Éire’s Captive Moon (4 page)

No longer were his people confined to the
fjørds
of home. Home, Agnarr reflected briefly. Too many people on too little arable land. The soil was tired, the old ones said. Tired of caring for so many. Yet, the people of
Nordweg
needed to eat, needed to have goods to trade. They needed to be able to make and dye clothes such as the garments he himself wore that morning.

He shrugged his broad shoulders under the bright blue cloth and steel mesh he wore above light brown breeches.

His footgear was even more serviceable—water-repellent leather boots that were suitable for any type of ground they would encounter on the Green Island. Such excellent gear had a price and without farmland, the only option open to the men of
Nordweg
—to the men of Balestrand, his home—was to make goods or trade.
 

For his people, there was little choice. Be served or serve. Live or die. Trade or perish. The
Norns
—Urd, Skuld, and Verdandi, in charge of weaving the destinies of men—had given them few choices.

A hand batted Agnarr’s upper arm, drawing his attention away from thoughts of home. It was Tuirgeis.

“Are you ready, man?”

He straightened, tossing two mist-heavy braids to slap against his shoulders. “
Ja
, Tuirgeis!” The dark-haired man nodded and turned to address the men in their
skipniu
. “Men! We must be silent so as not to awaken any shore-dwellers. There is great wealth here—gold and jewels—but the people fight like wild dogs.”
 

Rough growls and subdued, confident laughter came from the seated sailors who waited for their opportunity to gain wealth from this venture. “But the prize?” one of them called. “It will be worth the fight?”
 

Agnarr inhaled deeply, appreciating the welcome odor of green earth that came to them from the island as it mixed with the brine of the ocean breeze. “Yes! It will be!” he said, with sure faith in their leader.

“We’ll raid!” Tuirgeis said. “We won’t give them time to prepare to fight!”

Tuirgeis strode between the men, giving orders, and Agnarr stared out at the three other longboats that followed in the mists. They had traveled from the iced green shores of their home over the unpredictable waves of the ocean. Navigating by sun and stars, they had arrived here at last. The sea master, Haki, was an excellent sailor and had guided the boats well.

Nodding at his own thoughts, Agnarr paced the small square of the long wooden deck he had claimed. His helmet was waiting. Catching it up, Agnarr ran his fingers reverently over the beaten iron. Years had passed since it was blessed by Thor’s priest. Never once had Agnarr been severely wounded in battle while wearing his helm, and for that reason alone he would have reverenced the Thunderer above all other gods—save Odin. Agnarr was sure this blessing from the god had also come from the sword passed down from his father that hung securely in the sheath strapped to Agnarr’s back.

With his armor and weaponry, he was more than prepared to take on the “wild dogs” of the Green Island.

One young man, Erik, stood up, still shoveling the last of his dried fish into his mouth. “Agnarr?” the fifteen-year-old asked.

“
Ja
?”

“You have raided before?”

“
Ja,
lad, and after today you too will be a veteran.”
Or dead
, the blond-braided man did not add aloud.

Slender shoulders straightened. “
Ja!
I will!”

The other men, older for the most part, grunted with approval. They all hoped to be that much richer after this raid. None thought to die. They were warriors.

While they waited for the boats to stop, the men made their final preparations. Leather boots were refastened for security. Helmets were polished. A few checked the heft of their spears, burnishing their iron tips with callused fingers. Beyond them, the silent, fearsome dragon heads of the other
skipniu
came nearer. No true sound of the other men reached Agnarr’s ears. They were well trained.

An audible hiss of anticipation welled up from the men as the boat scraped the sand and rock close to shore. With so many longships, the landing was tricky and Agnarr held his breath. The coast was hidden by the fog, but he could make out the green dent in the land, which called to him as if to bewitch his mind.

What did appeal to Agnarr the
Ostman
, the Norse warrior from over the ocean, was the idea of home that seemed to call from the shore. Riches, yes. But the tales of the lands here were what truly drew him. Even Tuirgeis didn’t know it yet, but Agnarr yearned to find a green, growing land to settle in. To bring his woman, and grow in the rich abundance of the soil, without the harsh winters of his homeland. A place of peace. With neighbors who were like unto him, a cook-fire that kept the cold night at bay, and the sure safety of his right arm to maintain that peace.

Desire for all this lurked in the eager light of Agnarr’s bright blue eyes this dawn of the late spring, a desire that only brightened when Tuirgeis lifted his arm and swung it in the air. Agnarr followed noiselessly, as did all in his raiding party. The ships emptied with relative silence as the warriors waded to shore.

The man came out of the water like a dolphin, his eyes wide and mouth open in a frozen rictus of shock.

“Oh!”

His companion laughed as he rubbed a rough woolen cloth over his naked body. “Well, now you know how cold it is, Martin!”

“I won’t call you weakling the more, Cowan,” the priest from Tours stated, his laughter a bit forced. “If this is where you learned to swim, then I will adjust all my former opinions.”

Cowan wrapped his cloth about his hips and moved to give his half-frozen friend a lift from the frigid water. “Well, it’s different in your Frankish lands.”

Martin lunged for his own woolen towel. Teeth chattering, he struggled to reply. “Y-yes, b-but w-we have g-g-good schools!”

Cowan laughed heartily as he turned to dig his clothes from his worked leather pack. “Martin, Martin. Where do you think I learned Latin? The priests here are as well educated as any from your monastery.”
 

Martin just shrugged, seeming unwilling to disagree with the learning of any brother monks.

The subject was dropped as they dressed and made a fire on the rocky beach. They had arrived from Britannia the night before and had camped on the beach. Their boat was overturned a length down the shore to allow it to dry and to keep it from being knocked about on the rocks. Though why it mattered, Cowan did not know. He planned on leaving it behind.

 
Late spring was just not as hospitable here as it was back in Tours, in the Aquitaine. The seashore was forbidding with cliffs and sharp rocks. Yet, Cowan inhaled deeply in satisfaction, it was good to be home! There was only a day’s walk to reach the land of his father, King Branieucc.
It smells so green
. The rich scents made him grin, crinkling friendly lines near his eyes. Though his damp skin was pale, he did not have the red hair so many of his countrymen possessed. His shoulder-length hair was blond, but his beard was as red as flame, like every other man in his family.

“Are you ready to start that school, Martin?” A more pleasant topic to start their journey today, Cowan thought.
 

Martin’s dark eyes were fixed to the east, not the west, which made Cowan wonder. But then, he himself spied the gray granite of Bangor’s monastery. Of course, Martin would have interest there.

“Yes,” the priest said, seeming to shake himself from a reverie. “I am looking forward to teaching again. Your own example encourages me, Cowan.”

Cowan had to laugh at that. “Oh, yes. Such a good student.” He glanced at his friend as they crossed a wide dirt path that led away from the monastery. “Martin, you have no idea what my master used to do to us if we weren’t good students! He’d make the priests of Tours look like some fawn in the woods.”

A snort. “Worse than Brother Julius?” Cowan shifted his pack to the other shoulder.

“Worse than him. But,” Cowan said, grinning slyly, “Julius had more hair than my master.”

“He just had a bigger head!”

Bells from the monastery rang
terce
, the third hour in the monastic day. A brown-robed cleric approached, riding in a rough wooden wagon.

“Peace be with you,” Martin called to the driver. The driver didn’t answer, but he did nod his head. “He may be under a silence,” Martin commented to Cowan.

Cowan respected that, though he didn’t understand all the disciplines of the priesthood. A Christian himself, he had neither wish nor desire to join the Brethren.

The wagon started moving with an increased pace, kicking up earth behind it. Concerned and alert, Cowan swung his staff around in his free hand and ran up the path toward the monastery to see what was wrong. “I wish I had my sword!” he said over his shoulder to Martin, who followed. The sword had fallen victim to a boat accident and was somewhere off the coast of Brittany. Instinct told him to avoid the monastery to the east and instead head west, to his father and a new sword. He wasn’t always inclined to follow instinct, so he hastened to the monastery, in time to see the wooden gate open for the wagoner.

“
Festina lente!
” Martin begged, quoting the great emperor, Augustus.

“Make haste slowly,” Cowan translated into the
Gaeilge
, for Martin’s benefit and his own. “Sorry, my friend.”

The sense of urgency about the monastery kept him moving though. What was wrong? He prayed to Jesu and all the saints that they would show him.

But they were too late in answering.

“All right, it has to come out, Devlin,” Charis told her husband. “The tooth’s that bad.” The burly warrior grimaced, eyeing the long line of sinew in the healer’s fingers.

“Wife, you try my patience.”

“For certain. Which is why I took you both, so I can keep trying it.”

Through his pain, Devlin grinned. Devin laughed out loud. “
Isea
, and he knows it, Charis. He does. He just feels that he has to try to keep you at bay.” Warmth flowed around the three of them in the misty light of the morning. Though the sun wasn’t powerful now, it was far more effective at illumination than the fire inside their home.

“All right, the pair of you.” Charis put affectionate but capable hands on each broad chest and pushed. “That’s enough, Devin. You can stay here, but make yourself useful if you’re going to make fun of us. Get me my willow ash, there,” she instructed, pointing.

Light green eyes twinkling, Devin obeyed, pouring out the measure with half an eye on it. The other half was on his brother, who gripped his sword hilt with both hardened hands. Charis—lips thinned in concentration—wrapped the seasoned sinew around the bad lower molar that was plaguing Devlin.

“Now I need the lambskin,” she muttered, testing the tautness of the sinew. Then, giving no warning, she pulled the sinew and kicked her husband off the small boulder where he had rested.

“Woman!” he roared, ignoring the blood pouring from his mouth.

Charis did
not
ignore it, but pried open his jaw and tucked the clean ashes and absorbent skin in the gaping hole to staunch the wound. “I’m sorry, love,” she murmured, her voice low and soothing. “That wasn’t fair of me, I know, but you’re too strong for me to fight you when you know I’m coming.” Looking into his narrowed eyes, she kissed his nose. “Now, bite down on that. Harder.”