughts turned to ale and feasting, Wulfstan’s own were far closer to home.

  Bardolfsby - twelve miles from York

  Shouts and cries drifted downfield, but Erik paid them no heed. The day was going just as he had planned. ‘They may look the part,’ he cried as he paced the sward, ‘but put yourself in their place. Last night they hit the straw as happy as a dog with two cocks.’ He bared his teeth in a grin as the morning air filled with laughter. ‘Olaf Cuaran, the lord who had their oath had gone south and taken his meanest, toughest warriors along for the ride. The men who always got the girl: the cosiest spot next to the hearth; the choicest cut; finest ale. For the next month or more they were to be the best source of silver in York.’ He shrugged, and the rumble of laughter began again as he added with a smirk. ‘Two cocks or not, a girl’s got to eat.’

  Erik threw a glance across his shoulder. The last spearmen were spilling from the place where the road to York exited the tree line, the leaders who had survived the horrors of the night pushing and shoving the laggards into line as they came face to face with the army of Erik Bloodaxe. Erik looked back as he continued. ‘Then suddenly all was chaos. Shouts and screams in the night — the clash of steel on steel — a moment of befuddlement until their minds caught up with their senses and they knew. The bastards in York had turned on them again — it was to be every man for himself. Strange flags on the walls: the town has fallen. Grab what you can and look for your mates, get yourself into the largest group you can and force a passage down to the river.’ Erik’s voice rose in pitch as the men hung on his every word. They may be in the ascendant now, but the tidal flow of shifting loyalties and alliances in the lands of the Norse meant there were very few who had not experienced a gut-wrenching moment of betrayal.

  ‘The ships were gone or tied up tantalisingly close on the far bank of the Ouse,’ Erik continued, ‘but the larger warships, Olaf’s sleek dracca and skei were downriver at Riccall, and they clung to the hope as they jogged the eight miles and the first blush of dawn lit the eastern sky that the ship guard was still in place.’ Erik smiled his war smile and gave a shrug as the faces behind the gaily coloured shields turned as one to a nearby copse. ‘They were half right,’ he said, ‘the guards were there — mostly hanging from tree branches or bleeding out into the soil, the ships gone south with their captors: axe Norse; spear Danes; shipmen of the Sudreys and Orkneys.’ Erik flicked a look at the enemy and back again. ‘So now they are come to a field of death. All that remains is to fight their way through us, overtake the ships and sail away.’ King Erik threw them all a final look as the earlier humour fled. ‘We have been through the plan, and every man among us knows his part. Now, let us do what little needs to be done and break our fast in York.’

  The army buzzed with anticipation as Erik made his way to the centre, setting up a steady rhythm as spear shafts beat against shields and the braying of war horns filled the air. The skjald-borg opened up to admit their king, and within a few paces the men of Erik’s guard were closing around him as Sturla Godi hoist the bloodied axe banner of Erik Haraldsson and proudly took up position to his lord’s rear. A hundred yards to the north, the enemy were beginning to cross the field where a meander in the River Ouse pinned the road against the woodland edge. The early morning sun reflected dully from helm and spear point as they came, and Erik ran his eyes along his own battle line for a final time as the distance between the armies shrank.

  Thorstein was at the king’s side, and the huskarl spoke as the first javelins flew. ‘Do you think they will do what we want?’

  Erik nodded. ‘Even if they miss the fact that the line is weaker next to the river, the buildings on the terrace and the lie of the land will channel them that way. There would be little point breaking our line only to get held up again fighting among the huts and alleyways to our rear — they want to take ship and be away. They have just escaped a massacre and run for miles wearing what arms and armour they could snatch up in the confusion, they are tired and dispirited, without their usual leaders and desperate to escape. You will see,’ he said with a look, ‘as soon as our line begins to curl back on itself and they think they are making progress their fears will get the better of them, any semblance of order will vanish like morning mist and they will become a rabble.’

  On the field ahead Cuaran’s fugitives were breaking into a run as Erik’s fighters braced to receive the charge. Even disorganised and taken by surprise, these were men who had honed their fighting skills among the highlands and islands of northern Britain and Ireland, lands which rarely knew a time of peace. They were dangerous men made more-so by their desperation, and any chatter petered out as spears were couched, axes raised and the defenders prepared to fight. Moments later the lines crashed together with a sound like summer thunder, and Erik looked on in satisfaction as the men arrayed before him took a backwards step before throwing their shoulders into the boards and springing forward to regain their former position.

  Erik ran his eyes over the faces of the attackers as spears began to saw back and forth, the closest little more than a dozen paces before him now. If the spittle-flecked snarls told the story of their wretchedness it was obvious to the experienced defenders that the runaways from York were lacking leadership, each man or small knot of friends throwing themselves forward onto the Haraldsson shield wall in an uncoordinated frenzy. Satisfied there appeared little chance of a breakthrough Erik let his gaze wander down to the riverside, and his spirits leapt as it became obvious that the carefully worked battle plan was developing as he had hoped. Helgrim Smiter had followed Erik’s gaze, and he drew a smile from the old king’s son as he repeated a saying of Harald Fairhair. ‘First win the battle,’ he said proudly. ‘And then fight it.’

  The pair were not the only ones to notice that the defending shield wall at the water’s edge was beginning to curve back upon itself, as the full weight of the attack hit home. As he had hoped, men eager for a quick victory had taken the route which had offered the best chance of escape, the slope of the land adding impetus to the charge. Already the spearmen immediately to their front had seen what looked like the breakout they desperately needed if they were to survive the day, and Erik felt the pressure ease on the fighters before him as the enemy peeled off and rushed away downslope to exploit the breach. He nodded as the trickle became a flood and the break widened. ‘You were right,’ he said, ‘my father knew a thing or two about fighting wars. A good battle plan is worth an extra ship’s company or more in the clash of shields.’ Erik glanced towards his bodyguard as men roared and steel clashed at the riverside. ‘And enough about men to pluck a young lad from the hird, and make him the youngest huskarl in Avaldsnes.’

  Helgrim flashed a proud smile as they watched the enemy stream away. ‘That happened longer ago than I care to recall, lord. But I was as proud to give my oath to your father as I have been to serve you all these years.’

  The riverfront had opened up now as the Haraldsson line curled back upon itself, and Cuaran’s remaining men were stampeding southwards along the bank as the hope they may yet escape the carnage of the day drove every other thought from their minds. Erik glanced at Sturla Godi as they went. ‘All set?’ The banner man spat to clear his mouth as the battle horn came up, filling his lungs as he fixed his eyes upon the king. The moment Erik’s head dipped the horn spoke, the yip-yip-yip rolling across the meadow as the furore made by the escaping men followed them south. Immediately the battle line turned, the spears and shields pivoting to follow the backs of the fleeing enemy as the trap slammed shut. Erik raised his chin to peer southwards; already the furthest fugitives were drawing to a halt, the realisation that they had been out-thought obvious even from a distance as the men desperately began to reorder themselves into some semblance of a battle line. Sturla’s horn sounded again as the swimmers among the fugitives tossed weapons and armour aside, throwing themselves into the flood in
their frenzied efforts to escape death or enslavement.

  A nod from Erik and the war banner circled above them before dipping to the West. Seeing the signal Erik’s crewmen whirled about the king’s position, rushing across to anchor the eastern flank against the halls, outbuildings and paling that were the settlement of Bardolfsby. With the enemy herded together on the sloping ground before them, Erik took the opportunity to peer across their heads to what Cuaran’s men now knew was the main defensive line on the far side of the village, out where the open space narrowed as a woodland spur forced the roadway almost down to the water’s edge. Packed shoulder to shoulder ten men deep, Erik’s sons and their crewmen were an impenetrable wall of razor sharp steel and gaudy shields, the flags of the brothers: Gamli; Harald; Guttorm and Sigurd — even young Ragnfrod taking his place in the battle line for the first time wooding the air above them. Erik held his position on a gentle rise surrounded by the men of his hird, while the jarl brothers Erland and Arnkel Torf-Einarsson led the men of Orkney down to help seal the trap.