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

by Nelson, James L.

  “They may get there yet,” Leofric said. “I wonder where they’ve come from. I’ve heard no tales of Northmen raiding around here. But they must have been nearby. They certainly did not cross the sea in the storm we just witnessed.”

  “No,” Nothwulf agreed. He did not know much about ships and the sea, but he was pretty certain that no vessel could have lived through the storm that had so battered Dorsetshire.

  He did, however, know about fighting Northmen, as did Leofric. Northmen were a plague that grew more acute every year. Two generations before, the reeve of the King of Wessex and his men were killed by Northmen not twenty miles from that place, the first men in all Angel-cynn to die at Northmen’s hands. Since then they had come again and again. Great armies of the bastards were said to be making themselves at home in the eastern parts of the land. Not five years earlier both Nothwulf and Leofric had joined the armies of King Æthelwulf in defeating the heathens near London.

  The two men knew about fighting Northmen. They knew that Northmen could be defeated. And they knew it was no easy task.

  “Well, if there’s four hundred warriors…even if there’s half that number…we’re in no position to fight them,” Leofric said. “Not until we call up the fyrd.”

  They had a little more than a hundred men-at-arms with them, good fighting men, but not nearly enough. They would have to mobilize the fyrd, the full-time farmers and tradesmen, part-time soldiers, who would assemble when needed for military action. They were no match for the Northmen’s fighting prowess, but what they lacked in skill they could more than make up for in numbers. But that would take some time.

  “Yes…” Nothwulf said, though his thoughts were off in another direction. “This is, you know, a great threat to the shire. All of Dorset could be overrun by these bastards.”

  “Yes,” Leofric said, but hesitantly. “By four hundred warriors?”

  “Well, not four hundred, but who knows how many more there might be? I’m only saying that this should not all fall to you, even if Swanage is within your holdings. We were on our way to Sherborne. I think we had better go there now, alert King Æthelwulf to this threat.”

  “And find out if this little tart Cynewise has the mettle to stand up to them?” Leofric said. “To command men in the defense of the shire?”

  “Exactly. To see what she’s made of, with the king right there.”

  Leofric nodded. “I see,” he said, and it was clear that he did.

  When the great storm had finally blown itself out, Cynewise and King Æthelwulf made a tour of Sherborne and the surrounding countryside. They mounted their horses, fitted out with the finest tack, while they themselves wore cloaks of deep scarlet and lined with fur. The king’s tunic was edged with fine embroidery and Cynewise’s gown was a silk of deep blue, like the sea, far off shore. Behind them streamed a retinue of servants and men-at-arms a hundred strong, each fitted out to match the king or the de facto ealdorman, depending on the household to which they belonged.

  Oswin, the shire reeve, rode a few paces behind Cynewise and the king. It would fall to him to actually oversee the work that would go into rebuilding the town and the farms around, but he knew better than to speak unless spoken to by Cynewise or the king.

  They spent the better part of the day making their inspection, stopping only for dinner, which had been set up in a wide field on trestle tables brought from the ealdorman’s home in Sherborne and laden with food and wine from the kitchen there. It was a feast to feed the great crowd who accompanied the king, and the thought of how much it would all cost was enough to ruin Cynewise’s appetite.

  By late in the afternoon they were back at the ealdorman’s hall, and they retired, exhausted, after a more modest supper.

  Cynewise woke the next morning to the sounds of the household coming to life, but it was more than the usual bustle, and for a moment, in her half-awake state, she could not recall why. Then she did. The king and his retinue were leaving. With the destruction that the storm had brought to all of Wessex, Æthelwulf had decided to move quickly through the rest of his tour, assessing the damage as he did, calculating what would be needed to set it to rights, and then return to Winchester.

  Blessed, blessed storm …Cynewise thought, still lying in the wide, soft bed in her sleeping chamber. Anything to get the old man out of Sherborne.

  Not that the king’s visit had gone badly, not at all. Æthelwulf had been pleased with Cynewise’s devotion and loyalty to him even before his arrival. The cart train of gifts she had appropriated from Nothwulf and sent on to the king had helped in that regard, as had Æthelwulf’s long friendship with her father.

  There had been little talk of her brother-in-law, and no suggestion that Æthelwulf desired that Nothwulf should be installed as ealdorman. The king had often embraced her in what he imagined was a fatherly way, and Cynewise had endured his wandering hands. Things had gone pretty much as Cynewise had hoped, and now she wanted the king gone before anything might occur to muddy those clear waters.

  Cynewise would call the witan together once the royal procession had moved on. The witan, a council comprised of the most important thegns as well as Bishop Ealhstan, was normally assembled to advise the king. But these times were not normal, and getting the witan’s seal would give her the final mark of legitimacy.

  She had ample support among the thegns, she guessed. King Æthelwulf was not the only one to whom she had given gifts and promises. Soon, soon, her place as ealdorman of Dorset would be carved in stone.

  She sat up and called for Aelfwyn, who had just recently returned from Blandford, the place to which Nothwulf had carried her off. She had escaped in the confusion of the hearth-guard riding off in pursuit of phantom raiders. Aelfwyn had been vague with the details of how she had arranged for transport back to Sherborne, but Cynewise could well imagine. Aelfwyn was always adept at using the gifts and charms that God had given her.

  Aelfwyn hurried in, made a curtsey and said, “Ma’am?” She had looked haggard and beaten upon her return, but she was quickly returning to her old self, bold and confident.

  “I’m ready to dress,” Cynewise said, tossing off the covers.

  The process of dressing and getting her hair in order took most of the morning, despite the labor of Aelfwyn and two other girls. The delays were due mostly to Cynewise’s foot-dragging, and that was a result of her wanting to avoid Æthelwulf for as long as she could, having grown quite weary of the old king.

  When they were done at last Cynewise left the bedchamber and stepped out into the courtyard. It was all a’bustle there, with servants racing back and forth and the stable hands and the cooks and bakers all hard at work, making ready for the king and his people to get underway once more. Cynewise smiled. She was glad to see all this activity, all directed at sending Æthelwulf on his way.

  The wagons that carried the king’s necessities, all bright painted and tricked out with gilding, were crowded into the courtyard, the horses that pulled them standing patiently in their traces. The servants loading the wagon beds formed a stream of men moving back and forth, like ants at a honeycomb dropped on the ground. Cynewise nodded and continued to smile.

  She looked toward the main gate, now open wide to make it as easy as possible for Æthelwulf and his train to leave, when she saw Oswin come in from the street beyond, moving fast, his face grim, his cloak flapping out behind him.

  Oh, now what in all hell is this? she wondered. Oswin did not slow, did not veer off, just marched straight across the courtyard to where she stood. He stopped a few feet in front of her and made a half-hearted gesture of supplication.

  “Yes?” Cynewise said.

  “It’s Nothwulf, ma’am,” he said, sotto voce . “And Leofric. They’re just a mile outside of the town and riding this way.”

  “Sneaking in? Trying to slip into Sherborne?”

  “No, ma’am, not at all. They have banners and they’re wearing their best clothes and mail. They have their hearth-guard with them. Ne
ar a hundred strong, as my men tell it.”

  Cynewise frowned, but at the same time she saw how clever this was. If either of them, Nothwulf in particular, had tried to sneak in, he could have been taken quietly. But by making such a show of their arrival there was nothing that Cynewise could do, unless she was ready to outright accuse Nothwulf of his brother’s murder and arrest him in public, which she was not.

  “There’s good news as well, Lady Cynewise,” Oswin said, still speaking low enough that no one else could hear. “I have word from Christchurch Priory. You father’s ships arrived a few days before the storm. The men are encamped in the priory and no one the wiser. The storm delayed the messenger or I would have known days ago.”

  “How many?” Cynewise asked.

  “Near two hundred. Ceorle’s best fighting men. But I’m afraid the ships put to sea after setting the men ashore, and they might have been caught in the storm.”

  Cynewise waved this information away. “The ships are no matter,” she said. “It matters only that my army is here. And that we see Æthelwulf and his train gone before Nothwulf and Leofric arrive. You must find some way to delay them, stop them somehow…”

  That was as far as she got with that notion. A rider came in through the open gate, his horse moving at a trot, and he reined to a stop with a flourish and a whirling of a scarlet cloak.

  Bryning, son of a bitch …Cynewise thought as she recognized the man. She turned back toward Oswin, her eyes full of fury and accusation.

  Oswin shrugged. “He came in from a different way, I can assure you, ma’am. My men are watching Nothwulf’s column. Clever bastard.” The last he muttered under his breath, as if speaking to himself.

  “My Lady Cynewise!” Bryning shouted, bowing in his saddle, his voice as deferential as any might ask, and loud enough to be heard by all of the household. “My Lords Nothwulf and Leofric are approaching the town and would wish to speak with you, and with his highness King Æthelwulf, if he is still in residence!”

  And that was that. There was no getting out of it now. Æthelwulf had certainly heard those words, as had every man in his party. Even if she thought she could get away with arresting him, he and Leofric had one hundred men under arms, while her own hearth-guard would be useless against them. When Herelaf had failed to apprehend Nothwulf earlier she had ordered him stripped of his rank, flogged and cast out into the streets. But she did not think that example had been enough to instill the fear she required.

  Cynewise was about to respond when the king himself stepped out of the long hall’s big door and crossed over to where Cynewise and Oswin stood. “What do I hear?” he said. “Nothwulf is arriving? And Leofric. Good, good. I was hoping to see the both of them before I left. Never understood why they weren’t here, the king’s tour and all.”

  “Of course, my lord,” Cynewise said. “I can’t imagine why they are only now arriving.”

  And soon they did arrive, the two men riding through the big gates, followed by an impressive display of mounted soldiers, banners flying, armor jingling. Mostly Leofric’s men, which was no surprise to Cynewise, since she had seen to it that Nothwulf had little left to make a big show. They dismounted, made their homage to the king, made their duty to her, their rage barely held in check. Then Nothwulf said, “We bring news, your highness, grave news, and perhaps we had better speak in private.”

  They left the courtyard and crossed into the long hall, Cynewise taking care to lead the way. This was, she realized, the most dangerous moment yet in her ascension to ealdorman. She climbed the dais and sat in the second largest of the seats there, leaving the most impressive for Æthelwulf. Leofric and Nothwulf pulled seats around so they were facing her and the king.

  “Now, pray, tell me…” Cynewise began, but Æthelwulf cut her off.

  “Nothwulf! Leofric! Good to see you both again. I had wondered where you were, couldn’t understand why you were not here for my visit.”

  “We came as soon as we could, of course,” Nothwulf said. “Nothing would keep us away. Save for the most pressing of your kingdom’s business.”

  “Speaking of which,” Æthelwulf said, “I was surprised to find you had not stepped in as ealdorman after your brother’s shocking murder. But it seems as if you and Cynewise have managed things between yourselves.”

  “We are still working things out, my lord,” Nothwulf said dryly. “But, pray, let me give you the news we bring.” He paused a beat to let the words sink in. “It’s the Northmen, lord. They’ve come ashore in Swanage. Seven ships.”

  “Seven ships might be as many as four hundred warriors,” Leofric said.

  “Bah!” Æthelwulf snorted. “I’ve fought more than that and beat them well.”

  “Might be four hundred warriors?” Cynewise said. “Did you not remain there long enough to be sure?” What she meant to imply was that the men had been backward in their courage, fleeing from the Northmen directly, and judging from the expression on their faces that suggestion was not lost on them. But it was apparently lost on Æthelwulf, who made no comment, though Cynewise had spoken the words for the king’s benefit.

  “By the time we arrived, the Northmen had overrun the town,” Leofric explained with elaborate patience, and Cynewise could see he was purposefully speaking to her as if speaking to a child. “They were mostly hidden in the homes, but it was clear they were too many for my hearth-guard and my lord Nothwulf’s to fight. We left a guard in place, and messengers to bring word of any movement, and then we rode here.”

  Left a guard in place? Cynewise thought. Did you? Did you really think to do that? But she did not put voice to these thoughts.

  “Why should they land at Swanage?” Cynewise said instead. “There’s nothing of worth there.”

  “Sister,” Nothwulf said in his most patronizing tone, “you’re new to our shire, I understand that. But Swanage, small as it is, has a good harbor, and it’s a short way to Christchurch Priory or Abbotsbury Abbey or even the churches at Wareham or Windborne Minster. Lord Leofric’s holds are no poor wastelands.”

  Cynewise thought to ask why the damned Northmen didn’t just go to Christchurch Priory straight off, but she held her tongue. She was losing control of the moment and she knew it.

  “Well,” she said, clapping her hands down on her thighs in a gesture of having rendered a final decision. “I’m sorry you chose to bring your fighting men here for a parade rather than leave them watching the Northmen, but there’s nothing for it now. You must return to Swanage and keep an eye on the heathens there and make an attack if it seems at all likely to succeed. I will call up the fyrd and get them marching your way as soon as can be done. By tomorrow morning at latest.”

  Then, by way of reminding them that she was not without influence or the backing of powerful men, she added, “I’ll send word to my father, as well. He has a strong hearth-guard, twice what was kept here in Sherborne, and I know the fyrd in Devonshire can be ready to march in precious little time. We’ll find ample support there.”

  “Ha!” Æthelwulf shouted and stood up quickly. “There, you see, the young vixen has the situation well in hand!”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Cynewise said. “I’m grateful for your words.” And she was, in a way that Æthelwulf himself did not understand, and that Leofric and Nothwulf most certainly did.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  And since, by them on the fathomless sea-ways

  sailor-folk are never molested.

  Beowulf

  The English fisherman whom Thorgrim had conscripted was named Sweartling. At least that was what Gudrid told him. Thorgrim had not asked, and he really didn’t care, as long as the man did as he was told. And it seemed he had.

  Having conscripted the fishermen and his crew, Thorgrim’s fleet got underway once again, sailing as close to the wind as they could. Thorgrim watched Sweartling’s eyes moving from the edge of the sail to the distant shore to Sea Hammer ’s wake astern, judging how they were making good their course, like any
man would who was accustomed to ships and the sea. His three companions, men much younger than him, were huddled on the lee side, trying to be as inconspicuous as they could. Thorgrim wondered if they were the fisherman’s sons. Probably. If so, they could be used to extract further cooperation, if needed.

  But in the end it was not needed. Sweartling pointed to a spot just forward of the larboard beam, some point along a shoreline that appeared to Thorgrim to be no more than an unbroken dark line. He spoke and Gudrid translated.

  “Sweartling says his village is that way, a place called Swanage, just to the south of that high spot there. Good beach for landing.”

  Thorgrim nodded and his eyes also moved from the edge of the sail to the distant shore to the ship’s wake, and without conscious thought he calculated leeway and angles of sail, the effects of course and speed.

  “We’ll come about, get as close as we can on the next tack, then we’ll take to the oars,” he said.

  The miles moved under their keel and Sweartling and his sons visibly relaxed, and when they were offered a meal of bread and dried fish they accepted with nods of thanks. Sweartling again pointed toward the spot of shore where he claimed his village was situated, and now Thorgrim could see high cliffs and what looked to be a long strip of beach and he guessed that even if there was no village there it would still make for a decent place to land. And that was something they needed very much. Their food and water would soon be exhausted, and the men already were.

  Once they had made as much distance as they could on the starboard tack Thorgrim ordered the sail in and the oars out. The men did as they were told, though they put more effort into grumbling than into the actual rowing. Astern, the other six vessels did the same, following behind Sea Hammer like a long line of ducklings bringing terror and destruction to the shores of Engla-land.

  From half a mile out even Thorgrim could see the village, a smattering of small huts, thatched roofs, thin columns of smoke rising here and there. The houses were square, not round, like the Irish fashion, and not encircled by earthen walls, as all the homes in Ireland seemed to be. The beach was very long and half-moon shaped and he could see some boats pulled up there, and more farther up the sand, where, he guessed, they had been deposited by the storm.