He was out of bed and across the floor. The moon was full and the light coming in through the open window washed the room in a dull blue glow. Louis flung himself through the door, snatching up the walking stick he kept there and jumping out into the hall beyond.
There were two men, dark shapes in the muted light, one sprawled against the far wall, the other in a half crouch, ready. The one against the wall pushed himself off and charged at the other, swinging something as he did, shouting in outrage. He wore a monk’s robe, bulky and loose-fitting.
“Brother Lochlánn?” Louis said, astonished, for he was certain from the sound of the voice that it was indeed young Lochlánn.
The novitiate did not answer, did not break stride as he swung whatever was in his hand at the other man, who jumped back clear of the blow. Lochlánn stumbled and Louis saw the glint off the blade of the dagger in the other man’s hand as it caught what little moonlight spilled into the hall. The killer, the would-be killer, took a step toward Lochlánn, a practiced move, swift and sure, knife moving like a snake. Louis stepped up and brought the walking stick down on the man’s wrist.
The stranger shouted in pain, called out a single word, but he did not drop the knife. Instead his kicked Lochlánn, sent him reeling again and came at Louis. He came on fast, left arm out, knife held down and ready, but a man with a knife, even a trained man, was no match for Louis de Roumois with a staff.
Louis jabbed at the man, who seemed no more than a dark shape against the whitewashed wall. The man dodged sideways as Louis knew he would and Louis brought the staff around in a sweeping arc that caught the man on the side of the head and sent him staggering.
He was still recovering from the blow when Louis stepped in and drove the butt of the staff into the man’s stomach. He heard the breath go out of him. The next blow – Louis could see it as if it had already happened - would put the man down. He shifted the staff so he could swing it like an ax, but before he could move, the door behind the man flew open and the corpulent Brother Fearghus, who occupied that cell, stepped out.
“What, by God, is happening here?” he shouted. More doors opened down the length of the hall.
“Brother, get out of the damned way!” Louis shouted, and Fearghus might have been offended if Louis had not forgotten himself and shouted in Frankish.
“What?” Brother Fearghus asked and then the man with the knife grabbed him by his tonsured hair and his nightshirt and shoved him into Louis.
Fearghus slammed into him and he stumbled back. “Damn you!” Louis shouted, to whom he did not know. He pushed the monk aside and brought the staff up, ready to strike a blow or fend one off, but the man was gone. Louis could see nothing but his vague dark shape fleeing down the hall and the shadowy forms of the other monks peering from their cells.
Louis relaxed. It was over. Pointless to chase after the stranger who had already disappeared into the night. He turned to Lochlánn, who had regained his footing.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
“No…” Lochlánn said. He sounded a bit stunned and Louis wondered if he had taken a blow to the head.
Another dark shape materialized in front of them. Brother Gilla Patraic, eldest of the monks, the man charged with keeping order in the dormitory.
“What is happening here?” he demanded. Age had not diminished the edge of authority in his voice.
“A robber, it seems,” Louis said before anyone else could speak. “Looking for silver or such, I would think. Brother Lochlánn heard him, came out and nearly captured him. Brave, very bravely done.”
That sent a murmur through the gathering men. Lochlánn, the focus of this praise, seemed disinclined to dispute Louis’ account, as Louis guessed he would be. And so after a little more discussion and speculation as to whether the robber might return (it was decided he would not) and whether men should be posted as watchmen through the night (it was deemed unnecessary) the brothers returned to their cells to get what sleep they could before they were called to invitiatory once again.
“Brother Lochlánn, hold a moment,” Louis said in a low voice when the rest had begun to disperse. There was considerably more to this than a simple robbery, that was clear. The fellow with the knife had said one word, just one. Louis had hardly noticed. It was only on thinking about it after the man had fled that he realized the word was “bastard,” not a surprising thing to yell in those circumstances. Except he had not said “bastard”. He had said “bâtard.” He had cursed in Frankish.
Louis looked up and down the hall. They were alone, he and Lochlánn, so he jerked his head toward his cell. Lochlánn hesitated, scowled, and then grudgingly went in. Louis followed him and closed the door.
“What happened? What was that about?” Louis asked. The moonlight shone into the room and he could see Lochlánn quite well. Some people would not sleep in moonlight, sure it would lead to madness. But Louis thought that was nonsense. He had always liked moonlight. Never more than at that moment as it revealed Lochlánn’s shrug and his surly expression.
“I don’t know,” Lochlánn said. “I heard a noise in the hall. I came out and that man was at your door. I thought it was you and I wondered what you were about. I called your name but he turned on me. I picked up a candlestick to fight him.”
Louis nodded. The candlesticks, arranged along the hall, were three feet of iron bar with legs splayed at the bottom, formidable weapons. But something in Lochlánn’s tale was not right.
“You were asleep? And you heard him?”
“Yes.”
“And you took the time to tie the cord around your robe?”
Lochlánn looked down at the cord knotted around his waist. He looked up again, his expression defensive, but he said nothing.
Louis leaned down and grabbed the hem of Lochlánn’s robe and pulled it up before Lochlánn could react. Where one might have expected to see bare legs and bare feet, Brother Lochlánn sported leggings and soft leather shoes. Louis could see the embroidered hem of a tunic.
He dropped the edge of the robe and straightened. He looked into Lochlánn’s defiant if imperfectly focused eyes. There was a quality about him, and a smell on his breath, that was entirely familiar to Louis.
“You’ve been drinking,” he said. He thought of the carts rolling into Glendalough for the fair, carts filled with all sorts of things normally foreign to the monastic city. Louis smiled.
“And whoring.”
“How dare you accuse me of that?” Lochlánn said, but there was little vigor in his denial. Louis waved it away.
“I’m not accusing. I’m observing.” It must have required some cunning for Lochlánn to get clear of the monastery, do his business and return unseen. And he would have done so, and no one the wiser, had the killer not come for Louis in the night.
“If you tell the abbot,” Lochlánn said, “I’ll tell him some of the things they say you are about. See how long you remain after they hear that!”
“Ha!” Louis said. “Nothing I do will get me thrown out of here. Do you think I haven’t tried? But no, I won’t go to the abbot with tales of your debauchery. In truth, I’m proud of you. More mettle that I would have credited you with. You did well fighting that son of a whore in the hall as well.”
“Ah…thank you,” Lochlánn said. He did not seem to know if he should be taking this all as a compliment.
“But you went at him too fast, too wild. I understand you were in your cups, but a fellow must be able to fight in any condition.”
“Very well…” Lochlánn stammered.
“You can’t be angry, I told you that the other day. Make the other fellow angry. Don’t fully commit to an attack unless you are certain it will land.”
“I see…”
“Look here. Come find me on the morrow when you can sneak away. You seem to have some skill in sneaking around. I’ll show you a few things that will much improve your technique.”
“Thank you, Brother,” Lochlánn said.
They sto
od there for a moment and Lochlánn began to fidget.
“And I thank you, Brother Lochlánn,” Louis said. “Now, good night.”
“Oh…yes…good night,” Lochlánn said. He turned and hurried from the cell. Louis smiled and crossed the room. He leaned out into the hall, looked left and right. Nothing moving, nothing to be seen. He closed the door.
Odd night, he thought. And the day will be odder still.
Chapter Thirteen
All men are heroes at home;
Though you have but two goats and your best room’s rope-thatched,
Still it’s better than begging.
Hávamál
The ships of Thorgrim’s fleet, Fox and Blood Hawk and Sea Hammer, with a couple hundred warriors aboard, were underway two days after the chief men had decided to join with Kevin on the raid on Glendalough. It was another two days after that that they spotted Kjartan’s ship, Dragon.
They had sailed from Vík-ló and made their way down the coast to the mouth of the River Avoca, which would lead them on their winding course inland to Glendalough, or as close as they could get with their shallow draft vessels. The winds were light and fluky, and though they were able to sail part of the time, most of the voyage was accomplished with oars and grumbling.
They were still three miles from the river mouth when Starri rose from his usual spot aft and climbed up the shrouds to the masthead. He settled himself there, his legs wrapped around the heavy rigging, looking as comfortable as a man standing in a mead hall. He scanned the horizon and Thorgrim waited to hear what he had to say, but he said nothing, so Thorgrim turned his eyes back to the approaching shore.
It was ten minutes after that that Starri called down from aloft.
“Night Wolf!” he said, his voice loud but calm.
“Yes?”
“I see smoke. Not a great deal. A few trails of it.”
Thorgrim turned to Agnarr, who was at the tiller. “There’s a fishing village at the mouth of the river,” Agnarr said. “Just some pathetic little dung hill. Might be cooking fires, or a smith, maybe.”
“Very well,” Thorgrim said. “We’ll know soon enough.” He looked astern. The others ships were following in line like carts rolling down a road.
“There,” Agnarr said. “There is the mouth of the river.”
Thorgrim nodded. He could see it now, the low cut in the coastline. He could see the ragged boundary in the sea where the fresh water and the silt it carried from the land met the cold, salty ocean.
The shoreline grew closer with each steady pull of the oars and the mouth of the river opened like welcoming arms. The northern bank and the village Agnarr had described were still hidden from view. Agnarr pushed the tiller over a bit and Sea Hammer swung her bow away from the land.
“Mud banks are shifty here,” Agnarr said. “Looks like we’re at about a half tide. I’ll steer for the center of the river, safer that way.”
Thorgrim nodded. “Starri!” he called out and when Starri, still clinging to the masthead, acknowledged the hail Thorgrim said, “Keep a sharp eye out for mud banks and the like. I would just as soon not go aground.”
Starri waved to indicate he understood and Thorgrim turned his eyes back to the land. What had earlier appeared to be an unbroken stretch of shoreline was now opening up to reveal the mouth of a wide river with muddy banks north and south and green meadows and bursts of trees rolling away inland.
“You men who are not rowing, get your armor on and take up your shields,” Thorgrim ordered. He could still see only part way up the river; whatever might be lurking around the bend was hidden from view. He was not going to be caught with leggings around his ankles.
Fore and aft men shrugged into mail or leather shirts, settled helmets on their heads. Harald, standing near the bow, buckled his sword belt around his mail. From the belt hung Oak Cleaver, the lovely Frankish blade that had been worn by Harald’s grandfather, Ornolf the Restless.
Segan, Thorgrim’s slave, appeared at his side holding Thorgrim’s mail and helmet and Iron-tooth. Segan had spent a good deal of the voyage heaving over the rail, first to windward until he had been shown, none to gently, that leeward was the preferred side for puking. But he was looking much better now as Sea Hammer stood into the calm, inshore water.
Thorgrim donned his mail and Segan buckled the belt around him. “Starri,” Thorgrim called out, keeping his voice as low as he could, “do you see anything up river? Any ships?”
There was a pause as Starri swept the shore, “Yes, Night Wolf!” he said, then paused again and added, “Perhaps. Perhaps a ship, perhaps a tree….”
They were closing fast now, the oars biting deep into the calm, in-shore water, the motion of the ship settling out until it was nothing but forward momentum. Thorgrim glanced aloft to see that Starri was not daydreaming, but the man seemed to be straining to see what awaited them ashore.
“Night Wolf!” Starri called again. “A ship, to be certain! I can see the masthead. Not moving…anchored or tied up I would think!”
Thorgrim nodded. One ship. If it was indeed only one ship it was no threat to them.
Agnarr steered for the wide center of the river, the place where the keel was least likely to find the mud, and the northern shore seemed to peel back like a hide coming off a fresh kill. Thorgrim could see the mast of the ship now, the light-colored wood of a pine tree, stripped of its bark, shaped and oiled.
“I see no other ships than the one,” Starri called down. “She’s tied to some sort of dock.” He paused, and when he spoke again Thorgrim could hear the edge of excitement in his voice. “Night Wolf!” he called, louder now. “By the gods, it’s Kjartan’s ship! It’s Dragon!”
Starri was right. Thorgrim could see that.
Agnarr pushed the tiller over and Sea Hammer turned more westerly, lining up with the mouth of the river, and as he did the edge of the village came into view, the first of the thatched huts, a wharf made up of weathered pilings and rough-hewn boards. They were still a hundred or so perches away, but he could see that the ship tied to the wharf was indeed Dragon.
There were men aboard the ship, the full complement of her crew, or so it seemed from a distance. Shields were mounted on the river side of the ship. No one seemed to be making ready for a fight.
“Put us alongside Dragon,” Thorgrim said to Agnarr, and Agnarr nodded and pushed the tiller over just a bit. Thorgrim turned to the men amidships, dressed in mail and bearing weapons and shields.
“We’ll go alongside Kjartan’s ship,” he called. “Stand ready for what might come. We’ll greet them with handshakes or crossed swords, whichever they wish.” He saw heads nodding, hands refreshing their grips on swords and battle axes.
More houses were visible now, squat and round with conical thatched roofs. They could see a few pigs and goats moving slowly around deserted yards sectioned off with wattle fences. There were no people in the village, no one that Thorgrim could see, but that was hardly a surprise with a longship tied to the wharf. The only odd thing was the animals. Villagers fleeing a raid would have brought their animals if they could. Kjartan must have hit them before they knew he was there.
The tide was flooding and it carried them into the estuary until they had land on either side, the river mouth twenty perches wide. But all eyes were on Dragon and Kjartan’s men and the village beyond, the wispy column of smoke, the animals wandering in their desultory way. They could see doors and gates hanging open.
“I see where the smoke is coming from!” Starri called out. “A building behind the others. Burned down. Not much left that I can see. A pile of charred wood. Still smoking.”
There was a haunted quality to the place, like a graveyard, and it seemed to affect all the men aboard Sea Hammer. They were mostly quiet as they watched the village come into view, and when they spoke they spoke in hushed tones.
Agnarr pushed the tiller over. Thorgrim called for the rowers to ease their stroke. He ran his eyes over Dragon. He felt the fighti
ng madness creeping up on him. His men forward were ready as well, ready to leap over the sheer strake and come down on Kjartan’s men like furies from the sea. But Kjartan’s men were seated, or lolling around, not arraying themselves for a fight.
Thorgrim looked astern. Bersi’s ship Blood Hawk was about one hundred feet behind and following them toward the shore, and behind that Fox was also turning in Sea Hammer’s wake. He looked back toward the village. With the lift of the current Sea Hammer was closing fast with Dragon.
“Give a pull and ship your oars,” Thorgrim called and the men on the sea chests gave one last stroke and then slid the oars inboard with a practiced ease and laid them fore and aft. With the last bit of way on the ship Agnarr steered straight for Dragon’s larboard side, then pushed the tiller hard over to swing the bow away and bring the ships parallel to one another.
“Thorgrim Night Wolf!”
Thorgrim heard the familiar voice over the gap of water between the ships. Kjartan Longtooth, standing on Dragon’s afterdeck. He wore mail but no helmet and carried no shield. His sword was still sheathed, and the friendly tone to his words had a false sound to it. Thorgrim said nothing.
“You men!” Kjartan called to the men on Dragon’s deck. “Stand ready to throw those lines to our friends. Get fenders over the side, there, get ready to make Thorgrim’s ship fast.” Men from Dragon’s crew stood at their ship’s bow and stern with lines in their hands, ready to throw them to the men aboard Sea Hammer. Others wrestled heavy fenders made of plaited rope over the side where the two ships would come together.
Thorgrim looked back at Agnarr and nodded. Agnarr pushed the tiller over, bringing Sea Hammer easily alongside Dragon. She came to a near-stop in the stream and fore and aft the ropes flew the short distance between the ships. A moment later Thorgrim’s ship was tied fast to Kjartan’s, as Blood Hawk came on to raft up to Sea Hammer’s larboard side.
Glendalough Fair Page 9
