Maybe this was not just about sleeping… he thought.
He stopped rolling away from her and rolled toward her instead. He reached out ran his hand over her shoulder and back and was startled to realize that she was naked, that she had shed her brat and leine and now wore nothing at all. He felt sleep slipping away, and in its place another, more powerful desire.
He shuffled his other hand under Conandil’s frame until he had his arms wrapped around her. He kissed the top of her head and she looked up and their lips met and they kissed, deep and hungry. They stayed that way for some minutes, just kissing, then Conandil reached down and tugged up on the hem of Harald’s tunic. Harald, often slow to comprehend, understood that gesture immediately, and with a pull and a twist he had the tunic off over his head and he tossed it aside.
Conandil ducked under the thick wool blanket like some small animal retreating into its burrow. Harald felt her running her lips down his chest and down his stomach. He felt her small hands undoing the tie of his leggings, and when he felt the tie come free he squirmed and kicked and soon was shed of those as well.
She did not emerge again, but stayed where she was, and Harald could feel her hands and her lips moving over him, stroking, caressing, encompassing him. He closed his eyes and arched his back and made a low, groaning sound deep in his throat. He let the pleasure carry him off, and just as he started to worry that she would carry him off too far, she began to work her way back up his stomach, his chest, emerging from under the blanket to one again press her lips against his.
She lay half on top of him and Harald ran his big hands over her back and her bottom and through her hair. He had only been with one other woman in his life, and that was the princess Brigit who seemed a much more substantial creature than Conandil; taller, more filled out, more robust after a lifetime of eating far better than an Irish girl who was not the daughter of a king.
In comparison, Conandil felt delicate and frail, like a bird. Harald took care as he ran his hands over her, gently stroking, barely touching her skin, and though he was just trying to avoid hurting her, it seemed by her reaction that whatever he was doing was most welcome indeed. She climbed further up on him and ran her fingers through his hair and kissed him vigorously, making a sound that was somewhere between a purr and a groan.
Harald wanted to have her. He felt as if he might burst if he did not take her then, but he was unsure how he could get on top of her without crushing her under his substantial weight. And even as he tried to fight through the fog of raging desire and come up with an answer, Conandil threw her legs over him, straddled him, and the next thing he knew he was inside her and she was moving against him, her feet planted on the bear skin on either side of his body, her strong, sinewy legs pushing off.
Her hands were on his chest and she was half-way between sitting up and laying across him. He could just see the wisps of hair falling across her face, the oval of her open mouth. Her breathing was coming in short gasps and she moved faster and faster.
Harald grabbed her waist and he felt as if his hands could encircle her completely. He thrashed as if trying to throw her off and at the same time held her in place with his powerful grip. He gasped and cried out as if he had forgotten that the sentry was only a few dozen feet away, which he had.
Then it was over and the two of them lay still, their breath subsiding. Conandil was splayed out on top of Harald, both of them damp with sweat despite the cool night. Conandil’s weight was nothing; laying on top of him she felt no heavier than a thick blanket. Once again, sleep began to overtake him and he let it come. He was aware of Conandil shuffling off his chest and nestling in beside him, and then he was gone to that world.
The gray light of early dawn was just starting to illuminate the beach and the cliffs inland, and to the east Far Voyager, hauled up on the shingle, when Harald woke to the sensation of being gently kicked. He opened his eyes and looked up. Sutare Thorvaldsson was standing over him, a spear in his hand, nudging him with his foot.
“Oh, Harald, it’s you,” Sutare said. Sutare, Harald realized, must have replaced Vani sometime in the night.
“Yes,” Harald said. He looked to his right. Conandil was buried under the blanket, so small it seemed as if she was not there at all. He reached out but did not feel her. He tossed the blanket aside and saw nothing but the bear skin below. Because Conandil was gone.
Chapter Thirty
Thus many winters are left
unlived for him who bears
the shield in battle’s storm.
Better things soon await you.
Gisli Sursson’s Saga
Thorgrim had been awake for some time before Harald, bleary and sheepish-looking, came stumbling back to the fire ring under Far Voyager’s bow. A fog hung over the coast, as it so often did in the early morning hours in that country, but visibility was not as bad as it might have been. The cliffs that rose up from the beach, two hundred yards away at least, were still visible for most of their height before disappearing into a gray nothing.
Harald approached slowly, a bear skin and a wool blanket over his shoulder, and his eyes were everywhere, as if seeking out one among the many on the beach. There were men cooking, washing, combing hair, changing dressings on wounds, but none seemed to be the one Harald was looking for.
This should make for some interesting telling, Thorgrim thought as Harald finally gave over his search and approached, dropping the bedding on the gravel.
“Harald, good morning,” Thorgrim said. “Did you sleep well?” He was seated on a log that was weathered to near white by the sea and sun, and made smooth by repeated tumblings over the rocks of the beach until it looked like the thigh bone of some great monster. Starri sat beside him, stirring a big iron pot of porridge that hung over the fire. A dozen feet away, Ornolf the Restless was still sleeping under a great mound of furs, his snoring as rhythmic and wet as surf pounding a rocky shore.
“Good morning, father,” Harald said. “Yes, I slept well, thank you. And you? Are your wounds hurting much?”
“Not too much.” He flexed his shoulders and stretched his arms to test the truth of that. He could feel the pull of the mending flesh, and a sharp jab of pain as he stretched a bit too far, but generally his assessment was accurate – it did not hurt too much.
“The gods heal him fast,” Starri said without looking up from his pot. He smiled. “They wish to see him on his feet so they can knock him down again. Like a child playing with a toy.”
“Thank you, Starri, I get comfort from that,” Thorgrim said. “I thought you said I was favored by the gods.”
“You are one of their favorites,” Starri said, but he did not elaborate.
“Father…” Harald began again. “Have…you seen Conandil? This morning?”
Thorgrim sat more upright. As he suspected, this talk was already getting more interesting. “No,” he said. “But I’m surprised you haven’t. She seemed to have lashed herself to you, like a….” He struggled for the right turn of phrase.
“Like a sail to a yard?” Starri suggested.
“Yes, like a sail to a yard, that’s near what I was thinking.”
“Or maybe like two longships grappled together,” Starri said, “one preparing to board the other?”
“That might be more like it,” Thorgrim agreed.
“How about like a sword and a scabbard?” Starri continued.
“Let’s let the boy tell his story, Starri,” Thorgrim said.
“Well…” Harald stammered on, unappreciative of their literary efforts. “Well… forgive me, father, but she’s gone. I was watching over her, and now she’s gone.”
Watching over her…I can just imagine…Thorgrim thought. “What happened?” he asked.
“She came to me last night…she said she was afraid of sleeping with all these men around. I told her there was nothing to fear but she wouldn’t believe it. So we went away from the others. To sleep. I was dead tired, like everyone. Sometime in the night…
she must have run off. If someone had taken her, I would have woken up, I’m sure.”
Clever girl…Thorgrim thought. How better to get past the ring of sentries than in Harald Thorgrimson’s company? But he did not say as much because he did not want Harald to be humiliated. Later, in private, he would tell Harald how he had been fooled, and Harald would learn from it.
Instead, Thorgrim said, “Yes, well, she is Irish, and of course she would look for the main chance to get back to her people.”
“But…” Harald protested, as if unwilling to let himself off so easy, “she was the only one who knew where the Fearna hoard was buried. We’ll never find it now.”
Thorgrim dismissed that with a wave. “I’m not sure she really knew, or if she did, if she was willing to show the hiding place to a…what do they call us?”
“Fin gall,” Harald said. “Other things, too, but mostly fin gall.”
“A fin gall. I don’t think she wanted the treasure to get into our hands. Or Grimarr’s. She probably didn’t see much difference between us, one fin gall or another.”
“Actually, the Danes they call dubh gall,” Harald said.
“In any event,” Thorgrim said, “we have treasure enough. We just have to get back to Vík-ló and get it.”
“We have to get back to Vík-ló quickly,” Agnarr said. He had arrived at the fire, bowl in hand, mid-way through the conversation. “I don’t know why Grimarr did not follow us yesterday, but he might have sailed north through the night. For that matter, Lorcan might be bound for Vík-ló. If we have any hope of retrieving our treasure, and our supplies, then we need to get there first.”
Thorgrim stood. “You’re right, Agnarr,” he said. “Can you get us to sea through this fog?” Like the cliffs inland, the sea was visible for two hundred yards or so before the gray water melded into the gray sky.
“Yes, that will not be a problem,” Agnarr said. “The rocks and the breakers don’t worry me. I am more worried about what else might be lurking out there in the fog.”
“Dragons?” Starri asked. “Water spirits?”
“Danes,” Agnarr said. “Irishmen. In great numbers.”
“Listen here, you men,” Thorgrim shouted to those collected on the beach, loud enough to be heard within a stone’s throw of the fire and no more. “We must be underway quickly. Eat, and what you don’t eat put aboard the ship for later, and let us be off.”
Thorgrim’s words stirred the Norsemen to action. Meals were hastily cooked and eaten, bedding tossed aboard, sea chests made fast again. It took little time to get the ship ready for sea since they had made little effort at setting up camp ashore.
During the night, two of the wounded had died, and their bodies were wrapped tight and stowed forward of the mast until such time as they could get a proper send-off. Thorgrim did not want to bury them on some desolate, wind-swept, miserable stretch of the Irish coast. He did not think such a funeral would do much for the others’ spirits.
Soon the beach was clear of everyone save those who would push Far Voyager back into the water. She had not been run up far up the shore to begin with; her bow was just kissing the gravel so that she could be quickly floated again if need be. With nothing on the featureless beach that they could tie the ship to, an anchor had been set out and driven into the sand, and a long line run from the anchor back to a cleat at Far Voyager’s bow. Now the anchor was hefted back aboard and the rope coiled and stowed away.
Thorgrim stood aft with Agnarr and Ornolf, who was quaffing his morning ale. Godi held the tiller.
“Shove off!” Thorgrim called and the half dozen men on the beach put their shoulders against the ship’s side and heaved and Far Voyager scraped over the gravel. Thorgrim felt the bow bob down, then up again as the shore disappeared from under her stem and she became fully water-borne. The men on the beach flung themselves up over the sides and the men sitting on the sea chests, who already had their oars run half-way out, ran them out the rest of the way. On Thorgrim’s orders they backed the ship off from the land, then deftly spun her around and pulling together drove her forward out toward the deep water.
“Agnarr,” Thorgrim said, “we are well, on this course?”
“Yes,” Agnarr said. “Let’s pull straight out for another half mile or so before turning north. There are some ugly reefs just beyond the larboard side, but we should be clear of them soon.”
Thorgrim nodded. “I see nothing on the water to show the reefs are there,” he observed.
“There’s not much swell today. If the seas were higher you would see the water breaking over them.”
Thorgrim nodded again. “Say, tell me, Agnarr, do the Irish people ever use markers or the like to show where the reefs are?”
Agnarr considered the question. “I have seen markers sometimes at the mouths of rivers, and places where the ships go most often. Particularly where the bigger ships go, the Frankish traders and such. But not often. The Irish do not look to the sea as we do.”
Thorgrim nodded, then all eyes turned forward, out into the fog, because Agnarr was not the only one who was concerned about what might be lurking there. The men at the oars fell into an easy rhythm, the ship surging ahead with each powerful stroke, the pulling coming easier as her momentum built. Somewhere out beyond the gray, featureless haze the sun was climbing in the sky. The fog was growing lighter and seemed to be thinning, though it was hard to tell if that was really the case, with the land dropping astern and leaving them no reference but the ever-moving sea.
“Hey, on deck, there!” Starri called. He had climbed squirrel-like up the mast and was perched near the top with his leg twisted up in the halyard for support. “I thought I saw something….”
“Where away?” Thorgrim called.
“A bit on the larboard bow. Just a glimpse. I might have been seeing things.” Fog could play tricks, they all knew it.
Heads turned to stare at a point just off the starboard bow as men willed their sight to pierce the undulating fog. Visibility was better than it had been just a short time earlier, Thorgrim was certain of that. Or at least he thought he was certain of that.
“There, I saw something as well!” Agnarr said, pointing, but he finished the words with less certainty than he started them, the sound dying away as if he began to doubt his eyes even before the words were out.
But Thorgrim had seen it, too. Just a glimpse, just a dark shape in a gray world, a hint of something in the fog. “Rest on your oars!” he called and the rowers stopped in mid-stroke, blades in the water. Far Voyager slowed quickly and the feel of her motion underfoot changed as the momentum died away.
“Did you see it?” Agnarr asked, speaking softly, the uncertainty still in his voice.
“Yes, I think so,” Thorgrim said. They continued peering out into the grayness. And then it was there, parting the fog, resolving itself like some ghost taking earthly form. It was a mile away at least but it was unmistakable. A longship.
“Water Stallion,” Agnarr said. There was no uncertainty in his voice now.
Lorcan could see that the fog was thinning out, the circle of ocean that surrounded his ship rapidly expanding. It bolstered his confidence, a confidence that had been growing with each hour he spent at sea. Twenty or so thus far. Soon it would be more than a full day.
The dubh gall Sandarr, the one who supposedly knew about such things, had urged him to beach for the night, or, if he would not, to continue on to Vík-ló. Sandarr had said that the ship they were chasing had probably done one of those things, said that if Lorcan continued north he would surely catch it, but if he lurked around that part of the coast, then the other would slip past them.
Lorcan rejected those suggestions. Sandarr, he understood, did not care about taking this other ship, he wanted only to get to Vík-ló and capture the longphort before Grimarr returned. But Lorcan was not afraid of Grimarr as Sandarr was. Besides, Lorcan and his warriors were the hunters, not the hunted. They would not find their prey by seeking safety ashor
e or running off north. They would find it by lying in wait.
The others, the Irish warriors who manned the oars and worked the sail were not very happy to learn they would be spending the night at sea. They did not like the ship, or the sea, or the constant motion, or the thought of what might be waiting beneath the dark water.
But there had been food and ale and mead aboard, and that had quieted them some. Nor did anyone care to protest too loudly in Lorcan’s presence, and since Lorcan was always present in the confines of the vessel, it meant no one protested at all, at least not verbally. Any other sort of protest Lorcan was happy to ignore. As frightened as the men might have been of the sea, they were more frightened by far of Lorcan.
He prowled the deck of the ship, secretly reveling in the feel of it underfoot, the roll and pitch, the sounds of the water along the side. The ship was motion and power and speed. He could see why the dubh gall loved ships so. With their ships they could move their warriors, their supplies, even their horses swiftly up and down the coast. They could carry the machines of war on these tireless vessels and strike from out of the mist. And now he could as well, and soon he would double his ability to do so.
“There!” The voice came ringing back from the bow, where one of the younger men, with brighter vision, stood clutching the long, curved, vertical piece that terminated in the carved image of a snarling horse’s head. Lorcan, who had been staring aimlessly out into the fog, stood straighter and peered forward.
“There, nearly right in front of us, but some ways off,” the young look-out called again. Lorcan frowned and squinted. Sandarr stepped up beside him and stared as well.
Then Lorcan saw it. A dark spirit, a vision, the low hull of a long ship, the oars like dragonfly wings from that distance. He wanted to turn on Sandarr and laugh in his face, but he understood that the stupid bastard would find it more galling still if he let the rebuke go unspoken.
The Lord of Vik-lo: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 3) Page 29
