Forged in Blood Read online

  ‘Hurley-hunt,’ says he, ‘is a true sport.’

  ‘What was the final score?’ I ask. ‘With so many sleetar-men running all at once from both ends, there is little chance of keeping an eye on the action — never mind the goals.’

  Deasún replies sheepishly. ‘None of us is bothered to keep a tally of sleetar-balls over the targets. Didn’t I explain, Thralson? The sport is all about how hurly-players battle on the day, about how they fight on the field of play — and not the count of a pebble or two over the poles.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be saying that, Deasún,’ says Baldr, ‘if your shore-siders had won the game.’

  ‘Nor,’ I add, ‘if you had found someone to take a wager on the outcome.’

  *

  For the moment, hurly is forgotten. All eyes have turned to the river. Two sea-serpent heads of long-ships have rounded the point, their hulls slipping sleekly over the water like monsters’ tails, and winged aloft by their sails. Carried by the tide surging up-stream from Criadain strand, the long-ships have entered the neck of the estuary, a rough passage of water between bluffs of wooded land on three banks. Here two rivers, and two river-winds, come together. The dark waters of an-Bharu meet the clearer waters from an-Shuir. The flow of both rivers churns into the fiord on its way to the sea.

  Twice a day from the estuary, the sea floods in against the rivers. It dallies mid-tide at the neck before flushing into the rivers up-stream. The fiord surges from low tide to a depth of ten ells. Hakon has seen the water spring on a moon-tide to as much as twelve ells.

  The long-ships come to a standstill at the neck, two tall-masted shapes indistinct in drizzle and falling light. They drift beyond the point, while their sails are trimmed to face the wind. Everyone standing on the jetties, or jostling below on the wherries, everyone gathered here — hurley-man or ship’s lubber — knows that four more long-ships, as yet out of sight, are waiting to ‘turn the bluffs’. Word of how many ships are coming has spread from the fort. If Ingvar and Jötunn have it right, six crews on board the visitors’ ships amount to nigh three hundred men. With Erse-men on the jetties — hurly-players and kinsmen summoned by Deasún — and Ostmen of all trades on armed guard at the fort, Lord Lodin has assembled two thousand men to welcome Glun Iron-knee and his three hundred warriors from Linn-dubh.

  *

  Whatever the ship — be it sluggish wherry, short-hulled carrier or sleek harrier-ship — all crews, when they reach the point, must haul canvas, changing from steer-board to larboard tack before they beat into a buffeting river-wind on an-Shuir, and are carried up-stream by the tide.

  The helmsman on the strangers’ lead ship looks unsure of tide and wind. He is testing the waters — cautiously broaching the river. His track through the choppy neck of the fiord will leave a wake for the second ship, and guide the fleet into the best approach to haven.

  ‘He is making a meal of it,’ says Hakon beside me. Skip jangles the sword at his hip — the first time I have seen him wear it — and shakes his head in contempt. ‘Calls himself a helmsman? Why so cautious, man? Tilt and run! Don’t take all day about it!’

  *

  The serpent-head of the first ship glides into the channel on the near side of Inis-cáera about fifteen ship-lengths downstream from us at the jetties. Behind the red serpent’s head the mast is bare of sail. The ship is being rowed gently to shore, oar-blades barely touching the surface of the swollen river. The yard has been dropped from the mast-head. It rests lengthwise amidships, with canvas tied shipshape and stowed on top. The ship has made way under oars since turning the bluffs.

  At the serpent prow sits Glun Amlavson, bare-headed, squint-eyed, and heavily bearded. Only his head is in view. The rest of him, including the iron knee, is hidden behind the tapered neck of the prow. I have seen Amlavson before, though only once at close quarters — in the royal hall at Linn-dubh, when his father called a counsel of war against the men of Osri — but it is from the man’s eyes that I am able to recognise him, eyes strangely blank, staring out from the black jowls.

  From stern of the long-ship a voice gives the order. ‘Oarsmen, draw in! Stow the oars!’

  Oars are sharply raised and stowed amidships. The ship drifts to shore. The helmsman, who gave the call, may be unfamiliar with river-wind and current, but he knows his craft. The hull beaches swiftly with a slap of water against the bows and a long, churning scrape of keel on the gravel.

  *

  Most the long-ship’s crew are left behind on the beach to mind the vessel. Amlavson and his helmsman lead a small group of warriors up the shore. Every man in the advance party has battle-axe in belt, and carries, in a leather sheath at the hip, a short blade for use in close combat — a stubby pommel-knife much favoured by harriers. The dozen or so men with Glun are not marching in battle order. They stroll, but stroll as warriors do with a swagger and a roll of the shoulders.

  Glun Amlavson walks with wide strides, and yet languidly, his iron-clad leg dragging a little in the sand. He glances up at the fort. As a courtesy from the host, a torch-man has been sent out in the dusk to light Glun’s path to the gates. At times, Amlavson casts an eye on the crowds on the move to his right, converging on him from the jetties. The hurley-men shoulder their camáns, walking unhurriedly over the river gravel, as if merely anxious for a closer view of the strangers, but making clear their intent to shepherd the visitors all the way to the fort. Deasún has set himself at their head.

  Amlavson ignores a nod of welcome from Deasún and chats nonchalantly to the tall, grey-bearded helmsman, who walks at his side. The warriors from the ship follow their limping royal leader up the beach in twos and threes, taking little notice of the encircling Erse-men. They yawn and stretch their arms as if they have had a gruelling stint on the rowing-benches or have spent the day drinking grog.

  ‘They make a big thing of looking casual,’ mutters Hakon. ‘What do you say, Thralson?’

  Fjak mutters before I get a word in. ‘If you ask me, Skip, I’d say they are shitting in their breeches at the sight of these fecking Erse-men.’

  Again I try to speak, but Baldr interjects. ‘Look, Skip! The tall man, who gave orders from the helm — can’t you see who it is?’

  Hakon peers into the dusk.

  The torch-bearer, who came down from the fort to light the path for Amlavson, steps to one side with a show of deference and makes a stiff bow — he is Bergthor, the old warrior who serves in Lodin’s bothy. The flame from Bergthor’s torch lights up the faces of Amlavson and the helmsman.

  ‘Hell’s teeth!’ Hakon’s voice shakes in anger. ‘By Thor and by Jesus — the helmsman — it’s that devil Raffson!’

  FOURTH PART

  Chapter 24

  We brought the horses from Vaes-fiord to Kildobhan by shallow coastal waters. We could have had better wind at our backs out at sea, and made faster passage too, but a voyage hugging the coast has kept the horses stable on board and free from distemper. To take them off on Slaidh beach, our new ramp on the Meuris — designed in sections by Thrandt — will be pivoted over the beam to provide a solid platform from ship to shore. Vermund and Stein will assemble the ramp under their father’s watchful eye. It has treads on the boards so that horses clambering on and off will find a safe grip under hoof. Once the horses are ashore, Thrandt’s timber platform will be split again into separate parts and stowed back in the hold.

  *

  The black stallion comes off ship first. He is a stocky breed from the mountains above Vaes-fiord. Hrut Thrandtson and Baldr lead him from the beach with firm hands on the muzzle-ropes. They will take him to the monks’ compound, splashing uphill through the shallow beck. Hakon has insisted that they go the long way round by the little stream — a gentle, lazy climb for a horse. Skip wants the stallion to settle, and sniff his new surroundings, before Father Abban has a look at him. As the old saying goes: ‘The more settled the horse, the higher the price.’ The shady stream is overhung with spring catkins, its sluggish waters clogge
d yellow with fallen blossoms. Catkins stick to the men’s boots and cling like Vali’s day garlands to the black fetlocks of the stallion.

  Down on the shore, we wait for Baldr and Hrut to take the stallion into a copse of willows above the stream. Once the stallion is out of sight, we see to the mares, easing them down the ramp from the ship. The gelding is last off: he has had the longest to wait, and he bolts as soon as he touches land. No one knows why. During the voyage at sea there was no rough swell, nothing to speak of, nothing that might have upset him. Apart from a blustery stretch east of Carnsore point when all the horses went a bit fidgety, he had looked placid all the way from Vaes-fiord.

  The gelding has gone up a sandy dune above the beach. He stands there, solitary, his shaggy hindquarters set firmly against the sea, casting rueful glances at the crew. Now and then, with a mistrustful twist of the neck, he turns a fearful eye on the beached ship that brought him here.

  Halp screws up his face, while we stow sail to yard on the Meuris. ‘That damned gelding — what the hell got into him?’

  ‘No accounting for a horse’s nature,’ says Dantzk.

  Thrandt is annoyed. ‘Strange, says he, ‘when we led him over the ramp, he was timid as a mouse.’

  Fjak puts on a sour face. ‘Let the bugger cool his heels!’ Our feckless ship-mate was made to look a fool, when the gelding made off — he was knocked over, face-down in the shingle. ‘That tall sea-grass on the dunes is too coarse for him to graze on,’ adds Fjak. ‘You will see. The runaway will be down before dark, tail between his legs, begging for water and fodder.’

  ‘He had better be,’ says Hakon. ‘Or you and Halp will have to fetch him down.’

  Skip is in good humour. He does a brisk hand gesture for Kru’s benefit to pass on an order from the beach. His gesture means ‘lengthen the mooring-ropes’. Nowadays the ship’s orders from Hakon are instantly understood in signs, not only by our deaf-mute shipmate, but also by the crew at large, since we find ourselves watching too — if only for the fun of it.

  *

  The brood mares are lively after the sea journey from Vaes-fiord. But, unlike the runaway gelding, they are not tempted to stray far from ship. They are coursing at will on Slaidh beach along a narrow strip above the tide, which is in at the full. With their hooves sunk in churning shingle at the edge of the waves, the mares gambol girth-deep in rippling foam. They step in a dancing gait, spraying grainy seawater over their shaggy dun bodies. The excitement of seeing three itchy horses muzzle each other, sniffing nose to tail and mounting playfully in sport is too much for Brother Lorcan. He hitches up his brown robes and runs to fetch Father Abban from the monastery.

  *

  The ‘horse-ship’ for King Orm, built by Thrandt and his family at Ekvith, was completed before Vali’s day — or by Easter day, as they say here on the Erse calendar — and delivered as promised to Vaes-fiord. Thrandt skippered the new ship, which was later to be named the Layrvaan, on its maiden journey by sea. He needed to be satisfied that it handled to his exacting standards. He had his sons on board with him and, to make up the crew, he took on three jobbing sea-lubbers from Vadrar-fiord. Jötunn Ormson was on his father’s new ship too. His two years of fostering with Lodin is now at an end. On the way, they beached the ship on one of the Salty Isles to make adjustments to rigging and steering gear. We followed them in the Meuris, sailing at a leisurely crawl with a hold full of wethers from Vadrar-fiord. We arrived at Vaes-fiord soon after Thrandt on the next tide.

  *

  The master shipwright and his sons have joined us for the return passage. The sea-lubbers, who had crewed for them outbound, stayed on at Vaes-fiord to wait for another ship. Orm’s settlement for the new ship — seven chests of silver — was stowed amidships on the Meuris on our return voyage. The sealed oak trunks of hack and coin are bound for Lodin’s treasury. Thrandt has told no one — not even Hakon — what silver-weight is held in the trunks. The shipwright watches over the bullion proudly like a mother-hen; runs his fingers over the iron seals that clasp the chests; checks the sturdy ropes that lash them to the thwarts. He lies down to sleep at night a hand’s breadth away.

  *

  Our refurbished Meuris is slick on the water, sleek-hulled and free of barnacles. The new deck-boards have a good feel under our bare feet. While sailing in open sea on the voyage out, Hakon practised manoeuvres to test the ship. He had us veering and tacking; he had us beat into the brisk south-westerly, or run downwind for the fun of it, relishing the newness of the ship like a boy who plays at skiff-and-sail on a fine day in a fiord.

  Fjak complained under his breath. ‘What’s it all for? Hakon has no thought for the crew. All this rope-work over and over, and all for nothing.’

  ‘Stop moaning,’ returned Dantzk with a grin. ‘Skip knows what he’s doing.’

  *

  Hakon traded with King Orm, mostly iron-wares from Vadrar-fiord in exchange for silver coin. He also bought goatskins shipped over by merchants from Brythuniog. (The skins can be turned into writing-vellum by the monks.) He bought stock from the horse market, using his ship-load of sheep for barter. Father Abban had asked Hakon to fetch a plough-horse for him to work the fields at Kildobhan. On the monk’s behalf, a mid-age gelding was scooped up for a bargain. Skip had a fling at the horse market. He acquired not only a plough-horse, but also a black stallion and three brood mares. Once all five were on board the Meuris — as we waited for a sluggish, muddy tide to sail out of Vaes-fiord haven — he began to have second thoughts on his investment.

  ‘I will give Abban first refusal on the black — that’s only fair — but if the Holy Father won’t take the stallion off me, I will soon find a buyer for him in Vadrar-fiord.’

  ‘The shaggy black is a fine breed,’ says Thrandt. He eyes stallion and gelding roped flank by flank between bales of goatskins in the hold — we had put them there on Skip’s say-so to keep their noses upwind from the mares. ‘Your friend at Kildobhan would be a fool to turn them down. Monks plead poverty, but the strange thing is, when they choose to trade, they never seem to be short of exchange.’

  ‘Goatskins are what they are really after,’ returns Hakon. ‘The monks will bite my hand off for them.’

  ‘And pay for the pleasure, eh, Skip?’ says Halp. ‘All because the skins come from over the water.’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Hrut. ‘Goatskins all the way from Brythuniog. Why is that, Skipper Hakon?

  Hakon has no time for Hrut’s idle chatter and flattery. ‘Don’t know, lad,’ he replies abruptly. ‘Never thought much about it. Never been to Brythuniog. Ask your father. He will know all about it. Sailed there a lot when he was a lad.’

  Thrandt has been listening — but he finishes checking the clasps on the bullion chests, before speaking.

  ‘Herds of wild goats roam the hills of Brythuniog, thousands upon thousands. They keep to high ground, to craggy tops — not easy to catch, believe me. But the hides that Skipper Hakon bought at Vaes-fiord won’t be from wild goats. They will most likely come from stock farmed in the valleys. Bucklings aren’t allowed to grow into sires. They are sent for slaughter. The druid priests bleed them, pour blood on the slaughter-stones for worship, and smoke the innards for sacrifices.’

  ‘Trust a shipwright to know about these things,’ says Hakon.

  Hrut puzzles over this and asks, ‘Surely, father, they don’t kill all the bucks.’

  ‘No, son, of course not,’ replies his father. ‘The best bucklings survive to breed, to hup and tup, and do their job, once the does are ready to mate. The blood of a baby doe is never shed. Doe-lings are too valuable. They give birth and they give milk.’

  Baldr waits till Thrandt has finished, and then he makes one of his long speeches. ‘I have been told that the hides of new-born kids are soaked in their mothers’ milk. The milk makes their young unblemished skin soft and pliable. That’s why the monks prize kidskins for their holy books — they make the smoothest vellum to write on,’

  Fjak gives B
aldr a malicious look and then turns to Halp. ‘Hark at him! How come he knows so much about it? This praying lark has gone to his head. Next thing, lads, wait and see! Baldr will cut off his pigtail, shave his head like a monk, and run off to join a fecking monastery.’

  *

  A gale roars inland off the sea, throwing a shudder of hail on the thatched monastery roofs. Hailstones patter on my neck — I have my head down into a salty wind — while I hurry across the monks’ compound in front of the chapel. I have a message from Abban, good news at last for Hakon: the Holy Father has agreed to buy the black stallion and the mares.

  Before I reach the monastery gate that will take me down to the shore, a small white-robed figure comes out of the refectory. Wind catches the cowl of the ankle-length robe, buffeting the wide-coned hood like a sail; under the cowl is the handsome face of a young girl. She turns on her heels as soon as she sees me, pulls the cowl over her close-cropped head, and hurries back the way she came.

  At the refectory door, which someone opens from inside, wind sweeps the white robe to her calves. The ill-formed legs, the familiar lopsided shuffle tells me that it can only be M’lym-kun under the white robe — though the girl seems older, better-fed, and looks much taller than when I last saw her. The girl’s shape was always ungainly, through no fault of her own, but now her limp seems to have been made worse by the wearing of over-sized monk’s sandals laced-up to her ankles.

  Baldr comes up behind me, lays a hand on my shoulder. ‘No Thralson, you mustn’t go after her!’

  And then another voice, almost lost in the shudder of hail on the roofs. ‘He is right! You mustn’t! Father Abban forbids it.’ It is Paperkali. The novice monk as a rule speaks with the softness of honey, but today there is an edge to his words. The bee-keeper hastens from the chapel. He intercepts me, almost blocks my path. ‘Don’t make trouble for the girl — she has been warned not to speak with you.’