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

by Nelson, James L.

oft sorrow and sleep, banded together,

  come to bind the lone outcast…

  The Wanderer

  Nothwulf left Sherborne riding at the head of an impressive column of men: his hearth-guard and Leofric’s and even some men from his late brother’s household. They had taken the time to stop at Nothwulf’s home to outfit his men with their best armor and weapons, things they had left behind in their hurry to get clear of the town. There were banners of the three households streaming at the end of long poles.

  And for all that, Nothwulf still burned with humiliation.

  Bitch, the bitch, the damned bitch , he kept thinking, over and over, and whenever he tried to force his thoughts onto a more constructive road, they kept returning to that path. Cynewise had completely outfoxed him. Leofric had hinted at his suspicions that the girl was not the fool she seemed to be, but Nothwulf had ignored the suggestion. And he had been wrong.

  “What say you, Leofric?” Nothwulf said, breaking his silence at last. “The king, how do you think he sees this whole business?”

  The men were riding side by side over the road that was still muddy from the days of drenching rain. After leaving Swanage and the Northmen the day before, they had covered most of the distance to Sherborne. They spent the night at a tavern along the way, and then made their impressive entry through the city gates that morning.

  “Æthelwulf is getting old,” Leofric said, “and as he does, his mind turns more to God and less on his kingdom. I honestly don’t know if he quite understood the situation here, and if he did, I think he wants it all to be worked out with no bother to him.”

  “I see,” Nothwulf said and fell silent as he considered that. He had been hoping that the king would set all this to rights, to put him, Nothwulf, in his proper place as ealdorman. But that had not happened, and now he felt like a weak, puny fool for hoping that someone else would solve his problems for him.

  The column of riders was moving swiftly, alternating between a walking pace and a trot, keeping the horses moving as fast as they could for the many miles they had to cover. Cynewise had made it clear, in front of the king, that Nothwulf made a mistake coming to Sherborne and leaving the heathens in Swanage. Nothwulf had even felt compelled to lie about leaving men to keep an eye on the Northmen. He was still smarting from all that, and now he was very eager to get back before the Northmen could do any mischief and compound his error.

  But for all Nothwulf’s push, the poor roads, made worse by the recent storm, and the need to feed so many animals and men, meant he and Leofric had no chance of reaching Swanage in time to do much of anything but watch the Northmen and wait. Nor was there much they could do, anyway. Even with the increase in their force they did not have men enough to fight the heathens until the fyrd joined them.

  The sun was moving toward the hills in the west when they finally passed through Wareham. They continued on until they reached the low, grassy hill where they had stopped before.

  “We’ll spend the night here,” Nothwulf said, pointing toward the hill. “The ground should be as dry as we could hope, and it’s far enough from the town that there’s little chance of the heathens discovering us.” The men climbed groaning from their saddles, stretching legs and arms, unbuckling helmets and plucking them from their heads.

  Somewhere on the road behind them, moving much slower than the hearth-guard, were wagons with food and ale and cooking gear and tents and blankets. Nothwulf had been unwilling to move at the weary pace the wagons would maintain, so they left them behind, with strict orders that they were not to stop until they had reached the place where the riders intended to spend the night. It would be well past dark by the time they did.

  Nothwulf and Leofric ate some bread and cheese from their saddlebags and drank some wine from skins and stretched their limbs as the men were doing. They were about two miles from the hill that overlooked Swanage and there was still an hour or so of daylight left and Nothwulf was restless.

  “We should go see what the heathens are up to,” he said to Leofric and Leofric just nodded. They finished their food, took a last gulp of wine, then mounted up again. They rode in silence to the place where they could look down on the fishing village, stopping just short of the ridge, dismounting and approaching on foot.

  Nothwulf could feel his stomach twisting as he stepped up the grassy slope. What would he do if the heathens were gone?

  If they had sailed off never to be seen on that coast again, then he could claim victory, suggest that it had been he who had driven them off. But what if they had left to sack some other town, or one of the monasteries nearby? He would be accused of negligence, or worse. Cowardice. He would never get the office of ealdorman. And that might be the least of his problems.

  You’ll never be ealdorman in any event, he thought. That little tart has outfoxed you all along.

  They reached the crest of the hill. Swanage, such that it was, lay spread out below them, and further along the crescent beach, exactly where they had been before, were the seven heathen longships. Nothwulf felt himself relax, even to the point where he could appreciate the irony. The sight of Northmen generally did not make people relax.

  “Haven’t moved a pace,” Leofric observed.

  “No,” Nothwulf said. “They seem settled in now.” There was a big fire burning on the sand thirty feet from the water’s edge, the flames standing out brilliant in the fading light of evening. They could see the Northmen, many Northmen, sitting in the sand around the fire or moving between it and the ships, or engaged in various other activities. And Nothwulf felt the first green shoots of an idea sprouting in his head.

  “You know,” he said, “the heathens may have twice our numbers, but they have no discipline. And they’re likely to be drunk soon, and fast asleep. Maybe we shouldn’t wait on the fyrd. Maybe we should consider attacking straight off.”

  Leofric made a grunting sound. “Now? Our men are dead tired. And I’m not sure drink does much to impair the Northmen’s fighting skills. Just the opposite, I would think.”

  “No, not now. Of course I wouldn’t ask our men to go into battle after riding so far today. But tomorrow, just at dawn. We make our way down to the village, hide there, and then at first light we attack while the bastards are still asleep. Attack on horseback, cut them down as they rise.”

  “Attack on horseback? You mean, our men remain mounted?”

  “Yes,” Nothwulf said. “I’ve seen it done, and it can be damned effective, you know. The Northmen come stumbling to arms and we ride them down, cut them down. It’d be a slaughter.”

  “Might be,” Leofric said grudgingly.

  “Here’s the thing,” Nothwulf said, his voice dropping, despite their being alone. “If Cynewise raises the fyrd and sends them to our aid, then she appears to be the one in command. Or if her father sends men to help, then we’re completely lost. But if we defeat the heathens on our own, with the king here, then it should be clear to all who the rightful ealdorman is.”

  “Humph,” Leofric said, and Nothwulf was amazed how the man could convey, in that one sound, both his skepticism and his understanding that Nothwulf was right. They watched for a few moments more, then trudged back to where their horses stood chomping on grass, and soon they were back with the others, still sprawled in the grass. The men-at-arms were too exhausted even to grumble about the supply wagons having not yet arrived.

  It was entirely dark, and most of the mounted warriors were asleep on the ground, when the lanterns hanging from the wagons came bumping and swinging into view, spots of light far off down the road, like tiny, frenetic stars. The sleeping men stirred as the wagons came rumbling up at last, and eager hands dug for the food and ale they carried.

  When the men were sated with food and drink, Nothwulf called them together and explained his plan. He told them that in the predawn they would make their way to Swanage and be ready to fall on the heathens as soon as there was light enough for battle. The men listened. They nodded. They did not offer any o
pinions one way or another, because the luxury of opinions was reserved for men far above their rank.

  Long after the last of the hearth-guard had turned in, Nothwulf and Leofric sat by a small fire and enjoyed a glass of wine. It came from a small barrel Nothwulf had fetched from his home in Sherborne, and the quality was well above what most men in the field might enjoy. Nothwulf had been toying with a thought for most of the evening, examining it like some strange rock found on the beach, and now he wondered what Leofric might think.

  “You know, Leofric,” he said at last, approaching the topic carefully. “That whore’s son Werheard murdered my brother, right there in the cathedral…”

  “I recall,” Leofric said. “Being as I was only a few feet away.”

  “Well, of course he didn’t act alone,” Nothwulf continued. “I mean, he did the deed by himself, but sure there must have been others in on the plot. Some scheme. Werheard had no call to kill Merewald, that I can discover. Nor do I think he would have had the wits or the courage to do so unless he was goaded by others.”

  “Yes, I think that’s right.”

  “When he did the thing, he was shouting ‘To me! To me!’ as if he expected others to join in. And now there’s talk that I was the one behind it, that I arranged for my brother’s murder.”

  “There’s that talk, true, among some,” Leofric said.

  “But I’ve been thinking…” Nothwulf said, looking into the flames, not wanting the catch Leofric’s eye as he made his outrageous supposition. “It seems such a horrible thing, I’m almost loath to say it out loud…but it seems as if Cynewise has benefited mostly from this. And it makes me wonder if perhaps she had some hand in Merewald’s murder.”

  Nothwulf looked up.. He expected to see a look of shock on Leofric’s face, but instead he saw an expression of amazement and pity. Leofric opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, and his face settled into a more neutral look as he considered his words.

  “Yes, Lord Nothwulf,” he said at last. “I would think it possible that the Lady Cynewise had some hand in this.”

  Nothwulf felt himself flush with embarrassment as he realized what a fool he had been, and still was. “This is no surprise to you,” he said, a statement, not a question. “You knew that Cynewise had a hand in my brother’s murder. Am I the only one who did not know?”

  “I didn’t know,” Leofric said. “I still don’t know. But her father’s a very powerful man. Ambitious as well. Enough that he’s probably not content to just be ealdorman of Devonshire. If he could be lord of Dorset as well, at least by proxy, then that would please him very much.”

  Nothwulf thought of the silver goblets adorned with the crest of Cynewise’s father, Ceorle, that stood in Bishop Ealhstan’s sacristy. He thought of Aelfwyn and Oswin and his ring found among Werheard’s things. And suddenly it was as if a fog had lifted to reveal a great vista he had not even realized was there. Everyone else did, just not him. And he felt like more of a fool than ever.

  “Who else, do you think…” he began, not sure what to say. “Bishop Ealhstan? Is he…”

  Leofric saved him from his stumbling questions. “I don’t know. I don’t know for certain this was anything more than one madman deciding your brother should die. Or if Cynewise or her father or anyone else had a hand in it. But with all that’s happened, it certainly appears that this goes well beyond Werheard. That Werheard was the basest of pawns in this game.”

  For a long time the two men were silent, staring into the flames. Then Nothwulf asked the obvious question, a question he would have asked no man other than Leofric, because he trusted no other man as much.

  “What do I do?”

  For some time Leofric did not answer. Finally, he said, “You beat the heathens into the ground. And then you see what happens next.”

  Nothwulf slept fitfully that night, when he slept at all, and he was up and moving even before the night watch came to wake him as he had ordered done. It was not the pending battle that agitated his mind: Nothwulf had seen fights enough that he no longer suffered from an excess of nerves. It was every other aspect of his life, the complete overturning of everything he thought he understood.

  He woke the captains with a nudge of his toe and they in turn began to wake their men, who stood and stretched and spit and scratched and reached for skins of wine. The predawn dark was filled with the soft sound of men preparing for battle, of mail pulled on over heads and swords scraping out of sheathes and back in again, of men cursing in muted tones over things they could not locate in the dark.

  That did not go on very long, because the men under the command of Nothwulf and Leofric were professionals and experienced and they knew their business. Horses were saddled and bridles buckled in place. The men mounted and sat waiting, and when Nothwulf and Leofric were mounted as well they rode out, their pace no faster than a walk. There was time. No need to hurry yet.

  When Nothwulf and Leofric came to the crest of the hill from which they had observed the village below and the beach beyond they stopped and the hundred or so mounted warriors behind them stopped as well. They looked down at the land and sea below them.

  The moon was set, but there was light enough from the stars that they could just make out the high ground to the north and west, and the dark beach and even darker sea. There was a small point of light, the dying embers of the fire they had earlier seen the Northmen gathered around, but nothing besides that. And that was good. If they could not see the Northmen, then the Northmen could not see them.

  “Good,” Nothwulf said softly. “Let’s go.”

  He nudged his horse’s flanks and rode off to the right, toward a wide path that led to the village of Swanage below, Leofric still at his side, the rest behind. The path was steep for a bit, and Nothwulf rode with care, and then it began to level out as it reached the flat land on which the village had grown. Now Nothwulf could make out the looming shape of houses ahead, the smattering of pathetic huts that the fishermen called home. He stopped again.

  “You may dismount,” he said in a loud whisper. He swung his leg over the saddle and stepped down to the ground, and heard the others doing the same, the sound no louder than that of the wind in the brush.

  Then it was quiet again. The hearth-guard knew what to do now. They would wait. It was something with which every fighting man had considerable experience, more experience than with fighting itself.

  Nothwulf and Leofric handed their horses’ reins to the servant who had been walking alongside them and moved cautiously down the narrow dirt street between the houses toward the beach. There was nothing to be seen, really, just dark shapes and darker emptiness beyond. There was nothing for them to do but wait as well.

  It seemed to take an extraordinarily long time, but Nothwulf knew it would. Standing motionless in the dark, eyes and ears sharp for anything, he knew the minutes would drag by at an excruciating pace. And they did. His eyes adjusted fully to the dark, and still there was nothing to see. His ears reached through the night, but he could hear nothing but the lap of waves and the slight rustle of the breeze and occasionally a noise from the men behind, which made him grit his teeth in frustration.

  Then the sky began to grow lighter.

  Not quickly, not dramatically, but a slight lessoning of the dark. Nothwulf felt his waning attention sharpen once more, and he peered out toward the beach and listened to every little sound. He expected to hear some noise from the heathens at some point: someone stirring, or yelling in his sleep, or snoring, even. But there was nothing.

  The dark continued to fade, and the sky to the east showed a definite hint of gray below the blackness and still there was no sound from the heathens, the longships still lost in the dark.

  “Not so long now,” Nothwulf whispered to Leofric, unable to keep silent a moment more.

  “Not long,” Leofric agreed. “A bit more and we should mount up.”

  “Yes,” Nothwulf said. They would mount their horses and charge down the beach before the
Northmen were awake, or just as they were rising. Hit them as they were stumbling up from sleep, kill them before they were even fully awake. Nothwulf felt the excitement and the bloodlust shooting through him.

  The light continued to spread, and Nothwulf’s excitement continued to build, but with it came the first inkling of fear and doubt. Something was not right. He did not know what, or whether it was no more than a feeling with no merit, but he sensed that something was off.

  The night continued to lift, the shapes of the houses on either side growing more distinct, the difference between beach and sea becoming plainer. Soon, soon … Nothwulf thought. He heard Leofric stir beside him, heard him softly clear his throat. He turned to speak but Leofric spoke first.

  “My eyes are old,” he whispered, “but I have an ugly feeling something is amiss.”

  Nothwulf frowned. He did not know what to say. He could not dismiss the thought because he had had it himself. He turned back toward the beach.

  The darkness had begun to lift in earnest now. He could see the dark water and the light colored sand, the ring of dunes surrounding the landward side of the beach. He could see the cliffs at the far end of the long stretch of sand. But he could not see the longships, because the longships were gone.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  [V]engeful creatures, seated to banquet at bottom of sea;

  but at break of day, by my brand sore hurt,

  on the edge of ocean up they lay, put to sleep by the sword.

  Beowulf

  The North Star was still visible high above, but Thorgrim did not need it anymore. The dawn was breaking in the east and he could make out the dark line of land stretching from bow to stern down the larboard side, and the open sea to starboard.

  He felt himself relax as the spreading light revealed the closest shore still more than a mile away. Rowing through the dark, along a foreign coast, depending on the local knowledge of men who did not even speak your language, was never an easy thing.