Warriors of the Storm (24 page)

‘Go!’ I shouted. I could not leap the gap from the stern, but I hurried forward as the first of my men scrambled across, weapons showing. Finan led, jumping across the gap with a drawn sword.

Jumping to slaughter.

The crew of
Hræsvelgr
were good men, brave men, warriors of the north. They deserved better. They were not ready for battle, they were grinning a welcome one moment and dying the next. Few even had time to find a weapon. My men, like hounds smelling blood, poured across the boats’ sides and started killing. They gutted the centre of
Hræsvelgr
instantly, clearing a space in her belly. Finan led his men towards her stern while I took mine towards the eagle-proud bows. By now some of Orvar’s crew had seized swords or axes, but none was dressed in mail. A blade thumped on my ribs, did not cut the iron links, and I chopped Serpent-Breath sideways, striking the man on the side of his neck with the base of the blade. He went down and my son finished him with a thrust of his sword Raven-Beak. Men retreated in front of us, tripping over the benches, and some leaped overboard rather than face our wet blades. I could not see Orvar, but I could hear a man roaring, ‘No! No! No! No!’

A youngster lunged at me from the deck, plunging his sword two-handed at my waist. I turned the lunge away with Serpent-Breath and kneed him in the face, then stamped on his groin.

‘No! No!’ the voice still roared. The youngster kicked me and I tripped on a stiff coil of rope and sprawled onto the deck, and two of my men stepped protectively over me. Eadger slid his sword point into the youngster’s mouth, then drove the point hard down to the deck beneath. Vidarr gave me his hand and hauled me upright. The voice still shouted, ‘No! No!’

I rammed Serpent-Breath at a man readying to strike at Eadger with an axe. The man fell backwards. I was ready to slide Serpent-Breath into his ribcage when the axe was snatched from his hand and I saw that Orvar had pushed his way from the ship’s prow and now stood on a bench above the prone axeman. ‘No, no!’ Orvar shouted at me, then realised he had been bellowing the wrong message because he dropped the axe and spread his hands wide, ‘I yield!’ he called, ‘I yield!’ He was staring at me, shock and pain on his face, ‘I yield!’ he cried again. ‘Stop fighting!’

‘Stop fighting!’ It was my turn to shout. ‘Stop!’

The deck was slippery with blood. Men groaned, men cried, men whimpered as the two ships, tied together now, rocked slightly on the lake’s placid water. One of Orvar’s men lurched to
Hræsvelgr
’s side and vomited blood.

‘Stop fighting!’ Finan echoed my shout.

Orvar still stared at me, then he took a sword from one of his men, stepped down from the bench and held the sword’s hilt to me. ‘I yield,’ he said again, ‘I yield, you bastard.’

And now I had two ships.

A smear of red discoloured the water. It drifted away, turned pink and slowly vanished. The deck of
Hræsvelgr
was thick with blood, while the air stank of blood and shit. There were sixteen dead men, eight prisoners, and the rest of Orvar’s crew were in the bloodied water clinging to oars that floated close by the hull. We hauled those men aboard, then searched both them and the dead for coins, hacksilver, or anything else of value. We piled the plunder and the captured weapons by
Sæbroga
’s mast, close to which Orvar sat watching as the first of his dead crewmen were thrown overboard from
Hræsvelgr
, which was still lashed to our larger ship. ‘Who are you?’ he asked me.

‘I’m the bitch’s father,’ I said.

He flinched, then closed his eyes for a second. ‘Uhtred of Bebbanburg?’

‘I’m Uhtred.’

He laughed, which surprised me, though it was a bitter laugh, bereft of any amusement. ‘Jarl Ragnall sacrificed a black stallion to Thor as a pledge of your death.’

‘Did it die well?’

He shook his head. ‘They bodged it. It took three blows of the hammer.’

‘I was given a black stallion not long ago,’ I said.

He flinched again, recognising that the gods had favoured me and that Ragnall’s sacrifice had been rejected. ‘The gods love you then,’ he said, ‘lucky you.’ He was about my age, which meant he was old. He looked grizzled, lined and hard. His beard, grey with dark streaks, had ivory rings woven into the hair, he wore golden rings in his ears, and had worn a thick golden chain with a golden hammer until my son took it from him. ‘Did you have to kill them?’ he asked, looking at the corpses of his men floating naked in the reddened water.

‘You have my daughter under siege,’ I said angrily, ‘she and my granddaughter. What was I supposed to do? Kiss you?’

He nodded reluctant acceptance of my anger. ‘But they were good boys,’ he said, grimacing as another corpse was tossed over
Hræsvelgr
’s side. ‘How did you capture the
Øxtívar
?’ he asked.

‘
Øxtívar
?’

‘His ship!’ He rapped the mast. ‘This ship!’

So that had been
Sæbroga
’s name,
Øxtívar
. It meant axe of the gods and it was a good name, but
Sæbroga
was better. ‘The same way I sent Ragnall running away from Ceaster,’ I said, ‘by beating him in battle.’

He frowned at me as if assessing whether I told the truth, then gave another of his mirthless laughs. ‘We’ve heard nothing from the Jarl,’ he said, ‘not since he left. Does he live?’

‘Not for long.’

He grimaced. ‘Nor me, I suppose?’ He waited for a response, but I said nothing, so he just patted the mast. ‘He loves this ship.’

‘Loved,’ I corrected him. ‘But he kept too much weight forward.’

He nodded. ‘He always did. But he likes to see his oarsmen get soaked because it amuses him. He says it toughens them. His father was the same.’

‘And Sigtryggr?’ I asked.

‘What of him?’

‘Does he like toughening his crew?’

‘No,’ Orvar said, ‘he’s the good brother.’

That answer surprised me, not because I thought Sigtryggr bad, but because Orvar served Ragnall and loyalty alone would have suggested a different response. ‘The good brother?’ I asked.

‘People like him,’ Orvar said, ‘they’ve always liked him. He’s generous. Ragnall’s cruel and Sigtryggr’s generous. You should know that, he married your daughter!’

‘I like him,’ I said, ‘and it sounds as if you do too.’

‘I do,’ he said simply, ‘but Ragnall has my oath.’

‘You had a choice?’

He shook his head. ‘Their father ordered it. Some of us were sworn to Ragnall, some to Sigtryggr. I think Jarl Olaf thought they’d divide his lands peaceably, but once he died they fell out with each other instead.’ He looked at the floating bodies. ‘And here I am.’ He watched as I sorted through the captured weapons, weighing the swords one by one. ‘So now you’ll kill me?’ he asked.

‘You have a better idea?’ I asked sarcastically.

‘Either you kill me or the Irish will,’ Orvar said gloomily.

‘I thought they were your allies?’

‘Some allies!’ he said scornfully. ‘They agreed to attack the land side of the fort while we assaulted the beach, but the bastards never came. I lost twenty-three men! The damned Irish said the omens were bad.’ He spat. ‘I don’t believe they ever did intend to attack! They just lied.’

‘And they won’t attack,’ I suggested, ‘because of my daughter’s sorcery?’

‘She’s got them scared, right enough, but I also think they want us to do all the fighting for them so they can move in and kill the survivors. Then take your daughter to …’ he did not finish that sentence. ‘We fight,’ he said wryly, ‘and they win. They’re not fools.’

I looked up, seeing small white clouds sailing serene in a perfect blue. The sun lit the land almost a luminous green. I could see why men lusted after this land, but I had known Finan long enough to learn that it was no easy place to settle. ‘I don’t understand,’ I told Orvar. ‘You like Sigtryggr, you mistrust your allies, so why didn’t you just make a truce with him? Why not join Sigtryggr?’

Orvar had been gazing at the water, but now raised his eyes to look into mine. ‘Because Ragnall has my wife as a hostage.’

I winced at that.

‘My children too,’ Orvar went on. ‘He took my wife and he took Bjarke’s woman too.’

‘Bjarke?’

‘Bjarke Neilson,’ he said, ‘shipmaster on the
Nidhogg
,’ he jerked his head northwards and I realised the
Nidhogg
must be the second ship that was blockading Sigtryggr’s fastness, and the jerk of Orvar’s head told me she was somewhere to the north of the loch. If Hræsvelgr was the eagle perched at the top of the life tree then Nidhogg was the serpent coiled at its roots, a vile creature that gnawed at the corpses of dishonoured men. It was a strange name for a ship, but one, I supposed, that would strike fear into enemies. Orvar frowned. ‘I suppose you’ll want to capture her too?’

‘Of course.’

‘And you can’t risk any of us warning
Nidhogg
by shouting,’ he said, ‘but at least let us die with swords in our hands?’ He looked at me pleadingly. ‘I beg you, lord, let us die like warriors.’

I found the best sword from among the captured weapons. It was long-bladed with a fine hilt of carved ivory and crosspieces shaped like hammers. I weighed it in my hand, liking its heft. ‘Was this yours?’

‘And my father’s before me,’ he said, staring at the blade.

‘So tell me,’ I said, ‘what must you do to get your family back?’

‘Give Ragnall your daughter, of course. What else?’

I turned the sword around, holding it by the blade to offer him the hilt. ‘Then why don’t we do just that?’ I asked.

He stared at me.

So I explained.

I needed men. I needed an army. For years Æthelflaed had refused to cross the frontier into Northumbria except to punish the Norse or Danes who had stolen cattle or slaves from Mercia. Such revenge raids could be brutal, but they were just raids, never an invasion. She wanted to secure Mercia first, to build a chain of burhs along its northern border, but by refusing to capture Northumbrian land she was also doing her brother’s bidding.

Edward of Wessex had proved to be a good enough king. He was not the equal of his father, of course. He lacked Alfred’s intense cleverness and Alfred’s single-minded determination to rescue the Saxons and Christianity from the pagan Northmen, but Edward had continued his father’s work. He had led the West Saxon army into East Anglia where he was winning back land and building burhs. The land ruled by Wessex was being pushed slowly northwards, and Saxons were settling estates that had belonged to Danish jarls. Alfred had dreamed of one kingdom, a kingdom of Saxon Christians, ruled by a Saxon Christian king and speaking the language of the Saxons. Alfred had called himself the King of the English-Speaking people, which was not quite the same thing as being King of Englaland, but that dream, the dream of a united country, was slowly coming true.

But to make it wholly true meant subduing the Norse and the Danes in Northumbria, and that Æthelflaed was reluctant to do. She did not fear the risks, but rather feared the displeasure of her brother and of the church. Wessex was far richer than war-torn Mercia. West Saxon silver supported Æthelflaed’s troops and West Saxon gold was poured into Mercian churches, and Edward did not want his sister to be reckoned a greater ruler than himself. If Northumbria was to be invaded, then Edward would lead the army and Edward would gain the reputation, and so he forbade his sister from invading Northumbria without him, and Æthelflaed, knowing how reliant she was on her brother’s gold and, besides, reluctant to offend him, was content to reclaim Mercia’s northern lands. The time would come, she liked to tell me, when the combined armies of Mercia and Wessex would march triumphantly to the Scottish border and when that happened there would be a new country, not Wessex, not Mercia, not East Anglia, not Northumbria, but Englaland.

All of which might have been true, but it was too slow for me. I was growing old. There were aches in my bones, grey hairs in my beard, and an old dream in my heart. I wanted Bebbanburg. Bebbanburg was mine. I was and am the Lord of Bebbanburg. Bebbanburg belonged to my father and to his father, and it will belong to my son and to his son. And Bebbanburg lay deep inside Northumbria. To besiege it, to capture it from my cousin whose father had stolen it from me, I needed to be in Northumbria. I needed to lay siege and I could not hope to do that with a horde of bitter Norsemen and vengeful Danes surrounding me. I had already tried to capture Bebbanburg once by approaching the fortress from the sea, and that attempt had failed. Next time, I vowed, I would take an army to Bebbanburg, and to do that I first had to capture the land around the fortress, and that meant defeating the Northmen who ruled that territory. I needed to invade Northumbria.

Which meant I needed an army.

The idea had come to me when I had light-heartedly told Finan that my forgiveness gift to Æthelflaed would be Eoferwic, by which I had meant that one way or the other I would rid that city of Ragnall’s forces.

But now, suddenly, I saw the idea clearly.

I needed Bebbanburg. To gain Bebbanburg I needed to defeat the Northmen of Northumbria, and to defeat the Northmen of Northumbria I needed an army.

And if Æthelflaed would not let me use the Mercian army then I would use Ragnall’s.

Sigtryggr’s fortress was almost an island. It was a steep hump of rock-strewn land rearing from the lough’s water and protected from a sea approach by ledges, islets, and rocks. The land approach was even worse. The only path to the hump of rock was a low and narrow neck, scarce wide enough for six men to walk abreast. Even if men could cross the neck they faced a steep climb to the summit of Sigtryggr’s fort, the same climb that any attackers from the sea would find beyond the thin beach. To reach that beach a ship first had to negotiate a twisting channel that dog-legged from the south, but once the troops had leaped off the boat’s prow they would be confronted by high bluffs and precipitous slopes above which the defenders waited. The headland was like Bebbanburg, a place made to frustrate an attacker, though, unlike Bebbanburg, there was no palisade because none was needed, just the rocky heights above which cooking fires smoked on the hill’s wide green summit.

Sæbroga
approached the fort from the south, picking a delicate path between the hidden ledges and rocks. Gerbruht stood in the prow, probing the water with an oar and shouting when its blade struck rock. I had just twelve men rowing, there was no need for more because we dared not travel fast. We could only creep through the dangers.

Sigtryggr’s garrison saw a boat crammed with men, glinting with weapons and displaying Ragnall’s big red axe at its prow. They would recognise
Sæbroga
and think that either Ragnall himself had come to finish them or else sent one of his more trusted war chiefs. I watched as the garrison formed a shield wall on the slope and I listened to the harsh clash of war-blades striking willow-boards. Sigtryggr’s banner, a red axe just like his brother’s symbol, was unfurled higher on the hill and I thought I saw Stiorra standing beside the banner. Her husband, blond hair bright in the sunlight, pushed through his shield wall and strode halfway down to the beach. ‘Come and die!’ he bellowed from the summit of one of the headland’s many rock bluffs. ‘Come join your friends!’ He gestured with his drawn sword and I saw human heads had been placed on rocks along the shore. Just as I had welcomed Ragnall with the severed heads at Eads Byrig, so Sigtryggr was welcoming visitors to his refuge.

‘It’s a corpse fence,’ Finan said.

‘A what?’

‘The heads! You think twice before crossing a corpse fence.’ He made the sign of the cross.

‘I need more heads!’ Sigtryggr shouted. ‘So bring me yours! I beg you!’ Behind him the swords clattered on shields. No attacker could hope to survive an assault on that rock, not unless he could bring an army to the shore and so overwhelm the few defenders, and that would be impossible. There was only room for three or perhaps four ships on the beach, and those ships would be forced to approach single file between the hazards. We inched our way, and more than once the
Sæbroga
’s bows touched rock and we had to back water and try again as Gerbruht bellowed instructions.

‘To make it easy for you,’ Sigtryggr shouted, ‘we’ll let you land!’ He stood on the bluff beside one of the heads. His long golden hair hung below his shoulders around which a chain of gold was looped three times. He was in mail, but wore no helmet nor carried a shield. He had his long-sword in his right hand, the blade naked. He was grinning, looking forward to a battle he knew he would win. I remembered young Berg describing him as a lord of war, and even though he was trapped and besieged, he looked magnificent.

I went forward and told Gerbruht to make way for me, then climbed onto the small platform just beneath the axe-head prow. I wore a plain helmet with closed cheek-pieces and Sigtryggr mistook me for Orvar. ‘Welcome back, Orvar! You brought me more men to be killed? You didn’t lose enough last time?’