Dubh-linn: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 2)

by James L. Nelson

  “Arinbjorn, I congratulate you on a safe return, a profitable voyage,” Thorgrim said, stepping up to the jarl and extending a hand. Arinbjorn took it gratefully. On either side, the men of the Black Raven gripped the gunnels and cursed the mud and hauled the elegant ship up onto the river bank.

  “And you, Thorgrim Night Wolf. You have my sincerest thanks for all you have done this voyage.” The words sounded sincere, and Thorgrim guessed they were. Arinbjorn was no doubt genuinely grateful to be back, with his ship, men and reputation pretty much intact, and him somewhat wealthier for his trouble.

  “As to profit, yes, it will be somewhat profitable, I should think,” Arinbjorn was still talking. “We’ll see what price these slaves will fetch us, what miserable scraps of plunder we managed to find. I’ll see your share, and Harald’s, brought to you once it is all reckoned up.”

  “Thank you. We are both grateful for the chance you’ve given us,” Thorgrim said, but Arinbjorn waved the words off with his hand. “There is the matter as well,” Thorgrim continued, “of returning to Norway? I’m sure I made no secret of my eagerness to get back to my farm at Vik.”

  “Yes, yes, of course!” Arinbjorn said enthusiastically. “Back to Norway, that is still my intention. I have a wife and children, you know, and I miss them terribly. Once we have this business settled up, then we shall speak of returning home.” He smiled broadly, took Thorgrim’s hand again and with his other hand slapped Thorgrim in a companionable way on the shoulder.

  “Thank you, Arinbjorn, I am much relieved,” Thorgrim said, but in fact he was not relieved. He was, in fact, sick with despair. Because he had no choice, as far as he could see, but to put his hopes in Arinbjorn White-tooth, and Arinbjorn White-tooth had the sincerity of a snake.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Night is now, now shall we fare

  over moist mountains…

  scatheless we both shall ‘scape their might

  The Lay of Skírnir

  It had been just minutes, five minutes perhaps, maybe less, between the moment that Brigit and Father Finnian had first heard the words, “Fire!” and the moment they emerged from the monastery into the night, but in those brief minutes it seemed the whole world had changed, like the End Times had come.

  Fire… There were few words that struck such immediate terror because there were few forces that could deliver destruction so quickly and completely. A devastating storm would be seen hours before its arrival. Even an enemy striking as swiftly as it was able would be discovered well before the first arrow flew. But fire? Its approach was silent and unseen, and by the time it was discovered it might well have a grip that could not be shaken.

  And that was the case with the royal household. Brigit, of course, had been the first at Tara to see the fire, Finnian the last. As the brothers flung open the doors to their cells and pounded down the dark hall, summoned by the call of “Fire!” as surely as any call to prayer, Finnian had pulled one of his brown robes from a chest at the foot of his cot and helped Brigit slip it over her head. He bunched the cloth at the waist so it would not drag on the ground and tied it in place with a waist cord.

  Brigit raised her arms and let him adjust the robe. His hands were strong and dexterous and he worked with no hesitation, none of the awkwardness men often displayed in such situations. His confidence gave Brigit hope.

  By the time Finnian finished with the robe and opened the door of his cell to peer out into the hall, moving cautiously, with Brigit standing well back in the shadows, the monastery was deserted, all its occupants gone to help or to watch, as was their wont.

  “Come along,” he said and Brigit followed. They moved quietly down the hall. The door at the end had been left open and the light from the fire was finding its way inside, which made the going much easier. They paused by the front door and Finnian pulled the hood of the robe up over Brigit’s head and then they hurried outside.

  From every corner of the ringfort, people were rushing to the mounting pyre. Many were shouting, the words or their intent Brigit could not discern. The bells of the church were pealing now, as if anyone at Tara did not know there was an emergency. She could see a line of people forming at the well, buckets passing one to the other.

  Best of luck with that, she thought.

  Finnian grabbed her arm and led her along, beyond the monastery, to where they had a clear view of what was happening. “Dear Lord, child, it’s the royal household on fire!” he said.

  “Oh, Lord, save them,” Brigit said in a tone that sounded like surprise and they both made the sign of the cross. The north eastern quarter of the big house was engulfed, fire spilling out of the window of Brigit’s former bed chamber, licking up the wall, starting to catch on the thatch eves. Once the thatch caught, that would be the end of things.

  Mesmerizing as the sight was, Brigit was ready to go. There would be no better time to slip unseen through one of the gates. But Finnian remained fixed, his eyes on the burning building.

  “That’s your own bed chamber, right in the middle of it, is it not?” he asked. The shock of seeing the royal household ablaze had passed, and Finnian’s voice was calm.

  “Yes, it is…”

  “Did you know it was on fire?”

  “No…I…in the fight, a candle may have been knocked over…it was all so awful, I didn’t see…” Brigit stammered, the words catching in her throat. She felt the tears coming back.

  Finnian looked at her for a long moment, and then in a quiet voice said, “Come along, we had better go.” They turned their backs to the burning building and headed off for a gate in the north wall of the ringfort. From the light of the fire they could see there was no guard there, no one to question why they might be leaving Tara in the middle of the night.

  They reached the gate and paused, looked back. No one was paying them any attention so they turned back to the wooden latch that held the oak door closed. This was not one of the chief entryways, one of the gates built to accommodate wagons, but a smaller sallyport, large enough for a single man on horseback, no more. It was a simple matter to open the crossbar and slip through. They did so, and immediately the thick wall muted the chaos from within the ringfort. They moved swiftly into the dark. They did not look back.

  There was no moon, but once their eyes had recovered from watching the inferno that was the royal household there was light enough for them to see the dark scar of a road that led away to the south. They walked on, two dark-robed figures, all but invisible in the night. They did not speak.

  They continued on for hours, their bare feet making no sound on the soft earth road. The walls of Tara sunk below the hills, the sound of shouting and bells receded in the distance, and soon there was nothing to see of the seat of the high king but a soft glow of light on the horizon. Then even that began to fade as the fire was got under control or the building had burned to the ground, or so Brigit imagined.

  As the shock of the night faded, so too did Brigit’s strength, and she found herself staggering and bouncing against Finnian’s shoulder. She shook her head, rubbed her eyes, forced herself to continue on. She felt a warm darkness come over her, a soothing, comfortable sensation. Then she stumbled, recovered, realized she had fallen asleep while walking. “Here, time for us to get some rest,” Finnian said, softly.

  The first hints of dawn were visible in the east, casting enough light to reveal a stand of oak trees a hundred feet from the road. Finnian led her over the cool, damp grass and slightly up hill until they found themselves in the midst of the grove. “I’m afraid this is the best we’ll do for shelter tonight,” Finnian said.

  She collapsed to the ground, luxuriating in the soft earth, the blessed relief of being off her feet. “No feather bed in any palace could be more welcome than this,” she said. Finnian made some reply, but through the haze of her exhaustion Brigit could not make out the words, and before she could ask him to repeat himself, she was fast asleep.

  Brigit was as exhausted as she could be, in ev
ery way a person could be exhausted, physically, emotionally, and it was a blessing in this instance, because despite the horror of the night, despite the rough ground and the damp seeping through her wool robe, she slept a solid and dreamless sleep. She did not move at all, just remained fixed in the position in which she had collapsed, and for several hours was as still as if she were in her grave.

  She came awake at last, but her eyes remained closed and her body remained in the position in which she had slept, but she seemed to have no control over either. She told herself to open her eyes, to move her arm, but her eyelids and her arm did not respond. It was as if she was weighted down all over by a great press of blankets. She could not move. She became aware of sounds. She could hear birds, and a rustling in the dirt beside her. She struggled to call out, was aware of a strangled yell coming from her throat, and a hand clamped over her mouth.

  That seemed to break the spell. Her eyes came open. She was looking at the ground and a patch of ferns and the trunks of several oak trees. She swiveled her head and looked up, into the calm but serious face of Father Finnian. He held a finger to his lips, made a soft “shhhh” sound, softer than the breeze in the treetops. Brigit nodded her understanding and he took the hand from her mouth.

  Quiet as she could she propped herself up on her arm. Her muscles were sore and stiff and protested every movement and she clenched her teeth and forced herself to remain silent because Finnian had instructed her to. Why he had, she did not know.

  Father Finnian was crouched beside her with one knee on the ground. He was bending low so the bracken in the grove mostly shielded him from view from the road. His head was cocked as if he was straining to hear. Brigit did the same. She heard nothing beyond what she would expect to hear, birds and wind and insects. The overcast and the drizzling rain had blown through, and in their place were blue skies and a scattering of high, white clouds. The change lifted Brigit’s spirits and gave her just a twinge of optimism.

  Then she heard what Finnian heard and she felt the optimism collapse. Horses. Hooves on the road, far off but getting closer. How many riders there were she could not tell. More than two, certainly. They were riding fast, but not at a gallop. There was little chance that any rider in that part of Ireland could have come from any place but Tara.

  She inched her way closer to the brush, careful not to make a sound. The patter of the horses’ hooves on the dirt of the road was closer now. She peered through the tangle of green leaves and saw them at last, a mile or so away and approaching. She felt Finnian behind her, also moving to a place where he could better see.

  They watched in silence. Six riders, coming on at a fast trot. They wore cloaks that blew out behind them as they rode. They drew closer, and Brigit could see tunics of rich color and swords hanging from belts and bouncing against the riders as they moved, but they were still too far away to recognize.

  Her breathing was shallow and she was absolutely motionless as the riders approached. She could see they were not keeping their eyes on the road, but scanning the countryside as they rode past. She felt vulnerable and exposed and she shuffled back a few inches. From indistinct shapes on horseback they began to resolve into individuals, and then into individuals whom Brigit recognized.

  Patrick, you miserable bastard, she thought. Patrick, Morrigan’s man. She guessed that Donnel had been sent out with another party in the other direction, and others to cover all the roads leading from Tara. She recognized a few men-at-arms whose names she did not know, and a few of the rí túaithe who she would just as soon forget.

  They came closer, their pace never slacking, and as they drew even with the stand of trees Patrick turned his head and looked right at her, right into her eyes, or so it seemed to her. But there was one hundred feet between them, and she saw no hint on Patrick’s face that he had seen her, or anything else that caught his eye. His head turned the other way and he and the rest rode on past.

  Patrick’s band disappeared down a dip in the road, then reappeared up the far side before either Brigit or Finnian dared speak again.

  “Morrigan,” Brigit said in a soft and accusatory voice. “Patrick is Morrigan’s man. She’s sent them out to hunt us down.”

  “Perhaps…” Finnian said.

  “Perhaps? What else might they be doing?”

  “It’s a good question. They can’t know for certain you’re still alive. The fire must have taken half the royal house, if it did not burn it all to the ground. They won’t know yet if you were in there or not. And sure Patrick and that bunch were not making so great a search of it.”

  They were quiet for a moment, watching the band of horsemen growing smaller in the distance; the sound of their horses’ hooves soon overwhelmed by the breeze and the song birds. Then Finnian spoke again.

  “Your leine, it was quite dry.”

  “What?”

  “Your leine. When you came into my cell. You were in a panic, but the blood on your leine was dry. Did you not come directly to me?”

  “No….” She stammered, searching for words, trying to see down the verbal road here, to where Finnian was leading her. “I don’t know what I was doing. I wasn’t thinking…. What difference could it make?”

  “None. None, I’m sure.”

  “And you,” Brigit continued, shifting the course of the conversation, “you were dressed when I came in. I had thought to find you in bed.”

  “Ah, girl, you sounded like Joshua’s army descending on Jericho as you came down the hall there. I knew there was something amiss.”

  The two of them sat in silence a while longer. Brigit could feel her stomach twisting with hunger, could feel the dull ache in her feet from the previous day’s march, and she wondered how she would ever stand and continue on. Then Finnian spoke again.

  “You asked me to help you get away from Tara. I know you, girl, and I know you did not run away with no thought of where you are running to. And where would that be?”

  Brigit did not answer immediately. She had known, of course, that this moment would come. She had put considerable thought into it, sitting on the edge of her bed, beside the body of her dead husband, as his blood dried on her clothing.

  Where can I go?

  She had sat in silence, but the question had been screaming in her head. Any of the minor kingdoms which she might hope to reach on foot were either loyal to Flann, as the heir apparent to the throne of Tara, or too afraid of him to dare give her shelter. Any kingdom so far away as to be beyond Flann’s sphere of influence would be too far to do her any good. They might give her shelter, might let her live out her days there, might even let her marry into the family of the rí túaithe, but no more. And she was not interested in any of those things. She cared about one thing alone, and that was taking her place on the throne of Tara, and her child after her.

  And there was only one place where she might find an ally who could help her do that.

  “There is one place I might go, Father,” she said at last. “The only place. Dubh-linn.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  If old age awaits this battle-spear

  then my dreams lead me astray.

  Gisli Sursson’s Saga

  Even before the Black Raven was made fast to the shore, Ornolf the Restless was there, standing in mud up to his ankles, roaring his greeting, roaring drunk. Thorgrim watched Harald approach his grandfather, arms out, watched Ornolf take the boy in a bear hug. With Ornolf, massively built, with a great hedge of gray and red beard and long hair tumbling in every direction, it was very near to being literally a bear hug.

  “Thorgrim! Thorgrim!” Ornolf shouted out. “Come here and explain to me how someone so girlish as you might have sired a man such as Harald, here! I know my daughter was not disloyal, so it must be something else!”

  Thorgrim looked over at Arinbjorn and Arinbjorn gave him a half smile, a cock of the eyebrows. Thorgrim nodded and a moment of understanding passed between them, a flash of a connection they had never before shared.

>   “I have a father-in-law, too,” Arinbjorn confided. “You had best go.”

  Thorgrim put a foot on the gunnel and vaulted over, his soft leather shoes sinking deep in the mud of the River Liffey. He heard a soft splash behind and knew that Starri Deathless had followed. Arinbjorn, he was certain, would wait until a gangplank was rigged, which even at the moment his men were struggling to do.

  “Thorgrim!” Ornolf still had Harald firmly in the grip of his left arm and he held up his right arm to hug Thorgrim, all the while keeping a grip on a half-full goblet in his hand, an impressive feat. Thorgrim held out his arms and gave Ornolf the obligatory hug, a half-hearted effort, but Ornolf did not seem to notice as he crushed father and son in return. The old man’s strength and endurance never failed to astound.

  “There are some impressive tales being told about my grandson’s deeds at Cloyne, some mighty impressive tales!” Ornolf said, releasing his grip. His voice was louder than was quite necessary, but at least he had stopped shouting. “You were mentioned as well, Thorgrim, seems you had some part in it.”

  “’Tales?’” Thorgrim asked. “How could tales be told, the fleet is only now returned?”

  “Ha! Don’t be a fool!” Ornolf replied. “You know that word travels faster than the swiftest ship. The gods carry tales of brave deeds ahead of the men who do them.”