Fin Gall (The Norsemen)

by James L. Nelson

  Brigit gave a sigh that encompassed all the weakness of men, then stood and stepped quietly from the room.

  With Harald asleep, she walked down the hall to the room where the one called Giant-Bjorn was held. While Brigit considered it her Christian duty to care for all the hostages, in truth she gave only perfunctory attention to the other two, and devoted nearly all of her time to Harald, but she did not dwell on why that was.

  It was two days since Brigit had looked in on Giant-Bjorn. At the last he had been mending well, and now, but for a slight limp, was as good as if he had never been wounded. Flann had ordered two guards to stand outside his room, since, unlike Harald, he was once again strong enough to pose a genuine threat.

  But there was no one in the hall outside his room now, and Brigit could not understand why that might be.

  She paused by the door. It was made of two-inch thick oak and iron-bound, intended to slow down anyone trying to get in quick. She listened, but could hear nothing from within. She knocked, tentatively. It was an odd thing - she did not often knock on doors. She heard no answer, no sound.

  Slowly she lifted the latch and swung the door open, just enough to peek inside. The room was a wreck, the bed tossed on its side, the table smashed to pieces, the cross that had hung on the wall broken in two and thrown in a corner. It looked as if they had locked a wild bear in the place. But it was empty.

  Brigit closed the door and stared off into the twilight of the hall. She wondered if Giant-Bjorn had been moved, if her father had finally become sick of having the fin gall under his roof and had moved them to the prison. He might have spared Harald, might have sensed his daughter’s special affection for the young man.

  If he sensed that, he would slit Harald’s throat, Brigit thought. She walked down the hall to where it opened into the great hall, where a dozen servants and slaves made ready for the evening feast. At the table a handful of the rí túaithe were already into the mead, and they greeted her with looks and words that expressed their appreciation of her royal bearing, but she ignored them. Brigit crossed the hall to the south wing of the house. The other one, Olvir Yellowbeard, was kept there.

  There were guards at his door, two men, well armed, so she knew he was within. She stopped at the door, waited for the guards to open it, but they hesitated. She saw glances exchanged between them.

  “Open the door,” Brigit said, but still they did not move.

  Footsteps in the hall, and the guards looked over gratefully to Brian Finnliath, master of the guards at Tara, as he approached with his usual active step.

  “Master Finnliath,” Brigit said, stepping over to meet him. Brian Finnliath had been master of the guards for most of Brigit’s life, and while it was his sworn duty to protect all of the royal household, he had always cared more for Brigit than any of them. He used to carve her little wooden swords, when she was a girl, and teach her to fight. When one of the rí túaithe had once, in his cups, made a lewd comment, Brian had beat him half to death, and then saved his life by not reporting the comment to Máel Sechnaill.

  “Brigit, my dear, what is it?”

  “I wish to check on the well being of the fin gall, but these men will not let me pass.”

  Brian Finnliath looked nervously around, just as the other guards had. “Mistress, I don’t think...”

  He got no further. Brigit turned and before any of the three men could act, lifted the latch and swung the door in.

  Olvir Yellowbeard was there, as she had surmised. Not on the bed, but on the floor, leaning against the bed. His arm lay by his side at an odd angle. His hair and beard were stiff with dried blood. His tunic was wet where he had urinated on himself. He looked up at her with his one eye that would open, the other swollen shut under humps of bruised and bloody flesh.

  Brigit gasped. She put her hands to her mouth and backed away. She felt one of Brian Finnliath’s hands on her shoulder but she shook him off. She swallowed hard, then turned and ran.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  We fought; I paid no heed

  that my violent deeds might be repaid.

  My lightning sword I daubed with blood.

  Egil’s Saga

  H

  arald was in a deep sleep, a profound sleep. His body felt heavy and he was completely comfortable, as if there was a mattress on top of him as well as below, and it was pressing him down, encompassing him with warmth and softness.

  He dreamed of the sea. In his dreams he was on board the Red Dragon, except it was much longer than the real ship, and the mast, as big around as a tree and with no sail or rigging at all, rose up and up to the sky. All his fellows were there, and his father and grandfather. Brigit was there, too.

  The ship was pitching with short and jerky movements, as if she was cutting though the in-shore chop, her bow headed for some rocky beach.

  And then he was awake. Or so he thought. He could see the room, dimly. It was dark but there was light, yellow, dull and wavering, and it gave Harald a sense of relief because he hated the dark. There was a hand on his shoulder.

  He turned his head. Brigit was beside him, shaking him.

  Brigit... he thought. He had thought of little else, since his fever broke. Lovely Brigit, come for me...

  It was like paradise. He was warm and rested and here was the beautiful Irish girl come to share his bed with him. But there was a dream-like quality to it all, and suddenly he was not so sure that any of it was real.

  He looked around, trying to remember where he was. He recalled Brigit, but what else? Where was he?

  He tried to think because if he could remember where he was then he would know if this was a dream or not, if the lovely Brigit was a real woman or just a soft vision in his sleep world.

  But here she was, pulling on his arm. She wanted him to get out of bed, apparently, which he did not want to do. Rather, he wanted her to get into bed with him. Despite his grandfather’s urging, Harald had never been with a woman before - the idea made him a bit nervous - but somehow he felt it would be different with Brigit. He and Brigit would just melt together, they would commingle like warm porridge and honey and it would be fine and lovely.

  But she was definitely pulling on his arm so he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up, as much as it grieved him to leave that warm, soft place.

  Once he was sitting up, Brigit turned away, hunting for something. Harald looked around the room, lit by a small oil lamp which Brigit must have brought with her, and he began to recall his situation. They were holding him in this fine room, though he was not sure who they were. They were treating him well, but still they would not let him leave the room, and he was not sure why. He recalled the jarl who had spoken to him - Harald assumed he was a jarl - the one named Flann. It was only after he left that Harald realized Flann had answered none of his questions, save to say that his father was coming for him.

  Father... Harald had not really thought of his father, or Ornolf, or the others. There had been so much to consider, and he was so weak, and Brigit was so much on his mind. But now, sitting on the edge of the bed, he was taken by a profound sense of loneliness, such as he had never felt before. Not the loneliness he felt working the high meadows in the springtime back in East Agder, but something much deeper than that. Like treading water in the open sea. Everything he knew was gone.

  Then Brigit was in front of him again, with her lovely heart-shaped face and her dark hair tumbling around. She held out his shoes and he looked at them, unsure what she wanted, and nodded his head.

  Brigit thrust them at him with an exasperated expression and Harald took them and put them on, and that seemed to be what she wanted. He kept his eyes on her as he wrapped the laces around his ankles and tied them. There was something different about her. She was wearing a heavy wool cloak, like one would wear out of doors. He had never seen her wear such a thing before.

  There was a sewing basket at her feet, from which she pulled a large piece of dark cloth. She beckoned for Harald to stan
d and he did as he was directed.

  The cloth turned out to be a cloak or a coat of some sort, woven from course wool, a rough garment. Brigit held it up bottom first for Harald to slip over his head. The night was warm and he felt no need for more clothing, but he was getting the sense that Brigit did not stand for argument so he pulled it over his head and found the sleeves with his arms.

  He looked down at the loose fitting robe as Brigit tied a rope belt around the waist. It looked very like the robes Harald had seen the Christ priests wearing in the monasteries he and his fellows had sacked. He wondered if they were going somewhere, he and Brigit.

  Brigit reached up and flipped the cowl of the garment over Harald’s face. It was big and obscured his view, but again he made no argument. Brigit stepped back and examined him, then nodded, apparently pleased, and that made Harald happy.

  Brigit picked up the oil lamp and the basket and moved soundlessly to the window on the far wall of the room. It was covered by a thick wooden shutter that was barred from the outside at night - Harald had tried it several times. But tonight apparently it was not, as Brigit blew out the lamp’s flame and slowly pushed the shutter open to peer outside.

  The night air spilled into the room, cool and moist and fresh, and with it, muted and distant sounds. Harald crossed over to Brigit, eager to look out the window and smell the fresh air and perhaps touch the girl, but he was still not certain what she was about.

  His legs felt unsteady as he crossed the room, and his head seemed to swim. He had not been on his feet for more than a few minutes at a time for as long as he could recall. He thought back. Since the fight on the longship.

  He stepped close to Brigit and she put her hand to his chest to stop him and he stopped. She looked out the window again, looked left and right, and then with a quick motion that surprised Harald, she dropped the basket through the window, then hoisted herself up on the sill and eased herself down to the ground outside. She looked around again, then turned and beckoned.

  A few things were coming clear. Brigit wanted him to leave with her. He was not sure why. Was he in danger in that house? He had thought he was among friends.

  Brigit beckoned him again with an emphatic wave of the hand and he too climbed up onto the windowsill and dropped to the ground. He felt awkward, his arms and legs not moving the way they once had.

  There was movement in the dark, the sound of running feet, and suddenly three big dogs were on them, panting and growling. Harald stiffened and felt a surge of panic - he did not like dogs - but Brigit held out her hand, down low, and the dogs sniffed and rubbed against her, eager for her sharp nails to scratch their necks.

  The past few days had been sunny and warm, but now a light mist was falling, cool and wet on Harald’s face and hands. It felt good. Brigit picked up the basket and walked off and Harald and the dogs followed.

  He looked around as they walked, curious about this place he had been for...he did not know how long. The moon behind the thick clouds illuminated the area with a dull light. There were a dozen or so buildings, from small, round, thatched places to a big wooden structure that towered over the others and that Harald guessed was a mead hall or a temple of some sort. Well-beaten roads edged with rail fences crisscrossed the huge compound. There were orchards and gardens as well. He could smell horses and the remains of fires, dying away.

  The entire area was surrounded by a circular wall, perhaps twenty feet high and easily a mile in diameter. In the dark he could not tell what it was made of, but if it was like the other walls he had encountered in his raiding in Ireland it was built up of earth and wood.

  It was a lovely night, despite the light rain, and Harald was enjoying the stroll after his long confinement. As he moved he felt the strength and coordination come back to his legs and arms, and that was good.

  Then Brigit stopped short and he all but ran into her. She turned and looked at him. They were nearly the same height. Her face was creased with concern, which surprised him since he himself was having such a nice time.

  She reached up and adjusted his hood so it covered more of his face, making it even harder for him to see, but he did not object. He wondered why she was doing this, what was going on.

  And then with a lightning flash he understood. She had decided they must run off together! She was in love with him, but her father would not have them marry for some reason, perhaps because Harald was a Norseman, or too young, so she had decided they would just run away. It was the only thing that made sense.

  Harald felt a warmth spread over him, like slipping into a bath. He smiled at Brigit and she smiled back, a tentative smile. It was only natural that she would not be as light-hearted as he was, Harald understood that. It could not be an easy decision for her to give her life to a man with whom she had never actually spoken.

  There was a new vigor to Harald’s step as he continued to follow behind his soon-to-be lover. He could see now they were headed for a gate in the wall, though from the size of it he judged it was not the main gate. He wondered at the hour. It seemed well into the dark, dead time of the night.

  They were twenty feet from the gate when Harald saw a man move out of the shadows, and he started a bit. He was not expecting to see anyone. And then another, on the other side of the gate. Guards. Brigit did not break her stride and Harald followed behind.

  One of the guards spoke. The words were meaningless to Harald but the tone seemed part deferential, part challenge. Brigit said something in reply, pointed to Harald. Harald tried to retreat deeper into his cowl.

  Now the other guard was there, and he was studying Harald while Harald studied him. He wore a helmet, no mail. There was a big knife on his belt and he carried a spear but no sword. The other guard, the one who was still talking with Brigit, was armed the same.

  They’re all but naked, by our custom, Harald thought. A Viking wouldn’t go to the mead hall so lightly armed, to say nothing of standing guard duty.

  Harald turned back to Brigit, who was still in conversation with the first guard. Their voices were louder, their tones more strident - it sounded very much like an argument. Suddenly the second guard stepped up to Harald and with a quick movement pulled the cowl back. The conversation stopped. The guards wore a self-satisfied look. Brigit looked near panic.

  This is ridiculous, Harald thought. Why were they bothering with all this talk? Two guards, armed only with knives and those awkward spears, and not in the least prepared for a fight? Harald had been bred to combat since he was a child, had already been in more fights than most professional soldiers, and he knew when a thing could be easily done.

  Am I strong enough? he wondered. He could feel the wasting effect of his sickness in his arms and legs.

  Yes. The walk and the food earlier had done him good. He might not be in shape to charge a shieldwall, but he could certainly best these two ill-prepared guards.

  With that he flung out his arm and yanked the spear from the hands of the guard closest to him. The guard, surprised by the lighting move, made no effort to resist. He was just starting to make some noise, utter some protest, when Harald drove the butt of the spear into his stomach. He doubled over with the sound of air being driven from him and Harald caught the man’s head with his knee and snapped him back, flinging him to the dirt.

  He whirled around just as the other guard was lunging with his spear, but Harald knew he would do that so he sidestepped the thrust and using his spear like a staff in those close quarters hit the man on the side of the head. The wooden shaft made a dull clanging sound on the guard’s helmet. The guard staggered sideways and Harald swung the spear the other way and slammed it into the other side of his head.

  The guard went down on his knees. Harald drew the spear back and directed the wicked iron point at the place in the man’s chest where it would kill him quick and silent. He tensed for the thrust, then felt a hand on his arm, holding him back, and he heard Brigit say in a sharp whisper, “No!”

  He turned his head to loo
k at her. Brigit’s eyes were wide and she was shaking her head. For some reason she did not want him to kill the guard. In the intensity of the moment he had forgotten she was there. The dogs were bouncing around, panting and growling, but did not interfere.

  He is one of her people, Harald realized. She was Irish, just like the guard. She was not a Norseman. He would have to remember that, if they were going to spend their lives together.

  Harald nodded and was rewarded with the look of relief on Brigit’s face. The guard was still on his knees, still partly stunned. With the tip of the spear, Harald flipped the man’s helmet off and then swung the shaft like a club, catching the guard on the side of the head and knocking him out cold. He would live, but he would raise no alarms for a while.

  Harald dropped the spear and grabbed the guard’s legs and dragged him into the shadows of the gate, then did the same with the other. He pulled the knives from their sheaths and stuck them in his rope belt, then gathered up the spears. He was breathing hard and his legs felt wobbly.

  Brigit hefted the heavy bar that held the gate shut and pushed it open, just enough for a person to squeeze through.

  “Come along,” Harald said in a whisper, gesturing for Brigit to follow him through the gate, but Brigit hesitated, shaking her head. Harald gestured again and again Brigit shook her head, pointing at him and then pointing through the open gate, as if she wanted him to go on by himself.

  Harald frowned in frustration. With the love that they shared, words had not been necessary, until now. How could he assure her that it would be all right, that he would protect her? He shook his head, beckoned, but still she would not follow.

  “You...go...alone,” she said. Harald could make no sense of the words, but he guessed she was saying she was too frightened to carry out her plan of running off with him. But he was a man now, not a boy, and Thorgrim had taught him that being a man meant, among other things, being decisive, taking charge.

  He shifted the spears to his left hand and took a quick step toward Brigit. Before she could react, before she could even move, he bent over, wrapped his right arm around her thighs and straightened, with Brigit draped over his shoulder.