Norseman Raider (The Norseman Chronicles Book 4) (31 page)

“Funny thing,” said a familiar, feminine voice.  There should have been no women aboard.

“She is,” I said, referring to Aoife.

“Aren’t you surprised I’m here?” asked Gudruna.

I turned toward her.  She was wearing a man’s armor.  A great brown cloak served to masquerade her womanly features.  Gudruna had a short sword on her belt.  “Where are the king’s keys?” I asked instead of playing whatever game she had in mind.

“Given to the new priest to hold,” said Leif walking up from behind.

“Godfrey won’t approve of the location of the keys or his queen,” I warned.

“Neither will affect the outcome of our raiding,” Leif answered.

Gudruna rested a boot on the luggage.  I saw the pale skin of her leg under her dress.  The fair, short hairs stood tall from the cool sea air. “Ruling the household while the king is away is a noble role.  But we’ve got nothing to worry about at home.  We’ll thump Lismore.  I want to be a part of my great husband’s adventure.”

“Huh,” I said.  Godfrey, Killian, Randulfr, none of them would be happy.  If the lady wanted to take part then she should ride the waves on
Raven’s Cross
, not the ship of her young lover.  The pair waved off my indifference and sat among the baggage.  My thoughts returned to our mission.

By my reckoning of the crude maps Godfrey had
produced, we’d be at the shores of Dal Riata’s heart sometime the next day.  The very island where Godfrey had begun the deadly back-and-forth killings was our target.  The monastery at Lismore would be ravaged once and for all by our sweeping force.  Slaughtering men for sport was not our intent.  However, and the Christians among you may not understand, our people’s martial ethos demanded action.  It demanded a man venture out from his fjord and strike.  The gods performed glorious deeds in forming our world.  The sea kings of yore achieved great fame for drawing the strongest bands of followers to their halls.  These wave-pirates, wave-lovers, our ancestors, the very men who carved out the farmsteads and villages and halls from the virgin forest commanded us, their progeny, to do likewise.  We were to conquer for glory.  My heart warmed thinking about it.

“You’re smiling,” observed Leif. 
I looked at him with one squinting eye.  The late summer sun was yet warm, but the air was changing.  The nights and our shadows during the day were longer.  Leif’s red beard had filled in even since the start of that season.  His scruff fluttered against his baby face.  “You like manual labor so much?” he asked, pointing to the blades in my hands.

Huh! 
Manual labor was better than sitting around thinking.  A man’s thoughts, unchecked, could lead to all sorts of problems.  I slowly moved my whetstone down the length of my sword.  I should have replaced the weapon from one of Man’s traders, but instead I hid my middling wealth under a rock behind the tenth tree inside the last great forest on the island.  I suppose I was saving for something larger; my farm, perhaps, or a bride-price, if ever I found a woman.  “I smile because I dream of taking your place inside the queen,” I lied, mostly to pester Leif and his woman.

Gudruna laughed. 
Leif stood and leaned on the gunwale as Magnus pushed the steering oar to send us in a more favorable direction for the wind.  “It’s the queen’s choice,” Leif said.  “And the king’s.”  Leif sized me up with his eyes.  “She’d not have you.”  Gudruna was laughing more.

“What’s wrong with me?” I asked, angry, though I could not have cared less whether or not Gudruna wanted me.  She was too thin a woman for me.  I wanted one with meat.  They’re the ones who
survive childbirth and have the fortitude to turn babies into men.  I realized then that the king and queen had no children.  I looked at Gudruna.  Too thin for making children, I thought.

Leif smiled and punched my shoulder.  I smiled back.
  The three of us laughed.

Tyrkr made some comment about the queen’s rump in his native tongue. 
He then used the whetstone and sword in some sort of demonstration of what he said.  The queen, not knowing what he said, but understanding his motions, rolled on the baggage.  Her laughter, sweet like that of most women, was infectious.  The crew chuckled along with us.

Soon we rambled to a halt. 
“I smile because we go to exact our king’s revenge.  The hall of Odin will be filled with more men in a matter of days.”  I was speaking like a true believer in the king, for I was in those days.  “You and I were exiled from Greenland for an attack that was not our fault.  Out of our disgrace the norns have seen fit to send us to a king who fights and wins.  He’ll be a great ring-giver.  Godfrey will be hallowed in the halls.  His queen will be known as Gudruna the Wise.  Skalds will talk of us in the tales.  We’ll be victorious or wind up in Odin’s hall.  What is there not to smile about?  By dusk tomorrow it may well be over.”

“Tomorrow?” asked Leif.

“Or the next day,” I said, shrugging.

“We go to Iona first,” said Leif.

“The Christian monastery?” I asked.  “Does Killian rule the king or Godfrey the priest?”

“The monastery is still there, but Godfrey says that it’s been under Norse control for years.  Sometimes he claims it as one of his isles.”

“And other times?” I asked.

“Dyflin controls it with the help of some of the friendlier Irish.”

“So, why do we go there?  And why wasn’t I told?  I’m a commander of some of these men.”

Gudruna
shrugged.  “You stayed behind to gawk at Edana’s fat corpse while we planned.  Captains were told.”

“And helmsmen,” called Magnus from the rudder.
  He pushed to change direction yet again.

I cursed at being left out, though i
t didn’t really matter.  Fate would shove us where she must.  I set my stone into its pouch and stuffed my sword into its cracked scabbard.  My pouting was as overdone as a rich noble’s spoiled child.

“We go to gather a few more men,
maybe even deepen our relationships,” explained Gudruna.  “Godfrey says that Kvaran, the King of Dyflin, and occasionally the ruler of Jorvik, is there now.  Our king hopes to form a quick alliance to bolster our numbers.”

“Another
sea king,” I muttered.  “Isn’t one enough?  Can we trust this King of Dyflin?”

“Of course not,” shrugged Leif.  “Godfrey’s under no illusions.
  He trusts you, Killian, and a few others.”

“We’ll see,” I mumbled.  “More kings, huh.”

. . .

Iona was a
tiny, picturesque island.  Small and situated as it was on the westernmost end of a much larger island, it was in no way protected from the constant winds sent from the far reaches of the ocean.  From the time we made landfall to the time we put Iona on our stern, the wind steadily pulled and tore at us.  Living in such a place would age a man, perhaps even more so than in the glacial fjords of my homeland.  A man’s face would be tugged and prodded by the breeze.  It would be pecked by the sharp beaks of the rain.  In response an inhabitant of Iona would wince to protect his eyes and lips.  His wrinkles would be fully formed before he’d seen twenty summers.  Iona with its wind and its monastery would age a man.

Five monks lived on the island in a series of buildings that obviously used to house dozens of their brethren.  The wind had done its work on those five men.  They were hard and wrinkled.  Had they not been monks, they would have resembled our wicked-looking crews.  These monks
’ hands were calloused and worn.  Their sandals and frocks were tattered.  Life on the island had not been kind to those Christians since the coming of my ancestors many years before.  They walked hunched.  Even their tiny gardens were populated by plants that grew at angles due to the unending breeze.

Two buildings still wore the black streaks
of a former blaze set during a long-forgotten raid.  Their crumbled heaps displayed the marks like badges of honor almost in the same way a mighty Norseman clings to his favorite sword in death.  Providence had at least temporarily abandoned the Iona faithful.

“Peace be unto you,” said one of the monks in greeting.  He used my
native tongue which proved just who had ruled the land for many winters.  We’d left most of the men and weapons back at the ships, for it was to be a short, peaceful stay.  Gudruna was among them.  She had rightly said that if Godfrey found out about her now, he’d sail right back to Man and drop her off.

“You say, ‘and to you,’” said Killian from behind as we walked over the sod toward the main monastery bu
ilding.

“I’ll say what I will,” I huffed, but otherwise
I ignored the monk and the priest.  Soon they ignored me and began babbling in Latin.

I scanned the part of the island I could see.  I saw no real settlements.  I saw no one
except a skinny boy aged perhaps ten years.  To the monastery he carried a bucket of fish he’d caught with a small net that was draped over his shoulder.  It dripped down his clothing, darkening it.  The boy paid the wetness no heed as he walked.  After he saw our menacing group of bristling men, he changed his course, giving us an extra wide berth.  Up a small hill fifteen sheep tore at the spindly grass of late summer.  Their wool was just beginning to fill for the coming months of cold.  A ram mounted a ewe, assuring their kind would continue for at least another season.  One ship, other than those in our armada, was beached on the shingle.  Its tall mast angled lazily to one side.  Its bulwark held no shields.  If we could gather an additional army here in this desolate place, fortune was most surely shining upon us.

“Welcome to the Order of Saint Columba,” said another weatherworn monk as we entered an ancient church.  It had been built, destroyed, rebuilt, destroyed, and reconstructed many times over the years as evidenced by the different colored stones and
varying quality and styles of construction.  Though I still had no real understanding of their faith, seeing the obvious perseverance of the monks from one generation to the next was duly impressive.

The monk
who greeted us began to rub his hands together as he scanned our men from one face to another.  He looked especially nervous whenever he looked on the newcomers.  I’ve told you they were hard men.  In truth, our new brigands and mercenaries made me just as wary.  Scowls, frowns, and scars covered the men.  The monk added, “All our wealth has been taken to Norway or Dyflin over the years.  There is nothing here for you now.”  He looked a second time at our mad, motley bunch.  “And if you bring nothing but mayhem in your wake, know that Kvaran, King of Dyflin, is here convalescing with a retinue of his retainers.  Any of our blood you wish to spill, we will gladly shed for our faith, but know this:  Kvaran has become a faithful servant.  He has become a friend and will not let an affront to Iona go unanswered.  Many of you will die.”

“Oh
, Maclean!” came an exasperated, almost bored voice from a dark alcove along one of the church’s long walls.  “Unless they are Ui Neill dung-beardlings, we’ve nothing to worry about.  And besides, if they aren’t men who follow the One God, they’d welcome death by the sword.  Your threats mean nothing.”

“Kvaran?” shouted Godfrey.  His voice echoed off the stone walls and
saintly statues. Only one of the latter stood without a snapped limb or cracked face.  My king stepped ahead, peeking into the recess that housed this second king.

“Godfrey?” said the indifferent voice.

“You don’t sound excited to see me,” said Godfrey, grinning while feigning distress.

Killian tugged down on my arm.  “I’ve never met a mor
e apathetic man than Kvaran.  He sees defeat in everything.”

“Yet he’s a king,” I whispered.

“A king who’s hemmed in by the Ui Neill.  The Battle of Tara saw to that.  Without the support of Godfrey and the Irish Leinster clan, Kvaran’s great city would be overrun in a matter of days.”

“I had hoped for some peace and quiet here in the abbey,” answered Kvaran plainly.  “I’m not looking forward to meeting with anyone
, especially clingers and overly complimentary ones like you.  When you’ve lived as long as I, we’ll see how thrilled you are to greet guests.”

Maclean the monk brought Godfrey a chair. 
He sat.  One of the legs was shorter than the other three.  It clacked as it teetered back and forth against the flagstone floor.  My king, for his part, waved us out in order to quell Kvaran’s nerves.  “What is it friend?” asked Godfrey.

The rest of the men who’d entered the church filed out after Maclean.  I heard the monk begin to give lessons on the basics of Christianity and raising peas.  Neither subject appealed to
me at the time so I plopped down in the shadows to listen to what two kings said to one another.  I’d not be left as the last one to know Godfrey’s plans this time.

“A small wound,” began Kvaran.  His foot was soon held out into the dim light.  He wore a rich-looking shoe of red felt.  One step into a puddle would ruin it.  I thought it foolishly impractical.  Above the low boot was a small bandage that wrapped around
the lower leg of Dyflin’s king.

“I am sorry.  How long until you recover?” Godfrey
asked.

“It’s nothing.”  The leg retreated back into the darkness.  “I’m nearly well.  My pride is hurt more than anything.
”  He sighed.  “Great success early in life is difficult to follow.  The last few years have been a challenge in Dyflin.  I leave my son, Gluniairn, in charge while I’m away.”