Raven: Blood Eye Read online

  'There weren't so many of them,' Svein said, spitting back towards the distant English warriors. 'We should have wet our blades.'

  'There were more last night, you brainless ox,' Black Floki replied, gripping his spear loosely. He was not a big man like many of the others, but he was hard and lean and there was an assurance in the way he moved that made him seem even more lethal. 'Ealdred and his household men hared off eastwards at dawn,' he said. 'Seems some English pissed their breeches at seeing a longship off the coast at a place called Selsey. Danes, I'd wager.' He pointed to Olaf who walked up ahead with Mauger and Father Egfrith. 'Old Uncle overheard Mauger telling the monk,' he said.

  'I noticed you and Uncle were snuggling up to the Christians, Floki,' Svein countered, grinning broadly. 'Are you missing your woman, little man?'

  'That bald Christ-loving bastard's prettier than you, you redhaired sack of shit,' Floki snarled. 'Besides, someone should keep an eye on them. I'd sooner trust a Dane. There's no honour in Christians.'

  'The English think you are Danes,' I said. 'They think all heathens are Danes.' And it was true, for we had heard of Danes raiding the eastern coast, but never men from Norway.

  'English bastards,' Floki spat.

  The other men's faces were grim too, for they knew Floki was right to be wary, and they feared they might never see their longships again.

  Sigurd was the only Norseman I did not see turn one last time towards the sound of the breaking sea now muffled by the grassy bluff. Straight-backed and head high he set the pace as though the future beckoned him on with its promise of glory, and we followed, braced by our jarl's resolve and our fine arms which rattled rhythmically. Njal had been the same height as me, but I had to wear a fur jerkin beneath his knee-length brynja to fill it as Njal's thick muscle had done before. I was hot. The first summer insects buzzed madly, streaking by too fast for the eye to catch, and the sun was beginning to hint at the heat it would soon throw down on a land that had broken winter's shackles. I sweated like an ox in the yoke.

  Egfrith seemed somehow taller now that he walked beside Mauger whose bare arms were covered in those dark tattoos of snarling faces and the silver warrior rings that winked in the sunlight. The monk even began to sing a psalm in a surprisingly strong voice, but Black Floki drew his long knife and threatened with gestures to cut out his tongue and eat it. When Egfrith grabbed at Mauger for protection, the English warrior shrugged him off, warning him that he would cut out the offending tongue himself if the monk did not shut up.

  'You sing like a kicked bitch, Father,' he said, and Egfrith, who seemed deeply hurt by the insult, walked in sullen silence from then on, for which we were all grateful.

  It was no easy thing to leave behind the vast, bracing freedom of the sea and all its promise. To these Norsemen, the sea was a rolling road to wherever they pleased. It was unbound and unfettered; endless. But now it was behind us, remaining in our memories only, as we moved inland. Nevertheless, I felt a strange sense of peace come over me when we got amongst the outer trees of the forest. The feeling grew stronger the deeper we went. Oak and elm, beech, hornbeam, thorn and ash denied light to the mossy, damp-smelling earth, and the twisting branches of ancient trees met above us as though exchanging news of the world beyond. The sights and smells and the harsh chattering of chaffinches took me back to the days I had spent alone in just such a forest, cutting timber for old Ealhstan until my back was filled with a warm ache and my hands were chafed raw. As I walked, my mind delved into the only memories I had, like roots thirsty for water, and though there was a strange comfort to be found in them, the memories were of being alone and the comfort was also an ache. For the past was dead to me now that I knew the thrill of the sea, the noise of battle and the fellowship of warriors.

  'There are spirits here, Raven,' Bjarni said, his eyes rolling up to the leafy canopy. 'Can you feel them?' We entered a glade where the sun broke through, dappling the men with blades of golden light.

  'Yes, I feel them, Bjarni,' I said. 'We all do.'

  'They're watching us, brother, these spirits,' Bjorn said, running a hand over the dark moss creeping up an ancient tree stump. 'But they stay hidden. They are safe in the forest. Safe from the Christians who would banish them to some dark, foul, stinking place.' He gestured to Father Egfrith up ahead. 'Don't be fooled by his puny body.' He grimaced. 'His kind can kill spirits.'

  'For once, the young speak wisely,' old Asgot put in, the words dry and brittle, the first he had spoken for hours. 'This land is sick with disease. The Christ followers have turned their backs on the old ways and the spirits hate them for it.' He swept an arm through the air. 'We must be careful,' he warned. 'The shades of this place must not mistake us for Christians.'

  'How do we tell them what we are, old man?' Bjorn asked. 'Should we sing one of the old songs?'

  'Not enough, Bjorn,' Asgot muttered. 'Not enough.'

  'A sacrifice,' Black Floki said flatly, his top lip curled with ire. 'We should sacrifice the monk.' I looked back at old Asgot who now grinned like a child.

  'No need to dull your blade, Floki,' I said, hoping my eyes did not betray the fear that twisted in my guts at the memory of Griffin's slaughter. 'The spirits are not blind, they are ancient and wise.'

  'What do you know of shades, boy?' Asgot asked. The man hated me.

  'I know there is more chance of Floki being mistaken for a March lamb than a Christian,' I said. Floki smiled at this and the others grunted their agreement. I hoped their thoughts of a blood offering had been borne away on the moss-scented breeze.

  Deep in the forest we came across animal tracks, the muddy ground worn smooth by badgers, foxes, weasels and hares, though we never encountered the animals themselves. I hoped one of the Norsemen might take down a deer with his bow, but it was a foolish hope, for we were forty-seven men and must have sounded like thunder as we crashed through the ancient stillness. The only creatures we saw were birds and insects, though there was always the chance that a boar might charge from the undergrowth to smash someone's leg bones to splinters. I have known the beasts to be so intent on foraging that, when startled, they have fled from one hunter and impaled themselves on another man's spear.

  We were still in the heart of the forest when the air turned cool and the gathering darkness made it dangerous to go on. Old Ealhstan was ashen-faced, tired and breathing hard. I saw him rubbing his hip, which often pained him, so I gave him a straight ash limb to lean on. But Sigurd would not risk one of his own men twisting an ankle on an exposed tree root or smashing his head on a low branch, and announced that we would spend the night on the mossy banks of a trickling stream. It was too early in the year for the biting flies that make brown clouds in such places, and so it was a good place to rest. And we were not alone in thinking it. Clearly, animals came here to drink from the stream, and deer gnawed the bark from nearby trunks so that they gleamed smoothly in the twilight. A huge fallen ash lay like a sleeping giant, slender saplings growing up around it, reaching for the light created by the old tree's demise. Ripped from the earth, the ash's enormous root balls were suspended some twenty feet up, resembling the giant's shaggy hair. The trunk would shelter us, whilst a large rock some ten paces away would provide cover for a fire and bounce its heat on to us as we slept.

  The fire was crackling and popping angrily when Asgot began to cut a strip of bark as wide as his arm from the fallen ash. I watched the godi from a distance. Ealhstan saw me watching and slapped my face to break the spell.

  'I'm just curious, Ealhstan,' I said, rubbing my cheek, but the old carpenter made the sign of the cross and pointed to the Norse sword beside me and shook his head, the last of his wispy hair floating in the breeze. 'A man should know how to use a sword,' I said, 'it is how he protects what he loves.' I remembered plump, red-cheeked Alwunn from Abbotsend and wondered if I had loved her. I didn't think I had. Then I looked back to Asgot, but Ealhstan tugged my shoulder and pointed at my face. Then he looked up at the leafy boughs above us
and pretended to spit. I knew he meant that by taking on the ways of the Norsemen I was spitting in Christ's face. 'I don't want to make cups, old man,' I said tersely, half regretting the words, though it was the truth. Ealhstan pointed at my hands and sneered as though to say I did not have the skill for carpentry anyway. Then he turned his back on me and lay down. We rested quietly until the silence grew too heavy, and I left the growing warmth of the fire to see what Asgot was doing.

  'What will you do with it, Asgot?' I asked. He held the thick slice of bark close to his face, then sniffed it and rubbed a finger across its surface.

  'Asgot?' I said, not liking being so close to the godi but eager to know what heathen magic he was making.

  He did not take his eyes from the bark strip. 'This tree has lived for thousands of years, boy. Maybe since the dawn of the world, and it's not dead yet. Not fully dead, anyway. As it takes many men's lifetimes to grow, so it takes as many to die.' He held up the bark as though it was as precious as a bar of silver. 'This tree has seen many things. It has secrets, Raven,' he stressed the name scornfully, 'and it will whisper them to one who is willing to listen.'

  He turned away, so I gripped his shoulder and he flinched at my touch. 'Will you show me, Asgot?' I asked, spellbound. I had heard of the rune lore, but who of us has seen it with his own eyes? Asgot's grey eyes narrowed with suspicion and he screwed up his face as though I stank. Then he stared at Sigurd who was laughing heartily because a flame had leapt up to singe Black Floki's beard. 'Sigurd likes you, Raven,' he muttered, 'and though he has his faults, arrogance and recklessness included, he is far-seeing. I will not deny it. And he respects the gods.' He frowned. 'Most of the time.' Then those eyes flashed and the godi's mouth twitched within his grey beard. 'Yes, I will show you,' he said. 'Soon enough.'

  So we journeyed north day after day, rarely seeing a living soul as we pushed deeper into Wessex. A sense of unease had been swelling within the belly of the Fellowship and I grew to understand why. The Norsemen were venturing ever further into a land that was strange to them. It was a land of Christ worshippers, men who despised them. And they could no longer smell the sea.

  'It bodes ill to be so far from our ships,' Ugly Einar said. He was a flat-nosed man with a ruined lip and whenever he looked at me I knew he saw me dying beneath his broad-hilted sword.

  'And going further still,' Glum moaned, looking up to the leafy canopy and the blue sky beyond. 'Nothing good can come of it, Einar. Only a fool tempts the Norns. I swear I can hear their fingers weaving a dark, bloody pattern for us.'

  I knew there were at least two or three men of Fjord-Elk who agreed with their shipmaster. Ugly Einar belched loudly. 'Raven and the tongueless old fool have brought us bad luck,' he said, thumbing at me over his shoulder.

  'What are you scared of, Einar?' Bjarni challenged him. 'Look around you, man. This is good land and there's plenty of it. We'll send our sons here one day, hey, Bjorn!' He slapped his brother's shoulder. 'They'll turn the soil and grow fat on pork and mead.'

  'Brother, they'll take pasture from the English and live like kings,' Bjorn replied, kicking the head off a tall white mushroom, 'and all because we took English silver and drenched the land with English blood.'

  'You two are too dumb to know when your luck has drained away,' Einar countered miserably, tipping an imaginary cup upside down. 'Men will always fight for land like this, even after you take it from them. The English must have won it themselves once. Farmers don't own rich soil for long, not unless they are as handy with the sword as they are with the plough. Remember that, Bjorn. Your brats' swords will never be dry.'

  'You're an ugly, whinging woman, Einar,' Bjarni said.

  Einar grimaced, his strange lip white beneath his flat nose. 'Say what you like, but it'll be you next, lying stiff and bloodless like the others. Like young Eric with your arse full of arrows.' He glanced quickly at Olaf, then seemed encouraged that he had not heard. 'Thór's balls, Bjarni,' he blurted, 'the English runt put an arrow in you and you let him live!' I shrugged awkwardly at Bjarni, who raised his eyebrows as though he had surprised himself by sparing me. 'As for that dry-mouthed old bastard,' Einar continued, pointing at Ealhstan, 'he follows behind like a stray dog begging for scraps.'

  'The lad's more of a Norseman than you, Einar,' Bjarni said, winking at me mischievously. Anger flared in Einar's face then.

  'Einar's an ugly whoreson,' Glum added, 'but he's right. We should do what we are good at and leave the mercy to the White Christ followers. Did you know they are told to love their enemies?' He clutched his sword's hilt and I think he feared the words themselves. 'Mercy is the same as weakness.' He nodded. 'And Óðin All-Father despises weakness.'

  'He despises cowards, too,' Svein the Red rumbled, 'and men who do not honour their jarl.' The inference was clear and Einar and Glum wisely held their tongues, for Svein would sooner fight ten warriors with his bare hands than betray his oath of loyalty. And his oath, like every man's in the Fellowship, belonged to Sigurd.

  That night after making camp, I took the small knife which Ealhstan had found round my neck and turned it over in my hands, as I often did, in the hope that the feel of it might kindle some spark in my mind to burst into memory. But the two swirling serpents carved in the white bone hilt were silent, their secrets safe as a dragon's hoard.

  'Men are not supposed to think so much, Raven,' Bjorn said, beckoning me to my feet, an ash spear in each hand. I had barely stood when he threw me one of the spears and gave a great beaming smile. 'Let's make better use of our time.'

  And so, that night, my lessons began. Bjarni and Bjorn taught me how to kill with sword and spear. The next night, they taught me the use of the round shield, and the night after that they showed me how the shield was not merely for defence but could be used in the attack, to smash a man's face to bloody pulp. They worked me hard, making me repeat every move, whilst introducing new techniques that tested me sorely.

  For my part I found that the more cuts and bruises I got, the better I became at avoiding them next time. Techniques that had at first felt clumsy became instinctive. Moves began to flow one into another, my feet working in harmony with my upper body as they stirred the forest litter. I sought openings in the Norsemen's defences, desperate to land blows in vengeance for my pains.

  At first we fought with our swords wrapped in cloth, but even then we risked breaking bones and the blades themselves, so Bjarni made Ealhstan fashion practice weapons of ash, and because they were light I borrowed several of Svein the Red's great silver arm rings to add weight to my thrusts and shield parries. I admit during these bouts I let my imagination roam freely and in those wanderings the warrior rings were my own. Eventually, when at last I had mastered the basics, the other Norsemen took an interest in the fights, and every night I would take on all comers and they would batter me. I never won in those early days.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  'YOU'RE GETTING HANDY WITH THE SWORD, RAVEN,' OLAF SAID, tearing off a chunk of stale bread before handing the loaf to Black Floki. My shoulders ached from the previous night's training, but I felt a strange joy in the discomfort, as though my muscles and limbs had earned the right to rest. The forest floor was damp with dew and the day promised to be warm and bright. 'Still clumsy with the spear though, but the spear is not as easy as it looks,' Olaf added. 'Oh, every man and his dog uses the spear, but few do it well.' The ghost of a smile touched his face. 'My Eric was a good lad with the spear. But not as good as you with the sword. Comes natural to you, eh?'

  'Like falling asleep after a good ploughing,' Knut said distantly, his mind no doubt on some braided blonde beauty.

  'I've not won a bout yet, Uncle,' I said, rolling my shoulders to rekindle the warm pain. But Olaf's thoughts were of Eric.

  'He'd have taken you with the axe, I'd wager,' he said. 'We spent months with the axe. It takes a rare skill and even then many years to master.'

  'One of these days I'll give Bjarni some bruises to match these,' I said, ru
bbing my left arm, which had taken a hundred blows beneath the shield and was an angry purple. Olaf blinked slowly, then gave a shallow nod of thanks for my poor attempt to steer his mind from his son.