Arinbjorn had figured that out once the effects of the poison had passed, once he realized that Thorgrim was not among the prisoners. It was Harald Thorgrimson who had brought that traitorous bitch Brigit to him, with her tales of the riches to be had at Tara, and Harald was too dim witted to think of such a plot on his own. He did not act without Thorgrim’s explicit instructions.
Damn him, may he end as carrion for crows and vultures! Arinbjorn thought as the frustration got the better of him. He had insulted Bolli by putting Thorgrim in his place, just so that he might go into battle side by side with Thorgrim and run a sword through him when the chance presented itself. Thus would he use Thorgrim to help him gain Tara and free himself from being in Thorgrim’s debt, all with a single thrust. And now see how it has turned out!
Not everyone could see Thorgrim’s part in this. For a day and a half, Hrolleif, who had consumed a superhuman amount of the roast pork, was too sick to speak, and when he had partially recovered, and found himself a prisoner of the Irish, he was too furious to make a reasonable reply to anything. Indeed, he seemed to blame Arinbjorn for their situation.
Ingolf was skeptical as well. “Why would Thorgrim do this? What has he to gain?” he asked when Arinbjorn had laid out his suspicions.
“He’s in league with the Irish whore, don’t you see?” Arinbjorn explained.
“Which one? The one we brought with us from Dubh-linn, or the one who poisoned us?”
“Both! I don’t know. It is just clear to me this is his doing. He knew the one who poisoned us of old. Why is it that he alone and his son and the other one, Starri, they alone escaped?”
“The gods favored him?” Ingolf suggested. “He was smarter than us? I don’t know, but I don’t see how any of this would have been in his favor. If I find that Thorgrim is befriended by the Irish, if they have done him honor, then I will find truth in your words. But for all we know, he and his son were killed by the Irish and fed to the dogs.”
Ingolf’s words did nothing to allay Arinbjorn’s suspicions about Thorgrim, but they did convince him that Ingolf, too, was part of the plot in some way and that he, like Thorgrim, must die once the chance presented itself. This he relayed to Bolli Thorvaldsson, who was the only one of them whom he still trusted completely. And Bolli made certain that word spread throughout the company of prisoners, word of Thorgrim’s treachery, of how he had sold out Arinbjorn’s men for his own gain.
It was a message that the men heard, and were inclined to believe. Surely it made more sense that they had been betrayed by one of their own than that they had been played for fools by some Irish wench. If the latter was true, it might suggest that they were not as clever as the Irish, and that was a thought to be dismissed out of hand.
For all of Arinbjorn’s insights into the circumstances of their imprisonment, however, there was not much that could be done as long as they remained locked up in the great hall. So Arinbjorn, alone with Bolli on the dais, made plans. “We will escape this prison, Bolli,” Arinbjorn said, his voice low and conspiratorial. “Either by tricking these Irish or….”
He got no further than that. A key turned in the lock of the small door to the side, the door through which food and drink was passed, though it was not above an hour since they had been given the tough bread and weak beer that constituted their breakfast. This was some other business. Heads turned at the sound; some men stood and faced the door. A good turn of events or bad, either way this promised to be a break in the unbearable monotony of the days past.
Arinbjorn, too, faced the door. He watched it swing open to reveal a pair of guards, well-armed, spears held ready to impale any who might rush them. None of the Norsemen moved, so the guards took steps aside and Morrigan passed between them. She cast an inquisitive look around the great hall, as if assessing the condition of the men inside, like a farmer looking over his herd. Finally her eyes moved to the raised area on which Arinbjorn stood.
“Arinbjorn,” she called out in her clear, strong voice. Once again Arinbjorn could not help but notice what a beauty she was, her long, dark hair tumbling around her shoulders, her strong, slim body obvious even under the loose fabric of leine and brat. “Arinbjorn, would you accompany me? I would have a word with you.”
A bit of a smile played over Arinbjorn’s lips. Morrigan, he imagined, had finally realized the great danger she had brought to all of Tara, trying to fool him, bringing him and his men within the walls of the ringfort. Now she would try to back her way out of the trap in which she had put herself.
“Very well,” he said, trying to sound as if she was interrupting some important business. He hopped down from the dais and strolled toward her. Morrigan’s face remained unreadable, but he could see on the faces of the guards the frustration that his unhurried pace was causing.
That’s good, he thought. They should know I do not hurry for them. But once he was within arm’s length of the door, one of the guards reached in and grabbed a handful of his tunic and jerked him through while the other slammed the heavy oak door and locked it behind. Arinbjorn found himself in the passage outside the great hall. There were four guards in all with spears at the ready. Morrigan stood before him. She was a foot shorter than he was, at least, but with her posture and her air of confidence she did not seem in the least diminutive.
“Lord Arinbjorn, first, please let me apologize for what we have done,” Morrigan began, her words reinforcing what Arinbjorn had already come to understand about her fears. “It was an unkind thing, true, but, pray, try to see our position. An army of Northmen descending on us. We quite unable to defend against you. It is no secret what your people have done to other towns and monasteries in this country.”
Arinbjorn nodded his head in gracious acknowledgement. “I understand, of course,” he said. “It was Thorgrim who put you up to this, is that not right?”
“Thorgrim…?”
“Thorgrim Ulfsson. The one they call Night Wolf. I know that he put you up to this, that this treachery was his doing, it is no secret.” Arinbjorn saw the look of understanding sweep over Morrigan’s face and he knew that this thrust had found its mark, more confirmation that he was correct in his assessment of the situation.
“Yes,” Morrigan said. “Exactly so. Thorgrim was the one who came up with this entire scheme. To undermine you.”
“Of course. He’s not nearly so clever as he thinks. Is he with you now, in Tara?”
“No, no. Nothing of the sort,” Morrigan said, shaking her head, her expression now distraught. “A man like that, he’ll betray anyone. I should have known that. I should have spoken with you, then I would have met with an honest man. Thorgrim has abandoned us and joined with our enemies. They are camped just outside our walls. We need you, Arinbjorn. We need you and your men to join with us in battle, to defeat Thorgrim and the men with him, so that the riches of Tara will be ours.”
Arinbjorn nodded, but in truth this was sounding a little less promising. “‘To defeat Thorgrim’, you say?”
“Yes,” Morrigan said, her tone brightening now. “They are but seventy men or so with Thorgrim, but my men-at-arms are afraid to take them on. If you join with us, however, we will outnumber them two men to one. My men will fight if you will lead them, and then victory will be certain.”
This made sense to Arinbjorn, but there was still one significant problem. “We have no weapons,” he pointed out. “They were…we lost them when…” he stammered, then stopped. They both knew perfectly well what had become of the Norsemen’s weapons, but Arinbjorn did not care to say it out loud.
“We have your weapons,” Morrigan said. “They will be returned, all of them. With our thanks and apologies.”
“You will return our weapons? Just like that?” Arinbjorn felt a little flame of suspicion kindling in his head. “You fooled us once, and I don’t care to let it happen again.”
“We did what we had to do,” Morrigan said. “I’ve told you before, the safety of my people, of Tara, is all I care about, a
nd I will do what I have to do. And if that means fighting with the fin gall, then that is what I will do. I am not offering to give you your weapons, your freedom, for nothing. Fight with us, against Thorgrim, and those things will be yours.”
Arinbjorn nodded. Put that way, Morrigan’s offer seemed reasonable. Had she been trying to trick him, she would have offered anything. But here she was making it clear that her offer was good only if they joined in the fight against Thorgrim and his new band. That made the offer seem far less suspicious. And, as it happened, far more tempting to Arinbjorn.
“I must discuss this with the lead men,” Arinbjorn said.
“We do not have much time. Thorgrim and his men are at the gate. I will give you half an hour and then I will come for your answer. You must let me know then.”
With that, Arinbjorn was returned to the great hall in as rough a manner as he had been withdrawn. He recovered himself and called for Bolli and Ingolf and Hrolleif. They gathered on the dais and Arinbjorn explained the situation, and Morrigan’s offer.
“Lying bitch!” Hrolleif exploded. “Are we to believe her again? Hasn’t she played us for fools enough?”
“She explained why she did what she did,” Arinbjorn replied, “and I for one am satisfied with her explanation. As I suspected, this was mostly Thorgrim’s doing. She wants revenge as much as we do. She offers us the chance.”
“It is not clear to me just how Thorgrim is involved here,” Ingolf said. “Did she tell you what part he played?”
“She didn’t have to,” Arinbjorn said. “She told me Thorgrim was part of this, which I already knew and told you, and that is all we need to know.” He hoped Ingolf would drop this line of questioning, because he realized when he tried to explain Thorgrim’s part, that he really did not know at all what it was, only that he had done something, and that their captivity had been the result.
“Here is the matter, boiled down,” Bolli said. “We stay in here, like swine ready for the slaughter, or we take Morrigan’s offer and gain the chance for freedom. If she puts weapons in our hands, we cannot lose. Even if we die, it is a better death than that of prisoners or slaves.”
Heads nodded at that sentiment, the first inarguably true thing any of them had said. If they were let out of their prison, they could die fighting, fighting someone, and such a death would certainly be preferable to rotting behind locked doors.
Twenty minutes later, Morrigan was back. Ten minutes after that, the Northmen marched from the great hall, free for the first time since the night they had feasted on Irish pork.
It was raining, they discovered, as they left the confines of the hall and stepped out into the open ground of the ringfort. The sky was dark and brooding and the rain was coming down in torrents. Wide puddles, their surfaces dancing and roiling in the downpour, were spread across the trampled ground. But the rain did not bother Arinbjorn or his men. They were filthy and stinking after their sickness and captivity, and this fresh water from the gods, on a morning that was not overly cold, seemed more a blessing than a torment.
The marched across the grounds in a loose file, flanked by a few dozen guards with lowered spears.
“I had thought we were supposed to be allies, now,” Hrolleif growled.
“Morrigan is being cautious, that’s all,” Arinbjorn said. “Think of it from her side. We could easily overpower all the men-at-arms here at Tara, even without our weapons, and we have reason to do it. These precautions are insufficient, of course, but she must take them.”
At that Hrolleif grunted but said nothing.
They came at last to the big oak gate, fifteen feet in height, the main way in and out of Tara. It, too, was flanked with guards, and to one side, a pile of swords, spears, mail shirts, battle axes. All the weapons that had been taken from them when they had been taken captive after the feast.
“Welcome, Lord Arinbjorn!”
Arinbjorn looked up, shielding his eyes against the driving rain. Standing on the wall, above the gate and a little to the side, was Morrigan, a cape around her shoulders, a hood pulled over her head. Beside her, in mail and a helmet, sword hanging at his side, stood the man she had introduced as her brother, Flann. Arinbjorn wondered if he was indeed a brother to her.
“Morrigan!” Arinbjorn called back. “You have been true to your word.”
“Of course I have!” she called back. “You see your weapons there. Pray, let every man take what is his and arm himself. Then we go forth, fin gall and Irish, and we will fight these enemies of ours.”
Arinbjorn turned to give the order, but the men were already swarming over the pile of weapons, pulling mail shirts over their shoulders, strapping sword belts around their waists, settling helmets on their heads. Behind them, the men-at-arms of Tara formed up, their lines more neatly dressed than the Vikings were wont to be. They were ready to go, and a moment later Arinbjorn’s men were as well.
“We will open the gates,” Morrigan called from the wall above, and Arinbjorn looked up again. “But the enemy is hard by and we do not wish to keep them open long. My brother instructs me to tell you that you men, you fin gall, will sally forth, and the men-at-arms of Tara are behind you.” She pointed to a place beyond the walls, lost to Arinbjorn’s sight. “We can see the enemy, they are still in camp, they have not taken the field. You will have time enough to form up, and then you can sweep them away.”
Arinbjorn pulled his sword from its sheath and raised it in a dramatic gesture. “We are ready to fight, and we are ready to kill, or to die, by the will of Odin, all-father!” he shouted.
“By the will of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit!” Morrigan shouted back, to Arinbjorn’s discomfort, but before he could even think of anything to say the bar was lifted from its brackets and the big oak gate swung ponderously open, revealing the fields and the distant wood that Arinbjorn remembered. He turned, raised his sword higher.
“You men, follow me! To victory or death!” He stepped forward, moving faster with each stride, and the host of Northmen flowed behind him. He could see smiles on their faces, faces that had been twisted with fury just hours before. They were free and they had weapons in their hands, and that was the most that any of their kind might desire.
They poured through the gate and onto the well-trod ground beyond, the hundred and fifty or so men under Arinbjorn’s command. He stepped aside and with his sword directed them to form up to the north of the open gate. Behind them, fifty or sixty feet behind, was the head of the column of Irishmen from Tara. Arinbjorn smiled to himself. Those Irish, with all their spears and mail and helmets, were not as eager as the Northmen to get into the fight. They were not rushing forward as he and his men had done, but marching at a more slow and regular pace.
I will send them in first, Arinbjorn thought. Why throw away the lives of his men, men who would be the most effective on the battlefield? He would order the men-at-arms in first, to take the shock of the attack, and then his men would sweep in and finish the enemy off.
He turned to wait for the men-at-arms to come through the gate so that he could direct them to where he wanted them. The Irish were still within the ringfort, ten feet from the gate, and then he heard Flann shout something and to Arinbjorn’s surprise they came suddenly to a stop.
“Get out here, you cowardly bastards!” Arinbjorn shouted, but he had not even completed the sentence before the ponderous gates swung shut again
and he heard the sound of the bar dropping in place.
Chapter Forty-Two
You battle-windswept warriors,
I wish you’d suffer
loss of giant’s laughter
and good fame both
The Saga of the Confederates
The drumming of the rain on the roof of the marquee made it hard to hear the hushed conversation. It also made Father Finnian grateful to not be plodding along some miserable excuse for a road or huddled in some peasant’s pathetic, leaky hut. Ruarc mac Brain’s tent was roomier, better furnished and more com
fortable than the homes of many of the poor farmers with whom he had stayed in his travels.
“My only wish is to bring stability to Brega,” Brigit was explaining. “My father longed for the Crown of the Three Kingdoms, but I am not so eager to wear it. Until we are at peace within our own kingdom, I don’t see how we can hope to unite the three and defeat the fin gall.”
Ruarc, who was seated across the small table from Brigit, nodded in agreement. The three of them, Ruarc, Brigit and Finnian, were the only occupants of the marquee. The servants had been sent away. Outside, two guards flanked the entryway, visible whenever the canvas that covered the door flogged in the wind.
This has the blessings of God, Finnian thought. It was he, Finnian, who had arranged for Ruarc mac Brain and his troops to be here, but God had delivered up Brigit just when she was needed. Finnian had been staggering in the dark, feeling his way, unsure if any of what he was doing was right. And then like Abraham’s ram in the thicket, Brigit had appeared. The sense of relief he felt was like nothing he had experienced before.
“As long as Flann sits on the throne, there will be no peace in Brega,” Ruarc said. “The rí túaithe will not rally to him, and soon they will be fighting one another. And Flann made it clear to Breandan mac Aidan that he would not willingly give the throne up.”
“When I am on the throne, secure on the throne, then the rí túaithe will come together,” Brigit said. “And then I can begin to strengthen the alliance with the Uí Dúnchada of Leinster.”
Something in the way she said that pulled Finnian from his musings. He looked over at her. But she was not looking at him. She was looking at Ruarc mac Brain and Ruarc was looking at her in a way that suggested to Finnian something deeper going on. There were undercurrents in their talk that went beyond simply discussing who would rule what.
He was just wondering if he should excuse himself when a voice, loud and urgent, ended the discussion. “My Lord Ruarc! Something is happening at Tara!”
Dubh-linn: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 2) Page 34
