Chapter Four
Wake early
if you want
another man’s life or land.
Hávamál
T
horgrim Ulfsson dreamed of wolves.
He dreamed of wolves often. In his dreams he could not see himself, but he saw the other wolves, his eyes level with theirs, and he ran with them, swift and tireless.
He woke exhausted from these dreams. Sometimes there was blood, but he did not know where it came from.
Now he saw himself running with the wolves, and his eyes burned like the red eyes of the other beasts in the pack. They raced though thick forest, trees like giants barely seen in the dark. Thorgrim could smell the pack close by, could hear the snarls from canine throats, the muted padding of their feet on the forest floor.
There was something in his mouth. It was bloody and warm and the sensation of it excited him. Something freshly killed. And he alone had it.
Then suddenly he was no longer running. He was stopped, and there were other wolves around him, not his pack, but wolves he did not know and they were turning on him. He could see teeth flash in moonlight and heard the angry growls. The pack closed in, wary but deliberate, and Thorgrim backed away. He needed his teeth to fight, but he did not want to drop the thing in his mouth. He tried to make a noise but he could not.
Then they were on him, and he had a sensation of hot breath and matted fur, fangs snapping at him, a dozen angry mouths closing on him, and he kicked and shook and tried to fight, but still he would not drop the bloody thing in his mouth.
Then Thorgrim was awake. Sudden, like stepping through a door. One instant he was fighting the wolf pack, and in the next he was lying in his furs on the afterdeck of the longship. The night was cold, the rain falling as a light mist, but Thorgrim was coated in sweat. His breath was coming fast and hard, as if he had been running.
For some time he lay there, eyes wide, body motionless. The wolf dreams left him exhausted, and weak, as if he was coming out of a long illness.
Through the dark and the fog he could barely make out the loom of the mast overhead, the rigging hanging in long sweeping arcs. They had run the longship into a little bay just as the night came down on them, hauling the bow up on a shingle beach and securing the ship with a line ashore. They ate, drank to near insensibility, fell into thick sleep on the deck.
Thorgrim listened to the night. The bow of the ship made a grinding noise on the pebbles as the stern lifted and sank with the incoming waves. The wind was still strong, playing around the rigging and the furled sail. The water slapped at the hull.
He thought of the wolves.
After some time he roused himself and sat up. Harald was asleep beside him, flat on his back, his mouth open. The cut on his cheek made a dark line across his white skin. He was not a pretty boy, but handsome in his way, and broad and strong. Thorgrim loved him deeply. He worried about Harald more than he would ever let Harald know.
For a moment Thorgrim just sat and watched his son sleep, then he tossed the heavy fur off and crawled out from under it. He was wearing only his tunic and leggings and he shivered in the cold, wet air. The snoring and muttering of three score sleeping men sounded like a pack of rooting animals, but Thorgrim hardly heard it, it was so much a part of the night. He moved cautiously around the heaps of fur spread like little burial mounds around the deck, the warriors at sleep. He came at last to the largest mound - fittingly, the jarl, Ornolf the Restless.
Thorgrim shook Ornolf and got only a slight grunt for his effort. He had no illusions about how difficult it would be to stir his father-in-law. As usual, Ornolf had been foremost in the feasting and drinking. Some of the men who had tried to match him, drink for drink, were still sprawled out on the beach. Some might even be dead.
Thorgrim shook him again. “Ornolf...” he said, soft, then shook harder. Five minutes of shaking and whispering finally got Ornolf’s eyes open. A minute later he was sitting up.
“Thorgrim...what?”
“Come with me.”
With a fair amount of groaning, puffing and cursing, Ornolf extracted himself from his furs and followed Thorgrim aft. On the larboard side, right aft with the steering board, Thorgrim’s sea chest was lashed to the deck. He stopped there, kneeled beside it and Ornolf did the same. Thorgrim waited to see that none of the others were awake. He waited for Ornolf to catch his breath.
“There was something on the curragh,” Thorgrim said, speaking in just a whisper. “Something I did not think the others should see.”
He opened his sea chest slowly, reached under the wool cloaks and tunic until he felt the rough canvas. He pulled the bundle out slowly. He meant to unwrap it, to show it to Ornolf, but Ornolf took it from his hands and unwrapped it himself, which annoyed Thorgrim, though he did not know why.
There was little enough light, with the storm still blotting out the moon and stars, but there was light enough for Ornolf to appreciate what he held. The jarl was silent as he turned the crown over in his hands, ran his fingers over the delicate engraving. “I’ve never seen its like,” he said at last.
“Nor I.”
“This alone will give us a profit from our voyage. But what will we do with it? I doubt there is coin enough in all of Ireland to match the value of this crown.”
Thorgrim shook his head. “It wouldn’t be wise to try to sell it. I don’t think it would be wise to bring it into Dubh-Linn at all.”
Ornolf looked up from the crown for the first time since taking it in his hands. “Why not?”
“I think this is more than some king’s trinket. There is some meaning to it. There were twenty Irish noblemen on board the curragh, and they gave their lives to protect this crown. It was the only thing of value they carried.”
“Bah. Irishmen. Who knows why any of them do what they do?”
Thorgrim frowned. He had hoped he would not have to say what he now had to say. “I saw in a dream...that others would want to take this from us. They will kill us for it.”
In the dark, Thorgrim could see Ornolf’s eyes grow wide. “You saw the crown...in your dream?”
“No. But it was there, I could sense it.”
“Wolves?”
Thorgrim nodded.
“Very well,” Ornolf said. He needed no more convincing. “What would you have us do?”
“Let’s bury it ashore. You and me. Right now. Tell no one else. There it will be safe while we find its secret.”
Ornolf nodded his head, considering. “Very well,” he said.
Thorgrim went back to his bedding and retrieved his weapons. Like any good Norseman, he had been raised with the adage, “never walk away from home ahead of your ax and sword”. He would no more go anywhere without his weapons than he would without his clothes.
In the longship’s hold he found a shovel and lifted it slowly, careful to make no noise. This was good, what they were doing. He did not know why, exactly, but he knew it was good.
Chapter Five
By the Prince’s Truth fair weather comes in each fitting season...
Testament of Murand
Ancient Irish Morality Tale
H
unched against the cold, his cloak pulled up over his helmet and his mail shirt, Máel Sechnaill mac Ruanaid, of the clan Uí Néill, stood in the dark in the down-pouring rain. Round about him were his bodyguards, that small, elite band of fighting men, the core of the kingdom’s professional soldiers. Behind the bodyguard were men of the houseguard. They were, in all, twenty men-at-arms.
Máel Sechnaill was the rí ruirech, the high king of Tara, heart of the Irish kingdom of Brega, and could summon an army of hundreds, perhaps more than a thousand, if he needed them. But twenty was enough for the night’s business.
The soldiers shuffled a bit, uncomfortable in the weather, but they made no sound that would carry over the beating rain.
The men of the bodyguard were half Máel Sechnaill’s age, and Máel was careful to show no weakness around
them. If the others began to flag on a march, Máel Sechnaill increased his pace. If a man was sleepy on watch, Máel Sechnaill stood watch with him. When an Irish king appeared weak, or crippled by age, then the aspirants to his throne, or the rulers of neighboring kingdoms, would be on him like a pack of wolves.
Máel heard movement through the brush ahead. The bodyguard tensed, spears came up to the ready, and the front guardsmen stepped up on either side of their king, as was their proper position. A voice called out, the messenger still unseen in the dark and rain.
“Flann mac Conaing, come back, my Lord.”
“Come,” one of the guardsmen replied. Flann mac Conaing, chief councilor and head of the bodyguard, resolved out of the dark, a black shape carrying sword and shield. He, too, wore mail, a luxury limited to the king and the elite ranks of his people. Two men of the bodyguard followed behind Flann.
“My Lord,” Flann said with a quick bow. “They are laying in wait still, but I see signs they are preparing to leave. Ten men in all.”
Máel Sechnaill nodded. “How are they armed?”
“Swords, axes, spears and shields. Two have mail.”
“Very well.” Máel turned to the bodyguard. “They are abandoning their watch, but they may give us answers still. We follow Flann mac Conaing. Be quick. They’re better armed than us. Let the ones wearing mail live.”
Máel Sechnaill drew his sword - like the mail, it was the province of the elite - and headed after Flann. It had been a year or more since he had carried his sword into combat. It was many years since he had fought in a nameless little skirmish such as this, but this fight was different. The men they were hunting did not belong to some pathetic band of thieves, out stealing cattle. They were a threat to Tara, and the kingdom of Brega itself, and Máel Sechnaill could afford no failure.
The Irishmen moved silent though the dark, the mud sucking at their soft leather shoes. Rain dripped from the edge of Máel’s helmet and he blinked and wiped his face. To his left, Máel could see the high ground on which ran the road from the kingdom of Leinster, south of the River Liffey, to Tara. It was along that road that any delegation from Leinster would have to travel.
Flann mac Conaing held up his arm, crouched low, headed off to his right, gesturing for the other guardsmen to go to the left. Máel Sechnaill followed behind the guardsmen, crouching like Flann, his joints protesting the damp and the awkward position. But for all the discomfort, he reveled in the stealth of the attack. This is what they could do, the Irish, move unseen through the dark. Their enemies were bears, powerful and blundering, but they were foxes, swift and cunning.
They slipped over the road, nearly crawling, the mud splattering in their faces, half tumbled down the bank on the other side. A thicket of coarse brush grew along the road, good coverage, which is why the enemy had chosen that spot.
The guardsmen led the way, and a moment later Máel Sechnaill could see them, the watchers crouched by the road forty feet away, their eyes looking south. Máel stepped up. He would take the lead now. With gestures he spread the guardsmen out until they formed a line, spears held at waist height. “Stand ready,” he said, softly.
Máel turned and faced the enemy, adjusted the grip on his sword. He could feel his heart pounding, the blood coursing through him. The aches and soreness were gone - he was no longer a fifty-year-old king, but a young prince, vital and strong, fearless, bold.
He raised the sword, took a step forward and another and the bodyguard moved in unison with him. He was slowed by the mud, but not too much. He felt a battle cry build in his throat. He was twenty feet from the enemy before they realized something was amiss. Dark shapes turned to meet them, revealing white faces - in the muted light Máel could see expressions of shock and surprise. The battle cry flew from his mouth, a long, keening wail, and at his side the bodyguard shouted as well.
The Irish rolled into the enemy with a momentum that could not be checked. To his left Máel saw one of the watchers stand, a huge man with ax raised, shouting in his Norse tongue, but before he could even swing the ax he was skewered on the end of an Irish spear.
Another loomed in front of him. Máel Sechnaill had a glimpse of a thick yellow beard, helmet, mail. He parried a sword thrust, lunged, felt the tip of his sword scrape on links of iron.
The Viking knocked Máel’s sword aside with his shield, slashed at his attacker and Máel deflected the blow with his own shield. Among all the Irish, Máel was the only one whose weapons were a match for the Vikings, but that did not matter because the Irish had surprise and numbers on their side.
Máel slashed at the Viking and their swords met with a ringing sound, a jarring impact that was painful. Máel saw another of his men charging, spear level at the Viking’s throat and he stepped in, pushed his own man aside.
“Alive! I want this one alive!” the Irish king shouted.
Then more of the bodyguard were there, behind the Viking and on either side of him, spears level. The Viking looked around, his face was a mask of rage, and he roared out, but if they were words in his Northern tongue or just noise Máel Sechnaill could not tell.
The Viking swung his sword in a great arc and one of the bodyguard pounced, grabbed the mail-clad arm, pinning it back. Another grabbed the shield, and for all his rage and struggle the Viking was pulled down, shouting and thrashing, the bodyguard barely in control.
Máel Sechnaill stepped up, stood above the struggling men. He reached out with the tip of his sword and scribed a long flesh wound across the Viking’s throat, just deep enough to be painful, and that seemed to have a calming effect on the man. He ceased struggling, looked up at Máel Sechnaill, eyes wide, mouth open. He spit out some words, but to the Irish king they were babble.
Flann mac Conaing appeared on the road above, his mail shirt making a metallic rustling as he moved. He climbed and slid down the embankment to Máel Sechnaill’s side.
“We had one killed, two wounded, slightly, my lord,” Flann reported. “The Norsemen are all killed. Forgive me, the one wearing mail was killed by accident.”
“No matter,” Máel said. “We have this one.” He pointed at the now motionless Viking sprawled at his feet. The men who had brought him down were now standing on either side of him, their feet pinning his arms and legs.
“Remove his helmet,” Máel ordered, and they did, but still Máel saw only defiance in the man’s eyes. For a moment the Irish king was silent, staring into that foreign face. They were a plague on his land, these fin gall, these white strangers. He turned to Flann. “Did you find anything?”
“No, my lord. Some food, weapons, nothing more.”
Máel nodded. “Ask him where he is from.”
Flann, who was well-traveled and had spent enough time in the Norse countries to have a decent command of the language, turned and spoke to the man on the ground. For a moment the man just looked at him, his expression pure hatred. Then he spat out a single word.
“He says ‘Jelling’, my lord, which is in the Danish country.”
Máel stepped up and smacked the side of the man’s head with the flat of his sword, hard enough to make the man grunt with pain. “Ask him again.”
Again the Viking answered with a single word. “Dubh-linn.”
“Ask him how he knew that a delegation from Leinster would pass by this way.”
Flann translated the words. “He says they knew nothing of any delegation. They were looking for travelers to rob.”
That was a lie and not a terribly convincing one. When the Norsemen raided the Irish countryside they did it in large bands, on horseback. They sacked monasteries and kings’ halls. They did not lie in wait in the brush by a roadside, where they might be lucky to capture half a dozen cows driven to market.
Máel Sechnaill held his sword straight out, the blunt tip an inch from the Norseman’s eye. The prisoner jerked and twisted his head, but he could not move far, and always the tip of the sword was there.
“Tell him he loses his left eye fir
st, then the right.”
Flann translated, and the Viking seemed to understand that he had pushed the king’s patience to its limits. The words poured out.
“He say that he was ordered by Orm, who is king of Dubh-linn,” Flann said when the Viking had stopped at last. “They were to lie in wait until a group of men passed, not peasants, but men from a royal court. They were to kill them all and take what they carried.”
“And what was it they carried?” Máel asked.
The Norseman gave a single word.
“A crown,” Flann said.
For a long moment Máel Sechnaill stared at the Viking, but his thoughts were elsewhere. The Crown of the Three Kingdoms... How did this foreign whore’s son know about it? Does he know what it means?
“Ask him how he knows about the crown. Why he thought it would be passing this way?”
Flann asked, and translated the answer, which was that the man did not know any of that, that he was doing as he had been told by his king.
They worked on him for a bit, with their feet and the flat of Máel’s sword, but his answer did not change, and Máel came to believe he was telling the truth. Clearly Orm knew what the crown meant, and he would not be so stupid as to make that information generally known.
So the question was, how did Orm know? And what did it mean that he did?
Máel Sechnaill looked at the Norseman at his feet. His first instinct was to drive the point of his sword through the man’s throat. He actually stepped up to do it when he heard in his head the harangue of his irascible old priest, lecturing in his cracked voice about forgiveness and what not.
“Bind him up,” Máel said, stepping back. “By the mercy of Christ we will let him live.”
Slavery rather than death, the Viking could count himself a lucky man. Perhaps some backbreaking labor in the king’s fields would help his memory.
Fin Gall (The Norsemen) Page 3
