It had been near the end of summer when they first pulled Red Dragon up the Liffey River to the longphort of Dubh-linn, late fall when they had returned as part of Olaf the White’s fleet. Even if Ornolf had actively tried to secure a ship to return his men to Norway it is likely the winter weather would have closed in before they could have put to sea. But of course Ornolf made virtually no effort at all, and so he and the men with him had spent the winter months in Dubh-linn, the miserable gray, wet winter in the crowded, fetid, mud-choked town of Dubh-linn.
Once it became clear to Thorgrim that Ornolf had little interest in getting himself or his men home, Thorgrim asked and received permission to make other arrangements. Ornolf did not want to see him go, and even less did he want to see his grandson go, but for all his drunken raving Ornolf was not one who was oblivious to the way other men saw the world. He, Ornolf, had talked Thorgrim into going a-viking, mostly against Thorgrim’s will. He knew that Thorgrim had come in hopes of dulling the pain of Hallbera’s death. When he thought about it, which he did as infrequently as possible, Ornolf suspected that he might have come for the same reason. And Ornolf knew that Thorgrim was ready to go home.
But getting home was another matter. As Thorgrim prowled the quays and the mead hall, and came to know the other Vikings and jarls, he soon realized that none would be returning to Norway until their holds were crammed with the legendary wealth of Ireland. There would be more raiding and more plunder before there was a hope of sailing east again. Thorgrim had nothing against raiding and plunder. He had done more of it than any three men were likely to do over a lifetime. But he was not the young man he had been, and he longed for home.
By that time, Thorgrim Night Wolf was well known in Dubh-linn, his reputation as a fighting man set. Stories of past deeds had swirled around the mead hall, the tale of how he had led his men to escape the Danes in Dubh-linn, and fought the armies of the Irish king at Tara. Talk of shape shifting was passed around quietly when Thorgrim was not about.
One night, a month or so after his return to Dubh-linn, three large, drunk and well-armed men had set upon Thorgrim as he left the mead hall. They were looking to make a name for themselves, and were full up with tales of the Night Wolf. The fight had been brief, and had ended very badly for the three men. Had ended, indeed, with each one face down in the mud in various states of dismemberment. Thorgrim met with nothing but polite respect after that.
Thorgrim was aware of these things, and he thought that his reputation would help him secure a place among a ship’s company, but he found just the opposite to be true. He was well treated to be sure, men were eager to buy him food and drink, his company, when he was in the proper frame of mind, was sought after, but when it came to joining a ship, there never seemed to be room for another man. It took a month of that before Thorgrim finally understood that no ship’s master wanted another man who was also accustomed to command, who might question orders, who might become the focal point for unrest. It was pointless to try to convince anyone that he wanted no more than to take his place in the shieldwall, to do his work, to go home.
In all fairness, Thorgrim had to admit that he would not want a man like himself aboard either.
He had begun contemplating the idea of building a boat that could take him and Harald back to Vik when Arinbjorn White-tooth had sought him out on the quay. “Thorgrim Ulfsson, I hear that you are in hopes of joining a ship,” he said.
Thorgrim looked him up and down. Good clothes, silver inlay on the hilt of his sword, silver and gold broach holding a cape of bear fur. He was a well-made man, and had more the look of a jarl than a farmer or fishermen about him. No, not a jarl. The son of a jarl.
“You hear right,” Thorgrim said. His mood, never particularly buoyant, was now all but awash from the constant frustration, disappointment and Ireland’s ceaseless, tormenting rain. If it had been later in the day, he would have been unapproachable. But then, if it had been later in the day, he would have secured himself in a place that could not be found.
“I am in need of a man such as you,” Arinbjorn said.
“Really? It seems no others are.”
“Maybe the others are afraid of the Night Wolf. I am not. I’ll welcome any man who can use a sword or a battle ax aboard my ship.”
Thorgrim had only one condition, and that was that Harald be welcome aboard as well, and Arinbjorn agreed to that with enthusiasm. And so, two weeks later, Thorgrim Night Wolf found himself closing with the Irish coastline, ready to vault over the side of a longship into the shallow water, ready to push up a narrow path and fall on the unsuspecting people of the ringfort and the monastery supposed to be just beyond the high banks of the shoreline.
Black Raven’s stern rose up, just a bit, as the swell from the sea passed under the keel, then down it went as the bow came up in turn. There was land on either side of them now as they entered the wide estuary, and the ocean rollers gave way to flatter water. The sun was up, the sky gray but without rain, the shore a muted stretch of green and brown, the longships things of beauty as they swept forward with gathering momentum.
“Look, there!” Arinbjorn said. He was pointing beyond the starboard bow. Thorgrim followed his arm. There were men standing on the low ridge of land that bordered the water. They were just visible against the gray sky, four or five of them.
“Sheep herds, you think?” Arinbjorn asked. “Fisherman, perhaps?”
“Perhaps…” Thorgrim said, with no conviction. And just as the word left his mouth, three more appeared, mounted on the pathetic little beasts that the Irish called horses. They seemed to be watching the approaching ships – indeed, what else would they be looking at? Then they whirled around and disappeared from sight.
Very well, thought Thorgrim, we still have plenty of advantages on our side. Surprise is just not one of them.
Chapter Two
It is rare to find one to trust
amongst the men who dwell
beneath Odin’s gallows
for the dark-minded destroyer of kin
swaps his brother’s death for treasure
Egil’s Saga
The church that stood within the protective circle of the ringfort, the ringfort that surrounded Tara, the seat of the high king of Brega and some said of all Ireland, was nothing terribly remarkable, Tara and Ireland being as they were on the fringes of the civilized world. It was timber framed, rectangular, of no great size. But the high-peaked roof was made up of new thatch, the long dried reeds intricately braided and twisted around the peak and eaves. The walls, wattle-made, were smooth and whitewashed until they seemed brilliant on those remarkable and few days when the sun shone. The windows sported glass panes.
Inside it was tidy, scrubbed and swept from tabernacle to vestibule. It looked as good as it was going to look, which was only proper, because on that day, the same day that Thorgrim Night Wolf and Harald Thorgrimson were preparing for a bloody fight on Irish soil, a royal wedding would be taking place.
Had it been summer, the rafters and beams and the altar deep in the interior would have been brilliant with bursts of colorful wildflowers - bindweed, pink willowherb, yellow marsh ragwort and little robin – made up in raucous bouquets. The sun might even have been shining in blue skies, the windows and doors of the church open and sweet warm air blowing through.
But it was not that time of the year. It was early spring and the skies were a gray that sometimes bordered on black and the rain was pouring down. The church was draped in swathes of colorful cloth, but that was a poor substitute for the flowers. The windows and doors were shut against the driving rain. The gloom of the church’s interior was dispelled at intervals by torches and candles, but still much of the space was lost in deep shadow, despite it not being quite noon. The stone floor was already slick with mud, and that just from the abbot and the women of the court getting the place ready for the joyous occasion.
In command of the ceremony, overseeing preparations like a king at the head of an a
rmy, Morrigan nic Conaing whisked around the church, taking care not to slip on the glistening floor. She paused by the altar, looked down the length of the aisle and frowned. By the time all the guests had filed in, the mud would make that aisle genuinely treacherous. The bride might well slip and come crashing to the stone floor.
Hmm...Morrigan considered the possibility. Would that be a bad thing? There were certain aspects of such an accident that might recommend it. But it was her brother, Flann mac Conaing, who would be giving the bride away, walking her down the aisle. If the bride went down, she might take him with her. It would do little to bolster his position at Tara to have him flailing on the muddy floor in a tangle with some pathetic tart in a near-white dress.
“You there, Brendan,” she snapped at a slave who was scraping wax drippings from the floor.
“Mistress?” he said, his tone properly cowed.
“See there are fresh rushes to lay along the aisle here. See that they are put down just before the guests take their places.”
“Yes, ma’am.” That was all Morrigan wanted to hear.
The bride was Brigit nic Máel Sechnaill, daughter of Máel Sechnaill mac Ruanaid, late high king of Tara, who had been cut down while fighting one of the many minor squabbles for power in which the numerous kings of Ireland were always engaged. For all the mourning at Máel’s death, the wailing and gnashing of teeth, Morrigan knew him for what he really was, a vicious, brutal man. She was certain his wickedness had not escaped the attention of her Lord, was certain that even before his body hit the sod, God had plunged Máel’s soul down into the depths of hell.
His enemy on the field that day had been Cormac ua Ruairc, king of Gailenga, brother to Brigit’s late husband. The loyalties, the enmities, the intrigues of Ireland were like the Northmen’s carvings of mythical beasts, all interwoven and twisted around and around, endlessly complicated.
Cormac had lost the day, and for his efforts to usurp the power of the high king, Lord of Brega, he had been tied to a stake and disemboweled before the remnants of his army. On the positive side, it made Cormac’s surviving troops welcome the chattel slavery that would now be their station in life.
How Máel Sechnaill had been killed, no one knew. In the madness of the battle, no one had seen him fall. It was not until the men from Gailenga had called for quarter, had thrown down their arms, that the high king had been found, mud-spattered, wide-eyed, a great rent from a sword thrust in his neck.
Morrigan ran her critical eyes around the church once more, frowned at the tall candles burning on either side of the altar. One was ten inches shorter than the other. It would certainly look better if they were the same height, but was it worth the expense of getting two new ones? If she left it, would it appear as if she did not care about Brigit’s wedding? In point of fact she did care. At present she thought of little besides Brigit and what might happen as a result of this marriage. She cared so much it made her wild with fury. She was like a wineskin, stretched to bursting with anger, but containing it, keeping it all inside.
The candles were fine as they were.
Morrigan heard a door open and the flames in the various candles swayed, guttered, then came to attention again as the door closed. Donnel swept into the church, his cloak hanging heavy and dripping off his shoulders, his shoes and leggings brown and glistening with mud.
Donnel and his brother Patrick were sheep herders, or had been sheep herders, when they had come upon the young nobleman who was carrying the Crown of the Three Kingdoms to Tara, from whom the Northmen had stolen it. The sheep herders had brought the man to see Máel Sechnaill, and they liked what they saw of Tara. And Morrigan liked what she saw of them; young, strong and smart, and they were eager enough to never herd sheep again that they would do whatever was asked of them.
“Donnel,” Morrigan said. “Are you just now back?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Donnel said, giving a shallow bow, like a wealthy bishop genuflecting. “I come direct to see you, ma’am.”
Morrigan nodded her approval. “Cloyne?”
“Fair warned this week or more.”
“Clondalkin?” Morrigan asked.
“Clondalkin as well, if your men in Dubh-lin are to be trusted at all.”
“Do you trust them?”
“I do, ma’am. They’ve too much to lose, and naught to gain. Patrick feels the same.”
Morrigan nodded. These young men were learning the rules of the game, leaning them fast. Information. Knowledge. That was what she had learned from that bastard Máel Sechnaill. The late high king had been sure to know everything that went on in his kingdom.
Well, nearly everything.
“You’ve made a good job of it, Donnel. Now, go and dry yourself, and eat and rest. I’ve more need of you, and I won’t have you laid low.”
Morrigan did indeed have need of Donnel. And Patrick. And all the men she had working in the shadows. Morrigan’s brother, Flann mac Conaing, had taken command at Tara on the death of Máel Sechnaill mac Ruanaid. Flann had his following among the minor kings, the rí túaithe, who owed their allegiance to the high king at Tara. Flann was part of Máel Sechnaill’s derbfine, his family going back four generations. They were, in fact, second cousins, and that was enough under Irish law to give Flann a legitimate claim to the throne.
But just because Flann had a claim to the throne, and was sitting on it now, did not mean it was his. He was not the tánaise ríg, the heir apparent. If Brigit gave birth to a son, grandson of Máel Sechnaill, there was every chance that the little bastard might be looked on as the tánaise ríg, and Flann – and Morrigan – would be out as soon as Brigit could arrange it. That could not happen.
Despite being of the royal line, Morrigan had been taken captive by the dubh gall years before, had ended up as a thrall in Dubh-linn. She had suffered years of humiliation; raped, beaten, starved. And when she had the means to escape, word had come that Máel Sechnaill wished her to remain, so that she might keep an eye on the Norsemen in Dubh-linn, and keep Tara informed of what they were about. Years more of suffering were hers because of that, years of terror and degradation, until at last she had helped Thorgrim Night Wolf and his band escape from the Danes, and had fled the city with them.
No. After all that, after seeing her brother rise to hold the throne at Tara, with the Crown of the Three Kingdoms in his possession, after enjoying the exalted position that his place gave her, she would not be pushed aside by some empty-headed little whore. And from her place at Tara Morrigan would quench that red-hot ember that burned in her, that hatred for all the heathen pigs who came across the sea in their longships and defiled her Ireland. If there was one thing she had learned from the bastard Máel Sechnaill, it was how power was gained and kept. And she had not been idle, not idle at all.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Donnel said. He made another shallow, awkward bow, an imitation of the courtly manner which had been utterly foreign to him less than a year before, turned and was gone.
“Very well!” Morrigan clapped her hands loudly to get the attention of the servants and slaves working at their various tasks. “It is near time, finish up and be quick about it.” It had been half an hour at least since the Angelus bells had chimed, and the monks who lived in the monastery within Tara’s ringfort would be finishing their prayers and turning their attention to the nuptial ceremony.
The sound of the rain outside grew suddenly louder, and a blast of wet, cold wind wrapped around Morrigan as the main door to the church opened and Father Finnian came in, pushing the door closed against the storm. A cloud of dried rushes lifted in the wind and scattered along the floor of the nave.
“Father Finnian,” Morrigan said, bowing her head in a respectful manner.
“Morrigan.” Finnian lifted his hand and made the sign of the cross toward Morrigan, and Morrigan bowed deeper and crossed herself in thanks for the blessing.
Of course she would have asked him to perform this atrocity, Morrigan thought. Morrigan was nothing i
f not true to her faith. It had sustained her during her years of captivity. She had spent hours meditating on the sufferings of Christ and of beloved Saint Patrick, he also a slave. It was one of the few things that had eased the agony of her ordeal.
She loved all of the priests and brothers of the monastery. They were good men, simple men, for all their learning, steady and devout. But Father Finnian was different. He was an enigma. He was not much given to talk, for one thing. This set him apart from the others, who seemed to chatter away ceaselessly, as if to exercise their gratitude at not having had to take a vow of silence. Nor did Father Finnian show much deference to Morrigan’s new status. The others, unsure how the power struggle would shake out, sought to win the good graces of all, but Finnian took another tack, and seemed not to care about the good graces of any.
That was not to say Finnian was in any way disrespectful. He was not. Reserved. That was how he was best described. Reserved. He was not old, in his thirties, perhaps, and even the tonsure could not detract from his remarkably handsome face; nor could the loose brown robes of his calling entirely disguise a strong and athletic frame. Ireland was a land of abundance, and the monks ate well, and on some it showed. But not Father Finnian.
Morrigan could not help but find him appealing. She had had dreams about him, unbidden nocturnal visions, and that disturbed her profoundly. In confession she could not bring herself to speak of her attraction - the word lust had come to mind, and she recoiled at the thought – and her failure to confess left the sin hanging and unforgiven.
“Is there anything more I can do, Father Finnian?” Morrigan asked. The monk looked around the church, blue eyes taking in the fresh rushes on the floor, the swathes of bright colored cloth, the candles adorning the alter. He nodded, and his lips turned up in just a hint of a smile.
Dubh-linn: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 2) Page 2
