“I don’t know,” Thorgrim admitted. “None of us has been this far up river. It was Kevin who was supposed to lead us to Glendalough.”
Starri nodded. “Kevin,” he said. “What will you do with Kevin?”
“I’ll kill him,” Thorgrim said. He did not need to think about it because he already had, in some detail. “If I can catch him I will kill him. I will do it slowly if I’m able. I’ll see that his death is without honor, so that I never have to meet him again in the corpse hall.”
Starri gave a weak smile. “Kevin follows the Christ god. They don’t expect to go to the corpse hall,” he said. “I don’t think they want to.”
Thorgrim nodded. He had forgotten that. “Where do these people think they will go when the gods take them?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Starri said.
Before Thorgrim could reply, Sea Hammer’s bow ran onto the sand and gravel shore and he had to put theological concerns aside. The Avonmore ran through mostly open country there, which Thorgrim reckoned unfortunate. He would have preferred trees to hide the longships’ presence. Trees were few, however, though there were some at the top of the river bank to which they made their bowlines fast.
He looked down river toward the rest of his fleet, and Ottar’s ships beyond. Bersi’s men were rowing hard, pulling Blood Hawk stroke by painful stroke upriver as Thorgrim’s crew had done Sea Hammer. Now they pulled her toward the river bank and beached her beside Thorgrim’s ship. As they tied her off Bersi Jorundarson made his way forward and dropped into the river by her bow.
Thorgrim walked forward and jumped down from Sea Hammer’s bow into ankle deep water. Further downstream Dragon and Fox, still under oars, drove their bows into the shallow river’s edge and their men went over the sides with ropes in hand to make them fast ashore.
Ottar’s ships were following a dozen rods behind his.
What will you do, Ottar, you bastard? Thorgrim wondered. Pass me once again?
Five minutes later he had an answer, as Ottar’s ship turned to starboard and ran its bow into the river bank some ways down river from Fox, and his other ships did the same. This was as far up the Avonmore as any of them were going to go by water.
Bersi came dripping out of the river and joined Thorgrim, and Kjartan and Skidi Oddson came walking up from where their ships were tied, and the four men stood in a circle. “We’ll get the ships no closer than this,” Thorgrim said. “We’ll cover the rest of the way to Glendalough on foot. I don’t know how far that is.”
The others nodded and looked around, as if there was something that might indicate how far off the monastery lay. Thorgrim looked up at the sun.
“Too late to continue today, and the men are done in from rowing and towing the ships,” Thorgrim said. “And it’s not as if we have a hope of surprising the Irish. We’ll make a fire on the shore here, give the men a decent supper.”
Heads nodded again.
“We’ll send men out to find a prisoner, someone who can tell us how far we are from the monastery,” Thorgrim continued. “Also….” He paused, not wishing to say what he had to say, “we’ll have to speak with Ottar and his men. Kevin was our go-between, but he seems to have run off so now we have no choice. We’ll need the crews of all the ships if we have any hope of raiding Glendalough. Even then it’s in doubt. These Irish aren’t fools and they aren’t cowards, and there are a lot of them.”
Heads nodded. There was quite a bit going unsaid because there was no need to say it. No one trusted Ottar and no one wished to fight by his side, but the only other choice was to abandon the enterprise, and having come so far that was not really a choice at all.
“We need to meet with Ottar and his lead men,” Thorgrim said. “We’ll meet on the shore, half way between his ships and ours. Kjartan, will you go to him and tell him?”
Kjartan gave a half smile. “I will, but you’ll get no answer back,” he said. “He’ll kill me on sight. And if he fails, his men will.”
Thorgrim frowned and he could see the uncertain looks on the others’ faces. “He’ll kill you?” Thorgrim asked. “You said he’s your brother.”
“He is,” Kjartan said. “But that makes no difference to him. I swore an oath to serve him. Back at the village, at the mouth of the river. And then I saw what he had done there. I always knew he was a madman but I…I don’t know what I thought.”
There was a note in Kjartan’s voice that Thorgrim had never heard before. Regret. Fear. Kjartan continued.
“I knew the gods would not favor a man who butchered for no reason, and I did not want to be cursed by his bad luck. So I abandoned him first chance I had. Joined you. I did not think we would see him again.”
“But we’ve been in his company for a week or more,” Skidi said. “Why has he not killed you yet? Or tried to?”
“He’s not seen me,” Kjartan said. Thorgrim nodded as he thought back to the few times that he and his lead men had met with Ottar. Kjartan had indeed made himself scarce. He had always kept Dragon well away from Ottar’s fleet.
“Ottar must not see much,” Thorgrim said.
“Only what he wants to see,” Kjartan said.
In the end Bersi was sent to speak with Ottar. When he came back he reported that Ottar had cursed and spit and raged and then at last agreed to meet once the men had had their supper. That was fine with Thorgrim. The later the better. There was much he still needed to learn, much he needed to do. He called Godi and Agnarr, his most trusted men now that Harald was away.
“I need you two to take a few men, whoever you wish, and go out beyond where our lookouts are posted,” he told them. “Try to grab some traveler, someone on the road. Bring them back here where I can question them. We need to know where Glendalough is, how far.” How he was going to question an Irishman without Harald there he did not know, but he hoped signs and the few words he had picked up of the Irish language would suffice.
Perhaps he would make Segan translate. Thorgrim was fairly certain the Irish thrall knew more of the Norsemen’s tongue than he let on.
Godi and Agnarr chose three others and they clambered over the high bank of the river and were gone. Thorgrim fetched two bowls of the strew that was cooking in a big iron pot over the fire and brought them back to Sea Hammer where he gave one to Starri and ate the other himself. The gray afternoon faded into night as Thorgrim waited for his men to return, hoping they would be back before he had to meet with Ottar.
To pass the time he sharpened his dagger, a thing he had not done in some time. Starri was the one who usually sharpened weapons. It calmed him, and his skill at the task was clearly a gift from the gods. It was a skill too great to be otherwise.
When the blade was as sharp as Thorgrim could make it, he slipped it into its sheath and stood. He thought Starri was asleep, so it surprised him when he spoke.
“It will take me hours to undo the damage you have done to that knife’s edge,” Starri said. He spoke softly and did not open his eyes.
“I know,” Thorgrim said. “That’s why I did it. So you would not be bored.”
Starri made a little grunting sound, and Thorgrim was about to say more when his attention was drawn to the river bank. Something was happening. It was nearly full dark by then, the fire bright and casting its illumination around the gravel shore. In the light of the flames he could see the unmistakable bulk of Godi coming down the banking, and with him Agnarr and another man. Their prisoner, he hoped.
Thorgrim moved to the bow and hopped down to the beach, and as he approached the fire he realized the man with Godi was Vemund, one of the men who had gone with Harald. He felt a sudden foreboding, a flash of dread, but he could see Vemund’s face and he did not look like a man who had come to report a tragedy.
“Vemund,” Thorgrim greeted him and took his hand.
“We found him on the road, lord, a mile or so away,” Godi said. “He was looking for us.”
“Harald sent you?” Thorgrim asked, careful to keep any note
of concern from his voice.
“He did, Lord Thorgrim,” Vemund said. “He is well and his men are well. Mostly. We were surprised by horsemen, lord, Irish horsemen. Harald led the men in the fight against them. He fought like a bear, lord, killed more than I can count. Harald was at the forefront. He inspired the others.”
“Hmmm,” Thorgrim said. Vemund was pouring on the praise for Harald like a child pouring honey on porridge. What did you do, that you so want to get in my good graces? he wondered. And Harald’s?
“We lost three men, lord, not Harald’s fault at all, but the Irish….”
“Good. It sounds like you behaved well, you all behaved well. Some of the horsemen escaped?” Thorgrim asked, and his clipped tone suggested that simple, unadorned facts would be preferred.
“Yes, lord,” Vemund said.
“And they sent no more men to hunt you down?”
“Not while I was still with them, lord,” Vemund said. “We continued on along the river, lord, for another hour or so and saw no other Irish. Harald sent me back to find you. Tell you what we learned.”
Thorgrim nodded. There was a crowd gathered now. What Vemund knew was what every one of them was wondering at.
“We met travelers, lord, going to the Glendalough Fair,” Vemund continued. “They knew something of the town.”
Thorgrim folded his arms and listened as Vemund relayed the tale. He told what they had learned of the defenses of Glendalough, the house warriors who had gathered there, the crowds assembled for the fair. The monastery was no more than four miles away by land, Vemund said, and the road by the river lead straight to it. A road crowded with travelers and flowing with plunder.
“Good, Vemund, you did well,” Thorgrim said at last and the relief on the man’s face was evident. “Get something to eat, and then you must return to Harald with word from me.”
Vemund nodded and someone handed him a bowl of stew and a wooden spoon. Thorgrim stared into the fire. It was nearly time to meet with Ottar and his men, but that was fine. He knew now what he needed to know. He knew where Glendalough was. He knew how far away it was and how to get there and how big the monastery was and how poorly fortified the town.
And most important of all, he knew more than Ottar did.
Chapter Thirty-Two
In this year, moreover, many abandoned their
Christian baptism and joined the Norwegians…
The Annals of Ulster
It was late afternoon before Louis de Roumois and Failend dared emerge from the thick wood into which they had fled.
They had run across the open ground, Failend’s hands still sticky with Aileran’s blood, his body left behind in the dark. As they ran they tried to listen for Aileran’s men in pursuit, but in the quiet they could hear nothing above their own breathing and the thump of their footfalls and the jingling of their mail.
The tall grass yielded to bracken and saplings and soon they were in among the taller trees, and there they stopped. They said nothing, just stood and breathed hard with mouths open. They could hear the river rolling along somewhere beyond that place.
For a few minutes they remained as they were, and soon their breath was back to normal, and the quiet of the night settled down on them. Failend knew there was only one thing to do; plunge deeper into the woods, maybe make their way to the river and see if there was a place they could cross to the other side. Anything that would put distance between them and Aileran’s men.
She knew it, but for the moment she felt frozen in place, and so, apparently, did Louis. Instead of pushing on they turned and looked back the way they had come, but the open ground was hidden from view by the woods. They stepped back through the trees and brush, moving carefully, making little noise, and when they came to the edge of the tree line proper they went down on a knee and stared out into the night.
There was nothing. No sound, nothing moving.
“Aileran had told his men to wait,” Louis said softly. “Said he’d call for them if they were needed.”
“They won’t wait forever,” Failend said. “They’ll find him and they’ll look for us. We’re murderers now, in their eyes.”
It was hard to gauge how long they remained there, kneeling, watching. It seemed quite a long time. Failend was about to suggest they leave off and go deeper into the woods when they heard something, some sound. Far off but not so terribly far off. Something being dropped, or a voice, maybe. A bird or an animal?
And then a voice, clear as steel hitting steel. “Captain?”
Failend tensed and she felt Louis tense. It was one of Aileran’s men, and he was still at the far side of the field. He was trying to speak loud and whisper, all at once.
They waited. The voice came again. “Captain Aileran?” Quiet. And then the voice again, loud and surprised, “Oh, by God!”
“We must go,” Louis said, just as Failend opened her mouth to say the same. They stood and turned and made their way into the wood. They could see nothing, the dark night made darker by the close-set trees. Failend felt Louis’s hand reaching for hers and she took it. It made the going even more awkward, holding hands as they fought their way through the woods, but at least this way they would not be separated.
Failend had no idea of the direction they were running, or if they were even moving in a straight line. It was entirely possible, she realized, that they might be going in a great loop and would emerge from the woods right at the feet of Aileran’s men-at-arms, come looking for them.
“Louis,” she said in a harsh whisper, but even as the word was leaving her mouth she could see the trees were thinning and then they found themselves on a steep bank looking down at the Avonmore which roiled and curled below them. Failend could see the bank on the far side and the rippled surface of the water, and she realized that the dawn was coming, that the first light of morning was spreading out behind the thick clouds overhead.
They stood still and silent for a moment, listening to the soft sounds of the river and the occasional call of a bird. They listened for the sound of pursuit, armed men crashing through the wood, but they heard nothing.
“They’ll come for us,” Failend said. “When its light enough, they’ll come searching. Our trail will not be hard to find.”
Louis nodded. The path they had made running through the tall grass and then crashing through the woods would be simple enough for any hunter to follow. “We should cross the river,” he said.
Failend looked down at the water. It was moving fast but did not look terribly deep. “Yes, we should,” she agreed.
They made their way carefully down the steep bank and into the river that lapped up against the grass. The water was cold, much colder than Failend had expected, and the force when it hit her ankles nearly took her feet out from under her. She stumbled, held her arms out, steadied herself, then followed Louis out into the stream.
They reached the middle of the river and the water came only up to Louis’s waist, though it was much higher on Failend’s shorter frame. Her feet were unsteady on the slick rocks, and it occurred to her that, given the current and her mail shirt, if she fell she would never be able to stand again on her own.
Louis offered his arm and she clung to it as they worked their way through the deepest part of the water. Soon they came out on the other side, the river dropping to thigh level, then ankle depth and then they stood dripping in the cool air of the morning. That side of the river was also lined by wood, and they climbed up the bank and into the trees, plunging in until they reached a place where they were well concealed. Then, as if of one mind, they stopped and knelt and peered back across the river.
In just the time it had taken them to cross the Avonmore the morning had grown considerably more light. Where before they could see only the dark shape of the woods, now they could see the trees and the brush and the river bank, all browns and grays and dull greens in the dawn.
They waited.
“We should keep moving,” Louis said.
�
�Yes, we should,” Failend agreed. But neither of them moved, and Failend knew it was because neither of them could endure the idea of an unknown enemy at their backs. If someone was coming for them, they had to know.
They waited in silence and Failend’s mind ran over the events of the past…hour? Two hours? Certainly no more than that. Incredible. Her whole life, which had been rolling away in one unanticipated direction, was now flung off in another.
She had killed Aileran. There was no question about that, no ambiguity like there was over the Northman at the Meeting of the Waters. She had driven a dagger right into Aileran’s chest. Right into his heart, she imagined. She looked down at her hands. Crossing the river had washed them clean of Aileran’s blood and she was glad of that.
My soul will never be washed clean of this, she thought, but in truth she was not entirely sure how she felt about what she had done. She poked at her feelings of guilt, probing to see how deep and painful they ran.
Not very, she realized. Aileran was going to kill Louis. No doubt he would have killed her, too. Her dear husband, using the cover of battle to eliminate two problems at once.
At least he thought enough of me to want my lover murdered, she thought.
Then Louis reached over and grabbed her arm and she was startled out of her reverie. She looked over at him and he pointed across the river. There was movement in the brush, and as they watched, a man, one of Aileran’s men, stepped out of the woods and stood on the far bank. He looked up and down the river, turned and looked back the way he had come.
Failend realized she was holding her breath. She opened her mouth and let air waft into her lungs, but otherwise she did not move. The man on the far bank was still looking around. He looked across the water, looked right at the spot where she and Louis were concealed, and it seemed impossible to Failend that he could not see them. But there was no change in his posture, no indication that he saw anything but trees and brush.
He stared in their direction for a moment more, then turned and disappeared into the woods.
Glendalough Fair Page 25
