The White Raven

To my beautiful wife Kate, who navigates

us through the stormiest of waters to let me write in peace.

Title PageDedicationMapNovgorodChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter FourteenChapter FifteenChapter SixteenChapter SeventeenChapter EighteenHistorical NoteAcknowledgementsAlso By Robert LowCopyrightAbout the Publisher

NOVGOROD, Winter, 972 A.D.

On a crisp day with a grey sky and only a blinding white smear to show where the sun lurked, the prince’s executioners cut a good pine pole slightly taller than the height of a man, thin at one end, thick at the other.

The thin end they sharpened and greased, then they took the legs of the face-down woman and roped them by the ankles, pulling them wide apart. A man took a saddle-cloth, placed it on her back then sat on it to keep her still, while another bound each of her wrists with leather thongs, then tied them to two stakes, also wide apart. She screamed blood on to her teeth.

‘On this day, in the eighth year of the lordship of Prince Vladimir,’ intoned the crier, ‘this Metcherak woman was found guilty…’ and so on and so on.

‘Danica,’ muttered Thordis, soft enough so only we heard it. ‘Her name is Danica.’

Morning Star, it meant in the tongue of her Slav tribe. There would be no more morning stars for her. The stake was driven up into her while the executioners ignored her shrieks but made sure her white buttocks were decently covered as they hammered and pushed, to preserve her dignity from the droolers in the crowd. The white shift she wore was soon clinging provocatively to her all the same, soaked with her blood.

Impalement is not simple savagery; there is art to it and Vladimir’s executioners knew their work.

The sharpened stake was pushed, slowly and with skill up the woman’s body. It was, in a Loki joke, a healer’s art they used, for they knew how to avoid all the serious soft organs, the lungs and the heart and liver, despite her jerks and screams. There were frequent stops for adjustment, brief panting instructions and advice, one expert to another, as obscenely intimate as if they were all lovers. They stopped only once, to scatter wood shavings on the bloody snow and prevent them slipping in the slush of it.

One slash with a knife helped the point of the stake out through the skin of the upper back on the right side of the spine, proving that the stake had missed her heart; the crowd roared and the dignified, well-dressed worthies of Novgorod’s veche nodded their beards in approval as Danica was skewered like an ox on a spit. Still alive, as was proper.

They unroped her, then re-tied her legs together to the foot of the stake to avoid slippage when they raised it – gently, so as not to jolt the body – into a hole, which they packed with earth. It began to feather with new snow as the pole was then strutted with supports – and that was that, everything done according to the law and the rights of the veche.

Her bound feet offered no support and slowly, agonizingly, her own body-weight dragged her down the pole. It would take three days for the moaning, bleeding woman to die, while the snow turned crimson at her feet.

There was skill there and much to be admired in it as a statement of justice that made even the hardest balk at committing crimes in a city whose people called it Lord Novgorod the Great.

All the same, it was difficult to appreciate the full merit of this justice, since I was next in the queue – but I wondered if it was possible to find a price that would make the rulers of Novgorod keep that stake from my own puckering hole. Would a burial mound with all the silver of the world be enough?

ONE

HESTRENG, Ostergotland, early autumn, 972AD

The day before we were due to bring the horses down, it rained. I stuck my head out the door and, from the way the wind drove it, hissing like snakes from the sea, I knew it would rain for days.

Inside, Thorgunna fed the fire, stirring a cauldron already on it. Elfin-faced and breasted like a fine ship, that was Thorgunna. Dark haired and, as Kvasir put it ‘a prow-built woman’, she had a way of arching an eyebrow and staring at you with eyes black as old sheep droppings that made most of us wither. Everyone had marvelled at Kvasir marrying her – as Finn said, drunk at the wedding: ‘Too long at sea. What does the like of Kvasir Spittle want with a wife? Six months wintering with one of those and you will be begging to be back behind the prow beast.’

Beside her, Ingrid chopped kale, as blonde and slim as Thorgunna was not, her braids bobbing as she shot what she thought were sly looks for Botolf. She was already pupped by him and promised in public.

From Gunnarsgard, the next toft over, Thorgunna was sister to Thordis, who had married Tor Iron-Hand. The sisters had half-shares in Gunnarsgard – an unnatural way to treat a good steading, which should always go to the eldest – and their cousin, Ingrid, lived with them.