Free Glendalough Fair by James L. Nelson

and continued to speak by way of Harald, each man asking the other how things fared for him and the men and women under their authority, both probing none too subtly for information, for some advantage. The door opened, bringing with it a blast of cold and wet and Bersi stepped in, wrapped like a farm wife in a wool blanket. A few minutes after that Skidi Oddson joined them
    Segan brought drinking horns for the newly arrived men and refilled Kevin’s as quick as the Irishman could drain it, as Thorgrim had instructed. He hoped it might make Kevin a bit less crafty, a bit more open in his speech, though in truth he had never seen the man in the least affected by drink that he could tell.
    At last, their legs growing tired, Thorgrim ordered a table and chairs brought close to the fire and the four men and Harald sat. No introductions were needed. Bersi and Skidi had both been part of the earlier bargaining. Kjartan as well. Thorgrim knew it was better to make his chief men part of such things rather than let suspicions grow into distrust and anger.
    Segan put a platter of roasted beef, cheese and brown bread on the table. Thorgrim said, “All right, Kevin, you have drank enough of my mead, what new thing brings you to Vík-ló?”
    Harald was halfway through the translation when the door opened again and Kjartan came into the hall. He wore no mail this time, just a hood and cloak which draped over the sword hanging at his side. His eyes darted around the space, a quick assessment of potential threats. He did not know what he was stepping into and he was wary.
    “Night Wolf, you sent word of a meeting,” Kjartan said.
    Thorgrim said nothing at first, letting his emotions settle before he replied. He wanted nothing more than to drag Kjartan back out into the rain and finish what they had begun, but this was not the moment. Not with Kevin watching their every move, gauging any weakness, even if he could not understand the words they spoke.
    “Yes,” Thorgrim said at last, spitting the words like they were sour in his mouth. “Kevin mac Lugaed has come to speak with us. You have the right to join this council.”
    And then I will kill you , he thought.
    Kjartan pulled up a stool and sat. Thorgrim looked at Kevin, who was understandably confused by the Norse jabber, the sudden and obvious tension in the room. He looked at the other men, but their expressions were unreadable. He turned to Kevin once more and said, “You were telling us what business it is that brings you here?” he said.
    Kevin leaned back and took a long pull of his mead as Harald rendered Thorgrim’s words into Gaelic. His eyes moved around the table, taking each man in turn, gauging him, getting the sum of him. Then he spoke. Harald translated.
    “Kevin says, ‘Have you men ever heard of a monastery called Glendalough’?”

Chapter Nine
     
     
    God’s house is threefold. Some pray in it, some fight in it, some work in it.
        Aldalbero, Bishop of Laon
     
     
    Louis de Roumois trudged along in Father Finnian’s wake, cloak wrapped tight around him, head down, lost in his physical and spiritual misery. He paid little attention to where they were going, expecting, without really thinking about it, that they would head for the small building which housed the monks’ cells, Louis home for the past year or more. And so he was surprised to find himself in the stable, sheltered from the rain by the thatched roof, embraced by the familiar smell of leather and straw and the horses in the stalls that lined the north side.
    “Wait here,” Finnian said and disappeared back into the rain. Louis found a dim corner of the building and sat on a heap of straw and listened to the rain coming down. The stables were deserted, no one was much interested in being on horseback on such a day, and Louis was glad for the solitude and the chance to further indulge his despair.
    But soon Finnian was back and he carried a robe with him, which he handed to Louis. Louis