Glendalough Fair (8 page)

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.

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 training 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.

He was out of bed and across the floor. The moon was full and the light coming in through the open window washed the room in a dull blue glow. Louis flung himself through the door, snatching up the walking stick he kept there and jumping out into the hall beyond.

There were two men, dark shapes in the muted light, one sprawled against the far wall, the other in a half crouch, ready. The one against the wall pushed himself off and charged at the other, swinging something as he did, shouting in outrage. He wore a monk’s robe, bulky and loose-fitting.

“Brother
Lochlánn?” Louis said, astonished, for he was certain from the sound of the voice that it was indeed young Lochlánn.

The novitiate did not answer, did not break stride as he swung whatever was in his hand at the other man, who jumped back clear of the blow. Lochlánn stumbled and Louis saw the glint off the blade of the dagger in the other man’s hand as it caught what little moonlight spilled into the hall. The killer, the would-be killer, took a step toward Lochlánn, a practiced move, swift and sure, knife moving like a snake. Louis stepped up and brought the walking stick down on the man’s wrist.

The stranger shouted in pain, called out a single word, but he did not drop the knife. Instead his kicked Lochlánn, sent him reeling again and came at Louis. He came on fast, left arm out, knife held down and ready, but a man with a knife, even a trained man, was no match for Louis de Roumois with a staff.

Louis jabbed at the man, who seemed no more than a dark shape against the whitewashed wall. The man dodged sideways as Louis knew he would and Louis brought the staff around in a sweeping arc that caught the man on the side of the head and sent him staggering.

He was still recovering from the blow when Louis stepped in and drove the butt of the staff into the man’s stomach. He heard the breath go out of him. The next blow – Louis could see it as if it had already happened - would put the man down. He shifted the staff so he could swing it like an ax, but before he could move, the door behind the man flew open and the corpulent Brother Fearghus, who occupied that cell, stepped out.

“What, by God, is happening here?” he shouted. More doors opened down the length of the hall.

“Brother, get out of the damned way!” Louis shouted, and Fearghus might have been offended if Louis had not forgotten himself and shouted in Frankish.

“What?” Brother Fearghus asked and then the man with the knife grabbed him by his tonsured hair and his nightshirt and shoved him into Louis.

Fearghus slammed into him and he stumbled back. “Damn you!” Louis shouted, to whom he did not know. He pushed the monk aside and brought the staff up, ready to strike a blow or fend one off, but the man was gone. Louis could see nothing but his vague dark shape fleeing down the hall and the shadowy forms of the other monks peering from their cells.

Louis relaxed. It was over. Pointless to chase after the stranger who had already disappeared into the night. He turned to Lochlánn, who had regained his footing.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“No…” Lochlánn said. He sounded a bit stunned and Louis wondered if he had taken a blow to the head.

Another dark shape materialized in front of them. Brother Gilla Patraic, eldest of the monks, the man charged with keeping order in the dormitory.

“What is happening here?” he demanded. Age had not diminished the edge of authority in his voice.

“A robber, it seems,” Louis said before anyone else could speak. “Looking for silver or such, I would think. Brother Lochlánn heard him, came out and nearly captured him. Brave, very bravely done.”

That sent a murmur through the gathering men. Lochlánn, the focus of this praise, seemed disinclined to dispute Louis’ account, as Louis guessed he would be. And so after a little more discussion and speculation as to whether the robber might return (it was decided he would not) and whether men should be posted as watchmen through the night (it was deemed unnecessary) the brothers returned to their cells to get what sleep they could before they were called to invitiatory once again.

“Brother Lochlánn, hold a moment,” Louis said in a low voice when the rest had begun to disperse. There was considerably more to this than a simple robbery, that was clear. The fellow with the knife had said one word, just one. Louis had hardly noticed. It was only on thinking about it after the man had fled that he realized the word was “bastard,” not a surprising thing to yell in those circumstances. Except he had not said “bastard”. He had said “
bâtard
.” He had cursed in Frankish.

Louis looked up and down the hall. They were alone, he and Lochlánn, so he jerked his head toward his cell. Lochlánn hesitated, scowled, and then grudgingly went in. Louis followed him and closed the door.

“What happened? What was that about?” Louis asked. The moonlight shone into the room and he could see Lochlánn quite well. Some people would not sleep in moonlight, sure it would lead to madness. But Louis thought that was nonsense. He had always liked moonlight. Never more than at that moment as it revealed Lochlánn’s shrug and his surly expression.

“I don’t know,” Lochlánn said. “I heard a noise in the hall. I came out and that man was at your door. I thought it was you and I wondered what you were about. I called your name but he turned on me. I picked up a candlestick to fight him.”

Louis nodded. The candlesticks, arranged along the hall, were three feet of iron bar with legs splayed at the bottom, formidable weapons. But something in Lochlánn’s tale was not right.

“You were asleep? And you heard him?”

“Yes.”

“And you took the time to tie the cord around your robe?”

Lochlánn looked down at the cord knotted around his waist. He looked up again, his expression defensive, but he said nothing.

Louis leaned down and grabbed the hem of Lochlánn’s robe and pulled it up before Lochlánn could react. Where one might have expected to see bare legs and bare feet, Brother Lochlánn sported leggings and soft leather shoes. Louis could see the embroidered hem of a tunic.

He dropped the edge of the robe and straightened. He looked into Lochlánn’s defiant if imperfectly focused eyes. There was a quality about him, and a smell on his breath, that was entirely familiar to Louis.

“You’ve been drinking,” he said. He thought of the carts rolling into Glendalough for the fair, carts filled with all sorts of things normally foreign to the monastic city. Louis smiled.

“And whoring.”

“How dare you accuse me of that?” Lochlánn said, but there was little vigor in his denial. Louis waved it away.

“I’m not accusing. I’m observing.” It must have required some cunning for Lochlánn to get clear of the monastery, do his business and return unseen. And he would have done so, and no one the wiser, had the killer not come for Louis in the night.

“If you tell the abbot,” Lochlánn said, “I’ll tell him some of the things they say you are about. See how long you remain after they hear that!”

“Ha!” Louis said. “Nothing I do will get me thrown out of here. Do you think I haven’t tried? But no, I won’t go to the abbot with tales of your debauchery. In truth, I’m proud of you. More mettle that I would have credited you with. You did well fighting that son of a whore in the hall as well.”

“Ah…thank you,” Lochlánn said. He did not seem to know if he should be taking this all as a compliment.

“But you went at him too fast, too wild. I understand you were in your cups, but a fellow must be able to fight in any condition.”

“Very well…” Lochlánn stammered.

“You can’t be angry, I told you that the other day. Make the other fellow angry. Don’t fully commit to an attack unless you are certain it will land.”

“I see…”

“Look here. Come find me on the morrow when you can sneak away. You seem to have some skill in sneaking around. I’ll show you a few things that will much improve your technique.”

“Thank you, Brother,” Lochlánn said.

They stood there for a moment and Lochlánn began to fidget.

“And I thank you, Brother Lochlánn,” Louis said. “Now, good night.”

“Oh…yes…good night,” Lochlánn said. He turned and hurried from the cell. Louis smiled and crossed the room. He leaned out into the hall, looked left and right. Nothing moving, nothing to be seen. He closed the door.

Odd night
, he thought.
And the day will be odder still.