Raven: Blood Eye Read online

  'You have no honour, Englishman,' Sigurd countered, spitting on the ground. 'You have no understanding of the word.'

  Ealdred's long moustache quivered then, but he gave a slight nod and showed Sigurd his palm. 'The men who attacked you in my hall will be punished,' he said. 'As you know, it is no easy thing to keep a rein on warriors.' He winced in pain. 'Their hearts are burning brands but their wits are slow. They will be punished.'

  But Sigurd, who still gripped his gore-slick sword, pointed the blade at an English corpse. 'I have seen to that myself, dog!' he yelled, and again Ealdred seemed to shudder.

  'They were gathered merely as a precaution, Sigurd,' he said, 'but hatred of your kind is planted in us at our mother's tit. Our churchmen nurture that hatred and it grows strong.' He looked skyward. 'For my own part I wonder at the inconsistency of a God of peace who commands us to kill other men, even unbelievers.' Then he stroked his fair moustache. 'We might wonder how much is God's will and how much is our own.'

  But Sigurd had no patience for the ealdorman's musings. He raised his battered shield and stepped forward, and there was violence in the movement. Ealdred's bodyguard moved forward too, but his lord muttered something to him and reluctantly the man took a step back. The English waited, deaf to the insults Sigurd's men hurled at them, their shadowed faces anxious or fearful.

  'Whether you believe it was not my intention to attack you means nothing to me, heathen,' Ealdred spat, abandoning diplomacy now, the shadows sharp on his lean face, 'but for your own sake and for the sake of those who call you lord, don't be a fool. I know the empty ambitions of your black hearts. The thirst for fame consumes your people, Sigurd, twisting their sight and leading them to folly, to death and destruction for the sake of stories.' The ealdorman smiled emptily, but his men remained tight-mouthed, expectant of battle. 'Make no mistake, Sigurd, you will all die here' – he threw out his uninjured arm – 'in this Christian land. And your deaths will have earned you nothing of the renown you crave.'

  'We will take our fame to the Far-Wanderer's hall, where our fathers will know our faces and drink with us again,' Sigurd called. 'For Valhöll!' he roared in Norse, bringing a cheer from his men.

  But Ealdred shook his head slowly, and in that small gesture there was enormous power, perhaps enough to make even Sigurd doubt his own words. I was afraid of Ealdred in that moment, because I knew he possessed a sharp mind, sharp enough to influence men, for how else had he got so many to break themselves against Sigurd's shieldwall, his skjaldborg?

  'Sigurd, your men are loyal, I can see that. They are brave and they have a talent for death.' He grimaced. 'Our widows will attest to that.' He nodded at Olaf and Svein the Red. 'They will follow you to the grave and I commend you for them. But you can give them more than six feet of English soil. Hear what I have to offer you.' He raised both arms then. 'If my words fall short, if my offer stinks like pig shit . . .' he shrugged, 'we will kill each other and join our fathers.'

  'Fuck you!' Olaf yelled, and some of the other Norsemen echoed the sentiment.

  But Sigurd was a jarl. And a jarl wants more for his men than a hole in the worm-riddled mud of his enemy's land.

  'Speak, Englishman,' Sigurd commanded, as though Ealdred were his slave, and Ealdred, because he had the mind of a fox and because he knew the tides of fortune had shifted to his advantage, bowed his head obediently and took another step forward.

  'You have come upon a rare opportunity, Sigurd. I expect you have stolen many passable trinkets from Christians who could not defend themselves, but they are nothing compared to what you stand to gain if you do the king's will.'

  Sigurd pointed to the ealdorman. 'You Christians are fools,' he said. 'We have known this for countless years. You build your churches by the sea and fill them with gold and silver. Who guards them? Christ slaves! Men in skirts, feeble as old women. Your god makes you weak, Ealdred.' Sigurd gestured to his own warriors. 'We have no fear of him. We take what we want.'

  Ealdred's mouth twisted beneath the moustache and his bodyguard dropped a hand to his sword's hilt. 'Easy, Mauger,' Ealdred muttered. 'I don't want you ruining Sigurd the Lucky's reputation.'

  'I would like him to try,' Sigurd challenged, staring at Mauger. That would be some fight, I thought.

  'Egfrith!' Ealdred called, keeping his eyes on Sigurd. There was no reply from the mass of English warriors, whose helmets were illuminated now by torch-bearers to their rear, though their faces remained shadow-shrouded. 'Now, now, Father, don't be shy. Come and blind Sigurd with your piety.'

  A murmur rose from the English and out from the gloom shuffled a monk in a dark habit. He was a small man, especially amongst the ealdorman's household warriors, and his bald head reflected the moonlight as he broke free of the shielded throng. His hands clutched each other within the habit's long sleeves and his feet were bare. Tufts of hair sprouted above each ear and his nose was long and sharp between close-set eyes. The man looked like a weasel. He looked up at Sigurd, his eyes narrowed as though it pained him to open them, and he sniffed loudly.

  'At least this creature does not hide behind rotten words, Ealdred,' Sigurd said, nodding at the monk. He sheathed his sword to show he was unafraid of the White Christ's magic. 'This Christ slave wears his fear like a cloak. Look at the hate in his little eyes.' Sigurd spat. 'They are like piss holes in the snow.'

  'Father Egfrith is a man of God,' Ealdred said, 'and to him you are an abomination, a heathen like the Welsh who claw at us in the west. Those piss holes see you as no more than a wild animal.' He smiled. 'Though the thing about Egfrith is that he's sure to have a mind on showing you the error of your ways, eh, Father? Are you tempted to take your crucifix and prise the Devil from Sigurd's black heart?'

  'Evil is a tarnish of the soul, Lord Ealdred, and the soul once stained cannot be buffed to a shine like a shield boss,' Father Egfrith replied in a nasal voice. Then he frowned, as though his mind plucked at a distant memory. 'Well, sometimes there may be salvation,' he muttered, before staring once more at Sigurd. 'But this beast is beyond redemption.'

  'Come now, Father, where is your resolve?' Ealdred asked. 'Even a bear can be taught to dance. We've all heard you say as much in your mind-numbing sermons.'

  'Not all bears,' Sigurd interrupted with a grimace. 'You should listen to the little man, Ealdred. Some bears know only how to kill.'

  Father Egfrith scuttled up to Sigurd, his narrow face pinched in anger. 'I may not have the limbs of an oak, heathen,' he began, his head level with Sigurd's chest, 'but I warn you that the Lord God lends me strength you couldn't possibly comprehend.' He held Sigurd's eye and I thought the Norseman would snap him in two. But Sigurd gave a deep laugh and gripped my shoulder, pulling me forward from the skjaldborg.

  'Raven, now I am sure you are from the All-Father. You could not be from this land. I will not believe it!' Behind us, some of the Norsemen laughed at the monk squaring up to their jarl, but others stood grim-faced, expecting the slaughter to resume.

  The monk leant forward, peering at me through the gloom. 'Is your eye black?' he asked. His face was pale and his teeth were yellow as a rat's.

  'Red, Father,' I said, touching my eye. 'It is a clot of blood.' I smiled at his obvious disgust.

  'Heaven help us!' Egfrith said, signing a cross in the air. 'I hope you know what you're doing, Lord Ealdred,' he said, turning and hoisting a warning finger at the ealdorman. 'The Almighty sees all. You cannot tame this man. Satan will not abide shackles.'

  The big warrior on Ealdred's left fidgeted as though bored by the whole thing. 'Get on with it, monk,' he snarled, 'or I'll martyr you and give your bones to the heathens for their broth.'

  'Patience, Mauger,' Ealdred soothed, while Father Egfrith shivered and closed his eyes as though gathering his resolve. Some of the English began taunting the Norsemen, whilst others began to chant, 'Out! Out! Out!' But Ealdred raised a hand and the men held their tongues.

  'Do it, monk,' Mauger growled. 'We don't have all night.
The men want to know if there's killing to be done.'

  Father Egfrith opened his eyes, cleared his throat with a cough, and leant forward so that I could smell the mead on his breath. 'There is a book,' he began in a voice that was half whisper, 'a very precious book.'

  'A book!' Sigurd exclaimed.

  'Shhh!' Egfrith held a finger up to Sigurd's lips and Sigurd leant back, bemused. The monk spun round. 'This is a mistake, Lord Ealdred. This man lives outside God's shadow. It's impossible. Heaven and all the saints preserve us!'

  'Careful, monk!' Ealdred snapped. 'We made an agreement, remember?'

  'But I did not know . . .' the monk began, but Ealdred silenced him with a look that promised pain.

  'You can't turn tail now, Egfrith. Not if you value my cousin the king's favour,' Ealdred said, forcing a smile. 'How is the new dormitory coming along? I expect my cousin will soon pay you a visit to see for himself how God's servants are spending his money.' He turned to Mauger. 'It is so important to improve our monasteries, don't you think, Mauger?' The burly warrior simply grunted. 'Monasteries are the salt for the preservation of society,' Ealdred said to Sigurd as though the fact were as obvious as that of the sea's being wet. He shrugged. 'At least, that's what I have always thought. Do you agree, Mauger?'

  The warrior spat. 'I know little of such things, lord,' he said, 'but I have heard it said these monasteries teem with men who find sport in each other's beds.'

  Egfrith's narrow shoulders slumped in defeat. He nodded slowly and turned back to face Sigurd. 'This book is precious,' he said, his eyes glinting in the flame light, 'more beautiful than any book in this dark land. It is a thing of rare power, Sigurd.'

  I saw Sigurd's eyes suddenly light up. 'It is a spell book?' he asked, his curiosity pricked awake.

  Egfrith made the sign of the cross and Sigurd flinched slightly. 'It is a prayer book, heathen. And, as I said, it is powerful.' Egfrith seemed aroused by Sigurd's reaction. 'It is a book of the four gospels copied from the holy apostles' own works by our dear Saint Jerome.' Egfrith closed his eyes for a moment as though savouring his own words. 'Never has there been such an object in this land.'

  'Let me see this book, monk,' Sigurd demanded, stretching out an arm as though he expected Father Egfrith to hand it over.

  'I don't have it, you fool!' Egfrith snapped. 'Saint Peter's beard, if only I did. But—'

  'But we know who does,' Ealdred interrupted, taking a step towards us. Mauger came with him. The ealdorman inclined his head to one side. 'Unfortunately, the bastard Irish, who wouldn't know a holy treasure if the good Lord etched His own name on it and bathed it in divine fire, let it fall into the hands of that ignorant swine Coenwulf.'

  'Coenwulf is king of Mercia, lord,' I said to Sigurd. Even in those days, the kingdoms of Wessex and Mercia were old enemies, and although Wessex's last king, Beorhtric, had made King Offa of Mercia an ally, the new king Egbert sought to forge Wessex as an independent kingdom.

  'Now the fog begins to thin,' Sigurd said with a wolfish grin. 'Power tastes sweet, hey? In my homeland anyone who owns a longship believes he should be a king.'

  'And you, Sigurd son of Harald? Do you believe you are a king?' Ealdred asked. The bones of his cheeks cast sharp shadows above the drooping moustache. 'You have brought two longships to our shores.' He raised a hand. 'They are safe, on my word. I ordered them spared in the hope that we might come to some arrangement.'

  Sigurd grimaced at the allusion to the threat to Serpent and Fjord-Elk, then shook his head. 'A man does not decide if he is a king. The men around him do that.' He removed his helmet and ran a hand through his long hair. 'But a man should consider well what he reaches for. Where I come from, kings don't live long. I have killed one myself.'

  'He must have died from the stink,' Egfrith mumbled, sniffing loudly. 'Fish guts, if my poor nose is not mistaken.' I could see his nostrils twitching.

  'King Coenwulf has the book. King Egbert wants the book. That's the bones of it,' Ealdred said. 'What is not so simple is how our good and pious king is to come by the thing. If it was up to Mauger here, we'd simply march into Coenwulf's fortress, snatch up the gospel book slaughtering any who got in our way, feast on the king's cattle, then march back to Wessex in time for breakfast.' He glanced at Mauger who simply shrugged his huge mailed shoulders. 'But life is never as simple as a warrior would have it,' he said, returning to Sigurd. 'The so-called peace between Coenwulf's kingdom and our own is as fragile as a bird's wing. Apply pressure in the wrong place and . . .' He raised his hands and snapped an imaginary bone. 'We do not want war, Sigurd. At least, not yet.' He stole a glance at Mauger, who gave the hint of a smile.

  I looked at Jarl Sigurd, seeing his astonishment clearly beneath his great yellow beard. 'You want me to walk into this king Coenwulf's mead hall and take the book from him?' he asked.

  'You are a thief,' Ealdred stated without judgement in his voice. 'You and your men would not be standing on English earth if you did not lust for plunder. Father Egfrith assures me that such is your people's nature from the moment you slip into the world until the day you are cast into Satan's pit.'

  'Why don't you send your dog?' Sigurd gestured to Mauger who was stretching the muscles in his thick neck. 'Or any of those whelps,' he added, pointing at the anxious bearded faces in the darkness twenty paces behind the English lord.

  Ealdred sighed. 'Because they are Christians, Sigurd,' he said in a voice too low for his men to hear, 'even Mauger here, though you might wonder, and Christians know the value of such a book. The spiritual value,' he added quickly, raising a finger. 'Finding such a holy treasure in his possession might tempt even an honest Christian to betray any oath he had previously sworn to me. I fear he would keep the gospel book pressed against his heart and vanish like morning mist to live out his life a hermit on some seagull-shit-covered spit of land in the grey sea.'

  Father Egfrith nodded solemnly. 'For a believer, the book is more precious than life itself,' he said and it was clear he was describing himself.

  'As I cannot trust a Christian to do it, I must look elsewhere,' Ealdred said, looking at Sigurd intently, as though he knew he was taking a great risk. 'You, Sigurd, you are a heathen. To you the book is nothing. You can't understand its power. By Christ, I'll wager you can't even read.' Sigurd scratched his beard and Mauger grunted as though he believed reading to be a waste of time best left to weaklings. 'But I know you understand silver, Sigurd,' Ealdred said, 'you read that well enough. We shall pay you in silver for the book.' The ealdorman's lips spread in a thin line because he anticipated the Norseman's next words.

  'How much silver, Englishman?' Sigurd asked.

  'Enough to buy yourself a kingdom and the men to make you king of it,' Ealdred replied, his eyes like chips from a broken icicle.

  Sigurd scratched his beard. 'I will speak with my men,' he said, replacing his helmet. Behind him Olaf still bristled, his sword gripped tightly and his shield raised. 'Perhaps they would rather sail up your east coast and find more stone houses filled with gold and slithering worms like him,' Sigurd said, nodding at Egfrith.

  Ealdred shook his head slowly. 'You are not leaving here in your boats, Sigurd. My king would take my head if I let you sail away to murder and plunder God's houses.'

  Sigurd drew his sword, the rasp of steel splitting the night. I drew mine too and stepped back just as Mauger raised his own blade and put himself between his lord and Sigurd. Some of the English clamoured for blood and behind me the Norsemen began to thump their swords on the backs of their shields.

  Sigurd's face twisted with indecision and Ealdred, who had not drawn his sword, held out his arms as though weighing two objects. 'Now, Sigurd, where do we go from here? Fight and lose your ships and your lives, or become richer than you ever dreamed. I have heard it said that your race was spawned from a red-haired Irish bitch and a sharp-tusked boar, which accounts for your fast anger and slow minds,' he stepped boldly in front of Mauger, raising his wounded arm to hold the war
rior back, 'but I don't believe any man would turn his back on what I offer.'