Glendalough Fair: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga) (Volume 4)

by James L. Nelson

  They held one another’s blades, just for an instant, than Louis twisted his wrist and brought the flat of his sword down hard on Lochlánn’s hand. Lochlánn shouted in pain and dropped his sword. Louis stepped in once again and once again hit the young man hard on the rump, then grabbed his arm, spun him around and kicked him in that same place which sent him sprawling to the ground.

  “Hmmm,” Finnian said, looking down at Lochlánn, who had turned over and was glaring up at the two of them. “I am happy you did not harm Brother Louis. Now run along and please think twice before you treat any of the other boys like they’re your slaves to be beaten and ordered about.”

  Lochlánn scowled at Finnian and then at Louis. He looked as if he was going to say something but thought better of it, scrambled to his feet and made his way from the stable as quickly as his last bit of dignity would allow.

  “Thank you, Brother,” Finnian said to Louis. He bent over and retrieved Lochlánn’s sword. “I fear young Brother Lochlánn will not learn all he should from that lesson, but it’s a start.”

  “He might,” Louis said. “He might not. I’ve seen plenty of his sort. Some turn out well. No doubt he’ll be one.” He tried and failed to put some conviction in his voice.

  “We must pray for him,” Finnian said with considerable more sincerity on his tone.

  More prayer, Louis thought. Compline, vespers, mass, all we do is pray, I haven’t the energy for one more.

  “Are you still in need of me?” Louis asked, and by that he meant, have I not paid off my debt to you for saving me?

  “Yes, there is more we need to discuss,” Finnian said in a tone that suggested this nonsense with Brother Lochlánn was but a prelude, that the real business was about to begin.

  Finnian gathered the swords, sheathed them and tucked them under his arm. “Please, Brother Louis,” he said, “come with me.” He made his way out of the stable with Louis following dutifully behind.

  This day has not been dull, Louis thought, and that at least is something.

  Chapter Ten

  I love not the gloomy waters

  Which flow past my dwelling

  Annals of Ulster, 846

  Louis was reluctant to leave the stable and subject his dry robe to the driving rain, but he followed Finnian without question. The distance they walked was blessedly short, short enough to avoid another soaking, and ten minutes later Louis found himself and Finnian seated in the abbot’s house, in the abbot’s room, in fact, the one in which he conducted his private business.

  They were alone; the abbot was not there. What right Finnian had to make use of the abbot’s chamber Louis did not know, but the priest had led him there and offered him a seat as if it was the most natural thing in the world, as if he were inviting Louis into his own home.

  Father Finnian was a mystery to Louis, and this incident in the stable with Brother Lochlánn made him even more so. He and Finnian were no more than passing acquaintances; how had Finnian know he would be able to handle Lochlánn as he had? If Lochlánn had bested him it would have sent the wrong message entirely, but Finnian did not seem to have been concerned about that possibility.

  Most of the monks and priests with whom Louis lived in Glendalough seemed of a sort, the sort he was accustomed to when it came to priests and monks. More humble and less worldly than those he knew in Frankia, but still of a sort. They went to vigil and lauds, sext, vespers and compline, they tended their fields and brewed their ale and baked their coarse bread. They lived the life that Louis imagined a monk or priest would live. But not Father Finnian.

  Sometimes Finnian was at Glendalough and sometimes he was not. Sometimes he was gone for a day or two and sometimes for weeks. He was open and friendly and gregarious, and for that reason it took Louis some time to realize that the man never revealed a thing about himself. It was intriguing, but Louis knew better than to ask. It would be hopelessly rude to do so, and pointless as well.

  “Better?” Finnian asked. He had added peat to the embers burning in the abbot’s small hearth and now the fire was blazing once again. The heat was delicious, almost painful, and that put Louis in mind of Failend’s nails digging into his shoulders, and he felt himself flush with embarrassment.

  I am becoming a monk, I swear to the Lord I am, he thought. There was a time when he would have shown off those lacerations to his fellow horse soldiers with pride, as if they had been had on the field of battle.

  “Yes, that is very nice, merci beaucoups,” Louis said.

  “Vous êtes les bienvenus,” Finnian replied. He stepped over to a small table against the wall, took two glasses of surprisingly nice crystal and poured wine from the abbot’s bottle. He handed a glass to Louis, took the other, and sat in the straight-backed chair facing him.

  Louis took a sip of the wine. Like the crystal, it was surprisingly good. He glanced around the room. It was part of a small stone-built structure with a beamed ceiling supporting a roof of thatch. The floor was covered in muddy rushes. The muted late afternoon light and the rain made the thick glass in the windows look as if it was painted gray on the outside. This was the private home of the abbot of one of the most important monasteries in Ireland. Louis smiled to himself.

  Upon learning of his exile, and resigning himself to the fact that he could not avoid it but could only hope to make it as short as possible, Louis had found comfort in knowing that he was going to Glendalough, a place he had heard of often, a seat of learning and a hub of Christian civilization in Ireland. He had imagined a soaring cathedral there, a sprawling town that surrounded it, and the many pleasing things that he would find that would help ease the misery of his condition.

  He had been surprised when he finally set eyes on the place, and not pleasantly so.

  Ireland, he found, was not Frankia. Louis de Roumois’s life had been lived in the great halls and castles and magnificent cathedrals that dotted his home like some natural part of the landscape. He was accustomed to high domed ceilings and intricately inlaid mosaic floors and stained glass windows that shone with the glory of God. He was used to the homes of counts and dukes that sprawled over acres of cleared land and towns that boasted of taverns and shops and all manner of civilization.

  He had found none of that on his arrival in Ireland, stepping off the wide-beamed trading ship on which he had taken passage and onto the dubious wharf of the sorry fishing village where they had made landfall.

  But this is not Glendalough, he thought, looking around in disgust. Glendalough will be something much finer than this. And it was. Glendalough was certainly a finer place than the fishing village. But it was not Paris or Rouen. Indeed, compared to those great cities of Frankia it might as well have been the fishing village. Riding down the muddy main road of Glendalough for the first time, he wanted to either laugh or cry. At first he had laughed. That morning, standing naked in the ally, he had finally been driven to tears.

  “You like the wine?” Finnian asked, a polite means of pulling Louis from his reverie.

  “Ah, yes, thank you,” Louis said, taking another sip. “Surprisingly good,” he added, realizing as the words left his mouth that they might be taken as an insult. He glanced at Finnian, but as usual the man showed no reaction.

  How is it you get to dole out the abbot’s wine? he thought. Perhaps if he could get enough of it into his stomach it would give him the courage to ask.

  “It is not as fine as what you have in Roumois, I think,” Finnian said.

  “Few things here are,” Louis said. His words sounded more bitter than he had intended, but again Finnian did not react, only looked into the flames and took another sip of wine.

  “Father…” Louis began and then stopped as he realized he had no idea what he was going to say.

  “Yes, Brother Louis?”

  “Are you…do you wonder…at how you found me?” Finnian still had not mentioned Louis’s having been walking stark naked toward the abbey in the driving rain. Now the priest just shrugged as if it was
a matter of indifference to him.

  “Do you…” Louis stammered on, “are you hoping to hear my confession?”

  “Hoping?” Finnian asked and Louis saw the flicker of a smile. “Do you wish to make a confession?”

  “No,” Louis said.

  “Then my answer would be no as well. But let me say if you do wish to make a confession…and it might be worth considering… then I would be happy to hear it.”

  Louis nodded. He had, of course, made many, many confessions in his life, though it was some years since he had been willing to articulate all his sins. He had made confessions since coming to Glendalough, but grudgingly. Now he realized that if he were to voluntarily make a confession, he would want to make it to Finnian. Something about the man invited honesty.

  But he did not want to make a confession.

  “Thank you, Father,” Louis said. “And I will seek you out when I feel the need for reconciliation.” He paused again for another sip and then added, “And thank you for rescuing me as you did.”

  “You’re welcome,” Finnian said. He paused a moment before continuing. “But now…and here’s my confession…it was not entirely for your own benefit that I gave you my cloak this morning. I have been looking for the chance to speak with you. And what better time than when you feel you are obligated to me?”

  Louis straightened a bit and looked more directly at Finnian, wary and intrigued all at once. He realized at that moment, with an insight that startled him, that it was not the smallness of Glendalough or the dreariness of the countryside or the labor of monastic life that so ground him down. It was the sameness of the days, the invariable routine that was driving him to madness.

  But here, possibly, was some new thing, and he perked up like a dog being offered a bone.

  “You are aware, I am sure, of the threat the heathens pose to all of Ireland,” Finnian continued. “They have plundered our coasts for a generation now. And they strike farther and farther inland.”

  “I am aware,” Louis said. “The heathens are not strangers to Frankia, either. But here…in your country…the Northmen build towns and the Irish suffered them to remain. The Irish trade with them. The…rí túaithe and the rí ruirech use them to fight one another. They use the heathens to help them in sacking Christian monasteries. Which the Irish seem to do as much as the fin gall.” Louis had been observing these things and pondering them for months now, and the words spilled from his mouth.

  Finnian nodded. “Yes, you’re right. In Frankia you have your several kings and you have your great wars. Here we have many kings and many little wars. I wish it was not so, but it is. However, those are the concerns of men far greater than me. Will you hear my own petty worries?”

  “Please, Father, speak,” Louis said. “I didn’t mean to distract with my pointless observations.”

  “I travel around quite a bit, as you know,” Finnian said, “on the abbot’s business. I hear things. And what I have heard is that the Northmen are intending to raid Glendalough. They did so before, years ago, and frankly I’m surprised they have not come back before now. But I hear…from people I trust…they will return soon, and it will be as if hell has opened up.”

  Louis de Roumois met Father Finnian’s gaze. The young novitiate showed no expression because he had learned from Ranulf, and learned well, that it was always better to keep one’s real thoughts hidden. The Northmen had never seemed like much of a threat to Glendalough. He had never really considered their coming there. But with Finnian’s words he felt the thrill of pending danger like a muscle he had not exercised in some time, like some delicacy, the taste of which he had nearly forgotten.

  “It will be like hell,” Louis said. “Worse. We can use prayer to defend us from hell, but they will have little effect on the Northmen, I think.”

  “You don’t think God will be our sword and shield?” Finnian asked.

  “We must pray he will. And we should also pray for the use of more earthly swords and shields. But why do you tell me of these things? I have no sword, no shield. I am now just a simple and peaceful man of God.”

  At that Finnian actually smiled. “Yes, you are. But you have not always been, have you? Before you came here, it was you who led your father’s men against the heathens who came to Roumois, was it not?”

  “It was,” Louis agreed. “But how do you know such things?”

  “We like to know something of our novitiates here. It helps us to shepherd them onto the right path.”

  Louis knew he would get nothing beyond that enigmatic answer, and Father Finnian spoke again before he could even try.

  “The Northmen are a grave threat to Glendalough, Brother,” he said. “I’ve seen what they can do. You have as well. We need someone who can lead our men against them. Someone who knows this business. You.”

  Louis looked into the fire and did not speak. He did not allow Father Finnian to see his spirit soaring, to sense the joy pumping like blood through his veins.

  He looked up, and when he spoke there was no emotion in his voice. “You wish me to lead the men? What men?”

  “I think you know very well what men we have,” Finnian said, and he was right. Louis had taken note of the few times the pathetic rabble had been gathered to drill with arms. It had been the most amusing thing he had seen since coming to Glendalough, but of course then it had been none of his concern.

  “Yes, I do,” Louis agreed. “Farmers and butchers and blacksmiths and the like. They are not men-at-arms. The Northmen will kill them all, and they will not even be out of breath when they are finished.”

  “Then you must teach them,” Finnian said, and before Louis could protest he added, “but there are other men to be had. The rí túaithe will send their house guards, trained men. I have the trust of Ruarc mac Brain who rules at Líamhain. From him I’m sure I can get two hundred men, good men. Warriors. Ruarc will consider the defense of Glendalough to be important enough for that. Would that do?”

  Louis considered that. Two hundred experienced warriors along with the handful already at Glendalough and the farmers and butchers to fill out the ranks.

  “Yes,” he said. “With those men I can fight the Northmen, as long as their numbers are not too great.”

  “Good,” Finnian said. “Then I will speak with the abbot and make the arrangements. And I’ll be off to speak with Ruarc mac Brain. We’ll call up your farmers and butchers and you can begin to train them in earnest.”

  “It will be my pleasure,” Louis said and he meant it. In the past few hours he had gone from deepest misery to the greatest happiness he had felt since arriving at Glendalough.

  “Oh, one other thing,” Finnian said. His attempt to make his words sound like an afterthought fell short, and Louis felt himself stiffen, waiting for what might come.

  “The thing of it is,” Finnian said, “neither I nor the abbot have the authority to actually put you in command. We can and will insist that you be given leave to direct the defenses of the monastery, and I have no doubt in the world our wishes will be respected. But nominal command must stay with the one who holds that office.”

  Louis was about to ask who the one in nominal command might be - the obvious question - but before he did, the answer came to him.

  Colman mac Breandan.

  “Actually, Father,” Louis said, “that might be a bigger problem than you think.

  Chapter Eleven

  I have traveled on the sea-god’s steed

  a long and turbulent wave-path

  Egil’s Saga

  On the day after Kevin mac Lugaed left Vík-ló, the sun came out and Kjartan Longtooth and his men were gone.

  It was first light when Harald brought the news to Thorgrim. The boy, vigilant to a fault, often woke before dawn to patrol around and see how things lay. Thorgrim approved. He used to do the same when he was Harald’s age, when rising from his bed was a more effortless proposal.

  “Father?” Harald said, soft enough to wake Thorgrim, not loud enou
gh to alarm him. “Father?”

  Thorgrim stirred, sat up. The sleeping chamber was awash in the gray dawn, enough that he could see Harald’s face without a lamp. “What is it?”

  “I was down by the river…” Harald began and Thorgrim could hear the reluctance in his voice. He wanted to tell the boy to just say what he had to say, but he held his tongue.

  “Dragon was gone from her mooring,” Harald continued. “I thought maybe she had dragged it, or broken free and drifted out to sea on the tide. So I went to get Kjartan but he was gone, and his weapons as well. And Gest and the rest of Kjartan’s men were gone, too.”

  Thorgrim flung off the fur that covered him and was on his feet in an instant, the rage that Harald feared already in full flower. “May the gods damn him, that son of a….” Thorgrim shouted and then stopped. He cocked his head and listened. Something was missing, some sound, some undercurrent of noise that had always been there and now was not.

  He turned to Harald. “Has it stopped raining?”

  “Yes,” Harald said, confused, apparently, by Thorgrim’s abrupt change of tone.

  “Really?” Thorgrim asked. “Does it threaten to rain again?”

  “No, father. The sky is clear. Or it seemed clear, anyway, but the sun was not yet up.”

  And then, as if Odin himself had opened the gates of Asgard to show it off to the world, a beam of sunlight came in through the chinks in the shutter on the eastern wall. Thorgrim stepped toward it, transfixed. It seemed more an unearthly vision than a shaft of light. He moved toward the door, faster with each step, jerked it open and stepped outside.

  To the east the sun was rising from the sea, blazing right down the plank road, spewing its brilliance from a point just above the horizon right to Thorgrim’s door. Steam was rising from the thatched rooves and the thousand puddles, great and small, scattered around the longphort. Thorgrim closed his eyes and felt the heat of the sun on his face, and suddenly the disappearance of Kjartan and one of the longships and fifty of the warriors from Vík-ló did not seem terribly important at all.