He crossed himself again and stood and his legs nearly buckled under him from the stiffness in his muscles. He turned and worked the tightness out as he walked back toward the monastery. No heathens had come in the night, and Bécc did not think they would come in the day. To kill Northmen, he would have to go to them.
He reached the first of his sleeping men right at the place where the marshy ground yielded to the trampled earth surrounding the monastery like a wide, brown moat. He looked down at the man’s face, pale, tinged almost blue in the predawn light. He was sleeping on his back, his eyes closed and his mouth gaping open, and Bécc might have thought he was dead if he had not been audibly snoring. He also recognized the man as one of Faílbe mac Dúnlaing’s captains, perhaps the man who was second to Faílbe in command.
Which meant he was now first in command. Of the men Faílbe had brought, anyway. Bécc knew who was in overall command now, and he would make certain the others did as well.
Bécc nudged the sleeping man with his toe, then nudged him harder when he failed to wake. A third and harder nudge got his eyelids flickering. He sat up and glanced around, a look of dumb confusion on his face.
“Come on, get up,” Bécc said. “Near dawn, we have to get ready to move.”
The man looked up at Bécc. His confusion seemed undiminished. He looked around again. “Where’s Lord Faílbe?” he asked.
“Dead,” Bécc said. “What’s your name?”
“Bressal,” the man said.
“You were Lord Faílbe’s captain?”
Bressal nodded.
“Were there any men over you?”
“No,” Bressal said. “I was second to Lord Faílbe. I was captain of all his warriors.”
“Well, you’re captain still,” Bécc said. “But now you answer to me, because Lord Faílbe is dead and he and the Lord our God have put me in command.” That was not entirely true and Bécc knew it, at least where Faílbe was concerned. But he was certain about God’s wishes, and there were no others that needed to be obeyed.
“Is that clear?” Bécc asked Bressal.
Bressal nodded.
“Good. Get your men up and under arms. We have little time before the sun is up. We must be ready to go over the dunes at the very moment there’s light enough.” Bécc, in his humility, was also willing to admit he had been wrong to think they could succeed in a night attack.
We did succeed , he thought, or would have, if the devil had not sent his most loyal servant, the heathen Thorgrim.
Bressal cast off the blanket that covered him and struggled to his feet. He looked around once more, then faced Bécc. “Under arms?” he asked.
Bécc frowned. “Yes, under arms. We’ll advance across the marsh and attack the heathens when the sun begins its rise.”
“Are you mad?” Bressal asked. “The men are near dead with weariness. Many are wounded. There’s no fight in them.”
“So are the heathens, near dead with weariness. And likely drunk to boot. We’ll never have a better chance.”
“Brother Bécc, I don’t think you…”
Bressal got no further than that. Bécc grabbed the collar of Bressal’s mail shirt and jerked him close, their faces just inches apart. Bécc knew from long experience that men found his scarred, half-ruined face with its missing eye unnerving, and more so when they were forced to confront it so close.
And Bécc knew how to command men.
“You listen to me, Bressal,” he said, his voice a low growl, an animal sound. “We’ll attack the heathens now. Now! God wills it. And I demand it. And if you’ll not get your men to arms, by God Almighty I’ll have your head and find another who will.”
Bécc held Bressal’s gaze with his one remaining eye and he could practically hear the man’s reluctance melting away. Finally Bressal nodded, a weak and defeated gesture, and Bécc shoved him away.
“Get Lord Faílbe’s men ready. I’ll see to the rest. Be quick but don’t make a lot of noise.”
Bressal nodded again and moved off with just enough alacrity to keep Bécc from rebuking him again. Bécc hurried off in the other direction. One by one he kicked the sleeping men, not hard, just hard enough, and ordered them to get up and under arms. He came across some of the other captains and ordered them to begin rousing their men. He found Brother Niall, walking but as dumb with exhaustion as the rest, and he sent the priest to help gather the men-at-arms.
Soon, what had been a silent and motionless landscape was filled with grunting, moaning, murmuring and cussing warriors. The morning was growing brighter and Bécc could see them more clearly and he was not encouraged by what he saw. They were weary and dispirited, and even those not wounded were feeling the ill effects of their hard use and little sleep. They had not eaten since just past midday the day before.
Never mind all that , Bécc said to himself. These aren’t a bunch of God-forsaken farmers, they’re fighting men, real men-at-arms. They’ll do what they must, when they must.
“Men, hear me,” Bécc said, as loud as he dared. The men-at-arms made a collective sound, a sort of groan, touched with the sound of affirmation, and they moved a bit closer, en masse .
“God has laid before us a great opportunity,” Bécc continued. “The heathens are here, prostrate, like Isaac laid out on the altar for sacrifice. But God will not stay our hand, as he did Abraham’s. Now is our chance to rid our shores of this filth!”
It had been many years since Brother Bécc had spoken in that way, words to prompt his men to fight. Indeed, it had been his habit, since taking his vows, to say very few words, knowing what mischief words could cause. In his earlier life he might have inspired the men with visions of plunder and women, but now he inspired them with their duty to God. He felt alive, like there were tiny bolts of lightning shooting through him. He felt the power of the Holy Spirit lifting his soul, and with it, his words.
“You are tired, you’re hurt, you’re hungry!” Bécc continued. “But the heathens are as well, and no doubt dead drunk and fast asleep. We’ll sweep over them, kill them all before they are able to stand. It is the will of God and he drives us on with His righteous power! Are you with me, men?”
He did not expect great cheers and he did not get them. And that was fine. He was still concerned that the heathens might hear them. But the men-at-arms did cheer, after a fashion. They had been stirred by Bécc’s words, despite their exhaustion. They were standing straighter, holding their shields and spears and swords with more enthusiasm. Some managed something akin to a smile.
“Father Niall, a prayer,” Bécc called, and the young priest stepped forward and made the sign of the cross and as one the men-at-arms did the same. Niall led them in prayer. His words were powerful, full of hope and the glory of the Lord, and brief, just the way Brother Bécc liked them in such circumstances.
“Amen,” Bécc and the rest said as Niall finished entreating God for victory over the heathens from the North. “Let’s go,” he said next, and turned and hurried off down the now-familiar path through the marsh. Behind him he heard the sound of nearly two hundred men-at-arms moving with him, their speed building to match his, not running, but something faster than walking.
Up and over the dune, up and over and right at them , Bécc thought. No careful plans that would invariably become a misguided nightmare. Straight on. Catch them by surprise, put them to the sword. Thorgrim and the rest, they would never imagine that Bécc and his men would have the stomach to launch another attack so soon after the first. They probably thought the men-at-arms had retreated back to Ferns. They would realize their mistake and it would be the last realization of their lives.
He could see the dunes now, quite clearly. He looked off toward the east, out over the sea. The clouds were too thick to see the sun, but the light on the horizon told him it had just come up. Perfect. His men would be able to see with no limitations, and the heathens would still be asleep.
Fifty feet remained between Bécc, at the front of the lead rank, and
the dune that shielded them from view. No heathens on lookout, none that he could see, because the heathens did not expect an attack and there were none willing to forgo their drinking to keep the watch.
Bécc thought about a war cry, letting go with a shout that would make the heathens understand that the wrath of God was about to descend on them.
Wait, wait… Bécc thought. It had all been timed so well, he could not ruin it now. Once he crested the dune, and was ready to race down the far side, once he was only a few paces from striking one of the bastards dead, only then would he let loose his cry.
The dune was just a dozen yards away now, and the men-at-arms’ pace was closer to a run than a fast walk, but Bécc saw no problem with that. In other circumstances he might have wished for a more coordinated attack, but now they were looking to overwhelm their enemies.
He felt the ground beneath his feet rising as he raced up the landward side of the dune and he felt the cry build in his gut. Three more paces and he was at the top, bursting though the tall grass and the battle cry issued from his throat like Gabriel’s horn. He held his sword aloft and looked at the scene below him, looking for Thorgrim, who he intended to kill first.
And there they were. The heathen army, the host of Satan. Visible, just over the dunes, as he knew they would be. Visible, crowded aboard their ships and half a mile away, pulling for the beach behind their earthen walls at Loch Garman.
Chapter Seventeen
Then sang on her head that seemly blade
its war-song wild. But the warrior found
the light-of-battle was loath to bite, to harm the heart.
Beowulf
Nothwulf felt in equal parts angry and foolish. Foolish because he was standing just outside his own bedchamber, wearing only a loose undertunic, and peeking in around the curtain that hung over the entrance, like some sort of pathetic voyeur. Furious because of what he was witnessing.
Aelfwyn was standing by the table on which he kept his papers. She had just climbed out of his bed completely naked, the brazen thing. The room was lit by a single candle burning on the table. Its light fell on Aelfwyn’s perfect skin and she seemed to glow in that illumination.
Nothwulf shook his head, though he was not sure why. Various reasons, really. Aelfwyn was so damned beautiful, he had to admit it. The shape of her young body, the great tussle of her hair spilling down her back—it was all flawless. That was why he had decided to have one last go at her, before he put her to the test, before he brought it all down on her head.
Some creature—a mouse, most likely—scurried by, making a sound that was disproportionately loud in the quiet chamber. Aelfwyn gave a small gasp and looked up quick, looked right at the place where Nothwulf stood, but he knew she could not see him. She remained frozen in place, just her eyes moving side to side. Silent and listening. The hour was late, most of Sherborne asleep.
A short time passed and Aelfwyn turned back to what she was doing. She lifted the letter that Nothwulf had left, half-written, on the table and angled it toward the candle. She remained that way for a moment, and though Nothwulf could not see them, he could picture her lovely brown eyes scanning the words.
He ran his eyes up and down her body one last time. God, I’ll miss this, he thought, then stepped around the curtain and back into the room.
“My dear, what interests you so?” he asked. His voice was soft, gentle, but still he saw Aelfwyn visibly startle. She turned quickly, setting the letter down as she did.
“Oh, lord, you frightened me!” she said. She glanced down at herself, as if just noticing that she was naked, then threw Nothwulf a coy smile and scurried over to the bed, jumping onto the mattress and half-burying herself in the blankets.
“Have you finished the business you were on?” she asked. Nothwulf had made some weak excuse for leaving her alone in the bedchamber. Then Aelfwyn added, in a tone that seemed to drip honey, “Are you ready to attend to me again?”
Nothwulf stepped further into the bedchamber. He stopped at the table and picked up the letter that Aelfwyn had been holding, a prosaic message to one of the thegns under his rule concerning grazing lands. He glanced at it, then set it down again. He looked over at Aelfwyn, still regarding him seductively.
“I thought you couldn’t read,” he said.
“I can’t,” Aelfwyn said. “It’s just…I love the look of letters, do you see? They are such a mystery to me, and I love to look on them, the lovely swirls of ink on the page.” Her words sounded like a genuine confession, though Nothwulf was sure it was counterfeit.
“I see…” Nothwulf said, and he meant it. He had only recently suspected, but now he knew for certain. He took a step toward the bed. He saw something flash in Aelfwyn’s eyes, something behind the carnal enticement.
Nothwulf stopped just a few feet short of the bed. “When you came here, did you see Bryning?” he asked.
“Of course, lord,” Aelfwyn said. “He showed me up here, as he always does.”
“Were you surprised to see him?”
“No, lord, why should I be?” Aelfwyn said, and she sounded confused now, or at least like someone trying to sound confused. “He’s captain of your hearth-guard. I see him whenever I’m with you, which isn’t often enough. Now, pray, lord, give up this questioning and come to bed. I want to show my esteem for you. You won’t be sorry.”
Nothwulf nodded. “You see, my angel, Bryning was nearly killed just days before. Did you not hear? He and some of my best men were escorting a half dozen wagons bringing tribute to King Æthelwulf. The rest were all killed, but Bryning got away. He has a fast horse, a damned fast horse. He would be dead were it otherwise.”
Aelfwyn looked shocked, and a bit afraid, and Nothwulf thought that perhaps they were getting down to real emotions now. “That’s terrible, lord!” she said. “Thank God in heaven that Bryning was not hurt. Was it bandits, lord?”
“No…not bandits,” Nothwulf said. “Actually, it was Oswin. Oswin and his men.”
“Oswin?” Aelfwyn said. “Not Oswin the shire reeve? Surely not.”
“Yes, Oswin, the shire reeve. Upholder of the law. The shire reeve who serves your lady Cynewise, I suppose, since she seems determined to stand on as ealdorman.”
“Well, this is dreadful!” Aelfwyn said, louder and more emphatic. “But of course my lady had no knowledge of this. She would never allow such a thing. Is Oswin plotting some terrible deed?”
“I don’t know,” Nothwulf said, taking another step toward the bed, noting how Aelfwyn shrunk back, just a bit, as he did. “I don’t know if Cynewise knew of this or not. But here’s the thing. No one knew of the tribute going to the king. No one save for me and Bryning. Even the men protecting the wagons did not know where it was going. There was, however, a letter addressed to Æthelwulf, and it was lying on this table.” Nothwulf gestured to the table where Aelfwyn had been standing just moments before.
“You were alone in the bed chamber with that letter,” Nothwulf continued.
“My lord! No! I…” Aelfwyn began, but Nothwulf cut her off.
“There’s been a certain amount of suspicion cast on me, concerning my brother’s death,” he continued. “In part because Werheard was given a ring that belonged to me…had my crest on it…and it was supposedly given as assurance of my support. That ring came from this same bedchamber. Now, who might have had the chance to steal such a thing from my bed chamber?”
“Servants, lord?” Aelfwyn asked, and that was an end to Nothwulf’s much-taxed patience.
“Servants?” he shouted. “You lying bitch, you know full well it wasn’t servants!” He lunged at her, hands reaching for her throat, her delicate white throat that he so loved to kiss. He felt his fingertips brush her skin as she rolled clear of him, rolled off the far side of the bed and landed on her feet, a long, thin dagger in her hand.
Where the devil did she get that? Nothwulf thought, and a part of him was admittedly impressed.
He circled around the foot of t
he bed, wary now, eyes moving from Aelfwyn’s face to her knife and back. He had thought that Aelfwyn was one sort of girl, and now he saw she was something else entirely, and he was humiliated by his mistake. He wanted to kill her, the traitorous whore, and he knew it was because of his own shame at having been so easily duped.
“My lord!” Aelfwyn cried. “What are you saying? What lies have people been telling you?” She held the knife in front of her, turning as Nothwulf rounded the foot of the bed.
“You know what lies I’ve been told, you bitch, you told them,” Nothwulf said. He noticed that Aelfwyn’s hands did not tremble, that her grip on the knife was strong and sure.
“Was it Oswin who put you on this? Or Cynewise?”
“Lord, I’m sure I…”
Nothwulf lunged, darting around the end of the bed, reaching for Aelfwyn’s knife hand with his right, her hair with his left. As he did, Aelfwyn lunged, the knife darting at Nothwulf’s chest with terrible speed. Nothwulf leapt back and Aelfwyn was on the bed and over it in two strides, coming down on the far side. She stumbled, regained her footing and raced for the bedchamber door.
Aelfwyn was fast, but Nothwulf, still not yet thirty years of age and fit from a lifetime of martial training and sport, was fast as well. He raced around the bed once more, grabbing a floor-standing candle holder as he did and swinging it like an ax as he ran. He missed as Aelfwyn twisted to avoid the blow but he reached the entryway before she did and stood there, candlestick in hand, as Aelfwyn backed away, still naked save for the knife.
“Let me go, lord, or by God I’ll stick you, I swear it!”
“‘By God?’ That’s rich. I don’t think God will look to save a treacherous wench like you. But if you tell me who you told about the tribute to the king I might let you live, do you hear? Your life. It is mine to give or take.”
A Vengeful Wind: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 8) Page 16