Thorgrim could hear his men before he could see them. They sounded like a pen full of hogs, with all their snoring and grunting and tossing as they slept. He heard a voice, nearby, sharp and low. “Who’s there?” The sentry, posted at the edge of the camp.
“Thorgrim Ulfsson,” Thorgrim said.
“Yes, lord,” came the reply from the still-unseen guard. Thorgrim nodded and walked on. If he had not been challenged, if he had come and gone unseen by the sentry, there would have been problems.
Then, finally he could see the men in the camp, the sleeping men strewn around. He knew where Godi was sleeping and he went over and shook him awake, a thing that took some doing, as Thorgrim knew it would. Godi did not wake easily.
“Time for us to move,” Thorgrim said when Godi had finally opened his eyes and Thorgrim was satisfied that the man was actually awake. Godi nodded and with a grunt pushed himself to his feet and began to move about the camp, rousting the men, and Thorgrim did likewise.
Soon they were all awake, as if the ground itself had sprung to life, all those inert mounds suddenly blooming into warriors who moved quietly around, strapping on weapons, slinging shields over shoulders, relieving themselves in the brush. Thorgrim went over to where his blanket lay on the ground. Failend was standing and stretching, her bow and quiver at her feet.
“Good morning,” Thorgrim said.
Failend looked around. “It doesn’t seem to be morning yet,” she said.
“It will be. Some time.” He stepped closer to her. “You are all right with this, what we’re doing?”
Failend looked up at him and for a moment she did not react. Then at last she shrugged. “I don’t know if I even understand right and wrong anymore.”
“If you don’t take part, if you stay back, there’s no one, me included, who will think less of you,” Thorgrim said. “These people, they’re not your enemies.”
“The Irish are not your enemies, either,” Failend said. “You just made them that.”
In the dark, Thorgrim smiled. She was right of course. He and his fellow Northmen could have just stayed on their farms and never gone a’viking.
Except they couldn’t.
“Either way,” he said, “you do what you feel you must.”
Before she could speak, a shadow appeared beside them, the shape of a man, and as he came closer they could see it was Vestar.
“Thorgrim?” he said, and there was hesitation in his voice, as if he did not want to say what he had come to say. “We can’t find Starri anywhere. Or the Frank, Louis.”
Thorgrim frowned. It was not that odd to find Starri missing, but he would not expect Louis to be gone as well. Had they run off to act on some crazy idea of their own?
“You’ve looked all over?”
“Yes, lord, we have. All over the camp and a bit beyond. The blanket Louis was sleeping under is here, but no Louis.”
“Very well,” Thorgrim said. “They’ll turn up. Or they won’t.” He had more to consider than the whereabouts of two unpredictable men.
The warriors who had blankets rolled them up and slung them over their shoulders, while others draped full wine skins over their necks or hefted sacks of dried fish and bread. There was not much food left, but that was all right. Every man intended to make his next meal of the fine fresh food to be found at Ferns.
With harsh whispers Godi began getting the men in line to advance along the river’s edge. They were too far from Ferns to be heard, even if they were yelling, but there was no telling who might be nearby, and in any event it felt wrong to speak above a whisper in the quiet of the night, with a job at hand that required stealth.
The bustle and shuffle dropped away and Thorgrim knew that the men were ready. He opened his mouth to give the word when another voice called out, as loud as could be and still be considered a whisper. “There’s a boat! On the river! Boat coming!”
A murmur rose from the men like a pot coming to boil and Thorgrim pushed his way through the line toward the edge of the water. He could make out the shape of a man standing there, could see he was pointing upstream. Thorgrim peered off into the dark, but he could see nothing.
“You saw a boat?” he said.
“Yes,” the man said, but he did not sound so certain now. “Yes, I thought I did. And I thought I heard oars.”
Thorgrim was just about to dismiss the man as seeing phantoms in the dark when suddenly the form of a boat seemed to materialize twenty feet away and the man shouted with a touch of triumph, “There!”
Iron-tooth was, as ever, at Thorgrim’s side. He drew the weapon and the man beside him seemed to realize for the first time that whoever was in the boat might not be their friend, and he drew a sword as well. Godi loomed up on Thorgrim’s other side, ax in hand.
“We can’t let them pass, let them reach Ferns,” Thorgrim said. “We’ll wade out if we must.”
“Let me go, Thorgrim,” Godi said, and certainly Godi could wade through deeper water than any other man there, but it was clear now they would not have to. The boat was turning, making for the shore. They could see the splash of oar blades in the moonlight, but nothing of the men in the boat.
Thorgrim looked behind him. Failend was there, as he knew she would be. “Call out to them, ask who they are,” he said, and Failend did, calling in her sweet, lilting voice.
They waited as the boat came closer, but not for long. A voice came carrying over the water, deep and familiar. “Harald Thorgrimson!”
This reply was so surprising that for a moment Thorgrim was not sure he had heard right, or that he understood what was going on. The bow of the boat ran up into the mud and he saw the unmistakable form of his son, Harald, climbing over the side, and felt a great tide of emotion come over him—relief, wonder, confusion, joy. He took two steps forward and Harald’s grinning face materialized in the moonlight and Thorgrim, unable to find any words, wrapped his arms around the boy and hugged him, hugged him tight.
The embrace was short, but it was also one of the finest moments in Thorgrim’s life. He released Harald, looked him up and down. “How…how are you here?” He looked past Harald’s shoulder. Starri was climbing out of the boat, and Louis. And with them five men who were not Northmen, Thorgrim could see.
“I was prisoner to these men,” Harald said, nodding toward the slumping Irishmen behind him.
“Prisoner?” Thorgrim said. “So why do we suffer them to live?”
Harald shook his head. “It’s a long tale, a very long tale,” he said. “But Starri and Louis, they found me. I asked they not kill these men, these Irish.”
Thorgrim did not know if he should frown or smile, laugh or run his sword through the Irishmen. All he did know was that there was precious little time for any of it now.
“See here, Harald, we were just making ready to move on the monastery. At Ferns. We must get to the walls before it’s light. No time to hear your story now.”
“Of course,” Harald said. “And I thank the gods I was not too late to join in.”
Thorgrim nodded toward the Irishmen. “What shall we do with these? We can’t leave them alive when they might alert the monastery.”
Harald looked back at the men. “Let’s take them with us,” he said. “They might be of help. They know the monastery well.”
And so the five Irishmen who had been Harald’s captors, and were now captive of the Northmen, were placed in the center of the line of warriors, with men on all sides and Harald’s assurance they would not be hurt unless they tried to give the alarm. The Irishmen were both frightened and relieved, Thorgrim imagined, but that was all the thought he had to spare for them as he made his way to the head of the column.
He reached the front of the men and found Starri and Louis there, along with Harald and Godi. “You two,” he said to the berserker and the Frank, “you scout ahead. Find a place where we can ford the river. And make sure no one is watching. I want to get to within a quarter mile or so of the monastery. If you can find a pla
ce where we can hide ourselves, so much the better.”
The two of them nodded, and Thorgrim wondered how much of that Louis understood. Enough, apparently, to do what he was told. Then they turned without a word and disappeared out into the dark night.
“Very well, you men,” he said to the others within earshot. “Follow me.” He headed off, following the same path over which he had ambled a few hours before, and his men followed behind.
They moved quietly, but nearly a hundred men with weapons, shields and mail could only remain so quiet. To Thorgrim’s ears, accustomed to the silence that had prevailed, it sounded like some riotous drunken revelry. But he knew from experience that they would not be heard from very far away, and if there were any sentries posted, Starri and Louis would take care of them.
Harald was at his side, moving quick with his short, powerful stride, and Thorgrim was aching to ask him all that had happened since last they had seen one another. But he would not allow any of the men in the column to speak, and so he could not do so himself. There would be time later to hear the tale. Or so he hoped.
They trudged along the riverbank and the note of the water rushing beside them began to change, to grow softer as the stream widened out, running along to its meeting place with the Slaney. What little breeze that had been blowing dropped away to nothing. The air was still now, the quiet broken by the occasional call of an insect or a bird, the swishing sound of chainmail, or a low grunt as one of the men made an awkward footfall.
He heard the soft sound of footsteps ahead of him. His hand, moving by instinct, fell on Iron-tooth’s grip, but even as it did he saw Starri Deathless emerge from the night ahead of him. In the light of the sliver of moon he could see Starri’s eyes gleaming with excitement.
“Just ahead, Night Wolf!” he said in an animated whisper, falling in beside Thorgrim as he walked. “There’s a sandbar, a place shallow enough to cross the river. And just a ways beyond that there’s a low hill that will hide the men, and over the hill the monastery is a quarter mile, no more.”
“Good, good,” Thorgrim said. They walked on, coming to the ford in the River Bann. They filed across, the water reaching to their knees, no more. They continued on along the northern bank, and then the hill, as Starri had described it, loomed up ahead of them. Thorgrim passed the word for the men to spread out on the slope, to sit and rest while they could. He and Starri climbed up the gentle incline to the crest, where Louis the Frank was looking out to the west, keeping low in what was, given the darkness, an utterly pointless crouch.
Thorgrim looked in the same direction. He saw nothing.
“Ferns is there?” he asked.
“Yes,” Starri said. “We went past here, about a quarter mile, and could see the walls.”
Thorgrim nodded, and as he stared into the dark it seemed as if he was just able to make out the spire of the big church that dominated the walled-in monastery. He turned and looked east. He was certain now the sky was growing lighter. Just a hint of dawn, but enough of a hint to assure him it was near. He turned back to Starri and Louis. “Time to move,” he said.
By the time Thorgrim’s warriors had swarmed over the low hill and headed out across the open ground toward Ferns, the outlines of the steeple were clearly visible, a dark shape just barely standing out against the darker sky. Underfoot the knee-high grass yielded to plowed earth and young plants of some sort—barley, Thorgrim thought—as the men closed with the perimeter of the monastery.
They were a hundred yards away, no more, when Thorgrim slowed and held up his hand and the men behind him shuffled to a stop as well. He looked out toward the walls, which, like the steeple, were resolving out of the dark. He listened. There was nothing to be heard, no sound made by man, as if he and the silent Northmen and sundry others behind him were the only people left in the world.
He tried to picture Ferns as he remembered it. When they had come before, they had come from the other direction, but he was fairly certain he knew where to find the main gate through which they had entered before. He meant to enter that way again, to make his presence known.
“Harald, bring one of those prisoners up here, the one you think is the smartest of the lot,” Thorgrim whispered, and a moment later Harald appeared with a frightened Irishman at his side.
“Ask him if there are guards outside the main gate,” Thorgrim said. Harald whispered to the man, listened to his reply.
“He says sometimes there are guards on the walls, sometimes not. They’re only there if the abbot thinks there’s a reason to have them. Never anyone outside the gate.”
Thorgrim nodded. The abbot would no doubt think guards were needed now. But that did not mean there was no chance of taking Ferns by surprise.
“Godi,” Thorgrim said next. “I’m taking a few…” he nearly said men but he hesitated, because in fact they would not all be men. Not that it much mattered. “I’m taking some people with me and we’re going to open the doors of the gate. You move up to the walls once we’re gone. When the gates open, you lead the men in. Quiet, no yelling. No reason to alarm them until the last moment.”
“Yes, Thorgrim,” Godi said. Thorgrim turned to Harald and Starri, Failend and Louis. “You come with me.”
They nodded. Failend translated for Louis.
“Oh, he understands every word,” Starri said. “Depend on it.”
Thorgrim turned and continued on at a jog toward the walls of the monastery, the others following behind. The sky was definitely lighter now, with the wall standing out clearly ahead of them. Thorgrim could see no one on the walls, but he knew it might be too dark still to make out a sentry. He hoped that he and the others would be invisible against the dark ground.
They reached the base of the wall and stopped, pressing close to it. Like most of the enclosures found in Ireland it was a great mound of earth, nearly fifteen feet high in this case, and topped with a palisade. It was not an impenetrable defense by any means, but it was difficult to get over. Better to go in through the front door, Thorgrim thought.
“Harald, give me a hand up,” Thorgrim whispered. Harald locked his fingers together and Thorgrim stepped up on his hands and reached for the top of the wall. He felt his son lifting with powerful arms and he was just able to pull himself up to the base of the palisade. One by one the others followed in the same manner, save for Starri who scrambled up on his own like he was stepping up on a bench. Louis reached down and took Harald’s hand and pulled him up last.
There was only a foot or two between the palisade and the edge of the wall, which dropped off sharply to the ground, but it was space enough for them to make their way around to the river side of the monastery, stepping softly, blocked from sight by the wooden palisades.
They moved in single file like cats on a low stone wall. There was a gap in the palisades over the main gate—Thorgrim had noticed that on their first visit to Ferns, even as he was telling himself not to search out weaknesses in the defense—and that would be their best way through. It would also be where the sentries were posted.
In the dark Thorgrim could not see where the gap at the gate was situated, but his gut told him they were getting close. He thought about sending Starri to clear away the sentries, of having Failend drop them with her arrows.
No, he thought. If someone was going to be the first to die over his plans, it would be him. He turned to the others.
“You wait here,” he said, as soft as a breath. “Wait for me.” He turned and continued on along the wall, stepping even more carefully now, his shoes making no sound on the soft earthen wall. He drew his dagger from his sheath. It might not be possible to do this silently, particularly if there was more than one sentry posted, but he would try.
He looked ahead, along the dark earthwork, and he could see where the wall ended in a great rough-hewn slab of oak that formed the top of the gate. Above, just blackness, the gap in the palisade, the place where the sentries would be standing. But he could see no sentries.
T
hat, of course, did not mean they were not there. They could be standing back a ways, out of his line of sight. He took a step, then another. He listened. He still could hear nothing.
Two more steps, a pause, and again nothing. The opening in the palisade was close now, and Thorgrim had to make a decision: ease his way around the edge of the wall or come out fast. He decided on the more subtle approach. It was still very dark. There was still a chance he could eliminate one sentry and then a second without being detected.
Three steps and his hand fell on the edge of the palisade wall and he paused, then darted his head around the edge and back. He had not been seen by any sentry, mostly because there did not seem to be any sentry there.
He looked again, a bit longer this time. Nothing. He saw no one on top of the wall, no sleepy-looking men-at-arms resting on their spears, staring out into the night. Nothing.
Two quick steps and he was around the edge of the palisade wall. He glanced behind it, looked over the open space above the gate. Nothing. There were no sentries.
The obvious reaction, Thorgrim knew, was relief; their chances of coming into Ferns undetected were much greater now. But he did not feel relief. Instead, he felt an uneasy stirring in his gut. Enough to give him pause. Not enough to make him change his plans.
He turned and stepped back along the wall until he met up with Harald, and behind Harald the rest of his people. “No sentries,” he said, still speaking as low as he could. “Come on.”
They moved along the top of the wall, still silent, still wary. They came to the gap in the palisade and Thorgrim stopped just short of that. Once again he listened intently to the sounds of the night, and this time he heard something new, something not part of the usual noises. A slight jingling, a soft thump now and again. Swishing sounds. It was the sound of men, his men, approaching as quietly as they could. Godi was leading them forward.
“Failend, you stay on top of the wall with your bow at the ready,” Thorgrim said. “The rest of us will drop down and open the gate. If you see anyone coming, you put an arrow in them. Can you do that?”
Loch Garman: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 7) Page 31
