by C. R. May
A movement off to the king’s left caught his eye, and Erik turned his head to find a crewman from Guttorm’s ship the Crane hovering a few paces away. Erik indicated that he speak with a nod. ‘Your son sends his respects lord, and asks that you would join him on his ship.’
Erik nodded. ‘Tell him I will be along.’
He turned back to Gamli, placing a fatherly hand on his son’s shoulder as he did so. ‘Add another ship to the Vindálfr and head downstream. I want to ensure that there is no opposition gathering to bar our route back to the sea.’ Gamli nodded, calling his huskarls Hoskuld and Svan to his side as he made his way back to the crew.
Erik raised his chin as they went, indicating to his own guards that they accompany him. He felt a pang of regret at the need, but his youth back in Norway had taught him that close kinship among kings and their offspring could turn to deadly rivalry and it was a lesson he had kept close to heart. By the time he had clambered across a handful of decks Guttorm had spotted him, and the look of pride on his son’s face drew the king on. As the men on board parted at the king’s approach, Guttorm called across the decks. ‘We think we may have found Mael Colm’s ship!’
Erik vaulted the final wale, landing amidships as Helgrim and Thorstein drove the rest of the crew back with an icy glare. Erik looked. The Crane was the final ship in the raft, but the only thing to be seen was a dozen Norse larking about mid channel as they seized the chance for a swim. ‘Well, unless Mael Colm has use of Skíðblaðnir and you have it in your pocket,’ Erik said, ‘you will have to point it out.’
Guttorm laughed, and the honesty of the sound drove any fears of foul play from the old king’s mind. Skíðblaðnir was Frey’s ship, and was made of so many parts that the god could fold it like cloth and carry it on his person when not in use. ‘No lord,’ Guttorm replied. ‘If we had found the best of ships, I would not have my men in the water attempting to re-float her.’
Erik’s eyes widened as he thought he understood. ‘They have weighted a ship with rocks?’
Guttorm nodded as he pointed out a nearby trading ship. ‘You see that knarr, father?’
Erik looked.
Guttorm spoke again. ‘Can you see what is wrong with it?’
The king snorted as he realised what his son had uncovered. Riding a few feet higher than those downstream, the seaweed and barnacles encrusting the part of the hull which seamen called between wind and water were clearly in view. It was Erik’s turn to laugh, and he beamed as the first trace of woodsmoke drifted across from the town. ‘They were in a hurry and used the ballast from the nearest ship to sink her midstream. They knew that we could go no further inland because of the bridge so took a chance, rowed her as far upstream as they were able and sank her in the channel.’ The king turned back to his son. ‘And you are sure it is her?’
Guttorm shrugged. ‘Not that she belongs to the king of course, but it is certainly a very fine dragon.’ He indicated the swimmers, the men Erik had taken to be fooling about, with a flick of his head. ‘The lads have a good idea of her dimensions and the fineness of her decoration. They tell me that they will have her raised very soon, so we shall see for ourselves — the keel is already beginning to lift free of the ooze.’
Erik cast a look to the south. Beyond the gathering pall where the settlement of Stirlin was paying the price for its craven defenders, a lowering sun blushed the horizon. To the East the stern posts of the Vindálfr and Sigurd’s Auk were past the first bend and making for the sea. If Guttorm’s men could raise the ship soon they would carry her away, if not the best of the plunder now being stowed beneath the decks of the fleet would do just fine.
Thorstein spoke, as the whiplash crack of a fire ravished timber told where a supporting beam had been unequal to the fight. ‘Are we destroying the bridge, lord? It will not be much fun rebuilding the span with winter coming on.’
Erik shook his head slowly as his gaze wandered across. The bridge below Stirlin burh carried the roadway across the Forth, linking the richest parts of the kingdom of Alba and the Highlands beyond. ‘No,’ the king answered, as cries of success marked where the prow of the sunken longship had broken the surface. ‘The army will need it when we return.’
Part II
KING OF THE NORTH
12
Vigil
If the sight of the outriders waiting patiently for the king on the rise ahead was not enough, the land itself told the travellers they were nearing a major settlement as it always did. Woodland became pasture, pasture became cropland, and despite the mugginess of high summer the telltale earthiness of woodsmoke drifted down to them on light airs. Erik’s nostrils flared as he savoured the reek, casting a look at Harald who rode alongside. ‘A nice soft bed for me tonight,’ he said with a slap of his rump. ‘I am going to make the most of it too!’
Harald snorted. ‘Erik Bloodaxe longing for his bed…’ He turned his head, shooting his father a smile. ‘I may be a Christian father, but you have drummed enough of Óðinn’s sayings into me over the years to know that even the so-called High One despises sloth; how often have I heard you say:
‘He must rise early,
the one who wants to have another’s
wealth or life;
seldom does a lying wolf get a ham
or a sleeping man victory?’
Erik laughed with delight, and a twinkle came into his eyes as he countered with an Óðinn saying of his own:
‘A ruler’s son must be silent and thoughtful— brave in battle;
each man must be happy and cheerful
until he suffers death.’
Erik called across his shoulder as the leading group chuckled at their king’s riposte. ‘Harald Eriksson is reciting the wisdom of the Allfather, Oswald. Perhaps Christ is not so firmly rooted as you were led to believe.’
Harald rolled his eyes, and Erik stole a glance across his shoulder as he did so, exchanging looks of mirth with the heathen of his hird. As the warriors took up the ribbing Harald curbed his mount, drifting back to lend weight to the Christian cause. The ribaldry had drawn the attention of the women working the fields, and Erik watched as they hitched up their skirts, fleeing to the woods at the sight of armed men. Even forewarned of their coming, experience had made them wary; Erik’s thoughts meandered as the sun beat down and a skylark lived up to its name, capering across a vault of blue as the horse plodded on.
The winter months following the great victory at Corebricg and the devastating raid on Stirlin had been a time of celebration throughout the kingdom of York. With king Eadred in ill health and the Scottish incursion crushed, the people could finally hope for a future free from fear of invasion. Trade picked up, despite the southern embargo and the winter storms; but if the king in Wessex had hoped to choke the life from Erik’s kingdom or foster discontent with his rule he had met his match in the figure of the queen, and Gunnhild’s resurrection of Erik’s plan from his first reign to suspend the king’s tax take for a full year had been a masterstroke. Freed from the burden every penny earned had been spent in York and its environs, snubbing the enemy and boosting the local economy at the same time.
The sale of the prisoners taken from the armies of Olaf Cuaran outside York and of Scots and their allies at Corebricg had swollen the king’s money chest to such an extent that the income was hardly needed, and the widespread scowls of Erik’s first rule had been quickly replaced by smiling faces every time he ventured into the city. Erik knew that another such victory would turn those smiles to cheers, and he had spent the year 953 building an alliance to ensure that happened. The pay-off for the king of Strathclyde had helped of course, the gold and silver safely stored within the King’s Garth before the first winter was out. Erik snorted as he recalled the negotiations. King Dyfnwal’s representatives had attempted to whittle him down, citing the difficulties of collecting the high price he demanded for the safe return of their king with all his body parts attached. The valleys and dales are snowbound they had squealed
— but the snowfalls had magically cleared when Erik had sent word he would visit them following the Jule drinking to collect it himself. The rapid turnover of rulers in York had resulted in the king having little land to call his own in the kingdom; it was a situation which meant that kings like Erik were forced to supplement their income with yearly raiding if they were to be open handed with their gold as all kings must, and it was a thing which he would soon put right. But the victories of the first year and the king’s ransom from Strathclyde had filled his coffers to overflowing, and with his borders secure the spring of 954 saw him riding north to war.
The horse breasted the ridge, and a little higher now the sight of the rooftops of Conceastre dragged the king’s mind back to the present. Ahead the stone made road ran as straight as any other built by the legions of Rome, through the town and across the river beyond to disappear northwards. A cloud of gulls showed where fish were being unloaded alongside the River Wear, while to the west of the road the stone walls of the old Roman fort dominated the town and river crossing. Erik turned his head as another rumble of laughter came from the men. ‘Oswald, when you are finished with your conversions I have a few questions of my own.’
The man spurred his horse, and as the reins were plucked to guide the beast alongside the king the old retainer’s expression softened. ‘How can I be of assistance, lord?’
‘A quick appraisal of the men I am to meet over the coming days would be grand.’ Erik indicated the town with a jerk of his head. ‘I know we have been through this before, but neither of us are as young as we used to be,’ he said with a deprecating smile. ‘It would be a shame to scheme and plot for a year, only to prick a delicate ego at the last moment.’
Oswald snorted. ‘There will be plenty of men who hold themselves in high regard, lord, of that you can sure.’ He threw the king a sour faced look. ‘If you have managed to winkle Oswulf Ealdwulfing from his shell, you will be the first king of York to have done so in twenty years.’ Oswald gave a sniff of disdain. ‘Oswulf — divine-wolf — the second part of his name is accurate at least. He rarely ventures from the rocky fortress at Bebbanburh, and when he does it is because he has no other option.’
The king nodded. In the distance the braying of a horn announced to those inside the fort that the war band of Erik Bloodaxe was approaching. ‘You counselled over the winter months that the earl was untrustworthy,’ he said. ‘But you think it could be even worse?’
Oswald pulled a face. ‘My advice remains the same lord,’ he replied. ‘Believe only half of anything he says to have some grounding in truth, and treat that with suspicion. God may not have seen fit to cast the earl in the traditional mould of a leader of men, but he makes up for that with cunning and guile.’ Erik raised his eyes at the description, but Oswald only laughed. ‘You will see when you meet him, lord.’
The description tallied with those of others he had asked. It was clear that the merchants and leading men in the kingdom of York regarded the northern earl as little more than a wolf head. Erik pushed the thought aside; he was to meet up with the Bernician further north, he was a problem for another day. ‘How about the bishop?’ Erik asked. ‘You said that he is a friend of archbishop Wulfstan. Surely he is trustworthy?’
Oswald nodded. ‘Have no fear lord, Bishop Aldred is an honourable and God fearing man, the perfect host unless you happen to mention his predecessor.’
Erik’s expression betrayed his interest, and Oswald’s eyes sparkled with amusement as he explained. ‘Bishop Uchtred had only been ordained for six months when — poof! — gone like a ghost in the night.’ Erik took the bait, prodding him for more. Despite his best efforts at keeping a straight face, Oswald broke into a smile as he continued the tale. ‘The story we heard in York, was that an earthenware jug containing a hoard of Roman coins had recently been unearthed by men digging the post holes for a new storehouse within the confines of the fort.’
Erik’s mouth widened into a grin. ‘And this hoard disappeared the same night as our friend the bishop!’
Both men laughed. ‘It would seem so, lord. The last we heard was that he had taken up residence in the South, at a place called Medeshamstede. As you can imagine the brothers in the bishopric were rather less than pleased at their new leader making off with that which the Lord had provided for them all — it is a rather prickly subject and best left unremarked upon.’
The conversation had used up the time it had taken the column to travel the final mile of their journey, and as they came abreast of the outlying buildings of Conceastre the king’s guards moved forward to flank the pair. Erik raised his chin to look along the line of the road. The scouts were clearly in sight, and beyond them he could now see the bridge across the River Wear and a handful of mast tops poking above the waterfront buildings downriver. To the left the old Roman fortress towered over the rooftops, its iron grey walls topped by a wooden palisade of Saxon work. Forewarned by the signal horn the inhabitants had taken to their homes, every door closed and barred against men they clearly considered a threat. Well, Erik mused as the turn came up, his axe had won over the folk of York and it would do so for the others of greater Northumbria; a great victory in the north against the old enemy and he would be collecting skat here within the year.
At the junction Erik guided his mount from the road, and Thorstein and Helgrim Smiter led half a dozen men forward to form a guard of honour lining the route ahead. At the top of the rise the big double doors had been pulled inward, and a small knot of churchmen had collected beneath the open doorway to welcome their guest. At the centre of the group, the sun reflecting from the mitre and crosier of a bishop showed where Aldred had stepped out to greet the king.
Erik slipped from the saddle, resisting the urge to stretch and knead travel sore joints and muscles after a day on the road; it was the signal for the others of his hird to do likewise, and Erik walked forward as the metallic clatter of mail clad men filled the air. Oswald Thane and Harald came up, the old retainer and Erik’s son taking station a few paces to the rear as Sturla Godi unfurled the bloodied axe banner of Erik Haraldsson at the king’s shoulder.
The path steepened as it approached the gateway, and Erik took a moment to run his eyes over the old defences as leg muscles already stiffened by the ride began to tighten in protest. He had seen enough Roman work now to know that the forts had been built to a common plan, but after more than half a millennium exposed to the raw weather of the North the fort at Conceastre had survived in far better condition than most. The ditch and bank at the base of the enclosure remained steep sided, the lip sharply defined, and the walls themselves appeared complete with none of the quarrying for reuse elsewhere which was common in towns. He was surprised that no spire or tower reached skyward from within, the fort was the seat of a bishopric and home to the remains of a saint after all, but the time to ponder had passed and his face broke into a smile as he came into the shadow of the gatehouse.
Erik ran his eyes across the leaves before him, searching for the mark of his enemy. Bishop Aldred understood immediately and leaned in, moving a forefinger to underline the distinctive scrawl. ‘Here,’ he breathed: ‘Eadred Rex.’ As Erik nodded the churchman reached across to turn the page, ‘and here, King Edmund, and on the facing leaf their half-brother Athelstan.’ Instinctively Erik moved a hand, the pad of a finger brushing the places where the southern kings had scratched their names onto the vellum. As he raised his gaze Aldred was holding forth the quill, and Erik charged the tip before stooping to add his name to the list. His final observance fulfilled, Erik paused to take a final look about the underground chamber as the churchman crossed to the stairway. The brethren were preparing to slide the sturdy oak lid back onto the body of the casket, and Erik snatched a last look at the exquisitely bound remains of Saint Cuthbert as the wan light of a candle played across the alms inside. Among the treasures which had been gifted by important men over the centuries, those of the West Saxon trio stood out in their piety: an embroidered stole o
f the kind worn around the neck by Christian priests, the gold thread of the needlework breathtaking in its beauty; vestments in Kufic silk; a small leather-bound book which Aldred had informed Erik contained the Gospel of John. But the buttery light played across his own gift as the lid slid into place, and Erik reflected with satisfaction on the reaction of the bishop when he had placed the gold and garnet cross among the other offerings before bending his head in prayer.
As the coffin lid dropped down with a thunk which echoed around the cell, Erik crossed to the stair. Within a dozen paces he had led the others back up into the body of the church, and Erik cast his gaze around the room as darkness returned to the chamber below and the others began to reappear one by one. Accustomed to the opulence of York Minster, Erik could still scarcely believe that the rude hut which was the cathedral of St Mary and St Cuthbert contained the earthly remains of one of the most revered Christian teachers in Britain. But if the rusticity of the wooden posts and planking had come as a surprise it had appealed to his northern soul, and it was not the building he had sought out after all but the aura it contained. Bishop Aldred had explained that the structure had been kept deliberately makeshift and unrefined, to remind the brothers who lived within the community and those who came to pay homage that the Most Holy Cuthbert was in temporary residence only — a bolthole within which the sacred bones and their guardians would ride out the storm, until such time as it was safe to return to the monastery on the Holy Island of Lindisfarena.