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

by James L. Nelson

  In any event, Finnian could see that mention of the crown had gained Ruarc’s attention, though, careful negotiator that he was, he was trying hard to hide it. “The crown is of no matter to me,” he said. “I may be of the Uí Dúnchada, but I am not high king of Leinster. I cannot wear the crown.”

  “The crown may be no matter to you, but the fin gall are. They grow stronger every year, their hold on Ireland more powerful. Dubh-linn stands in direct threat to Líamhain.” Finnian sat more upright and locked eyes with Ruarc. “We are in a battle for all the souls of this country. When Irish fight Irish, we do the fin gall’s work - the devil’s work – for them.”

  “You wish me to march my army to Tara and save it from the heathen host that Brigit has so improvidently raised? She and Morrigan scratch at each other’s eyes and so my men must die to stop them?”

  Now it was Finnian’s turn to remain silent and hold Ruarc in his gaze, but Ruarc did not flinch any more than Finnian had. He waited, patiently, for the priest to reply.

  “There needs a strong ruler at Tara, because the one who rules Tara may wear the Crown of the Three Kingdoms. The abbot will not give the crown to the high kings of Leinster or Mide. Forgive me, but he does not trust them. Brigit nic Máel Sechnaill is the rightful heir to the throne, but the rí túaithe are not yet willing to support her.”

  “The rí túaithe are whores who will sell themselves to whoever wields the most power,” Ruarc observed, “and they will not do a thing, and certainly will not risk their precious necks, until they can see clearly who that is.”

  “I would agree with that assessment,” Finnian said. Most men were more circumspect in their speech when talking to a priest, but Finnian could see that Ruarc was not most men. “Brigit needs an ally,” Finnian continued. “She is young. She is, to be frank, very beautiful, as you well know. She is a widow. You are a widower….”

  At that, Ruarc sat bolt upright. “Dear God, sir, what are you suggesting? My wife is not a month in her grave.”

  Finnian nodded. Good, good…. Ruarc’s thoughts went first to his late wife, and not to the extraordinary power that he, Finnian, was dangling before his imagination. He felt more confident still that he had guessed right about the man.

  “Never would I suggest any disrespect to your late wife’s memory, God rest her soul,” Finnian said. He crossed himself and Ruarc did likewise. “Nor am I suggesting any immediate plans be made. But if Flann mac Conaing solidifies his control of Tara, or, worse yet, the fin gall take it from him, then any possibilities for the future are lost. As you yourself so correctly said, you owe a duty to your people that is greater than yourself. And your people are not just the Uí Dúnchada, or the people of Líamhain. The Irish, they are your people.”

  For some time the two men sat in silence, and Finnian had no doubt that Ruarc was carefully considering every possible nuance, every stroke and counter stroke. Then, without warning, Ruarc clapped his hands loud, which made Finnian start. Seconds later the two advisors, earlier dismissed, returned at a near run.

  “I want word sent to all the rí túaithe within two hours ride that they are to turn out with their men-at-arms and any foot soldiers they can muster,” Ruarc said, giving the orders as if he had been considering them for days. “We march tomorrow for Tara. Any of my people who still owe their military service for the year, they are to turn out as well. Set the bakers to work, as much as they can bake in a night, that will have to do. And tell my servants to get my horse and armor in readiness.”

  The advisors said nothing beyond “Very well, my lord,” and hurried off. Ruarc looked at Finnian.

  “You’ll ride with us?” he asked.

  “It would be an honor, my lord.”

  “You know,” Ruarc said, “one hears many things. I heard a rumor, just a rumor, mind you, that a priest was the one who accompanied Brigit to Dubh-linn so that she might sell Tara to the fin gall.”

  “One hears many things. Next the country people will be saying that Saint Patrick himself has come again, I shouldn’t wonder. But I do not think that Brigit ever intended to sell Tara to the heathens, not for any price.”

  Ruarc nodded. He said nothing.

  “My Lord, does Father Senan still serve at your pleasure?”

  “He does,” Ruarc said. “He is old, but he is hale. You will find him at the monastery, I should think.”

  “I have not seen him in many a year. By your leave, I would like to pay him my respects.”

  “Of course. I’m sure the brothers will find accommodation for you. And after supper we must talk more. I’ll wish to know all I can about how things stand at Tara before I risk the lives of my men.”

  “Yes, my lord, of course.” Finnian stood, made a shallow bow and turned and left the room. He was eager to see Father Senan. He had a great deal to confess.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Let whoever opens a door

  make certain there are no

  enemies hiding behind it.

  Old Norse Saying

  If Thorgrim, or especially Harald, had been injured or killed by Morrigan’s men, then Ornolf Hrafnsson would have single-handedly ripped Tara apart with his teeth. But since neither of them had suffered any permanent damage, and since Ornolf did not give a rat’s turd about any of the men who had, he roared with laughter and soundly mocked the two of them as they told their tale.

  “Ha! That’s my courageous, brilliant son-in-law! Beaten by a pig!” he proclaimed. “Now, if the pig had actually been alive I might have called it a fair fight, but by all the gods Morrigan even did you the courtesy of killing the thing first!”

  Thorgrim smiled grimly and took another deep drink of his mead, which Ornolf had brought by the barrel-full, along with beer, ale, and even some food. He knew better than to offer any defense of his actions. The fact that he had not been in command of the raid, that he had warned Arinbjorn, that he had personally saved the handful of men who got away, none of that made any difference to Ornolf. Not when there was fun to be had.

  Nor did Thorgrim have to make any arguments in his own defense, because Harald, who was too young and naïve to realize how pointless it was, was making them for him, raising objections to each of his grandfather’s jibes, just to see them tossed aside like chicken bones. But if anyone was going to argue with Ornolf, Harald was the obvious choice, because there was no one on whom the old man would go easier.

  They drank more and tore into the roast pig once it was done. “Careful, there, Thorgrim, don’t let this one best you, too,” Ornolf warned as Thorgrim used his dagger to cut a chunk of meat free. Harald was unsure at first if he could stomach roast pig anymore, but his youthful appetite soon got the better of his associations and he tore into it was like the ravenous young man that he was.

  Thorgrim was more than eager to ask the obvious question – how did Ornolf happen to be there? But he knew he would never get an answer until Ornolf had heard everything he wanted to hear. So, when the tale of their escape from Tara was finally exhausted, Thorgrim asked.

  “Why am I here? To save your sorry skins, obviously,” Ornolf explained. “It was clear to me this was a fool’s quest you were on, I said so back in Dubh-linn.”

  “So why didn’t you sail with us? You might have played the role of all-father from the onset, and not waited until Arinbjorn’s stupidity led to so much trouble.”

  “It was Arinbjorn’s raid. If I had sailed with you, then I would have been putting myself under Arinbjorn’s authority. I reckoned that if I just happened to show up some time later, then I was my own man.”

  “That’s another thing,” Thorgrim said. “I can’t help but notice you seem to have a ship. Where, pray, did you get a ship?”

  “Why, that’s the ship that was owned by the Danes who tried to kidnap the Irish girl. Remember, you and your berserker friend there nearly killed them all. I reckoned the ship was your prize, and since you are still my hirdman, despite how puffed up you have gotten, I figured that gave me the righ
t to use it.”

  Thorgrim nodded. It was dubious logic, but arguably correct. It had not occurred to him that the Dane’s ship would be his property. And if it was - and Ornolf’s sailing off with it would only strengthen his claim - then that meant he now had the means to return to Vik without making himself beholden to another. And that in turn sparked a cascading series of notions, crowding together, one after another.

  “I came as fast as I thought decently possible,” Ornolf continued, interrupting Thorgrim’s river of thought, “but I’ll be honest, I didn’t think you would lose your entire army within half a day of your arrival!”

  “You underestimate Arinbjorn White-tooth’s capacity for foolishness.”

  “Perhaps I do. But I think part of the problem is there.” He pointed with his massive beard at Brigit, seated demurely on a barrel of ale. Harald had excused himself and joined her. Thorgrim and Ornolf could see him talking in an animated way to her, and they could see her making a pretense of listening.

  “Harald,” Ornolf continued, “is thinking with that part of his body that young men think with, and it is not his brain.”

  “You’re right about that. No question. But the princess seems to have worked her wiles on Arinbjorn as well. It was she who talked him into this raid on Tara, not Harald. You should have seen him when we sailed up the coast. I thought he might start humping her leg.”

  Ornolf laughed loud and long at that. When he stopped he turned to Thorgrim, and his mood was more serious. “So, what do we do now? Between my men, the guard you left behind and the men you dragged from Tara, we have around ninety under arms.”

  “I don’t think they have more men-at-arms than that at Tara, and if they do, then not very many more,” Thorgrim said. “We should be able to make a good show of it, if they come out and fight.”

  “Do you think they’ll come out and fight?”

  “No. Why would they?”

  Ornolf nodded. Why, indeed? Morrigan had defeated the entire Viking army without a man of hers lifting a weapon. Why would she risk it now by meeting an enemy outside the walls of the ringfort?

  Whatever Ornolf might have said in reply was cut off by the sound of raised voices nearby. The two men swiveled around. Brigit was standing now, speaking to Harald in a loud and harsh tone, a finger wagging for emphasis. Harald, in turn, looked confused, in part by the rapid-fire Irish but mostly the sudden and unfamiliar anger. He looked more than a little frightened as well.

  “Ha!” Ornolf cried. “The boy knows nothing of women! Look at him, he gets a tongue lashing and he has no idea what to do. Hasn’t he seen his shrew of a grandmother in full fury often enough, and me handling her like a man should handle a woman?”

  “You handle your wife the way a squirrel handles a dog, racing up the nearest tree as fast as its furry legs will take it.”

  “The pretty girls love my furry legs, they swoon at the sight,” Ornolf said, but their attention was on the young couple. Harald stood, shrinking a bit as if he thought he might be struck, and then he and Brigit walked over to where Thorgrim and Ornolf sat. Or, more correctly, Brigit stormed over and Harald trailed behind.

  “Father, Grandfather,” Harald began. “Brigit has a question…”

  Thorgrim smiled. He could not stop himself. Brigit seemed well beyond the point of questions. Ornolf, also unable to stop himself, doubled over with laughter. “A question?” he shouted. “She looks like she has a damned sight more than a question! She looks like she has a wolverine up her ass!”

  Despite himself, Thorgrim chuckled. Harald blushed. Brigit, unable to understand the words but understanding clearly that she was the butt of whatever Ornolf had said, just looked madder still.

  “Grandfather, please,” Harald pleaded. “This is Brigit’s very life! She wishes to know what you are planning.”

  “Yes, Ornolf,” Thorgrim asked, “what are you planning?”

  “Me? I came here to lend a hand if I could, not to rescue Arinbjorn’s whole damned army, or to secure a throne for her. Tell her she picked the wrong damned errand boy when she asked for Arinbjorn’s help.”

  Harald made what appeared to be a stumbling translation. Brigit listened, arms folded, her mouth in a tight line, eyes slightly narrowed. When she replied, the words were harsh, fast, and much louder than they needed to be for Harald, standing two feet away, to hear. Harald asked for clarification on some points, or so Thorgrim guessed, and when Brigit spoke again her word were slow and clipped, but softer now, and carrying true menace.

  “Ah…Princess Brigit says Arinbjorn was a fool, and…she said…I think…she was a fool to let him leave her behind. She…ah…demands we march on Tara again, and this time she will…I believe she said that she would…lead. I think.”

  At that the humor dropped away from Ornolf’s face. He stood and turned slowly, anger growing like storm clouds. “‘She demands’?” he said. “‘She demands?’ You tell this little Irish bitch that she doesn’t demand anything, not a thing! We do not serve at her pleasure, and if we so choose we’ll sail away and leave her standing here alone to be eaten by wolves!” He was ostensibly speaking to Harald, but his eyes were on Brigit, and he was pointing a sausage-like finger at her face.

  But Brigit was not in the least intimidated. She put her balled fists on her hips and leaned her face toward Ornolf and let out a stream of Irish, which if it was not obscenity-laden invective, certainly sounded like it. Harald, trying to follow the words, was looking more confused, more uncomfortable, more shocked by the second.

  “She says….” Harald began, verbally stepping between them, “she says she appreciates the fact that these men are yours, and you are free to command them as you will…” he began, but Thorgrim cut him off.

  “I’m sure she’s the picture of reason, just like your grandfather is,” he said. He grabbed Ornolf by his massive arm and half led, half dragged him away from the furious Irish princess.

  “See here, Ornolf,” he said when they were out of earshot. “Clearly neither you nor me nor anyone but Harald cares if the little princess sits on the throne of Tara, and I think he will soon find out that she does not adore him quite as much as he thinks.” He considered telling Ornolf the part about Brigit carrying Harald’s child, but decided against it. It only complicated matters, and he did not entirely believe it himself.

  “However, there are seventy or so men who sailed with us who are now prisoner of the Irish. Some are our countrymen. We should at least try to do something for them. If you succeed, they’ll be beholden to you.” Ornolf frowned and said nothing, so Thorgrim brought out his weightiest argument. “If Brigit does regain the throne, or if at least we can take possession of Tara, even for a few hours, then the plundering might be such as we have never seen yet in this land, forsaken by the gods.”

  At that notion Ornolf brightened, and his former anger seemed to subside. “Sure, we can use the little princess to our ends,” he said, thinking it through as he spoke, “and maybe even get that fool Arinbjorn to pay a ransom to us. Very well, we’ll march to Tara and see what damage we can do!”

  Ornolf’s enthusiasm, however, did not translate into swift action. He had already eaten and drank enough that day that any thought of marching down the road was out of the question. In fact, as the day wore on the Northmen seemed to become even more entrenched. Tents were brought ashore and set up, more fire pits dug, logs for seats rolled into the spreading camp. The wood smoke hung above the clearing, the smell of roast meat and strong drink with it, the laughter of men, the clatter of gear as it was stacked here and there, it all gave an air of permanency to the place.

  The next day saw more drinking and eating. Ornolf called together the leading men of his ad hoc hird to make plans for the upcoming campaign. That was followed by more eating and drinking, then more plan making, then loud, boisterous and tuneless singing. Finally, as the afternoon yielded to evening, and no one had left the camp for any reason other than to relieve himself, Thorgrim understood that Ornolf
was purposely delaying, in part to make it clear to Brigit that the men moved on his schedule, not hers, and in part, he believed, simply to annoy her.

  Thorgrim could not tell if the first purpose was working on her, but the second clearly was. She spent the day far removed from the others, pouting, or taking her frustration out on Harald when he foolishly tried to mollify her. Ornolf was enjoying himself, and made certain that Brigit knew he was enjoying himself, and took pains to look like a man who did not intend to go anywhere soon.

  The following day they woke to a lowering, dark sky and a cool wind moving the branches of the trees and making a sound like a soft warning. Thorgrim had been in Ireland long enough to know that the spell of good weather they had enjoyed was unprecedented, and now it looked as if the gods would make them pay double for that indulgence.

  Thorgrim knelt before the small altar he had built of stones from the river, the much battered iron Thor resting behind the sputtering flame, and he asked his god that the men be protected, Harald foremost, and that they all be allowed to die a man’s death if it came to that. He realized that even as he was saying that he was rubbing between his thumb and forefinger the silver cross that Morrigan had given him so long before.

  He stood. Starri Deathless was standing there. Thorgrim had not heard him approach. He looked agitated. The thick weather and the proximity of an enemy, an enemy he did not know when or if he would fight, were working on his nerves.

  “Thorgrim?” he asked. He was rubbing the split arrowhead just as Thorgrim had been rubbing the cross. “Do you think Ornolf will move today? This is not good, this is not good, this waiting.”