Raven: Blood Eye Page 8

  'You're not helping, Bjarni, you sheep's dick!' Kalf said. 'We're all hungry. Give your tongue a rest, man.'

  'Back home my slaves eat more meat than us,' Bjarni grumbled, taking a whetstone and running it along his long knife.

  'Osric, this is your land. Where can we get hold of a fat pig and a few chickens?' Olaf asked. He was checking Serpent's caulking, making sure the ship's flexing was not pushing the tarred rope out from between the strakes. The morning had begun brightly, but now the sky had turned grey and threatened rain, and I watched Olaf, hoping there would not be another storm.

  I shrugged. 'It is not my land, Olaf,' I said in Norse, glancing at Ealhstan. I was hungry too, but even if I had known where to find good meat, I would not have told him. I had already brought death to one village. And so Olaf continued to check the caulking, and the Norsemen bailed water, played tafl, complained about being hungry, worked on carvings, maintained their war gear, talked of home, and combed their hair.

  The next day, there was enough wind to unfurl the great square sail so that we could rest and stretch our aching shoulders and backs.

  'He's a curse on us,' Black Floki said, sliding a black seashell across the tafl-board. Svein the Red swore as another of his pieces was captured. There were only three white shells left on the board and now Svein's king was vulnerable. 'We should let Asgot do what he wants with him,' Floki muttered, sliding a piece so that another white shell was surrounded. He looked up, holding my eye for a moment before curling his lip and looking down at the board. Beneath his great red beard, Svein's face was pink with rage.

  'What's pecking at your liver now, Floki?' Olaf asked. 'And let Svein take one of your pieces, for the love of Týr! Have a heart, man.' But Floki made two further moves, surrounding Svein's king and winning the game. Svein swore and swept a hand across the board, scattering the shells across Serpent's deck, then stood and made his way cursing to the bow where he stood looking out to sea. 'You're a mean bastard, Floki,' Olaf said, shaking his head.

  Floki picked up a white shell and examined it. 'The boy has stolen Sigurd's luck,' he said, raising an eyebrow but not taking his eyes off the tafl piece. Some of the other men nodded or murmured their agreement.

  'If not for Osric, we would be suffering Rán's cold embrace by now,' Bjarni countered, pointing at the waves. 'She wanted us down there and don't tell me you didn't feel the bitch's hunger.' He glanced at me, an anxious look in his eyes. 'Whatever the lad said, it reached Óðin's ear.'

  'My brother is right for once, Floki,' Bjorn added, looking up from the spoon into whose handle he was carving a swirling pattern. 'Osric is favoured. Like Sigurd. And whilst he's with us, we're favoured too.' He resumed working on the spoon. 'That's what I believe.'

  'That weird eye of his tells me everything I need to know,' Bram said in his gruff voice. Then he shrugged. 'Sigurd brought him aboard. It's up to him.' I looked at Sigurd who sat polishing his mail brynja with a lanolin-soaked cloth. Sea air is bad for mail and Sigurd rubbed meticulously at the rings round the neck that showed signs of rust. He said nothing, but he was listening.

  Floki pulled the thongs from his plaits and shook out his hair, black as a crow's wing. 'Since laying eyes on him we've kindled a fire in this land, turned its people against us. Our brother Arnkel has been carried to Óðin's hall and we came within a strake's width of a grave below the waves to be gnawed by fish until the end of days,' he said through twisted lips. He held up a palm. 'I know he warned Jarl Sigurd of the White Christ priest's treachery, but old Asgot believes the boy is dangerous. Ask him, Bram.' It was a challenge. 'Let us hear what the godi says.'

  All eyes turned to Asgot, who stood gripping Serpent's top strake and staring out across the wind-stirred waves. He turned to face us, his watery grey eyes narrowed in thought. 'Yes, Floki, at first like you I thought the boy was a curse on us. But now . . .' He shrugged. 'Now I am not so sure. It is never an easy thing to know the mind of Óðin All-Father. Óðin the One-Eyed,' he added, staring at my blood-eye. 'The All-Father can grant a great warrior favour in battle,' he said slowly, nodding his grey head, 'but he will take that favour away just as easily.' He snatched something invisible from the air. 'You can ask Jarl Sigurd why Óðin does this . . . if you do not already know. Why he can let good, brave men die.'

  Sigurd held his brynja outside the shadow of the great sail, examining the iron rings in the sunlight. 'Óðin needs great warriors,' he said, frowning at his own work. 'He must gather fallen heroes to his own hall in preparation for the last day, when he will have to fight the final battle against the giants and the armies of the dark lords.' He laid the mail across his knees and looked at his men. 'You all know this, have known it always,' he said, 'for we learn it from our fathers who learned it from theirs. Those in Valhöll even now prepare for Ragnarök, the last battle.' Asgot nodded and Sigurd shrugged his broad shoulders. 'But these are the end of days,' he said. 'Ragnarök draws closer and Óðin gathers his army as he must. The boy is not to blame. That is what my heart tells me. The All-Father has given Osric to us for some purpose. Even you, Floki, cannot be sure this is not so.' Black Floki gave a slight nod, as though half accepting his jarl's words, and Sigurd began to rub the cloth across the iron rings once more. 'We will know soon enough if the gods have deserted me,' he said, not looking up from his work.

  When I looked at Sigurd with his bright blue eyes, long yellow hair and full beard, it seemed impossible that his gods could desert him before he had filled his cup with glory. He was a jarl, a leader of men and a fierce warrior. He was a Norseman with a thirst for fame. I knew then that I would follow him off the edge of the world.

  For two days and nights we sailed out of sight of land, using stars, cloud patterns and the flights of birds, so that any Englishmen watching from the shore would not know in which direction we were going. Then, when Sigurd was sure it was safe, Knut set the rudder to steer Serpent back towards land, her sail harnessing the wind so that the red dragon's wing flapped eagerly.

  'This is a king's life, hey, Osric!' Svein called. At last, he had forgotten about his defeat at the tafl-board. Serpent's hull sliced through the waves and I had to turn my ear from the wind to hear him better. '. . . being carried by the wind like an eagle!' he called. 'A king's life!' A great smile split the giant's beard. 'At last Njörd has sent us a good wind, hey! I did not join this fellowship for the rowing!'

  'You chose to join, Svein?' I asked with a smile. 'I don't remember having much of a choice.'

  'Well, you row like a Norseman now, by Thór! You should thank Sigurd for making a man of you.'

  'You don't know you've been born!' Olaf shouted. 'None of you idle halfwits does! When I was your age, Osric, we always rowed. Rowed till our hands bled and our backs cracked. My father would call us women for raising her sail at the first belch of wind.'

  'That's because in your day they had no wool to make sails,' Bjarni teased. 'The gods hadn't made sheep yet!' This brought a deep chorus of laughter which fed on itself until not a man aboard had dry eyes.

  Just being aboard Serpent stirred my blood; the way the overlapping hull strakes vibrated with every oar stroke. The thrum of the rigging in the wind. The way she flexed through the sea like some great swimming beast. The name Serpent suited her. I stood at the prow as she dipped and rose, catching the sea spray in my face and licking the salt from my lips, relieved I no longer suffered the sickness that twists the innards of those not used to the sea. I looked at these warriors, these hard men from the north, and felt awed by their self-belief. They were masters of the ocean and the elements, or at least aspired to mastery. It seemed that each man was cloaked in an invisible confidence, and yet perhaps there was no magic in it. They were the inheritors of a great legacy. They were the lords of the sea, the keepers of an ancient lore handed down by their fathers and their fathers before them.

  I suspected even Ealhstan was beginning to bear up to our fate. In his long life he had never passed the standing stones of his village bou
ndary, but now he turned his face to the wind, a smile playing at the corners of his thin lips, and I wondered where his mind took him. Was he at last unfettered? Was he the eagle Svein had talked of, soaring high above the world, far beyond the troubles of men, where age and words count as nothing against the spirit's freedom?

  We were heading east again, pushed along the southern coast by fresh winds from the north-west, and sometimes I saw outcrops of sea-battered white rocks that reminded me of Abbotsend, my home of two years. And then I was struck by the fear that had hit me when these men, strangers then, had come ashore with fire in their eyes. But though I feared them, I could no longer hate them, even after the terror and the blood. Those things were harder to recall now that I was amongst them, now their laughter filled my ears.

  Later, as if in reply to our grumbling bellies, Sigurd came amidships and stood hands on hips, a wide grin parting his yellow beard.

  'I've noticed that some of you have begun to row like women!' he bellowed, stirring a smattering of curses from the men. 'And if Njörd thinks Serpent is weak he will try to take her again. That's the mean old bastard's way, hey, godi?' Asgot nodded solemnly. Some of the Norsemen touched amulets and sword grips for luck. 'So we must put some strength back in your arms.' Sigurd bent his shield-arm with its warrior rings so that the muscles bulged. 'Who's for a juicy side of beef?' The men whooped with excitement and I felt myself smile. But then my stomach sank as I remembered the dead of Abbotsend. 'Knut!' Sigurd called to the steersman. 'Aim for that beach with the whale carcass on it. We'll land there if Óðin wills it.' I looked landward and saw a grassy hill, which was cracked by a stream that emptied frothing into the sea. 'Bjorn, Bjarni, stow Jörmungand,' the jarl said. This is what they called the dragonhead prow with its faded red eyes, named after the serpent that Norsemen say encircles the world. Sigurd slapped Olaf's shoulder as Bjorn and Bjarni hefted the fearsome carving. 'We don't want to frighten the land spirits today, my friend,' he said before turning to bark more orders.

  'We're going ashore, Ealhstan,' I said, 'for beef.' He was pale as death from all the rowing and I decided that he would have to endure the sickness for I would not let him row again. 'I suppose we'll eat that whale, too, if it's not rotten.'

  Ealhstan frowned and I knew what he was thinking. If there were a village nearby, one big enough to give Sigurd a bloody nose, the grounded beast would have been stripped to its bones. 'It could have washed up this morning,' I said, but Ealhstan grunted miserably and I knew he was agitated because it seemed that Jarl Sigurd knew what he was doing after all. As we approached the beach I watched white gulls circle and dive to the carcass. Soon I would hear their screeches and smell the green slimy weed the sea spews on to the beach.

  The men were prickling with excitement, checking their war gear, combing beards and replaiting salt-stiffened hair. Olaf came and stood above Ealhstan, scratching his cheek as he looked down at him. 'Sigurd says the old cunny must check the steerboard rib,' he said. 'I replaced the withy, but the rib cracked that night of the storm and we're tending landward. The thought of an Englishman touching Serpent turns my stomach, but what can I do? Arnkel our shipwright was killed at your pisspot village.'

  I nodded and translated for Ealhstan and he choked, showing his palms. 'I know you're no shipwright, but you can do the job,' I said, putting a hand on his shoulder to calm him. As far as I knew, Ealhstan had never set foot on anything bigger than a fishing skiff. He shook his head vehemently. 'At least pretend you know what you're doing,' I hissed, feeling Jarl Sigurd's gaze on the back of my neck. I could hear the rasp of the whetstone as the Norseman sharpened his long sword.

  'You are either useful to me, or you are not useful,' Sigurd said. 'Think about that, old man.'

  'He'll fix it, lord,' I said, kicking Ealhstan, who mumbled something that would have been damned heathens, had he a tongue.

  The Norsemen put on helms and mail, whilst Olaf dropped the anchor. Knut released the leather straps that ran through slits in the hull, holding the steerboard in position, then lifted the rudder from the water so as not to damage it in the shallows, for it ran deeper than the keel.

  We had to cover our mouths and noses even before jumping from Serpent into water up to our waists, for the whale was rotten and the stink was terrible. Flies blanketed the corpse and two ravens stood on it, watching us between pecking at a great yellow eye.

  'It's high tide, Sigurd,' Olaf said as the men ran two thick ropes to a couple of boulders. 'We have two hours before we risk getting stuck high and dry like him,' he said, nodding at the dead whale.

  'We'll have filled our bellies by then, Uncle,' Sigurd replied, using his green cloak to wipe the seawater from his sword. 'What do the bones say, godi?' The strange old man had already found a flat rock on which he had strewn a handful of bones that looked like those from a man's backbone.

  'They speak of blood, Sigurd,' he said in barely more than a whisper, his grey, watery eyes flickering over his chieftain's face. For a heartbeat Sigurd's brow furrowed, but then a smile came to his salt-cracked lips.

  'Blood from the meat staining our beards, old man, that's what you see,' he said, glancing at Olaf who held his eye briefly.

  Then Olaf rubbed his ample belly. 'I don't know about you whoresons, but I can almost taste it,' he called, and the other men grinned mischievously. Sigurd sent four men to keep watch along the high ridge. The others fished, played tafl, or trained with sword and spear whilst the rest of us prepared to set off in search of fresh meat.

  Ealhstan called my name. It sounded like Ovrik when he said it, and when I turned he was staring at me and I thought he was about to curse me for leaving him alone with the heathens. But then he stepped up and hugged me and there was strength in his old arms. I gripped his frail body, my throat tightening.

  'I'll be back, old man,' I said into his ear, smelling the oldness on him. 'Just fix their ship and stay out of their way. Don't be a stubborn old goat, you hear me?'

  He mumbled his consent and I pulled free of his embrace, turning my back on him. And swords, spears and shields in their hands, Sigurd's wolves set off, forgetting about their godi's magic and his talk of blood.

  Though it was April, the air still held a whisper of winter's bite, so I was grateful for the woollen cloak Sigurd had given me. It had belonged to Arnkel the shipwright and when the Norsemen opened their friend's journey chest to share out his belongings, no one had wanted it. The musty brown cloak had seen better days, but it was big and it kept me warm as I clenched a fist round its edges and set off behind the Wolfpack. I felt like a fish half out of water, for I was both Englishman and Norseman, and yet somehow neither. So I whispered one prayer to Christ and one to Óðin that we might find food for ourselves and not feed the carrion birds with the flesh of the dead.

  In front of me strode the brothers Bjarni and Bjorn, their grey helmets dull and menacing in the weak spring morning's light. Their shields were slung across their backs, and their short ringmail coats were visible at their tunics' hems and sleeves. I was gazing at the wicked-looking battleaxes in their hands when Bjarni mumbled something to his brother and handed him his axe. He turned to face me and I stopped dead. The others began to climb a steep hillock, using great tufts of grass to pull themselves up, whilst I stood swaying on legs that still thought they were at sea. Suddenly I wished I were back on Serpent with Ealhstan.

  'I have something for you, Osric,' Bjarni said. It was Bjarni's shoulder into which I had sunk an arrow during the raid on Abbotsend. His jaw was clenched and his hands made great fists. I thought he would kill me and I took a step back, but he grabbed the cloak at my neck and yanked me towards him. 'You'll need both hands to climb, unless you plan to command Óðin to send his flying horse to carry your arse up there,' he said, gesturing with his chin to the hilltop. Then he thrust something through the edges of my cloak and shoved me so hard that I fell on my arse. I looked down to see an arrowhead with some of the shaft still attached sticking through the cloak, fast
ening it as securely as any brooch. The remaining wood was stained dark with Bjarni's blood. 'It's your arrow, boy. You keep it,' he said. Without a smile or further word he turned, grabbed fistfuls of grass and began to climb.

  At the crest of the hill, we saw that the land spreading into the distance was not flat, but undulating and heavily wooded. The stream I had seen from the ship was wider here, but not by much. It was rugged and coursing and clear enough for me to see its brown stony bed.

  'This stream will take us to our dinner,' Sigurd said as we knelt to drink the fresh water from gourds or cupped hands. And we knew he was right, for men will always make their homes near such streams. They are like the veins in our flesh and we cannot live without them.