There were no guards at the door flap, which surprised him, but he was grateful for it. He reached the entrance and tossed the canvas aside, burst into the pavilion, one hand on the grip of his sword. A table took up most of the ground within. Its top was scattered with parchments, an ink stand, two tapers with flames dancing at their ends, a few pewter plates with remnants of bread and cheese and roast meat of some sort, a tankard, and behind the desk, Colman mac Breandan, hunched over a document.
Colman looked up as Louis came in. His face showed no expression, and that did not change at all as Louis approached. Colman said nothing. He looked down again and continued to read, as if Louis de Roumois’s entrance was a minor irritant, as if Louis was some buzzing insect that had momentarily distracted him.
Louis looked off to the right. Failend was there, seated in a folding chair, a fur across her lap. The light was dim inside the pavilion but there was illumination enough to see the dark bruise on the side of Failend’s face. The sight of it swirled up an ugly sediment of emotion; impotent rage, shame, disgust. Louis’s first instinct was to call Colman out on her behalf, to ignore his own grievances with the man and to rectify the terrible wrong that had been done Failend, a wrong that was as much his fault as Colman’s.
Their eyes met. Failend’s face was as blank as Colman’s but as he looked into her dark eyes Louis understood that if he fought Colman, he would not be sticking his sword in Colman’s gut for her sake, but for his own. Such an act would be as thoughtless and self-serving as was his rutting with her and then leaving her to her husband’s rage.
“Brother Louis,” Colman drawled. He had a way of coloring those two words with just the right tinge of irony to infuriate Louis de Roumois. Louis shifted his gaze from Failend to Colman, and tried to summon the rage he had felt before the sight of Failend’s damaged face had so confused his purpose. Colman was sitting straight in his chair now, as if he had finally finished with important business and could make time for this inconsequential visitor.
“Colman mac Breandan,” Louis said, taking a step toward the desk, putting as much menace as he could in the advance, though Colman seemed wholly unimpressed. “It’s a cowardly thing to send an assassin in the night. If you want to kill me, be a man and make your attempt face to face.”
Colman leaned back and the flicker of a smile moved over his lips, an expression which, if it was intended to drive Louis even closer to complete fury, succeeded beautifully. “An assassin, you say? An assassin came to kill you? Have you no friends at all in this world?”
Louis took another step forward, placed his hands on the table and leaned it, a move which elicited not a hint of a reaction from Colman. “You know full well an assassin came for me,” Louis said. “An assassin you sent.”
At that Colman actually chuckled. “If an assassin came for you he did a damned poor job,” he said. “You see, Brother Louis, this is why a man like me can never trust inferiors such as…well…yourself. If I wished to kill you, I would have most certainly done so myself, and you would most certainly be dead.”
“If you wish to kill me, do it face to face. I come here now to give you that chance.”
“If I wished to kill you I would have done it when you were standing limp-cocked and naked in my own home,” Colman said. “And perhaps I should have done. But I did not.”
Louis glared at Colman and tried to think of something to say, but the logic of Colman’s response stripped him of words. Of course, if Colman had wanted him dead, he could have killed him when he found him with Failend. Could have killed him quite easily, and likely suffered no consequences for doing so.
Perhaps you only decided later you wanted me dead, Louis thought, but he still possessed enough sense to see that arguing would only make him look foolish.
Louis straightened and waited for Colman to say something, but Colman, clearly enjoying the moment, allowed Louis to twist in the wind a bit longer.
“Very well,” Louis said at last, “you give your word as a gentleman you did not send the killer for me?”
Colman chuckled again. “A gentleman gives his word to another gentleman, not to a cretinous little turd like you,” he said. “It is enough for you that I tell you I did not send an assassin. It is, in fact, more than one of my station owes to one of yours.”
Louis pressed his lips hard together. In Frankia a man of Colman’s station would have been licking the boots of Louis de Roumois and asking for more. But they were not in Frankia. And he was no longer Louis de Roumois, but just Brother Louis now.
Colman let the silence hang a moment more, and then said, “You may go.”
And Louis could think of nothing more to say. Once again Colman had humiliated him in every possible way. Even remembering that he had put horns on Colman could not sooth Louis’ ego, because Colman did not seem to care.
Louis turned on his heel and headed for the door. He was reaching for the flap when Colman called, “Oh, yes, Brother Louis, come back here. There is business I forgot.”
At that, Louis could only shake his head. Colman was summoning him back, telling him “come”, as if he was a dog. Colman would not miss even the tiniest opportunity to heap indignity on him. The man was a master. But there was nothing for Louis to do but turn and stand before Colman again like an underling or a slave, and so he did just that.
“It seems,” Colman said, “that Father Finnian has decided you should have some position with the men-at-arms. Why, I can’t imagine, but Finnian has the abbot’s ear, and the abbot has influence with the rí túaithe, so there you are.”
“Yes,” Louis said. “Father Finnian spoke to me. As did the abbot.”
“So I see,” Colman said. He waved a hand at Louis. “And I see you are already wearing your soldier outfit. We’ll see if it suits you more than a monk’s robe. I’m afraid it will be harder to remove when the flames of passion overtake you.”
Louis said nothing. He knew better than to try and make a reply.
“Very well,” Colman continued. “You saw the ‘soldiers’ on the field as you came here, I have no doubt. Pray go and see to their training. It’s just past their breakfast so I imagine they are not yet too drunk to stand.”
For a long moment Louis stood staring at Colman. And then he spoke.
“You have no difficulties with this…arrangement?”
“…With this arrangement, my lord,” Colman prompted.
“My lord,” Louis added with just the faintest taste of irony, which Colman ignored.
“No, I have no difficulties. Assuming you are worth the victuals you consume. Why don’t you go show us if you are?”
Louis stared at him for a moment more. He, Louis de Roumois, the man who had bedded Colman mac Breandan wife, would now supersede Colman as leader of the men-at-arms because Colman was not up to the task. And Colman was not bothered by that? It made Louis very concerned indeed.
And, of course, there was the other thing. Colman said he had not sent the assassin and Louis believed him, which left unanswered the very pressing question of just who had.
Louis turned and left the pavilion.
Chapter Fifteen
You cannot know where false friends
May lurk in wait before you.
Hávamál
There was nothing more to see in the fishing village and nothing at all to plunder, so Thorgrim and his men and Kjartan and the others made their way back down the single rutted road toward the river. The sun was well down behind the mountains now, and the ridges glowed an odd red and orange. The shadows fell deep over that place of the dead and Thorgrim could sense the uneasiness in the ships’ crews.
Had they been facing twice their number of living warriors they would have felt no qualms, would have gone enthusiastically into such a fight. But to move past those silent homes and the stiff and blackening corpses in the road, and knowing that the spirits of the dead were not at rest, nothing like rest, was unsettling. And that meant the men would really hate the next orders he
had to give.
They reached the ships at last, Dragon tied starboard side to the wharf and Sea Hammer and Blood Hawk tied to her larboard side, and then Fox. Bersi and Skidi commanding Fox had had the good sense to throw out anchors up-current to relieve the tremendous pressure the four ships were putting on the sorry lash-up to which they were tied.
Good seamanship, Thorgrim thought. It was about as high a compliment as he could give a man.
The ships’ crews were more than happy to get back aboard their vessels, and those men left behind to guard the ships were happy to see them. Thorgrim, still standing on the wharf and out of earshot of the men, called Bersi, Kjartan and Skidi Battleax to join him.
“It’s too dark for us to move up river tonight,” he said, “and we don’t know enough of the current here to anchor in the stream, so we will remain tied to the wharf.” The others nodded. They were not happy, he knew, but they would not argue because they understood that Thorgrim’s decision was right. Thorgrim continued.
“Someone made a bloody mess of this village. Kjartan says he does not know who it was.”
All eyes turned to Kjartan who seemed suddenly surprised the be the center of their attention. “That’s right,” he said, almost stammering. “I don’t know who did this.”
“Whoever did,” Thorgrim said, “I don’t think they are a threat to us, I don’t think they are still around. But we would be fools to not be vigilant. Each ship will send ten men and we will post guards on the far side of the village in case an enemy thinks to move by night.”
Even in the failing light Thorgrim could see the uncertainty on the others’ faces. No one looked forward to asking men to step up for that task, to be separated from their fellows and their ship through the dark hours, with some unknown threat in front of them and the village of the dead at their backs.
Thorgrim faced another problem. He did not want to leave the ships because he feared the mischief the men might get into in his absence. He did not trust Kjartan any more now than he had at Vík-ló. Less, in truth. He saw the possibility of betrayal, or that the men’s fear of the spirits could overwhelm them.
But he also did not want the men to think he was unwilling to go into that place of the dead. Luckily, he had another means to show he was not afraid of whatever might be out there.
“My son, Harald, will lead the men from Sea Hammer,” he said, confident that not only would Harald do it, but he would be bitter if not allowed to. “Each of you pick your men, and a trusted man to lead them, and we will see them posted at any possible approach to the village.”
Twenty minutes later the sentries were gathered on the wharf, and an hour after that they were positioned in a cordon around the far side of the village, looking out toward the dark countryside beyond. Thorgrim and Bersi went with them to see they were well placed. They returned to the wharf with only the light of the waning moon to guide them. Kjartan was waiting for them.
“Thorgrim, Bersi,” he said. He voice had its usual confidence and swagger, but it carried a false note as well.
“Yes, Kjartan?” Thorgrim said. He was curious to see where this would lead.
“My men, as I said, were impetuous. All but forced me to leave Vík-ló when we did. I don’t want you, either of you, to think I deserted you, or had any other plans but to join you in this raid.” He paused, waiting for Thorgrim or Bersi to acknowledge those words, but neither man gave him the satisfaction, so he went on.
“It was always our intention, my intention, that we would join in this raid on Glendalough. Part of your army, Thorgrim. We would do so now, if that’s agreeable.”
Thorgrim and Bersi exchanged glances. They had not discussed this. They had not thought they would ever see Kjartan and his ship and men again. There was always an advantage in having more swords and axes if they met any real opposition, even if it did mean sharing the plunder among a greater number of men.
Bersi said nothing. He would leave the decision to Thorgrim, as Thorgrim guessed he would.
“Very well, Kjartan. I’ll not ask you to give an oath, but only to give your word that you’ll fight with us. And recognize that on this raid, I command.”
“Yes, yes, of course. I give my word to that,” Kjartan said, a little quickly.
“Very good,” Thorgrim said. He shook Kjartan’s hand, and Bersi did as well.
In truth, Thorgrim was happy to have Kjartan’s men with him to augment his force, but that was not the only reason he agreed to let them join in the raid. He was also curious. Kjartan was a lot of bad things; greedy, dishonest, untrustworthy. But the man was not a coward. Thorgrim had fought in the shield wall with him, and he knew Kjartan was brave enough in the face of even an overwhelming enemy. And yet now he was afraid, and Thorgrim wanted to know why.
The men said their good nights and Thorgrim stepped off the wharf, across Dragon’s deck, and onto his ship, which, though just launched days before, was already taking on a familiar and comforting aspect. He found his sleeping place in Sea Hammer’s stern and laid down on the furs piled there and felt the black mood come over him like a rising tide.
The black mood. It was a senseless rage that sometimes came on him when the sun went down, and it blotted out all reasonable thought. No one could approach him. When he slept he dreamed of wolves, and sometime the dreams let him see things others could not. Sometimes he woke up in a different place from where he had gone to sleep.
Some people believed he was a shape-shifter, that when the black mood enveloped him he would take on the form a wolf. But Thorgrim himself did not necessarily think that was true.
In Thorgrim’s younger days the black mood came over him almost every night, though he found that the older he grew, the less frequently he was tormented by it. But that night it was back.
For some time he looked up at the stars, the most familiar and unchanging things in all the world, as the anger came over him. Then he shucked off the covers, stood and looked out at the moonlight on the river. He watched as the water stopped its flood, grew slack and then reversed direction, flowing out into the sea and making the ships rafted to the wharf pull and strain on the anchor lines set over the bows.
Finally, as the first hints of dawn appeared over the eastern horizon, he laid down again and let sleep wash over him. He dreamed, but he did not dream of wolves, and it seemed like only moments later that he felt someone shaking him to consciousness.
Thorgrim opened his eyes. Segan was pointing to the men who had built a fire ashore and were cooking an oatmeal porridge for breakfast. Soon after, the sentries came in from their vigil with nothing to speak of, save for a pig that had been killed with a spear-thrust, mistaken for someone sneaking through the brush. There was no talk of eating the creature; they had a pretty good idea of what the pig had been dining on.
With breakfast finished they were underway once more, each ship pulling clear until Sea Hammer was able to cast off from Dragon’s side and take the lead going up-river. The tide was still on the ebb, and the going was slow as they pulled against the stream. The green banks rolled past. In some places the river moved through wide fields that stretched away into the far distance. In other places thick woods crowded down to the shore so that the longships appeared to be rowing through a steep, green gulley.
Thorgrim watched the water’s edge as his ship moved upstream. Kevin was right about the flood, in any event, he thought. The river was clearly higher than normal. In some places where it had jumped the banks trees came right up out of the stream like massive reeds, the current boiling around their trunks. In other places the water had completely overwhelmed the river’s edge and now lapped the green meadows above.
They pulled for an hour and then Thorgrim ordered the rowers switched out and they continued on. A man was stationed up in the bow keeping a lookout forward, and Starri stayed in his hawk’s perch at the mast head, but they sighted nothing of interest or alarm.
An hour or so after noon they passed by another village huddled against
the river bank, less impressive even than the first. And like the first, there was a dead quality to the place, nothing moving, no one to be seen. They did not bother to stop.
The sun was once again heading for the edge of the distant mountains when Thorgrim called Agnarr aft.
“This Meeting of the Waters that Kevin spoke of, do you know how far up the river it is?” he asked.
Agnarr shook his head. “I’ve heard from others that there’s no mistaking it, a fork where two rivers meet, but how far from the sea I don’t know.”
“Very well,” Thorgrim said. “We had better tie up for the night. Soon it will be too dark to tell the water from the land.”
A quarter mile further they found a place where the river bank was steep and the water deep enough to bring Sea Hammer right against the shore. Thorgrim steered the vessel in and Starri scrambled up the bank, and soon the ship was tied fore and aft, the others astern of her. They spent the night there with sentries once again spread out in the dark, and this time they encountered nothing at all, not even a pig.
The sun rose into a cloudless sky the following morning, heralding another in an unprecedented stretch of fine weather. It made the men nervous. They figured there would be a price to pay for such a gift. The gods were not a beneficent lot.
Chapter Sixteen
A dead man south of me, a dead man to the north,
they were not the darlings of a worthless army.
The Annals of Ulster
Incredible, thought Louis de Roumois. That word had popped into his head many times over the past few days, to the point where he was no longer certain what he was thinking of when it did.
There were any number of possibilities. The weather was one. By the standards of Roumois it was nothing out of the ordinary, but by the standards of Ireland, or at least what Louis had come to think of as the standards of Ireland, it was near miraculous. For the second day the sun was out, the air was warm, the steam had stopped rising off the land and now things were dry, actually dry. Louis could not recall the last time he had felt dry. Even when it was not raining, the damp and the chill were so pervasive that everything felt wet.
Glendalough Fair: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga) (Volume 4) Page 11