Glendalough Fair Page 8

  All around Vík-ló men and women staggered out of their homes and looked with wonder at the sky as if they had never seen such a thing as blue overhead. They looked sideways at the great blaze of fire hanging in the east like something they had only heard of in the ancient tales.

  And then as their astonishment ebbed, they began to act. Clothing, bedding, furs, all manner of things that had seemed soaked through to the point where they would never be dry again were dragged out of the dark, damp recesses of the buildings and spread out in the sun. Doors were flung open and the kindly spirit of the warm breeze moved through the homes, carrying the damp and chill and despair off in its arms.

  Thorgrim saw the sun and the breeze as a gift from the gods, a good omen. He could not recall the last time he had received such a sign that luck was with him, but this surely was one, and it made him happier than he had been for many months. With the coming of the sun that morning Thorgrim could only hope that it would continue, that the gods would favor him for one day at least, because this was the day that his new ship would first taste salt water.

  They had been waiting for some relief from the rain. Launching a ship was a serious business, both in terms of the practical considerations of seeing her safe into the water and the spiritual concerns of assuring that she was sent off in a way that was pleasing to the gods, a way that would bring the ship and the men who sailed in her good luck. Thorgrim, indeed all Northmen, considered both to be of equal importance, and neither could be best accomplished in a blinding downpour.

  They had been nearly ready to launch the ships when Kevin mac Lugaed and his men had arrived, forcing Thorgrim to postpone it once again. While the Irish were there the day was given over to feasting and further negotiations. It was not a day for blessing ships. And privately Thorgrim did not wish to launch the vessels in the presence of Irishmen and followers of the Christ god. He did not think that would bring them luck.

  When the Irish took their leave at last, Thorgrim decided he could wait no longer. If the gods would not stop the deluge, then it was not for him to bide his time in hope that they would change their minds. Rain or no, he would see the ships rolled into the river where they belonged. It was the bold move, and the gods liked bold moves, and now with the gift of a warm and blinding sun they were expressing their approval.

  All of Vík-ló came down to the river to see the two new longships swim for the first time. Everyone understood the importance of this moment, with the possible exception of the few Irish wives and slaves. There was an air of excitement, of anticipation, but also a sense of gravity in the gathered crowd. This was more ritual of faith than festival and it had been a long time in coming.

  Dragon, Kjartan’s ship, now off somewhere beyond the horizon, had been the first of the three ships they had built over the course of the winter. She was smaller than the other two, but not much smaller. She was well-built, a good looking vessel that sat well in the water. Very much the creation of Aghen, the master shipwright, who used nothing more than his eye and his years of experience to oversee her construction, shaping her as she was built.

  The next ship was Blood Hawk, built for the command of Bersi Jorundarson. She had been given the skald’s poetic name for the raven, a nod to Odin and a not so subtle request for his blessings. The last to be completed, largest of the three, with thirty row ports per side, was Thorgrim’s Sea Hammer, named thus to be pleasing to Thor, who could give them good weather or ill, depending on his mood. With his former ship burned to the waterline, and with it all the bad luck it carried, and the new fleet so named in honor of the gods, Thorgrim dared to indulge in a meager bit of optimism. The fine weather told him he was not a fool for doing so.

  Dragon had been launched a week before in the driving rain. Now, as the sun rose higher in the east, spreading warmth and long shadows over the shipyard and the river bank, Blood Hawk and Sea Hammer would follow her in.

  By the time Thorgrim reached the river, preparations were well underway. Blood Hawk had already been eased off the keel blocks and now rested on rollers, a series of logs of similar diameter over which she would be hauled to the water. Sea Hammer was being moved onto her own set of rollers, sixty men using levers and blocks and tackle to transfer that great weight. The ship was big and ungainly on land. It was not her element.

  Thirty feet from where the men were working Sea Hammer off the blocks, a horse and an ox stood tethered to a stake. Their role was not as beasts of burden. It was far more important than that: they would serve as a sacrifice to the gods. Their blood would soak into the fresh wood of the vessels and if the sacrifice was acceptable, then Odin, Thor and Njord could be expected to look kindly on the ships’ future voyaging.

  Thorgrim watched without comment as his ship was eased down onto the rollers. He watched as lengths of timber were used to shore her up and keep her from tipping to one side or another. He was ready to start bellowing orders if need be, but the need did not arise. The men who crowded around Sea Hammer knew their business.

  “They’re ready to go, Thorgrim,” Aghen said, stepping up to Thorgrim’s side. The shipwright’s tunic was smeared with tar and tallow and had little chips of wood clinging to it. There were chips of wood in his beard as well. He wore just a bit of a smile, but Thorgrim recognized it as the man’s most profound expression of happiness.

  Thorgrim nodded. The two of them had spent quite a bit of time in one another’s’ company over the past half a year, enough that they could communicate a great deal while never speaking a word. Such was the case now, and each man knew what the other thought, and that thought was, Well done. Well done.

  Once Sea Hammer was safely eased down onto the rollers, Thorgrim gave the word. The horse and the ox were killed and their blood was let to run into a silver bowl. A great fire was kindled to roast their flesh. Thorgrim stepped aboard Blood Hawk first and then Sea Hammer, accompanied by Aghen and Bersi, Skidi, Harald and Starri Deathless, whom many of the men at Vík-ló had come to regard as lucky and blessed by the gods.

  Bersi held the silver bowl out to Thorgrim and Thorgrim dipped a pine bough into it. He lifted the branch, dripping with the hlaut, the blood of the sacrificed animals, and flailed the bough fore and aft, starboard and larboard, sending showers of crimson onto the deck and the strakes, the mast steps, steering oars, stems and sternposts. He chanted prayers to the gods as he did so and the only sound that could be heard were his voice and the swish of the pine bough and the lap of the water in the river, rolling against the banks as if eager to take possession of the ships.

  When he was done he shouted an order and a hundred eager hands grabbed on to the sheer strakes of the two ships and heaved them toward the water. He and Harald and Starri remained aboard Sea Hammer, keeping their balance with some difficulty as she made her rough, jarring way to the river, and Bersi and some of his men likewise remained aboard Blood Hawk.

  The two vessels slid into the near-still water at almost the same moment, their bows dipping down as they dropped off the last roller, then surging up again like restless stallions. They settled and floated free on even keels and the men of Vík-ló cheered. They cheered and cheered, the shouts coming like waves from their throats. They cheered for what they had accomplished, they cheered for the end of winter’s misery, they cheered for the fine vessels floating tethered to the bank, the water-steeds that would take them to sea, take them a-viking, take them to where they wished to be, which was not the squalid longphort of Vík-ló.

  The ships had been launched just as the sun hit its zenith and the tide its fullest state. It was some hours after that, with the sun moving toward the west, that Thorgrim and the lead men of the longphort sat at the table in the great hall, the remains of a meal spread before them. The evening light spilled in through the western windows, lighting the room in a way no fire could.

  It had been a long and tiring day, and the fine weather and the successful launch of the two ships and the considerable amount of mead and wine that had been consumed d
ulled the edge of fury the men felt at Kjartan’s betrayal. And, in truth, his leaving was not really a betrayal at all.

  He had sworn no oath to Thorgrim, and what cost had been accrued in building Dragon he had paid for from his own share of the plunder. His leaving in the night had only felt like a betrayal, and that was enough to make the men furious, for a time. But by the time they gathered at the end of the day to discuss what they would do next, Kjartan and his band had all but dropped from their minds.

  Skidi spoke first. He was a blunt man and seemed to have no guile in him, which Thorgrim reckoned a good quality. On the other hand he made little effort to check his speech, saying what was on his mind, never caring what effect his words might have, which was not always so helpful.

  “This Irishman, this Kevin, he had a lot to say, as these Irishmen will,” Skidi said. “But I am not sure I believe a word of it.” Heads nodded at this, all save for Thorgrim’s.

  “He did have a lot to say,” Thorgrim agreed. Kevin had told them of the monastery at Glendalough, one of the finest, and one of the richest in Ireland. It had been plundered before, but not for some time, which meant the wealth would likely have been built up again. The Christ worshipers, Thorgrim had observed, did not care to be without their gold and silver.

  This information - the monastery at Glendalough, the potential riches – was something that the Northmen already knew. But Kevin told them more than that, information that was news to them.

  He told them that there was a river, or more correctly a series of rivers that would lead them from the sea nearly to Glendalough’s walls. Most of the journey could be made in their longships. It might be hard work getting the vessels upstream, but the return, when they were loaded down with plunder, would be simple enough with the lift of the current.

  Bersi had raised a concern then. “I’ve heard of these rivers,” he had said. “I’ve heard from men who have seen them, and they say a longship cannot float on them. I hear they’re deep enough for maybe half the distance to Glendalough, and then they’re shallow and rocky.”

  Kevin had nodded as he listened to Harald’s translation. “That’s right, they’re too shallow,” Kevin said. “Or, more correctly, they are usually too shallow. You men must have noticed the prodigious rain we’ve had. A lot of rain, even for this country. Now, with the coming of spring, the rivers are swollen, much deeper than usual, over their banks in many places. I don’t say it will be like a mill pond, but from what I understand the rivers are deep enough now for your ships. Now, but not for long.”

  Kevin described the all but nonexistent defenses at Glendalough, no more than a low stone wall around the monastery. He described the soldiers who were not soldiers at all, save for a handful of them. The rest were local men, farmers and blacksmiths and the like who would take up arms when called upon. He did not have to elaborate. Every man there knew how useless such men were in any sort of real battle.

  The man who commanded the defenses of Glendalough, Kevin explained, was a merchant named Colman mac Breandan, who held that office because of his wealth and standing, not because of any particular skill in the military way. There was little Colman could do to stop the advance of even the four ships’ crews that the men of Vík-ló could send. With Kevin’s own men joining in on the assault there would be no way for Colman or anyone else to prevent the thorough looting of the monastery and the town.

  And then came the most tempting bait of all. In three weeks’ time Glendalough would play host to the biggest gathering in all that part of Ireland. The Glendalough Fair. Farmers and craftsmen and merchants from all over the south country and from as far away as Frisia and Frankia would descend like flocks of birds to their summer homes. Wealthy men looking to buy, thieves and whores looking to enrich themselves, players and musicians looking for silver, they would all be coming to Glendalough.

  The Northmen, Kevin had assured them, would find not just the plunder to be had in the monastery and the town, which was considerable, but all that which the fair would bring. It was not an opportunity to be missed.

  “This chance that Kevin brings us,” Thorgrim said to the assembled men, “we can all agree it’s worth the effort and the risk, if it’s everything that Kevin says.”

  Again heads nodded. “Do you believe him?” Bersi asked.

  Thorgrim began to reply, then hesitated a moment as he considered the truth of his response. “Yes, I do,” he said at last. “I believe what he says about this fair in Glendalough. I’ve heard rumors of it from others. I believe the defenses are weak. The monastery is far from the sea, and though they’ve been raided before they will still think such an attack less likely. Be less prepared. For that matter, the monasteries on the coast are never very well protected.”

  The others nodded again.

  “He betrays his own people,” Bersi says. “He comes to join with us in plundering his own people. He might well betray us, too.”

  “He might,” Thorgrim agreed. “It’s the way of these people. The Irish plunder one another more than we plunder them. But it’s in Kevin’s interest to join us, not to betray us. The raid will weaken Glendalough and make him stronger in whatever cow pasture he rules. That’s his thinking, anyway. And I’ll wager he’s right. It’s how things are done here.”

  The men were quiet for a moment, considering all this. Kevin mac Lugaed had come to them with a very tempting opportunity, one they would be fools to pass up. If Kevin was not lying. And they had no certain way of knowing whether he was or not.

  “Too much talk!” Skidi said at last, as if voicing Thorgrim’s mind. “We sound like a bunch of old women, worrying about what’s hiding in the shadows. We all agree there’s plunder to be had at this Glendalough. Let us go there and strip the place. We’ll cut down anyone who tries to stop us, and if this Kevin betrays us we’ll cut him down, too.”

  At that the men pounded the table in agreement. And so it was decided. They would go to Glendalough.

  Chapter Twelve

  In this year, moreover, Norwegian forces came from the

  port of Corcach to plunder…but God did not allow them to do that.

  Annals of Ulster

  The world was new-born, like the final day of creation, or so it felt to Louis de Roumois. The sun – the sun! – had come blazing over the hills to the east, spreading deep shadows where it could not reach, and where it could it brought colors that seemed extraordinary to eyes that had for so long seen nothing but gray and brown and dull green.

  He woke that morning, even before the sun was up, with a dull sense of anticipation. It took him some moments to recall why he now felt so optimistic, why he enjoyed this sense of renewal in his life. And then he remembered. Father Finnian had requested he take up arms against the invading heathen. Louis felt the joy spread in his gut like he had taken a deep draught of warm cider. He was smiling as he stepped from his cell and fell in line with his fellow brethren, marching off to the dawn prayer of invitiatory with more enthusiasm than he had displayed in a year of monastic life.

  The sun was up by the time those prayers were done and Louis felt joy building on joy. Finnian drew him aside before he could be whisked off to do kitchen work or work in the fields or the brewery or whatever mundane task would have been set for him that day. Instead they returned to the abbot’s house, though this time with the abbot present, and Finnian explained to the old cleric how Louis’ former skills would be needed for the immediate future.

  The abbot listened with less interest than Louis would have thought a man might have shown with his monastery under threat of rape and pillage. He was also less free with his wine than Finnian had been. In fact, he made no offer of refreshment whatsoever. The whole discussion had the feel of a formality that Finnian was obliged to observe, but it was over soon and Louis and Finnian were on their way.

  The bulk of the day was taken up with discussions of logistics; how many men Louis would have at his disposal, where they would encamp, how they would be fed, how much trai
ning they might receive before they were made to go blade for blade with the heathens. Louis relished every moment of it. He was desperately eager to shed his monk’s robe and don a tunic and mail and feel the weight of a sword on his hip. But he kept that to himself. There would be a time for that, and it would be soon.

  One subject that was not raised was Colman mac Breandan and the role he would play in all this, though Louis felt certain it would be, and should. He waited for it, even practiced in his mind what he would say, but Finnian never mentioned the man. And that in turn made Louis suspicious.

  How much does he know? Louis wondered. Quite a bit, he guessed. Father Finnian always seemed to have an almost preternatural understanding of circumstances.

  Louis de Roumois returned to his cell at an early hour, just as he had every night since arriving at the monastery at Glendalough, but this time with a sense of purpose that he had not felt since the death of his father. He had no reason to think that this represented some permanent change. Once he had routed the heathens, things would most likely return to their same dreary routine. But perhaps not. Perhaps this would be the first step in a journey back to his former life, and that chance was enough to keep the ember of hope glowing.

  He fell asleep quickly and slept deep, as he usually did. It was some time later, in the darkest hours of night, that he half-woke to hear what he believed was Failend’s voice calling to him as the door of his cell creaked open.

  “Brother Louis? Brother Louis?” He thought that was odd because she never addressed him as “Brother,” except when she did it in that playful, ironic tone that he found so alluring. But there was nothing ironic in this, just his name, repeated twice, and the sharp sound of something falling.

  And then Louis was fully awake and sitting up, alert as if he had been standing watch. His door was open and there was a scuffling outside, a thump of something, someone, hitting the wall, and whoever had called his name was most certainly not Failend.