Kevin nodded. He did not move.
“Look for a man named Louis de Roumois who has command of the men there,” Finnian continued. “He will tell you where to make a stand.”
Kevin nodded again. Still he did not move.
“Now would be an excellent time,” Father Finnian prompted.
Kevin nodded again. “Niall!” he shouted. “Get the men ready to march! Steward, my mail and sword!”
He looked at Father Finnian. The priest had just taken every plan that Kevin had laid over the past half a year and turned it all on its head. And still the man’s expression had not changed, not even in the slightest.
Chapter Thirty-Four
[T]ogether they attacked the Norwegians fiercely and actively
and pugnaciously, and there was hard and vigorous fighting
between them on both sides.
The Annals of Ulster
The Glendalough Fair had begun. The muddy streets and the town square were jammed with people, the booths full, the vendors shouting, the players taking the stage. Jugglers and fire-eaters and sundry performers and thieves were at work in every open place. Men, women, high-born, low-born, priests, monks, tradesmen, farmers, they were moving like flotsam in the tide. The sky was overcast but the day was warm and dry. There was a boisterous, joyful celebratory quality, notable in a town that had spent the past five months hunched against the winter’s rain and cold.
It made Lochlánn profoundly uneasy.
He had always liked the fair. He had come twice as a child, and after his father had exiled him to the monastery he had looked on its annual arrival as a happy disruption to the tedium of monastic life. Not just happy, but vital. He was sure he would have gone mad if he had not had that one yearly debauchery to look forward to. He had become remarkably adept at slipping away to partake of the pleasures of the fair without being discovered by Brother Gilla Patraic or any of the other monks who kept such close and disapproving watch over things.
But this year was different in ways he could never have seen coming. Good ways. He thought of that as he rode slowly through the crowded square, the half dozen men under his command riding behind him.
His circumstances had changed, and he had changed too. Here was proof: one of his fellow monks, loitering by a pie stand, had looked right at him as he rode by and did not recognize him at all. That was not terribly surprising. Lochlánn was wearing mail and a helmet and a sword on his belt, a shield hanging from a loop on his saddle. No one at Glendalough had ever seen him attired thus. This was the new Lochlánn, the resurrected Lochlánn.
He had been in the saddle since dawn, and his thighs burned and his buttocks felt like they had when he had been paddled as a child. He had been an experienced horseman once, but years at the monastery had softened those parts that needed to be tough if one was to spend hours on horseback. But he forgot the discomfort as he rode through the Glendalough Fair.
A man named Senach rode beside him. He was a young man, just a few years older than Lochlánn. Senach was one of the men-at-arms who had fought with them at the Meeting of the Waters, and though Lochlánn was somewhat intimidated by Senach’s training and his status as a professional soldier, he liked the man. And Senach, in turn, seemed respectful and in no way resentful of Lochlánn’s position.
“They don’t know of the heathens, do they?” Lochlánn said as they waited for a herd of swine to cross their path. “The folks here, they don’t seem much worried that they might be butchered on the morrow.”
“There have been rumors, I think,” Senach said. “They have to know that something’s afoot, what with the men-at-arms that’ve gathered here and the bóaire and the fuidir called up. Even these ignorant bastards have to have guessed there’s some sort of threat.”
Lochlánn nodded. That was pretty much how he figured it. These people had seen the men-at-arms, they had heard the rumors, maybe even seen the wounded from the Meeting of the Waters who had been sent to the monastery to mend. But the fair was something they had been anticipating for many months, and there was money to be made. The soldiers had marched off and no heathens had been seen, and Lochlánn imagined that was enough for these folks to dismiss any threat of raiders from the sea.
But Lochlánn knew, and Senach knew, how real and immediate the threat really was. There were two or three hundred of the murderous bastards just a few miles downriver, and despite the hurt done to them, they were still coming.
“God help us all if the heathens get here, get among these people,” Lochlánn said.
Senach grunted. “It’ll be like cattle scared by lightning,” he said. “Be a damned stampede.”
They reined their horses over and walked them through the crowded square and then down one of the beaten roads that led out of the village, east and then south along the Avonmore. It was time to return to camp, time to rejoin the army.
Lochlánn had spent that morning and early afternoon leading a patrol. They had ridden along the northern shores of the two long lakes that filled the mountain valleys just west of the monastic city. The day before, Colman had ordered him to take command of the horsemen, to ride out at first light. Lochlánn had been flattered by the trust placed in him, but he did not care to take orders from Colman, and he did not want to leave Louis de Roumois.
Louis, however, had told him he should go. It was good experience, and it would elevate Lochlánn in the eyes of the men, even if it was Colman who had sent him out. So Lochlánn had picked his six riders and, as the first hints of light had appeared, they rode off to the west.
They found nothing of interest. No heathens, no enemy lying in wait, which was what Lochlánn had expected. The heathens, if they came, would come from the east, up the river that he and Louis had been making run red with the Northmen’s blood. But it was important to defend against surprise of any kind. It was possible that some of the bastards had worked their way around to the west. So Louis was sent to make sure they had not.
That job done, and after a slight detour to take in the fair, Lochlánn led his men back toward the dúnad, several miles east of Glendalough. It was from there that they had been staging their attacks on the heathens, hoping to drive them off before they came within sight of the monastic city. If there was no panic in the streets of Glendalough it was because of how well they had succeeded with that defense.
They had ridden less than half a mile when they came upon a company of the bóaire. The men were sitting by the side of the road, tearing chunks off a loaf of bread and handing it around. Their long spears stood like sentries beside them, butt ends pushed into the soft ground. Lochlánn was surprised to see them there. He had expected to find the dúnad where he had left it, and the men in camp there.
Lochlánn reined his horses to a stop beside them. The bóaire looked up as they did but they did not move or react in any other way.
“Why are you men here?” Lochlánn asked. “Why are you not in the dúnad?”
This question seemed to confuse the men, and for a moment no one answered.
“Ain’t no dúnad,” one of them said at last. “Packed it up this morning, marching us all back this way.”
“On whose orders?” Lochlánn asked. “Captain Louis?”
This was met with shrugs. “We just got word to move,” the man said, “one of them men-at-arms give the order. All the army was coming back this way. The rest is down the road just a little way, I would suspect.”
Lochlánn nodded. These men did as they were told and did not ask questions, and he could see he would get no useful information from them. He spurred his horse forward, and the stab of pain in his backside reminded him of how much he wished to be out of the saddle.
They crested a rise and just as the spearman had said, there was the rest of the army spread out before them, somewhere around three hundred men, most of them sitting or lying in the grass on the side of the road.
What are you doing here? Lochlánn thought. It had always been Louis’s intention to yield no groun
d to the heathens, to fight them as far from Glendalough as he could. But now the army had fallen back nearly to the monastery’s doorstep. He wondered what had happened to make Louis so alter his plans.
He must have some plan in mind, Lochlánn thought as he led his men down the short hill to where the men-at-arms were gathered. He reined his horse to a stop once more and swiveled around in the saddle.
“You may dismount if you wish,” he said, which apparently they all did, as each man swung his legs over his saddle and dropped gratefully to the ground. Lochlánn did the same, gritting his teeth in pain as his feet took the weight. He stood straight and tried very hard to look like a man perfectly at ease.
“Thank you for this morning’s work,” he said to the others. “Pray, return to the company of your fellows.” The men nodded and led their horses off. Lochlánn waited until they were gone before he tried walking himself. With a few tentative steps he reached a spot where half a dozen men-at-arms lay stretched out on the grass.
“Have any of you men see Captain Louis de Roumois?” he asked.
Glances were exchanged, Lochlánn could not help but notice, and then one of the men said, “Ain’t seen him. Don’t think he’s here.”
“Where is he?” Lochlánn asked.
The man shrugged and some of his fellows shrugged as well. “Don’t know. Heard rumors,” another said.
“What rumors?” Lochlánn demanded, worry building on top of exasperation.
“Don’t know,” the first man said.
Lochlánn let out a breath. He could recognize a pointless effort when he saw one. He walked on, trying to make his gate as normal as possible, the weary horse trailing behind. A little ways off he saw a cluster of banners on poles, and beneath them a handful of men engaged in discussion. One of them was Colman mac Breandan, and he recognized a few of the others as the captains of some of the house guards. He did not see Louis de Roumois, but that did not mean he was not there.
The horse was hearing the siren song of the spring grass so Lochlánn let it go and walked stiffly across the field to where the men stood in conference. He bowed his head as he approached and said, “My lord Colman.”
“Lochlánn,” Colman said. “Back? Any sign of the heathens?”
“No, lord,” Lochlánn said. He looked around the assembled company. Louis was not there. “The country to the west seems clear of them.”
“Very well,” Colman said. “Then we can assume they are all together to the east, and will attack from there.” This last was not directed to Lochlánn. Indeed, Colman seemed to have already forgotten Lochlánn’s existence.
“My lord…” Lochlánn said and Colman turned back to him and fixed him with a stare that could not be called friendly.
“Yes?” Colman asked.
“Well…lord…I was…” Lochlánn stammered. There were several things he wished to ask, but none of them were really any of his business, and he did not expect an amiable reply.
“You are wondering where your particular friend Louis the Frank is?” Colman supplied.
“Well…yes, in fact,” Lochlánn said.
“Run off,” Colman spat. “Showed us the man he really is. He killed my captain, Aileran. Murdered him and ran off with my bitch wife. I don’t know if he took her by force or if she went with him willingly, but either way they’re gone. Off with the heathens, I would suspect.”
Lochlánn said nothing, because he could think of nothing to say in answer to such a suggestion. It could not be true, he was certain of that. So something else must have happened. What that was Lochlánn could not guess, and he was so shocked by Colman’s words that he could not put his thoughts in order.
“But why have you brought the army here?” Lochlánn managed to ask. “Why do we not fight the heathens to the east? Why let them get this close to Glendalough?”
This question brought a murmur from the other men, a low sound, more a series of grunts than actual words. Lochlánn could not tell if it was a sound of disapproval that he should ask such a thing or if they were wondering the same thing themselves.
“It is no business of yours, boy,” Colman said, “but I’ll say this…we were exposed, flapping around like wash on a line where that damned Frank had us. No support. Here we have all of Glendalough behind us. We have some place to fall back on.”
He paused as if waiting for an argument, not just from Lochlánn but from any of the men there. There was more throat clearing, but still no actual words.
“There,” Colman said, now directing himself to Lochlánn. “That’s far more explanation than you warrant. Now go and find some way to make yourself useful.” He turned away, the discussion done.
Lochlánn staggered off. He gave no thought to where he was going, he just walked, the pain in his legs serving as a counterpoint to the turmoil in his mind.
“Louis de Roumois did not murder Aileran and he did not run off,” Lochlánn said. He spoke the words out loud, but softly, to himself, as if trying them out to see how real they felt. And they felt real enough. It was inconceivable to him that Louis could have done such a thing.
Or, mostly inconceivable. There certainly seemed to be odd forces at work in Louis’s life. Hadn’t that man come to kill him, back at the monastery? That was what had started all this, as far as Lochlánn’s trading his robe for a mail shirt. And the assassin had come again in the field, after the fighting at the Meeting of the Waters. And then Louis had been with Failend, or so it seemed. The rumor in the army was that they had been rutting, which seemed a reasonable assumption.
“Louis did not do these things!” Lochlánn said again, forcing more conviction into his voice this time. And even as he did, he understood that there were greater worries than the possibility of Louis de Roumois’s betrayal.
He looked off to the west. The sun was dropping low and the light was leaving the sky, but the darkness was spreading over Lochlánn even faster than that. Whatever sort of man Louis was, the fact remained that he had been responsible for the victories they had won over the heathens. It was Louis who had held the murderous hoard at bay and stopped them from laying waste to Glendalough thus far. And now he was gone.
And on the morrow, the heathens would come.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Bearer of golden rings,
My hopes of life were meagre…
Gisli Sursson’s Saga
There was a light mist falling, but the ground was firm underfoot, not churned to mud. The road was just a quarter mile from the river, right where the scouts had said it would be. Thorgrim could see it for himself now as he made his way through thigh-high grass. There seemed to be nothing standing in the raiders’ way, human or otherwise. A short march to Glendalough and the riches to be had there.
Simple. But Thorgrim knew it would not be simple at all, because such things never were.
From the river banks the meadowland ran inland with only an occasional stand of trees to interrupt its inviting expanse. Less than a mile distant the fields melded into the steep, rounded mountains that rose up in every quarter and as far off as the eye could see.
Not that the eye could see much just then. The sun was less than an hour above the horizon. The day promised to be more overcast than the day before, and the threat of rain that had been hanging over them like a curse seemed even more likely to become a tangible thing.
“Look at that whore’s son, just look, lord,” Godi said. He was walking beside Thorgrim across the field and nodding his massive head toward Ottar and his men. They were in a ragged line to the left, Ottar at their head, a man bearing his banner walking beside. Ottar was a big man with a long stride, but Thorgrim could see he was walking faster than his normal gait, making his men work to keep up, in an effort to be first to the road and thus take the lead from Thorgrim’s forces.
Thorgrim shook his head in disgust. “Stupid bastard,” he said.
With the men who had been left behind to guard the ships and the others who had been killed or wounded,
the army of Northmen that advanced on Glendalough numbered no more than two hundred and fifty. That was a decent force, and they were all good, experienced fighting men, but Thorgrim did not think the Irish would have fewer men than that, and they would likely have many more. And the Irish were well led. He had seen that already.
The only way to fight them and have a hope of victory was to fight together, all the Norsemen attacking as one. It was something Ottar certainly understood, but seemed determined to ignore.
“Should we move faster? Keep up with him?” Godi asked. He was carrying Thorgrim’s banner, the grey wolf’s head on a red pennant, and the two of them were walking at the head of Thorgrim’s men.
“No,” Thorgrim said. He would not play that game. “Let them go first, let them get a mile ahead if they want. They can meet the enemy alone. After they’ve done what hurt they can to the Irish we’ll use their bodies as a rampart.”
Ottar reached the road first, as was his intention, his warriors streaming behind, and they fell into a loose column three or four men wide.
Thorgrim looked past Ottar’s crews and as far to the west as he could see before his view was obscured by the hills and the mist. He wondered what was happening out there. Even before they left the river he had sent out his scouts and Ottar had sent out his, but as of yet no word had come back. And Harald was out there, somewhere. Somewhere ahead of them. At least that was where he was supposed to be. Thorgrim feared that the longships might have passed Harald’s patrol, that Harald and his men were actually somewhere behind them, further down river.
We’ll find out soon enough, he thought.
The road rose and fell over the smaller hills but it tended up, always up, rising into the mountains and the monastery that was supposed to be in a valley somewhere ahead. Thorgrim’s men made a column in Ottar’s wake and they moved on. The mist grew thicker and blew past in cloudy veils until one could no longer say if it was mist or rain.
Glendalough Fair: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga) (Volume 4) Page 27