Nothwulf cocked his head as he looked at her. He thought he understood the direction this was taking, and he did not care for it. “Conspiring? How do you think I was conspiring?”
“I need not tell you,” Roswitha said. “There’s nothing about this business you don’t know.”
“Very well, then,” Nothwulf said. “Let’s pretend I know nothing of it, and you tell me.”
Roswitha glared at him, and it was hatred that he saw now. She crossed her arms and her mouth remained shut and she assumed an attitude of stubborn refusal. Nothwulf knew better than to make a threat against her. Instead, he shifted his gaze, moved his eyes and his head just a bit so that he was looking past Roswitha, looking at the girl sitting on the bed. He let his eyes linger on her for just a moment. Then he looked back at Roswitha.
She had not missed the glance or the threat it implied. “Very well,” she said. “My husband was a fool, and he was played for one, and he was played by you.”
You are right about the one thing, Nothwulf thought. Werheard was a fool and it was well known. But he was getting the sense that Roswitha was not, that she was far brighter than her husband ever was.
“You were the one who talked him into this great plot and filled his head with notions of the thegns rising up against Merewald, and the favors to be shown them by the new ealdorman,” she said.
“How do you know this?” Nothwulf asked. “Did Werheard tell you this?”
“He said it was a great secret, that I was not to know. But I pulled it from him, bit by bit. Usually I could talk him out of any stupid notion he got, but not this time. He was certain this was a plot in which all the nobles of the shire were involved.”
“Did he say he met with me directly?” Nothwulf asked.
“No,” Roswitha said. “Or at least, he didn’t say. He went off to meet with whoever he was meeting with, someplace far from our home.” She stopped and thought for a minute. “No,” she said at last, “I suppose it was not you with whom he met.”
This seemed an abrupt shift, so Nothwulf asked, “Why don’t you think it was me?”
“Because whoever it was, he gave him your ring. To prove it was you who was behind all this, that it truly had your blessing. A gold ring, with a red stone, and a device of a hart and a boar. He showed it to me. I knew right off it was yours. He wouldn’t have needed such a token if he was talking to you.”
Nothwulf turned his head a bit and stared off into the dark corner of the room, seeing nothing, his mind pulling Roswitha’s words apart. The room was silent, the only sound the far-off tolling of the bells. Then Nothwulf turned back to Roswitha.
“What…was supposed to happen?” he asked. “What was the plot?”
Roswitha looked at him, more curious than angry now, as if she was wondering how he could be so great a fool. He was beginning to wonder that himself.
“All of the thegns were to rise up against Merewald,” she said. “That was why it was to happen at the wedding, when all the thegns would be there, and no one of them could claim innocence. My husband would strike Merewald down just as the ceremony ended, and the rest would step up and join him. You would be ealdorman and then you would see the others well rewarded for their loyalty.”
Once again Nothwulf stared off into the corner of the room and let the words roll around in his head. It made sense, sure. It was the only way Werheard might have thought he could get away with such a crime, if all the rest were part of it as well. So, someone wanted him to be ealdorman, and laid out this plot in secret. Someone who could get their hands on the ring that he kept in a small casket in his bedchamber.
A thought came to him. He turned quick and looked at Bryning, thinking if he were the guilty one he might read the guilt on his face. Bryning looked back at him, his eyes wide with surprise, but there was no shade of guilt there.
“Lord?” he asked.
“Did she tell you any of this, when you spoke to her?” Nothwulf demanded, changing direction.
“No, lord,” Bryning stammered. “Not a word of it.”
“He tells the truth,” Roswitha said. “I told no one. Not at first. I thought…I prayed…my husband had not been played for a fool, that I might be rewarded, or at least spared, for what he’d done.”
“At first?”
Roswitha frowned and once again the defiance was there. “They beat me, your bastard Bryning there, and Oswin’s men, and I said nothing. They brought me here, and then I could see there was no advantage to keeping quiet. You were not going to help me, though my husband died for your intrigues. So I told Oswin everything, everything I just said to you. Because now my only hope is that I can take you down to eternal damnation with me.”
Nothwulf stared at her. At best, he knew, all of Werheard’s lands and chattel would be taken as punishment and Roswitha and her children left as beggars. At worst the justices would decide she was part of the plot as well. Then she would die on the block and her children sold as slaves. Nothwulf understood why she felt no need to keep her mouth shut.
It was silent in the room, so quiet Nothwulf could hear the soft sound of Roswitha’s breath.
“Lord?” Bryning said, soft. “Lord, the bells have stopped.”
He was right. The bells had stopped. The funeral had begun and now Nothwulf would be late and that would certainly set people talking.
“Very well, let’s go,” Nothwulf said. He turned and pushed past Bryning. He had learned one thing, at least. He had learned that he knew all but nothing about the true nature of this bloody murder.
Chapter Nine
An encampment of the Laigin was overwhelmed by the heathens,
and Conall…and countless others fell there.
Annals of Ulster
Bécc and Faílbe pushed themselves up to a standing position and made their way back toward the monastery at Beggerin. They did not bother hiding themselves in the reeds as they walked. They had seen the heathens’ utter lack of vigilance and they were no longer worried that they might be discovered.
They found their horses where they had left them tied, and they mounted and rode back to where the men-at-arms were waiting. Some were eating, some praying, but most were lying down on the cool grass. That was good. Bécc wanted the men rested, fresh. The heathens might be half-drunk, but it never did any good to count on an enemy’s weakness. And for heathens, drunkenness might not be a weakness at all; it might well be a benefit.
A few of the captains who knew better than to be caught napping saw the riders approach, and with grunts and somewhat gentle kicks they induced the others to stand and to take up their weapons. Bécc and Faílbe reined to a stop at the head of the rough assembly. Bécc was, of course, Faílbe’s inferior in almost every way, but not in matters of warfare, a fact they mutually understood. Bécc did not hesitate or ask Faílbe’s leave before assuming command.
“The heathens are on the beach, about a mile from here. They are drunk and they have fires burning so they will be hard pressed just to see their limp members when they take a piss.”
That got a chuckle, and Bécc knew it would. He paused, then went on. “We’ll march there now. Near the beach we’ll divide our men. Faílbe will lead his men and those who serve under Colcu and Guaire. The rest will be with me. Faílbe will take his men to the east, I will move to the west. I’ll strike first, and when you hear me and my men fighting, then you will come up from the other side. Understood?”
He looked out over the men. In the weak light of the moon he could see those closest nodding. They were men-at-arms and they would see right off what he intended, and even if they did not, the captains and Faílbe would.
“Father Niall,” Bécc called, waving for the priest who had accompanied them to step forward. “A prayer, please, to ask God for success in our Holy fight.” Bécc would have preferred a mass to a simple prayer, but he could feel time slipping away.
Father Niall came forward and stood beside Bécc’s horse. He made the sign of the cross and said, “ In nom
ine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti .” With a soft jingling sound, two hundred mail-clad arms made the sign of the cross as well in near unison as Father Niall began his prayer. It was thoughtful, reverent, and brief.
There were many reasons why Bécc liked the young priest and took him along when he was campaigning. Niall was clever, he was brave, and he did not complain. When they were away from the abbey, Father Niall would celebrate mass and pray the daily office, in which Bécc would reverently participate. Bécc did not shirk his duty to God any more than he would shirk combat. But sometimes things had to be hurried along. And Father Niall understood that.
The prayer came to an end and once again the two hundred mail-clad arms made the sign of the cross, and that was followed by a more pronounced bustle as the men-at-arms picked up their spears and shields and whatever else they had set aside. They shuffled into loose groups according to their leaders, and once they had done so Bécc wheeled his horse and headed back the way he had just come. Behind him he heard the sound of the men, his men, his army, following along.
It took longer to cover the distance with all the men than it had with just Bécc and Faílbe alone, but Bécc expected that and he didn’t mind. More chance for the heathens to drink themselves insensible , he thought. He looked forward to the coming fight, the slaughter of those who defiled God’s house. His men and Faílbe’s would crush them as they surged up from both directions.
Take care, take care, mind your pride and hubris, he thought, and a flush of panic came over him. God did not care for prideful men who felt they deserved victory, even if it was a victory over heathens who worshiped false gods. He crossed himself again and he prayed until the monastery at Beggerin rose out of the gloom and it was time for him to dismount.
He and Faílbe, who was riding beside him, stopped at the same sapling they had used before and once again made their horses fast, and the few other men who were mounted did the same. Bécc and Faílbe continued on, skirting the monastery once more and heading out into the open, marshy ground. He stopped and Faílbe stopped and all the men behind them did as well.
“I think you should take your men east from here, Lord,” Bécc said, pointing in that direction. He spoke softly, despite being all but certain the drunken Northmen would not hear him if he shouted, or care if they did.
Faílbe nodded. “Very good, Brother. I’ll get my men in place and we’ll listen for the sound of you launching your attack. But please, leave some of the heathens for us, will you?”
Bécc gave a half smile and nodded, but Faílbe’s hubris made him as uncomfortable as his own. He remained where he was, his warriors in a bunch behind him, as Faílbe led his men down the path and then off to the east. Once Faílbe was well beyond the reach of the firelight he would bring his men to the edge of the dunes and wait, and when he judged the moment right, he and his men would come screaming into the fight, coming in behind the Northmen who would already be engaged with Bécc’s men.
At least, that was the plan. Bécc did not see anything that might make it go awry, but he had seen enough careful plans collapse that he was not excessively optimistic now.
“All right, you men, follow me,” Bécc growled. “And keep quiet.”
He headed off in the same direction that Faílbe and the others had gone, but rather than swinging to the east, he would go west until he and his men were also beyond the light of the fires. And those fires, he could see, were still burning, the edge of the distant dunes illuminated by the flames and a glow of light beyond that.
Like the gates of hell , Bécc thought. His eyes moved along the edge of the dunes as he walked, but there was no one, and the sounds of singing and shouting had died down considerably since he and Faílbe had made their visit earlier.
His eyes still on the edge of the dunes, his ears sharp for any sound of alarm, Bécc was about to lead his men off the path and off to the west when his toe caught something on the ground, something large but not solid, not entirely. He gave a grunt as he pitched forward, arms out, with no way to prevent his falling. He thought vaguely as he went down that it was a humiliating accident, to trip and fall while leading his men.
His hands hit the soft earth and broke his fall, and he rolled onto his shoulder as his body came down, his legs sprawled over whatever it was that had tripped him. And then he felt whatever it was move, and he had a vague thought that he had tripped over some animal asleep on the trail. He heard soft grunting noises from his men as those at the head of the column came to a halt and those behind collided with them.
Bécc rolled over and looked back at what he had tripped over, and in the dim light of the moon, and to his utter surprise, he saw a face staring back, an ugly face, covered with hair, a long beard with what looked like braids, wild eyes gleaming. He was dressed like a Northman.
Bécc opened his mouth to speak, but his surprise was such that no words came out, not right off, and before they did, the Northman scrambled to his feet. And then Bécc understood the danger. He rolled on his back and reached for his sword and called to his men, “Kill him! Kill him! Don’t let him get away!”
But the men, as surprised as Bécc, were frozen in place. The Northman was up and Bécc pulled his sword and slashed at the man’s legs but found only air. The heathen was running now, running for the beach, and just as Bécc had feared, he was shouting in his ugly heathen tongue.
“Damn! Damn it!” Bécc shouted, words he had not used since he had abandoned the life of a soldier. He leapt to his feet and jerked the spear from the hand of the startled man beside him, spun around and hurled the weapon at the back of the fleeing heathen. He saw the shaft disappear into the dark, but there was no pause in the heathen’s shouting, loud and hysterical, and Bécc knew that he had missed, and with the fleeing Northman went their entire plan of attack.
Bécc could not understand the words the man was shouting, but he didn’t have to. They could be nothing but an alarm, a call to arms, a warning that a powerful enemy was approaching in the dark.
He doesn’t know about Faílbe , Bécc thought. There was still one surprise left.
“Follow me!” Bécc shouted and he turned to his right and began to race through the waist-high reeds, his feet sinking into the marshy ground. The heathens would expect the attackers to be right on the heels of the man they had startled and would be ready for an attack on that quarter. But if he could still bring his men to the west as planned, he might be able to hit them on an exposed flank. There was not much time. The longer he waited, the more sober and organized the heathens would be.
He pushed on. The reeds whipped across his face and the cold water seeped into his shoes, but he did not slow in his race for the dunes, that rampart that God himself had set up between the beach and the marsh. The grass began to thin as he reached the edge of the marsh and the land began to rise slightly. To his left he could see the loom of the fires, the strange glow illuminating the mounds of sand and vegetation.
At the edge of the dune he stopped and held a hand up for the men behind him to stop as well. Better to catch their breath and form up for an organized assault than to rush into the fight like some rioting mob, even if they did lose a small amount of time.
He could hear shouting on the beach, voices calling out in the heathens’ tongue, layers of voices as the men there, who, just a moment before thought they had no earthly worries that night, found themselves on the precipice of battle.
“Fland, Imchad, up here!” Bécc shouted and the two captains leading the men under him came jogging over. “Fland, take your men down toward the edge of the water, form them in a line. Imchad, you’ll set your men up in a line starting at the dune. See the lines link up. We’ll sweep along the beach and shift when we see how the heathens are making ready.”
“Yes, Brother Bécc,” Fland said, and Imchad nodded. They turned to issue orders, then turned back as a new sound met their ears. The shouting on the beach had risen in volume, risen in pitch, and now the cries of the men there, still u
nseen behind the dune, were punctuated by the telltale ring of steel on steel. There was more shouting now, and Bécc was certain some of the words were Irish.
“Damnation!” he shouted in his fury. Faílbe must have heard the sound of the heathens preparing for the fight and thought that Bécc was already engaged. He had launched his attack before Bécc’s men were even ready to go. Bécc could feel the entire fight slipping away from him. He felt sick and angry and frightened.
Please, God, please guide my hand…
He turned to his right. “Fland, Imchad, hurry! Get the men in line! Go!”
The two captains were already shouting orders, pointing toward the beach, shoving men in place. They, too, had guessed what had happened, or so Bécc imagined. The men-at-arms began to race over the edge of the dune and disappeared from sight as they reached the beach beyond, and Bécc hoped they were forming a line, as instructed, and not just rushing toward the sound of the fighting.
He took a few steps forward and climbed up onto the dune, the highest spot around, the clearest view of what was going on. He could see his own men were indeed making ready, forming a loose shield wall. Good. Nothing could destroy an army faster than a blind rush at an organized enemy.
He looked to the east. There were five big bonfires making a sort of half-circle on the beach. They were still burning well, the flames reaching ten feet or more up into the air. They made it hard to see in that direction, the beach all light and shadow, but in that strange illumination Bécc could see the heathens and Faílbe’s men already engaged in a furious fight, knots of struggling men, swords rising up to catch the light of the flames, firelight glinting off of helmets.
Bécc pressed his lips together and tried not to give vent to his anger and frustration. The bastard heathen he had tripped over, probably insensible with drink, had given sufficient alarm for the others to snatch up their swords and shields, to grab spears and axes and get into some kind of order. The warning had come just moments before Faílbe’s attack, but it had been enough. Their surprise, their precious surprise, was gone.
A Vengeful Wind: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 8) Page 9