King Hereafter Page 12

  There was no impatience in his voice, or even in his face, that Sulien could see. Landing on the jetty at Duncansby, sending up to the steading to tell Earl Thorfinn that Sulien of Brittany and Llanbadarn was here, he had wondered whether his tutors were right: whether his unshakable interest in people and affairs was a sign of an irresponsible nature, when all his soul should be committed to the vocation for which he was training.

  Some of their anxiety, at least, was groundless. Wealth and power for their own sake held no attractions for him. He was young enough to despise those bishops who turned from the world of the spirit to fill an office of state or rule a province fit for an earldom. Saving souls was his concern, he told himself. So the chance encounter at Chester with this odd Earl of Orkney had caught his imagination.

  He had seen men of power in Brittany who, by lifting a finger, could cause a town to be sacked or a countryside wasted. All that also was within the compass of this grim, self-contained Earl from the north, only two years older than himself, and making his way, as was Sulien, in a culture not wholly his own. Then behind the cool hostility he had sensed something else, and had ventured to appeal to it; and had been answered.

  He might have thought himself mistaken, in the five years that followed, had not the Lady of Mercia brought his name up quite recently and, listening, agreed with him. ‘Since he freed Alfgar, if for his own ends, you may feel free to canonise him, my dear Sulien. But no. I see you are serious. There is a person there, though a little astray so far: on that I agree. Also, there is wit. You found it.’

  ‘I thought so,’ said Sulien. He paused. ‘The men about him don’t seem of much use.’

  ‘It does seem a pity,’ had agreed the Lady Godiva. ‘And, of course, intrigue against him everywhere. I heard only the other day from a shipman of some meeting to take place in Brechin. What about, I don’t know, but the monks had discussed it abroad because the lord Abbot Crinan was coming. They needed cushions.’

  Sulien had said, ‘I hope you sold them some filled from your nettlebeds. I’m leaving soon to study in Ireland.’

  ‘I know,’ had said the Lady Godiva; and had smiled.

  So that, because of the smile as much as his own inclinations, he had found himself stranded in Brechin in the course of a singularly erratic voyage to Ireland; and, having heard what he had heard, had taken the logical step and brought his tidings here.

  Of course, the Earl had no idea he was coming; had never heard of him in the intervening five years, unless Alfgar had gossiped. Might have no time for churchmen barely out of their teens who spoke Breton-Gaelic. Might, with justice, distrust anyone who broke a journey to Ireland by way of Brechin for motives which were not entirely evident.

  In the event, it had been the same tall, black sparrow-hawk of a youth who had moved out of the steading at Duncansby and stood at a great distance, looking; and then had covered the slope to the jetty in a matter of seconds to stand before him, considering.

  He must have looked apprehensive. ‘It’s all right,’ said the Earl Thorfinn. ‘We only eat Christians in Lent.’

  He could feel the colour rush back to his face. Sulien said, ‘Don’t be deceived by the skirts: I got converted in Anglesey last week. I’m saved for the High, the Equally High, and the Third.’

  ‘Then come in,’ said the Earl. ‘What are we waiting for? There’s a Valkyrie longing to meet you. Or at least we can manage a Norn.’

  ‘I know. Fridgerd Gamli’s daughter,’ Sulien said rashly, and hurried on without waiting. ‘I want to talk to you. I have news, which I will give you, but I must make a condition.’

  Then, of course, the Earl complained, walking him back to the house. But when they were in private and the condition had been outlined and met, the Earl did not utter a word, for Sulien told him all he had learned at Brechin from the voices floating out of the monks’ little window.

  What had taken him to Brechin in the first place, and what impelled him to betray Gillacomghain, Earl Thorfinn did not ask, either then or during all the weeks of planning that followed, through which Sulien stayed under his roof.

  Why he stayed, he was not himself sure, although the ostensible reason was easy to find. He had made a condition, and the Earl no doubt thought that he would remain to see it carried out. There was a fascination, too, about watching a group of capable men preparing for war. He himself came from a family of warriors: anyone who had land these days could hardly, by definition, be anything else. He listened in on the councils, and had opinions to give when he was asked. He wrote to Llanbadarn, and to Ireland, to say that he would not be coming just yet, and someone from a little monastery in Deerness enclosed the note and sent it off in the next suitable ship, with a reassuring cross on the seal.

  He took the chance also to mention to Thorkel the foster-father, of the appraising glances, that no doubt the Lord, Who had directed his footsteps to Caithness, would direct them away again in His own good time. Which baffled the good Thorkel, he felt, as it ought to.

  Now the moment for battle had come, and he sat with Earl Thorfinn and his captains in the cool dark of the old hall at Thurso, awaiting the signal that would scatter them all. He was not supposed to fight, because of his calling. In spite of this, he had planned for some time to deceive the rest when the time came for him to follow the old and the children to safety. He had planned to hide himself aboard one of the warships and emerge into view when at sea.

  Whether the Earl was a mind-reader he was unaware. But certainly something the Earl chose to say brought home the truth that in war the amateur who must be protected was a burden known to bring about the deaths of more first-class men than might the enemy. It had caused Sulien to change his intention.

  He was thinking of it as the shouting began outside, telling that the message had come and it was time for the five vessels to leave for their appointment. He said to Earl Thorfinn, ‘Well: here or hereafter, then,’ and smiled, to make it casual; while Thorfinn’s face produced the abbreviated expression he was coming to recognise as a contented, valedictory insult.

  He waited until the ships had all set out, the square sails arched into the red evening sun, and then found his horse and rode off, away from the battle that was not his, to be shown for the first time, had he known it, a glimpse of the much longer battle that was.

  TEN

  T WAS NEVER a handicap to the skald Arnór to write verses about a battle he hadn’t been in.

  He protested mildly when, having crossed the Pictish Firth in one of Thorfinn’s five ships at no very great speed, he was dumped on the jetty at Sandwick; but only mildly, for the sails of Gillacomghain’s friends were close behind, bright as a fresh twig of gorse on the cold, running waves.

  They had chosen to make for Sandwick, Thorfinn said, so that it would appear that they were running for help to Thorkel Fóstri and whatever men he could muster. He would prefer it not to be known that Thorkel and the whole strength of Orkney were already on the mainland with the Caithness men, waiting to give Gillacomghain’s army, in due course, the welcome it deserved.

  Arnór watched the skiff go back to Thorfinn’s ship with mixed feelings. If this battle went badly—and it was five ships against eleven—he would have to find a new master. He was only here anyway because this was where his foster-mother said he would make his reputation. So far in his life, his foster-mother had been generally right, but the gifts of wise-women do not last for ever, and he did not want to look a fool at Hitarnes because she had got some prediction confused. He just wanted to be more famous than his father Thord son of Kolbein would ever be, now that he thought more of his cows than his verses.

  To the ships from Berwick, the state of affairs was quite clear: either some rumour had caught Thorfinn’s ear in Caithness and he had made up his mind to escape, or he and his ships were merely crossing to visit his earldom in Orkney and had caught sight of the other fleet rounding the headland. He would not, perhaps, recognise the Northumbrian banners—or perhaps he would: he ha
d been in York, they said, in his days with King Canute. But in any case a strange fleet sailing north in such numbers was not likely to be a friendly one, especially one packed with men as this was. Thorfinn could choose—to run for the shore and risk being overwhelmed and his five ships burned where they lay, before help could come. Or he could fight at sea, with the small chance that one ship or two might cut free and run in the confusion. The crewmen on the Berwick ships had been warned to watch out for that.

  It surprised them, as they got closer, to see how long and how low-built the Caithness boats were, taking the sea almost to the gunwales. Then the leading ship turned to the right, having dropped her passenger, and the sun struck red on the gold of her sternpost and lit the raven banner flown from her mast. Carl Thorbrandsson said to his shipmaster, ‘She’s going north-east round the coast. If we catch them before they round the point, they’ll have to stand with the wind facing them and the sun in their eyes. Can we do it?’

  ‘Unless they dump their cargo,’ the shipmaster said. He had been through Orkney waters before, as most of them had for their trading; and there were drawings. He knew better, for example, than to cut straight across to Sandwick and intercept the Caithness men there. There were skerries opposite Sandwick, and more you couldn’t see, under the water. He said, ‘He’s a young one, isn’t he? You’d think he would have better advice than that.’ They were overhauling the five ships very fast, with the wind behind them and the ropes taut and the men coming into battle-fever, with the noise rising, and the clashing of shield to shield, and snatches of chanting, bellowed from ship to ship, and laughter and the glinting of shaken spears and white teeth under the flash of the helms.

  Ahead, the five ships turned, like haddock perceiving the net, and fled out to sea, the course of a madman. They held it for five minutes, during which the eleven Berwick vessels drove like harrows over the water. Then the Caithness ships stopped.

  They stopped because, as if pulled by one hand, the sails of all five collapsed, leaving five rocking poles. At the same moment, like the limbs of an insect, thirty oars sprang from the near side of each ship and pulled her round to face the sun and the oncoming fleet from Northumbria.

  For a moment, the five ships remained there, idling on the brisk waves, with the blinding sun lighting their prows as the southern fleet grew closer and closer. Close enough to see the men who rose to their feet, score upon score of them, in the five Caithness ships, with their spears held high and their axe-blades laid on their shoulders, with a ragged continuing yodel of derision that bounced off the waves. Close enough to see, briefly, the gold helm and red shield of the man they were fighting against, a tall, brooding predator on the bow. Close enough to see the raven banner above the man’s head falter and flap and then, changing direction, begin to blow cleanly towards them.

  The Northumbrians were good seamen, and quick. Almost before the wind reached them, the orders had gone singing out, and the oarsmen got to their chests while the sails came rattling down, flapping and swirling about them. The Caithness boats stood where they were, oars gently moving, and waited while the eleven ships of the enemy settled down to the long, hard pull against the new wind, across the space that separated them from their adversary.

  Carl Thorbrandsson said, ‘He knew the wind would veer at sunset. And by the time we reach him, the sun will be down. Who is this man Thorfinn?’

  ‘A man King Canute wouldn’t mind seeing out of the way, my lord,’ said the shipmaster. ‘If you remember.’

  He could still make a man shrink if he wanted to. ‘If I die,’ said Carl Thorbrandsson, ‘the ship goes to my sister’s son. It is worth remembering.’

  Then the arrows began to fall, shining seeds of a battle-crop, carried thick and fruitful on the enemy wind; while theirs hung spattered and kicking against the cold, moving curtain of air.

  The Berwick fleet were well trained. They rowed forward against the wind and the arrows in the pink after-light of the sunset, stringing out, as they had planned, to encircle and smother the enemy. Only the enemy came at them, oars driving like whippets, and clear and distinct there were faces bearded and clean-shaven and moustached under the smooth helmet-cones, and words and syllables among all the shouting, and a stink of sweat on the wind that brought the hair standing raw on the spine. Then, like lampreys, the Caithness longships were there amongst them, their oars vanished as swiftly as they had appeared, and instead the crippling steel claws of the grappling-irons came shooting aboard and held fast to the timbers and tightened, until one by one every Thurso vessel was locked hard to another and the men were boarding, under the stubbed, whickering flight of their throwing-spears. Once aboard, the axes came out.

  It may have been five ships against eleven. It was in fact nearly five hundred men against very few more. Five hundred men who knew to a moment how long the after-light was going to last, and when it would no longer be possible to tell friend from enemy in the well of a slim, rocking longship. Five hundred men who knew the tricks of the wind and the swirl and push of the current that very soon would take the locked mesh of ships and drive it straight for the shore.

  The first to go was the Northumbrian vessel that had taken the brunt of the landing until, swept along its whole length by the boarders, the crewmen who were left had saved themselves by overrunning the ship next their own.

  Now, ill-trimmed by the dead on her gunwales and bearing only her cargo of vanquished, she ran released into the grip of the wind, and the tide trapped and spun her across to the swerve of the current. The next ship rocked, and those who looked over their shoulders were dead men, and those who did not fell embracing the blades they were parrying. The sea washed white up the strakes, first on one side and then on the other, and slipped down again, frothing pink as the sunset; and helmets rolled in the water like quicksilver, until in time they filled and tilted and sank.

  On the flagship, Carl Thorbrandsson had the pick of the men and in himself the best brain in the fleet. Under his rule, the first ship that attacked them was thrown off, ramming the sea; the grappling-irons slashed free; the darts and throwing-spears streaming after and landing in a chorus of loud, hollow voices and voices that were thick and timbreless.

  A score of her crew were left stranded behind on the flagship. They made no play with their shields, or attempt to bargain for mercy, but, calling to one another, each leaped to a man he had marked and, twisting, hacking, and jabbing, accounted for twice their number before the last man was flung overboard.

  Another Berwick ship swayed past, empty. Five at least had been successfully boarded: on three, so far as could be seen, the enemy had been repelled, as on his own, and their bodies bundled into the sea. Carl Thorbrandsson turned to leap to his stance on the stern-deck and so had the first view of the enemy flagship, under oars once again, moving in from her kill and making straight for his own.

  There was time to have the warning blown, and then the louvred flanks cracked together and, splitting wood into wood, held the two vessels side by side as one ship.

  The first pack of men who thudded over the side contained, in its midst, a fellow who held aloft in both arms the raven banner of Orkney. Then came the second wave, and the third, and the shouting altered as the thronged ship fought for its life and the wind brought slaps of blood and snatches of cut hair and the bottom-boards became spiked and pillowed with weapons and bodies. Within his own circle of housecarls, the Northumbrian commander fought as well as any, for he was a man used to battle, while searching again and again for the golden helmet of the earl he had been paid to defeat. He said aloud, breathlessly, to the shipmaster, ‘If Thorfinn is dead, I will have the retreat blown.’

  ‘I should blow it anyway,’ said the shipmaster. Except that the shipmaster had exchanged his sharp voice for a rich one of abnormal depths, emanating from a black, crane-like young man in a gold helmet, with a sword at the end of each arm and his shoulder-joints working like a plough-ox’s. Thorfinn said, ‘You’re going to be left. Your
men are running on to the next ship.’

  It was true. He could see, as his war-band and the Earl’s fought and clattered around him, that the stern of the ship was already clear except for the dead and the dying, and that the men of both sides, in an unsteady, struggling mass, were closing up to the bucketing prow, where another of his ships dodged and wallowed in the throes of the same prostitution. Thorfinn said, ‘Blow the retreat. I have no quarrel with you.’

  Carl Thorbrandsson said, ‘Tell your men to stand back. We can settle this matter between us.’ An axe came towards him, and he knocked the haft to one side, seeing Thorfinn duck on his own account and then slash, each foot taking the weight as the ship rocked. A man started to screech, both palms open.

  Thorfinn said, ‘It is settled. I’ve won.’

  He looked surprised, and even impatient. Carl considered a worthy reply, Not until you’ve killed me, came to his mind. But that was Gillacomghain’s privilege, not his. He wondered what had happened to Gillacomghain.

  The young man opposite shoved a thumb below the rim of his helmet and, pushing it up from his eyes, said, ‘Don’t worry about crossing to help Gillacomghain. If he got to the north coast at all, every other man of battle-age in both Caithness and Orkney is lying there waiting for him. Tell my lord Crinan when you go south. And anyone else who might be interested.’

  The ship was empty but for the men standing round himself, silent now, and Thorfinn’s band, who had dropped back also. Carl Thorbrandsson said, ‘A Northumbrian always knows—not when he is beaten, but when to take the sensible course. No doubt we shall meet again.’ His trumpeter, responding to his upraised hand, was already blowing the retreat. Amid the confusion ahead, faces turned. He hesitated.

  Thorfinn said, ‘I think, by right of conquest, this vessel is probably mine. The longship ahead has not yet disengaged, if you want to join her.’

  Carl Thorbrandsson made a kind of a bow and, guarded by his men, made what dignified progress he could down the empty boat, and up to the prow, and over to the next boat that belonged to him. Very soon after that, scrambling and fighting still, the men of both sides resorted to their own ships, and the vessels began slowly to part, the oars thrusting out in threes and fours until finally every ship still remaining was under way.