Raven: Sons of Thunder (11 page)

Sigurd seemed to consider this for a while, his brow heavy and his teeth worrying his thick bottom lip. Then he shook his head.

‘The deal is made,’ he said. ‘I will fight the whoreson before the moon rises and the matter will be settled. When Mauger’s blood dries on my sword I will give you Ealdred. Do with him what you want.’ At this the godi’s yellowing eyes flashed maliciously and his talon-like hand dropped to the knife hilt in his belt. He bowed to Sigurd, then turned with a flourish and made his way to the prow, where I heard him tormenting the Wessexmen in his bad English with promises of pain and death.

We stowed Jörmungand so as not to offend the land spirits, and
Serpent
and
Fjord-Elk
came safely to the shore, their hulls crunching on the gravel beach and us jumping off with ropes to pull their hulls clear of the surf. There were no boulders to tie up to, so we used eight sharpened stakes kept for the purpose and hammered them into the beach with the butts of our great axe heads. Then as usual Black Floki and several other Norsemen loped off to get an idea of the land, whilst others got on with the important task of gathering wood for the cookfire. When we knew it was safe, the iron cauldrons were brought from the ships and Olaf ordered a party of five to scrub the gore and filth from
Fjord-Elk
’s deck. He told me to watch the English, especially Ealdred, which I was happy to do because it involved no scrubbing. Blood soaks into oak and it takes a barrel’s worth of elbow grease to get it out and even then it’ll stain till Ragnarök.

Further up the beach were thousands of stones as smooth as hens’ eggs and beyond them stood a wall of rowan, ash and elder, their green scent checked by the sea’s slick tang but breaking through to waft down to us every now and then.

Asgot sent Bram and Svein the Red hunting for a fox or badger or hare or whatever creature this land had to offer, giving them strict orders that the animal should be alive when they brought it back. It did not hurt to make the gods a blood offering before your jarl fought a renowned warrior. By the time they returned we had eaten our night meal, a broth of seal meat and mushrooms, and by their faces and the late hour we knew they had not been successful. The big men slumped by the birchwood fires, taking the steaming bowls of food they were offered and eating in silence, and no man dared ask them about the hunt. Even Asgot held his tongue, though his face, sour as old milk, told me he saw in their failure some bad omen. We fed the prisoners too and Sigurd himself handed Mauger a bowl full to spilling so that the Englishman could not blame his coming defeat in the hólmgang on hunger weakness. Not that the loser would be in a state to blame anything, not in this life. Still, Mauger acknowledged the act with a curt nod and when he had finished slurping his second bowlful an ant could not have filled its belly with what was left. The fires cracked and popped as the birch split along its grain and the low murmur of the Norsemen hung above the flames like strands of some tale not yet told. What would become of the Fellowship if Mauger won? I presumed Olaf would lead us and I was sure the Norsemen would follow him, but where would we go? Would the men swear an oath to Olaf as they had to their jarl?

‘It’s time,’ Sigurd said, standing and draining the mead horn he was clutching. He was the other side of the fire, whose light played over the sharp bones of his face so that he might have
been carved from seasoned oak. ‘Uncle, you will be my second.’ Olaf nodded solemnly. I looked at Bjarni.

‘In the hólmgang both men must have a second, a shield-bearer,’ Bjarni explained, palming mead from his own lips. ‘This man must be unarmed and cannot get involved in the fight. Oh, and . . .’ he held up four fingers, frowned drunkenly, then folded one of them, ‘both fighters are allowed three shields.’ He sniffed. ‘Shields don’t last long in the hólmgang.’

‘Raven,’ Sigurd said, pointing off to where the prisoners sat, ‘you will be Mauger’s second.’

‘Lord?’ I said, half smiling because I thought he must be joking.

‘Fetch three shields for the Englishman. Good shields with iron rims,’ he said. ‘And don’t let him forget his sword,’ he added, tying back his hair, which was a dull gold by the flamelight. ‘Godi, prepare the ground. And stop fretting about your knife being dry. We’ll make a sacrifice when it is over.’ Asgot stood with a nod of his greasy head and enlisted the help of Bjarni and Bjorn before clacking off down the beach towards the lean silhouettes of the ships, their sterns glowing by the light coming off the white breakers at the water’s edge. I stood still for a moment watching Black Floki hissing in his jarl’s ear. Floki’s hand was on his sword’s hilt and I knew he was begging Sigurd to let him fight Mauger instead, but Sigurd put a hand on the warrior’s shoulder and shook his head and Floki’s shoulders slumped in defeat.

I turned towards
Fjord-Elk
to fetch three good shields.

BJORN AND BJARNI LAID TWELVE OLD CLOAKS ON THE GROUND IN A
square measuring some nine feet across. We were up past the round stones, beyond the low murmur of the sea and the fire’s crack and pop. The ground was more or less level here. Ahead, the stand of low trees shifted and swayed cumbersomely, their leaves rattling in the night breeze. Some of us had prepared the ground, hacking away clumps of honeysuckle and bindweed vines whose sweet smell drifted in currents as we disturbed them. With the cloaks laid out and pegged down, Asgot took the point of a spear and carved a series of three lines into the ground around the outside of the square, each a foot apart. At every corner he set a roughly hewn post of hazel and this boundary was made complete with four ropes. Then Olaf and Bram Bear lit the torches they had stuck in the ground. Their flames gave off a restless, stuttering light which twisted and pulled the arena, distorting it into some weird dreamscape. Resinous smoke tendrils meandered around us, gathering stealthily and curling upwards like black wraiths seeking the paler night sky.

When all was prepared, the old godi stood and considered
it and with a grunt of what I took to be satisfaction told me to fetch the putrid pig’s bladders, by which he meant Mauger and Ealdred and the other Wessexmen.

I found Mauger on his back on the sand beside the longships. One knee was hugged tight against his broad chest, whilst the other leg pointed to the top of
Fjord-Elk
’s mast. He grabbed the calf of the raised leg and pulled it higher, stretching the hamstring, his arm muscles swollen and tight. The warrior rings, of which he was so proud, were already sitting amongst the treasures in
Fjord-Elk
’s hold, but there were still dents in his arms where they had sat. You can strip a warrior of his hard-won treasures, but some, men like Mauger, look no less impressive without them. You have to cut the pride out of these men with a good blade.

‘Sigurd is waiting,’ I said. Black Floki stood in the shadows keeping a hateful eye on the Wessexman, his spear’s butt buried in the sand. Ealdred and his household warriors were still up by the fire, though like the remaining Norse-men they were stirring now with the whiff of the fight in the air.

‘Let him wait,’ Mauger rumbled, wincing at the self-inflicted pain of the stretch. Then he rolled over and stood in one fluid motion and my heartbeat quickened because I was within the man’s reach. I knew Mauger’s strength was enormous, that he could have snapped my neck or back as easily as I could have a dog’s. He loosened his shoulders and neck, staring at me the whole time, and I could smell the sharp, violent stench of his sweat.

‘I will be your shield-bearer,’ I said sullenly.

He frowned, pulling his thick neck in. ‘You?’

I shrugged. ‘Me.’

‘Why would you be my second?’ he asked.

‘I would not if it were up to me,’ I said. ‘If I had my way we would tie you up and use you for archery practice.’ Black Floki
stepped forward, sensing trouble. ‘But Sigurd told me I must hold your shields. So I’ll hold your shields.’

Mauger smiled and flexed his huge muscles, making the tattoos on his arms squirm. Then he turned towards the sea and took three deep breaths, his chest rising and falling like the slight swell beyond the breakers. He turned to me again, glanced at Black Floki, then back to me. ‘All right, lad,’ he said. He hawked and spat into the sand. ‘Let’s go and see your jarl.’

We gave Mauger his arms, his brynja, helmet, sword and shield, and I brought two more shields which were well made and undamaged, then we made our way up the beach. We passed the campfires, glowing piles of embers which pulsed red and black in the breeze, and the three surly Norsemen whose bad luck it was to remain with the longboats when they would have given anything to watch the fight. Then we stood for a while in the darkness, allowing our eyes to readjust, before Floki spotted the guttering flame of a torch and the dark shapes of the others disappearing amongst the scrub.

‘You don’t strike me as a Christ thrall, Mauger,’ I said, ‘but if you are a Christian now would be a good time to see to your soul.’

‘You think your jarl can beat me, blood-eye?’ he asked, seeming more surprised than affronted.

‘Sigurd’s veins carry the blood of the Aesir,’ I said. ‘He is descended from Týr, Lord of Battle. Maybe even from Óðin. You have a high reputation, Mauger, and I am sure you have put one or two warriors in the ground. But Sigurd is something different. He is a slayer of men.’

‘We shall see what Sigurd is,’ Mauger replied, clacking heavily over the rocks and barging his way through a tangle of thorns. I had merely been trying to scatter a few seeds of doubt in the warrior’s mind, but of course I was wasting my breath. A man of Mauger’s experience could no more be shaken by words than a mountain could be shaken by wind.

The crowd parted and the Wessex warrior strode through them, and I behind him, my palms slick with sweat and my breath short and ragged. The shadow-played, bearded faces were grim and tight-lipped and the press of warriors was heavy. Their smell – sweat, leather, grease and filth – filled the place, drowning the honeyed scent of flowers.

Mauger nodded to his ealdorman and Ealdred nodded back, and then the clearing was silent but for the hiss of the torches, the rustle of leaves and the woody snaps and cracks from the night-shrouded trees beyond. Somewhere a bird of prey screeched and was answered by the howl of a wolf claiming a fresh kill. Blood was already seeping out there in the dark.

Sigurd stood inside the ropes and I could not help but smile when I saw him. His steel helmet reflected the flamelight and below its rim was a line of shadow from which his unseen eyes stared out at Mauger. Beneath those eyes his cheekbones pressed like knife blades against the skin and his beard was full until beneath his chin where it hung plaited thick as a rope. The rings of his brynja glinted in the torchlight so that they looked to be made of gold, and his father’s sword hung at his hip where it looked as much a part of the man as his limbs. He held a round shield against his chest, its boss polished and undented, and on that shield was painted a wolf’s head. He was magnificent.

I knew Cynethryth was somewhere in that gathering but I resisted the urge to look for her. The Wessexmen stood with Ealdred and one of them cheered for Mauger, making the others bellow encouragement too, and then Sigurd’s men clamoured for their jarl and for a moment all was chaos. I saw Penda. He stood, arms folded, and raised his chin at me and that one small gesture somehow embodied the gravity of what was about to happen. I wanted to ask Sigurd to get someone else to second Mauger, one of the Englishmen perhaps, or even Ealdred himself. Why must I hold the man’s shields? I would
sooner see him dead and I wanted to tell my jarl as much, but not a man alive would have interrupted Sigurd then. So I held my tongue and took my place behind Mauger who had ducked under the rope and now stood facing his opponent. Olaf stood behind Sigurd. The older man’s face was hard as a cliff face.

Asgot shuffled into the middle of the skins and stood between the warriors, his yellowed eyes heavy with worry and his lips cracked and dry from prayers. With a raised hand the godi silenced every tongue.

‘Mauger has accepted a challenge by the ancient rite of the hólmgang,’ he crowed, nodding to me, meaning I was to translate for the Wessexmen, which I did. ‘Each man must stand on this cloak and not draw a finger’s length outside it. Normally, the fight is over when one man’s blood shows on the cloak. Not tonight. This hólmgang will not end until one of these men is a corpse.’ Now Olaf ducked under the rope and stood within the lines Asgot had etched in the earth. I wondered what he was doing as Asgot continued. ‘Each warrior has his own shield-bearer who will defend him for as long as his shields hold.’ I felt as if I had been struck in the face. Asgot pointed a bony finger skyward. ‘But neither shield-bearer may strike his opponent or his opponent’s man or take part in the fight other than to defend.’