Crowbone

blindness, Crowbone thought to himself, those wind-holes watch us.

They prowled round a little, in wide, wary circles, stepping light-footed as wolves then went on up to the church which Crowbone thought more gull-grey than white. It had thick walls, small slits set high up and a single massive door, set in an archway and studded with iron-headed nails. As good a fortress as the one to their right, which men eyed warily now that they were far from the ship and in danger of being cut off if anyone sallied out from it.

Gjallandi stepped up and banged the door, yelling out in Latin until a slat opened and eyes looked warily out at him. Men cheered mockingly.

‘Whisht,’ Crowbone ordered, not wanting to tip the balance of the door-slat into shutting again. Gjallandi gabbled and had an answer, then gabbled some more. Then the slat shut with a bang and he stepped away, his great lips pursed.

‘They are wary,’ he said. ‘I have promised that there will be no trouble and that all here are good Christmenn.’

‘Well,’ Crowbone declared with princely assurance, ‘half right is almost no lie.’

The door of the stone church cracked open like a smile and spat out a priest called Domnall, a tall, thin streak of a man with cool grey eyes and the sort of chin that could never be shaved clean even with the sharpest knife. He had hair cut so that it looked like an upturned bird nest on his head and the centre of it was shaved, which was the way of most Christ priests. More to the point, he spoke Norse after a fashion.

He saw through Crowbone almost at once, despite the prince’s attempts to turn his Thor Hammer amulet into something resembling a cross, and refused to speak further until the scowling youth agreed to be prime-signed at least into the company of Christian folk.

For his part, Crowbone permitted the holy water cross-marking on his brow well enough and ignored the black looks of the good Odinsmen of the Oathsworn, though he had more trouble with Onund, who spat almost on the prince’s boots and offered the opinion that Orm would not have done this and would not be pleased to hear of it.

Crowbone choked his rage in his throat and swallowed, though it burned his belly. He smiled at Onund, as sweet as his insides were sour.

‘Orm will understand,’ he said soothingly, while thinking that Onund was right — Orm would never have given in by as much as a finger-length to the Christ priest’s demands, for he had done it before and had annoyed, he thought, the gods in Asgard.

Which is why Orm, Crowbone thought, will never amount to more than a raiding captain in this part of the world where he had never set his foot before, since Christ folk would never deal with him. Here, it seemed, the Tortured God held sway and it was a prudent prince who took note of it — prudent gods in Asgard, too.

He dared to say as much, then had to duck under Onund’s scowl to go after the now talkative priest. He discovered that the church they had come up on was not the candida casa, but a smaller chapel for pilgrims of some Christ martyr called Ninian. Nor had they landed where they had thought to land — in Hvitrann town proper — but only at the port, which was at the end of a thin stretch of land that would have been an island but for the saving grace of a last narrow neck. He learned this sitting out of the wind in a wooden lean-to tacked on to the church wall, drinking nutty ale and eating cheese and bread while some hurrying girl went to fetch the commander of the borg, a keg-shaped belcher called Fergus.

And all this, Crowbone marvelled, because he had muttered some praise for the White Christ and had his forehead wetted. That sort of matter was worth remembering.

Crowbone already knew that Hoskuld’s knarr was empty as a blown egg and learned from this Fergus that Hoskuld had been grabbed by one Ogmund, who claimed to belong to Olaf Irish- Shoes. They had all left in a snake-boat.

‘Like your own, only smaller,’ Fergus offered, chewing bread and cheese while the priest sat with his hands in the folds of his sleeves and Crowbone perched on a stool opposite the pair of them, so he could reach the seax in his boot if matters spilled over.

‘Was his crew also taken?’ Crowbone asked lightly and Fergus grinned, showing two blue teeth in the front of his mouth. He was easier now that he had been assured Crowbone was no threat, but still cautious, for no northman could be trusted.

‘No. Held until my lord arrives from Surrby,’ he answered, ‘and judges whether they are the raiding men this Ogmund claims. Two at least are no traders, but fighting men and claim to come from Gardariki, though I think they are great liars. We picked them up on their own, from further down the coast, but they knew the trader’s crew at once.’

Bergfinn and Thorgeir, Crowbone thought and kept his face as bland as fresh-scraped sheepskin.

‘The cargo?’

‘Held in safekeeping. Berthing fees. Tithes. Custom duties.’

Crowbone was silent while he assembled the weft and warp of this. Hoskuld, for all his cleverness, had sailed into the arms of this Ogmund, who clearly had been sent to find him and bring him back to Olaf Irish-Shoes in Dyfflin. The fact that Ogmund had left knarr, cargo and crew behind told Crowbone he had all the clever in him of a stone; bring Hoskuld the Trader he had been told and so he did that and no more.

Fergus had then seized crew, cargo and ship and thought himself no end of a fine fellow for having done so. Crowbone wondered, idly, why Bergfinn and Thorgeir had been on their own and not with the crew; he was pleased they were alive, but curious as to why that was, since it spoke of having done nothing much to thwart Hoskuld’s attempts to run away.

A more worrying fact was that this arse Fergus, grinning and spraying crumbs as he stuffed food in his maw with thick fingers, had also sent word to his lord at Surrby — Crowbone wondered where Surrby was and how long it would take to get from there with armed men. The name of it soothed him a little for it was Norse, though it meant ‘sour land’ which did not have a happy ring to it.

‘It would be best,’ Fergus added, swallowing ale, ‘if you were gone when my lord arrives. Lest there is confusion over your own relationship to these raiders.’

The priest cocked one disapproving eyebrow.

‘The holy chapel of Saint Ninian has offered succour to these Christians,’ he pointed out and Fergus shrugged.

‘There is no confusion,’ Crowbone answered lightly. ‘Your prisoners are part of my crew and innocent of such charges. It surprises me that some Dyfflin men can land here and snatch away a trader so arrogantly. I am sure your lord will also see this when it is put to him — who is he?’

The lord, he learned from the scowling Fergus, was called Duegald Andersson, a Dane by the sound of it, or one of those half-Norse the locals called fion ghaill — fair strangers — and it told Crowbone that this area called Galgeddil was more Norse than anything else. He said as much and Fergus shrugged and showed his blued teeth in a sneering smile.

‘I would not depend on anything coming from that,’ he offered, then rose abruptly, scraping the bench back with a screech. He was a lot less sure of matters than he had been when he had woken that morning and did not like this odd-eyed youth for having spoiled his day.

‘Get gone from here,’ he said, which was a flat blade smacked on the table to the likes of Crowbone, but he was enough of a prince to know that Fergus did it because he was confident of his borg being able to hold out against a shipload of Norse until this Duegald arrived. Since there was nothing to be gained from spitting and scowling, Crowbone smiled and nodded politely instead.

Domnall saw the manners of it and considered that the prince was a better man than Fergus, which was not a hard thought for him; he knew Fergus as a farter and swearer, with nothing much in his head other than where his next drink would come from. Still — he had the right of it in this matter and Domnall said as much to the polite prince.

‘It would be best if you sailed, I am thinking,’ he added finally. ‘Fergus sent for Lord Duegald some days ago and he will be here tomorrow, or the day after.’

Crowbone nodded and feigned sighs at having to leave his men to their fate, then went back to the cookfires and sail-tent camp on the beach and near their ship. He found the crew looking morosely at the canted dragon-ship and the great, slick expanse of seaweed, shell and mud that stretched from it; low tide sucked the water away entirely from the place and Crowbone cursed himself for not having thought of it. Baltic waters had no tide worth