But he stayed his sword. He had been around long enough to know that just killing men because you felt like killing them was counter- productive in the end.
The first light of day was turning the skies gray to the east before Orm had a chance to think on any of that. His first priority, even over catching the Norwegians, was saving the mead hall. The mead hall was the social and spiritual center of Dubh-linn. Without it he would be hard pressed to keep his small community of surly, rough men placated.
The roof was fully involved by the time he got there, and there was nothing anyone could do about it, but they could prevent the fire from consuming the walls as well. Orm led a clutch of men into the burning building and together they dragged bundles of flaming thatch out the door. They beat the thatch with rugs, doused it with water hustled up from the river. They dragged dead and half-dead men out of the flames. The rain did the rest.
It took hours of brutal effort, but in the end the fire was out and the walls of the mead hall still stood. It would be no great task to replace the thatch roof. Dubh-linn, for now, was safe.
Orm returned to his house, leaving instructions for his men to finish cleaning the charred debris away. Magnus followed. Asbjorn the Fat, who had slept through it all, was summoned.
Orm collapsed in his wooden chair. “Bring me some ale, damn you!” he shouted before he recalled that there was no one left to shout at. His thrall was gone.
“Allow me, my lord,” Magnus said, snatching up two cups and filling them. Magnus was being unusually solicitous. Orm wondered if he thought his life was in jeopardy for the Norwegians’ escape. If he thought that, he was not entirely wrong.
Asbjorn the Fat appeared at the door, breathless. Magnus sat. He did not offer Asbjorn a cup.
“My Lord Orm,” Asbjorn managed. “By Odin, what has happened here?”
For a long moment Orm just stared at Asbjorn and wondered how the pig could have slept through all that chaos. Asbjorn was clever, but that was all he had to recommend him. “The Norwegians have escaped,” Orm said at last. He felt suddenly very weary.
“Damn them,” Asbjorn said.
“They won’t be far,” Magnus said. “I took the sail out of their ship.”
“I’ll get a longship fitted out,” Asbjorn said. “One hundred warriors. The wind is getting up from the southeast, we’ll overhaul them by noontime.”
Orm nodded. Asbjorn was obviously trying to get back in his good graces, but that was all right. Decisive activity was welcome for whatever reason.
“Hold a moment, my lord...” Magnus said. He leaned forward in his chair and Orm thought, Now we shall hear what this smooth character has in mind...
“There is something I have come to suspect, my lord,” Magnus continued. “From something Thorgrim said when I was questioning him. I think the Norwegians have the Crown of the Three Kingdoms.”
Orm sat more upright, despite wishing to appear unflappable. The Crown of the Three Kingdoms? It was the one thing he feared even more than the Norwegian fleet.
“What did he say?” The generosity Orm had been feeling toward Magnus was melting away fast.
“It was a slip of the tongue, no more. As if he started to say something about it and caught himself. I could not beat the information out of him after that. He’s a tough one. I didn’t get the chance to question Ornolf on this.”
The three men were silent for a moment, digesting the words. Asbjorn turned to Magnus. “You searched their ship,” he said, more an accusation than a statement. “And you did so without informing my lord Orm or myself. If they had the crown, then now you must have the crown.”
Orm could see the anger in Magnus’s eyes but his voice was controlled. “The crown was not aboard. If it was, then my lord Orm would have it now and we would have no further concern. They must have hidden it before sailing into Dubh-linn.”
Orm pounded his hand on the arm of his chair. “Then why in Odin’s name are we not chasing after them with our swiftest ship?”
Asbjorn jumped in, even as Magnus had opened his mouth to speak. “Because they will not try to retrieve it if they know we’re right behind. If they see a well-armed longship in their wake, they will not go to where the crown is hidden.”
“So...” Orm began but Magnus cut him off, unwilling to be upstaged.
“We follow on land, my lord. The Norwegians have only their oars to propel them. Horsemen on shore could keep up. If they are going to fetch the crown, under oars, they won’t go too far off shore.”
Orm nodded and considered the two men in front of him. He didn’t really trust either of them. In truth, he didn’t really trust anyone. It was for that very reason that he did not dare leave Dubh-linn himself to pursue the crown.
“Very well.” Orm leaned forward in his seat. “You will go after them. You will both go after them.”
Asbjorn was the first to break the stunned silence. “My lord?”
“You will both go after them. Magnus, pick twenty of your best men. Asbjorn, you do the same. That should be enough, those Norwegians are wanting for arms. Follow them. When they make landfall for the crown, attack and kill them.”
For a moment neither man spoke or moved. Then, as if both realizing at the same instant that the first to obey would gain advantage, they both leapt to their feet and hurried for the door.
Orm watched with amusement as they rushed into the street. They are all traitorous bastards, he thought, but he hoped two traitors together, each out for his own good, would act as checks on each other’s ambitions. Or they would kill one another. Either way.
The elation that the Red Dragons felt at escaping certain and painful death soon turned to grousing and complaining when they discovered that their sail was gone and they had to row themselves to safety.
“Shut your mouths!” Thorgrim shouted forward when he could no longer stand the sound of the men’s muttered griping. If Harald had been there, and in health, he would have pulled an oar and been grateful for the chance.
They made their way down the Liffey in the dark, with Skeggi in the bow probing with an oar for mud banks. They touched once but were able to back off before grounding out hard. It was their good luck to have the tide flooding as they made their escape, which made the rowing harder but kept them from being swept down river and pinned against a shallow place, or going up on a bar on a falling tide.
They made the mouth of the river just as the light was breaking in the east. The rain tapered off to a drizzle and then stopped completely, and the rising sun brought a new surge of optimism to Thorgrim, something he could not feel in the dark hours. The open sea was under their bow and no longship was coming in pursuit.
Ornolf came ambling aft, a cup of mead in his hand. “Pull, boys, pull!” he shouted to the rowers, by way of encouragement. “We’ll pull clear to Norway if we must, but these Dane bastards won’t draw our guts from our bellies, eh?” The jarl’s efforts to raise morale were not having much effect.
Ornolf stepped up onto the afterdeck. “Where’s Harald?” he asked.
Morrigan was huddled at Thorgrim’s feet, leaning against the side of the ship with her cloak pulled over her for warmth, but she looked up at Ornolf’s question and Ornolf in turn looked surprised to see her.
“Who’s this?” he asked Thorgrim.
“Morrigan. The Irish healer woman,” Thorgrim said.
Ornolf looked closer at Morrigan. “So she is. What’s she doing here?”
“She brought us the daggers, remember? She stuck a knife in Orm. She reckoned it would be better if she did not remain in Dubh-linn.”
“Reckon not,” Ornolf roared. “Good for you,” he said to Morrigan. “Always good to have some pretty little thing on board. Now where’s Harald?”
“Ask Morrigan,” Thorgrim said.
Ornolf looked at Morrigan. Morrigan said, “You seem very concerned about Harald.”
“Of course I’m concerned! He’s my grandson, and the only man worth a damn on this whole boat, b
esides myself!”
“I see,” Morrigan said. She wiped a stray strand of hair from her face. “Harald was too ill to travel by ship. So were the other wounded men. Those sheep herders, one was my brother, Flann mac Conaing. He has seen the wounded men taken to a safe place. I can lead you there to get them back.”
Flann mac Conaing? Thorgrim thought. That does not sound like the name a poor sheep herd might carry.
“Well, I suppose we owe you another debt of gratitude,” Ornolf said, “but I have to say, I’m not so happy about having my men split up thus.”
Thorgrim was not happy about it either. And he suspected there was more to this than Morrigan was letting on.
The Red Dragon was well past the mouth of the Liffey now, and her bow was meeting the ocean swells, lifting up high and swooping down in that way that told Thorgrim they were in open water. It was time for a decision.
“We’re free of the land now, Ornolf,” Thorgrim said. “Where do we go?”
“We get Harald, that’s where we go. This thrall will lead us to Harald.” He looked down at Morrigan. “Where away?”
Morrigan did not answer. She stood, and her motion was quick and agile. She stretched her arms and pulled the hood off her head. Thorgrim realized he had never seen her before in the light of day, outside their dark prison. She was even younger than he had thought, her skin smooth, a pretty face with prominent cheekbones. But there was also a hardness in her eyes he had not seen before, the kind of look he associated with men who led warriors into battle, not thralls with the healing arts.
Morrigan spoke at last, and the hardness of her voice matched the look in her eyes. “There is something we must speak of, first.”
Thorgrim tensed and frowned. He had no notion of what was coming, but he knew it would not be to their advantage. Suddenly everything Morrigan had done - the healing, the daggers, the murder of Orm, the offer to carry the wounded away - all took on a different look as if, like her face, Thorgrim was seeing her actions in daylight for the first time.
“Speak,” he said.
“There is a crown, an ancient crown, that is held in the keeping of the abbot of Glendalough. It’s called the Crown of the Three Kingdoms. The abbot decreed that the crown should be given to the king of Tara, Máel Sechnaill mac Ruanaid. It was sent by boat, in the care of twenty noblemen. It never arrived at Tara.”
Thorgrim was silent. He resisted meeting Ornolf’s eyes. Finally he prompted Morrigan. “Yes?”
“I think you have the crown.”
“You may search the ship if you wish. Magnus did, and he found nothing.”
“I know it’s not on board. You were too clever to bring it to Dubh-linn. I think you hid it somewhere first.”
“What is the meaning of this Crown of Three Kingdoms?” Thorgrim asked. “Why is it so important?”
“That’s not your business. It’s a matter for Irishmen, not fin gall. The crown is important, that’s all you need to know.”
“Damn your impertinence, woman!” Ornolf roared. “And damn this crown, and damn whoever has it, I say!”
Morrigan was unmoved. “The future of Ireland rests with the crown. So does the life of Harald and your men.”
“Harald?” Thorgrim said and then he caught her meaning and he felt his fury rise like a storm, fury at Morrigan’s treachery, fury at himself for being taken in like a silly child.
“You black-hearted...” Thorgrim growled. “Where is my son?”
“He’s safe. He’s unhurt. He will be well cared for. And when the crown is brought to my lord Máel Sechnaill, who should rightfully posses it, then he and your other men will be returned to you.”
This time Thorgrim looked up at Ornolf, and he could see the jarl, Harald’s grandfather, was feeling as furious as he was, and just as trapped.
Without a word, Thorgrim pushed the tiller to starboard and swung the Red Dragon’s bow north, making his head for the little bay where the Crown of the Three Kingdoms slept under the sand.
Chapter Eighteen
By the Prince’s Truth the great armies
are driven off into the enemies’ country.
Testament of Murand
Ancient Irish Morality Tale
B
rigit wiped the young man’s brow with a damp cloth. These fin gall are a well-made race, she though to herself. This one - Harald, they called him - was genuinely handsome. Blonde-haired, square-jawed. A few years younger than herself. Not tall but well set up, solid, even after the wasting effects of the fever. The sunlight coming in through the one window illuminated his skin and hair so he seemed to glow, like an angel might.
He stirred a bit and moaned and Brigit took the cloth from his forehead and watched close, wondering if he would say anything. Every once in a while he uttered some strange word in his Norse tongue which she did not understand. There was no one at Tara who could speak the fin gall language save for Flann mac Conaing, though Brigit had insisted he teach her a few words.
Flann had arrived the day before, with the two sheep herders and the dozen men who had gone to Dubh-linn with him, the men who had waited with horses and carts beyond the palisade walls of the city to get Flann and the hostages back to Tara. The wounded Norsemen were given rooms in the king’s great house, with healers to care for them and guards on the doors, as befitted men who were hostages, not prisoners.
Brigit put the cloth down and picked up a bowl of broth that sat on a table by the bed. She took a spoon-full and touched it to his lips and reflexively he took a sip. She did it again.
She heard footsteps in the hall. She expected them to pass by but they did not. The door opened. Brigit turned as her father walked in. He was dressed for court and not for war, with a red cloak that hung nearly to the floor and a green tunic, elaborately embroidered.
“This is the one?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Máel Sechnaill crossed the room and frowned down on Harald as if looking on some unknown and generally disagreeable creature. “Will he live?”
“He’s strong. Gormlaith has been in to see him, and she says Morrigan did a good job with her healing. His fever should break soon. I can already see improvement.”
“Humph,” Máel said, the life of the fin gall apparently a matter of complete indifference to him. “Why God does not strike all these heathen dead is a mystery to me.”
“Ask Father Gilbert.”
“I have. It’s a mystery to him as well.”
Máel Sechnaill watched as Brigit fed Harald broth. “Has he said anything?”
“He’s made sounds. Whether they are words or not, I cannot tell.”
“Perhaps we should get Flann to listen. Try and divine what these vicious animals are about.”
Brigit looked up at her father. She could hear that familiar tone in his voice. “Father, this one is a boy.”
“Boy... And a wolf cub looks the dear puppy, but still it will grow to be a wolf. So it must be killed first.”
“But you can’t kill Harald. Or the others. They are hostages. When the crown is brought to you, they must be released.”
Máel Sechnaill did not answer, but rather stared down on Harald, his look an odd mix of curiosity, revulsion, hate and indifference. “Of course,” he said, then turned and left.
Magnus Magnusson watched as the last of fifty horses was coaxed aboard the longship and tethered in place. Fore and aft the crew lifted the long oars from the V-shaped racks on the gunnels and passed them along to the men at each of the fifty rowing stations. In the bow, mail-clad and well armed, were the twenty men he had picked to go with him on his hunt for the Norwegians. In the stern, similarly equipped, stood Asbjorn’s men.
The shipboard part of their journey would not be long. Three hundred yards to the north shore of the Liffey, and then by horse along the rugged Irish coast.
Asbjorn the Fat came huffing up from the dock where he was supervising the loading of a cart onto a knarr that he himself owned. He, too, was dressed in a mail
tunic, black from the oil that had been applied to it to keep it from rusting. The armor showed little sign of wear. His waist was bound around by a belt. A sword with an elaborately engraved silver hilt hung at his side.
How many cows died to make a belt big enough for that fat pig, Magnus wondered.
“I hope you are right, Magnus, that the Norwegians went north,” Asbjorn said when he had recovered his breath. “After all this, we’ll never find them if they went south.”
“They went north,” Magnus said. “I had men follow.”
“An impressive degree of foresight. One wonders how much of this you knew beforehand.”
“Wonder if you wish. Foresight is something a man develops when he fights battles. It is hard for women and children and men who stay at home as...advisors...to understand. What is in the cart?”
“Food. Bedding. I provide for my men.”
“My men provide for themselves. That cart will slow us down. Leave it.”
“I’ll leave it if I decide to leave it. I take no orders from you.”
Indeed... Magnus thought. Two leaders, each with his own hird, sent on the same mission. It could not be better organized for disaster. Magnus was certain that Orm knew it and planned it that way. Not that it mattered, really.
Kjartan Swiftsword waved from the steerboard of the longship. The horses were all aboard, the rowers had settled in place, oars held up. “Lets go,” Magnus said and he headed down to the dock. He did not wait to see if Asbjorn was following.
It took less than twenty minutes for the longship to cross from the south shore of the Liffey to the north. The first of the horses was untethered and led to the gangplank even as Magnus’s feet stepped onto the lush Irish grass. Asbjorn, who had elected to cross the river in his knarr, was fussing with the crew to see his cart safely offloaded.
The cart was still swinging from ropes made off to the yard when the last of the horses was led ashore. Magnus stepped down to the edge of the muddy riverbank.
“I told you that cart would hold us up, damn it.”
Fin Gall (The Norsemen) Page 12
