Harald stepped back out into the night, waiting for Louis to bring Airtre to him. He could still hear the shouting from the burning building and the crackling of the flames, and he could see the light in the distance, making dark silhouettes of the buildings that blocked his view.
Then he saw more light coming, the unmistakable dancing light of men hurrying with torches in hand. Across the way, from the direction he himself had come, he saw Airtre and Louis race out into the open, and, to his frustration, two men-at-arms behind them. It was the men-at-arms who carried the torches.
Harald cursed. Louis was supposed to bring Airtre by himself. Now there was one more problem for him to confront.
“Brother Louis!” Harald called, trying to make his voice sound like that of an Irishman, not some heathen speaking Irish, but he did not think he succeeded very well, so he kept his words brief. “Here!”
He saw Louis point, saw him and Airtre and the guards change direction and move quickly toward the chapel. Harald ducked inside, ran to the raised section at the back of the church and snatched up one of the big candlesticks. It was heavy, mostly iron, Harald guessed, but he could see there was plenty of gold and silver and jewels adorning the piece. In other circumstances he would have been delighted to take such a thing as plunder.
He hurried back to the door, stood to one side just as someone on the other side pushed it open wider. Airtre burst through, and behind him Louis and then one of the torch-bearing soldiers and then the second. Harald let them take three steps into the chapel before he swung the candlestick like he was chopping into the trunk of a tree.
The rear-most guard had time to half turn toward the sound and motion behind him when the base of the candlestick hit him on the side of the head. His helmet made a ringing sound and skewed sideways and the force of the blow flung the man off his feet and onto the floor, his spear going in one direction, his torch in the other.
The other guard had time enough to turn around, but no more than that. Harald let the momentum of his swing bring the candlestick back over his other shoulder and he swung again, backhand this time, and caught the second guard in the same way he had the first, and with similar results.
He grabbed the candlestick in a wide grip, ready to use it like a staff to fend off an attack by Airtre, but then saw he had no need. By the time the second guard was down, Louis had managed to get his sword out from under his robe and now he held the tip under Airtre’s chin. Airtre stood, motionless, his hand on the grip of his sword, his head tilted slightly back and away from Louis’s weapon.
“Airtre,” Harald said. “You remember me, right?”
Airtre frowned, lowered his head, his chin pushing Louis’s blade aside. He spit on the floor. “I remember you. Ignorant pup.”
“But not one to suffer insult,” Harald said.
“So you’ll murder me where I stand? That’s what you heathens think is honorable?”
“No, I’ll fight you,” Harald said. “And then I’ll kill you.”
He stepped away and with some difficulty pulled the monk’s robe over his head, a more awkward task than he had hoped it would be. He unstrapped his sword belt and set Oak Cleaver down, then pulled the mail shirt up and over, a thing he did with more aplomb since he was accustomed to it. He strapped his sword back on. Then, without considering why, he picked up one of the torches, still guttering on the floor, and handed it to Airtre, then picked up the other for himself.
“This is as fair as I can make it,” Harald said. He studied Airtre’s face in the light of the torch. He could see the Irishman understood the gravity of the situation, that in just a few moments only one of them, he or Harald, would still be alive. But Harald did not see fear there. Concentration, concern, a seriousness of purpose, but not fear.
Harald turned away and walked toward the center of the chapel. He drew Oak Cleaver and gestured for Airtre to follow. The guards were still motionless and would be for some time. Behind them, Louis closed the chapel door and dropped the bar in place.
Airtre frowned, then drew his sword and followed after Harald. They stood facing one another, swords in right hands, torches in left. The flames danced around in the drafts that blew through the chapel. Harald could feel the heat on his face.
“Would you accept…payment, of some sort?” Airtre said, and this time his voice betrayed a hint of fear. “You Northmen are always looking to be paid off so you’ll go away. Let me pay you now. I have silver, gold….”
Harald shook his head. “I have silver and gold,” he said. “What I want from you can’t be had with silver and gold.”
Airtre nodded. He let out a sigh, the sound of tired resignation. But before the breath was out of him, before Harald even thought to raise Oak Cleaver, the Irishman lunged.
It was serpent-fast and straight, the blade of his sword making a perfect line from his wrist to Harald’s stomach, and it came so unexpectedly that Harald did not even have time to raise his own weapon. But hundreds of hours of training meant that his arms could move faster than his thoughts. He swung his left arm in to block Airtre’s thrust with his shield, and it was only after he had committed to the move that he realized he had no shield.
It didn’t matter. The tip of Airtre’s blade was two inches from driving right into Harald’s gut when the shaft of the torch hit it. It made a clunking sound, not the pure ring of steel on steel to which Harald was accustomed, but it knocked the blade out of line, the tip ripping through Harald’s tunic as Harald twisted aside.
Three quick steps back and Harald was out of the reach of Airtre’s blade, and that gave him the moment he needed to raise his own sword and hold the torch out to his left. He stepped sideways and Airtre stepped sideways, moving in the opposite direction, his sword and torch like a mirror image of Harald’s.
The fighting seemed to have calmed Airtre’s nerves. Harald had seen that often enough, had experienced it himself. The terror one feels in the moments before a fight dissipates with the actual crossing of swords. Curious, but there it was.
Airtre took a step forward, sword held low, as if he meant to slash at Harald’s legs. He’s pretending, Harald thought. A feint and he’ll go for my chest. There was no subtlety about Airtre’s attack, the mark of someone not too used to this sort of work.
And Airtre did just what Harald thought he would do. The sword came up, the tip driving for Harald’s chest. Harald swept Oak Clever in an arc and easily knocked the blade away, the ring of steel echoing off the stone walls.
Harald was still pushing Airtre’s blade aside when the Irishman moved again, not the lazy, awkward thrust of a poorly handled sword, but a quick and deliberate move. He took a step in and thrust out with his torch, jammed it into Harald’s side, so fast that Harald hardly knew what had happened. He brought Oak Cleaver back to catch Airtre on the backstroke, but Airtre was gone, stepping away quickly, clear of Harald’s blade.
And Harald Broadarm was on fire.
He heard Louis gasp, heard him say something that sounded like “maird” but he had no time to think of that. He shouted loud with surprise, stepped back again. He could feel the heat of the flames eating at the wool of his tunic. He slapped at them as best he could, but he had a sword in one hand, a torch in the other, and his eyes were locked on Airtre.
Airtre was smiling. “This time you burn, heathen,” he said. “As you’ll burn in hell.” He came at Harald again, and there was nothing clumsy in his approach. He came with sword at chest height, the torch in his left hand cocked back over his shoulder, ready to swing. Harald could feel the fire starting to burn his skin, could smell the sickly smell of burning wool as he batted at the flames.
Airtre struck again, coming in with his sword and swinging the torch at Harald’s head as Harald knocked the thrust aside. Harald leapt, not back this time but right at Airtre, slammed into him and wrapped his arms around him. He heard the breath come out of Airtre’s lungs and he squeezed the Irishman tight, pressed the burning tunic against his side, and with hi
s left hand he swung the torch down against Airtre’s back.
The linen of Airtre’s leine was much finer than the wool of Harald’s tunic and it caught fire with considerably more ease. Airtre shouted, piercing loud—if they were words, Harald could not tell—and simultaneously swung an elbow at Harald’s jaw and slammed a knee into his groin.
Harald’s head snapped to the side and he doubled over with a grunt and Airtre would have easily passed a sword through him if he were not so concerned about the flames spreading across his clothing. He raced backwards half a dozen steps and then dropped to the floor and rolled side to side. Harald forced himself to straighten, to take a few painful steps in Airtre’s direction, sword first. The Irishman was as vulnerable as he was ever going to be.
But Airtre knew it. He kept his eyes on Harald as Harald came at him, but he was still on the floor, still on his back, and Harald did not think he could make much of a defense. Two staggering steps, the pain shooting through his lower regions, and Harald was there. He took a stab at Airtre, let Airtre make an awkward swing with his sword to block the attack, then drew back for the real thrust, the one that would drive right through Airtre’s heart.
Harald drove the sword down, but the Irishman was not there. Even as Harald committed to the thrust, Airtre rolled away, rolled right up onto his feet, coming up in a defensive stance, a move so quick and agile that even Harald had to admit he was impressed. Once again they faced each other, once again they made their circling dance, eyes holding eyes, torches held high, each now aware of how effective a weapon the flames could be.
Harald swung his torch, slashed in the other direction with his sword and Airtre jumped back, one step, two steps. Harald moved up, thrust to see how Airtre would react. Airtre knocked the blade aside, stepped back again.
He’s keeping clear of me… Harald thought. Why? Airtre was a fool if he thought he could tire Harald out; Harald was ten years his junior, at least, and was conditioned by hard living, not by the luxury of being rí tuath of some patch of Irish land.
Harald made another advance, Airtre stepped back again. He thinks someone will come! Harald realized. Airtre had tried to take Harald out quickly and failed, so now he was buying time, hoping the sound of the fight would bring someone running. As well it might. Harald had yelled loudly when Airtre set him on fire, and Airtre had screamed as well.
Get him in a corner… Harald thought. He had to get Airtre to a place where he had to stand and fight. He realized he was breathing hard, and saw that Airtre’s mouth was open as well, the man sucking air, his movements not quite so deft as they had been.
Harald advanced quickly, swinging with the torch, stabbing with the sword, hoping Airtre would take a step back, toward the far corner, but he didn’t. He moved to the left, clear of Harald’s torch, knocked Harald’s blade aside and darted off to the center of the chapel floor.
“Harald…” Louis called. “No time for this.”
I know, you stupid Frankish cur, Harald thought. He was not dancing with Airtre for the fun of it. He moved in slowly, trying to look more tired than he was, hoping Airtre would commit himself and try to end it there. Airtre shifted left, shifted right. And then, from beyond the stone walls, they heard the clear sound of footsteps, running hard. A lot of men. They heard pounding on the heavy chapel door.
Harald turned to look in the direction of the sound, and even as his head was turning he realized what a horrible mistake he had made. No time to turn back, he swept his sword up and over in a wild parry just as Airtre was driving his point in at Harald’s throat.
Their swords rang out as they hit, and the force of the blow twisted Airtre half around. Harald thrust with the torch, an awkward twisting motion, and drove the flames into Airtre’s face.
Airtre screamed, clapped his hand over his eyes, staggered back. Harald regained his footing, his arm moving on its own, and he drove his sword through Airtre’s leine, through his flesh, past his ribs. He saw the tip erupt from Airtre’s back just as the men-at-arms kicked in the chapel door.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Every true monk,
who is of a pure conscience,
For the Church to which it is due
let him labour like every servant.
Annals of the Four Masters
The flames had nearly reached the peak of the conical roof, and the house and anything or anyone still in it was done for. Dozens of men surrounded the structure, trying to do what they could to stop any further destruction, which was absolutely nothing. They could only hope that the flames would not spread on that calm night.
Brother Bécc cared about none of it. He cared only about the heathens, trapped in his beloved church, defiling that holy place. He cared only about getting them out with a minimum of destruction and then doing God’s work to eradicate them.
He turned his back on the burning building, hurried off in the direction of the church. The flames from the roof lit the dark road that cut across the monastic grounds, and that was good. Bécc had only one eye, and the sight in that eye was not great, and now the brilliant fire had all but destroyed his ability to see in the dark. So he hurried along, his path lit by the flames consuming his home.
Bastards, bastards, bastards, he thought as he walked, just on the edge of running. He was certain that the heathens, somehow, were responsible. He had seen too much campaigning to think it was a coincidence that the roof of the house in which he and Airtre slept could accidently burst into flames while there were a hundred of the clever, Godless Northmen a couple hundred yards away.
The road ended at the wide open area that surrounded the church, the abbot’s house on one side, the cemetery on the other, and all around the periphery, torches and men-at-arms keeping vigilant watch.
The sight gave Bécc some relief. There was a danger that the shouting and the light from the flames would have drawn these men away from their job of guarding the church and given the heathens a chance to escape. But his soldiers were too disciplined to make such a mistake. Or his officers were, in any event.
Trian, Bécc’s captain, saw him coming and hurried over to greet him. “Some commotion beyond,” Trian said, nodding in the direction of the burning house. “What’s going on?”
“The house we were staying in, me and Airtre and some others, the roof caught on fire,” Bécc said.
“An accident?”
“I don’t imagine so. All’s well here? No escapes?”
Trian shook his head. “The men are in place. I keep walking the perimeter of the church to make sure. There’s been no cause for alarm.”
Bécc frowned. Trian was a good man, a good captain, but something was not right. “Come with me,” Bécc said and he set off, walking fast, making his own inspection of the men and the church.
It was as Trian had said. Soldiers with torches, well-armed and vigilant, posted at every door, and more lining the far edge of the light. The door by the abbot’s house, the main door, another on the side, all well guarded.
They came around to the front of the church. Behind the stone walls Bécc knew stood the altar and the sacristy, where the priest prepared for the mass. He also knew that there was a secret way out, well hidden and unlikely to be found by the heathens. That was why he and Trian had dedicated only two men to guard it.
Bécc approached them now, and they stood straighter when they recognized who he was. “Brother Bécc,” they mumbled by way of greeting. Men-at-arms never knew how to greet the monk and former soldier.
Bécc looked them up and down. They seemed sober, tolerably vigilant. “Have you seen anything?” he asked. “Anything to report?”
The two men shook their heads. “The heathens, we’ve seen not hide nor hair of them,” one of the soldiers said, but there was something in his tone that caught Bécc’s ear. Something he was not saying.
“No heathens?” Bécc asked.
“No, sir,” the other soldier reported. “No heathens.”
The four of them were silent
for a moment as Bécc tried to divine the meaning behind the words. “Anyone else?” he asked.
The men-at-arms glanced at one another and Bécc could see they had done something stupid and had realized it and now wanted very much not to say anything about it. But it was too late for them to lie their way out of trouble.
“Two priests, sir,” one of the soldiers said. “Two priests, who knew about the secret way. They were caught in the church when the heathens came in, waited until they was all drunk before they slipped out.”
“Priests?” Bécc said. “Did you recognize them?”
“No sir,” the second guard chimed in. “But we don’t know all the priests here. Besides, they weren’t from Ferns. They were Frankish, and they come from Glendalough.”
Bécc felt his stomach twist. Frankish… “Did he tell you his name?”
“Said his name was Brother Louis,” the guard said.
Bécc felt the rage sweep over him like a cold wind. He wanted to punch this man, he wanted to drive a knife in his guts, he wanted to howl like a heathen. How, how, how could anyone be so damnably stupid?
It was just two of them, Bécc told himself, hoping to calm his rage. Just two. They burned one house down. It will not save the others. They wanted to draw the guards away from the church, but they failed.
“Why didn’t you alert me?” Bécc said when he trusted himself to speak.
Once again the soldiers shifted nervously. “You…you was at prayers…” the first guard said. “Orders is you were never to be disturbed at prayers.”
Bécc took a deep breath, held it, let it out. “That is why you have officers,” he said. “That is why Captain Trian is here.”
The guards muttered some defense, but Bécc was done with them, his thoughts off on another trail. “Where is Airtre?” he said to Trian. “Have you seen Airtre?”
Loch Garman: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 7) Page 36
