Two days in the dúnad and then in the predawn dark, Louis and Aileran roused the men and got them under arms and marched them off toward the river. Failend walked at the head of the column at Louis’s side. She felt the weight of the mail on her shoulders and the pull of the sword and dagger on the belt around her waist and the incongruous soft brushing feel of the leine around her legs.
The sun came up and the light revealed a misty grey morning, and with the lifting of the night came a lifting of the dream feeling that had enveloped her like the fog. She was marching off to a fight, but this was not a new thing to her. She had marched with the men to the Meeting of the Waters and back again. The mail, the sword, she had grown used to them over the past few days. She felt like she was waking up, like the wagon, rolling down hill, had reached a flat place and the momentum was coming off it, and it was slowing down.
This was not a dream anymore. She was awake in a new place, a wonderful place. This was the place she had been looking for ever since she had gone from girl to woman. She was not bored.
They came to the edge of the wood line that bordered the river and Louis called for the men to halt and rest, and he and Aileran and Lochlánn headed into the trees. Failend came with them because she wanted to, and it seemed that people had stopped trying to tell her what to do, which she reckoned a good thing. They paused when the river was in sight through the trees, then crept up to where they could see. There were no ships, only the woods and the churning water running over the shallow bottom.
They went back to where the rest of the men, nearly two hundred in all, waited in the tall grass.
“The archers will be first at the river bank,” Louis told the men. “They’ll shoot down as many of the heathens as they can. Then you men with spears, you’ll be right at the water’s edge. When the heathens attack, the archers will drop back. The heathens will have to fight their way up a steep bank and you will be there to kill them when they do.”
Failend could see anxious looks flashing back and forth among the bóaire and the fuidir. At the Meeting of the Waters there had been no archers, because the archers were among the men Father Finnian had brought. In that fight, Louis had sent the men-at-arms in first, the farmers behind them. It was an arrangement that the bóaire and the fuidir had liked, and it worked well. But now they were being ordered to take the first assault.
“Kill two of them, that’s all I ask,” Louis continued. “Use your spears. Kill them as they come. Kill two and then you can drop back and let the heathens run right into the men-at-arms.”
With this the bóaire and the fuidir nodded. Two men. They could stand fast for the time it took to kill two men. That seemed like a thing they could do.
Later, before the fighting had started, Failend asked Louis if he thought the spear-wielding farmers would really stand long enough to kill two heathens each.
Louis shrugged. “Some will,” he said. “Some will run at the first sight of a heathen. But some will stand and keep killing. It’s the way of men in battle. No man ever knows what he’ll do, and no commander either, until they are in the middle of it. But if I had told them to hold their ground and fight to the end, if they saw no hope of escape, then I can guarantee they would run like rabbits.”
Louis and Aileran led the men down to the water’s edge and positioned them as Louis had described. They stood ready and waited. The rain set in and they waited, the cold drops working their way down through the leaves and soaking them through. And then the heathens came, just as Louis had said they would.
In silence the Irish stood ready, tense and fearful, unable to see from their cover of bracken and trees what was going on down river. Only Louis and Aileran saw, approaching the river bank on their knees like supplicants to the altar, parting the brush, peering out like frightened creatures. But Failend knew they were not frightened because they were not the ones being hunted.
Ten minutes later, in a voice that was little more than a breath, Louis told her that the heathens were unloading their ships to lighten them enough to drag over the shallows. It seemed to Failend there was little need for such quiet. The rain was loud and the great beastly heathens were louder still, calling to one another in their coarse gibberish.
Failend knew that the heathens were not frightened either, because they did not know how close death hovered above them.
It was almost an hour after they first appeared downstream that the Northmen discovered the proximity of death. The fighting, when it started, played out almost exactly as Louis had envisioned. The spearmen did their work, and when the heathens finally managed to get among them, Failend stood with Louis, her sword in hand. She even managed to slash at some of the bastards as they came at her, though Louis or Lochlánn seemed always there to take the brunt of the attack.
This fighting was not like the Meeting of the Waters. Then, her head had been whirling, she had hardly been aware of what was going on. It was different now. She could see. She could think.
And because of that she understood what it meant when more of the heathens appeared out of the trees to their left, when the men-at-arms were forced to swing away from the river bank and meet this new threat. In the end the Northmen had driven the Irish off. But they had not won the day. Far from it.
Louis and Aileran led the men, somber and weary, back to the dúnad. Some of the wounded walked with arms flung over the shoulders of comrades on either side, a few were carried in makeshift litters. Failend stumbled along. She felt exhausted like she had never felt before. And she felt strong in a way she had never felt before.
Once again she did not return to her husband’s pavilion. The great surge of power that the fighting had brought on had not dissipated. What she wanted, and wanted desperately, was to be with Louis, to go to his tent, to run her hands over him and feel his strong arms on her naked flesh. She shivered as she thought about it. But even the reborn Failend retained some sense of discretion, so she avoided Louis, found a tent that had been owned by one of the men killed at the Meeting of the Waters, and made her camp there.
The next day mounted patrols were sent out along the river to keep an eye on the heathens, but the rest of the men remained in the dúnad. Louis and Aileran and some of the lead men among the warriors Finnian had brought met in Colman’s pavilion, where they discussed how next to unleash their fury on the Northmen. Or so Failend imagined. On a few occasions she could hear raised voices from within the oiled cloth walls. She kept her distance.
With Louis occupied in planning the campaign and Lochlánn off leading one of the patrols, there was little for Failend to do and no one with whom she wished to speak, so soon after the sun went down and the gray day melted into black night she crawled into her tent to sleep. Under the dead man’s blankets she slept soundly and dreamed wild dreams. It was still dark when someone shook her awake.
She gasped and sat up quick, and her hand fell on the grip of her sword, but she could see nothing. Then she heard Louis’s voice, soft, just a few feet away.
“Failend?” he said, and now she could see his outline against the darker land beyond. She wondered why he had not just slipped into her tent and lay down beside her.
“Yes?”
“We’re going out to scout the heathens. Do you wish to come?”
She was quiet, trying to make sense of this in her sleep-numbed brain. “Yes,” she said again and picked up her sword and slipped out of the tent.
Somewhere above, the moon was casting its light behind the thick overcast of clouds and blunting the edge of the dark. Failend could see Louis now, or at least the dark shadow of him, and a larger figure behind whom she recognized as Aileran.
“What’s happening?” she asked, realizing she had said “yes” before she really had any notion of what was going on.
“Aileran had word from one of his men,” Louis said in a low voice, “that the heathens have sent a small band along the river. Said they were camped not more than a mile or so from here. We were going to take a look. Fight
them if we can.”
Failend looked from Louis to Aileran, who stood just five feet away. She could see other men now, a dozen or so under arms. A small war party.
“And you want me to go?” Failed asked.
“Certainly,” Louis said, and she could hear the pleasure in his voice. “You seem to delight in this sort of thing.”
Failend nodded though she knew no one could see her. The gesture was more for herself. “Captain Aileran,” she said, turning in his direction, “you don’t mind?”
“No, ma’am,” Aileran said, his voice like a grunt.
“It was Aileran suggested it,” Louis said.
Failend nodded again. She was awake now, her senses sharp like a rabbit on the verge of bolting. There was something wrong here. She was certain of it, Louis’s blindness aside. Aileran might tolerate her presence, but he would not encourage it.
She knew she should decline the offer. It was the smart thing to do. But she could not leave Louis to whatever waited down the road. And, in truth, she was curious, and curiosity seemed to outweigh fear these days.
“Very well,” Failend said. “I thank you, Captain Aileran. I’m delighted to come.” There was nothing else she could say. She pulled her mail shirt over her head, strapped her belt around her waist and made certain sword and dagger were hanging properly, then headed off at Louis’s side into the predawn dark.
Their horses were gathered just beyond the camp and the patrol mounted in silence. The road was barely visible in the feeble light, but they found it and headed east, down river, over ground that would have been quite familiar to Failend if she could have seen it. They did not speak. Only the soft thump of the horses’ hooves and the jingle of mail disturbed the quiet, and even that made so little noise that the insects in the grass and the frogs off toward the water did not pause in their songs as they passed.
Failend was soon lost in the steady, wordless ride through the night world and she had no sense of the passage of time. An hour, she thought. They had been riding about an hour and the dawn still showed no sign of arriving when Aileran said, softly, barely a whisper, “Here. Hold up here.”
The sound of riding men stopped and the night became more quiet still, weirdly quiet. “Just over that rise,” Aileran said. He pointed to a small hill just south of the road, barely visible against the sky.
Failend frowned. How could he know that’s the right hill? she wondered. I can hardly see the damned thing… But not for the first time she assumed Aileran, as an experienced man-at-arms, had ways of knowing things that she did not understand.
“Let us go have a look,” Louis said in the same breathy whisper. “Failend, with us.”
They dismounted and Aileran turned to the men-at-arms behind, who were also sliding off their horses. “You come with us to the base of the hill, then wait there,” he said. “Do not move. We’ll shout for you if we need you. If we do, there’ll be no more need for quiet.”
The men made soft murmurs of understanding. Aileran turned and headed toward the rise, more a grassy mound than a hill, Failend and Louis at his heels, the rest following behind. At the bottom of the rise the men-at-arms stopped and the three continued moving up on their own. They crouched as they climbed and kept low as they reached the top.
There was nothing to see beyond the crest, no smoldering campfires, no sleeping men sprawled about, no guards half awake. Nothing but field, stretching away, and beyond it the dark shapes of trees by the river.
“Got the wrong hill, maybe?” Aileran said, his voice even softer than the rustle of the swaying tree branches. He looked back at Louis and Failend, then waved his hand and led them down the far side of the slope, putting the high ground between them and the dozen men-at-arms.
The land began to level out as they reached the bottom of the hill and once again Aileran signaled for them to stop. They paused and listened, but could hear only the night sounds. Failend felt jumpy, like little bolts of lightning were shooting through her. She was perfectly silent, but in her mind bells tolled a danger warning.
“There,” Aileran said. He pointed out into the dark but Failend could see nothing, and Louis apparently could see nothing, either. He took a step past Aileran and then another step as he peered out across the open ground.
Then Aileran shouldered Failend aside. She saw his arm move. The blade of his knife reflected the dull light of the sky and the sight of it made her furious, instantly and completely furious. Furious at Aileran’s treachery, at Louis’s stupidity, and furious mostly because Aileran considered her so little a threat, such an afterthought, that he just pushed her out of the way so he could get on with the important business of killing Louis.
Aileran cocked his arm for a powerful straight thrust that would plunge the knife right into Louis’s back. The blade was darting forward when Failend stepped up and brought her arm down hard on his wrist, striking with her mail-clad forearm, knocking Aileran’s hand and knife aside.
Louis turned and said something in a harsh whisper but Aileran’s attention was on Failend now. She could not make out his face but she could see his arm coming up, knife still held in his grip, as he turned toward her. Her left hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. She knew she did not have anything like the strength to hold him, but she needed only to slow him down for a second, no more.
Aileran made a grunting noise and shook off Failend’s grip but by then her dagger was out of its sheath and swinging around at Aileran’s chest. She had time enough to wonder if the needle-sharp point would punch through his mail, and then the blade hit and did not pause as it parted the tiny metal rings and plunged into his chest.
A gurgling noise came from Aileran’s throat, and he staggered and Failend could see his hands flailing at the knife jutting from him. She let go of the grip and let Aileran stumble back, one step, two steps, and then he dropped to the ground, still kicking feebly as the life drained quickly and silently away.
“Failend! By God…” Louis gasped, still with sense enough to speak soft.
“He was trying to kill you. And then me,” she said, fairly certain that the second part was correct. She pointed to Aileran’s knife on the ground.
“Kill…why?”
“Why do you think, you dumb ass?” she hissed. She looked up at the hill, half expecting to see the silhouette of the dozen men-at-arms who had accompanied them coming over the rise, but she saw nothing. She forced herself to breathe normally and listened. Nothing.
“Those men,” she said, nodding toward the hill, “are with Aileran. Even if they’re not part of this, they’ll take us back to Colman and it will be no better than if Aileran killed us here. Worse.”
Louis seemed to be nodding. “So…?”
“So we have to run. There.” She pointed to the trees at the far end of the field. “Get clear of these men, hide, and then figure what to do.”
Louis was nodding again. Failend stepped over toward Aileran, who was now motionless on the ground. She could just make out the handle of her dagger sticking up from his chest. She took a grip and pulled, and with some effort drew the weapon free. She was wiping it clean on the tail of Aileran’s tunic when she noticed the purse hanging from his belt. With no thought as to why, she cut the purse strings with the dagger, sheathed the weapon and tucked the soft leather bag into her belt.
“Let’s be off,” she whispered. She turned her back on Aileran, on the hill that concealed them from the view of the men-at-arms. She and Louis de Roumois moved quickly through the tall grass to the dark trees by the water’s edge.
Chapter Thirty
At every door-way,
ere one enters,
one should spy round.
Hávamál
They had no small boats, so Thorgrim ordered Sea Hammer rowed up to the north bank of the river, her bow driven into the mud and Harald and his twenty man scouting party set ashore. They were wearing mail and helmets and carried swords or axes or spears. Their shields hung from straps on their backs. The weapo
ns were for defense, if needed. Their job was not to fight, as Thorgrim had told Harald, and then told him again and then one more time to be certain he understood.
“Stay out of sight as best you can,” Thorgrim said. He was standing at Sea Hammer’s bow. Harald and his men were already ashore. “A scout is most effective if he is not seen. Stay close to the river, close enough to give us warning if need be, but you don’t need to stay in sight of it. Wherever you can best see what’s happening.”
“Yes, father,” Harald said. Thorgrim had told him this already and Harald struggled to keep the impatience from his voice. “I’ll meet up with you when you have anchored for the night,” he continued, repeating his father’s instructions before his father had the chance.
“Very good. Good luck,” Thorgrim said. He said it in an off-hand way, without any note of sentimentality, which Harald appreciated. Then Thorgrim turned and walked back to Sea Hammer’s afterdeck, giving orders to the rowers to back water as he passed.
Harald watched the ship pull away from the bank, then he turned his back on the river. “Let’s go,” he said and he pushed past his small army and took the lead, working his way up the steep bank, digging his toes into the ground to keep from slipping.
He reached the top of the river bank and stepped into the trees. From downstream where the shallows began, forest and brush crowded the shoreline and followed the river bank as far as he could see. For all he knew the dense woods ran clear up to Glendalough, but he doubted it. He paused for a moment and assumed the posture of someone waiting for others to catch up, but he took that moment to stop and think.
We can’t stay in the woods, he realized. We can hardly move through here. In order to prevent another ambush he had to stay ahead of his father’s ships, and they would certainly move faster over the water than he and his men could move through the overgrown forest.
Glendalough Fair Page 23
