Crowbone (31 page)

‘The Colm Cille fellow was a priest and prince,’ the big man explained. ‘A man for the killing, it was said, who grew sick of it and himself and sought a cure from his god. He was told he would not find the peace of his god unless he went to a place where he could not see Ireland.’

As clever a way of getting rid of a rival as any, Crowbone mused. More fool Columba.

‘He searched a long time,’ Murrough went on cheerfully, ‘until he found this place. Even from up here, the highest point around, you cannot see Ireland, so Colm Cille was happy and this became a place favoured by the White Christ god.’

‘Not favoured enough,’ growled a big man, his arms full of water-skins, ‘for we are never done coming here and robbing them.’

‘And you a good Christian man, too,’ chided Murrough, laughing. ‘Or so you told us when you joined.’

Atli, Crowbone remembered, frowning with the force of it. His name is Atli and folk call him Skammi, which means Short. It is a joke, for he is exactly the opposite of a small man – but his brother is bigger, so say those who know the pair of them. Crowbone was pleased to have remembered all this, for there were four ships and some two hundred men spilling ashore, starting fires and sorting themselves out. He swelled with it, the thought of all those men oathed to him.

That had brought scowls and growls from the likes of Kaetilmund and Onund, but Crowbone had told them that it was better to find out the strength of these new men before getting them to swear the Odin Oath. After all, he reasoned, they were escaping thralldom in Ireland and so might say anything. It was a wonder the lie did not rot the teeth from his head, but his smile stayed bright and fixed while, one after another, the new men came and placed their hands in his.

Flouting that Odin Oath bothered him, all the same, like an insect bite that itched and festered. It was a powerful Oath and no good had come from defying it – but Crowbone, when he thought of Odin at all, fancied that One-Eye had no power over him, just as he had no power over the weaving Norns. Those three sisters, blind and in the dark, were what held the threads of Crowbone’s destiny, he was sure of that – so far, they wove true and Eirik’s axe, Odin’s Daughter, was a bright weft in it.

With that axe, Crowbone knew, he would be the chooser of the slain – not second on the Oathsworn’s boat, but first on his own. He was certain Odin himself was woven into the thread of that, yet Asgard’s jarl had power and a temper – his son was Thor, after all, who had inherited his red-haired fury from his da, for sure.

The surf was white against the dark shingle and men had moved up and over into the shelter of rocks. Fires flared. Men chattered and grunted, looked at the cloud-scudded moon and the sea beyond the surf, judged for rain, grumbled that it was cold. The sea was grey black, the waves rolling like old whales; folk made noises about going to the distant buildings, marked by pallid lights.

Crowbone looked for gulls and saw none; they were all nestling in the rocks and bleached driftwood and he knew rain was coming. This, the south part of the island, was the best spot to be when the wind drove the sea in according to Stick-Starer, who was happy that he had managed to get them safely here at all.

Crowbone moved among the men, settling them like storm-twitched cattle. He knew these men already, dirty swords who required plunder to keep them contented as fed wolves. The island monastery had been raided so often, he told them, that there was nothing much left to take, not even food. If it rained, they would all crowd into the beehive cells of the monks and the stone and wood buildings, though there would be precious little comfort in it.

‘Soon,’ he went on, ‘there will be wealth enough for all.’

They hoomed at him and went back to cooking or admiring their new weapons, liberally given by their rescuer, the young, confident youth who claimed to be a prince. Onund watched him stride through them, the corroded dags of his mail shedding rings as he walked, the coin-weighted braids of his hair flailing in the gusting wind; in the dark, he looked as if he had climbed out of some old grave mound and the Icelander shivered.

‘Aye,’ said a voice in his ear, making him take a surprised step sideways, hand on his hilt – but it was only Kaetilmund.

‘Orm was right about that boy, when he worried about him coming into the main of his years,’ he said, low and slow and Onund nodded. They went back to their own fire, where the old Oathsworn sat and listened to Rovald wheezing out the last of his life, wondering whether they should stay or make their own way back to find Orm, even though he had made them promise to keep Crowbone safe. It was clear to them, at least, that Crowbone did not trust any of the old Oathsworn, was braiding his doom with every new man he ordered bound to himself alone.

Crowbone came up not long after, but not to find out how Rovald was – the truth was that he had almost forgotten the man now and counted him already dead. Rovald had, he reasoned, failed to protect his lord three times, so what had happened to him was what was wyrded for him after his battle luck had clearly vanished.

He fetched Gjallandi, looked briefly at Bergliot sitting in the middle of the Oathsworn and smiling, then turned away, heading towards the monastery. He had seen Mar and others not far away and knew that he had several crews here, not one. Still, he had enough power to quell any of them individually, even the Oathsworn if they decided to try and exert themselves. He could gather one group against the other – the Christ-followers against the pagans or the other way around, or the new men from Ireland against those firm with the Oath. No matter who started in to snarling, Crowbone already knew how to play the game of kings with some skill.

He took Murrough, then added Atli and four others of the new men, enough to be a guard, not enough to be a threat, then moved through the tussocked dark to the buildings beyond. The wind ragged back their cloaks, blowing hard and bringing the boom of the sea as it crashed on the shore.

Seachd bliadhna ’n blr’ath

Thig muir air Eirinn re aon tr’ath

’S thar Ile ghuirm ghlais

Ach sn’amhaidh I Choluim Chl’eirich

Crowbone was heartily sick of the sound of Irish, which was as like a clearing of the throat as made no difference. That and the mourn of them made him want to slap Murrough, but he wisely kept that to himself and, instead, asked what poetry that was.

‘A prophecy,’ Murrough replied, hefting the axe on his shoulder, ‘to do with this place. Seven years after the Day of Judgement, the ocean will sweep over Ireland and elsewhere. Only this place,
I Chaluim Chille
– the isle of Colm Cille – will float above the waves.’

‘Would you listen to it?’ demanded a voice from the dark, one Crowbone did not yet know well enough. ‘The arrogance of these Christ folk takes the breath from you. Day of Judgement, indeed – the Doom of all Powers sucks away all, even the gods.’

They reached the monastery door then and Crowbone nudged Murrough, who hammered on it with the butt of his axe. A slat opened.

‘Olaf, Prince of Norway,’ Crowbone announced. ‘Open the door.’

‘
Caelum, non animum mutant, qui trans mare currunt
,’ said the shadowed face, which meant nothing to Crowbone. He turned to Gjallandi, who shrugged.

‘They change the sky, but not their souls, who hasten across the sea,’ he translated.

‘Haste is right,’ Crowbone said, feeling annoyed at being thwarted by a door-warden, ‘if you do not open the door in your next breath, it will be your last breath.’

‘
Melius frangi quam flecti
,’ said the voice and Gjallandi sighed.

‘It is better to break than to bend,’ he declared and Crowbone, racing past reasoned argument, kicked the door with his foot, though he might just as easily have booted a stone.

‘Enough priest tongue,’ he yelled. ‘I know you speak Norse well enough. Open up – I am seeking Olaf Cuarans, once king of Dyfflin.’

‘
Abiit, excessit, evasit, erupit
,’ said the voice mournfully and Gjallandi, primed and ready, simply repeated it so that everyone could understand.

‘He has left, absconded, escaped and disappeared,’ the skald said, then shrugged as if apologising and was about to say more, but Crowbone’s snarl cut him viciously off. He nodded at Murrough, who spat on his palms, hefted the axe and swung it. The boom echoed distantly and chips flew. The slat slammed shut.

The second swing of the axe drummed out another long echo and more chips flew. Murrough paused then, frowning and examining the edge.

‘There are iron nails in this door,’ he declared. ‘It will do no good to the edge of my axe.’

Crowbone fought his rage, though his mind shrieked to visit bloody horrors on Murrough and Gjallandi and everyone around him. For a moment the edges of his vision turned red, then curled back and vanished.

The door slat opened.

‘Forgive Brother Malcolm,’ said a voice in good Norse. ‘He is a good man from Alba, but a little afraid, as are we all. Nor is he entirely full in his senses.’

‘Open the door,’ Crowbone replied sullenly. ‘We mean you no harm. I want only to speak with Olaf Cuarans.’

‘You have several hundred men,’ the voice replied, smooth and polite. ‘We have nothing of value and, if you take what food we have left, we will die of starvation.’

‘We want nothing that you possess,’ Crowbone replied, more patient now. ‘Only a word with your head monk and some few more with Olaf.’

There was a pause, then the slat shut. A moment later came the sound of a heavy beam being lifted off and the door opened to reveal a tall figure, neatly dressed in robes, shaved and with the tonsure of his head bouncing back the lantern-light held in the swaying hand of a small hunched man with the eyes and face of a rat.

‘I am Abbot Mugron,’ the tall man said and smiled, though the effect was spoiled when his nervous top lip, thin as a wire, stuck to his dry teeth.

‘Olaf, Prince of Norway,’ Crowbone declared, then introduced the others.

‘
Est autem fides credere quod nondum vides; cuius fidei merces est videre quod credis
,’ Mugron declared with forced beaming. ‘As the blessed Augustine said.’

Then he added, because he knew this prince would not have understood: ‘Faith is to believe what you do not see; the reward of this faith is to see what you believe.’

‘I want to see the king of Dyfflin,’ Crowbone declared shoving past the priest. ‘I have faith in that, for sure.’

Gjallandi, who thought that rudeness was not princely or helpful, sighed and followed, with the others piling through. Atli gave the rat-faced brother his blackest scowl on the way past.

They clacked across the worn slabs to the rear of the shadowed place, into a forest of shadows where monks shifted, their voices humming in prayer. Crowbone wondered how they could live like this, huddling in the half-dark like fearful sheep each time a ship was sighted off their shores. A cowled figure scuttled away as they approached and Mugron, hands folded inside his sleeves, frowned and paused at a door.

‘I understand Brother Olaf has given up the world,’ he said and, for a moment, Murrough thought the monk spoke of this prince, then realised his mistake and laughed. Mugron, misunderstanding, raised his eyebrows, but Crowbone merely shrugged.

‘Brother Amlaibh,’ Mugron corrected. ‘The men who brought him said he had renounced throne and world in favour of God. Two of his men have stayed on, though they have not yet embraced God in total.’

‘Do they still embrace weapons in total?’ demanded Crowbone and Mugron inclined his head politely, frowning.

‘They yet retain the marks of their status as guardians of the king of Dyfflin,’ Mugron said, his voice stiff with disapproval, ‘even though such a personage does not exist here, only an old and sick man who has come, at last, to the fold of Christ.’

Crowbone looked back at Murrough and the others; then, hard as whetstones, they went through the door.

The room was bright enough for them to see that it was furnished well; Olaf Irish-Shoes had clearly not come to his White Christ empty-handed. The man himself sat in a good chair, as like a High Seat as next of kin, wrapped in a fur-collared blue cloak and with his feet stuffed, not in Irish sandals, but in sealskin slippers. His hair was trimmed to the ears and the ring-hung braids of his beard had been shorn, but the face that scowled at them was red as a wean’s fresh-skelpt backside, the eyes in it boarlike and annoyed.

There were others – two monks, one tall and blond, the other small and dark, fussing with a basin and cloths round the outstretched arm of the slumped Olaf. Two others, in coloured tunics and silver, bearded and long-haired, stood on either side of his seat and stepped forward, swords out.

‘Lord Olaf,’ Mugron began and Crowbone whirled on him.

‘Prince,’ he spat back and Mugron recoiled a little, then smiled.

‘I was talking to our brother in Christ, lord of Dyfflin,’ he explained greasily and Crowbone blinked, annoyed at his mistake. Anger made him rash.

‘No longer,’ he snarled. ‘Another has that High Seat and name now. Tell those dogs to lose the steel.’

‘I know who claims the seat,’ Olaf Irish-Shoes spat back, his face turning blue-purple and his breath wheezing. ‘My treacherous son, not fit to lick the arse of his brother, who died …’

He broke off then and slumped back, his face deep blue. The Chosen Man nearest to him looked anxiously at him, then flicked his eyes back to Crowbone and the others, his hand clenching and unclenching on the sword hilt.

‘Are you well, lord?’ he asked Olaf Irish-Shoes over his shoulder, at which Murrough laughed.

‘Of course he is not well, you arse,’ he bellowed. ‘He has a face like a bag of blood and two monks sticking his arms with blades – are you blind?’

‘We were in the process of bleeding him,’ said the yellow-haired monk and Mugron frowned.

‘Again? Is that wise?’

‘He is choleric, lord abbot,’ the monk replied, but Crowbone interrupted him, harsh as thrown gravel.

‘You and you,’ he said to the armed men, ‘throw those blades down. I will not say this again.’