“Ah, ‘saved’ there’s the thing of it,” Starri said. “No man likes to be saved by another. Women are for saving. A man who is saved only resents his savior.”
Thorgrim nodded. Starri was right. But Thorgrim did not need gratitude as long as he continued to get help in setting his ship to rights so he could once more put out to sea. And in that Grimarr had been true to his word, and so Far Voyager was nearly ready to swim again, nearly ready for stores and gear and plunder and cargo to be loaded back aboard, for the long oars to sweep her out into the easterly wind.
Not every man of her crew was eager to return to Norway, though Thorgrim had made it clear that this was their one and only objective. While most were looking for passage to the homeland, some, he was sure, were hoping that the chance for more plunder might still come their way. Such was the way of wandering men who took to the sea.
Starri was going because he had attached himself to Thorgrim for reasons Thorgrim still did not quite understand. Harald, after they had had a falling out in Dubh-linn and after he saw that the old man might have been right in the end, seemed to have rededicated himself to staying by Thorgrim’s side. Thorgrim sometimes had the impression the boy thought of himself as his father’s protector, a notion that annoyed Thorgrim in the extreme.
Thorgrim understood all this, but he did not care, at least where the men of Far Voyager were concerned. He had not lied to them, he had not enticed them into joining his crew under false pretenses. His goal was to return to Vik, no other, and he had been entirely clear on that point. And for all the murmured discussion of Fearna plunder he heard (for word had got out, as it will among seafaring men), talk that died away when he came within earshot, Thorgrim had no intention at all of altering his plans.
The damaged strakes had all been replaced, and half a dozen of Thorgrim’s men were applying a fresh coat of tar and varnish to the ship’s side. The new sections of wood, fared seamlessly into the old, were rendered invisible by the black, sticky coating. As to the integrity of the repair, Thorgrim had no concerns. He knew it was solid. He had more trust in the pieces he had scarfed in than he had in the rest of the ship, because those new pieces he had done himself and he knew the care with which they had been hewn and fastened.
Part of Thorgrim’s mind, as he stood watching the work, was occupied with admiring his ship, and part with wondering if they should add further reinforcement to the mast step, so no part was left to notice Bersi Jorundarson’s approach. The man was standing three feet away before Thorgrim was even aware he was there.
“Your ship looks like she is new-launched,” Bersi said, nodding toward Far Voyager. “You and your men did fine work.”
“Thank you. We’ll get her in the water once the tar dries. Tomorrow, if it does not rain. Though I’m probably expecting too much of this country, forsaken by the gods, to hope it will not rain for two days straight.”
Bersi laughed at that. Then he turned more serious and Thorgrim guessed he was getting to the reason for the visit. “Is Harald about?” he asked. “A man has just come to the gate. He’s from Lorcan, or so we think. We need Harald to translate.”
“Certainly,” Thorgrim said. Harald was with a gang of men overhauling Far Voyager’s running rigging and Thorgrim called him over. He told the boy why Bersi had come, and then he and Thorgrim and Bersi headed up the plank road. They were joined by Ornolf, who had no official role but who felt he should be present when any important business was conducted.
By the time they reached Grimarr’s hall Lorcan’s man had been let in through the gate and was seated on a bench at the table. A ring of armed men formed a loose circle around him, an excess of caution, Thorgrim thought, but Lorcan and his warriors seemed to have achieved a frightening status in the minds of the Danes.
Grimarr met Thorgrim and the others at the door and greeted them with enthusiasm. Though he had never actually thanked Thorgrim for his men’s help in saving his fleet, or even acknowledged it, Grimarr now behaved like a man who was grateful indeed, so much so that it put Thorgrim somewhat on his guard. “Come in, come in,” he said, and then shouted to the back of the hall, “Some mead, here!”
Horns were handed to them and Grimarr parted the men who were surrounding the Irishman and he and Harald and Thorgrim stepped closer. The Irishman looked up. He was tough looking, a fighting man no doubt, short beard, unarmed save for a knife on his belt. He looked wary, a bit afraid perhaps, but he hid it well.
Grimarr turned to Harald. “Ask him who he is, what he wants,” he growled.
Harald nodded and turned to the Irishman and rendered the question into words the man could understand. The Irishman looked surprised, as if, of all these men, this young Northman with his long yellow hair and beardless face was the last he would have expected to speak his language. But he nodded and listened and then made reply, and Harald turned back to Grimarr.
“He says his name is Senchan mac Ronan, he comes by order of Lorcan mac Fáeláin,” Harald said.
“I know he comes from Lorcan and I don’t give a cow’s turd what his name is,” Grimarr said, his manner now more in keeping with the man Thorgrim had come to know. “Ask him what he wants and tell him I’ll cut his throat if he does not answer straight.”
Harald turned back to Senchan and translated, though Thorgrim had an idea that he was not being completely faithful to the original words. Senchan spoke and Harald’s eyes narrowed, then Harald spoke again and Senchan answered. Harald straightened and turned to Grimarr and it was clear he did not relish passing on Senchan’s words.
“He comes concerning your son, Sandarr,” Harald said. Thorgrim had forgotten about Grimarr’s son but he assumed Grimarr had not. But he might have assumed wrong.
“He says they have him, they took him from your hall, here, during the raid,” Harald went on.
“And now they wish to ransom him?” Grimarr asked.
“Yes,” Harald said. “In a way. They want to trade. Sandarr for Conandil.”
Grimarr straightened and the color rose in his face and the fury with it. Senchan spoke again, quickly now.
“Senchan says that Lorcan expects him back by sundown, and if he does not return by then, Sandarr is dead,” Harald said. “And he says Sandarr is dead if he does not have Conandil with him.”
Chapter Fourteen
Injustice, I grant you, has engaged
eight gold-greedy men.
These gods of wealth
make words worthless.
The Saga of the Confederates
Grimarr’s rage came like a fish on a hook bursting through a surface of calm water. From total stillness he was suddenly all flailing anger. He pushed Harald aside and whipped his sword from its sheath. He roared something incomprehensible and lunged at Senchan as Senchan leapt aside. Three of the guards grabbed hold of Grimarr’s arm and struggled to hold him back out of striking distance.
“Lord Grimarr!” Bersi shouted, his tone urgent. “If you kill him, Sandarr’s a dead man! They’ll kill your son!”
Grimarr stopped struggling, but he did not lower his sword. Every man in the room fell motionless, as if they had been put under a spell. Then Grimarr let the point of his sword drop and shook off the hands holding him. Senchan straightened. Thorgrim heard men release their breath. Grimarr turned his back on the Irishman and pushed his way across the room.
“Bersi, Thorgrim, Ornolf, pray come speak with me,” he said. “And Harald, you seem to have some love for these Irish.” The five men moved to the far end of the hall and formed into a tight circle.
“What think you?” Grimarr asked. “Should I believe this bastard, sent by Lorcan?”
There was a moment of silence and then Thorgrim spoke. “Sandarr is in fact gone, is he?”
“Yes,” Grimarr said. “I suppose he is. I have not seen him since Lorcan made that cowardly attack.”
Thorgrim nodded but made no reply to that. He could not help but think Grimarr did not seem very curious as to his son’s whereabouts
, nor could he think of that bold attack by the Irish as cowardly. Instead, he said, “I don’t think it’s a trick. Lorcan must have Sandarr. It’s the only way he would know with certainty that Sandarr is gone. Enough certainty to demand this exchange.”
Grimarr looked around. The others nodded. Grimarr frowned and turned this over in his head. “Very well, Lorcan has him,” Grimarr said. “But that does not mean Sandarr’s alive. They may have killed him, carried his corpse off for all I know, after they snuck up on me and hit me on the head. If Lorcan thinks I’ll trade the Irish bitch for a dead body he’s a greater idiot than I thought.”
With that, Grimarr seemed to have made up his mind. He turned away from his ad hoc council and crossed the room back toward Senchan, who had recovered his composure.
“See here,” Grimarr said, pointing a massive finger at the man. “You tell Lorcan he does not send anyone here to start making demands of me. I don’t even know if Sandarr is alive or dead.”
He paused, frowning, while Harald translated and then translated the answer.
“Sandarr is alive,” Harald said. “Senchan here gives his word.”
“The word of an Irishman? I might as well have the word of a pig!” Grimarr said. “Tell him that is not enough. I will send one of my men back with him to see for himself that Sandarr is alive. And if he is, then we may talk about exchanging him for the girl. But not before I have the word of a man I trust that my son lives.”
Harald translated. Senchan hesitated as he digested the words. Then he spoke.
“Senchan says ‘no’,” Harald translated. “He says Lorcan must have the girl by sundown or Sandarr dies.”
“Damn him!” Grimarr bellowed and once again drew his sword, but this time Senchan, who was getting a feel for Grimarr’s theatrics, did not move. “Before I agree to anything I will know I am not being cheated! If Lorcan harms my son then I will have his heart and I will have the Irish girl and the Fearna treasure as well! If Lorcan kills my son he gets nothing! You tell him that!”
Once again Harald translated, and once again Thorgrim had the notion that he was softening the words a bit. But Grimarr, for all his bluster, had a point, at least as Thorgrim saw it. Lorcan could hardly expect Grimarr to give up the girl, and thus the treasure, based on no more than his enemy’s assurance that his son was alive and would be returned unharmed. On the other hand, Grimarr was gambling, and the stakes were his son’s life. Thorgrim was glad he did not have to make such a choice, though Grimarr did not seem to have wrestled long with it.
Senchan was having a harder time coming to a decision. At last, after nearly a minute of he and Grimarr staring at one another in silent fury, Senchan nodded his head. Grimarr did not take his eyes from the man as he barked, “Hrafn…” and one of the armed men in the hall stepped up.
“You will go with this man,” Grimarr said, nodding at Senchan. “You’ll make certain my son still lives and return here with that assurance. And when you do, and only when you do, I will consider whether we trade the Irish bitch for him.”
“Yes, Lord Grimarr,” Hrafn said.
Grimarr turned to Harald. “You tell this whore’s son the instructions I gave my man. Make certain he understands.”
Harald nodded, translated the words. Senchan listened and reluctantly agreed. He stood and the men of Grimarr’s house guard escorted him and Hrafn out of the hall, and then it was quiet again.
“I pray the gods will see your son home safe,” Thorgrim said to Grimarr. “Now, me and Harald, we must get back to our ship. We hope to get her back in the water tomorrow.”
“Please,” Grimarr said, “I would beg a moment of your time. Let me have a word with Bersi and then a word with you.”
Thorgrim nodded his assent and Grimarr took Bersi by the arm and led him across the hall where they spoke, too softly for anyone to hear. Ornolf leaned closer to Thorgrim and spoke softly as well. “This Grimarr’s a cold bastard, isn’t he?” the old man said. “The Fearna plunder for his son’s life, and he can’t seem to decide which he wants more?”
“He is a cold one,” Thorgrim agreed, “and a greedy one. Though I’ll own he’s right to worry that this might be some trick of Lorcan’s. He’s no fool to make sure his son still lives.”
“Is it a trick, do you think?” Harald asked. “Will Grimarr give Conandil back to Lorcan?” Thorgrim could not tell if Harald hoped for that outcome or not. Mostly likely the boy did not know himself what to wish for.
“Lorcan would be a fool to make such an offer if he did not have Sandarr to hand over,” Thorgrim said, “and any man who planned that raid is no fool. But Grimarr seems damned reluctant to make a trade. It seems as if he’s looking for an excuse to not give the girl up.”
And then Grimarr was surging back across the room, his business with Bersi done, signaling for the Norwegians to join him at the table. He called for more drink and food as well. The four of them settled down on the benches and Grimarr, a maddened bear just minutes before, now seemed as amiable as ever they had seen him.
“This is a damned business, a damned business, the cowardly Irish kidnapping my son in this way,” Grimarr said, taking a deep swallow from his bowl, as if to cleanse his mouth after having spoken those words. Thorgrim nodded, though Grimarr’s tone did not seem quite as despondent as his words might suggest.
“Here’s the thing of it,” Grimarr went on. “Lorcan wants to get his hands on the Fearna plunder, and if he does, he’ll buy the loyalty of every petty king around. The first thing they’ll do, they’ll overrun the longphort, drive us Northmen right into the sea.”
“So you want to get it first?” Thorgrim suggested.
“Of course!” Grimarr said. “Oh, I know what you’re thinking, ‘Grimarr only pretends to care about the longphort, just wants the plunder for himself!’ Well, yes I want the plunder, but not for myself - for all of the Northmen here. It’s our plunder, we fought for it. And yes, I want to keep Lorcan from driving us out of our home.”
“Lorcan has put you in a bind,” Ornolf said. “The choice of your son or the treasure.”
“Lorcan thinks he has put me in a bind,” Grimarr said, leaning closer in. “I won’t trade the life of my son for mere silver and gold, I would never do such a thing. But I also know Lorcan has no use for a dead man. If he kills Sandarr he has nothing, so he will suffer me to string him along, he’ll tolerate my demands as long as he thinks they’re genuine. He has no choice. Killing Sandarr would break my heart, sure, and Lorcan would dearly love that, but that is not enough for him, not by far.”
“So it is a stand-off,” Thorgrim said.
“No!” Grimarr said, his voice dropping further still. “It is not. Lorcan is the one who cannot move, not us. We have the girl. We have the ships. We strike now, while I have Lorcan dancing around after a carrot on a stick!”
“Strike now?” Harald said.
“We take to our ships,” Grimarr said, “head south down the coast. We bring the girl, this…”
“Conandil,” Harald supplied.
“Conandil. She’ll know the place when she sees it, or so she says. By Odin’s eye, most likely she would only know it by sea, wouldn’t be able to find the place by land even if she wanted to, so she would do Lorcan no good even if he did have her. Off we go down the coast, grab the treasure, if the gods favor us at all we’ll be back with it while Lorcan still thinks we’re negotiating! I’ll be happy to turn the little Irish bitch over to him then!”
Grimarr leaned back. He was smiling now, delighted with his plans, any risk to Sandarr apparently dismissed. Thorgrim, Ornolf and Harald glanced at one another but Thorgrim knew they were deferring to him.
“It seems a reasonable plan,” Thorgrim said. In truth, he could not imagine Grimarr could string Lorcan along for all the time it would take to retrieve the treasure. He was sure that Lorcan had men watching Vík-ló who would report to him the moment a longship sailed. But he did not raise those objections. He saw no point. He had no cock in this
fight.
And then he realized that he did. Or at least Grimarr needed him to be part of this.
“You need Harald to go along,” Thorgrim said next. “You need him to translate for Conandil.”
“Yes, I do,” Grimarr admitted. “But it’s not just that. I’ve seen what you men can do, how you can fight. You’re damned good men with sword and ax. You fight like Danes, and I can say nothing higher!”
“Ha!” Ornolf said. “Fight like Danes! What a fine compliment!”
“Thank you,” Thorgrim said, ignoring his father-in-law and bracing for what would come next, “but what part might our battle skill play in your plans?” As if he could not guess. Thorgrim did not think such naked flattery was being doled out for its own sake, or because Grimarr was sincerely impressed with the Far Voyager’s fighting prowess.
“Here’s the truth of the thing,” Grimarr continued. “That raid of Lorcan’s, it destroyed one of our ships, Wind Dragon, as you know. And when Fasti and his men were butchered, it hurt us. Those Irish swine killed some of our best fighting men. Surprised them and overwhelmed them. Never would have happened elsewise.
“As I said, I hope to have the Fearna plunder before Lorcan even knows we’ve sailed, but these things don’t always work out like you hope. You are men of experience, you know that. And if we have to fight for the treasure, I don’t know how many of the whore’s sons Lorcan will get against us. We could use your swords, your shields. We divide the plunder up evenly. Me and my men, we’ll get the same as we would have if Fasti’s men had lived, so we do not look on it as any loss. You and your men, you will be much richer than you are now.”
Grimarr leaned back, his speech done. He folded his thick arms and waited. Thorgrim drew a long breath and once again looked at Harald and Ornolf, then back at Grimarr.
“It’s a great compliment that you would ask this of us, and that you would be willing to share the plunder. But once Far Voyager is in the water, we must be off. The season is growing late and we do not have much time left to make the voyage to Vik.”
The Lord of Vik-lo: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 3) Page 14
