He had learned more about Louis from the woman, Failend, than he had from Louis himself. Once she came to understand that the Northmen did not intend to rape her or kill her or make her a thrall, she became much less standoffish, as women, in Thorgrim’s experience, tended to do.
She had even made the effort to speak to him, by way of Harald. She told him she was the widow of a powerful man from Glendalough and that she had been fighting with the Irish men-at-arms. She told him she fought the heathens only because they were attacking her home, that she bore them no ill will. Thorgrim agreed that she had been right to take up arms; there was nothing else to be done.
Failend asked if she might have her sword back, saying that, like the Irish bandits, she would like the chance to train with her weapon.
Thorgrim agreed and climbed aboard Sea Hammer to retrieve it. He came back with two weapons: the sword he had taken from her and a seax that had been recovered from one of Ottar’s dead. He handed her the sword.
“Tell her she’s welcome to her sword,” Thorgrim said to Harald. “But tell her I think it’s heavy for so short a blade and poorly balanced.”
Harald translated. Failend pulled her sword from its scabbard and held it out, frowning at it.
“Tell her,” Thorgrim continued, “that this one is a Frisian blade, a short sword called a seax. It’s as long as her sword but lighter. Double edged, as she can see. The steel is well made. She’s welcome to it, if she likes.”
Harald translated. Failend smiled and held out her hand and Thorgrim gave her the seax. She took it and held it as if making ready for a fight and Thorgrim saw the delight in her face as she felt the lighter blade, the nice balance of the weapon. She nodded and spoke.
“She thanks you,” Harald said, “and asks if she might impose on you at some time to show her something of blade work.”
“Tell her I will, when there’s time,” Thorgrim said. Why he was giving the Irish woman a weapon, let alone agreeing to teach her the use of it, he did not know. But there was a passion and spirit in her that he recognized, and liked.
There was passion in Louis the Frank as well, and watching him approach, Thorgrim knew he would soon be seeing it in full bloom.
Louis had a fighting spirit, the pride of a warrior, but Thorgrim could also sense the man’s turmoil. Fighting men did not care for ambiguity. They liked to have the people in their world clearly defined. Friend. Enemy. But no doubt Louis now found those clear distinctions were blurred, former certainties wiped away. Thorgrim understood. It was the same serpent with which he was currently wrestling, the one that had dragged him down to his present nightmare.
They had been five days on the sandbar and now they were ready to go. Five days of work, training, planning and healing. Five days of making Sea Hammer whole again. Five days during which Thorgrim worried that they might be discovered and that the Irish would bring an overwhelming force against them.
Cónán assured him that would not happen. He had men out watching the roads and the countryside. They had seen only a few men-at-arms on horseback, and those appeared to be heading back to wherever they had come from, and not hunting down fugitive heathens. Only once did a group of riders come closer to the river than Cónán’s men wished them to. When they did, one of the outlaws had sent an arrow in their direction, and in the ensuing chase they had led the riders well away from the camp they shared with the Northmen.
Now they were sitting aboard Sea Hammer: Thorgrim, Cónán, Harald and Godi, all the men who had worked out the plan to return to Glendalough. They had told no one, not until just that moment, when they had let word filter through the camp. That, Thorgrim guessed, would be the subject Louis wished to discuss.
“Thorgrim!” Louis called as he approached, making no effort to hide his agitation. “Thorgrim!” He pronounced the name “Tor-grim” which Thorgrim generally found amusing, though neither he nor Louis was feeling very amused at the moment.
Louis stopped at Sea Hammer’s bow and stared down her length at the men in the stern. The ship was floating now. Thorgrim had finished scarfing in the new strakes, caulking and tarring the patch until it was all but invisible. They had pushed the ship into the river and she had leaked a bit as the wood swelled and then the leaking had stopped. It was the last part of their plan completed, the ship floating, ready to carry them and their plunder down river faster than horsemen could hope to follow.
“Come aboard,” Thorgrim called, waving to Louis, knowing he would understand the gesture. Louis swung himself up over the sheer strake and stomped aft, stopping just short of the cluster of men. Thorgrim tossed his denuded bone over the side and looked up at the young warrior.
Louis spoke. Harald translated. Harald’s translation lacked the barely controlled anger of Louis’s words, but Thorgrim got it.
“He says he hears in the camp that we are going to sack Glendalough, and that he is expected to help. He says he will not help.”
Thorgrim nodded. He was long past the point where he was willing to argue or cajole. He was not interested in discussion; he had done enough of that as of late and it had led to nothing but disaster.
“Tell him I know he belonged to the Christ temple there,” Thorgrim instructed Harald. “Tell him he will show us where the silver, the things of value are to be found. If he helps us to raid the church quick and be gone, there is less chance that any of his brother Christ men will be hurt. Tell him I will not expect him to fight, or to raise a weapon against anyone.” In truth, Thorgrim had not yet decided if he would even let Louis carry a sword on the raid.
Harald translated. Louis listened. He frowned. And then he spoke again.
“Louis says he’s grateful for your words, but still he will not help.”
Thorgrim looked at Louis for a long moment, taking the measure of the man. He guessed that threatening harm to Failend would be the most effective lever against him, but he also knew better than to make threats that they both understood he would not carry out. That was not a problem. He had other carrots, other sticks.
“I understand you’re a Frank?” Thorgrim said, looking at Louis as he spoke, keeping his eyes on him as Harald translated the words.
“Oui,” Louis said.
“I imagine you’re eager to get back to your homeland,” Thorgrim went on. “I guess you’re counting on that hoard of silver you carry to buy your passage back. Maybe you and Failend.”
Harald translated. Louis said nothing.
“I’ll wager that’s why you took pains to secretly bury the chest at the far end of the sandbar, there,” Thorgrim continued, “when you imagined no one was watching you.”
Thorgrim had often wondered how well Harald actually spoke the Irish language. He had no way of gauging for himself, of course. He wondered now if Harald would be able to translate “sandbar.” But apparently he could, because Louis turned quickly and looked off in the direction in which he had buried his hoard, and where Thorgrim had later dug it up, after Louis’s nocturnal activities had been reported to him.
Louis turned back and his cheeks were red and his face pinched in fury. Thorgrim stood and he raised his hands in a calming gesture. “Tell the young Frank, here,” he said to Harald, “that we’ll raid Glendalough with or without him. If he’s with us, then he can prevent bloodshed. And I don’t mean our blood. I mean the blood of the men at the Christ temple. Tell him if he joins us he gets his hoard back. If not, then I’ll need silver to give to my men and Cónán’s, and it will come from him.”
Harald translated. Louis listened, but still he did not say anything. He turned on his heel and headed forward again, hopped over the bow of the ship down to the sand and stomped off the way he had come.
Thorgrim watched him go. He could see Louis was struggling with tangled questions about loyalty and allegiance, and Thorgrim knew he had just made those questions vastly more complex for the young man. He took his seat again. “Good,” he said. “Louis the Frank is with us.”
“Why do you think
so?” Godi asked. “He did not look so pleased when he left.”
“He’s with us,” Thorgrim said. “I could see it in his eyes. He has no choice, and he knows it.”
And Louis was indeed with them. The sun was down and the night-meal finished when the Northmen and the Irishmen and Failend and Louis began making ready to move out. They gathered on the sand by Sea Hammer’s bow. The Northmen wore tunics and mail; the Irish wore mail shirts over their leines, those who had leines, and various cowls or cloaks or brats over that, to hide the armor.
Starri was there, wearing a tunic, which was more clothing than he would normally wear going into a fight. Two battle axes were stuck in his belt. He was making an effort to walk effortlessly and failing, the pain from his wound obvious on his face and in his halting gait.
“Starri…” Thorgrim said, “I’m not sure you’re healed enough for this.”
“I’m fit as can be, Night Wolf,” Starri protested. “These women, they’ve put the maggots to me, and made me drink some great horrors, and now I’m well set up and ready to fight again.”
To be sure, Starri had improved considerably over the five days they had remained on the sandbar. Harald seemed to think this was due to Failend’s healing skills and their good luck in finding that Cara always seemed to have the herbs and poultices and such that Failend said she needed. Thorgrim agreed that was lucky, though from what he could see, Cara was doing most of the healing business while Failend spent her time practicing with a shield and her seax against any who would spar with her.
But for all the improvement Starri had made, it was clear to everyone except Starri that he was still in rough shape. Thorgrim glanced over the man’s shoulder. Cara was standing there, having just changed the dressing on Starri’s wound. She would not have understood the words that passed between Thorgrim and Starri, but it was clear enough what was being discussed. She met Thorgrim’s eyes and gave a quick shake of her head.
“Here’s the thing of it, Starri,” Thorgrim said. “It’s two leagues to Glendalough. We’ll be moving fast, covering the distance before midnight. This Louis, the Frank, he knows where the silver and gold are found in the church. The Irishmen…you see how their mail is hidden? They’ll keep guard around the church while we go in and take what we can; then it’s a quick retreat back here and then off down river aboard Sea Hammer. If the gods favor us we’ll be gone before any at the Christ temple even know we’re there.”
“Oh,” Starri said as the reality of the thing became clear. “So…no fighting?”
“None. Just walking. Some running, I would think.”
“Oh,” Starri said again. “Well, you know, I wonder if I wouldn’t be better use here, guarding the ship?”
“And the women,” Thorgrim said. “If our camp is discovered, there’s a better chance there’ll be fighting here at the ship then on our raid on Glendalough.”
That was all Starri needed to hear. With a sigh he turned and ambled back toward his bed of branches and furs, his step much more labored now that he had given up trying to appear fit.
Thorgrim looked out over the assembled men. They were about thirty-five in number, not a great army, but they had other advantages. The Northmen were experienced fighting men, well-versed in this sort of work. The Irish were new to their weapons, but they had learned fast. More importantly, they were tough and unafraid and inured to physical hardship, able to fight hard and to move fast overland in any sort of weather, night or day. Thorgrim knew they were cunning because men who lived an outlaw’s life were either cunning or soon dead.
Cónán stood with Thorgrim, as did Harald and Godi. Cónán had not joined his men in training with sword and shield, but on a few occasions Thorgrim had seen him spar with others, including Harald and Godi. It was clear that he had had some knowledge of the weapons. He did not have a Norseman’s skill, and Thorgrim did not doubt that Harald or Godi or some of the others could put him down in a fight, but it would not be an easy thing. Not like killing the bandits’ former chief.
“Your men are ready?” Thorgrim asked Cónán, and Harald translated.
“He says they are,” Harald said.
“Good,” Thorgrim said. “Lead on.”
Cónán nodded. He spoke to his men in a voice that was both soft and commanding. Thorgrim saw heads nod. Whatever he said, Harald did not feel the need to translate it, so Thorgrim figured it was of no great import. Then Cónán turned and headed off toward the trees and Thorgrim followed and the rest followed them.
And Thorgrim realized, to his surprise, that he was feeling something he had not felt in some time, and that was hope. It was far off, like a memory, like a distant shore seen through the mist. There was a time not long before, a week, maybe, that he would not have imagined ever feeling that again. But he felt it now. Just a shadow, but it was there.
It was hope driven by momentum. Moving forward. Until that moment his life had been a ship battered by the seas, driven by forces he could not control. He could affect nothing, he could only beg the gods to let him survive and bring those under his command to safety.
But now that was over, the storm had blown itself out, the ship still floated, some of the crew still lived. Now the wind had filled in and it was steady and blowing in their direction.
Thorgrim understood that he could not undo the disaster that had befallen them. But he could move on, he could make those responsible pay. He could exact revenge and that would please the gods and then maybe they would forgive him his stupidity. He knew his destination now, and they were underway again, and the rudder was biting and they were masters once more. And they were going back to Glendalough.
Chapter Eight
A great and frequent increase in the number of heathens arriving…
the laity and clergy …were plundered by them.
The Annals of Ulster
They were making their way toward Glendalough on foot, but Louis de Roumois was thinking about horses.
As a young man, Louis had been an avid hunter, riding after fox and hind. Later he’d become a mounted warrior, captain of a troop of horse soldiers. Their chief duty had been to beat back the frequent, violent incursions of the Northmen along the Seine River in his native Frankia. All told, Louis had spent many, many days on horseback in almost every conceivable circumstance. And so he knew well what it meant to have a horse spook under him.
He knew the frightening sensation of having the massive animal on which he was riding suddenly kick and buck and rear, stumble and charge off in a panic. He knew the terror of having no choice but to hang on and try to bring the beast under control, or hope that the animal would calm down or exhaust itself before some great harm came to them both.
And that was how his entire life felt now. He was no longer in control.
He had been in control, or so he thought. After he had been lifted out of the monastic life into which he had been forced by his older brother, and put in command of the men-at-arms defending Glendalough, he had felt like his control was returning, that life was responding to the reins and the spurs. It had been a joy, his renewed career as a soldier and a leader of men. But it had been brief and then it had collapsed around him.
But still he maintained control. He and Failend, with the hoard that had belonged to Failend’s late husband, making their escape, leaving Glendalough behind, making their way to some place where they might take ship to Frankia. Where Louis might begin to take back all that was rightfully his.
But control had been an illusion, as it so often was. He and Failend had stumbled right into Thorgrim and his band, the remnants of the Norse army that had come for Glendalough. And that was it. A dozen steps along a riverbank and control was gone, freedom sent packing.
It could have been worse, of course. They could have been killed. Failend could have been ravaged. They could have been taken for the slave market in Dubh-linn or over the seas. If Thorgrim knew who Louis really was, the man who had arranged for the slaughter of the Northmen, then that would
no doubt be their fate. But the fact that it could have been worse did not make it any less terrible.
All these things were churning and whirling through Louis’s mind as he trudged along, unseeing, hardly aware of what was taking place. They were near the front of the column, he and Failend. Ahead of them were Thorgrim and his son, Cónán, the Irish bandit leader, and the big Northman whose name Louis did not know.
They were following the south bank of the river. Louis had overheard some discussion—Thorgrim apparently thinking they should take the road, Cónán telling him there was a better approach, a more hidden way, a trail through the stands of trees that lined the riverbank. Since their conversations had to be translated into Irish for Cónán to understand, Louis was able to follow along, though he did not much care one way or another.
They had decided to take Cónán’s route. Thorgrim was not so stubborn as to ignore local knowledge. And Louis could see it was the right choice. The going was harder along the trail, but they were almost entirely hidden as they made their way to the monastic city.
Louis, head down, his mind working, was not aware that they had stopped until the back of the big man loomed in front of him, like walking right into a cliff. Louis checked himself before he slammed into the man and looked up to see what was going on.
They had come to a place where the trail ran right into the river. A ford, apparently. It was full dark, but the perpetual overcast had actually broken up hours before and a tolerably full moon was lighting their way. He could hear Thorgrim and Cónán speaking softly.
Thorgrim turned and said something to Harald and then he and the Irishmen splashed out into the river, but Harald and the big man did not move, so Louis guessed the others were scouting the way. He turned to Failend. Louis was not particularly talkative, at least for a Frank, but he felt the need now to vent some of the anguish he was feeling.
He opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again as Failend’s expression caught him off guard. He had expected to see a look of rage, barely suppressed, to match his own. Certainly when they had spoken earlier Failend had expressed anger and outrage at Thorgrim’s plans, and his coercing his prisoners into helping. But that was not the expression he was seeing now.
Night Wolf: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 5) Page 8
