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

by James L. Nelson

  We can’t stay in the woods, he realized. We can hardly move through here. In order to prevent another ambush he had to stay ahead of his father’s ships, and they would certainly move faster over the water than he and his men could move through the overgrown forest.

  Have to move away from the river, he thought next. With any luck the woods did not extend very far inland from the shore. If that was the case, they could move quickly over the ground and still keep an eye on the river bank. If that was not the case he did not know what he would do.

  “Very well, follow me,” he said, once the last of his men were up the bank. He spoke softly which seemed only proper. He pushed on through the trees, through the undergrowth that whipped at him and grabbed at his mail and leggings. He heard the others following behind.

  He and Thorgrim had picked the men, mostly older hands, men who had been with them since Dubh-linn, and in a few cases since they had first come over to Ireland with Ornolf aboard his ship Red Dragon. Harald had expected his father to insist that one of the more prominent men among the crew, Agnarr or Godi or even Bersi, perhaps, also join the patrol. Someone to keep an eye on Harald as Harald ostensibly lead the twenty. But Thorgrim had done no such thing. That surprised Harald. And it made him happy. And nervous.

  He could see now that the woods were thinning, a hopeful sign, and after another thirty feet of fighting through the bracken the forest tapered off to saplings and then to a field of waist-high grass. Harald held up his hand and the men behind him stopped. He crouched low and moved out ahead, parting the grass as he went, eyes moving left and right, ears sharp for any sound. A partridge burst into flight five feet in front of him, a chaos of beating wings and squawking bird. Harald jumped, gasped, and his hand was on the hilt of his sword before his mind had even registered what had startled him.

  The noise of the wingbeats faded and Harald remained motionless, listening. He heard nothing, no sound of men alerted to their presence by the startled bird, nothing but the breeze and the river some ways behind them. He waited a minute more, then waved for the others to follow.

  They found a road another two rods away, beaten and well-traveled, a road that was now a wide band of dark brown mud after the days of rain. The tracks were still visible: wagon ruts and the footprints of many men who had passed that way. The footprints of the small army that had ambushed them by the river, Harald guessed. One of his men found a broken and discarded spear shaft, the iron point bent at the tip.

  “This is good,” Harald said, meaning the road. “Ulf, Vemund,” he called to two of his men and they stepped forward. Ulf and Vemund were young men, only a few years older than Harald, if that. They were tall and fair; Vemund’s long hair blonde to the point of being nearly white. And they were also swift of foot and athletic, one of the reasons Harald had chosen them.

  “You’ll go ahead of us,” Harald said. “Stick to the tree line. Be cautious, keep hidden as you move. If you see anyone, anything, one of you come back and report. The other keep watch.”

  Ulf and Vemund nodded. They knew what was expected. They were to make certain that the patrol didn’t blunder into some enemy coming down the road, or anyone else who might betray their presence. They turned and hurried up the road at a jog.

  Harald beckoned to two others. “You two, you take up the rear. Follow a couple hundred paces behind us, make sure no one is coming from that way. The rest of you, with me.”

  They moved out, Harald leading them off the road and back toward the trees where they could find cover quickly if they had need of it. The tall grass parted in front of them as they walked, a short column of armed men moving through the wet morning, woods to the left, open country to the right. Somewhere up ahead Ulf and Vemund were outpacing them, moving swiftly along the path of the river, alert like deer in an open meadow. Or so Harald hoped.

  The going was easier than Harald had thought it would be, the ground open and forgiving, and soon they were several miles from the point where Thorgrim had set them ashore.

  Can’t lose the river, Harald thought, one of a dozen worries and considerations that crowded his mind and made him forget how pleased he was to be in sole command of this patrol. He had to move fast, but he also had to stay close to the water, because that was where an enemy might be lying in ambush. It would also prevent him from getting lost and wandering hopelessly around the countryside. But the woods to the left obscured his view of the water, and he could only hope that the road they were following was not trending away from the river banks.

  They walked on, and to Harald’s relief the tree line soon yielded to open ground, and the river came into view once again. It was not more than a dozen rods to the south, a gray, rippling water course running through a dark green, rolling countryside.

  There were no ships to be seen, but Harald had not thought there would be. When they first set out Harald had caught the occasional glimpse of the longships as they made their way up river, but soon he and his men had outpaced the fleet. They were still well ahead of them, apparently, which was good. That was where they were supposed to be.

  Olaf Thordarson, one the few left who had sailed with them from Vik, knelt beside him and they looked out over the low, rolling hills. “Do you see anything of Vemund or Ulf?” Olaf asked.

  “No,” Harald said. “But I wouldn’t expect to, if they’re doing what they should.”

  Olaf grunted. “Look beyond that hill,” he said and pointed to a place half a mile away, a hill that rose up from the river’s edge and obscured the ground beyond it. The road tended away from the river there, going north around the hill rather than cresting it.

  “Looks like smoke to me,” Olaf said once Harald was looking in the right direction. Harald nodded. It did look like smoke, a thin trail of smoke rising up over the edge of the hill, dissipating into the low-hanging mist.

  Harald frowned. “I wonder where Vemund and Ulf have got off to,” he said. Smoke must mean men, and men would mean something that should have been reported back. He felt a little tremor of fear. Not fear for his physical safety, or that of his men. That would not even occur to him. It was fear of failing in the eyes of his father. That, above all things, frightened him.

  “Let’s go,” he said, louder than he had spoken before. He stood and led the way forward, downhill through the tall grass. There was no cover here, no way to hide the column, so they moved at a near jog over the open ground, chainmail making its soft shushing sound. They did not run. Harald knew better than to tire men out needlessly when the possibility of a fight was always present.

  They reached the bottom of the sloping ground and began climbing the hill that Ulf had pointed out. The smoke was more clearly visible now, the fire that was its source apparently growing in strength. Harald slowed as they reached the crest of the hill, crouched lower and signaled to the others to do the same. He moved forward slowly, eyes searching the country beyond.

  Harald stopped. He turned to the others. “Get down,” he said and the sixteen men at his back went down on one knee. Harald bent lower still and moved slowly toward the top of the hill. He went down on both knees and then hands and knees as he climbed the last few feet to where he could see beyond the hill’s crest. Then he laid on his stomach, hoping he could not be seen against the gray sky, and looked.

  The river bent away to the left, and once again there were trees lining the bank, a few hundred yards of thick wood before it gave way again to open land. A tolerable place for another ambush.

  To the right the road wound around the hill and tended back in the direction of the water, passing just fifty yards or so in front of where Harald lay. But it was the source of the smoke that had his attention now. It was a cooking fire, a fairly substantial one with a big iron pot hanging from a tripod above it. There was a big man tending the fire. He and his fire were ringed by three of the oddest wagons Harald had ever seen. They were tall with wide oak wheels and high wooden sides painted yellow and red that managed to look cheerful even on that gloomy
day. Flags and bunting were mounted at various places, the wet cloth moving just a bit in the breeze.

  Harald remained motionless, watching. The wagons were no more than a hundred yards away. He could see another man rummaging through a trunk beside the middle wagon and someone else – he was fairly certain it was a woman – climbing into the wagon nearest him.

  Just as he was considering what his next move might be, Harald saw a door open at the back of the wagon to the left and a man step out from the dark interior. He wore a blue tunic and yellow leggings. There was something gray slung over his shoulder which to Harald’s practiced eye looked like a mail shirt. His nearly white hair stood out sharply in the gray light.

  “Vemund, you stupid bastard,” Harald muttered to himself. Now he knew what he would do next. Give Vemund a good thrashing and send him packing back to the fleet, then drag Ulf off whatever whore he was currently riding and do the same to him.

  He stood and turned and signaled for the others to follow. He could feel his anger mount and he hurried down the far side of the hill toward the caravan and his wayward scout.

  You put the whole rutting thing in danger, you and your limp cock, he thought as he hurried along. He saw Vemund look up at their approach, saw him drop the sword and belt in his hand and struggle to get the mail shirt over his head, and that made Harald even madder still.

  What Harald did not see was the line of Irish horsemen in the trees. He and his men were still fifty yards from the caravan when the riders came bursting out into the open. One moment it was quiet, save for the muted sound of voices from the wagons, and then the air was filled with men shouting, urging their mounts forward, the pounding of hooves in the soft dirt, the shouts of surprise from Harald’s men as they turned to face this new threat.

  “Bastards!” Harald shouted, and with that one word he meant to encompass them all: Vemund, Ulf, Ottar, Kevin, the Irish, all of those who were making his life a misery. His father had trusted him with this crucial task and now the whole thing was falling apart like a rotten log. It made Harald furious. He would not allow this to happen.

  “You men with spears, up front!” he shouted and the six of his men who carried spears stepped forward to take the brunt of the horsemen’s attack. “Shield wall, make a shield wall!”

  There were no more than ten mounted warriors, a scouting party like his own. They had probably spotted Vemund and Ulf as the idiots followed their cocks to the wagons. They would have guessed there would be more Northmen coming behind, so rather than attack the two they had set their trap and waited.

  The mounted men were closing fast, coming on at a gallop, swords drawn, spears down. It was a bold move; Harald’s band outnumbered them, but the Irish likely hoped the men on foot would scatter before the thundering horses and be cut down as they ran.

  Harald pulled Oak Cleaver from his scabbard, ready for the horsemen, ready to kill any of his own men who ran, but he did not think that would be necessary.

  “Steady, wait for them,” Harald said. It took extraordinary courage and considerable experience in battle to stand firm in the face of such a charge. These men had both those things and they would hold their ground and brace for the horsemen to ride down on them. But Harald would not.

  With a shout he pushed forward, past the line of his men, came to a stop ten yards ahead of them. He was still shouting, Oak Cleaver dancing in front of him, the blade threatening his attackers and challenging them. He could see looks of surprise on the rider’s faces one hundred feet away. He saw one horseman swerve and nearly collide with the man beside him.

  But they recovered fast because clearly they, too, were trained and experienced men. The rider in the center of the charging rank was fifty feet away as he lined himself up with Harald, spear held low, the wicked iron tip steady and pointing right at Harald’s guts. The man would expect Harald to jump to his left, to try and get out of the path of horse and weapon. Harald knew it. It was the natural thing to do.

  Forty feet. The horse’s teeth were bared, its feet throwing up big clods of dirt behind. The pounding of the hooves was the only thing Harald could hear. He took a tentative step to his left like a man ready to break in fear. He took another.

  Twenty feet and the spear point was coming at him like an arrow shot from a bow. The warrior on the horse was shouting. Harald crouched slightly than pushed off hard, not moving to his left but leaping to his right, leaping right across the path of the charging beast.

  The horse lashed out at Harald with snapping teeth, missing by a foot, no more, as Harald crossed the animal’s path. He could see the shock on the rider’s face as he whipped his head around to see where Harald had gone. The Irishman pulled the reins over hard and tried to swing his spear across the horse’s neck as Harald drove Oak Cleaver right up into the rider’s side, felt the point pierce mail, pierce flesh, hit bone and drive in further.

  The rider’s shout turned to a scream and the horse rushed past and Oak Cleaver was pulled free from the man’s side, but the blade had done all the damage it needed to do. Harald raced back to the line his men had made, but there was no line now. The Irish had hit his band with all the power their horses and weapons could deliver. Two of his men were down, but three of the horses were rider-less and one was wounded, bucking and rearing as its rider tried to remain in the saddle.

  “At them! At them!” Harald shouted but his men had already recovered from the shock of the Irish assault and were fighting back. Olaf Thordarson grabbed hold of a rider’s spear as the man rode past and used it to pull the rider down from his horse. The Irishman still had his feet in the stirrups, struggling for control of his weapon, when Olaf finished him with his battle ax.

  To Harald’s right a man whirled his horse around, turning the animal in a full circle, assessing the fight. Harald leapt at him, leading with Oak Cleaver, but the rider saw him coming and batted the blade away, coming back with a counterstroke that forced Harald to leap aside.

  “Back!” the mounted man shouted, “Back, back!” There were only five men still mounted but they reacted without hesitation, driving spurs into their horses’ flanks, jerking reins sideways as their mounts once again gathered speed, charging back toward the tree line, back the way they had come.

  “Stop them! Stop them!” Harald shouted, but it was a pointless gesture. In three paces the horses were beyond the reach of Harald’s men. Harald chased after the riders and several of his men did likewise, but they covered no more than twenty feet before they pulled to a stop.

  Harald leaned forward and gasped, sucking in lung-fulls of air. He could feel the sweat standing out on his brow and running down his sides under his tunic and mail. Then he straightened and turned back toward his men and the bloody results of that short, hard fight.

  “Are any alive?” Harald asked. “Any of the Irish still alive?” His men glanced down at the Irish warriors strewn on the ground, the one still hanging from his stirrups. Olaf turned one of them over with his foot. Heads were shaking.

  “No,” one of Harald’s men answered at last. “None still alive.”

  Idiot, idiot, Harald chastised himself. He turned and looked toward the river. The last of the riders was just disappearing around the edge of the woods that ran along the bank. They would report on Harald’s presence to whoever had sent them. And there was not even a prisoner left alive to tell Harald who that was, or how many men he commanded, or where the rest of his army was.

  He turned back to his men. He had to make a decision, and fast, because he knew that there was nothing more fatal to command than indecisiveness. Once the Irish scouts returned to their camp a larger force would no doubt be sent out to hunt them down. The only reasonable thing to do was to go back the way they had come and meet up with his father’s fleet. Explain what had happened, admit the mistakes he had made.

  And even as Harald thought those things he knew he would do nothing of the kind. He would find another way. He would return to Sea Hammer either successful or dead. And then h
is eyes moved beyond his men to the three wagons sitting just fifty yards away.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  [O]ft doth a man ill counsel get

  when ‘tis born in another’s breast.

  Hávamál

  They spent one more day working the longships up the River Avonmore toward Glendalough. One more day during which Thorgrim Night Wolf and Ottar Bloodax pointedly ignored one another. But neither of those things could last.

  They were running out of water, or at least water deep enough to float their vessels. The shorelines to larboard and starboard continued to close in on them, the river only three or four rods wide, and the current ran stronger with each labored mile they made upstream. It was two days after the ambush, and they had kept to the oars for most of that morning, pulling hard and making little headway against the rushing water.

  “This won’t do,” Agnarr said to Thorgrim. They were on the afterdeck, Agnarr at the tiller, Thorgrim scanning the banks. Their thoughts were on the men forward, leaning into the oars, sweat running down red faces as they pulled.

  Thorgrim had been looking out for Harald and his men, trying to catch some glimpse of them on the river bank. He did not expect he would. In truth he would have been angry if he had, because that would mean Harald was not concealing himself well and was not far enough up river to properly scout out an ambush.

  But there was no sign of Harald and his scouting party and Thorgrim hoped they were doing a proper job. The rest of the men were paying a price for having them probing ahead, fighting the current with twenty less men to row than Sea Hammer would normally have carried.

  “You’re right. This won’t do,” Thorgrim said. “We’ll run her up on the bank, there.” He pointed to a stretch of low, gravely riverbank off the starboard bow. “This is as far as we get.”