Irish Poem of Prophesy
attributed to Bec mac Dé
It was a fine day, sunny, warm, the wind soft from the southwest, the ugly wet spring yielding at last to summer. The sun was just a few hours from setting and the windows of the monastery were still open. The breeze drifted through the big room, which had formerly served as the sacristy but which Flann mac Conaing and Morrigan now used as their apartments from which they ran the affairs of Tara, and Brega.
Through the open windows came the sounds of the ongoing effort to rebuild the royal residence. Morrigan had been pushing the builders and laborers hard. The debris had been cleared, the new walls framed in, staves set, withies rove and ready for the fresh daub. Through the window, Morrigan could hear the creaking of ropes and blocks, the shouting of the carpenters as they raised the new roof beams in place. A couple of weeks more and the big house would be ready to receive its occupants again. Just a couple of weeks, but Morrigan genuinely did not know if she would still be alive by then.
Patrick was standing in front of her, shifting nervously though trying not to. She was not looking at him, however, but out the window, off at the hills in the distance, but she was not really seeing them, either. She had a vague thought that if she made Patrick repeat what he had just said, perhaps this time she would hear some hopeful note she had missed the first time. She wished it was Donnel here and not Patrick. Donnel was older, and steadier. But of course that was why she had sent him to Wykynlo, where she needed the utmost discretion.
She turned back to Patrick, and she tried to make her voice calm, even soothing. “Tell me again, Patrick, my dear…Segene said what, exactly?” Segene mac Ruarcc was the rí túaithe of a decent track of land to the west of Tara, the fifth such minor noble to whom Morrigan had sent requesting men-at-arms to come to the defense of the throne of the high king.
“Segene says he regrets he does not have the men to send. He says he has been much plagued with the theft of his cattle by the neighboring lord and he must employ his men in putting stop to that.”
No, Morrigan thought, it did not sound any better the second time.
“Very well, Patrick,” she said. “Go get something to eat, you look as if you might fall over.”
Patrick nodded and smiled his relief, relief at the thought of food and at getting out from under Morrigan’s gaze. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, gave a half bow and left the room as swiftly as decorum would allow.
Morrigan let her head slump down. She considered praying for the Lord’s help, but she was not sure the Lord was of a mind to help her. With the things she had done, and ordered others to do, she had been walking a cliff’s edge with the solid ground of righteousness on one side and the chasm of wickedness on the other. In her mind she had not gone over the edge, but she understood that God might not employ such subtle distinctions as she did.
The door opened again and Morrigan knew it was Flann, because Flann was the only one who could open that door without knocking on it first. She looked up. Her brother was a tall man, well made, strong and handsome, a bit of grey hair showing at the temples. But he was looking tired as of late, his face thinner than she remembered, and drawn. The weight of rule did not sit so easy on him as it did on other men.
To her surprise, Flann slammed the door shut, the iron hinges screaming, the heavy oak boards hitting the frame with a thunder clap. Morrigan jumped in her seat. Her brother did not look tired. He looked angry, and that took her aback. “Brother, what news?” she said, her tone as light as she could make it.
“I hear things, various things. What of you? What news from Dubh-linn?”
“No more than the last I told you. Brigit is staying at the house of the blacksmith, Jokul. She has apparently taken up with the fin gall. I know no more than that.”
“You know no more than that?”
“That’s what I said. What is troubling you, brother?”
Flann crossed the room and looked out the window. His back was to Morrigan and he did not speak. The silence hung like smoke in the room. If we turn on one another, we are finished, Morrigan thought.
Flann wheeled around and looked at her. “You are not the only one who hears things from Dubh-linn. I have heard tales. A great row at the blacksmith’s house. Men dead. A girl carried off.”
Morrigan shook her head. “I know nothing of any of this,” she said, which was true. She was waiting on some word from Donnel, but thus far, nothing. She had heard from Almaith, by way of her messengers who moved like ghosts through the longphort, that Brigit still lived but that the fin gall had no interest in sacking Tara. That, however, did not fit with other bits of news she heard, that an expedition was fitting out, with Tara as its object. She did not know what to believe, so, for the sake of caution, she had called for the rí túaithe to send men, which they had not.
“Well?” Flann demanded. “What do you know of this? Any of this?”
Morrigan shook her head, held up her hands. “Nothing, brother. I know nothing.”
Flann took a step toward her, the most menacing move he had made in her direction in all their lives. “I will ask you this, sister, and you will tell me the truth. Did you order Brigit killed?”
“No,” Morrigan stammered.
“The truth!”
“No! By the love of God, I swear to you I did not order her killed!” She had ordered Donnel to find men to take her, bring her to him at Wykynlo, and then do what they would with her. She had never directly ordered anyone to kill Brigit nic Máel Sechnaill.
That was one of those instances in which she feared God, and likely Flann, might not parse the matter quite as finely as she did.
But Flann seemed to relax a bit at her vehement denial, as if all he needed was to hear her protest her innocence. He was older than she was, but had not seen, as she had, how grotesquely wicked people could be, and it made him proportionally more naïve than she.
“Well, I thank God things have not come to that,” Flann said. “Though they may come to worse yet.”
“Worse? What do you mean?”
Flann did not answer her directly. “What have you heard of late about the fin gall launching a raid on Tara?” he asked.
“I have heard that they would, and I have heard that they won’t. I don’t know what to believe.”
Flann nodded. “You’ve sent word to the rí túaithe for them to send men-at-arms?”
“I have. And they won’t do it. Each has his excuse, and it’s usually that he must go fight his neighbor, but I say they are just cowards to a man.”
Flann sighed and began to pace, not a good sign with Flann. “They are not cowards, and you know it. They won’t fight to defend my place on the throne of Tara. If Brigit nic Máel Sechnaill sat on the throne, they would come.”
“That’s not true. They’ll be cautious, see how this all plays out.”
“What of Leinster? Have you had word from Ruarc mac Brain at Líamhain?”
“His wife passed away not long ago and he is in mourning. He will not bring his army here.”
Flann stopped his pacing and looked at Morrigan directly. “Did you hear this from Ruarc mac Brain? Did you send word to him, at all?” The accusatory tone was back in his voice, but Morrigan had found her footing again and was ready to stand up to him.
“No, I did not send word,” she said. “We do not want the Uí Dúnchada of Leinster meddling in our affairs. If Ruarc mac Brain marches an army here, he will not leave, he’ll take the throne for himself.”
“You would rather see the Northmen sack Tara than take the chance that Ruarc mac Brain will usurp the throne?”
“We don’t need Ruarc mac Brain or any of the swine from Leinster. The rí túaithe will rally to your banner. I have made it known that Brigit has gone over to the fin gall, and once they see that’s true, they will stand by you.”
“It would be nice to think so, but in truth I don’t think they will get the chance. Because, sister, I just had word. Word from the coast. Three
longships were spotted at the mouth of the Boyne. That would be more than one hundred fin gall warriors. One hundred and fifty, I wouldn’t doubt. And we have maybe seventy men that we can put under arms, and they are never a match for the Northmen.”
Morrigan’s mouth fell open. She felt as if she had been punched in the stomach. “Three longships? And you think they are coming here?” It was a stupid question, and she asked it just because she had to ask something. Of course they were coming there. If they had entered the Boyne, there was no other place they might reasonably be going.
She had expected that the fin gall would come, but she did not expect them to come so soon. A few more weeks, another month for those drunken fools to organize a raiding party. She had counted on that. But they were here now, and the main gate to Tara was wide open to them.
“Yes, of course they are coming here,” Flann said. “Where else? And how we will fight them, I don’t know.”
Morrigan did not know either. But even as Flann said the words, she was flooded with a great determination. She would not stand idly by and see Tara snatched from her. There had been too much suffering in her life, and she had committed too many sins already to get where she was, just to see all her work undone by the filthy foreign swine, to see her brother killed and herself once again condemned to the slow death of a thrall.
“We will fight them, brother, and we will beat them,” she said. “And if we can’t beat them by force of arms we’ll beat them by other means. Because honestly, Flann, if we can’t outwit these stupid, pagan animals, then we do
not deserve to sit on the throne of the high king.”
Chapter Thirty
The snake-lair’s goddess,
her weeping eyes swollen
with bitter fruit, looks at me,
Odin’s craftsman, for consolation
Gisli Sursson’s Saga
The wind held fair from the mouth of the Liffey to the mouth of the Boyne, thirty-five miles north along the coast. The three longships kept close company, their square sails filled and holding shape in the steady wind, their long, narrow hulls heeling slightly to starboard, the seas curling around their bows and swirling aft in long, white wakes. They looked like serpents and they moved like gulls, and the heavily armed men aboard them took pleasure in the day, the rare, fine weather, and the free ride the wind provided.
Thorgrim, too, tried to enjoy the time underway. Tried, and failed. Under most circumstances he could not have asked for better. But the hostility and anger that ran through the crew and swirled and tugged like ocean currents was too distracting and worrisome for him to find any pleasure in wind and sea.
Freed from his oar, Harald came aft to sit with Brigit. This left Arinbjorn visibly displeased, and made Thorgrim realize that he might have designs beyond taking the wealth of Tara and sailing for Norway a rich and successful Viking. Designs that might include a lovely Irish princess. The gods alone knew how elaborate a fantasy Arinbjorn had woven around himself and Brigit. It was certainly clear that Arinbjorn did not want Harald to sit by the girl, but Arinbjorn did not speak Irish, and Harald did, to a surprising degree, and that made Harald the girl’s natural companion.
But Brigit just as clearly did not wish to have a companion of any description. From the moment Black Raven had hit the open water she had been vomiting over the side until there was nothing left in her to vomit, and then she had slumped miserably against the strakes, wrapped in furs, her face going from pink to white to a slight greenish shade. Harald tried his best to comfort her, until Thorgrim could stand no more and called him aft.
“Son,” he said in a soft voice, “I’ve seen this sea sickness often enough, and I can tell you, Brigit just wants to be left alone.”
Harald glanced back at her. He had never been to sea in the company of women, only men who did not get sea sick or, if they did, quickly decided that comb making or blacksmithing was a trade more to their liking. “Are you sure?” he asked. “Women take it well when you tend to them, don’t they?”
“Yes, they usually do. But not when they are sea sick.”
“Should I offer her food? There’s salt fish in the tub forward.”
“If you do, she will tear your throat out with her bare hands. Or would, if she had the strength.”
At that Harald nodded and seemed to accept what Thorgrim said, which was becoming increasingly rare. He squatted down beside Brigit and said something, too soft for Thorgrim to hear, not that he would have understood the words in any event. Brigit nodded, never opening her eyes, and Harald stood and sat on the aftermost sea chest, where he could remain close but not too close.
Arinbjorn, who had been standing on the after deck just forward of the tiller, striking the pose of a man in complete command of those below him, made a grunting noise but said nothing.
The little fleet cleared the headland to the north of Dubh-linn Bay and two hours later passed to the west of Lambay Island, where the first raid on Irish soil by Norsemen gone a’viking had taken place more than fifty years before. Thorgrim surveyed the island, its steep cliffs and sloping green meadows, as the Black Raven slipped past its shore. He could see the ruins of the monastery that had once stood there, abandoned after being sacked again and again by his own people.
Fifty years… he mused. Half a century the Northmen had been raiding that country. And now they had come to stay. They were building towns, taking sides in Irish wars, as he was now. How long before all of Ireland was half Irish, half Norse? If Brigit was telling the truth, then his own grandchild would be just that.
The breeze continued steady as they made northing, bearing off to the northwest, bracing the yards around for a larboard tack and rigging out the beiti-asses, the spars that held the corner of the sails down and forward when sailing close-hauled. The afternoon was fading into evening when they finally spotted the low banks at the mouth of the River Boyne.
For all his high talk about Thorgrim’s experience and leadership, Arinbjorn did not really welcome any of Thorgrim’s advice. That much Thorgrim had concluded long before. Thorgrim could not, however, resist suggesting a trick that might buy them another ten hours of surprise. Some men might be sent ashore in the boat that Dragon Slayer was towing astern. They could station themselves on the beach while the three ships sailed right past the mouth of the river, as if they never intended to enter the Boyne at all. Then the men on the beach would light a fire to guide them back.
They were too far from shore to see if they were being watched, but Thorgrim did not doubt they were. Any confusion they might sew in the enemy’s mind could only help.
Arinbjorn pretended to consider this idea. In the end he rejected it, as Thorgrim knew he would. Unnecessary effort for a raid that would meet with little resistance, he explained with an air of patience. It might discourage the men, if they thought there was a need for such trickery. Besides, Brigit could not tolerate being underway for even a minute more than was necessary.
Thorgrim nodded. “Very well,” he said. He had done his duty, given the advice he thought he should give. Arinbjorn had shown him the courtesy of explaining all the reason for why he was rejecting it. All the reasons save for the real one, which was that some personal demon drove him to reject any idea that Thorgrim had to offer.
The sun was an hour from the horizon when they lowered their yards, lashed the sails to them, then broke out the oars and set in for the long pull against the current. They covered about half a mile up the river before settling their bows into the mud banks of the southern shore. They ran lines over the water to a stand to oaks that grew there and made the ships fast. They posted watch and settled in for the night.
With the ship now steady underfoot, Brigit was much improved. She stood and shed the furs and stretched her arms. She even accepted a bowl of food from Arinbjorn and made a bold attempt at eating. Once the ship was secure, Harald came aft to see if there was anything he could do for her. But Arinbjorn was already doing everything he could think to do, and he did
not care to have Harald around.
Thorgrim, leaning on the side of the ship just forward of the tiller, watched with amusement as their little power struggle played out. Arinbjorn seemed reluctant to simply order Harald forward, perhaps thinking that Brigit might want him nearby, as he was the only one who spoke Irish. Harald, in turn, was taking every opportunity to do so, conversing with Brigit and flaunting his growing fluency.
This foolish dance went on for some time before Thorgrim decided he would put an end to it. “Arinbjorn,” he said, “it’s only fitting the princess should have some privacy, don’t you think? There’s some spare sailcloth forward, we could rig her up a sort of tent easy enough. Right aft, here.”
Arinbjorn pretended to consider this, but Thorgrim knew that he would have a hard time finding a reason to not follow this suggestion. Then Harald rattled something off to Brigit in the odd tongue of the Irish and Brigit seemed to brighten and she nodded her head. “Brigit would be most pleased with a tent,” Harald announced, and that settled it, to Arinbjorn’s visible irritation.
The men fell to the work with a will. They lashed oars in place to form a solid wedge-shaped framework and draped the spare sailcloth over that, lashing it tight to the oars. Half an hour later there was a respectable tent standing on the after deck, its floor lined with furs and blankets, a fitting berth for a princess aboard a longship. With nods of thanks, a smile, and an unmistakable look of relief, Brigit bid her good nights and ducked into the new-made shelter.
For a moment Harald remained at the tent’s entrance, and Thorgrim could see he was debated whether he should join her inside. He had, after all, been sharing a bed with her at Jokul’s house, or so Thorgrim was sure he was thinking.
He’s as big as a man, but he still has no more awareness than a boy, Thorgrim thought. He caught Harald’s eye and gave him a barely perceptible shake of the head, and with the subtlest of gestures pointed forward with his chin. It was all he needed. He and Harald had been through enough together that they could speak volumes to one another with the slightest of gestures. And Harald, though he did not look happy, nodded as well and ambled off forward.
Dubh-linn: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 2) Page 24
