Reaching the end of the jetty, Einar and Affreca walked uphill to the centre of the village. This was a flat area of open ground where three muddy tracks, which did not warrant the name of roads, met. In the centre was a weathered standing stone that had been there for untold years, certainly long before the ancestors of the Strangrfjordr villagers had arrived in their longships. Taking the left-hand path they came to a daub-and-wattle building with a wooden Christian cross on the roof. The boy pointed to it and stood back. Einar assumed this must be the church.
He tentatively pushed on the half-open door and peered into the gloomy interior. At first it appeared to be empty, but then he saw the figure of a man in the semi-darkness. A meagre oil lamp guttered on the wall to give some light inside. At the sight of the stick in the man’s hand Einar flinched, his hand dropping to the knife at his belt. He relaxed when he saw that what the stranger held was the handle of a broom. He was sweeping the floor.
The man stopped sweeping and turned to face the door. He was tall, broad shouldered and had the build of a warrior. He wore no mail or helmet, however, but was simply dressed in a loose, long black tunic. No weapons hung from his belt. He was not a young man but more in his prime. His blond beard was close cropped and a pair of blue eyes regarded the newcomers with both the colour and heat of an iceberg. His skin was tanned as dark as the ancient petrified wood that was sometimes dug from the Irish bogs. Around his neck hung a simple wooden cross.
‘So my former shipmates would not come to see me then?’ the man said. ‘Instead they send a messenger boy and girl. Come in, close the door.’
‘You are Grim?’ Einar asked, pulling the door shut behind him and Affreca.
The man nodded. ‘I was. I am now called Pol, after the Holy Apostle. So who are you that Ulrich has sent to do his bidding?’
‘I am Affreca Guthfrithsdottir,’ Affreca said. ‘Daughter of the King of Dublin.’
Pol’s eyebrows raised. ‘I am honoured indeed. Ulrich is keeping better company than when I knew him. And what about you?’ he pointed the brush shaft at Einar. ‘You are no Úlfhéðinn that’s plain to see.’
‘How do you know that?’ Einar said.
Pol shrugged. ‘The way you bear yourself. They have a certain swagger when they walk. An arrogance born of their skills. You look like you are unsure of yourself.’
‘I am…’ Einar hesitated. Then he straightened up, pushing his shoulders back. ‘I am Einar Thorfinnsson.’
‘I know a few Thorfinns,’ Pol said, ‘but a Thorfinnsson who accompanies the Princess of Dublin can only be a son of the skull-cleaving Jarl of Orkney. Yet I’ve never heard of an Einar Thorfinnsson. Hrolf Thorfinnsson, yes.’
‘I have only just discovered my roots,’ Einar said. ‘And I am not proud of them.’
‘How is that old wolf, Ulrich?’ Pol said. ‘Is Skarphedin still with him?’
‘Skar? Yes,’ Einar said. ‘They are well, though they’ve not much good to say about you.’
‘I’m sure they don’t,’ Pol smiled. ‘I was once one of their band and to them the worst sin is to leave the company. Thankfully I have learned that remaining was actually the sin. Ulrich is a killer, a little wolf in wolf’s clothing but I always thought Skarphedin was a decent man inside. He doesn’t recognise that, unfortunately. That’s the trouble with religious fanatics. They think their God is the only God there is and no one else’s matters. So why are they here?’
Einar explained.
Pol nodded. ‘Where Patrick walked on water? Every province in this land was blessed by the holy feet of Patrick, and I dare say a few lakes too. Not far from here is a cave where the Irish used to think their Gods came up from the Underworld on All Hallows Eve. When Patrick came here he chased the demons from it and sealed it with a rock. We know today that those Gods were just manifestations of the Devil and the cave a doorway to Hell.’
‘But Hel is Queen of the Dead,’ Einar said, confused. ‘Who is this Devil?’
Pol laughed. ‘You have much to learn, my friend, and I would like to teach you. Let us talk for a while.’
Einar frowned. ‘I’m not here to talk about religion. Is this cave you talk of where we seek?’
Po shook his head. ‘It’s on a mountainside. Holy Patrick had no water to walk on near it.’
‘Is there anywhere else it could be?’ Affreca asked.
‘Perhaps there is,’ Pol said. ‘But why should I tell you? So Ulrich can get his hands on those weapons and spread more death and misery around the world? I was once part of their band. I know what they do. I did them too. Terrible things. They speak of the gift Odin gives them. They speak in wonder of the purity of the divine rage. It’s a sort of trance you go into in battle and when it comes over you, you can do the most awful deeds. You feel no pain and you have no mercy. All compassion for fellow human beings disappears. You kill and maim and you like it. It gives you pleasure. And the more cruel the death, the more pain you cause, the more delighted you are.’
Einar noticed that the priest’s eyes had become glassy. His voice rose in volume.
‘And afterwards you revel in all the misery you created,’ Pol went on. ‘You glorify your massacres with songs and mead and you all agree what fine fellows you are, when all you have done is brought red slaughter to innocent men, women and children. Little children.’
Pol’s voice became a snarl and Einar realised he was struggling to hold back tears. He exchanged a concerned glance with Affreca.
‘I once had this ‘gift’,’ Pol went on. ‘Like the rest of them I thought I was blessed by Odin. But now I know I was cursed. Odin is just another mask worn by Satan. It is a demon he sends into us who steals away our souls and commands us to do wicked things. I have left that all behind. I will have no more part in it again.’
He glared at them, his eyes wide and face red with passion. Though Pol’s eyes were fixed on him, Einar somehow felt that he was gazing at something perhaps a thousand paces behind him. It was the same expression Einar had seen on Ulrich’s face when he was on the edge of his berserker rage on the shore where he had killed the Irish chieftain. For a few moments there was silence as the priest breathed heavily, then Pol closed his eyes, inhaling long and deep through his nose. He repeated this twice more, then opened his eyes again. It was like clouds had cleared from the sky as his temperament had calmed once more.
‘Forgive me,’ he said in a much quieter voice. ‘That old demon still tries to get back inside me. I keep watch for him all the time but sometimes he sneaks up on me and finds a way to get his claws back into my heart.’ He shook his head and looked at the floor. ‘That is why I will not help you.’
Einar’s shoulders sagged. ‘But you know where the place is? Skar said you would.’
‘I might,’ Pol said. ‘But Ulrich and his men will do great evil with those swords. If I was part of letting that happen I could not forgive myself. You must go.’
Affreca looked at Einar as they both wondered what to do. They could not leave without finding out where the cave was.
‘Go,’ the priest said, his anger rising again. ‘Just having my old shipmates in the village has given the demon who haunts me strength. I’ve battled him for years but your presence feeds him and gives him hope. Leave. Now!’
He advanced towards them, broom gripped in both hands like the shaft of an axe.
‘Wait,’ Einar said. ‘I understand why you would not want to help Ulrich, but what if by doing so, some good came out of it?’
The priest stopped. ‘What possible good could come of it?’
Affreca looked at Einar with an expression on her face that showed she was as puzzled as Pol.
‘If we help Ulrich get those weapons,’ Einar said, ‘he has pledged to help me save many lives.’
‘With swords?’ Pol raised an eyebrow.
‘My own mother’s is one of them,’ Einar said. ‘And when she is safe I intend to end the reign of my father. On the Orkney islands the native people suffer under the yoke of my father. He oppresses them. They are treated as slaves and they are Christians like you. Like my mother. The jarl does not allow them to practise their religion and they must meet in secret. If he finds out it is the death of them, in the worst way. Many have suffered the Blood-Eagle and others had their backs broken as sacrifices to Thor.’
Pol shook his head. ‘Our brethren suffer much all over this wicked Middle Earth. It is a time of terrible tribulation.’
‘What if we could help them?’ Einar continued. ‘I swear to you that if I can take my father’s throne I will free those people. They can worship the birds in the trees for all I care but they will no longer be slaves and they can build churches to meet in instead of the holes in the ground they use now.’
Pol looked like he had been slapped across the face. His mouth was slightly open. ‘So this would be a sort of holy war?’ He said. ‘But can a truly good thing ever come from evil? Can the ends justify the means?’
Einar was about to reply ‘yes’ but realised the priest was actually talking to himself.
At that moment the door banged open. Skar loomed in the entrance, he was panting and clearly in a hurry. For a moment he and Pol locked gazes, then Skar switched his gaze to Affreca.
‘There’s a ship coming. It looks like your father’s men have caught up with us, princess,’ he said. ‘We have to go.’
Affreca nodded and rushed out of the church past Skar. Einar hesitated, looking back at Pol.
‘All right,’ the priest said. ‘I’m coming with you. Someone needs to show you how Patrick walked on water.’