At one point a wagon, one of the wagons he and Louis and the men had passed on the road from the Meeting of the Waters, had come crashing into their lines. That had changed the momentum of the battle in an instant, and taken victory from their hands. That much he remembered.
He wondered if he would be better at recalling what happened on the battlefield once he had gained more experience with such things.
I must ask Louis about that, he thought. And then he remembered. And it was like a knife in the gut.
He had been up more than half the night after that first day’s fighting, tortured by his fears of the coming battle. He had been afraid before – Louis had assured him that only lunatics did not fear combat – but this was different. Because this time he would not have Louis de Roumois beside him. This time he would be going into battle with his world turned upside down, with his friend, the man he admired most in the world, nowhere to be found. And not just gone, but having run off after being revealed as a murderer, a fornicator, a thief.
He still did not see how that was possible. But he was starting to wonder what other explanation there could be, and as his uncertainty grew, his former love for Louis de Roumois began turning to anger and rage, smoldering and threatening to ignite.
They fought the heathens without the leadership of the young Frank, and despite Colman’s blunder in sending the spearmen out ahead of the shield wall, they had beaten them. Most of the raiders had been killed, a handful escaped. None of the patrols had seen any sign of them. The fighting was over and Lochlánn prayed.
He felt better when he was done, like finishing a bath or stepping into the sunshine after a swim in a cold, fresh stream. But he still had no answers to the many, many questions that the past few days had raised.
No one else, however, seemed very curious about those things. He heard the occasional vague question as to where Colman might be, or hushed, bitter discussions of Louis or Failend, but that was pretty much it. With the fighting done, the men-at-arms seemed content to remain where they were, while the bóaire and the fuidir were quickly melting away, returning to their farms.
Lochlánn stood on the hill where the army was camped and looked down toward Glendalough a mile away at the bottom of the slope. He could see from there that the streets, which had been packed tight with people just two days before, were now deserted. He could see the monastary and the buildings around it. He looked for Colman’s big house and could just see it’s high-peaked roof rising up above its neighbors.
He stared at the roofline. I wonder…he thought. Colman was gone, and knowing something of Louis’s history with Colman, and guessing even more, Lochlánn had to think there was some connection between his disappearance and Louis’s. And the next thing he knew he was walking down the long hill toward the cluster of sorry buildings that made up Glendalough.
It took him half an hour to reach the muddy streets. Evidence of the people’s quick exodus was everywhere; household goods of all description lay trampled in the dirt where they had fallen from whatever they had been piled onto, the merchants’ stalls were stripped bare and half falling down, doors to homes and shops, hastily abandoned, were left hanging open and thumping in the breeze.
Lochlánn walked slowly through the familiar streets as if he was walking through a graveyard or across the field of a recent battle. It was the most haunting thing he had ever experienced.
Then from the monastery a bell began to peal, calling the monks to sext, the midday prayer. The sound made Lochlánn jump and suck in his breath, but he recovered fast. There was something solid and comforting in the sound. The people of Glendalough might have run in terror, but the people of God behind the velum had remained, and life went on as it always had.
Lochlánn made the sign of the cross and continued on. He came at last to the big home of Colman mac Breandan. He paused at the gate and looked across the yard at the house. Nothing seemed out of place, and there was no sign that anyone was there. He opened the gate and approached the door. He moved cautiously, though he was not sure why.
He stopped in front of the door, grabbed the latch and tried it. It lifted with little resistance so he swung the door open. “Lord Colman?” he called, loud but not overly loud. “Failend?”
He swung the door wider and stepped inside. It was dimly lit from two windows high above, and Lochlánn could just make out the shapes of a table and chair, the loft above, a cooking pot over the hearth, and Colman’s body lying sprawled out on the floor.
Lochlánn rushed across the room to Colman’s side. His first thought was to help the man, but before he even reached Colman’s side he could see there was a great pool of blood dried on the rushes and soaked into the dirt floor, and Colman’s face was black with death. The man was gone and had been for some time. A day at least. There was nothing that Lochlánn could do to help him physically, and as he was not yet a priest, there was nothing he could do in that capacity, either.
He took the last few steps slowly, scrutinizing the corpse at his feet and the things surrounding it. Colman’s throat had been slashed. His sword was out of its scabbard and lying a few feet away, so he had not been surprised by his killer, or at least had had time enough to draw his weapon. There was a small hole in the floor by Colman’s feet. Lochlánn looked down at it and could see the impression of something square that had been buried there.
A small chest? Lochlánn wondered. Colman’s hoard? Was this just a robbery? That would seem entirely possible, given the chaos, panic, and lawlessness that had gripped the people.
Lochlánn heard a noise behind him, and he turned fast and his hand fell on the hilt of his sword. There was a man standing in the door, but in the dim light Lochlánn could not make out who it was. And then the man spoke.
“Brother Lochlánn?”
Lochlánn felt himself relax. His hand came away from the sword. “Father Finnian?”
Finnian took a step into the room. There was another man with him, a young man, just a few years Lochlánn’s senior it looked like, and dressed in the same black robe as the priest. Finnian’s eyes moved down to Colman’s body, lying at Lochlánn’s feet.
“I found him this way!” Lochlánn protested, suddenly realizing how this must look. “He was dead, has been dead, some time.”
Finnian held up his hand. “I know, my son, I know. I can see he’s been dead a while. And I know you’ve been with the men-at-arms all this time. But tell me why you’re here?”
Lochlánn’s eyes darted over to the other man and back to Finnian, and Finnian caught the gesture. “This is Brother Segan,” Finnian said. “He is a dear friend of mine, a very brave young man. Very bright. He can speak the heathens’ tongue, and many others. He’s lived with the heathens at Vík-ló this past year and he has kept me informed as to their plans. It’s fair to say that they would be sacking Glendalough now if not for him.”
Lochlánn nodded to the young man and Segan nodded back. “I don’t know why I’m here, Father,” Lochlánn said. “I guess I was looking for Colman. Or Louis. Or the truth of what happened. I want to know if Louis really…. I don’t know.”
“The truth,” Finnian said. “That’s a thing we would all like to know, very much.”
“Do you know?” Lochlánn asked. “Do you know what happened? With Louis and Failend and Aileran? I am hard-pressed to believe Louis murdered Aileran in cold blood. But still…”
“As am I,” Finnian interrupted. “But I don’t know the truth of what happened any more than you.” As with most things that Finnian said, it sounded as if there was a great deal more, just below the surface, which the priest might or might not reveal. Most likely not. “That’s why I came looking for you,” he added.
“Are the heathens gone?” Lochlánn asked next. “Have they sailed away, those that still lived?”
“I only know what I’ve heard,” Finnian said. “From the travelers and others I speak with. What I hear is that most are gone, but one ship remains, and a handful of the heathens. And th
ey should be stamped out.”
“Are men being sent to do that? Mounted men would be best. They could move fast, catch the heathens ashore.”
Finnian nodded. “That would be best, but the thing of it is, with Louis gone and Colman and Aileran gone, there’s no one who will give the order.”
“No one,” Lochlánn agreed. “They sit around the camp like it’s Christmas day.”
“So you should go,” Finnian said. “Are there a score of men who would ride with you, if you ask? You would need no more than that.”
Lochlánn considered the question. “Yes, there are,” he said.
“Then go,” Finnian said.
Lochlánn shook his head. “I am no one,” he said. “I am the least experienced man there.”
“But it must be you. This is why. If Louis and Failend are hoping to escape, they will most likely follow the river to the sea and try to find a ship to Frankia. Anyone who goes after the heathens is likely to come across them as well. If any of the other men-at-arms catch them, they will hang them on the spot.”
“And maybe that’s what they deserve,” Lochlánn said.
“Perhaps,” Finnian said. “Perhaps not. That’s what we must find out. So if you catch them, you will bring them back here. And we can find the truth of this thing.”
“I’ll try to bring them back. If I find them,” Lochlánn said, but he doubted very much that he would. And in truth he was not certain how he would react if he did. But he told Finnian he would do his best, and he bid him farewell and headed back up the hill to the camp. He was halfway there before it occurred to him to wonder how Finnian knew to look for him at Colman’s house.
Thorgrim Night Wolf wanted to bury his dead. He wanted to lay them out in proper graves with their weapons at their sides, the way a warrior should go to his reward. But he felt a greater obligation to the living than the dead, and he did not think he had much time, so he trusted that the Valkyrie were doing his men the honor that he could not, and turned his attention to the ship.
He climbed over the bow and walked aft, wading into the cold river water that filled the after end of the hull. The water was clear and no more than a few feet deep, so he could see the submerged vessel well enough.
It was back aft, just forward of the afterdeck, that he saw the hole Kjartan had chopped through the hull. It was not terribly big, maybe a foot in diameter, though he had cut through three strakes, which would make repairs more difficult. But for now they should be able to apply some sort of patch, bail the ship out and be off down the river.
“Night Wolf!” Starri said, and he spoke in a hushed voice that told Thorgrim with absolute certainty that something was not right.
“What?”
“Someone’s coming. From that direction.” Starri was standing on the shore, leaning on the side of the ship ten feet away, and pointing up river. Thorgrim turned and looked, but he could see only the water and the trees for about a hundred paces before the river bent around to the north and hid the rest from view.
He looked at Starri. Apparently the battering he had taken and the many wounds he had suffered and the blood he had spilled had not damaged his extraordinary hearing.
“How many?” Thorgrim asked.
“I’m not sure. Not many. They’re on foot.”
Thorgrim turned to Harald who was also on the shore. “Get the men hidden, get ready. Don’t show yourselves until I do. These may be men-at-arms searching us out.”
Harald nodded and hurried off, calling to the men in a low voice to hide themselves. Their best hope, Thorgrim knew, was that these newcomers were indifferent to the Northmen’s presence. Otherwise they would be enemies. They would not be friends. He and his men had no friends there.
Thorgrim hopped over the side of the ship and hid himself behind her, the river water up to his knees, and Starri stood beside him. They waited, and the afternoon was utterly silent, save for the water and the breeze and the occasional bird. And then he heard the sound of feet making small splashing sounds as they walked through the water. They came closer, then stopped.
It was silent again and then Thorgrim heard a man speaking. He spoke Irish and Thorgrim did not understand the words. Then another spoke, and Thorgrim was certain that one was a woman.
Thorgrim moved slowly out into the river, down Sea Hammer’s length and stopped just short of her stern. He heard the strangers take a few steps closer and then he moved around the end of his ship and pulled Iron-tooth from its scabbard as he did.
Two people. A man and a woman, both dressed in mail, which caught Thorgrim by surprise. The man’s left hand held the end of a sack which was draped over his shoulder. The woman gasped at Thorgrim’s sudden appearance, but the man drew his sword with a speed and ease that spoke of training and experience. He did not let go of the sack.
“Who are you?” Thorgrim asked, but the man just shook his head to indicate that he did not understand. Thorgrim had not expected he would.
“Harald!” Thorgrim called. “Come here. Bring the others.” He heard Harald come out of hiding and the sound of other men coming out of the grass and the splash of their feet hitting the water. The woman also wore a sword and she pulled it now, a bit late, Thorgrim thought. The man took a step back, half shielding the woman as Thorgrim’s men approached from three sides. His eyes moved from man to man and he looked ready for a fight, but he did not look afraid, and Thorgrim gave him credit for that.
Harald came splashing out to where they stood, and Thorgrim was about to tell him to ask these two who they were when he saw Harald smile wide.
“Look!” Harald said. “It’s the healer woman!” He turned to the two in the river and spoke to them in Irish. Thorgrim saw a moment of uncertainty on their faces, and then the dawn of recognition.
“Who are they?” Thorgrim asked. “How do you know them?”
“They were my prisoners. In the wagons, the wagons I took from Crimthann,” Harald said. “I don’t recall the man’s name. The woman is Failend, and she said the man is her bodyguard. She said she’s a very skilled healer. We could have use of her. Starri could. And many of the men are wounded.”
“Very well,” Thorgrim said. “Tell them to give up their swords and they will not be harmed.”
Harald spoke to them. They spoke back and Harald replied, a negotiation of some sort, but Thorgrim trusted Harald to do the right thing. He saw the Irishman’s eyes moving from weapon to weapon, man to man. He could guess the man’s thoughts as if he were speaking them out loud. Can I kill them before they kill me? Will they kill the woman, or take her? Are our chances better if I give up my sword, or would we be better off if we died fighting?
Then the man made a choice. It was the choice Thorgrim hoped he would make. The only reasonable choice. He reversed his sword and handed it hilt first to Harald. Then the woman did the same.
“Tell them to come to the shore,” Thorgrim said. “Tell them they will not be harmed if the woman looks to our wounded.” He considered ordering the man to hand over the sack, but he decided against it. Plenty of time for that later.
Harald opened his mouth to speak, but Starri spoke first. “Thorgrim,” he said. “More coming. Riders. They’re getting closer.”
Riders… That certainly could mean but one thing. Mounted warriors scouring the countryside, and if they were alert enough to find the trampled grass leading from the road to the river bank then they would find the ship and they would find the Northmen whom they sought.
“Let’s go,” Thorgrim said. “Down the river. Stay close to the bank. Take those two.” He gestured toward their new prisoners. “Don’t let them get away.”
The men turned and began splashing downstream. Godi stepped behind the man and the woman and gave them a little push, and Harald said something, his tone soft yet urgent, and they began moving too, with less reluctance than Thorgrim might have expected.
They must know that riders mean Irish men-at-arms, Thorgrim thought, and that could well mean rescue for t
hem. And yet they hurry as fast as we do.
They stayed close to the bank where the water was shallow, and soon even Thorgrim could hear the sound of the horses. It grew louder with each second and then it stopped, which meant the riders had reached the river bank. Soon they would be swarming over Sea Hammer.
“Into the trees, everyone into the trees!” Thorgrim hissed. They had almost reached the bend in the river which would have hidden them from the Irish men-at-arms, but not quite. They splashed ashore and pushed their way through the bracken and in among the trees, the forest cool and damp and dark, and they were hidden from view. It was no great difficulty to hide them all. They were only ten men and two prisoners. Ten men, all that was left of the crews of four longships.
Thorgrim was bringing up the end of the column and he came last into the woods, but rather then push on he stopped and turned, crouching to make himself invisible, and looked back upstream, back toward his ship and his dead.
The Irish were coming over the bank and spreading out along the shore. They wore mail and had weapons drawn. There were only twenty or so, but they would have been enough to kill all of Thorgrim’s men, exhausted and wounded as they were.
For a few minutes the Irish moved cautiously along the river bank, ready for a surprise attack if it came, but soon they realized there would be no attack, that this was a camp of the dead, and there was no Northman there who could hold a sword any longer. Thorgrim saw weapons go back into scabbards. He saw the Irishmen cutting purses off Norse belts.
Then he saw a few men climb aboard Sea Hammer and that, to him, was the most intolerable of all, as if they had profaned a temple, as if they had put one of their crosses on an alter to Thor. They were on his ship, his sacred ship. They were violating his beloved vessel.
Glendalough Fair Page 36
