The Day of the Wolf

by C. R. May

  Erik nodded. ‘Death rarely comes at times which are convenient for those who remain, I am sure that we have both seen enough of it over the years to know that to be true. Where is my old friend?’

  Morcar gestured towards a wide passageway which led further into the building, and the thane fell in at Erik’s side as the pair crossed the entry vestibule to take it. The passage stretched ahead deep into the building, and Erik took in the details as he walked. Beeswax candles lit the way, the sweet-smelling aroma welcome after the stench of York’s streets; beneath his feet Erik marvelled once again at stone pavings which would have been laid soon after the Christ walked the earth, the dips and rises in the ancient stonework polished smooth by the footfall of men long dead. The starkness of the lime washed walls and ceiling was interrupted every dozen paces by the dark form of a doorway, and as the last but one was reached Morcar drew to a halt.

  The final doorway shifted and rattled on its latch, but even as he sensed Thorstein and Helgrim stiffen Erik pushed any thoughts of ambush from his mind. He had heard tales of the dying room from Oswald himself; beyond the last door lay a garden, a place of beauty and tranquility where those soon to make their peace with God could bask in the beauty of His creation during their final days on earth. Morcar tapped lightly on the old panels, and the sound of shuffling from the far side was soon replaced by the soft click of metal as the latch was lifted and a face appeared. The brother dipped his head as he recognised the figures before him, standing aside to allow the pair entry into the room beyond, and Erik let out an involuntary gasp at the sight which met his eyes as he crossed the sill and came into the space. A cot rested against the far wall on which his old friend lay swaddled in blankets, but it was the vibrance of the room after the starkness of the passageway and entrance hall which had grabbed the king’s attention, and Erik let his gaze wander across the walls and ceiling as he began to cross the flags.

  The walls of the cell were completely covered with many of the scenes from the gospel he was familiar with from the nearby cathedral: Christ on the cross; the army of winged men he now knew to be angels marching to give battle with the forces of evil; the ark of Noah breasting stormy seas to rescue God’s beasts from His cleansing flood. But if the wall paintings reflected the lessons with which the dying man would be familiar from his time in the minster, the ceiling was altogether different. Gone was the depiction of Edmund the Martyr, the last native king of the East Angles who had been put to death by invading Danes a century before. In its place was a figure who could only be the Almighty, surrounded by trumpet blowing angels as they welcomed a man into Heaven after a life of service to his God. Picked out in reds and blues and gold the scene would be the last image seen by the dying man, and although Erik could never be described as Christianity’s most fervent follower he knew enough of kingship to recognise the power of the image.

  A priest knelt at Oswald’s side, the singsong note of his incantation pushing back the shadows, but the prayer stopped abruptly as Morcar crossed to lay a hand lightly on his shoulder and he became aware of the king’s presence. The old churchman hauled himself upright on unsteady legs, and Morcar ushered him out to join those already waiting in the passageway outside. Morcar waited until the priests had left the room and closed the door before speaking in an undertone. ‘Oswald received another communication from archbishop Wulfstan only this afternoon,’ he breathed. ‘I have not been made privy to its contents, so I can only presume that he wishes to discuss the information it relates with you alone.’ The Englishman glanced across to the recumbent figure of Oswald before looking back and inclining his head. ‘I will wait outside with the others, lord,’ he said before lowering his voice to a whisper. ‘I humbly suggest that you take the opportunity to learn all you can while the man is still conscious — he is spending an increasing amount of time asleep or befuddled.’

  Erik nodded that he understood, watching as Morcar crossed the room to take his countryman gently by the hand. It was a heartfelt gesture that was clearly meant to be a final farewell between two men who had known each other the greater part of their lives, and the king returned his gaze to the murals to spare them all the embarrassment of having him witness the tenderness of the moment. Their farewells exchanged the Englishmen parted, and Erik exchanged a nod with Morcar Thane as he made his way from the cell. As the heavy door closed with a thud and the latch dropped into place Erik crossed the room to kneel at the bedside, forcing down a grimace at the iciness he felt when his fingers curled around man’s hand. Oswald had noticed the slight change in the king’s expression, and he pulled a thin smile as the king drew near. ‘I know I am not long for this place, lord,’ he cawed. ‘But I rest here content that I go from a corruptible world to the incorruptible.’ The smile widened, and a glimmer returned to Oswald’s eyes as his mind fought against the gathering darkness. ‘Christianity is a wonderful thing, lord,’ he said softly. ‘You should try it.’

  Erik opened his mouth to protest, but his friend waved the words away before they came. ‘It is not me you have to convince King Erik,’ he said. ‘But I will put a good word in for you soon enough.’

  Oswald rummaged beneath the blanket as he talked, finally withdrawing a rolled parchment into the light. He passed it across with a trembling hand. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘The latest communication from my lord archbishop.’ Erik reached out, and seeing the wax seal already broken he unfurled the roll and angled it towards the light. After a moment’s study he pulled a face. ‘I was hoping it was written in English,’ he said, ‘my latin is a little rough and ready, and I would hate to miss anything of importance. Could you?’

  Oswald motioned towards a cup and pitcher as he attempted to raise his head on the pillow. Erik poured, cradling the old man’s head as he took a sip. ‘There is no need to read the message in its entirety,’ Erik said as he returned Oswald’s head to the pillow. ‘You have already read it I see — just tell me that which I need to know.’

  Oswald nodded weakly. ‘The archbishop is overjoyed at your actions in the north, and he wants you to know that you have his undying thanks and admiration for reunifying the realm of Northumbria,’ he wheezed. ‘There is disbelief and consternation in the south that you should have such success at the time when king Eadred is clearly dying, but their greatest fear is that you ally yourselves with the Scots rather than attempt to impose your own kingship upon them.’

  Oswald closed his eyes, his breath coming in short rasps as the effort overwhelmed his mind and body. Erik looked shamefaced that his own inadequacies was forcing the man to endure such torment in what was clearly his last hours. He laid a hand on the Englishman’s shoulder. ‘That is enough old friend,’ he murmured. ‘Gunnhild or Harald can read me the letter in full.’ Oswald’s eyes opened and he nodded towards the cup. Erik cradled the dying man’s head as he sipped. ‘They want you tied down in the north, lord,’ Oswald whispered as the spark of life returned to his gaze, ‘and they will spend as much silver as it takes to bring that about. For the first time in my life the West Saxons fear us, and I give thanks to the Lord that I lived just long enough to see this day.’

  Gunnhild held the parchment close to the flame, screwing up her eyes as they wandered across the glassy surface. Raising her chin she looked at her husband. ‘There are parts which have been scraped clean and written on,’ she said.

  Erik shrugged. ‘That is not unusual.’

  The queen lowered the message, running the pads of her fingers lightly across the surface as she traced the words and letters. She exhaled slowly as she thought. ‘Let us compare the two again.’

  Erik sat down beside her, unrolling the earlier communication and offering it up to the new. ‘The writing style looks the same,’ he said. ‘The quill strokes which formed the archbishop’s name are identical, and look,’ he said moving his own parchment across to the candlelight, ‘there are patches which have been scraped clean on this message too.’

  Gunnhild sighed as her gaze flitted from one to th
e other. She had not laboured for nigh on forty years to advance the fortunes of her husband and offspring to fall easily into a trap. Erik nudged her and smiled. ‘You are right to be suspicious — you are a sharp minded woman, that is why we are an unstoppable pair.’ He gave her biceps a squeeze as his smile widened into grin. ‘Brains and brawn, that’s us. I have the brains…’

  Gunnhild rolled her eyes. ‘Then we are doomed.’

  Erik chuckled happily before continuing. ‘There is nothing in the latest message which would endanger our position here if we acted upon it — no pleas to attack at such-and-such place on this date if we want to kill Eadred, and even if it did I would ignore it for we are far safer with the wretch alive. The letter congratulates us on our victories, and tells us of the panic which they have caused in Wessex that we might ally ourselves to Indulf mac Constantine. It also adds that we have little to fear from Olaf Cuaran who is tied down in Ireland fighting my old friend Conalach Cnogba, the High King who attempted to double-cross me when we attacked Dublin all those years ago. That at least we know to be true, due to the traders who pass through York from the place. You forget that Wulfstan is being held against his will out in the wilds somewhere,’ he explained patiently. ‘I rather doubt that king Eadred has supplied him with a healthy stack of freshly prepared parchments in case he wishes to communicate with old friends here in the North — it is only down to the wiliness of our archbishop that we receive word at all.’

  The sound of something heavy skittering along the roadway outside interrupted the king, and the pair shared a look. ‘I was lucky to get back unharmed,’ Erik said. ‘There is thatch, roof tiles and all sorts flying about the city.’ They paused to listen as the wind howled about the ancient stones of the King’s Garth. Gunnhild spoke again. ‘It reminds me of winter nights huddled around the hearth in Orkney.’ She shuddered. ‘It is not a memory I treasure.’

  Erik gave her a nudge. ‘Why be so downhearted? We are back in York and I have defeated every enemy sent against me. Wulfstan even remarked upon southern fears that I will form a northern alliance against them now that I have disposed of Eadred’s lackey Mael Colm.’ Erik rose from the settle, crossing to the side board. Filling two cups from a pitcher he handed one across. ‘But we had already decided that we would attempt such a thing; it makes perfect sense to do so. I cannot take an army north from York every summer to subdue Alba — the distance is too great and the hinterland offers too many places to hide. If Eadred recovers or Olaf Cuaran defeats the high king in Ireland their armies could be in York before I even got to hear of an invasion.’ Erik drained his cup as he paced the boards, turning aside for a refill before continuing. ‘Tell me more of this Indulf son of Constantine — why should I withdraw my support from Crinan mac Cellach, the man who actually lopped the head from Mael Colm’s shoulders? If they are acceptable to the Scots either man will make a suitable ally, and we can reform the alliance which threatened to overrun the southern English twenty years back.’ He smiled. ‘That will certainly give them something worth worrying about.’

  Gunnhild tossed the parchments aside, taking a sip from her wine cup as she ordered her thoughts before replying. Erik swigged a mouthful as he waited, noisily swilling the drink back and forth over his teeth before gulping it down to belch. Unlike other husbands Erik had always sought her advice in all things, and if the gods had not seen fit to endow her with the brute strength and coarseness of her menfolk, the queen knew the workings of her mind were just as important to the success of them all. She was aware that he had heard the whispers that he was hag-ridden, but he had never wavered in his determination that she act as caretaker for the kingdom both here in York and earlier in Norway despite the scoffs and sniggers, and she loved him all the more for it. A further sip of wine and her mind had distilled her advice down to a short statement. ‘Crinan mac Cellach is the son of a minor noble from an earldom situated far from the centre of power — Indulf mac Constantine is the son of a king, indeed a king who still lives.’

  Erik clicked his fingers. ‘Of course! King Constantine still lives — the one who renounced the throne to see out his days in the monastery at Saint Andrews what — ten years ago?’ Gunnhild nodded as a look of puzzlement came into Erik’s face. He had always left the more tiresome duties of kingship to Gunnhild, matters of importance which were nevertheless as dry as old bones; things like who married whom and why — she seemed to revel in them. ‘So why didn’t Indulf succeed his father back then?’

  ‘Because he was a toddler.’ Gunnhild smiled: ‘let me explain. At the turn of the century a king called Domnall was killed fighting against invading Norwegians led by their own king Harald, known to men as Fairhair.’

  Erik beamed — his father had been a rampaging bull of a king, and he loved to hear accounts of his deeds. Gunnhild chuckled as Erik’s aged features took on a boyish mien again, before moving on with her tale. ‘Domnall’s son Mael Colm was little more than a bairn at the time of his father’s death so the crown passed to the dead king’s cousin Constantine. Constantine’s rule was long and successful, but he allowed himself to be drawn into an invasion of England which resulted in the death of his son and heir.’

  Erik scowled. ‘The battle at Brunanburh; I recall Athelstan’s offer of the king helm of York as his underling following the victory there, but I will be nobody’s liegeman — I rule alone or not at all.’

  Gunnhild cocked her head. ‘May I continue Great King?’

  Erik laughed as his humour returned. ‘Please do.’

  ‘The death of his favourite son did for the old man, and a few years later he, as you said, gave away his throne and retired to a monastery where he still resides today praying his life away. His nephew Mael Colm was rewarded for the loyalty he had shown the king and restored the line of Domnall, but Constantine had another son, a toddler named…’ Gunnhild let the sentence hang in the air until Erik supplied the answer. He smiled as he began to unravel the weft and weave of the tale: ‘our new friend Indulf mac Constantine. So considering that my father killed Domnall and I harried his son Mael Colm to his death only this summer past, it is fair to say that I will struggle to attract much support from that side of the family. However, by supporting Indulf I will restore the line of the popular and holy Constantine, Crinan can carry on as earl of Moray and everyone should be happy.’

  ‘There is one more thing,’ Gunnhild added with a look.

  Erik’s expression went deadpan as he answered with a sigh. ‘There always is…’

  ‘Indulf’s mother was a woman called Ealdgyth.’

  ‘An Englishwoman?’

  Gunnhild nodded. ‘Ealdgyth is a daughter of Ealdwulf of Bernicia, so also the sister of your new vassal in Bebbanburh — the aptly named Oswulf Ealdwulfing.’

  Erik nodded that he understood. ‘So that makes Oswulf and Indulf kin, and potentially a threat to us here in York.’ He cursed. ‘So all the tales of harrying by Oswulf’s Bernicians in Fife last summer could have been just that — tales. For all we know they were guests at Indulf’s hall, having a fine old time and plotting our downfall.’ Erik’s expression darkened. ‘That changes everything. If Oswulf is untrustworthy he will have to meet his end sooner than I had planned for.’

  A sly look crept into the queen’s features. ‘We could invite the earl to be our honoured guest over Juletide,’ she suggested. ‘He would suspect nothing; he submitted to you between the armies at the beginning of summer, and you are barely back from leading his thanes to war in Alba.’

  Erik nodded his agreement. ‘We will make the arrangements. It would seem that Indulf mac Constantine will become king of Alba whether I like it or not, but if I allow him to remain so he shall not have a kinsman ruling in Bebbanburh, and his southern border shall be firmly on the Forth and not the Tees.’

  21

  Mornings

  Erik threw back the shutter and stared downriver. A knarr had slipped its moorings in the night to drift beam on to the flow, and the king watched as men ab
oard struggled to bring the bows about before rowing her back to her berth. The town-outside-the-walls which had been added between the River Ouse and the Foss by the conquering Danes, had stood up surprisingly well to the battering it had received during the night he decided, no doubt sheltered by the walls themselves from the full fury of the gale. But if the buildings had been spared, the same could not be said of the beasts which lived off kitchen scraps in the yards and thoroughfares throughout the town or grazed the fields beyond. Already the first bleats and cries were rising into the fresh autumnal air, and soon the town would reek of blood, offal and shit as those animals earmarked for the pot during the dark months met their end.

  It was the fourteenth day of October, nine hundred and fifty-four years since the birth of Christ. It was also the first day of winter — what Erik knew as the beginning of the season of Gormánuður, slaughter-month, the local English Blotmonath or Blood-month. All across the land freshly butchered meat joints would be salted for the coming winter, and ale-wives would begin to prepare the Jule ale which would be consumed during the festival which was now little more than ten weeks away. A low moan drew his attention, and he turned back to watch as Gunnhild fought her way clear of the bedcovers. ‘Close the shutter Erik,’ she groaned, ‘and feed the fire, there’s a good lad. It is cold enough, without throwing the screens wide.’