The Lord of Vik-Lo: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 3) (9 page)

  Then Ornolf shouted in his considerable voice, “The Far Voyagers have arrived! Bring out the women! Bring out the drink!” and the odd mood was gone like so much smoke. The men laughed, grinned, stood and slapped one another on the back, found wineskins and mead. This was the release from having stepped so close to the edge of death and then stepped back again. Thorgrim knew it well.

  He, too, was grinning. For all he had seen and done in his life he was still not immune to this sort of reaction. And then he noticed the gang of men on shore, a dozen or so, standing at the end of the plank road, clearly come to see this new arrival. They were well-armed, which was hardly cause for concern as all Northmen, Danes, Norwegians, Swedes, it did not matter, all were in the habit of arming themselves whenever they stepped from their homes.

  Behind the dozen armed men stood more, holding long planks, a man at each end. They tossed their boards into the mud alongside
Far Voyager
, one after the other, until there was a relatively dry line of planks out to the ship. The man in front approached, and the others followed behind. The laughing aboard the ship died away as Thorgrim’s company saw the armed men coming toward them.

  Thorgrim stepped off the afterdeck and walked forward to where the newcomer stood beside the ship. Ornolf followed behind.

  “I am Thorgrim Ulfsson,” he said to the man. The fellow was younger than Thorgrim, well-made, with long brown hair bound behind and a beard that could not be called sparse. He looked along
Far Voyager
’s deck, fore and aft, before he spoke.

  “I am Bersi Jorundarson,” the man said. There was a hint of wariness in his voice, as well there might be. It was good to be wary when one did not know to whom one was speaking. Thorgrim was wary as well. But if Bersi Jorundarson was a man of influence in Vík-ló, which Thorgrim assumed he was, then he wanted the man’s trust because he needed his help.

  “Please, come aboard,” Thorgrim said. “You men,” he turned to his own crew, “rig out that gangplank and be quick about it!” The gangplank was put over the side and first Bersi and then the others came up the narrow board and hopped down to the deck.

  “Where do you come from, Thorgrim Ulfsson?” Bersi asked, but Ornolf interrupted before Thorgrim could answer.

  “Get some drink for these men!” he shouted to the company in general. “Have you no manners, guests aboard our ship and not a drink offered them?” Thorgrim smiled. Sometimes the old man knew just the tone to strike.

  Cups of mead were passed along to Bersi and his man and Thorgrim said, “We come from Dubh-linn.”

  “And before that?”
  “I am from Vik, as is my father-in-law, the jarl Ornolf,” Thorgrim said, indicating Ornolf with a nod of the head. “The rest of these men…they are from all places, as seamen are wont to be.”

  Bersi nodded and drank and his men drank as well. He did not seem filled with joy to be in the company of men from Vik, he himself no doubt being a Dane, but neither did he seem much concerned.

  “Why do you come here?” he asked. Thorgrim could feel his irritation rising with each query, particularly as he did not yet know Bersi’s status at Vík-ló, whether he was important enough to expect answers to this interrogation. But Thorgrim held his temper in check and made himself be civil. He reckoned he had patience enough for maybe three more questions. After that he was not sure what would happen.

  “We left Dubh-linn last week,” Thorgrim said, “bound for Vik, but we hit a floating log and sprung planks. There.” He pointed to the ungainly reinforcements on the hull, the beitass still pushed against it, holding it on place. “We were sinking, and the winds would not allow us to return to Dubh-linn.” He did not add that he would have drowned before returning to Dubh-linn.

  “I see,” Bersi said. “That was very unlucky.”

  “It was,” Thorgrim agreed. “But tell me, do you command here at Vík-ló? I must speak with whoever commands here, to make arrangements for repairing my ship.”

  “Me, command? No, no,” Bersi said. “I have men under my command, but Grimarr Knutson is the lord of Vík-ló. He is known as Grimarr Giant. He shared rule with another, Fasti Magnisson. They were old friends. But Fasti was killed in a fight with the Irish, just a few days ago. We have sent him off to the gods, him and the men who died with him. Now Grimarr is in a foul mood. He sent me to see who you were.”

  Thorgrim nodded.
This Bersi does not rule here, but he at least has been sent by the one who does
, he thought.
It is good I was not rude to him
. But Thorgrim had to admit it was Ornolf, not himself, who had won over these men of Vík-ló.

  “Well, you have seen who we are, and the damage our ship has suffered,” Thorgrim said. “We have much work to do to set her to rights, and little time if we are to sail before the weather prevents us. May I ask you for permission to work on our ship here, and some assistance? We have some silver with which to pay.” They had, in fact, quite a bit of silver, but Thorgrim was not about to say as much.

  Bersi Jorundarson frowned and looked around the ship, and Thorgrim could see he was struggling for an answer. Finally he said, “I cannot tell you yes or no. You must speak with Grimarr Giant.”

  “If it is Grimarr Giant that I must speak to, then pray, lead me to him.”

  Again Bersi hesitated. “He is in a foul mood, and much occupied, as well…” he said, repeating his earlier objection.

  Thorgrim’s sense of the man that Bersi was began to form like a figure coming out of the mist. Bersi might be a leader of men, but he was not a particularly decisive or commanding individual. That could well have been why this Grimarr Giant put him in authority. Bersi was no rival for his command.

  After another moment of pointless looking around Bersi came to a decision. “Very well. He is in his hall now. I will take you to him. You may take two men with you. The rest will remain aboard.”

  “Very well,” Thorgrim said. He stepped aft and picked up his belt and buckled it around his waist, adjusting the hang of the sword. He waited for Bersi to tell him that he and his men could not come armed, which would have been a problem, but Bersi said nothing.

 
There are three of us, a dozen or more of them
, Thorgrim thought.
It’s no matter to them if we are armed or not.

  He stepped forward to where Bersi and his men stood waiting. He spread out his arms. “Lead on,” he said.

I’m ready to tread this isle

where combat is tried

- God grant the poet victory –

a drawn sword in my hand.

                               The Saga of Gunnlaug Serpent-Tongue

Two men. Bersi Jorundarson had allowed Thorgrim two men to accompany him. He chose Ornolf and Harald.

  Ornolf, for all his faults, was a wealthy and powerful jarl, a man well-respected in his own country and not nearly as big a fool as he played at being. Harald was young, still quite naïve despite all the voyaging he had done and all the time he had spent in the world of men. If there was one part of a father’s duty that Thorgrim understood, it was that he had to teach his son how to navigate that world with strength and cleverness enough that he might prosper. Here was an opportunity to do just that.

  They walked up the plank road, not so different from that of Dubh-linn, though smaller, and the buildings pressed up against it were not so densely packed. The rain was all but gone, and men and a few women moved about in their yards and along the road. Missing was the constant undercurrent of sound one found in Dubh-linn, the hammering and the creak of carts, the lowing of cattle, the dull roar of fires, the tangle of human voices talking, yelling, arguing, laughing, the general sense of activity. Vík-ló was more quiet by far.

  Thorgrim and Ornolf walked side by side, with Bersi beside them. Harald came astern, and behind him the rest of Bersi’s men. They were quiet at first as they walked up the gently sloping road. Thorgrim could see ahead of them the earthen wall and the gate where the plank road terminated. He could see two houses, larger than the rest, flanking the road, and he guessed it was to there they were headed.

  “Have you been long in this country?” Ornolf asked. His tone was jovial and disarming in a way that Thorgrim did not think he himself could manage to sound.
I am becoming a miserable old bastard,
he thought.
Even I would not care to be in my company.

  “Above a year,” Bersi said. “I came with a fleet from Hedeby. I can’t say I meant to stay this long, but Vík-ló has much to recommend it.”

  “I would imagine!” Ornolf all but roared. “Have you been to Dubh-linn?
There
is a longphort! These Irish women flock there, because there is silver and gold to be had, and we Northmen do not live like pigs like the Irishmen do!”

  Before Ornolf’s rant could build any greater momentum, they arrived at one of the two large houses. Bersi knocked on the door. There was a pause and he raised his hand to knock again when a voice like an angry bear came through the door, the thick oak planks barely muffling the sound.

  “What is it?”

  “Lord Grimarr? It’s Bersi. The master of the ship that just arrived would beg a word of you!”

 
Beg
was not the word Thorgrim would have used, but he let it go. They waited again, and then the voice called, “Enter!”

  Bersi opened the door and they stepped in, into the thick air of the closed-up building, a fire burning in the hearth, the smell of cooked meat and spilled drink and men and wet furs. It was a familiar smell, one that might not even have registered with Thorgrim, save for the fact that it had been so notably absent since they had put to sea.

  Bersi had called this Grimarr’s hall, and such it was, though it was just barely large enough to warrant that title. The peak of the timber frame ceiling, supporting heavy thatch, rose twenty feet above the rush-covered floor. The space was twenty feet wide and thirty long with an oak table taking up much of it. At the far end, all but lost in shadow, Thorgrim could see wattle partitions segregating off other rooms, sleeping chambers, likely.

  Seated at the table in the dim-lit room was a man whom Thorgrim assumed was Grimarr Giant, and if so, he was aptly named. Even seated the man’s size was plain, his shoulders massive, thick hair and beard, the sleeves of his tunic cut far wider than those of most men. The table in front of him looked undersized. Grimarr did not look happy.

  “Lord Grimarr,” Bersi said, “this is Thorgrim Ulfsson. Of Vik.”

  For a moment Grimarr and Thorgrim looked at one another. Neither man spoke. Then slowly Grimarr stood, turning to face Thorgrim as he did, a move that was clearly intended to carry menace. Not that Grimarr intended any harm – Thorgrim did not think that was the case – he just wanted the newcomers to feel intimidated. But Thorgrim did not feel intimidated. It had been many years since Thorgrim Night Wolf had felt intimidated.

  “Ha!” Once again Ornolf broke the silence. “My son-in-law is very rude!” He pushed his way past Thorgrim, hand outstretched and Grimarr, his surprise evident, took the hand. “I am Ornolf Hrafnsson. They call me Ornolf the Restless. A jarl in East Agder, very powerful, my fame proceeds me, I have no doubt.”

  Grimarr, wordless, just looked at Ornolf and allowed his hand to be shaken.

  “There, you see, leaders of men like you and me, we recognize one another!” Ornolf went on. “The boy is my grandson, Harald. He’ll be a great jarl someday, see if he won’t. I take orders from Thorgrim here, because he has a ship and I do not. Mine was burned up fighting the Danes. Damned Danes. No offense intended, mind you, these were other Danes.”

  “Indeed…” Grimarr was able to say at last.

  “So, can we sit, discuss how we might help each other? One great man to another?” Ornolf asked.

  Grimarr glanced over at Bersi as if looking for guidance, but there seemed to be none coming from that quarter, so he said, “Yes, have a seat. I’ve had no good fortune today, so I may as well piss away my drink on the likes of you Norwegian dogs.”

  “That’s the spirit!” Ornolf roared and he sat and Harald sat and, more reluctantly, Thorgrim and Grimarr sat. Thorgrim had seen this play out before, Ornolf creating so grand a presence that he could bowl over any obstacle in his path. At times he, Thorgrim, wished he could do the same, but he knew he did not have the temperament for it.

  Grimarr called for drink and a servant appeared, nodded, disappeared into the other end of the house. And it was only then that Thorgrim noticed the girl.

  She was seated by herself, across the room from the hearth. The low flames from the fire cast a dim yellowish light around the space, and with the heavy overcast there was hardly any daylight to speak of, leaving her all but lost in the gloom. But Thorgrim could see her now. She was young, fine boned and small. Her hair was in a tangle.

  She was not dressed like a Norsewoman but rather wore Irish clothing, a loose-fitting leine and over that a brat, worn in the manner Thorgrim had often seen in Dubh-linn, where Irish and Northmen readily mixed. They were the clothes of what the Irish called the
bothach
, poor tenant farmers. They were not fancy, though they may have once been clean and neat, and not the torn, filthy, unkempt rags they were now.

  Servants appeared from the far end of the house, drinking horns were handed around and filled, Ornolf raised his horn to Danes everywhere and managed to make the words sound sincere. They drank. The door opened and the gray light of the day, the cool, wet air flowed in. With it came a young man, perhaps a little past his twentieth year. He stepped through the door with a noticeable limp and shut it behind him.

  “This is my son, Sandarr,” Grimarr said, as if he was being forced to admit something. Sandarr walked painfully to the table and sat at the end of the bench opposite his father.

  Ornolf raised his horn and cried “Sandarr!” then introduced him to the others. Sandarr nodded in acknowledgement of each man, showing nothing of his father’s smoldering hostility.

  “Danes, Norwegians,” Grimarr continued, as if he had never been interrupted, “any are better than these damned Irish. We cremated my oldest friend, Fasti Magnisson, this morning. Killed aboard his ship when these Irish dogs surprised him. They killed him and all his men.” He took a drink, nodded toward the girl sitting in the dark corner. “She’s the only one left alive. The whole ship’s company, killed, and only her left alive.”

  At that, all heads turned and looked toward the girl. She did not meet their eyes, but rather continued to stare off at some indeterminate place in the room. There was no expression on her face.

  “Was it just her good luck to have lived,” Thorgrim asked, curious despite himself, “or was she spared for some reason?”

  Grimarr turned his great head in Thorgrim’s direction, sunk his fingers into his beard and scratched. He considered Thorgrim for a moment before answering, as if trying to determine if he should answer at all. “She was spared,” Grimarr said at last. “She was taken at Fearna. We took a number of thralls during that last raid. She was hidden under the deck planks of Fasti’s ship. By Fasti himself, I have to guess.”

  He said no more, and the others were silent, until Ornolf posed the obvious question: “Why would he do that?”

  Grimarr shrugged. “I have my ideas, but I don’t know for certain.” He nodded toward the girl without looking at her. “She is the only one who would know the truth of it.”

  They drank again, and again said nothing. And then it was Harald’s turn. “Why don’t you ask her?”

  Grimarr looked up at Harald as if he had said the stupidest thing imaginable, though it seemed to Thorgrim a reasonable question. “Because she does not speak our language,” Grimarr said at last, “and there is none in Vík-ló can speak hers.”

  To the men who had come from Dubh-linn this was surprising indeed. “None?” Ornolf asked. “In Dubh-linn the Irish swarm over the place like they own it! The men come to market, the women come to marry. Half the damned longphort is Irish.”

  “Not here,” Grimarr said. “Not now. Before, those Irish who lived nearby would come to sell their goods. But now the jarl, or whatever the Irish call their petty kings, the man who rules here abouts, has put a stop to it. Lorcan is his name. It was him killed Fasti and his men. Lorcan would drive us out of here, so he’s put a stop to any Irish coming to Vík-ló, no one is allowed to sell cattle or food of any sort to us.”

  “You have no Irish thralls here?” Thorgrim asked.

  “Some,” Grimarr said. “None that speak more than a few words of our language, so they’re no use. And they’re not to be trusted. They run away. It’s damned hard to keep an Irish thrall in an Irish longphort if you don’t have men enough to watch them constantly. Sandarr has a thrall seems devoted to him, doesn’t try to run, but she speaks no Danish.”

  “What’s your secret, then?” Ornolf demanded of Sandarr.

  Sandarr shrugged. “I feed her. I don’t beat her. She probably lives better in my household then in whatever shit-hole pig sty she lived in before.”

  “Most prefer their Irish sties,” Grimarr said. “That’s why we sell them in Scotland or England as quick as we can. But now we have none can translate this bitch’s words.”

  Thorgrim met Harald’s eyes and an unspoken discussion passed between them. Thorgrim’s natural tendency would be to give up nothing, to secret away any advantage he held until it could be used to its fullest. On the other hand, they needed Grimarr’s help, and this might be a way to secure it.

  Thorgrim took a deep pull from his drinking horn, time enough to come to a decision.

  “My son, here, Harald, he speaks the Irish tongue,” Thorgrim said.

  Grimarr looked at Thorgrim and then Harald, surprise and unbelief mixed on his features as if they had just announced themselves as having come from the gods. “The boy speaks Irish?” he asked. “How does he come to do that?”

  “We stayed in the home of an Irish woman in Dubh-linn,” Thorgrim said. “He learned from her.” It was, in truth, more complicated than that. Harald had fallen in love with the princess Brigit nic Máel Sechnaill, who now ruled at Tara, and he had set about purposely to learn her language to better further his courtship. She had taught him a profound lesson in treachery, and there was little chance he would ever see her again. But in the months that Thorgrim was convalescing in Dubh-linn, Harald had continued to master the language. The boy seemed to enjoy it, and Thorgrim suspected he took added pleasure in knowing something that his father did not.