At first light Louis stood, joints and muscles aching. He stretched his arms and legs. Aileran was already up and shaking his men awake. He joined Louis, and without a word they headed back across the field to where the dead man lay.
The sun had not yet cleared the mountains to the east. The morning was blue-gray, but light enough that they could see what they needed to see. The dead man was face up, blank eyes staring at the overcast sky. He was drained of blood and his face was the whitest thing around, a sharp contrast to the dark grass on which he lay.
Louis looked at him for a long time and Aileran did as well. Aileran shook his head. “I don’t know him,” he said.
“Neither do I,” Louis said. He picked up the sword from where Failend had tossed it aside. “It looks Irish made,” he said.
Aileran glanced at it. “It does,” he said. “Chain mail looks Frankish.” Louis could see he was right, and those facts told them nothing about who this killer was, or where he was from. Louis lifted the skirt of his mail shirt with his toe. He could see no purse.
“Have some of your men strip him,” Louis said. “If they find anything that tells us more about this bâtard, bring it to me. Any silver is yours. Give his weapons and mail to the spearman who showed the most courage in yesterday’s fight.”
Aileran nodded. He and Louis trudged back to there the men were pushing themselves to their feet, stretching and scratching. Louis caught a few smirks thrown in his direction, but eyes were quickly averted when he met them. Salacious gossip moved like a morning breeze through a soldiers’ camp.
Three of Aileran’s men went to work on the body but found nothing that was of interest to Louis. When they were done they tossed the stiff white corpse into the brush for whatever might wish to make a meal of it.
Louis called Aileran and Lochlánn over to him. “We have nothing for our breakfast so there’s no reason for us to tarry,” he said. “We’ll march directly back to camp and break our fast there.”
Five minutes later the band of one hundred and fifty or so armed men were walking – it could not really be called marching – back the way they had come, the column stretching out over two hundred feet of road. Their passing raised a cloud of dust to leeward of them, the road baked dry by the remarkable stretch of good weather. But it would not last. Louis looked up. The dull blue of the early morning sky was already yielding to a milky whiteness as the familiar ceiling of clouds moved in.
They were not alone on the road. Heavily laden wagons rolled along, pulled by slow-moving oxen, slower even than the weary fighting men, and the column would have to swing off the road and march on the trampled grass as they moved past. Sometimes small bands of riders would come up the road and pass Louis’s soldiers, casting curious looks in their direction. More traffic in one day than that road would likely to see over the next six months as travelers flowed north and west, following the River Avonmore to the Glendalough Fair.
The morning wore on and the sun rose higher, a pale disk behind a thick blanket of cloud, and there was a watery smell in the air. Rain, soon, Louis could tell. He hoped for his men’s sake, and for his own, that they might make it back to the dúnad before the rain began in earnest, and that the tents had indeed been carted down from Glendalough.
Louis de Roumois walked at the head of the column, Aileran on his left side, Failend on his right, Lochlánn a few paces behind as the boy thought was proper. The men behind were quiet, but their spirits were good, Louis could tell. They were proud of their night’s work, which they deserved to be. Before, when they had marched from Glendalough, he had been met with curiosity or indifference or resentment as he walked past the ranks, but now they greeted him with grins and nods. This was good. This was how a lethal army was made.
A hundred rods or so beyond where they marched, the road curved off to the left, lost behind a stand of trees, and Louis could see smoke rising from somewhere up ahead. Not a great deal of smoke, but enough to make him curious, and wary, though he was not afraid of a surprise. Aileran had sent scouts out ahead, because neither he nor Louis were foolish enough to go blundering blindly around the country with a powerful enemy near.
Just as Louis began to wonder about the smoke he saw one of the scouts coming back around the screen of trees. He was not running and he did not look terribly excited. That was good. Louis did not order a halt.
“Caravan,” the man said when he and the marching column had met. He fell in beside Aileran and addressed them both. “Three wagons. Fancy ones. Women, too. They’ve made camp by the side of the road.”
Aileran nodded. “Making for Glendalough Fair, no doubt,” he said. “Players maybe, or merchants, or whores. All three, perhaps.”
They came around the bend and Louis saw that the scout had described it correctly, if with less detail than he might have done. Three wagons, heavy ones, fully enclosed and mounted on tall oak, iron-rimmed wheels, their wood sides painted in bright reds and yellows. They were drawn up in a semi-circle in the field beside the road. There were banners flying from staffs near the drivers’ boards and at the back ends, and various bits of bunting waving from where ever it could be tied.
In the center of the semi-circle there was a large fire burning and over it a pot. Even from a distance Louis could smell the stew cooking there, and he felt his mouth water and realized how very hungry he was. The smell had reached the men marching behind him and he could hear muttering. He half turned and called for silence, and the men obeyed, though the murmuring faded grudgingly away rather than stopping abruptly.
Sitting in front of the fire was a large man, large in every way, with a massive beard that hung to the middle of his ample belly. Louis might have taken him for a Northmen if he had not been dressed in the Irish manner and wearing no weapons. There were others, half a dozen men that Louis could see and women as well. Louis counted four of them. Young women. Good looking. He heard the murmuring set in again behind him.
“We’ll let the men rest for a bit here,” Louis said to Aileran. “I’ll speak with these fellows.” Aileran turned and called the order down the line. The men, however, did not sit immediately but rather continued to shuffle forward, closer to the food, closer to the women, before finding a spot of grass on which to fall.
The big man by the fire watched Louis approach. There was no fear on his face, no anxiety, just a soft look of curiosity.
“Lord, will you join me in my dinner?” the man asked, gesturing with a ladle toward the pot.
“Pray, call me captain, not lord,” Louis said. The aroma from the stew pot swirled around him and he wanted desperately to accept the offer of dinner, but instead he asked, “Have you food enough for all my men?”
“No, Captain, I certainly do not,” the big man said.
“Then I fear I must decline,” Louis said. He was happy to accept the privileges of rank: a bigger tent, a servant, a finer horse. But he would never eat while his men went hungry. The big man shrugged and Louis took a seat on a stool beside him.
“I am Crimthann,” the man said. “You’ve heard of me, I have no doubt, me and my players?”
Louis shook his head.
“What?” Crimthann said, and he appeared to be genuinely surprised. “You look to be a man of the world, and by your accent, sir, I judge you are not from this country. Yet you speak our language tolerably well, so you must have been some time here. How is it you have not heard of Crimthann?”
It was Louis’s turn to shrug. “I have been in the monastery at Glendalough these twelve months and more,” he offered.
“Ah! That would explain it!” Crimthann said. “Only a hermit could not have heard of us, our fame is so widespread.” He glanced over at Louis’s men. “It seems maybe your men are hermits as well, or at least have not laid eyes on a woman in a long, long time.”
Louis followed Crimthann’s gaze. Many of the men, the farmers, were staring at the women with undisguised curiosity, and a good part of desire mixed in. Louis smiled.
“The
y are what you Irish call bóaire and fuidir. Not proper soldiers. I guess they don’t have women such as yours back on whatever pathetic little farms they come from.”
Crimthann threw back his massive head and laughed loud. “There are not women such as mine anywhere in the world!” he said. “They perform in such places as I can get away with allowing them to. They help out in other ways.”
Louis was curious about those other ways, but this was neither the time nor place to explore that. What he wanted from Crimthann now was information. Traveling men such as merchants and players, Louis knew, heard a great deal about what was happening in the wide world.
“We fought some heathens who were coming up river. Coming for Glendalough,” Louis said. “Have you had any word of them?”
Crimthann nodded. “We’ve heard rumors,” he said. “Heard they made a bloody mess of the village Muirbech at the mouth of the River Avoca, and another a few miles in. We came across an Irish fellow, name of Kevin, and he had an army of a hundred men or so, but they were in too much of a hurry to stop for entertainment, even such as we can provide, which is the finest in the land.”
“You’ve heard word of the heathens, but have not seen them?” Louis asked.
“No, we’re keeping well away from the river. Because of the heathens.”
Louis nodded. “You might do well to keep clear of Glendalough as well,” he said.
“What?” Crimthann exclaimed. “And miss the fair? Have you any notion of how much silver will be flowing about the streets?”
“There’ll be no silver at all if the heathens make it that far,” Louis said.
“Ah, but they won’t!” Crimthann said. “I look at you and I see you’re a blood-minded one and you’ll never suffer a heathen to sack your city!”
Louis smiled. He wished he could share the big man’s certainty.
“But just to be safe,” Crimthann added, “We’ll remain here until we hear of you slaying all the bastards.”
“That seems a wise plan,” Louis said. He stood and called to his men and they reluctantly stood and fell into line again. A moment later they were on the move, shuffling past the caravan, men straining for a final look at the women who waved and sent them off with smiles not so innocent or demure.
They walked for another weary hour without reaching the dúnad. Louis was beginning to wonder if perhaps Colman had returned to Glendalough, if there was no camp waiting, when Lochlánn said, “Just over the rise ahead, Captain Louis. That’s where the camp will be.”
Louis nodded and relished the sense of relief. He was exhausted and famished and he could hear the grumbling behind like an undercurrent of noise, like rain on a roof. They crested the hill and Louis hoped above all things to see a spread of tents, or at least a wagon loaded with food. But what he saw first was none of those things.
What he saw first were men. One hundred, one hundred and fifty, perhaps, spread out on the field, tending fires, sharpening weapons, sleeping. There were several wagons, and he could see they were piled with the tents, kettles, barrels of food and ale for the dúnad. It was sight that surprised him, unexpected as it was, and filled him with joy when he realized what he was seeing. Father Finnian had returned, and he had brought with him an army of genuine men-at-arms.
And now the real fighting could begin.
Chapter Twenty-Four
In this year, moreover, many abandoned their Christian baptism and joined the Norwegians, and they plundered Ard Macha, and took out its riches.
The Annals of Ulster
Starri Deathless did not die. For some hours after the sun went down he moaned softly and shifted his head side to side with a slow and deliberate motion. His ax remained lashed in his clenched hand.
Thorgrim sat beside him as the stars overhead made their slow wheel around the sky. Starri grew quiet at last and Thorgrim thought he was gone, but he was only asleep, so Thorgrim slept as well. When he awoke, the sky was a pale overcast and Starri was still alive.
The crews of his four ships were gathered on the shore, building fires, fetching buckets of water, slinging kettles from tripods. Five rods further up the bank Ottar’s crews were doing the same, and inland Kevin’s men made ready to break their fast. Three armies, each acting as if the others did not exist.
Thorgrim gently pulled back the furs that covered Starri’s chest and then the cloth over his wound. He had to tug where the blood had dried on the bandage, and he did so as gently as he could. Starri moaned and shifted his head, but his eyes did not open.
The wound looked bad, but not as bad as it had the day before. It had closed up some and the bleeding had stopped. Thorgrim had an idea that they could sew it now, that any spirits that might have been there had fled. In any event, the hole left in the spear’s wake was closing up on its own. He wished he knew more about treating such things but he had little experience with it. Generally any man so badly injured as Starri was would have been dead already.
Starri Deathless…Thorgrim mused. You are well named. Maybe you can’t be killed.
He covered the wound again and put the furs back over Starri’s chest. Tending to that would have to wait; there were more pressing things now. He stood and picked up his mail shirt and slipped it over his head. He gestured toward Iron-tooth and Segan, who was watching from a few feet away, picked the weapon up and buckled the belt around Thorgrim’s waist.
“Harald, Godi, come with me,” Thorgrim said and the three of them walked to Sea Hammer’s bow and down the plank to the shore. Godi, following Thorgrim’s instructions, waiting until Thorgrim and Harald were on dry land before stepping onto the springy board.
Thorgrim ran his eyes over the open ground. The various camps lay spread out before him. From the Irish camp, and walking quickly in his direction, he could see Kevin and the small cadre that seemed to always be in his wake. They are a shield wall, Thorgrim thought. They are like a shield wall blocking my advance.
“Hold up,” Thorgrim said to Godi and Harald and he could not hide the weariness in his voice. They waited until Kevin had reached them and bid them good morning. The Irishman ran his eyes over Thorgrim’s mail and the sword at his side. He spoke. Harald translated before Eoin was able to speak.
“Kevin asks, ‘where are you going? Is there some problem?’”
“Tell him I am going to kill Ottar Bloodax for his insults,” Thorgrim said. “Tell him there is no problem.”
Harald translated. Kevin nodded. He did not looked surprised. Then Kevin began to speak, and Thorgrim could hear the calm diplomacy in his voice, even if he could not understand the words. Whatever had been frightening Kevin the day before – and Thorgrim guessed it was Ottar’s ferocious unpredictability – Kevin seemed have made peace with it. And that made Thorgrim immediately suspicious.
This time Eoin beat Harald to the translation. “My lord begs you will reconsider. Ottar spoke in haste, and without thinking, as he often does. My lord is certain he regrets his words.”
“Your lord is certain Ottar regrets his words?” Thorgrim asked. “Ottar told Kevin this?” He knew perfectly well that Ottar had said no such thing, but he was curious as to how Kevin would answer.
“Ottar did not say those words exactly,” Eoin translated. “But he has no wish for a war with your men. He said as much. Such bloodshed would be pointless, especially when there is a fortune to be had at Glendalough if we may all fight as one.”
Thorgrim looked off toward Ottar’s camp and considered that. He had no doubt that Kevin had told Ottar the exact same thing. But Kevin was not wrong that war between Ottar’s men and Thorgrim’s would be a bloody and pointless affair, and such a war would surely be the result of Thorgrim’s driving a sword into Ottar’s guts.
Ottar Bloodax might not understand that in some instances bloodshed could be pointless, but Thorgrim did. He felt his resolve slipping. With age had come reason and thoughtfulness, and he found those things asserting themselves over the heedless passion he had known as a younger man. Once a
gain he did not know which course was the right one. He was not sure if reason was to be celebrated as wisdom or despised as weakness.
“Neither Ottar nor you will have any authority over me or my men,” Thorgrim said. “My men will take no orders from any but me.”
“Of course, of course,” Eoin translated, and Thorgrim could see the relief and pleasure on Kevin’s face. There was no relief or pleasure on Thorgrim’s face. He felt like a wolf cornered by hounds.
His gut told him to abandon this folly of a raid, that Kevin had played him like a flute and no good would come of it. But he could not abandon it now. No matter how sensible such a course of action would be, it would look like cowardice. His heart told him to kill Ottar, but satisfying as that might be in the moment, he knew that no good would come of that, either.
“Tell Ottar to stay away from me. Tell him that I will suffer no insult from him. I’ll kill him if he ever again shows a lack of respect to me or my men.”
“Yes, yes,” Kevin said. Thorgrim nodded. He wondered what form those words would take when they reached Ottar’s ears. If they reached Ottar’s ears. Which he did not think they would.
Eoin was speaking again. “My lord asks, ‘would this be a proper time to talk of our plans for Glendalough?’”
It was. Thorgrim called the captains of his ships together and they sat by the cooking fire and Kevin’s men sat as well and they talked. Thorgrim guessed this same scene had played out in Ottar’s camp, or would, Kevin and his men serving as the ambassadors between warring tribes, the Irishman bridging the divide between factions of Northmen.
Not much had changed from their first discussion on that rainy day in Vík-ló. Thorgrim and his ships would proceed up-river as far as they could. Kevin and his troops would follow along the shore. Except now Ottar would being going up river as well, and now they knew there would be resistance along the way, a strong and clever enemy dogging them, hitting and running, forcing them to fight their way upstream.
Glendalough Fair: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga) (Volume 4) Page 18