But he could not let them go, either. Harald was looking to the wagons as a movable hunting blind and he could not have the players roaming the territory telling the Irish men-at-arms what had happened. And so that left but one choice.
“Thank you for the meal, Crimthann,” Harald said, putting his bowl down and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You say you are bound for Glendalough?”
It took the better part of two hours to round up the oxen and harness them to the wagons and stow away all the gear and get the caravan rolling. Harald had the impression the players had been at that one spot for some time. He wondered if they had been earning their keep servicing travelers the way they had done Vemund and Ulf. Those two Harald had given the unpleasant task of heading out across country to find the fleet and report to Thorgrim what they had learned of the enemy and Glendalough.
It was late afternoon when they were finally underway. Crimthann drove the lead wagon with Harald beside him to see there was no mischief. Crimthann’s men drove the other wagons, since they were used to it, each with one of Harald’s men beside him. The rest of the Northmen stayed hidden inside with Crimthann’s players. They were under strict orders to not harm the Irishmen, or distract themselves with the women.
Crimthann seemed not to care much that his wagons had been commandeered. He had hardly stopped talking since Harald first approached him. Harald found the man interesting at first, and amusing. He learned a great deal that was useful about Glendalough and the fair and the country around there. It took Crimthann about an hour to tell Harald everything he wished to know. But then he just kept on talking.
At first, Harald had hinted that Crimthann might consider being quiet for a spell. Then he’d suggested it. Finally he told the man outright to shut up, but none of it did any good. Harald did not kill men who were no threat to him, but Crimthann was becoming a genuine threat to his sanity.
I’ll give him ten more minutes, Harald thought, and if he does not shut up by then I’ll beat him with a rock.
“Now, up north, in the lands of the Uí Néill,” Crimthann was saying when Harald saw the two coming at them from across the field. It was late afternoon and they had seen no other travelers on the road, not even the Irish patrol Harald was sure would be looking for them.
“Hold a moment, Crimthann,” Harald said and the big man stopped in mid-sentence and looked where Harald was looking. Two men, or maybe a man and a boy, as one was considerably smaller than the other, were walking toward them. They wore mail shirts and swords at their sides and carried helmets. There was nothing threatening in their manner. Indeed, they looked as if they expected to be welcome.
“Stop the wagon,” Harald said and Crimthann pulled the reins and the team of oxen slowed to a stop. There was always the chance that this might be a trap, so Harald knocked on the wooden wall of the wagon at his back and said in a loud whisper, “Be ready, there, Olaf Thordarson.” Then he turned to Crimthann and said, “I will speak to these people. Not a word from you.” Crimthann nodded.
Harald had shed his mail and helmet and sword so that he might pass for one of the players, but he still had his dagger on his belt and he had made certain Crimthann was well aware of it. Now he and Crimthann waited as the two approached, and Harald marveled at the unaccustomed silence.
The taller of the men-at-arms approaching was young, Harald could see, in his early twenties and well made, with dark hair to his shoulders. He looked unconcerned as he crossed the field. He raised his arm and called, “Crimthann! My good fellow! We meet once more!”
Crimthann said nothing, because of course Harald had ordered him to silence.
He picks this moment to finally do as I say? Harald thought and gave Crimthann a subtle kick, which Crimthann correctly interpreted.
“Good day!” Crimthann roared with his usual volume and enthusiasm. “I know you…wait…do not tell me…Louis!”
“Yes, that’s right,” the young man said. He and his companion had reached the wagon and were standing by the seat, looking up at Harald and Crimthann. Harald searched their faces for some sign of alarm or suspicion, but he saw none.
But he did see something else that surprised him, though he kept it to himself. The second one, the smaller one, was a woman. She was dressed in mail and wore a sword, but she was most certainly a woman, and an attractive one at that. Among his people, the Norsemen, it was not unheard of for a woman to wear battle gear and even to join in the fighting on occasion. Not common, but not unheard of, and so Harald was not particularly shocked to see a woman in mail and carrying a weapon, though he had never known of an Irishwoman dressing in that manner.
“We were with a patrol,” this man, Louis, was explaining to Crimthann, “and we became separated. Our horses were spooked and ran off. So now we’re stuck and we are very happy to see you, my friend.”
“And I am happy to see you!” Crimthann said and then said no more because he did not know what Harald would allow him to say.
Harald ran his eyes over the two. Their mail seemed of good quality, and the fact that they had mail at all, and that they had been with one of the patrols, told him that they were not just common foot soldiers, nor farmers called up to defend Glendalough from the wrath of the Northmen. They were people of consequence, and as such might be useful and valuable.
You were so distracted you let your horses get away? What were you doing? Harald wondered, though he had some ideas.
“We are going to Glendalough,” Harald said. “Would you like to ride with us?”
Louis looked over at him for the first time. “Thank you. I don’t think we’ve met. My name is Louis,” he said and Harald heard the first notes of suspicion. “And who might you be, friend?”
Harald thought about giving himself an Irish name, but he knew his accent would put the lie to that, so he said, “My name is Harald. Harald of Hedeby. Finest juggler in that land, or any. That’s why I came to join Crimthann, whose fame is well known there.”
“I see,” Louis said, and Harald was afraid that he did indeed see, more than Harald wanted him to see. Harald stood and stepped down on the wagon’s tongue and then hopped to the ground, landing right in front of the woman.
“Please, ride with us,” he said, gesturing to the back of the wagon. He could not let them go now, not if they suspected something. “You don’t know comfort until you’ve been in Crimthann’s caravan,” he added, but Louis and the woman took a step back.
“That’s kind of you,” Louis said and Harald noticed that his was not an Irish accent either, “but our men will be nearby and we must wait for them.”
Harald nodded. He won’t leave the girl, he thought. I just need to get the girl…
“At least come in for some food and ale,” Harald said and the man smiled, nodded, then took another step back and pulled his sword, the move so quick Harald could not form a conscious thought in the time it took him to get the weapon clear.
But Harald did not need to think in order to act, and even as the blade was leaving the scabbard he stepped forward and seized the man’s arm with his left hand while his right snatched the dagger from his belt. He heard Crimthann roaring something behind him and the knife came around at Louis’s throat, but Louis was as fast as Harald, and he knocked Harald’s arm aside with his mail-clad arm and jabbed at Harald’s face with his fist.
He connected, hitting Harald right on the side of his head, but it was a weak blow and had little effect. Indeed, even a hard blow to Harald’s head generally had little effect. Harald brought the knife back up, intending only to press it to the man’s throat in order to make him more cooperative, but now the woman was on him, grabbing his arm and with one hand and slashing at his face with the other.
Harald tightened his grip on Louis’s sword arm and tried to fend the woman off, but she was snarling and clawing like a wildcat. Harald could only thank the gods that in the excitement of the moment she had not thought to draw her sword. Then he was aware of movement behind him an
d around him and he thought maybe Crimthann was coming to aid his friends, but instead he saw Olaf Thordarson and some of his own men running up on either side. They pulled Louis and the woman away, pinned their arms, held knives to their throats.
“Don’t hurt them,” Harald said, speaking his native tongue for the first time in some hours. It was a language which Louis and the woman seemed not to understand since they did not look at all relieved to hear Harald give that order.
The two were stripped of their weapons and brought around to the back of the wagon and pushed up the steps and into the dark, lantern-lit interior. There were more of Harald’s men there and some of Crimthann’s, including one of the women.
“Tie them up?” Olaf asked, nodding to the two prisoners.
Harald turned to Louis. “Must I have my men tie you up,” he asked, “or will you give me your word you will not fight them?”
Louis looked around at Harald’s men and Harald could guess what he was thinking. They were warriors, and well-armed, and he had nothing but his bare hands. “We give our word we will not fight,” Louis said, probably not a hard decision.
Harald climbed out of the wagon and back up to the seat. Crimthann snapped the reins and the oxen moved again in their lumbering way, the three wagons rolling slowly on toward Glendalough. Harald scanned the road and the trees as they passed, looking for some sign of the Irish, or of his father’s men or ships. He feared that with all the delays he had endured he had fallen behind the fleet, that rather than scouting ahead he was playing catch-up and did not even know it.
Soon it grew too dark to continue on, so Harald ordered Crimthann to pull the wagon off the road and the other two wagons followed behind. They made camp there, Crimthann’s men cooking supper under the watchful eyes of Harald’s. As that was going on, Harald climbed into the back of the wagon where guards stood over Louis and the woman.
“You are well?” Harald asked, sitting on a bench opposite them. The benches were strewn with furs and the soft light of the lantern fell on the bright-painted interior and washed it in a warm glow, giving a sensual feeling to the space.
“Well enough,” the man said. There was no fear in his voice, no anger or bitterness. Nothing, really, that Harald could hear, though of course they were both speaking a language which was not their native tongue.
“You are part of this heathen army?” the woman asked, and she did not sound nearly as calm as the man.
Harald frowned. “‘Heathen?’” he asked. “I do not know that word.”
“Heathen,” the woman said. “One of these strangers who does not believe in God.”
Harald shook his head. “I believe in God,” he said. “I believe in many gods.”
“You do not believe in the true god.”
This was all getting confusing. Harald had some notion of what the Christ followers believed, but he never understood it entirely. He thought they only believed in one god, though he had heard others speak of three gods, and he was never quite sure what they really believed.
“You are one of these fin gall who have come to plunder Glendalough?” the woman said and that clarified things. Harald smiled in understanding.
“Yes!” he said. “Yes, that’s right. And who are you?”
“I am Failend, wife of Colman mac Breandan, who commands all the soldiers at Glendalough” the woman said. “This is Louis. He is a Frank. He is my servant and my body guard. My husband will pay a great deal to have me back.”
Harald nodded. She may have been telling the truth about her name, and perhaps about her husband, but this Louis most certainly was not her servant, or anyone’s. “Your husband will pay a great deal?” Harald asked. “You mean, more than I could get for you in the slave markets of Frisia?”
“Yes,” Failend said. “Much more.”
Harald nodded again. Will he pay after he learns what you and this Louis have been up to? he wondered, but he did not ask. He had no intention of selling her, of course, but it would not hurt to let her think he did. Then he thought of Starri Deathless.
“Do you have any skill in the healing arts? Do you know the treatment of battle wounds?”
Failend looked surprised by the question. There was a flicker of uncertainty and then she said, “Yes. Yes, I do. Very much.”
“You know what herbs to use to heal wounds? How to make poultices and such? What charms are most powerful?”
“Yes,” Failend said again, and Harald could hear more conviction in her voice now. “In Glendalough I have a great reputation for being a healer.”
Harald looked into her eyes, brown and wide. Her hair, which had been tied in a queue, was now tumbling around her shoulders. She was very beautiful. He wondered how much of what she had said was true. Maybe half, he reckoned.
“I’m glad to hear that,” he said. “I may have need of your skills. Now, my men will bring you food and then you may sleep here.”
He stood up and suddenly felt very tired. “There will be a guards outside the door, so you need not worry for your safety,” he added, though they all understood that the guards were not for Louis and Failend’s benefit. “Tomorrow we will reach Glendalough.”
Harald woke early the next morning, eager to be on the road. The fear still nagged at him that he had fallen behind Thorgrim and the fleet. He roused the others and stood by with mounting impatience as Crimthann stoked up the cooking fire and prepared breakfast. That finished, the men and women of the caravan packed the camp away, rounded up the oxen which had been set to graze and yoked them to the wagons. The sun was well up, and a light mist falling, by the time Harald was able to climb up onto the seat and order the wagons underway.
“How far to Glendalough?” Harald asked.
Crimthann shrugged. “A few miles, no more,” he said.
A few miles… But Harald was not sure he wanted to go to Glendalough. If he did, he would likely find himself right in the middle of the Irish army gathered to defend the place. That would be a bad thing. But how close to get? And where were the ships and men? The “heathens”, as Failend called them?
He wondered briefly if his father ever felt such indecision, if Thorgrim ever agonized over which route to take. He did not think so. He knew his father was only a man, and men encountered such troubles as these, but he could not imagine Thorgrim Night Wolf waxing uncertain on matters of how to lead his men.
The morning wore on and the mist grew into light rain, and Harald’s anxiety mounted with each laborious turn of the wagon’s wheels, each ponderous step of the four oxen that pulled the heavy rig. There were signs on the road that men had walked that way, a lot of men, but whether it was an army or crowds of travelers bound for the Glendalough Fair he could not tell. Even Crimthann seemed to sense his mood and managed to avoid talking, mostly.
The Irishman had been silent for going on twenty-five minutes when he spoke again. “Up over this rise yonder, and we should be able to see Glendalough,” he said.
Harald nodded and pressed his lips together. It was time to make a decision – press on or turn around. He could put it off no longer. And then he heard a noise, faint but clear, and markedly familiar.
“Stop the wagon,” Harald said. Crimthann pulled the oxen to a stop. He opened his mouth to speak, but Harald held up a hand and Crimthann shut his mouth again. Harald cocked his head in the direction of the unseen town. He could hear shouting, soft as a distant brook, but shouting to be certain. He could hear the faintest of pinging sounds that he guessed was the ring of steel on steel.
“Battle,” Harald said. “They’re fighting! Go! Go!”
Crimthann looked at him, confused.
“Go!” Harald shouted. “Get your damned oxen moving!” Crimthann nodded and snapped the reins and once again the oxen moved on at their agonizing, deliberate pace. The road ran up a low, rounded hill that obscured from sight whatever was beyond it. Harald wanted to leap from the seat and run up the hill, but until he knew where the Irish warriors were, he knew he and his men had t
o stick to their role as part of Crimthann’s caravan of players.
Then the oxen crested the hill and pulled the wagon up over the top and Harald saw more fields beyond, another hill a few hundred paces off, and dozens of bodies strewn over the open ground. He sucked in his breath in surprise. The sounds of the fighting were louder. The battle had started on the hill in front of him and moved beyond the next rise. That was the killing field now.
“Faster!” he shouted and Crimthann snapped the reins, but the effect on the oxen was negligible. Harald thought about abandoning the wagon, he and his men taking to foot.
Not yet, not yet, he thought, though he was not sure why. He turned in the seat and slid the little wooden shutter back and looked through the window. He could see his men and Louis and Failend and Crimthann’s people and they all looked as if they wanted very much to know what was happening.
“Fighting up ahead, Olaf!” Harald shouted through the opening. “Get ready.”
“I’m ready,” Olaf assured him and the others nodded. Then Harald thought of something.
“Hand me that spear, pass it up,” he said and Olaf grabbed a spear that was leaning beside him and handed it butt-end first to Harald, and Harald pulled it through the narrow window. He turned in the seat and reached out with the point and gave the aftermost oxen, starboard side, a jab in the rump.
The oxen bellowed and Crimthann bellowed and Harald poked again. The animal moved faster now, trying to escape this torment. Harald reached over and jabbed the oxen on the larboard side and it, too, picked up the pace, building to a run. The wagon rocked violently and shuddered over the uneven road as it gained speed, moving downhill, the aftermost oxen running harder and forcing those in the front to do likewise. They were bellowing louder now and Crimthann was still shouting and Harald jabbed the brown and white rumps again.
The caravan thundered down the slope and then up the other, the oxen’s feet pounding the soft ground. They crested the second hill and there, spread out before them, was Glendalough; the church, the scattering of monastic buildings and houses and workshops, less than a mile away. But Harald could spare it only a cursory look, because closer still he saw two lines of men, pressed close, weapons rising and falling. Shield walls. A battle full underway. And before he could even figure what exactly was happening, who was who, one side broke and turned and began to run, put to flight by the overwhelming numbers of the other side.
Glendalough Fair: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga) (Volume 4) Page 30
