Raven: Blood Eye Read online

  'Wulfweard?' I whispered.

  He nodded, spotted Griffin's mead cup and picked it up, then pretended to sprinkle something into it. His eyes were slits below thick white brows. He turned and looked at Sigurd who was leaning against the west wall beside his great round shield, iron helmet and wicked, heavy spear.

  I tugged Ealhstan's shoulder. 'Wulfweard means to poison Jarl Sigurd?' I hissed. 'You saw him gather hemlock?'

  The carpenter spun back round, glancing at nearby heathens to make sure none had heard or understood. Then he glared at me and I nodded slowly, acknowledging the reproof. 'He's mad,' I muttered.

  Ealhstan grimaced as though he agreed with me. Then he gestured to the hall's door and stood, motioning that I should follow him. Making sure not to wake the sleeping men around me, I got to my feet and followed Ealhstan silently out of the hall, casually loosening my belt as though I intended to relieve myself outside.

  The night was dark and moonless. Two dogs were fighting over a fleshy bone. Someone's goose had escaped its pen and now sat on Siward the blacksmith's thatch, spreading its wings and honking proudly. Other than that, the village was asleep. I thought I could hear the surf breaking on the southern shore beyond the black hills. Then Ealhstan reached into the pouch at his waist and held something towards me without taking his eyes from mine. That's when I saw Alwunn, the girl I had lain with at the Easter feast. She stood in the eaves' shadow, wringing her plump hands and staring at Ealhstan. From the state of her knotted blond hair, I guessed the old man must have dragged her from her bed, and I felt a twinge in my stomach at seeing her.

  'What's going on, Ealhstan?' I asked, looking at the small, bone-handled knife he had given me. A leather thong ran through a hole in the hilt. Ealhstan beckoned Alwunn irritably and she stepped from the shadows, giving a thin smile with her fat lips. She cleared her throat and glanced at Ealhstan once more for approval. He nodded and gave a grunt.

  'Hello, Osric,' Alwunn said in a small voice. Her eyes widened and she touched her hair, suddenly embarrassed. She licked a hand and pressed it against an unruly hank, without success.

  'What are you doing here, Alwunn?' I asked, aware of warmth kindling in my loins. 'Are you in your nightclothes?' She shifted awkwardly and I frowned at Ealhstan, who twirled his hand impatiently.

  'The knife, Osric,' Alwunn said, nodding at the thing in my hand. 'It's important.'

  'Doesn't look important,' I replied, running a thumb across the dull blade. 'You would struggle to skin a hare with this.' Ealhstan snatched the knife from me and held the hilt up close to my face. I took it back and examined the hilt. Two serpents writhed in the white bone, each beast appearing to swallow its own curling tail. 'It's skilled work,' I admitted. 'And pagan.' Ealhstan grunted. I shrugged. 'I don't understand. Why are you showing this to me?'

  'I was there when they found you, Osric,' Alwunn said almost guiltily.

  'So?' I said. I knew the story. I had been found amongst the old people's burial mounds south-east of Abbotsend. No one knew where I had come from and I had been unconscious. When I woke, my mind was empty as a mead barrel at a wedding feast.

  'Your head was bleeding and they thought you must be dead,' Alwunn continued, 'but when they rolled you over, your eyes were open. When Wulfweard saw . . .' she hesitated and pointed at my blood-eye, 'he cursed and said you had been touched by Satan.' She made the sign of the cross then, scared by her own words.

  'I was lucky old Ealhstan needed an extra pair of hands more than he needed Wulfweard's fart-stinking sermons,' I said, smiling at the old carpenter, who grunted again. Alwunn looked horrified at what I had said and took a moment to check that we were still alone. The two dogs, perhaps seeing a hare, suddenly ran off into the night, barking wildly.

  Alwunn winced. 'Ealhstan found that knife round your neck,' she said. 'He took it before Wulfweard or the others saw it.' She looked at Ealhstan. 'He feared what they would do. It is pagan, Osric,' she said, emphasizing the word, 'and what with your eye . . .' She shrugged and looked embarrassed again, as though she was ashamed of how the folk of Abbotsend treated me, but at the same time understood their reasons.

  'As I said, the old man needed an apprentice,' I said, studying the knife intently now.

  'Are you sure you don't remember anything about how you got here?' Alwunn asked, fighting with her unruly hair again.

  I shook my head. 'I woke up in Ealhstan's house, Alwunn. There's nothing before that.' I held up the knife. 'You've always known about this?' She nodded. 'Does anyone else know?'

  'Why, Osric? Do you think they could treat you any worse?' she asked with a wry smile. I frowned at her. 'No one else knows,' she said. She looked at Ealhstan. 'I should go. If Mother knew I was out here . . .'

  Ealhstan nodded and touched her shoulder in thanks. Alwunn shot me a parting look and ran off into the night, lifting the hem of her nightdress off the muddy earth.

  'Why are you telling me now, old man?' I asked, tying the knife to my belt. Alwunn was right. What could they do to me now? For two years they had hated me but let me alone because I was Ealhstan's apprentice. I would not hide behind the old man any more.

  Ealhstan stared at the knife on my belt but did not move to take it back. He gave a slight shake of his head and made the sign of the cross over his chest.

  'I don't know what this all means, Ealhstan,' I said, putting an arm on his shoulder, 'but thank you.' The goose honked loudly and I turned to see a dark figure striding towards us.

  'Is that one of Bertwald's birds?' Wulfweard asked, making the sign of the cross when he noticed me. He wore his priest's armour: the white woollen tunic reaching to his ankles and the strip of green silk which went round his neck and fell to his shins. 'I've told him he needs to put another foot on his pen. Given a bit of a fright and a little gust of wind, a goose can take to the sky for two hundred paces. I've seen it!' We looked at the goose and it flapped its wings angrily. 'Is that devil Jarl Sigurd still in there dreaming up more ways to offend our Lord and Father?' he asked Ealhstan, turning his back on me.

  The carpenter nodded.

  'About earlier, Ealhstan, by Cearl's place,' Wulfweard said. 'As luck would have it – though we must surely believe good luck to be nothing less than God's rewarding the righteous . . .' He pointed a fat finger, and I did not need to see his face to know the arrogant smile on it. 'Well, Ealhstan, I came across a clump of burdock hiding amongst the nettles and docks. I expect you're familiar with burdock's . . . loosening properties,' he rubbed his lower belly, 'and the relief the juice of its leaves gives to flea bites, snake bites and such like. But did you know that the oil from its roots, when rubbed into the scalp, is most soothing – not to mention restorative to hair?' Ealhstan grunted and Wulfweard squeezed his shoulder. 'Peace be upon you, friend.' Then the priest turned to me, his grimace animal-like in the darkness. 'Out of my way, boy. I go to witness the Lord God's work.' With that he pushed open the old hall's door, shot Ealhstan a wicked grin and went inside.

  Ealhstan made to walk away, beckoning for me to follow, but I stood where I was beneath the rotting thatch. The carpenter made a low guttural sound in his throat and waved his arm bad-temperedly.

  'You're going to let him poison the jarl?' I asked, horrified. 'He was lying about the burdock.' I sniffed the lingering musty scent of hemlock on my fingers as Ealhstan gestured again for me to come away. 'I'm not going,' I said. 'We can't let it happen. Wulfweard is mad! His head is full of spiders, Ealhstan.' Though the old man frowned, I did not wait to see what he would do, but followed the priest into the hall.

  Inside, someone had thrown more logs on to the hearth. They were spitting and cracking and the flames were jumping again, gilding the spicy smoke that billowed across sleeping men and around smooth roof posts. Wulfweard was standing above Jarl Sigurd, a cup in his hands, and some of the others were stirring as though expecting trouble. Wulfweard turned to the sound of the door. He saw me and curled his lip before turning back to the Norseman. I moved into a s
pace by the hearth, feeling the heat on my face as Ealhstan entered the hall and crouched beside Siward the blacksmith.

  'Your people are stumbling in the darkness, Jarl Sigurd,' Wulfweard said, his voice like the rasp of a sword from its sheath, 'but is it not the shepherd's task to save his flock from the wolf?'

  'Fuck off, priest,' Sigurd mumbled, scratching his golden beard. 'I did not cross Njörd's sea to listen to you. Your words fall from your mouth like droppings from a goat's arse.' Some of the Norsemen laughed hard enough to wake others still sleeping.

  'Go back to your White Christ house and sleep on your knees,' said the warrior beside Sigurd.

  For a few heartbeats Wulfweard just stared at Sigurd. By the firelight I saw that the priest was trembling with rage and his free hand was a tight fist.

  'I have come here in peace, heathen,' Wulfweard rumbled, 'and I was hoping you might accept Christ's blessing. You will be gone tomorrow.'

  'The White Christ is here?' Sigurd asked, grinning and looking around the hall.

  'Our Lord is everywhere,' Wulfweard replied, shooting a warning glance at the Englishmen in the hall. 'I would bless you in Christ's name, Sigurd, and in the morning I would baptize you and cleanse you of the evil filth that suffocates your people.'

  I wondered then if Wulfweard had had a change of heart, or if Ealhstan had been mistaken about the hemlock. Perhaps the priest had been picking burdock for his moulting hair.

  'Away with your spells, priest!' Sigurd said, flicking a hand at Wulfweard as an old Norseman with bones plaited in his lank grey hair stood and walked over to the jarl, 'or I will have my own godi turn your guts to worms.' The heathen wizard grinned maliciously, but some of the other Norsemen put their hands on their spears and sword grips. I touched the pagan knife at my waist, letting my thumb follow the forms of the writhing beasts in its bone hilt. The Norsemen had similar hilts sticking from sheaths at their own waists. I looked at these strangers, trying to see myself in them. They were mostly yellow-haired with fair beards, though one had hair as black as my own.

  'I see you are not yet ready to receive Christ's forgiveness,' Wulfweard said, forcing a smile. 'Well, I have tried,' he exclaimed, holding his arms wide, 'and perhaps I have struck the first blow in the battle for your blighted souls.' He turned away from Sigurd, stopped, then turned back to face the Norseman, extending the hand clasping the mead cup. 'Will you at least drink with me, Jarl Sigurd? To show all gathered here that there is peace between us?'

  Sigurd pursed his lips, then shrugged his powerful shoulders. 'I'll drink with you, priest,' he said, accepting the cup, 'if you will then leave me in peace.' Wulfweard dipped his head and took a step back. Sigurd raised the cup to his lips.

  'No, lord!' I called, stepping forward over a Norseman. 'Don't drink it!' From the corner of my eye I saw men clambering to their feet.

  Wulfweard turned and hissed at me, his big face so full of hatred that it looked fit to burst. 'Go back to Hell, Satan's slave!' he shouted, his voice filling the old hall.

  'Hold your tongue, priest,' Sigurd said, shrugging off a fur and getting to his feet wearily. The men in the hall were separating into knots of Norse or English and more than one of the heathens picked up their great war spears. 'Speak, redeye,' Sigurd commanded, beckoning me forward with an arm glittering with gold warrior rings.

  The weight of men's stares pressed down on me, crushing my throat and squeezing my belly. Suddenly the only sound was the flapping of the hearth flames and my own heartbeat filling my head. I cleared my throat and pushed through the throng until I stood before Sigurd and Wulfweard. 'The mead is poisoned, lord,' I said in Norse.

  Sigurd frowned, thrusting the cup to arm's length.

  And Wulfweard must have known I had warned the Norseman, for he made the sign of the cross. 'Lies!' he yelled. 'Whatever he's spewing! Lies from Satan's own pus-filled mouth! Lies!' He stepped towards me and I thought he would strike me down.

  'Then drink some yourself, priest,' Sigurd growled in English, offering the cup to Wulfweard. 'We will share the mead, but you drink first.'

  Wulfweard closed his eyes and turned his face to the old roof, gripping the wooden cross that hung over his chest. He was muttering something, prayers, I think, under his breath.

  'Drink!' Sigurd commanded and that one word was so heavy with threat that I could not imagine how any man could disobey it.

  'The mead is mixed with hemlock,' I said, glancing at Ealhstan who gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. 'You would have drunk the mead and you would have slept, lord.' I took a deep breath. 'By noon you would be unable to stand, your legs would be cold to the touch and you would piss yourself.' I did not know if this last part was true, but I thought it would sting a proud man like Sigurd. I was deep in the mire now and saw no point in trying to drag myself clear.

  'It would kill me?' Sigurd asked, his eyes boring into mine, as a spoon auger bores into timber.

  'I think so, lord,' I said, 'yes. You would die and tomorrow Father Wulfweard would claim it to be the work of God.'

  'And the bloated pig would shout that the Christians' god was more powerful than Óðin All-Father!' Sigurd roared, his hand falling to his sword's pommel. Then Wulfweard spat at me, reached into the long sleeve of his tunic and leapt at Sigurd. I saw the knife in the priest's hand, but Sigurd saw it too and jumped back with astonishing speed, drawing his sword at the same time.

  'Father!' Wulfweard screamed as Sigurd stepped up and swung his sword into the man's head. The priest's legs buckled and he fell convulsing on the ground, clutching at his wooden cross as his grey brains spilled wetly from his skull.

  The men of Abbotsend cursed and spat, looking to Griffin for leadership. And by the hearth light they must have seen doubt in the warrior's eyes.

  'He was a servant of God!' Griffin yelled. Men were pouring out of the hall. 'A priest, Sigurd!' Griffin shouted, staring at the jarl as the Norsemen armed themselves and the Abbotsend men hurried into the night. Ealhstan was kneeling by Wulfweard and I grabbed the old man's shoulder and pulled him away, hardly believing what was happening, then pushed through to the door and out into the fresh air. Into the chaos. The Norsemen were forming a shieldwall, each man's shield overlapping that of the warrior to his right, and the speed and efficiency of their movements was frightening. But the village men were also forming a dense line in the shadows, gripping spears and swords, and more men were coming from their houses with shields and helmets.

  'Get away, Ealhstan,' I said, as the world was suddenly touched by dawn's red hue, 'it can't be stopped now. Come!' But Ealhstan shook his head and pulled away from me. When I grabbed for him again he slapped my hand and croaked what I took for a curse. Then the shieldwalls crashed together and the first grunts and screams battered the still air. I let go of the old man and saw Griffin thrust his sword into a Norseman's neck. What have I done? my mind screamed. I had spoken against the priest and now men I knew were dying and their blood would be on my hands. I ran to fetch Ealhstan's hunting bow, praying I would sink an arrow into a heathen's black heart before the end. I threw open Ealhstan's door and in the darkness smashed into his table, my chest thumping wildly as I felt myself running back towards the sound of fighting, clutching the bow, the string, and a sheath of arrows. Some of our men lay broken in the mud, their slick guts steaming in the weak dawn light, but some fought on, groaning as they were forced back over dead friends. Sigurd himself cut Griffin down. I saw a spray of bright blood slap Griffin's hair and I was terrified to see how easily these Norsemen in their brynjas slaughtered men without mail.

  Ealhstan was pointing at Griffin and grunting, clawing at my shoulder as I fumbled to string the bow. 'I know, old man,' I hissed, sick because Griffin had been a friend to me. I nocked an arrow, drew back the string, held my breath, then exhaled slowly. 'Heathen bastard,' I spat, then loosed. A Norseman jerked violently, the arrow embedded in his shoulder. I scrabbled to put another shaft to the string and saw Siward the blacksmith stagger backw
ards, clutching a spear in his gut and screaming. I loosed the arrow, but it flew wide and when I drew again the cord snapped, whipping my forearm. The Norseman I had hit strode towards me, careless of the blood slicking the mail at his shoulder. I stepped forward and swung the bow at his face, but he caught the stave and ripped it from me, then slammed a fist into my face. From the stinking mud I watched him drop Ealhstan and kick the old man once.