Glendalough Fair: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga) (Volume 4)

by James L. Nelson

  The weeks passed, and as they did the days grew longer and the cold loosened its grip. Thorgrim hoped that as the weather eased and the work began to near completion that the mood would lighten as well. He hoped that for the men of Vík-ló the shorter nights and the occasional glimpse of sun would bring a new, more hopeful view of the world.

  But they did not, at least not in any meaningful way that Thorgrim could see. In those long, cold, wet months, attitudes had hardened more than even Thorgrim realized. Factions had been formed, animosities compounded, and the easing of labor that came with the spring weather just gave the men more time to ponder their grievances.

  Minor irritations turned into fully fledged hatreds. Fistfights flared into brawls, leaving in their wake broken furniture and broken bones. But none of that seething anger, and none of the violence, had ever ended in drawn swords or dead men.

  Until now.

  Chapter Two

  Goddess of golden rain,

  who gives me great joy,

  may boldly hear report

  of her friend’s brave stand.

  Gisli Sursson’s Saga

  Thorgrim approached the rise in the ground that stood between him and the river and blocked his view of the fight. His hand rested on the grip of his sword, Iron-tooth, and the rain continued with not the least respite. He heard footsteps behind him and he turned to see Bersi Jorundarson come running up and fall in at his side.

  “Thorgrim,” Bersi said. “What’s the trouble?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Thorgrim said. “But whatever it might be, I can well image who’s behind it.”

  “Kjartan?”

  “That’s what I would imagine.”

  Thorgrim had never doubted that the men of Vík-ló would sift themselves out into this or that group, and that some hostility would arise between them. It’s what men did. His chief concern was that they would divide themselves up into Norwegians against Danes. But in the end it did not go that way. Instead the men had divided up by those whom they would follow, the chief men, the men who would be masters of the ships.

  Thorgrim’s crew mostly remained loyal to him, but some, those who had joined him in Dubh-linn just six months before, had become friends with the Danes and had gravitated to other camps.

  Most of the men who had followed Grimarr Giant remained loyal to Bersi, and so in turn were willing to show some loyalty toward Thorgrim. Skidi Oddson, known as Skidi Battleax, was another who had gained great stature among the men after the slaughter he had inflicted on the Irish and the death of so many of Grimarr’s chiefs. Skidi had his own following, and they were not so pleased by Thorgrim’s having been made Lord of Vík-ló. But neither were they so opposed to the arrangement that they were willing to start trouble, and they could be counted on if not pushed too hard.

  But some of the men, a ship’s crew, fifty or sixty, came under the sway of Kjartan Thorolfson, who was called Longtooth. Kjartan was loyal to none but Kjartan, and it was that very spirit of defiance that his men admired in him, and emulated.

  Kjartan had spent the winter undermining Thorgrim in a hundred subtle ways, never pushing so hard as to provoke a response that involved edged weapons. But that was coming – Thorgrim could feel that the careful balance would soon be upset – and when it did he would kill Kjartan and see what Kjartan’s men would make of that.

  Maybe the time has come at last, Thorgrim thought. He took the last steps up the rise, stopped and wiped the rain from his eyes. Spread out before him on the open ground near the river, the place where the wood for the ships’ construction had once been stored, was perhaps the oddest sight he had ever seen.

  There were a hundred men at least, too many to consider what they were doing a fight or a brawl. It was more akin to a battle, with swords flailing and men lying motionless on the ground and others shouting and struggling over the field.

  For a moment Thorgrim stood dumbfounded. The action of the men seemed slowed down in the driving rain which flooded Thorgrim’s eyes and made it difficult to get a clear view. The ground was soft and the fighting had churned it into a quagmire. Some of the men were streaked with mud where the rain had not washed it away, and others were thoroughly coated with the stuff.

  Maybe half the men were still standing. The others were thrashing and rolling in the muck, fighting with one another, fighting to regain their feet, fighting for breath. They slipped and staggered and seemed to struggle as hard to remain upright as they were struggling with one another. Swords and axes gleamed dull in the muted light, and Thorgrim could see blood on faces and arms, red and diluted by the downpour.

  He spent ten seconds, no more, looking down on the scene. Long enough to see that half the men at least were those who followed Kjartan Longtooth, and that Kjartan was himself in the thick of the fight. The rest were rallying to a man named Gudrun, one of Skidi’s men, though Skidi himself was nowhere to be seen. Sleeping off the previous night’s indulgence, no doubt. What could have started this all, Thorgrim could not imagine.

  “Come on, follow me!” Thorgrim shouted to the men behind him. “Break them up, and do it without killing or wounding any if you can!” He stepped forward, shield on his arm, Iron-tooth above his head. He shouted as he charged down the slope, a battle cry, a quivering wolf-howl that he hoped would get the attention of the combatants.

  Thorgrim hit the edge of the fight, charged into the closest group of brawling men. Came in with shield swinging. None of those in this melee had shields, Thorgrim saw, which meant they had not come to fight, and it gave him and his house guard a great advantage.

  He stepped in and the man to his left slashed with his sword, but Thorgrim caught it on the shield, the steel of the blade ringing on the iron boss. The man staggered from the impact and Thorgrim swung his shield the other way, catching the man to his right with the shield’s edge and sending him sprawling in the mud.

  “Put up your sword! Stop this foolishness!” Thorgrim shouted and the man, drenched and exhausted, nodded dumbly as Thorgrim plunged further into the fight.

  A battle ax came swinging through the press, appearing as if by magic, and Thorgrim managed to get his shield up in time to stop it. He felt the blade dig into the wood and he twisted the shield hard. The motion jerked the ax from its owner’s hand and Thorgrim smacked the man hard with the flat of his blade, and as he swung he felt his feet coming out from under him.

  With a curse he went down, bracing for the jarring impact with the ground, but it felt rather like dropping onto a pile of furs. He felt the mud grabbing at him but his eyes were up and he saw a sword coming down. He lifted his shield in time to take the blow, half sat up and swung his blade at the man’s legs. Again he hit with the flat of the blade and that was enough on that slick field to trip his assailant up.

  Thorgrim stood as the man fell, using his shield as a prop to help him to his feet. Another warrior was ranging up in front of him and Thorgrim, now aware of what an ally the mud could be, pushed the man and watched him fall backwards.

  This is madness, Thorgrim thought. There was no animosity in the men he was fighting, none that he could see. No reason for the fight. They were just worked up into a rage, all the frustrations and anger of the winter pent in the longphort coming out on this field of battle. It was like a brawl in a mead hall writ large. He had seen sharks frenzied in the same way.

  Someone was charging up on his side and he turned his head in time to see Godi grab the man and lift him bodily, one massive hand on his neck, the other grabbing his crotch. He hefted the shouting, flailing warrior over his head and flung him into a knot of fighting men and they all went down in a heap.

  Further to his right Thorgrim could see Starri Deathless hurling himself into the fight and knew there was trouble there. Thorgrim wanted the fight stopped, not escalated. That called for restraint, and restraint was not something Starri was good at.

  He turned to his right, certain that Harald would be standing there, and he was. As he opened his mouth to sp
eak Harald slammed his shield into the two men to his left who were struggling, arms around one another. The blow knocked them both to the ground where they released one another and struggled through the thick mud to regain their feet.

  Harald had sheathed his sword and now as one of Skidi’s men made a lurching attack he reached out and grabbed a fist-full of the man’s hair, right on the top of his head, and slammed it down on his upraised knee. The man seemed to bounce off the knee, his face now a smear of blood as he toppled back, bringing two more down with him as he fell.

  “Harald!” Thorgrim shouted. “Go fight with Starri! See he doesn’t hurt anyone any more than he has to!”

  Harald nodded, turned, slipped and went down with a curse, just as Thorgrim had. Thorgrim held his shield above both of them and offered the boy a hand. He pulled Harald to his feet, and only a wide stance and good luck prevented them both from going down again.

  Harald pushed off through the crowd and Thorgrim drove his shield into the men in front of him and sent them reeling, and in the moment of peace that bought him he looked around.

  His men, fresh and bearing shields, were making progress in getting the fighting men apart. Some who had been in the midst of the brawl were now abandoning the fight, some upright, some sprawled out, maybe wounded, maybe dead. Some had staggered off to collapse in the places that still sported grass. But many were still flailing at one another with swords and axes and fists.

  Thorgrim looked to his left. One of Kjartan’s men, a big son of a bitch named Gest, second in command of Dragon, came bursting from the press, battle ax raised, his mouth, framed by a massive beard, wide in a scream of fury. The ax came down at Thorgrim with an execution blow and Thorgrim just managed to get his shield up in time to stop it before it cleaved his head in two.

  The ax lodged in the wood of the shield and Thorgrim felt his feet going out from under him in the slick mud. But before he could fall Gest jerked his ax free, pulling Thorgrim back on balance, allowing him to keep his feet and Thorgrim thought, Thank you.

  Gest took another awkward swing and Thorgrim was able to sidestep it, but before he could counterstrike he saw another of Kjartan’s men come from the crowd, sword in hand and lunging for his guts.

  Thorgrim swung Iron-tooth at the coming blade. He pushed his right foot down until the mud had hold of it. He pressed the shield against his shoulder and shoved it into Gest who was just then bringing his ax back over his head. Gest stumbled and his feet went out from under him on the slick ground and he fell back with arms splayed and a roar of outrage.

  In the space opened by Gest’s fall Kjartan Thorolfson stood, sword in one hand, ax in the other. He was breathing hard and coated with mud, his hair and beard soaked through, his eyes locked on Thorgrim. He stepped quick around the struggling Gest and came at Thorgrim with weapons on the move.

  You should be trying to stop this, you whore’s son, Thorgrim thought even as he fended off Kjartan’s attack and lunged in counterpoint. Subversive as he might be, Kjartan was one of the leading men of Vík-ló. He should be stopping the men there from killing one another, not trying to cut down the lord of the longphort.

  Thorgrim saw a motion to his right and parried with his blade, quick enough to stop a death thrust, not quick enough to stop the blade from piercing his tunic and running along his side, opening up a wound, sharp and warm.

  “Bastard!” Thorgrim shouted and brought Iron-tooth up and drove it into the man’s stomach, all thought of restraint gone in the fighting madness. He turned back toward Kjartan with a whirling motion, leading with his shield, knocking Kjartan’s weapons aside and lunging for his chest. He felt the familiar sensation of his blade scraping off chainmail, then he swung back in the other direction as yet another of Kjartan’s men joined the fight.

  Mail…Thorgrim thought. Mail… Some warning was ringing in his head, but with the rain and the shouting and searing wound in his side he could not understand it. He batted the new attack away, slashed at the attacker, missed his face by inches as the man leapt back.

  Again Thorgrim felt his feet going out from under him, but he managed to step back before he went down and met a new attack from Kjartan.

  Mail! The man’s wearing mail! No one else in this fight was wearing mail, but Kjartan was. As if he had been anticipating this all along. Planning it.

  Thorgrim met Kjartan’s sword with Iron-tooth’s blade, caught Kjartan’s ax with his shield. He stepped in and gave Kjartan a kick in the stomach which sent him reeling but he did not go down.

  “Is this what your fight is all about?” Thorgrim shouted. “All this to kill me?”

  Kjartan made a sound somewhere between a growl and a shout. He pushed himself off, leading with his sword, ax raised. Thorgrim dropped his shield to his side and waited, Iron-tooth ready to move. Two steps and Kjartan was on him, but Iron-tooth stayed where it was. Thorgrim brought his shield up fast and slammed it into the oncoming man, stopping him dead, hurling him back. Kjartan stumbled, arms wide, eyes wide. His feet came up and he shouted as he fell and came to a stop flat on his back, half sunk in the grabbing mud.

  Thorgrim leapt forward. There was a ringing in his ear that seemed to blot out the liquid noise of the rain and the shouting and the odd voice calling, “Lord Thorgrim! Lord Thorgrim!”

  The voice seemed to come like a dream and then hands grabbed his arms and shoulders and stopped him as he was stepping up to Kjartan to drive his sword through the man’s chest. It was only after he heard the words repeated again that he realized someone was actually calling for him.

  “Lord Thorgrim!”

  Thorgrim lowered his sword and shield and his body relaxed, and those holding his arms and shoulders let them go and stepped aside. Thorgrim turned to see a young man running up to him, one of Skidi’s men who had been posted as a sentry on the newly rebuilt wall.

  “What?” Thorgrim asked. His eyes were back on Kjartan.

  “Skidi bid me tell you there are riders. Riders coming. Irishmen.”

  Thorgrim let those words swirl around in his mind. Riders. Irishmen. That could be anything. Important. Mundane. But the one thing it could not be was ignored.

  Thorgrim looked at the blade of his sword. The rain had washed it clean. He thrust the weapon back into his scabbard. He looked down at Kjartan, still supine in the mud. “I’m called away by other concerns,” he said. “We’ll see to finishing this later.” He turned his back on Kjartan and walked away. He did not wait for a reply.

  Chapter Three

  The Monastic city of the western world

  Is Glendalough of the Assemblies.

  Féilire of Oengus, c. 800 CE

  The country west of Vík-ló, the land that the Irish called Cill Mhantáin, rose quickly as it left the sea, climbing up into a series of high, rounded mountains that marched away inland. These were not the ragged and inhospitable cliffs of the Irish coast or those of the Northmen’s homeland, but altogether more gentle and welcoming hills. And in those days of early spring the high country did indeed seem to welcome the traveler and tempt him to weave his way through the lush valleys.

  Twelve miles into those mountains, nestled in a valley where two lakes where held like water cupped in God’s hands, was the monastic city of Glendalough.

  Christianity had come to Glendalough two hundred years before with the arrival of St. Kevin, who sought only solitude there. The valley of the two lakes was well chosen. Anyone standing by the placid water and looking out at the green rolling land above could see there was something eternal and mystical there. For two centuries since pilgrims had flocked to that holy place.

  Glendalough had boasted no more than a simple clay and wattle church in the beginning, but it had become home to one of the great monasteries of Ireland, one of the strongholds of faith and learning that had preserved the cumulative knowledge of civilization when the unifying power of Rome had crumbled into warring chaos. Glendalough, rich in the monastic spirit, was now fat with wealth from the herds of cat
tle that grazed the surrounding fields and the gold and silver and the jewel-encrusted reliquaries that adorned the massive stone cathedral.

  The church was Glendalough’s physical and spiritual center. As solid as a granite outcropping, it rose fifty feet above the trampled ground and stretched for one hundred feet on a line running east to west. The lesser buildings that supported the monastery, monastic cells and guest houses, a cloister made of heavy oak beams roofed with thatch, a library of sorts, the abbot’s house, gathered around the great church like courtiers around a king. The whole was enclosed by a vallum, a low wall meant not for defense but rather to mark the boundary of the sanctuary offered by the monastic community.

  A second low stone wall, two hundred feet from the vallum, encircled the rest of the land that made up the monastery. Within its confines stood the more secular and prosaic of the monastic buildings: the bakery, the kitchen, the creamery, the stables. This outer wall was higher and more substantial than the vallum, but in terms of defense it was only marginally more impressive.

  Beyond the outer wall and huddled up against it was the town that had grown in the shadow of the monastery at Glendalough, a town at least by Irish standards. A few dirt streets – mud now in the incessant rain – ran off like spokes and were crossed here and there by others that met them at various odd angles. Scattered along the streets were sundry small homes with their workshops attached, the blacksmiths and glass workers and butchers and leatherworkers and weavers, all the commerce that clung to the monastery and flourished like moss on a boulder.

  Just as the church was the heart of the monastic site, so the town square formed the center of the outlying community. One hundred perches on each side, the square was filled with people and stalls on market day, and even more so on feast days and fairs. The wealthy merchants and landowners who chose to live in Glendalough enjoyed homes that looked out over the square. The best of those bordered the monastery’s outer wall which put them closer to the church and the sanctuary to be found there.