were strange company for that.
There were Christ priests, a gaggle of them from the West Franks and the Saxlanders of Hammaburg, all gabbling about baptisms and chrism-loosenings while glaring at each other and trying to make sure they had no horse meat in their bowls.
Then there was Haakon of Hladir, ruler of Norway which he had from the hand of Denmark’s King Harald Bluetooth and which hand he was now trying to bite. Bluetooth, not quite a broken-fanged dog, was snarling back and so Haakon was seated at King Eirik’s left, looking for help and smiling politely through the teeth he had to grit every time he heard Crowbone called ‘Prince of Norway’.
Eirik himself, though crowned king of the Svears and Geats, still had troubles up and down his lands and Bluetooth had designs on them that he was not about to give up, so any enemy of Bluetooth was a friend of King Eirik and Haakon had been handy for the fight against Styrbjorn.
Then, astoundingly perched in the guest bench, was Svein, Bluetooth’s son, who had also helped against Styrbjorn, though he was scarce older than that cursed youth. Young enough, in fact, not have fleeced up the chin- hair that would give him his famed by-name in later life — Forkbeard — he was here to annoy his da, for he wanted more say in Danish matters and Bluetooth had no liking to let him.
Then there was Crowbone, fresh broken to manhood and following Queen Sigrith with his dog-eyes. For her part, she was dressed in a blue so dark it was almost black, trimmed with white wolf and dripping with amber and silver, every inch the queen she wanted to appear, pleased with herself for presenting a son to her king, rich and ripe with life because she and the boy had survived the affair. Better still, of course, was her man’s acceptance of little Olaf, for he had not been near the birth himself as was proper and that was a matter doubled when kings were involved.
So she knew the effect she had on the new man that was Crowbone and revelled in the power of it while spurning him, as you would a little boy, with witty flytings wherever possible.
Some trader had brought a talking-bird all the way from Serkland, a green affair with a crown of blood and Haakon had bought it for show. It sat, hunched, with its feathers falling out and miserable from the cold and dark of the north as well as the lack of proper food — the thrall weans kept trying to feed it flakes of fish, as if it was a gull.
‘It speaks,’ Svein called, trying to make himself a presence, ‘in that tongue they use in Serkland.’
Then he turned to me, a twisted little smile smeared on his face and called out the length of the table: ‘Orm Bear Slayer, you speak some of that. What does it say?’
It gave the proper response to a greeting in the Mussulmann tongue, as well as phrases such as ‘God is great’ and ‘There is no god but Allah and Muhammad is his prophet’ and so people oohed and aahed when it seemed that I chatted amiably to the bird. My standing, fame-rich already, was confirmed and it was clear from his scowl that Svein had not meant that to happen. Nor, it seemed, was Haakon any happier and he did not like me to begin with because of my closeness with young Crowbone. I could not blame him for that — he was king in Norway and sitting a few careful benches down from a boy claiming to be the true prince of that land.
‘Perhaps the Bear Slayer can use this gift to command the return of his
Then, eventually, I turned into his smile and ignored it, looking at King Eirik instead.
‘A marvellous bird,’ I told him. ‘Seldom seen in these parts and so doubly strange that Jarl Haakon here has come into possession of it.’
‘Strange?’ Eirik asked.
‘Aye,’ I mused. ‘I know Gunnhild is old and fled from Norway — but her
The smile died on Haakon’s face; panic and fear chased over it like cat and dog and he looked wildly from me to the bird and back again. He had ousted Gunnhild, and the last of Bloodaxe’s sons, from Norway five years ago — they had fled to Orkney and were causing trouble there — but he feared the witch Mother of Kings still. She was reputed to be able to take the shape of any bird and fly through the Other, far and wide, to perch and listen to plots and plans.
‘Such
Which, because they had heard all the skald tales of the witches I had supposedly killed and the scaled trolls and all the rest, was a boast accepted easily by the company and they laughed, though shakily.
As a result King Eirik had the bird removed from the feasting hall and Haakon watched it all the way out of the room; later, I heard he had it thrown to his deerhounds and felt sorry for that, even though I knew the bird would have died soon anyway.
One other watched that bird leave the room. I had forgotten that Crowbone had developed his way with birds because of Gunnhild’s reputation; she, of course, had hunted the young Crowbone after killing his father to get the throne Haakon now sat on. It was that which prompted Crowbone to do what he did next, I am sure of it, for he always acted on the signs birds offered up to him and there was no more singular bird than that blood-headed talking one from Serkland.
‘If you go after Koll Brandsson,’ he whispered to me, ashenfaced, ‘I will take your Odin Oath and follow you.’
I blinked at that; the idea of Crowbone as one of the Oathsworn was one I did not wish to think about at all for the dangers in it — but there was no easy way to refuse it, especially when it became clear that I needed him.
That was after the feasting was done and the real business commenced. King Eirik promised thralls and timber and men who knew how to build, as well as fat ships to transport all of this and supplies enough to see Hestreng through the lean time of summer to the first harvest.
‘I cannot spare fighting men,’ he added, frowning, ‘nor raiding ships, for I am battle-light in both and my right arm is felled for now.’
Eye to eye and alone in his closed room in the prow of the hall, he leaned closer, blood-dyed by torch glow. His neat-trimmed beard was faded red-gold and under the hat he wore for vanity he was bald save for a fringe round his ears. His feasting horn of mead was elsewhere; now he toyed with a blue glass goblet of wine and had offered me some, but I stuck with an iron-banded horn of nutty ale. Clear heads are best when dealing with kings — besides, my head hurt enough from the scar on my forehead and my blood-clotted nose to add wine fumes to it.
‘The Greek monk, Leo, has taken Koll as hostage and sailed with Ljot Tokeson,’ he said, pinching salt on bread to rid himself of the cloy of mead in his mouth. ‘Ljot is brother to Pallig Tokeson and Styrbjorn is with them both.’
Pallig, Lord of Joms. King Eirik looked at me with rheumy eyes and saw I knew the name, then waved a hand and sighed.
‘I know, I know — Styrbjorn is a young fool and will need to be punished — but he is my nephew and still has uses. I want him returned to me.’
I did not think Styrbjorn would want to return until he was sure of mercy rather than wrath and I said so.
‘Just so,’ Eirik said, looking at me. ‘So when you go to get your
‘Jarl Brand, lord?’ I asked, as bland and polite as I could make it. King Eirik stroked the neat trim of his beard and scowled.
‘It will sit hard with him, but he has placed his hands in mine and I will pay any blood-price for his losses at the hand of Styrbjorn, who is kin, after all.’
So there it was — King Eirik wanted Styrbjorn around, for his son was a bairn and bairns are fragile wee things; Styrbjorn was the only other heir he had. It came to me that Brand might not suffer it as lightly as King Eirik thought — what was the blood-price for a dead wife and the hostaged son of someone as powerful as Jarl Brand? Not enough if it was my wife and bairn.
He saw something of that in my face and, to my surprise, laid a friendly hand on the length of my
