Raven: Blood Eye Page 3

  'We are from Hardanger Fjord. Far to the north,' Sigurd said, 'and as I told you, we are sometimes traders.' The word sometimes cast the shadow of warning.

  'Do not threaten us, heathen!' boomed Wulfweard the priest, marching from his church holding a wooden cross before him. He was a huge man, a warrior once some said, and he set himself before the Norsemen like a squared stone from his church. He eyed Sigurd fiercely. 'The Lord knows the blackness of your hearts and He will not let you bring blood to this peaceful place.' He raised the wooden cross as though the very sight of it would turn the Norsemen to dust, and in that moment I believed in the power of the Christian god. The priest turned to me, plain hatred twisting his face. 'You are one of Satan's minions, boy,' he said calmly. 'We've always known it here. And now you have brought the wolf into the fold.'

  Ealhstan grunted and dismissed Wulfweard's words with the flick of an arm.

  'He's right, Wulfweard,' Griffin said. 'They'd have come anyway and you know it. The lad never rowed 'em here!'

  Sigurd glanced at me as he drew his sword with a rasp, and Wulfweard looked at the weapon scornfully. 'You pagans are the last of the Devil's slaves and soon you will be dust like all non-believers before you.' He grinned then, his trembling red face full of the power of his words. 'The armies of Christ are washing your filth from the world.'

  Some of the Norsemen shouted for Sigurd to kill Wulfweard then, as though they feared his strange words were the weaving of some spell. But to show he had no fear of words, Sigurd turned his back on the priest, lifted his great sword and thrust it into the earth before his men. Seeing this, the Norsemen took their own swords and spears and plunged them down with grunts of effort, sinking the blades into the soil where they quivered like crops in the breeze. Sigurd turned back to Wulfweard and threw his round shield at the priest, who jumped back. It struck his shin and must have hurt, though he showed no sign of it.

  'We have come to trade,' Sigurd announced to the English shieldwall. 'I swear on my father's sword,' he said, placing a palm on the earth-sheathed weapon's silver pommel, 'I mean you no harm.' He glowered at Wulfweard. 'Does your god forbid you from owning fine furs? He is a strange god who would have you freeze when the first snows cover this village.'

  'We would rather our blood froze in our veins than trade with Satan's underlings,' Wulfweard spat, but Griffin stepped from his line and thrust his own sword into the earth beside Sigurd's.

  'Wulfweard speaks for himself,' he said, never taking his eyes from Sigurd, 'and that is his right. But the red deer are thin on the ground this year because our king covets the silver they fetch and his men hunt them greedily. A good fur can keep a man alive. We have families.' He flicked his head towards the men behind him. 'We will trade, Sigurd.' And with that he stepped up and gripped Sigurd's arm and the two men smiled because instead of blood there would be trade. I exhaled and slapped Ealhstan's back as the folk of Abbotsend welcomed the outlanders with gestures and handshaking, and the relief of those who have avoided death by a hair's breadth.

  Wulfweard strode off back to his church muttering damnation and Griffin watched him go, shaking his head. 'He's the custodian of our souls, Sigurd,' he said, 'but a man must look to his life, too. We're not dead yet. And whether you and yours pray to a dog's balls or a twisted old tree means nothing to me if we can take from each other,' he held up his hands, 'peacefully and in good faith, the things that make life better.'

  Sigurd nodded. 'Ah, my own godi chews my ears often enough, Englishman,' he said, batting a hand towards Wulfweard's back. 'Let them have their sour apples. They trade in misery. We'll have our silver and furs.'

  'Agreed,' Griffin said, then he frowned. 'We will have to send word to our reeve, of course. He'd spit teeth if he found out you'd landed here and not paid him his taxes.' Sigurd's own brow furrowed and he scratched his beard. 'Don't worry, Norseman,' Griffin said, putting a hand on the man's shoulder. 'If we're quick we can make our trade and you can leave before Edgar gets his fat arse down here.' He shrugged. 'We are not going to stop you sailing off, that's for sure.'

  Sigurd turned. His men were pulling their weapons from the ground and cleaning their blades. 'We will keep our weapons sheathed,' he assured Griffin who, along with some of the other Englishmen, seemed suddenly anxious.

  'Your word is good enough for me, Sigurd,' Griffin said with a solemn nod. 'Now I will speak to my people.' Sigurd gripped Griffin's arm in a final gesture of trust before Griffin turned and began to receive the questions of the other influential men of the village.

  Sigurd turned to me. 'What is your name, red-eye?' he asked in Norse.

  'Osric, lord,' I said, 'and this is Ealhstan my master,' I added, nodding at the old man and marvelling at how I had found the words in the heathen's language.

  'You serve that tongueless old goat?' Sigurd asked. He grinned. 'Ah, I understand. You don't like being told what to do.'

  'I assure you, my master has other ways of getting what he wants,' I said with a smile as Ealhstan prodded my shoulder irritably and waggled his hand like a fish. I shook my head and the old man grimaced crabbily before shuffling off. He would have to forgo his mackerel now and he was not happy about it.

  'How did you learn our tongue?' Sigurd asked.

  'I did not know I could speak it, lord,' I said, 'until today.'

  'That priest of the White Christ does not like you, Osric,' he said, rubbing a thumb along his sword's blade to clean the mud from it.

  'Most of the people here fear me,' I said with a shrug.

  Sigurd pursed his thick lips and nodded. I had never seen anyone like him. He looked like the kind of man who would fight a bear with his own hands. And win.

  'We are the first among our people to take our dragons across the ill-tempered sea,' he said, 'but even we are not without fear. Do you know what I fear, lad?' I shook my head. Surely nothing, I thought. 'I fear a dry throat. Fetch us something to drink. Mead greases the barter.' He smiled at the giant Norseman with the red hair and beard, who grinned back, and I turned to go and fetch mead from Ealhstan's house. 'Don't put a curse on the damn stuff, Satan's minion!' Sigurd called after me, mimicking Wulfweard. 'I'm thirsty!'

  The Norsemen fetched goods from their ships while the local children and even some of the men buzzed around them, marvelling at their sleek dragon-prowed vessels, the likes of which they had never seen. The children helped carry the heathens' goods back to the village where noisy clusters of women waited, eager to see what these strangers had to sell. The outlanders' deer furs were thick and full and their whetstones were fine-grained, though Siward the blacksmith insisted they were not as good as English stones. They threw down leather skins and covered them with amber, much of which had been fashioned into beads, and leather jacks full of honey. There was dried fish, reindeer bone, and walrus ivory which proved very popular with the village men, for they bought every piece on show. Having obtained it cheaply they would later pay Ealhstan to carve the ivory into smooth or patterned hilts for knives and swords, or amulets for their wives. The last women and children abandoned their hiding places in the eastern woods and came to join the throng and barter with the Norsemen. They brought their scales to weigh coin and beads and gestured fervently, trying to make themselves understood, though Sigurd was needed to resolve several confusions and did so willingly, a smile etched in his strong face.

  'Osric speaks their tongue,' Griffin announced above the bustle, winking at me, and soon the folk of Abbotsend forgot that I was Satan's minion in their rush to employ me as a translator to grease their trade. But I was pleased to do it and I wondered if these same folk who had shunned me would treat me well when the Norsemen left, because I had helped them. At first finding the words was like rooting for berries after the birds have been, but the more I listened the more I understood. I was too immersed in men's negotiations to wonder what strange magic was at work.

  Old Ealhstan made a sound in his throat and nodded, fingering an oval brooch of bronze which a Norseman h
ad thrust into his hands. At the heathen's feet dozens of the things sat on a smooth hide, glinting in the late afternoon light. Most of the trading was finished, but the village was still buzzing as folk compared their new goods and boasted about how cheaply they came by them.

  'I don't think he sold many of these, Ealhstan,' I said, seeing how keen the Norseman was to sell a woman's brooch to a mute old man. Ealhstan made the sign of the cross, curled his dry old lips and pointed off in the direction of the church.

  'The women feared they'd get too much earache from Wulfweard for wearing them?' I asked as he handed me the brooch. 'God-fearing women sporting pagan brooches.' I tried to imagine it. 'Wulfweard wouldn't like that. Wouldn't like it one bit.'

  To the heathen's disappointment I placed the brooch back on the hide with the others. All were longer than a finger and some had projecting bosses of amber or glass shining amongst intricate, swirling patterns engraved in the metal. 'Where is Wulfweard, anyway? I haven't seen the red-faced bag of wind since this morning.'

  Ealhstan shrugged his bony shoulders and wagged a finger at me. 'I know, I know, Wulfweard's a man of God,' I said. 'I should show more respect. Even though he wouldn't piss on me if I were burning.' A child squealed and we both spun to the sound. 'They're just playing,' I said, laughing as the giant flame-haired Norseman growled like a bear to scare the three children who were clambering over him, one on his back and the others on either arm.

  'Come here, Wini,' one of the boy's mothers called nervously and in no time all three children were shepherded away, leaving the Norseman beaming from his great shaggy beard.

  'They don't seem like devils, Ealhstan,' I said. Ealhstan's white eyebrows arched. You didn't think that this morning, those hairy caterpillars said. They're bloody-minded heathens and you'd do well to stay away from them.

  But I did not want to stay away.

  Griffin had waited until the sun was in the west before sending a man out to tell Edgar the local reeve that strangers had moored, meaning taxes were owed, and Sigurd had agreed to spend the night ashore sharing mead with the men of Abbotsend. In any case, his ships were beached and he could not sail until the next high tide, so would risk the reeve's taxes for a night on dry land. Word spread that the men were to gather in the old hall when it got dark and I watched the heathens pack their remaining goods in chests and skins. It seemed they were even more eager to begin drinking mead than they had been to sell their wares.

  'You'd better join us, Osric,' Griffin called from behind two thick, folded reindeer skins in his arms. Arsebiter was at his master's heel. 'We'll need you to make sense of the heathens' babble. How is it you understand them, lad?'

  'I don't know, Griffin,' I said. 'I've no way of explaining it.'

  He shrugged. 'Well, I'll see you later.' He grinned and jangled an amber necklace that was looped over his wrist. 'When Burghild sees this she'll not mind me spending all night drinking with those devils! Least, that's the idea.' The dog looked up at Griffin doubtfully.

  'Maybe you should have bought her a brooch, too,' I said, stifling a smile, 'and some of that reindeer antler. Maybe one of those silver pins.'

  Griffin peered round the skins at the amber necklace, then back to me, a dark frown gathering on his face. Then he turned and went on his way, with Arsebiter following him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  MEN CRAMMED INTO THE OLD HALL LIKE TROUT IN A WITHY TRAP. It was loud and it stank, but heathen and Christian were getting along better than anyone could have hoped. Even Wulfweard was there, though I did not see him talking to any of the Norsemen. He sat on a footstool drinking mead and fingering the wooden cross he wore round his neck as though the thing would keep him safe from the evil he saw all around him. He looked up at the roof suspiciously, seemingly fearful that the men's carousing would shake the old beams from their joints to fall and crush us.

  The hall had belonged to Lord Swefred, but he had been in the ground six years and had no sons. Now, shadow-shrouded cheese presses, butter churns and empty barrels cluttered one end, while the rest of the space was used for meetings, trade and private disputes. Any and all used the place and so none saw why they should pay for its upkeep. Weeds were bursting through the packed earth floor. There were no hangings to keep out the cold and the wattle was damp and rotting.

  But this night the place was alive. I thought of the story of Beowulf, when the Geats gathered in the great feasting hall on mead benches studded with precious metals, amongst tapestries worked in gold which glittered on the walls as the glorious warriors rejoiced in the feast. Perhaps this hall had been glorious once, and now these proud heathen warriors from across the grey sea reminded the old, soot-stained beams what they once were.

  The Abbotsend men had not wanted their women around Norsemen full of mead, so their sons passed through the hall with bulging skins, filling cups and handing out cuts of meat from two pigs roasting over the hearth. Sigurd had bought the pigs from Oeric the butcher and I watched hungrily as fat hissed in the flames and the delicious smell smothered the stink of wood rot, damp earth and men's sweat. Men who could not make themselves understood shouted, thinking this would help, and others laughed. The noise continued well into the night as I made myself useful, turning strange words into sense for drunken men. Later, furs and cushions and straw were fetched and men settled down to sleep. Because the hall belonged to no man, the heathens had seen no reason not to bring their weapons inside. They sat and lay around the hall's edge, each man's round painted shield, spear and sword leaning against the wall behind him.

  'I've never seen so much mail,' Griffin slurred in a low voice. It was late and despite having beds to go to the Abbotsend men were settling in for the night. Some were already snoring. Griffin and I were slumped at the north end below the hall's only window, a narrow slit with vellum stretched across it. Most of the candles had guttered out, leaving only the stone hearth in the centre of the hall to cast its glow across the shrouded, sleeping figures. 'I've fought for King Egbert, and Beorhtric before him, more times than I care to remember, lad. I tell you, I've never seen better armed men.' He pulled a louse from his beard and examined it. 'We'll all be better off when they clear out.' His gaze returned to Jarl Sigurd, who was talking quietly with an older Norseman with a round face and a bushy beard.

  'But the trade went well,' I said, watching Griffin absently crush the louse with a thumbnail.

  His eyebrows arched. 'Aye, it went well,' he admitted. Then he shook his head, his eyes rolling. 'Burghild wants two of those big brooches, the bronze ones with the amber inset.'

  'But the necklace?' I asked, remembering how proud he had been of his purchase earlier that day.

  'She says it's no good having the necklace without the brooches to go with it,' Griffin grumbled. Then he caught my eye and we both laughed, waking a dark-haired heathen who managed a curse before closing his eyes again. I must have slept for a time myself then, for I was woken by the clunk of the latch and a creak of the hall door's iron hinges. The murmur of those still awake mixed with men's snores and I watched as old Ealhstan shuffled in, unnoticed by all but a few until the door's hinges gave one last creaking complaint. Ealhstan grimaced. Griffin jerked awake, spilling mead from the cup still in his hand.

  'Nearly dropped off, lad. Where's he been?' he asked, nodding towards Ealhstan. 'Carving crosses for the pagans?' Then his eyes closed again and his head fell with a bang against the wall. Carefully, I took the cup from Griffin's hand and placed it on the ground out of harm's way as Ealhstan picked his way through the crowd over snoring, farting men.

  'I'll go for the rod at dawn, old man,' I whispered, thinking Ealhstan had come to make sure I would be awake in time to catch his breakfast. But he batted the words away, frowning, and knelt with a wince. When he was happy that Griffin was asleep and that no one else was watching he stared at me, his thin face in shadow, his wispy white hair glowing in the firelight. 'What's going on?' I asked, and he put a bony finger to my lips. Then he took my hand and pr
essed something into it. I looked down to see a sprig of fern in my palm. I shrugged, divining no meaning from it. Ealhstan motioned that I should smell the leaves, so I rubbed the sprig between my fingers and sniffed. It smelled rank, like rotten parsnips, and I knew it was not fern, but hemlock. I have seen pigs and sheep die from eating hemlock; first they become excited, then their breathing slows and their legs and ears grow cold to the touch. They die swollen and stinking.

  I dropped the leaves, spat on my fingers and rubbed my hands on my tunic. Ealhstan puffed up his cheeks and made the sign of the cross.