Where did these others come from? he wondered. And then the new man spoke.
“See here,” he said. “I don’t know what in all damnation’s going on here and I don’t care, either. Who is this bastard?” he asked, nodding toward Louis.
“His name’s Louis de Roumois,” Lochlánn said. “He was…” And Louis was sure he was about to say he was a novitiate at the monastery at Glendalough, but before the words left him he realized how absurd that would sound. “He was a man-at-arms. In Frankia. Very experienced in fighting heathens.” The words came out grudgingly.
The new man nodded. “Well, whoever he is, he has a point. The heathens by the river, coming for Ráth Naoi, they’re our chief concern.”
“And who are you?” Louis asked.
“I’m Niall. I’m head of these men,” he said, gesturing toward the horsemen standing a little ways away. “Kevin mac Lugaed’s household guard. Kevin sent us to join Lochlánn’s men to fight the heathens, not to worry about any argument they have with you.” As he said that he gave Lochlánn and Senach a withering look.
“Very well,” Senach said. “Bind this bastard up so he don’t run away again and we’ll deal with him later.”
Louis could see the hesitation on Lochlánn’s face, but once again it was Niall who spoke. “We need this one with us,” he said. “He’s been among the heathens we’re fighting. Heathens and Irishmen. He knows what they can do. You say he’s a trained warrior. He’ll be of use.”
“He’s a traitor and a murderer,” Senach spit.
Niall turned to Lochlánn. “What say you? Do you trust him?”
Louis watched the play of emotions on Lochlánn’s face, the anger, the uncertainty, the search for what he truly believed. Finally, hesitatingly, Lochlánn said, “Yes. I trust him.”
Senach made an expulsive sound of disgust and turned and stomped off, but Lochlánn and Niall ignored him.
“Very well,” Niall said, turning back to Louis. “I saved you from a hanging, it seems. Tell me about these whores’ sons who are heading toward Ráth Naoi.”
“I will,” Louis said. “And then I’ll tell you how to beat them. Because I want them dead every bit as much as you.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
A household like this man's household
There is not under valour-provoking heaven.
The Annals of Ulster
Kevin mac Lugaed’s chief ambition had always been to rise to the level of rí túaithe, and now he had. He was Lord of Cill Mhantáin and master of the fine ringfort at Ráth Naoi. He had more than one hundred men-at-arms in his service. He was wealthier than he would have ever thought possible. And yet he seemed to derive very little pleasure from all of that. Very little indeed.
His current unhappiness was through no fault of his own, he was at least sure of that. His plans had been laid to waste by the priest. Father Finnian. If not for that bastard, then he would be safe and content within the walls of his ringfort, and not the pacing, caged, frightened animal into which he had devolved.
He was pacing at that very moment, back and forth across the packed dirt floor of his hall. Pacing and thinking and muttering to himself.
It had all been organized so beautifully, so carefully. Thorgrim Night Wolf and Ottar Bloodax, convinced that they could make an easy raid on Glendalough, Kevin mac Lugaed to supply men to help sweep aside what little force opposed them.
But there was no little force defending Glendalough; there was a significant force. Kevin knew that and he kept it from the Northmen. He had meant for the defenders of Glendalough to kill Thorgrim and kill Ottar and all their heathen hoard and to be significantly weakened in the process. Then he would sweep in and sack the monastery himself.
And even if he did not have the chance to loot the monastic city, he would have Vík-ló, the longphort the heathens had built in his territory, and all the wealth he knew to be hidden there. And Ottar Bloodax, who was becoming a bigger and bigger threat to that part of Ireland, would be dead as well. No matter what happened, Kevin mac Lugaed would be the better for it.
Except he wasn’t. The damned priest had made him join the defense of Glendalough. Ottar had managed to escape, Ottar the vicious madman, the damned lunatic. He had taken Vík-ló for himself and now he was a bigger threat than Thorgrim ever was. Thorgrim at least could be reasoned with, a rarity among the Northmen, but Ottar was as reasonable as a mad dog, and no more predictable.
Kevin had thought Thorgrim, at least, had been killed, but here came word that, far from dead, Thorgrim was advancing on Ráth Naoi with some unknown number of men.
“He’ll want his revenge.” Kevin stopped pacing and spoke out loud, though there was no one within earshot. “He’s coming for me, and he’ll want revenge.”
He began pacing again. The thought that Thorgrim would come looking for vengeance was actually no great insight, and saying it out loud did not help clarify the situation in Kevin’s mind. He stopped pacing again.
“Eoin!” he shouted and immediately Eoin appeared from the back of the hall, hurrying over. Like all of Kevin’s household, Eoin was hovering around, keeping out of sight but ready to spring to his lord’s side when summoned.
They fear me, Kevin realized and the thought surprised him. Kevin was under no delusions that he was anything but a craven, plotting, avaricious coward, not the sort who would generally frighten others, but here it was. In any other circumstance he might have been flattered and pleased to have other men react to him that way, but at the moment his mind was too full.
“Lord?” Eoin said, coming to a hesitant stop ten feet away. Normally Kevin would have turned to Niall for advice, but Niall was off with the other one, Lochlánn, hopefully putting a sword through Thorgrim Night Wolf’s guts at that very moment. But in Niall’s absence, Eoin would do. Might do better, in truth. Eoin had lived with the heathens and spoke their tongue and would better understand how they were likely to react.
“I had this thought, Eoin,” Kevin said, though it had just come into his head and was more a disorganized swirl of impressions than a genuine thought. He paused as he organized these ideas into something resembling a plan.
“As you are aware, Ottar has taken Vík-ló,” Kevin continued. “I don’t like having any of these heathen bastards, Thorgrim or any of them, in possession of that place. But I would rather it be Thorgrim than Ottar. I wonder if we might find Thorgrim, if he is coming this way, and talk him into joining us in a fight to drive Ottar from Vík-ló?”
“Hmmm,” Eoin said, with a grave look, like he was giving this genuine consideration, though Kevin could tell he was not. Because it was a pathetic, ridiculous, groping idea. Kevin realized that as soon as he spoke. Thorgrim would know perfectly well that Kevin had betrayed him. He would not make any deals.
He’ll come here, Kevin thought. He’ll overrun my guards; he’ll cut my head off and put it on a stake… He had this image of four of the heathens holding him down on the floor of the hall and Thorgrim Night Wolf, a none-too-sharp knife in his hand, slowly cutting away at his neck as he screamed and bled, screamed and bled.
“My lord?” Eoin said, and now his expression was one of concern.
“What?” Kevin asked. Had he said something out loud? Made some noise? He could not recall, so overwhelmed had he been by that horrible image.
“I was going to say, Lord Kevin, that your idea of joining with Thorgrim Night Wolf is excellent, excellent, but to be perfectly honest I have my doubts…”
Kevin was about to stop him there, but before he could, the door to the hall opened, letting a blast of cool, damp, fresh air into the closed and fetid space. One of the guards posted around the hall’s perimeter was standing there.
“Lord?” the guard said. “It’s Cathail, come back.”
This news gave Kevin a jolt of fear. Cathail was another of the few men he trusted. He had been sent to keep watch over Vík-ló and to report any move that Ottar might make. Thus far Ottar had stayed put, and Cathail had sen
t the occasional messenger back with word that nothing was stirring in the longphort. But now he had come in person, and his arrival might herald bad things indeed.
“Send him in,” Kevin said, and a moment later Cathail stepped into the hall and bowed. His tunic and leather armor were mud-splattered and his face was red, like he had been riding hard.
“What is it?” Kevin snapped.
“Well, lord,” Cathail began. “There was a group of armed men, come out of Vík-ló. About forty. On foot. And a cart with them. They left the longphort by land, headed across country.”
Kevin felt his stomach sink. Ottar was making a move of some sort. “When was this?” Kevin demanded.
“Ah,” Cathail said. “It was about four days ago, lord.”
“Four days ago!” Kevin shouted. “And I am only hearing about it now, you incompetent bastard?”
“Well, lord,” Cathail stammered, his tone defensive. “The thing of it is, they are wandering all over the countryside, lord. I had no idea of where they were going or what they were about. To be honest, they didn’t seem to know, either.”
Kevin frowned. “So, where are they now?”
“About five miles from here, lord, by the river. Like I said, there’s but forty of them, and they’re coming this way. Sort of. In truth they’re wandering around like the Jews in the desert.”
For a long moment there was an uncomfortable silence as Kevin considered that. “Forty men, you say? On foot? Even lacking the men we sent with that Lochlánn we should be able to crush them easy enough.”
His mind was working now. He could hurt Ottar with no great risk to himself or his men. Thirty of his men were off with Lochlánn. If he sent sixty off to crush Ottar’s band he would still have warriors to guard the ringfort. But not that many. Did he dare weaken himself thus?
“Ah, lord, there’s another thing,” Cathail said, still speaking in his sheepish way. “Just this morning, more men came out of Vík-ló. Quite a few more, actually.”
“How many?” Kevin asked, now once again worried. His level of fear was going up and down like a boat in a heavy swell.
“It was near hundred and fifty, as far as we could tell,” Cathail said.
Kevin worried he might vomit. Near one hundred and fifty? he thought, the words like a shrieking in his head. And already he has forty in the field? He straightened and forced some composure into his voice.
“And where are these one hundred and fifty heading? Are they wandering about, like the others?”
“No, lord,” Cathail said. “They sent riders out, and I’m guessing it was to find the first lot of men. But the rest, they’re just staying to the road. The road…to here, actually.”
Kevin nodded and walked as steadily as he was able over to the big chair that served as a sort of throne. He sat in it, holding his face in an expression he hoped looked like intense concentration and not an effort to avoid having his knees buckle under him.
He had seen what Ottar had done to prisoners, men who had done no more than join in battle against him. He could well imagine what the lunatic Northman would do to one like himself, who had betrayed him. It would make having his head cut off by Thorgrim with a dull knife look like a mercy. He needed some time to let his panic subside so he could think again.
Luckily, the first order that needed giving was obvious and required no thought or reflection. “Cathail,” Kevin said, and he was pleased by the strength in his voice. “Niall is to the west of here with thirty of my men. Ride out and find him and tell him I desire he return with the men immediately. And tell the other one, Lochlánn, that if he does not want to see his men slaughtered by the heathen he had best come along as well.”
The sun was nearly behind the hills and the wolf hunting party was just setting up camp for the night by the bank of a narrow river when they saw the rider far off. He was to the south and maybe two miles away, a dark spot moving fast over the lush green fields, illuminated by the low-hanging sun to the west.
“Who could this be?” Oddi wondered out loud. He had been the first to spot the rider, and now most of the men had stopped what they were doing to look, as if staring at the newcomer, barely visible in the distance, might reveal his identity and purpose.
“Coming from that direction he must be coming from Vík-ló,” Einar said. He looked directly at Aghen, fixed him with an ugly stare. “Probably sent by Ottar to find out why we haven’t yet killed this wolf.”
The shipwright returned the stare, unflinching. “And I’ll tell him,” he said. “Like I told you. If the wolf doesn’t want to be lured to us, it won’t be lured. And we’ve no other way to find it.”
Aghen had indeed told Einar as much. He repeated the caveat each of the numerous times Einar had suggested that Aghen was failing in his task, through either malice or incompetence. But even as he said it he was thinking, Why do you ask me about this? I’m a shipwright. I know nothing of hunting for wolves…
But Ottar had decided differently, and so now the man who knew only how to hunt for leaking seams and rotting strakes was hunting for a predator that might or might not exist.
Einar growled an order and the hunting party returned to their work, some setting up tents, some staking out the newly replaced pig haunch far from the camp, some hoisting barrels of meat and ale off the cart. Oddi knelt on the ground and piled charred linen tinder, wood chips and kindling on the spot chosen for the fire ring. Aghen stood beside him, leaning on the long iron poker they used for tending the fire. Oddi clicked a length of flint against his steel striker, raining sparks down on the tinder until it caught.
“My guess is, whatever this fellow has to say, it won’t be good,” Oddi said softly, nodding toward the distant rider as he applied the nascent flame to the wood chips and blew on them. The wood smoked and the flame faded away. Oddi gave it another practiced breath and the fire burst into life.
“I don’t usually agree with Einar,” Aghen said, “but I think he’s right. This is likely someone sent by Ottar to see what’s going on.”
“Ottar won’t be happy when he hears we haven’t killed the wolf,” Oddi said. “He’s probably not happy now. Some of the others, they don’t much care to return to Vík-ló empty-handed. They think Ottar will take it out on all of us.”
“I suspect he will,” Aghen said.
“So, do you think we’ll catch this thing? Bring this wolf back to Vík-ló so Ottar is pleased?”
“No,” Aghen said. “We won’t.” He saw the look on Oddi’s face. Disappointment. Worry. A lot of worry. It was the look Aghen had expected to see. What he had hoped to see.
“So…” Oddi said, looking for something positive he might grab onto. “What can we do?”
“We could not go back to Vík-ló,” Aghen said.
Any further talk was interrupted by the sound of hoofbeats getting louder, splashing through the shallow river, as the horseman closed the last hundred yards and reined his foaming, sweat-streaked mount to a stop. The rider was a man named Galti who was most certainly a part of Ottar’s inner circle. He hopped down from his horse and strode with purpose toward the cluster of men in the camp as Einar hurried over to him.
“Galti, what brings you here?” Einar said, but Galti did not answer him, did not even look at him. His eyes were fixed firmly on Aghen as he approached and stopped just a few feet from the shipwright.
“Aghen Ormsson, your lies have been discovered,” he said, his voice low and menacing. “Your lies about the wolf, all of it.”
He spoke louder, addressing the other men who were now gathering closer. “There was no wolf,” Galti said and he pointed a finger at Aghen. “It was Aghen. He murdered the men you serve. And now Ottar and more than a hundred men are riding out to see justice done, to take vengeance on the Irishman, Kevin. But first, all of you will come back to Ottar’s camp and Ottar will see this one gets what he deserves for his crimes. And any who were foolish enough to help him.” With those last words his eyes flickered over toward Oddi and the
n back to Aghen.
Aghen could form only one clear thought through the twisted confusion in his mind. How does he know? Could someone have found the jaws? He had buried them by his stack of lumber. He was the only one who ever went there.
He was aware of a low murmur running through the watching men, but he had no sense for what they were saying. He saw the wide-eyed look of fear on Oddi’s face. The young man had not missed Galti’s glance or the meaning behind it. Everyone there could envision the horrors Ottar would unleash just to determine whether a man was guilty or not.
“You are accusing me…” Aghen began, but Galti cut him off.
“Arrest this man! Bind him up, hands and feet, and break camp. We go back to Ottar now.”
No one moved. No one spoke. No one took hold of Aghen.
Einar stepped up. “Arrest this man, now! Get hold of him!” he said in as commanding a tone as he could. Einar might have been Ottar’s lickspittle, but he was no fool and he knew what could happen if he did not maintain control of the men.
I’m a dead man, either way, Aghen thought. That was all the insight he could muster, the full extent of his planning, his weighing options, his exploration of possible consequences. The rest was just instinct and a visceral understanding that he had nothing at all to lose.
The point of the iron poker was resting on the ground, his right palm resting on the handle. He spread his fingers, wrapped them around the end of the iron bar, and swept the poker up and back over his shoulder. He grabbed hold with his left hand as well and swung the poker horizontally, the iron shaft making a smooth, perfect arc through the air until it found the side of Galti’s head. It connected with an ugly crunching noise and bounced off in a new direction.
Galti was flung sideways, the blow so fast and hard he had no chance to even make a sound that might indicate surprise or concern. He fell to the turf with a soft thumping noise, like a sack of grain dropped from shoulder height.
Night Wolf: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 5) Page 29