‘Yes, lord!’ Gerbruht said happily.
I breakfasted on ale, hard bread, and cheese. The sea was empty, not a sail in sight, only the dolphins who seemed to like running alongside Spearhafoc. The clouds stayed above the unseen land, but otherwise the sky was clear. Sometime after midday I saw cliffs far off in the west, and not long after we caught sight of the low islands that lie to the north of Constantine’s land. ‘You know anyone there?’ I asked Egil, who had woken and come aft with his fair hair blowing loose in the ship-driving wind.
‘Jarl Thorfinn. I first knew him in Snæland.’
‘He’ll welcome us?’
‘He’s called Skull-Splitter,’ Egil added with a grin.
‘Him!’ I said. I had heard of Skull-Splitter, few men had not, but all I knew of him was that he was a renowned Norse leader who carried a long-hafted battleaxe named Hausakljúfr, which meant skull-splitter. ‘He lives in Orkneyjar?’
‘He and his two brothers rule the islands,’ Egil said.
‘Not much to rule,’ I snorted.
‘But rule they do. Skull-Splitter will growl at us, but he probably won’t kill us. He likes me.’
‘So he might kill me and welcome you?’
‘That’s what I’m hoping,’ Egil said, grinning again, ‘because then I get Spearhafoc. Unless Skull-Splitter wants her, of course.’ He looked up at the ragged pennant at the mast’s top that told where the wind was coming from. ‘But you’ll live. Jarl Thorfinn is the clever brother and he’s too clever to make unnecessary enemies.’
Which reassurance carried us northwards. I knew that all the islands of Orkneyjar, like the other islands further north, had been settled by the Norse. They fished, and kept scrawny cattle and hardy sheep, but their main livelihood was to go viking down the coasts of Britain, Frisia, and Frankia. Constantine must hate their presence, but he had other Norsemen on his western coast, Æthelstan’s Saxons to the south, and problems enough without enraging Thorfinn’s savage men. ‘They’re not all clever,’ Egil told me cheerfully, ‘they’re all úlfhéðnar, of course. Thorfinn especially. I saw him fight bare-bone naked once. He was awesome.’
I knew about the úlfhéðnar, I had even fought them at Heahburh. The name meant wolf-warriors and an úlfheðinn was a terrifying man to face in battle. They believed they were invulnerable, that they could fly, and that the spirit of Fenrir, the wolf of the gods, had possessed them. An úlfheðinn would attack in a frenzy, spitting and howling, driven by the henbane ointment they smeared on their skin. But frightening as they were, the úlfhéðnar could be defeated. A wolf-warrior was too savage, too unbridled, to stay in a shield wall. They believed they could win any battle on their own, and a lone man in a shield wall battle was vulnerable. The úlfhéðnar were terrifying, even wounded they would go on fighting like a cornered beast, but they could be killed.
‘I have an úlfheðinn’s skull on Bebbanburg’s gate,’ I told Egil. ‘I’ll happily add another.’
He smiled at that. ‘I’m told Thorfinn collects skulls too.’
We came to the islands in the late afternoon. Egil, who knew the waters, steered Spearhafoc and I noted how the small fishing boats did not flee from us. We had no cross on our prow, and they assumed we were Norse, and they knew no lone ship would dare enter the great harbour south of the biggest island unless they were friendly. We passed a point of land from where seals watched us, then shortened sail to glide across the huge anchorage. At least a score of boats were either moored or beached, their prows arrogant with serpent or dragon heads. ‘Tide’s flooding,’ Egil said, ‘shall we beach her?’
‘We’ll be safe?’
‘Jarl Thorfinn won’t attack us.’ He sounded confident, and so we ran Spearhafoc up onto a shingle beach. Her keel grated, the hull shuddered, and we were still. A dozen turf-roofed hovels edged the beach, all with smoke drifting from their roof-holes. They had to be burning driftwood or peat because there were no trees on the low hills. More fires burned sullenly beneath wooden racks where seal meat and fish were being smoked. One or two folk came from the cottages, stared at us, and then, satisfied we were no threat, ducked back inside. A dog peed on our cutwater, then wandered to where a heap of cod heads were piled at the high tide line. Small fishing boats were on the beach, dwarfed by the dragon-headed ships. ‘When I was a boy,’ Egil said, ‘my job was to cut the cheeks out of cod heads.’
‘The best eating,’ I said, then nodded at the cottages. ‘Thorfinn lives here?’ I asked, surprised by the settlement’s small size.
‘His hall is on the other side of the island,’ Egil nodded north, ‘but he’ll soon know we’re here. We just wait.’
It was almost dusk when two horsemen appeared from the north. They approached cautiously, hands on sword hilts, until they recognised Egil who they greeted enthusiastically. ‘Where’s your ship?’ one of them asked. He meant Banamaðr, Egil’s serpent-headed ship.
‘Safe at home,’ Egil said.
‘We were told only one man can come to the hall.’
‘Only one?’
‘We have other visitors and not enough benches. Not enough ale either.’
‘I shall bring my friend,’ Egil said, indicating me.
The man shrugged. ‘Bring him. The jarl won’t mind two.’
I left Gerbruht in charge of Spearhafoc with strict instructions that there was to be no theft, no fights, and no trouble. ‘We’re guests here,’ I told the crew, ‘if you need food, which you don’t because we have enough, you pay for it!’ I gave Gerbruht a handful of hacksilver, then followed Egil over the side, splashed through the
