The Wolf and the Raven Page 4

  The smaller birlinns had no chance of catching the much larger drekar and they left their pursuers behind well before they reached the open sea again. The Vikings turned south and passed another inlet, probably the mouth of a large river, but it too was guarded by a fortification on the north bank a little way down the river, so they raised the sail once more and pressed on southwards.

  ‘There’s what looks like a monastery on an island ahead,’ Ragnar, whose turn it was as lookout, called down. ‘No, wait I think it’s connected to the mainland by a strip of sand.’

  ‘Lindisfarne,’ Thorkel muttered to himself.

  ‘There should be a bay on the south side if we’re where I think we are.’

  ‘Yes, there is,’ Ragnar confirmed as they rounded the tip of the island where a large conical mound of rock rose up from the low lying land around it.

  At that moment smoke began to curl lazily skywards before being whipped away by the wind.

  ‘They’ve lit a warning beacon by the look of it.’

  ‘Much good may it do them,’ Thorkel laughed, thinking that monasteries were seldom defended, and even if this one was, there wouldn’t be many guards and he had seventy warriors.

  Ragnar was about to descend, the need for a lookout having ceased as they prepared to beach the longship, when he looked to the south. He could just make out what looked like a fortress on another, much larger, rock shimmering on the horizon. Then he faintly heard what sounded like the pealing of a bell coming over the water.

  -℣-

  Ealdorman Eafa was playing with his three year old son, Ilfrid, when he heard the alarm bell being rung. His wife, Breguswid, looked at him in alarm. They both knew that the most likely cause was another attack on Lindisfarne. After the disastrous raid of 793, there had been two more, the most recent being three years ago.

  The monastery complex was now defended by a palisade and the members of the fyrd amongst the islanders could hold off a small raiding party until help from the fortress could reach them. Eafa hoped that he could make it in time, if what he feared was true.

  It was. From the ramparts he could see the Viking longship turning to run before the wind and then head towards the beach. Monks who had been fishing or working in the fields outside the enclosure were running for the gates, together with the local inhabitants. A few monks stood ready to close and bar them as soon as the last person was inside.

  Those who lived too far away from the monastery to reach the safety it offered were heading for the path over the sand to the mainland. Luckily the tide was ebbing and Eafa was confident that they would make the crossing safely. The Vikings had yet to beach their ship and they would most probably concentrate on the monastery first.

  He ran down the steps, only pausing to let Erik, his body servant, help him to don his byrnie, helmet and spurs. A stable boy came running with his horse and, mounting, he took his shield and spear from Erik before kicking the animal into a canter. His fifty men followed him out of the sea gate and, once through it, they upped the pace to a gallop as they made for the jetty in Budle Bay, the natural harbour that lay to the north of the looming bulk of Bebbanburg on the rocky outcrop above it.

  They piled aboard two of the birlinns tied up alongside and cast off. Once clear of the bay, the men shipped their oars and hoisted the sail. The wind was coming directly from the east and they hauled the sail around so that they were sailing on a broad reach as they headed across the six miles that separated them from the beach below the monastery complex. Although they were making a good four knots through the water, it seemed very slow to Eafa. At this rate it would take them an hour and a half to get there.

  Ragnar glanced across the sea towards the imposing stronghold on the horizon when he reached the top of the shallow cliff above the beach.

  ‘There are two ships heading towards us,’ he called out to Thorkel, pointing towards them.

  ‘They’re half the size of ours,’ the hersir muttered, more to himself than to Ragnar. ‘Perhaps fifty men, sixty at most. Still, I can’t afford to lose men for no purpose.’

  He looked at the tall wooden stakes that formed the palisade in front of him. Given time, his men could capture the place but time was the one thing he didn’t have.

  Egbert, the Bishop of Lindisfarne, appeared on the walkway above the gates at that moment and held up a gold cross on a pole. He was cursing the Vikings in Latin, not that they understood a word of what he was shouting, but they got the gist of it. Ragnar strung his bow and took careful aim. At a range of eighty yards it was a difficult shot but when he saw the arrow strike the prelate in the centre of his chest he knew that Odin had guided his aim.

  Egbert fell backwards off the walkway to crash onto the hard earth inside the compound. The bishop was dead before he hit the ground. A great cheer went up from the Norsemen, matched by the wail of despair uttered by the monks.

  ‘Well done, Ragnar,’ Thorkel called across to him.

  Ragnar beamed with pleasure whilst Ketil gave him a venomous look. It conveyed all the hatred he felt for the younger boy but nobody noticed it, except for Olaf. He was about to warn Ragnar when Thorkel shouted.

  ‘Back to the ship! If they’re looking for a fight we’ll give them one; we’ll kill the turds and then come back to kill the rest of the White Christians.’

  The men cheered and headed back to the drekar. Thorkel’s words had been ones of encouragement, but he had no intention of losing warriors to no good purpose.

  Eafa sighed with relief as he saw the Viking raiders head back to the beach and push their ship back into the sea. He had achieved his purpose and saw no point in trying to fight the big longship at sea. Vikings had a fearsome reputation for maritime warfare, and deservedly so. Although he had two ships, he knew that the Norsemen would outnumber his men and Northumbrians weren’t used to fighting on ships being rocked by the waves.

  Once it was afloat, the men who had pushed her off the beach swam out to the lowest part of the gunwale and were hauled aboard. The oars were pushed through the small holes that served as rowlocks and Eafa counted thirty a side. That meant sixty rowers and probably at least ten more in her crew.

  ‘Spill a little wind from the sails’ Eafa called and his ship’s boys ran to obey, relieved that their lord evidently wasn’t intending to fight.

  His two birlinns slowed by about a knot and he watched as the big Viking ship turned and her crew rowed her into the wind. He was still a good three miles away when it turned to the south-east and hoisted its sail. He could just make out the device on the faded red sail. It looked like a black raven. He glanced up at his own sail. Once it had been a bright yellow but it had now weathered to a dirty cream. Nevertheless, the black wolf’s head stood out quite clearly.

  The Viking longship would pass them well out to sea. Even if he wanted a fight, which he didn’t, Eafa didn’t think that he’d be able to intercept them before they’d be out of reach.

  ‘Farewell Raven. The next time you come raiding I will have a big longship like yours. Then we may be able to engage in a fair fight.’

  Eafa turned and headed back to Budle Bay wondering how he could build a larger ship than the birlinns. He knew it wasn’t just a matter of building bigger; the structure of the hull wouldn’t be strong enough to stop it flexing and letting water in. He supposed that it was a matter of either capturing a longship and studying its design or travelling to where they were constructed. An Anglo-Saxon would stand out, but then he thought of Erik and an idea began to take shape in his mind. However, in the event it wasn’t necessary.

  -℣-

  The Vikings had spent the night on a deserted beach several miles south of Lindisfarne. Thorkel had studied the stronghold sitting high on its impressive lump of basalt rock rising high above the sea as they sailed past it and realised how difficult it would be to attack. A banner with the black wolf’s head on a yellow background flew from the top of the watchtower, the same device as the one on the sails of the two small warships and he
wondered idly whose it was.

  He’d seen another birlinn and two knarrs moored in the bay to the north of the fortress. That told him that, whoever the local lord was, he didn’t have enough warriors at hand to man more than two ships.

  The next morning the fine weather had gone and they woke to find that they were enveloped in a thick sea mist. Only a fool would put to sea in such weather, especially as they weren’t familiar with the coast. It looked like a day of make and mend.

  The ship’s boys were kept busy removing the rust from helmets and byrnies. At least they weren’t expected to clean and sharpen weapons. Whatever his status, a Norseman looked after his own weapons, even the kings. A man depended on them in battle and they were treated with almost reverential care.

  Ragnar found broken links in one byrnie and he went in search of its owner to see if he had any spare links with which to effect a repair. Only kings, jarls and the richer bondis could afford to pay an armourer to make them a byrnie, so most had been taken from a captured or a dead enemy. In this case the brown stains around the broken links weren’t rust, they were dried blood. Whoever the byrnie now belonged to hadn’t bothered to have the damage repaired after he’d acquired it. Ragnar imagined that the owner wasn’t a man who took a pride in his appearance, unlike most Norsemen.

  Despite the scars that many bore and their fearsome appearance, hygiene and appearance were important to the Norse. Most washed at least once a week and everyone owned combs to groom themselves with. Men grew a beard as soon as they were old enough and they wore their hair long. That meant that they had to spend time each day combing out the tangles and ridding their hair of lice and fleas.

  Ragnar eventually found the owner of the byrnie. It belonged to Leif the skáld. Although he was a warrior and took his place on the rowing bench with the rest, his real purpose in life was to compose and recite sagas. None of the Scandinavian nations had much in the way of written records. They were all verbal. Whereas the lagmän recited the law, skálds narrated stories about the gods and heroic deeds.

  As a child, Ragnar had learned about Norse history, literature and mythology from the skálds. They were the main source of Norse history and culture but, as he grew older, Ragnar learned that skáldic poems could be reverent or boastful, humorous and boisterous, witty, defiant or even obscene, and they weren’t necessarily an accurate record of what had actually happened. Skalds were valued for their ability to entertain as much as for their role as the repository of history and myth.

  Poetry was regarded as a gift from Odin, the All-father, and many poems were reverent and respectful, if a little exaggerated. However, skálds could also compose mocking stories of unworthy actions and mischance, so it didn’t pay to make an enemy of a skáld. Ragnar therefore approached Leif with some trepidation.

  ‘Your byrnie needs some new links to repair it, Leif.’

  The skáld looked at him with an expressionless face for some time and Ragnar found himself getting nervous. The silence dragged on and the boy didn’t know whether to turn and leave the man or say something else. In the end he got angry.

  ‘Well, for Odin’s sake, say something Leif. Do you want me to repair it or not? If so, I’ll need some spare links and the tools to do it with.’

  To his surprise the skáld smiled.

  ‘I was interested to see how long you’d just stand there. A lesser man would have just walked away. It’s alright, I’ve got a better one. You can keep it and, when we reach somewhere with an armourer, you can get it reduced to your size. Make sure you get the mail links he takes out back though; you’ll need them to enlarge it as you grow.’

  Ragnar couldn’t believe his luck. By rights he should have had his share of the weapons and armour taken from the Picts, but all he got was a mediocre sword and a little silver. Picts didn’t seem to wear chain mail – or at least their attackers hadn’t – and the few helmets they had were too large for him. One that kept falling down over your eyes was more dangerous than not wearing one.

  He didn’t have enough money for an armourer and, in any case he was impatient. There wouldn’t be an armourer’s shop he could visit this side of Norway. So he spent the rest of the morning using some borrowed tools to remove a section of links down each side and to repair the bloodstained hole. When he tried it on it reached below his knees and the sleeves, which would have come down to cover half a man’s upper arms, came to below his elbow, but he didn’t care. At thirteen he had his own byrnie.

  Needless to say Ketil was livid. He had a poor quality helmet and a quilted cotton over-tunic but he coveted a byrnie above all things. Even Gorm was a little jealous of Ragnar’s good fortune, but Olaf was delighted for his friend. If the byrnie still looked too large on Ragnar, it would have dwarfed the other boy’s small frame. A byrnie was also heavy and it took some getting used to before you could fight properly in it.

  Like the men, Ragnar would wear his on land but he would stow it in an oiled leather bag when at sea. He might be able to swim fully clothed well enough, but the weight of the chainmail would drag even a strong man down to a watery grave.

  Just after midday a gentle breeze began to clear the mist. Soon it had strengthened enough for Thorkel to think about putting to sea but, as the last strands of vapour cleared from the tops of the tall dunes that lined the bay, he saw that the crests were lined with hundreds of armed men, some fifty of them mounted.

  -℣-

  As soon as Eafa saw that the Norse longship was heading south he knew that his intervention had only diverted their search for plunder to somewhere further down the coast. As his shire stretched as far as the River Tyne, he determined to shadow the Vikings and attack them when they next landed.

  Once back at Bebbanburg he sent out messengers to summon the fyrd from the surrounding vills and also to his thegns further down the coast, telling them to muster at Alnwic. Meanwhile he sent out scouts to shadow the drekar, keeping out of sight as much as possible.

  ‘Lord, they’ve beached their ship in a deserted cove a few miles north of where the River Aln meets the sea. My companions have stayed to keep an eye on them, but I’m sure that they will still be there at dawn. The wind had died and already wisps of fog are appearing.’

  Eafa’s plan was to attack them as the sun rose above the horizon to the east but the sea mist put paid to that idea. Even though he knew the coast between Bebbanburg and where the Aln ran into the German Ocean as well as he knew his wife’s face, fog was disorientating. When it settled over his encampment that night he decided to stay at the muster point for now and, in the morning, follow the river to its mouth before turning onto the path along the coast.

  It wasn’t much of a path and his scouts had to continually ride to and fro along the column to make sure no-one took a wrong turning. He was relying on the inevitable sounds that came from any armed camp to locate the Vikings. He wasn’t disappointed. The problem was that in the mist he couldn’t tell where the sounds were coming from. It was frustrating but they would have to halt where they were and wait for better visibility.

  At last the mist inland started to clear, but it remained over the coast. Finally the sun burned it off just before midday and the scouts left behind came in to guide them to the small cove where the longship was beached. Just as the last tendrils of mist vaporised his men reached the sand dunes overlooking the beach and took up their position. He had managed to muster one hundred and fifty members of the fyrd to supplement his permanent warband of fifty mounted warriors and, although the fyrd were inferior in terms of equipment and training, they were nevertheless quite capable of fighting effectively in basic formations such as a shield wall.

  Eafa watched as the Vikings quickly donned their byrnies and helmets and grabbed their weapons and shields. However, it wasn’t his intention to fight these raiders unless it was absolutely necessary. He knew that they were tough fighters and, although he might well annihilate them, they would take many of his own men with them.

  With Erik on one s
ide of him and his banner bearer on the other he rode down to the beach. The sand shifted under their mounts’ hooves as they descended and all three had trouble in controlling their horses. He was glad when they arrived on the gently sloping beach without suffering any loss of dignity. He walked his horse forward and stopped a hundred and fifty yards away from the Norse shield wall.

  For a moment he thought he would end up sitting there looking foolish, but then the tightly packed line of shields parted and three Vikings walked forward until they were within fifty yards of the Northumbrians.

  ‘What do you want Saxon?’

  When Erik had translated for him, Eafa nearly pointed out that he was an Angle rather than a Saxon, but he realised that to these northern barbarians it didn’t matter whether he was an Angle, a Saxon or even a Jute.

  ‘I want you to stop trying to raid my lands. Now, we can come to some sort of arrangement and you can sail back whence you came, or you can die here. Either way you will not plunder and pillage Northumbria.’

  ‘Ah, so you want to offer me gold and silver to sail away?’

  ‘No, I’m not like others who think that they can buy peace. That just encourages you to come back again next year and try to extract an even bigger bribe from me.’

  The man’s reply wasn’t what Thorkel had expected. To buy himself time to think he changed tack.

  ‘I’m puzzled. Who is the Norseman who acts as your interpreter? Did you buy him as a thrall?’

  This time Erik answered for himself.

  ‘I’m no thrall. My father was a bondi, but I was captured during the first raid on Lindisfarne nearly thirty years ago.’

  ‘I see. Where did you come from?’

  ‘To be honest I don’t remember the name, but it was somewhere up the west coast of Norway.’

  ‘Ah. We come from the southern tip. Nevertheless, do you want to join us?’