The Day of the Wolf

by C. R. May

  The short winter day was far advanced, but as Erik began to accept that a breakout may be the only option left to him a shout from the stonework above had the king turning his head. Riders were coming from the East; Erik beckoned him down, and hearing the shout Kolbein and Helgrim Smiter came up as Norwegian faces turned their way in hope. Within a short while the lookout had negotiated the rocky wall and stood before them; but if the steely look on the face of the man told them all they needed to know, Erik nodded that he make his report anyway as the expectation that the oncoming horsemen were friends began to recede.

  ‘There is a large column heading this way lord,’ the man said, ‘at least fifty strong but possibly many more. It is difficult to tell,’ he added apologetically, ‘the slant of the hillside obscures the tail end of the column, and the gathering dusk is throwing the eastern slope into shadow.’

  Erik nodded. ‘We may not have a full idea of the numbers involved, but I can see by your glumness that you consider them foes.’

  The watchman opened his mouth to reply, but the sound of a bugle caused him to pause as the enemy warriors lining the eastern rampart cried out in joy and stabbed the air with their spears. Kolbein answered the question in his stead as all their hopes were dashed. ‘You have your answer Erik,’ he said grimly. ‘It looks like you have a decision to make.’

  Erik nodded in reply, but his mind was now elsewhere as he scanned the ranks before him. Already outnumbered two to one, it appeared that the odds were lengthening again. Hearing the lookout’s cry and seeing the reaction of the enemy the jarl brothers had come across, and Ragnfrod also joined the group as the king thought. Erik’s son gave voice to questions of his own, the exasperation he felt dripping from every word. ‘Where are they all coming from? How do they know we are here?’

  Erland Torf-Einarsson answered as an enemy runner scrambled down the far bank and made his way towards Dyfnwal and Maccus. ‘The smoke told them kinsman…’

  Ragnfrod’s eyes narrowed in question, and Helgrim expanded on Erland’s clipped reply as the king’s mind continued to plan. ‘When Dyfnwal and his men rested up down at Bogas they were not surprised to see us appear at the woodland edge after all, they had been waiting there for us all along. By firing the buildings and slaying the occupants they were not harrying for the sake of it, they were signalling to other war bands that they had your father on their tail.’

  Thorstein chipped in. ‘The smoke columns could have been seen for miles. Who is to say that this war band will be the last?’ He spat in disgust. ‘Today is full of surprises — all of them nasty.’

  Another shout came from the top of the tower, and the group craned their necks as the lookout cupped a hand to his mouth to call a report. ‘I can see the newcomer’s banner now lord,’ the man said. ‘It is the golden cross of St Cuthbert again.’

  Thorstein spat. ‘Earl Oswulf come to be in at the kill.’ He threw Erik a sour faced look. ‘He must be confident of victory to risk his neck so close to the fighting.’

  Despite the realisation that this day was beginning to look very much like the last, Erik was surprised to discover that the arrival of the man who had so publicly pledged his allegiance only a few months before between the armies at Gefrin had served to clear his mind. He turned his face to the others, and their conversations ended abruptly as they saw that the king had reached his decision. ‘We take the fight to them,’ he growled, and Erik’s spirits soared as he recognised his own eagerness reflected in the faces of his closest friends. ‘I want to ensure that one man gets away,’ he added as his eyes flitted from face to face, ‘so it is important that all our efforts are directed at getting him a horse.’ As Erik’s gaze alighted on the face of his son he saw the consternation written there, and pride welled up within the king as the young man blurted his fear. ‘Not I lord,’ he pleaded. ‘If I escape from here while my father lies dead, the shame of surviving even a single day will be too long!’

  Before Erik could reply, Kolbein Herjolfsson had added a plea of his own. ‘I may be but a withered husk of the man I once was Erik,’ he said, ‘but I gave my word to your father that I would never to leave your side and I mean to keep it.’

  Erik held up a hand to forestall any other arguments. ‘There is no time to discuss things; this is my last order to you all — do as I say.’ His eyes went to his banner man, and he saw the man blink in surprise as all faces turned his way. ‘Sturla — I don’t want my war banner carried off as a trophy or trampled in the mud. Carry it back to York; tell Gunnhild and my sons what has happened here and to look to their own safety.’ As Sturla made to protest, a look from Erik cut him short. ‘You are far more than my banner man,’ he explained, ‘you are my friend and skald. Use your skills to weave a poem so that men far and wide will know of the treachery of our enemies and the bravery of our fight. Take ship to the hall of my brother in Avaldsnes — tell him of the manner in which our father Harald Fairhair’s favoured son met his end, that he learn the truth from one who was at my side and not the lies of lesser men.’ Erik let his gaze wander across the warriors still stood in ranks a few yards away as he continued. ‘Many back in Norway will have brothers and fathers here on this hilltop. From your place at my side you will have witnessed acts of heroism, both on the ramparts below and in the earlier fighting; make sure to put names to those acts of courage, that kin and others shall celebrate their worth the length of Norway whenever folk gather to hear tales of fighting men.’

  Erik’s stare flitted from face to face, and he broke into a smile as he took in the familiar details for what he was sure now was the final time on Midgard. Beyond them sheeting rain moved in to cloak the southern summit, and down in the western vale a rainbow arced as the dying sun painted the horizon a bloody red. Erik’s smile broadened into a grin, and the joy was reflected in the faces of his friends as they realised its meaning. ‘Move among your men,’ Erik said, ‘and tell them of my intentions. One last charge and we sup with the gods.’

  Cheers and taunts were coming from the enemy ranks now, the raucous sound rolling around the cup of the fort as the drumming of hoofbeats grew louder. A very few steps and Erik was with his crewmen, the men of the Draki turning their faces together as their lord came among them. ‘We are making a break for it boys,’ Erik explained as he walked. ‘Find yourself a horse and ride like the wind.’ He came to a halt in their midst, his eyes searching the ranks until they settled on the chosen pair. ‘Grettir and Gunnar,’ he said, slipping gold arm rings from his forearms and handing them across. ‘When I give the command drive the svinfylking straight at the enemy leaders, but keep an ear cocked for Sturla’s horn and prepare to change direction — one long note veer left, two short notes veer right.’ The brothers nodded as the rings joined those already wreathing their arms, and Erik took a backwards pace as the change in tone told them all that the first horsemen had come through the gate.

  Thorstein and Helgrim took their places before him as Kolbein and Sturla came to his side, and as the men prepared to attack Erik’s gaze moved out to search the riders as they spilled into the clearing. A full score were inside the walls of the fort before the bloated figure of Oswulf Ealdwulfing, earl of Bernicia swept through the gate, and Erik’s eyes narrowed in hatred as the man spotted Maccus and guided his mount across.

  All around the king the men of the Draki were tensing — the fingers curling and unwinding on spears, sword handles and axe hafts the outward signs of the tautness within. A moment before he slipped from view the Bernician earl raised his chin to peer across at the rump of the Norwegian army stranded on their little mound, and for a heartbeat he and Erik’s eyes met across the heads of the fighters. It was only a fleeting glimpse, an instant in time, but the Englishman had not ruled from his northern fastness in a world dominated by Norse, West Saxons and Scots without sniffing out danger with a look. Erik knew that he had to move quickly as the earl’s triumphal aura vanished like woodsmoke, and he barked a command as the last of the enemy riders cleared th
e gate:

  ‘Grettir — Gunnar: Go!’

  For a brief moment the pair slid from view as they launched themselves onto the body field below, but as the rest of the crew began to feed through and the way ahead opened up Erik’s hopes leapt as he saw that they were already through. As the Hordalanders vaulted the far bank and the men of the Draki bounded across in their wake, Erik reached the drop. Thorstein and Helgrim were the first to go, the Norwegian giants placing their feet unerringly as they used the backs of the dead like stepping stones to ford the gully, and as Erik dropped down to follow on the first sounds of renewed fighting told him that the tip of the swine array had made contact with the enemy. Intent on reaching the far bank Erik slipped on the gore spattered pathway, but Kolbein’s hand shot out to grasp his lord by the sleeve and halt his fall, and with a downward glance Erik placed his foot squarely across the unseeing eyes of a vanquished foe as he recovered his balance. A handful of steps and the king was climbing from the ditch, and a thrill coursed through him as he saw how far his shipmates had already driven into the enemy ranks as he did so. He knew then that his plan had been sound, to strike the foe at the very moment their victory had seemed assured, to hit them hard as the newcomers slid from saddles and the spearmen had turned in welcome. It took a great fighter, one of the very best, to switch back in an instant from joyful relief to steadfastness as a beaten and cowed enemy suddenly became an army of raging madmen, and Erik knew full-well that any army contained only a very few.

  With the need to block off any escape and the losses already incurred that day, the ring of steel enclosing the watchtower on its grassy knoll had grown thinner and thinner, and although the best of the enemy were naturally concentrated around the leading men at the centre Erik saw to his glee that the svinfylking had already hacked their way halfway to the enemy standards. To either side the men of his hird were stabbing and slashing with spear and sword blades, driving the lesser warriors back, widening the breach, and Erik’s gaze flew across to the eastern rampart in hope. All of his planning rested upon this moment — but he had left his refuge now, there was no way back, and as he raised his eyes to peer across the heads of the enemy he took in the situation with a single look. Arnkel and Erland had already smashed through the northern shield wall and were curving around to threaten the enemy rear. To the king’s right Ragnfrod Eriksson had done likewise, Erik’s son clearly visible beneath his war banner — fighting like a wildcat against the enemies of his kin.

  With the opposition in disarray and the far side of the fort awash with panicked and abandoned horses, Erik gave his final order to the man who had shared his disasters and triumphs since the day they had met on a Finnish beach, where a shaman had lost his head and a war axe gained a name. As the battle horn came up and two short notes drifted over the heads of fighting men the Finn’s prophesy came into his mind, and Erik snorted at the foresight contained within as the swine head began to turn:

  He says that you will be five times a king, but that you will die on a windswept fell…

  Taken by surprise by the change in direction the enemy were slow to respond, and by the time they had rallied the flanks of the boar head were an impenetrable line of interlocking shields. Within moments the final opponents had been swept aside, and as Erik’s men poured through the gap to spill out into the clear space beyond a bugle call told him that the enemy leaders were beginning to recover. Spearmen were hastening across, throwing a wall of shields across the interior of the fort to deny the Norwegians an escape, but a handful of horses remained within sight and Erik looked on with satisfaction as Gunnar and Grettir used their initiative to race across and cut them off from the herd. Erik moved in as the men on the flanks curved forward to corral the animals against the eastern wall of the fort, making a grab for the reins as he calmed a skittish horse with the stroke of a hand. Turning to Sturla he handed the straps across. ‘Off you go,’ he said, ‘while the enemy are still off-balance.’ Sturla glanced down at the king’s hand for an instant as he wrestled with his conscience, but his discipline returned in a flash as he took the reins and hauled himself into the saddle. His eyes slid across to Kolbein at the king’s side, and before Erik could intervene he had tossed the bloody axe war banner across to the venerable huskarl. ‘Carry our lord’s banner before him in his last fight old friend,’ he said with a look of anguish, ‘that no man can ever say they saw the war flag of Erik Bloodaxe flee from war-play.’ With a tug at the reins the head came around, and as the horse began to move Sturla threw them a final wish before the emotion of their parting overwhelmed him. ‘Save me a place on old one-eye’s benches,’ he croaked. ‘For I have no wish to be far behind.’

  Denied passage through the gateways by the swelling ranks of the enemy Sturla turned the head of the mount to the east, and with a kick spurred the horse up and across the old rampart. As the skald’s head sank from view Erik realised for the first time that one of the younger members of his hird was stood before him, patiently waiting for the king to mount the horse he had seized to enable his escape. Erik threw the man a fatherly smile as he passed an arm ring across. ‘Mount up Thrand,’ he said, ‘and live a long life. Tell every man who will listen that you were given this ring by Erik Haraldsson in his last fight at the Hreyrr on Stainmore, and you will never spend silver for ale again.’

  Erik turned back before Thrand could reply, and his eyes drifted across the ranks of foemen as his huskarls clustered around. ‘No straw deaths for us lads,’ he cried as he heft Jomal; ‘pissing all night, and dozing all day. Tonight we drink in Valhöll!’ Erik looked about him as his closest friends pulled savage grins and said their farewells. Away to the north the Torf-Einarsson brothers were fighting back-to-back beneath the wild boar of Orkney, while to the south Erik looked on with pride as Ragnfrod and his hirdmen wheeled right to shatter the Strathclyde line. Beyond them the clouds had shredded, and the sky was brightening despite the late hour. A sunburst showed where the rainbow had come closer, and Erik thrilled to the sight as Kolbein raised the war flag and handed him a spear. Erik looked at it in bafflement and the old styrisman explained with a smile. ‘You will recall your first Viking, Erik?’ he said. ‘When I guided a young prince to a foreign shore and we sacked the monastery together.’ Kolbein’s eyes slipped across to the West, over to the Vale of Eden and its arch of many colours. ‘Well, the old one is listening now — it would be a shame to miss the chance.’ Erik snorted, hefting the dart as the memory returned. The spear flew, and the king’s dedication to the Allfather rang out as Norsemen chanted a verse and ash shafts clattered against lime wood boards.

  27

  Eriksmál

  Palatium Apostolicum Lateranense

  The year of our Lord 960

  The archbishop swept through the entrance, his eyes drinking in the splendour of the triclinium as he walked, and as the great doors closed behind him and the hubbub drifting in from the atrium beyond was snuffed out he recalled the events of the previous day with satisfaction. They were approaching the very spot where Pope John had presented the Englishman with the pallium, the Y-shaped woollen cloak which symbolised the authority of his office, before the assembled bishops and higher clergy of both Rome and those from his own land who had trodden the path across the Alps alongside him that spring. Empty now save a few guards, Dunstan had time to take in the mosaics lining the walls and niches as footfalls echoed like thunderclaps in the heavy silence. One in particular had caught his eye the previous day, despite the dignity of the occasion, and he paused for a moment to savour the image as his guide began to explain. ‘Ah,’ the man purred, ‘this mosaic is also a favourite of the Holy Father; you have fine taste archbishop.’

  Dunstan’s eyes widened at the remark as he feigned annoyance; but in truth there was very little which could dampen his spirits on a day like this, and he smothered a wicked smile as he supplied the obvious conclusion to the Roman’s statement. ‘I have fine taste — for a northerner you mean?’

  The man’s mo
uth gaped momentarily at the slip, but there were no tongue-tied rustics within the Lateran Palace and Dunstan was impressed as the retainer’s glib demeanour returned in a flash. ‘Good heavens no, archbishop,’ he said as a pained look washed across his features. ‘There is not a man in Rome who is unaware of your personal qualities, and the fervour with which you do God’s work.’

  Dunstan’s face broke into a smile. ‘I already know of this image,’ he said as a hand moved up to point out the details. ‘In the central alcove the figure of Christ hands out tasks to the Apostles.’ The archbishop’s hand wafted from side to side as he described the images on either flank. ‘To the left St Peter receives the keys to his kingdom, while on the opposite side Christ confers the stole on Leo and a standard to Charlemagne, King of Franks.’

  Dunstan noticed the faint whiff of disappointment steal into the Roman’s features at the depth of his charge’s knowledge, and he was quick to make amends as the pair walked on — he was a guest after all, and manners were the mark of a man. ‘This is a wonderful building,’ he said, craning his neck. ‘I have heard it said that it has stood for the best part of half a millennium.’

  The guide’s face lit up, the underestimation allowing him the opportunity to correct the archbishop as the Englishman had fully meant it to do. ‘Oh, it’s older still archbishop,’ he chirruped happily, ‘as is the adjoining basilica. You will have seen the obelisk in the square outside of course. Now that was brought to Rome from Egypt, and is of almost incalculable age…’ Puffed up with pride at the achievements of his ancestors the guide wittered on, and the archbishop’s mind began to wander as they turned aside and made their way through the room beyond.