The Yeoman of Daldriada (Volume 2)
By Phyllis Keels
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The blast of a horn sliced through the stillness of the early morning air. Fyrddin turned toward the watchman, who pointed from his position atop the tower of the castle.
Moving to the edge of the wall, Fyrddin squinted into the mist until he caught a glimpse of the horse and rider in the distance. The galloping horse sped toward him, hugging the road that skirted the forest.
Propping his forearms against the cool stone, Fyrddin blew out a stream of breath that turned to vapor in the cold. ’Twas only a fortnight until the vernal equinox. When would this winter’s chill finally leave?
Fyrddin leaned outward, as if the motion would allow him to see who was approaching at such speed. He shook his head. Haste at this hour of the morn did not bode well.
Had evil befallen his trusted servant? ’Twas too early in the year for storms as yet, and still the spice ships had not arrived. Perhaps that was the care that troubled him of late – the care that had him pacing the ramparts these three dawns in a row.
Hoof beats rang through the valley of the River Tierney. Fyrddin’s gaze followed the rider nearing the castle, still at a full gallop. The man reined his horse at the sharp bend in the roadway. Then with renewed speed, he ran the animal through the open gate of the castle, its hooves clattering against the cobblestones. Fyrddin’s pulse quickened. ’Twas Alan, the messenger he had sent to Brannar for word of his steward.
In two strides, Fyrddin crossed to the inner side of the wall, leaned over and scanned the bailey laid out below him. Even before Alan fully stopped his lathered horse, the young man leapt from the saddle.
Fyrddin cupped his hands on either side of his mouth. “What news?”
The messenger looked up, searching for the body belonging to the voice he had heard. He spotted Fyrddin and bowed low. “My lord!” Rushing forward, he looked as soaked with sweat as his poor horse.
“Wait there!” Fyrddin turned and bounded down the stairs. He entered the massive courtyard and gave a sharp whistle to the sleepy-eyed lackey emerging from the stable. “Care for that horse before it collapses.” The young man hurried to obey and led the panting steed away.
Young Alan swept the hat from his head and bowed again as he met Fyrddin. “My lord, news from the coast.”
“My steward? Is he well?”
“I know not, my lord. The ships had not yet returned. And ’tis a good thing.” He glanced around then leaned forward.
Fyrddin stepped near.
“There were Norsemen!”
Fyrddin clenched his fists. His heart tripled its beat. “At Brannar?”
Alan mopped his forehead with his sleeve and shook his head. “Up the coast. Your steward was not at the docks in Brannar so I rode north to Caldynn.” His lower lip trembled. “Know you the hilltop just south of the town – the one that overlooks the monastery?”
“Aye.” Fyrddin shoved aside the images filling his mind. He had heard that the pagans left few alive. The rumors held that those few, they took captive to face a life of unknown horrors.
Alan’s voice trembled. “When I reached the hilltop, the monastery had already fallen to the invaders. Now they are coming south, my Lord – they always do, do they not?”
Leaning his head back, Fyrddin drew a deep breath. Could they be on their way here to Ninfa? He leveled his chin and looked at Alan. “How long did it take you to ride from Caldynn?”
“I left yester morn and have ridden all night, my lord.”
“The Norsemen keep to the towns on the coast, yet their ships are swifter than the best horse.” Fyrddin glanced to the west, longing to peer through the castle walls to the sea. “’Tis likely they have passed our river’s mouth and are well south of us by now.”
“You mean they may not raid here?”
“They have been known to come up river. It has happened here before – in my father’s youth. They sacked the monastery up river, east of here.” All the lives lost – all the rare books and treasures – gone in the blink of an eye. “Only one of the monks escaped to tell of it.”
“What is to be done, my prince?” The youth wrung the hat in his hands.
“Courage now.” Fyrddin placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “They could have reached us by now, had they chosen. My father said they rarely come inland.”
Alan released a breath and nodded.
“Yet, we must make ready, in any case. Go and find me another – one willing to gather folk and supplies to aid Caldynn. Then take some food and a little rest, lad.”
Alan bowed low. “Aye, my lord and thank you.” He trotted away.
Fyrddin passed a hand over his face. Would that he could clear his mind as easily as this sweat from his skin. Father God, give me wisdom. Few living near the coast had ever withstood an attack of the Vikings. And should they come up river… He must send word to his father.
A day and a night since the raid on Caldynn. His chest tightened like damp leather in the sun. He reconsidered his words to the lad. If the raiders stopped at Brannar as well, they may still intend on coming in the river Tierney and happily find his castle Ninfa open and vulnerable.
He sped toward the falconry. Norsemen! Lord save us!
Björn lifted his chin and let the stinging sea air sweep across his face. Standing at the mast of his ship he listened in satisfaction to the rhythm of the oars as they struck the water. His twenty men pulled hard against the full weight of the ship, taking it out past the breakers to make their way down the coast of England.
He leaned his head back full and watched as dawn approached. The fine morning sky was as clean as a mountain brook. At this rate, they would make the river’s mouth by mid-day – the river that lay half a day’s journey south. It was too soon to build up the frenzy, to whip up the blood lust. It was the way to a flawless raid and Björn’s favorite part of his journeys.
Turning, he marked the progress of the other two ships that followed. He snorted. With this mighty crew there would be none with the courage to withstand their attack. At times it was nearly too easy.
Björn looked up as Rorik strode across the deck toward him. He nodded as the wind whipped. Several men checked their shields and weapons. The oars came in and the sail went up with a loud snap as it filled with the stiff ocean breeze, taking them across the waves.
Rorik came beside him. “It is fine weather for a raid.”
Björn pulled his fur cloak up around his neck. “Let us be quick about this one. We will have little time to return home ere a wretched sea storm comes upon us.”
“Odin smiles on us. We have had little tumult from the sea this voyage.” Rorik’s red hair whipped about his face, like a dancing fire.
Björn’s mind filled with the image of the mighty Odin and a twinge of doubt budded in his gut. Odin had tricked him before into believing that fair weather meant good spoils.
“Wait until after we enter the river’s mouth to start the Berserker.” He nodded to the coastline. “We have several hours yet to reach the entry.” Rorik nodded and returned to his post.
At Rorik’s command, the men would shout their war chants. They would call on the gods to give them victory, with oaths to leave none of the villagers alive. They would scream and chant until their blood boiled within them.
Björn crossed his arms while the ship picked up speed. He pictured the path of the water that would take him to the monastery his father had described in great detail.
He prayed his own attack would honor the memory of his valiant father. If not, may the gods take him in battle. Without victory, how else could Björn face his own son?
He did not squelch the smile that crept across his face at the thought of his four-year-old boy. Björn’s many daughters were fair and brave, but none stirred his heart like his Hamarr.
His gaze fixed on the sea as he listened to the song of the foaming waves that echoed the music of battle to him. The monastery at Caldynn had sent their treasures away in vain. He would find them yet.
The town of Brannar had yielded little. He sneered. He still did not know where the famed “Treasure of Daldriada” was kept. Spring was nearly upon them, and he had no slaves to bring home.
The monastery up the River Tierney would hold the answer – the monastery his father had raided long ago. If it too held no treasure, they would tell him its location. They would tell him or die. These foolish people would pay for making Björn come inland.