Glendalough Fair (28 page)

And on the morrow, the heathens would come.

Bearer of golden rings,

My hopes of life were meagre…

Gisli Sursson’s Saga

There was a light mist falling, but the ground was firm underfoot, not churned to mud. The road was just a quarter mile from the river, right where the scouts had said it would be. Thorgrim could see it for himself now as he made his way through thigh-high grass. There seemed to be nothing standing in the raiders’ way, human or otherwise. A short march to Glendalough and the riches to be had there.

Simple. But Thorgrim knew it would not be simple at all, because such things never were.

From the river banks the meadowland ran inland with only an occasional stand of trees to interrupt its inviting expanse. Less than a mile distant the fields melded into the steep, rounded mountains that rose up in every quarter and as far off as the eye could see.

Not that the eye could see much just then. The sun was less than an hour above the horizon. The day promised to be more overcast than the day before, and the threat of rain that had been hanging over them like a curse seemed even more likely to become a tangible thing.

“Look at that whore’s son, just look, lord,” Godi said. He was walking beside Thorgrim across the field and nodding his massive head toward Ottar and his men. They were in a ragged line to the left, Ottar at their head, a man bearing his banner walking beside. Ottar was a big man with a long stride, but Thorgrim could see he was walking faster than his normal gait, making his men work to keep up, in an effort to be first to the road and thus take the lead from Thorgrim’s forces.

Thorgrim shook his head in disgust. “Stupid bastard,” he said.

With the men who had been left behind to guard the ships and the others who had been killed or wounded, the army of Northmen that advanced on Glendalough numbered no more than two hundred and fifty. That was a decent force, and they were all good, experienced fighting men, but Thorgrim did not think the Irish would have fewer men than that, and they would likely have many more. And the Irish were well led. He had seen that already.

The only way to fight them and have a hope of victory was to fight together, all the Norsemen attacking as one. It was something Ottar certainly understood, but seemed determined to ignore.

“Should we move faster? Keep up with him?” Godi asked. He was carrying Thorgrim’s banner, the grey wolf’s head on a red pennant, and the two of them were walking at the head of Thorgrim’s men.

“No,” Thorgrim said. He would not play that game. “Let them go first, let them get a mile ahead if they want. They can meet the enemy alone. After they’ve done what hurt they can to the Irish we’ll use their bodies as a rampart.”

Ottar reached the road first, as was his intention, his warriors streaming behind, and they fell into a loose column three or four men wide.

Thorgrim looked past Ottar’s crews and as far to the west as he could see before his view was obscured by the hills and the mist. He wondered what was happening out there. Even before they left the river he had sent out his scouts and Ottar had sent out his, but as of yet no word had come back. And Harald was out there, somewhere. Somewhere ahead of them. At least that was where he was supposed to be. Thorgrim feared that the longships might have passed Harald’s patrol, that Harald and his men were actually somewhere behind them, further down river.

We’ll find out soon enough,
he thought.

The road rose and fell over the smaller hills but it tended up, always up, rising into the mountains and the monastery that was supposed to be in a valley somewhere ahead. Thorgrim’s men made a column in Ottar’s wake and they moved on. The mist grew thicker and blew past in cloudy veils until one could no longer say if it was mist or rain.

They tramped on for half a mile or so before Thorgrim became aware of something happening, some ripple of change in Ottar’s men up ahead. Vali, who had been walking on the far edge of the column, came jogging up to the head and fell in beside Thorgrim.

“One of the scouts is back, I think, one of Ottar’s men,” he said.

“Good,” Thorgrim said. Now, he hoped, they would learn something of the enemy. But after ten minutes had passed he understood that he would not learn it from Ottar. Whatever news Ottar’s man had brought, Ottar was not sending it down the line to Thorgrim.

That stupid ox, that great stupid whore’s son bastard
, Thorgrim thought, though he knew he was a fool to think Ottar would share any news. He cursed himself and he cursed Ottar and he cursed Kevin and he cursed Glendalough.

An image of his hall at Vík-ló flashed before him, comforting and familiar. He felt a longing to be there, and it surprised him. Odd. It was the same longing he used to feel when he thought of his farm in East Agder.

Have I been so long from my home that I’m forgetting it
? he wondered.
Are the gods telling me I will never return to Norway
?

Or was Vík-ló his home now? He could not deny his desire to be there just then, to be done with this ill-conceived raid and to be feasting and drinking with his fellows in the big hall built by Grimarr Knutson.

And then his thoughts were interrupted by Godi who said, “Here, lord.”

Thorgrim looked up. Armod Thorkilson was one of the scouts Thorgrim had sent out and now he was returning at a near run. He drew up beside Thorgrim and fell in step with him.

“The enemy, they’re just ahead, lord,” he reported. “A mile or so, not more.”

“Why am I just hearing of this now?” Thorgrim snapped. “Ottar’s scout was back ten minutes past.”

“Yes, lord,” Armod said. “We were together. He run off as soon as we saw the enemy, but I stayed so I could see how many they were, lord. How they were positioned.”

Thorgrim nodded, embarrassed that he let his ill humor goad him into chastising a man who did not deserve it. “You did well, Armod,” he said. “What did you see?”

“They look to be something more than three hundred men, lord,” Armod said. “Men-at-arms with shields. And spearmen. There are mounted warriors as well, on the flanks. They are drawn up on a line at the top of a short rise. Not a great hill, but a hill, anyway.”

Thorgrim nodded. “Drawn up in a shield wall?”

“Not as I saw them, lord. But near enough.”

“Good,” Thorgrim said, though he was not actually sure what he meant by that. Several things. Good observations on Armod’s part. Good that they knew how the enemy was arrayed. But mostly good that they would meet the enemy very soon, kill him, be done with all this.

Vík-ló…
Thorgrim thought. And they walked on.

They were going uphill again and the mist was most certainly a light rain and Armod, who was walking just a few paces behind Thorgrim now, said, “Right over this hill, lord, and then the road dips down and on the next hill, that’s where I saw the Irishmen’s line.”

Even as Armod was talking, Ottar’s warriors up ahead were leaving the road and spreading out along the top of the hill, turning their marching column into a line of men, shoulder to shoulder. They were forming a shield wall, or what would be a shield wall when the order was passed.

Thorgrim turned and walked backward and he waved his arm in the air.

“The Irish are just beyond this hill and they are ready for us. Make a line, make a line, there!” He pointed off toward what would be the right wing of the Norsemen’s assault and his men jogged off to form a line that would link with Ottar’s, a line of shields and swords and axes and spears that they hoped would sweep the Irish before them.

As his men formed themselves, driven to hurry by Bersi and Kjartan and Skidi Battleax, Thorgrim stepped to the top of the hill and looked out over the quarter mile that now separated him from the Irish defenders.

It was just as Armod had described. A line of men snaked across the rise opposite them, nearly at the crest of the hill. They held shields that would have looked bright and cheery in the sunlight but which on that misty day looked muted and dull. Thorgrim could see helmets, and spears like reeds jutting from a river. Three hundred men.

No. More than three hundred, certainly.

Armod had been right about the horsemen as well. There were about thirty on the left flank and thirty on the right. The biggest danger to a shield wall was that an enemy could get around the ends and get behind it. With nothing to which they could anchor those ends, such as a river or a marsh, the Irish were looking to their mounted warriors to keep the Norsemen from turning the flanks. And if the horsemen were brave and knew their business they would be able to do so. Worse, they would be able to attack their enemy’s flanks, or get behind the Norsemen’s shield wall.

Well, there’s nothing for it
, Thorgrim thought. Right at them, bold and reckless. He had seen that win the day, many times. Show the enemy that you are more insane than they are, and less afraid to die.

I am not afraid to die
, Thorgrim thought. It was an observation, no more. And it was not fearlessness. Fearlessness was something else. This was more akin to weariness, and a barely formed notion that he was ready for his reward at Valhalla. He was not like Starri, who longed for the corpse hall. Thorgrim simply no longer cared if he was in Midgard, the world of men, or Asgard, the place of the gods. He did not care if he lived or died, as long has he died in honorable battle. And that made him a very dangerous enemy.

He looked to his left. Ottar and his captains were getting their line formed up, just as his own captains were doing. Thorgrim knew he should speak with the man. He let out a breath. Charging the Irish shield wall seemed a much more inviting prospect than summoning the patience to deal with Ottar. But he was resigned to do everything in his power to make this raid a profitable one. He owed that to the men who followed him.

He walked down the line, past his own warriors and past Ottar’s. “Ottar!” he called as he approached.

Ottar turned, his long braids swinging like loose ropes in the wind. “You!” he said. “Do not get in the way of my men. Do not let any of the dogs who follow you get in the way of my men.”

Thorgrim stopped ten feet away and looked at Ottar. He had hoped against all reason to have some meaningful discussion about the coming fight. But he could see that would not happen, so instead he replied, “Ottar, when this is over we will fight and I will kill you. But for now, see that your men form a shield wall with mine and we will go at the Irish line yonder. See none of your men run away. I’ll personally kill any who do. And see you do not run away yourself.”

He turned as Ottar was opening his mouth and walked back toward his men as Ottar began to shout. “Night Pup! I’ll kill you now! Get back here, you whore’s son!” But Thorgrim kept on walking because he knew Ottar would not act against him now, not with Glendalough lying at their feet. He would not start a private war when there was another, more lucrative one waiting for him. Nor would his men tolerate his doing so. Even Ottar could only push his men so far.

Godi and Agnarr were standing at the head of
Sea Hammer
’s men, who in turn were at the center of the line of men from Vík-ló.

“You had a profitable talk with Ottar, I trust?” Agnarr said.

Thorgrim made a grunting sound. “I have had more profitable talks with the swine on my farm,” he said. “We can only hope that he and his men will hold the left wing, and that we can drive these Irish back quick. If this is not a fast victory then I think it will not be a victory at all.”

The Irish on the hill were starting the beat their shields with their swords and shout what Thorgrim had to guess were taunts and insults. And suddenly Thorgrim felt alone and exposed. Godi and Agnarr were there, and they were good men, men he loved and trusted. But Harald was not there. And Starri was not there. It did not seem right at all to be looking at a shield wall without them on hand. It did not seem like a good omen. Not a good omen at all.

Then he heard Ottar roar like some great beast of legend and Thorgrim looked to his left. The big man stepped back into the line of his warriors and called an order. Their shields came together, each one overlapping the one beside it. The shield wall was formed.

Thorgrim turned to Godi and Agnarr. “Let’s go,” he said and they, too, stepped back and took their place in the line, shields up, weapons ready, and Bersi and Kjartan and Skidi Battleax stepped into the line as well.

Ottar was already moving forward, giving no thought at all to what Thorgrim’s men were doing, and Thorgrim had no choice but to call for his men to advance with Ottar’s. Otherwise the shield wall would have been broken, which was the second greatest danger to men fighting in that array.

The line moved faster as it headed down the hill. The Irish stopped their banging and locked their shields together, but the jeering continued, pointless as it was. The Norsemen reached the bottom of the low hill and began up the slope of the next, some men walking on the road but most spread over the fields to either side. Thorgrim’s eyes were everywhere: on his men, on the Irish shield wall, on the horsemen on the flanks.

Particularly on the horsemen. They were keeping put for the moment, waiting to see if the enemy would try and turn the flanks of the Irish line. But if - actually when - they charged into the battle they could send the Northmen into panicked flight and cut them down as they ran. That was another thing that Thorgrim had seen before.