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

by James L. Nelson

Trian shook his head. Bécc frowned. He had not told Airtre to come along, but he would have expected him to do so. Half the men guarding the church were his men-at-arms, and he did not like Bécc to have any interaction with them if he was not there. A treasonous bastard like Airtre was always on the lookout for others who might betray him.

  “Go wake the men who are sleeping,” Bécc said to Trian. “Get them under arms, quickly. Search the monastery. I want to know where Airtre is.”

  Trian nodded. “You think the heathens have taken him?” he asked.

  “Or he’s joined in with them. Either way, I want him found.”

  It did not take long. Bécc and Trian finished their tour of the church’s periphery and found nothing else amiss, no sign that any but the two heathens had escaped.

  One heathen, Bécc reminded himself. Louis was a Frank, and therefore a Christian, at least nominally. The other might be a heathen, or it might have been the woman, Failend. Bécc wondered if perhaps they had seen the evil of joining in with the minions of the devil, if they were trying to escape and repent their sins.

  He hoped so. But he did not think it likely. Repentant souls did not set fire to the roofs of buildings on monastic grounds.

  So lost in thought was Bécc that he failed to hear the commotion coming his way until it was very close by: feet on the dirt road, men shouting, some sort of muffled struggle. He heard a thump and a grunt, like someone had been punched hard in the stomach.

  They came in sight, a dozen or more men, some holding torches that threw their light over the shuffling parade. Bécc could see spears held aloft. He could see two men, half walking, half being dragged along.

  This had damned well better be the Frank and the heathen, Bécc thought. And it was. Ten feet away he could see them, and he recognized Louis from the time they had met at his camp, the time when he and Thorgrim were on the same side, as unholy an alliance as that was. Beside Louis was another one, a younger man with yellow hair and a clean-shaven face. There was blood at the corners of both their mouths, and fresh bruises on their faces. They were shuffling, Bécc realized, not because they were resisting their captors, but because they were having trouble walking.

  The prisoners were brought up short in front of Bécc, the men on either side supporting them. Bécc gestured for the torches to be brought in closer and he examined them. They had been worked over well, that was clear.

  “This one,” said one of the men-at-arms, pointing at the yellow-haired heathen, “he killed Airtre mac Domhnall. In the chapel. Just as we come through the door, he run his sword through him.”

  Bécc nodded, looking the heathen in the eyes. The heathen, in turn, held his gaze with a defiant look. We’ll wipe that look right off your face, I promise that, Bécc thought. He turned to Louis.

  “Louis the Frank. I suspect now you regret throwing in with these godless animals.”

  Louis shrugged. He spit on the ground. He gave a wan smile.

  Bécc glanced around. He needed to talk with these men, make them answer the questions he needed answered. But not here. These problems were starting to rise to a level above his authority.

  “Let us take them to the abbot,” Bécc said. “He’ll want to hear what they have to say.” Whether that was true or not, Bécc did not know, but either way he knew the abbot should hear their story. The abbot’s house was no more than a hundred paces from where they stood, and with Bécc leading the way, they marched the prisoners off.

  Bécc knocked on the big wooden door. He wondered if the abbot was asleep. Could he possibly be asleep with so much going on?

  The door opened and Niall, the abbot’s scrivener, stood in the light of the torches. “We must speak with the abbot,” Bécc said. “We have prisoners, and the abbot must see them.” The words were not framed as a request.

  “The abbot is at prayers. Allow me to see if he can speak with you,” Niall said and closed the door, leaving Bécc to fume at such nonsense. But soon the door opened again and Niall waved them in.

  Abbot Columb was seated as he usually was when Bécc saw him at the big table near the back of his residence. Bécc led the way, giving the abbot a partial bow, and behind him the prisoners were marched along, followed by two guards with their spears leveled. The prisoners were pushed down to their knees, facing the abbot. Bécc looked to see how well their hands were bound and was pleased to see they were bound very tight indeed.

  “These men, they escaped from the church,” Bécc said. He pointed to Louis. “This one is a Frank, but he speaks our language.” Then he pointed to the yellow-haired one. “And this one, I don’t know him. They killed Airtre.”

  At that the abbot raised an eyebrow. “Killed Airtre?” he asked. “Airtre is dead?”

  “Yes, abbot,” Bécc said.

  The abbot made the sign of the cross. “May God rest his soul,” he said, sounding like he did not think there was much chance God would be so obliging. “Why did they do that?”

  Bécc turned to Louis. “Why did you kill Airtre?” he asked.

  Louis made that maddening, noncommittal gesture he was wont to make. “We were trying to escape. This man…Airtre, you call him…he found us. So we killed him.”

  Bécc turned to the guard standing behind the prisoners. “You were there when these two were taken?” The guard nodded. “What did you see?”

  “Well,” the man stammered, not happy to be speaking in the presence of Bécc and the abbot. “When we come in, it looked like Airtre and this one, the yellow-haired one, was fighting. The guards was knocked down, and this one”—he nodded toward Louis—“he was just watching.”

  “Just watching?” Bécc looked at Louis. “Not helping your companion?” Louis shrugged and said nothing.

  The abbot spoke next. He looked at Louis. “These heathens, they are like animals. Who knows what God intends for them? But you, a Frank and a Christian. Do you not fear the wrath of the Lord, turning your back on your fellow Christians, raising a sword to them, alongside these heathens?”

  “You think I should treat my fellow Christians better?” Louis asked. “The way you Irish treat each other?”

  “I think if you help us defeat these pagans there may be some hope for your redemption in the eyes of the Lord,” the abbot said, not rising to Louis’s bait.

  Bécc was only half listening to the conversation. He was looking at the yellow-haired one, who kneeled motionless and kept his eyes straight ahead. You and Airtre, fighting man to man…why would you do that? Why did Louis not help you to kill him quick?

  During the time that his army and Thorgrim’s had been cooperating, Bécc had seen Thorgrim’s men. He had met only a few of them, but he had seen them all, but he did not remember this one. And that seemed odd, because he would have caught Bécc’s eye. Young but powerfully built, with hair the color of straw and braided in a long tail down his back, so much potential as a fighting man, Bécc would have noticed this one. But he did not.

  And then he recalled a conversation he had had with Thorgrim, just after Thorgrim had brought Airtre in as his prisoner. He could still hear the words as the girl, Failend, had translated them. And suddenly he understood.

  “Harald!” Bécc said, loud and sudden, and the young heathen looked up at him, and in the same instant realized his mistake and looked down again. But it was too late.

  Bécc turned to the abbot. “I know who this one is,” he said. “And I know why he killed Airtre. And I know how he can be of great use to us.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  [It is] fortunate, unfortunate, good news, bad news;

  the defeat of a mighty overwhelming battle.

  Fortunate for the king who was elated by it;

  unfortunate for the king who was defeated.

  Annals of the Four Masters

  The dawn was starting to come up, the light beginning to creep in through the colored-glass windows of the church, and the smaller windows, higher up. Thorgrim was awake. He had been awake all through the night, sittin
g at Failend’s side.

  He was thinking back to a time, many years before, when he was young and without a wife and spent the summer months going a’viking. There was no one then whose life he cared much about, no one whose death would wound him deeply. He cared about the lord he served, Jarl Ornolf, to some degree, but no one else.

  There still were not many lives he cared about. But there were some. And he wondered if he was better off then, or now.

  At least he would not have to worry about Failend’s life, not just then. She had prayed to her God and he had prayed to his gods and Louis had poured wine over her wound (whether that was medicine or an offering to his God, Thorgrim was not quite sure) and they had bandaged her up. Some or all of those things seemed to have done their work. She had been sleeping deeply all night, her breathing regular. There was no sign of fever.

  Now he could hear men moving around in the church, and he knew what they were doing. He waited. Soon he heard the soft steps of Godi coming up behind him. He stepped around, crouched on his knees and looked down at Failend.

  “How is she?” he asked.

  “Good,” Thorgrim said. “No fever. I think she’ll be fine.”

  Godi nodded. They both knew it was a silly thing to say. There was not much chance that any of them would be fine.

  “We looked again,” Godi said. “Now the light’s better. Looked all over, but they’re not here.”

  Thorgrim nodded. It was sometime deep in the night that he realized he had not seen Harald for quite a while. He asked Godi and Gudrid to look around, but unobtrusively. He did not want rumors started, questions asked.

  The men had done as Thorgrim ordered, searched the church as best they could. They had not found Harald. And they had found Louis was missing as well.

  “There’s something else,” Godi continued. “In a little room, back there.” He nodded toward the far end of the church where the altar stood. “There was a chest pulled out away from the wall, and behind it it looks like there’s a secret door. We didn’t try to open it, but it looks as if we could. We didn’t see it in the dark last night.”

  “A door…” Thorgrim said.

  “Yes. A hidden door.”

  Thorgrim looked away and wondered what this could mean. The obvious answer was that Harald and Louis had found a secret way out, and rather than telling the others they had saved themselves. But Harald would not do that. Thorgrim was as certain of that as he was of the sun rising in the morning. He even doubted that Louis would be so treacherous, not now.

  “Thank you, Godi. And let’s say nothing, until those two are missed by the others.”

  Godi nodded and stood. He would not try to assure Thorgrim of Harald’s loyalty. Godi would no more suspect the worst than would Thorgrim.

  In the light of the early dawn Thorgrim could see the main entrance to the church, his own men gathered around, weapons drawn, ready in case Bécc tried to make an assault on the place. But Thorgrim did not think he would.

  Bécc would not throw away the lives of so many men when he had only to wait for the Northmen to begin to starve, or grow too parched to stay in hiding. Then he could wait for the Northmen to come out on their own, lay down their weapons in exchange for bread and water.

  But the Northmen would never do that. They would not submit to slavery or slaughter at the hands of the Irish. Long before they were too weak to fight they would burst out of the doors, weapons in hand, and do battle to victory or honorable death.

  And Bécc knew it; Thorgrim was certain he did. So he must have something else in mind.

  What, what, what? Thorgrim wondered. What are you planning, you clever bastard?

  They had heard little. At one point, early in the night, they had heard some commotion like there was some sort of disaster. They smelled smoke and Thorgrim guessed something had caught fire. He wondered if that was Harald and Louis’s doing. But then all had gone quiet again.

  There had been more activity not long ago, at the very first hints of dawn. The Norsemen had stood ready, weapons poised, eyes locked on the various doors, but nothing had happened. And so the waiting went on

  Thorgrim looked down and he was surprised to see Failend looking up at him, a weak smile on her lips. For a moment they were quiet, looking at one another.

  “Can I get you something?” Thorgrim asked.

  “Water,” Failend said. Thorgrim nodded and stood, stretching his stiff muscles. He found a cup, a gold chalice, actually, studded with jewels, the sort of thing that drew the Northmen to the shores of Ireland. He crossed the church and dipped the chalice in the big marble font and then brought it back to Failend.

  With a hand on her back, he helped her sit up and handed her the chalice. She looked at it for a moment, and an amused smile played over her lips, and then she drank, draining the cup in a few gulps.

  “More?” Thorgrim asked. Failend shook her head. Thorgrim laid her down again.

  Then, quite unexpectedly, loud in the quiet of the church, there was a pounding on the main door. Not a pounding like someone was trying to break it down, but a pounding like they were trying to get the Northmen’s attention. Which they did.

  Thorgrim stood and crossed quickly to the door. His warriors were on their feet now, weapons poised for fighting, ready for the door to come crashing in and Irish men-at-arms to charge through. But Thorgrim did not think that was going to happen. He thought instead that he was about to discover the clever thing that Bécc had devised.

  “Thorgrim! Thorgrim!” a voice called from outside the door. It was muffled coming through the thick oak boards, but Thorgrim was pretty sure it was Bécc.

  “Wait!” Thorgrim shouted. He knew Bécc would not understand him, but it would at least let the man know he had been heard. Failend was the only one among them who could speak the Northmen’s language and that of the Irish. If she was too weak to help, then any plan Bécc had would likely be for naught.

  Thorgrim crossed back to where he had left Failend and now she was sitting up on her own. “Failend, there’s someone would speak to me. I think it’s Bécc. Do you have strength enough to speak for us?”

  Failend nodded and started to stand. Thorgrim reached down and grabbed her under her arms and lifted her, marveling, as he had before, at how little she weighed. He let her stand and she took her weight on her feet and grimaced, then forced herself to stand straight. Thorgrim reached over to help her, but she waved him away. She took a few halting steps toward the door, and her strength seemed to increase as she did.

  The men by the door parted as she came though, some smiling to see her stand, some nodding their approval. Failend stopped and leaned against the door. She took a moment to regain her breath and then called out, as loud as she could, her words a jumble to Thorgrim.

  Through the door they heard Bécc speaking again. Failend turned to Thorgrim, who was standing beside her. “It is Bécc. He says he wishes to talk to you. He says if you come out you will not be harmed, you have his word of honor.”

  “His word means nothing; he’s shown me that,” Thorgrim said. “Tell him we can speak through the door.”

  Failend and Bécc went back and forth. “Bécc says he has something he wishes you to see.”

  Thorgrim felt his stomach twist. He could think of only one thing, one person, who Bécc might have who would be of interest to him. “Tell him I will come out if a hostage is exchanged for me,” he said.

  Failend translated the words, a demand that Bécc had apparently anticipated, because he had a hostage at the ready. Thorgrim’s men opened the door a foot, with spearmen standing ready for a rush, and a young Christ man in a brown robe was pushed through. Thorgrim recognized him as the one who had been writing when he and the abbot had spoken at the very start of this long and unhappy business.

  The Christ man looked around him. He looked frightened. Failend said a few words in the man’s language and the Christ man nodded and looked somewhat reassured. Not much, but somewhat.

  Now Thorgri
m stepped up to the door with Failend following behind. He pulled it open, just a bit wider, and stepped out into the morning. Bécc was there, ten feet away, dressed in his gleaming mail shirt, a helmet on his head, partially hiding the destruction of his face. The abbot was beside him, an old man dressed no different from any other Christ men. He was standing as straight as he was able. Thorgrim remembered him from their first encounter.

  Two lines of soldiers stretched out on either side of Bécc and the abbot, standing in a reasonable semblance of order, spears held at their sides. These were the real soldiers, the professional men-at-arms. A formidable show.

  On the ground at the far end of the twin lines of men there were two tall, disorganized piles of brush and dried wood. Standing up from the middle of each pile was a thick wooden stake, ten feet tall. Louis the Frank was tied to one. Harald was tied to the other.

  Thorgrim ran his eyes over them and then turned back to Bécc. He showed no reaction to the sight. He willed himself to show no reaction

  “What do you want?” Thorgrim asked. Failend translated.

  The abbot looked exasperated by Thorgrim’s purposely obtuse question, but Bécc’s expression did not change. He spoke.

  “Bécc says he knows who the men are who are tied to the stake. He says he knows the yellow-haired one is your son. He will burn them both, while you watch, if you and your men do not come out and lay down your arms.”

  Thorgrim nodded. It was pointless to lie, to say Harald was not his son. Bécc would see through that. But neither could he do as Bécc asked. It would not be right to demand such a sacrifice of his men just to save his boy. Nor did he believe that Bécc would spare any of them. He would kill them all and still burn Harald and Louis.

  He looked past Bécc, down the line of men to the two tied to the stakes, Louis the Frank and his son, Harald. They looked back at him, their faces as stoic as they could be, but he could sense the fear in their expressions, in the set of their shoulders. And he didn’t blame them, not at all. He would expect a man to show nothing but courage on the eve of a battle, but the prospect of being burned to death while bound to a stake was another matter. An unspeakable death, with little hope for reaching the corpse hall when it was over.