Blood Eye(53)

Black Floki thrust his knife into the tree stump he was sitting on and looked up, his eyes dark as bottomless wells. 'I long to spend the afterlife in Valhöll as much as any Norseman,' he said in a low voice, 'and any Norseman who knows Sigurd Haraldson knows there's a stout bench and a gilded cup waiting for him at the high end of Óðin's hall.' He grimaced as he pulled the knife free. 'I'll be at Sigurd's shoulder when the death maidens come for him. That much I know.'





'That may be sooner than you think, cousin,' Halldor said. Halldor was obsessive about sharpening his weapons and always expected a fight. At first I could not decide whether it was fear or bloodlust that filled the man, but now I know it was not fear. 'Who knows where that English priest is taking us?' he asked, inspecting the edge of his bone-handled knife. 'We should slit his measly throat and bury him here among the thickets. Let his white arse wear a crown of thorns in the afterlife. His god would like that, I think.'





'I'll remind you of that when we're sharing out the English king's silver, Halldor,' Olaf said, standing and walking off to take a piss. The others were readying themselves for the day's journey. 'Then you'll be glad you left his arse alone,' he called over his shoulder.





I had thought we were making fair progress, but later that day Father Egfrith moaned that we were too slow and would be lucky to reach King Coenwulf's stronghold before judgement day. 'We English have little to fear from Norsemen if they all amble like old women on their way to market,' he complained, shaking his tonsured head and giving a loud sniff. He was still wary of my blood-eye, but the fact that I spoke his language compelled his tongue to wag in my direction, and though I disliked the man I realized he was right about our slow pace. The truth was that the Norsemen were cautious creatures on land, as though they had stowed their confidence aboard their longships, and though Egfrith was a weak-looking man there seemed little wrong with his thin white legs as he strode at the head of the company, urging us to keep up.





'Norsemen prefer rowing to walking, Father,' I said with a smile, enjoying the weight of the shield on my back.





'Then perhaps they should walk on their arms,' he retorted, pleased with his wit and glancing to the sky as if seeking his god's approval.





'Do you know what they love even more than rowing?' I asked, but he did not know, so I told him. 'Pulling out the innards of English monks,' I said, trying not to smile. 'I am sure you will find them . . . interesting companions.' I watched him from the corner of my eye, seeing his face drain of colour. Beside him, Mauger was grinning. I admit I enjoyed tormenting the monk, even though I knew there was no honour in it. I was like a child pulling the wings off flies or cutting worms in half. It was cruel, but it was fun.





'How did you come to be with the Norsemen, lad?' Mauger asked. The dying sun was glinting off the rings he wore on his thick, tattooed arms. Few of the men travelled in their mail now, though Halldor always did. Floki's cousin would have had mail instead of skin if he could.





'I chose to join them,' I lied. 'Life in my village was the life of a sheep.' I thought it was something Svein might say.





Mauger grinned. 'And I suppose the mute old man chose to join them too,' he said, and I supposed he knew the truth of it all.





I glanced back at the old carpenter and felt a pang of guilt for not walking with him at the rear of the column. But he was still angry with me, and for my part I had little to say to him. Besides, Sigurd had asked me to walk with him at the head, and I was proud to do it. 'Ealhstan was always kind to me,' I said.





'Raven has a Norseman's heart, Mauger,' Sigurd said, stepping up to cuff the back of my head.





'They say you heathens have black hearts,' Mauger said, 'but I don't believe it.' Beneath the thick beard his face was hard, like carved rock, and mostly without expression.





'And they do!' Egfrith exclaimed. 'A pagan's heart is black as pitch and empty, empty as a bishop's belly in the Lenten fast.'





'Horseshit, Father!' Mauger said. 'I have killed Danes before and their innards are red same as yours and mine.' He gave a wry grimace. 'Though their hearts were smaller,' he said, clenching a fist.





'Were they infants, Mauger? These Danes you killed?' Sigurd asked, winking at me. 'Sucking at their mothers' tits when you butchered them?' The Norsemen laughed and so did I, but Father Egfrith stiffened and looked at Mauger as though he expected a fight, and I shivered then, for I would not have wanted to fight Mauger. He would have killed me in the time it takes a heart, black or red, to beat. But the English warrior merely glowered and I was relieved, because hatred needs a drawn blade to kill.