Fin Gall (The Norsemen)

by James L. Nelson

  But the Danes had archers as well, and they reined to a stop, whipping arrows at the heads that appeared over the wall. Magnus charged for the gate, pulled his horse to a stop beside it. It was eight feet high, no more. Magnus kicked his feet out of the stirrups and stood on the saddle. He swung his shield around on his arm and took hold of the top of the gate.

  A spear flew at him from an oblique angle, missed, struck the man beside him square in the chest, sent him screaming to the ground, but another man was there even before the first was down. Magnus pushed off his horse’s back, vaulted the fence, came down hard on the packed earth inside the monastery.

  He was still recovering from the drop when the first of the monastery’s defenders was on him, a monk in long robes, sword over his head, shouting in his Gaelic tongue, and he died at the end of Magnus’s sword before he even began to swing his own.

  Christ-men, Magnus thought with disdain. They were not bred to the sword like Norsemen were.

  There were more men from the monastery coming at him, monks and the bóaire armed with clubs and a few spears, but no real fighting men that Magnus could see. He shouted, stepped into the attack, the sword singing in his hand. The Norwegian’s sword. Thorgrim. A fine blade, made finer for being a trophy of war.

  The defenders of Baldoyle fell as they came. Magnus and Kjartan Swiftsword and a few others, standing shoulder to shoulder, formed a shield wall that would not be broken. Behind them, others who had come over the wall knocked the bar from the gate and swung it open. Horses pounded through, into the former sanctuary. The fight was over.

  “The church! The church!” Magnus shouted up to the mounted men, pointing to the largest of the dozen or so buildings within the circular walls, a formidable plank-built structure with a high thatched roof and a big wooden cross mounted on that. If there was anything to be had here it would be in the church, and it had to be secured before the monks carried it off.

  The horsemen kicked their mounts on, pounding off for the church. What little defense there was of the monastery had collapsed entirely, and now the monks and the bóaire were fleeing in every direction. Families were racing for the smaller gate at the far end of the compound. There were men and children who would make valuable slaves, women for the pleasure of the Viking hirdmen. At another time Magnus would have had them rounded up, the valuable bounty of a successful raid. But he did not have enough men to deal with captives. He had brought no chains. And he had far bigger things planned. He needed smoke.

  Smid Snorrason was on his knees going through the purse of one of the dead farmers, an exercise not likely to yield much. “Smid, leave that,” Magnus said. He looked around. To his right stood one of the larger buildings in the monastery, a round building with thatched roof that he guessed to be the monks’ residence.

  “There.” He pointed to the building. “I want that burned. I want it burning in five minutes. There’ll be nothing worth having in there.”

  Smid stood, nodded, and hurried off.

  Asbjorn the Fat, last of all, came riding through the gate, red-faced and puffing. “Humph,” he said, looking around the monastery, the fleeing defenders, the Vikings racing for the church. “Orm will not be pleased,” he said. “Orm will not be pleased.”

  “Shouldn’t you be attending to your precious cart?” Magnus asked, pulling the dangling arrow from his tunic.

  “This is a distraction,” Asbjorn said, ignoring the dig. “We are after the crown.”

  “Oh, see here,” Magnus said. “A cart, of all things! And food in the barns and store houses, I’ll warrant. And gold and silver in the church.”

  Asbjorn said nothing. There was nothing for him to say. With the longship still in sight off shore and the men reveling in plunder he was not going to convince anyone that the raid was a bad idea.

  Magnus left him and walked toward the church, the energy from the fight draining from him. There was still fighting going on, shouting and the clash of steel, little pockets of violence where those who could not escape from Baldoyle fought their last, but it was nothing of any real concern. He looked around. There was a small orchard within the monastery, kitchen gardens and workshops, and a scattering of round wattle-and-daub built houses. Magnus had sacked a dozen like it.

  The big church was near the center of the compound, secluded by a wood fence with a cemetery to one side which Magnus guessed would be put to use again that very day. One of the Danes was scaling the thatch roof, sent up by Kjartan Swiftsword, Magnus was certain, to see that they were not taken by surprise. Some monasteries had lookout towers for that purpose, but Baldoyle did not. Magnus wondered if building one would become a new priority.

  The church was cool and dark inside and Magnus found it hard to see until his eyes adjusted to the gloom. Two men in monk’s robes lay dead by the alter, sprawled out in pools of their own fresh-spilled blood. They had tried to keep the trappings of their faith from the heathen’s hands and had died in the effort.

  “Not the richest monastery,” Kjartan Swiftsword complained. At his feet was a pile of silver and gold - chalices and incensers and candlesticks and a gold box like a little treasure chest. Magnus picked up the gold box and opened the lid. Inside, resting on a bed of rich red cloth, was a small bone, a human finger bone by the looks of it. Magnus frowned and wondered what sort of religion led men to enshrine small bones in gold boxes.

  Behind him, one of Asbjorn’s men tore the jewel-studded cover off a thick book, tossing the useless pages aside. Three more men worked at prying the gold inlay off of the high alter. They were not gentle in their business.

  “No matter. There’ll be more in the workshops,” Magnus said.

  There was a shout from outside, a reply from somewhere. Magnus turned as one of his men came in through the big front door. There was some urgency in his step.

  “Lord Magnus, Vifil Ketilsson is on the church roof. He says he sees riders, coming from the north.”

  Magnus nodded. “I’ll come.”

  He walked down the center aisle of the church, between the rough benches, and stepped blinking into the sunlight. The building he had sent Smid to burn was fully involved, the flaming thatch sending great plumes of black smoke up into the blue sky. He looked up at Vifil Ketilsson who stood with one foot on either side of the high peak of the church roof.

  “Vifil, what do you see?”

  “Riders, Lord Magnus. Fifty or more, coming from the north. Riding fast.”

  Asbjorn was there and he made a disgusted sound. “That’s marvelous! Thanks to you we are now trapped in this stupid place!”

  Magnus did not bother to reply. “Kjartan,” he said to his man who had stepped from the dark of the church, “place archers on the walls, near the gate, and form up the men inside in a shieldwall. But not all of them. I want five men left to finish gathering up anything here worth having.”

  “Yes, Lord Magnus.”

  Asbjorn was in full fluster. “Are you going to ask my opinion on the distribution of men? Do I have some say over how my own men are used?” Asbjorn considered it a rhetorical question. Magnus did not.

  “No. You have no say,” Magnus said, and strode off for the gate.

  The riders were easily visible by the time Magnus mounted the ladder leaning against the earth wall and found his footing among the thorn bushes on the top. Vifil was wrong about the numbers. Perhaps it had been wishful thinking. There were closer to a hundred men. Sun glinted on armor and spear points. Two bright banners floated aloft above the riders. Far behind them, two wagons bounced along, drawn by a dozen horses. It was an Irish war party, fully outfitted, and bound for Baldoyle.

  Magnus looked around. A dozen archers were fanned out along the wall, and behind the gate most of the remaining men stood in a line, round shields overlapping, swords in hand, ready to counter an enemy who came though the gate as they themselves had done less than an hour before.

  Magnus looked north again. The riders were lost from sight behind the column of black smoke roi
ling up from the monks’ home, but soon they were visible again. Their pace had not slackened.

  It took another fifteen tense minutes for the riders to approach the gate. At their head was a young man, his beard dark brown and cropped short, his helmet glinting bright. He wore a white tunic over his mail shirt and a red cape. He looked like a king, and such he was. He reined his band to a stop twenty feet from the gate.

  Along the wall, bows were raised to the ready. “Archers! Lower your bows!” Magnus called and the bows came down again.

  The Irishman in the white tunic approached, and behind him came another, not so well fitted out, and one of the standard bearers as well. The lead man raised his hand and spoke. His accent was Gaelic, but his speech was Norse.

  “Lord Magnus!” he called.

  “Lord Cormac Ua Ruairc,” Magnus called back. He looked down at Kjartan Swiftsword, standing on the right end of the shieldwall. “Kjartan, it’s all right. Open the gate.”

  “Open the gate?” Asbjorn, standing well behind the shieldwall, shouted his impotent protest. “I forbid you to...”

  Asbjorn’s forbidding came too late. Kjartan tossed off the bar and pulled the gate open. The shieldwall melted away, the Vikings standing to either side as the Irish war party rode slowly in, Irish and Norse eyeing one another warily, like two packs of wolves that come upon one another in the woods.

  Cormac Ua Ruairc slid down from his horse. He extended a hand to Magnus. Magnus took it, shook, clapped Cormac on the shoulder. It was only the second time they had met, though their couriers had gone from one to the other for a month or more. The Irishman looked as Magnus remembered - strong, smart and able. A king and worthy of the title.

  “I demand to know what this is about!” Asbjorn said as he came puffing up, but Magnus could hear the edge of panic in his voice.

  You would do well to panic, Magnus thought. He addressed Cormac. “My Lord Cormac, this is Asbjorn Gudrodarson, known as Asbjorn the Fat.”

  “Well named,” Cormac agreed. His men were fanning out on their mounts, making a presence there inside the Baldoyle monastery. There was nothing overtly threatening in their actions, but there was also no question as to where the military strength rested.

  “Asbjorn,” Magnus continued, “this is Lord Cormac Ua Ruairc, king of Gailenga.”

  Asbjorn glared at Cormac. Cormac looked with amusement on Asbjorn, then turned to Magnus. “Who is he? What is he doing here?”

  “Orm foisted him on me. He is of no concern.”

  “Of no...” Asbjorn sputtered and Magnus turned, swinging his fist, and hit Asbjorn hard in the face. Asbjorn staggered back, blood flowing from his open mouth, then tripped on his feet and fell hard. Magnus was over him in a flash. He yanked the sword from Asbjorn’s scabbard and tossed it aside. No one, not even Asbjorn’s men, made a move to interfere.

  “Where is the crown?” Cormac asked.

  “We are being led to it now. No more than a day or so.”

  Cormac frowned. “I thought you would have it.”

  “So did I,” Magnus said. “But I do not.”

  “Pray don’t forget what that bitch’s whelp Máel Sechnaill is capable of. After he stole his whore daughter from my brother Donnchad, he tied my brother to a stake and personally ripped the guts out of him. They told me you could hear the screaming half a mile away. He will do the same to us. We cannot stop him, and take Brega, if I do not wear the Crown of the Three Kingdoms.”

  “A day or so. No more.”

  Cormac looked into Magnus’s eyes, looked hard. “You had better be right, Lord Magnus,” he said, and for the first time since this great chance had presented itself, Magnus Magnusson wondered if he might have made a mistake.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ...[H]eathens shall come to you from me...

  a race of pagans who will carry you into bondage...

  The Epistle of Jesus

  9th Century Irish Text

  T

  wo days after arriving at Tara, Harald Thorgrimsson’s fever broke. It was like stepping from a dream world into daylight, like stepping from a sweltering smith’s shop into the night air. One moment he was burning up, tossing in a nightmare sea, and the next he was cool, comfortable, aware.

  His eyes were closed and he kept them closed as he tried to organize his thoughts. He did not know where he was. He listened. The few sounds he could hear were distant and muted and nothing that he recognized. The air had no familiar smell.

  He opened his eyes. He was looking up at the underside of a wood-plank ceiling with carved beams. The room was bright and sunlit. He could see the tops of stone-built walls covered with whitewashed plaster.

  He wanted to sit up but understood that he did not have the strength. He rolled his head to the right. There was a tapestry on the wall, a polished table with a silver bowl and pitcher. It was a fine room, finer than he was used to, finer even than his grandfather’s home in East Agder, which was the finest home he had ever seen.

  He heard a little gasp on his left side and rolled his head that way, alarmed now. It was a girl, but he did not recognize her. He looked at her face and she looked at him and his first thought was that she was beautiful, a beautiful girl. Green eyes. Dark brown hair that reminded him of the luxurious mane of a horse his father had once owned.

  She leaned closer to him and put her hand on his forehead. Her skin was smooth and soft and cool and felt delicious. She said something in a sweet and lilting voice but the words made no sense. Harald was suddenly afraid that this was a Valkyrie, come to take him away, or that he was being welcome into Valhalla. But Valkyries, the eaters of the dead, he had always understood, were not gentle and kind like this one.

  The girl turned and spoke toward the door and her tone was loud and commanding. A voice on the other side of the door responded and Harald heard footsteps going away.

  The girl turned back to him and she smiled and he tried to smile as well. His lips were dry and they hurt when he moved them. The girl took a damp cloth and wiped his face and Harald no longer cared where he was.

  It was not long after that the door open and a man came in, an important man, Harald gathered, judging by his clothing and manner. He looked down at Harald but his face did not have the same tenderness as the girl’s and it made Harald, who had thought himself among friends, a bit apprehensive.

  “You’re awake,” the man observed.

  Harald nodded.

  “What is your name?”

  “Harald.” The word came out like a croak. His voice sounded odd to him. And it was only then that Harald realized the man could speak his own language. A thousand questions floated in his head.

  “What is this girl’s name?” he asked.

  The man frowned and looked at first as if he would not answer. “Brigit,” he said at last. “And I am Flann mac Conaing, chief councilor to my Lord Máel Sechnaill mac Ruanaid, King of Tara, rí ruirech of Brega.”

  Harald nodded. It seemed as if those words were meant to impress, but in truth he had no idea what this man was saying. Save that the girl’s name was Brigit.

  “Where am I?” More practical questions began it insinuate themselves. “Where is my father? And Ornolf, and the others?”

  “Who is your father?”

  “Thorgrim Night Wolf.”

  “He is the jarl in command of your ship?”

  “No. Ornolf is. Where are they?”

  The man frowned. “They are coming for you. The crown that you took, it belongs to my Lord Máel Sechnaill. They are returning it. Until then you will stay here.”

  Harald squinted at the man. There seemed to be some implied threat there, though he could not be certain.

  Crown? he thought. He did not recall any crown, but again there seemed to be a great deal he did not recall.

  “What crown is this?” Harald asked and he saw something pass over the man’s face and had the idea that he should not have asked that question.

  “The crown you fin gall...you Nors
emen, captured from the curragh.”

  Harald nodded. He remembered the curragh, the fight on the heaving seas. Vefrod Vesteinsson hacked to bits by the Irish crew. He did not remember any crown, but he thought it was best if he did not say as much.

  Despite Harald’s nodding agreement, that uncertain look was still on the man’s face. He said something to Brigit and she said something back, and then he turned and left.

  Harald looked up at the girl. Beautiful. She is beautiful, he thought and he was sure he would think that even if he were not as weak as he was, if she had not been there to care for him.

  “Brigit...” he tried her name.

  She smiled at him. “Harald,” she said. Her expression, her tone, was that of a mother speaking to a gravely sick child, one unlikely to live, and it made Harald uneasy.

  Máel Sechnaill was not happy to suffer any fin gall to live. He was most certainly not happy having them under his roof, eating his food, tended to by his men.

  The taking of hostages was a common enough practice, and there was protocol that dictated how they were to be treated. But hostages in the past had always meant Christian hostages, not heathen Norse swine.

  Máel Sechnaill was not happy.

  And he was even less happy listening to what Flann mac Conaing had to say.

  “He knows where the crown is. He’s lying if he says otherwise,” Máel said, but it was more of a question. “All these gall lie. They don’t know how to tell the truth.”

  “I don’t think so, Lord Máel,” Flann said. “He’s young, and he lacks any subtle art. I think he genuinely knows nothing of the crown.”

  “You think these swine don’t have it after all?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Your sister said they have it. She is with them still.”

  “Yes. And Morrigan is generally not wrong about these things. But now there’s some doubt. As your chief counselor I thought I should warn you.”

  Máel nodded and ran his fingers through his short-cropped white beard. This whole hostage thing had been Flann’s idea, Flann and his sister Morrigan, and it took substantial courage for Flann to come before his king and admit it might be going wrong. But Flann was courageous that way, and rarely wrong, and that was why Máel Sechnaill kept him.