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

by Nelson, James L.

  With the coming of day, Nothwulf was at last certain of where he was. It was a road he knew well, the road from Sherborne, where he had been mostly raised, to Blandford where he owned a manor which had been given him by his father upon reaching his majority. It was a prosperous holding and provided him with a tolerable portion of his income, and he spent a fair amount of time there in the warmer seasons, when the hunting was good.

  They continued on, until Nothwulf’s thoughts of breakfast overshadowed even his worries about his present circumstance and the threatening weather. He knew it was time that he and his men stopped, but only as long as needs must be.

  Another two miles further they came to a small hamlet, a cluster of houses really, around a large, two-story inn which owed its existence to the well-traveled road. Nothwulf had stopped there often. The food was serviceable, the grooms fairly competent and the innkeeper, a fat man named Bedwig, was jovial and pleasant to all who had silver in their purse. On the upper floor, accessed by a ladder through a hole in the ceiling, Bedwig kept a whorehouse of above average quality, which Nothwulf knew from the reports of his men and his own frequent experience.

  But there would be no time for that now, nor was Nothwulf in the right frame of mind for such things.

  When at last they reached the inn, Nothwulf led the way into the yard. The weary men climbed down from their saddles with various groans and curses as the stable boys came out to take their mounts. They shuffled toward the inn, a solidly build structure of heavy beams and daub walls and a split shingle roof. Bedwig was there, standing in the doorway and looking to the north and the dark and mounting clouds. He turned to Nothwulf and his hand went up in a half-hearted gesture, part wave, part salute.

  “Lord Nothwulf!” he said, and again there was a false note in the greeting, but Nothwulf was far too weary to think beyond recognizing its strangeness. He has spent the previous evening humping Aelfwyn, and spent the night riding to safety, and he was near collapse, with an empty stomach and another five miles or more to ride.

  “Bedwig, feed these men. And ale, as well, and be quick about it, we’re in a hurry.”

  “Yes, lord!” Bedwig said and with that he led the way into the inn’s big front room and started shouting orders to the serving girls, who scattered like a flock of birds. Nothwulf followed him in and deposited himself in a chair by the fire, a nice fire that lit the dark room and filled it with a pleasant warmth on the chilly summer morning.

  Tilmund stepped up to him, his big hand holding Aelfwyn by the arm. He seemed to be both supporting her and dragging her along. “What shall I do with her, lord?” he asked.

  Nothwulf looked Aelfwyn up and down. It had not been a good night for her, he could see. She wore no headrail, and her hair was in a disorganized tangle. Her fear and outrage had been outstripped by her exhaustion, which was all Nothwulf could see on her face now.

  He nodded toward a stool by the fire. “Set her down there,” he said.

  Bryning came into the room and sat on the other side of the small table at which Nothwulf sat. The tavern girls were moving among the other tables now, setting down wooden tankards filled with ale, while in the kitchen behind the building Nothwulf imagined roast beef was being carved, loaves of bread tossed into baskets, potatoes roasted over an open fire. He felt his mouth watering.

  Bedwig himself delivered tankards to the table at which Nothwulf and Bryning sat. “There you go, lord, best in the house!” Some of the joviality had returned to his voice, and Nothwulf imagined that he had figured out what he might charge for feeding all these men, and he liked the number he had arrived at.

  “Best? You’re sure? Not the dog piss you sell to the other travelers?” Nothwulf asked.

  “The best, lord. Like you say, the dog piss is reserved for others.”

  Nothwulf nodded. He did not doubt Bedwig’s claim. The land on which the tavern stood was Nothwulf’s land, and all the hundreds around it, and Bedwig would not try to pawn off spoiled ale on the presumptive ealdorman of Dorset. On the other hand, Bedwig’s best was not so terribly great.

  “How are things about here?” Nothwulf asked. “I know you hear everything, and I’m sure you know I’ve not been to my manor in some time.”

  “Oh, things are much the same,” Bedwig said. In the past Bedwig might well have pulled over a chair by now, but he remained standing. “All the folk around here are struck with grief over your brother’s murder, lord. We can hardly believe such a thing.”

  “Yes, my brother was well loved throughout Dorset,” Nothwulf said, with just enough gravity to hide his sarcasm.

  “Yes, he was,” Bedwig said. “But now the people thank God in his heaven that you are here to take your brother’s office.”

  “Is that what the people expect?” Nothwulf asked.

  “Well…yes, lord. Whatever else could they expect?” The fat man’s eyes shifted toward the fire. “The lady, lord, should we get her food and drink?”

  “Her?” Nothwulf said, looking over at Aelfwyn sitting on the low stool and slumped against the wall. “No, I’ve brought her to you, Bedwig. A new whore. You may show her her duties and then set her in a room above.”

  “Lord?” Bedwig said. Nothwulf was sure the man did not know what to make of Aelfwyn. Her gown was no whore’s or peasant’s garment, though her appearance was certainly not that of a lady.

  “I’m jesting, Bedwig,” Nothwulf said. “Get her bread and water, that will do well for her.”

  Bedwig nodded and withdrew and seemed glad to do so. Nothwulf stared into the fire. He and Bryning exchanged a few words, and when their food arrived they ate ravenously and in silence. It was not long before all of the men had eaten and drunk their fill, which greatly rejuvenated them, and soon they were mounted and riding southeast once more.

  The road ran through open country, the farmland from which taxes and rent poured into Nothwulf’s purse and tithings into the church. The day was well on, but the sky grew more threatening by the hour and remained as dark as it might be in the moments before dawn. It gave an ominous cast to a day that had never been too promising to begin with.

  From atop his horse, Nothwulf could see for miles now, and this country was even more familiar to him than the land between Sherborne and the tavern. Everything about it was familiar, in its place and as it should be, save for the column of black smoke they saw rising up ahead before it was torn apart by the breeze.

  Nothwulf could hear muttering behind him. Whatever was burning was hidden from view by the low rolling hill ahead of them. But Nothwulf did not need to see it to know what it was. He knew what was on the other side of that hill, the only thing substantial enough to create such a column of smoke, and that was his own manor.

  He felt sick, like that time as a boy he had seen one of his father’s servants crushed under the wheel of a cart, something so horrible he could hardy make sense of it. But the servant had been of little consequence to Nothwulf, and the feeling soon passed. But this was something different. This was his manor, his refuge after being driven from Sherborne. It seemed as if his whole life was being crushed under a wagon’s wheels, or obliterated between grindstones.

  He spurred his horse, and tired as the animal was, it worked itself up to a trot. Down the road, into the dip between the hills, then up over the far hill. At its crest Nothwulf could see the countryside all around, the swath of wood to the north, the road winding its way down to fertile fields. From that hill he had always had the finest view of his manor with its great hall and it’s church, it’s barns and stables and smaller houses, all enclosed by a high palisade fence.

  And there it was still. Save for the great hall and the barn, which were just blackened patches on the ground, the smoke still roiling up from their charred remains.

  He rode down the hill, the rest of the hearth-guard still in line behind him, and up to the gate in the palisade wall. It was closed, and a man’s head appeared over the top of the wall to the left. He stared at them for a moment, un
comprehending. Nothwulf did not recognize the man and it occurred to him that he might be one of those enemies, whoever they were, who had burned the place, that he might have led his men right into a trap to which his anger and despair had blinded him.

  Then the man said, “Oh, Lord Nothwulf!” He looked down at someone hidden behind the gate. “It’s Lord Nothwulf, open the damned gate!”

  Nothwulf turned in his saddle. “Ready, men, we don’t know who’s at home.” The fact that the man on the wall recognized him was no proof that he was a friend, nor did the fact that Nothwulf didn’t recognize the guard mean he was an enemy. There were plenty of men in Nothwulf’s service whom he would not recognize.

  The gate swung open and a man came striding out, and this man Nothwulf did recognize. He was Siward and he commanded the manor’s hearth-guard, just as Bryning commanded the guard at Sherborne. But that did not make him Bryning’s equal, since Bryning had command of all the guard that served Nothwulf, a considerable force. At least it once had been.

  Nothwulf slid down from his horse. “Siward, what in the name of God has happened here?” He could see people shuffling like sleepwalkers around the charred heaps of building beyond, the people who worked at the manor, the smiths and cooks and laundresses and grooms.

  It occurred to Nothwulf that this might have been an accident, that some spark might have caught in a pile of straw and next thing you know the long hall was gone and the barn with it. It happened all the time. He found himself, in those seconds before Siward responded, hoping very much that such was the case.

  “Raiders, lord,” Siward said and Nothwulf felt his hope crumble, his sense of desperation flare like coals under a bellows.

  “They come, I don’t know, a little before dawn,” Siward said. “Over the wall with ladders, I guess. Just a few, to open the gate.” The explanation came haltingly, and Nothwulf was not surprised. Siward was in charge of seeing that sentries were posted, that people did not climb silently over the walls. Siward was finished in that office, but Nothwulf would wait before doling out any punishment.

  “Opened the gate?” Nothwulf asked.

  “Yes, lord. Opened the gate. Of course we turned out the hearth-guard, but to a man they were asleep, save for the sentries, of course.”

  Of course , Nothwulf thought. The sentries weren’t asleep, they were drunk.

  “So the long hall, it was already burning by the time we were to arms. Then they went for the barn.”

  “Who?” Nothwulf asked. “Who went for the barn? Who were these men?”

  “I dunno, lord,” Siward said. “They were mounted, and most had mail, so they weren’t just bandits or such. A dozen men, maybe?”

  Nothwulf had heard enough. He brushed past Siward and approached the still burning mass of timber that had been his long hall. His personal apartment had been in the east end of that building. His weapons, his jewelry, his clothing, his papers.

  He felt a gust of breeze like a draft from a tomb and it chilled him. He looked up. The sky was blacker still, with lower, gray wisps of cloud racing past. Not a good day to be without a long hall.

  Siward was following a few steps behind, eager to show some level of competence, Nothwulf imagined, eager to save his position, though he had to know it was a hopeless quest.

  “What happened after the raiders set the fires?” Nothwulf asked without taking his eyes from the destruction.

  “Once the building was burning well, then they rode off. They were gone by the time we turned out, lord.”

  “I see,” said Nothwulf. “So, how did you know how many there were? And that they wore mail?”

  “The hostler saw them, lord. That’s what he said.”

  Son of a bitch , Nothwulf thought. If they had killed one, or better yet captured one alive, then he might find out who had sent them. Not that there was much doubt in his mind.

  “Did you follow them? The raiders?” Nothwulf asked.

  “No, lord. Our horses weren’t saddled, and with the hall and the barn burning we reckoned we better to stay here and try to put the fires out then go chasing around in the dark.”

  That made just enough sense that Nothwulf could not accuse the man of cowardice or neglecting his duty. “Very well. Get your men together and mounted. We’ll see what we can find of the bastards that did this. And find someone to lock up that little bitch that Tilmund has with him.”

  There was the slightest hesitation before Siward said, “Yes, lord,” and hurried off, shouting orders and trying to sound like a man who was never backward in his duties.

  Too late for you , Nothwulf thought. He turned and hobbled back to Bryning and the hearth-guard from Sherborne, who had dismounted and were stretching sore, weary arms and legs. His mind was squirming. The exhaustion, the agony of losing his long hall and barn, the strange, violent weather brewing, were all working on him. But he forced himself to think, to see the next move.

  “Let’s mount up,” Nothwulf shouted to the men and he thought he heard a low and collective groan, though nothing so explicit that it could be attributed to any individual. But that was the extent of the protest, and then the men climbed back up into their saddles.

  They waited a few moments more until Siward and his men came riding from the stable to join them. There were fifteen men in the manor’s guard, good men, and added to Bryning’s dozen they made a formidable force. Enough to overpower the raiders, Nothwulf imagined, if they were lucky enough to find them.

  They whirled their horses around and headed back up the road and Nothwulf called, “Siward, get up here!” The sound of horses’ hooves on the hard packed rode and Siward was riding beside him. “Did you see what direction they rode off? The raiders?”

  “Well…we were pretty busy with the fires, lord. But I think they went off to the east.”

  Nothwulf frowned and looked off in that direction, as if he might see the raiders, riding away. “That’s Leofric’s land.”

  “Yes, lord,” Siward agreed. “But there was nothing to say the men was Leofric’s men. But that doesn’t mean they weren’t. Seeing as how they did head off that way, lord.”

  Nothwulf nodded. They continued on, keeping their horses at a walk. Nothwulf watched the edge of the road, looking for some sign of where a dozen riders might have turned off into the open country, but he saw nothing. Bryning was searching the other side, and he reported nothing as well. Finally Nothwulf reined his horse to a stop and nodded off to the east. “That way, do you think?”

  “I should, think, lord,” Siward said. “Like I said, I didn’t see where they rode, exactly, and it was still night, but I thought I saw them ride off that way. One of them had a lantern,” he added, as if just remembering. “I watched that from the wall, saw the light going off to the east.”

  Nothwulf nodded. The cold breeze gusted and lifted his cape and he thought he heard the distant sound of thunder. “Let’s go,” he said.

  He spurred his horse to a walk and left the road, Siward on one side of him, Bryning on the other, the combined house guards following behind. They moved across the open country, the grass up to the horses’ bellies, and toward the great swath of woodland to the east. If the riders had found a path through those woods, Nothwulf knew, there would be no catching them.

  They rode a bit longer and Nothwulf felt the exhaustion washing over him. His eyes closed and his head lolled forward and then he jerked awake and shook his head. And understood the sheer futility of what he was doing. He pulled his horse to a stop and turned to Bryning.

  “This is pointless,” he said. “If I was thinking straight I would have realized as much. Let’s return to the manor.”

  “Yes, lord,” Bryning said. Nothwulf swiveled around to make certain that Siward had heard as well and to his surprise he saw Siward reaching across his belly and wrapping his fingers around the grip of his sword.

  “Siward, what the devil…” Nothwulf said, but before he could continue Siward pulled the long blade from its scabbard, and behind him,
Nothwulf heard the rest of Siward’s men doing the same.

  Chapter Twenty

  [D]reary I sought hall of a gold-giver, Where far or near I might find

  Him who in meadhall might take heed of me,

  Furnish comfort to a man friendless, Win me with cheer.

  The Wanderer

  Nothwulf, stupid with fatigue, twisted in the saddle, turning his back on Siward, looking to see what threat was coming, why the man was drawing his sword. Half-formed thoughts tumbled around in his head. He wondered why only Siward and the guards from the manor were drawing weapons.

  Oh, you bastards! he thought as the truth of the matter struck him.

  From behind someone shouted, “My lord! Keep a care!” Nothwulf turned back. Siward was urging his horse forward over the few feet between them. His sword was raised high, his eyes were fixed on Nothwulf. No time to draw his own weapon, Nothwulf drove his spurs into his horse’s flanks. The animal leapt forward, crossing in front of Siward’s mount, out of reach of his blade.

  Siward cursed and twisted his horse around, and then another rider was there, his horse slamming into Siward’s, throwing Siward off balance. Not one of Nothwulf’s men but one of the manor guard. He looked at Nothwulf, eyes wide, and shouted “Run, lord! Run! They’ll murder you all!”

  Nothwulf was still having trouble understanding this, comprehending what was taking place. Siward was turning to come at him again and Nothwulf took that instant to look around. One of his hearth-guard was down, sprawled in the high grass and thrashing about. Bryning had his sword out and was hacking at riders on either side of him. Horses were twisting and rearing and swords flashing in the dull light.