The Raven Banner

By Tim Hodkinson

PREORDER SWORD OF THE WAR GOD, THE EXCITING NEW HISTORICAL EPIC FROM TIM HODKINSON, NOW!

Einar Unnsson will be a great warrior, whether he wants it or not.

AD 935. Late Winter, City of Jorvik. Einar Unnsson is destined to be a great Icelandic warrior. He has already defeated the men sent to kill him by his notorious father, Jarl Thorfinn, the 'Skull Cleaver' of Orkney. He has a gift that makes him lethal in battle. Yet he has cast it all off to be a bard.

When three men attack him, Einar's poetry provides little protection. Luckily, the skilled archer and Norse-Irish princess Affreca saves him. She'd assumed Einar had left to raise an army, challenge Thorfinn and seize the Jarldom of Orkney. Now she's determined to set him back onto his rightful path.

Einar soon finds himself entangled on Affreca's own mission. She's seeking the Raven Banner for King Eirik. Legend has it that the banner is imbued with powerful magic. That it was a gift from the Norse God Odin and any army that marches behind it will be victorious. The quest sets events in motion that are beyond Einar's control.

Einar has no choice but to face his fate and swing his sword once more...

Reviews for Tim Hodkinson

'An excellently written page-turner, with a feel for the period which invites you into the era and keeps you there' Historical Writers Association
'A gripping action adventure like the sagas of old; and once finished, you just want to go back and read it all over again' Melisende's Library
'FAST-PACED, DETAILED AND BRILLIANTLY WRITTEN [FOR] FANS OF BERNARD CORNWELL, GEORGE R.R. MARTIN AND THEODORE BRUN' HISTORICAL NOVEL SOCIETY

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Apr 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781788549967

Tim Hodkinson

Tim Hodkinson grew up in Northern Ireland where the rugged coast and call of the Atlantic ocean led to a lifelong fascination with Vikings and a degree in Medieval English and Old Norse Literature. Tim's more recent writing heroes include Ben Kane, Giles Kristian, Bernard Cornwell, George R.R. Martin and Lee Child. After several years in the USA, Tim has returned to Northern Ireland, where he lives with his wife and children. Follow Tim on @TimHodkinson and www.timhodkinson.blogspot.com

Book preview

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Also by Tim Hodkinson

Odin’s Game

THE RAVEN BANNER

Book Two Of The Whale Road Chronicles

Tim Hodkinson

AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS

www.ariafiction.com

First published in the United Kingdom in 2020 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd

Copyright © Tim Hodkinson, 2020

The moral right of Tim Hodkinson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781788549967

Aria

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Contents

Welcome Page

Copyright

Epigraph

Chapter One: City of Jorvik

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four: Jarls Gard, Fortress of the Jarl of Orkney

Chapter Five: Jorvik

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight: Avaldsnes, Residence of Eirik Haraldsson, King of Norway

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen: England – Kingdom of Northumbria

Chapter Fourteen: Kingdom of Northumbria

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four: Westness, Orkney Islands

Chapter Twenty-Five: The Skerries off the North Irish Coast

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six: The Firth of Fjorthur

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One: Norway

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Glossary

About the Author

Become an Aria Addict

Sigurður jarl kvaddi þá til Þorstein Síðu-Hallsson að bera merkið. Þorstein ætlaði upp að taka merkið.

Þá mælti Ámundi hvíti: ‘Ber þú eigi merkið Þorsteinn því að þeir eru allir drepnir er það bera.’

‘Hrafn hinn rauði,’ sagði jarl, ‘ber þú merkið.’

Hrafn svaraði: ‘Ber þú sjálfur fjanda þinn.’

Jarl Sigurd ordered Thorstein Side-Hallsson to bear the banner. Thorstein was about to pick it up when Amund the White shouted: ‘Don’t take the raven banner Thorstein. All who carry it into battle meet their death.’

‘Hrafn the Red,’ the Jarl said. ‘You bear the banner.’

Hrafn said: ‘Carry your own devil.’

Kafli 157, Brennu-Njáls saga

One

City of Jorvik

AD 935 – Late Winter

Einar Thorfinnsson never knew what hit him.

He had just closed the door of the ale house and stepped out into the dark street when something smashed into the side of his head. Consciousness dissolved in an eruption of multi-coloured stars that blotted out his vision. As his knees buckled and he dropped to the ground, the last coherent thought that went through his mind was to curse his own stupidity.

He should have known the hooded stranger was trouble. Strangers themselves were not unusual in a city like Jorvik. People came and went all the time, but there was something different about the stranger who wore the dark green hood.

There was little chance of help now. All the drinkers in the ale house had gone home. The thralls who worked in the inn would already be flopping their weary bodies into bed, as would Gorm the innkeeper. The only reason Einar was still up was because he had hung around after the customers had gone. He was waiting to get paid for his performance and Gorm had been busy finishing tallying up the evening’s takings. The wait was long enough for Einar to forget about the stranger he had spotted standing at the back of the room earlier.

Even though inside, the stranger had kept his hood up. This was not that unusual. People with scurvy or those whose heads were covered by sores or vermin often kept their head covered all the time. As Einar sat at his usual spot near the fire, chanting the drápa of Hrolf Kraki to entertain the drinkers, he was sure the stranger was watching him. One of the serving girls had confirmed this, telling him in amused tones that the stranger had asked for Einar’s name.

He should have realised the danger. Now it was too late.

Einar’s vision began to clear. It was gloomy but the full darkness of the night was kept at bay by a few guttering torches mounted on long poles here and there down the street. The first thing he became aware of was the strong stench of shit and piss. He was lying on his left side, one cheek on the cold slimy wood of the planked walkway that made up the street. These walkways ran throughout the city in straight lines between the houses and shops. They were there to keep the feet of the citizens out of the foul ditches and open sewers that ran beneath. Now that Einar’s nose was separated from the filth by just the thickness of the wooden planks the reek was revolting.

He gasped. Pain lanced through the side of his head from the blow. Someone stomped a boot on his right shoulder and shoved, sending him rolling onto his back. Above him he could see the thatch of the long, low buildings that lined the street and beyond them stars sparkled in a sky as black as the sand in the lava fields in Iceland, his home, a place that right now felt just about as far away as those stars.

Three men stood over him. In the scant light he could not make out their features but the glint of their blades was unmistakable.

‘You’re a hard man to find,’ one of the men above him said.

‘Where are the swords?’ one of his companions said. ‘Ricbehrt wants them back.’

Saxons – Einar recognised the tongue. Or Aenglish, as they had started calling themselves.

‘Don’t pretend you don’t know,’ the third one said, prompted by the look of confusion on Einar’s face. This one spoke the Saxon tongue but with a strange accent. A Frank maybe?

‘You better not have hit him too hard, Osric,’ one of his attackers hissed to his companion. ‘Last thing we need is for you to have knocked his brains out before we find out where the swords are.’

Multiple little lights still spun and fizzed before Einar’s vision. He felt sick. With a groan he raised his hands to his head, touching tentative fingers to his throbbing right temple. He felt sticky warmth and he knew it was his blood.

‘My harp,’ he said, realising the leather bag with his instrument was no longer in his hand.

‘Get him up,’ the one called Osric said. ‘Let’s get him indoors so we can question him properly.’

They hauled him to his feet. The world swam before his vision again and Einar’s knees gave way again. The Frank caught him and muttered something in his own language that could only have been swearing.

‘You did hit him too hard, Osric,’ the other Saxon said. ‘We’ll have to carry him now.’

‘Stop whinging,’ Osric said. ‘You two take one of his arms each.’

‘Why do we have to do all the work?’ the Frank said. ‘You’re the one who hit him.’

‘Because I’m in charge,’ Osric said. ‘Right?’

For a moment Osric and the Frank glared at each other, their breath rising in clouds into the cold night air, then the Frank looked away. It seemed Osric was correct.

‘I’ll be behind him,’ Osric said. ‘If he tries anything funny, I’ll gut him.’

The Frank and the other Saxon each took one of Einar’s arms over their shoulders and he slumped between them.

‘Get moving, curse you,’ the Frank, who was under his left arm, said.

Still hanging his head, Einar shot a glance left and right. He needed to know where their knives were. The two men who supported him had their blades in their free hands but they were away from his body. What Osric was up to he had no idea.

Einar did not know who these men were but dazed as he was, he was sure if they got him off the street and completely at their mercy he was in real trouble. This was most likely his last chance to get away.

He gritted his teeth to dispel the dizziness. Then Einar planted his feet flat on the boards. He flexed his thighs, pushing himself upright. This time he was solid as an oak tree. He tightened his arms around the necks of the men on either side of him and drove them together. Too surprised to react, their heads clashed together with a liquid thump like someone cracking two full barrels of ale together.

They cried out, flinging hands to their heads. Einar let go of them and sprinted forwards as hard as he could.

He expected to feel the hot pain of Osric’s knife sliding into his back. Instead, all he heard from behind him was a curse. Einar was free but he had not fully recovered from the blow to his head. As he ran his vision lurched before his eyes. The street seemed to tilt sideways and he staggered. He heard footsteps crashing into the walkway behind him as his left foot skidded on the dank wood.

Then there was a crashing impact and he went flying forwards.

One of the others had tackled him, driving his shoulder into the back of Einar’s legs, wrapping both arms around them. Einar crashed headlong. His teeth rattled and the air burst from his lungs as his face smashed off the walkway.

His assailant held his legs fast. He was still dizzy but Einar knew he had to get away. He wriggled and thrashed his legs. The attacker held on tight but Einar managed to rip his right foot free. His shoe came off in the movement. It spun, end over end, off the walkway and into the mire alongside.

Einar smashed his heel backwards, hard, twice. The man still holding his other leg swore and let go. Einar looked around and saw the other two were almost on him.

He scrambled to his feet and stumbled forwards, arms flailing, desperate to regain his balance. Then he was running again. His unshod foot slipped and slid on the wet wood making it hard for him to get speed.

He could hear the feet of the two men chasing him thundering on the wooden walkway. They were right behind him. He braced himself for another tackle or the blazing stab of a weapon that would bring with it final darkness.

He glanced over his shoulder and saw his pursuers were mere steps away. Further back the man who had tackled him was also back on his feet and coming after him too. Einar looked forward again. The last thing he needed now was to run full speed into a wall or off the walkway.

He skidded to a halt.

A little way ahead was a crossroads. It was lit by four blazing torches on long poles. Standing right in the middle, where the walkways intersected, was the hooded stranger from the inn earlier.

The stranger held a fully drawn bow, the iron head of a notched arrow pointed right at Einar.

Two

‘Down!’ the hooded stranger barked.

Deep within Einar’s mind something sparked. Before he even realised it was recognition, he was throwing himself face forwards once again. As he went down to the walkway the stranger loosed the arrow. Einar heard it buzz through the night air over him like an angry wasp.

The man running directly behind him stood no chance.

There was a dull thump as the arrow hit him dead centre of the chest. The impact forced a grunt from him. His headlong charge stopped but his momentum carried him on a couple of steps. Then his body crashed down onto the walkway beside Einar, who found himself looking straight into the already fixed and staring eyes of the Frank.

‘Blood of Jesus!’ Osric said, sliding to a halt. His companion did the same.

The stranger pulled down the green hood. Long red-gold hair tied in a braid fell free to curl on her right shoulder like a serpent. Her skin was so pale it seemed to glow in the dark. Her eyebrows were dark and arched and she had green eyes that would not have looked out of place on a cat. Her beauty by itself was enough to halt a man in his tracks. The bow she bore had even more permanent stopping power. In one quick movement she notched another arrow, drew the bow and aimed it up the street once more.

‘Affreca!’ Einar said. Despite the situation, he felt a strange pang in his stomach at the sight of her.

‘Stay where you are or you’re dead,’ Affreca shouted to the men behind Einar.

She spoke in her Irish-accented Norse. Even in the half-darkness Einar could see the confusion on the faces of the Saxons. He scrambled to his feet again.

‘If I were you, I’d stand still,’ Einar said, using the version of the Aenglish tongue that he had picked up during his stay so far in Jorvik. It was a mongrel tongue – mainly Saxon with a large swathe of Norse – but it was common enough for Angles, Saxons and Norse to understand each other in this divided realm. ‘She can hit a running rabbit at one hundred paces.’

His two pursuers exchanged glances. Then both broke in different directions. They leapt off the walkway. One went right and one left, diving into the darkness between the long, narrow thatched houses that lined the street.

Affreca loosed her bow. Osric let out a yelp but still disappeared into the darkness. Affreca notched and loosed another arrow which thudded into the corner of a house just as the other man disappeared behind it.

‘I think you maybe got one of them,’ Einar said as Affreca jogged to meet him. They both peered into the darkness that filled the alleyways between the houses on either side. There was no sign of movement.

‘I don’t know what in Hel’s name you are doing here in Jorvik,’ Einar said. He half opened his arms, then dropped them and gave Affreca an awkward clap on her left shoulder. ‘But I’m really glad to see you.’

Affreca raised her eyebrows then threw her arms around him, giving him a tight squeeze. Einar felt blood throbbing in his loins. He raised his own arms to reciprocate and then let go.

A noise came from the alleyway Osric had gone down. It sounded like someone tripping over something in the dark. It came from the far end but it was enough to bring their attention back to the situation they were in. The darkness beyond the meagre torches along the walkway provided perfect cover for any attacker who wanted to creep up on them. There could be others lurking in the dark right now, with bow drawn or spear aimed.

‘It’s too dangerous out here,’ Affreca said.

‘Let’s go back to the inn,’ Einar said. ‘My lodgings are too far away.’

They heaved the dead Frank off the walkway into the ditch of filthy water that ran alongside it. Einar realised his shoe was somewhere at the bottom of the black mire but he did not have time to fish it out now. Nor had he the stomach to search through what was little more than an offal-clogged sewer.

They hurried back up the street to the door of the inn. Einar’s harp, still in its bag, lay on the timber of the walkway where he had dropped it. Their insistent banging on the door was at first met with a demand from Gorm, the innkeeper, that they go away, put in unmistakable terms. When they persisted, the door was finally unbarred with a rattle of bolts. The broad-shouldered, large bellied innkeeper, now dressed just in his undershirt, wrenched open the door. He grasped a large wooden club in one meaty fist. His mouth was open, about to repeat his demand they leave.

The words froze in his mouth at the sight of Einar, his right cheek bruised and swelling and blood from the cut on his head running down his face. A moment later they were inside and the door barred behind them.

Gorm ushered them to a table near the last remnants of the fire. The room still held some of the fug of the bodies that had crowded it earlier. The aroma of ale, stew, sweat and damp clothes hung in the air but compared to the cold dark of the city streets outside with their lurking dangers, to Einar the inn seemed like Fólkvangr, the heavenly realm of Freya where it was always summer.

Whatever astonishment Gorm had shown at the door paled in comparison to the expression on Affreca’s face a little later when Einar told her why he was in Jorvik.

‘Poetry lessons?’ Affreca said, her lip curled as if Einar had let out a nasty fart. ‘You left Ulrich’s Úlfhéðnar crew to be a poet?’

Einar shrugged.

‘There’s a great skald here in Jorvik,’ he said. ‘I have much to learn if I’m going to be famous.’

Affreca narrowed her eyes.

‘This lad’s good,’ Gorm said, nodding at Einar. ‘One of the best poets we’ve had here. The customers love him.’

‘And Gorm pays me well for entertaining them,’ Einar said. ‘I use the money to pay for lessons so I can get even better.’

‘You look like you’ve been in a war, lad,’ Gorm, whose own pock-marked, scarred and cratered bald head spoke of a lifetime of violence, said. ‘The streets of this town are dangerous after dark. It’s a shame that honest men can’t walk them without being attacked by rogues and thieves.’

Einar shook his head.

‘Those men were looking for me. I’m sure two of them were Saxons and one maybe a Frank. They must work for Ricbehrt the weapon merchant.’ He glanced at Affreca. ‘He wants his swords back.’

‘The ones we stole from him in Ireland?’ Affreca said.

‘You know of any others?’ Einar said.

‘I’m sure you gave a good account of yourself to them,’ Gorm said.

‘My friend here might have killed one of them,’ Einar replied. ‘We left him in the ditch.’

Gorm made a face. ‘Then you deserve a drink. It’s not murder to kill Saxons in my eyes. The way they lord it over us these days I’m surprised more don’t end up in ditches. There’ll be trouble over this though. When the body’s found the Reeve’s men will be around the town like hounds after a fox. I’ll get us a fresh jug of ale.’

Affreca shook her head.

‘So the Skull Cleaver’s son now sings for coins in an inn?’ she said with a sneer. ‘We thought you had come here to learn more about being a warrior. Or perhaps to win allies to get revenge on Jarl Thorfinn. King Aethelstan of Wessex is gathering an army to march north. We thought maybe you saw that as a chance to take what’s rightfully yours; the Jarldom of Orkney.’

Einar scowled. ‘I know nothing of Aethelstan. Besides, how could I take Orkney? I would need my own army. Jarl Thorfinn is too strong. I can’t waste my life hoping that someday I’ll be able to match him.’

He saw the expression on her face and blushed a deep red.

‘There are other ways to win fame and glory than fighting,’ he said, the words tumbling from his mouth without his mind getting in the way for a change. ‘Odin gave me the gift of poetry. I can make a name for myself through that. And it will be a fame that lives as long as any warrior’s.’

Affreca sniffed. ‘And what about honour, Einar? What about revenge?’

‘Revenge for what?’ Einar said. The shame that had reddened his cheeks was turning to anger. ‘Thorfinn didn’t actually kill my mother, remember?’

‘He tried,’ Affreca said. ‘He tried to kill us all.’

‘And we killed the men he sent to do that,’ Einar said. ‘Including his son – my own half-brother Hrolf – in case you’ve forgotten.’

‘You think Thorfinn will just give up?’ Affreca said. ‘He’s out there right now, looking for you. Are you just going to wait for him to come and get you?’

Einar sighed. The excitement of the night’s events was starting to drain away leaving him feeling weary. It was time to get to the point. He fixed her with a steady gaze and said, ‘What are you really here for, Affreca?’

Three

Affreca looked around as if to check no one was listening. Then she said, ‘You go into the Kings Gard here in Jorvik, yes?’

Einar narrowed his eyes. ‘How long have you been watching me?’

‘A few days,’ she said.

‘Without telling me you were here? What in the Queen of Hel’s name are you up to?’

Affreca leaned across the table. Her eyes sparkled with anger. Einar could not tear his gaze away from them.

‘King Eirik sent us here on a vital task that involves getting inside Kings Gard,’ she hissed through clenched white teeth. ‘Yesterday I was watching the gate of Kings Gard and who do I see sauntering up and walking right in? You.’

She prodded his hand with an extended forefinger.

‘Ayvind Finnsson, my teacher, is skald to Hakon Haraldsson,’ Einar said, surprised at the thrill even her hostile prod sent through his heart. ‘Hakon rules Jorvik from Kings Gard. I go there for my lessons.’

‘Hakon is no more than a lapdog of the Saxons!’

Gorm’s voice made them both look around. He had returned with a pot of ale and three wooden mugs.

‘Aethelstan orders him around like a house servant. To think a son of Harald Fairhair of Norway would hold his own people in thraldom. It’s such a shame. I blame religion.’

‘Ayvind Finnsson is this great teacher of yours?’ Affreca said to Einar.

Einar nodded, relishing the sense of pride he felt at being associated with someone so famous. ‘You’ve heard of him?’

‘Yes.’ A bemused smile spread across Affreca’s face. ‘Isn’t he known as Ayvind Skáldaspillir? Ayvind the poet spoiler?’

Einar folded his arms. ‘To some, perhaps. Those who have never heard him perform.’

‘He was once a great poet, I’ve heard that,’ Affreca said. ‘Before ale addled his wits. Isn’t he best known today for re-hashing the work of others and ruining it in the process?’

Einar sighed. ‘He is perhaps past his prime, yes. But he’s the best I can afford.’

He looked at the table, all of a sudden keen to change the subject.

‘So you went to King Eirik Bloody Axe, then?’ he said. ‘What’s he like?’

The last Einar had seen of Affreca, Ulrich, Skar and the other surviving Wolf Coats of Ulrich’s crew had been months before on the Føroyar islands, the little cluster of inhabited rocks that lay in the whale road of the northern seas halfway between Iceland and Norway. They had left Iceland together after the battle with Thorfinn’s men at Einar’s mother’s farm. Despite the dangers of sailing in winter, Ulrich had been keen to get back to King Eirik in Norway to make peace with his overlord before anyone else – Jarl Thorfinn of Orkney in particular – could get there before him. Einar had not been in a position to argue. He was still under a two-year sentence of outlawry from Iceland so needed to leave the country as soon as he could.

Goði Hrapp, Einar’s new stepfather, was sympathetic. However, the Law was the Law and Hrapp was also chieftain of the district. He could not be seen to be harbouring a law breaker. So Einar had joined Ulrich’s Úlfhéðnar on their longship.

Bad weather had driven them to break the journey at the Føroyar islands. It was there, stuck indoors, guest of a local nobleman and with nothing to do but drink and sing for days on end, Einar had fallen into the company of an old skald.

You’re the best poet I’ve heard in years, lad, the old man had said. Better than I was when I was your age. You could go far and really make a name for yourself.

He had gone on to tell Einar how the famous skald Ayvind Finnsson was in the city of Jorvik in Britain and Einar should seek him out to learn from him. And when the storm had passed, Einar had parted company with the Úlfhéðnar. He took passage with a merchant headed for Britain while Ulrich steered his ship towards Norway.

Affreca turned down the sides of her mouth. ‘King Eirik? He’s of middling winters, but still strong. He’s tall and good looking, like they say his father Harald was,’ she said. ‘But he’s sullen. He doesn’t say much. Mind you, that’s not surprising. He’s surrounded by enemies. He has two half-brothers who think they deserve the throne more than him. Several of his jarls openly defy his rule. There is rebellion in the land.’

‘I’ve heard that might be Eirik’s own fault,’ Einar said. ‘It’s said here in Jorvik that he is a hard ruler. Unjust even. You’re happy to serve such a king?’

Affreca made a face as if to say what had that to do with her.

‘His wife’s a complete bitch as well,’ she said. ‘A real nightmare of a woman.’

Einar raised his eyebrows.

‘Really, she is,’ Affreca said. ‘She’s a lot younger than him. And she’s a seiðkona. A witch woman. She was fostered by Sami wizards in some far off, weird kingdom in the north. I swear it’s twisted her mind. Odin alone knows what they did to her.’

‘Earlier, you said we?’ Einar said, picking up on what she had said before. ‘Have you joined Ulrich’s band of killers then?’

A faint smile flickered across Affreca’s lips. Einar longed to lean across the table and kiss them. He came to the sudden realisation how lonely he had been, even in the midst of the thronging population of such a big city as Jorvik. He had missed her. The rest of Ulrich’s crew too.

‘Ulrich says I might have potential,’ she said.

‘So where are the rest of them?’ Einar asked.

‘They sent me ahead to gather information,’ Affreca said. He could see how proud she was of being given this responsibility. ‘They thought I’d stand out less on my own.’

Einar nodded. It made sense. Even reduced to seven as they were, the arrival of a company of Wolf Coats in the city was bound to cause a stir. Elite Norse warriors of the King of Norway would not be particularly welcomed by the current Saxon rulers of Jorvik.

Gorm poured out three cups of ale.

‘Gorm,’ Einar laid a hand on the innkeeper’s shoulder. ‘Let me introduce—’

He flinched as a sharp kick struck his shin.

‘It’s all right,’ he said to Affreca. ‘We can trust Gorm. I promise you. We’ve been through a few scrapes together.’

The innkeeper grinned, revealing a couple of missing teeth. ‘Einar here doesn’t just entertain the customers. If there’s any trouble in the inn I can rely on him to help me throw the culprits out. I know he’s Thorfinn the Skull Cleaver’s bastard son. By Thor’s balls I’ve seen him split a few skulls in here on rough nights.’

Both men chuckled.

‘And this,’ Einar continued, ‘is Princess Affreca Ui Imair.’

‘Irish?’ Gorm said, raising his eyebrows. ‘Though from the look of you, you have strong Norse blood like us. You must be from Dublin, lady. Or perhaps Limerick?’

Affreca just nodded.

‘I’m sorry but I’m not familiar of the Irish way of naming,’ Gorm said. ‘We call people after their father.’

‘It’s the same in Ireland,’ Einar explained. ‘Though in this case the UI tells you who her grandfather was.’

‘Imair?’ Gorm looked confused, then his eyes widened and his jaw dropped open. ‘Ivar? My lady, you are of the Ivarssons?’

Affreca made a reluctant nod. ‘I am Affreca Guthfrithsdottir. My father was Guthfrith Mac Sitric Ui Imair, King of Dublin.’

Mouth still agape, Gorm looked at Einar for confirmation. He also nodded.

‘This is indeed an honour,’ Gorm said, his voice reduced to a breathy whisper. ‘I’m so sorry! I only brought my everyday ale. Please, let me get my best for you!’

Despite the look of consternation on her face, he snatched the cup of ale back from Affreca and emptied the contents back into the jug.

‘Or perhaps you’d prefer wine?’ he said.

‘Ale is fine,’ Affreca said.

‘Your father ruled Jorvik too, for a short time,’ Gorm said. ‘He was the last Norse king we had. We were free then. With our own king of our own faith. Since Aethelstan drove him out we’ve been under the yolk of the Saxons. Or rather the Aenglish as Aethelstan wants us to call them. Lady, there is danger here for an Ivarsson. Don’t worry, though,’ he tapped the side of his nose. ‘My lips are sealed. You’re safe when you’re in my inn.’

‘Thank you,’ Affreca said. ‘My father only ruled Jorvik for a few months. They used to joke in Ireland that he just came here to ask what day it was then went home again. They didn’t dare say that to his face, of course.’

Gorm’s face fell. ‘And now I hear that Guthfrith is dead. My lady, you have my condolences for the loss of your father.’

Affreca nodded then glared pointedly into her empty cup.

‘I’ll get you that drink.’ Gorm got her hint.

‘I wouldn’t mind some wine,’ Einar said.

‘Unlike her, you’re not a descendant of Ragnar Loðbrók,’ the innkeeper said as he went off to his store room. ‘You can have the everyday ale.’

Einar laid a hand on Affreca’s as it rested on the table.

‘I’m sorry to hear about your father too,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know he had died.’

Affreca wrinkled her