Raven: Blood Eye (27 page)

'Mauger is right,' Sigurd said. 'They must not know we want the book. But they're headless now, like a dandelion in a strong wind. Their king has gone.' He pursed his lips. 'When we attack, these Mercians will be trying to save their own sallow skins. We breach the walls, we go in hard, and we take the book.' He looked at Svein the Red, who wore a silver hammer at his throat. 'Thór would approve of such a plan, I think,' he said with a smile. Svein grinned. 'Are we all agreed?' the jarl asked, lingering a moment on Glum who nodded, his ruined arm bound in a leather sheath. Every man gave a grunt or a nod and the Wolfpack readied itself to fight.

'Did it escape your mind to tell me how stout the wall is, Raven?' Sigurd asked when I pointed to the distant settlement. It was dusk and the drizzle had become rain which dripped from the nasals of our helmets as we stood taking in King Coenwulf's lair.

'It's big, lord,' I admitted, 'and well made. But the ditch is shallow.'

'It won't burn easily in this rain, Sigurd,' Olaf said. 'Looks like we'll have to wait for an invitation.'

'Don't worry, old man,' Bjarni put in, 'the womenfolk will pull us over the walls and into their beds now their men have gone.' He grinned wickedly. 'But it'll take three or four of them to help me up. My balls are heavy as a bag of silver.'

'English women would sooner straddle their swine than climb aboard you,' his brother Bjorn said, receiving a cuff around the head in return.

'Whatever we're going to do, we'd better do it fast,' Glum said, waving his short, sheathed arm. 'No time to starve them out. When Coenwulf realizes we've made a fool of him, he'll be shitting blind fury. The man's pride will bear him back here faster than Sleipnir.'

Asgot had told me of Sleipnir, the eight-legged grey horse of Óðin, faster than all other beasts. Glum was right, we did not have much time.

The Mercians could not see us yet, for we were still a distance off and our painted shields were slung across our backs. Furthermore, we stood in a hollow of open pasture amongst docks, nettles and cowslip stems cropped short by cattle. Father Egfrith started when a yellowhammer burst from a nearby patch of sedge, trilling madly as it took to the sky.

Sigurd watched the bird for a moment, then nodded. 'Asgot! Let them see us for what we are,' he commanded, and the old godi produced Sigurd's banner, a wolf's head on a red cloth, and tied it to the point of a long ash spear. Then Sigurd turned to Father Egfrith. 'Start praying to your god that the book is in there, Englishman,' he said through his teeth, 'for if I lose a man for nothing, I'll take your head.' The monk blanched and we set off up the far side of the hollow, our mail and arms jangling, leather belts and straps creaking, and our stride forewarning of death.

We crested the swell of land two bow shot lengths from the fortress. Some men who had been working in the fields saw us and fled back across the ditch and bank, leaving an earthen kiln belching yellow smoke, and by the time we stood before the stout wooden palisade a sparse forest of spears topped the defences. Sigurd wasted no time. He sent five Wolfpacks of five warriors round the edges of the fortress to cover any other gates, and, though we were too few to properly surround the place, it would take a brave man or a fool to risk hopping over the wall in a bid for freedom. Before long, the grey-bearded face of a warrior appeared above the main gate.

'Who are you?' the man demanded in a clear, strong voice. It was a voice that betrayed no panic, yet the spear blades atop the palisade swayed uneasily, suggesting that the men who gripped them did not share Grey Beard's mettle. 'What do you want here?' he called.

Sigurd paced forward purposefully, his mail polished to a shine and his golden hair plaited for battle. Týr himself could not have looked like a greater warrior.

'I am Sigurd, son of Harald the Hard,' he boomed. 'You will open this gate, or everyone within will die.'

'What do you want from us, Dane?' Grey Beard asked, casting his eye over the rest of us. Olaf cursed the man under his breath. The Mercian's gaze lingered on Father Egfrith who I saw now wore a rich scarlet cloak instead of his habit. A silver cross wet with rain hung at his neck, positioned to catch the eye and reflect what remained of the pale sunlight. But beneath this new finery, the monk looked more frail than I had ever seen him.

'Open the gate, Mercian!' Sigurd demanded. 'Then I will tell you why we have come to Coenwulf's hall.'

'King Coenwulf is at table and will not welcome your presence here, Sigurd son of Harald,' Grey Beard said sharply. 'Leave now before someone informs him. You must know our king's reputation. He is a great and fearless warrior. A Christian warrior.' These last words were heavy with threat. 'King Coenwulf could deal with you as a man squashes a louse between finger and thumb. Go now! Go whilst you still can, and even then I would watch my back.'

'Your king is off waving his sword in the north, Grey Beard,' Sigurd yelled, pointing along the worn track, dotted with horse droppings, which Coenwulf had taken earlier that day. 'If you lie to me again I will cut out your tongue before I strangle you with your own innards.'

The guard turned and shouted a command and Mauger grabbed my shoulder.

'Tell them to raise their shields, Raven,' he hissed, just as the Mercian defenders appeared at the palisade with arrows on their bowstrings. But the Norsemen had already unslung their round shields and held them before their faces, and the arrows that came either stuck in the limewood or were deflected harmlessly away.

Behind his shield, Olaf nodded at his jarl, for the Mercians had just revealed their strength, at least in terms of bowmen. There were not enough to worry us.

Sigurd lowered his shield, which sprouted two white-fletched shafts.

'You have just called the birds of carrion to this place, Grey Beard,' he said, 'and they will come like a black cloud to block out the sun.' At that, Father Egfrith moaned and collapsed and Svein the Red dragged the monk unceremoniously back from the shieldwall at the gate.

When darkness fell, we lit torches and fires that hissed in the rain, a fragile ring of flame around Coenwulf's fortress. The Norsemen were well practised at constructing shelters from slender branches and the oiled leather cloaks they wore against sea spray and deluge, so we were comfortable enough. I took in the scene, the campfires of each band casting light on to the wooden walls, and it seemed to me as though a great host was laying siege to the place. But in truth we were not enough.

'What if Coenwulf comes back?' Bjarni asked. His face was etched in concentration as he closed a ring on his brynja that had broken at the join. We were sheltering from the rain, but we remained battle ready in case the Mercian defenders should come at us in the night.

'It will take him two days to reach his northern borders,' Father Egfrith said, rubbing his bald pate as he sat in his shelter on a bundle of hazel branches covered with long grass. 'Though God knows he'll make the return journey in half the time when he learns the truth.' His yellow teeth flashed in the flame light and I wondered if the monk should be taking such pleasure in the deception of other Christians.

'When he thinks there's a Wessexman, or, worse, some Welsh bastard, warming his throne, old Coenwulf will ride so fast his beard'll blow off,' Mauger added with a grimace.

Olaf joined us, a flaming, spitting torch in one hand, his shield in the other. Water dripped from helmet and shield. He had come from checking the Wolfpacks surrounding the fortress. 'There's only one other way out of the place and Aslak has it covered. Problem is, there's no easy way in. It's tight as a weasel's arsehole.' He looked to Sigurd, who had stood to receive his report. 'We'll have to burn it tomorrow, Sigurd,' he said, turning his face to the dark sky. 'If this rain ever stops.'

'No, Uncle,' Sigurd said, scratching his yellow beard. 'I have another idea.' He turned to me, his eyes glittering like fish scales in the firelight. 'Raven, you know of Óðin and of Thór, of Rán and of Týr Lord of Battle, but what do you know of Loki?'

'Only what I have heard from the others, my lord,' I said, 'that Loki is a cruel god and that any man who trusts him is a fool.'

'Ah, piss,' he said. 'Loki is famed for his wickedness and his wiles, yes, but all the gods have their pride, even Loki. Which of them would not be honoured by a warrior's seeking his help against these Christians, these followers of the White Christ who spread their twisted belief across the world as a farmer hurls swine shit across his field? Loki is, above all things, cunning. He has more stratagems than there are hairs in Bram's beard.' Bram grinned proudly. 'I have asked Loki the cunning for his help . . .' Sigurd's full lips spread into a smile, 'and he has given it to me.'

I learned then of Sigurd's plan. Father Egfrith was not sick at all. He had faked his collapse in front of the Mercians earlier that day.

'And the scarlet cloak?' I asked the monk. He was hiding in his shelter so that none on the palisade would see him. He looked like a rat in a hole.

'If the Mercians are to believe I am a bishop snatched from my flock by heathens, I must at least dress like one,' he replied, flicking a spot of dirt from the shoulder of the fur-trimmed cloth. 'Who would not pity one of the Lord's messengers who found himself in the midst of barbarians?' He was clearly enjoying the prospect of the deception Sigurd had woven with Loki the mischievous.

The Mercians stayed behind their walls that night, perhaps hoping we would move on to easier pickings, or that their king would return to give battle in the shadow of his own hall. The next day, Egfrith died. Kalf and gap-toothed Ingolf found some chalk which they crushed and rubbed into the monk's skin to give him a deathly pallor, and then we wrapped him tightly in an old balding skin, and Sigurd put round his own shoulders the scarlet, fur-trimmed cloak and clutched the silver cross, wrapping its chain around his fist. Then, as the sun rose in the east, Sigurd, Olaf and Svein stood before the main gate like gods of war. After standing there in silent, sword-bearing judgement, Sigurd eventually called up to the defenders, who had not left their posts all night.

'Fetch the grey-beard I spoke with yesterday!' he commanded.

'I am here, Sigurd,' came the reply as the guard appeared spear in hand. 'What do you want from us? There is nothing for you here. My king will soon return and when he does you and your men will die where you stand.'

'Go on, old man,' Sigurd called, 'you shrivelled goat's prick!' He held up a hand and snapped his fingers together. 'Use your old tongue while you still have it!' This brought the hint of a smile from the warrior, who must have been one of King Coenwulf's household men and therefore an experienced fighter, for it is customary to hurl insults before a fight, and the Norsemen are good at it. 'Open the gates and let me in, you squirrel's turd,' Sigurd demanded. 'I will bring ten men with me, no more. You have my word.'

'The word of a heathen means nothing to me,' Grey Beard replied, spitting over the battlements. 'You are all the Devil's turds and you will be washed away by a holy rain, just like the bastard Welsh.'

Sigurd muttered to the others and as one they turned on their heels to walk away.

'Wait!' Grey Beard shouted. 'Where is the man who yesterday wore that red cloak? He is a man of the Holy Church if my eyes did not deceive me.'

'He was the bishop of Wilton,' Sigurd replied, holding out his fist and letting the silver cross fall until the chain pulled taut. 'And a more pathetic worm I have never come across. Here, take this if you believe it will do you any good. I will have it back soon enough.' With that, he threw the cross into the sky and for a brief moment it reflected the rays of the new sun before disappearing over the wooden palisade.

'Did you murder the good bishop?' Grey Beard asked, his face betraying revulsion at the thought even as he sent a man after the small treasure.

'I would have,' Sigurd answered, 'if fear or some other feeble sickness had not done it for me. And may your White Christ use the man as a footstool in the afterlife,' he finished, before turning away once again.

For the rest of the day nothing happened and that night some of the men began to say that if the Mercians did not surrender soon, they would be in for a hard fight against a vengeful king. But Sigurd seemed not in the least worried. Sigurd had asked a favour of Loki god of mischief, whom most men shun because they are afraid, and even the gods have their pride.