“The king will not harm him,” Morrigan said. She was trying to sound reassuring, but she did not have enough conviction herself to make her words sound genuine. Máel Sechnaill could be a cruel, thoughtless bastard. Morrigan, in all honesty, did not know what he might do with a Viking who fell under his authority, even one who was a hostage.
When she thought about it, she had to admit that Máel Sechnaill had probably killed Harald already. She had no notion of what she would do when they all arrived at Tara, so she tried not to think about it.
Thorgrim looked over at her, and she could see her words did nothing to mollify him. Indeed, he looked more concerned for her attempt at reassurance. There was a vulnerability she had not seen before, a fear that his son had come to harm. Morrigan guessed it was the only thing on earth that Thorgrim Night-Wolf feared.
Finally he made a grunting noise. “Soon we will know,” he said. Then after a moment of silence, as he stared out into the night, he said, “Will you sleep?”
“Yes.”
Thorgrim stood and then lay down on the deck, on the pile of furs set out there. Morrigan lay beside him as had become her habit. She felt vulnerable, sleeping among the Norsemen, but pressing close to Thorgrim made her feel safe. Even now, unsure about who or what Thorgrim really was, she felt safer with the feel of him against her.
Thorgrim pulled a heavy fur over the two of them, a bearskin so big it covered them both completely, even up over their heads. It was warm underneath, and the fur kept them from the soft rain that was still falling. She hugged the crown tight. Her head felt as if it was spinning. And soon she was asleep.
Morrigan woke in the dark hours of morning. She pulled the crown tighter to her and listened to the night sounds. An owl somewhere ashore was speaking in its eery voice and it made her shiver. The ship, where it was grounded, made a soft crunching sound as the small surf charged and retreated, charged and retreated along the beach.
The crown was still in her arms and she hugged it tight. Forward she could hear the sounds of the men snoring where they lay, thick animal sounds, just what she might expect for animals such as them.
Thorgrim was asleep, his arm flung over her, and she could feel his chest press against her back as he breathed. Automatically now her hand reached under the crown’s canvas cover and she ran her fingers along the slick gold surface. She shuffled closer to Thorgrim and Thorgrim made a soft murmuring sound but did not wake.
Morrigan unwrapped the canvas and stared at the dark metal of the Crown of the Three Kingdoms. Her Crown. Somehow, it changed everything.
She rolled over so her face was inches from Thorgrim’s. He was frowning in his sleep, his brow creased, and she wondered if he was running with wolves in his dreams. He made a soft growling noise.
The crown was between them now, so Morrigan carefully set it down on the deck above her head, the first time since she had snatched it from Egil Lamb’s hand that she was not physically touching it. She reached her face up to Thorgrim’s and pressed her lips against his. His bristly beard pricked at her skin, tickled her, but she did not mind. She felt a sudden and desperate need for closeness. It was a thing she had not felt in some time.
Thorgrim did not wake up as Morrigan kissed him, so she pressed tighter and kissed him again, kissed him with some force. With a start he woke, eyes wide. He half sat up and his hand shot out for the sword that always slept at his side.
“Shhhh, shhhh,” Morrigan said, soft and soothing like the surf on the beach. She saw Thorgrim visibly relax as he understood what it was that had disturbed his sleep. He eased himself down again, down on his side, and pulled the fur back over them. Their faces were almost touching, and for some time they just savored the closeness.
Finally Thorgrim leaned toward Morrigan and kissed her and she kissed him back. His strong arms reached out and wrapped around her and she felt completely enveloped, completely safe in that powerful embrace. She pressed her lips into his, lost herself in the smell and taste and feel of him.
Thorgrim’s calloused hands moved over her back, though her hair, his touch amazingly light for such a man. During her time as Orm’s thrall, he had taken her, brutally and whenever he wanted, and she had come to think she would never be able to endure a man’s embrace again. But here she was, shivering with the pleasure of Thorgrim’s hands on her, warm and languid in their bearskin cocoon.
Morrigan pushed away from Thorgrim, just a bit. She grabbed on to the damp wool of her dress and pulled it up over her head, squirming out of the garment, still covered over by the thick bearskin. She felt Thorgrim’s hand exploring her, running over her back and her bottom. She felt the gooseflesh stand up on her arms and neck.
She grabbed the bottom of his tunic and pulled, more as a way of signaling her desire than in any hope of getting the tunic off. But Thorgrim understood and he pulled the tunic up over his head, disrobing somewhat less gracefully than she had.
Morrigan ducked down under the bearskin, like withdrawing into a cave, and felt around for the ties that held Thorgrim’s trousers around his waist. With one pull of the bitter end the ties came loose and she helped him ease the trousers off his legs. He kicked the trousers off his feet as she caressed him and stroked him and took pleasure in the way he writhed and tried to stifle his enthusiastic moans.
She ran her lips over his hard stomach, ran her fingers through the thick hair on his chest, over the hard, raised lines of sundry scars. He is half wolf now, shape shifter or no, she thought, but the memory of that wicked secret made her even more excited.
She pushed Thorgrim on his back and squirmed up on top of him, the dried flesh of the bear skin rough on her naked back. They came together easily, and she worked her hips back and forth, closed her eyes and made a soft moaning noise, deep down. The feel of Thorgrim inside her was more wonderful than anything she had felt in a long time.
They moved together like that, utterly lost in their own world under the bearskin, and all the horror Morrigan had known or would know was forgotten in the moment. Thorgrim ran his hands over her as they moved together, ran his hands over her back and her breasts and held onto her waist. Then after some time of that he gently pushed her over and rolled over on top of her. She lay with her back now on the soft, warm fur spread on the deck and Thorgrim, up on his elbows, was on top of her. She wrapped her legs around his waist, dug her heels into the small of his back and he moved faster, and with more need.
Morrigan could feel the tension building in her, she was ready to shatter like glass. She bit down on her lip to keep from shouting out loud, felt a coppery taste of blood in her mouth. She reached her arms up over her head and her hands fell on the Crown of the Three Kingdoms. She grabbed it, squeezed it hard, so hard it dug painfully into the flesh of her palms. Thorgrim was moving fast, she could see the white of his clenched teeth, and her whole body shuddered with every thrust.
They both cried out, despite themselves, and then it was quiet as they lay wrapped in one another’s arms. As their breathing subsided, Morrigan could hear the snoring of the men, the grinding of the bow on the shingle, the night birds in the brush. She pulled the crown under the bearskin and soon she and Thorgrim were asleep.
For all the long night they slept, and in that time there was no threat to the men or the crown.
It was still dark when Thorgrim shuffled out from under the bearskin. Morrigan, half awake, was aware of the movement, wondered why Thorgrim had to leave their warm place.
And then the thought came to her that perhaps he had shifted, perhaps he was off to prowl the night in his wolf form. She felt a sudden panic, and a horror at the thought. Her eyes shot open and she rolled over.
Thorgrim was standing beside the bearskin, pulling on his trousers, very much a man. He looked down at her in surprise. “I didn’t wish to wake you,” he whispered.
Morrigan just looked at him. He was not a pretty man, but good looking in a different way. In a way that made a woman feel safe and that was the best way.
“I have to check on the watchers,” he said. He knelt down, kissed her, grabbed up his tunic and sword and was gone.
At daybreak the longship put out to sea, the big men hauling at the oars and then spreading the sail to the early morning breeze. They tacked north, making several long boards, until the gaping green jaws of the River Boyne opened up for them, a watery version of the great Roman roads, leading them into the heart of Ireland.
Morrigan stood at her familiar place by the rail, watching the shoreline close around the ship, glad to be on a river and not the wide ocean. The ocean frightened her with its vastness, and the constant worry that the Vikings would just sail off with her on board. For years now her life had been carried along by the whims of various men. She had killed Orm, escaped thralldom, and would not easily yield her freedom again.
They worked their way up the river with the sail still drawing in the southeasterly wind. The ocean swells gave way to the smooth water of the River Boyne, and soon the ocean was lost from view altogether, and Morrigan was happy for that.
They carried the sail for another hour before the wind failed them entirely. Then the yard was lowered and the long oars broken out and the Norsemen set into their slow, rhythmic stroke, a stroke Morrigan knew they could keep up for hours. It was no mystery to her now how these men became so strong of arm.
By midday they were well up the Boyne, and there was little to see from the Red Dragon’s deck, save for the odd sheep herd who fled with his flock at the first sight of the longship, and the occasional ringfort along the shore. And though there was low talk among the men about stopping and raiding one or the other, nothing was done, and the steady stroke continued uninterrupted.
They came around a wide, sweeping bend in the river, where it ran though open country with occasional stands of trees here and there. Tied to the south bank was a boat, a small leather boat of around twenty feet in length. It looked abandoned.
“Look there,” Thorgrim said to Ornolf, nodding toward the boat.
“Humph,” Ornolf said. He sounded unimpressed.
“What do you think, Morrigan?” Thorgrim asked.
“A fishing boat. I have seen a hundred of its like.”
“Such a boat could be of use to us,” Thorgrim said.
“Damn the thing,” Ornolf announced. “Stupid Irish, building boats from cowhides!”
Morrigan said nothing. She knew how to keep her tongue still. Being a thrall taught a person that, if nothing else.
“Still, I would like to have a look,” Thorgrim said, and there was a tone in his voice that did not admit of questions. Ornolf made his grunting sound again. Thorgrim turned the steering board to starboard.
They crossed the river to the far bank and Thorgrim called for the men to toss oars. The long sweeps came up together, a great bird folding its wings, and the Red Dragon glided silent over the distance between her and the leather boat. Men along the larboard side leaned over the rail and grabbed onto the boat, checking the longship’s way.
Thorgrim stepped off forward. He did not invite Morrigan to follow, or Ornolf either, but Morrigan’s curiosity was up now, wondering what it was about that humble boat that attracted Thorgrim’s interest, and she followed behind.
Thorgrim stopped in the longship’s waist and looked down at the leather boat. Nets, buckets, fishing gear were strewn around the bottom. A dark robe was lashed from gunnel to gunnel over the forward thwart, making a rude shelter underneath. Thorgrim stepped over the side of the longship and onto the fishing boat. For a moment he did not move, just cast his eyes around. Then with a quick movement, he snatched up the long oar that lay across the thwarts. He stared at the blade of the oar, squinting and frowning.
He climbed back aboard the longship, bringing the oar with him. “Ornolf!” he called and Ornolf stepped forward. Thorgrim held out the blade of the oar, and now Morrigan could see that it was covered with a series of cuts and slashes. She looked closer. She recognized the runes of the Norsemen.
“See here,” Thorgrim said as he held out the blade and Ornolf in turn squinted at it. His lips moved before he spoke.
“They look like Harald’s runes, to be sure,” Ornolf said. “There are few men educated enough to write who still do it as poorly as my grandson. Can you make the words out?”
Thorgrim studied the oar blade. “‘Harald Thorgrimsson... made...these runes... He has gone...in search...of his...’”
Thorgrim looked up, made an odd face. “‘In search of his bride,’” he said. He shook his head.
“Hah!” Ornolf shouted. “Either Harald mistakes his runes, or he has gone off and married some Irish bitch!”
Thorgrim looked ashore, his eyes moving far off across the countryside. “One way or the other, we go after him.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Men in ships, warriors with spears,
without any faith, great will be the plague,
they will inhabit half the surface of the island...
The Voyage of Snédgusa ocus Maic Riagla
9th Century Irish Poem
M
agnus knew the girl would be valuable, damned valuable, though he was not sure how.
She was no dumpy farm girl or fisherman’s wife, that was clear from the first glance. She was too lovely by far, a genuine beauty. Not the rustic prettiness of the peasant girls, her skin was smooth and white. Her clothes, wet and rumpled though they were, were clearly cut of expensive cloth and well made.
He listened as she spoke, trying to make out the words. He had picked up some of the barbaric Irish tongue during his time in Dubh-linn, and in his association with Cormac. He had the impression that she was telling him who she was, and how important she was. He heard “Máel Sechnaill mac Ruanaid” and perhaps that she was Brigit mac Ruanaid, and if he heard right, then that was the best fortune he could have hoped for.
Magnus Magnusson had been riding west from the coast for two days. Asbjorn was gone, and Magnus had to assume he had returned to Dubh-linn and alerted Orm to his betrayal. Cormac Ua Ruairc, once an ally, was now a sworn enemy. As far as powerful men with whom to align himself, that left only Máel Sechnaill of Tara.
Magnus had followed the River Boyne west in the general direction of Tara. He intended to go to Máel Sechnaill and offer his services, and the information he held concerning Cormac Ua Ruairc’s plans and his current incursion into Brega.
And now, it seemed, Máel Sechnaill’s daughter was at his feet and begging assistance.
“My name is Magnus Magnusson, I am a friend of your father’s,” he said, hoping she understood the Danish tongue. But apparently she did not, because her eyes grew wide at the sound of his words. She took a step back, and then another.
“No, wait!” Magnus shouted, but it was pointless as she clearly did not understand. The girl turned and fled, back in the direction she had come from.
“Oh, Thor take this bitch!” Magnus shouted in exasperation. He dug his heels into his horse’s side and charged after her. She was running hard, trying to reach the wooded place in which she had been hiding. Magnus got his horse in front of her and she stopped, turned, ran in another direction.
Magnus worked the horse to cut off her escape, but he knew he could not catch her that way. He reigned hard to a stop, slipped to the ground as the girl sprinted for the trees. The muscles in his legs protested as he ran after her, the stiffness of mile after mile in the saddle made him hobble like an old man. The girl was nearly at the trees by the time he got a hand on her shoulder and pushed her to the ground, stumbling and falling on top of her as he did.
He fell with a grunt, half on the grass and half on the girl, and even as he was sorting himself out she slammed her elbow into the side of his head with such force that it snapped his head around and blurred his vision. He felt her foot drive into his stomach and he gasped in pain.
“You bitch!” he shouted. She kicked him again, squirmed out of his grasp. He head was
still spinning but he managed to grab her ankle and pull her down just as she was struggling to her feet.
She twisted around and raked his face with her fingernails and Magnus felt the five searing lacerations across his cheek. She wound up to slash him again, but this time he caught her wrist and jerked her arm toward him, pulling her over so she was face down on the grass. She was kicking and screaming Gaelic curses, but he had her now. He threw a leg over her back, straddling her as she twisted and tried to get her hands on him.
It was like riding a bear - he was safe as long as he did not get off. He remained on top of her for a moment as the pain from his various wounds subsided and his head cleared. Then he took the belt from his waist and lashed her wrists together. It was no easy feat, but Magnus had spent his boyhood fishing off the coast of his native Denmark and was well used to subduing a thrashing and squirming catch.
He stood at last and pulled the girl to her feet. “I am trying to help you, you stupid girl,” he said, spitting the words, though he had no hope that she would understand him. From the fury in her eyes and the vicious sound of the words spitting from her mouth it was clear she did not think she was being helped.
No matter. If she was the daughter of Máel Sechnaill she was worth everything to Magnus, either as a way of winning Máel’s gratitude by returning her, or by holding her as a hostage for money and safe conduct. He pulled at the bitter end of the belt. The girl struggled mightily - it reminded Magnus of trying to get a goat to go where it does not want to go - but he managed at last to pull her over to his horse.
Magnus gave a hard pull and the girl fell to the ground. He wanted to put her up on the horse, have her ride in front of him, but he could think of no way to get her up there without getting his head kicked in. He could beat her into submission, sure, but that would not earn him Máel Sechnaill’s gratitude.
“Ah, damn you!” he said out loud. He pulled a length of walrus skin rope from his saddlebag, tied a loop in the end and looped it around the girl’s neck. He tied the other end around his waist and climbed up in his saddle.
Fin Gall (The Norsemen) Page 25
