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

by Nelson, James L.

  “He has?” Nothwulf said. This surprised him, and he did not like to be surprised. He did not like to hear things of such importance second hand. He did not like to be less well informed than the bishop.

  “Yes, he has,” Ealhstan said. “Means to get the truth from them.”

  Damn that bastard Oswin , Nothwulf thought, and then reconsidered. It makes no difference. Whatever reason Werheard had for killing my brother, it had nothing to do with me. Even if it is to my benefit.

  “Now, my dear Bishop,” Nothwulf said, leaning back a bit and taking a sip of wine. Very good wine, he noted. “Important as all that is, it’s not why I’ve come.”

  “Oh?” Ealhstan said.

  “Yes. I came to confide in you, because you are both a man of God and a man of great influence.”

  “Influence? I don’t know about that,” Ealhstan said, but the man’s modesty was so contrived that even he was not able to make it sound sincere.

  “I’m worried about Lady Cynewise,” Nothwulf said. “I fear that some of the thegns have her ear, and they’re filling her head with all sorts of wild notions.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as thinking that she should sit as ealdorman of Dorset.”

  “And you think…oh, of course…you think you should be ealdorman in her stead?”

  Of course I should be, you fat old fool! Nothwulf thought. It seemed as if the idea was just dawning on Ealhstan, which infuriated Nothwulf, but he held that in check.

  “Well, naturally,” Nothwulf said, once the flash of anger had passed. “I am Osric’s second son. It’s no secret that my father held me in high esteem. Sure he would wish to see me in Merewald’s place.”

  “Yes, yes,” Ealhstan said, leaning back as well. “I see your point. But Lady Cynewise…well, she was wife to your brother.”

  “For two damned minutes!” Nothwulf said, more emphatically than he intended. He pressed his lips together for a moment, then said, “Forgive me, Bishop. I’m still quite distraught about the death of my brother. My point is simply that they were married for so brief a time. They had not even consummated the marriage. And Cynewise is but a girl. She has no head for such things as being an ealdorman.”

  Ealhstan nodded his ponderous head. “Of course, of course,” he said. “Not that there isn’t precedence for a wife of an ealdorman taking the place of her husband on his death. And Cynewise is the daughter of Ceorle, ealdorman on Devonshire. She was raised in an ealdorman’s household. She’s no stranger to this sort of business.”

  “Perhaps,” Nothwulf said, again feeling a flash of anger. He wondered how a clever man such as Ealhstan could be so damned obtuse. “But I have it on good authority that the girl is not standing up well to all the troubles she’s seen. Her husband murdered before her eyes, and herself only just saved from such a death? No one doubts that Werheard would have gone after her as well, had Oswin not killed him. And now she has the matter of ruling all of Dorsetshire? No, my dear bishop, I don’t think she will be able to endure all that. I fear she’ll collapse under the weight.”

  Through all this Bishop Ealhstan was nodding and wearing a very thoughtful expression. “Yes, yes, quite,” he said when Nothwulf finished. “Well, I’ve spoken to the girl, of course. We’ve been working on the arrangements for Merewald’s funereal. And yes, she is certainly distraught. Seems to me she’s bearing it a bit better than you seem to think, but it’s quite possible I’m mistaken in this. I don’t have your experience with women, eh?” The bishop grinned at that and Nothwulf dutifully grinned as well.

  “So you’ll look into this?” Nothwulf asked. “Make certain the thegns aren’t filling her head with some foolishness? Help her to see that it’s best for the shire if she makes no protest about my stepping up as ealdorman? Of course she’s welcome to remain here as part of my household. Or perhaps join a convent, if she would wish.”

  Nothwulf had been entertaining the idea of marrying her himself, for the same reasons that his brother had, but now he was not so sure. On the one hand, there were many advantages to such a match, most of all the family alliance with Devonshire. On the other hand, Nothwulf was not sure he could stand much of that simpering little tart. Though of course being married to Cynewise would make his access to Aelfwyn all that much easier, and she had a good five years in her before she would grow so old that Nothwulf would have to look elsewhere for entertainment.

  “Yes, I will certainly speak to her, and look into her circumstance,” Bishop Ealhstan said. He raised his cup. “To the good fortune of Dorsetshire,” he said.

  Nothwulf raised his cup as well, and when he did, he noticed for the first time the device etched into the side of the silver goblet with its fine gold filigree and jewel studs on the base. It was an intricate design of twisting vines that formed a circle, and at the center of the circle a boar and a cross. It was the device used by the ealdormen of Devonshire. Father of Cynewise.

  On a narrow table at the back of the room he noticed ten more goblets, each identical to the one he held.

  Chapter Seven

  Today Bruide fights a battle

  over the land of his ancestor,

  unless it is the wish of the Son of God

  that restitution be made.

  Fragmentary Annals of Ireland

  Brother Bécc, sitting his horse in the middle of a wide field south of the River Bann, about a mile from the walls and towers of the monastery at Ferns, and still seething with anger, was nonetheless pleased by what he saw. The rí túaithe and the lesser nobles had been as good as their word, which was not always the case. Rarely the case, in fact, as far as Bécc had ever observed.

  Arrayed before him were two hundred or more fighting men. These were the warriors that had been pledged to Abbott Columb in the gathering at the church, after Bécc and the abbot had doled out sufficient humiliation regarding the rí túaithe’s past failings. And these were good men-at-arms. Bécc had feared the rí túaithe would honor their pledge by rounding up the most decrepit of the levy, but in fact they seemed to have sent their house-guards, their most skilled and trusted soldiers.

  Some were mounted, but those were mostly the captains and the few of the rí túaithe who chose to ride with the army. The rest were on foot, armed with shields, spears and swords. Most wore helmets and mail.

  Bécc nodded as he ran his eyes over the gathered men. The Northmen were good fighters, tough fighters. He knew that very well, and it was hard-earned knowledge. But these men were good fighters, too. And they outnumbered the Northmen. And they would have surprise on their side. They would launch an organized attack, and the Northmen would be in chaos. That, at least, was how he intended it to fall out.

  Faílbe mac Dúnlaing was one of the rí túaithe who would ride with the men, and Bécc was not surprised. Faílbe was a brave man, and smart, which was why he was the most powerful of the minor nobles in that part of Ireland. He had always found favor with the rí ruirech , the high king of Laigin. And now he was here to help rout out the vermin from the north, and to see that the lives of his precious house-guard were not thrown away.

  “What say you, Brother Bécc?” Faílbe asked, reining his horse to a stop beside Bécc’s.

  Bécc made a grunting noise. “The others have come through for us,” he said. “I had no doubt you would, lord. You understand the danger here. But I feared the others would not see it, and would not send their best men.”

  “I made certain they saw it,” Faílbe said. “Fear not. Now we have men enough to wipe out the heathens who’ve landed at Beggerin.”

  Bécc turned his eyes from the men-at-arms and looked Faílbe square in the face. “We have men enough to wipe out all the heathens for many miles around,” he said. He thought this might bring an angry retort from Faílbe, but the man just met his gaze and nodded.

  “Yes, Brother Bécc. We have men enough for that. But we won’t be doing it. As you know.”

  It had been a long and unpleasant conversation, carried on by B�
�cc and Faílbe and the Abbott Columb. The gathering in the church had finished and the others had gone off to their evening meal, but those three stayed behind. Because, the opinions of the others notwithstanding, it was those three men alone who made the decisions.

  “This is a chance like we have never had, and may never have again,” Bécc argued. “I know that you, Lord Faílbe, will send your best men. If the rí túaithe will do the same, we’ll have an army that can stamp the heathens out once and for all.”

  Faílbe’s expression was unreadable, but Abbott Columb frowned. “I’ve come to agree with you, Brother Bécc, that these newcomers, the ones on the beach near Beggerin, they cannot be suffered to remain. But Thorgrim and his band, they have been true to their word. And you yourself say they seem quite ready to sail from here as soon as they’re able. Which apparently is soon. Why waste men’s lives fighting an enemy that’s leaving anyway?”

  “Yes, Abbott Columb, what you say is true,” Bécc countered. “But the heathens are like serpents in the garden. They’re not to be trusted. And when they turn on us, as they surely will, we will not have the army we’ll have now. The heathens can move faster than we can assemble the men-at-arms. We must strike while we have the men.”

  And that was that. An impasse. Abbott Columb turned to Faílbe, because these were Faílbe’s men, mostly, and it would be his decision as to how they were employed.

  “These heathens who have come lately, they number somewhere above a hundred men?”

  “Somewhere, lord,” Bécc answered. “One hundred and twenty, maybe. My men have not ventured so close as to count with any great accuracy.”

  Faílbe nodded. “So, we will likely outnumber them by two to one. But this Thorgrim has…what?”

  “Ninety men, or so, lord,” Bécc said.

  “Ninety. So now, with Thorgrim and these newcomers combined, we have no advantage in numbers. And even if we bring our best men, we can hope only to match the strength of the Northmen. We certainly will not overwhelm them.”

  “No, lord. But we don’t attack the lot of them at once,” Bécc countered. “We surprise the ones newly arrived, stamp them out. Then we are on to Thorgrim’s camp, and we bring God’s vengeance down on them as well.”

  “Hmm,” Faílbe said and for a long moment he was silent. And then he said, “No, no…I can’t countenance it. We can take the one by surprise, but then Thorgrim and his men will be alarmed and ready, while our men will have just suffered what I’m sure will be a bloody fight. And Thorgrim’s men have defenses, earthworks. The other rí túaithe, they agreed to send men to meet this new threat, not to fight with men who seem to have no desire to fight with us. I say we fall on those near Beggerin, let Thorgrim and his band of villains depart on their own.”

  And that was an end to it. Faílbe had men enough and influence enough that his word would be the final word, and all Bécc could do was to bow his head, just a bit, and say, “Yes, Lord Faílbe.”

  Bécc was still not happy, not at all happy, about the decision.

  But Faílbe had kept his promise, brought good men and saw to it that the others did the same, and that tempered Bécc’s fury. It had been many years since Bécc had sat at the head of such a respectable force. At first, after having taken his vows, he had loathed the idea of bearing arms again. He had done so when the abbot called on him, called on his special talent, because obedience was one of the vows he had taken. But soon he had come to understand that this, like all talents, was a gift from God and could be used in the service of God. Raising a sword in defense of God and His church was surely as holy an occupation as illuminating manuscripts or brewing ale for the monastery. More so. Fighting put a man on the path to martyrdom.

  Such a waste, such a shameful waste… Bécc thought. These fine men, and Faílbe would let the vermin infecting their shores live to sack another house of God? It made him wild with anger.

  He had tried to shake it off. He had confessed his sins and done his penance. He had prayed about it, and found no relief in prayer. He had shed his monk’s robe and replaced it with his padded tunic and mail shirt, his sword hanging at his side. And that was all he could do. He could kill those heathens he was allowed to kill, and try to further discern God’s will for him.

  “Shall we move, Brother Bécc?” Faílbe asked. “Are we ready to march south?”

  Bécc looked up at him. He had been so deep in thought he had all but forgotten Faílbe was there. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, let’s go.”

  It was fifteen miles to Beggerin over a muddy track that was called a road. But happily it was an easy country of rolling, gentle hills, an open country where one could see a far way off and not be taken by surprise by some hidden enemy. Bécc led the men south and they covered the miles quickly.

  At length they swung off east, skirting the Bog of Itty and then turned south again. It was late afternoon when they arrived at a place just a few miles north of Beggerin. They could see the ocean now when the road crested one of the low hills, and the tang of the salt water filled the air. Bécc held up his hand and slowed to a stop and the other mounted men and the two hundred and more foot soldiers behind him and the wagons loaded with food and tents all stopped as well.

  “What is it, Brother Bécc?” Faílbe asked. Some people, Bécc had noticed, when addressing him, put a trace of irony in the word “brother,” as if it was absurd that a warrior such as Bécc should consider himself a man of God. But Faílbe did not do that.

  Faílbe had been riding at Bécc’s side since they had left the field south of Ferns, but they had spoken no more than a few words during that time. Faílbe had not asked Bécc what he had planned, another thing for which Bécc was grateful. But they were close to the enemy now, and Bécc had called a halt to the march, and Faílbe would want to know why.

  “We’ll stop here,” Bécc said. “We’ll stop and rest and have our supper.”

  Faílbe swiveled in his saddle and looked to the west. The sun was dropping quickly toward the distant hills. “Not too much daylight left,” Faílbe said.

  “That’s right,” Bécc said. “That’s why we’re stopping. I intend to attack the heathens after dark.”

  Faílbe swiveled back and regarded Bécc, and Bécc held his gaze with his single eye. “Attack after dark?” Faílbe said. A nighttime attack was a rare and dangerous thing. It was a hard thing to control. It could easily devolve into chaos.

  “Yes,” Bécc said. He had thought this all through and did not care to argue, but he knew he could not simply dictate his wishes to Faílbe mac Dúnlaing. Faílbe was a powerful man, and as the one who had brought a great majority of the men-at-arms, he had the most to lose.

  “There are reasons, good ones,” Bécc continued with all the patience and deference he could gather. “We have to cover a lot of open ground to get to the beach where the heathens are making their camp. Even if they aren’t keeping watch, any bastard stumbling off to take a piss will see us coming, and they’ll be ready. What’s more, you can count on the heathens to be drunk at any time of the day, but once the sun has set they’re likely to be stumbling about, barely able to stand.”

  Bécc nodded his head in the direction of the men-at-arms behind them. They were leaning on spears or squatting on their heels, waiting patiently for their orders. “I wouldn’t try such a thing with the scum of the levy, but these are good men, trained men. They’re up to a task such as this. We’ll cut the heathen swine down like reeds, and hardly lose a man in doing it.”

  Faílbe listened to this without a word. He looked away for a moment, considering what Bécc had said. Then he turned back. “Very well, Bécc,” he said. “Your reasons are good. I trust your judgment and your experience. After dark it is.”

  Bécc slid down from his horse and Faílbe did the same, and on seeing those two dismount the other mounted men did the same. Bécc could sense a general easing of tension among the men. If Bécc and Faílbe were off their horses, then nothing was going to happen soon.


  “Listen to me, you men,” Bécc said, his voice loud enough to carry over the crowd. “We’ll take our rest here, have supper. When the sun is down we’ll move up and we’ll attack the heathens when it’s full dark. Once the bastards are good and drunk.”

  This brought smiles all around and nodded heads. None of the men-at-arms seemed at all disconcerted by the thought of a battle in the dark. These were men who fought and killed for a living, and they would understand, as Bécc did, the advantages of waiting for nightfall to drive into the enemy.

  The warriors could rest, and as far as Bécc was concerned the captains and the rí túaithe and Faílbe mac Dúnlaing could rest as well, but he had no intention of doing so. He stepped over to where Faílbe was giving instructions to the captain of his men-at-arms, waited until Faílbe was done before speaking.

  “When it’s near dark I mean to go ahead, scout out the heathens, Lord Faílbe,” he said.

  Faílbe nodded. “Very good. I’ll come with you, if you don’t mind.”

  Bécc did not mind. He trusted Faílbe to not do something stupid. Nor did he have much choice in the matter. So he had a bite to eat and said None, his mid-afternoon prayers, then lay down for a short nap. He woke near sunset, said Vespers, then went off to find Faílbe.

  He found Faílbe asleep, because Faílbe, like any experienced soldier, knew to rest when he could. He shook Faílbe awake. Faílbe stood and stretched and scratched himself.

  “We’re a mile or so from the monastery at Beggerin,” Bécc said. “We can ride that far at least.”

  Faílbe nodded and called to the boy who attended the horses to get his and Bécc’s mounts ready. Soon they were riding south again, in the last fading light of day, the road all but lost in the gloom of the gathering dark.

  They rode in silence until Bécc saw the bulk of the monastery rising ahead, just barely discernable. He pulled his horse to a stop and Faílbe did as well.