Norseman Raider (The Norseman Chronicles Book 4) (30 page)

We left the stunned, baby-faced man standing by himself.  “Who was that?” I asked.

The dark priest spat into the rocking water below.  “My replacement, though I don’t think he knows it yet.  The bishop in Ireland has control of our parish.  He has tired of how I run my flock.”  Killian chuckled.  “I can’t say that I blame them since I frequent the shield wall.  Leaders ought to live out the faith.  I frequently fail.”  He spat again.  “Coddled, lad, that’s what the priests in the far reaches of my homeland are.  They’re just as comfortable on the continent and in England.  It’s been too long since they’ve had to deal with hard, true pagans.  How else am I to lead?  And they go send that meek bugger.  He came with a ship full of our new warriors a week ago.”  Killian hastily tossed his pack into
Raven’s Cross
, but kept on with me.  “And what do you think those ropes will get you?”  He plucked one from my shoulder.

“I don’t know.  It can’t hurt to have the local spirits on my side.”

“Can’t it?” asked Killian.  He didn’t press the point.  “When I was a lad myself, there was a pocket of pagans living in the next valley.  Praise God, they’ve since converted.  But I remember that the patriarch of their family swore by the ropes twisted by the witches of Man.  Those knots, you see, are supposed to house the energy of the wind.  It is bound by a spell to stay close.  Then when you untie the knot, the wind erupts. Your sails billow.  The flags turn about and snap.  Your journey flies.  Your strandhogg finishes with success.  Thralls are taken then sold.  Coins weigh down your purse.  In other words, all the things a pagan could love come trotting your way.”  He swung my rope and slapped me with it.  “All of that is constrained in that tight, little knot.”  The priest struck me with each of the last three words.

I grabbed my
rope back.  “Then I’ll keep the cords and untie them at the right time.”

“There is no way you will need to unleash the power in those knots,” called Godfrey from behind.  Killian and I spun to see that the king now stood on a se
t of rickety crates that housed chickens.  Beneath him, the birds flapped their wings in their tiny cages.  Feathers fluttered.  Leif pushed his way around the stack, carrying two hudfats, his own and one I didn’t recognize.

“We are about to exact revenge on the so-called churchmen up north,” Godfrey began.

“We did invade them first, after all,” muttered Killian.  I shushed the Irishman.  He was correct, but when a king is about to give a speech about a forthcoming battle, who wants a bird chirping in his ear about the intricacies of truth?

“Dal Riata was once a real kingdom.  Now it is a shadow that has stretched too long.  The evening sun is setting on its place in history.
  The morning sun rises on a new kingdom, our Kingdom of the Isles!”  We cheered for Godfrey and what he was cobbling together.  I had only known victory with him and expected no less.

Godfrey moved his hands to his hips for a truly heroic pose.  In so doing, his weight shifted and the wobbly crates teetered.  The king crouched and spread his arms out wide to catch his balance.  The crowd of onlookers gasped in the moment when it looked like their king would topple; a terrible omen.  Yet, Godfrey remained standing.  He rose to stand even taller, scanning his warriors who had all stopped what they were doing.  They were scattered over the stones on the shingle, the docks, the ships.  They stopped and listened to their new king and when they saw him nearly fall, but then thrive, they cheered again.
  After tucking the two bags in
Charging Boar
, Leif sat on the bulwark to listen.

“Look at this motley bunch of refuse,” he called.  “My father was driven from Bayeux in Normandy!  I’m
from a line of cast-offs.  You are cast-offs.”  Godfrey pointed down to me.  “Misfits, orphans, and hooligans who believe in the power of witchcraft.”  The king pointed to a gaggle of Welshmen.  “Vagrants, hungry Christian vagrants who’ve come to find fortune with a Christian king.  Like Christ you come with nothing but the offer of sacrifice.  Huh!  In truth, I’m a Christian king who favors Thor on many days, the red-bearded, barrel-chested, Thor.”  Godfrey clapped his hands and rubbed them together.  The crates again teetered.  He rebalanced and laughed.  His men laughed with him.  “The Christ has won my salvation of that I am sure.  But when the sod is wet with blood as thick as dew and my feet ache from a forced march, I remember my grandfather telling me of Thor.  He cracks his mjolnir.  The thunder rolls from it, covering everything in its path.  Let us, Christian, pagan, the found, the lost, let us roll over the Dal Riatans and form a land where men can win glory by their own hands!”

We cheered.  I cheered loudly, for
the words of the king made sense.  My ancestors had scraped a living from the fjords of Norway.  During full days’ worth of darkness, icy mountains pushed at our backs.  During the midnight sun, icy waters sloshed at our feet.  It was on narrow strips of land and aboard the buffeting ships of the sea that my people had flourished.  My mind flashed ahead many years when I would be a man of wealth, living on a farm on Man.  Servants would obey my commands out of respect and just a bit of fear.  My children would mostly listen, but I could see that I’d have a son who was adventurous and a little too wild to tame.  Of him I would be proud.  He would lead warriors.  My grandchildren would worship me like a god, bearded and old, full of years, experience, and wisdom.  My banishment and exile from Greenland had led me to all of it.  What a blessing was this Providence!

“Behind, we Manx leave our farms, our homes, and our women.”  I had not heard Godfrey ever refer to himself as a Manx, but since his kingdom was housed there, I suppose it made sense to claim the heritage when the situation was right.  “We go to battle knowing that our women, should they be attacked, are hardy enough to repel all of Aethelred’s army!  My queen will rule in my absence like she has on many occasions.”  Gudruna stepped forward to look up at her husband.  The king looked down at her and I saw a flash of excitement and pride in his eyes.  “The woman is in many ways a better leader than I.  She’s wise and prudent.”  He tapped his new sword which napped in its scabbard.  “As many of you know from an evening I’d care to forget some years ago, your queen can even wield one of these with skill.”  The long-time crewmen of Godfrey chuckled.

Killian leaned in, “The king was overly drunk one night and challenged anyone in the hall to swordplay.  She was the only one foolish enough to agree.  It turns out she wasn’t so foolish.”

“Aoife!” barked Godfrey.  “Aoife!  Where is that girl?”  He scanned the crowd.  “Spare a dirty Irish thrall from the bitter markets elsewhere and see how you’re rewarded.  Aoife!”

My erstwhile thrall skipped out from among the legs of the spectators.  “Here, King Godfrey.”

“Take these and give them to the queen.  Tie them to the belt at her waist.”  Godfrey took the large iron keys from his belt and handed them to the outstretched limb of Aoife.  She paused and looked up at the king while he continued.  “Let these keys be a symbol that I pass all authority to Gudruna while I am gone.  She runs my hall.  She runs my fortress within the earthworks and palisade.  The queen runs my island.  Gudruna runs my kingdom.”  Godfrey peered down at Aoife.

“Why are you not doing what I asked?  Put the keys on the queen’s belt.”

“I’ll only put the keys on her belt if you promise to take me along with you.  I didn’t agree to serve you in order to
stay behind when the time for a-Viking came.  I came to kill a man or two.”  Those nearest who could hear her words erupted with laughter.  They, in turn spread her words to the others.  Soon everyone laughed.

The king could have been one to seethe with rage.  He’d already lost the battle with the precocious girl.  Had he stewed and lashed out, Godfrey would have appeared weak.  In a split second, he chose wisely.  “I welcome you into our man’s army
, little lady.”  He bowed to her with a sweep of his hands, which continued and deepened the raucous round of mirth.

“Will I be given a weapon?” Aoife pushed.

Godfrey was having fun now.  “Only the finest your tiny arms can hold.”

“May I be in your personal guard?”

“I would have it no other way.”

“And an arm-ring of gold?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

Aoife smiled and turned, tying the dangling, heavy keys to the queen’s belt.
  I could just barely hear an Irish tune the girl hummed while she worked.

Godfrey waved his hands and in short order the
roaring laughter slowed to head-shaking chuckles.  “Our preparations are done.  My speech is done.  Our key-giving ceremony is done.”  He paused for what seemed a long while.  Many silent heartbeats passed by, during which it seemed that Godfrey took the time to stare at each one of us.  He looked into our eyes, into our souls.  I felt like he was testing my mettle when the king peered at me.  When he moved on to another man, I was left wondering what he’d discovered.  Did I measure up?  He then finished his words.  With uncharacteristic softness, he said, “Let us begin our task.”

. . .

Throughout the morning as we filed around the southern edge of Man in order to turn north toward Dal Riata, the settlement and monastery at Lismore to be precise, the seas were calm.  The winds, though weak, were fickle, shifting this way and that, forcing us to beat to windward and frequently change tack on many a header.  We had just enough wind for the men to stow the oars and rest their backs.  This made us all feel easy, since a man who had just spent a day or two pulling at the oars held his spear with only wavering strength.

We didn’t waste the time we were given. 
I sat among the sloppily piled hudfats that belonged to our fellow Greenlanders and a few of the newcomers who’d joined our crew.  Next to me, Tyrkr slid a whetstone along Leif’s axe to put on a new edge.  I did the same to my blades.  Across the shifting hills and valleys of the sea, aboard
Raven’s Cross
, I saw that our king had Aoife awkwardly putting a shine on his fine new sword.  Their pilot turned at that moment, shifting the passengers as his portside slid up a swell.  A small amount of crimson spurt from Aoife’s hand.  I heard her utter a string of curses in her strange, old tongue while dropping the whetstone and clamping on the wound.  They disappeared for a few moments as their boat pitched away.  When I saw them again, Aoife stood leaning over the waters with her waist against the bulwark.  The little creature gripped the gunwale with a bloody hand.  The other was cocked back over her shoulder.  My heart nearly jumped into my throat.

Given my obvious fondness for the wretched Irish creature, you likely think that I was afraid of what she would do or I feared for her health and safety.  Yes, I’ve demonstrated these feelings in my tale thus fare.  Not this time!  She wasn’t going to bleed to death.  I could see that even
though the hull was reddening from her cut, it was the water washing over it that spread the blood and made it appear worse than it was.  She certainly wasn’t about to plunge herself into the sea, intentionally or accidentally.  The girl was too strong-willed for the first and too intelligent for the second.  No, I nearly panicked because she held the whetstone aloft and was winding up in order to hurl it into the sea in a fit of anger!

Growing up with the
heroic tales told to me by my father or around winter hearths, I assumed that everyone knew them.  Clearly, I was wrong.  Every Norseman I had ever known would never have risked throwing a whetstone.  And if someone became temporarily daft and felt compelled to do such a thing, he would certainly never throw one while at that very moment subject to the vagaries of the sea.

I h
ave since lived many years worshipping the Christ. And most of my aged days have been in the presence of a people who follow the god Glooskap.  Both of those experiences made me understand that I must explain the aspects of the old gods that I once took for granted.

You see
, Thor is on the side of man.  He is the god of thunder, yes, but he walks with us.  He sups with us.  The barrel-chested son of Odin laughs, drinks, races, fights, wins, and occasionally loses with us, his followers.  He is hardy as well as hearty.

There was a time when
Hrungnir, the giant, was challenged by Thor to a contest to the death.  The giant, with his three-sided heart made of stone, his head of stone, and his shield of stone, wielded as his weapon a magnificent whetstone.  But Thor had a clever peasant manservant at his side.  The servant convinced Hrungnir that Thor’s attack would come from beneath the earth.  The dim-witted giant threw his shield down and stood on it, daring Thor to come from the ground.  Thor, of course, could have attacked from the dirt, but instead hurled mjolnir at Hrungnir.  The giant reacted quickly.  He raised the magic whetstone over his shoulder, heaving it.  Mjolnir crashed into the whetstone, smashing it to bits.  The hammer continued on through and smashed the giant’s stone head.  Hrungnir fell dead.

But a
splinter from the whetstone became forever lodged in Thor’s head.  The whetstones we use to this day came from the remaining shards.  Whenever a man throws one, the stone lodged in Thor’s head shifts.  Thor feels pain.  He becomes frustrated and angry.  He whitens his grip on mjolnir.  The seas become roiled and rough.  Storms blow.  Lightning crashes.  Thunder rolls.  Men die.

Godfrey veritably jumped across the deck and snatched Aoife’s arm.  I saw him shouting at the girl.  It was the first time I’d seen him truly angry wit
h the waif.  He shook her and, no doubt, explained to her the nearly grave error.  My heart settled back into my chest.  I again began to breathe.