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

by Nelson, James L.

  Even as he took that in, Nothwulf pulled his sword and wheeled his horse around, aware that Siward was coming for him. He heard the clash of swords and saw the guard who had warned him to run meeting Siward’s blade. One stroke, another, then Siward thrust and caught the man in the shoulder, sinking the point in deep as the man screamed and twisted.

  Nothwulf pushed his horse forward, two stride to come up with Siward and he slashed down at the man. But Siward’s blade was free and he caught Nothwulf’s sword, deflected the blow with a force that sent a shudder through Nothwulf’s arm.

  “Bastard!” Nothwulf shouted in fury, but rather than renew the attack he rode past Siward, clear of the man. He had to see what was happening, if his men were putting up a fight. If everyone save Bryning had betrayed him.

  The field was a chaos of horses, swords, spears, shields in the dark light of the growing storm. It was hard to tell who was who, who was fighting whom, but as best as Nothwulf could see his hearth-guard was standing with him, and the men from the manor had turned. Two men were down in the grass, but he could not tell who they were, friend or foe.

  Siward was coming on again, pushing his horse to close with Nothwulf’s. Nothwulf felt rage displace his confusion, his surprise. “Bastard!” he shouted again and plunged at Siward, his horse bolting forward. They came at each other, right side to right side. Siward was a trained man, but for all his training he was still the sort who relied more on strength than skill. And Nothwulf was trained as well, very well trained. Trained like an ealdorman’s favorite son.

  Siward was shouting as he came on, but the words were lost in the general noise of the battle. He had his sword raised as he had before, more like an ax than a blade that might be wielded with any agility. He slashed down, and as he did Nothwulf swung his own sword left to right, meeting Siward’s blade and knocking it aside. A tiny turn of the wrist and the point of his blade was in line with Siward’s chest and Nothwulf could just feel the amount of force he would need to drive the point right through the links of mail.

  He thrust, and as his arm shot out he heard in his head a warning: Don’t kill him! An image of Oswin hacking Werheard down, the man dead and all that he knew dead with him. Nothwulf felt the point of his blade pierce Siward’s mail, felt the resistance and the pop as it broke through, but he stayed his hand there, delivering a wound, painful and deep, but nothing that would kill him. Not immediately, anyway.

  Nothwulf reined his horse around, sure that Siward was no threat now, and would not be for the next few moments, at least. It was still a whirl of madness, riders charging back and forth, wielding weapons, shouting and striking and deflecting blows with shields.

  And then Nothwulf saw the others. More riders, breaking from the tree line. How many he could not tell, but more than he had. Twenty at least. They were fifty yards off, close enough for Nothwulf to see weapons drawn, shields on arms, the dull-looking silver of helmeted heads. One of the riders was carrying a banner, though coming straight on there was no way for Nothwulf to see it. But it did not matter. Siward had led them here for a reason, and this was it. The second part of the trap.

  “Bryning! Men of Sherborne! With me! Follow me!” Nothwulf shouted. It was pointless to make a stand there. There came a time in a man’s life, often enough, when he had to stand his ground and die on it, if it was God’s will. But this was not such a time, at least not as Nothwulf saw it. To die just then meant victory for someone else. Someone nefarious and wicked.

  “With me!” Nothwulf shouted again and he spurred his horse and charged off the way they had come, racing along the trampled grass like it was a road. He looked over his shoulder and was relieved to see Bryning and the others, his men, riding in his wake. He would not have it thought that he meant for himself alone to escape. He would take death over accusations of cowardice.

  Twisted in the saddle, jarred by the heavy footfalls of his horse, it was hard for Nothwulf to see clearly what was going on behind him. His men were breaking off from the fight. The men they had been fighting, Siward’s men, were not chasing, but seemed to be in some confusion. And beyond them, the fresh riders were coming on fast.

  Then another thought came to Nothwulf. Siward didn’t lead us here, I did… This could not have been a trap of Siward’s making because Siward did not know Nothwulf would bring the men that way.

  It was all very confusing, at least it was to Nothwulf’s mind, dulled by exhaustion and the sudden exertion of fighting. He slowed his horse and turned and stopped. His men were overtaking him fast, but Siward’s were not following. Indeed, they seemed to be turning to meet the new arrivals. Nothwulf could make no sense of it.

  There was no more than twenty feet between Siward’s men and the unknown horsemen when Siward seemed to understand his danger. Nothwulf heard him shout something, saw him drive his horse forward, saw the rest of Siward’s men, those still mounted, turn as well and try to kick their mounts to a gallop.

  It was too late for that. The newly arrived men came swarming over them, weapons raised, and through his confusion Nothwulf realized that whoever these people were, they were enemies of Siward, not him.

  The riders broke like a wave over Siward’s men, slashing at them even as they tried to break free. Once again Nothwulf found himself witnessing a chaos of fighting in the tall grass, but now he was a watcher, like this was some entertainment put on for his benefit. For a moment he remained motionless, observing, as his men reached him and slowed and turned as well, so that they, too, could see.

  Bryning reined to a stop beside him. “Who’s this, lord, come to help us?” he asked. Nothwulf shifted his gaze. Bryning had a cut on his cheek that was bleeding down his face and there was a rent in his mail, but he did not seem hurt beyond that. There was blood on his sword.

  “I don’t know,” Nothwulf said.

  “Friends?” Bryning asked.

  “I suppose,” Nothwulf said. He turned back. The riders outnumbered Siward’s men two to one, and they were fresh and unwounded and they were hacking down Siward’s men in quick order. And then yet another thought emerged through the fog of Nothwulf’s brain.

  “Don’t kill them!” he shouted and spurred his horse to a run. “Don’t kill them all!” He charged at the fighting men and he heard Bryning following behind. Whoever these men-at-arms were, Nothwulf had to assume they were allies. But if in their enthusiasm they slaughtered all of Siward’s men, then Nothwulf might never discover what had happened. Once more he thought of Werheard, dead on the cathedral floor.

  The fight did not last long. By the time Nothwulf reached the place of battle, it was over. A dozen riderless horses milled about or charged off in panic. The victorious men moved slowly through the grass, making certain that those on the ground posed no further threat.

  “If there are any alive, let them live,” Nothwulf shouted, well aware that he was in no position to give these men orders. He did not even know who they were. Then one of the riders replied, his voice friendly and familiar.

  “Lord Nothwulf, you are the soul of forgiveness.”

  Nothwulf looked in the direction of the voice. The rider had removed his helmet and was wiping his brow with the back of his gloved hand. Leofric of Wimborne. Nothwulf smiled.

  “Leofric, my friend,” he said, hoping Leofric was indeed his friend. It was becoming hard to tell. “Your arrival was timely, though of course me and my men pretty much had won a victory by the time you showed.” He smiled to show he was in jest.

  “Indeed, lord,” Leofric said, smiling as well. “Just hoping to catch a bit of your glory.” He looked down at the men sprawled in the grass. Nothwulf’s men, and Leofric’s, but mostly Siward and his company.

  “That’s your man Siward, if I’m not wrong,” Leofric said, nodding to someone Nothwulf could not see in the grass. “Now why would he be trying to cut you down?”

  “I hoped you might answer that,” Nothwulf said. “I’m sure I don’t know. But you must understand what’s going on, if you were co
ming to our aide.”

  “Nothing of the sort,” Leofric said. “We weren’t coming to fight. We saw the smoke and it seemed to be coming from your manor. Seemed like it might be trouble, so we came to find out. Thought maybe the damned Northmen were back. Then we heard all the commotion here.”

  “How did you know it was me fighting? How did you know to engage Siward?”

  Leofric shrugged. “I didn’t at first. But I can’t pass up a good fight, you know.”

  Nothwulf smiled. Most men as old and wealthy as Leofric were content to remain in their long halls and get fat. But Leofric, despite his white hair and close-cropped white beard, had the physique of a much younger man, and the restlessness to boot. He was indeed the sort who could not resist a good fight.

  “We’ll ask Siward what this was about, why he turned on us,” Nothwulf said. “We’ll have the truth from him eventually.”

  Leofric looked back down at the grass. “No, I fear not,” he said. “Someone seems to have split the man’s skull quite open. I don’t think he’s in the mood for talking.”

  Damn it all! Nothwulf thought, but he knew it would sound like ingratitude to voice his frustration. “Well, surely you did not kill them all. Sure one can be made to talk,” he said.

  “I should think,” Leofric said. And somewhere off to the north the thunder rolled over the open ground, and with it came a gust of cold wind.

  “Pray, you and your men, come shelter in my hall,” Nothwulf said before he recalled the circumstance that had started all this. “Or, my chapel, I suppose. It’ll have to serve in the hall’s stead.”

  “Is that what the smoke was?” Leofric asked. “Your hall?”

  “Yes. And my barn.”

  Leofric shook his head, a gesture of disgust and sympathy. “Who did it?”

  “I don’t know,” Nothwulf said. “But if any of these men still live we’ll bring them back to the manor, and there we’ll have the truth out of them.”

  Leofric nodded. “I don’t doubt you will. But see here…your long hall is burned and the people at your manor seem determined to kill you. Which makes me think we had best go to my manor instead.”

  Far off a clap of thunder sounded, the noise rolling over the summer fields, and a cold gust of wind enveloped them all.

  Twenty-One

  The haughty unshaven horde

  Began to traverse the harbours;

  Birds' bills with bearded heads were seen

  Coming from the churches of Ulaid.

  Annals of Ulster

  Brother Bécc mac Carthach removed his helmet and turned his scarred face up to the sky. It was a sky such as he had never seen before: black, roiling clouds dancing and twisting against a backdrop of clouds blacker still. It was midday but the land was dark as if it were near nightfall. It was the kind of sky he might expect to see at the end of days.

  Perhaps this is it, he thought. Perhaps this is the end of days.

  That would be fine, he thought. It would not be so bad to die just then, to have the entire world destroyed, and the dead lifted bodily from their graves. He was ready. Because he would be doing God’s work that day, whether he lived or died.

  He turned his eyes back to earth. Bressal was heading toward him now, the cold wind blowing his hair sideways as he walked. He, too, glanced up at the dark skies and he looked troubled and Bécc guessed that Bressal could also sense the presence of God’s wrath. But if he was worried by it, it meant he did not understand.

  Bressal had retained command of Faílbe mac Dúnlaing’s men-at-arms since Faílbe’s unfortunate but necessary death in the tall grass near Beggerin. Faílbe’s men had once made up a majority of those under Bécc’s command. But no more.

  The heathens’ escape had angered Bécc, but only for a short time. He had yelled and cursed and screamed for Thorgrim and the rest to come back and fight, but the ships were already too far off for the men aboard to hear him.

  When his equilibrium returned he stood for a long time and watched the six vessels growing smaller in the distance and he hated them. The ships were the thing that made the heathens so hard an enemy to fight. They would be at Loch Garman before the sun had climbed much higher in the sky, while it would take him the better part of the day to march his men around, and by then they would be too tired and the day would be too far gone for them to attack.

  Ships… Bécc thought. Ships brought the heathens from across the seas and ships carried them easily up rivers and into the heart of Ireland. Ships allowed them to disappear over the horizon, beyond the reach of his vengeful sword. He hated ships. They were the work of Satan. He knew his Bible and he knew that nothing good ever came about because of ships. What was one of the Lord’s greatest miracles? Walking on water. Shunning the frail vessel that held the terrified apostles.

  He shook himself out of that pointless reverie. The men were lined up along the dunes and watching in silence as their enemy rowed off to the safety of their fortifications. And they expected Bécc to do something. God expected Bécc to do something.

  Which he did. He ordered the men back to Beggerin. There was a great circle of a wall around the monastery, but the gates had been left unbarred when the terrified occupants—priests, nuns, monks, servants, slaves, artisans and laborers—had fled at the first report of heathens landing on the nearby beach.

  Now Bécc led his men back through the gate. All the people of the monastic city had left before the heathens attacked, but the heathens had come soon after, that was clear. Doors hung open, carts were overturned, barrels were smashed on the ground and sacks torn open and left scattered like dried leaves. The people had taken anything of value, and the heathens had come for the rest.

  Bécc turned to Bressal. “Get the men bedded down in any place you can find. Post a watch. I doubt there’ll be any threat, but post one anyway. And look around, there might be some food or drink left. If not you’ll have to find some.”

  “Yes, Brother Bécc,” Bressal said. “But…are you leaving us?”

  “For a time,” Bécc said. “I’m going to Ferns. I’m going to make sure this vermin is crushed.”

  Exhausted as he was, Brother Bécc left Bressal in command, found his horse, and rode off to Ferns and the wise council of Abbot Columb. Whom Bécc did not entirely trust, not anymore.

  The abbot was a holy man, of that Bécc had no doubt. But even holy men could make mistakes, and Columb had done just that, making a bargain with the heathens, suffering them to remain at Loch Garman, trading food and ale and cloth for silver. Silver plundered from some other unhappy monastery. It had been a mistake and it had come apart just as Bécc had known it would.

  Bécc did not intend to lie to the abbot. That was a sin, and he was not sure even Father Niall would give him absolution if he confessed such a thing. Besides, he had yet to confess to the killing of Faílbe mac Dúnlaing. But Bécc also knew that there were ways to tell the truth that still gave the impression one wished to give. And that was what he intended to do. Because it was essential, absolutely essential, that Abbot Columb understand that the heathens were a threat that had to be wiped off the face of God’s earth.

  He went directly to the abbot’s quarters. He was filthy and bloodstained and visibly exhausted. He still wore his sword at his side and his mail, the links caked in patches with dark brown dried blood. His appearance, he was sure, would give the moment the gravity it deserved.

  Bécc did not miss the shock on the abbot’s face as he looked up and saw God’s battered warrior enter the room. And the abbot did not fail to understand the gravity of the situation, as Bécc informed him of the bloody fighting, of how it had resulted in the tragic death of Faílbe mac Dúnlaing and many others. Bécc explained how the heathen Thorgrim had betrayed them, had stolen God’s victory right from their hands, and had brought death to Christian soldiers. He explained how the heathens had joined forces, how they had plundered Beggerin and how they would next come for Ferns.

  He told no lies about the fierceness
of the fighting, the grave threat the heathens posed. He did not have to. The truth alone was enough to create the proper fear in the abbot’s heart, and the hearts of those other men of rank whom the abbot summoned to hear Bécc’s tale. Bécc may have left some facts out, he may have left it to the others to reach certain conclusions, but he told no lies.

  He was near collapse when at last he staggered off to his familiar cell. He managed to remove his sword belt and his mail, that was all, before he lay down on the coarse mattress and fell immediately asleep. He told himself he would wake for vespers and compline—he always did, the habit was ingrained—but to his shame he slept right through the night, waking only when the bells rang for lauds the following morning.

  It was not long after the morning prayer that the first of the men-at-arms began to arrive, and with them the bóaire and fuidir , the lower sort, tenant farmers who owed military service to their lords. They came with spears and shields and an odd assortment of leather armor. They provided little in the way of military prowess, but they came in numbers, and Bécc knew he could make good use of them. Even untrained men could do damage to an enemy, if there were enough of them.

  By the following day the ad hoc army had swelled to well over a hundred men, closer to one hundred and fifty, and more kept coming until there were at least two hundred souls, armed and ready to move. The abbot and the rí túaithe of the lands around had been made to understand that their property, cattle, people and lives depended on crushing the heathen threat. They had responded. And now Bécc had the instrument he needed to fulfill the will of God.

  He marched them south from Ferns, linking up with Bressal and the others at a ford on the River Slaney. Nearly four hundred men, four hundred Christian soldiers, off to drive the heathens back into the sea.

  They crossed the Slaney and marched south, closing with Loch Garman. Bécc sent scouts out ahead to make certain that the heathens were still there, which they were, and not waiting to spring some trap, which they were not. Bécc set up the dúnad , the encampment of an army on the move, less than a mile from Thorgrim’s earthen walls. He had the men eat and rest. He had Father Niall celebrate mass and he ordered that enough bread and wine be provided so that all the men there could receive communion. If ever there was a time to look for the Lord’s blessing, and to be prepared to meet him, it was now.