Raven: Blood Eye Read online

  'I want you to offer a sacrifice, Sigurd,' Asgot the godi said, wide-eyed. He looked agitated. 'I told you I saw blood.'

  'You always see blood, Asgot,' Sigurd said, waving the words away, 'you were born with a ship's rivet in each eye.' He stooped to fill his leather water bottle. 'We are far from our gods, you old sea urchin. What would you have me sacrifice?'

  The godi turned to fix me with his stare. 'Are you blind, Sigurd?' he asked, clutching his sword grip. 'You drink from the stream but you do not see the stream.'

  'Be careful, godi,' Sigurd warned, standing and slapping down the wooden stopper. 'Your tongue writhes like a worm.'

  'Speak plain, Asgot,' Olaf said. 'We don't have time for your riddles.'

  Asgot sneered and turned back to Sigurd. 'The stream is alive,' he hissed. 'It sleeps now, but it lives.' The men stopped drinking and backed away from the water's edge, stepping lightly. 'The dragon sleeps, Sigurd. If you intend to follow his course, you must make an offering. If he wakes to find that you have not . . .' He broke off and began praying to Óðin in hushed tones whilst the others looked to their jarl with grim faces.

  Sigurd stared into the stream for a long time and then raised his head, his eyes marking the water's course into the distance. The pebbly shallows twisted through the landscape and I thought I saw the bony spine of a serpent or dragon lying asleep and hidden, waiting for unsuspecting men to cause offence.

  'Well?' Sigurd asked, looking at each of his men in turn. 'Any of you volunteer to put himself beneath Asgot's knife? Come now. One of you must have woken this morning hoping the godi would bleed you for an English river spirit?'

  Bjarni moved back to the stream, dropped his breeches and pissed into the water. 'Let the bastard feed on this,' he said, and the men took courage from his daring, except Asgot who looked horrified.

  'There's your sacrifice, Asgot,' Sigurd said, as scar-faced Sigtrygg moaned at Bjarni for pissing in the stream before he'd had a chance to fill his water bottle.

  'Fill it upstream, you witless fool,' Bjarni said. Sigtrygg's coarse reply was stopped short by his jarl.

  'Dragon or not, we go on,' Sigurd said, 'unless you want to explain to the others why they'll be eating cheese and spitting mackerel bones again tonight.'

  'The boy will do, Sigurd!' Asgot pleaded, his eyes wild. 'Let me have the boy. That should be enough. As you say, we are far from home. We must appease the local spirits, or at least try to make our own gods hear us.'

  The other Norsemen turned to continue. Sigurd gestured to them as an end to the matter. 'I promised the boy his life, Asgot,' he said. He grinned. 'You know the gods, old man – you likely knew them when they were just men like us. But I do not think that Óðin wants Osric's blood. I would feel it if he did.'

  Asgot shook his head. 'You walk a dangerous path, my jarl,' he warned, the bones in his greasy hair rattling.

  'I know no other, Asgot,' Sigurd replied, looking at me, 'and none of my line ever died a straw death.' I nodded thanks, wondering about the men of my line, whoever they were, and whether they had died grey-haired and feeble, or with a sword in their hands. Then on we went, keeping our distance from the stream, and the Norsemen held their sword scabbards and kit to keep them from rattling as we followed the sleeping dragon onwards, hoping not to wake it with our passing.

  Ivar led us. He was a tall, thin man renowned for his eyesight and it was not long before he spotted a brown smear against the light grey sky beyond the mound before us. Sigurd raised a hand and we crouched among the thickets and bracken. The jarl crawled to Ivar, his sword and mail jangling. The dark leaves of an elm rustled in the breeze. I inhaled the scent of hornbeam catkins wafting across the lowlands.

  After a brief conversation Sigurd stood. 'On your feet, men. You wouldn't trust a snake sliding through the grass on its belly and neither will the English. Easy now.' We tramped up the hillock, through heather and gorse peppered with silver birch, always following the stream, which grew wider amongst a copse of budding beech and oak at the hill's plate. It was from this cover that we looked across at a clutter of thatched dwellings spilling off three rolling hills. The houses were well constructed, their roofs pointing to the sky like arrowheads running almost to the ground on either side. It was a busy place, maybe four times the size of Abbotsend, and this meant enough men to ruin Sigurd's day if things went wrong. It also meant there would be at least one butcher, and more likely several.

  'I will take Floki, Osten, Ingolf, Olaf and Osric,' Sigurd said. 'No shields, helmets, mail or axes.' Some of the Norsemen began to complain at this. They prized their arms above all else, especially their mail, and hated being without them. But they knew they could not wear their brynjas and remain inconspicuous.

  'Let me come, Sigurd,' Svein the Red pleaded, the ghost of disappointment in his huge, open face. 'I can carry twice what Floki can.'

  'There's no better load a man can carry than common sense, Svein,' Olaf teased. Svein's huge shoulders slumped. 'Óðin's words, lad, not mine,' Olaf added defensively. 'You should be with the ships in case the English come,' he said. 'We'll need your axe if they do.' Svein stood a little taller then and Osten slapped the giant's shoulder in consolation.

  Sigurd smiled. 'You would attract too much attention, Svein. The English have never seen muscles like yours. This land is so mild that weaklings thrive in it. Stay here, my friend,' he said, and Svein shot a proud grin at Black Floki, who rolled his eyes.

  Sigurd turned to those he had chosen and I looked at the men who came forward. They were the ones of average looks and would have the best chance of blending in, except for Floki. To look at him was to see pure mischief. Sigurd put a hand on my shoulder. 'It would be better if you wore a patch, Osric,' he said.

  I put a hand to my blood-eye. 'I'll keep it closed, lord,' I said.

  Sigurd shook his head. 'Cover it.'

  Olaf put his hands on his hips. 'And you, Sigurd?' he asked. 'What will you do to look like an Englishman?' Sigurd's brow furrowed. He looked every bit a warrior and a Norseman too. And he knew it.

  'I'll go, Sigurd,' Glum said. Fjord-Elk's shipmaster stepped forward, loosening his plaits, and then shook out his dark salt-encrusted hair. 'I could pass for an Englishman. I just need Svein to stamp on my face so it's not so pretty.'

  'Ha! At home I have a pig who is prettier than you, Glum,' Black Floki scoffed.

  'That is no way to speak about your wife, Floki,' Halfdan said with a grin.

  Sigurd raised a hand. 'All right Glum, you go instead of me.' He pointed to me, adding, 'But the lad does the talking. The rest of you keep your filthy mouths shut. And no fighting.'

  'Who, us?' Glum said, leaning back in feigned dismay.

  Some of the men wanted to remain among the trees where they could see the village and thus come to our aid if things went badly, but the risk of their being seen was too great and so the six of us went on alone, having agreed to meet Sigurd and the rest back at the ships when we had bought the provisions we needed. A light rain began to fall, turning the sky's colour from unpolished iron to soot black, but we were glad of it because men are less vigilant when trying to keep dry. A low rumble rolled across the clouds and Glum shared a furtive grin with the others.

  'Thór's with us, lads,' he growled, touching his sword's grip as we marched on. I looked down at my own clothing and realized I would have to hide the pagan knife Ealhstan had found round my neck, and so I took it off my belt and tied it round my neck once more, tucking it out of sight. Then I glanced at the others for anything that might give us away as outlanders. Our tunics and cloaks were indistinguishable from English ones, but the Norsemen's brooches, buckles and clasps were not. In bronze, silver or gold they took the forms of fluid curves and intertwined beasts, and were clearly pagan things.

  'Your combs,' I said to Osten, Ingolf and Floki who all had them hung round their necks on leather thongs. 'Tuck them inside your tunics. The English don't usually wear them like that.' They also covered their sword's hilts
with their cloaks and ruffled their hair, believing that if Englishmen did not wear hair combs, they must care little about their appearance.

  'It suits you, Osric,' Ingolf said, pointing to the strip of linen I had tied round my head to cover my blood-eye. 'It'll give you a better chance with the girls, mark my words.'

  I narrowed my other eye. 'I can still see into your black heart, Ingolf,' I said. He gave a gap-toothed grin, but a moment later I saw him touch the silver amulet of Thór's hammer Mjöllnir at his neck and I smiled.

  'There's our meat,' Glum said hungrily, pointing to an open-fronted house at the summit of the east hill. It sat beyond the wooden stake palisade that protected the heart of the settlement. We stood in a clearing littered with the stumps of felled trees from where I could see the white carcasses of animals hanging from beams. There were birds strung up by their legs, flapping their wings vainly. Through the rain the breeze brought with it the smell of the place and after being at sea it was strange now to breathe in the stink of cattle and human waste, wood smoke and food. Glum tapped me on the shoulder and handed me a leather scrip bulging with silver coin. 'We'll wait here, Osric,' he said. 'When you've bought the meat we'll come and get it. Remember, they must think you are a slave running errands for your master.'

  'Then you and the others must hide, Glum. Back there among the trees,' I said. 'You look like a pack of slobbering wolves.' Glum nodded, gesturing for the men to take cover. Another peal of thunder rolled up from the south and I gripped my cloak tightly round my neck to stop the rain getting in. Then I made my way along a muddy track towards the butcher's, my mouth watering at the thought of its juicy treasure.

  'That is much silver you have in your hand, Osric!' Black Floki called after me. 'The gods will curse you if you betray us. And I will find you!' I did not have to turn round to know that Floki was gripping his sword hilt, and that his teeth showed like fangs amongst his thick, dark hair.

  The silver in my hand is that which you took from the men you killed, Norseman, I thought. Did the gods curse you for taking it from those who earned it through toil? I doubt it. It is more likely that Njörd sent you a good tide, that Thór laid a thick fog across the sea to hide your approach, and that Óðin God of War guided your blade to strike down your enemies.

  I tramped along a worn path that weaved like a spider's web catching every dwelling, and threw a stick for a dog that had come to sniff at me. I passed houses with open doors and saw women working hand spindles and looms, making the most of the poor light to weave their cloth. Many of the menfolk would be up in the pastures herding sheep before bringing them back to the pens for washing and shearing, though I passed two stretching a deerskin over a frame, too busy to notice me as they began to scrape off the hair and fat. My ears filled with the ringing of the forge and there was comfort in the sound so that I believed no harm would befall me as long as the rhythm remained unbroken.

  Then I found myself standing before two hanging pig carcasses, several chickens, three flapping skylarks, and a brace of dead hares, one with a bloodied eye like my own. A rich, herb-scented smoke drifted from the dark interior of the house and I peered inside to see more hanging shapes, joints of meat being smoked, and my mouth watered at the sweet smell. I took a long, delicious breath as a great mass stepped out of the darkness, grey smoke billowing in its wake.

  'You have beef?' I asked, peering round a pig carcass to meet the eyes of this bear of a man. He was almost as big as Svein the Red.

  'Who wants to know?' came the gruff reply. He lifted the pig off its hook and slammed it on to a wooden bench whose grain was stained with blood. Then he pulled a foreleg wide, picked up a hand axe and brought it down with a great thud, severing the leg easily.

  'I am Osric,' I said, holding out the bulging leather scrip, 'and I have come for meat.'

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE BUTCHER'S NAME WAS EOSTERWINE AND I WAS RELIEVED THAT he did not ask how I had come by so much coin. I suppose he was like every other merchant; he could smell money and would not jeopardize his coming by it with unnecessary questions.

  'You'll never have tasted better beef, lad!' the man boasted, hands on hips whilst Floki and the others shouldered the joints of meat and prepared to head back to the ships.

  'My master will be the judge of that,' I dared, 'but thank you, Eosterwine. And may God be with you,' I added loudly enough for two newly arrived horsemen to hear. I paid them no heed, slinging the brace of hares over my shoulder and heading off towards the hill.

  'They're eyeballing us, Uncle,' Glum hissed under his breath.

  'Warriors by the looks of them,' Ingolf said.

  'Just keep moving and stop looking at 'em,' Olaf mumbled through a broad showy smile. 'The bastards'll think you fancy them, Ingolf.' Then the riders set off slowly down the hill, heading towards a point where their muddied path crossed ours.

  'We're fucked now,' Black Floki said with a vicious grin. 'We'll have to cut them up.'

  'Ignore them, Floki, and hold your tongue,' I said.

  'It's up to you now, Osric,' Glum said, the glint of violence in his ocean-blue eyes.

  Laden with joints of meat, the six of us shuffled along the slippery path, careful not to lose our footing. I noticed that the ringing of the forge had stopped and I swore under my breath.

  'That's some feast you men are in for!' The tattooed rider's voice was deep and sure. He was heavily muscled and his arms were bare but for the many silver warrior rings adorning them. Guessing that the man had spoken about the meat, Glum nodded and slapped the carcass on his shoulder.

  'No feast, I'm sad to say,' I replied with a tired smile. 'My master is going on pilgrimage across the sea and we are fetching supplies for the voyage. We'll salt this lot and then it will have to last for many weeks, may the Lord protect us and bless our humble ship.' I smiled. 'Eosterwine assures me we have never tasted better beef.'

  The warrior raised his thick eyebrows. 'Eosterwine brags like a king with two cocks,' he growled, then glanced at his companion; he was an older man with a jewelled sword at his side.

  'An accident?' this other asked, nodding at my covered eye.

  I stopped now and faced the riders, letting the Norsemen trudge on down the track. 'Hammer scale from the forge, lord,' I said, touching the strip across my blood-eye. 'I was apprenticed to a blacksmith but,' I shrugged, 'had to seek a new path. Can't say I'll miss Eoferwic my old master. He was a bastard.'

  'Well, your new lord must be a worthy Christian,' said the older man, his back straight, hands resting on the lip of his fine saddle. 'A pilgrimage is a worthy undertaking. If only we could all summon the endurance for such work and abandon our more mundane . . .' he smiled, 'earthly responsibilities.'

  'If ever a man was assured a place at our Lord's right hand, it's my master. He will not rest until he finds what he seeks,' I said. The man's eyebrows arched. 'Worthiness, lord, that is what he seeks,' I added with a solemn nod.

  'And his ship is moored by the white rocks?' Rain dripped from his long nose and wilting moustache.

  'Yes, lord,' I said. I saw no sense in lying and further arousing their suspicions. 'We sail on the ebbtide. If the wind favours us.'

  'You sail at night?' he asked, shooting a glance at the big man.

  'Our shipmaster claims he knows the sea as well as a heathen,' I said proudly, making the sign of the cross, 'and Lord Ealhstan trusts the Almighty to guide us and keep us from harm.'

  'Then tell your master we shall turn a blind eye to the tax he owes us for mooring on our shore. Seeing as he is a good pilgrim with God in his heart.'

  'Thank you, lord. I will tell him and I am sure he will pray for you at the Lord's shrine,' I said, giving a shallow bow, but as I leant forward the small bone-handled knife swung out on the leather thong. I casually tucked it away and set off again along the muddy track, expecting to hear the rasp of swords pulled from scabbards. Instead, I heard the click of a tongue and a horse's whinny and I exhaled gratefully, for I knew the Englishm
en had turned their mounts.