Dubh-linn: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 2)

by James L. Nelson

  Thorgrim charged the line, swinging his sword at the Irishmen who were working their way around the left flank. “Starri!” he shouted. “Get your men moving back! Back!” If they could get their backs to a wall, or get through the gate, they might have a better chance of holding off the rest.

  To Thorgrim’s surprise, Starri Deathless heard him and shouted the order, stepping back as he did, then stepping back again. A roar went up from the Irish as they sensed that the handful of Northmen were about to break. Again they pressed the attack against the berserkers and again were driven back by the wildly swinging blades of sword and battle ax.

  Another step back. An arrow swished past and caught Nordwall the Short in the shoulder, spinning him around with a shout of agony. Thorgrim looked over his shoulder. The archers on the walls behind had found new targets.

  Where is Harald? Thorgrim looked anxiously around. He had thought the boy was with him. If they were going to die here, then he would want them to die together.

  From out of the dark came a shriek, a terrible sound, at once frightening and triumphant, a shout like Thorgrim had never heard, and yet one with a tone oddly familiar. Heads turned. A heavy cart came rolling into the light from the fires outside the gate, careening toward the Irish who were attacking Starri’s men, jouncing along backwards at a crazy speed. A pile of hay heaped onto the cart threatened to topple over as it bounced and jolted. And then Thorgrim saw Harald, holding the shafts, pushing the cart like some two-legged draft horse. There was a wild look on his face, and his mouth was open in shouting.

  The shear surprise of the thing stopped the fighting dead. Vikings and Irish paused in mid-swing of their weapons to look at this odd sight. And as they watched, the cart, moving faster with every one of Harald’s powerful steps, slammed into the crowd of Irishmen, knocking them down like saplings in a hurricane and sending the rest leaping out of the way.

  “Grab the cart! Grab hold of it!” Thorgrim shouted, sheathing Iron-tooth and taking hold of the wagon’s rough wooden sides. Here was a rolling defense, a mobile fortification. The berserkers grabbed hold as well, checking the forward momentum as Harald held the shafts and dug in his heels.

  Thorgrim waved his arm, gestured toward the open gate. “This way, this way, pull the wagon along!” Willing hands grabbed hold and shoved the wagon around until it was pointing in the new direction, then ran along either side, driving the vehicle over the hard packed ground. They were just passing through the gates when Thorgrim shouted for them to stop, and again the momentum of the wagon was checked.

  “Turn it sideways and push it over!” he ordered and the heavy, rough cart was shoved around until it stood sideways in the open gate. In the flickering light of the fires the Northmen could see that the Irishmen had recovered from the shock, had gathered again and were advancing cautiously toward the wagon.

  The Vikings were on the other side of the wagon now, their backs to the open countryside through the gate, and they heaved, grunting and straining, as they lifted the side of the wagon off the ground. Nordwall stood beside Thorgrim, the arrow jutting from his shoulder, but he pushed with a will, as if he was fresh as the morning dew.

  Odin, All-father, does anything stop these people? Thorgrim thought.

  The cart lifted, balanced for a second on its two starboard wheels, then toppled over on its side, spilling the load of hay through the open gates. Arrows thudded into the wood where the hay had been piled, but the archers on the walls could not reach the handful of men huddled behind the wagon. Thorgrim peered over the edge of the temporary defense. The Irish were still coming on, swords and shields in hand. They were moving slowly, bracing for the next surprise, but they were not hesitating in their advance. And there were a lot of them.

  “They’ll rush us, any minute now,” Thorgrim warned, and no sooner had he said that then he heard a shout raised from beyond the wagon, an Irish battle cry, and the sound of dozens of feet moving fast toward them. And in the same instant, another battle cry, a single voice from behind. Thorgrim turned to see Harald running toward the wagon from the watch fires beyond the gate. In his hand he held a thick tree branch, the end flaming like a torch, which he must have pulled from one of the fires burning behind them.

  Harald charged at the wagon from one side as the Irish charged from the other. With a shout, Harald vaulted up onto the side of the overturned cart, flaming branch in hand. Thorgrim opened his mouth to order him down when Harald flung the branch into the mound of hay that lay between the cart and the advancing enemy. The hay made a rushing sound as it burst into flames, a great wall of fire separating Norsemen from Irishmen. Thorgrim could see the Irish shielding their faces from the heat and the brilliant light, backing away from the conflagration.

  Thorgrim smiled and shook his head. The boy had shown more initiative and creativity in the past hour than Thorgrim would have guessed he had in him. It would be a shame if they all died in the next few minutes.

  He looked over his shoulder, past the flames of the watch fires, into the dark countryside. Harald’s trick would hold the Irish off for a few moments more, but once the flames died the men of Cloyne would overrun the makeshift defense. There would be no keeping them at bay. And he, Thorgrim, could not let the others die for his own ill-conceived plan. He would hold the Irish back for as long as he could, let his men race off into the night. He did not think the Irish would follow them toward the Vikings’ camp. The hard part, he knew, would be convincing the others to leave him.

  That decision made, Thorgrim started to turn back toward the enemy advancing from the ringfort when his eye caught a movement out in the dark. His first thought was that more Irishmen had come out of the secret door, circled around behind them, and now he and his men would be trapped between the two forces. He squinted, trying to see past the watch fires. There was definitely something moving, coming toward them.

  He adjusted his grip on sword and shield. And then, for the second time that day, he saw the great mass of Hoskuld Iron-skull charging into battle, a

  screaming horde of Vikings at his back.

  Chapter Eleven

  To put bolster on bench

  shall my bride now with me

  make haste homeward;

  a hasty match this to many will seem

  they’ll not rob me my rest at home.

  The Lay of Alvís

  From the back of his horse, Conlaed uí Chennselaigh could see the spire of the church, the high peaked roof of the great hall, and the walls of the ringfort surrounding Tara slowly rise above the green hill up which he was riding. He half stood in the saddle, letting his strong legs absorb the shock of the horse’s footfalls, and marveled at the sight. His home. His new home. He was still not entirely sure how that had happened.

  On either side of him, half a length back and trailing behind, were more than a dozen of the rí túaithe, those who had stayed on after the wedding and the subsequent feast. Most of the minor kings who had come for the ceremony had left the following day, returning to their own holdings to attend to their usual business: overseeing farms, collecting rents, crushing familial plots against their rule. But the younger men, those with whom Conlaed uí Chennselaigh had long associated, did not leave. They were having far too good a time to go home.

  Here, laid before them, was all the luxury of Tara, the free food, free drink, fine hunting, and a tolerable abundance of women. And it was all under the authority of one of their own, one who had somehow managed to get himself elevated to a place where this was his to command.

  Conlaed was not, of course, rí ruirech, the high king. Even he was not so deluded as to think that. The line of succession was very much in flux. But even if the limits of Conlaed’s authority were not clear, he found that his rule certainly extended as far as the kitchen, the beer and wine stores, and the stables, and that was enough for him and for the young nobles gathered there. In truth, he did not wish for any more responsibility than that of leading these men, once his fellows, now his subject
s of sorts, in their daily hunts. The thought of actually ruling a kingdom such as Tara frightened him.

  Tara. He looked up again at the walls and the rooftops that were revealing themselves from behind the hill. Some unseen guard was swinging open the big main gate so that the hunting party could enter the ringfort without breaking stride and thunder impressively down the wide main road to the stables. And when they did, Conlaed uí Chennselaigh would lead them. No one rode in front of him. No one would presume to do so. Only the yipping, frenetic hounds had the audacity to race ahead of Conlaed’s horse.

  Thoughts of Tara invariably brought thoughts of Brigit to Conlaed’s mind, and with those thoughts, a flush of guilt. In truth, he had not spent much time with her since their betrothal. His days had been spent in riding and hunting, and as the sun set he and the others would return, muddy, tired and boisterous, to yet another feast in the great hall. And regardless of whatever Conlaed had intended on waking that morning, whatever firm resolutions he made through the pounding in his skull, by nightfall he was once again passed out on the floor or slumped over a table, where he remained for the night. And so it had been, for an entire week.

  Tonight I shall not drink so much, no, not so much, he thought. He could feel the sweat run down his cheeks despite the cool of the early spring. His nose was filled with the smell of horse and dog and leather and unwashed men and wet grass. Tonight I will…

  He did not finish the thought, because even thinking what he was about to think was too humiliating, even in the relative privacy of his own head. He had not yet consummated his marriage, lain with his new bride, made the beast with two backs, whatever one wished to call it. It was not that he did not want to. Brigit was the most sought after woman in Ireland, her beauty was exceptional, unmatched in the kingdom. And Conlaed was certainly not the type of man who shunned the company of women.

  It’s the drink, and the company of these fellows…. He did not let his thoughts go further down the path than that, leaving the real truth as a vague and unexplored mass of impressions, like a distant mountain, half lost in the mist, which Conlaed would not dare climb. The real truth was that he was afraid of her. She was so beautiful. So much more clever than he was, a fact that he had only come to appreciate right before their wedding day.

  If Conlaed had climbed any further up that mountain of doubt he would come to the most daunting of all cliffs. Brigit was not a virgin. She had been married before, to Donnchad Ua Ruairc, no less, a man who had had the balls to rebel against Máel Sechnaill mac Ruanaid, Brigit’s father. That was a thing Conlaed would never have dared do, even if he was ambitious enough to consider it.

  Instead, he had fought for Máel Sechnaill. He had watched Donnchad meet his death at Máel’s hands without the least trace of fear, and give no more than a sharp intake of breath as he had been disemboweled. Deep in the rarely explored parts of his mind, Conlaed reasoned that any man so terrifically brave must have also performed heroic feats in bed. He wondered how he could ever be the match of such a man, and the answer made him sick with anxiety.

  The main gate of Tara swung full open just as the hunting party reached it. They passed through at full gallop, and neither Conlaed nor the rí túaithe bothered to acknowledge the guards who struggled with the heavy doors. Rather, they pounded down the main road that cut through the center of the ringfort, heading for the stables, leaving it to anyone in their way to get clear before they were trampled.

  At the stables they reined their horses in with a great flourish that would have produced a cloud of dust on those few days when the ground was dry enough to produce dust. Conlaed was grinning now. The slight discomfort he had felt on seeing Tara again was gone with the thrill of their most excellent and dramatic entry into the seat of the high king, the anticipation of the food and drink waiting in the great hall, and the flush from all the food and drink he had already consumed that day.

  He swung down off his horse as the groom took up the reins and tried to calm the excited animal. One of his companions handed him a wine skin and Conlaed squirted a stream into his mouth and wiped the run-off from his chin with the sleeve of his tunic. His hands were red and crusted with the blood of the third deer they had run to ground that morning. An excellent day so far.

  Laughing, shouting, quarreling in the happy way of men, Conlaed uí Chennselaigh and the rí túaithe turned their backs on the stables, walked past the head groom’s small hut, past the more substantial building that housed the priests, and around the front of the church, which was not their destination, but rather an obstacle between themselves and the great hall. They were just stepping past when the church’s big oak door creaked and swung open. The men picked up their pace for fear of being waylaid by some tedious cleric.

  “Conlaed?” It was a feminine voice and Conlaed was seized with panic that it might be Brigit, but he put on a brave face and smiled as he turned. But it was not Brigit, rather, it was Morrigan nic Conaing, the sister of Flann. As far as Conlaed could divine, Flann wielded the real authority at Tara, though Morrigan seemed to have considerable influence as well. It was all very confusing.

  “Morrigan! How fare you?” Conlaed asked brightly.

  “I am well, thank you. Might I have a word with you? In private?”

  “Ah, of course, of course…” Conlaed was not sure where this might be heading. Morrigan had always been very kind to him, very helpful, even deferential. Still, she made him nervous, and he was not sure why.

  There is something wicked about this place… he thought, no doubt all part of the intrigue that surrounded the court of the high king. He considered moving him and Brigit to his own home at Ardsallagh, saying to hell with Tara. But that would no doubt lead to a fight with Brigit, and that thought made him nervous as well.

  “You fellows go on, I’ll catch up,” Conlaed called and the rest moved on in their boisterous way as Morrigan led Conlaed into the narthex of the church. They were all alone. Conlaed closed the oak door and Morrigan turned and looked at him.

  “Are you settling in well?” she asked at last. “Are you finding Tara to your liking?”

  Conlaed nodded, trying to divine any hidden meaning to the question, though he knew he often had trouble divining even the explicit meaning of a question. “Tara is fine. A fine place. Yes, I am enjoying it very much.”

  Morrigan smiled, and it seemed a genuine smile. “Yes, I had thought so.” She chuckled. “Yes, I can see you are settling right in.”

  Conlaed smiled and chuckled as well, then asked, “How do you mean?”

  “Well…” Morrigan seemed to be looking for the words. “Let me just be the first…I hope the first…to congratulate you.”

  “On…my marriage?”

  “No. I don’t suppose I’m the first to do that. On…your heir.”

  Conlaed touched his head. “My hair?”

  “No, your heir. Your son. Or at least I pray it’s a son. On the baby that your wife carries.”

  Conlaed squinted at her and shook his head. “Baby…? You think Brigit is with child?”

  “Sure Brigit is with child. Has she not told you?”

  “I…how do you know this?”

  “Forgive me, Conlaed, if you had intended to keep it a secret. I’ll say nothing. But a woman knows such things. Brigit is so thin. She shows already.”

  Conlaed looked away, into the dark interior of the church. He knew little of offspring and such, except with horses and dogs, but he was pretty sure that a woman would not show after just a week. He tried to recall how things had run during the various pregnancies of his various sisters.

  And then he remembered. She should not be showing at all. She should not be with child, because he and Brigit had not…. And then he understood.

  “You are certain of this?” he asked, and his words came out in a low and menacing growl, but Morrigan seemed not to notice.

  “Oh, yes, I am certain. No doubt she was waiting for just the right moment to give you the happy news. And now I’ve spo
iled it.” She reached up and stroked his cheek, rough from three days’ growth of beard. “Please do not tell her I gave her secret away.”

  After Morrigan left, Conlaed stood for some time in the narthex, looking at nothing, trying to think. Had she cuckolded him while he and his fellows were hunting? Would she really show after a week? Or might she have been pregnant when they married?

  Finally he pushed the big door open and stepped out. The sun had set in the gray sky and it was nearly full on night as he crossed to the great hall and made his way inside. The smell of the cool evening air was lost to that of a peat fire and roasting venison and the various torches burning in sconces in the walls, and the quiet was blown away by the shouting and laughter of the rí túaithe. Conlaed took his place at the head of the table, grabbed up his goblet and drank deep. He was scowling and silent, but none of the others seemed to notice, and the festivities went on as if he was not even there.

  Food was set in front of him, but he had no appetite. Wine, mead, beer was passed his way, and that he did take, swallowing down any fermented thing placed before him. The roaring of the rí túaithe became a solid and unintelligible noise, like a heavy surf, pounding and receding, and Conlaed paid it no mind as he lost himself in his thoughts and his drink.

  The bitch would never show after a week, no… he concluded. Was she showing? He had never seen her naked. Bloody coward, bloody weak, pathetic… Had she been with child when they were married? Then why marry him? What of the father?

  Bloody whore…make me look the fool…does she think me not man enough to rut with her? With each swallow, with each moment, his anger and confusion grew. And then another thought came to him, shot out of the dark like a bolt of lightning.