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  The big man clocked Ulfar, and Audun was sure he smiled.

  ‘Well met, travellers,’ Jolawer Scot said. ‘I see you walk with our cousin Ulfar.’

  ‘He honours us with his presence,’ Sigurd said.

  ‘Which is funny, considering you don’t have a skirt,’ Karle snapped.

  ‘Hah! Mouth on ’im!’ Sven barked, grinning. He nodded towards Sigurd. ‘I could see if Old Scruffy here will wear one, if you want.’

  Jolawer Scot looked flustered. ‘That will not be needed,’ he said.

  ‘Are you sure? Once in a lifetime offer. Some mighty fine legs under there,’ Sven cackled. Next to the king, Karle looked to be somewhere between amused and disgusted; Alfgeir Bjorne was grinning happily.

  ‘That’s enough,’ Sigurd said, almost gently. ‘I take it you know what happened in Stenvik.’ Suddenly Audun didn’t recognise his gruff, surly chieftain – this man knew how to talk to kings.

  ‘We do,’ the young king said.

  ‘We seek to raise or join an army to march on King Olav,’ Sigurd said. ‘We have rounded up some of Forkbeard’s war bands—’

  ‘—and we’re going to go give ’em back,’ Sven said, with ill-disguised glee.

  The king’s head snapped to the side and he muttered something to Alfgeir, who rumbled something in return.

  After a brief pause for thought, he turned back to Sigurd. ‘Who do you consider more dangerous – Forkbeard or Olav?’

  ‘Olav,’ Sigurd replied without hesitation. ‘Forkbeard bangs his shield louder, but there’s much more blood beneath the cross.’

  ‘Do you think Forkbeard will agree?’

  ‘Well,’ Sven said, all mirth vanished from his voice, ‘between us I think we can argue the case fairly well.’

  There was a silence then, broken only when Jolawer Scot took three steps forward and stuck out his hand to Sigurd. Behind him, Audun saw Alfgeir Bjorne tense up for just a blink of an eye, then breathe out.

  ‘Sigurd Aegisson of Stenvik, join us and we will go north to find King Olav.’

  Sigurd clasped the young man’s hand, and Audun was impressed to see that the king did not waver.

  ‘That’s that then,’ Sven said. ‘Good to see you again, old bear,’ he added as he saluted Alfgeir, who raised his hand in return.

  When Audun looked at the man called Karle, he had already turned and started walking towards the camp.

  ‘He’s a one, that one,’ Oskarl said.

  ‘Can’t argue there,’ Ulfar said.

  Sigurd and Sven were silent until they got back to their men, who fell quiet when Sigurd turned to them. ‘That is Jolawer Scot,’ he said. ‘He has around eight hundred men to his name, and he will make a fine king one day. I would suggest that whoever wants to have a future in this country joins us, because we are joining his army.’

  ‘What about Forkbeard?’ Thormund said.

  ‘We’re going to find Forkbeard,’ Sven said, ‘and then we’re joining up with him too.’ This set a number of the men to talking, until he said, ‘Oh shut up, you old chickens. We’re all fighting for the same thing, really.’

  ‘And what’s that?’ someone shouted.

  ‘We’re going north.’

  NORTH DENMARK

  EARLY DECEMBER, AD 996

  Far away, across hills, forest and blue-grey, white-capped ocean, Streak tossed her head and snorted. Helga from Ovregard pulled her thick travelling cloak closer and tightened her hood. Leaning over the horse’s neck, she muttered into her ear, ‘Come on now, girl. It’s going to be all right. I know you don’t like it, but we have to.’

  She spurred her horse on towards cold, death and danger.

  Chapter 2

  TRONDHEIM, NORTH NORWAY

  DECEMBER, AD 996

  Every last inch of the benches in Hakon Jarl’s great hall was filled. The fire roared and the fur-lined jackets had come off long ago. The best and bravest of King Olav’s holy army were busy making short work of their unwilling host’s winter supplies. Down by the end of the hall an old raider with a thin, wispy beard was leading a handful of his friends in an enthusiastically filthy song. The soft moans of creaking wood belied the strength of the wind outside.

  When the snowstorm hit, they’d barred the vents. A day later they’d barred the big doors and now the longhouse was almost completely sealed off, accessible only through thick skin flaps strung over a small door on the leeside of the building. King Olav’s men were trapped inside, snowed in like everyone else in Trondheim, warming their outsides with fire and their insides with mead.

  In the high seat, the king shifted and wiped the sweat off his brow. ‘Stop it,’ he muttered.

  Hjalti leaned in from the seat next to him. His new right-hand man was gaunt and scraggly-bearded, and he had a habit of rapid blinking that made him look like an anxious hawk. ‘What, my King? Stop what?’ he said.

  ‘No more peat on the fire,’ Olav said. ‘It’s too hot in here.’ He rose, grabbing the armrest for balance, then made his way down off the dais as Hjalti started to shout at the boy in charge of fanning the flames. ‘Too hot,’ he mumbled as he staggered out, picking his way past warm, sweaty bodies. The flap lifted before he touched it, and he sighed. One of his men was making himself useful in his mission to bring Christ to this God-forsaken place by standing by the furs and waiting until the king needed to take a piss.

  The cold blast of wind and snow hit him in the face and wiped away his problems. This was more like it: fresh air that didn’t smell of unwashed men and a hot fire under a sodden roof. He took a deep breath, filled his lungs with it and released it slowly, letting the worries escape at the same time. Before him was Trondheim, a spread-out collection of snow-covered houses that seemed to be huddling together for warmth under the dancing flurries. He could smell salt on the air and feel the tiny needles of frost on his face.

  ‘. . . my King?’ Hjalti had appeared by the door but was reluctant to go out into the cold. ‘You do remember Gunnthor, Jarl of the Deep Dales.’

  Silence.

  ‘He’ll be here by evening.’

  Olav sighed. ‘Of course he will. They’re all coming, every last one of them.’ He turned and walked reluctantly back into the longhouse, the wind roaring at his back.

  *

  ‘We need men. And corn. Our babes cry in the night,’ Gunnthor Jarl said, elbows on the table. Thick grey hair flowed over sloping shoulders, blue eyes sparkled in a face that was weathered but open and honest. Olav had to fight back a sneer. Why should he care? Last year every single one of the mighty Jarls of the North would have happily speared him for his beliefs. Now here was Gunnthor, begging in Hakon’s back room, and the rest of them would soon descend like bears on honey, rats on meat. Flies on a corpse . . .

  He pushed the thoughts away. This is not a time for making new enemies. He needed friends.

  ‘We’ll see what we can do. I cannot spare the men, but we might be able to help you with the corn. We can’t have the children crying,’ he said.

  Gunnthor Jarl smiled. ‘All hail King Olav! I knew I shouldn’t believe the stories.’

  Hjalti, on the king’s right, stiffened and frowned. ‘What stories?’ he snarled.

  The greybeard at least had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘Surely you’ve heard what they talk about? The burnings – the sacrifices. The king’s . . . appetite?’

  ‘What appetite? What are you talking about? I’ll—’ Hjalti sputtered and reached for the sword at his hip, but the king raised a hand to stop him. ‘No. Gunnthor, you were right: you shouldn’t believe the stories.’ He smiled at the old man. ‘I thank you for your wisdom.’

  ‘And I thank you for your generous spirit, in the name of the White Christ.’ The words sounded uncomfortable in the old chieftain’s mouth. ‘If there’s anything I can do . . .’

  ‘The
re is one thing,’ he said. ‘Talk to your people. Tell them what you’ve seen here. Do it when they hold the bread in their hands, not before, nor after. I know that what I am doing is not going to gain me the love of the people, but I don’t want to win their hearts.’ He leaned forward. ‘I want to win their immortal souls.’ He noted with some satisfaction that Gunnthor did not back down, nor did he wince this time.

  ‘I will, my Lord.’

  After the jarl had said his goodbyes and scurried away, Hjalti hawked and spat. ‘Lord of sheep and ruler of mud,’ the gaunt man said with a sneer. ‘He’ll get a few extra bags of grain for being sneaky enough to arrive before the others, but give him a sword and he’ll try to plough with it.’

  ‘Maybe so,’ the king said, ‘but have you ever had your foot run over by a plough?’

  Hjalti checked for signs of a joke, found none and swallowed. ‘No,’ he muttered. ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘We shall keep it that way. You are from around here, Hjalti, are you not?’

  ‘I left young, to go raiding, but my father’s farm is about six days further south in a small valley by the coast.’

  ‘I see. All right, so who’s next?’

  ‘Hakon Jarl wants to talk to you.’

  King Olav didn’t even try to hide his displeasure. ‘Send him in,’ he said. ‘I’ll receive him in his hall.’

  Hjalti disappeared and the king made his way out into the big hall. The men were singing louder now – another group, Southern boys by the look of them, had taken up the challenge; they were braying out a horrible old rhyme about Loki and the goat.

  Olav was the only one to see Hakon enter. Since he’d landed his fleet on Hakon’s doorstep and taken over his house, the former Jarl of Trondheim had almost faded. Now, framed by the doorway he must once have filled, he looked less like an iron-fisted ruler and more like a tired old man. He shuffled in and sat down at the long table, opposite the king. Hjalti appeared beside him and made his way to his seat at King Olav’s right side.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ Hakon began, slow and heavy, and Olav had to resist the urge to leap down and slap the words out of him. ‘You haven’t – I mean, your men haven’t— I need more food. And peat for my fire. My bones are cold.’

  ‘Your bones are cold because it’s winter and you’re old. Tell me about Gunnthor,’ Olav said. Colour flashed in Hakon’s cheeks, and his hands balled into fists at his sides.

  Good, he thought. That’ll keep him warm for a spell.

  ‘Gunnthor is a good man,’ the old man said. ‘He looks after his people.’

  ‘Can he be trusted?’ Hjalti said.

  Hakon flashed a look at Olav. The king smirked, and the old chieftain smirked back and for a moment the two men shared an understanding.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Hakon said, ‘good man. That’s what I said. Trust him. Definitely.’

  Hjalti leaned back, satisfied.

  He had a lot to learn, Olav thought. You don’t ask the enemy who you should trust. ‘Stew for the Jarl,’ he shouted and within moments one of the local boys had arrived with a generously filled bowl.

  As he watched Hakon tuck into his food, Olav leaned over to Hjalti. ‘Go out and check on the weather, will you. I have a feeling in my bones.’

  Hjalti rose without question and moved towards the flaps of skin. King Olav watched him go, then waved Einar over. The tall boy had been put in charge of the hunters, despite his tender age – the men said he could shoot the beak off a blackbird at a hundred paces; he’d been personally responsible for a good half the contents of the stew. He was quiet, effective and loyal, and not for the first time, King Olav prayed silently that the Lord would send him a few more such men.

  ‘Any word from the travellers?’ he asked.

  Einar thought this over before he answered, ‘No, your Majesty, still no word. My boys saw Storrek Jarl’s party at a distance a couple of days ago, but they didn’t see us.’ He paused, then added, ‘Cold out there.’

  ‘No sign of Valgard?’

  ‘No sign,’ the hunter said.

  The king waved Einar off as Hjalti returned and reported, ‘The wind is dying down, my Lord.’

  ‘Hakon!’ King Olav said just as the old Jarl finished his last spoonful of stew. ‘Tell me more about the guests we are about to receive.’

  *

  The sky was the crisp colour of bluebells in spring and the sun’s rays bounced off the pristine snow, frozen in a hard, sparkling shell. The column, men and horses both, inched forward.

  At the front, a broad-shouldered youth leading a dappled horse dug his walking stick into the snow and picked his way huffily through the crusty edges of the white carpet. ‘I hate him. I hate him, I hate him, I hate him,’ he muttered.

  ‘Shut up, Heimir,’ the rider growled. Udal Jarl was a block of a man, with a bushy red beard to go with a thick, red braid of hair that had only a few streaks of white in it. ‘Shut up and watch your mouth.’

  ‘But Father, why are we going? You said yourself that he was—’

  ‘I know what I said,’ Udal rumbled, ‘and if you repeat it I’ll break your nose again. Do you remember your uncle’s dog?’

  ‘The one that started biting?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Of course I do. Why?’

  Up ahead the bright blue winter sky was now smeared with heavy grey clouds. Udal Jarl cleared his throat and spat, a long arc into the snow.

  ‘You can’t go straight at a dog like that. You have to feed it first: feed it, and maybe scratch it behind the ear, until it’s close and it trusts you. And then—?’

  Heimir Udalsson turned around to look at his father, who rewarded him with a smile full of jagged, yellowing teeth.

  ‘—then you take care of the problem. Understood?’

  The boy smiled back. ‘Understood,’ he said, and he turned around and waded through the snow with renewed vigour. ‘Here, doggie! Here, boy!’ he shouted, thrashing at the snow with his stick.

  Behind him, Udal Jarl grinned. This was going to be a good trip.

  *

  Two valleys over, Storrek Jarl scratched himself and farted loudly. ‘I’m tired of this!’ he shouted. ‘Fucking Southern twig king-child, summoning us like – like what? Like we’re his fucking sheepdogs?’

  The five men in his convoy knew better than to answer; they just kept trudging along in the footsteps of their fat chieftain.

  ‘He comes up here, pushes poor old Hakon around – and for what? Does he think we’ll bend the knee? Fenrir can piss in his eye,’ he mumbled into his bushy beard.

  Behind him, one of his men shouted and pointed up at a huge flock of gannets flying overhead, heading south.

  ‘The birds are coming his way too,’ Storrek Jarl muttered. ‘Hope they shit on him. Let’s move!’ Still grumbling to no one in particular, he waddled on through the snow.

  *

  The night was cold and crisp and starless, with oppressive grey clouds covering the village. Astride his white horse, King Olav Tryggvason, rightful ruler of Norway and champion of the White Christ, leaned back and waited, savouring the smell of burning pitch on the torches that circled the small settlement.

  Finn’s voice rang out in the night. ‘Who is your chieftain?’

  The man had a good voice on him, the king mused. Finn Trueheart: good old dependable Finn. Sharp as an old hammer, but equally useful.

  Voices carried on the wind and a patch of darkness moved beneath him.

  ‘They’re ready, my Lord,’ a disembodied voice said by his knee.

  Olav didn’t reply but adjusted the metal band he wore in place of a crown – the damn thing was still not quite comfortable – and touched the reins lightly. The horse started walking towards the fires. He’d taken pains to train this one properly himself; the men needed to see that he was the master of his surroundings. You cou
ld hardly expect to rule a kingdom if you couldn’t control your own horse.

  The men parted before him like the sea before Moses and light spilled out from behind the massed bodies.

  The place was much as he had come to expect. He rode towards the centre, towards the shrine, where Finn had lined up their elders all in a row. He reined in and dismounted swiftly. Aware of the eyes on him, he walked around the shrine. The cross at his breast felt heavy, and he was glad that he could still feel the burn of conviction. He would judge them according to their behaviour.

  Turning to the farmers, he fixed the leader of the council with the coldest stare he could muster. ‘Who is your god?’

  The man looked at him and smirked. ‘Now that . . . that is a tricky question,’ he said.

  Olav felt a pang of jealousy. He was not a vain man, but he had to admit that he wished he had the council leader’s height, almost a head taller than his future king. The man was handsome, with long black hair flowing to his shoulders, sparkling, green eyes and a fox-like smirk that was fast becoming a full-blown smile. ‘A tricky question indeed.’

  Finn punched him in the mouth. ‘You will respect the king,’ he growled.

  The man didn’t flinch. A thick blue liquid seeped out of his burst lip, drying up almost immediately.

  Finn was stunned. ‘You little—’ He swung at the man again, then froze in mid-movement and coughed. The farmer’s hand returned to his side, a wooden sliver dripping with black blood in his hand. Finn collapsed, sputtering and clutching his throat.

  Olav grabbed for his sword, but it wasn’t there any more. ‘Attack!’ he screamed, but no one in the circle moved.

  The council leader wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘It is very rude, wouldn’t you say, to march into someone’s home and presume to order them around, to tell them what they should do. How they should stand, and walk, and believe. Don’t you think?’

  Olav screamed at his body to move, but it didn’t – couldn’t. ‘I – I – bring the word—’

  ‘—of the White Christ. Yes, yes. I know. We’ve seen you before, you know. Different name, different face, but we’ve all seen you before.’ The tall man’s appearance was somehow . . . changing. His clothes were no longer a simple farmer’s garb. In the firelight, he was slowly turning more colourful: a rich purple was seeping into his cape, and his shirt had turned a most sumptuous green. ‘And we need to have a word about that.’