“I think we can expect an enthusiastic welcome very soon,” Thorgrim said and he led the way forward, trudging across the turned earth toward the monastery gate.
The welcome that Thorgrim had expected came soon after that. The gates in the earthen wall were opened to let the terrified field hands in, and once they had disappeared, the mounted men-at-arms appeared. Thorgrim could see the gleam of mail shirts and spears held aloft, the big warhorses throwing clods behind them as they pounded toward the invaders.
“I hope they give us leave to say something before they kill us all,” Bjorn said and that was met with grunted agreement from the others.
The horsemen were a hundred yards away when Bjorn drew his sword and two of the others did the same. “Put those away, you dim wits,” Thorgrim growled. “We’re trying to convince them we’re no threat, or did you forget that?”
Sheepishly the men slid their blades back into their scabbards. Thorgrim turned to talk to Failend when, to his surprise, she took off running, hands clutching her leine and holding the hem from tangling her feet. She ran at the horsemen and when she was twenty feet in front of the Northmen she stopped and held her arms up and called out in her native Irish.
Thorgrim folded his arms and watched the scene play out. The lead horseman reined his mount back to a walk and approached Failend with caution. The rest of the mounted men were arrayed behind him. There were twenty in all, and most held spears but some had swords, which they held perpendicular to the ground.
Failend spoke. Thorgrim could not hear the words and he would not have understood them in any event, but he saw her gesturing toward him and the others and then toward the monastery and then off toward the south. The man on the horse said something and she replied. The man on the horse turned to the men behind him, and four of them raced off, two north, two south. Checking to see that the five of them truly were all the Northmen in the vicinity, or so Thorgrim guessed.
Failend turned her back on the horsemen, trudged back toward Thorgrim and the rest. “I told him you only wish to talk with the abbot. He wanted to know about what and I said it was not his concern. He sent men to see there are no other heathens lurking about, that this isn’t some sort of trick.”
“Good,” Thorgrim said. “Does he believe us? Will he take us to see the abbot?”
Before Failend could answer, the horseman gave another sharp order and the mounted men behind him rode past and formed in a loose circle around Thorgrim and his men, spears lowered, horses pawing nervously at the ground.
“I don’t think he entirely believes you,” Failend said. And Thorgrim guessed she was right. But at the same time the man on the horse must have understood that his best move was to secure the handful of Northmen in front of him now. He spoke, and Failend translated.
“He says you can see the abbot and he will take you, but you must surrender your weapons. Now.”
Thorgrim nodded. He had anticipated this, after the same conditions had been set at Beggerin. He had already decided he would surrender Iron-tooth in exchange for the chance to bargain with the abbot of Ferns. He turned to his men.
“If we want to go in we must surrender our weapons,” he said. “I’ll give up my sword, but I won’t expect any of you to do so if you don’t wish. You can wait for us by the boat if you are not willing to give up your sword.”
There was a moment of hesitancy, a moment of indecision, and then the four men, muttering under their breath, unbuckled their sword belts and handed the weapons up to the man on horseback, who leaned down and took them and handed them to another.
They were taking a risk, as big a risk as a man could take. But it was not their lives they were risking. If these men-at-arms wanted to kill them, there was little their swords could do to stop them. At best they might take a few of the Irish out with them before they died.
It was their afterlife they were putting at risk. If they were attacked now they would die, and they would die with no weapons in their hands. Whether the Valkyrie would look kindly on men who fought to the death bare handed, Thorgrim did not know. He hoped so. And he hoped that he and the men under his command would not have to find out now.
Chapter Eight
If evil thou knowest, as evil proclaim it.
And make no friendship with foes.
The Poetic Edda
Harald stood on Fox’s raised foredeck and stared down at the empty place between the rowing benches where he would have expected the ship’s oars to be stacked. He was all but motionless, but his mind was tumbling around like wreckage in the surf.
No sails…no oars…no way at all to get the ships to Loch Garman, he thought, but he was having a hard time getting past that. The ships’ sails had been unbent and stitched together to make a sail for Blood Hawk, and that had in turn been blown apart in the gale that drove them ashore. Sails were not easily come by, exactly the issue with which his father was wrestling.
We need oars…Harald thought. It had been his plan all along to row the ships south to the ship fort they were establishing at the mouth of the Slaney. Harald had assumed that either the Fox and Dragon would be there or they would not. It had never occurred to him that the ships might be here but their oars missing.
He needed to find some means to get the ships south. Now that they were once again in his possession Harald had no intention of abandoning them. He could never go back to his father and say that he had found the ships, that they were in fine shape, but that he had left them on the beach because he could think of no way to bring them off. Left them to the Irish to do as they wished. He could not do that.
Could we make oars? he wondered. There might be some tools aboard the ships. They would have to go inland to find wood, cut it down, drag it to the beach. A tricky job even if they were left alone, but Harald did not think the Irishmen they had just driven off would simply abandon the ships, go back to wherever they had come from. No, they would be back, and they would not be taken by surprise again, and it would be a much harder fight the next time. And the time after that.
What Harald really wanted to do just then was to shout in frustration, to break something with his bare hands, to strangle whoever had taken the oars. But he knew that leaders, good leaders, did not show such a lack of discipline, so he remained silent and tried to sort through his options. He was so deep into his thoughts that he did not even hear the cry from his lookout.
“Harald!” the man cried and Harald realized it was not the first time he had called his name. He looked up toward the dunes a couple hundred feet away. He had positioned one of his men, a fellow named Ulf, on the highest dune to keep a watch inland and give warning if the Irish returned. And now he seemed to be doing just that.
“What, Ulf?” Harald called back.
“Riders! Maybe five. Coming this way!”
Harald frowned. “Are they attacking?”
“It doesn’t look it. They’re walking their horses.”
Harald jumped down to the beach and made his way up the dune and stood at Ulf’s side. The riders were about a mile away, having just crested a low hill, and as Ulf had reported, they seemed to be moving at a particularly non-threatening pace. For some time Harald and Ulf watched them approach. Five riders, as Ulf had thought.
“What is that one fellow holding?” Ulf asked at last. “Is that a weapon or a banner?”
“I’m not quite sure,” Harald said. He, too, had been puzzling about that. “Looks like a tree branch. Men carry those sometimes as a sign they come in peace.”
“Huh,” Ulf said, and said no more.
It was not long before the riders were near enough that Harald could see the one man was indeed holding a tree branch, which Harald took as a sign they wished to talk. He and Ulf were still alone on the dune, though behind them and down on the beach all of the Northmen and Broccáin’s Irish warriors stood ready, weapons out, in case there was some sort of surprise. Though Harald could not imagine what that could be.
The riders were one hundred
yards away when it occurred to Harald that he might look weak standing in front of riders who outnumbered him. He turned toward the beach. “Starri, Gudrid, Broccáin, come up here with me!” he called and the three men hurried up the dune. He hesitated, unsure, then called in Irish, “Louis, come up here.”
Harald was still not certain how he felt about Louis the Frank. He liked him. He respected him as a brave man, a fighting man. A clever man. And he also wanted to drive a sword through his guts for what he had done before, betraying them all to the Irish. Louis and Failend had been lovers, and that did not sit too well with Harald, either. But just then he was willing to swallow those feelings in hope that Louis might offer some insight.
Louis, as usual, betrayed no emotion, save for a sort of haughty disinterest, as he climbed up the dune and took his place with the others. The riders covered the last hundred feet or so and came to a halt in a loose V formation, the point just ten feet from where Harald stood. Harald could see eyes darting toward Starri Deathless. The mounted men would not soon forget the berserker, and Harald was glad he had asked Starri to be there. To remind these men of what the Northmen could do.
The rider at the apex of the V called out, “Is there any here can speak our language?”
Harald took a step forward. He was pretty sure he recognized this man from the fight on the beach. “My name is Harald Thorgrimson,” he said, his voice loud. “I command these men. And yes, I speak your language.”
That got a reaction, as it usually did, just a flicker of surprise on the man’s face. The rider nudged his horse’s flanks and took a few steps closer, stopping when he was only a few feet from Harald. He remained on horseback, forcing Harald to look up at him. It was a trick, Harald knew, a way of seeming more important, but he did not let it bother him, or insist the man come down.
“I am Airtre mac Domhnall,” the rider said, his voice lofty-sounding. “I am king of these lands.”
“King?” Harald said. “Are you the rí ruirech, the high king? Or rí tuath? Or rí túaithe?”
Again Harald saw the flicker of surprise. An Irishman would not expect a heathen to know the subtleties of the Irish kingships. Because most heathens did not find themselves so long in that country, with the gods wrecking their every attempt to leave.
“I am rí tuath,” Airtre said, still trying to infuse his words with gravitas, though Harald’s question made it clear the heathen knew where he stood, and it was not at the top. “I am lord of these lands. And more to the point, I have something that you want. The oars to your ships.”
Harald nodded. He had already guessed that was the case. And he was not sure what he would do about it. Grab this man, hold him hostage? No, he had come asking for truce which he, Harald, had accepted. He couldn’t take him prisoner even if he could catch him before he rode off, which he doubted he could.
“You may keep the oars,” Harald said. “We prefer to sail these ships.”
“Yes, but you have no sails,” Airtre said. “Even I know enough about ships to see that.”
Harald considered telling the man they had brought sails with them, but that would so clearly be a lie that he moved in another direction. “Very well, you have the oars,” he said. “I don’t imagine you came here just to tell us that.”
“No,” Airtre said, smiling. “No, not at all. There are stories going about that a great army of fin gall have landed to the south, at the mouth of the River Slaney. I’m guessing you and your men are part of that army?”
Harald nodded. “That’s right. A small part.”
“Good,” Airtre said, as if he was seeing pieces falling into place. “And I know there is nothing you people enjoy more than plunder.”
“We enjoy many things,” Harald said.
“Indeed,” Airtre said. “But see here. I’ve come with a proposition for you. There is a monastery to the west of here called Ferns. They have a great treasure there and a good portion of it rightfully belongs to me. I won’t tire you with the details. Suffice to say it can be…awkward…for a man in my position to plunder a monastery. But if we were to work together, the fin gall and my men-at-arms, we might make ourselves rich indeed.”
“We fin gall are already rich,” Harald said. “But tell me what you have in mind.”
“If I give you the oars to your ships, you and the rest of your army can row up the Slaney to within a few miles of Ferns. Attack it from there. Plunder it. We can surround the monastery, make certain that none of the other rí tuath come to drive you off. As long as we keep them at bay, your work is easy. There are only monks and a few farmers there. Then we divide up the spoils.”
“We’ve made such deals with you Irish in the past, and we’ve been betrayed more often than not. Why should I trust you now?”
“Well,” Airtre said, “there are a few reasons I can think of. I’m willing to let you row away with the ships I have captured, and which I could put to good use. We have nothing to gain by betraying you, and much to lose. This will make us all rich. But, if you insist, I am willing to exchange hostages.”
With that Airtre turned around and waved to one of the riders, a young man, just a bit older than Harald, who rode up to stand by Airtre. He was dressed much as the other men-at-arms with a mail shirt and a long robe fringed with fur and a bright-colored tunic underneath.
“This is my son, Eoin. My oldest son. He will go with you as hostage, and you will give me a hostage of equal value.”
Harald looked at Eoin. He looked at Airtre. And he knew he had to make a decision and make it quickly. It was something a leader should well be able to do.
“I’ll speak with my chief men. Stay here. We won’t be long.”
He turned to the men behind him and waved them down toward the beach. They climbed down the steep dune and stood in the sand in a small circle. Of all the men there, Louis and Broccáin had been the only ones able to follow the discussion, so Harald laid it out for the rest of them.
“If we don’t get the oars, we’ll have to abandon the ships,” Gudrid said. “I don’t see how we get them back otherwise. And if we can’t go by sea we’ll have to fight our way back overland, with these bastards nipping at us like dogs all the way.”
The others nodded. Without the oars, they had no way to save the ships. Even saving their lives would be unlikely.
“I don’t trust them, I don’t trust any Irish,” Starri said. “They’ll betray us for certain. However, if we are with them, then there’s fighting and plunder to be had. So perhaps we should agree to their terms.”
Harald nodded. That was about as helpful as anything he would expect from Starri.
Through all the discussion Harald had been translating the arguments to Louis. Now Louis spoke up. “I very much doubt that moon calf he offered as a hostage is his son,” he said. “But he’s put us in a bad place here, and he knows it. We either agree to join with him, get the oars, and gamble that he won’t betray us, or we die fighting our way back to the others. That seems to be the choice.”
Harald nodded. He looked out to sea. The wind was on-shore: even if they pushed the ships into the water and tried to float away they would be pushed right back onto the beach.
He turned and translated Louis’s words. The other men nodded. Louis had clearly defined their only two choices, and neither held much appeal.
“Very well,” Harald said. He turned and led the way back up the dune. The Northmen and Broccáin formed a line facing the riders.
“We’ve spoken,” Harald said to Airtre. “And we agree. But see here, I command these men, but I do not command the whole army. The vast army. Back by the Slaney. That is the command of a man named Thorgrim Night Wolf, and it will be his decision whether or not to work with you.”
“And what will he decide?” Airtre asked.
“He has no more trust of the Irish than I do,” Harald said. “Probably less. But if you are willing to exchange hostages, then I think he will be willing to join with you in this. Let us exchange hostages. Give
us the oars. Begin to move your men toward this monastery and we’ll meet up and make the arrangements with Thorgrim Night Wolf.”
Airtre nodded. “Good,” he said. “This is good.” He turned to the young man on the horse and said, “Eoin, my boy, you go with them. Fear not, they are honorable men.”
Eoin climbed down from his horse with as much enthusiasm as one going to get a rotten tooth pulled.
“Your father is right, you have nothing to fear,” Harald said, waving the boy over, but his mind was elsewhere. Because he had a decision to make now, a big decision, and the time for thinking on it was past. Now it was time to act.
Chapter Nine
Profit thou hast if thou hearest,
Great thy gain if thou learnest:
Curse not thy guest, nor show him thy gate,
Deal well with a man in want.
The Poetic Edda
“He says to follow him,” Failend said, nodding up at the man on horseback who stood like a wall between the handful of Northmen and the monastery at Ferns. Thorgrim’s eyes had been following Iron-tooth as the sword was passed back to the man behind. It bothered Thorgrim, in a visceral way, to see anyone else touch that weapon. He would leave Ferns with it, he knew, or he would not leave Ferns at all.
He shifted his eyes to Failend then up to the soldier above him and nodded. The man tugged his horse’s reins around and the animal walked off toward the gate, with Failend and the others following behind and the mounted men-at-arms on either side and coming up behind.
Thorgrim resisted the urge to examine each rider, to figure which one he would take down first if it came to that. It was his natural inclination, his instinct, like a dog snarling at a stranger, but he fought it down because he did not intend any violence that day.
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