Raven: Blood Eye (6 page)

'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 backwards, 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.

Then it was over. Only one of the Norsemen had been killed, but all sixteen who had faced them lay in their own blood and the heathens made short work of any still living. Except for Griffin. They dragged him through the gore to the man with the piercing eyes and the wolf's head brooch. To Sigurd.

'Before you die, you will see your village swallowed by flames,' the jarl growled, pointing to the houses whose hearth smoke still leaked through the thatch as though it was just another day, 'and in the afterlife you will know that you brought death to your people.'

'The Devil piss in your skull,' Griffin managed. Skin and hair flopped horribly from the side of his head and I saw the broken bone beneath. Blood ran down his face like threads of a web, dripping from his short beard. But his body would not die. 'You . . . will beg . . . Christ's forgiveness at the coming of judgement,' he threatened in a dry voice. 'I swear it.' Brave Griffin smiled as he said the words.

Sigurd laughed. 'Your god is weak. A woman's god. They say he favours cowards and whores.' The other heathens scoffed and shook their heads as they wiped their gore-covered blades on dead men. 'You are not weak, Englishman,' Sigurd went on. 'You killed a great warrior today.' He glanced at the dead Norseman, who had been stripped of his mail so that he looked no fiercer than any young man of Abbotsend, but for the many scars carved into his white skin. Sigurd frowned. 'Why do you follow this White Christ, Englishman?' he asked. Griffin's eyelids grew heavy and I hoped he would pass out. The Norseman shrugged. 'I give you to Óðin so that in death you will see a true god. A god who can make his enemies run from a battle back to their women in shame.' He then commanded his men to search the houses for booty, making sure to look in the hearth ash and in cooking vessels, even the thatch itself, for hidden treasures. The heathens did this quickly, fearing the arrival of the local levy, and began carrying bags of coin, tools, cloth, weapons and cured legs of lamb and pork over the hill to their ships. There were some screams, but not many. Most of the women had escaped into the woods and would not yet know their men lay butchered. I had seen Alwunn's father killed, but I knew she and her mother would have had the sense to get away. Poor Alwunn. But I had never loved her, and I am sure she did not love me.

I knelt by Ealhstan, waiting for the heathens to notice us, for then they would kill us along with Griffin. I dragged my arm across my lip and looked at the bright blood, realizing that I no longer trembled. The carnage I had witnessed had somehow cured me of fear. I gritted my teeth. Griffin must despise me for what I had done, but he would not see me cower at the end.

The Norsemen gathered seasoned timbers and built a pyre on which they laid the warrior whom Griffin had killed. One man took a spear and scratched a circle in the earth and dragged Griffin into it by his bloody hair. By now he was barely alive. The first thatch roofs broke into patches of flame and the dead Norseman's pyre began to crackle as the old grey-bearded warrior with bones plaited in his hair invoked their gods in a dry, low voice. A raven cried in the old ash tree, its head jerking hungrily as it watched the work of men, and I knew it was the same bird I had seen the previous daybreak by the watchtower above the beach. It opened its heavy beak and fluffed its throat feathers so that they stuck out like spikes. I looked back to Griffin and my stomach squeezed warm vomit into my throat.

Ealhstan groaned, trying to stand, but I pulled him down. 'Keep still, old man,' I hissed. Half of his face had swollen into a livid purple bruise. He sniffed the air. 'It's burning,' I confirmed, my eyes too full of Griffin's mutilation to be drawn to the flames now crackling angrily. 'They're doing something to Griffin. It's the Devil's work, Ealhstan.'

Griffin moaned pitifully, his ebbing life revived by horrible pain. Ealhstan grabbed for my arm, then flapped his arms, his rheumy eyes wild. 'The Eagle,' I breathed and those wide eyes said,
Don't watch, you fool! Christ save us, don't
watch
.

But I did watch. I watched as the old godi used his hand axe to hack into Griffin's back. Again and again he smashed the ribs away from the spine and my world was filled with a proud man's screams. The two Norsemen holding Griffin down were spattered with his blood as he writhed in agony. Then the heathen godi hooked clear the last of the ribs, exposing the meat within, and his hands plunged into the gore and pulled out Griffin's lungs, laying one on each side of his ruined back like glistening red wings.

'They've opened his back,' I said to the old man, who had turned away. Then I lurched forward and retched, but my stomach was empty and there was just dry pain. 'The Blood Eagle,' I murmured, horrified to see in the flesh what I had only heard men talk of in whispers. Ealhstan crossed himself and began to make a low moan in his throat, as Griffin's screams became horrible, liquid gurgles lost amongst the crackle of burning wood and thatch and the roar of flame.

The godi stood and raised his arms to the sky.

'Óðin All-Father!' he called, shaking his head so that the bones in his hair rattled. 'Receive this warrior slain by your wolves! Let him sit at your mead bench so the White Christ cannot take him for a slave! Óðin Far-Wanderer! This eagle is a gift from Jarl Sigurd who rides the waves and seeks glory in your name.'

Sigurd stared at me then, at my blood-eye, and gripped the small wooden amulet on the thong round his neck. It was a man's face, but one eye was missing.

'Kill the old man,' he commanded with a flick of his hand, 'but not the boy. Bring him to
Serpent
.'

'He is a carpenter, lord!' I shouted in the heathen language. 'Do not kill him!' The bearded Norseman I had first seen at the prow of the dragon ship shoved me aside and raised his sword to strike Ealhstan. 'He is skilled! Look, lord!' I said, drawing my eating knife from my belt and offering it up to Sigurd. The warrior above me snatched the knife away and glanced at it carelessly before flinging it at Sigurd's feet. Then he turned back to Ealhstan and grimaced.

'Wait, Olaf!' Sigurd said, examining the knife. Like the pagan blade Ealhstan had returned to me the previous night this one was short and simple, but its hilt was carved into the shape of a porpoise. I had never seen such a creature, but as a boy Ealhstan had found one washed up on the shingle and he had made the hilt from memory.

'It is bone from the red deer, lord,' I said, hoping that Sigurd's thumb stroking the white hilt was a sign he appreciated the workmanship. In truth, I had seen Ealhstan make much finer hilts for those who paid for them. Still, the knife was a gift and I cherished it. Only now did I realize that Ealhstan had given it to me to replace the heathen one he had found round my neck. Perhaps it had been his way of helping me begin a new life with him.