The unwise man
is awake all night,
worries over and again.
Hávamál
T
he spear thrust did not kill Harald Thorgrimsson. He was born of the stock of Thorgrim Night Wolf and Ornolf the Restless and it would take more than one battle wound to bring him down. But soon after, the fever set in, the silent murderer in the night. It frightened Thorgrim far more than the gaping, bleeding wound to Harald’s shoulder. The wound was a physical rent to the body, it was what it was. But the fever was brought by spirits he could not see, and did not know how to fight.
They were held in a big room inside the stockade fort, a room used as some sort of garrison eating hall, Thorgrim guessed, judging by its size and by the heavy table that ran most of its length. No sooner had they been captured on board Red Dragon than they were dragged to that place, Harald shrieking with pain as they hauled him by his arms, Thorgrim, all but unconscious, his head spinning, trying to fight back, his son’s screams worse than knife thrusts.
Magnus’s soldiers had tossed them into the big room. The rest of the Red Dragon men were already there.
Of the sixty-three men who had sailed with Ornolf the Restless into Dubh-Linn, fifty-one remained. Two had managed to drink themselves to death on Magnus’s free mead. Nine who had woken, as Thorgrim had, with spear points to their throats, had come up fighting. Between them they killed twelve of Magnus’s men dead before they were hacked down. Four more had been tossed wounded into the prison.
The eating hall was not an ideal cell, since it had several windows as well as the door, but it was most likely the only single room big enough to hold them all.
For three days they festered in prison. Their circumstances were grim. The food was putrid and scarce. The wounded could do no more than suffer with what little care their fellows were able to provide. Two of them teetered at the gates of Valhalla, with no hope of a proper send off.
Ornolf the Restless spent most of the time raging, but with nothing fermented to drink his raging took on a decidedly morose and self-pitying tone, even if it lost nothing in volume. What their fate would be, they did not know. No one came to the prison, save for the thrall who brought their food.
But for all that, Thorgrim Ulfsson kept the men in good cheer. That was part of his genius, when the sun was up and the spirit of the wolf was not upon him.
On their fourth day as prisoners, Thorgrim climbed up onto the table. It was part of their daily routine now.
“I have a verse,” he shouted, “about our great Battle of the Mead Hall.” That was what, with grim irony, they had come to call the drunken night on which they had been betrayed.
“Let’s hear it, Thorgrim!” shouted Snorri Half-Troll, and the others agreed. Nothing, Thorgrim understood, held the men together so well as a sense of shared history, and nothing gave them that sense better than verse, even ironic verse. It was as much a part of the Norsemen as fighting and farming.
Thorgrim spoke in the loud, clear voice of the skald.
Bold Ornolf stood,
more like god than man.
And any drinking horn
or woman come to hand
so he boldly took them on
until with heavy brow
and penis limp
he fell, as ever warrior in battle did.
The men were smiling now, their misery for the moment forgotten. They shouted approval. Thorgrim let them yell. It was a release for them, and it gave him a chance to think of what he would say next. Thorgrim generally made his verse up on the spot.
And round about him came
the eaters of the dead
and feasted they on Ornolf’s flesh
and blood, thick with mead which
still through his body ran
until those very Valkyries
fell drunk...
For ten more minutes Thorgrim extemporized his heroic verse until all the men were smiling and even Ornolf seemed somewhat amused. That would bolster them for a while. Their spirits were like a sinking ship, and Thorgrim held the only bucket. He bailed as much as he could, but he did not know how long he could hold out.
He climbed down from the table. Harald and the other wounded men were arranged in a far corner, made as comfortable as possible on cloaks and tunics offered up by the others. Thorgrim stopped by each man, asked how they were doing, offered some words of encouragement. Giant-Bjorn, a spear wound deep in his stomach, another in his chest, was beyond talking. Thorgrim put a hand on his pale skin, thinking he had finally passed on, but his flesh was warm still. Giant-Bjorn still hung on to life with a stubbornness that had always been his.
Thorgrim came at last to Harald, his face flushed red and beaded with sweat, he breathing raspy. Thorgrim’s stomach twisted up and he clenched his teeth to keep his face from showing what his heart felt. His boy, his beloved boy.
Thorgrim tried to show no preference for Harald. He tried to treat all the men, all the wounded, the same. It was how Harald wanted it, nor was it right for a man to show favoritism to his son, when his son was one among many warriors.
There was another reason as well. Thorgrim did not want their captors, Magnus or Orm, to know that Harald was his son and Ornolf’s grandson. They would use Harald to get to the leaders. Torture him, kill him in front of Thorgrim and Ornolf, whatever it took. And if they did that, Thorgrim genuinely did not know what would happen. It would not be good, in any event.
He knelt beside Harald, as he had with the others.
“How are you, boy?”
Harald opened his eyes. “I’m fine...” Thorgrim had warned him not to say “father” as long as they were prisoners.
Thorgrim nodded. The boy was not fine. The fever was eating him alive. Thorgrim picked up one of the charms he had arranged around the boy’s bed, a small silver hammer of Thor, and rubbed it between his fingers. It was not helping, nor were his prayers to Odin or Thor. He would have made a sacrifice to the gods if there was anything in the prison to sacrifice. Thorgrim had considered offering himself up to the gods, finding something with which to cut his own throat, but the thought of leaving Harald and the others to Ornolf’s leadership alone dissuaded him.
I know a hundred ways to kill a man, but nothing of saving one, Thorgrim goaded himself.
Something had to be done or Harald would die. Thorgrim rested his hand gently on Harald’s arm. “You rest, boy. Sleep, that’s the best medicine.” Thorgrim did not know if that was true, but it was the only medicine he knew.
When Harald had closed his eyes and his breathing became more regular, Thorgrim unlaced his goatskin shoe and pulled it off. Hidden in pockets on the inside were six gold coins. He fished one out and pulled his shoe on again.
The eating hall was ringed with guards since the room itself was none too secure. Thorgrim stepped up to one of the windows, looked right and left. What he saw was not encouraging. Hard, pitiless men with swords, spears and shields.
He moved on to the next window and there he saw a likely candidate, a man whose face did not carry that edge of cruelty.
“Hey, there!” Thorgrim said in a loud whisper. “Hey!”
The guard turned and scowled, but there was less malice in the expression than the man had intended. “What?”
“Come here.”
The guard glanced around. None of the others seemed to care. It was not the first time the prisoners had spoken to the guards, so the man approached.
“I have wounded men in here who have not been cared for,” Thorgrim began. “I’m afraid for their lives.”
The guard could not help but smile at that. “You should be afraid for all your lives, all of you Norwegian pirates.”
“No doubt. But I still have to do what I can. Is there anyone in the longphort skilled with medicine?”
The guard frowned. Thorgrim held up the gold coin. The guard’s eyes went a little wide, though he tried to control himself.
“This is all I have,” Thorgrim said
. “Bring someone who can help my men, and it’s yours.”
The guard nodded slowly. “There is someone,” he said.
They came for the leaders before anyone came to help Harald. Later that day the door opened and Thorgrim looked up, hoping to see his guard leading an old crone, her basket of healing herbs on her arm. But instead he saw armed men barging in the door, with spears held ready, and they looked as if healing was the last thing they had in mind.
Thorgrim stood as the guards entered. Behind them came a big man, with the presence of command, and Thorgrim guessed this was the Dane, Orm, whom Magnus had mentioned. And behind him stood Magnus himself, and beside Magnus, the fat man whose finger Thorgrim had nearly broken.
“Forgive me,” Orm said, arms spread in a magnanimous gesture, “I hope I am not interrupting anything important.”
Thorgrim spit on the floor. “More important than talking to the likes of you.” He looked past Orm, past the others, hoping to see some avenue of escape. But there were enough armed men beyond the door to make it impossible.
“I imagined you would think so,” Orm said. “But still I must insist we talk.” He turned to the men behind him. “Is this the man?”
The fat one, with a smug look on his face, nodded. “Yes, this is the man who was in command of the longship. The one who attacked me.”
“Very well,” Orm began but Magnus cut him off.
“Wait, my Lord.” He looked Thorgrim in the eye and Thorgrim met his gaze. “This man is not in command. He is second. That man,” Magus pointed to Ornolf, who was slumped on the bench beside the table, “is the jarl Ornolf, and he is in command.”
“And you told me Ornolf is an old fool, and this Thorgrim is the clever one,” Orm said.
“Exactly,” said Magnus. “And I would rather try to get information from a fool than a clever man.”
That seemed to stir Ornolf “Fool?” he roared, getting to his feet. “Give me my sword and we will see who the fool is!”
Orm ignored the request. Instead, he nodded toward Ornolf, and the guards grabbed the jarl up by the arms and half pushed and half dragged him toward the door.
“I’ll rip your lungs out, all of you, you bastards!” Ornolf shouted as he was taken from the room.
Orm stepped up to Thorgrim so their faces were just inches apart. For a moment he said nothing, just seemed to study Thorgrim’s face, and Thorgrim stared back.
“We’ll see what your jarl has to say,” Orm said at last, “and then you and I will talk.” He turned and stepped out of the room. One of the guards slammed the door and Thorgrim stood looking at the rough wood.
He had not counted on this. He had always imagined they would take him, but they had taken Ornolf instead.
What will Ornolf tell them? Thorgrim wondered. Would he tell Orm everything? And if he did, what reason would there be then to let any of them live?
Chapter Twelve
Often it’s best
for the unwise man
to sit in silence.
Hávamál
O
rnolf the Restless lay in a great fat heap on the floor. After a moment he managed to push himself up on his arms and glare with the one eye that would still open at the Danes who surrounded him. He spit a glob of bloody mucus on the floor.
“You are all a lot of sons of whores... I’ll rip your lungs out, you bastards...” he gasped through split and bleeding lips. And then Orm kicked him in the side of the head and he went down again.
Magnus was impressed. The old man had taken hours of this abuse, alternately worked over by himself and Orm and the two guards. And for all that he had given away practically nothing, and his defiance had not wavered a bit.
That last kick knocked him out cold, and for a moment Orm stood panting and looking down at his motionless form.
“Is he dead?” Magnus asked.
Orm nudged him with his foot. Ornolf groaned a bit.
“Water, here,” Orm said and one of the guards stepped up with a bucket, dashed it in Ornolf’s face. The jarl opened his eyes. Orm crouched down and grabbed him by his long gray and red hair.
“Are you part of a Norwegian fleet? Olaf the White’s fleet?” Orm asked. He had asked it so often that Magnus had lost count. He was sick of hearing the question. Ornolf, apparently, was sick of denying it.
“Yes, we’re part of Olaf’s fleet! A thousand longships! We’re going to tie you down and take turns buggering you to death, you son of a whore!” He voice was surprisingly strong for someone in as much pain as he must be in.
Orm let go of the hair and Ornolf’s head hit the floor. Magnus folded his arms and regarded the old man. He had denied being a part of any fleet and Magnus, for one, believed him. Orm probably did too, but he was too afraid of Norwegian vengeance to let it go at that. Besides, he enjoyed this sort of questioning.
Orm kicked Ornolf in the stomach and elicited another groan. “By Thor, I’ll have you disemboweled and burned at the stake for piracy, raiding a Danish ship, if you don’t tell me the truth.”
It was not an idle threat, Magnus knew. He had seen Orm do it to more than a few men and he would probably do it to Ornolf. But the punishment would have nothing to do with their raiding the Danish trader. No one cared about that. It would be to make Ornolf, or his men, admit to being part of a Norwegian fleet, or, barring that, to make sure that they never would be.
Magnus had his own interest in the interrogation. The Crown of the Three Kingdoms. It had not occurred to Orm that these men might have found the curragh when Magnus could not, but it had occurred to Magnus, and Ornolf’s near slip of the tongue had all but confirmed it in Magnus’s mind.
Magnus had carried out a systematic search of the longship, in the early hours, while Asbjorn still slept and Orm was busy with other matters. Under the guise of searching for some evidence of treachery, he and his men all but tore the ship apart. Every deck plank was ripped up, every dark corner explored. They found discarded bones, a few coins, a little statue of Thor that had fallen down behind the afterdeck. But they found no crown.
Orm crouched down and looked closely at the bleeding Ornolf. He straightened. “This one is useless. We’ll get no more out of him.”
“Leave him for me,” Magus said. “I’ll let him rest a bit, and then try again.”
Orm turned his eyes from Ornolf to Magnus. Orm, Magnus knew, saw treachery everywhere. Hardly a surprise. There was treachery everywhere.
“What more do you think you’ll get out of him?”
Magnus shrugged. “I’ll know when I get it out of him.”
Orm wavered, his near complete distrust of Magnus wrestling with his desire to get some genuine information out of the fat jarl.
“Very well,” Orm said at last. “Let me know if this pig says anything of interest.” And with that he marched quickly out of the room.
Magnus watched him go, then took a seat, relaxing as he waited for Ornolf to regain a little strength. The Crown of the Three Kingdoms represented as great a threat to Orm’s rule as any Norwegian fleet. It was why Orm was so desperate to get it. And why, if he discovered its whereabouts, Magnus intended to keep it to himself.
It was past dark, and the spirit of the wolf had Thorgrim in its teeth, when the door opened.
Thorgrim was leaning against the back wall, near where Harald lay tossing and sweating. The rest of the men had moved away, leaving open ground between themselves and their irritable second in command.
At the sound of the creaking door Thorgrim looked up. They had returned Ornolf a few hours before, beaten worse than Thorgrim had ever seen him beaten before, and Thorgrim had seen Ornolf the Restless pretty well thrashed. He imagined they were coming for him now. He was not feeling very cooperative.
A guard came in first, sword in his right hand, a guttering seal-oil lamp in his left. Some of the sleeping men stirred and grunted as the feeble light spread around the room. Thorgrim recognized the man to whom he had offered gold. The guard stepped aside and
a woman came in behind him, all but lost under a cloak and hood, and Thorgrim leapt to his feet.
“I’ve brought a healer,” the guard said when Thorgrim approached. He shut the door behind him. He looked nervous. Thorgrim was not sure if he was more afraid of the prisoners inside or his fellow guards out.
Thorgrim took the lamp and despite a near overwhelming urge to drive the sharp end of the lamp’s base through the man’s heart, handed him the gold coin he had promised, and then a second. “Here is another, which one of my men offered,” Thorgrim said with forced control. “You have our thanks.”
The guard nodded and he looked pleased despite the concern on his face and Thorgrim was glad, because here was a man he might need again. “This thrall’s safety is in your hands,” the guard said and with that he was gone through the door.
Thorgrim turned to the healer as she reached up and pulled back the hood of her cape. Thorgrim had expected a stooped and wrinkled old crone - among the Norse such women were generally the healers - but this woman was not. She was young, not much beyond twenty, Thorgrim guessed, and pretty, despite being a bit on the thin side with somewhat overly large eyes.
She looked at him and there was a touch of defiance in her expression, and had she been a man that might have caused trouble with Thorgrim in his present mood. But a woman, and moreover a woman who might heal Harald, was different.
“My name is Morrigan,” the woman said. “I am Orm’s slave.”
“You are not a Dane,” Thorgrim observed. She spoke the Norse tongue, but her accent was otherwise.
“No. I am Irish.”
“How do you come to speak our language?”
“When my brother and I were young, we lived among you Norsemen in Jelling. And now I am a slave to the Norsemen. First slave to the fin gall, and now to Orm.” She did not try to hide the bitterness there. Thorgrim knew that the Irish, generally, made good, docile thralls. But apparently not this one.
Fin Gall (The Norsemen) Page 7
