Warriors of the Storm (22 page)

He grinned. ‘To you, yes. But you love ships, lord.’

‘I love this one!’

‘Me,’ he said, ‘I’m happiest when I can touch a tree.’

We saw two other ships that morning, but both fled from the sight of the great red axe on our sail. They were either fishing or cargo vessels and they rightly feared a sea-wolf seething northwards with the waves foaming white at her jaws. Dudda might have warned me of the pirates of Mann, but it would take a brave fool to tackle
Sæbroga
with her full crew of savage warriors. Most of those savage warriors were sleeping now, slumped between the benches.

‘So,’ Finan said, ‘your son-in-law.’

‘My son-in-law.’

‘The fool’s got himself trapped, is that right?’

‘So I’m told.’

‘With nigh-on five hundred folk?’

I nodded.

‘It’s just that I’m thinking,’ he said, ‘that we might cram another forty people on board this bucket, but five hundred?’

Sæbroga
dipped her bows and a spatter of spray flicked down the hull. The wind was rising, but I sensed no malice in it. I leaned on the oar to turn our bows slightly westwards, knowing that the wind would be pressing us ever to the east. A mound of clouds showed far ahead of our bows, and Dudda reckoned they were heaping above the island called Mann. ‘Just hold your course, lord,’ he said, ‘hold your course.’

‘Five hundred people,’ Finan reminded me.

I grinned. ‘Have you ever heard of a man called Orvar Freyrson?’

‘Never,’ he shook his head.

‘Ragnall left him in Ireland,’ I said, ‘with four ships. He’s already attacked Sigtryggr once and got a bloody nose for his trouble. So now, I suspect, he’s content to make sure no one supplies Sigtryggr with food. He’s keeping other ships away, hoping to starve the fort into surrender.’

‘Makes sense,’ Finan said.

‘But why does Orvar Freyrson need four ships?’ I asked. ‘That’s just greedy. He’ll have to learn to share, won’t he?’

Finan smiled. He looked back, but the land had vanished. We were out in the wide sea now, reaching on a brisk wind and splitting the green waves white. We were a sea-wolf given her freedom. ‘Her ladyship won’t be happy with you,’ he remarked.

‘Æthelflaed? She’ll be spitting like a wildcat,’ I said, ‘but it’s Eadith I feel sorry for.’

‘Eadith?’

‘Æthelflaed hates her. Eadith won’t like being left alone in Ceaster.’

‘Poor lass.’

‘But we’ll be back,’ I said.

‘And you think either woman will forgive you?’

‘Eadith will.’

‘And Lady Æthelflaed?’

‘I’ll just have to take her a gift,’ I said.

He laughed at that. ‘Christ, but it will have to be some gift! It’s not as if she needs any more gold or jewels! So what were you thinking of giving her?’

I smiled. ‘I was thinking of giving her Eoferwic.’

‘Holy Mary!’ Finan said, suddenly coming alert. He sat up straight and stared at me for a heartbeat. ‘You’re serious! And how in God’s name are you going to do that?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, then laughed.

Because I was at sea and I was happy.

The weather worsened that afternoon. The wind veered, forcing us to lower the great sail and lash it to the yard, and then we rowed into a short sharp sea, struggling against wind and current, while above us the clouds rolled from the west to darken the sky. Rain spattered the rowers and dripped from the rigging.
Sæbroga
was a beautiful craft, elegant and sleek, but as the wind rose and the seas shortened I saw she had a bad habit of burying her head to shatter spray along the deck. ‘It’s the axe,’ I said to Finan.

‘Axe?’

‘On the prow! It’s too heavy.’

He was huddled in his cloak beside me. He peered forward. ‘It’s a massive piece of wood, that’s for sure.’

‘We need to move some of the ballast stones aft,’ I said.

‘But not now!’ he sounded alarmed at the thought of wet men struggling with heavy stones while
Sæbroga
pitched in the pounding seas.

I smiled. ‘Not now.’

We made landfall at Mann and I kept the island well to our east as the night fell. The wind calmed with the darkness and I held
Sæbroga
off the island’s coast, unwilling to journey further in the blackness of night. Not that the night was all black. There were gleams of firelight from the island’s distant slopes, faint lights that kept us safe by letting us judge our position. I let my son take the steering-oar and slept till dawn. ‘We go west now,’ a bleary-eyed Dudda told me in the wolf-light, ‘due west, lord, and we’ll come to Loch Cuan.’

‘And Christ only knows what we find there,’ Finan said.

Sigtryggr dead? My daughter abducted? An ancient fort smeared with blood? There are times when the demons persecute us, they give us doubts, they try to persuade us that our fate is doom unless we listen to them. I am convinced that this middle earth swarms with demons, invisible demons, Loki’s servants, wafting on the wind to make mischief. I remember, years ago, how dear Father Beocca, my childhood tutor and old friend, told me that Satan sent demons to tempt good Christians. ‘They try to keep us from doing God’s purpose,’ he had told me earnestly. ‘Did you know that God has a purpose for all of us, even for you?’

I had shaken my head. I was perhaps eight years old and even then I thought my purpose was to learn sword-craft, not to master the dull skills of reading and writing.

‘Let me see if you can discover God’s purpose on your own!’ Beocca had said enthusiastically. We had been sitting on a ledge of Bebbanburg’s rock, staring at the wild sea as it foamed about the Farnea Islands. He had been making me read aloud from a small book that told how Saint Cuthbert had lived on one of those lonely rocks and had preached to the puffins and seals, but then Beocca started bouncing up and down on his scrawny bum as he always did when he became excited. ‘I want you to think about what I say! And perhaps you can find the answer on your own! God,’ his voice had become very earnest, ‘made us in His own image. Think of that!’

I remember thinking that was very strange of God because Beocca was club-footed, had a cock-eyed squint, a squashed nose, wild red hair, and a palsied hand. ‘So God’s a cripple?’ I had asked.

‘Of course not,’ he had said, slapping me with his good right hand, ‘God is perfect!’ He slapped me again, harder. ‘He is perfect!’ I remember thinking that perhaps God looked like Eadburga, one of the kitchen maids, who had taken me behind the fortress chapel and shown me her tits. ‘Think!’ Father Beocca had urged me, but all I could think of was Eadburga’s breasts, so I shook my head. Father Beocca had sighed. ‘He made us look like Him,’ he explained patiently, ‘because the purpose of life is to be like Him.’

‘To be like Him?’

‘To be perfect! We must learn to be good. To be good men and women!’

‘And kill children?’ I had asked earnestly.

He had squinted at me. ‘And kill children?’

‘You told me the story!’ I had said excitedly. ‘How the two bears killed all the boys! And God made them do it. Tell me again!’

Poor Beocca had looked distraught. ‘I should never have read that story to you,’ he had said miserably.

‘But it is true?’

He had nodded unhappily. ‘It is true, yes. It’s in our scripture.’

‘The boys were rude to the prophet?’

‘Elisha, yes.’

‘They called him baldie, yes?’

‘So the scripture tells us.’

‘So God sent two bears to kill them all! As a punishment?’

‘Female bears, yes.’

‘And forty boys died?’

‘Forty-two children died,’ he had said miserably.

‘The bears tore them apart! I like that story!’

‘I’m sure God wanted the children to die quickly,’ Beocca had said unconvincingly.

‘Do the scriptures say that?’

‘No,’ he had admitted, ‘but God is merciful!’

‘Merciful? He killed forty-two children …’

He had cuffed me again. ‘It’s time we read more about the blessed Saint Cuthbert and his mission to the seals. Start at the top of the page.’

I smiled at the memory as
Sæbroga
slammed her prow into a green-hearted sea and slung cold spray down the length of her deck. I had liked Beocca, he was a good man, but so easy to tease. And in truth that story in the Christians’ holy book proved that their god was not so unlike my own. The Christians pretended he was good and perfect, but he was just as capable of losing his temper and slaughtering children as any god in Asgard. If the purpose of life was to be an unpredictable, murderous tyrant then it would be easy to be godlike, but I suspected we had a different duty and that was to try to make the world better. And that too was confusing. I thought then and think still that the world would be a better place if men and women worshipped Thor, Woden, Freya, and Eostre, yet I drew my sword on the side of the child-slaughtering Christian god. But at least I had no doubts about the purpose of this voyage. I sailed to take revenge. If I discovered that Sigtryggr had been defeated and Stiorra captured then we would turn
Sæbroga
back eastwards and hunt Ragnall down to the last shadowed corner on earth, where I would rip the guts out of his belly and dance on his spine.

We fought weather all that day, butting
Sæbroga
’s heavy prow into a west wind. I had begun to think the gods did not want me to make this voyage, but late in the afternoon they sent a raven as an omen. The bird was exhausted and landed on the small platform in the ship’s prow where, for a time, it just huddled in misery. I watched the bird, knowing it was sent by Odin. All my men, even the Christians, knew it was an omen, and so we waited, pulling oars into short seas, swept by showers, waited for the bird to reveal its message. That message came at dusk as the wind dropped and the seas settled and the Irish coast appeared off our bows. To me the far coast looked like a green blur, but Dudda preened. ‘Just there, lord!’ he said, pointing a shade or two to the right of our bows. ‘That’s the entrance, right there!’

I waited. The raven strutted two steps one way, two steps the other.
Sæbroga
pitched as a larger wave rolled under her hull, and just then the raven took to the air and, with renewed energy, flew straight as a spear for the Irish coast. The omen was favourable.

I leaned on the steering oar, turning
Sæbroga
northwards.

‘It’s there. Lord!’ Dudda protested as I turned the ship’s head past the place he had indicated and kept on turning her. ‘The entrance, lord! There! Just beyond the headland. We’ll make the narrows before dark, lord!’

‘I’m not taking a ship into enemy waters at dusk,’ I growled.

Orvar Freyrson had four ships in Loch Cuan, four warships manned by Ragnall’s warriors. When I entered the loch I needed to take him by surprise, not row in and immediately be forced to look for somewhere safe to anchor or moor. Dudda had warned me that the loch was full of ledges, islands, and shallows, so it was no place to arrive in the near darkness while enemy ships that were familiar with the dangers might lurk nearby. ‘We enter at dawn,’ I told Dudda.

He looked nervous. ‘Better to wait for slack water, lord. By dawn the tide will be flooding.’

‘Is that what Orvar Freyrson would expect?’ I asked. ‘That we’d wait for slack water?’

‘Yes, lord.’ He sounded nervous.

I clapped him on a meaty shoulder. ‘Never do what an enemy expects, Dudda. We’ll go in at dawn. On the flood.’

That was a bad night. We were close to a rockbound coast, the sky was clouded, and the seas choppy. We rowed, always heading north, and I worried that one of Orvar’s men might have recognised
Sæbroga’
s distinctive prow when we first made landfall. That was unlikely. We had turned northwards well offshore and had been under oars so no one on land could have seen the much larger red axe on the big sail. But if the ship had been recognised then Orvar would be wondering why we had turned away rather than seek shelter for the night.

The wind fretted in the darkness, blowing us towards the Irish shore, but I had twelve men pulling on the oars to hold us steady
. I listened for the dreaded sound of surf breaking or of seas crashing on rocks. Sometimes I thought I heard those noises and felt a surge of panic, but that was likely a sea-demon playing tricks, and Ran, the sea-goddess, who can be a jealous and savage bitch, was in a good mood that night. The sea sparkled and glimmered with her jewels, the strange lights that flicker and glow in the water. When an oar-blade dipped the sea would shatter into thousands of glowing droplets that faded slowly. Ran only sent the jewels when she was feeling kind, but even so I was fearful. Yet there was no need to be nervous because when the dawn broke grey and slow we were still well offshore. ‘Sweet Jesus,’ Dudda said when at last he could make out the coast, ‘sweet mother of God. Thank Christ!’ He too had been nervous, drinking steadily through the night, and now he gazed bleary-eyed at the green strip of land. ‘Just go south, lord, just go south.’

‘How far?’

‘One hour?’

It took longer, not because Dudda was wrong, but because I gave my men time to eat, then to pull on their mail coats. ‘Keep your helmets and weapons close,’ I told them, ‘but I don’t want anyone in a helmet yet. And put cloaks over your mail!’ We could not arrive at the loch looking ready for war, but rather like men tired from a voyage and wanting nothing more than to join their comrades. I called Vidarr, the Norseman who had deserted to join his wife, back to the stern. ‘What can you tell me of Orvar Freyrson?’ I asked him.

Vidarr frowned. ‘He’s one of Ragnall’s shipmasters, lord, and a good one.’

‘Good at what?’

‘Seamanship, lord.’

‘Good at fighting too?’

Vidarr shrugged. ‘We’re all fighters, lord, but Orvar’s older now, he’s cautious.’

‘Does he know you?’

‘Oh yes, lord. I sailed with him in the northern islands.’

‘Then you’ll hail him, or hail whoever we meet, understand? Tell him we’re sent to attack Sigtryggr. And if you betray me …’

‘I won’t, lord!’

I paused, watching him. ‘Have you been into the loch?’

‘Yes, lord.’

‘Tell me about it.’