Raven: Blood Eye (20 page)

'Come, Norseman,' Mauger mouthed, beckoning Sigurd on with his free hand. Sigurd's lips pulled back and his men bawled that they would cut the English down. The rhythmic thump of swords on shields grew louder and I thought the night would drown itself in blood and that I would die. My arm fell to trembling again as the battle thrill gripped me.

But then Sigurd slowly sheathed his sword and the thumping and jeers subsided. He turned, fixing me with his fierce eyes.

'It is not our time, Raven,' he said. 'Only when we're worthy of remembrance will Óðin's dark maidens take us to Asgard.'

Then he turned his back on the English, showing no fear of them, and raised his hand into the dawn sky for all his shieldwarriors to see. 'We are going to fill
Serpent
's belly with English silver!' he roared, his breath misting in the cold air, and his men cheered.

Shadowed by the English, we returned to the beach to find that Glum and his men had saved the ships from the rain of fire. They were still arrayed in battle formation, weary and pale as the sun which had broken free of the eastern horizon. The English skiffs still bobbed on the waves, their men out of Glum's reach but close enough to the longships to threaten them again with fire born of the embers kept in earthen vessels aboard. But there had been no real fight, because the English had too few trained spearmen to close with the mailed Sword- Norse. Still, Glum and the others were clearly relieved to see us coming towards them with Sigurd and Olaf at our head. Ealdred's men gripped their spears and arrows and axes and swords ready, should we turn on them, and now, in the daylight, we could see that there were even more of them than it had seemed in the night. Not all were warriors; many were farmers and craftsmen bearing the tools of their trades as make-do weapons, but even a scythe wielded by a strong arm will kill a man well enough. Sigurd had already lost good men and had no wish to lose more.

Though we half expected the English to attack us at any moment, they did not, and so friends greeted each other wearily and recounted what had happened to them. The sun rose still higher, warming our stiff bodies. Ealdred gave us time and space to look to our dead. Apart from white-haired Eric, three more had been killed in the fight outside the hall, making eleven in all who would never again take their places at
Serpent
's oars: Sigtrygg, Njal, Oleg, Eyjolf, Gunnlaug, Northri, Thorkel, Thobergur, Eysteinn, tall Ivar with the good eyesight, and Eric, son of Olaf. We wrapped them in their cloaks and carried them up a goat path to an outcrop that overlooked a sheltered cove. A rock was lashed to each corpse to take it down to the sea-bed, for there was no time to burn the bodies, and Sigurd preferred them to rot in seawater than Christian soil.

'Njörd Lord of the Sea will take them,' he said, 'to sit in Valhöll with their ancestors.' The heathens were quiet now, absent the laughter that usually followed them like gulls after a fishing skiff. I have learned how the death of a friend can tear out your guts. I watched the Norsemen carry the bodies of those they had known since childhood, when they played in the same trees and listened at the mead hall door to their drunken fathers' tales of battles and sea monsters and girls in far-off lands. I watched Olaf bear his dead son in his arms the way he must have done when Eric was a babe. Before he was wrapped in his cloak, the young Norseman's face looked peaceful; white like his hair. His father's face, beneath the bushy beard, was drawn. And wet.

When it was done, Sigurd shouldered his great shield and gripped his ash spear. His men took this to mean they should prepare themselves, and soon we were ready to set off in search of the holy gospel book of Saint Jerome. Glum had suggested we sail up the east coast and head inland along the river Thames into Mercia, but Ealdred and his men had laughed scornfully.

'I will honour our agreement, Ealdred, on my father's sword you have my word,' Sigurd said, affronted by the derision.

'Your word means spit to me, heathen,' Ealdred said, 'but I know what your longships mean to you. You walk to Coenwulf's land, or they will be ash carried on the tide.'

Sigurd's face twisted, his thick beard trembling, and I felt the rage come off him like heat from a hearthstone. For a moment I hoped he would kill Ealdred. He turned to his men, for a heartbeat holding the eye of Svein the Red and Black Floki and stony-faced Olaf, then he nodded.

'A jarl should be generous,' he said, addressing his Fellowship, 'and no jarl ever sailed with better men. It is right that your journey chests should bulge with a king's silver, and an English king's hoard is as good as any.' Then he turned back to Ealdred, resting his left hand on his sword's lobed pommel. 'A book for a treasure hoard?' He laughed, shaking his golden head. 'I will never understand Englishmen.'

And so, though in truth we had little choice, Jarl Sigurd somehow made it seem that we held the advantage and stood to gain much more than the English. There was no shame in the Norseman's face as he explained the plan to his men, filling their heads with visions of silver. Then we prepared to set off north on foot towards the kingdom of Mercia and the gospel book that would make us rich.

A score of English warriors clambered into the longships, torches burning in their hands, and Knut cursed them for fools for taking fire on to seasoned timbers caulked with tarred rope.
Serpent
was already scarred with burn marks. But there was nothing the Norsemen could do now except despise those who threatened
Serpent
and
Fjord-Elk
, and our mood darkened again as we made ready to leave. The main body of Ealdorman Ealdred's force had retreated up the steep hillside to the high ground to lessen the risk of a fight breaking out, for they feared us still, and their spear wall resembled a palisade, shield bosses and spear tips glinting in the afternoon light. I was watching them when I heard Black Floki curse.

'What in the name of Frigg's tits is the Christ slave doing?' he asked, nodding at Father Egfrith. The monk was hawking spit into his cupped hand and dipping a small knife into it.

'I think he's shaving his face,' Olaf said, staring in wonderment.

Floki touched his own beard, then his sword hilt for luck. 'And why would a man wear women's skirts?' he asked, his face a frown beneath the black beard. 'We are Sword-Norse, Uncle! And we're travelling with that?'

'He can wear a silk headscarf and a pair of tits so long as he makes us rich, lad,' Olaf said, slapping Floki's shoulder. 'You ever seen a Christ book?' Floki shook his head, still bemused. 'Well he has,' Olaf said, pointing at Egfrith, 'and that's why Ealdred is sending the little man with us.'

Bjorn thumped the earth with his spear's butt. 'Uncle, why don't we double back tonight when it's dark? We could slaughter these bastards and be on our way.'

Olaf shook his head. 'It's just as well you're not our jarl, Bjorn.'

Bjorn shrugged his shoulders and looked at Black Floki, who grimaced.

'They'll have men and bloody firebrands in the hulls till we're long gone, Bjorn,' he said unhappily. 'I'd rather fight every Englishman between here and the northern sea than watch
Serpent
and
Fjord-Elk
burn to ash.'

'He's right, lad,' Olaf said softly, and Bjorn nodded, relenting. Olaf turned and continued barking commands at the Norsemen. It had been his and Glum's job to see that the longships were securely moored and their small holds watertight, and now he was allocating burdens of food and water for the journey. Olaf was an overbearing presence as he checked the men had their whetstones and all their war gear and made sure they looked more like gods of war than mortal men, their mail polished to a sheen and their blades honed to a vicious edge.

'He has buried his sadness very deep,' Svein the Red said, nodding towards Olaf, who was now bawling at Kon for not combing the clotted blood from his beard. Svein hefted a sack of cured meat joints on to the back of a sturdy pony, one of three supplied by Ealdred. 'He buries it the way the yew tree digs its roots far into the earth.'

'You'd think Floki was the one who'd lost a son,' I said, hanging two dozen dried codfish, strung through the gills, across the pony's neck. The black-haired Norseman was still muttering to himself as he readied his brynja, straps and huge round shield. 'He's more miserable than a fasting monk on a feast day.' The slash in my shin was filling my leg with hot pain. I would soon need to bind it in fresh linen.

Svein laughed. 'Ah, there's more chance of those fish jumping into the sea and swimming back to Hardanger Fjord than getting a smile out of Floki!' he exclaimed, rubbing the small of his back and cringing. 'Thór's balls I'm stiff. This walk will do us good, I think.'

'Forget walking, Svein,' Bjarni said, slapping the hilt of the sword at his hip, 'we'll be dancing when the rest of Wessex realize we're Norsemen. How far do you suppose we'll get? You think we'll even smell Mercia?' I thought Bjarni was right. We would never pass for Wessexmen or Mercians. Our best hope was that no English fyrd would be gathered in enough strength to fight us. Olaf knew this too, I realized, which was why he wanted us to look vicious. His hope was that any who saw us would be held rigid by fear, or driven to flight.

We took every weapon from the longships so that each man carried a short or long axe, usually strapped to his back, a spear, a long knife and a sword. Several carried bows and all had steel helmets, leather gambesons beneath mail brynjas, great round shields, and sturdy leather boots. On Bjarni's shield a snarling green dragon writhed on a red background and his was not the only fierce painted beast amongst us. Sigurd said I had done well during the fight and he even thumped my back affectionately when recounting how I had blown the war horn to make Ealdred think Glum and the others were coming to sow their slaughter. As a reward he said I could keep Njal's arms. He also said I had proved worthy of the sword he had given me on the beach. None of the other men challenged the gift, and so I fingered the sword's leather-bound grip and smooth iron pommel, hardly able to believe I now owned such things.

'It's not a pretty sword like some, but it's the quality of the blade and the arm behind it that's important,' Sigurd said. He could see my pride in the arms and he nodded, satisfied with how I looked. 'A sword is like a woman, Raven. If you look after it, it will look after you. After a time, you don't even notice the way it looks, yet its worth remains.'

'Thank you, lord,' I said, sombrely, and Sigurd nodded. Then he was amongst his men, encouraging them and praising their bravery. I looked at Sigurd's Wolfpack and a shiver touched my spine. We may have been without our ships and in the land of our enemies, but we looked fearsome enough to freeze the blood. We were more than forty armed and mailed men. We were death walking.

Egfrith the monk shuffled over, rubbing his bald head and wincing. 'On this enterprise you will leave the talking to me,' he said, his eyes flickering and returning to my blood-eye as he spoke, 'for my inspiration in this task comes from a higher authority even than our king.' Svein the Red burped loudly and looked down at the monk with something like amusement, but Egfrith pointed a finger at the giant and I thought he was either braver than he looked, or a witless fool. 'And if you have any sense of honour in your twisted hearts,' he warned, 'you will keep your oath to Ealdorman Ealdred. No harm must come to any man, woman or child of Wessex.' Svein feigned terror, signed the cross mockingly and walked off laughing.

'Do you see that man, Father?' I asked, pointing to Asgot who sat away from the others, casting the rune stones. 'I have seen him pull the lungs from a Wessexman they defeated in battle. The man was still alive when they laid the lungs across his back.'

I don't think Egfrith believed me. 'What kind of beast would do such evil?' he asked, sniffing. 'Why would they do it?'

I shrugged. 'They did it because they respected the man's bravery. And they wished to honour Óðin.' I smiled. Egfrith had signed the cross in Asgot's direction. 'If I were you, Father,' I said, 'I would be more concerned that Ealdred keeps
his
word and hands back Sigurd's ships when we return. Wessex will know terror if he does not.'

Egfrith seemed to consider this for a moment. 'No pillaging,' he said, blinking his squinty eyes, 'and, Heaven forbid, no rape.'

'None would dare, Father. Not with you around,' I said and Egfrith frowned because he knew I was teasing him. Ulf walked past and barked in the monk's ear, and he jumped like a hooked fish. Ulf laughed and the monk flushed crimson with anger.

'Leave him be, Norseman!' someone shouted, and I turned to see Mauger at the foot of the track spilling down from the bluff.