Lord of the Sea Castle

  Raymond did not know if his opponent was Trygve or Jarl Sigtrygg’s man, only that he could not let him live. Even in the moonlight the boy would recognise the Norman captain and betray his presence to his chieftain.

  The youngster shouted words – in which language Raymond could not tell – as his eyes flicked over the Norman’s shoulder. Raymond caught a glimpse of torches, close by, reflected in the boy’s eyes and threw himself into an attack with two swift downward cuts wide to his left and then his right. As the youth moved his shield across his body to intercept the second blow, Raymond turned his cut straight across the boy’s body and sliced his sword deep into his skull. The boy sighed once as he crumpled to the floor. He turned to see several torches in the near distance and exhaled heavily. Raymond took a few backward steps and made to flee, but instead tripped and fell across the outstretched feet of Jarl Sigtrygg’s man, the spy who he had killed as he had climbed out of the river. He would have taken off into the trees but as he scrambled to his feet a plan began to unfold in his mind.

  With one eye on the approaching torches, he threw the Ostman’s shield onto the ground close to the dead youth and then hoisted Jarl Sigtrygg’s man upwards so that he sat on the ground with his back to a tree. Raymond snatched a hand axe from the boy’s belt and, with a moment’s pause to compose himself, buried it in Jarl Sigtrygg’s spy’s brains. Blood splattered across his face and he used a sweaty forearm to wipe his eyes and mouth. He then pulled the man’s sword from its sheath and jammed it into his hand. Happy that his small ruse would convince his pursuers that the youngster had killed their prey, Raymond quietly and quickly slinked the last few metres to the water’s edge. Waverider was still noisy and easily identifiable in the corona of whale fat lamps blazing beyond her in the longfort. He pulled off his sabatons and stuffed them back in his hose, slipping into the freezing water with a small yelp and some furious panting. As he began swimming, he was dimly aware of angry shouting in the forest behind him.

  ‘What have you done?’ whispered Fionntán as he offered Raymond a hand over the side of Waverider and hoisted him upwards so that the Norman could get his hands onto the sheer-strake. The Gael then reached over the side and grabbed Raymond by his leg and dragged him into the ship.

  ‘What have you done?’ Fionntán asked again. Behind him, many torches buzzed like fireflies in the forest. All his men were on her port side staring at the excitement on the eastern shore.

  ‘Hopefully I’ve sorted out a couple of our problems in one swoop,’ Raymond replied as he shivered and wiped snot from his nose. He propped his sword against the mast, threw his cloak around his shoulders and joined his men as they watched the disturbance which continued in the trees. Branches shook and scattered leaves in the river as the Ostmen of Cluainmín moved around beyond the sight of the Norman crew but for the glow of their torches. It was obvious that they had discovered the body of the young warrior and that of Jarl Sigtrygg’s man and were angrily discussing what they should do with the information.

  ‘Are they going to attack us?’ Geoffrey of Abergavenny asked. All of Waverider’s crew turned to look at their captain in anticipation of an answer.

  Raymond shook water from his hair like a dog. ‘I don’t know. But for now we wait and we watch.’

  The herald appeared at the harbour wall at first light, shouting across the river to Waverider, waving his hands and pointing back towards Trygve’s hall.

  ‘He says that the konungr wants to talk to you,’ Fionntán translated. Like Raymond, he had seen out the night on watch, always alert and ready to react to any attack that might befall them. Daylight had brought hope to the crew of Waverider, hope that the worst was over, and they could finish their business and return to the relative safety of Dun Domhnall with an alliance to guard their eastern flank.

  ‘He says that you must come immediately,’ Fionntán continued as the messenger shouted from the distant shore. Unusually for a herald, he was clothed in armour and had an axe cradled in his arm. ‘They have called the Þing together.’

  ‘Meaning?’ asked Raymond.

  ‘Meaning that someone has started an argument,’ Fionntán replied, ‘and someone is to blame. Can you guess how the Ostmen sort out disputes of this sort?’

  Raymond grunted an affirmative, picturing crossed swords and a circle of rage-filled faces urging on desperate blood-drenched combatants. ‘Why would they want me there?’

  Fionntán shrugged. ‘We can still make a break for it.’ He looked up at the sky and spat over the side of the ship. ‘The wind is fine, and I say we can shoot the shallow channel.’ He held out an arm and pointed at an almost invisible waterway between the eastern bank and the sand which blocked the centre of the channel a hundred paces downriver from the town. Raymond would not have seen the route had not Fionntán pointed it out, though he doubted that any vessel of Waverider’s size could possibly traverse the stream without becoming grounded.

  ‘We run and we admit complicity in whatever the hell they may or may not accuse us of,’ Raymond replied with a shake of his head. ‘No, tell Amaury to prepare the oars and take us back across to the town. You and I will go and talk to Trygve and this…Þing,’ he said.

  Fifteen minutes later, Raymond and Fionntán were walking through the slave market, following the Ostman herald towards Trygve’s hall on a slight bluff to the north.

  ‘What should I expect when we get there?’ whispered Raymond, his feet clattering hollowly on the wooden beams below his feet.

  ‘No idea.’

  It was the first time that Raymond had heard anything but assurance from Fionntán, and the change in his demeanour worried him greatly. The Gael had begun talking to their guide in the Danish tongue.

  ‘He says we are going out of the longfort to a great oak where the Þing is in session,’ Fionntán translated.

  ‘Not at Trygve’s hall?’ Raymond replied, looking up at the great building crowned with a vast thatched roof.

  ‘No,’ Fionntán said nervously and followed the herald who turned to his left and made down a side street towards the town walls. As they moved away from the river Raymond made a conscious effort to remember some of the landmarks: a cage of cats for skinning, a house with brown roof needing new thatch, a pigeon coop with a red cloth roof to protect the birds from the sun. Should he and Fionntán need to get out quickly, he did not want to get lost in the tiny streets which sprang from each other like branches on a beech tree. They passed through the gates of Cluainmín where several visiting traders eyed Raymond and shared a joke at his expense. He had abandoned his chainmail, but his crimson and gold surcoat was alien to the eye of the Ostmen. It was vivid, effeminate even, amongst the dull earthy colours of the town. The sword at his side and the coif at his shoulders should have been enough to warn the men that Raymond was a warrior, but he did not mind if every man in Cluainmín thought him soft. If they underestimated his skills they gave him the advantage should it come to a fight.

  Little farms dotted the fields outside the town walls. Swaying crops danced in the little wind while cattle crowded into small-holdings and stared dumbly at the group as they passed. Slaves dilly-dallied outside the homesteads in the sunshine only to leap to their feet when they saw the herald approach. Raymond knew that the poor wretches would never have been so indolent if their masters were nearby and concluded that it would not only be the great men of Cluainmín at the Þing; every freeman with a patch of land to farm would have their say. Lords led and freemen followed: that was the order of life in Henry’s kingdom, but here in Ireland everything seemed to be different. He was unsure whether he liked or loathed that ideal. The slaves, like the few folk left in town, stood up and stared at Raymond’s colourful presence as he and his two companions passed by on the road. A long straight field, brimming with wheat not yet ready for harvest, bounded the street while the smell of animals drifted from pens not far away. In the distance Raymond could see the top of a great oak standing alone on the side of a small meadow alread
y cut for hay. He could see several white tents, open fronted and crowded with little benches and many Ostmen milling around. It was in that direction that their guide took the Norman and his Gaelic companion, babbling in his own tongue to Fionntán as they walked.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Fionntán smiled sarcastically, ‘the Þing is the best entertainment you can have with your hose on,’ he repeated, turning to Raymond and rolling his eyes. ‘It’s up ahead. They started without us. Apparently we are going to enjoy this.’ As they came upon the tents, another warrior stepped towards Raymond and pointed at his sword and Fionntán’s spear, wagging a finger in their faces.

  ‘He wants us to disarm. Have you another blade hidden inside your clothes?’ Raymond asked his ally.

  ‘Two,’ Fionntán replied with a sniff.

  ‘Good,’ Raymond smiled and unbuckled his sword, pulling a mace from the small of his back and lobbing it to the guard. He didn’t wait for the Ostman to search him for the large dagger sheathed at his spine, and instead walked through the tents towards the big oak hidden behind the small hill. A hundred faces, men and women, turned to stare at him as he stood on the ridge of a grassy gully and looked down on the Þing of Cluainmín. Any talk that had been taking place had stopped as Raymond appeared.

  ‘They probably think you are the entertainment in those gaudy clothes of yours,’ Fionntán joked at Raymond’s shoulder. The captain was too nervous to retort and instead bowed to the people of the town.

  ‘Thank you for inviting me to your gathering,’ he said fluttering a hand in welcome to those in the gully. Fionntán lazily translated and the people of the town giggled at his words, the suspicious atmosphere broken, as they talked amongst themselves.

  ‘What did you tell them?’ Raymond asked.

  ‘That though you dress like a mad, dancing girl, you are indeed able to testify like any sane man.’

  ‘Thanks for that,’ Raymond said and bowed again, this time smiling. ‘It is very helpful. What is happening now?’ he asked as an old man with a short white beard began talking, his hand gripping a piece of bark on the old oak tree halfway up the gully. The man read from no parchment yet did not pause for thought as he half-shouted, half-sang the words to the gathered throng. All the people were silent and listened intently to the old man’s words.

  ‘Our fathers have handed down to us the laws of our people,’ Fionntán translated. ‘The law binds us together, the law separates men from beasts…’ he paused and turned towards his Norman companion. ‘You get the idea – the old man is the lawspeaker and he will recite all the laws of Cluainmín so that anyone who is brought forth is fully aware of their beliefs and therefore cannot fall back on lack of knowledge as a defence.’

  ‘Am I to be tried for a crime?’ Raymond asked and received nothing more comforting than a shrug of his shoulders from Fionntán.

  ‘I’d better listen in so that I can advise you … should it come to that,’ the Gael added and turned back to the lawspeaker who continued to deliver what could only be an extensive set of rules which governed the Ostman judicial system. Below the white-bearded man sat Trygve. The fat konungr was the only man who had a chair, his litter from the day before, and he listened seriously to the lawspeaker. It was many minutes before the old man finished speaking and sat down on an exposed root to observe the court proceedings.

  ‘The gist is this,’ Fionntán told Raymond as the hubbub from the crowd gathered pace. ‘One man, one vote on the guilt of the defendant, but it is Trygve who sits in final judgement and hands out punishments and fines. The lawspeaker will make sure he acts within the law. If you are discovered to have perjured yourself,’ he raised his eyebrows, ‘the penalty is death. Remember that should you be questioned.’

  Raymond did not have a chance to answer before Trygve struggled to his feet and began an angry soliloquy, his finger outstretched in the direction of a small group on the far side of the gully. Up on the hill, an irate Jarl Sigtrygg spat counter-accusations back at Trygve backed up by loud shouts of support from his crewmen.

  ‘It isn’t me on trial,’ Raymond realised with a smile, ‘it is Jarl Sigtrygg.’ Relief flowed through his chest as he watched Sigtrygg shake his head angrily and scream curses across the gully towards the Konungr of Cluainmín.

  Fionntán also breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thank the saints. It sounds to me like the konungr himself has brought this case before the Þing. Not only does he want compensation for the slave that was killed, he accuses Jarl Sigtrygg of murder and attempted theft.’ He paused for several seconds to listen in on the discourse between the two parties. ‘He says he has evidence and witnesses that back up his allegations.’ As Fionntán spoke Trygve’s fat finger swept across the gully to settle on Raymond.

  ‘I am one of his witnesses,’ the captain realised.

  After a split second of shocked silence, Jarl Sigtrygg’s warriors burst into voice, mocking and laughing, and pointedly dismissing Trygve’s claims and the evidence of a fat foreigner in a fancy tunic. Despite not understanding their words, Raymond felt his face flush with colour as they taunted him, but his embarrassment was overtaken by more laughter, this time aimed at the konungr’s attempts to hoist his great weight from his litter. Trygve was not bashful and called forward two warriors to help him to his feet. Once upright, the old bear threw curses and criticism at the men of Veðrarfjord, too confusing for Fionntán to translate. In the end it was only when the lawspeaker called for silence that the lengthy confrontation subsided.

  ‘This is madness,’ Raymond said. ‘I have no idea what is going on. Have they started taking evidence?’

  ‘No, they are still swapping insults ... oh wait. Now Trygve is demanding ten pounds of silver to settle the case immediately. All Jarl Sigtrygg has to do is admit guilt about what happened in the woods last night. I think it may be a trick.’

  The jarl did not explode in fury as Raymond had expected and instead calmly turned towards the foreigner on the far side of the gully. ‘Trygve says you have evidence against me,’ Sigtrygg shouted at Raymond in French. ‘If you tell him any lies I will kill you. Understand?’

  Raymond did not answer and instead whispered in Fionntán’s ear. The Gael cleared his throat and switched back into the Danish tongue. ‘The captain is ready to give his testimony about the night in question. He wonders if he must take some sort of oath?’

  Raymond turned to look at Sigtrygg’s reaction as Fionntán spoke. The jarl was furious and had the same look on his face as when Raymond broke his nose at the slave market. The only reason he did not react in the same fashion and charge the Norman was because he was distracted by the shield thrown from the gully edge by Trygve. The painted device was a blur as the disc spun towards the grass below the men of Veðrarfjord. It bounced once and settled at Jarl Sigtrygg’s feet for all to see. It bore the jarl’s boar mask and a splash of crimson. The Þing went quiet as Trygve shouted a few short phrases in his native tongue.

  Fionntán inhaled deeply. ‘He says the shield is Jarl Sigtrygg’s, but the blood belongs to Trygve’s youngest son.’

  Thankfully no one was watching Raymond. Unlike Jarl Sigtrygg, who looked confused at Trygve’s declaration, Raymond went still, his eyes wide with shock. The boy he had killed in the woods had been the konungr’s son! Guilt and remorse was followed by relief, for there could be no alliance between Veðrarfjord and Cluainmín if Trygve thought Jarl Sigtrygg had killed his boy.

  The argument had started again – Trygve’s anger and Jarl Sigtrygg’s protestations of innocence. Two of the konungr’s men had broken from the main group and become embroiled in a wrestling match with two of the jarl’s warriors. More went to the aid of their compatriots and soon a full blown fist fight was taking place on the far side of the gully. Trygve and Jarl Sigtrygg did not move to intervene. Instead their eyes were locked together in a battle of wills across the heads of their fighting bannermen. After the initial coming together, the two factions were slowly pulled apart from the fighting by older heads, and
the lawspeaker’s call for calm finally ended the unrest and permitted the proceedings to continue.

  ‘He is asking if Jarl Sigtrygg denies that it was his man who killed Ivarr Trygvesson,’ Fionntán interpreted the lawspeaker’s words, ‘and that his aim was to steal some of the konungr’s possessions.’ In response the jarl laughed and spat haughtily his answer at the konungr. ‘Sigtrygg says that it will take more than a shield with some blood on it to prove his complicity in murder,’ Fionntán translated, ‘and as to the theft charge, he says that he has not even heard what he is accused of trying to steal.’

  Trygve lurched to his feet in answer to that and launched a tirade of shouting in his guest’s direction.

  ‘The konungr knows a lot of swear words,’ Fionntán joked to his Norman companion as the outburst continued, ‘but he is reluctant to mention that he has a mining operation hidden in the forest. I suspect that few of the townsfolk even know where it is. He claims that Jarl Sigtrygg knows of what he is accused and is being obtuse.’

  The jarl and his crew were laughing now, making a mockery of Trygve’s court and shaking their heads in disgust at the absurdity of the charges. Jarl Sigtrygg raised his voice above the hullabaloo and addressed the lawspeaker directly.

  ‘He says that unless Trygve brings forward some real evidence against him, or tells him what he is accused of stealing, the charges should be dropped.’ Fionntán told Raymond.

  A grim smile had spread across Trygve’s face and a snap of the konungr’s fingers brought two of his retainers from behind the oak tree carrying two bodies. Raymond recognised each one. The first was Trygve’s son, his face a mess of blood and eviscerated flesh. The second was the man that Raymond had chased into the woods and had been killed by the guards at the mines. The body was stretched out on the bank below Trygve so that all could see it. A bearded man stepped forward as this was done and began talking.