Glendalough Fair (36 page)

Thorgrim looked down at Kjartan. He did not know what to do.

“Godi, help me stand,” Kjartan said. Godi reached his hands under Kjartan’s shoulders and lifted him as if he was a child and stood him on his feet. Kjartan sucked in his breath and pressed his hand tight against his side and closed his eyes. When the surge of pain had passed he opened his eyes again and pointed to his sword.

“Godi, my sword. Please.” Godi leaned down and picked up the weapon and Kjartan took it by the grip. He turned to Thorgrim.

“Night Wolf, for what I have done I owe you my life. You owe me nothing. But still I’ll ask this of you. We fought once, and we did not finish that fight. Let us finish it now.”

Thorgrim looked into the man’s eyes. Kjartan was all but pleading with him. He did not want to spend his last days dying in agony, and he did not want to die with such dishonor to his name. Thorgrim slipped Iron-tooth from his scabbard.

Kjartan gave a weak smile and lifted his sword to waist height, which was as far as he could lift it. Thorgrim extended Iron-tooth in a pantomime of a lunge and Kjartan parried it with a feeble gesture. Thorgrim drew Iron-tooth back, bringing the blade up over his left shoulder for a powerful back-hand stroke. Kjartan was still smiling, just a bit, and he did not flinch at all as Thorgrim swung the blade and took his head clean off at the shoulders.

There is much sorrow everywhere;
there is a great misfortune among the Irish.
Red wine has been spilled down the valley.

Annals of Ulster

When the Irish men-at-arms returned from riding down the Northmen, from the indescribably butchery of smashing the square and cutting down the fleeing men, Lochlánn did something he had not done in some time. He prayed.

Certainly he had prayed many times during the years he had been at the monastary. Many times a day, in fact. But it was not something he did by choice, and he was grudging and sullen about it. But now it was different. This was real prayer because he meant it. He was genuinely looking for divine guidance.

The past days had been more dreamlike than any in Lochlánn’s life. More nightmare-like. A great shapeless mass of fear and horror, anger, excitement, a drive to kill, terror at the thought of being killed. He could hardly recall now what had happened. They had struck the Northmen, been driven back, drove the Northmen back. He could not put the events into any sort of order in his mind.

At one point a wagon, one of the wagons he and Louis and the men had passed on the road from the Meeting of the Waters, had come crashing into their lines. That had changed the momentum of the battle in an instant, and taken victory from their hands. That much he remembered.

He wondered if he would be better at recalling what happened on the battlefield once he had gained more experience with such things.

I must ask Louis about that
, he thought. And then he remembered. And it was like a knife in the gut.

He had been up more than half the night after that first day’s fighting, tortured by his fears of the coming battle. He had been afraid before – Louis had assured him that only lunatics did not fear combat – but this was different. Because this time he would not have Louis de Roumois beside him. This time he would be going into battle with his world turned upside down, with his friend, the man he admired most in the world, nowhere to be found. And not just gone, but having run off after being revealed as a murderer, a fornicator, a thief.

He still did not see how that was possible. But he was starting to wonder what other explanation there could be, and as his uncertainty grew, his former love for Louis de Roumois began turning to anger and rage, smoldering and threatening to ignite.

They fought the heathens without the leadership of the young Frank, and despite Colman’s blunder in sending the spearmen out ahead of the shield wall, they had beaten them. Most of the raiders had been killed, a handful escaped. None of the patrols had seen any sign of them. The fighting was over and Lochlánn prayed.

He felt better when he was done, like finishing a bath or stepping into the sunshine after a swim in a cold, fresh stream. But he still had no answers to the many, many questions that the past few days had raised.

No one else, however, seemed very curious about those things. He heard the occasional vague question as to where Colman might be, or hushed, bitter discussions of Louis or Failend, but that was pretty much it. With the fighting done, the men-at-arms seemed content to remain where they were, while the
bóaire and the fuidir were quickly melting away, returning to their farms.

Lochlánn stood on the hill where the army was camped and looked down toward Glendalough a mile away at the bottom of the slope. He could see from there that the streets, which had been packed tight with people just two days before, were now deserted. He could see the monastary and the buildings around it. He looked for Colman’s big house and could just see it’s high-peaked roof rising up above its neighbors.

He stared at the roofline.
I wonder…
he thought. Colman was gone, and knowing something of Louis’s history with Colman, and guessing even more, Lochlánn had to think there was some connection between his disappearance and Louis’s. And the next thing he knew he was walking down the long hill toward the cluster of sorry buildings that made up Glendalough.

It took him half an hour to reach the muddy streets. Evidence of the people’s quick exodus was everywhere; household goods of all description lay trampled in the dirt where they had fallen from whatever they had been piled onto, the merchants’ stalls were stripped bare and half falling down, doors to homes and shops, hastily abandoned, were left hanging open and thumping in the breeze.

Lochlánn walked slowly through the familiar streets as if he was walking through a graveyard or across the field of a recent battle. It was the most haunting thing he had ever experienced.

Then from the monastery a bell began to peal, calling the monks to sext, the midday prayer. The sound made Lochlánn jump and suck in his breath, but he recovered fast. There was something solid and comforting in the sound. The people of Glendalough might have run in terror, but the people of God behind the velum had remained, and life went on as it always had.

Lochlánn made the sign of the cross and continued on. He came at last to the big home of
Colman mac Breandan. He paused at the gate and looked across the yard at the house. Nothing seemed out of place, and there was no sign that anyone was there. He opened the gate and approached the door. He moved cautiously, though he was not sure why.

He stopped in front of the door, grabbed the latch and tried it. It lifted with little resistance so he swung the door open. “Lord Colman?” he called, loud but not overly loud. “Failend?”

He swung the door wider and stepped inside. It was dimly lit from two windows high above, and Lochlánn could just make out the shapes of a table and chair, the loft above, a cooking pot over the hearth, and Colman’s body lying sprawled out on the floor.

Lochlánn rushed across the room to Colman’s side. His first thought was to help the man, but before he even reached Colman’s side he could see there was a great pool of blood dried on the rushes and soaked into the dirt floor, and Colman’s face was black with death. The man was gone and had been for some time. A day at least. There was nothing that Lochlánn could do to help him physically, and as he was not yet a priest, there was nothing he could do in that capacity, either.

He took the last few steps slowly, scrutinizing the corpse at his feet and the things surrounding it. Colman’s throat had been slashed. His sword was out of its scabbard and lying a few feet away, so he had not been surprised by his killer, or at least had had time enough to draw his weapon. There was a small hole in the floor by  Colman’s feet. Lochlánn looked down at it and could see the impression of something square that had been buried there.

A small chest?
Lochlánn wondered.
Colman’s hoard? Was this just a robbery?
That would seem entirely possible, given the chaos, panic, and lawlessness that had gripped the people.

Lochlánn heard a noise behind him, and he turned fast and his hand fell on the hilt of his sword. There was a man standing in the door, but in the dim light Lochlánn could not make out who it was. And then the man spoke.

“Brother Lochlánn?”

Lochlánn felt himself relax. His hand came away from the sword. “Father Finnian?”

Finnian took a step into the room. There was another man with him, a young man, just a few years Lochlánn’s senior it looked like, and dressed in the same black robe as the priest. Finnian’s eyes moved down to Colman’s body, lying at Lochlánn’s feet.

“I found him this way!” Lochlánn protested, suddenly realizing how this must look. “He was dead, has been dead, some time.”

Finnian held up his hand. “I know, my son, I know. I can see he’s been dead a while. And I know you’ve been with the men-at-arms all this time. But tell me why you’re here?”

Lochlánn’s eyes darted over to the other man and back to Finnian, and Finnian caught the gesture. “This is Brother Segan,” Finnian said. “He is a dear friend of mine, a very brave young man. Very bright. He can speak the heathens’ tongue, and many others. He’s lived with the heathens at Vík-ló this past year and he has kept me informed as to their plans. It’s fair to say that they would be sacking Glendalough now if not for him.”

Lochlánn nodded to the young man and Segan nodded back. “I don’t know why I’m here, Father,” Lochlánn said. “I guess I was looking for Colman. Or Louis. Or the truth of what happened. I want to know if Louis really…. I don’t know.”

“The truth,” Finnian said. “That’s a thing we would all like to know, very much.”

“Do you know?” Lochlánn asked. “Do you know what happened? With Louis and Failend and
Aileran? I am hard-pressed to believe Louis murdered Aileran in cold blood. But still…”

“As am I,” Finnian interrupted. “But I don’t know the truth of what happened any more than you.” As with most things that Finnian said, it sounded as if there was a great deal more, just below the surface, which the priest might or might not reveal. Most likely not. “That’s why I came looking for you,” he added.

“Are the heathens gone?” Lochlánn asked next. “Have they sailed away, those that still lived?”

“I only know what I’ve heard,” Finnian said. “From the travelers and others I speak with. What I hear is that most are gone, but one ship remains, and a handful of the heathens. And they should be stamped out.”

“Are men being sent to do that? Mounted men would be best. They could move fast, catch the heathens ashore.”

Finnian nodded. “That would be best, but the thing of it is, with Louis gone and Colman and Aileran gone, there’s no one who will give the order.”

“No one,” Lochlánn agreed. “They sit around the camp like it’s Christmas day.”

“So you should go,” Finnian said. “Are there a score of men who would ride with you, if you ask? You would need no more than that.”

Lochlánn considered the question. “Yes, there are,” he said.

“Then go,” Finnian said.

Lochlánn shook his head. “I am no one,” he said. “I am the least experienced man there.”

“But it must be you. This is why. If Louis and Failend are hoping to escape, they will most likely follow the river to the sea and try to find a ship to Frankia. Anyone who goes after the heathens is likely to come across them as well. If any of the other men-at-arms catch them, they will hang them on the spot.”

“And maybe that’s what they deserve,” Lochlánn said.

“Perhaps,” Finnian said. “Perhaps not. That’s what we must find out. So if you catch them, you will bring them back here. And we can find the truth of this thing.”

“I’ll try to bring them back. If I find them,” Lochlánn said, but he doubted very much that he would. And in truth he was not certain how he would react if he did. But he told Finnian he would do his best, and he bid him farewell and headed back up the hill to the camp. He was halfway there before it occurred to him to wonder how Finnian knew to look for him at Colman’s house.

Thorgrim Night Wolf wanted to bury his dead. He wanted to lay them out in proper graves with their weapons at their sides, the way a warrior should go to his reward. But he felt a greater obligation to the living than the dead, and he did not think he had much time, so he trusted that the Valkyrie were doing his men the honor that he could not, and turned his attention to the ship.

He climbed over the bow and walked aft, wading into the cold river water that filled the after end of the hull. The water was clear and no more than a few feet deep, so he could see the submerged vessel well enough.

It was back aft, just forward of the afterdeck, that he saw the hole Kjartan had chopped through the hull. It was not terribly big, maybe a foot in diameter, though he had cut through three strakes, which would make repairs more difficult. But for now they should be able to apply some sort of patch, bail the ship out and be off down the river.

“Night Wolf!” Starri said, and he spoke in a hushed voice that told Thorgrim with absolute certainty that something was not right.

“What?”

“Someone’s coming. From that direction.” Starri was standing on the shore, leaning on the side of the ship ten feet away, and pointing up river. Thorgrim turned and looked, but he could see only the water and the trees for about a hundred paces before the river bent around to the north and hid the rest from view.

He looked at Starri. Apparently the battering he had taken and the many wounds he had suffered and the blood he had spilled had not damaged his extraordinary hearing.

“How many?” Thorgrim asked.

“I’m not sure. Not many. They’re on foot.”

Thorgrim turned to Harald who was also on the shore. “Get the men hidden, get ready. Don’t show yourselves until I do. These may be men-at-arms searching us out.”

Harald nodded and hurried off, calling to the men in a low voice to hide themselves. Their best hope, Thorgrim knew, was that these newcomers were indifferent to the Northmen’s presence. Otherwise they would be enemies. They would not be friends. He and his men had no friends there.

Thorgrim hopped over the side of the ship and hid himself behind her, the river water up to his knees, and Starri stood beside him. They waited, and the afternoon was utterly silent, save for the water and the breeze and the occasional bird. And then he heard the sound of feet making small splashing sounds as they walked through the water. They came closer, then stopped.