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  ‘The Gods help anyone she runs into out there,’ he said. ‘She’s furious.’

  Four

  Jarls Gard, Fortress of the Jarl of Orkney

  Orkney

  Gizur Kalfsson chewed his bottom lip. His hands bunched into fists, the knuckles clenched so hard they showed white through his flesh. His palms were slick with sweat. His heart pounded in his chest but he fought to remain as calm-looking as possible. As when confronting an angry dog, he knew that the worst thing to do when standing before the Jarl Thorfinn was to show any sign of fear.

  The fact was, though, he was terrified.

  He had seen Jarl Thorfinn in the crush of battle when the fury had come upon him. To see the big man wielding his axe, splitting men’s helmets and their heads beneath, loping off limbs and shattering weapons, his eyes wild with killing madness, spittle and froth flecking in his beard, inspired both awe and terror. That was not as worrying as the jarl’s current disposition, though.

  When Gizur’s lord was truly angry he did not roar. He went very quiet.

  Gizur had been serving the jarl as his champion for just over a month now but he had been a part of Thorfinn’s household for years. He knew well that the current quietness of the jarl was like the strange calm that falls on the waves of the sea before a tempest comes.

  Thorfinn Rognvaldsson, Jarl of the Orkney Islands and Lord of Vikings, better known as ‘The Hausakljúfr’, sat in his high seat at the head of his long feasting hall. By evening the hall throbbed with warmth, activity and noise. Its benches were packed with warriors and other denizens of Jarls Gard, Thorfinn’s fortress that glowered from behind its ramparts on a peninsula jutting into the northern sea out from the main island of the Orkneys. Long fires blazed and tables groaned under heaped platters of bread, meat and plenty of fish. The noise of chatter from the feasters contested with the music and poetry of the skalds who struggled to be heard from the raised dais where the jarl’s high seat sat.

  Now, in the morning, the hall was quiet as the brooding jarl himself. The benches were empty and the fire pits held nothing but dead ash. The torches were burned out, the hall was gloomy and the air was thick with the cloying smell of old smoke, cold grease and stale beer.

  The jarl sat on the dais like Odin watching over the world from his high seat of Hlidskjalf. Gizur stood on the floor of the hall looking up at him. Thorfinn was leaning forward, both arms folded on his knees, his brows knitted as he glared down at the rushes on the floor. He was a big man, still fit and powerful despite having almost fifty winters under his belt. His wolf-grey hair was combed straight and fell around his shoulders. His beard and eyebrows retained their original dark brown colour and they framed the sharp features of his narrow face. As he was about to embark on a winter sea voyage, he was swathed in furs and sealskin.

  Beside Gizur stood Kari Reffsson, a merchant. Kari had just delivered an account of his recent journey to Iceland. It was this that had provoked Thorfinn’s current mood.

  The only sound now was the spine-shivering scrape of stone on metal. Beside the jarl’s high seat stood the gaunt figure of Thorfinn’s Galdr maðr, Vakir. Vakir was tall, like the jarl, but where Thorfinn was broad-shouldered and muscle bound, his thighs like the standing stones at the ness, the Galdr maðr was thin and narrow, all bones and limbs like a birch tree in winter. His head was bald on top but a ring of lank, white hair hung down to his shoulders. His job was to carry out the holy customs – rituals and sacrifices – for the jarl but there were those around Jarls Gard who said he was also a seiðmaðr, a worker of dark magic.

  Vakir licked his lips as he drew a whetstone along the blade of a long-bladed axe. Thorfinn was preparing to sacrifice a bull to win the Gods’ favour. They were about to sail across the Northern Whale Road in the heart of winter. They would need all the help they could get.

  The merchant had managed to complete the trip, though, arriving just as the bull was being led out of the paddock. Hearing he had come from Iceland, Thorfinn had brought him into the deserted hall so he could question him, away from other prying ears.

  Finally the jarl looked up. Gizur felt a chill at the sight of the two glowering eyes that fixed on the merchant standing beside him.

  ‘So you say you saw nothing?’ Thorfinn said. His usual booming voice was closer to the sort of low growl that came from one of the huge, shaggy haired guard dogs that roamed the Jarls Gard enclosure. ‘I sent two ships full of my best men. My son, Hrolf, with them. And you say there was no sign of them? No one had seen them?’

  Gizur felt a surge of anxiety as he realised that the merchant was oblivious to the anger that boiled within the jarl.

  ‘Indeed, lord,’ Kari said. ‘The locals all said no one had come from Orkney since last summer.’

  The merchant was a Norwegian who plied his trade across the northern sea from Dublin in the west to Hedeby in the east. Like the jarl and Gizur he was dressed for winter sailing but his coat was open revealing a flashy red shirt beneath, which was typical of the sort of clothes far-travelled men tended to wear. He had just arrived in Orkney after a trip to Iceland where he had sold the islanders wood and wine and bought sealskins, walrus ivory and whale blubber to sell in Orkney and the Hebrides. Here he would buy wool and sell that on when he got back to Norway. At every stop he would make more silver. Gizur was a little jealous. It was an inglorious but steady and more secure path to wealth compared to the one he had chosen for himself. Gizur was a warrior – a hirðmaðr – one of the jarl’s chosen men. His own fate would be glory or death. Perhaps both.

  When Gizur had heard of Kari’s arrival at the harbour he knew that the jarl should see him straight away. More than enough time had passed since Thorfinn had despatched his men on their murder mission to Iceland for the voyage there, the killing itself and the voyage back. They should have returned by now.

  The jarl unfolded his arms and began running his right hand up and down the tall wooden pillar that stood on the right side of his seat. Gizur had seen him engaged in this habit many times. The wood was worn smooth from his constant caress. The pillar was studded with the heads of fourteen nails that had been driven into it at different heights. They were big, square nails, the type used to build ships. As his hand moved across them, the gold of Thorfinn’s rings rattled across the iron of the nails. The third lowest nail in the pillar had not been hammered all the way in and still half-protruded from the wood. When the jarl’s hand reached it, its downward progress stopped and he started running his hand back upward again.

  ‘There is an Irish woman in Iceland, Unn Kjartansdottir,’ Thorfinn said. ‘Did you visit her farm at all? Did you meet her?’

  Gizur could tell the jarl was struggling to make his voice sound as disinterested as possible. He frowned when he spotted a smirk flash across the face of the merchant.

  ‘I saw where she used to live,’ Kari replied. ‘Her farm is just a burned-out shell. No one lives there now.’

  Thorfinn and Gizur exchanged glances.

  ‘The locals told me there was a fire,’ Kari went on. ‘A terrible accident. The woman died in the blaze.’

  ‘They said that, did they?’ The jarl said. ‘And they did not mention the ships of men I sent there? They did not mention my son, Hrolf?’

  Kari shook his head. The strange smile flickered across the merchant’s face again. This time Gizur was not the only one to notice it. Thorfinn rose from his seat. Gizur’s stomach lurched.

  ‘You seem to find something amusing?’ the jarl said.

  Kari’s broke into a smile. ‘The locals told me about your other son. The bastard one, that is. They found it funny that he had lived there all that time without anyone knowing he was the son of the mighty Thorfinn Hausakljúfr.’

  The jarl’s eyebrows shot upwards. The Galdr-man stopped sharpening the axe blade.

  ‘Oh they did, did they? Had a good laugh about it, did they?’ Thorfinn said.

  ‘No, not at all. Don’t get me wrong, lord,’ the Norwegian merchant
said, raising both arms in a placatory gesture. ‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of. In my view having a few by-blows makes a man more a man. I’ve a couple of bastards in different ports myself.’

  ‘Really?’ the jarl said. ‘And what does your wife make of that?’

  ‘Wife?’ the merchant spread his arms and chuckled. ‘Which one, lord? Besides; if any of them tried to tell me what to do I’d put them back into slavery where I bought them from in the first place.’

  ‘Yes.’ Thorfinn’s smile became fixed and icy. ‘Unlike my wife, who is niece of the King of the Scots. An argument in your house will not start an actual war. Vakir?’

  The jarl held out his hand, open palm upward. As if reading his thoughts, the thin seiðmaðr passed Thorfinn the sharpened axe.

  ‘Do you know what these nails are for, Kari?’ Holding the axe shaft in one hand, Thorfinn rattled the gold rings on his other along the iron heads once more.

  ‘Of course, lord,’ the merchant nodded. It was a custom of all great men. ‘They’re God Nails. Each one represents an oath you’ve sworn, witnessed by the Gods.’

  ‘By the Gods…’ Thorfinn said. ‘When I swear an oath, a nail is hammered halfway into the wood and Vakir here consecrates it in the name of one of the Gods. When the oath is fulfilled, the nail is hammered all the way in. Each one of these nails represents an enemy overcome, a land conquered, a man killed, a promise to a God delivered. You see this one?’

  The jarl’s fore finger came to rest on the one nail near the bottom of the pillar that remained halfway out of the wood.

  ‘This is the only one that I’ve never been able to hammer in,’ Thorfinn went on. ‘You know what it represents?’

  Kari shook his head. He looked at Gizur, confused.

  ‘This was when I swore I would kill Unn Kjartansdottir,’ the jarl said. ‘All those years ago. She was my bed-slave. I treated her well. She ran away. Pregnant with my bastard son. Now you tell me she’s dead.’

  ‘So you can hammer that one in at last then, lord?’ Kari looked confused.

  Gizur grimaced.

  ‘I swore I would kill her!’ Thorfinn shouted. The sudden change in his demeanour made both Kari and Gizur flinch. ‘You say she died in an accident! A rather convenient accident. How can I take credit for that? What will my enemies say about this? Those sheep-fucking Icelanders are already laughing at me. As for King Eirik Bloody Axe, what on earth will he say when he hears of this?’

  Cowed by the jarl’s anger, the merchant retreated into a half crouch, both arms raised as if the words had been a physical attack. He made a little whine.

  ‘Don’t blame me, lord,’ he said in a whimper. ‘I’m just the messenger.’

  Thorfinn’s right eyebrow shot up almost to his forehead.

  ‘Yes, you are, aren’t you?’ the jarl said.

  He took two quick steps to the edge of the dais then jumped down to the floor of the hall. Landing on both feet right before the merchant, Thorfinn swung the sacrificial axe two handed from behind his head. The jarl roared, the merchant screamed and the axe blade made the sound of a flying swan’s wings as it cleaved the air. The blade hit Kari on his forehead, above the bridge of his nose. It smashed through flesh, bone and brain, splitting the merchant’s head into two neat halves right down the middle. The blade did not halt until it struck his spine. The merchant’s terrified screech switched to a choked gargle as he died. His crouching body slumped to its knees, held up by the axe still embedded in his head.

  Thorfinn looked down at his handiwork for a moment, then grunted. A slight smile crossed his lips. He placed a foot on the dead merchant’s shoulder and wrenched the axe out of his head. The corpse toppled sideways onto the floor. One of Kari’s eyeballs fell out from the horrific wound while his tongue, freed from the shattered mouth, lolled around like a large purple worm. Gizur made a face and stepped away to avoid a torrent of blood that erupted from the merchant’s ruined head.

  The jarl’s nickname, Hausakljúfr – The Skull Cleaver – was indeed an apt one.

  Thorfinn threw his head back and looked up at the darkness that swathed the rafters of the roof above.

  ‘Oh Hrolf,’ he said with a heavy sigh. ‘You stupid, stupid bastard. You let Einar get the better of you.’

  He switched his attention to Gizur. Gizur felt a squirt of panic in his bowels as the glowering eyes levelled on him.

  ‘Gizur you’ve done well standing in for Bjorn as my champion since I sent him to Iceland with Hrolf,’ Thorfinn said. ‘I think I can now safely assume that Bjorn is dead. So it’s also time we made your position permanent.’

  Gizur just nodded. His throat felt too tight for him to speak. Despite his fear he felt a surge of triumph in his heart. The jarl was making him his right-hand man. Bjorn had been a fool. An old hard man living off a reputation of deeds done in the past. He would not make the same mistake.

  The jarl climbed back onto the dais.

  ‘I must warn you that this a dangerous time for you to come on board,’ he said.

  ‘I won’t let you down, lord,’ Gizur blurted out, managing to unfreeze his throat at last.

  ‘My best warriors sailed to Iceland to kill Unn,’ the jarl said. ‘You know that. My champion and my son Hrolf. They’re now all dead and my power is diminished. I’m sure those bastard Icelanders had something to do with it. I’m also dead sure Ulrich and his Úlfhéðnar had a hand in it too. And my other son, the bastard Einar.’

  Gizur swallowed. ‘Sire, how can you be sure? They should have returned by now, yes. But the seas are rough this time of year…’

  He stopped talking as the jarl fixed him with another intense glare.

  ‘Bjorn was strong as a bear and pitiless as a wolf,’ Thorfinn said. ‘But he was stupid as an ox. I don’t need another stupid champion, Gizur.’

  ‘No, lord. I won’t be.’

  ‘They went to Iceland. Someone killed them all there. The Icelanders are lying.’ The jarl said. ‘It’s obvious what has happened.’

  Thorfinn ran his hand down the pillar of his high seat, as if he were caressing the naked flesh of a slave girl. When his fingers touched the protruding nail he stopped, letting them rest there for a moment. The jarl closed his eyes.

  ‘I now add this to my previous oath to kill Unn. I swear an additional oath by Odin, Lord of the dead,’ Thorfinn said in a loud voice, the one he used when making pronouncements to crowds of folk gathered in the hall or at assemblies. The hall was empty but Thorfinn meant for the Gods in Asgard to hear his words. ‘By Vidar, God of Vengence. By the Lord, Freyr, and Tyr, God of battles. I, Thorfinn Rognvaldsson will have revenge for the killing of my son, Hrolf. My bastard son, Einar and his Wolf Coat friends will all pay for what they have done. Gods be my witness and aid me in this task.’

  Five

  Jorvik

  ‘Did someone not like your poetry, lad?’ Ayvind the Skald said, gesturing at Einar’s bruised cheek, his half-closed right eye and the crusted blood that lined the cut on his head.

  It was the next day and they both stood at the fortified gate of Kings Gard, the building that had served as residence to Jorvik’s ruler ever since the world was young. Einar had made his way through the streets along the network of gatr, the wooden walkways that criss-crossed the city, from Gorm’s inn to Kings Gard. Even in the early morning, and despite having been there for several months now, Einar still found the noise and stench of the city at times overpowering. The air was thick with smoke from fires, the smell of beer malting and the ever-present reek of piss. Merchants shouted to attract customers to the wares they laid out in front of their wooden houses, children ran to and fro amid the crowds thronging the walkways, some playing games of tag and some using their nimble fingers to snatch the purses of unwary passers-by.

  Einar never ceased to be amazed at the sheer number of people around him in the city. He had been told that there were five thousand people crammed inside Jorvik’s ancient walls. It seemed an enormous number but he could well belie
ve it, and the city was still growing. The booming trade of Jorvik’s markets attracted more and more people every day, coming to make their fortunes. New streets, each one built to the same, regular layout, were being thrown up as the city expanded.

  As usual when Einar came for his lessons, Ayvind had waited for him at the gate of Kings Gard. Without the Skald of Hakon to vouch for him there was no way Einar would be able to get past the six burly warriors in full battle dress and weapons who guarded the gate. It was only six years since Aethelstan of Wessex had driven the last Norse King of Jorvik out. The citizens of Jorvik were mostly Norse or of mixed descent and the city still felt more occupied than liberated.

  ‘There was a fight in the inn,’ Einar said as he followed the skald into the courtyard.

  Despite having been there many times now, Einar was still impressed by the sight of Kings Gard. Ayvind had explained to him that it had been built by folk called Romans, many centuries before. Unlike the majority of the buildings in Jorvik which were long, narrow, one storied and made from wood and thatch, Kings Gard was built of stone. It had an upper story that towered above the city, the only other building that came close to it in height were the bell towers that rose from the Christians’ temples. The gate opened into a central courtyard that had stables in one corner and many doors that led into the building. Warriors and Christian clerics hurried around the walkway that made its way around the upper storey.

  Einar mused that those clerics represented the biggest difference between the Norse and the Aenglish, as the Saxons were now calling themselves. It was not just a difference in Gods. The courts and councils of the Aenglish kings were infested with clerics who always seemed to be writing things down in their strange runes on endless parchments. Everything was recorded and through that, organised and controlled. Aethelstan of Wessex was now the strongest king in Britain. Perhaps this organisation was how the Aenglish had managed to push Einar’s own people, the Norse, back to the frontiers of the land. Organisation held clear value, then. But organisation came at a price. To Einar’s Norse sensibilities, the cost was freedom.