“No! Bastards!” Thorgrim shouted. He picked up his pace, knocking his way through the woods with his shield, but there was no enemy in front of him anymore, just saplings, bracken, trees.
“Thor take them!” Thorgrim shouted, but he was gasping for air as much as shouting. It was quiet again, save for the drumming of the rain on the leaves and the rush and tumble of the river nearby. Harald loomed up in front of him, and Godi and the others. They gathered to him to see what they would do next.
There was more rustling in the woods, a sound like a bear or some large animal moving through the undergrowth. Thorgrim turned and the others turned and they could see men making their way toward them, half hidden in the dark of the woods and the thick brush. Then Ottar stepped clear of the trees. His shield was in splinters, and he seemed to realize it just at that moment, and he tossed it aside. His sword was covered with blood, too much for the rain coming through the leaves overhead to wash away. His arm and his beard and the ends of his braids were likewise bloody.
No one moved. Ottar and Thorgrim looked at one another. Thorgrim had no idea what might come out of Ottar’s mouth.
Ottar frowned. He squinted at Thorgrim as if he, too, had no idea what would come out of his mouth. Then he turned and spit on the ground. “Finally showed up, did you?” he said, then turned and disappeared back into the woods.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Let a man never stir on his road a step
without his weapons of war;
for unsure is the knowing when need shall arise
of a spear on the way without.
Hávamál
Harald Broadarm sat on Sea Hammer’s afterdeck and gently tilted a cup of broth and ale into Starri’s mouth. It was not the sort of task he would generally welcome. Tending the wounded, he understood, was as much a part of campaigning as caring for one’s weapons. But he was never very comfortable doing that work, and he feared that being the youngest man there the others would tend to pawn the job off on him. Just the thought of that made him resentful.
But this was different. This was Starri, whom Harald liked very much. Most of the men liked Starri, or they ignored him, or, Harald suspected, they feared him. Harald’s own feelings were different than the others, more complex, though he would not have thought of them in that way. Starri was part of Thorgrim’s inner circle, part of his father’s household, and that alone made Harald’s relationship with him different. He and Starri had fought side by side many times. They had suffered much together, and had shared triumphs and wealth. Harald liked Starri Deathless. And he envied him.
He envied Starri’s absolute fearlessness. He understood, of course, that Starri was fearless mostly because he was insane, but still he could not help but wish that he, too, could plunge into battle with no concern at all for injury or death. His father seemed fearless as well, but with Thorgrim it was a different sort of fearlessness. He took battle seriously. He wore mail and a helmet, carried a shield. He did not court death as Starri did.
Harald had no lack of courage, and he would have killed any man who suggested he did, or he would have died trying. But he was not without fear. There was an image that had fixed itself in his head, an image of a battle ax striking him right where his neck and shoulder met and splitting him near in two. For some reason that idea frightened him terribly, and he could never shake it in the moments before battle. It was his secret shame.
He doubted that Starri felt any such fears.
“What’s happening?” Starri asked. His eyes were open, his voice was soft, though now there was a hint of strength in it. He had been unconscious, either asleep or passed out, almost the whole time since his wounding. The sounds of the battle had roused him, and he had been awake on and off since then, though still too weak to stand or do much of anything.
“They are getting the last of Ottar’s ships up the river,” Harald said, looking past Sea Hammer’s high sternpost. Downstream of where they lay at anchor Ottar’s fleet was just getting over the shallow water where yesterday the Irish had ambushed them. Most of the ships’ stores and gear had been taken off to make the vessels ride high enough to float. Ottar’s men, those still alive and not too badly wounded to work, were loading those things back on board the vessels that had made the transit.
Harald shook his head. Idiots, he thought.
Starri was silent for a moment and then asked, “Don’t they fear they’ll be trapped above the shallows? Doesn’t Thorgrim fear that?”
“Father doesn’t worry about our ships being trapped,” Harald explained, “and Ottar is too stupid to worry about his.” He looked down at Starri and could see that further explanation was needed.
“We’re not carrying a lot of provisions. Our ships are light enough to pass over the shallows once the crews go over the side,” Harald continued. “Ottar’s ships must be unloaded to make it. They must take out the stores and the yards and oars and all manner of things. Even if the level of the water drops, we should be all right. But Ottar could have real trouble.”
Starri nodded. Harald gave him another sip of the broth and ale. A minute passed before Starri spoke again.
“Ottar’s company is much diminished?” he asked.
“It is,” Harald said. He had told Starri all this before, soon after the end of the battle, when Starri had been eager to hear the tale. Starri had become so inflamed by the story that he had tried to rise from his bed, even though the fighting was over. It was only with considerable effort that they were able to persuade him to remain supine.
“Ottar lost forty men at least,” Harald said. “That’s forty dead. Another fifteen wounded, I would guess. It was a slaughterhouse. Father says whoever was commanding the Irish really knew his business, set as perfect a trap as could be set, and we walked right into it.”
The Norsemen had spent the hours following the battle setting things to rights. The wounded were looked after, the dead gathered up and buried. That part did not take very long. Ottar had lost around forty men; at least that was the number that filtered into Thorgrim’s camp. But most of the bodies had been swept away downstream. Some had been found but most were not. It was not a comforting thought to the shipmates of the dead men. A warrior likes to think he will be sent off to the next world in the proper way, and not have his flesh devoured by ravens and vultures.
When those few burials were done, Ottar had loaded men aboard two of his remaining ships and gone in search of the vessels that had drifted off and were now lost from sight down river. Thorgrim decided then to move his own ships over the shallows, and the men from Vík-ló spent an hour or so hauling the vessels against the current. By the time Ottar returned with his wayward ships in tow Thorgrim’s fleet was safely at anchor upstream of the low, churning water.
When Ottar saw Thorgrim’s ships were now ahead of his own he flew into a rage, just as Thorgrim and all the rest knew he would. This, Harald suspected, was the real reason his father had ordered the ships hauled up river, even after saying it was a bad idea. He was baiting Ottar, and doing so for the sheer pleasure of it.
Ottar’s ship ground onto the downstream end of the shallows and Ottar jumped over the bow. He stormed through the knee deep water, which slowed his progress enough to make his approach seem much less threatening than he intended. Thorgrim and his men were aboard their ships, anchored in eight feet of water and resting under the sails spread like tents against the still falling rain. Heads turned in Ottar’s direction, but no one moved or spoke or even acknowledged his coming toward them. Thorgrim kept his back turned to the man.
When Ottar reached the end of the shallow stretch he stopped and bellowed Thorgrim’s name. Thorgrim continued to ignore him and Ottar bellowed again. This time Thorgrim stood and moved slowly to the afterdeck. He rested a hand on the tall sternpost and looked across the thirty feet of water that separated him from Ottar, water too deep for Ottar to cross.
“You get ahead of my ships, Thorgrim Night Pup?” Ottar roared.
“Yes, I did,” Thorgrim answered simply.
“You will not get ahead of me!” Ottar said, louder now, more enraged. “You will not!”
Thorgrim looked around in mock confusion. “But I already have, Ottar,” he said. “And if you don’t hold your tongue I’ll get underway now and leave you for the Irish to finish off.”
There had been a change, a big change, in the hours following the fight. When they had first met at the Meeting of the Waters, Ottar’s men had outnumbered Thorgrim’s. That was not the case now. Ottar had lost nearly a full ship’s crew. Now his strength was at best equal to Thorgrim’s.
But that was only part of it. Ottar was the sort of leader that men followed because he was stronger and more violent and more pitiless than anyone else. Warriors joined him because they feared him and they figured others would fear him more. They figured his mindless brutality would lead them to plunder. But the Irish had made Ottar look like a fool, and his men understood, even if Ottar did not, that it was Thorgrim who had saved them and saved their ships.
“You bastard!” Ottar shouted. “Ravens will pick out your eyeballs!”
“They might,” Thorgrim agreed. “But it is not you who will feed me to them.” With that he turned and ducked under the sail and left Ottar standing in the rain. Ottar continued to shout for a few more minutes, but no one was listening, and that made him seem an even bigger fool, so he turned and headed back downstream. It was not until the next morning that Ottar and his men began the laborious work of once again hauling their ships against the current.
“Here’s something I don’t understand,” Starri said, then closed his eyes as if the effort of speaking was getting to be too much. “What of Kevin? Was he not supposed to be moving his men along the river bank? To stop the Irish waylaying us as they did?”
“We don’t know where he is,” Harald said. “We know he’s not here, but we don’t know where he’s gone. Beaten by these other Irish, run off, we don’t know.”
He looked down at Starri for a reaction, but Starri seemed to be asleep. He waited for a moment more and, when he was certain Starri had drifted off, he stood and stretched and considered what he would do next.
Oak Cleaver, he thought. His sword, the beautiful Frankish blade, once his grandfather Ornolf’s, which now he carried. The edge had taken some damage in the fighting and it needed tending, and the blade could use some oil against the miserable wet weather. But when he looked forward he could see his father heading aft and the look on Thorgrim’s face, a look Harald knew well, suggested that Thorgrim had his own ideas of what Harald would be doing next.
Thorgrim stepped up by Harald’s side and looked down at Starri. The rain had tapered off to a mist, which was a great relief, though most likely a temporary one.
“How is he?” Thorgrim asked.
“Better, I think,” Harald said. “He had some broth. He spoke, wanted to know what was happening with the raid. With you and Ottar.”
Thorgrim gave a half smile. “Well, if you figure that out I’d be grateful if you could tell me as well,” he said. He looked over the starboard side at the riverbank, three rods away. Somewhere, lost from view, Thorgrim’s scouts kept watch for another ambush. It was the prudent thing to do, though no one thought the Irish would be so imprudent as to strike again in the same place.
“Once Ottar is ready to get underway he’ll try to get past us again, get upstream,” Thorgrim said. “I don’t want that to happen. For a number of reasons. So we will get underway now and get well ahead of him.”
Harald nodded. He, too, wanted to stay ahead of Ottar, mostly as a matter of pride. But he could guess at his father’s other reasons.
With each mile they dragged the ships upstream, each dead man they buried or arrow they pulled from a ship’s side, the raid on Glendalough seemed to take on greater and greater importance. No longer a raid but a quest. All the men seemed to feel it. Thorgrim feared Ottar would somehow manage to ruin any chance of a successful attack, or make some dumb mistake that would get them all killed. And Harald guessed his father wanted to twist the knife of humiliation in Ottar’s guts.
“Kevin is gone,” Thorgrim continued. “Where, I don’t know, but he’s not here. So I need you to take some men, twenty or so, and follow us along the river bank. I need you to keep an eye out for another ambush, like Kevin should have done.”
Harald felt the excitement rise, the pleasure of anticipation. Thorgrim was offering him a command of his own, an important task and a leader’s role, a chance to show off skill and boldness.
“You and your men are scouts, you understand?” Thorgrim said, apparently sensing the excess of eagerness in Harald’s face. “You are not to fight an army with twenty men. You’re just to warn us if they’re lying in wait before we blunder into them.”
“Yes, father,” Harald said.
Thorgrim looked him in the eyes and said nothing for some time. “I mean it,” he said at last. “Scouts. You are not to fight.”
“Unless it’s just a few of the Irish, right?” Harald said. “A patrol, or just a few men-at-arms? We should kill them before they can reveal our presence, shouldn’t we?”
Thorgrim let out a breath. “Yes, in that case you may fight. But try to take prisoners. They’re more of a help than dead men. I’m trusting you to use your judgement. Use it well. If you want to see what stupidity will get you, just look to Ottar.”
Harald nodded, but the words had barely registered. In his mind he was already leading his men stealthily along the river bank, and going sword against sword with the Irish son of a bitch who had launched the brutal, bloody attack of the day before.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
[T]he Irish suffer evils not only from the Norwegians,
but they also suffer many evils from themselves.
Annals of Ulster
Failend felt like she was floating, like she was moving through a dream world. A dream world like no dream she had ever experienced before; a dream filled with terror and discomfort, with hope and exhilaration, with exhaustion and lust and amazement. A dream that seemed to encompass every kind of feeling she could have imagined, whipping her like a gale of wind and rain.
She had killed a man. At least she was fairly certain she had. By the river, during the fighting at the Meeting of the Waters. He had come stumbling through the line of Irish warriors and she had been there and she had struck him down. But he was still alive so she plunged her sword into his neck.
At least that was how she remembered it. It was all a swirl in her head, and hard to recall exactly what had taken place. She was not even certain how she felt about it. Astonishment, confusion. Not remorse. There was no remorse. She wondered if that should concern her. But of course he was just a heathen.
When the fighting was done they had left the killing field, marched back along the river bank and then through the trees to the road. The men were very excited, very animated. They had fought well. That was Failend’s impression of the battle. It was based on the men’s reaction, since she was in no state of mind to draw any conclusions on her own. They had done well. And now they were excited.
Making love to Louis de Roumois, the attack by the assassin, Aileran killing the man after she, Failend, had knocked him on the head, it was all part of this extended dream. She could still see the spray of blood from the killer’s neck as he went down. She felt like her whole life was a wagon rolling down hill, building speed, and now it was moving as fast as it could move. It was nearly out of control, threatening to come apart.
Back at the dúnad she had returned to her husband’s pavilion, bracing herself to face his fury. And he had been furious, so much so that he sent her away, told her to return later. “I will see to you then,” he had said, and said no more. He did not look at her.
And she had not returned. She knew there was only a beating at her husband’s hands waiting for her, and she did not feel the need to endure it.
She waited for the chance to speak to Louis alone.
“Aileran will tell my husband he found us together,” she told him.
“No he won’t,” Louis said. “Aileran and me, we’re soldiers. There is a bond between fighting men.”
Failend shook her head. “Aileran’s my husband’s man. He has been for many years now. He owes more to my husband than he owes to anyone.”
“I think you’re wrong,” Louis said. “But even if you’re right, and Aileran tells him, it will not be some new revelation to your husband. He cannot hate me more.”
Failend let it go. It was pointless. Louis de Roumois was one of the most extraordinary men she had ever known, but he was still a man, and there were things he would not understand. He was not stupid and he was not naïve. But when it came to his fellow soldiers, he viewed loyalty the way a dog views loyalty: simple, complete and unwavering. In some things Louis did not grasp nuance.
After the successful fight at Meeting of the Waters, Failend had thought they would march back to Glendalough. She was certain Colman would wish to do so. He would want to enter the city in triumph. But they did not.
Instead, they remained in the dúnad because Louis was not done with the Northmen. There was a place on the river where he guessed the heathens would have to drag their ships over the shallow water, and he convinced Colman to let him set a trap there. Colman agreed. All this Failend heard from Louis. She did not see her husband, and though she waited for him to order her dragged to his pavilion so that he might punish her for her many sins, he did not.
What he did, to her surprise, was ignore her and she continued to float through her dream world.
Louis de Roumois gave up complaining about her marching with the army. He told her she was not a child, if she wished to do this thing, and Colman said nothing about it, than he would not stop her. She guessed Louis did not want to leave her behind at the dúnad with Colman while he marched off to fight the enemy. She suspected that he actually liked her company in the field.
Glendalough Fair: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga) (Volume 4) Page 22
