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

by Nelson, James L.

  “There’s the monastery ahead, Lord Faílbe,” Bécc said, nodding toward the cluster of buildings. Faílbe, who apparently had not seen it, stared off into the dark, then made a grunting sound.

  “Your sight with one eye is better than mine with two,” Faílbe said. “Do you think the heathens are there?”

  “Don’t know,” Bécc said. “I’m sure they’ve searched the place for anything worth taking. Doubt they found much, since they gave the people time enough to bugger off. There may be a few of the heathens still there…if I were them I’d leave lookouts behind…but most of them will be on the beach. They won’t want to be too far from their ships.”

  “Right,” Faílbe said. “So, we’d best go on foot from here.”

  “That’d be best,” Bécc agreed. They slid down from their horses and found saplings sturdy enough to tie their reins to, then continued on on foot. The moon was just starting to make an appearance, casting light enough that they were able to move without stumbling much on unseen obstacles.

  The road grew more distinct as they approached the monastery where the path had been more traveled. The two men moved with caution, stepping carefully as they drew closer to the earthen wall that surrounded Beggerin. They looked sharp for any bit of light that might indicate a cooking fire or a lantern, but they saw nothing, and nothing came to their ears beyond the raucous sound of the insects in the marshy ground between the monastery and the sea.

  Soon they had left the walls of the monastery behind and were moving along the path through the marsh. Bécc had been to Beggerin often enough in his monk’s role to know the place well, and the paths leading in various directions, and that knowledge was a great help now.

  They had walked for a quarter of a mile or so when Faílbe stopped and put a hand on Bécc’s shoulder, and Bécc stopped as well.

  “Do you hear that?” Faílbe asked. Bécc turned his head slightly and listened. And he did hear it. Over the sound of the insects. Singing.

  “It’s the heathens,” Bécc said. “They’re well on their way to being drunk. That’s what they do, the ungodly swine. They get drunk and they sing.”

  “Good, that’s good,” Faílbe said. “It’s as you said it would be.”

  Bécc nodded. He knew about such behavior. He had spent enough nights himself drunk and singing in camps and halls all over Ireland. Drinking and singing and gambling and whoring. All part of a past life he had since cast aside.

  “Let’s go,” he said and he and Faílbe continued on, their eyes searching the dark, their ears sharp for any sound that would suggest they were seen.

  They were not too far from the monastery when Bécc noticed a loom of light ahead, a soft glow that edged the dark, grass-covered dunes that blocked their view of the beach. Fires , he thought as he and Faílbe continued on. Fires on the beach . He could picture the scene well, the big piles of driftwood burning bright, the flames rising high above the sands, the heathens clustered around, drinking and singing their pagan songs.

  He put a hand on Faílbe’s shoulder. “We should get off the path, in case there’s someone watching.”

  Faílbe nodded. If the heathens had any sense at all they would have sentries posted around. And while it seemed clear they did not in fact have any sense, still it was better to act as if they did.

  The two men slipped off the path and into the high marsh grass that lined it on either side. Bécc feared that they would soon be up to their thighs in briny water, but they sunk only to ankle depth and no more. They pushed the grass aside as they pressed forward, stopping now and then to listen, to look toward the beach. If a watchman was standing on top of the dune he would be backlit and clearly visible, but there was no one that Bécc could see. They pushed on.

  The ground beneath their soaked shoes grew firmer, and soon they could see the edge of the dunes, not fifteen feet ahead. Still they saw no sentries, and Bécc decided that there were none to be seen. The singing sounded much louder now, and they could hear the crackling of the fire. The heathens on the beach, Bécc knew, would never see or hear anything beyond the edge of the fire pit.

  They crouched as they ran the last dozen or so feet and then fell on their stomachs and edged their way up the dune until they were able to look over the crest to the beach below. The scene before them was exactly the one Bécc had expected to see. A hundred or more of the heathens, all sprawled in a great circle around a big fire in the sand. The ale or mead or whatever they had was flowing, the singing was loud. Off closer to the water six or seven men were engaged in a great brawl, but none of the others seemed even to notice. A dozen men at least were flung out on the sand, sleeping or drunk or dead Bécc did not know or care. If they weren’t dead they would be soon.

  “Not what I’d call the height of vigilance,” Faílbe said.

  “No,” Bécc said. “They think they have no enemies here, no one who dares attack them.”

  “We’ll prove that wrong tonight, I’ll warrant.”

  “Yes,” Bécc said, though in truth his plans went well beyond one night’s activities.

  This was what Bécc had expected, Godless vermin who were ripe for extermination. But it was more than that. Here was an opportunity, a gift from God himself, laid at his feet. A powerful army at his command and hundreds of heathens to be wiped off the shores of a Christian land.

  Bécc would not stop with killing the men before him. Thorgrim and his pagans, they too had to be eradicated. It was the will of God, as clear as His call for Bécc to take up the monastic life. It was a call Bécc would not ignore. He would sacrifice everything if he must, but he would smite the heathens who invaded his land, and no one would stop him.

  Chapter Eight

  The keen-souled thane must be skilled to sever and sunder duly

  words and works, if he well intends.

  Beowulf

  It was the day of Merewald’s funereal, a day of great mourning, officially, and the bells of Sherborne rang out in their long, baleful tones.

  The streets, which were generally crowded with those folk who did the town’s meanest labor, the bakers and butchers and merchants and craftsmen, and with rude carts rolling through the mud and animals driven off to their fates, were crowded now with a different sort. The thegns and the wealthier ceorl, who just days before had gathered at the cathedral for Merewald’s wedding, now gathered for his funeral mass.

  Horses in fine livery, tricked out with gold and silver, ridden by men in shining mail, paraded through the streets, their wives riding beside them, their well-appointed hearth-guards following behind. The bright-colored wedding finery they had worn just days before was replaced now by the black finery of mourning.

  The way was kept clear for this parade, and the lower sorts watched with awe from doorways and windows above the streets. It was no rare thing to see men of power and wealth riding through Sherborne—thegns and bishops, reeves and even the king, once a year at least—but to see so many of such men and such wealth on display, even at a time of universal grief, was unusual indeed.

  The Lady Cynewise, grieving widow, clothed in black and audibly weeping, was escorted to the cathedral first. She was borne though the streets in an elegant litter, its usual white silks replaced by black. The litter was carried by four somber slaves, also dressed in black.

  The people who watched from the buildings lining the roads strained to see her, but were largely unable to do so. The curtains surrounding her litter were half-drawn, and the litter itself and the bearers were surrounded by the ealdorman’s hearth-guard, marching on foot, spears over shoulders. The entire procession was led by Oswin, the shire-reeve, riding slowly on horseback, sword drawn and resting on his shoulder.

  News of Merewald’s murder had spread through the shire— indeed there was little else that was talked about—and it was generally assumed that Cynewise would have been cut down as well if Oswin had not killed the murdering thegn Werheard first. How deep the plot ran no one knew, and so everyone happily indulged in specu
lation. It was clear, at least, that Oswin did not think Cynewise was out of danger, and he would not put her life at further risk.

  All this Nothwulf watched from a good distance away, far enough that he would not be noticed by any of the people streaming toward the cathedral or those watching them. He was on foot for once, with none of his hearth-guard around, and wearing clothing that, for the man soon to be the ealdorman, would be considered simple and unassuming. He was not exactly hiding behind a building, but his watching place was largely shielded by one.

  He frowned and shook his head as he watched Oswin and the well-armed escort conveying Cynewise toward the cathedral, as if drawn by the ringing bells. Oh, please, he thought. Such a great show they make, as if there’ll be an attempt on the little tart’s life…

  Then he reminded himself that his brother had in fact been killed in a most unlikely manner, and Cynewise may well have been next. And no one knew if there was some intrigue that went beyond Werheard, or who might be involved, and what they might intend now.

  And likely we’ll never know, thanks to that idiot shire-reeve… Nothwulf thought.

  With the sound of the bells and the great parade of men and horses, Nothwulf never heard the soft footfalls behind, and to his embarrassment he jumped when he felt a hand laid on his shoulder. He spun around, and Bryning was there, his hand still extended, but he was too good a subordinate to make mention of Nothwulf’s jumpiness.

  “Yes?” Nothwulf said, sharp and quiet.

  “Oswin’s taken all the hearth-guard,” Bryning said, also speaking low, though in truth he could have shouted and no one would have been the wiser. “Left a servant to guard the door to the rooms, and no one else around that I can see. No one who would matter.”

  Nothwulf nodded. “Good, good. Now’s our moment.”

  This was ridiculous, of course. He was sneaking into the home in which he was born and raised, the home that would be his once again, once he had set this ealdorman nonsense to rest. But for the moment he had no choice. If he learned one thing from Oswin’s killing of Werheard, it was that he must act fast, before the opportunity was lost.

  Nothwulf brushed past Bryning and walked quickly through a narrow space between two buildings, coming out onto another road that led at an odd angle to the ealdorman’s house. He could hear Bryning following behind as he moved quickly along the rutted, packed dirt road. It was less crowded here—anything of interest was happening in the neighborhood of the cathedral—and Nothwulf was happy to travel unnoticed.

  He could not miss his brother’s funeral, of course. Doing that would be a scandal, and would invite speculation he did not need. But if he was one of the last to arrive, that would cause no problems. So grief-stricken he could hardly summon the strength, so weighted down with consideration he could barely tear himself away for the shire’s business, any of those were decent and viable excuses.

  But he did not have much time. A quarter of an hour and then he needed to join his hearth-guard waiting a quarter mile from the cathedral. From there, with Nothwulf at their head, they would make their approach in grand style.

  The big gate in the wall surrounding the ealdorman’s house was still open and Nothwulf and Bryning marched through, faces set, eyes up, like men who were there on official, sanctioned and vital business. There were a few servants around, busy at the household chores. They looked up as the men entered, but none of them dared question Nothwulf’s presence, or even speak to him as he and Bryning hurried across the courtyard.

  For all his determination and sense that he had a right and a duty to do what he was set to do, Nothwulf’s face still burned with humiliation. He was the ealdorman, for the love of God, or would be within a day, and yet he felt compelled to sneak around his own home like some thief or cutpurse. It was intolerable. And he thought, not for the first time, that those responsible would pay.

  He and Bryning moved around the far end of the long hall to where the lesser rooms in the back, those kept for the servants of visiting dignitaries, opened onto the garbage-strewn space behind. There was a single servant standing there, bored and slumped. He held a spear in his hand, the weapon looking foreign and unfamiliar to him. He looked up sharp when the two men came around the corner. With all of the hearth-guard escorting Cynewise to the cathedral, this sorry creature was the best they could muster for guard duty.

  On seeing the men, the servant began to lower the spear, then thought better of it and raised it again. “Beg pardon, lord, but I have instructions from…” he began, stammering the words.

  Bryning stepped quickly around Nothwulf’s side and in two quick strides came up to the ersatz guard and slapped him hard on the side of the head. The servant yowled, dropped the spear and grabbed his ear, crouching to ward off another blow.

  “How dare you, you miserable villain,” Bryning hissed. “This is the ealdorman, and you dare speak to him?”

  The servant shook his head, made a whimpering noise and tried to stumble away, but Bryning grabbed him by the collar of his tunic and jerked him back. “You don’t tell anyone we were here, do you understand?” he demanded.

  Again the servant made a whimpering noise as he nodded, but Bryning only shook him, hard, and pulled him closer until their faces were just a few inches apart. “I asked you if you understood,” Bryning growled.

  “Yes, lord, yes, I do,” the servant said and Bryning shoved him and sent him staggering from the door. He backed away, two paces, four paces, clearly unsure if he should abandon his post entirely, but Nothwulf had no more time to spare for him. He grabbed the iron latch that held the door closed, lifted it, swung the door in and stepped into the dim-lit room.

  The furnishings were something less than sparse: a small table with a jug and pitcher, a wooden plate with a half a loaf of bread. Crude beds with straw-filled mattresses were shoved up against two of the walls. That was it.

  Three people sat on the bed furthest from the door: a woman and two children, a boy and a girl, somewhere between five and ten. Nothwulf was never very good about guessing children’s ages, mostly because he didn’t care. He was not looking at the children, however, but the woman who hugged them in a protective way and glared back at Nothwulf as he stepped into the room.

  Roswitha, the wife of the late Werheard, the man who had killed ealdorman Merewald for some as yet unknown reason. Nothwulf had been trying to speak to her for days now, since he had heard of her arrest. He had not been rebuffed, exactly, but there seemed always to be some reason or other that she was not available to him. She was meeting with her confessor, one of the children was ill, she had had a fainting spell and was not lucid, the excuses came in a great profusion until Nothwulf could see they simply did not wish for him to speak with Roswitha.

  He had gone to Cynewise, practically burst into her chambers to demand an explanation. His brother’s widow had, as usual, been speaking with two of the more powerful thegns from Dorset’s south coast. Nothwulf had sent them away. Cynewise looked afraid. As well she might. Nothwulf was running out of patience.

  “Why am I not allowed to speak to Roswitha?” he demanded.

  “Who?”

  “Roswitha. The widow of the man who killed my brother. She’s being held prisoner here.”

  “Oh…” Cynewise nodded absently. “Yes, yes. Oswin had her brought here. He is still trying to discover what plot there might have been. Against my husband.”

  My husband… Nothwulf thought. The words sounded more ironic every time Cynewise said them. My husband… They had been married for less time than it took him to hump Aelfwyn.

  “Yes, your husband,” Nothwulf said. His strained patience was near snapping.

  “Oh, I don’t know what that is all about,” Cynewise said, giving a weak wave of her hand, a gesture she did quite often. “Oswin is seeing to her, and he says she’s often ill, and the children, too. I can well imagine. I leave it to Oswin. In this time of grief I can’t even think about that.”

  And that was it. Her answer
was really no answer at all, and the whole thing was handed back to the shire reeve. Who would not allow Nothwulf to see Roswitha. Nothwulf had thought at first to march down to the rooms and demand the guard step aside. And if he did not? It would be humiliating. He thought of calling out his own hearth-guard and marching them to the ealdorman’s house. And he dismissed the idea. He was not ready for such a war.

  So instead he chose the most effective, if most humiliating means. He waited until the others were gone and there was no one but a servant to challenge him.

  Nothwulf took another step into the room and saw Roswitha draw back and pull the children tighter. Her eyes were on his, and various emotions played on her expression. Nothwulf could see the anger there, and the fear and defiance and confusion.

  She did not look good. Her gown was dirty and torn, the hem ragged and mud-stained. There were bruises on her face and arms, some no doubt left by Bryning, some by Oswin and who knew what other inquisitors there had been. Her hair was a great unruly mess.

  But her spirit was not broken, not yet, and she stared back at Nothwulf as if daring him to do worse to her than had already been done. He guessed she would still wear that expression when her head was placed on the executioner’s block.

  “So, you’ve come,” Roswitha said, her voice like the hiss of a cat. “What do you want?”

  Nothwulf was startled by the words. He had imagined she would be shocked to see him there, but she spoke as if she was expecting him, as if he was some player in this drama, some part of the grand story.

  “You know what I want,” Nothwulf said. “I want to know why your husband murdered my brother.”

  “Ha!” Roswitha said. “You want to know? You of all people?”

  Nothwulf’s eyebrows came together. “Yes, me of all people. Merewald was my brother.”

  “Of course he was,” Roswitha said. She took her arms off the children’s shoulders, stood, and took a step toward Nothwulf. “And he was the ealdorman. But we’ve never heard of such a thing as a man conspiring against his brother to gain his place.”