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

by James L. Nelson

  Thorgrim crossed over to Kevin as the last of his men entered and the door was pushed closed against the wind. “Welcome,” he said and extended a hand, which Kevin took. The Irishman replied, something in his native tongue, some acknowledgement of the greeting. Harald was there, but he did not bother to translate.

  Segan approached, showing more supplication to Kevin than he ever showed Thorgrim, and took Kevin’s cloak. The clothes underneath were no more dry than the outer garment but that did not hide their quality, the best suit of clothes Thorgrim had yet seen on Kevin, and he guessed that silver was flowing from various directions into the man’s purse.

  He took the Irishman by the elbow and led him over to the fire. Segan reappeared with a horn of mead for him and one for Thorgrim. Such hospitality was expected of a host, and Thorgrim genuinely wished to make his guest comfortable. But not too comfortable. If negotiations were to follow it would be to Thorgrim’s advantage to be warm and dry while the Irishman remained soaked and miserable.

  Kevin stood in front of the fire for a moment, silent, looking into the flames, shuffling as close as he could without singeing himself. He took a deep drink of mead then turned to Thorgrim and spoke. Harald, standing at Thorgrim’s side, translated.

  “He says, ‘What think you of our Irish weather, now spring has come?’” Kevin wore the hint of a smile as he waited for the answer.

  “Tell him the weather is what I would expect of a country so clearly and so deservedly cursed by the gods.”

  Harald translated. Kevin smiled broader and spoke again.

  “He says, ‘There is only one God, and he has indeed cursed this land,’” Harald said.

  Thorgrim smiled and lifted his horn and Kevin did the same and they touched them together. This was perhaps the third or fourth time the men had met, and each of their meetings had been more beneficial than the last.

  The first had taken place just a month and a half after the Irish army under Lorcan mac Fáeláin had attacked Vík-ló and had been crushed by the Norse defenders. Lorcan had been killed, and dozens of others with him, including most of his chief men who had been in the forefront of the fighting. Grimarr Giant, lord of Vík-ló, had been killed as well. In the course of thirty bloody minutes, the entire structure of power and rule in that part of Ireland had been tossed in the air and blown away like chaff.

  After the fight the Northmen had seen nothing of the Irish until the day Kevin rode up to the walls of Vík-ló. He had approached the earthworks with caution, forty armed men behind him. Thorgrim had been summoned to the wall as soon as it was clear the riders were making for the longphort. He brought Harald and Bersi with him. He did not know why the Irishmen had come, though he had some idea which he kept to himself. And that was a good thing, because his idea was entirely wrong.

  The Irish delegation was just beyond a comfortable arrow shot when they stopped and Kevin called out in a voice calculated to sound commanding.

  “He says he is Kevin mac Lugaed and he is the lord of this area,” Harald translated, “and he would ask safe conduct to speak with the lord of Vík-ló.”

  The shouted negotiations continued on for a few minutes more, but once it was clear to Thorgrim the Irish did not have men enough to pose a threat to Vík-ló, and once Kevin felt confident he would not be killed or bundled off to the slave markets in Frisia, the gates were open and the riders came through.

  Kevin missed nothing: the rebuilt walls and palisades, the stacks of logs and cut wood down by the water, the smoke rising from the two halls and the blacksmith shop and the various homes. Thorgrim could practically see him calculating the power and the wealth of the longphort. He wondered if spying was the real reason for the visit. He assumed the Irishman had come to try to dislodge the Northmen from Vík-ló, to either tell them to leave or bribe them to leave, depending on the strength of Irish arms.

  Kevin mac Lugaed, it turned out, had not come to threaten or bribe. He had come to trade. The men of Vík-ló, he figured, would be in need of food and drink, particularly with winter coming on. He suspected that the Northmen had a considerable amount of silver and gold, a thing that he needed to bolster his status and to keep his men happy and loyal. Surely, he thought, a deal could be reached.

  “Perhaps,” Thorgrim said, speaking through his son. “Perhaps not. I don’t know if you are even in a position to make such deals. Who are you, exactly?”

  Kevin mac Lugaed was not offended by the question, and Thorgrim was starting to understand that he was not the sort of man who would ever take offense when there was money on the table.

  “I am the rí túaithe of the lands around here, including Cill Mhantáin, which you Northmen apparently call Vík-ló,” Kevin answered.

  This was translated and Thorgrim and Bersi nodded. Kevin continued on. “Before, I was of the aire forgill, the Lords of Superior Testimony, not the rí túaithe, you see….” Harald translated. Kevin saw the looks of confusion on the Northmen’s faces. He waved his hand.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “The point is, Lorcan was killed and most of his men were killed, and as it happens I am the man of highest rank still left alive, and so I am now lord of these lands. And that is why I have the authority to bargain with you. And I wish to bargain with you, because it is in my interest to do so. And I think it will be in your interest to bargain with me.”

  And it was. Kevin’s arrival had been timely, because Thorgrim, as newly-minted lord of Vík-ló, was just starting to worry about the very problem of keeping his men fed and sufficiently inebriated throughout the long winter months. At the time of Kevin’s arrival they were still able to make the voyage to Dubh-linn in the diminutive Fox and bring supplies back to Vík-ló, but soon the winter weather would close that down. Thorgrim did not know how they would supply themselves after that. And here the answer came riding in from the hills like a gift from the gods.

  Thorgrim did not trust Kevin, of course, or at least he was wary of him, as he was of all Irish. But Kevin proved as good as his word. Wagons loaded with sacks of flour made from barley and rye, barrels of ale, smoked meat, dried fish and wine soon rolled up to the gate in Vík-ló’s earthen wall. The quality was as good as Thorgrim had dared hope, which was not very good, but it beat starving by a league. Thorgrim had paid Kevin in silver for the foodstuff, a bit more silver than it was worth, and Kevin had gone away greatly satisfied.

  The next time Kevin arrived Thorgrim could not help but notice that his clothes were a bit finer than the last, his men better fitted out. He wore a gold chain around his neck. He and Thorgrim, along with Bersi, Skidi and Kjartan, ate and drank and discussed expanding their trade, and soon Kevin was selling the Northmen cloth and grindstones and coils of rope along with the meat and fish and ale.

  The next time he came he brought women. Just a few, and not slaves, but Irish women who were looking for men, for husbands. Thorgrim imagined that after all the carnage of the past summer there were not Irishmen enough left for all the young women and new-made widows.

  Thorgrim almost turned them away, knowing that a few women among all those men could be more of a problem than none at all. But by the time he and Kevin had even begun discussing it, word had raced through the longphort and there would be no way to send the women away without starting an ugly war.

  The commerce between Vík-ló and whatever passed for the kingdom of Kevin mac Lugaed continued to grow and prove beneficial to all concerned. Thorgrim and Kevin developed a friendship, of sorts. Thorgrim was not so sentimental or soft in the head as to think Kevin actually liked him, or was pleased by the presence of the Northmen on Irish soil. Their friendship was more superficial and self-serving than that.

  And so, as the rain lashed his hall and the fire in the hearth popped and hissed and flared, Thorgrim Night Wolf found himself wondering once more what Kevin mac Lugaed was bringing to him, what new bargain, what intrigue he had concocted during the long winter nights.

  They stood at the edge of the flames and continue
d to speak by way of Harald, each man asking the other how things fared for him and the men and women under their authority, both probing none too subtly for information, for some advantage. The door opened, bringing with it a blast of cold and wet and Bersi stepped in, wrapped like a farm wife in a wool blanket. A few minutes after that Skidi Oddson joined them

  Segan brought drinking horns for the newly arrived men and refilled Kevin’s as quick as the Irishman could drain it, as Thorgrim had instructed. He hoped it might make Kevin a bit less crafty, a bit more open in his speech, though in truth he had never seen the man in the least affected by drink that he could tell.

  At last, their legs growing tired, Thorgrim ordered a table and chairs brought close to the fire and the four men and Harald sat. No introductions were needed. Bersi and Skidi had both been part of the earlier bargaining. Kjartan as well. Thorgrim knew it was better to make his chief men part of such things rather than let suspicions grow into distrust and anger.

  Segan put a platter of roasted beef, cheese and brown bread on the table. Thorgrim said, “All right, Kevin, you have drank enough of my mead, what new thing brings you to Vík-ló?”

  Harald was halfway through the translation when the door opened again and Kjartan came into the hall. He wore no mail this time, just a hood and cloak which draped over the sword hanging at his side. His eyes darted around the space, a quick assessment of potential threats. He did not know what he was stepping into and he was wary.

  “Night Wolf, you sent word of a meeting,” Kjartan said.

  Thorgrim said nothing at first, letting his emotions settle before he replied. He wanted nothing more than to drag Kjartan back out into the rain and finish what they had begun, but this was not the moment. Not with Kevin watching their every move, gauging any weakness, even if he could not understand the words they spoke.

  “Yes,” Thorgrim said at last, spitting the words like they were sour in his mouth. “Kevin mac Lugaed has come to speak with us. You have the right to join this council.”

  And then I will kill you, he thought.

  Kjartan pulled up a stool and sat. Thorgrim looked at Kevin, who was understandably confused by the Norse jabber, the sudden and obvious tension in the room. He looked at the other men, but their expressions were unreadable. He turned to Kevin once more and said, “You were telling us what business it is that brings you here?” he said.

  Kevin leaned back and took a long pull of his mead as Harald rendered Thorgrim’s words into Gaelic. His eyes moved around the table, taking each man in turn, gauging him, getting the sum of him. Then he spoke. Harald translated.

  “Kevin says, ‘Have you men ever heard of a monastery called Glendalough’?”

  Chapter Nine

  God’s house is threefold. Some pray in it, some fight in it, some work in it.

  Aldalbero, Bishop of Laon

  Louis de Roumois trudged along in Father Finnian’s wake, cloak wrapped tight around him, head down, lost in his physical and spiritual misery. He paid little attention to where they were going, expecting, without really thinking about it, that they would head for the small building which housed the monks’ cells, Louis home for the past year or more. And so he was surprised to find himself in the stable, sheltered from the rain by the thatched roof, embraced by the familiar smell of leather and straw and the horses in the stalls that lined the north side.

  “Wait here,” Finnian said and disappeared back into the rain. Louis found a dim corner of the building and sat on a heap of straw and listened to the rain coming down. The stables were deserted, no one was much interested in being on horseback on such a day, and Louis was glad for the solitude and the chance to further indulge his despair.

  But soon Finnian was back and he carried a robe with him, which he handed to Louis. Louis did not ask where he had found it, and he was grateful that Finnian did not ask how he had come to lose his old one. He took off the cape and handed it back to Finnian and then slipped the robe over his head. It was rough and penitential, as such things generally were, but dry and warm, and it felt marvelous.

  Finnian handed Louis the cord belt and Louis tied it around his waist. He heard the sound of footsteps, soft on the straw-covered floor, and turned toward the front part of the stable to see who was coming. Finnian did not look, however, as if he was expecting the newcomer, which Louis soon realized he was.

  It was Brother Lochlánn, a fellow novitiate, a few years younger than Louis but one who had been at the monastery at Glendalough much longer. Louis knew little about the boy and cared even less. He was a surly sort, always grumbling about his superiors and lording it over the younger and weaker boys. Louis had never given Lochlánn much thought, but he understood that the young man came from wealth and had been sent to the monastery against his will, no doubt by parents eager to be rid of him, which Louis could understand.

  Surprising as it was to see Brother Lochlánn there, it was more surprising still to see that he held two swords in his hand, each sheathed in its own scabbard. He held them awkwardly, as if he felt he was doing something he knew he should not be doing.

  “Ah, Brother Lochlánn, there you are!” Finnian said. He stepped over and took the swords from the boy’s hands. “Brother Louis, Brother Lochlánn here thinks he is more fit to be a man-at-arms than a priest, isn’t that right, Brother Lochlánn?”

  The young novitiate shrugged and did not say anything. His expression, however, strongly suggested that he thought Finnian a fool and Louis a fool and likely the rest of the known world a fool.

  “Brother Lochlánn,” Finnian continued, “has been telling some of the other novitiates who will listen that monks and priests and such are weaklings and cowards. He has proved his own manhood by thrashing some of the younger boys.”

  Finnian handed one of the swords to Louis, who took it with some reluctance.

  “Brother Lochlánn is very brave with those younger than him,” Finnian continued, “and since he fancies himself a bold warrior I thought perhaps you might let him take a few passes at you. To show his prowess against one closer in age and size to himself.”

  Louis drew the sword from the scabbard. He gave no thought to doing so, his arm seemed to move of its own accord, and there was the long straight blade gleaming dull in the twilight of the stable. It was not the finest weapon Louis had held, not by far, but it was decent, and he relished the sensation of holding the sword, at once so familiar and yet so long denied. He felt a thrill run through him, like the first time he ran his hand over Failend’s smooth skin.

  “Will you?” Finnian said, interrupting the reverie. “Will you let Brother Lochlánn take a pass or two at you?”

  Louis looked up at Finnian. “Why do you think I know the use of such a weapon?” he asked.

  Finnian shrugged. “I had a notion you might.” He handed the other sword to Lochlánn, who took it less willingly that Louis had. “Go ahead,” Finnian said, “draw the blade.”

  Brother Lochlánn glared at Finnian and then glared at Louis. “If I wound him or kill him I’ll be brought before the law,” he said grudgingly.

  “What,” Finnian said, “are you afraid of the law? Or…are you afraid of Brother Louis?”

  “Afraid of…” Lochlánn spluttered. “No, I am not afraid of that…” His voice trailed off.

  “That what?” Louis asked, but Lochlánn just glared at him with an expression equal parts contempt and anger.

  “Very well,” Louis said, stepping away from Finnian and swinging his sword idly left and right to warm the muscles of his arm. “I give you my word as a gentleman you will not be brought before the law for any grievous injury you do me.”

  He understood now exactly what Father Finnian was after and he knew very well how to deliver it. He had doled out such lessons many times before, to arrogant young bucks all puffed up with themselves who had come to join his men-at-arms.

  “Go on,” Finnian said, looking at Lochlánn and gesturing toward Louis, who now had fighting room around him. Lochl�
�nn pulled his sword and tossed the scabbard aside. He held the sword in a way that told Louis quite a bit. The young man was not entirely unfamiliar with weapons – he had had some training – but neither was he very well practiced in swordplay.

  A little knowledge, dangerous, dangerous, Louis thought, and as he did Lochlánn took a wild lunge. It was too awkward to warrant much of a response, so Louis flicked his blade sideways and knocked the attack out of line and then stepped aside so the stumbling Lochlánn did not fall into him. As the young man staggered past, Louis gave him a firm whack on the backside with the flat of his sword.

  Lochlánn straightened and turned and his face was red with anger.

  “Don’t get angry,” Louis said. “You’ll lose every time.”

  Lochlánn made a growling sound and advanced, more cautiously this time. Louis extended his sword and Lochlánn began to parry it, but then made a quick circle around Louis’s blade, a move he no doubt thought was very clever, and lunged again. Once again Louis carelessly knocked the blade aside, stepped in and hit Lochlánn even harder on the backside, stepping clear as Lochlánn tried to counterstroke.

  “You Frankish whore’s son,” Lochlánn growled and Louis shook his head.

  “What did I tell you?” Louis said. “Don’t get mad.” The boy was hopeless. Louis lowered his sword so the point was resting on the ground and gave Lochlánn his most arrogant smirk, one that was certain to send the young man into paroxysms of fury, which it did.

  He came at Louis one more time. Subtlety had not worked with the last pass, so this time he tried brute strength, swinging hard with the sword. Louis held his own blade up and let the steel take the force of Lochlánn’s blow. He felt the impact in his hand – Lochlánn was not a small boy, nor was he weak – but he managed to check the blow as if Lochlánn’s sword had struck a wall.