Loch Garman: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 7)

by James L. Nelson

  He walked a little farther, up a small hill, and stopped at the crest, once again scanning the countryside. Still he saw only fields, patches of trees, brush. But then his eye caught something else, some unique line of color. He thought it was a stream at first, but as he looked he realized it was not.

  A road! He could see just a section of it, but he was certain that the brownish scar in the distance was a road. And a road had to lead to somewhere, and that would lead to somewhere else. And eventually to where he wanted to be. With his mood slightly buoyed now, he walked down the far side of the hill and off in the direction of this new discovery.

  By the time he reached the edge of the road his muscles were warmed up and the soreness worked out of his joints, but his stomach was unhappier than ever. He stopped where the grass ended and the soft, beaten earth of the road began, and examined the surface. For so remote a place, the road had apparently seen considerable use. There were hoof prints and footprints and ruts from wagon wheels, some quite old, little more than dull grooves in the surface, and others left since the last rain, their edges still sharp and well defined.

  Harald looked up and down the road. He could see a few miles in either direction. On his left hand the road ran roughly southwest. On his right it hooked off to the north, running up into the hills.

  Where were all these people going? he wondered. And which way should I go?

  He looked up and down the road again, and this time, looking south, he saw something he had not seen before: movement. Someone…no, several people at least, moving his way. And a horse and wagon, he was all but certain.

  Travelers…travelers should have food, Harald thought. He considered waiting there for them, but his stomach was in charge now and it ordered him to get moving, to reach these folks as quickly as he reasonably could. He stepped onto the road and began walking south to meet the people coming north.

  There were four on foot and one riding on the wagon, driving the tired horse. Harald could make that out long before he was within hailing distance of them. They did not seem very concerned about the stranger approaching them, but then they wouldn’t be, as they were five men to his one.

  Harald could make out more of the details of these men as the distance between them fell away, and none of it was much of a surprise. They wore cowled tunics and walked with wooden staffs. Two were barefoot, it seemed, and the others wearing leather shoes. They were like any of a thousand Irishmen Harald had seen, what the Irish called the bothach, the poor tenant farmers. What was odd was to see them on the road in this way, and not tending fields or driving livestock or hauling their harvest somewhere or other.

  The Irishmen had seen Harald as well; Harald could see them pointing, saw them spread out slightly as they approached. He tried to make his gait seem as unthreatening as he could, an easy, casual walk, nothing aggressive in his approach. He needed food and he needed help and for that he needed willing cooperation.

  A couple hundred feet still separated Harald from the Irishmen when Harald saw the change come over them. They stopped abruptly and seemed to cluster together. He saw one holding his walking stick like a man-at-arms would hold a spear, two others pull something from their belts that looked to Harald to be clubs of some fashion. Probably the cudgels made of blackthorn so beloved by the Irish.

  Now what are they about? Harald wondered, but he did not slow and he did not change his manner of walking. Are they suddenly afraid of me, one man alone?

  And then he understood what the Irishmen were seeing. A Northman, with a sword hanging from his belt. They were close enough now that his clothing and weapon would mark him for what he was: one of the heathens, feared and despised. And where there was one heathen, there were often more.

  Harald cursed himself for a fool for not thinking of that before approaching them, but it was too late now. Anything he did, other than simply continuing on as he was, would look more threatening still. He had worked out what he would say to these fellows, but that was before he realized how he must appear to them. Now, he had no idea what he might say.

  He continued to stroll along, pretending to take no note of the Irishmen’s obvious alarm, but he could not miss the hesitant steps backwards, the grips tightening on the cudgels, the weapons slightly raised.

  Harald held up an arm and gave a friendly wave. “Good morrow to you!” he called, smiling as he walked closer. He saw the men relax, but only a bit.

  “Not many travelers on the road this morning, are there?” Harald continued in his good-natured way, closing the last dozen yards and coming to a stop an unthreatening twenty feet from the nearest man. “So I am right glad to come upon you, let me tell you.”

  The man nearest Harald cocked his head a bit, as if trying to get a new angle on this strange thing that had appeared before him. “Who are you?” he asked.

  Harald had already figured this part out, and he saw no need to change his story. “My name is Cónán,” Harald said, “and if you have any food to share with a hungry traveler then I would be very grateful.”

  “‘Cónán?’” the man said. “You’re an Irishman?”

  “Yes, of course, I’m Irish,” Harald said. “I’m speaking your language, am I not?”

  Now the man straightened his head and his face took on an expression of full-blown confusion. “You speak our language, but your accent’s foreign. And you’re dressed like a Northman,” he said.

  Harald nodded. He had now exhausted all of the material he had prepared and did not know what to say next. So he opened his mouth and asked the gods to put some words in them.

  “I look like a Northman, sure, but I am Irish. Have you ever known of a Northman who could speak your language?” Harald did not wait for an answer because he feared it would not be the one he wanted. “I was taken by Northmen when I was young. Nine, ten years old, maybe. I don’t know. I was a thrall to them, a slave. In Dubh-linn. But the man who owned me, he had no sons, and soon he began to look on me as his son. He gave me decent clothes, and allowed me to eat at his table.”

  The Irishmen listening to the story did not appear any less skeptical, but they did lower their weapons and stand a little easier, as if they enjoyed hearing the tale. Harald continued.

  “So sure, I was treated like a son, but I never forgot that I’m an Irishman. Not a heathen. I was made to worship the Northmen’s false gods, but I never gave up my belief in the one true God.”

  Harald thought that was right. It seemed that was what he had heard the Christ worshipers say, the one true God, though he sometimes was given to believe that they actually worshiped three gods. He had never quite managed to get that straight in his head.

  He looked at the nearest of the Irishmen and his expression still had not changed much, so Harald guessed he had not made any great error. He hoped the gods would not be angry with him for calling them false. But when he opened his mouth again, the words kept coming out, which he took to mean that the gods were not angry. In truth, he was starting to enjoy this, letting this story spill out of him.

  “I always wanted to escape from Dubh-linn, but I didn’t know where to go,” Harald continued. “I didn’t even remember where I had lived before I was taken as a slave.”

  “So how do you happen to be here?” the Irishman asked. “We’re a great distance from Dubh-linn. At least I think we are.”

  “Have you heard of the Northmen landing nearby? At a place called Loch Garman?” Harald asked. At that the men exchanged glances and Harald knew that they had indeed heard that disturbing news. The man closest to him nodded.

  “Well, the man who led that fleet of ships, that’s my master. But his ships were badly damaged in the late storm, so they went ashore where they did. And for the first time I had a chance to escape.”

  “Why the first time?” the Irishman said. “Why couldn’t you escape before?”

  “I could have,” Harald said, “but I would not have gotten away. My master, he knows the country around Dubh-linn, and I don’t. There, he h
as dogs and horses. But here, he’s as much of a stranger as I am. No horses, no dogs. So I stole his sword while he slept…” Harald half drew Oak Cleaver to show off the fine blade, “and I ran off in the night. I’ve been running for days, and I have no idea of where I am.”

  The Irishmen had lowered their cudgels, and the one with the staff was leaning on it now, rather than holding it in a defensive way. Even if they did not yet entirely believe Harald, their former wariness was gone.

  “Where is it you’re trying to go?” the man asked.

  “I’ve heard there’s a monastery, a fine monastery, at a place called Ferns,” Harald said, pleased with the note of optimism he managed to put in his voice. “I had hoped maybe I would find sanctuary there. Do you know where Ferns might be?”

  Once again the men glanced at one another before turning back to Harald. “Aye, we know where Ferns is,” the man said. “We’ll be going back there in a day or two. Now we have business up in the hills.” He nodded north along the road, the direction in which they had been traveling.

  “You’ll be going to Ferns?” Harald said, smiling wide. “The gods…the God, the true God, is surely looking out for me. Can I travel along with you?”

  This request prompted more glances back and forth, and Harald could sense the real hesitancy now. If they were to agree, they would need a reason to do so.

  “See here,” Harald continued quickly. “Like I said, I was raised as this man’s…his name is Thorgrim…as his son, and he trained me in the use of weapons. I may be a true Irishman, but I can fight like a warrior of the Northmen, and I know their ways. I could serve as a guard to you. Even if the heathens are not so far inland as here, there are always bandits and such on the roads.”

  And that was exactly the right thing to say. Harald could see it in their expressions, in the dawning realization that this strong, well-armed and well-trained young man—Northman or Irishman, whatever he was—could indeed be of great help to them. If nothing else, Harald guessed, they would see him as a way to hold off robbers long enough for them to escape.

  “Well, I can see you’ve been through a lot, suffered more than a Christian should at the hands of the heathens,” the Irishman said. “So yes, if you’ll accompany us up into the hills yonder, then in a day or so we’ll be back this way and we’ll take you to Ferns with us.”

  “Thank you, God bless you,” Harald said, while in his heart he gave his profound thanks to Thor and Odin for this delivery. “And, please, would you have anything to eat?”

  Twenty-Two

  [R]ise never at nighttime, except thou art spying

  or seekest a spot without.

  The Counseling of the Stray-Singer

  It took Thorgrim some moments before he was awake enough to realize that someone was prodding him awake. He opened his eyes. He was looking up into blackness. Which meant that it was still night.

  “Stop that,” he growled, not knowing who he was growling at, and the prodding stopped.

  He sat up, pushing the fur that covered him aside. Failend was lying on his left side, her back toward him, and she shifted and shrugged her shoulders as the warm covering was lifted off her and the cool night air took its place. She was fully clothed, Thorgrim was happy to see.

  He looked to his right, scowling. A figure was kneeling beside him and in the faint light from the low fires that dotted the camp he could make out the shape of Louis de Roumois. Who apparently had been the one poking him.

  Thorgrim scowled deeper still. He had no sense for what time of the night it might be. It had still been daylight when he and Failend had all but collapsed after the long, wearying march, the fruitless attempt to rescue Harald, and the march back with their prisoner in tow. Had the sun just gone down, or was it about to rise? Had he slept right through the night?

  He was awake enough now to recall that asking Louis anything directly was pointless, so he turned back to Failend and shook her, her shoulder feeling small and delicate in the grip of his big, calloused hand. She made a soft groaning sound and rolled over, then opened her eyes and propped herself up on an elbow. She looked past Thorgrim to Louis squatting beside him. Thorgrim tried to read her expression, but it was too dark to see anything for certain.

  Failend said a few words. Louis replied. Failend looked over at Thorgrim.

  “Louis says that he fears while you were sleeping the sleep of the innocent, there has been treachery afoot.”

  Thorgrim’s scowl did not ease up with this news. He sat up straighter and shuffled back so he could see both Failend and Louis at the same time, the better to talk. “What treachery?” he asked.

  He waited as Failend and Louis went back and forth. Then Failend switched from her native Irish to Irish-inflected Norse. “Louis says he’s been watching Bécc’s camp, the comings and goings. He says soon after you spoke with Bécc, Bécc rode off. One of his men told Louis he was going to meet with the abbot, Columb.”

  Thorgrim nodded. There was nothing odd in that. Columb, as Thorgrim understood it, was Bécc’s superior. Columb made the decisions. Bécc would want to know the man’s desires.

  “It was after dark when Bécc returned,” Failend continued. “Then, much later, Airtre was brought to Bécc’s tent. He remained there for some time. What they might have discussed, Louis has no idea, but when Airtre left he did not seem too downtrodden.”

  “So what does Louis make of that?” Thorgrim asked.

  Failend and Louis went back and forth again. “Louis says from the look on Airtre’s face, the way he walked, and the fact that he was not being guarded very close, it makes him think their talk was friendlier than it should have been. And that makes him wary.”

  “Yes,” Thorgrim said. “It should.”

  Louis was talking again. Failend listened, then translated. “Louis says not so long after Airtre left Bécc’s tent, riders were sent out. Quietly. Louis could not tell what direction they rode off in.”

  “Those could be scouts,” Thorgrim said. “With an enemy near, and a fight expected soon, it would only make sense for Bécc to send out scouts.”

  Failend translated. Louis spoke. “Louis agrees they may have been scouts,” Failend said. But the look on Louis’s face suggested he did not think they were scouts. And neither did Thorgrim.

  “An interesting tale Louis tells,” Thorgrim said. Interesting, and irritating on many levels. Bécc was speaking with Airtre in private. Making some bargain between them, perhaps? If they were in league with one another, that might explain why Bécc was not pleased that Thorgrim had taken Airtre prisoner.

  But Thorgrim was also irritated for another reason. He himself had been exhausted, and had collapsed in sleep as soon as he had been able. But Louis, who had marched and fought as hard as he had, had remained awake and vigilant. And perhaps made a discovery that would save them all.

  Louis is half my age, Thorgrim thought, but that notion did not make him feel much better. Worse, actually. He wondered if Failend would take note of this difference.

  He looked at Louis and then at Failend. “You two, you know the ways of these Irishmen better than me,” he said. “What do you think? What are they up to?”

  Once again Failend and Louis rattled on to one another. When they were done Failend turned back to Thorgrim. “Louis thinks that Bécc and Airtre might have come to some understanding. He thinks Bécc is the sort who would not care to join with heathens to fight against Christians, whatever the abbot might wish. And I agree with him.”

  Thorgrim nodded. Bécc had never been particularly welcoming or cooperative, but Thorgrim had taken that to be part of his warrior’s nature. Thorgrim had known plenty of fighting men who were not so pleasant company. He himself had never been known as a particularly jovial sort.

  But maybe it was something else.

  “So how do we know if we are betrayed?” Thorgrim asked. Failend posed the question to Louis. Louis shrugged and spoke.

  “Louis says when Bécc’s men and Airtre’s men start thr
owing spears at us, that’s when we know.”

  Such a flip answer might have annoyed Thorgrim further, but instead he took Louis’s point. If Bécc was going to betray them, he would be crafty about it. Bécc was no fool. He would make certain the Northmen didn’t see the snare until it closed around them.

  “Tell Louis he has my thanks,” Thorgrim said. “Tell him we’ll be alert for this treachery. And tell him to get some sleep.”

  Failend translated. Louis nodded, stood, and strolled off. Thorgrim turned to Failend.

  “The Frank, Louis, he’s a mystery,” he said.

  “Yes,” Failend said. There was a defensive tone in her voice.

  “Why is he doing this? Helping this way? We tried to kill one another, not so long ago.”

  “How would I know what’s in Louis’s heart?” Failend said. Thorgrim did not answer, just held her gaze. They both knew why Thorgrim might think she knew something of Louis’s heart. “Are you jealous of him?” Failend said at last.

  “I want to know if I can trust him,” Thorgrim said.

  “With me, or in battle?”

  “Both,” Thorgrim said. “If I couldn’t trust a man with both, I wouldn’t have him in my company.”

  He had an idea of what Failend really wanted him to say. She wanted him to say that he feared any rival for her affection, that he was worried that the passion that she and Louis had once shared might be rekindled, that he could not tolerate anything that might come between them.

  He knew she wanted him to say those things, but he could not.

  It was not as if he did not have feelings for her. He liked her very much. Loved her, perhaps. He would grieve if any harm came to her, and there were not many about whom that was true. But he had gone too many miles, had been too battered by the years, to play the jealous lover. He thought Failend understood that. He hoped that she did.

  Failend sighed, as if she was giving up. “I don’t know what’s in Louis’s heart,” she said, “but I have an idea. From what I know and what he’s said to me. He used to be a soldier in Frankia, fighting the Norsemen who raided there. He hated them. And then he was betrayed by his brother and sent to Ireland against his will. He had no love of the Irish, but they were fellow Christians, at least. And then they turned on him and tried to hang him for a crime he was innocent of. And then Brunhard and his Frisians tried to kill him.”