Raven: Blood Eye Read online

  There was a chill in the air, but there would be no fires this night, for Mauger and Father Egfrith agreed that we were less than a day's march from the king's fortress. The Wessex warrior advised using what remained of the forest as cover before crossing open pasture. There was already a chance that we had been seen and for this reason Olaf believed we should hit the fortress quickly, before the locals had a chance to ready themselves. But Sigurd agreed with Mauger that we should rest once more so as to be fresh for whatever lay in store.

  'He's scheming, lad,' Bram said, gesturing to Sigurd. 'I've seen that face before. It's his Loki face. While we're sleeping, Sigurd will be scheming.' Sure enough, later that night, as most men lay asleep in their cloaks, Sigurd's plan was born, and it was Father Egfrith who prised it from him. The monk shivered, sniffed, and tugged Sigurd's sleeve as the jarl was drinking from his water skin.

  'What will you do when we come to King Coenwulf's hall, Sigurd?' Egfrith asked, one eye on Black Floki who had scooped up grit from the stream bed and was rubbing it across the rings of the brynja on the rock beside him.

  'We'll sing Coenwulf a lullaby, hey, Uncle!' Sigurd said. 'And he'll hand over the book with a smile and a plate of honeyed oat cakes, and two or three young women with soft thighs and hard tits.'

  Olaf grinned, then scratched his thick beard and frowned. 'The little man has a point, Sigurd. There's going to be a river of blood before this thing is over.'

  'Perhaps,' Sigurd replied, pursing his lips, 'but perhaps not. I have spoken with Mauger about these Mercians. It seems Coenwulf has his hands full dealing with King Eardwulf of Northumbria. This Eardwulf's people pick at his northern borders like crows on a gut string. Then there are the Welsh snapping at him from the west.' Sigurd leant forward, threw back his head and grabbed his long golden hair before tying it back. 'A man must command many spears to be a king of rich soil, like Coenwulf, hey, Mauger? It's easier to lay claim to the sea, I think.'

  Mauger took an ale skin from his lips. 'They fight like dogs, Sigurd,' he confirmed, ale dripping from his beard as he raised the skin again.

  Sigurd nodded and looked at Olaf as though assessing his friend's resolve, for Olaf had already seen his son killed and there was no denying the risk we were taking. 'Mauger and Raven will go to Coenwulf and tell him that Eardwulf's warriors have crossed into his lands from the north,' Sigurd said. 'Not just lone wolves, but a raiding party.'

  'Raven, tell him that King Eardwulf himself is ploughing Mercian cunny,' Black Floki added with a smirk, still cleaning his mail.

  'Oh yes, Sigurd!' Father Egfrith exclaimed. 'I shall write to the king confirming the raids. He's a Christian king after all and will believe the word of a servant of Christ.' He sniffed loudly and wiggled his fingers. 'Oh, I shall enjoy writing! There is none in Wessex with a finer hand, may the Lord strike me down and maggots spawn in my mouth if I lie.' He made the sign of the cross and raised his eyes to the sky, suddenly fearful, then grinned haughtily at Olaf as though Sigurd's plan was entirely his own. Mauger looked at Egfrith, his expression grim. 'Well, it's true, Mauger,' Egfrith said defensively, holding up his right hand to show off the ink-stained fingers. 'Who else round here knows his letters?' He made a strangled laughing sound. 'Not a stinking, foul-minded one of you, so help you God. But I do know mine.'

  'Coenwulf will believe the word of a Christ monk?' Sigurd asked, shaking his head in wonder. Why any warrior would believe a man who wore no sword and prided himself on being able to scratch shapes into a dried calf's skin was beyond Sigurd.

  'Oh yes, he'll believe me,' Egfrith confirmed with a wicked grin.

  'And I was beginning to like this Coenwulf,' Sigurd said disappointedly, running a comb through his golden beard. 'Mauger tells me the man is never more cheerful than when sending his enemies screaming into the afterlife.' He turned to Olaf again. 'When the king takes his warriors north, we'll burn his hall and take the book . . . providing he doesn't take it with him. Who can say what a Christian is likely to do?' he asked, glancing at Father Egfrith.

  Olaf smiled, taking a small whetstone from his scrip and spitting on it before running his knife across it. 'You should have told me you had the whole thing planned out,' he said, blowing across the blade. 'I like to know the details when it comes to arranging a fight.'

  'The only thing you worry about is how you're going to fill your belly after a day's killing,' Sigurd replied, slapping Olaf's back. 'Now get some sleep, old friend. You too, Raven,' he added, fixing me with his fierce eyes. 'Tomorrow we wake the gods.'

  The next morning, I set off with Mauger, leaving Sigurd and his Wolfpack to make their final preparations and pray to their gods of battle for a great victory or a good death. We would travel along the banks of the mighty river called the Severn, as this would enable us to cut round King Coenwulf's hall to approach from the north, making our story about Northumbrian raiders more believable.

  I hoped that because we were just two men no one would confront us to ask our purpose, but I doubted we would go unnoticed, for we wore our battle gear and carried great round shields. Mauger had removed most of his silver warrior rings; such rewards would have marked him as a great fighter and the Mercians would wonder why they did not know him. Yet even without the rings the man looked ferocious.

  We barely spoke at first, moving fast along the riverside where mosses, ferns and liverworts stirred with rats and voles. Damp-loving alder and willow lined the banks, providing perches for brightly coloured kingfishers. These birds streaked like arrows down to the ripples that betrayed fish breaking the surface to snatch at insects.

  When Mauger did speak, it was usually a question about the Norsemen. 'Did it feel good the other night?' he asked, the sweat beading on his beard and the flushed face beneath. 'When you killed that ugly heathen bastard?'

  'Yes, it felt good,' I said truthfully, 'and I would have killed Glum too if Jarl Sigurd hadn't stopped me.' Though I doubted I could have scratched Glum before he cut me down.

  'You admire that whoreson, don't you, lad?' Mauger said, meaning Sigurd. 'That bastard took you from your home – no point denying that, lad – burned the place to the ground and split your old friend's belly before dragging his guts round a tree. And you'd still die for him. You're a bloody fool.'

  'Sigurd didn't kill Ealhstan,' I said.

  'Might as well have. They're all the same. Heathen bastards.'

  I shook my head. 'You're wrong. Sigurd sees something I could never have dreamed of before. He weaves his own story and I will be a part of it.'

  'You want some of these, lad?' he asked, touching a bracelet of twisted silver which circled the bulge in his upper arm. Pride lit his eyes.

  I eyed the ring hungrily. 'I want what they want, Mauger, what Sigurd wants,' I said, as something rustled in a grass tussock and then plopped into the water. There was a bend in the river, slowing the current enough for frogs and grass snakes to set their traps. 'I will follow Sigurd and he will give me glory,' I said, embarrassed by the admission.

  'Pah! Glory is never given, lad.' Mauger spat with a grimace. 'You have to take it at the end of a bloody sword, and you're as likely to be killed by another man chasing the same bastard dream. Staying alive is the only thing a warrior should set his heart on. He can expect or hope for no more.'

  'But men remember us for the things we do, Mauger. The great things,' I said, wondering how many men he had killed. 'Olaf says the skalds in the halls of the northlands already sing songs of Sigurd. His name is known. Men fear him, and even the grey sea cannot confine his fame.' I lengthened my stride, forcing Mauger to do the same. 'Our names will resound in the drinking halls of kings. They will become ingrained like smoke in stout oak beams, felt by our sons and their sons after them.' I touched the amulet at my neck. 'But only if we are worthy. That is what Sigurd says. Only then will Óðin send his death maidens for us when our time comes.'

  'You believe in their gods too?' Mauger asked gruffly.

  'I have seen the Wolfpack fig
ht, Mauger, as have you. I have seen them kill as though it were as easy as drawing breath. Their gods love battle and battle is the path to glory. They are my gods now. Maybe they have always been,' I dared, hoping the Christian god was not listening. I stepped up again, so that Mauger had no more breath to waste on talk. In those days I was arrogant and intoxicated by the Norsemen, and I believed the Norns of fate wove our futures. But I also believed we could guide their old hands, and for that I was a fool.

  'That must be it,' I said later, pointing to the east where we could make out wisps of grey smoke rising to dirty the sky. A lone cloud suddenly snuffed out the watery sun above us, casting the yellow gorse and bristle grass into shadow and stilling the cry of a warbler nesting nearby. I took this as a good omen, meaning that the great warrior king of Mercia would be blind to our ruse. The shield slung over my back was starting to rub and I looked forward to taking it off.

  'Aye, that's it all right,' Mauger confirmed, scratching his thick beard. 'We'll keep going until we reach that hill in the distance, then track east and come in from the north. You remember the story?' He palmed sweat from his brow.

  I stared at the rising smoke, wondering what lay in store for us at Coenwulf's hall, then touched the pommel of my sword, the sword I had killed with. 'I remember,' I said. I felt for the amulet of Óðin at my neck, tucking it deep inside my clothes, and then checked the rest of my gear, my mail, sword scabbard and helm, in case they bore any pagan designs I had overlooked. A swineherd called a greeting. Mauger raised a hand and we carried on, heads bowed, along the drying mud track which led up to the walled settlement. The smell of wood smoke and animals filled my nose, which was still swollen from the fight with Aslak, and I shuddered at the risk we were taking. For the ruse had begun and we had grave news for King Coenwulf.

  'The ditch shouldn't be a problem for your friends but the wall looks sturdy enough,' Mauger muttered. 'Arse and bollocks!' He had trodden in fresh cow shit. 'You'll not get in uninvited,' he said, wiping his boot against a clump of grass beside the path.

  'It'll burn,' I said, remembering Abbotsend in the grip of yellow flames.

  After the time it takes to fletch an arrow and before I could think about changing my mind, we stood at the threshold of King Coenwulf's fortress. Sweat chilled the skin between my shoulder blades and Mauger suddenly seemed a hostile presence beside me.

  'We have important news for the king,' he said to the older of two guards who stood either side of the open gateway. They gripped long spears and wore leather armour, and they looked us up and down, seemingly unimpressed by our mail and arms.

  'What news?' the guard asked, leaning the point of his spear towards Mauger. 'What business do you have with the king?' The younger man was staring at my blood-eye, so I turned to fix him with it and he looked away.

  'What I have to say is for my king, Coenwulf the Strong,' Mauger blurted, 'not for some little prick who ought to know he's unworthy to hear words meant for the Lord of Mercia, hammer of the Welsh and future king of Wessex. May your rotten tongue fall out, you worthless arse leaf.'

  The guard blanched and stiffened and for a moment I thought he would turn his spear on Mauger for which he would die, but he must have known this too, for he stretched his neck awkwardly and then turned to the younger man.

  'Stay here, Cynegils. No one gets in, understand, lad? Not even the bishop of bloody Worcester with a box of forgiveness.' He looked us up and down once more and shrugged. 'Come on then,' he said. He turned, spear in hand, and marched into King Coenwulf's stronghold, and we followed him.

  The place was full of noise. A watermill creaked and an iron corn-grinding wheel moaned. Chickens clucked about on ground churned to mud by countless feet. Pigs grunted and cattle lowed and goats munched on tufts of new grass. At least two forge hammers rang out, men and women called from house to house, horses whinnied, children played, and infants cried. I felt as though I was drowning.

  'Wait here,' the guard said, striding off towards two more warriors in leather armour, who guarded the door of Coenwulf's hall. One of them disappeared inside. An old grey hunting dog came to sniff at Mauger's boot, but he kicked the beast and it looked at me as though wondering how I could let such a thing happen, before padding back to flop down beside the hall's entrance. The guard reappeared.

  'King Coenwulf, Lord of Mercia, hammer of the Welsh and warrior of the true faith, grants you an audience. You will remove all blades before entering the king's hall.' We left our swords and knives with the guards and entered the dark interior, coughing from the smoke slung among the thick old beams of Coenwulf's hall. At the far end sat the king himself on an ornately carved throne. Behind him were tapestries depicting a warrior with wings and a great flaming sword. The needlework was poor, but the image was striking none the less. Between us and the king a woman stood stirring a cauldron suspended above the central hearth, and two young girls sat in a corner sewing by sooty candlelight.

  Coenwulf beckoned us forward. He was flanked by two huge warriors, both wearing mail and iron helmets and holding great ash spears.

  Mauger cleared his throat. 'My lord king,' he began, 'it is a great honour . . .'

  Coenwulf grimaced and batted the words away with ringed fingers. There was a brief silence as he shifted in his throne, then he twirled a finger, summoning Mauger to continue.

  'We have come from Eoferwic in the north of your kingdom, my lord,' Mauger said, ditching the formalities, 'and we bring word that King Eardwulf is burning your land. That whoreson has killed many good men and we only left the fight when all was lost.' The king was scowling now. 'My lord, it was no easy thing to leave, but we knew our duty was to inform you of Eardwulf's treachery,' Mauger pressed on. 'I only pray Christ forgives us for not giving our lives avenging the innocents.'

  'Eardwulf has broken the treaty?' Coenwulf asked, leaning forward in his throne and staring at Mauger with dark, brooding eyes. He had a warrior's build and his face was scarred. One of the wall-mounted torches spluttered and went out, distracting the king for a moment. 'Why have not my spies informed me of this treachery?' he asked, dragging his teeth over his bottom lip. 'Unless the sly dog has dug them out and slit their throats.'

  'So it is as I feared and we are the first to bring this news,' Mauger said, glancing at me, his expression all gloom. Then he shook his head slowly and I was impressed by the warrior's guile, for I had thought him a brute, no more than a grizzled fighter. I would remember he was more. 'I fear our kinsmen gave their lives and even now lie dead on the field.' Mauger made the sign of the cross and I stared at Coenwulf, not daring to look at Mauger for fear of pulling a thread from the weave of his lie.

  The king sat back in silence, scratching his black beard.

  'We of Eoferwic have kept our spears sharp, my king, ever watchful of our faithless northern neighbours,' Mauger said, 'but most of your people there are farmers, not warriors. We were ill prepared for an invasion.' Mauger's shoulders slumped and he suddenly seemed exhausted.

  'An invasion of Mercia?' Coenwulf's eyes flamed for a heartbeat. 'You have proof of this?' he asked. A woman took the dead torch from the wall and held it in the hearth flames till it burst back to life.

  'Proof, my lord? Only the blood on my sword, not yet dry,' Mauger answered grimly. Then he shrugged and stepped forward. 'Oh, and a letter, my king. The scratchings of some monk, though I'd wager the man hitched up his skirts and ran at the first sniff of trouble.'

  'Hold your tongue, man!' King Coenwulf clamoured, his voice filling the dark hall. 'The word of a man of God will not be disparaged! Our faith is our greatest weapon against the heathens and devils who writhe in the darkness beyond our borders. You would do well to remember it. Bring me this letter!'

  'My lord,' Mauger muttered, giving a shallow bow, and one of the king's guards stepped forward to take the offered parchment. I could not read, but Egfrith had assured us there was that about the dark flowing markings that was deliberately imperfect, which an astute man might take
for terror, as though a trembling heart had steered the hand. To me it seemed incredible that those small twisting shapes invoked a voice from far away; a voice that implored Mercia's warrior of God to rescue his flock from the Northumbrians. As Coenwulf clutched Father Egfrith's parchment I saw that his hands were trembling. He called for someone to fetch his abbot, then roared at the slave girl as the torch went out again. White spittle had gathered at the corners of his lips and he closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as though trying to contain his rage. The abbot soon appeared. Red-faced and breathless, he hurried to where Coenwulf sat holding the parchment in the air, then took the thing and began to read, squinting in the darkness. After a few moments, the abbot leant and whispered in the king's ear. Coenwulf's eyes widened as though he no longer saw us standing before him, but saw instead King Eardwulf himself riding through Mercia, a flaming torch in one hand and a sword in the other. I clenched my jaw to keep from smiling, for King Coenwulf of Mercia had the fire of battle in his eyes.