Glendalough Fair (17 page)

He came awake but not fully aware, not entirely certain of where he was. He was naked, and Failend was beside him, and they were outside, which was odd and very dream-like and he was not at all certain he wasn’t still sleeping. And then, like a curtain pulled back to reveal a view through a window, Louis recalled everything, and he knew what it was that was nagging at him. He was not on some frolic, some illicit
affair de coeur
, he was in the field. He was campaigning. He could not lie here naked and vulnerable when he expected every man under his command to be instantly ready.

He stood as quietly as he could. Failend moved a bit and made some low muttering sound, but did not wake. He found his leggings and pulled them on and his tunic as well. His mail was lying in a heap where he had dropped it, a dark mound of steel links barely visible in the grass. He stood for a moment staring at it. He did not want to put it on. He had already sacrificed such supreme comfort in order to dress himself. He felt like the mail was too much to bear.

“
Merde
,” he said, just a whisper, as he reached for the shirt. It made a soft sound like a shovel in gravel as he lifted it and pulled it over his head. He had told his men to sleep in their mail, and he could not tell them to do a thing he would not do himself. It was the first lesson
Ranulf had taught him, and perhaps the most important.

He settled the mail shirt in place and picked up his sword and belt. Before he laid down again he ran his eyes over the field in which his men slept. He could see no one, not the sentries, not even the dark humps that represented sleeping men, but that did not surprise him. The moon had set behind the trees and only the stars were there to cast light on the ground. He thought he saw a figure moving among the men, but he could not be certain.

Coming to wake the next watch
, he thought, and with that he eased himself down onto his knees and laid down again next to Failend, his sword at his side. He reminded himself that he would have to move before first light, that he could not be discovered in so compromising a position. That Failend would have to dress herself. But for the moment the warmth of the cloak and her body, even though the mail, the smell of her, was too much to resist. He closed his eyes. He slept.

And then he woke. He did not know why. He did not know how long he had been asleep. He opened his eyes. Failend’s face was inches from his. It was still dark, still black night.

He heard a step, soft and stealthy. He pushed himself up on his elbow and the man approaching saw the move and closed the short distance with three quick steps. He put a foot on Louis’s chest and pushed him down again. Louis could see the weak light of the stars glinting off the steel of the man’s sword. He held the weapon motionless, just for an instant, and then drove it two-handed down at

Louis’s chest.

Relieve, O King of grey heaven,
the misery you have sent u
s
.

 
Annals of Ulster

“
Bâtard
!” Louis gasped as the sword point plunged down at his chest. He made a sweeping gesture with his right arm, knocking the blade aside, knocking it to his right, away from where Failend lay. He felt the steel scrape against his mail shirt and stab into the soft ground beside him.

The man above him had expected the blade to hit Louis’s chest; missing and stabbing the ground threw him off balance. Louis reached up and grabbed the man’s sword arm, pulled down and rolled, jerking the killer sideways.

The attacker went down and Louis kept on rolling, coming up on his feet. He snatched his sword from the ground and wrapped his fingers around the hilt and flicked the scabbard off. He heard Failend gasp behind him. The stranger, this apparition of a man, was struggling to stand. Louis lunged and felt the blade deflected by mail. The stranger brought his arm down on Louis’s sword and knocked it aside and Louis took a quick step back in case there was a counter attack.

There was none. The man had lost his sword when Louis rolled him over and now he stood in a crouch, a dagger in his hand, a useless weapon against Louis’s long blade. The man circled around, working his way to Louis’s left, keeping low, the dagger held ready. Louis could hear the sound of voices off in the distance. Their fight had attracted attention, but he knew better than to turn his head and look. Nor did he care to call out, to bring men running and have them discover him and a naked Failend off by themselves.

“Put down the knife and get on your knees and I won’t kill you,” Louis growled. The man made no move to comply and Louis realized he had spoken in Frankish. He started to reform the words in Irish when the man made a darting move to Louis’s right, as if trying to get in around the sword. Louis swung the weapon to block him and quick as a snake the man changed the direction of his attack and darted to the left, not at Louis but at Failend.

“
Bâtard
!” Louis cried again and lunged. He felt the tip of the sword strike but the thrust was not powerful enough to pierce the steel links of the man’s shirt. And then, before his dagger could find her, Failend snatched up the attacker’s sword and swung it at him in a wide arc. The flat of the blade hit the assassin on the side of the head and sent him staggering.

Failend was on her feet and, to Louis’s surprise, she was wearing her leine. She held the man’s sword in her hand and brought it back over her shoulder like she was going to chop wood.

“No!” Louis shouted. He brought the flat of his sword down on the man’s hand, the sound of the blow loud in the night. The man gasped, the dagger fell. There were footsteps coming closer, one man at least racing toward them. More, perhaps. Louis risked a glance now, saw Aileran materialize out of the dark, sword drawn. He drew the blade back as he ran.

“Aileran!” Louis shouted, “I’m…” but he got no further. Aileran swung his blade in a powerful backhand stroke and caught the assassin in the neck. Louis could see the spray of blood in the moonlight as the man twisted, choked, fell kicking to the ground.

“Damn!” Louis shouted, then shut his mouth tight. He was angry. He wanted the man alive, wanted to learn from him who had sent him and why. He knew tricks that would make men talk. But now the assassin was dead, or would be in another minute. Louis kept his disappointment to himself, however. He did not want to chastise Aileran because the man had thought he was doing right.

When Louis’s breath and his anger had returned to something that would allow him to speak he said, “Thank you, Aileran.”

Aileran said nothing, just stepped up to the body and squinted down at it. The killer had stopped twitching now and Louis guessed the life had run out of him. “Who is he?” Aileran asked. “Northman?”

“I don’t think so,” Louis said, trying to summon up the fleeting image he had had of the man, fighting in the dark. He had appeared as little more than a shadow, but Louis did not think he was a Northman.

There were more steps behind, men hurrying through the tall grass. He and Aileran turned. Half a dozen were jogging toward them, swords drawn.

“Captain!” he heard Lochlánn’s voice and it was filled with worry. The men slowed as they approached, lowered their weapons, realizing that the fighting was over. “Captain Louis, what in God’s name is happening?”

“We were attacked,” Louis said, and he saw the eyes darting over toward Failend, who had dropped the sword and managed to get her brat and cloak on over her leine.

Don’t explain, don’t explain
, Louis thought, the best advice he could give himself. And then he promptly ignored it. “For the lady’s safety,” he said, “I thought it best if she were not to sleep in the midst of all those men. I took personal responsibility for her safety.”

“Of course,” Aileran said and Louis made himself ignore all the subtle insinuation behind those two words. He nodded to the dead man at their feet.

“Do you know him?” Louis asked.

Aileran knelt beside the corpse, peered close. He grabbed the collar of the man’s mail shirt and pulled him to one side so the moonlight would fall on his face. “Not one of my men,” Aileran grunted. “No one I know. And not a Northman, like you said.”

Louis nodded. “When the sun rises and we can inspect him more closely, maybe we’ll know more. Meanwhile we’ll let the men get whatever more sleep they can.”

With that the others grunted and moved off, but Louis touched Lochlánn’s sleeve, a signal to remain behind.

“This fellow,” Louis said, nodding toward the dead man. “Is he the one who came for me at the monastery?”

Lochlánn looked down at the corpse. “I don’t know, Captain Louis,” he said. “They are about the same build, I suppose, but back at the monastery I never had anything like a good look at the man’s face.”

Louis nodded. He had thought that was the case. “Very well. You go sleep. Maybe we’ll learn more in the daylight.”

Lochlánn’s eyes shifted from Louis to Failend and back. “Do you want me to stay near?” he asked. “In case there is more danger?”

“No, thank you, Lochlánn,” Louis said. “I’ll be safe enough, I should think.”

Lochlánn nodded and left him and Failend alone. Once Lochlánn had disappeared into the dark Louis turned to Failend. “That was well done, hitting that man the way you did. You have skill with a blade.”

Failend shrugged. “I pick up a sword, I swing it. Sometimes I hit what I swing at.”

“You do better than most of these farmers who play at soldiers,” he said. He took Failend’s hand and walked with her back toward the sleeping men. He did not think there would be another attack, but they were certainly safer in the midst of the men-at-arms, and he did not care to bed down near a bloody and nearly decapitated corpse. Nor did he care for the rest of the camp to find them off in each other’s arms.

Louis spread his cloak on the ground and let Failend lie down, but sleep was no longer a possibility for him. He sat beside her and remained awake through the few hours of darkness left, eyes searching the camp, ears attuned to any sound. But there was nothing to see but the tops of the trees swaying against the stars, nothing to hear save for the tiny night creatures and the snoring of the sleeping men.

At first light Louis stood, joints and muscles aching. He stretched his arms and legs. Aileran was already up and shaking his men awake. He joined Louis, and without a word they headed back across the field to where the dead man lay.

The sun had not yet cleared the mountains to the east. The morning was blue-gray, but light enough that they could see what they needed to see. The dead man was face up, blank eyes staring at the overcast sky. He was drained of blood and his face was the whitest thing around, a sharp contrast to the dark grass on which he lay.

Louis looked at him for a long time and Aileran did as well. Aileran shook his head. “I don’t know him,” he said.

“Neither do I,” Louis said. He picked up the sword from where Failend had tossed it aside. “It looks Irish made,” he said.

Aileran glanced at it. “It does,” he said. “Chain mail looks Frankish.” Louis could see he was right, and those facts told them nothing about who this killer was, or where he was from. Louis lifted the skirt of his mail shirt with his toe. He could see no purse.

“Have some of your men strip him,” Louis said. “If they find anything that tells us more about this
bâtard
, bring it to me. Any silver is yours. Give his weapons and mail to the spearman who showed the most courage in yesterday’s fight.”

Aileran nodded. He and Louis trudged back to there the men were pushing themselves to their feet, stretching and scratching. Louis caught a few smirks thrown in his direction, but eyes were quickly averted when he met them. Salacious gossip moved like a morning breeze through a soldiers’ camp.

Three of Aileran’s men went to work on the body but found nothing that was of interest to Louis. When they were done they tossed the stiff white corpse into the brush for whatever might wish to make a meal of it.

Louis called Aileran and Lochlánn over to him. “We have nothing for our breakfast so there’s no reason for us to tarry,” he said. “We’ll march directly back to camp and break our fast there.”

Five minutes later the band of one hundred and fifty or so armed men were walking – it could not really be called marching – back the way they had come, the column stretching out over two hundred feet of road. Their passing raised a cloud of dust to leeward of them, the road baked dry by the remarkable stretch of good weather. But it would not last. Louis looked up. The dull blue of the early morning sky was already yielding to a milky whiteness as the familiar ceiling of clouds moved in.

They were not alone on the road. Heavily laden wagons rolled along, pulled by slow-moving oxen, slower even than the weary fighting men, and the column would have to swing off the road and march on the trampled grass as they moved past. Sometimes small bands of riders would come up the road and pass Louis’s soldiers, casting curious looks in their direction. More traffic in one day than that road would likely to see over the next six months as travelers flowed north and west, following the River Avonmore to the Glendalough Fair.

The morning wore on and the sun rose higher, a pale disk behind a thick blanket of cloud, and there was a watery smell in the air. Rain, soon, Louis could tell. He hoped for his men’s sake, and for his own, that they might make it back to the dúnad before the rain began in earnest, and that the tents had indeed been carted down from Glendalough.

Louis de Roumois walked at the head of the column, Aileran on his left side, Failend on his right, Lochlánn a few paces behind as the boy thought was proper. The men behind were quiet, but their spirits were good, Louis could tell. They were proud of their night’s work, which they deserved to be. Before, when they had marched from Glendalough, he had been met with curiosity or indifference or resentment as he walked past the ranks, but now they greeted him with grins and nods. This was good. This was how a lethal army was made.

A hundred rods or so beyond where they marched, the road curved off to the left, lost behind a stand of trees, and Louis could see smoke rising from somewhere up ahead. Not a great deal of smoke, but enough to make him curious, and wary, though he was not afraid of a surprise. Aileran had sent scouts out ahead, because neither he nor Louis were foolish enough to go blundering blindly around the country with a powerful enemy near.

Just as Louis began to wonder about the smoke he saw one of the scouts coming back around the screen of trees. He was not running and he did not look terribly excited. That was good. Louis did not order a halt.

“Caravan,” the man said when he and the marching column had met. He fell in beside Aileran and addressed them both. “Three wagons. Fancy ones. Women, too. They’ve made camp by the side of the road.”

Aileran nodded. “Making for Glendalough Fair, no doubt,” he said. “Players maybe, or merchants, or whores. All three, perhaps.”

They came around the bend and Louis saw that the scout had described it correctly, if with less detail than he might have done. Three wagons, heavy ones, fully enclosed and mounted on tall oak, iron-rimmed wheels, their wood sides painted in bright reds and yellows. They were drawn up in a semi-circle in the field beside the road. There were banners flying from staffs near the drivers’ boards and at the back ends, and various bits of bunting waving from where ever it could be tied.

In the center of the semi-circle there was a large fire burning and over it a pot. Even from a distance Louis could smell the stew cooking there, and he felt his mouth water and realized how very hungry he was. The smell had reached the men marching behind him and he could hear muttering. He half turned and called for silence, and the men obeyed, though the murmuring faded grudgingly away rather than stopping abruptly.

Sitting in front of the fire was a large man, large in every way, with a massive beard that hung to the middle of his ample belly. Louis might have taken him for a Northmen if he had not been dressed in the Irish manner and wearing no weapons. There were others, half a dozen men that Louis could see and women as well. Louis counted four of them. Young women. Good looking. He heard the murmuring set in again behind him.