A Vengeful Wind: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 8)

by Nelson, James L.

  “Here, they’re taking sail in now,” Gudrid said, nodding toward the distant ships. Thorgrim’s eye had been sweeping the wide estuary at the mouth of the River Slaney which formed the harbor there. The longphort was on the west side of that harbor, directly opposite the entrance, which was three miles away. The newly arrived ships had cleared the entrance, the light air from the east driving them at an easy pace.

  As he stared, Thorgrim could barely discern what Gudrid had seen, the change in shape of the distant vessels as they lowered their wide, square sails and no doubt ran oars out through the oar ports, though it was impossible even for Starri to see such a thing from that distance.

  “Here, that one’s run aground!” Starri said, nearly shouting with delight. “See how they just stopped? Hard on the sand.”

  Thorgrim grunted. He could not see that, could not even hope to, but he took Starri’s word for it. When the tide was up, which it was, the wide harbor looked like a great unbroken stretch of open water. But in truth it was a hazard of sandbars and mudflats lurking just below the surface. That made it very easy to run aground, though there was little chance of damage hitting that soft bottom, and little problem getting free when you did.

  The distant ships continued their slow progress across the harbor, and Thorgrim thought he could make out the grounded vessel backing off the sand and then following behind the others, but he was not certain.

  “Do they know we’re here?” Harald asked.

  “They might be able to see the earthworks,” Thorgrim said. “From that distance. But I don’t think they’ll know who we are.” He could not imagine how word of the ad hoc longphort at Waesfiord might have spread abroad, and if it had, he could not imagine why anyone would wish to come there.

  If they mean to land here, we must be ready , Thorgrim thought. Four ships, if fully manned, could be as many as two hundred men, twice the number of warriors in Thorgrim’s band. If these newcomers came to fight, then the time to hit them, and hit them hard, would be just as they were making the disorganized leap from the sides of their ships into the shallow water.

  There was time enough to prepare for a fight. Even pulling as hard as they could at the oars, the far ships would not reach the longphort until well after the sun had passed the noon hour.

  But as it happened, they did not come to Waesfiord, and if they did see the earthworks, then they paid them no attention. As all of Thorgrim’s men watched across miles of open water, the four ships pulled along the far shore of the bay, then swung north and ran their bows up on the beach. Starri claimed he could see men leaping ashore, but Thorgrim was not so certain.

  “They’ve come to sack Beggerin!” Harald said. “The monastery at Beggerin, that’s what they’ve come for.”

  Thorgrim grunted again. Harald was probably right. From where the four ships had put ashore it was an easy march over open ground to the small monastery set back from the bay.

  “So, what do we do about this, Night Wolf?” Starri asked. Thorgrim knew he hoped the answer would involve battle of some sort, though who Starri hoped to fight he did not know. Probably Starri did not know either, and he probably did not care, as long as there was fighting involved.

  “Nothing,” Thorgrim said. “We do nothing. It’s not our affair.”

  What became of an Irish monastery was of no concern to Thorgrim and his men. In this case, Thorgrim was not particularly happy at the thought of Beggerin being sacked. They had been purchasing food and ale from the place, the easiest way to keep themselves supplied while they set their ships to rights. If Beggerin was burned and the people there marched off to the slave markets, it would be an inconvenience. But not enough so that Thorgrim felt the need to waste his men’s lives defending the place.

  Besides that, they were not so far from having their ships repaired and ready to leave those miserable shores, and so would not have need of Beggerin for much longer. And that was Thorgrim’s only real concern. Leaving. Back to Norway. Or back to V ík-ló. Whichever the gods decreed.

  They watched for a short time more, then Thorgrim called for everyone to get back to their work. The strangers were apparently of no consequence to them, and there was a lot yet to be done; the final repairs on the ships’ planks, stitching sails, splicing and tarring rigging, shaping oars, building sea chests and a dozen other things. He sent four men to relieve Gudrid and the other sentries on the wall.

  Thorgrim climbed back down to the ground and returned to Sea Hammer and his own work. He shuffled back under the hull, picked up his tools and began to tap the old rope into the gap between strakes, but now his ears were alert for the telltale sound of the Northmen launching their attack.

  Will I hear it from here? he wondered. Sound traveled easily over water, he knew that, but Beggerin was at least half a mile inland from the bay.

  There’ll be smoke, for sure , he thought. Great columns of smoke. They were the inevitable marker of a vicious and bloody raid.

  Thorgrim finished his work on the seam, all the while keeping an ear cocked toward the north shore, listening for the sound of destruction, the shouting, the screams of terror or agony. He was certain that every other man in the longphort was doing the same. But he heard nothing. He shuffled back out from under the hull, stood, and looked off to the north. No smoke. No sign that anything had changed, save for the four ships on the beach, four tiny dark slashes against the lighter sand, barely discernable to his eyes.

  “Nothing, Night Wolf! Nothing at all!” It was Starri’s voice, loud and enthusiastic, which was not a surprise. But it seemed to be coming from somewhere over Thorgrim’s head, which was a surprise. Thorgrim turned and looked up. Sea Hammer ’s mast had been unstepped and set on the beach, and the figurehead at the bow removed. Starri was standing where the figurehead was normally mounted, precariously balanced twenty feet above the beach, though it seemed as effortless to him as standing on the ground, as such things generally were.

  “What do you see?” Thorgrim called.

  “Nothing,” Starri said again. “No smoke. I can see men moving on the beach, but they seem in no hurry. I’ve seen nothing like a raiding party going over the dunes.”

  Thorgrim turned back, looked north again. What are they about? he wondered.

  “Wait!” Starri called. “I see smoke now…coming from the beach. Yes, from the beach. A cooking fire or some such. Idiots! They might as well send a messenger to the monastery, announcing that they’re there. There won’t be a thing left worth taking. Night Wolf, I’m going to go over and slap someone in the head for being such a fool!”

  Once again Harald appeared at Thorgrim’s side. “What do you think they’re up to, Father?” he asked.

  “Not raiding the monastery, that’s for certain,” Thorgrim said, and that was the only thing he knew for sure. But he could not leave it like that. He could not have a band of armed men, outnumbering his own and within sight of the longphort, and not even know why they were there.

  He turned to Harald. “In truth, I don’t know what they’re doing. So I guess we better go ask them.”

  Chapter Three

  But hast thou one whom thou trustest ill

  yet from whom thou cravest good?

  Wisdom for Wanderers and

  Counsel to Guests

  There was considerable debate as to how Thorgrim and his men would cross the bay to confront the newcomers on the beach to the north.

  They had two ships that could carry them: Fox and Dragon . Should they take one? Or both? Or should they just take a handful of men in the big Irish boat they used to travel up and down the river? Should they mount figureheads to give a warlike appearance, or should they make an effort to look as if they came in peace? Would that be taken as a sign of weakness?

  The debate, however, was entirely in Thorgrim’s head, since he was not generally given to asking other men their opinion. And it lasted only as long as it took Thorgrim to turn around and start issuing orders, since he was not the sort who wrestled with i
ndecision.

  “We’re going over to have a word with these fellows to the north!” Thorgrim called. “Get Fox into the water. Leave the figurehead off. We’ll take men enough to man her oars, and a dozen more. Shields on the shield rack.”

  That was a good compromise. The figurehead left off would indicate they did not intend to fight, the shields along the side would show that they were perfectly willing and able to do so if pushed. He did not have to tell his men to bring weapons because Norsemen did not go anywhere without weapons.

  Failend appeared at Thorgrim’s side. An Irishwoman, she had been Thorgrim’s prisoner once, until realizing that she actually preferred the life of a Northman to that of the wife of an Irish lord. She had become Thorgrim’s lover, and as an archer, a formidable warrior.

  She had Iron-tooth, Thorgrim’s sword, in hand, his mail shirt draped over her arm.

  “Thank you,” Thorgrim said. He took the mail shirt and slipped it over his head, then took Iron-tooth and buckled the belt around his waist.

  “Would you have me go with you?” Failend asked.

  “Yes, of course,” Thorgrim said. “I hope to frighten them, show them how formidable we are as warriors.”

  Failend smiled. She was just over five feet in height and barely seven stone. She was deadly accurate with a bow and arrow, and quick with the seax she wore at her waist, but the sight of her was not likely to frighten anyone.

  “Besides, we don’t know who these men are,” Thorgrim said. “What language they speak.” Failend was generally called on to translate from her native Irish to the Norse she had quickly picked up living among Thorgrim’s men. That skill might be needed in the coming meeting.

  Of all of them under Thorgrim’s command, only Failend and Harald could speak both tongues. Harald, with the nimble mind of youth, had learned the Irish language so that he might pursue an ill-advised courtship with an Irish girl.

  “And tell Louis to come as well,” Thorgrim said. “Maybe these sorry bastards are Franks like him.” Louis the Frank, Louis de Roumois, had been captured along with Failend, lovers fleeing arrest, as Thorgrim later discovered. Unlike Failend, Louis had despised the Northmen. Probably still did. He had escaped, and fate had put him back in Thorgrim’s hands, and now he had apparently decided he was just as well off with the heathens as with anyone.

  Or so Thorgrim guessed. He never asked Louis. Once, he had looked on Louis as an enemy, a man he wanted to kill, but now he did not really care. If Louis wished to stay with them, that was fine. He was clever, and a skilled and reliable warrior, and he was welcome to share their food and ale as long as he used his sword against the Northmen’s enemies. Now Thorgrim wished for Louis to join them in case these men could speak only Frankish.

  “I’ll tell him,” Failend said.

  Thorgrim turned back to where a few dozen men were eagerly heaving Fox along the log rollers and back into the water. For the past month their lives had been monotonous routine, and a break such as this was welcome indeed. Thorgrim looked around for Godi and saw him heaving with the rest on Fox ’s hull. Godi, strong and massive as a bear from his native Norway. Thorgrim did not want to deprive those men pushing the ship of his strength, so he waited until Fox was floating free before calling to him.

  “Godi, you’ll come with us,” Thorgrim said as Godi approached, red-faced from the effort of moving Fox . For purposes of intimidation, no one could best Godi.

  “Very well,” Godi said, nodding. Godi was quiet and humble because, like a lot of big men, he did not feel the need to be otherwise.

  “Do you still have that banner? The wolf’s head?”

  Godi smiled and nodded. It had been made for Thorgrim back when he was lord of V ík-ló, a red swallowtail banner with a gray wolf’s head. Godi had taken ownership of it, but Thorgrim had not called for it in some time.

  “Yes, it’s safe,” Godi said. “It’s in my sea chest.”

  “Good. We’ll bring that as well.”

  It did not take long, motivated as the men were, to get everything in readiness to cross the two miles of water to where the other ships were beached, and to do so with a sufficient display of strength and confidence. Shields were hung on the shield rack along the ship’s side, men in mail or leather armor, helmets on heads, took their places on the sea chests that served as rowing benches, and others stood along the centerline. A pine bough was lashed to the stem where the figurehead would otherwise be, another sign that Fox came in peace.

  Thorgrim had given command of Fox to a man named Hardbein, a good and knowledgeable mariner who had joined with them in Vík-ló. He ran his ship well, but with Thorgrim aboard Hardbein yielded the tiller and command of the vessel to him. Harald was pulling an oar, because he could never be idle while other men worked. Louis de Roumois, in mail and sword, his head, like Thorgrim’s, uncovered, stood aft on the small deck in the stern, but as far from Thorgrim as he could get. He did not pull an oar because, unlike a Northman, he was not raised to the work and was pretty well useless at doing so.

  Failend stood halfway between Thorgrim and Louis. And forward, clinging to the stem, as high up as he could get, Starri Deathless stationed himself to keep an eye out for sandbars or any further dangers.

  “Starboard, pull!” Thorgrim called and the men along the starboard side leaned forward as one, dipped their oars and leaned back. The ship turned under Thorgrim’s feet, a living thing, moving to the drive of the oars, rocking a bit with the small swell coming in from the sea. Thorgrim suppressed a smile but his heart was shouting with the joy of it. Underway. A ship beneath his feet. The land astern, and even if it was only a few yards astern, still, they were waterborne and they were moving and that to Thorgrim was life itself.

  They pulled north, skirting the shore, where Thorgrim knew the current from the River Slaney kept the sandbars mostly at bay. They moved with an easy, steady rhythm. The men had not manned the oars of a longship for several months, but the motion was so familiar to their arms and backs that they picked it up as easily as walking.

  They crossed the mouth of the river where fresh water flowing from the great watershed to the north collided with the salt water coming in from the south, churning and tumbling along. Thorgrim pushed the tiller to larboard, swinging the bow to starboard to follow the curve of the shoreline.

  “Sandbars off the starboard side, Night Wolf,” Starri called from his perch on the stem. “But far off, you won’t hit them.”

  Thorgrim nodded. He pretty much knew that even without the benefit of Starri’s lookout. He made a frequent study of the shifting sands in the bay so that he would always be ready to navigate those waters if he needed to. And that need, Thorgrim knew, could arise quickly, and at any time.

  He shifted his eyes forward, beyond the bow. He could more clearly see the ships pulled up on the beach now. They were of tolerable size it seemed, bigger than Fox but not so big as Sea Hammer . Still, if they carried the full complement that Thorgrim would expect, their crews would be much larger than the depleted companies of Thorgrim’s vessels.

  They were half a mile away from the nearest ship when Starri came walking aft, moving down the centerline of the ship with his loose-limbed stride. Before Thorgrim could object, Starri started in. “There’s nothing to hit ahead of us, Night Wolf, fear not. You don’t need me up in my hawk’s nest.”

  “You were supposed to keep an eye on the men on the beach as well,” Thorgrim reminded him.

  “And I did. Nothing much there, either. They see us coming, of course, and they’re making ready. At least they’re standing up and gathering in a mob. Like people watching a bear baiting or some such. They don’t look as if they mean to fight.”

  “Good,” Thorgrim said. “Neither do we.”

  “But see here,” Starri continued. “I know these ships, or at least the ones I can see. I’ve seen them before. You know, Night Wolf, I never forget a face or a ship, and so I’m certain I’ve seen these before.”

  Thorgrim made a nonco
mmittal noise in his throat. He and Starri had lived and fought side by side nearly without respite for two years now, but Thorgrim was still never certain how much credence to give Starri’s words.

  It was true that Starri had surprised him in the past, recognizing men or ships they had seen, but that was no proof that he genuinely did not forget such things. It was also true that Starri had once claimed to be unable to recognize faces.

  “Very well,” Thorgrim said. “We’ll know soon enough if you’re right.”

  They pulled on, and soon Thorgrim could see the men on the beach gathering to meet them. It was as Starri had said; they seemed to be in some sort of loose formation, more like a curious mob than men ready for a fight. Thorgrim could see the bright points of color that indicated that some men held shields, but it was not what he would call a shield wall. Beyond that there was nothing terribly threatening about their posture.

  He shifted his eyes back to the ships. Thorgrim had a much better eye for such things than Starri did. Starri was an indifferent mariner while Thorgrim loved the building and sailing of sea craft as much as anything in life. And he could see there was indeed something familiar about the vessels run up on the beach.

  They continued on, rowing parallel to the north shore of the bay. Ten strokes more and Thorgrim pointed to a spot on shore and Hardbein pushed the tiller over, swinging Fox ’s bow north, aiming to run it onto the sand thirty feet away from the ships already there.

  That change of course sparked a reaction from the men on shore, Thorgrim could see that. As one they moved closer to the water, forming a line fifty feet up the beach from where Fox would touch. There were more shields in evidence now, though Fox was close enough that they should be able to see the pine bow, the lack of a figurehead, and the fact that Thorgrim and his men were vastly outnumbered.