But first he had to see if the ships were still there, and if so he had to see if they were as unharmed as the messenger claimed, and then he had to take possession of them.
And he would have to take leave of Lassar and her questions and silent condemnation.
“Go, tell the groom to get me a fresh horse,” Airtre said, his mind made up, his spirit lifted. “Tell the captain of the guard that we will be marching out again shortly.” He turned to Lassar. “I am sorry, my dear, but I must be off directly. I must see what this longship business is all about.”
“Indeed,” Lassar said, and she said no more, just turned and walked off into the dark inner chambers of the house.
Chapter Six
The son of a king shall be silent and wise,
And bold in battle as well:
Bravely and gladly a man shall go,
Till the day of his death is come.
The Poetic Edda
Harald Broadarm was not the sort to complain, so he didn’t, though he very much wanted to. It was a mindless sort of complaint that was swirling around half-formed in his mind. The kind that was not meant to solve anything or change the circumstances. The sort of complaint that was cathartic, nothing more.
But he kept his mouth shut because he knew that men did not complain, and leaders of men most certainly did not complain. His situation was no worse than that of the forty Northmen and thirty-five Irish and one Frank under his command. And the final point, perhaps the one that had the most influence on him, was that Conandil was not complaining, and, indeed, looked less ready to complain than any of them.
In any event, Starri Deathless was complaining enough for all of them.
“How much farther must we walk, Broadarm?” he asked, his voice loud enough to be heard up and down the line. He had asked the same question an hour before. Harald did not know if he had forgotten that, or if he genuinely thought the answer would have changed much in so short a time.
Louis said something in his Frankish tongue. He said it loud, and Harald was glad that the words were unintelligible or, he was certain, there would be a fight by now.
“I do not know, Starri,” Harald replied truthfully. “We walk until we are there.”
It was not something the Northmen were much accustomed to. Back in their native lands they walked, to be sure: long, steep hikes from village to village, or yearly treks to the law assemblies. But mostly they moved by boats and ships, because that was easier and faster than travel over rugged, wooded country.
In Ireland it was worse yet. Not because the land was difficult. Not at all. Harald, who had known nothing but Norway prior to his sailing to that country was amazed by the gentle rolling hills, the long stretches of sandy beach, the green, open fields. Ireland seemed to him the kindest of lands, save for the rain.
But they were strangers there, foreigners, fin gall, and they were not welcome. Northmen did not go ambling around the countryside. They came to raid and they moved by ship. If they were raiding farther inland, then they took their shallow-draft longships up the rivers, or they secured horses enough to ride. Walking for mile after mile was not a thing they often did, and they were not used to it.
They had walked all of the day before. It was now near midday and they had been walking since dagmál, the time of their morning meal.
It could be raining, Harald reminded himself.
“Sure if we go inland we’ll find horses,” Starri pointed out. “We can take the horses. There’s no one to stop us.”
“We’re not wasting time wandering around looking for horses. That will take longer than just walking,” Harald explained.
If anyone but Starri had complained, Harald would have just told him to shut his mouth. But for Starri he was willing to give an explanation, because Starri’s mind, he knew, did not work like that of most men.
Broccáin, Conandil’s husband, spoke next, his Irish incomprehensible to any of the Northmen but Harald. “I don’t think it is so very far from here,” he said, nodding toward the north, along the shoreline they were following.
Once Sea Hammer and the other ships had been brought safe to the place that the Irish called Loch Garman, they had decided who would see to the various things that needed doing. Thorgrim made clear the jobs at hand: retrieve the longships beached to the north, begin repairs of the others, find some place to acquire sailcloth.
Thorgrim had decided in the way Harald knew he decided most things. He asked for the council of his chief men and then did what he had already made up his mind to do, though he was skilled in appearing to listen to the advice of others.
In this case his father had decided that he, Harald, would lead nearly half the men north along the coast to see if the ships were still there, and if so, to bring them back to Loch Garman. That decision made sense for several reasons. Harald had been the one to order the ships beached, so he of all of them had the best idea of where they were. Harald spoke Irish, which might be helpful as they were striking out across Irish land. And, Harald suspected, his father wanted him to gain experience leading men.
The Irish would go with them. There were eleven Irishmen who had stayed with Harald to help him free their countrymen from the slaver Brunhard, and another twenty-four who had lived through the fighting and the shipwreck. Thirty-five Irishmen including Conandil, wife of Broccáin mac Bressal, who had been the son of the rí túaithe in their own part of that country, before their neighbors had conspired with the Northmen to overrun them, capture them, and sell them into slavery. Now they were eager to return home and see what was left of the lands and the rath they had once owned, and how they might get it back again.
Louis the Frank would also accompany them. Thorgrim said Louis was a soldier and might be useful, but Harald knew that his father wanted Louis away from the ship camp because he could not tolerate the man. Starri was sent as well, because he would not be very helpful with the other things that needed doing, but if there was fighting then he would be most helpful indeed.
They packed up food and strapped on weapons. The men who had mail shirts left them behind because the walking would be sufficiently taxing without them. The merchant ship they had taken from Brunhard was seaworthy enough to get them across the mouth of the River Slaney, at least, so they used her to cross the water, then headed out across the countryside. They kept close to the shore, checking the beaches as they went. Harald had only the vaguest idea of how far north he had left the ships, and the last thing any of them cared to do was to miss them and walk farther than need be.
Surely we’ll reach them today, Harald thought as they trudged along with the mindless rhythm of their footsteps.
He had a notion that the ships had been beached about ten or fifteen miles north of where Sea Hammer and Blood Hawk had come ashore. They had not made great time the day before, sometimes having to skirt stands of woods and sometimes finding the path along the shore blocked, which required waiting while one of their number found the means to check the beach and make certain the ships were not there. But by Harald’s reckoning they should have covered nearly ten miles, at least.
He was debating whether or not he should say as much to the others when Starri Deathless spoke. Not a complaint this time, but words that were sharp and urgent.
“Broadarm! Riders! And I think there are men on foot as well.”
Harald stopped and held up his hand and he heard the others behind him come to a stop. Then Starri was at his side pointing. Harald followed the direction of his finger. Far off, more than a mile away, maybe a mile and a half, he could see them. Tiny dark figures against the green of the grass. If the sun had not been shining so bright he would never have seen them at all. As it was, it took Starri’s sharp eyes to notice them and discern what they were.
“You’re sure?” Harald said. “Are you sure they aren’t cows?”
“Not cows, Harald. Riders for certain.”
Harald nodded. He could not recall Starri ever being wrong about that sort of thing. He t
urned. “Everyone down, down on a knee,” he said, and then said it again in Irish. If they could see the riders, then it was possible the riders could see them, and Harald did not want to be seen.
The line of men and horses moved slowly along, from the west to the east, making for the shore, apparently. Riders and men on foot, Harald thought. There were many things that such a group could be, but the most likely was that they were men-at-arms of some persuasion.
Louis the Frank knelt down at Harald’s right side and for a moment said nothing, just looked at the distant line. A small hillock of land to their right stood between them and the steep, grassy dunes of the beach, maybe a hundred yards away.
“Soldiers, it would seem,” Louis said at last, speaking Irish with his strong Frankish accent. He turned his head, looked at Harald. “Perhaps we should ask Conandil if she knows where they might be heading.”
Harald nodded, seeing the sense of that. Of all of them, Irish and Norsemen, Conandil was the only one who had ever traveled in that part of the country. Her father had been a merchant with business over much of Ireland, and Conandil had spent years traveling with him. He turned and waved her over.
“What is it? Why are we kneeling?” she asked as she joined the three men.
“See there? Way over there?” Harald said, pointing toward the distant men. “Men-at-arms, most likely. Is there some place around here they might be going?”
Conandil frowned and shook her head. “I don’t think so,” Conandil said. “I don’t know how there could be. We are right beside the ocean now. There’s nothing but beach.”
Harald frowned. Why would a column of men be heading toward the beach?
“I wonder why armed men would be riding toward the beach,” Louis mused, echoing Harald’s thoughts. “What might be on the beach that could be of interest to them?”
Harald shook his head, and then an idea came to him. “The ships!” He turned to Louis. “The ships might be there, they might be going to take possession of the ships!”
“You may be right,” Louis said. “Good thinking.”
“What did he say?” Starri asked. “What did you say?”
“We thought maybe those men-at-arms have found the ships and they’re going to them now,” Harald said.
At that Starri stood straight up, and by the time he was standing he had a battle ax in each hand, as if he had conjured them out of air. “Let’s go, then!” he said, his voice loud, and even though Harald knew they would not be heard over such a distance he wished Starri would be quieter.
Harald stood, ready to restrain Starri if necessary, and Louis stood as well. If there was one thing Harald had learned from his father, it was to resist the impulse to charge recklessly into a fight. Thinking was more powerful than any shieldwall, Thorgrim had taught him.
Louis was starting to speak, but Harald cut him off. “We’ll let them get to the beach,” he said. “That way the dunes will hide us as we get closer. Even if they find the ships, they won’t put to sea immediately. They’re Irish…they might not even know what to do with ships as big as those.”
Starri looked irritated, but he said nothing. Louis also said nothing, but he nodded his head as Harald translated the words he had spoken to Starri. For a few moments they remained where they were, watching the line of men head to the shore and disappear over the dunes. It was hard from that distance to guess how many there were. Maybe as many as Harald had under his command, maybe less.
But the horses told a tale. Horses meant men of high rank, or trained men-at-arms, or both. In any event, it meant that this was no gang of bandits or some similarly undisciplined band. These would be fighting men, and some at least could be counted on to have good armor, weapons, and skill in using them. These were not men against whom one launched a heedless assault.
The last of them disappeared from Harald’s sight, over the dunes, down to the beach. Harald turned to the men behind him. “Gudrid,” he said, and Gudrid stepped out of the line and jogged up. Harald did not know Gudrid well, but they had fought together against Brunhard’s men and Harald had come to trust him. “You and Starri move up along the dunes quick. Keep out of sight. If any of those men on the beach appear, silence them before they can give warning. Wait for the rest of us.”
Gudrid nodded his understanding and Starri also gave a nod, or something like. But Harald knew Starri well enough to know he could trust him with this; the fighting madness had not yet taken hold of him, he was still able to hear and follow orders. And there was no one who could dispatch a man as quick and silent as Starri Deathless.
The two of them hurried up along the line of grassy dunes, running in a partial crouch, and Harald waved the others forward. They, too, moved partially crouched, but the line of men was not able to move as fast as the two on their own, and soon Starri and Gudrid were well ahead and lost from sight.
For more than half a mile Harald led his men forward, wondering what Starri and Gudrid had found. He was just starting to think something was amiss when Gudrid stood from the place he was concealed and waved them forward, gesturing for the line to spread out and find cover behind the tall grass and the mounds of sand that separated the meadows from the beach.
Harald came to a knee beside Gudrid and peered through the grass and despite himself he gave a sharp intake of breath. There they were, a couple hundred feet away, resting on the beach as if they had been run up on the sand that very morning. Dragon and Fox.
They were the smallest of his father’s four ships. They had been captured and Harald had taken them back, and with them dozens of Irish slaves, a burden with which he had no time to deal. He had set the slaves free, let them row off in the two ships on the condition that they beach them and make them secure. And apparently they had done just that.
But while Dragon and Fox were safe from the elements, they were not at all safe from the Irish, who were now swarming over the two ships. Harald watched in silence as men peered over the sheer strakes and climbed on board and looked up at the masts as if they were wonders to behold. The horsemen remained mounted and seemed to be in conversation, while the rest were, as far as Harald could tell, sating their curiosity, and no more.
“What are they doing, Broadarm?” Starri hissed.
“I don’t know,” Harald said. “But it’s pretty clear they think there’s no danger near.”
Starri nodded. There were no sentries posted, and none of the men were in any sort of defensive organization. Harald could see spears standing upright where their butt ends had been pushed into the sand, shields lying beside them.
Harald knew better than to think that the upcoming fight would be an easy one, but he was having a hard time not thinking it.
“Gudrid,” Harald said to the man beside him. “Go down the line, tell the men we’ll attack on my command. Tell them to yell like madmen as they do.”
Gudrid nodded, hurried off, keeping low and spreading the word. Harald turned to Louis. “Gudrid is telling the Northmen to attack on my command, and to yell when they do. Can you tell the Irish the same?”
Louis nodded, hurried off. A moment later he and Gudrid were back.
“Very well, stand ready…” Harald said. He looked over at Starri. The berserker had his axes in hand and he was making that strange jerky motion he made with his arms whenever he descended into the place he went when a fight was imminent.
Harald looked back at the beach. Nothing had changed, but that did not mean the Irish would not in the next moment heave the ships out into the water where they would be lost to the Northmen for good.
He stood, drawing Oak Cleaver as he did. He might not feel Starri’s madness, but he felt something akin to it, now that the waiting was over. Peering through the grass, he had been picturing an ax coming down on his neck, an image that always came unbidden in the moments before a battle. But now, with the one simple gesture of drawing his blade, such fears were gone and forgotten.
“At them! At them!” he shouted, holding his sword high
, and forty Northmen and thirty-five Irish warriors armed with swords and axes and spears all leapt up nearly as one, surging forward over the dunes and screaming as they ran.
There was little order to the attack, or preparation, but that was all right because the enemy had even less. They were completely unprepared, taken fully by surprise. That much was clear from their reaction. Even as he ran, Harald could see that the Irish were frozen where they stood, their heads jerking around in an almost comical way. He could see mouths open, even some fingers pointing. He saw the men on horseback whirl their mounts around in surprise.
Harald had miscalculated in only one way that he could see, and that was the sand. It had not occurred to him that it would be much more difficult to run over the soft sand, but he was understanding that now. Already he was breathing hard, and it was taking longer for him and his men to reach the enemy as he had envisioned.
Even Starri was slowed down some by the sand, but less than the others were. He was like a deer when he ran, moving almost effortlessly, axes raised overhead, a long scream coming from his throat. Harald could see Irishmen backing away. But not all. One of the mounted men charged forward, snatching up a spear that had been stuck upright into the sand, and charging at Starri as Starri charged at the ships.
The two of them, Starri and the rider, closed quickly. The rider held his spear low, its point driving at Starri’s chest, and Starri, seemingly oblivious, kept running as if he would run right onto it.
Harald opened his mouth to shout a warning, pointless as he knew it would be, just as Starri and the rider met. The spear point, it seemed, would run Starri clean through, but it did not. Rather, Starri came to a stop and twisted sideways, crouching, letting the point pass him by inches, then launching himself up, his hands still gripping the axes, his arm around the rider’s neck. The two of them went over the far side of the horse, down onto the sand, but Harald could spare them no further thought. Because now he, too, was into the fight.
Loch Garman: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 7) Page 6
