I looked at him and he grinned. ‘Aye, me too. And Gunnar, probably. In fact, if there was a man who hadn’t ploughed that field, then he lived in the next valley but one and was too lame to travel.’
I said nothing. I wanted to tell him of Freydis and her spell and how she had killed the bear with a spear while I ran … A vision, again, of that head, lazily turning, spraying fat drops of blood in an arc. Had she smiled?
When I eventually crawled to the side of it, the bear was already dead, the haft of the spear driven clear up and out the top of its skull by the impact with a tree. It had hit the slope and over-run its own feet. It was still a huge cliff of snow, frightening even when still. I saw, numbly, that the hair under its chin was soft and nearly pure white. One sprawled paw, big as my head, was shaking gently.
I sat down, trembling. Freydis’s spell had worked. Perhaps the price had been her own death. Perhaps she knew. I blubbered and there was no one reason for it. For her. For the knowledge of my own fear. For my father and Gudleif and the whole mess.
Eventually, I was shaking too much to cry. I was half-naked in the cold and had to get back to the hall. The hall and Freydis. I didn’t want to go back there at all, where her fetch might be, waiting accusingly. But I would freeze here.
The bear shifted and I scrambled away. A final kick? I had seen chickens and sheep do that with their throats cut through. I didn’t trust this bear. I remembered Freydis and my fear, took a deep breath, crossed to it and drove Bjarni’s sword into where I thought the heart would be, deep inside the mass of that white cliff.
It was a good sword and I was strong, made stronger yet through fear. It went in so smoothly I practically fell forward on the rank, wet fur; there was no great gout of blood, just a slow welling of fat drops. The sword was in nearly to the cross guard and I couldn’t get it out.
Eventually, shivering uncontrollably, I gave up and slogged back up the slope, through the door and into the ruin of the hall, wrapped myself in her cloak for the warmth and waited, sinking into the cold, where Bagnose and Steinthor found me.
It was a bad enough memory to have rattling round your thought-cage. Now, to add to all that, there was a new horror: a vision of me, like a small bear, clawing another Freydis from the inside out, charging out from between her legs in a glory of gore and challenge. I couldn’t see the face of the woman, my mother, though.
I shook my head, near to weeping, and knew it was for me more than anyone and wanted to back away from that, ashamed.
My father gripped my forearm wordlessly. Probably he thought I was mourning Freydis, or my mother. Truth to tell, I was not even sure which myself.
More alone than ever, I picked my way through the camp, where men chaffered and yacked and busied themselves, out into the trees to get bracken, aware of his eyes following me, aware that he was as much a stranger as all the others.
I wondered if he had taken his brother’s head, or if Einar had. What must it feel like, to have to kill your brother? Even just to watch him die?
Yet they were still men, these Oathsworn. Grim as whetstone, cold as a storm sea, but men for all that.
Most had wives and families – in Gotland, or further east – and went back to them now and then. Pinleg had a woman and two little ones whom he sent money back to by traders he could trust. Skapti Halftroll had more than one woman in more than one place, but he spent all his money on finery. Ketil Crow was outlawed from somewhere in Norway and had no one but the Oathsworn.
There were others, though, who were men apart. Sigtrygg was one, for he called himself Valknut and wore that rune symbol on his shield, three triangles known as the Knot of the Fallen. It meant he had bound his soul to Odin, would die at the god’s command and even the swaggerers walked soft around him.
Einar himself was a mystery, though most people had the idea he was an outlaw, too. Pinleg joked that our jarl, dark and brooding under his sullen, crow-wing hair, had been thrown out of Iceland for being too cheerful. He was the only one who dared joke about Einar.
Later, when bellies were full and the conversation had died, men took to cleaning their weapons, taking great care with the blades to gently grind out all the dark spots they could. Einar stood next to the biggest of the fires and the men gathered silently round him in a half-circle, facing the black sea as it sighed on the shingle. Behind, a wet mist crept stealthily down the mountain.
‘Tomorrow, we head inland from here,’ Einar said, his dark eyes moving from one to the other. ‘Pinleg, you will stay here with nine others and guard the ship and our belongings.’
Pinleg grunted his annoyance at that, but he knew why … in a long, fast march, he wasn’t the best choice.
He also knew, I learned later, that he would get his share of the spoils, since no one kept anything for himself. In theory. Actually, everyone stole a little: silver dropped down breeks into boot-tops, or stowed in bags under his balls or armpits. Those caught, though, suffered whatever punishment the Oathsworn decided, which certainly started by losing all their booty and almost always included pain along the way.
‘We seek what will be easy to find: the Christ temple of St Otmund,’ Einar told us. ‘It will be the only substantial stone building for miles, with outbuildings of wood, so look for that. We raid it and get out, fast. This is a well-defended kingdom and the days of good raiding here are long gone, so take only what you can carry – no slaves, no livestock, nothing heavy.
‘The only thing we must get is a … a … reliquary.’ He stumbled over the foreign word, then looked at the puzzled faces. ‘It looks like a chest, well made, well carved and decorated. That we must get.’
‘What’s in it?’ asked Ketil Crow lazily.
Einar shrugged. ‘Bones, if everything I hear about such items is true.’
‘Bones? Whose bones?’ asked Illugi Godi curiously.
‘St Otmund, almost certainly,’ answered Einar. ‘That’s what these Christ-followers do with saints. Stick their bones in a chest and worship them.’
‘Fuck,’ offered Valknut disgustedly. ‘More spell stuff. What are they cooking up in Birka?’ He made a warding sign and just about everyone followed.
‘Good question,’ growled Skapti. ‘What does Birka want with this pile of bones?’
Einar shrugged and looked darkly at them all. ‘All you need to know is that they are outfitting us for next year. Every man will get enough for a new set of clothes, top to toe, and the Fjord Elk will be fitted with new gear, too. And we get to keep what we take from raids other than what was asked for.’
Everyone fell silent, nodding at that. Skapti hoomed in his throat and growled, ‘Just show me where they are, these saints.’
Those who knew better chuckled and Valknut told him: ‘Saints are dead followers of Christ. Their chief priests vote the best dead people to be gods in their Valholl.’
‘Votes, Sig? Like in a Thing?’ scoffed Skapti. ‘No fighting for it?’
‘They don’t believe in fighting,’ Valknut said loftily. ‘They believe in dying and when they do they are called martyrs. And the ones they think are better martyrs than others become saints.’
People who knew nodded, those who were learning this shook their heads in sceptical disbelief. Skapti hoomed disgust. ‘Well, if that’s the way of it, then we shall make lots of martyrs tomorrow, with little risk.’
Einar held up one hand, his hair like black water breaking round the stone of his face. ‘Don’t be fooled. What the Christ-followers say is one thing, yet this kingdom supposedly