Glendalough Fair (30 page)

Best have a son though he be late born

and before him the father be dead:

seldom are stones on the wayside raised

save by kinsmen to kinsmen.

Hávamál

Harald Broadarm was right on the verge of killing the player, Crimthann, or at least hitting him hard enough to shut him up, when he saw the two men-at-arms coming toward them.

The two of them, Harald and Crimthann, had been riding together on the seat of the wagon for a few hours by then, the wagon which provided the perfect solution to Harald’s dilemma. Having fought the Irish patrol, and allowed some to escape, Harald knew he had managed to alert the rest of the Irish army to their presence. He knew he could not continue toward Glendalough on foot. He was sure that other riders would be sent to hunt them down.

But neither could he go back to his father and admit defeat. It was then that he realized the gods had provided him with another way; they had brought him an answer to his plight, hauled it right up to him behind great teams of oxen.

Crimthann had been tending the fire that was burning in a ring in the center of the half-circle of wagons when the Irish had burst from the woods and attacked Harald’s men. When the fighting was over, and Harald’s attention turned once again to those fantastical vehicles, the man was still there. He must have seen the entire fight – it had taken place not one hundred yards from him – but he seemed to have not moved a bit, or reacted in any way.

The fighting done, Harald gathered his men. He ordered that those who were too wounded to walk be carried, likewise the one man who had been killed. The dead Irishmen were stripped of anything worth having and their bodies tossed in the tall grass. There was no time for anything more fancy.

“Come with me,” Harald said and he led his band across the road and over toward the man and his cooking fire. Oak Cleaver was still in his hand and the other men carried weapons unsheathed as well. None of them had any idea what to expect.

Of all the possibilities, Crimthann’s greeting was perhaps the most unexpected.

“Quite a show you put on!” he roared as Harald and his men approached. “I make it my business to offer the finest performances in all of Ireland, but I don’t know if I could do better. Come, come, sit, eat!” He waved a massive arm at the various benches and logs that made a circle around the fire pit.

And so after setting the wounded and dead carefully down, Harald sat and the others sat, and they ate, and Crimthann went on and on about the quality of the shows he staged and the places his players had been and the people, great and common, for whom they had performed. And all the time Harald ate and considered what to do with this man and his fellow players.

Besides Crimthann there were six other men that Harald could see, and three women. He took note as he shoveled stew into his mouth and Crimthann talked. He could kill them all, but he did not much care for killing men who had done him no harm or posed no threat. And he would be hard pressed to kill a woman. Quite the opposite, his tendency was to be protective to a fault.

But he could not let them go, either. Harald was looking to the wagons as a movable hunting blind and he could not have the players roaming the territory telling the Irish men-at-arms what had happened. And so that left but one choice.

“Thank you for the meal, Crimthann,” Harald said, putting his bowl down and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You say you are bound for Glendalough?”

It took the better part of two hours to round up the oxen and harness them to the wagons and stow away all the gear and get the caravan rolling. Harald had the impression the players had been at that one spot for some time. He wondered if they had been earning their keep servicing travelers the way they had done Vemund and Ulf. Those two Harald had given the unpleasant task of heading out across country to find the fleet and report to Thorgrim what they had learned of the enemy and Glendalough.

It was late afternoon when they were finally underway. Crimthann drove the lead wagon with Harald beside him to see there was no mischief. Crimthann’s men drove the other wagons, since they were used to it, each with one of Harald’s men beside him. The rest of the Northmen stayed hidden inside with Crimthann’s players. They were under strict orders to not harm the Irishmen, or distract themselves with the women.

Crimthann seemed not to care much that his wagons had been commandeered. He had hardly stopped talking since Harald first approached him. Harald found the man interesting at first, and amusing. He learned a great deal that was useful about Glendalough and the fair and the country around there. It took Crimthann about an hour to tell Harald everything he wished to know. But then he just kept on talking.

At first, Harald had hinted that Crimthann might consider being quiet for a spell. Then he’d suggested it. Finally he told the man outright to shut up, but none of it did any good. Harald did not kill men who were no threat to him, but Crimthann was becoming a genuine threat to his sanity.

I’ll give him ten more minutes
, Harald thought,
and if he does not shut up by then I’ll beat him with a rock
.

“Now, up north, in the lands of the Uí Néill
,
” Crimthann was saying when Harald saw the two coming at them from across the field. It was late afternoon and they had seen no other travelers on the road, not even the Irish patrol Harald was sure would be looking for them.

“Hold a moment, Crimthann,” Harald said and the big man stopped in mid-sentence and looked where Harald was looking. Two men, or maybe a man and a boy, as one was considerably smaller than the other, were walking toward them. They wore mail shirts and swords at their sides and carried helmets. There was nothing threatening in their manner. Indeed, they looked as if they expected to be welcome.

“Stop the wagon,” Harald said and Crimthann pulled the reins and the team of oxen slowed to a stop. There was always the chance that this might be a trap, so Harald knocked on the wooden wall of the wagon at his back and said in a loud whisper, “Be ready, there, Olaf Thordarson.” Then he turned to Crimthann and said, “I will speak to these people. Not a word from you.” Crimthann nodded.

Harald had shed his mail and helmet and sword so that he might pass for one of the players, but he still had his dagger on his belt and he had made certain Crimthann was well aware of it. Now he and Crimthann waited as the two approached, and Harald marveled at the unaccustomed silence.

The taller of the men-at-arms approaching was young, Harald could see, in his early twenties and well made, with dark hair to his shoulders. He looked unconcerned as he crossed the field. He raised his arm and called, “Crimthann! My good fellow! We meet once more!”

Crimthann said nothing, because of course Harald had ordered him to silence.

He picks this moment to finally do as I say
? Harald thought and gave Crimthann a subtle kick, which Crimthann correctly interpreted.

“Good day!” Crimthann roared with his usual volume and enthusiasm. “I know you…wait…do not tell me…Louis!”

“Yes, that’s right,” the young man said. He and his companion had reached the wagon and were standing by the seat, looking up at Harald and Crimthann. Harald searched their faces for some sign of alarm or suspicion, but he saw none.

But he did see something else that surprised him, though he kept it to himself. The second one, the smaller one, was a woman. She was dressed in mail and wore a sword, but she was most certainly a woman, and an attractive one at that. Among his people, the Norsemen, it was not unheard of for a woman to wear battle gear and even to join in the fighting on occasion. Not common, but not unheard of, and so Harald was not particularly shocked to see a woman in mail and carrying a weapon, though he had never known of an Irishwoman dressing in that manner.

“We were with a patrol,” this man, Louis, was explaining to Crimthann, “and we became separated. Our horses were spooked and ran off. So now we’re stuck and we are very happy to see you, my friend.”

“And I am happy to see you!” Crimthann said and then said no more because he did not know what Harald would allow him to say.

Harald ran his eyes over the two. Their mail seemed of good quality, and the fact that they had mail at all, and that they had been with one of the patrols, told him that they were not just common foot soldiers, nor farmers called up to defend Glendalough from the wrath of the Northmen. They were people of consequence, and as such might be useful and valuable.

You were so distracted you let your horses get away
?
What were you doing?
Harald wondered, though he had some ideas.

“We are going to Glendalough,” Harald said. “Would you like to ride with us?”

Louis looked over at him for the first time. “Thank you. I don’t think we’ve met. My name is Louis,” he said and Harald heard the first notes of suspicion. “And who might you be, friend?”

Harald thought about giving himself an Irish name, but he knew his accent would put the lie to that, so he said, “My name is Harald. Harald of Hedeby. Finest juggler in that land, or any. That’s why I came to join Crimthann, whose fame is well known there.”

“I see,” Louis said, and Harald was afraid that he did indeed see, more than Harald wanted him to see. Harald stood and stepped down on the wagon’s tongue and then hopped to the ground, landing right in front of the woman.

“Please, ride with us,” he said, gesturing to the back of the wagon. He could not let them go now, not if they suspected something. “You don’t know comfort until you’ve been in Crimthann’s caravan,” he added, but Louis and the woman took a step back.

“That’s kind of you,” Louis said and Harald noticed that his was not an Irish accent either, “but our men will be nearby and we must wait for them.”

Harald nodded.
He won’t leave the girl,
he thought.
I just need to get the girl…

“At least come in for some food and ale,” Harald said and the man smiled, nodded, then took another step back and pulled his sword, the move so quick Harald could not form a conscious thought in the time it took him to get the weapon clear.

But Harald did not need to think in order to act, and even as the blade was leaving the scabbard he stepped forward and seized the man’s arm with his left hand while his right snatched the dagger from his belt. He heard Crimthann roaring something behind him and the knife came around at Louis’s throat, but Louis was as fast as Harald, and he knocked Harald’s arm aside with his mail-clad arm and jabbed at Harald’s face with his fist.

He connected, hitting Harald right on the side of his head, but it was a weak blow and had little effect. Indeed, even a hard blow to Harald’s head generally had little effect. Harald brought the knife back up, intending only to press it to the man’s throat in order to make him more cooperative, but now the woman was on him, grabbing his arm and with one hand and slashing at his face with the other.

Harald tightened his grip on Louis’s sword arm and tried to fend the woman off, but she was snarling and clawing like a wildcat. Harald could only thank the gods that in the excitement of the moment she had not thought to draw her sword. Then he was aware of movement behind him and around him and he thought maybe Crimthann was coming to aid his friends, but instead he saw Olaf Thordarson and some of his own men running up on either side. They pulled Louis and the woman away, pinned their arms, held knives to their throats.

“Don’t hurt them,” Harald said, speaking his native tongue for the first time in some hours. It was a language which Louis and the woman seemed not to understand since they did not look at all relieved to hear Harald give that order.

The two were stripped of their weapons and brought around to the back of the wagon and pushed up the steps and into the dark, lantern-lit interior. There were more of Harald’s men there and some of Crimthann’s, including one of the women.

“Tie them up?” Olaf asked, nodding to the two prisoners.

Harald turned to Louis. “Must I have my men tie you up,” he asked, “or will you give me your word you will not fight them?”

Louis looked around at Harald’s men and Harald could guess what he was thinking. They were warriors, and well-armed, and he had nothing but his bare hands. “We give our word we will not fight,” Louis said, probably not a hard decision.

Harald climbed out of the wagon and back up to the seat. Crimthann snapped the reins and the oxen moved again in their lumbering way, the three wagons rolling slowly on toward Glendalough. Harald scanned the road and the trees as they passed, looking for some sign of the Irish, or of his father’s men or ships. He feared that with all the delays he had endured he had fallen behind the fleet, that rather than scouting ahead he was playing catch-up and did not even know it.

Soon it grew too dark to continue on, so Harald ordered Crimthann to pull the wagon off the road and the other two wagons followed behind. They made camp there, Crimthann’s men cooking supper under the watchful eyes of Harald’s. As that was going on, Harald climbed into the back of the wagon where guards stood over Louis and the woman.

“You are well?” Harald asked, sitting on a bench opposite them. The benches were strewn with furs and the soft light of the lantern fell on the bright-painted interior and washed it in a warm glow, giving a sensual feeling to the space.