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  If the young king was concerned by the unexpected challenge, or by the roar of the crowd, he showed no sign. He stepped into the centre of the fires and looked at Forkbeard.

  Feared and fearsome

  Forkbeard, Dane-king

  Hides behind the

  hem of Sigrid!

  Catcalls and laughter washed over them from King Jolawer’s men.

  Forkbeard grinned and nodded appreciatively before speaking.

  Time will tell

  the un-tried king

  What joys be wrought

  by woman’s hem.

  Insults rained from the Danes, but Forkbeard silenced them with a raised arm.

  Lack-beard king

  Lost, no wedding

  Heirless half-man’s

  Hand’s for bedding!

  ‘Ouch,’ Audun muttered to Ulfar as the crowd went wild, adding hand-gestures and insults.

  In the circle, Jolawer laughed along with the others and waited. As the noise started to die down, he extended his arms to encourage silence. When the whoops and hollers had finally gone, Jolawer cleared his throat. Then, with impeccable timing, he bowed formally to Forkbeard and got a ripple of laughs for his trouble.

  Flatland ruler

  Fiercely yapping

  Li—

  ‘Hear my words, Kings of the South!’

  The voice rang out in the darkness, thick and gravelly, cutting Jolawer off. In the light of the fire, thousands of men sprang to their feet and a whole host of edged weapons were ready within moments.

  ‘Weapons DOWN!’ Forkbeard roared.

  ‘NOW!’ Jolawer Scot added.

  ‘Reveal yourself,’ Forkbeard said to the darkness. There was steel in his voice.

  A moment passed, and then another. The shadows shifted gently as a man rode into the half-light at the far edge of the fire. Behind him, a row of men rode – all battle-hardened, all equipped for war. Ten of them, armed like men of note.

  The rider in front, a big man with broad shoulders and a twice-broken nose, leapt off his horse and kept his hands well clear of the sword in his belt. He walked into the centre, between the fires, towards the two kings.

  An arrow whistled past his shin and thwacked into the ground behind him.

  ‘That’s close enough, stranger,’ Forkbeard said. Behind him, Karle nocked another arrow. ‘Who are you, and what are your words?’

  The stranger looked around at the assembled men and nodded appreciatively. ‘My name is Erik, son of Jarl Hakon the Great, ruler of Trondheim. I bring news from the North, and it is not good.’

  Chapter 5

  TRONDHEIM, NORTH NORWAY

  DECEMBER, AD 996

  ‘I thought it would never end, this one,’ Hjalti muttered as he pulled his jacket closer. Around him, men were grudgingly shovelling paths between houses and shaking off hangovers in the pale morning sun. The air was cold enough to leave a burning feeling in his lungs.

  ‘The locals say it’s been a while since it was this bad,’ Einar replied, ‘and they’re used to it,’ he added. They were standing outside the door to Hakon Jarl’s hall, which they’d just about managed to open. The snow had been wet and hard-packed, up to a grown man’s chest. Hjalti had tried curses and threats to get the men off their arses, but in the end it was King Olav who won through to them. He’d simply sat in the high seat and waited until they’d all fallen silent, then asked them to do it – for him and the Saviour. The oddest selection had stood up first – burly warriors, narrow-faced cut-throats, jesters, thieves and hard men – and soon enough they were all on their feet, ready to do their king’s bidding.

  ‘We’ll be getting visitors soon,’ Hjalti said.

  ‘So they say,’ Einar said.

  ‘Might be trouble,’ Hjalti said.

  Einar shrugged.

  They stood in silence for a spell, watching the men shovel and push the snow away, creating corridors for walking between houses. What children there were left in Trondheim were already out, hollering at each other, throwing snowballs and pushing each other off the emerging snow-hills.

  ‘Einar! Hey Einar!’ one of them yelled, a girl of maybe ten years, watching them from about fifty yards away. ‘Show us!’

  ‘Show you what?’ Einar yelled back.

  In response the girl started making a large snowball.

  Moving calmly and without taking his eyes off the little girl Einar reached for a handful of snow, forming it slowly in his hands, packing it firmly.

  Hjalti watched as kids all around stopped what they were doing to watch. The girl with the snowball checked Einar to confirm. The youth gave the smallest of nods.

  The girl launched the snowball high up in the air.

  Einar Tambarskelf’s arm whipped round. The small missile in his hands sliced the air with an audible whoosh. The big lump of snow burst in midair to wild cheers from the kids. Some of the men even shared amused glances.

  ‘If there’s trouble, there’s trouble,’ Einar said.

  A while later, Hjalti’s mouth closed.

  *

  Grey skies and heavy clouds heralded Storrek Jarl’s arrival, and Olav’s scouts had alerted him to the time. By the time the jarl had made it to the longhouse, fires had been stoked and food was ready. Hjalti waited by the entrance to the hall.

  ‘Storrek Jarl!’ he exclaimed. ‘Welcome to—’

  ‘Shut up, squeak,’ the chieftain snapped. ‘I’m cold and wet, and you’re not the king I came to see.’

  Hjalti’s words caught in his throat. ‘I – uh – the king—’

  ‘Af-af-af-af-af,’ the chieftain mimicked. ‘Shut the fuck up. Are you going to invite me in or will I have to carve my way through?’

  Defeated, Hjalti stepped aside just in time before Storrek barged through. ‘Storrek Jarl,’ he shouted into the hall. ‘Arriving before King—’

  ‘Shut up!’ Storrek yelled over his shoulder. ‘I would love to punch you right in the noise-hole. Hel’s teeth, but you are annoying.’ Behind him, his four long-suffering attendants fanned out and walked in procession towards the dais at the end of the hall.

  ‘King Olav?’ Storrek shouted. The king rose from the high seat, but did not reply. The fat chieftain looked him up and down, then waddled to the end of the long table at the foot of the dais and sat, wheezing with effort. King Olav walked down the steps and took a seat opposite him.

  ‘Here it is,’ Storrek Jarl said. ‘I don’t like you.’ He searched for a response in King Olav’s face, but got none. ‘I don’t like your god, and I don’t like the way you rule.’ Still the king did not respond, and behind Storrek, his followers shuffled nervously. ‘But,’ the fat chieftain said, louder, then, ‘but—’ he said again, voice more controlled this time, ‘I can also count.’

  King Olav looked him straight in the eyes and smiled.

  ‘So what do you want?’ Storrek Jarl said.

  King Olav leaned forward. ‘I would like to commend you on your honesty,’ he said.

  Storrek pulled back, confused.

  ‘Yes, I would,’ King Olav said. ‘You are precisely the kind of man I could do with more of. And I am sure’ – the king leaned forward further, lowering his voice – ‘I am sure you will absolutely observe the new rule and respect the word of the Lord when you go back to your home up in the Dales. Even though I have no way of keeping an eye on you,’ he added, lips pursed in a conspiratorial smile.

  Storrek looked suspiciously at the king. ‘You . . . could. Yes,’ he said. ‘And what do you want from me?’

  ‘From you?’ the king said, eyes wide open. ‘What could I want from you, Storrek Jarl? You’re here. Just by honouring me with your presence, you have given me assistance that is almost invaluable. Your name is your gift. The people trust you, Storrek. They trust you because you say what needs to be
said. And if you trust me, the people will trust me. The Lord will take those he can reach, and he will deal with the others according to their conduct,’ King Olav said. Then, ‘And when I say invaluable, I tell a lie. I mean, of course, worth at least double the sacks of grain that Hakon Jarl would give you in times of trouble. I gather it wasn’t much to begin with,’ the king added as an afterthought.

  ‘Tight-fisted bastard,’ Storrek muttered.

  ‘And that is not worthy of a man of your . . . influence,’ King Olav said. ‘Speak to Hjalti on your way out. But please don’t punch him in the mouth.’ The king smiled. ‘If you do he’ll be useless on the door.’

  Storrek Jarl struggled to his feet, still eyeing King Olav with suspicion. ‘And that’s it?’

  ‘That’s it,’ King Olav said. ‘We will of course entertain you and your men for as long as you wish.’ The king spread out his hands to indicate the great hall. ‘Udal is coming, and Gunnthor is already here. I would very much like to hear tales of the area, if you would humour me.’

  ‘I will think about it,’ Storrek Jarl said. He turned and shuffled off, motioning angrily for his attendants to keep up.

  King Olav watched him leave, reached down to his knee and squeezed it as hard as he could, until he thought his fingers would snap. He drew breath, once, twice, then exhaled slowly.

  ‘Is everything well, my Lord?’ Hjalti said, hovering nervously at his shoulder.

  ‘It is,’ Olav said through gritted teeth. ‘It is.’ At the far end of the longhouse, the door slammed on Storrek Jarl’s followers. ‘Or will be,’ the king added.

  *

  ‘Look! There it is!’ Heimir shouted.

  ‘Shithole,’ Udal Jarl said, spitting for emphasis.

  ‘Look at all those houses,’ Heimir said. ‘How does it even smell in the summer?’

  ‘Trust me, son,’ Udal Jarl said, ‘you do not want to know. Do you remember what to say?’ The wind picked up again, slicing at the back of their ears.

  ‘Yes, Father,’ Heimir said, screwing up his face in a grimace of mock honesty. ‘We are honoured and grateful to meet you, King Olav.’

  ‘Good. Come on then. Let’s get a move on. Maybe they’ve got some half-warm piss in a mug at the king’s table.’

  Suddenly Udal’s horse bucked and twisted to the side and the jarl pulled hard on the reins. ‘Whoa! What’s the matter with you, eh?’ The animal tossed its head and snorted, eyes rolling and nostrils flaring. ‘Did the North Wind get to you?’ The horse snorted, neighed and shook its head violently. ‘Come on, boy. Come on,’ the Jarl whispered into the animal’s ear. ‘You’re not going to throw me. Not me. Not after all these years.’

  Just as suddenly as it had begun, it was gone again. The wind died down and Udal’s horse whinnied in protest at the pull on the reins. ‘He must smell King Olav’s pansy arse,’ one of the men quipped.

  Udal Jarl shrugged as he guided the horse down the hill towards Trondheim. ‘Probably.’

  His son and his men walked behind him, the wind at their back.

  *

  A while later, Hjalti stepped cautiously towards the dais and the motionless figure of King Olav. ‘He’s here, my Lord,’ he said. ‘Udal Jarl.’

  ‘Send him in,’ the king said without looking. ‘And get the boy to put more peat on the fire. Wind’s picking up again. And Hjalti – we will require mead to be brought to the table. Fast as you like, when I call for it.’

  ‘Yes, my Lord,’ Hjalti said. He turned sharply and strode towards the longhouse doors.

  Olav blinked and looked around at the hall. It couldn’t be called great any more by any stretch; the greying timbers would need to be replaced in a couple of summers and the roof needed re-thatching in at least three places. There was a certain smell of decay to the place that was hard to isolate. He thought of Hakon Jarl. ‘As with the lair, so with the bear,’ he muttered.

  At the far end, the doors opened and a large, red-haired man with an unmistakeable air of command strode through. Olav rose and very quietly allowed his hand to drop down by his side, brushing his belt.

  ‘King Olav!’ Udal Jarl shouted.

  ‘The same!’ Olav hollered in reply. ‘May the men of Udal Heath be welcome in my halls!’

  ‘Thank you, my King,’ Udal said as he walked up towards the dais. ‘We’ve come a long way to meet you.’

  ‘So I gather,’ he said, stepping down from the dais and moving to grasp the chieftain’s hand. Udal Jarl was half a head taller than him and at least two hands wider, and even through the wet wool and snow Olav could smell his rotten teeth. The big man looked down on him and smirked, as if the king had been weighed, measured and found wanting.

  ‘It is interesting to see you, finally,’ the jarl said. ‘Your stories travel fast.’

  ‘So does a fly in summer, but in winter there are none around,’ the king said. ‘Stories are stories. We are above such things.’

  ‘Hm,’ the jarl said. ‘Allow me to introduce my son. Heimir!’

  A red-haired youth with broad shoulders and a straight back stepped up to the jarl’s side, and nodded curtly at the king. ‘I am Heimir, son of Udal, son of Thormar of the Heath. It is an honour to set foot in your halls, my King.’

  ‘More so for the visit of proud, strong Northmen like yourselves,’ he replied, noting the cloud of confusion briefly passing across the young man’s face. ‘Sit! Please, sit! Hjalti – mead!’ Moments later two young men appeared, set down six mugs on the table and hurried away, disappearing out of sight behind a pillar. The men of Udal spread out behind their jarl and his son. ‘Welcome!’

  ‘Thank you,’ Udal Jarl said. ‘We left as soon as we heard of your landing.’

  ‘No mean feat, coming this far in winter.’

  ‘Well – no. But it is a poor chieftain who doesn’t come to see his king,’ Udal said. ‘A poor chieftain indeed.’

  The king smiled and raised a mug. ‘To Udal!’

  Quick to react, Heimir grabbed a mug and raised it. ‘To the North!’ Udal and his men followed soon after.

  The king lifted the wooden mug up to his lips, drained it and slammed it on the table. ‘Hjalti!’ Six more mugs appeared quickly. ‘To cooked words and raw flattery!’ he shouted.

  ‘Hah!’ Udal barked. ‘To rich kings and poor chieftains!’

  Down went the mead.

  ‘Hjalti!’ the king roared, one hand under the table to steady himself. Moments later, more mead arrived. ‘To cold winters and hot women!’

  Udal downed his mug and banged it on the table. ‘To Thor’s—’

  Quick as a flash, King Olav smashed a heavy hunting knife, point first, into Udal’s mug and nailed it to the table. Udal recoiled, almost losing his balance.

  ‘No,’ the king said, voice firm and eyes steady. ‘Not in this house. Not any more.’ Behind him, Hjalti, Einar and ten of their chosen men stepped out of the shadows, swords very visible at their hips. ‘We can drink, you and I. We can sing songs together. But you will not salute the Old Gods in my house, and your son will not go on with the old ways.’

  Udal rose from his bench. ‘I see,’ he said, ‘what my king is made of. So be it.’

  King Olav did not rise. ‘You are welcome to stay with us as long as you wish,’ he said. ‘Gunnthor and Storrek are here. We’ll eat reindeer, I am told. And’ – he glanced at the handle of the knife, then looked Udal straight in the eye – ‘we’ve got more mugs.’

  Moments later, when the door slammed on the red-haired chieftain’s retinue, Hjalti moved to the king’s side. ‘You’ve shamed him in front of his men,’ he said. ‘He will never forgive you. He will hate you for ever, and seek to destroy you.’

  ‘Excellent,’ King Olav said. When he rose he was smiling. ‘That is exactly what I want him to do.’

  Hjalti and Einar watched King Olav walk up onto the dais and s
it down in the high seat, surveying the hall before him. The sound was very faint, but the king was unmistakeably humming a tune.

  Sensing that they were not needed, the raider and the young archer made their way towards the exit. ‘Do we tell him about the dogs?’ Einar said.

  ‘He’s in a good mood. It can wait,’ Hjalti said, tugging absentmindedly on his beard. ‘It can probably wait.’

  *

  ‘Do it!’

  ‘Get a move on, fishwife!’

  ‘You fight like your mother!’

  The cries bounced off the walls of the great hall. Excited by the visitors, the men had quickly formed a wrestling ring and now bets were flying and coins were changing hands. Gunnthor’s men – two of them, neither a day younger than their chieftain – had politely declined to participate, but the followers of Udal and Storrek grappled enthusiastically with all comers.

  King Olav surveyed the room.

  ‘They seem happy to bark at each other,’ Hjalti said at his shoulder.

  ‘They are,’ the king replied, ‘but there are too many of them, they’ve got too little to do and the space is too small.’

  Hjalti hesitated. ‘Do you – do you want me to clear some out? Move them, maybe, to other houses?’

  He looked at Hjalti then, studying him like a collector would a rare specimen, and sighed. ‘No, Hjalti. I can name every man in this hall. They have marched with me across half of Norway and halfway to the winter sky. Every last one of them would step in front of a spear for me, and most of them have, at one time or another. They have done so because I have given them a part of myself. I have given them a reason to live. I have kept them close. I’ve got them now. So what happens if I push them away into the snow and the cold in a strange place?’

  ‘You . . . lose them?’

  ‘Quicker than you’d think. I saw a lot of captains make that mistake out west.’

  ‘So we keep them in, then?’

  ‘Keep them in. Where are our friends?’

  ‘Udal is over there—’ Hjalti pointed to where the big red-bearded chieftain sat, yelling encouragement at the wrestlers. ‘Gunnthor is there—’ With one of his followers at his shoulder, the old jarl had found a nice corner where he appeared to be regaling some of the locals with a story. ‘And Storrek is there.’ Sitting midway between the two, Storrek was nursing a mug and talking to a grey-haired man.