Panic was sweeping through the packed men, at least those who had turned to see Starri attack, and they were trying to shove their way clear even as Harald and Louis reached the line. Oak Cleaver came down on a raised sword, one of the men-at-arms with the courage to stand fast. The Irish warrior tried to sweep the blade aside, but Harald pulled it back quick and drove it straight in, straight through the tight links of mail until he felt the tip hit something softer. The man gasped and staggered away and Harald did not know if he was badly hurt or not, but it did not matter. Either way, the man was out of the fight.
To his right Louis was driving into the men already terrified by Starri’s attack, the Frank’s quick blade moving faster than the poor Irish soldiers could counter. He was not killing the Irish standing against him, but rather wounding and terrifying and spreading more panic on the beach. Louis had not forgotten that their goal was just to get through, just to reach the ships.
And it worked. The sudden, unexpected and brutal attack on that single point in the Irish line sent the panic rippling out. The Irish spearmen shoved and pushed themselves out of the way of Starri and Harald and Louis’s attack and suddenly a gap appeared, a clear path right to the water’s edge and the ships beyond. The manic north wind gusted and made Harald stagger as he drove into the opening. Starri was still at it, on Harald’s left-hand side, and Harald grabbed his arm as he ran through, jerking Starri away.
Starri screamed and raised his ax and Harald met his eyes and shouted, “It’s me, Starri! We have to go!” He saw a hint of recognition in Starri’s eyes and he saw the arm holding the weapon relax and Starri stumbled after him, Louis on their right, still swinging his long straight sword.
Harald looked behind him. Godi was there, Thorgrim draped unceremoniously over his shoulder, and Failend, with Iron-tooth, which looked as long as she was tall, held high, cocked over her shoulder, ready to come down on anyone who might oppose them.
“Here! Here!” Harald shouted as he ran, pointing toward Sea Hammer off to their left. The ships were crowded with men and more climbing up over the sides, but the wind had them now and it was driving them back against the shore. Harald could see that Sea Hammer was slamming her larboard side against Fox ’s starboard, and on the far side Blood Hawk was slamming against Sea Hammer . It would be a nightmare just trying to get the ships clear of the shore, but before they did that they had to reach them first.
Which apparently would be easier than Harald thought. The panic they had brought to the center of the line had spread, and men were pushing away in either direction, unaware, apparently, that the attackers had been just five strong. It was the first bit of luck the gods had offered them.
Harald, with his left hand still gripping Starri’s arm, Oak Cleaver in his right, splashed into the shallow water, stumbling as he raced to reach Sea Hammer ’s side. He stopped and pushed Starri forward and yelled, “Get aboard, Starri, get aboard!” and happily Starri did just that, running past Harald, grabbing on to Sea Hammer ’s sheer strake and swinging himself over.
Godi came charging past next, his thick legs kicking up a wake as he ran through the water. He stopped at the side of the ship and anxious hands reached down to grab up Thorgrim and haul him aboard, as Thorgrim in turn cursed and shouted and threatened their lives if they did not unhand him.
They were still pulling Thorgrim aboard when Harald turned back to face the enemy lining the shore and standing ankle-deep in the water. The panic they had unleashed with their surprise attack was just starting to dissipate, the disorganized men on the beach just beginning to see that the threat had passed. But it was too late. The Northmen, those who were not dead on the ground, were all aboard the longships and now the oars were coming out and the vessels starting to back away from the shallow water.
Failend and Louis were at his side as well, weapons held ready, eyes waiting for some threat from the shore. “Go, go,” Harald shouted and the two of them turned and splashed the last dozen feet to Sea Hammer ’s side.
And then it was Harald alone left standing in the water. He turned Oak Cleaver around and slid the weapon into its scabbard and was half turned toward the ship when one of the Irish men-at-arms came bursting out of the crowd, sword in hand. He wore mail that hung loose from a big rent in the shoulder and his face was splattered with dirt and blood that had been streaked by the rain. But that was not all. There was something else wrong with his face, but Harald could not quite tell what that was.
He was not a small man, but he charged through the shallow water with surprising speed, sword held high, his mouth open as he shouted something incomprehensible. And then Harald realized who it was.
Bécc… Bécc of the ruined face, Bécc who had been scouting out the longphort for months now, who had led this unwarranted attack against them. Bécc who would not suffer them to get away.
Harald’s hand fell on Oak Cleaver’s hilt and he drew the weapon as Bécc closed the last few feet and swung his sword at Harald’s head, a wild and uncoordinated move. Harald leaned back and the tip of Bécc’s blade passed his face inches away. Harald could see a spray of water coming off the blade as it sliced through the sheets of torrential rain. He lunged, but Bécc knocked the blade aside and drew his own sword back to counter the attack.
“Thorgrim!” Bécc shouted. “Thorgrim, you bastard, son of the devil, fight me!” Bécc shouted over Harald’s shoulder as he drove the point of his sword at Harald’s chest. Harald knocked it aside, but before he could do more, Bécc raised his foot and drove it into Harald’s stomach and sent him staggering back.
Harald struggled to regain his footing as Bécc came at him again and he heard, from behind, his father’s voice. “Bécc, you bastard, here I am! I’ll come and cut your heart out!”
Bécc took a step forward and swung at Harald once again and Harald ducked low and let the blade pass over.
He doesn’t understand… Harald thought. He was thinking about what his father had said, that Bécc would not understand the Norse words, but he realized, as the thought came to him, that Thorgrim must not have understood Bécc’s Irish words either. But their words both spoke of hate and revenge, and that they both understood.
Harald was squatting on his heels, having ducked Bécc’s blow, and must have looked quite helpless to Bécc who drew his sword back, ready to give the final blow. But Harald was not an easy kill. He leaned back and lashed out with his right foot. He felt the soft sole of his shoe connect with Bécc’s knee, and despite the rain and the wind and the shouting he heard the sickening snap of bone.
Then every sound was drowned out by Bécc’s scream of agony and rage as his leg collapsed under him and he fell in a heap into the shallow water. Already his men were charging into the short surf after him, but Harald could give them no more thought. He turned and sheathed Oak Cleaver as he did and raced toward Sea Hammer ’s side.
The oars were out and the ship backing away from the beach, but the howling wind was holding it back as if Odin’s shoulder was pressed against it. Five great strides and Harald was at the ship’s side, hands on the sheer strake, pulling himself up as more hands grabbed onto his mail shirt and his belt and hauled him over the side.
He fell in a heap on the deck planks and sat there, heaving for breath. Godi and three others were holding his father back while Thorgrim thrashed and fought, but the sight of his son seemed to calm him. He ceased his struggling and the others let him go as he shook them off.
“Vík-ló!” Harald shouted. “We go to Vík-ló, but we’ll be back!”
Thorgrim nodded. Harald could well imagine how furious he was about everything that had just happened there at the longphort at Loch Garman, but he seemed to take some comfort in the thought of Vík-ló. And of their return.
Chapter Twenty-Four
A shower of honey rained upon the fort of the Laigin.
A shower of wheat, furthermore, rained on Othan Becc .
Fragmentary Annals of Ireland
The rain lashed the tow
n of Sherborne, the wind doled out its punishment, ripping thatch from roofs, sending barrows tumbling down the streets, overturning carts and tearing apart lesser structures. The sky was nearly black at midday, a darkness few had ever witnessed. The bells on the cathedral tolled and tolled. They were driven by the wind, saving the priests the trouble of doing it themselves, calling the wicked to repent their sins at what might turn out to be the end of time.
And the wicked came to do just that. Those who dared left the dubious safety of their homes, soaked through even as they struggled to close doors behind them and stagger down the streets to the cathedral. They knelt and they prayed and Bishop Ealhstan stood in clouds of incense and chanted the prayers that might bring them some relief from the storm. And, if not that, then salvation when the end finally came thundering down, which it seemed most inclined to do.
Cynewise was on her knees as well, kneeling on the hard, stone floor, the cold working its way through her linen underdress and the fine, heavy wool of her gown, dyed a deep red. It was not an appropriate color to wear to the mass, but Cynewise was not at the mass. She was kneeling on the floor of the long hall, what she had come to think of as her long hall. She was holding the cold, boney hand of King Æthelwulf, and she pressed his ring to her lips and gave it the most delicate of kisses. Then she stood, straight and tall as she could stand, her face nearly level with that of the old man, and looked him in the eyes.
“Welcome, my dear King Æthelwulf,” she said. “I give thanks to the Lord that you were able to find shelter in my hall before this wicked storm was upon us.”
Æthelwulf sniffed. “Not exactly ‘before,’” he said. But Cynewise knew that. The men who stood behind the king, his guards and the ealdormen who had come with him, and his courtiers and sundry human detritus, were soaked through, their clothing black with wet, regardless of the color it had been before the rain, and hanging in sodden folds and dripping thoughtlessly on the floor.
I don’t know what you’re complaining about , Cynewise thought. Æthelwulf was perfectly dry. The others had clearly taken pains to see that no rain fell on the king, even if it meant their own soaking.
“Well, my lord, the fires are blazing in your rooms, I can assure you,” she said with an ingratiating smile. “Pray, let me show you to your apartment, where you might rest and refresh yourself. We have a banquet planned which we hope will do honor to your majesty.”
With that she rested her hand on Æthelwulf’s arm and guided him back down the length of the long hall. He would have to step outside once again and cross the now muddy courtyard to the residence, but Cynewise knew there would be servants there with a portable awning to keep the man dry. She had given specific orders for such, and Ulger, the chief steward, was not likely to forget. Such an omission could prove fatal to a man like Ulger.
Cynewise led the way through the big door at the end of the hall. The awning was there, as she had assumed, and eight servants were struggling to hold it in place against the powerful wind. Æthelwulf looked up at the flogging cloth with vague disapproval but said nothing. Cynewise remained silent as well, but the ferocity of the storm surprised her, even after having listened to the wind and the rain beating on the long hall all that morning.
Lightning flashed, washing the dark courtyard in light, and thunder clapped overhead, so near and loud Cynewise could feel the earth tremble with it.
The hand of God is in this , she thought, glancing up at the sky beyond the edge of the awning. It was in some ways a foolish thought. The hand of God was in all things, of course. But this was different. More like a warning, a hint of punishment, and Cynewise felt a flush of guilt, and fear.
This storm is upon Wessex and many lands beyond , she thought. Sure there are people more wicked than me that God means to warn.
They made it to the residence with no further sign of God’s retribution and Cynewise deposited Æthelwulf in his apartment, which had been made so comfortable that Cynewise thought even the old man would find nothing of which to complain.
She took the liberty of giving him a soft hug, a liberty she knew he would not mind, and she stayed pressed against him long enough for him to run his gnarled hand over her ass. Æthelwulf, for all his piety, liked women quite a lot. Flattery and a willingness to endure his impotent groping went far toward winning the royal favor. She had learned that at a young age in the court of her father, Ceorle, ealdorman of Devonshire. Her relationship with King Æthelwulf went way back.
With the king tucked safely away for the time, Cynewise returned to her work, which was plentiful. Æthelwulf had not been expected for another fortnight. She had counted on that, counted on having things more in order by the time he arrived. But a courier had appeared just two days before to announce that the king had altered his plans, that he would bypass Glastonbury Abbey for the time and make right for Sherborne. Why, Cynewise did not know, but she had her ideas.
For the rest of the afternoon, with the storm still raging and the thunder making her jump with each terrifying crash, Cynewise moved through her duties. She directed the preparation of the long hall for the royal feast, looked in on the cooks laboring in the kitchen, and met with the ealdormen who would be present. She returned to her chambers and sent her servants away with instructions to send for Oswin. It was not long before the shire reeve was at her door, giving a shallow bow.
“Come, Oswin. Shut the door,” Cynewise said. Oswin stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. He knew what she wanted, so he did not wait for her to ask.
“I’ve heard nothing from the borders, Lady Cynewise,” he said. “If your father’s men passed into Dorsetshire they did so unseen, but I’m hard pressed to believe that’s the case.”
“No,” Cynewise said. “They did not come over the border. As you say, if they did they would be seen. Word would spread. I’m not confident that we have the complete loyalty of all the thegns whose lands they would have to pass through.”
“You have the loyalty of the thegns, lady,” Oswin protested.
“The complete loyalty?” Cynewise asked. The question hung in the air. Oswin did not make an answer.
“The thegns are like dogs,” Cynewise said. “They’re loyal to whoever is feeding them. And we don’t know who truly sides with us, and who still thinks Nothwulf will come to power. So my father decided to send two hundred of his best warriors. But not overland. He’s sent them by ship, around to Christchurch Priory.”
“Christchurch Priory?” Oswin said. “That’s Leofric’s land. Leofric’s loyalty is the most suspect of all, my lady.”
“I know that,” Cynewise said. “My father’s men-at-arms will secret themselves in the priory. It’s remote enough that they should be able to keep their presence a secret. Then, when the time comes that we must take control, complete control of the shire, then they’ll be ready to move. And ready to take down that bastard Leofric first of all.”
Oswin nodded. A gust of wind hit the building and it shuddered. They could feel the floor tremble beneath them.
“Your father’s men…went by sea?” Oswin asked.
“Yes,” Cynewise said. “When, I don’t know. I don’t know if they are at Christchurch now, or if they have yet to leave. But let’s hope they’re not out at sea in this hellish weather.”
“Let’s hope,” Oswin said. “There’s no ship could live through this.”
All through the afternoon the storm blew with full fury, but by nightfall it was a shadow of itself, with only the occasional flash of lightning, and thunder far enough away that it seemed like an echo of the earlier blasts. The long hall was lit by torches lining the walls and the long oak tables were crowded with the men and women who had been invited to the royal banquet.
Cynewise was on the dais, at the center of the head table, surveying with satisfaction all that lay before her, when the horns sounded the arrival of Æthelwulf and his entourage. They processed into the long hall with the slow, solemn dignity one might expect of a king, though Cynewi
se suspected that the old man was not trying to be solemn, he just could not move any faster.
“The king looks well,” Bishop Ealhstan said. He was standing beside Cynewise, standing at his place at the head table, the seat of third highest honor. Not even the threat of the end times and the second coming would keep the man from attending to the king.
“He does look well,” Cynewise agreed. Like a well-preserved corpse , she thought. But her smile did not dim in the least as Æthelwulf ascended the dais to the rest of the guests’ enthusiastic pounding on the tables. She turned her cheek for a demure kiss which Æthelwulf gave her, still smiling even as he discreetly ran his hand down her side and over her posterior. She thought of how happy Æthelwulf must be that she, and not Nothwulf, was there, how the king would certainly rather grab her ass than Nothwulf’s. And then she wondered if that was indeed true.
The servants flanking Æthelwulf’s chair pulled it back and the king sat and Cynewise pushed such thoughts from her mind. The wine was poured and she led a toast to the king and they drank. Then the bishop led a prayer, then a toast, and then the food was served out: roast beef and venison and a multitude of summer vegetables, fish from the villages of Wareham and Swanage, pheasants and fine white bread. It was damned expensive putting on a feast for a monarch and all his lackeys, but Cynewise felt certain that it would ultimately be enough to her benefit that she did not begrudge the drain on her stores.
For some time Æthelwulf concentrated on eating, and Cynewise was surprised how much he could put away. She had seen him eat many times at her father’s table but had never noticed that before. Finally the king leaned back.
“Terrible, terrible thing, what happened to Merewald,” he said. “Bloody murder. And in the cathedral, no less, on his wedding day.”
It was the first mention the king had made of that event, and all Cynewise could think was, I know, you damned fool, I was there. She opened her mouth to speak, but Æthelwulf leaned forward so he could see past her to Bishop Ealhstan.
A Vengeful Wind: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 8) Page 24