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

by James L. Nelson

  At the door of the marquee the guard stopped, lifted the flap, and called, “My Lord? The princess Brigit nic Máel Sechnaill.”

  “Come, come!” Brigit heard a voice, vaguely familiar but not intimately so. She stepped through, into the blessed dryness and the warmth generated by the profusion of candles set around the interior.

  Ruarc mac Brain was standing in the center of the space, a mail shirt over his tunic, which told Brigit right off that it was not a social function that brought him to Tara. “Dear Lord!” he said as he saw her. He nodded to a servant and the young man hurried over and put a blanket around her shoulders.

  “Thank you, my Lord Ruarc,” Brigit said with a little nod of her head. He was older than she remembered him, a bit of gray at the temples, which did his looks no harm. His face was a bit more lined, but again, the signs of being careworn did not detract from his physical gifts.

  Brigit pulled her eyes from Ruarc because she realized that there was someone else in the marquee, standing off to the side. His clothes were dark and he had not moved or spoken so she did not notice him at first. Now she looked. And drew in a breath.

  “Father Finnian?”

  “Yes, my dear.” The priest stepped closer to her. His presence alone filled her with a sense of peace and hope. “And you can’t know how glad I am to see you here,” he said, extending his hands, which she took.

  There was a shuffling behind her, a throat cleared, and Brigit was surprised to realize that Harald was still there. She turned to him. He was just inside the door of the tent, his eyes wide as he looked around, his expression confused as he tried to grasp what was happening right in front of him.

  “Harald?” Brigit said. She pronounced the words slowly and clearly so he would understand. Her tone was kind, more kind than it had been in some time, but there was a finality to her words. “Thank you for taking me here,”

  she said. “And now you may go.”

  Chapter Forty

  I thought I felt how the Valkyrie’s hands,

  dripping with sword-rain, placed a bloody cap

  upon my thickly grown, straight-cut locks of hair.

  Gisli Sursson’s Saga

  That morning, with the first hints of dawn creeping in around the shuttered windows, Morrigan’s maidservant, a clever girl named Mugain, had shaken her out of sleep. As she came awake she knew something was wrong. Morrigan was in the habit of rising early, but not that early, and she generally woke of her own accord.

  “What is it?” she asked. Mugain had brought a candle that cast a sphere of yellow light around her and Morrigan and the bed.

  “The men are up on the wall,” Mugain said. “Something is happening, ma’am. I know not what.”

  Morrigan frowned. “Someone sent you?”

  “No, ma’am. Your brother and some of the others, the lead men, they were up on the wall, and there seemed to be something happening beyond the walls, but they did not say what. I thought you should know, ma’am.”

  Morrigan nodded and swung her feet out of bed. “Smart girl, you were right to fetch me,” she said. This was why she kept Mugain close. Like Donnell and Patrick, she was useful and she understood how power was wielded at Tara. “Fetch my clothes.”

  Mugain set the candle down and was gone into the semi-dark of the room, then back with Morrigan’s brat, which she arranged over her shoulders. She took up the candle and led the way through the darkened hall of the royal household, which they had re-occupied the week before. At the end of the hall Morrigan pushed open the big oak door and stepped out into the morning air.

  It was not as early as she had thought, but the low, heavy clouds made the morning darker than it would normally be at that hour. Soon the rain would set in, she could see that, and then they would pay in full for the fine weather they had enjoyed over the past week. The sky had all the look of divine retribution about to be visited upon them, and she felt a twinge of apprehension as she walked quickly toward the main gate of Tara. Beside the gate, a ladder rested against the wall.

  In the gray light she could see them, the outline of her brother, Flann, and a handful of others, standing on the top of the ringfort’s chief defensive works. Something was going on and Flann had not called her. That, too, made her uneasy.

  Flann was still angry about the trick they had played on the Northmen, even though it had worked out as well as Morrigan might have hoped. Better, in truth. They had rounded all the bastards up like so many sheep and marched them into the great hall, which was now, and for the past few days had been, their prison. How they would ever get the stink out of the place, Morrigan did not know.

  It had worked very well indeed, with the one exception of Thorgrim’s having escaped. Donnel and Patrick had returned in the morning and told her the tale of the night’s hunting, how the dogs had accidentally cornered a bear or a wolf in the stand of trees. But Morrigan knew Thorgrim, knew the stories that were told about him, and the brothers could not hide their surprise when she made the sign of the cross and, wide-eyed, whispered, “Holy Mary, protect us….”

  But Flann had not been so delighted. It was, by his lights, a dishonorable victory, a victory won through trickery rather than bloodshed. The fact that it had worked so well actually made Flann angrier still, or so Morrigan divined.

  Men! Morrigan thought as she crossed the open ground. Men and their honor and fighting… Such things were fine for them. They had victory or they had death, and with the latter a hope of heaven. They did not think about the women left behind to be raped, the children to be sold into slavery. Men and their damned, damned honor.

  She reached the foot of the ladder and climbed and at the top she stepped onto the earthen wall. From there she looked off in the direction in which the others were gazing and pointing, and she could see right off the focus of their attention. The irregular gray shapes and the spots of light might have been meaningless to many, but Morrigan recognized it immediately for what it was – tents, cooking fires. A camp. And though she could not see much detail with the dull light and the distance, she had no doubt it was an armed camp. They had come in the night, set up in the dark.

  Morrigan moved along the wall until she was standing at Flann’s side. “Brother, who is this?” she asked. Flann looked over at her and then back at the new arrivals. He did not speak. But she knew he would. She would let him have his little victory, let him make it clear he spoke when he felt like it. At length he did.

  “We’re not sure. They arrived in the dark, we never even knew they were there until first light. They came from the north, so I do not think they are Vikings.”

  For a minute they were silent, looking out over the fields growing more distinct in the gathering light. Then one of the men with Flann spoke. “Here, My Lord.” He pointed to a place somewhere between the wall and the distant camp. They could just make out a figure running across the field.

  “I sent a man out to see who this was,” Flann explained.

  It was five minutes before the runner had come through the gate and climbed the ladder to the top of the wall. He was breathing hard and Flann gave him a moment to collect himself. When his breathing had subsided to the point where he could speak, he did.

  “It’s an armed camp, my Lord Flann. Two hundred and fifty, three hundred men at least, I should think. Horses. Well equipped.”

  The men and Morrigan considered this. Morrigan was aching to ask the obvious question, but she held her tongue. Finally her brother asked it. “Do you know who they are?”

  “I do not. I could not find out. But I think I could make out their banner. It was tan or light brown, it seemed, and had a bird with wings spread. An eagle, perhaps.”

  “Ruarc mac Brain,” Flann said.

  Oh, you son of a whore, Morrigan thought. Why don’t you just mind your own affairs?

  An hour later the riders appeared, five men mounted on horseback, trotting at an easy pace across the open ground between the camp and Tara’s front gate. Two of them held aloft bann
ers on poles, and as they drew near Morrigan, who was still standing with Flann atop the wall, could clearly make out the gold field and red eagle, the colors of Ruarc mac Brain from Líamhain, scion of the Uí Dúnchada of Leinster.

  “This will be a delegation,” Flann said to no one in particular. “I had better go see what they want.” He brushed past Morrigan and headed for the ladder and Morrigan followed. But then Flann stopped and looked back at her, and they held one another’s eyes, the silent words loud in their thoughts. Flann was angry still, and he had lost patience with Morrigan and her trickery.

  But this was not fighting he was going to, now. It was talking, negotiation, and they both knew that Morrigan was the more formidable one in that arena. They looked at one another, and all that wordless debate flew between them, brother and sister. And then Flann turned, defeated, and headed for the ladder, with Morrigan following right behind.

  They would normally have welcomed the delegation into the great hall, the most impressive of all the rooms at Tara, but that place was crammed with angry Norsemen, so instead they met in one of the larger rooms of the royal household. The king’s throne had been brought over so that Flann might be seated in regal style, and smaller chairs for the others were arranged in front of it. Morrigan stood just behind and to one side of Flann, her hand resting on the ornately carved back of the big oak chair.

  Ruarc mac Brain did not come himself. The man he sent to head up the delegation was older than Ruarc, in his late forties, perhaps, and appeared to be no one’s fool. He bowed and said, “My Lord Flann, I am Breandan mac Aidan. My Lord Ruarc mac Brain sends his regards and…”

  “Does he?” Flann interrupted. “Sends his regards? An odd way to do it, arriving unannounced with an army in tow, setting up a camp just an arrow shot from my walls.”

  Well done, brother, Morrigan thought. Flann was taking the initiative, hoping to put this man off guard, though it truth he seemed not in the least flustered.

  “My Lord Ruarc regrets the manner in which he has arrived,” Breandan continued, “but he feared he might not be so welcome if he announced his intention of coming.”

  “Whether he is welcome or no remains to be seen. It will depend much on the reason for his coming.” Flann gestured toward the seats in front of him and the delegation sat.

  “Yes,” Breandan said, taking a seat with the others. “His reason, indeed. It is thus. The Abbot of Glendalough has sent word to my Lord Ruarc that he would see the rightful heir seated on the throne of Tara.”

  “The Abbot of Glendalough?” Flann demanded. “What business is it of his?”

  “It is well known that the Crown of the Three Kingdoms was sent to Tara. The Abbot is commanded by God to see that it is used as it should be.”

  Brigit has gone to him, to see Ruarc,” Morrigan thought. Why else would he concern himself with these affairs? ‘Abbot of Glendalough’ indeed. Perhaps she did not go to the heathens at all. And then Morrigan had another thought.

  Finnian! What part is he was playing in all this?

  “God may command the Abbot as he wishes,” Flann was saying now, “but the Abbot does not command at Tara. Neither do the Uí Dúnchada of Leinster.”

  Breandan bowed his head as if in acknowledgement of this truth. “My Lord Ruarc understands that this would seem to be beyond his sphere,” he began, but Morrigan decided to take a chance and interrupted.

  “Is Father Finnian behind this?” she asked, her tone sharp. That question did elicit a reaction from Breandan, just a trace of surprise, but enough for her to know that she was right.

  “I don’t believe I know a Father Finnian,” Breandan said, but the lie came too late, and Morrigan continued, addressing her brother as if Breandan had not spoken, or, indeed, as if he was not even there.

  “If Finnian is behind this, Lord Flann, then that means Brigit is behind him,” Morrigan continued. “The Lord knows what they have promised Ruarc, but they have clearly enlisted him in their effort to remove you, the rightful king of Tara, from the throne.”

  “Is this true?” Flann demanded of Breandan.

  Breandan cleared his throat and sat up straighter. “I am commanded simply to tell you that my Lord Ruarc is here to enforce the wishes of the Abbot of Glendalough, and to see put in place the rightful heir to the throne of Tara. The peace of the Three Kingdoms and the safety of our people against the heathen invaders demand this. That is why it is of interest to him.”

  “The Abbot of Glendalough?” Morrigan said, stepping around from behind Flann’s throne. “You invoke his name much, sir. You must have some written command from him, something that spells out his wishes to Lord Ruarc, and to my Lord Flann. May we see it?” She held out her hand, knowing full well that he had no such thing. He would have revealed it by now if he had. Breandan, for the first time since their meeting, looked unsure of himself.

  “The Abbot sent no written word,” he explained, his voice carrying less surety than it had before. “His desires were related to us by a messenger, sent direct from Glendalough.”

  Finnian, Morrigan thought.

  “And on that,” Flann took up the discussion, “Does Ruarc expect us to fling open the gates and welcome him in? To stand aside and let Leinster determine who shall rule Brega?”

  Breandan stood, no doubt sensing, correctly, that the impasse had been reached. The rest of the delegation stood as well. “My Lord Ruarc does not wish for bloodshed, nor does the Abbot. We would suggest that you do indeed open the gates and allow us, and all the parties concerned, to come to some sort of mutual agreement.”

  Flann stood as well, putting as much aggression as he could behind the move, and when he spoke his voice was loud, his anger palpable. “There will be no agreement as long as that grasping villain will dare keep his army on the soil of Brega. You may tell your Lord Ruarc that we will not be cowed by his threats. He may fling his men against our walls as much as he wishes, he will find no quarter here. By God, if he wants bloodshed, sir, then he shall have it!”

  With that Flann turned his back to Breandan and stormed out of the room, a servant frantically pulling the door open for him so that he did not have to break stride. Breandan kept his eyes on Morrigan; he did not watch Flann exit. “Well?” he said, as if sensing that Flann’s word was not the last on any subject.

  “You have heard my Lord Flann’s words, Breandan mac Aidan. You may take them back to your master, and may God have mercy on us all.”

  Breandan did not argue. He could see that they were done. He bowed and the rest of his delegation bowed and they turned and made for the door through which they had come.

  Morrigan remained motionless, alone in the room, staring at the door long after the men had gone. The whole thing had played out pretty much as she had imagined it would. Flann had done well, he had shown only strength and fearlessness, and that was a good message for Breandan to bring back to Ruarc. But it did not change the underlying truth of the situation.

  If Ruarc chose to take Tara by force, then he could. The walls and gate would not hold out for long. For that matter, the people within the ringfort might be starved out in a matter of a week or so, if Ruarc chose to lay siege to the town rather than risk the lives of his men. The rí túaithe would most certainly not involve themselves in this affair. They would not pick sides, and if they did, they would likely go with Ruarc, because Ruarc had the stronger position.

  We need an army, we need to deliver a wound to Ruarc, she thought, but she knew that the men-at-arms at Tara were outnumbered three to one. If they went beyond the gates of the ringfort they would be butchered.

  And then she saw the spark of an idea. She caressed it, blew on it gently, let it flicker and grow and burst into life. Yes, she thought. Yes, here is a notion… If it did not play out as she envisioned, then they were no worse off, and if it did, then half a dozen problems were solved with a single stroke. A faint smile played over her lips. The hardest part, she realized, would be making Flann see the wisdom that was so clea
r to her.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Let us make our drawn swords glitter,

  you who would stain wolf’s teeth with blood…

  Egil’s Saga

  Arinbjorn White-tooth stood on the raised dais of the great hall, the place that he reckoned was reserved for the king of Tara and his retinue. The hall was much as he had imagined, and this was the place that he had imagined as his place, above the heads of the rest, in the king’s seat at the center of the table. But of course there was no table, no seats, nothing but a big, empty room in which, far from being feasted, they were being held prisoner.

  One hundred and fifty men, scattered over the packed dirt floor, gathered in little groups according to old friendships. It was dark, with only a little daylight sneaking in around the edges of barred shutters and rendering the whitewashed wattle walls gray. The upper reached of the ceiling, the heavy wooden beams, the tight thatch, were all but lost in the gloom.

  There had been a feast, of course, and Arinbjorn had allowed himself to believe the Irish had gratefully served it up in tribute, so terrified were they of him. And that in turn had landed him and his men there, shuttered up in the great hall, prisoners, the most shameful of conditions, and all his earlier fantasies of ruling Tara and bedding Brigit served only to mock him now. They had been played for fools, him and all his men, and now they were stripped of their weapons, their freedom and their manhood.

  All but Thorgrim. Thorgrim Night Wolf.

  Thorgrim, Thorgrim… Arinbjorn thought, the name coming to mind frequently and unbidden. It was certainly no coincidence that Thorgrim and his son and the lunatic Starri, whom Thorgrim counted as a friend, were the only ones to have escaped. This had all been Thorgrim’s doing, all this treachery.