A Vengeful Wind: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 8)

by Nelson, James L.

  Thorgrim frowned and turned his ear toward the beach. Starri was right, as far as he could tell. He could no longer hear the sound of fighting. He wondered if they were too late, and what they would find when they ran Dragon ’s bow onto the sand. But it did not even occur to him to turn back.

  They halved the distance and halved it again. The points of light resolved into actual fires, the leaping flames distinct. The light played over the beach, and Thorgrim thought he could see a mass of men standing down by the water, though why they should do that he could not imagine. He thought to call out to Starri, ask what he could see, but he kept his mouth shut. He knew Starri would be doing that strange jerking thing he did with his arms and his mind would be giving over to the berserker’s battle madness and there would be no talking to him.

  We’ll find out soon enough , he thought.

  Ten more strokes and the scene on the beach was growing clearer with every boat length they covered. Thorgrim could see the men now, or at least the outlines of them, framed against the firelight. He saw them move as one, forming up into what he guessed was a shield wall and moving up the beach, and on the heels of that, the battle sounds again, the fight rejoined, and Thorgrim knew he was not too late, not at all.

  They were fighting up by the half circle of bonfires, two shield walls slamming into one another. Dragon was close enough now that Thorgrim could hear the crunch of shield against shield, and the sharp cries of fighting men. It was one of the oddest sights he had seen, the dark shapes of fighting men against the bright flames. Two shield walls, swaying and undulating like some mighty sea monster in its death throes.

  And then the monster was torn apart, the near solid line of men shattering along its length. One of the shield walls had broken, and the men who had been standing their ground were now fleeing down the beach toward the water’s edge, where they would be trapped between their attackers and the sea.

  “Almost there!” Thorgrim called out, his voice loud enough to be heard the length of the ship. “There are men by the water, but I don’t know who they are. If they’re Irish we’ll catch them between our lines and Ketil’s. If they are Ketil’s men we push through them to get to the Irish!”

  He heard grunts of agreement and swords banging against shields in anticipation. It did not occur to any of them, save for Louis, to wonder why they were joining this fight, or if it did, they did not bother to ask.

  And then the beach was there, right under their bow. The men took one last powerful stroke and Thorgrim shouted, “Oars in!” With that the oars came in and were tossed aside as the men who had been pulling now snatched up weapons. Thorgrim stole a glance astern. Fox was a ship length behind and would be on the beach before his men had even disembarked.

  Dragon ’s bow hit the sand and drove on up the shore, and men fore and aft staggered with the sudden stop. The ship had not yet come to a rest when the first man, which of course was Starri Deathless, launched himself over the sheer strake and into the water. Others followed, eager to get into the fight: Harald, who always wanted to beat Starri into combat but never did, Gudrid and Louis who were no strangers to this sort of work, Vestar, nearly as quick and nimble as Starri.

  Thorgrim let go of the tiller and stepped quickly up the deck. Failend was at his side, waiting to join him in the fight, and just forward he could see the looming shape of Godi, holding the wooden pole with Thorgrim’s banner lashed to the end.

  “Very well,” Thorgrim said. “Let’s go see who’s fighting who.” He stepped up onto the sheer strake and pushed off, dropping the six feet to the shallow water below, feeling the impact in his knees as he hit the sandy bottom. He drew Iron-tooth from its sheath as he splashed uphill to the beach. He looked left and right, and forward up toward the bonfires. He still had no certain idea what was going on, but the story was revealing itself.

  It was Ketil’s men who had been driven to the water’s edge. Thorgrim recognized a few of them, and the clothes and weapons of the others marked them as Northmen. They had been taken by surprise, Thorgrim could see that as well. Few wore mail or helmets, many had no shields. They did not look like men who had gone into battle prepared to fight.

  He looked past them at the shield wall formed further up the beach. It had been sweeping down on the disorganized men in the surf, and would have swept them away, but the sudden appearance of the longships seemed to have stopped them in their tracks. As well it might. A longship was a frightening thing to see come charging out of the night. Thorgrim had counted on that.

  They were Irish, those men facing them, but with their backs to the fires they were little more than shadowy figures, hard to see. Not that it mattered. He had come to rescue Ketil’s men, and to make clear that there would be a price to pay for attacking Northmen, and so whoever they were they had to be driven from the beach.

  He thought for an instant about getting the Northmen into a shield wall to advance on the Irish and dismissed the idea just as quick. The moment was hanging in a balance—the Irish were unsure, confused, surprised. Their line was wavering, and lunacy would push them off the edge.

  “At them! At them!” Thorgrim shouted, holding Iron-tooth aloft and pushing through the men between him and the open ground between the combatants. Even before the last syllable had come from his throat the Northmen let out a great roar that rolled up the beach ahead of them, and like a storm-driven wave they came roiling over the sand, weapons held aloft, shields in front, screaming like the half-wild men they were.

  Starri led the way. He moved like a deer, opening the gap between himself and Thorgrim’s advancing line, ready to take on the Irish by himself. And, indeed, in the grip of a fight, he seemed quite unaware of anyone or anything other than his weapons and his enemy.

  Just as Thorgrim was leading his line of men, so one of the Irish men-at-arms stood a few paces ahead of his waiting shield wall. Thorgrim saw the man react to Starri’s approach, saw him shift to the right to place himself right in Starri’s path. The light of the fires at his back flickered off the steel of the sword he held aloft.

  Thorgrim watched the moment unfold. So many times he had been certain that Starri would run right onto a blade: a sword held out at arm’s length or a spear thrust from a shield wall or a seax darting like a snake’s tongue. It had happened only once, had nearly killed the man, but still Thorgrim could not help but think it would happen again.

  He’ll go over him , Thorgrim thought. It was what Starri loved to do. He would launch himself in the air, vault off whoever was in front of him and launch himself at the rest of his foes. Thorgrim was sure he would do it again, and now there was the glittering blade there to greet him.

  But Thorgrim was wrong. Starri, to Thorgrim’s surprise, flung himself down onto the sand and Thorgrim thought he had tripped on something. But Starri did not come down in a heap. Rather he tucked his two axes against his side and rolled right into the man’s shins, swept his legs out from under him. Thorgrim heard the man grunt as he was flung down on the sand and Starri rolled back up onto his feet and continued to run as if nothing had happened, charging at the shield wall again.

  “At them!” Thorgrim shouted once more. The Norsemen’s advance had built to a run, their shouts like crashing surf. Thorgrim did not know if Ketil’s men had joined them, but he guessed they had. The man whom Starri had knocked down was up again, sword and shield ready, and Thorgrim shifted sideways and charged at him.

  The man was ready. Thorgrim was five feet away when the warrior swung his shield sideways, as if swatting Thorgrim away, and behind the shield came his sword, the thrust fast and straight.

  But Thorgrim was ready as well. He caught the blade with his own shield, knocked it aside, and counter-thrust, only to feel the shock of steel hitting steel, the man parrying his blow. Thorgrim stepped back, looked up at the man he was facing.

  Bécc.

  Of course… Thorgrim thought. Bécc was a cunning one, a true warrior, and hatred of the heathens burned in him, pure and hot as f
ire. Of course he was here. Thorgrim wondered if Bécc had made peace with Ketil and his men and then betrayed them as he had done to Thorgrim and the others.

  Bécc snarled, an animal sound, and stepped forward, once again sweeping with his shield and looking for an opening with his sword. On either side of them Thorgrim’s men and Ketil’s men raced past as they ran screaming at the Irish shield wall. Thorgrim risked a glance past Bécc and he could see the Irish taking the smallest of steps back, their courage wavering in the face of this terrifying surprise.

  Then Bécc’s sword was back, whistling around, and Thorgrim got his shield up just in time to catch the blade with an impact he felt though his whole body. He pushed Bécc’s blade aside and stepped forward and his foot caught some imperfection in the sand: a piece of driftwood, a stone, something of the kind. He felt himself stumble and his arms reached out for balance and he knew he was going down.

  And he knew that Bécc’s sword would follow him. He raised his shield as he fell, tucked his sword arm under him, and hit the sand with his shoulder. He felt the impact of Bécc’s sword against the shield’s wood and leather face and he rolled off to his right, away from Bécc. Shield held up, Thorgrim came up onto one knee, Iron-tooth ready to parry the blow that he knew would come.

  But it didn’t. He looked over the edge of his shield. Bécc was gone.

  With a grunt Thorgrim pushed himself to his feet. The Irish shield wall was no more, the men-at-arms broken and running and those Northmen with breath enough chasing after them. Thorgrim wanted to call for them to stop, but he knew that he was gasping too hard to yell, and anyway he would not be heard.

  Where Bécc was he did not know. Off with his men, he guessed. He must have seen the collapse of his line and decided he did not care to be left behind. Bécc was no coward, Thorgrim knew, but he would see little point in being cut down for nothing.

  Louis de Roumois came ambling over, looking as if he were going for a stroll in his garden, save for his tousled hair and a rip in his chainmail and the blood glistening on his sword. He looked at Thorgrim with that vaguely amused look he seemed to favor.

  “Well done,” he said, his words barely distinguishable through his thick Frankish accent. “You beat them. Easy.”

  “Not so easy,” Thorgrim said.

  “You think they’ll learn? Not to fight heathens?”

  It was a good question. The most important question of the night. “That was Bécc, leading those men,” Thorgrim said. “They called him Brother Bécc. You remember.”

  Louis nodded. Of course he remembered. Brother Bécc came within moments of burning Louis and Harald at the stake.

  “Brother Bécc is not the kind who’s willing to learn,” Thorgrim said. “Not from this sort of thing.”

  Chapter Twelve

  So becomes it a youth to quit him well

  with his father’s friends, by fee and gift,

  that to aid him, aged, in after days

  come warriors willing…

  Beowulf

  The funeral mass for the late ealdorman Merewald had not been a pleasant experience. By their nature, of course, funeral masses were not generally pleasant, but in this instance it was worse than usual. For Nothwulf, at least.

  He had been late, unable to pull himself from his surprising, confusing interview with Werheard’s wife, Roswitha. The bells had long stopped ringing by the time he slipped in through the big doors at the back of the cathedral, and the covey of priests had begun to swing their incensors as Bishop Ealhstan watched from his great carved oak chair on the dais.

  Had Nothwulf been just one of the thegns he might have slipped unseen onto one of the benches near the back of the church. But of course he was not a thegn; he was the brother of the deceased, by his own lights the rightful ealdorman of Dorsetshire. His place was at the very front of the church, on the bench reserved for those of the noble house. And so he had no choice but to walk the full length of the massive cathedral, past the curious and condemning glances of those already seated, and take his place beside the sniveling, half-crumpled form of his sister-in-law, Cynewise.

  Oh, dear Lord! Nothwulf thought as he settled himself on the upholstered bench and met the bishop’s disapproving gaze with an unflinching stare of his own.

  Dear Lord, Cynewise, you pathetic tart, will you stop this playacting grief?

  Nothwulf did not believe that Cynewise felt any great sorrow, and he did not think anyone else in that great house of God did either. Not Bishop Ealhstan, who had often found himself at odds with Merewald. Not the thegns, at least not most of them, who looked on the late ealdorman as a tight-fisted, weak, poor imitation of his father. Not Nothwulf, who had always resented the fact that the happenstance of his and Merewald’s birth order had bequeathed the ealdormanship to his less able brother.

  And certainly not Cynewise, who had been Merewald’s wife for less time than it took for the ealdorman to bleed out on the cathedral floor.

  Nothwulf let those thoughts ramble through his mind as he set his face in an expression of stoic mourning. The voice of the priests’ chanting and the bishop’s prayers and the choir’s songs and Cynewise’s soft weeping all passed unnoted through Nothwulf’s ears. He had more to think about now than his dead brother, who was now of no more importance to anyone than a stone in a field. Less, in fact.

  He had endured the mass, longer even than was the bishop’s usual wont. When it was over Bishop Ealhstan and his retinue of priests and altar servers and Cynewise’s guard—unarmed now, as was fitting for attendance at mass—escorted her through the parted crowd of sorrowful-looking mourners. Nothwulf, as was befitting his station, followed directly behind, and he could not help but note the looks of sympathy directed at Cynewise changed to expressions of curiosity, or anger, or disgust as he moved past.

  Nothwulf had gone from the cathedral directly back to his home. He had instructed Bryning to see the hearth-guard was kept alert, with men armed and ready throughout the night. Nothwulf did not know what, exactly, he was defending against, and that made him particularly uneasy.

  But that would change, and soon.

  “It’s clear to me, clear to anyone, really,” Nothwulf said to Bryning, “that the simpering tart who calls herself my late brother’s wife has no intention of giving over the ealdormanship to me.”

  “No, lord,” Bryning said. They were seated at a table in the outer room of Nothwulf’s sleeping chamber. It was three days since the unpleasant spectacle of the funeral mass. The dull light of an overcast day filled the room, the windows uncovered in the warmth of early summer, the fireplace empty and cold.

  “Some of the thegns…some, not all, mind you…have her ear,” Nothwulf continued. “And of course that bastard Oswin, the shire reeve. They see a chance here, mind you. Convince her to put herself in as ealdorman and they can play her like she was some sort of puppet. Bastards. If they can’t be ealdorman themselves then they can have a pet ealdorman to play with. Whore’s sons.”

  “Yes, lord,” Bryning said. Bryning was, in truth, of no consequence. There was no point in telling him any of this. But Nothwulf felt an absolute need to say these things out loud, to hear if they sounded reasonable, or rather like some flight of fancy, and Bryning was the only man whom Nothwulf trusted entirely.

  “But is doesn’t much matter, do you see?” Nothwulf continued. “Because these decisions are not hers to make, regardless of what she might think.”

  Bryning nodded.

  “The King of Wessex will make these decisions, not her,” Nothwulf continued. “Æthelwulf will decide who will be ealdorman, and he will be here in a fortnight.”

  “You reckon when King Æthelwulf gets here he’ll set this straight, lord?” Bryning asked. “Put you in your rightful place?”

  “Yes, I do,” Nothwulf said. “But I won’t leave it to chance.” He held a letter in his hand, folded and sealed with his own seal, a shield with the hart and boar device, vines twisting around the edges. He had sealed it just m
oments before, and now he touched the wax to see that it was sufficiently hard, which it was. He handed the letter to Bryning, who took it reluctantly, as if the paper itself might cause him some harm.

  “This is a letter to King Æthelwulf,” Nothwulf explained.

  “Asking that he see you are made ealdorman?” Bryning asked.

  “No,” Nothwulf said. “Telling him that as ealdorman I look forward to serving him in any way I can.” Nothwulf knew better than to ask for something. A request could be denied. Better to work from an assumption of authority, to let the king know that he, Nothwulf, took it for granted that he was to be ealdorman.

  And of course it would be easier for Æthelwulf to swallow such an assumption if Nothwulf provided something to ease it down his throat.

  “You’ll take this to King Æthelwulf yourself,” Nothwulf said. “Along with a tribute to the king, by way of showing my appreciation for all the favor and justice he has shown Dorsetshire during the rule of my brother and father.”

  “Yes, lord,” Bryning said. “Tribute, lord?”

  Nothwulf made a dismissive wave of his hand. “It’s no great thing, some silver and a few cartloads of flour and beef. Some wine.”

  Bryning nodded. Nothwulf wondered if the man knew he was lying. It was in fact a great thing, nearly all the silver Nothwulf had in his possession and enough of the produce given him as rent to nearly empty one of his storehouses. But it was a gamble worth taking. The risk was great but the potential reward much greater.

  “This is all being assembled at my farm near Somerton,” Nothwulf said. “The fewer who know of it the better. My people at Somerton don’t know what it’s about. Only you and me.”

  Bryning nodded, but he did not look comfortable. He was not a man who was much inclined toward intrigue, nor very good at masking his feelings, which was why Nothwulf trusted him and put him in command of the hearth-guard.