When Bersi returned from the task on which Grimarr sent him - the job of tempting Thorgrim’s men with tales of easy wealth - he assured Grimarr that the men of Far Voyager at least were ready to join in. They had been receptive indeed, according to Bersi, who had left them alone so they might discuss it. In doing so he had left Thorgrim in a bind as surely as if he had tied him to Far Voyager’s mast.
An hour later the guard at Grimarr’s door ushered in one of Thorgrim’s men, one of his most trusted men, Grimarr knew, a fellow named Agnarr.
“Well?” Grimarr asked. He tried to make his voice sound pleasant. “What have you men decided?”
“We will go with you, and we will share in the plunder that is recovered,” Agnarr said. “But we will give you two weeks only, and after that we must put to sea.”
Grimarr nodded. He could hear the whole argument played out as if he had been standing there. Thorgrim would have wanted no part of this. Ornolf and Harald and Starri would have sided with him, if for no other reason than simple loyalty. Agnarr as well, perhaps. But the men, the rest of the men…the silver-lust was no doubt upon them. They would go with Thorgrim to find the hoard, or they would go without him. A compromise had been reached. Two weeks. But Grimarr figured that was a week more than he needed.
For the rest of that day and into the following morning Grimarr waited for Thorgrim to make an appearance in his hall. He anticipated an angry encounter; threats, ugly words. He imagined Thorgrim would accuse him of manipulating his men, which was only fair, since he had. But Thorgrim did not appear, and that made Grimarr even more concerned. At best Thorgrim was angry, Grimarr reckoned. At worst he was furious, and that fury might have turned to open hostility, which would only complicate things as they went to retrieve the Fearna treasure. It was time for Grimarr to make an effort. Time to dole out some carrots.
“Bersi!” Grimarr called. “Hilder!” The two men were gaming at the far end of the hall, and they stood quickly and approached. “Hilder, you were down at the river this morning. How are things with our Norwegian friends?”
“I do not know for certain, Lord Grimarr,” Hilder said. “They were working, getting rollers in place to move their ship into the water. The tide is on the rise, high water this afternoon. There was little talking. I don’t think they’re so happy with one another.”
“Hmm,” Grimarr said. Generally he would not give a rat’s turd whether or not the Norwegians were near to killing one another, but for the next week it would better serve his purposes if there was some sense of unity among them and some mutual enthusiasm for their upcoming task.
The last of the repairs were being made to the Danish ships, the damage caused by the fires the Irish had set was put to rights. The following day they would be loaded with stores and weapons and made ready for sea, and at dawn on the day after that they would get underway. The Norwegians, Grimarr was informed, would be ready as well. The preparations were made but success would be more likely if there was no smoldering animosity among the men.
Grimarr stood. “Come, let us go and visit our friends and see if there is anything more they need before we sail,” he said. He reached for his sword belt and hesitated. He generally did not leave his hall without his sword hanging at his side, but this time he decided to forgo it in a gesture of friendship and trust, one that Thorgrim was certain to notice.
Grimarr, Bersi and Hilder, left the hall with Grimarr leading the way down the plank road. Everything was dark and wet after days of light rain, but the thin clouds were breaking apart at last, the sun shredding them like spider webs. Tendrils of steam rose from the houses and the shops and the fences and door yards and gardens in Vík-ló. Off to the east the sea was blue and even glittering with rare optimism in the ever brightening sunlight. Ever since Fasti’s death and the loss of the Fearna plunder, Grimarr realized, he had been holed up in his dark and reeking hall while all of Ireland had been draped in gray dampness, as if in mourning for a fallen warrior.
But now the sun was returning at last and Grimarr had men and ships and he had the girl who could lead him to the great plunder that he and Fasti had secured. He felt, if not happy, then at least less miserable than he had felt since he had first learned of the death of his sons Sweyn and Svein so many months before.
The Norwegians were swarming around their ship, stripped down to tunics and in some cases just leggings as they labored in the unusual warmth. A massive block and tackle, rigged to a spar thrust into the mast step, served as a lever to stand the ship back on an even keel. Men carried rounded logs and laid them evenly spaced astern of the ship, until they lead like a road to the water’s edge. When the tide was at its highest the ship would be hove back toward the river, moved foot by foot into her natural element until she swam and her many tons of weight could be moved by a few men hauling on lines run to shore.
Thorgrim was standing off to one side. With him was Aghen, the master shipwright, who Grimarr understood had been of great help to the Norwegians. It was Grimarr who had originally ordered the old man to offer his assistance, and he had done so in order to get the Norwegians out of Vík-ló as quickly as he could. But now he saw that it must have been the gods who whispered in his ear to put Aghen on the job, and they had a bigger plan. With Aghen’s help, the Norwegian longship would now be ready to sail at just the moment Grimarr needed it to join his venture south.
The two men, however, were not looking toward Thorgrim’s ship. Rather they were examining one of the Irish boats that had been left behind when the raiders had been driven from the longphort. It was pulled up on the shore, long and low and black, and Thorgrim and Aghen were poking at it and examining it from various angles.
“Thorgrim! Thorgrim Night Wolf!” Grimarr said, and the jocular tone sounded odd, even to him. Thorgrim looked his way but made no move of welcome or even greeting as Grimarr closed the distance. Grimarr saw Thorgrim’s eyes sweep over him and he did not doubt Thorgrim noted the absence of any weapons.
Grimarr stopped and gestured toward the ship with a broad sweep of his arms. “It looks as if all is well. She’ll be in the water at high tide today, I understand?” He turned to look at Thorgrim and Thorgrim met his eyes and for a long moment there was only an uncomfortable silence.
He’s angry, damned angry, Grimarr thought. So be it…
He stepped closer and joined them in looking over the odd craft, as if he had been invited. “One of these damned Irish boats?” Grimarr asked, nodding toward the curach. It was more than twenty feet long, with an elaborate framework of thin wooden ribs and strakes, nailed and lashed and covered with cow hide, oak bark tanned and liberally coated with tar where the hides were stitched together.
“Yes, Lord Grimarr,” Aghen said. “A singular thing. Thorgrim and I were just looking it over, the way it is built. It’s light, but still strong and seaworthy.”
Grimarr made a grunting sound. He was not much impressed with Irish boats or, indeed, anything of Irish origin, nor did it have anything to do with his current business. He took a step closer and said, “Look here, Thorgrim, I would have a word with you.”
Aghen nodded and retreated. Bersi and Hilder held back, leaving the men alone. Grimarr spoke in a low voice. “I’m sorry things went as they did. That stupid bastard Bersi Jorundarson never knows when to keep his mouth shut. I meant to leave it to you to tell your men about the Fearna plunder, like we discussed, to let you bring it to them. I was furious with Bersi, and I let him know, don’t think I didn’t.”
“And yet here he stands,” Thorgrim said, giving a little nod in Bersi’s direction, “at your side.”
“Bersi’s a good man, for all his faults, and after losing Fasti Magnisson
and his men I need all that have. But if you feel Bersi has wronged you, I’ll make it right. Tell me. Would you fight him? I won’t interfere. Kill him now? Give me a sword, I’ll kill him for you. I’m in your debt, Thorgrim, and I would not have you think you are ill-used.”
There was silence again and then Thorgrim
said, “There is no point in killing Bersi. He has done me no wrong.”
“And if I have done you wrong, then it was through my own foolishness, not through any evil design,” Grimarr said. “I want only your friendship, and for you and your men to join me and to share in the riches that we won at Fearna. This has been no easy time for me, Night Wolf. Fasti was my oldest friend. His loss was hard.”
In truth, Fasti’s loss was nothing when held against the loss of his sons. Grimarr nearly said as much, nearly mentioned his boys, the greatest loss of all, but he did not. The death of Sweyn and Svein was an agony, pure like fire, and it was not something Grimarr would trot out as a means of manipulating some stranger into doing his bidding.
Thorgrim grunted. “I am sorry for Fasti. The rest is no matter, what the gods have done they have done,” he said. Grimarr noticed he was rubbing between thumb and forefinger the two silver amulets that hung around his neck; Thor’s hammer and a small silver cross, an odd combination which Grimarr had wondered about.
“I know it was your men who most wanted to join with me, Thorgrim, not you,” Grimarr said. “They began lusting for silver when they should have been waiting for your orders. And in truth I feel I am in part to blame.” His tone was confessional, but it brightened as he went on. “However, we will be no more than a week going down the coast and back. Less, I would think. This Irish girl should be able to show us right where Fasti hid the hoard. We’ll retrieve it and be back here before the cursed Irish even know we’re gone. Our longships will carry us much quicker than any of Lorcan’s men could ride, even if they did try to follow us ashore. No blood spilled. All the blood spilling was done by Fasti and me at Fearna, and now you and your men get to share in the plunder.”
Thorgrim nodded, but his expression was more that of a man finished with discussing a thing rather than that of a man convinced. Nor did Grimarr think he would ever be convinced. Thorgrim was too clever for that. He would understand, for instance, that if Grimarr really thought this task would be so simple he would never have asked the Norwegians to join in. The fact that Grimarr was willing to give away a large portion of the treasure would be enough to tell Thorgrim that they were likely in for a bloody fight.
What Thorgrim did not understand, or at least what Grimarr hoped he did not understand, was that the Norwegians would not get much of the treasure, because Grimarr intended to put them in the forefront of the fighting, and thus greatly reduce their numbers even before the treasure was parted out.
“So you are with us then?” Grimarr asked, extending a hand. “Brothers in this venture?”
Thorgrim hesitated, just for a heartbeat, just enough to let Grimarr know that his cooperation was qualified, that he joined the raid not from any personal desire to do so, but to pacify his men. Then he took Grimarr’s hand and he held it firm and he shook in a way that told Grimarr, for all the anger Thorgrim might feel at being played like a flute, his word was good and his help would be genuine.
“Thank you, Thorgrim,” Grimarr said, and again he felt that flush of optimism, a feeling that had been a stranger to him for many months. He turned and looked at the river and the ships pulled up there and the sea beyond. Thorgrim’s ship was upright now, and his men were fixing a cradle underneath that would keep it that way as it was pushed over the rollers and into the rising water.
Grimarr realized he had never actually seen Thorgrim’s ship before. Far Voyager, he though. That is what she is called. He ran his eyes over her hull, bow to stern, with the same sort of admiration with which he might look at a beautiful woman, head to toe.
Good looking ship, he thought. He liked her lines, the width of her beam in relation to her length, the sweep of her bow and stern. Whatever carvings Thorgrim had mounted on the stem and sternpost were removed now. No point in his leaving them in place when he was not trying to frighten men ashore, and when he might frighten any friendly spirits of the land instead, which was not at all what Thorgrim or any Northman wanted to do.
The ship was black, painted with a mixture of tar and varnish, an unusual finish and not one Grimarr would choose, but it had its appeal. She was a decent size, pierced for a dozen oars per side. She looked fast and weatherly
“A fine looking vessel,” Grimarr said, knowing there was nothing that might ingratiate him to a man quicker than admiring his ship, save perhaps for complimenting his wife or his son.
“Thank you,” Thorgrim said. He did not sound grateful or pleased.
“Would you mind if I have a look around her?” Grimarr asked.
Thorgrim nodded. “Certainly, if you wish. It will be an hour at least before we start to move her. Then you are welcome to heave with the rest.”
Grimarr crossed the flat, grassy place where the ship was hauled out. A gangplank ran from the ground to the starboard gunnel and Grimarr stepped up the wooden board, feeling it flex under his weight. His admiration for the vessel, he realized, came from a vague sense of familiarity. He did not think he had seen her before, necessarily, but rather that he had seen ships very much like her. He wondered if she was Norwegian built, or if she might have come from the hands of Danish craftsmen. He knew nothing of Far Voyager’s history, but if Thorgrim had bought her from Danes than that would explain her familiar form.
There were no rowing benches on which to step, as Grimarr was accustomed to seeing, so he jumped the short distance from the head of the gangplank to the deck, coming down with an impact that made the deck shudder. Thorgrim’s men must use their sea chests as rowing benches, he figured. Not a bad system as it saved space, but it also exposed each man’s chest to the elements.
The ship was little more than a shell. Everything that could be removed - benches, oars, mast, yard and rigging, beitass, stores, water, cargo - all had been taken ashore to make the vessel easier to move on dry land. Grimarr paused and looked around and the feeling that he knew this ship did not diminish, rather it grew more profound. He walked slowly aft. The shape, the dimensions were perfectly familiar to him, though he still felt that the ship itself was one he had never been aboard.
Danish built, she must be Danish built, Grimarr thought. It was the only thing that could explain this odd sensation. I must ask Thorgrim about that. He was curious now.
He continued aft, pausing at the mast step, the massive block of oak, rounded like the back of a whale breaking the surface of the sea. The hole that would accept the heel of the mast was gaping wide, like an oversized blowhole in the head of the whale, but the mast itself was ashore, waiting for Far Voyager to be floating once again. Two new knees, cut to perfectly fit over the step, had been added to reinforce those originally fitted in place. The wood had been treated with linseed oil but it was still much lighter than that of the older knees.
Interesting… Grimarr thought. He recalled how his middle son, Sweyn, the boldest of the three, the finest mariner, commander of his own ship even at the age of twenty-one, had complained of the amount of motion in the mast step when the ship was working in a sea. He was going to do just this thing, add new knees… Grimarr thought.
And then he saw something else. There was a cut mark in the mast step, it looked like a place where an ax had come down on the wood. Grimarr crouched on his heels and looked closer and he shook his head in amazement because Sweyn’s ship had had a nearly identical gouge where Sweyn’s younger brother, Svein, had cut away a sheet that had become fouled in a gust of wind and had threatened to take the mast down.
How odd…Grimarr thought. I must tell Thorgrim about his strange thing.
And then another possibility struck him, and he froze in place, motionless, as if he had just realized a wild beast was stalking him. He felt his stomach convulse. His eyes narrowed and he stood, slowly, as if afraid of being noticed, as if unwilling to break the spell that this new and horrible realization had cast over him.
He looked fore and aft just as he had done before, when first stepping aboard, but he did it with new eyes now, and now he saw things that he had had not s
een on the first inspection: an odd but familiar knot of wood in a larboard strake that looked like a man’s face, a lighter section of a frame where new wood had been sistered in, not by Thorgrim, but by other hands, at an earlier time. Danish hands. A worn spot he knew well where the brace ran inboard over the gunnel.
Grimarr’s vision was blurred as if he had opened his eyes under water. His thoughts were clouded and disjointed, the way they had been after Lorcan hit him in the head with that iron spit. He could see, but everything was whirling around and he could not seem to comprehend what it was he saw. Here was his world, so familiar to him, and now here was another possible world, just showing itself, that was terrifying and confusing and unreal.
He stumbled aft. Every curve of the ship, every sweep of the strakes was completely familiar to him, as if there was a hollowed out place in his mind and this vessel fit there perfectly. He stopped just forward of the raised afterdeck and fell to his knees and for a moment he just stopped there and stared down at the deck board. He was terrified. He had no doubt now what he would find there but he was terrified to find it all the same. If he lifted that board a terrible wound, nearly healed, would be ripped open again, and the world he had constructed over the past weeks would be torn apart as surely as if it had been set on by wolves.
But he had to look. He reached down, his hands trembling so that he had difficulty getting fingers under the edge of the board to lift it. But he did at last, he picked the short plank up, just as his own son had done on a lazy afternoon a year or more earlier, a boy with a sharp knife and nothing better to do.
Grimarr turned the flat-sawn board over. The runes were harder to see now, but they were still there, unmistakably there, the words etched in the wood. Svein Grimarrson Carved This.
Chapter Seventeen
Here no one should harm another
Live for evil or work for death
Nor strike with a sharp sword,
The Lord of Vik-lo: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 3) Page 16
