by C. R. May
Erik returned to the riverbank, stalking across to the centre of the line without a backwards glance as he regained his rightful place beneath the sigil battle flag. Across the River Tine Gamli and Guttorm had fought their way to the bank, and large numbers of those Scots still trapped near the bridge were throwing themselves into the waters as the perimeter shrank by the moment in the forlorn hope of reaching the horses and safety. Erik looked along the line, and as weapons were made ready to stab and slash he pulled a savage grin and called the advance to the riverside.
Thorstein stood at the head of the men, beaming as Erik and the rest of his shipmates approached the bridge. Erik replied in kind as he came up, clapping his old friend on the shoulder as his eyes went to the point of the bloodied spear blade and back again. ‘How was it?’
‘Tougher than I expected,’ the big huskarl admitted as the rest of the men began to mingle with the others of their hird. ‘They fought well when they got the chance, but they were never going to force a passage through nigh on a hundred Norse spearmen on such a narrow front.’ He cast a look across to the place where the men of Orkney stood in groups: jubilant and flushed with success. ‘Arnkel rotated the front rank every time the Scots regrouped for another attempt at forcing a way through. We continually had fresh men in the shield wall, the going got harder and harder for them with every attack.’
Erik shared a grin and a nod of recognition with Arnkel nearby; Erland came across, and the Torf-Einarsson brothers shared a hug at surviving another fight as they began to swap stories of the day. Erik plucked at Thorstein’s sleeve. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘show me.’ Erik’s bodyguard slipped into his wake as the pair made their way to the twin columns which marked the entrance to the bridge itself. The Draki men and the crew of the Iron Beard were beginning to gravitate towards their leaders now that the fighting was over, and the way ahead cleared as they walked and men drifted away.
Erik let out a low whistle as the last Orcadians parted to reveal the old Roman highway running up to the crossing place. ‘Desperate men do desperate things,’ Thorstein responded as they reached the bridge. Erik placed the sole of his boot on the upper line of the rampart of bloodied torsos and gave a firm push, but the wall of death remained firmly in place.
‘Have you tallied up?’
‘Only a rough one,’ Thorstein replied. ‘This close to the river the flies and midges are never far away at the best of times.’ He swept a hand across the devastation before them: ‘and with all this…’
As Thorstein’s words were snatched up to drift away on the breeze, Erik raised his eyes to peer beyond the span to the southern bank. A shaft of sunlight broke through to bathe the battlefield in its soft glow, the air abuzz as the warmth of the morning and the ferric tang of blood drew the first scavengers to the scene on tiny wings. Erik nodded. He had meant to camp for the day on the field of victory, to hold the field of slaughter as the skalds would have it. But reality, of being there and witnessing such a thing with your own eyes, the sour stench of gutted men, the limbs, the severed heads and blood by the barrel load, could sometimes plumb depths unattainable by even the most honeyed tongue and today was such a day. He would have the prisoners clear the bridge, reunite the army of York and camp on the rising ground to the south while men tended wounds, drank to forget the sights and deeds of the day or slept off the exhaustion of the fight and early morning march.
Erik paused in the saddle, savouring what men were already calling his greatest victory as the last groups made their way across to the road. The field was clear of bodies now that folk from nearby Corebricg had traded the contents of their stomach for their new king’s silver, labouring to build the bone-fires they hoped would keep death and disease from their doors. Bloodaxe ran his eyes along the road as he waited, satisfied that his idea was sound. The smoke was gossamer thin now that the flames had all but completed their work, with just the incandescence at the base of the plume showing where eyes had burst from sockets, body fats run in rivulets and skulls split in the scorching heat. Soon only mounds of bone, waist high to a footsore traveller, would remain alongside the iron grey setts of Dere Street to mark the place where Mael Colm’s great invading army had met its match.
But it was not the charnel heaps which had excited his senses that morning, but the idea which had presented itself in the night. Shorn of his army the king of Alba had fled back to what he assumed would be the safety of his own land. But the harvest was barely in, the weather set fair for a month or two yet, enough time he mused for a follow-up strike at the wolf’s lair itself.
It was time to move, and Erik’s lips tightened into a warlike smile as dreams of retribution filled his thoughts. He raised his spear, signalling the march; Sturla Godi’s horn sang; the tramp of leather booted feet resounded as the army of York began the long march homeward. The king of Scots had thought to drive him from his kingdom, to harry his land and enslave his folk; but Erik Haraldsson was no Olaf Cuaran nor mere earl in Bebbanburh but a son of Fairhair — there was a reckoning to be had, and sooner than they thought possible.
11
Viking
Kolbein sucked his teeth, shading his eyes from the glare of the sun. ‘The ships furthest to larboard were a bit close to the shoals that time,’ he said with a frown. ‘I think that should be our last tack, Erik.’
Erik nodded, gesturing to Sturla that he join the pair on the steering platform as he dropped back to the deck. ‘Signal the ships — we are going to shorten sail and run out the oars.’ He cast a look back at the southern shoreline of the Firth as the sound of the war horn drifted over the fleet. ‘We are close enough inshore — Oswald’s men must have seen us by now.’
‘And sent riders back to their master in Bebbanburh,’ Kolbein agreed. ‘So now they can hazard a guess as to our destination, and know for sure that the fighting outside Corebricg did nothing to sap our strength.’
Erik returned his gaze to the south as the clatter of spars being lowered all about him filled the chill air. With the sails stowed the view opened up, and Erik looked fixedly upon the distant rock and the great fortress of Eidyn which stood upon it. A golden sheen against the grey clouds beyond showed where earl Oswald’s flag declared the allegiance of the men manning the burh, and Erik nodded with satisfaction as an image of messengers hastily preparing to depart came into his mind.
But if his enemies would be surprised by the swiftness of the counterattack, it was no more than that of his own men he reflected as the ships closed up to double the narrows. A day and night of feasting was all that the king allowed both himself and the cream of his army on returning to York following the victory at Corebricg. Safe from attack on all sides, Erik had gathered the best of his crews together for one last foray before the winter storms returned, one last blast of the war horn to ram home the lesson that this was not the Erik Haraldsson of his first reign in York. Then he had allowed his lust for the king helm to overcome his better judgment, and when king Eadred had attacked to restore the rule of Olaf Cuaran, Erik’s support had melted away. Now with his treasury full and an army of Norse, he had returned to take back that which was his by right.
Having made sure to hug the coast on the journey northwards they had passed within a mile of Bebbanburh itself, the flags of Erik Bloodaxe, York and Orkney filling the horizon leaving earl Oswulf in his fortress in no doubt to whom this powerful fleet owed allegiance. But although the Orcadians had peeled off at the entrance to the Firth, sailing home to their northern halls to carry news of their great victory and sit out the winter with kith and kin it was not the king’s destination, and the reports that the leader of the northern English would soon receive from Eidyn burh would quash any such hopes that they were safe for the coming winter.
As the sun climbed to its high point in the southern sky the Forth changed from firth to river, and the ships of the fleet formed line astern as they were channeled into the twists and turns which led to their destination. Within easy bowshot now from either bank each
rower was protected by a shield wielding crew mate, and Erik paced the steering platform as the river narrowed a little more with every stroke of the oars. Thorstein and Helgrim Smiter were at his side, their eyes stabbing the riverside as they sought to protect their lord. At the steering oar Kolbein spoke. ‘Do you want to increase the pace, lord? It is a well marked channel.’
Erik shook his head. ‘The distance from the river mouth to Stirlin is ten miles or so by road, but double that by ship. A fast horse will alert those up ahead of the threat long before we can fall upon them and do any harm. We are not here to kill the king or carry off slaves and plunder,’ he added with a look, ‘but to drive home the lesson we gave them outside Corebricg. To see us appear before their most important settlement little more than a month after that defeat will let everyone on the island of Britain know that a new power has arisen here, a king who will not only defend his borders but swiftly carry the flame of retribution to the heart of their own lands.’
Ahead the river took another wide meander, and Erik left Kolbein to concentrate on steering the sleek longship as he worked the paddle blade and followed the reports of the men in the bow. As lead ship in the fleet, he knew that it was vital that they steer the correct course; run aground or block the way ahead in any way here and the entire raiding force would be vulnerable, but the cries from the prow man confirmed that the soundings were good and Erik began to relax as they neared their destination. Closer to Stirlin the woodland edge drew back to reveal stands of barley and lush green pasture, and although they had yet to catch sight of man, woman or child since they had entered the confines of the river, the fortress of Mael Colm on its rocky outcrop hove into view dominating the skyline to the west. Already dressed in mail brynja and helms, the men were giving a final sweep of the sharpening stone to their blades as they prepared for a hard fight; but Erik was less sure that a battle was in the offing, and his eyes swept ahead as the Draki took the final bend and Kolbein centred the steering oar for the run in. The course of the River Forth straightened as it ran past the town, and Erik scanned the dockside for signs of opposition as the steady sweep of the oars walked the longship down towards them.
Helgrim spoke at his shoulder as Erik switched his gaze to sweep the bridge upstream for any signs of bowmen. ‘Perhaps we beat them home?’
Thorstein was listening in and made the reply. ‘More like we left their bones piled beside Dere Street.’ He pulled a savage smile. ‘Not many of them got away with the king.’ Erik ran his eyes across the town of Stirlin for the last time as Kolbein prepared to turn the prow towards the riverbank. A landing stage ran for a good quarter of a mile on the southern bank of the Forth, the masts and rigging of dozens of ships wooding the air against a backdrop of timber warehouses and halls. Upriver a series of boat houses and shipyards appeared abandoned, save for the miserable wretch of a dog whose yaps and barks were the first opposition they had met all day. A last look behind, and Erik thrilled at the sight of beast head after beast head swinging in as the ships of the fleet exited the final bend and pulled for the quayside. ‘Lay the Draki alongside that knarr,’ Erik said to Kolbein, and as the styrisman made the final adjustment to the longship’s course with a deft flick on the steering oar, Erik gathered up his weapons and stepped down to the deck.
Erik was pleased to see that not a face was turned his way as he trod the boards, the fighting men too intent on watching the town for any sign of opposition to think to throw him a smile. Every man aboard knew that this was the most vulnerable moment of the attack, that if the buildings lining to dockside were to spew forth defenders at any time this was it. Then it would become a hacking contest as the Scots crammed the quayside, chopping down on the heads and shoulders of the Norse as they threw themselves forward and fought desperately to gain a foothold on land. But Erik’s luck held and none appeared, and a heartbeat later the prow of the longship gave the tubby little trader the ghost of a kiss. Erik leapt the gap to land with a crash on the deck of the knarr, and as his huskarls thudded down all around he was already moving forward. With the tide in flood the deck beneath him lolled like a drunk as Norsemen poured across from the Draki, and Erik gave thanks to Þorr for Scottish gutlessness as he gripped the backstay and swung up onto the wide boards of the quay.
A dozen paces took the king halfway to the open door of a storehouse and he thought to pause and wait for his guard, but every man in the fleet must have witnessed the king leading the assault, and even a lifetime spent in warfare offered few such moments to enhance his renown as a battle winner. Erik hunkered into his shield, opening his body to raise his spear as he sped towards the doorway, and as the dart flew to disappear inside the opening the king passed from bright sunlight into the shade cast by the building itself. Although brief, the moment was enough to allow his eyes to accustom themselves to the gloomy interior, and the instant he passed through the doorway Erik thrust out his shield to ward off any attackers. Erik’s sword was already in his hand, and it scythed the air in a deadly arc before him as the first of his guards reached his side and began to fan out through the warehouse. As the gloom receded and his eyes began to see further into the building, it became obvious to Erik that the store contained nothing more than the stock of a wool merchant. Ells of homespun were stacked on shelves to raise the valuable wares clear of the hard packed earth underfoot, and the realisation that their rapid follow up to the victory at Corebricg had caught the Scots unprepared lifted his spirits to giddy heights. More of his hird were crowding into the building as they followed their lord, and Erik, realising that the lack of opposition to their landing was no ruse to lure them into a trap, bade them follow him back out into the sunlight. ‘Out you come lads,’ he called as he exited the building, ‘the birds have already flown.’
Back on the dockside Erik watched as the last of the ships nudged alongside, and the final waves of spearmen erupted from their sides to stream into the town. Thorstein came from the storehouse as Sturla reached the king’s side and hoist his war banner aloft. ‘I had a quick look once we were sure it was clear,’ he said. ‘They must have got the best stuff away, but a cargo of wadmal will fetch a good price back in York all the same.’
Erik nodded, and a gleam came into his eyes as he began to realise just how profitable this raid could become. Although hardly high status, the coarse woollen cloth was a staple throughout the North and used by all but the poorest for weatherproof outer clothing and hats. With winter coming on fast it would find a ready market at home, and if the other warehouses lining the landing place held as many riches, this surprise attack which had started out with little other aim than to heap further humiliation upon the king of Alba could develop into one of his most successful.
The king’s ships were filling the River Forth now, seamen making a raft of the fleet as they lashed one ship to another. Erik cocked an ear, and without the familiar clangour of clashing steel and battle cries coming from the town it was as good as a direct report that the entire population must have fled inland before their arrival. Erik lifted his gaze to peer the half mile to the fortress of Stirlin, high up on its rocky crag overlooking the town. The defences sparkled like ripples on a pond as sunlight reflected from helm and spearpoint, and he was in no doubt that the best of the loot was safely out of reach along with the most important inhabitants of the little town. Erik snorted, it mattered not; the treasury in York was filled to the ceiling — this day was meant to shame a beaten king and he had achieved that aim already. It was time to fire the town and take themselves home. Denied the opportunity to display their fighting prowess the men were beginning to drift back towards the dockside, and Erik picked out the face of his eldest as he led the men of the Vindálfr back onto the boardwalk. ‘Gamli,’ he called, indicating that his son join him with a movement of his head. The king fought down the urge to smile at the look of disappointment on his son’s face as he came. ‘How goes the day?’
Gamli spat in disgust. ‘The place is empty father, even the thralls have
taken to the woods — aside from ourselves there is not a living thing in the town.’ A yelp carried from the far end of the wharf as the watch dog barked one time too many, and the pair shared a chuckle and a wicked smile. ‘Well — not now…’
‘Who is guarding the boundary?’
‘Harald has men on the roofs peering off into the distance, but there are only fields between here and the fortress — there is no chance of being surprised by an attack from that direction. The rock face is too steep, and the only way in or out runs away from the town down to the bridge.’
Erik nodded, satisfied. ‘Nevertheless,’ he said, ‘we are leaving before dusk.’
Gamli looked surprised and Erik explained. ‘The Scots have borne witness to our strength and their own weakness, both in battle at Corebricg and here at the heart of their kingdom. We have achieved all we set out to do, why take a risk?’ A harsh cackle caused the pair to turn their heads skyward, and the sight which met their eyes confirmed to the king that the decision was the correct one. A skein of geese beat their way south, and within moments the sky filled with vic after vic; it was an unmistakable sign that the season of storms was fast approaching, and Gamli nodded as he replied. ‘You are right, of course.’ He smiled. ‘Let us torch the place and be away from here, the crews need time to perform a Husting — to gather together to share the loot from this year of victories and renew their oaths for the next.’ He beamed. ‘Then it’s a winter of drinking and feasting for the all conquering army of Erik Haraldsson.’