Authors: Giles Kristian
Eventually, the sleep of the dead took me down into nothingness. And Svein stayed with me.
A dark mood lay heavy upon the Fellowship when we set off the next day. The Norsemen had hated burying Ugly Einar in the earth, for they believed it was not for a great warrior to rot amongst the worms. Raging flames would have borne Einar's soul to Valhöll as swiftly as an eagle soars into the clouds. Still, they knew Óðin's maidens would find their friend to fight for the gods in the last battle, for Einar had been a Sword-Norse and he had died with his sword in his hand.
According to Egfrith we were in Mercia now. A steady drizzle was falling, dripping from the trees to soak through our clothes. Ealhstan was gone and I was afraid. The old man had been the last thread tying me to the life I had known before the Norsemen came, his presence the whisper of conscience in a new world. Now the thread had been severed and there was no going back.
I clutched the Óðin amulet hanging at my neck and wondered what the All-Father made of the sacrifice he had been offered the previous night. Could a Christian, even one sacrificed by a godi, gain entry to Valhöll? Ealhstan had not been a warrior, but Sigurd told me Óðin was the lord of words and beauty and knowledge too, and so perhaps, I thought, he would have a use for the old man.
Then my hand fell to the lobed pommel of the sword at my waist, the weapon that had avenged Ealhstan with Ugly Einar's blood. The leather-bound grip was worn smooth, but silver wire spiralled round it to prevent the sword's slipping from a sweaty palm. It was simple and deadly and beautiful. It was mine.
The Norns of fate were weaving still. And I was a Norseman now.
CHAPTER NINE
TWO DAYS LATER AT DAWN, FATHER EGFRITH WARNED SIGURD THAT
we were close to King Coenwulf's stronghold. The monk seemed to have forgotten the horror of Ealhstan's sacrifice and clearly relished being out among the wonders of the Lord's creation, as he put it; so much so that in his excitement he forgot to loathe us. The little weasel face chattered constantly. 'Unlike some of my world-shy brothers I have travelled literally
and
spiritually, as I believe is one's duty . . .' he was saying, until Sigurd jabbed the butt of his spear into his shoulder, silencing him for a while.
Soon after, Olaf called a warning. 'Keep your eyes open, lads,' he said, putting on his helmet so that he was all grey steel and brown beard. 'There'll be fighting before long, less my bones are lying.' The Norsemen put on their own helmets, which they carried on spears over their shoulders, and tightened straps, boots and belts, for there was every chance that the Mercians had planned a welcome for us.
'Coenwulf's a scrapper, Sigurd,' Mauger said, 'and he'll have men riding his borders looking for Wessexmen who've strayed too far from their hearths. The truce prevents war, but it won't stop a man getting a length of spear in his belly if he's not careful. The cunnies won't be expecting Norsemen, mind. That'll piss on their holy fire. When they come across forty stinkin' heathens in coats of mail!' He smiled at the thought, a rare expression for him, and I wondered whether Mauger had ever been a child, or if he had been spawned a warrior with scars and beard and malice.
Ash and oak began to give way to fast-growing firs and birches, warning us that men managed this land. Having long since taken the best wood, the Mercians planted trees that did not take countless generations to grow. A little further and the forest would thin, becoming wild heathland and eventually yielding to rolling pasture and sheep meadows. We would not go unnoticed for long.
Some of the Norsemen still looked at me with distrust in their blue eyes, and I felt more than one curse prick my skin like an elf's arrow, muttered by men who blamed me for Glum's mutilation. They respected their jarl's right to administer it, but in their eyes Glum, Einar and Asgot had only been acting on their collective fears. They were in a strange land, governed by a strange god – who would not understand their wanting to feel the All-Father's presence? If this could be achieved through the death of an old man, and a Christian at that, then so be it. Still, I took some comfort from the fact that they did not seem to hold Einar's death against me. Vengeance is a man's right and Norsemen understand this intimately. They would miss their ugly friend, but they were ambitious men who knew they followed a strong jarl towards riches and glory.
That day, I believed they would follow Sigurd anywhere, for we were now in the heart of Coenwulf's kingdom and a great distance from our ships. Though some whispered that we had strayed too far from our gods too, I don't think I was alone in thinking that wherever Sigurd the Lucky went, Óðin and Thór could not be far away.
Later that day we made camp in a vale between two scarp slopes, the eastern one covered with short oaks, birch and bracken, and the western one worn down to rock and clay, patched with tough grass. The flood plain narrowed at this point, the river that once must have coursed through the place reduced to a trickling brook thickly lined with mosses and ferns full of grass snakes.
There was a chill in the air, but there would be no fires this night, for Mauger and Father Egfrith agreed that we were less than a day's march from the king's fortress. The Wessex warrior advised using what remained of the forest as cover before crossing open pasture. There was already a chance that we had been seen and for this reason Olaf believed we should hit the fortress quickly, before the locals had a chance to ready themselves. But Sigurd agreed with Mauger that we should rest once more so as to be fresh for whatever lay in store.
'He's scheming, lad,' Bram said, gesturing to Sigurd. 'I've seen that face before. It's his Loki face. While we're sleeping, Sigurd will be scheming.' Sure enough, later that night, as most men lay asleep in their cloaks, Sigurd's plan was born, and it was Father Egfrith who prised it from him. The monk shivered, sniffed, and tugged Sigurd's sleeve as the jarl was drinking from his water skin.
'What will you do when we come to King Coenwulf's hall, Sigurd?' Egfrith asked, one eye on Black Floki who had scooped up grit from the stream bed and was rubbing it across the rings of the brynja on the rock beside him.
'We'll sing Coenwulf a lullaby, hey, Uncle!' Sigurd said. 'And he'll hand over the book with a smile and a plate of honeyed oat cakes, and two or three young women with soft thighs and hard tits.'
Olaf grinned, then scratched his thick beard and frowned. 'The little man has a point, Sigurd. There's going to be a river of blood before this thing is over.'
'Perhaps,' Sigurd replied, pursing his lips, 'but perhaps not. I have spoken with Mauger about these Mercians. It seems Coenwulf has his hands full dealing with King Eardwulf of Northumbria. This Eardwulf's people pick at his northern borders like crows on a gut string. Then there are the Welsh snapping at him from the west.' Sigurd leant forward, threw back his head and grabbed his long golden hair before tying it back. 'A man must command many spears to be a king of rich soil, like Coenwulf, hey, Mauger? It's easier to lay claim to the sea, I think.'
Mauger took an ale skin from his lips. 'They fight like dogs, Sigurd,' he confirmed, ale dripping from his beard as he raised the skin again.
Sigurd nodded and looked at Olaf as though assessing his friend's resolve, for Olaf had already seen his son killed and there was no denying the risk we were taking. 'Mauger and Raven will go to Coenwulf and tell him that Eardwulf's warriors have crossed into his lands from the north,' Sigurd said. 'Not just lone wolves, but a raiding party.'
'Raven, tell him that King Eardwulf himself is ploughing Mercian cunny,' Black Floki added with a smirk, still cleaning his mail.
'Oh yes, Sigurd!' Father Egfrith exclaimed. 'I shall write to the king confirming the raids. He's a Christian king after all and will believe the word of a servant of Christ.' He sniffed loudly and wiggled his fingers. 'Oh, I shall enjoy writing! There is none in Wessex with a finer hand, may the Lord strike me down and maggots spawn in my mouth if I lie.' He made the sign of the cross and raised his eyes to the sky, suddenly fearful, then grinned haughtily at Olaf as though Sigurd's plan was entirely his own. Mauger looked at Egfrith, his expression grim. 'Well, it's true, Mauger,' Egfrith said defensively, holding up his right hand to show off the ink-stained fingers. 'Who else round here knows his letters?' He made a strangled laughing sound. 'Not a stinking, foul-minded one of you, so help you God. But I do know mine.'
'Coenwulf will believe the word of a Christ monk?' Sigurd asked, shaking his head in wonder. Why any warrior would believe a man who wore no sword and prided himself on being able to scratch shapes into a dried calf's skin was beyond Sigurd.
'Oh yes, he'll believe me,' Egfrith confirmed with a wicked grin.
'And I was beginning to like this Coenwulf,' Sigurd said disappointedly, running a comb through his golden beard. 'Mauger tells me the man is never more cheerful than when sending his enemies screaming into the afterlife.' He turned to Olaf again. 'When the king takes his warriors north, we'll burn his hall and take the book . . . providing he doesn't take it with him. Who can say what a Christian is likely to do?' he asked, glancing at Father Egfrith.
Olaf smiled, taking a small whetstone from his scrip and spitting on it before running his knife across it. 'You should have told me you had the whole thing planned out,' he said, blowing across the blade. 'I like to know the details when it comes to arranging a fight.'
'The only thing you worry about is how you're going to fill your belly after a day's killing,' Sigurd replied, slapping Olaf's back. 'Now get some sleep, old friend. You too, Raven,' he added, fixing me with his fierce eyes. 'Tomorrow we wake the gods.'
The next morning, I set off with Mauger, leaving Sigurd and his Wolfpack to make their final preparations and pray to their gods of battle for a great victory or a good death. We would travel along the banks of the mighty river called the Severn, as this would enable us to cut round King Coenwulf's hall to approach from the north, making our story about Northumbrian raiders more believable.
I hoped that because we were just two men no one would confront us to ask our purpose, but I doubted we would go unnoticed, for we wore our battle gear and carried great round shields. Mauger had removed most of his silver warrior rings; such rewards would have marked him as a great fighter and the Mercians would wonder why they did not know him. Yet even without the rings the man looked ferocious.
We barely spoke at first, moving fast along the riverside where mosses, ferns and liverworts stirred with rats and voles. Damp-loving alder and willow lined the banks, providing perches for brightly coloured kingfishers. These birds streaked like arrows down to the ripples that betrayed fish breaking the surface to snatch at insects.
When Mauger did speak, it was usually a question about the Norsemen. 'Did it feel good the other night?' he asked, the sweat beading on his beard and the flushed face beneath. 'When you killed that ugly heathen bastard?'
'Yes, it felt good,' I said truthfully, 'and I would have killed Glum too if Jarl Sigurd hadn't stopped me.' Though I doubted I could have scratched Glum before he cut me down.
'You admire that whoreson, don't you, lad?' Mauger said, meaning Sigurd. 'That bastard took you from your home – no point denying that, lad – burned the place to the ground and split your old friend's belly before dragging his guts round a tree. And you'd still die for him. You're a bloody fool.'
'Sigurd didn't kill Ealhstan,' I said.
'Might as well have. They're all the same. Heathen bastards.'
I shook my head. 'You're wrong. Sigurd sees something I could never have dreamed of before. He weaves his own story and I will be a part of it.'
'You want some of these, lad?' he asked, touching a bracelet of twisted silver which circled the bulge in his upper arm. Pride lit his eyes.
I eyed the ring hungrily. 'I want what they want, Mauger, what Sigurd wants,' I said, as something rustled in a grass tussock and then plopped into the water. There was a bend in the river, slowing the current enough for frogs and grass snakes to set their traps. 'I will follow Sigurd and he will give me glory,' I said, embarrassed by the admission.
'Pah! Glory is never given, lad.' Mauger spat with a grimace. 'You have to take it at the end of a bloody sword, and you're as likely to be killed by another man chasing the same bastard dream. Staying alive is the only thing a warrior should set his heart on. He can expect or hope for no more.'