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

by Nelson, James L.

  He turned to Gudrid and Sweartling, standing beside him as he stood at the tiller. “Well?” he asked. Gudrid turned to Sweartling and spoke.

  “He says you’ve held your course well,” Gudrid said. “He says the place they call Christchurch Priory is just off the larboard bow, there.” He gestured toward some distant and indistinguishable spot ahead of them.

  Thorgrim nodded and turned his attention to the shoreline beyond the bow. Two or three miles away, he guessed, but it was hard to be certain. The sun still had not come above the horizon and the land off to the north was no more than a low, black uneven line.

  The decision to get underway had happened rather quickly. Thorgrim Night Wolf was not one to ponder long on such things, and he did not ponder long on this one. He had promised Starri a surprise for the men-at-arms gathering outside Swanage, though even as he said it he was not sure what that surprise would be. But he had some idea.

  The fisherman, Sweartling, who had remained with them, had grown more talkative as he felt more assured of his safety, and more aware of the riches that the Northmen carried in their ships. When Thorgrim questioned him, through Gudrid, about the lands around, what was to be found there, where the wealth was secreted, Sweartling talked. He was hesitant at first, but then, as Thorgrim gave him another piece of silver and kept the ale flowing, the man became increasingly enthusiastic. He described the poor fishing villages and the distant town of Wimborne, where he had never been and had only heard of, and the wealthy priory just ten or twelve miles away over the water, across a wide bay.

  That last one caught Thorgrim’s attention.

  Starri Deathless had returned from his scouting work soon after, informing Thorgrim of the mounted warriors massing against them, and that had settled for Thorgrim a question that he had pretty much settled already. They had taken everything worth taking from the village called Swanage, which wasn’t much of anything. They had managed to put their ships to rights, at least enough that they could take to the sea with the shore close at hand. He did not feel any particular need to fight for their hold on a pathetic, deserted village and a beach on which they did not intend to stay.

  On the other hand, if Sweartling was anything like correct—and he had been thus far—one of the Christ-men’s churches was just a few hours’ pull at the oars away. Thorgrim had raided churches in Engla-land in his younger days, and had seen plenty of the churches in Ireland since, and so he had every reason to believe this one would be as plump with gold and silver as Sweartling suggested. It was time to go.

  They waited until the night was well on, and the moon set over the horizon, before they began to push the longships into the water as quietly as they could. Thorgrim was certain the English would be watching from the village or the hills, if not all of them then a sentry at least. He did not want their departure to be seen. He did not want the countryside to be alerted to the wolves in the sheepfold.

  He waited for the cry of warning to come from the dark, the burst of men-at-arms charging over the sand to stop them. But he heard nothing. The ships were floating, the oars run out the oar ports, and still there was no sound to be heard.

  Sea Hammer took the lead, with a lantern hung from the masthead once they were well clear of the beach, and the rest fell in astern. They rowed easy. Sweartling, a fisherman quite familiar with those waters, directed their course by the North Star, and assured Thorgrim that there was no danger for miles ahead. But Thorgrim did not care to trust anyone other than himself, and they were in no great hurry, so they moved with caution, like men feeling their way through the dark woods.

  But Sweartling was right, apparently, and the first light showed Thorgrim that there was still plenty of water around them. Now he had only to hope the fisherman was right about the Christ-church as well.

  They pulled on and Thorgrim ordered food and drink served out and the men at the oars relieved. He could still barely make out the land ahead, and that meant anyone on the land would not see the longships at all, and that was good. They were stalking, moving in with stealth and caution. The less warning the Christ men had, the less opportunity they would have to hide their wealth, or carry it off.

  Harald was at the aftermost oar, setting the rhythm of the stroke for the rest, making an easy pull of it, but now it was time to pick it up.

  “Harald,” Thorgrim said, his voice only as loud as it had to be. Sound, he knew, traveled easily over water. “Let’s pick up the pace now. Land’s in sight.”

  Harald nodded and with the next stroke he leaned forward a little quicker, pulled back with a bit more gusto, and the men ahead of him did as well. Thorgrim felt Sea Hammer ’s speed build and heard the change in the note of the water running down the side. With the next stroke, Harald increased the speed again.

  Thorgrim leaned over the side and looked astern. The ships in his wake were barely visible, but he could see them well enough to see he was leaving them astern. He was not worried about that. Soon they would realize that Sea Hammer was making more speed and they would row even harder to catch up. No ship in a fleet wanted to suffer the humiliation of being left behind.

  The land was getting close, almost uncomfortably close, by the time the sun showed itself above the horizon and spread its light over the water, revealing what had been only shadows just moments before: a long, sandy beach backed by high cliffs, almost white, and topped with green. It looked as if some grassy hill had been hacked in two by a massive sword, and the seaward side carted off. There was no village or church that Thorgrim could see.

  “Gudrid,” Thorgrim growled. “Ask our friend if we’re making the right landfall here.”

  They went back and forth a few moments, Gudrid and Sweartling, and then Gudrid said, “The church isn’t on the shore. Just past the headland there’s a narrow mouth to a harbor, and the village and the church are across that harbor and up a river.”

  “Up a river? How far?” Thorgrim felt himself getting angry.

  Gudrid posed the question, then said, “Sweartling says not far. Two, three miles from here. He says you could not get into the harbor in the dark.”

  You had better be right, you sorry English bastard , Thorgrim thought but he said nothing. He looked back at the horizon. The sun had still not broken clear.

  Two or three miles… That would not take long, and they would be hidden by the cliffs until the last moment. Hopefully there was no one watching from the high ground.

  They continued on, with Thorgrim steering to hug the shore on Sweartling’s assurance that there was water deep enough for the longships. Astern of them, the other six ships kept pace.

  “Starri,” Thorgrim said and Starri, who was sitting just forward of the afterdeck, jumped to his feet as if Thorgrim had spoken with some urgency, which he had not. Starri was getting keyed up for a fight. Thorgrim recognized the signs.

  “Up to the masthead with you, Starri,” Thorgrim said. “There’ll be sandbars and such, I’ll warrant.”

  Starri nodded, moved up the ship’s centerline to the aftermost shroud and pulled himself aloft on the thick, tarred rope as easily as he had stood up a moment before.

  The mouth of the harbor was just as Sweartling had said, sandy shallows framing an entrance cut by the water that ran through with the change of the tides. Thorgrim could see gulls swirling around in the air and he could smell the scent of the land mixed with the tangy smell of salt water. He judged it was mid-tide, but whether the tide was rising or falling he could not yet tell.

  Gudrid stepped up. “Sweartling says the sandbars are tricky here. He says to keep rowing this direction, then turn for the shore and run straight in.”

  Before Thorgrim could reply, Starri called down from aloft, “Night Wolf! Don’t run into the channel now, or you’ll be aground for sure! Straight on a bit, then go in through the cut!”

  “Thank you, Starri!” Thorgrim cried. And they did just that, rowing straight ahead and then putting the tiller over just as Sweartling and Starri both said it was ti
me. Sea Hammer turned ninety degrees with her bow heading west, straight for the narrow cut in the long sandy beach. Thorgrim could feel the speed build as they approached and he knew the tide was rising and it would suck them right through if all went well, or pin them on the sand if it did not.

  He looked over at Sweartling, who was leaning against the side of the ship and staring intently forward. He was not as sanguine now in the company of the wild Northmen as he had been. He did not know how Thorgrim would react if he put the longship up on the sand. Even Thorgrim did not know how he would react, but he did not think it would be pleasant for anyone, Sweartling in particular.

  The beach was close at hand, just off the bows, and Thorgrim could see the shallow, sandy bars from the tiller where he stood. The current had them now, and the men at the oars were doing little more than keeping the ship straight, but that was at least as important as keeping her moving.

  Sea Hammer shot through the gap and a wide, flat harbor opened up before them, quiet and peaceful in the calm of the early morning. The sun had not risen above the cliffs to the south of them and part of the harbor still lay in shadow.

  “Starri!” Thorgrim called, loath as he was to shout. “Anything moving? Any boats?”

  There was a pause, and then Starri called back, “Nothing, Night Wolf! I guess these English are all lay-abeds!”

  Thorgrim smiled. He had never known a fisherman anywhere who was a lay-abed and he imagined they were just now loading nets aboard their boats and pushing them off into the water. It would not be long before they spotted the longships making their silent approach. They would spin around and pull like mad for the shore and spread the word that death was coming.

  “Harald, faster now,” Thorgrim said. They had to cover as much ground as they could before surprise was lost.

  Harald nodded and leaned back quicker yet, giving a powerful stroke, and the others followed suit. Thorgrim looked astern. Blood Hawk , Oak Heart and Fox had come through the harbor entrance and Dragon and Long Serpent and Black Wing were coming behind.

  Thorgrim looked forward, past the tall stem that held the figurehead aloft. He could see thin columns of smoke in the distance, the sign of some sort of village waking up.

  “I can see some houses now! And the Christ-temple,” Starri called.

  “Good, Starri!” Thorgrim replied. “I think you can come down now!” Thorgrim was no longer concerned about Sweartling. The man had proved that he knew the navigation of those waters, and that he would not betray the Northmen, either from fear or greed or both.

  Thorgrim steered Sea Hammer across the open water of the wide bay. It reminded him of Loch Garman. These shallow, sandy bays, surrounded by low marshy land, seemed common in Ireland and Engla-land, though they were all but unheard of in Thorgrim’s native Norway.

  They pulled for the distant shore, Sweartling making small corrections in the course to skirt the shallow banks on either side. The shore was a mix of sand and patchy grass and stands of scrubby trees, and the gulls whirled and dove in the morning light. Soon the wide bay began to narrow as Sea Hammer moved into the mouth of the river that Sweartling had told them about.

  Starri had come down from aloft, but now he was halfway up the stem in the bow, like a second figurehead, looking forward. “There it is, Night Wolf!” he called back. “I see the church! Oh, and boats! There are fishing boats on the water.” He paused then gave a bark of a laugh. “Ha! The whores’ whelps are rowing now! I guess they’ve seen us!”

  Thorgrim nodded. There was nothing for him to say. Every man not pulling an oar had already donned what armor he had, taken up their weapons and their shields. Now they were standing ready to go over the side as soon as Sea Hammer was in water shallow enough to do so.

  He could see Failend up near the bow. She had her mail shirt on and her seax at her side and her bow—the thing that made her deadly indeed—held loosely in her left hand. Louis De Roumois stood beside her, leaning on the sheer strake.

  Christians , Thorgrim thought. They are both Christ worshipers. He wondered what they thought about all this.

  He reached down and snatched Iron-tooth from where it lay wrapped in furs and belted the weapon around his waist. He was already wearing his mail shirt. As for a helmet, he had long ago stopped caring enough about whether he lived or died in battle to bother with the inconvenience of wearing one.

  He leaned over the side as far as he could and looked toward the shore. They were close enough that he could see the muddy bank where the fishing boats had run up. He could even see a handful of men—the crews of those boats, he imagined—running for their lives toward the Christ temple.

  The monastery…they’ll be warned soon enough , Thorgrim thought. It would have been nice to catch the people there still in their beds, but that was not likely to happen now. Not that it mattered very much. Even the most alert and well-armed Christ priest would not be much of an obstacle in their effort to sack the place.

  Two more hard stokes of the oars and the shore was closing fast. Thorgrim was beginning to wonder how close to the beach they would get when he felt the soft jerk of the ship running up into the mud and the forward momentum coming to a stop. He did not have to pass the word to ship the oars. The men had been waiting for this moment and they eagerly pulled the long sweeps inboard and deposited them on the deck as they leapt to their feet and grabbed up weapons and shields.

  Thorgrim released the tiller and moved forward, moving quickly but not too quickly. There was no call to run, and doing so would only encourage chaos. The men stood aside, making way for him. No one even thought to go over the side before he did.

  A little forward of midships Thorgrim looked down and guessed that there was no more than a few feet of water there, though in the muddy bay it was hard to tell. He stepped up on the sheer strake and vaulted over and was relieved to find the water no higher than his waist. Sinking out of sight would have been too humiliating by half.

  He pushed his way ashore and heard the others coming behind, men leaping over the side with such eagerness it sounded like a torrential rain, or a waterfall. The mud sucked at Thorgrim’s soft shoes and the water fell away as he trudged up the bank and stopped well clear of the water’s edge. The men behind him knew to be as quiet as they could. No one spoke, and their splashing made hardly a sound.

  Thorgrim paused and listened. He could hear birds in the tall grass and the reeds rustling in the breeze. He could hear what might have been shouting, or might have been his ears playing tricks, he could not tell. What he did not hear, not yet, was the sound of panicked alarm. The fishermen had not yet alerted the monastery, or perhaps they were racing for the far hills and not bothering with the monastery at all.

  “You men, form up in a swine array. Godi and Harald take the point. We’ll be ready if anyone comes, and if not, we’ll move when the others get ashore.”

  The men had been waiting for orders and those words sent them into a flurry, putting themselves in a swine array, a loose angled formation like a flock of geese in flight, with Godi and Harald at the apex. It was a formation generally used to break a shield wall, and it was very effective when employed by men of courage, strength and ability.

  Thorgrim turned and looked out over the bay. Blood Hawk was just that moment running onto the mud and Oak Heart was only a ship-length behind. The others were in a staggered line astern, but they, too, were only moments from reaching the shore.

  One by one the longships eased to a stop in the mud, and as they did their crews swarmed over the side, a crowd of Northmen with bright-painted shields and helmets and mail gleaming as much as it could after the neglect it had lately suffered. Some wore leather armor and under that the armor they wore tunics in an array of colors. They hurried ashore and formed up in loose lines and waited. At their heads stood their captains: Jorund, Asmund, Halldor, and Hardbein.

  “Very well, you men!” Thorgrim shouted because he had to, loud enough for all to hear. “We secure the place first, worry abou
t plunder after. Round up anyone you find and drive them into the Christ-temple, it’ll be the biggest building. Don’t kill anyone you don’t have to kill. Everyone there, men, women, children, are worth more to us alive than dead!”

  He wondered why he had added that admonishment about pointless killing. It was true, certainly, about the value of prisoners, but he had never felt compelled to say such a thing before. Was it for Failend? Was he becoming shy about killing Christ-worshipers? Or was he just getting soft-headed in his old age. He did not know, and did not care to think about it just then.

  He turned and pushed through the crowd of men until he was standing a few paces in front of Harald and Godi. He lifted Iron-tooth above his head and marched off, down the well-worn path that led to a small village clustered around the walls of the monastery beyond.

  The monastery itself was an impressive place, a great stone temple rising up amidst a cluster of small buildings, all half hidden behind a wall six feet high or so. And it was not a wall of earth or palisades, as was generally the case, at least in Ireland, but one built of stone, an impressive bit of work.

  Bigger than Glendalough , Thorgrim thought. Not quite as big as Ferns. Then he thought, I’ve come to know more about these Christ temples than any man who worships the true gods should.

  The sound of sharp ringing, sudden and insistent, pulled him from those thoughts. It startled him, and for a moment he did not know what he was hearing. And then he did. It was the bells from the Christ temple, sounding their alarm. Word had reached the people there that the heathens were ashore. The surprise was over.

  Thorgrim moved faster, his pace close to a jog. They reached the cluster of houses and pushed down the dirt road separating them. The village was deserted, of course. If the people were smart they would have run for the hills. If not they likely fled to the monastery, which would put them right in the path of the greatest danger.

  It did not take long to make their way through the houses and workshops and then there was only the stone wall surrounding the monastery in front to them. Thorgrim could see where a wide, hard-packed dirt road stretched off to the west, and he guessed that led to the monastery’s main gate. He turned and jogged off in that direction.