The priest turned and strode off and Thorgrim and Failend and the others followed behind. Thorgrim’s eyes moved over the buildings, the earthen wall, the fields and huts. He had been in monasteries before, but never in the daylight and never when he had the leisure to look around. Generally at those times he had more immediate concerns.
They passed through an opening in a low stone wall that surrounded several acres of buildings, the center of which was the big stone church they had seen from the dunes.
“Why do they have a wall inside the other wall?” Thorgrim asked Failend as they walked. “If an enemy got over that outer wall, this little thing would do nothing to stop them.”
“It’s not defense,” Failend said. “This is called the vallum and it marks the church’s holy sanctuary. Outside these walls there are fields and people not part of the church—farmers and blacksmiths and such—but within the walls it is all the church.”
Thorgrim nodded. All these men and buildings just for the church. The Northmen did not have priests and churches or such things. Their worship was done in the great halls, their ceremonies performed by the same men who led them in battle. He shook his head.
So very strange, he thought.
They came at last to one of the smaller buildings, also made of stone, almost a smaller version of the church, absent the steeple. The priest led them to the door and then stopped and turned to Failend and spoke, the words emphatic.
“He says this is the abbot’s home, and we are much honored that he agreed to meet with us here. He says we must take care to behave properly and show proper respect to the abbot.”
There was a time when being told to mind his behavior would have made Thorgrim very angry indeed, but now he could only smile. “Tell him we will try,” he said to Failend, “but too much cannot be expected of heathens.”
Failend turned and spoke, but Thorgrim suspected she left that last part off. The priest nodded and opened the door and led them inside.
It was wonderful to be free of the rain, and more wonderful to find a great fire burning in the hearth. It was at the far end of the room, but the fire was large enough that it filled the space with its warmth. An old man sat as close to the fire as he could get, swaddled in the same brown robe and cowl as worn by all the other Christ men Thorgrim had seen in the monastery. The head that protruded from the robe was white-haired, the face thin and lined, the lips turned down in a scowl.
The priest led them over to a bench that faced the old man and they sat, Thorgrim reaching down to hold his sword clear until he remembered that he wore no sword. Failend took her place in the middle of the floor, midway between the old abbot and the Northmen.
The old man spoke first. Thorgrim listened carefully to the tone of his voice. Firm, but not in a commanding way. He was old. And a bit afraid.
“He asks if we are part of the army of heathens who landed on shore two days back,” Failed translated. “He says he thought there were more of you.”
“Tell him many more. Hundreds. But tell him we are not here to raid his church, and he need not worry. If we can get what we want.”
Failed translated. “And what is it you want?” she translated the reply.
“Tell him we need to repair our ships. We want to bring them into the bay here and repair them. We don’t want any trouble, not from the monastery or from any of the…what do you call these petty kings?”
“Rí túaithe?” Failed supplied.
“Yes, that. We want to purchase food from the monastery, and maybe some ironwork if they have a blacksmith. We have silver. Quite a bit of silver and we are willing to pay.”
Failend translated and Thorgrim was certain he could tell when she came to the word “silver” because the old abbot’s expression changed, just a bit, and he seemed to sit straighter. The play of emotions on the man’s face was subtle, but Thorgrim could see it. The Christ priest had probably never had a Northman looking to do business with him.
When Failend was done, he spoke. “He wants to know how he can trust you, a heathen,” Failend said.
Thorgrim picked up the leather bag he had set on the floor, opened it and withdrew two of the silver arm rings that were inside, just a fraction of the silver he had brought with him.
“Tell him if I intended to raid his church I would not have bothered to come here now. Tell him we want only to leave Ireland and return to our homes, and if he helps us, with no treachery, then he is helping rid Ireland of a few hundred heathens, at least. And tell him I’ll give him these arm rings and two more now, as a gesture of good will.”
Failend translated. The old abbot’s face showed little reaction, little expression. His eyes flicked down to the arm rings and back, no more. But Thorgrim guessed that the old man would be willing to cooperate, because he, Thorgrim, had laid out the situation clearly and truthfully.
If the Northmen wanted to sack Beggerin they would, and there was no force nearby that could stop them. If there had been, the abbot would have made certain they were on conspicuous display. Lacking any real men-at-arms, the old man would see this bargain as the only possible way he might prevent that from happening. Throw some silver into the bargain and the abbot might be counted on to maintain his cooperation, with no incentive to call up warriors from any nearby túaithe.
For some time the abbot remained still, as if he were frozen in place, his pale blue eyes fixed on Thorgrim, staring deep into the man. Then he slowly nodded his head, and then he spoke.
“The abbot says he will make the bargain with you, in hope that his kindness will help bring you all to the true God,” Failend said. Thorgrim nodded and fished two more arm rings from the leather sack and held them up. Failend took them and laid them on the floor beside the abbot’s chair. The abbot’s eyes never left Thorgrim’s.
For a moment more they held one another’s gaze, then the abbot shifted his eyes to Failend and spoke. When he was done, Failend replied, not translating the words, and Thorgrim guessed they were having a conversation that he and Failend had anticipated. The abbot was asking Failend how she happened to be with the Northmen. Failend was explaining that she was a thrall, and had been for some time, long enough to learn their language.
She finished and the abbot looked at her for some time longer and Thorgrim wondered if he was going to offer to buy her or free her somehow. The old man seemed to be wrestling with the idea. But then he turned and looked at Thorgrim again and spoke.
“The abbot says there is a place on the other side of the mouth of the river. It is called Loch Garman. He says the ground is flat and high enough that it is not flooded. He says that if you wish to repair your ships inside the bay here, that would be the best place.”
“And the furthest from his monastery, I suspect,” Thorgrim said. “But don’t say that to him. Tell him I will look at the ground and if it meets our needs we’ll make that our camp.”
Failend translated. The abbot nodded.
“Tell him I have one last question, and then we’ll take our leave,” Thorgrim said. “Ask him if there are any here who are weavers. Who can weave a great length of cloth. Wool or linen, either will do. But of heavy weight. And long.”
This was a concern that had been weighing on Thorgrim’s mind since the moment he realized that the gods had spared them from drowning in the surf. Sea Hammer’s sail had been burned by Brunhard, a trick that even Thorgrim had to admit, once his fury had subsided, was clever. He had taken the sail from Blood Hawk, but that had been torn apart, most likely irreparably, when Sea Hammer’s mast and yard had come down.
As to the smaller ships, Dragon and Fox, Harald had taken their sails and stitched them together to make a sail for Blood Hawk, and that in turn had blown apart in the near gale that had driven them ashore. Thorgrim now had a fleet of four ships and not a single sail between them.
That was a genuine problem. There was no wooden part aboard any of the ships that Thorgrim could not shape from a tree he felled himself. They had plenty of the nails a
nd rivets they used in fastening the planks, and if not, blacksmiths were not so hard to find. There were several men among the crew who could do smith’s work. There was likewise plenty of spare rope aboard. There was essentially no part of a ship that Thorgrim and his men could not make on their own—except sailcloth.
They had no looms. They had no flax or wool or spindles or hand cards, and even if they did they would have no idea what to do with them. Nor would Failend, raised in relative wealth, have been much help. What Thorgrim needed was a place where he might purchase wool or linen cloth, and lots of it.
The abbot listened to Failend’s words and seemed to consider them before slowly shaking his head. He spoke, and when he was done Failend turned to Thorgrim.
“The abbot says they do little weaving here, only enough to make some clothing, no more. He says up the River Slaney…we are at the mouth of the river here…there is another monastery called Ferns. There they have a reputation for weaving, great weaving, famous throughout Ireland.”
“Hmm,” Thorgrim said. He wondered if this was true, or if the abbot was just trying to rid himself of trouble by sending it on to this monastery at Ferns. “Is this true, Failend? Are they famous throughout Ireland?”
“The monastery at Ferns is well known. I have heard something of cloth being woven there. Whether it’s famous or not I can’t really say.”
Thorgrim nodded. He would have to keep a watch on the monastery at Beggerin to see if they were lying to him about their weaving. And he would have to see about this monastery at Ferns as well. There was not much else he could do. If he could not get the cloth to make new sails, he and his men were doomed to spend the rest of their lives rowing up and down the coast of Ireland. And he had had enough of that already to know it was a fate he did not want.
Chapter Four
The fjord-riders claim
the mead-goddess has sold
her man, with a mind
deep and treacherous as the sea.
Gisli Sursson’s Saga
The sun was high aloft and unobstructed, the morning air was still. Sea Hammer was past the sandbars and sundry other hazards at the mouth of the River Slaney when Conandil finally spoke.
She was standing aft, near Thorgrim, but she had been silent until that moment. Thorgrim appreciated that. Not everyone had the good sense to know when to speak and when to keep their mouth shut. Starri Deathless of course was the worst in that regard, but he could generally be sent to the top of the mast as lookout. Others, however, could be nearly as bad. But not Conandil. She had hardly spoken a word since the ships had put to sea hours before. But now she seemed to sense, correctly, that the worst of the trip was past.
“I do know this place,” she said, her voice sounding loud in the pervasive quiet of the morning. “The River Slaney begins there,” she said, pointing to a break in the shoreline to the west. “This is a place called Loch Garman.”
“Hmm,” Thorgrim said. He seemed to recall the old Christ man had used that name, or something like it.
“I remember the story of its name,” Conandil continued. “There was a young man named Garman Garbh. He might have been a thief, I can’t recall. In any event, he drowned in the shallows here when an enchantress let the waters of the river flood over them. So now it’s called Loch Garman. It means the lake of Garman.”
“Hmm,” Thorgrim said again. “I’ll call this miserable place ‘Waesfiord,’ which in our language means inlet of the mudflats.”
Loch Garman, Waesfiord, either way, Thorgrim had come to know the area pretty well. A good deal of it was poor, wet, scrub-covered marsh. But there were some decent stretches of shoreline as well, flat and dry enough for them to haul the ships ashore for repair. And that was good, because Thorgrim knew they might well be there for some time. Indeed, they would be very fortunate to get the vessels seaworthy and underway before the season for voyaging was passed. And that was without considering the difficulty of acquiring new sails.
Thus far things had gone as well as Thorgrim might have dared hope. After he and Failend had concluded negotiations with the abbot of Beggerin, the Northmen had collected their weapons and they and Failend had been led unmolested back through the big oak gate. It was still raining hard, and the mud path was muddier still as they made their way back toward the wide sandy beach.
“Did that old man ask you why you were with us heathens?” Thorgrim asked Failend as they slogged along.
“He did. I told him I was a thrall, like we agreed I would say.”
“And did he suggest you leave us? Seek the monastery’s protection?”
“No,” Failend said. “I thought he might. He seemed to be considering it. But he didn’t. I don’t think I sounded quite as miserable and desperate as a proper thrall should.”
It was dark by the time they made their way back to the ships, where the others were huddled in their poor shelters made of bits of wreckage. The next morning, in the watery sunlight, Thorgrim could see how much salvage they had managed to fish out of the sea, and it was considerable.
It was not long after sunrise that the rain eased up and the storm began to blow itself out, and by noon the sun, a stranger in that country, was out and beginning to dry sand and clothes and gear. Thorgrim gathered the men. He told them about the monastery and the river and the harbor at the river mouth. He told them they would be moving Blood Hawk and Sea Hammer and the small merchant ship of Brunhard’s which had also managed to survive.
The entire voyage to Waesfiord—Loch Garman—was a distance of six miles. It took them a week to cover it.
The rain had filled Blood Hawk’s hull to a depth of a foot or more. Thorgrim ordered more water poured in, and was pleased to see that little of it leaked out, meaning her hull was more sound than he had dared hope. He let the water run out of the places where the seams had opened, and then he and some of the more competent shipwrights caulked her as best they could. Brunhard’s ship, too, was in surprisingly good shape after the pounding she had taken.
Not so Sea Hammer, which had been hauled as far up the beach as she could go. The rainwater that filled her drained right away though the various gaps in her planking and the places where the strakes were stove in. So Thorgrim and his shipwrights hammered old rope and tattered bits of cloth into the gaps between the overlapping planks. They did not have to make her perfect. They just had to keep the water from coming in faster than they could bail, for as long as it took them to reach their new ship camp.
Two days into the work, Thorgrim sent Godi and Failend and ten others off to Beggerin to buy fresh food and ale. He also told them to buy one of those curachs they had seen on the beach, if they could find a fisherman willing to part with it.
As it turned out, the very first fisherman they spoke to was eager for such a deal, which was not too surprising, given that a new curach could be easily had but silver was much harder to come by. It was later that same day that the low, tar-coated hide boat came pulling along the shoreline, propelled by four men at the oars with Failend like a queen sitting in the stern and the midships loaded with a few barrels of ale and fresh, bloody cuts of meat.
While Thorgrim and the others worked on making Sea Hammer as watertight as she could be, Harald worked on the problem of getting Blood Hawk back into the water. She had been driven hard ashore, and the huge seas had flung her twenty feet beyond the surf line. Getting her back in her element would be no simple matter.
There were a few more than ninety of the Northmen left, which meant there were a few more than ninety opinions as to how that would best be done. Harald listened to this suggestion and then that one, and then another, and then listened as the men argued the merits of their ideas, the weaknesses of the others. Thorgrim did not interfere, but rather watched with interest to see how Harald would manage.
Harald in turn displayed more patience than Thorgrim would have shown, more even than he would have credited Harald with. But finally the young man put an end to the discussion, assuring the other
s that he now had a solid plan for making the ship swim once more. Thorgrim doubted that was true, but he could see his son was done listening to ideas.
The plan that Harald hit on was the plan Thorgrim would have chosen, the one advocated by Ulf and Armod. A pit was dug around Blood Hawk and driftwood logs collected and jammed in place to hold the ship upright as the sand was removed from below. They dug down until the ship was sitting on her keel alone, and the hole extended out five feet from her sides in every direction. It reminded Thorgrim of one of those ship burials that were reserved for the wealthiest and most powerful kings and queens and jarls, funerals in which an entire ship, as well as food, weapons, tools and sacrificed animals and slaves, was buried to accompany the dead to the afterlife.
Once the sand was cleared away around the ship, Harald and the men began digging a trench from the hole to the water’s edge. The trench was ten feet wider than Blood Hawk and deeper than the level of the sea. It was hard work, and there were few shovels to go around, so the men used broken strakes and barrel staves and anything else that would serve. Even with those crude implements eighty men could move a lot of sand in little time.
That done, the yard was unlashed from the mast and hefted onto the beach, and then the mast was unstepped and the ship was freed of that burden as well. The deck planks, the gallows, the oars, the sea chests, any weight that could be removed was removed to make the longship as light as she could be.
The gods blessed their efforts with one singular bit of luck: it was the time of the month for spring tides, those days when the difference between high and low tide was the greatest, and the water came up nearly as high as it ever would. Once the tide was well out, the men quickly dug out the last of the trench until there remained only an unbroken channel from the place where Blood Hawk rested to the edge of the tide. And then they waited.
Foot by foot the water rose, and the men attached ropes to Blood Hawk and ran them down the beach and everyone took hold so they could heave with every bit of strength available to them.
Loch Garman: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 7) Page 4
