“Why has he not let me die, or done what’s worse and left me a breathing corpse? He must have his reasons. Shouldn’t I…do whatever he wills… lest he stop helping me?” Ranulf turned eyes back toward the crucifix. “I don’t want to be a cripple!”
“What do you suppose Christ does wish of you?” Halldor’s tone was dull.
“I don’t know.” Ranulf slumped. “Father, I’m wearied. I have to sleep.”
Lowering him to the bed, Halldor thought, Well, if he takes baptism, it’s not the end of the world. He’ll have trouble aplenty— a householder who doesn’t offer to the gods, who risks bringing down their wrath on the land— But I wonder if mostly I’m not hurt that my last son forsakes my old friend Thor.
He may shift his mind, of course. If not… Brigit, you will have won that much of a victory over us.
The weather grew steadily more foul. Hailstones skittered among the rain-spears cast by a yowling, shuddering wind, to whiten an earth gone sodden. The neighbor island and the nearer mainland were well-nigh lost to sight in all that wild grey. The vikings huddled with their captives in whatever shelter was to be had.
Halldor brought his fellow skippers, Egil and Sigurd, to his tent. Inside, it was dank and noisy and they could barely see. “I’m afraid we’ll be penned here for days,” he told them. “I’m not sure—who can be sure of anything about the Irish sky?—but this looks to me like the first in a long bout of springtime gales.”
In such matters, they had learned to heed him. “Well,” Egil said, “our wounded can use a rest ashore before we put to sea.”
“And we can think over our next moves,” Sigurd added. Since nothing could be known beforehand, they had laid no firm plans beyond this latest raid. Now the lower Shannon valley was picked clean. They were too few to venture on inland, where overwhelming numbers might fall on them.
“Some among those folk we’ve taken must ken what’s farther south; but beware of lies luring us into a snare.”
“It’s hard for a man to lie when his hand is brought above hot coals,”
Egil said.
“Hard, but not impossible,” Halldor answered roughly, “Are the Irish less brave than the Norse? We’ve men dead and hurt who can tell you otherwise. No, the way to get truth is to be shrewd. Let me. I’ll start by talking first with one, then another, then a third, each by himself, and marking whose tale matches whose.”
He fell quiet. Rain drummed on the tent and sluiced down its sides, mists gathered within. When he was ready, he spoke anew: “Need we go on at all? We’ve taken a rich booty. Why not sail straight back to Armagh and sell the prisoners, and then home? They’ll be in better shape. In-deed, if we cruise till the end of summer, and find no buyers earlier, we’ll not only be badly crowded aboard ship but most of them will die.” Which would be a shame for them too, he thought. Not that I would drag out my days as a thrall. If I couldn’t escape, I’d do my best to kill my owner before I was cut down. Or so I believe. Brigit might tell me I am mistaken about myself.
Egil snorted. “What you mean, Halldor, is that your share can already pay off what you owe and leave you a stake for a fresh start in trade.
Right?”
“Yes, you’ve heard me erenow. For yourself, though—”
“We’re here for everything we can gain before winter. You swore brotherhood with us; and three ships can dare what two cannot.”
Halldor hunched where he sat on the bed. The cold gnawed inward through his clothes. What might happen to Ranulf in a whole season’s faring? Or himself? He did not fear death, but he would not welcome it either. Or Unn—she’d grown fat and barren, but she was still a faithful helpmeet who ought not to be left alone more than was needful.
Yet an oath was an oath. Egil’s words and Sigurd’s yea to them were no surprise. “As you will,” Halldor sighed.
The rowing upriver, the fight at the abbey, its aftermath, the trip back through waxing storm, the meeting with his son, the work that followed, the bleakness and damp: all had worn him down. He missed Brigit when he laid himself to rest, but was too quickly asleep to fret about it.
Late in the morning he woke from a dream of her. Rain had stopped, but a stiff wind blew; the tent shook and crackled. The warmth beneath the bearskin entered his loins. He reached for her and found he was alone.
For some reason he didn’t understand, he had not made use of the women the vikings lately caught. Maybe their tears had washed lust out of him. It was so much better when they also knew joy…He wanted Brigit to be his in that way. He’d never before met any like her, and the strong-boned face was often in his mind. He thought it could become more alive than most women’s faces, and that that would make him feel young again.
He dressed and went forth. The river was brown and wickedly choppy under a hard-driven cloud wrack. Westward loomed blackness where lightning glimmered. He’d have had no great qualms were he at sea, but here the currents were too tricky, shores and shoals too close. Besides…
well, Brigit had bespoken Saint Senan, the drow of this island. She’d wished a water-dragon recalled that he’d once hexed back into the deeps.
What strength might his ghost still have? A storm could give it the very chance it wanted to wreak harm.
Halldor warmed his hands at a fire and got a bite to eat in one of the huts. Today he must get the loot unloaded, that it could be fairly shared out. First, however, he sought among the Irish that had been taken at the abbey. They were housed with their captors, in tents and throughout the monastery. The tower was unused; it wasn’t worth climbing the scaffold to shiver amidst that icy stone. Likewise was the chapel, also a cheerless place and maybe haunted.
Having found the man he sought, Halldor ordered, “Come along, you”
in Gaelic. The fellow stumbled sheeplike after him—young, his frame sturdy beneath a tattered robe, but slack of jaw and blank of eye. He’d spoken little since he was first herded off.
As Halldor had awaited, Brigit was in the chapel, stretched out before the altar. She had been keeping this lonely watch, then, from the time she saw him coming back. And why should she welcome me? struck through him like a knife. He hailed her. “Oh!” she cried, and scrambled to her feet.
Hunger and thirst had turned her pale, but that seemed to make her shine in the dimness.
She braced her shoulders as if readying herself for a whip. “How have you fared?” she asked in a flat voice.
He must clear his throat before he could tell her: “The Irish had flocked to the abbey for a stronghold. They’d raised a troop of men who gave us a hard fight. Even after we broke them, it was costly for us to scale the walls.
No few vikings will never harass your shores again. And… we will leave Scattery as soon as the weather allows.”
Still she stared at him.
“You’ll have to come along, till we’re sure Ranulf is well,” Halldor said awkwardly. “Moreover, we’ve other wounded now that you can help. But you have my promise you’ll go free at last. Meanwhile, uh, we’ve taken slaves for market.” He gestured at the silent man. “I was careful to get a priest among them. For you, Brigit.”
She looked at the captive. The hush lengthened below the wind outside.
“I want to make you as happy as I can,” Halldor said, and reached for her.
She stepped back from him. “Then let me be,” she answered.
“What?”
She did not grovel, only stood there and asked for forbearance. “I have so much to understand, so great a need of confession and shriving, before—whatever else is to happen—” The spirit flared slightly in her, like a flame out of a dying fire. “You have new women.”
He let his arm drop. After a few breaths he said slowly: “Brigit, if it will make a difference, I myself will spare them too. Until tomorrow—abide in peace with your priest and your god.” He turned on his heel and walked out.
Besides unloading the ships, it would be wise to go over them, caulking and pitching where needed, whi
le rain held off. If that work didn’t last till evening, he could try casting a fishline. Afterward he’d join his men, who had taken ale and wine on this foray as well as treasures, and get drunk.
VIII
EAMON WAS THE PRIEST’S NAME, whispered after Halldor was gone. Even so, the man cringed at every noise. Brigit wondered what he could have witnessed, to mark him so.
She wanted to be shriven, but first she must calm Father Eamon, else how might he attend to the needs of her soul? So she urged him to talk.
“I loved the ancient battle-stories,” he said, “pagan though they were.
Cuchulain the magnificent, mighty Finn MacCumhaill, rolling chariots, prancing horses, sun sheening off spears that men kissed before battle—but it wasn’t like that at all, at all, Sister Brigit. A lad clutched his spilling guts, fell to his knees and screamed and screamed until he was nothing but screaming. And the blood! I’ve seen blood as much as most, but never did I wade through lakes of it, and that of my neighbors and kin.
“We thought the walls would hold them off, even after our warriors were beaten, but they’d brought ladders to scale the palisades, and they stationed men at the souterrain exits, so none could escape. At last we saw the end of hope. We cried out to Patrick, Mary, and to God Himself, but none answered but the yelling, grinning Lochlannach.
“Old Abbot Niall tried to halt them at the church door. The Sacrament was yet inside. They split his head and trod across his body. His bones cracked, one by one, until he lay a shapeless mass of red. They scattered the Sacred Host underfoot.
“A few tried to stand fast in a storeroom. The Lochlannach fired it. I still can smell the reek of roasting flesh and barley.”
Screams outside mixed with laughter. Brigit and Eamon looked out the door. Nearby several men were tumbling a woman in the mud. The woman spat at Brigit.
Eamon closed his eyes and shuddered. “When all was lost, and we made submission, they did that to my wife. I was bound, and could not help her.
She would not submit; she wailed and struggled. I heard bones snap. They must have decided that, wounded, she’d be no use as a slave. After all were finished, the last ravisher stuck his knife in her.” And then, a howl, “
Where was Christ?”
Brigit thought Eamon’s wife had been lucky. She touched him on the arm. That she should offer comfort to a priest… “Surely she awaits you in Heaven.”
“The way she glared at me—I never can forget. I could not rescue her, but always I see those eyes. How could I ever face her again?” He wept.
“God has turned His face away and left us to the demons.”
“You must never say any such thing. Despair is the greatest sin.” The woman outside had stopped shrieking; Brigit heard only keening and coarse laughter. Well she remembered; she felt anew the fullness of her breasts and the heaviness in her belly. Yet she, too, was unable to avenge yon woman. Her helplessness gagged her.
Eamon gave her a mad smile. “And you, sister, for all your brave words, have you never despaired?”
Brigit flushed. “I’d be grateful if you would shrive me. Long has it been, and much has happened.” He heard out her catalogue of sins, such as she told. It seemed his mind wandered as he murmured absolution.
Dusk thickened. Outside Brigit heard drunken revelry. Of course, the Lochlannach must celebrate! She dared not leave the chapel. Here was a fellow Christian in need, and Halldor had cause to be wroth with her.
She watched with Eamon, and tried to pray. The priest spent much of his time staring into darkness, or mumbling senseless Latin phrases. A great shout rose from the campfire—one of the crew must have made a foolhardy boast—and Eamon cast himself to the dirt, trembling. Forgive him, dear God, that he no longer is a man. She sat against the chapel wall. The stones were chill on her back. When she dozed she saw her father again, as a young man, felt him toss her high in the air and laugh. She huddled in the rustling dark and heard her mother’s tales of the Sídhe, those who dwell in the dolmens. She was a novice, pledging her body and life to Christ—she woke with a snap. The chapel was black, and in the darkness she heard whimpering. What has Eamon seen that is worse than I’ve survived? She stumbled over in the dark to comfort him with a touch and a few words, but he only curled into a tighter ball.
Brigit rose. The cold struck through her garments, rain spattered through the open door, and the House of God stank of mildew. She could bear no more. Halldor, at least, was warm. His hands were not always nailed to a cross.
She bowed against the storm as she walked to his tent.
IX
SHE WOKE HIM WHEN SHE CREPT into bed and cuddled at his side, but almost at once she was asleep. He lay quiet and wondered what it meant.
Merely that she was chilled? No, she could have curled up with her back to him and a space between, as always before. She might call herself a humble handmaiden of Christ, but her inner pride was as stark as any Norsewoman’s. Had she, then, gotten the same lust for him that he’d been carrying for her? That thought nearly made him take hold of her and mount. He reined himself in. She was worn out. Let her rest.
What need for haste? Nobody was going anywhere today. Let him woo her.
After he had long enjoyed the feel of her flesh against his, he rose. First he picked up the drenched garb she had cast off and hung it on a hook at the ridgepole to dry as much as it might. Throwing a cloak across his shoulders—the pin that fastened it was Irish—he unlaced the doorflap. A fire was banked in a small pit just outside, roofed by interwoven boughs on four stakes. He kindled a splint among the coals and took that back inside to light a brazier. Soon the edge was off the air. Food and drink were stowed here, for it behooved a chieftain to offer them to anyone who came calling. He sliced beef and cooked it on a spit.
The smell seemed to reach Brigit. She sat up.
As they left the bearskin, her rosy-tipped breasts seemed to light the gloom. A short brown curl fell endearingly across her brow. “Good morning,” he greeted. “You must be starved. Shall we break our fast?”
She smiled—then, as full awareness came, stiffened.
“Don’t fear me.” Halldor pushed the meat into a trencher and sat down on the bedside. His palm stroked the softness of her cheek on its way to cup her chin and draw the grey eyes toward him. “You deserve well.”
She bridled. “I’ve received little thus far.”
“You’ll have your freedom in due course, as I’ve often said. And return to your father’s hall if you wish. And, maybe, friendship between him and me that will safeguard you. Unless—” Halldor stopped for a few heartbeats. “Unless you’d rather—” He broke off. “But let’s eat.”
She saw what he had done and was astounded. “You readied a meal—
you are serving me?”
He nodded.
The food made an inner glow, the ale more so. It must have gone straight to Brigit’s hunger-smitten head, for she leaned back on an elbow, after the last bite was sunken and the horns refilled, and spoke fast:
“Halldor, you’ve vowed to provide for me. Will you for my child?”
“What?” he barked.
This time her smile lasted. “Have you not noticed? And you a family man. I am with child.”
Mine, Ranulf’s, any of six or seven others— nobody will ever know chased through him.
“I, I can do nothing for it if you stay behind,” he stammered.
In an upward storm—how fair she was!—he cast forth: “But Brigit, if you’ll come with me to Norway, I’ll acknowledge it as my own. And there’ll be more afterward, strong sons and daughters. A leman-child has no drawbacks under the law in my land. Unn would be glad of such fresh timbers for our house, she’d welcome you—”
My own head is likewise a-buzz, he fleetingly knew.
“You offer me more than God has done,” she told him in a slurred tone.
He threw off the cloak and sought her. She did not lie waiting to suffer him, but cast arms around his neck. Beca
use of that, and because of recalling how, earlier, she had once or twice halfway come to life here, Halldor went slowly and gently, feeling his way forward to whatever might please her. When at last he cried out, she did too.
X
BRIGIT GASPED, NOT BECAUSE Halldor’s weight was painful. She trembled and held him close. So this was the pleasure she’d vowed never to know.
But her vows were shattered.
He leaned on his elbow, tensed, as if afraid to cause pain, then eased off her. She curled against him and flung one arm across his back. She tried to keep her eyes open, tried to say something, but her vision blurred and she could not speak. After the chill vigil of the night before, the food and drink conspired. His breath misted warm on her face. She drowsed.
She woke—how much later—minutes? hours?—to find Halldor half-sitting, looking down at her. In the yellow light she could not read his expression.
So it was not in the embrace of the living God I found my joy. The guilt was less than she’d expected. But what must Halldor think? She had held nothing back, she had cried out, clawed him like an animal. She felt her face go red, and drew the furs up around her neck.
Halldor reached forth and stroked her cheek with a blunt finger. Rough it was, calloused from oars and ropes and swords, but his touch was gentle. “Brigit, Brigit.” His palm moved to her hair. “Joy becomes you.
Never were you meant for a nun.”
She dared to look at him. His brow furrowed. He leaned toward her.
She stretched out a hand and noticed how it shook. “Halldor—”
She never knew what she would have said next; a clamor rose outside.
The words were Norse, and Brigit did not understand, but Halldor cursed, sprang from the bed, and threw his cloak about him.
The news was bad, Brigit knew. More slowly, she dressed and followed him.
A ragged group of men had gathered at the shore. They peered across the choppy water. In the mist, at the limit of vision, a man’s head bobbed.
He swam slowly, and the current swept him seaward. The head went under, and reappeared only once.
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