All that, the smells, the sounds, the feel of the grass underfoot he took in as he ran. Where he was going he did not know. The dream did not tell him that; it told him only to run.
And then soon another scent came and he knew, somehow, this was the one he was meant to follow. Men. Not a couple of sheepherders out with their flock but a lot of men, crowded together. He could smell sweat and fires and cooking food. He could smell ale. And through it all he could smell something else that drove him on, pulled him in that direction, though the dream did not tell him what that was.
He was close now and he slowed to a trot and then a walk. The smells were strong, nearly overwhelming. And he could hear as well, though it was late and the sounds were few. The hiss of fires burning down to embers, the breathing of sleeping men along with the insects and the far off rustling of the small creatures who moved at night.
He slowed further still as he came up to a hill and he knew that this long, gently sloping land was all that stood between him and what lay beyond. He neared the crest and he crouched low as he moved, though there was little chance that anyone would see him through the black night, even if anyone was awake, which he knew few, if any, were.
He crept over the top of the hill and then it was there before him, laid out like a banquet. A camp of men. There were a few big tents and many smaller ones. There were fire rings, some with glowing coals in their center. There were spears arranged in neat pyramids and a few half-sleeping sentries posted around. There was a soft glow from one of the big tents, lanterns still burning, someone still awake.
He moved over the top of the hill and down the far side, toward the camp, senses sharper now even than they had been when he approached the place. The sentries were few and they were staring out into the dark, their minds elsewhere. No one seemed to think that danger might be lurking.
At the edge of the camp he paused and looked around, but he was still invisible to the men there. He moved on, between the tents, his footfalls silent on the soft ground. No alarm. No one was aware of his presence.
He passed the big tent with the lamps lighting it up from within. He could smell the burning oil and could hear the slight shuffling sound of the man inside. One man, that was it.
Moving on, slow and silent, at the far end of the camp he came to another tent, a large tent but not as large as the first. This one had guards by the door and they looked more alert than those at the perimeter of the camp, but not alert enough to sense he was there.
He crouched low and looked and listened and let the scents move past his nose. He could hear the sound of a single man, asleep, coming through the cloth flap that served as a door. He could make out the scent of the guards, each distinct from the other, the sharp smell of the iron spear tips.
Then there was another smell, startling in its familiarity. The smell of a man, one he knew well. The scent filled him with a crosscurrent of feelings: there was elation at the discovery, and fear, and anger. He did not know what this scent was, who this man was, but it was important, he knew that. The wolf dream, the journey he was on, it was all wrapped up in that one scent.
For some time, a long time, he remained where he was, watching, waiting. He let his nose pull the night smells apart, as it had done the others. The smell of fear, when it was present, was strong and unmistakable, but he could sense no fear from this man in the tent. The guards shuffled a bit, now and then, tired from standing motionless through the dark hours that seemed to offer no threat, no reason for vigilance.
Then he was done. Why, he did not know, he knew only that he was done, that he had found what he needed to find. He backed slowly away until the tent and the guards were lost to his sight, then he turned and ran off, silent, into the dark.
And then he was awake. Lying on his side, his eyes still closed, and he realized his clothes on the side on which he was lying were wet, clean through, but warm, at least, from the heat of his body. He understood that fact even before he had opened his eyes, but he did not know why. The sleep still pressed him down like a heavy fur, like a bearskin, or reindeer, several skins of reindeer, and he felt as if he was struggling to push it off.
He opened his eyes. He was lying on the grass. It was daylight, barely, though the thick clouds that still covered the sky made it hard to know exactly what time of day it was. He pushed himself up with a groan. He could smell wet grass and burning wood. Familiar smells. Comforting smells.
“Night Wolf,” someone said from behind him. Thorgrim did not turn to see who it was. He didn’t have to.
“Starri,” he said.
“Wolf dream?” Starri asked.
“Yes.”
“What did the gods show you?”
Thorgrim was silent for a moment, remembering what he had seen in his dream, what he had tasted and smelled. There were fleeting images only, hints of memory. He tried to puzzle it out.
“Harald,” he said at last. He stood with yet another groan, stretched and turned and looked at Starri, who was sitting cross-legged behind him. “The gods spoke to me about Harald.”
“What of him?”
Thorgrim thought some more. “He’s not close, but not so far away. He’s safe for now. Unhurt. But I don’t know how long that will be true.”
Starri nodded. “Can you find him?”
“I think so.” He looked up, past Starri, toward the camp in the distance. Tendrils of smoke were lifting up from fire pits and men were moving slowly about. There was no sense of urgency, and that suggested to Thorgrim that it was early morning still. To the north was the smattering of the Irish warriors’ tents. South, his own men were milling around in a cluster as a few of them tended to the growing fire.
Thorgrim watched the encampment coming slowly awake, but he did not really see it. His mind was elsewhere, wrestling with other things. Because now he had a problem.
The gods seemed to tell him that Harald was safe. For the moment. He had feared that the presence of his men on the field of battle the day before might be construed as betrayal, that this Irishman who held Harald hostage would kill him for it. Apparently he had not, but if the Northmen actually joined in the fighting then he most certainly would.
As long as Harald was a hostage, they could not keep their oath to Bécc that they would join in the fighting. But neither could he tell Bécc that their enemy held Harald hostage. If he did, Bécc would no longer trust him. They needed to free Harald before they went into battle. But the enemy was close, and Thorgrim did not doubt that Bécc was eager to come to grips with them.
“I must go and speak with Bécc,” Thorgrim said, coming to a decision.
“What will you say to him?” Starri asked.
“I don’t know,” Thorgrim said. He had decided only to speak, he did not know what words would come out of his mouth. After many years and many miles Thorgrim had learned that sometimes it worked better to just do a thing and see what happened, rather than thinking it through to exhaustion.
He walked off toward the camp, his steps leaving a trail in the wet grass. He could barely recall having stumbled out that way the night before, but he’d had a sense of profound confusion, a swirling uncertainty. That was gone now. Now he knew what had to be done, and he intended to do it, regardless of what Bécc or any other goat turd of an Irishman wanted.
The men gathered around the fire pit turned and nodded their greeting as Thorgrim walked past and he nodded back. There had been talk in the camp of his wolf dream, he was sure of it, and the men were never certain how to greet him when that happened, if he was still liable to be ill-tempered after waking up from such a thing. It did not matter. His mood was even, his mind clear now.
“Failend,” he called when he saw Failend around the far side of the crowd, sitting on a stump, forcing a comb through her long, black hair. Lovely hair, he had always liked it. “Come with me, please.”
Failend nodded, tossed her hair over her shoulder and hurried to catch up with him.
“You’re well, Thorgrim?” she a
sked, a far deeper question than the three words suggested.
“I’m good,” Thorgrim said. “And you?”
“Good,” Failend said, and he guessed that was true. He could hear the relief in her voice at the sheer normalcy of his reply.
“I must speak with Bécc,” Thorgrim continued. They walked through the Irish portion of the camp, and the soldiers’ eyes followed them as they passed. There was a guard outside Bécc’s tent, the butt of his spear resting on the ground, and they stopped and Failend spoke to the man.
“He says Bécc is at prayers, but he will be done shortly,” Failend said.
“How shortly?” Thorgrim asked.
“Shortly,” Failend translated the guard’s reply.
Thorgrim considered leaving, having word sent to him when Bécc was done. Standing outside a tent, waiting on another man’s pleasure, was not something he had done in many years and not something he intended to do now. He opened his mouth to say as much to Failend when the flap of the tent pulled back, revealing Bécc, who gestured them in.
They stepped into the half-light of the canvas pavilion. Thorgrim half remembered the place from the night before, but he had almost no memory of what had been said. Bécc gestured for him and Failend to sit, and wordlessly handed them each a cup of ale. Then he spoke.
“Brother Bécc asks if you are well, if your men have been provided what they need,” Failend said and Thorgrim nodded. All seemed in order, as far as he could tell, and as for himself, he felt rejuvenated. It was not always that way after the wolf dreams, but this time it was.
“Tell Bécc the enemy is about seven miles to the east of us, encamped there,” Thorgrim said. Failend translated and this time it was Bécc who nodded.
I’m sure he knows that already, Thorgrim thought. Has his own men out scouting. He would be derelict if he did not, and Bécc did not strike Thorgrim as the sort who was derelict.
“Ask Bécc what his intentions are, when and how he means to attack. Will we be moving out soon?” Here was the crucial question. An attack that afternoon could well mean Harald’s death.
Failend asked the question, but as she spoke, Bécc looked confused, not the reaction Thorgrim had expected. Then he spoke.
“Brother Bécc says today is the Sabbath,” Failend said, using the Irish word, apparently unable to find its equivalent in the Norse tongue. “There will be no fighting today.”
“What…what is that? That you said?” Thorgrim asked.
“Sabbath. It’s a holy day. Brother Bécc will not fight today.”
“Your gods do not allow you to fight on this day?” Thorgrim asked.
“God, not gods. And yes, when God created the world, this was the day on which he rested, so we do no labor on this day. Fighting most of all,” Failend explained.
“Every year, there’s this day on which you can do no labor?” Thorgrim asked.
“Not every year. Every seventh day.”
Thorgrim frowned. He had never heard of such a thing. But that was potentially useful information. He guessed that not all the Christ men were as strict about this as Bécc, or surely he would have heard of it before.
Bécc was speaking again. “He says, tomorrow, at first light, we’ll move out and meet the enemy.”
“Tell him that’s good,” Thorgrim said. And it was. It could not be better. Because now he knew what he would be doing on the morrow. And more important, he knew what he would be doing that night.
Chapter Sixteen
Ships with their crews, were plainly seen in the sky this year.
Annals of the Four Masters
Airtre mac Domhnall had not slept well. In truth he had hardly slept at all. Rather, he had been up and down from his camp bed, pacing the inside of his pavilion, drinking wine and mead, lying down again. His thoughts were a chaotic blur.
He had around a hundred men under his command. Columba at Ferns, or more accurately his attack dog, Bécc, had less than half that number. And he, Airtre, had the heathens fighting on his side. That gave him an absolutely overwhelming advantage. Ferns would fall like a rotten post, and even help from one of the local rí túaithe would not save it.
But that was only if the Northmen were actually on his side. He was haunted by the image of the heathens coming down the slope of the hill as he was engaged with Bécc and his men. A great line of heathens, their round shields bright painted, their weapons in hand. Many of them mail-clad, the steel links shimmering in the dull light of the overcast day. They had been a frightening sight, but Airtre did not know if it was he who should be frightened, or Bécc.
He moved across the wide pavilion and flung back the cloth door. “Tell Tipraite to come here, immediately,” he snapped at the guards and one of them replied, “Yes, lord!” stepping off even before the words were clear of his mouth.
Airtre retreated back into the half-light of the tent. If he fought the heathens and Bécc together with the men he had, only a third of whom could be considered real fighting men, then he would be badly beaten. And that would be humiliating, utterly humiliating, particularly coming on the heels of his recent defeat at the gates of Ferns. An image of Lassar floated before him, the pursed lips, the scrunched eyebrows, the hands on hips. He felt a wave of nausea come over him.
Of course there was a good chance he might be killed in the fight. That had not occurred to him, and now, as it did, it did not frighten. For a fleeting moment he embraced the idea, the sweet relief of death. A hero’s death. And even if Lassar did not see it that way, he would not have to hear her biting words on that account.
He shook his head. No, he might not fear death, but he was not ready to welcome it, either.
“Lord?”
Airtre looked up. Tipraite was standing half in and half out of the tent and Airtre, irritated, waved him in. “Sit,” he said.
Tipraite sat and Airtre sat across from him. “Where are the heathens?” he demanded. “Are they fighting with us?” It was an unfair question—Tipraite could not know the answer any more than Airtre could—but Airtre did not care. It was one of the advantages of being rí tuath, one that Airtre enjoyed often. He did not always have to be reasonable.
“I…I don’t know, lord,” Tipraite said. “It seems they came to the place where the Bann meets the Slaney, as they were instructed.”
“But they didn’t fight with us,” Airtre said.
“Neither did they fight against us,” Tipraite said. “I should think they didn’t expect Bécc would be there any more than we did, lord. Could be they didn’t know who was who, who they should be fighting against.”
Airtre frowned. He had not thought of that. Over and over, in his mind, he could see the line of Northmen on the hill, formed up, waiting. They seemed to radiate threat, and the more he had thought about it, the more that threat seemed to be directed at him. Treachery. Betrayal. But now Tipraite was suggesting it was mere uncertainty on their part.
“Why would they…” Airtre began and stopped as that line of questioning seemed to lead nowhere. “Where are they…have they remained with Bécc? How are we to find out if they will fight with us?”
Tipraite shook his head. “I don’t know, lord. I sent scouts out, last night. To see if they could discover anything. If they aren’t taken by our enemies I would expect them back shortly. Then we can know the truth.”
“Meanwhile we could be overrun in our camp,” Airtre snapped. He could feel the tension getting the better of him. “If the heathens have joined with Bécc and they attack us today, then those sorry bastards out there that we call soldiers would all be cut down while they stand around scratching their arses.”
“I don’t think that’s likely, lord,” Tipraite said. “Today’s the Sabbath, and Bécc, he reckons himself some sort of Churchman. I don’t think he’ll fight today. He’ll spend the day on his knees.”
Airtre frowned. The Sabbath… He had forgotten that, lost track of the days. And he suspected Tipraite was right; Bécc would not launch an attack that day. It
was a respite, a chance for them to figure out what was going on.
“Very well,” Airtre said. “I suspect we should all spend the day on our knees.”
And that was indeed where Airtre and the others spent the day, or a good portion of it. A temporary altar was set up in the field and the priest who traveled with the army donned his vestments and led the Holy Mass under the heavy, overcast skies, which threatened every moment to wash the ceremony away, but in the end held off. A sign from God, Airtre hoped, a promise of good fortune to come.
The lack of rain was pretty much the only thing about the mass of which Airtre took note. As the priest intoned the prayers in Latin, Airtre’s mind wandered back over the problems at hand, what he would do if the heathens failed to come to his aid, as they had agreed. Abandon the field? Disperse the army? Go back to Rath Knock and admit defeat?
That was not what he wanted to do, not at all. It would not be so long before the family of the King of Laigin managed to kill the old man and then establish themselves as rulers over that land. And that would be an end of his chance to get his hands on part of the Treasure of St. Aiden. And he would have to explain that all to his wife.
Despite his efforts to appear above concern, his eyes turned again and again to the west, hoping to see Tipraite’s scouts off in the distance, riding toward the camp, but all he saw was the wet, dull green countryside.
The time for communion came and Airtre and his chief men received the sacred body and blood, but there was not enough for the rest—at least Airtre was not going to supply bread and wine for the rest—and so mass ended and the men drifted off. Airtre returned to his tent, to think, to brood, to worry.
It was some short time after that that he heard the scouts returning. Eager as he had been for their appearance, now he remained in his pavilion, hoping the rest would take note of his calm disinterest. He made himself sit as he heard Tipraite approaching.
Loch Garman: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 7) Page 15