Glendalough Fair (31 page)

“Well enough,” the man said. There was no fear in his voice, no anger or bitterness. Nothing, really, that Harald could hear, though of course they were both speaking a language which was not their native tongue.

“You are part of this heathen army?” the woman asked, and she did not sound nearly as calm as the man.

Harald frowned. “‘Heathen?’” he asked. “I do not know that word.”

“Heathen,” the woman said. “One of these strangers who does not believe in God.”

Harald shook his head. “I believe in God,” he said. “I believe in many gods.”

“You do not believe in the true god.”

This was all getting confusing. Harald had some notion of what the Christ followers believed, but he never understood it entirely. He thought they only believed in one god, though he had heard others speak of three gods, and he was never quite sure what they really believed.

“You are one of these fin gall who have come to plunder Glendalough?” the woman said and that clarified things. Harald smiled in understanding.

“Yes!” he said. “Yes, that’s right. And who are you?”

“I am Failend, wife of
Colman mac Breandan, who commands all the soldiers at Glendalough” the woman said. “This is Louis. He is a Frank. He is my servant and my body guard. My husband will pay a great deal to have me back.”

Harald nodded. She may have been telling the truth about her name, and perhaps about her husband, but this Louis most certainly was not her servant, or anyone’s. “Your husband will pay a great deal?” Harald asked. “You mean, more than I could get for you in the slave markets of Frisia?”

“Yes,” Failend said. “Much more.”

Harald nodded again.
Will he pay after he learns what you and this Louis have been up to?
he wondered, but he did not ask. He had no intention of selling her, of course, but it would not hurt to let her think he did. Then he thought of Starri Deathless.

“Do you have any skill in the healing arts? Do you know the treatment of battle wounds?”

Failend looked surprised by the question. There was a flicker of uncertainty and then she said, “Yes. Yes, I do. Very much.”

“You know what herbs to use to heal wounds? How to make poultices and such? What charms are most powerful?”

“Yes,” Failend said again, and Harald could hear more conviction in her voice now. “In Glendalough I have a great reputation for being a healer.”

Harald looked into her eyes, brown and wide. Her hair, which had been tied in a queue, was now tumbling around her shoulders. She was very beautiful. He wondered how much of what she had said was true. Maybe half, he reckoned.

“I’m glad to hear that,” he said. “I may have need of your skills. Now, my men will bring you food and then you may sleep here.”

He stood up and suddenly felt very tired. “There will be a guards outside the door, so you need not worry for your safety,” he added, though they all understood that the guards were not for Louis and Failend’s benefit. “Tomorrow we will reach Glendalough.”

Harald woke early the next morning, eager to be on the road. The fear still nagged at him that he had fallen behind Thorgrim and the fleet. He roused the others and stood by with mounting impatience as
Crimthann stoked up the cooking fire and prepared breakfast. That finished, the men and women of the caravan packed the camp away, rounded up the oxen which had been set to graze and yoked them to the wagons. The sun was well up, and a light mist falling, by the time Harald was able to climb up onto the seat and order the wagons underway.

“How far to Glendalough?” Harald asked.

Crimthann shrugged. “A few miles, no more,” he said.

A few miles…
But Harald was not sure he wanted to go to Glendalough. If he did, he would likely find himself right in the middle of the Irish army gathered to defend the place. That would be a bad thing. But how close to get? And where were the ships and men? The “heathens”, as Failend called them?

He wondered briefly if his father ever felt such indecision, if Thorgrim ever agonized over which route to take. He did not think so. He knew his father was only a man, and men encountered such troubles as these, but he could not imagine Thorgrim Night Wolf waxing uncertain on matters of how to lead his men.

The morning wore on and the mist grew into light rain, and Harald’s anxiety mounted with each laborious turn of the wagon’s wheels, each ponderous step of the four oxen that pulled the heavy rig. There were signs on the road that men had walked that way, a lot of men, but whether it was an army or crowds of travelers bound for the Glendalough Fair he could not tell. Even Crimthann seemed to sense his mood and managed to avoid talking, mostly.

The Irishman had been silent for going on twenty-five minutes when he spoke again. “Up over this rise yonder, and we should be able to see Glendalough,” he said.

Harald nodded and pressed his lips together. It was time to make a decision – press on or turn around. He could put it off no longer. And then he heard a noise, faint but clear, and markedly familiar.

“Stop the wagon,” Harald said. Crimthann pulled the oxen to a stop. He opened his mouth to speak, but Harald held up a hand and Crimthann shut his mouth again. Harald cocked his head in the direction of the unseen town. He could hear shouting, soft as a distant brook, but shouting to be certain. He could hear the faintest of pinging sounds that he guessed was the ring of steel on steel.

“Battle,” Harald said. “They’re fighting! Go! Go!”

Crimthann looked at him, confused.

“Go!” Harald shouted. “Get your damned oxen moving!” Crimthann nodded and snapped the reins and once again the oxen moved on at their agonizing, deliberate pace. The road ran up a low, rounded hill that obscured from sight whatever was beyond it. Harald wanted to leap from the seat and run up the hill, but until he knew where the Irish warriors were, he knew he and his men had to stick to their role as part of Crimthann’s caravan of players.

Then the oxen crested the hill and pulled the wagon up over the top and Harald saw more fields beyond, another hill a few hundred paces off, and dozens of bodies strewn over the open ground. He sucked in his breath in surprise. The sounds of the fighting were louder. The battle had started on the hill in front of him and moved beyond the next rise. That was the killing field now.

“Faster!” he shouted and Crimthann snapped the reins, but the effect on the oxen was negligible. Harald thought about abandoning the wagon, he and his men taking to foot.

Not yet, not yet,
he thought, though he was not sure why. He turned in the seat and slid the little wooden shutter back and looked through the window. He could see his men and Louis and Failend and Crimthann’s people and they all looked as if they wanted very much to know what was happening.

“Fighting up ahead, Olaf!” Harald shouted through the opening. “Get ready.”

“I’m ready,” Olaf assured him and the others nodded. Then Harald thought of something.

“Hand me that spear, pass it up,” he said and Olaf grabbed a spear that was leaning beside him and handed it butt-end first to Harald, and Harald pulled it through the narrow window. He turned in the seat and reached out with the point and gave the aftermost oxen, starboard side, a jab in the rump.

The oxen bellowed and Crimthann bellowed and Harald poked again. The animal moved faster now, trying to escape this torment. Harald reached over and jabbed the oxen on the larboard side and it, too, picked up the pace, building to a run. The wagon rocked violently and shuddered over the uneven road as it gained speed, moving downhill, the aftermost oxen running harder and forcing those in the front to do likewise. They were bellowing louder now and Crimthann was still shouting and Harald jabbed the brown and white rumps again.

The caravan thundered down the slope and then up the other, the oxen’s feet pounding the soft ground. They crested the second hill and there, spread out before them, was Glendalough; the church, the scattering of monastic buildings and houses and workshops, less than a mile away. But Harald could spare it only a cursory look, because closer still he saw two lines of men, pressed close, weapons rising and falling. Shield walls. A battle full underway. And before he could even figure what exactly was happening, who was who, one side broke and turned and began to run, put to flight by the overwhelming numbers of the other side.

Harald held on to keep from being thrown from the seat as the wagon careened forward, barely in control, if at all. He watched the men run right across the wagon’s path, a few hundred paces ahead, no more. He did not know what had happened, but he did know one thing: the men who were running were not Irish, they were Norsemen, his people. And the Irish men-at-arms and mounted warriors were coming behind to kill them as they ran.

Nevertheless the Norwegians were defeated,

by a miracle of the Lord, and they were slaughtered.

The Annals of Ulster

This is an end to it
, Thorgrim Night Wolf thought.
This is an end to it.

Kevin mac Lugaed’s men were pushing hard to get into the fight, all but running, and when they joined the rest, the Irish would outnumber the Northmen two to one at least. And Kevin’s men were fresh, not exhausted and bloodied like Thorgrim’s men and Ottar’s

He wondered if Ottar still lived, but he could not look because he was fighting in the shield wall, and if he turned his head ,he would be struck down. He could feel his strength going, but he could also feel the men in front of him weakening. His blows were slow and awkward, as were those of the men on either side of him.

Time to end this
, he thought, and shouted “Godi!”

The call seemed to stir Godi, who was tiring as well. Like a giant awakened he roared and the great battle ax came down. The blade met a shield held high to stop the blow, shattered it and barely paused as it hacked into the shield bearer’s chest.

Thorgrim saw the Irishman’s eyes go wide and he lunged, not at Godi’s man, who was already dead, but at the man beside him who was now exposed with the destruction of his partner’s shield. Iron-tooth found flesh and slashed on through and the man fell and a gap opened in the shield wall.

Once again Thorgrim leapt forward, slashing at the man to his left as Godi came in on his right and Agnarr battered the Irishman in front of him. It was a gap, an opening, an opportunity. And it was too late.

The raven banner was fifteen paces away and coming on fast, the men beneath it shouting and banging shields. Most of the Irishmen in the shield wall, Thorgrim realized, had not seen them coming, did not know help was at their backs. But now they knew, and in these reinforcements they saw their own salvation rushing across the rain-soaked field with weapons drawn. And the Norsemen saw death swooping down on them.

“Back!” Thorgrim shouted. “Back!” He stepped back and Godi did likewise, and then Thorgrim stepped back once more. It was a hard thing to do, nearly impossible, to back a shield wall away. Retreat was never the idea. A shield wall was about standing firm and battering the enemy until one side or the other broke and ran, or died where they stood.

“Back! Back! Men of Vík-ló, back!” Thorgrim shouted. His men had drilled in this, they had practiced moving back while maintaining the integrity of the shield wall. But not too often, because retiring from the field was not something Thorgrim had envisioned doing very often. But now they obeyed. They stepped back, and back again. They held their shield wall intact and they fought and they backed away.

And then it all collapsed around them.

It started when Kevin’s men reached the Irishman’s line. They were shrieking their hideous Celt war cries as they came charging up, leading with their shields, bright-painted and pristine, not gouged, battered and broken like those of the men who had been fighting for so long. They joined the line and rolled forward, and the weary Irish men-at-arms found renewed strength in this reinforcement. Together they charged at the Norsemen’s line, a frontal assault, a wild, heedless push that drove the Northmen back and shredded their formation like a torn sail in a gale of wind.

And just as things were falling apart for Thorgrim’s men, the mounted warriors hit them on the flanks. It was timed perfectly. The Norsemen were staggering under the ferocity of the Irish attack on their front when the riders charged in among them again, slashing with their swords, breaking up any ordered defense with their horses’ flailing hooves.

The attack on Glendalough was done. Thorgrim’s hopes of holding the line as they backed away were done. The Northmen turned and fled, the most instinctive reaction, and the very worst.

The Irish howled their victory call and pressed on after them, hacking down any who stumbled and fell behind, killing the wounded as they overtook them. And all the while the horsemen chewed on the flanks and slashed and killed and sent the panicked men running into the others and tangling them in their flight.

It was as bad a rout as Thorgrim had ever seen, and he knew it would only get worse. He called to the men as he jogged back, trying to bring some order to their flight, trying to establish some kind of defense to cover their retreat, and knowing all the while that it was pointless. His mind flailed for some way to prevent the complete destruction of his men and Ottar’s.

Where do we go
? he thought.

He pictured the terrain surrounding them. If there was some defensible place where they could make a stand, if they could reach their ships, they might yet live. But there was no place they could hope to defend, and they would never make it to the ships, running in panicked flight as they were. The best he could hope for was to rally the men at the top of one of those small hills and fight until the Irish killed them all. At least they would die good deaths.

And then he saw movement to his right and he turned in time to see the oddest of sights. A wagon, a large caravan, really, crested the hill over which the road ran. It was a massive, bright-painted thing drawn by four oxen which seemed to be terrified and well beyond control. The vehicle shook and swayed and looked as if it might come apart, and the animals bellowed and tossed their heads and thundered on.

There were two men on the seat mounted on the face of the wagon. One was a huge fellow who held the reins, though Thorgrim doubted they were doing much good. And beside him, unmistakable with his bright yellow hair and squat and powerful form, was Harald Thorgrimson. Harald Broadarm.

The wagon raced downhill and Thorgrim saw Harald grab the reins from the big man’s hands. He pulled them hard to one side and the oxen turned in their flight, just a bit. Then suddenly there was another wagon coming over the hill, charging along in the same frantic way, also pulled by a team of beasts that charged ahead in wide-eyed, mouth-foaming panic. And then a third.

Thorgrim could do nothing but watch. The Irish were still in full pursuit, racing after the fleeing Northmen, but now Thorgrim could see what Harald intended to do. He would drive his wagon right into the Irish flanks. And none of the Irish seemed yet to have noticed.

And then they did. The Irish were no more than fifty paces away when Thorgrim saw heads turn toward the onrushing wagons and arms point and he heard men shout their warning. The line wavered and broke as the men-at-arms realized they might be trampled and crushed. Some scattered, some pressed on, and then Harald’s wagon plowed into the end of the line and kept on going. Thorgrim could see men driven under the hooves of the crazed oxen, men tossed in the air, others running back, running forward, running to the sides as they tried to escape.

The lead wagon was slowing as it drove through the fighting men, but then the second wagon hit the lines, careening past Harald’s, breaking down any semblance of order the Irish had maintained. It slewed sideways, came up on two wheels, hung there for a second, then toppled on its side. Then the third one hit.

Thorgrim looked back over his shoulder. The Norsemen had stopped running. They had turned to watch, transfixed by the sight of the wagons tearing through their enemy like a scythe through dry stalks. The Irish were stunned and they seemed unsure as to what had happened. Men were still running in every direction. Other were standing fixed to one spot, stunned, and some were shouting, waving arms, and trying to reform their lines.

“At them!” Thorgrim shouted. “At them!” He held Iron-tooth aloft and began jogging toward the Irish men-at-arms. It was madness. He and his men were exhausted, beaten, they were on the verge of being slaughtered, and now he was leading them forward again in another headlong assault.

“At them!” He looked over his shoulder. His men were following. They began to cheer.

Harald, incredibly, had maintained his seat through all that wild ride. Forty feet ahead Thorgrim saw him leap down to the ground. He ran around to the back of the wagon and pulled a door open. Thorgrim heard him shout something, what, he could not tell, but suddenly Harald’s men came bursting out through the open door, while doors of the other two wagons were flung open and more men appeared. They shouted like madmen and brandished weapons and charged for the nearest of the men-at-arms.

There were not many of them, fewer than twenty, but their appearance was a complete surprise to the Irish at a moment when they had already had surprise piled on surprise.

“At them!” Thorgrim shouted again and he could hear the sound of the men behind him building in volume. They were thirty feet from what was left of the Irish line. He could see confused men, frightened men, stunned men looking blankly on as their enemies came at them one more time.

And then it was the Irish who were done. The shock of being struck by the wagons, of Harald’s men coming out fighting, of the rest of the Norsemen charging at them with a renewed frenzy, broke the last of their resolve. Some men turned and ran, and then more ran, and soon the entire army, all those men who moments before had been tasting victory in their mouths turned and raced back the way they had come.

Thorgrim could see mounted men who he took to be the leaders of the men-at-arms shouting for their warriors to make a stand, to turn and fight. But it was pointless in the same way that Thorgrim’s attempts to do the same twenty minutes before had been pointless. The leaders could see that as well, and they could see they would soon be alone on the field, so they reined their horses around and charged off to join the flight.

The Northmen reached the spot where the wagons had come to a rest, two of them toppled over now, and they drew to a halt. No one told them to stop, they just did. They stood there, looking as stunned as the Irish had been, heaving for breath and watching their enemies, who a moment before had be coming to cut them down, now showing them their heels.

A strange quiet spread over the field, a profound quiet after the noise of nearly six hundred men locked in battle. Thorgrim turned and there was Harald lumbering up, a big grin and a smear of blood on his face.

Thorgrim shook his head. He did not know what to say, so he stepped up to his boy and he embraced him and Harald returned the embrace, but awkwardly and uncertain. Then Agnarr was there, and Bersi and Kjartan and Skidi and they were able to find words of praise and thanks, and Harald grinned and clearly found the whole thing terribly embarrassing.

“They’ve run off,” Bersi said, nodding toward the Irish, “but they are not beaten. And they are not done.”

In that he was right. Thorgrim could see as much. They all could. The Irish had run pell mell for several hundred yards until the effort and the realization that the Northmen were not following had brought them to a stop. Now they were forming a line of sorts at a place roughly between the Norsemen’s line and the town of Glendalough.

“They won’t attack again,” Thorgrim said. “Not today.” He looked up at the sun. There were hours of daylight left, though it felt much later. Still, he was sure the Irish were done for that day. He knew that his own men were as well.

“No, they won’t attack today,” Skidi agreed. “But like Bersi says, they’re not done. They’ll hold that ground where they stand. Get themselves sorted out. They’ll fight again on the morrow.”

Thorgrim nodded. The Irish would most certainly fight on. Why wouldn’t they? They were fighting for their own land, and they still outnumbered their enemy two or three to one. The question, therefore, was whether the Northmen would also stay and fight, or retreat to their ships and just sail away. They would keep their lives if they did the latter, but would have nothing else to show for their efforts.

And that was not a question that Thorgrim alone could answer.

“Let us get our men back, back to the top of that hill there.” He pointed to the rise where the first shield walls had met at the commencement of the fighting. “Let’s get those wagons of Harald’s up there, we can make a wall of sorts. Then we’ll figure out what the gods would have us do next.”

The men were silent and grateful to be done fighting as they trudged back toward the hill in their rear. Those who could find the strength helped tip the wagons back on their wheels and untangle the oxen, four of which were dead, and then drive the ponderous vehicles back up the hill. Once at the crest the wagons were arranged in a line across the road. It was not much of a defense, but it was something at least.

Ottar still lived. He was limping and he wore a wide and blood-soaked bandage on his left arm and his mail shirt hung in tatters, so much that Thorgrim wondered why he bothered keeping it on at all, but he was still alive. He was silent as they made their way back to the hill, happy now to let his men simply follow what Thorgrim’s were doing. But soon Thorgrim could hear his raving and shouting again. Still, Ottar kept his distance, and as long as he did that Thorgrim was happy to let him rave and shout.

The wagons were plundered for food and ale. There was not much to be had, there were not as many of the Northmen left, and they found provisions enough to at least stave off hunger, if not sate it.

The men ate where they sat, or lay flat on the wet grass, ignoring the light rain that fell, or tended their wounds or their fellows’ wounds. Thorgrim called his captains together. He called Harald as well. Harald had earned his place at the council.