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

by James L. Nelson

  Louis nodded. “I agree. My men are ready to drop from exhaustion. I propose we march a mile or so up the road and find a place to bed down. Set a guard, sleep on our weapons. March back to camp at first light.”

  “Yes, that would be best,” Aileran said. “Is that a woman?”

  The abrupt change of subject caught Louis by surprise. He turned to look in the direction Aileran was looking, though of course he knew perfectly well to whom he referred.

  “Yes,” Louis said, turning back to the captain of the men-at-arms. “That is Failend, wife of Colman mac Breandan. She followed our column from camp. Had a notion to see a battle, apparently.”

  Aileran nodded but said nothing more. He turned and ordered his men to fall in behind Louis’s, and the line of weary armed men headed off. In the moonlight the road looked like an old scar across the grassy country and it was simple enough to follow. Despite the easy going men stumbled here and there as they walked. Lochlánn’s toe caught a small rock and he nearly went down, and Failend kept dropping behind and then taking a few quick steps to catch up again. They had all been pushed to the point of exhaustion and beyond.

  Off in the distance, a few hundred feet away, Louis could see where the open country was broken by a stand of trees, a dark towering presence in the night, a good place to which to retreat if an enemy came on them in the dark. He slowed his march and called for a halt, and the column behind him shuffled until they were still.

  “We will bed down here for the night,” Louis said. “Captain Aileran and I will post guards. The rest of you make your beds here. Keep your weapons handy, sleep in your mail if you have it. Any who have water, share with those who do not.” He cursed himself for not anticipating this, for not bringing food. “We move again at first light,” he added.

  There was no comment, not a word was spoken. The men were too exhausted for that. They stumbled off toward the field and dropped here and there. Some pulled cloaks over themselves; most did not bother. Four minutes after Louis had given the order, the field was strewn with motionless bodies, as if it was his men and not the heathens who had suffered a great loss in battle.

  Failend found a spot a bit away from the rest. She sat but she did not lie down. Instead she drew her knees up close to her chest and seemed to stare out into the night.

  Aileran appeared out of the dark and he and Louis took a moment to discuss the placement of sentries, then Aileran went off again to see it done. Louis, now bereft of excuses, sighed and shuffled over to Failend and sat beside her.

  He had not really spoken to her since Colman had caught them in their act, just a few words when he had the chance. He had managed an apology. She had accepted. She did not seem angry or disgusted with him. Indeed he had the notion that he was more angry and disgusted with himself.

  “Have you come to apologize to me again?” she asked. “For humping me and then leaving me to face my husband alone?”

  “No,” Louis said. “Should I?”

  “No,” Failend said. “I suppose you’ve done enough of that. But I always enjoy it.”

  They were quiet for a moment. Louis watched as the unhappy men chosen to stand the first watch were roused from their sleep and pushed off to their posts. “What were you doing today? At the heathens’ camp?” he asked.

  “Killing heathens. Like you,” Failend said.

  “Your husband let you go? Did he know you were following us?” Louis noticed that neither of them cared to speak Coleman’s name.

  “I told him,” Failend said. “I told him I was going to do that, to follow you to the fighting. I don’t know if he believed me. And if he did I don’t think he would be much grieved to see me dead. It would save him a great deal of trouble.”

  They were quiet again. Then Louis said, “Aren’t you afraid of being killed? Aren’t you afraid of your husband, or the heathens?”

  For a long time Failend did not answer, as if she was genuinely considering the question. Finally she said, “Yes, I’m afraid of those things. But I’m more afraid of being bored.”

  That was not at all what Louis had expected, and he did not know how to reply, so he did not. They sat in silence for some time longer and then Louis stood, his muscles protesting the motion. “Good night, Failend,” he said, and staggered off to a place at the fringe of the sleeping men and lay down again, flat on his back. He closed his eyes and felt the warm tide of sleep come over him. Then, as it carried him off, he was jostled, just slightly, just enough to pull him back into the waking world. Someone had laid down beside him. Failend. He realized as much in the same instant as he came awake.

  “Failend?” he whispered stupidly. He felt her hands under his cloak, just the pressure of them through his mail shirt. He felt them move over his chest and down along his thighs. He heard her make a soft dove-like sound as she nestled her face into his neck.

  Louis recognized what she was feeling: that dissipation of energy, the long, slow settling of the passions raised by battle. It was often manifested in a consuming sexual desire. Louis had seen it many times, had felt it himself. For the whores in the taverns along the River Seine there were few nights as lucrative as those when Louis and his mounted warriors had repelled a raid by the Northmen. But he had never seen that particular phenomenon in a woman because he had never seen a woman take part in a battle.

  “Failend, this won’t do,” he said. He rolled onto his side, facing her, and even as he did it he knew he was lost. He could see her face in the moon’s light, her smooth white skin, her over-large eyes, the soft brown hair tumbling around her head. His nose was filled with the scent of her; dried sweat, but not like a man’s sweat, strong and repulsive, but rather carrying on it the smell of the perfumed oils Failend used, and under that the scent of a strong, fearless, bold woman.

  She reached up with her hand and stroked the side of his face and he leaned down toward her and kissed her. She put her hand on the back of his head and drew him in and he kissed her with growing passion, his exhaustion left in the wake of this stronger need. He left her lips and ran his mouth over her long neck and up behind her ear, breathing in the smell of her skin and hair the way one breathes in the fresh air of an early morning.

  He leaned back again, looked into her eyes. They gleamed in the moonlight and he saw the thrill and desire in them. In his head a voice screamed Don’t do this! Don’t do this, you damned, damned fool!

  Then he heard his own voice speaking, though he seemed to have no control over the words. “Let’s move away from camp, over by the stand of trees,” he whispered. Failend gave a small nod, a hint of a smile. Louis de Roumois cursed himself, cursed his weakness and his utter lack of resolve, but still he stood and snatched up his cloak and took Failend’s hand and walked her over toward the wood. The guards were arrayed to look in the other direction, toward the heathens’ camp, and the rest of the men were in deep sleep. No one saw them move.

  Louis spread his cloak down on the grass and Failend laid down on top of it. Louis unbuckled his sword and tossed it aside, then shucked his mail shirt in one smooth, practiced motion and dropped down beside her. Their arms wrapped around one another, their lips pressed hungry together. Failend pulled her brat over her shoulders. They kissed again, their breath coming in short gasps. Louis grabbed the soft, thin linen of Failend’s leine and pulled it over her head and Failend struggled with Louis’s tunic until he helped her to get it off. They pressed against each other, feeling the delicious sensation of skin pressed on skin and the cool night air blowing over them.

  They tried to be quiet and were mostly successful, though once Louis had to clap his hand over Failend’s mouth. Still, the distance from the others and the sounds of the night and the dead sleep into which their company had fallen sufficiently covered the gasping, moaning, thrashing noise of their passion. Or so Louis hoped.

  When it was over Louis pulled the edge of his cloak over Failend’s body and half over his own and fell into a sleep of near perfection. His slumber was marred only
by a vague but persistent nagging that prodded at him, even unconscious as he was, until finally, sometime in the deep hours of morning, long before the sky showed even a hint of light, he woke with a start.

  He came awake but not fully aware, not entirely certain of where he was. He was naked, and Failend was beside him, and they were outside, which was odd and very dream-like and he was not at all certain he wasn’t still sleeping. And then, like a curtain pulled back to reveal a view through a window, Louis recalled everything, and he knew what it was that was nagging at him. He was not on some frolic, some illicit affair de coeur, he was in the field. He was campaigning. He could not lie here naked and vulnerable when he expected every man under his command to be instantly ready.

  He stood as quietly as he could. Failend moved a bit and made some low muttering sound, but did not wake. He found his leggings and pulled them on and his tunic as well. His mail was lying in a heap where he had dropped it, a dark mound of steel links barely visible in the grass. He stood for a moment staring at it. He did not want to put it on. He had already sacrificed such supreme comfort in order to dress himself. He felt like the mail was too much to bear.

  “Merde,” he said, just a whisper, as he reached for the shirt. It made a soft sound like a shovel in gravel as he lifted it and pulled it over his head. He had told his men to sleep in their mail, and he could not tell them to do a thing he would not do himself. It was the first lesson Ranulf had taught him, and perhaps the most important.

  He settled the mail shirt in place and picked up his sword and belt. Before he laid down again he ran his eyes over the field in which his men slept. He could see no one, not the sentries, not even the dark humps that represented sleeping men, but that did not surprise him. The moon had set behind the trees and only the stars were there to cast light on the ground. He thought he saw a figure moving among the men, but he could not be certain.

  Coming to wake the next watch, he thought, and with that he eased himself down onto his knees and laid down again next to Failend, his sword at his side. He reminded himself that he would have to move before first light, that he could not be discovered in so compromising a position. That Failend would have to dress herself. But for the moment the warmth of the cloak and her body, even though the mail, the smell of her, was too much to resist. He closed his eyes. He slept.

  And then he woke. He did not know why. He did not know how long he had been asleep. He opened his eyes. Failend’s face was inches from his. It was still dark, still black night.

  He heard a step, soft and stealthy. He pushed himself up on his elbow and the man approaching saw the move and closed the short distance with three quick steps. He put a foot on Louis’s chest and pushed him down again. Louis could see the weak light of the stars glinting off the steel of the man’s sword. He held the weapon motionless, just for an instant, and then drove it two-handed down at

  Louis’s chest.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Relieve, O King of grey heaven,

  the misery you have sent us.

  Annals of Ulster

  “Bâtard!” Louis gasped as the sword point plunged down at his chest. He made a sweeping gesture with his right arm, knocking the blade aside, knocking it to his right, away from where Failend lay. He felt the steel scrape against his mail shirt and stab into the soft ground beside him.

  The man above him had expected the blade to hit Louis’s chest; missing and stabbing the ground threw him off balance. Louis reached up and grabbed the man’s sword arm, pulled down and rolled, jerking the killer sideways.

  The attacker went down and Louis kept on rolling, coming up on his feet. He snatched his sword from the ground and wrapped his fingers around the hilt and flicked the scabbard off. He heard Failend gasp behind him. The stranger, this apparition of a man, was struggling to stand. Louis lunged and felt the blade deflected by mail. The stranger brought his arm down on Louis’s sword and knocked it aside and Louis took a quick step back in case there was a counter attack.

  There was none. The man had lost his sword when Louis rolled him over and now he stood in a crouch, a dagger in his hand, a useless weapon against Louis’s long blade. The man circled around, working his way to Louis’s left, keeping low, the dagger held ready. Louis could hear the sound of voices off in the distance. Their fight had attracted attention, but he knew better than to turn his head and look. Nor did he care to call out, to bring men running and have them discover him and a naked Failend off by themselves.

  “Put down the knife and get on your knees and I won’t kill you,” Louis growled. The man made no move to comply and Louis realized he had spoken in Frankish. He started to reform the words in Irish when the man made a darting move to Louis’s right, as if trying to get in around the sword. Louis swung the weapon to block him and quick as a snake the man changed the direction of his attack and darted to the left, not at Louis but at Failend.

  “Bâtard!” Louis cried again and lunged. He felt the tip of the sword strike but the thrust was not powerful enough to pierce the steel links of the man’s shirt. And then, before his dagger could find her, Failend snatched up the attacker’s sword and swung it at him in a wide arc. The flat of the blade hit the assassin on the side of the head and sent him staggering.

  Failend was on her feet and, to Louis’s surprise, she was wearing her leine. She held the man’s sword in her hand and brought it back over her shoulder like she was going to chop wood.

  “No!” Louis shouted. He brought the flat of his sword down on the man’s hand, the sound of the blow loud in the night. The man gasped, the dagger fell. There were footsteps coming closer, one man at least racing toward them. More, perhaps. Louis risked a glance now, saw Aileran materialize out of the dark, sword drawn. He drew the blade back as he ran.

  “Aileran!” Louis shouted, “I’m…” but he got no further. Aileran swung his blade in a powerful backhand stroke and caught the assassin in the neck. Louis could see the spray of blood in the moonlight as the man twisted, choked, fell kicking to the ground.

  “Damn!” Louis shouted, then shut his mouth tight. He was angry. He wanted the man alive, wanted to learn from him who had sent him and why. He knew tricks that would make men talk. But now the assassin was dead, or would be in another minute. Louis kept his disappointment to himself, however. He did not want to chastise Aileran because the man had thought he was doing right.

  When Louis’s breath and his anger had returned to something that would allow him to speak he said, “Thank you, Aileran.”

  Aileran said nothing, just stepped up to the body and squinted down at it. The killer had stopped twitching now and Louis guessed the life had run out of him. “Who is he?” Aileran asked. “Northman?”

  “I don’t think so,” Louis said, trying to summon up the fleeting image he had had of the man, fighting in the dark. He had appeared as little more than a shadow, but Louis did not think he was a Northman.

  There were more steps behind, men hurrying through the tall grass. He and Aileran turned. Half a dozen were jogging toward them, swords drawn.

  “Captain!” he heard Lochlánn’s voice and it was filled with worry. The men slowed as they approached, lowered their weapons, realizing that the fighting was over. “Captain Louis, what in God’s name is happening?”

  “We were attacked,” Louis said, and he saw the eyes darting over toward Failend, who had dropped the sword and managed to get her brat and cloak on over her leine.

  Don’t explain, don’t explain, Louis thought, the best advice he could give himself. And then he promptly ignored it. “For the lady’s safety,” he said, “I thought it best if she were not to sleep in the midst of all those men. I took personal responsibility for her safety.”

  “Of course,” Aileran said and Louis made himself ignore all the subtle insinuation behind those two words. He nodded to the dead man at their feet.

  “Do you know him?” Louis asked.

  Aileran knelt beside the corpse, peered close. He grabbed the c
ollar of the man’s mail shirt and pulled him to one side so the moonlight would fall on his face. “Not one of my men,” Aileran grunted. “No one I know. And not a Northman, like you said.”

  Louis nodded. “When the sun rises and we can inspect him more closely, maybe we’ll know more. Meanwhile we’ll let the men get whatever more sleep they can.”

  With that the others grunted and moved off, but Louis touched Lochlánn’s sleeve, a signal to remain behind.

  “This fellow,” Louis said, nodding toward the dead man. “Is he the one who came for me at the monastery?”

  Lochlánn looked down at the corpse. “I don’t know, Captain Louis,” he said. “They are about the same build, I suppose, but back at the monastery I never had anything like a good look at the man’s face.”

  Louis nodded. He had thought that was the case. “Very well. You go sleep. Maybe we’ll learn more in the daylight.”

  Lochlánn’s eyes shifted from Louis to Failend and back. “Do you want me to stay near?” he asked. “In case there is more danger?”

  “No, thank you, Lochlánn,” Louis said. “I’ll be safe enough, I should think.”

  Lochlánn nodded and left him and Failend alone. Once Lochlánn had disappeared into the dark Louis turned to Failend. “That was well done, hitting that man the way you did. You have skill with a blade.”

  Failend shrugged. “I pick up a sword, I swing it. Sometimes I hit what I swing at.”

  “You do better than most of these farmers who play at soldiers,” he said. He took Failend’s hand and walked with her back toward the sleeping men. He did not think there would be another attack, but they were certainly safer in the midst of the men-at-arms, and he did not care to bed down near a bloody and nearly decapitated corpse. Nor did he care for the rest of the camp to find them off in each other’s arms.

  Louis spread his cloak on the ground and let Failend lie down, but sleep was no longer a possibility for him. He sat beside her and remained awake through the few hours of darkness left, eyes searching the camp, ears attuned to any sound. But there was nothing to see but the tops of the trees swaying against the stars, nothing to hear save for the tiny night creatures and the snoring of the sleeping men.