The men-at-arms who followed him now had been Colman’s men, Louis’s men. They knew Lochlánn and respected him and were willing to obey his orders. They, like Lochlánn, were seething at the thought of Louis de Roumois’s killing Aileran, a man they had loved. Some might even resent his killing Colman, though Colman was not much loved by anyone. When Lochlánn had ordered those men to follow him, they had obeyed, and gladly. But there were no other men whom Lochlánn might call up to fight.
“Lord of the highest standing…” the soldier repeated, frowning and looking around. “I guess it’s Lord Niall mac Oengus, who I serve. Me and these men. I can think of no other.”
Lochlánn nodded. “And where is your lord?” he asked.
The soldier pointed to a cluster of men down the road. “That’s him, yonder, on the big black gelding,” he said. Lochlánn thanked him and spurred his horse on, his weary men following behind.
Niall mac Oengus was in discussion with two other men who, judging by their clothes and their obsequious looks, did not appear to have the level of authority that Niall enjoyed.
“My lord!” Lochlánn called as he rode up. “My Lord Niall?”
Niall turned on his horse and eyed Lochlánn and the men trailing behind him. “Yes?” he said. Whatever Lochlánn had to say, Niall did not sound terribly eager to hear it.
“My lord,” Lochlánn said, pulling his horse to a stop. “I am Lochlánn mac Ainmire; I lead the house guard of Colman mac Breandan,” he said, which strictly speaking was not true. Actually, in no sense was it true. But the truth, Lochlánn felt, was too complex to explain, and he did not care to raise the name of Louis de Roumois.
“Colman’s dead,” Niall said.
“Yes, lord,” Lochlánn said. He waited for Niall to continue, to explain how that was relevant, but when he did not, Lochlánn continued. “Lord, there’s a band of the heathens down by the river, still. Some who escaped us this morning. Sixty or so. Lord, if you could provide me with three dozen mounted warriors, I’ll ride them down and kill them all. We should not suffer any to live.”
“Sixty heathens?” Niall said, and he did not sound impressed. “We killed near three times that number today. What harm can sixty heathens do? Let the wolves get them.”
“Lord, they are the wolves,” Lochlánn said, trying to keep the frustration from his voice. “They must be killed, or they’ll be back.” He considered telling Niall that Louis de Roumois was with them, but he did not. He did not know what response, if any, that news might bring.
“Look here…Lochlánn,” Niall said, speaking in some odd imitation of a fatherly tone. “It costs me a damned lot of silver to keep these men in the dúnad. I’ve lost six of them in the fighting, and with so many others killed, hiring more men-at-arms will come at a dear price, I can tell you. And the Lord knows what’s happening back on my lands while I’m gone. Sixty heathens? There’s naught they can do. Let them go. You fought well today, you and your men. There’s nothing more needs be done.”
With that, Niall tapped his horse’s flanks with his heels and rode back to where his men were breaking camp and stacking their sundry gear on wagons. Lochlánn heard the sound of Senach hacking up phlegm and spitting on the ground. “You fought well today,” he said in a mocking, singsong tone. “Damned whoremonger, as if he knows how we fought. I didn’t see him in the thick of it.”
“The dumb ass,” Lochlánn agreed. “But we’ll get no men from him.” He turned in the saddle and looked at Senach. “Let’s find Father Finnian.”
Father Finnian was one of the priests at the monastery at Glendalough, as far as Lochlánn understood. The man seemed to come and go in a way that no others associated with the monastery did, and he seemed to have influence and authority far beyond what Lochlánn would expect from a simple man of God. There was quite a bit about Father Finnian that Lochlánn did not understand.
It was Finnian who had put Louis in command of the men-at-arms, and it was Finnian who had brought Louis and Lochlánn together. Father Finnian, Lochlánn was sure, would understand the dangers of leaving the heathens alive. And Father Finnian wanted Louis taken prisoner and the truth of all this discovered nearly as much as Lochlánn did. If anyone would be willing to round up more warriors, and able to do so, it would be Father Finnian.
But they could not find him. Lochlánn led the men and their drooping horses back to the monastery at Glendalough. They asked after Father Finnian, but no one had seen him. They looked in all the places that they might expect to find him, but he was in none of those places.
At last, dispirited, sore, exhausted, Lochlánn dismounted and sat on the low wall that surrounded the monastery. He hung his head, too weary to hold it up. Senach sat beside him and the others sat or sprawled around, while the horses contented themselves with the monastic grass.
“You know,” Senach said at last, “we never saw but ten or so of the heathen dogs that Louis the Frank said were there. Less, maybe.”
Lochlánn straightened, but he did not feel the weight come off his shoulders. “Yes, so?” he said.
“Maybe ten was all there were. Maybe Louis was lying about there being sixty. He’s not one I would trust, damned Frankish cur. Maybe he wanted to scare us off.”
Lochlánn considered that. “Maybe you’re right,” he said. The two remained silent for a while, and then Senach spoke again.
“You know,” he said. “Me, these men, we were Colman’s men. And he’s dead. We have no lord we answer to. Same with you.”
Lochlánn nodded. He waited for Senach to continue, which he did.
“Every one of us, we want to see that Louis de Roumois dead. Aileran was our captain. Our friend. We have weapons. We have horses. We have you as captain now. What keeps us from going after these sons of bitches on our own?”
What, indeed? Lochlánn thought.
It was an incredible idea. Too incredible, really. It was not something he could do. Lead these men in hunting Louis down? Senach was right about one thing. They had what they needed and he, Lochlánn, had a fair amount of silver hoarded away, silver sent by his father and silver won in gambling and silver taken from his father’s hoards when his father was away. He could pay for what they might need.
But there were other considerations. Lochlánn had no authority to do any such thing. In the worst case he could be considered an outlaw. He was under the discipline of the abbot; he had obligations to the monastery.
“No,” Lochlánn said. “It’s a mad idea. I couldn’t do it.”
“Of course,” Senach said. “Of course not. Foolish of me to bring it up, really. I’m sure you’re eager to get back to your life in the monastery, the sexts and the antiphons and all that. Prayer. Working in the kitchen. All that.”
Lochlánn nodded. He had changed his mind. Even before Senach had finished speaking, Lochlánn had changed his mind.
Chapter Three
[U]ncertain is the witting
that there be no foeman sitting,
within, before one on the floor
Hávamál
Thorgrim watched them approach, the men coming out of the trees and stepping down onto the sandbar that ran right up to the shore. Not twenty men as he had first guessed, but more than that. Twenty-five at least. They were spread out in a line, weapons in hand. Their leader, or the one Thorgrim took to be their leader, was in the center. A big man, an ugly son of a bitch.
Godi, who had been coming to rouse Thorgrim, stopped where he was. He held a battle ax in his hand, but smart man that he was, he held it low and at his side. Godi understood, as Thorgrim did, that there was no need to show aggression until it was clear that aggression was the right response.
Thorgrim hopped down from the afterdeck and walked forward, his movements awkward with Sea Hammer rolled partway onto her larboard side. He glanced at his own men, sleeping in various places around the ship. He had to get them up, get them to arms, without provoking the Irish into attacking before the Northmen were ready. He was just consid
ering how to do that when he saw one man, then another and another, stir, cast off their blankets, reach for weapons. It was the instinct of fighting men in the field. Something was wrong. They could feel it.
As Thorgrim’s men stood, weapons in hand, the Irish halted their advance. The sight of a Norse ship run up on the sandbar would have piqued their interest, though they could have had no idea of what sort of a fight they were walking into.
Looking for easy pickings, were you? Thorgrim thought. You’ll not find them here.
He reached the place just aft of the ship’s beam, then stopped and considered these new arrivals more carefully. Even in the uncertain light of early morning he could see they were an ugly lot, clad in dirty, torn, stained tunics, long cowls hanging down their backs, or leines with ragged hems and brats of coarse cloth over their shoulders. Some wore pointed, soft leather shoes, though most were barefoot.
And they were armed. Not armed like Norsemen or even Irish warriors. They carried polished clubs and long knives and axes, axes made for splitting kindling rather than skulls. A few carried spears. The one in the center of the line, the big one, carried a sword. It was a Norse of Frisian blade and it was in bad shape. Thorgrim guessed the Irishman had found it, or taken it from the hand of someone he had killed. The man to his left, a smaller man with a lean and sinewy look, and a shock of red hair, carried a sword as well. Neither held their weapons with the confidence of men long used to them.
But for all that, the crude weapons, the tattered clothing, Thorgrim could see that these were not men to be dismissed. They were tough, hard-looking men. Men who eked out their existence through remorseless violence. They were bandits, savage men, outcasts, and there were a lot of them.
Harald stepped up to Thorgrim’s side, even before Thorgrim could call to him. That was good. Thorgrim knew he would need Harald’s unique skills. In this situation, talking rather than fighting was their best hope, and Harald was the one among them who could talk to the Irish.
“Father,” Harald said, his voice low, his eyes on the line of Irishmen halted two perches away. “That Irishman…the prisoner…Louis, he wants a sword.”
It took Thorgrim a second to register this change of subject, so focused was he on the bandits come from the trees. He glanced over and his eyes met Louis’s. He could read a lot in the man’s face: determination, defiance. Concern. But no fear.
And there was a touch of anger as well, and Thorgrim guessed that the man, this Louis, was not happy about having to ask for a weapon. All of that Thorgrim considered to be marks in his favor. He shifted his eyes to Thorodd Bollason who stood beside Louis and held Louis’s sword and belt. Thorgrim gave Thorodd a brief nod. Thorodd handed the weapon to Louis and there was relief on Louis’s face.
Thorgrim turned his attention back to the Irish, who were advancing again, slowly, tentatively, like approaching the edge of a cliff with the wind at your back.
“All of you,” Thorgrim called to his men, keeping his voice low, his tone neutral, speaking just loud enough to be heard the length of the ship. “Take up your weapons. Shields, too. Move slowly. Make a line along the starboard side, here.” It was like facing off against a pack of wolves. No sudden moves.
Thorgrim heard the shuffle of his men doing as they had been ordered, but his eyes were fixed on the bandits, the leader in particular, because what he did would determine what the others did, and that would determine what the Northmen did to counter them. Harald stepped away and in a minute he was back with his shield and Thorgrim’s as well, which Thorgrim took, slipping his arm through the strap and taking firm hold of the boss.
The others moved, calm but quick, and soon they were lining the side of Sea Hammer, manning the ramparts on their makeshift fortress. If the Irish attacked, they would have to climb over the high side in the face of the Northmen’s weapons, or wade through the river to get to the lower, larboard side.
Thorgrim glanced quickly down the line. His men were in mail because they had slept in it. They were armed with swords and battle axes and they carried shields. They were warriors, trained and experienced fighting men. But they were no more than ten in number, and they were injured to a man. All except their prisoners, the man and the woman, who were also mail-clad and taking their place in the defensive line.
We can’t beat these sons of whores, Thorgrim thought.
If the Irish attacked, then many of them would die at the Northmen’s hands. Maybe most of them. But in the end the Irishmen’s numbers would prevail. If the circumstances had been different, if his men had been in better shape, if Starri Deathless were not struggling just to stand upright, then Thorgrim might have been more confident taking the fight to an enemy that outnumbered them more than two to one. But as things stood, he did not like the odds.
But if the Irish did not attack, if they went away, then they would be back. In the dark hours of the night, on a day of thick fog, sometime, they would be back. A stranded vessel guarded by just a handful of men, perhaps holding a hoard of looted silver, would be too tempting to ignore. There would be no peace; there would be no chance to set Sea Hammer to rights, with those bastards dogging them.
This must be settled now, Thorgrim thought. He turned to Harald.
“Bid these bastards come closer and talk,” he said. Harald nodded.
“But don’t call them ‘bastards,’” Thorgrim added and Harald nodded again. He turned toward the line of bandits and called out to them in their own language. Thorgrim could see the look of surprise on the big man’s face, and others as well.
The Irishman with the sword, the leader, took a half step forward, then stepped back again. He looked left and right, clearly unsure as to how to proceed. Behind him, the smaller man, the one with the red hair like dying embers, stepped up and said something in a low voice. The big man looked annoyed. The smaller man spoke again. The big man looked even more annoyed, but together they stepped away from the line, approaching Sea Hammer with all the boldness they could muster.
They stopped a rod short of the ship’s side. Thorgrim was about to tell Harald what next to say when the big man spoke first, his voice insistent and louder than it needed to be. The words seemed rushed, though Thorgrim could never really tell with the Irish.
“He says, ‘give us your weapons and your mail and any silver you have and we’ll let you live,’” Harald translated. Thorgrim smiled.
“That’s kind of them,” Thorgrim said, but he could feel the anger building in him like thunderheads on the horizon. He had work to do. He did not need this distraction.
“Tell him that we are warriors and they are dumb oxen. Tell him they can attack us if they wish. They’re more than twice our numbers. They may beat us. But most of them will die trying, and him, that big bastard, he’ll be the first. I will personally put my sword through his heart. Ask if he thinks that it’s worth it.”
Harald translated the words. The big man frowned. He glanced back at the others. His choice was simple: attack the Northmen and die, or back off and face the humiliation of retreating before an inferior enemy. He had built this trap himself and walked right into it.
Once again the smaller man stepped up and spoke to the big man, too low for any of the Northmen to hear. The big man turned back to Thorgrim and shouted out again, holding his sword up as if showing it off.
“He says they have killed many Northmen and they will kill us, too,” Harald said. “He says he took his sword off the last Northman he killed.”
“Does he sound confident, at all?” Thorgrim asked.
“No,” Harald said. “I think the other one, the one with the red hair, told him what to say.”
Thorgrim nodded. Time to end this, he thought.
“Tell him we are both leaders, he and I, and leaders don’t let their men die for no reason. Tell him we’ll fight, just the two of us. If I win, they leave. If he wins, we give up our weapons and silver, and then they leave. Tell him any man who has killed so many Northmen as he has shouldn’t fear one
more. And speak loud enough so that all his men can hear.”
Harald translated. The boy had a powerful voice to match his frame, and the words carried easily across the spit of sand. Thorgrim needed no translator to interpret the play of considerations on the Irishman’s face. He had seen oxen led to the slaughter, their expressions confused and slightly suspicious as their dull brains registered that something was wrong. That was how the man looked. This was not a fight he wanted, not one he had anticipated. But neither could he see a way out of it.
The smaller man was speaking again, but the big man waved him away. He took half a step forward and spoke again.
“He says he’s not fooled by your tricks,” Harald said, “that you have mail and a helmet and shield.”
Without a word Thorgrim took the helmet from his head and tossed it aside. He handed the shield to Harald, unbuckled his sword belt and set it down, then shucked the mail shirt off his head. He felt the odd, buoyed feeling that comes with taking off mail after having worn it for so long. He picked up Iron-tooth and drew it from the scabbard. He stepped up on the sheer strake and hopped down onto the sand. He heard Harald drop beside him.
“Tell him we are even now,” Thorgrim said. “Tell him if he agrees to what I said, then now is his chance to drive his fierce sword through my neck.”
Harald translated the words, still speaking loud enough for all to hear. The big man frowned. He was trapped. If the lead wolf showed weakness the rest of the pack would tear him apart. It was the way of things.
Then Thorgrim saw the change of expression on the man’s face, the confusion and anger hardening into resolve as he understood that a fight would not be avoided, and that his only chance at life now was to kill this Northman in front of him. The Irishman looked determined, but he did not look frightened. He had had a lifetime of fighting, Thorgrim imagined, and had probably faced worse odds than he was facing now.
Nor were the odds necessarily against him now. The man was very big, five inches taller than Thorgrim, two stone heavier, and appeared strong like a bear. He did not seem like the sort who had gained leadership because he was clever. That meant he was brutal and tough enough that hard men feared him.
Night Wolf: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 5) Page 3