The Irish Bride

by Sarah Woodbury

  Dai wasn’t so much weepy anymore as light-headed, relieved beyond measure to be free, but terrified of what might be happening to Steffan. As they reached the trees where Aron and Iago waited, he said urgently, “Did you see where they took Steffan?”

  Aron put a finger to his lips. “We saw.”

  Dai had made sure his voice was no more than a whisper and added, “What are we going to do?”

  “There are only four of us,” Aron said dryly. “Even the mighty Iago has his limits.”

  Iago was used to Aron talking this way and ignored him, his eyes focused on the little hut. “Why did they take him into the house?”

  “To get information from him,” Dai said.

  “What information can they get from him in the house that they couldn’t get in the barn?” Iago said.

  “I don’t know. They discovered he spoke French, so they didn’t need me anymore. Steffan said that was a good thing.”

  “He’s right,” Cadoc said.

  Dai nudged Aron. “Tell me what is happening. If I am to become one of you, I have to know.”

  Again, it was Cadoc who answered, his voice full of sympathy. “Are you aware of what has gone on between not only Leinster and Connaught but within the household of the High King himself?”

  “You mean the way they fight amongst themselves?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean. The O’Connors actually encourage it.” Cadoc indicated with a flick of his finger the hut into which Steffan had disappeared. “Vigo is the High King’s son. So is Rory. So is Donnell. Vigo, however, is illegitimate, but even that wouldn’t matter if he could prove himself to be the strongest.”

  “By which Cadoc means the most ruthless, the most willing to do anything to achieve an end,” Aron said. “Vigo needs to know what brought Steffan to the fight tonight. He is desperate to learn how much of his plot is known. They have been thwarted once. His brother might not take another loss well.”

  Dai’s hands clenched into fists, and he looked at Cadoc. “You should have shot Donnell and Vigo when you had the chance.”

  Cadoc didn’t dignify what was obviously not true with an answer.

  Aron wasn’t done with the explanation, though now it was more than Dai wanted. “O’Connor encourages his sons to fight each other, but if someone else were to harm any of them, the reaction would be immediate and devastating.”

  “That’s what Steffan said too.” Dai’s shoulders sagged. “So we can’t kill Vigo.”

  “No, we cannot.” Cadoc’s tone was grim. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t do something.”

  “Set up over there.” Aron tipped his head towards a bit of rising ground to their left.

  Cadoc studied the spot. “I’m going to shoot anyone who gets close to you, no matter who he is.”

  “You do that.” Aron gestured that Iago should go to the right, and Iago left them at a running crouch, moving around the edge of the property. He disappeared behind the barn, only to reappear a moment later on the other side of the main house, a shadow amidst other shadows cast by the moon.

  Vigo had posted only two guards, who stood talking quietly a few feet from the house’s front door. They hadn’t moved when Cadoc had rescued Dai and showed no signs of moving now. Their night vision was ruined by the torch stuck in the ground a few feet from the front door.

  “What are we doing?” Dai asked.

  “Rescuing Steffan.”

  Someone inside the house screamed. It was an awful sound.

  Dai made to stand, but Aron caught his arm. “Wait.”

  A light flamed at Cadoc’s position, something the guards couldn’t miss, though they stared disbelieving rather than doing anything about it. Apparently unconcerned that his position could now be determined, Cadoc loosed an arrow at the thatched roof of the house, which instantly caught fire. He sent a second flaming arrow into the roof of the barn.

  By the time he loosed his third flaming arrow, one of the guards had shouted a warning and both had started towards Cadoc, swords drawn. But Cadoc’s next two arrows caught each in the chest before they’d gone twenty feet. Aron had forbidden Cadoc to kill Vigo, but everyone else was fair game.

  Aron gripped Dai’s shoulder. “Shout fire! in Danish.”

  Rising to his feet, Dai cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, by which time Aron was running towards the house, and Iago had also left his hiding place. Dai would have gone too, but he didn’t even have a knife on him, and he knew better than to think he could accomplish anything with his fists other than a momentary deferment of his own death.

  By the time Aron reached the house’s front door, the roof was fully aflame, aided by several more flaming arrows Cadoc had put into it. Aron set himself to the right of the door. A moment later, the first of Vigo’s men burst through it. Aron grabbed the man by the arm, spun him around against the wall of the hut, and put a knife into his back.

  A second man had come through the door on his heels, but Cadoc shot him in the chest. His sword bared, Iago hit the half-open door with his shoulder and went through it with Aron right behind him.

  Dai couldn’t abide hiding a moment longer. He raced towards one of the guards Cadoc had shot, picked up the man’s sword where it had fallen to the ground, and leapt into the house after Aron and Iago.

  The smoke was choking, and he instantly ducked to get below it, which may have saved his life, because someone had stepped out from behind the door and taken a swipe at his head. Dai stabbed out blindly with his borrowed weapon and, by sheer luck, managed to connect with the knee of his attacker, who yelped and leapt away. The reprieve allowed Dai to grab the edge of the door and slam it hard, driving the man towards the wall.

  Dai leapt up and had his sword to the man’s throat before he realized his assailant was Vigo himself.

  “Don’t kill him, even if he deserves it,” Aron warned from behind him.

  While Iago dispatched the remainder of Vigo’s men, Aron passed Dai heading for fresh air, his arm around Steffan’s waist, helping him walk. Steffan’s left hand was wrapped in a bloody cloth.

  Meanwhile, the thatch continued to burn, dropping cinders all around them. Iago stopped beside Dai, breathing hard.

  “What do I do with him?” Dai asked.

  “You can’t kill me.” Vigo smirked. “I’m the son of the High King.”

  “You’re right; we can’t.” Dai looked at Iago and motioned go ahead. “But he can do something.”

  “My pleasure.” Iago punched Vigo with a hard uppercut, snapping his teeth together and sending him first into the wall and then to the floor. Then Iago flung Vigo over his shoulder and carried him from the house.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Day Four

  Gareth

  On the ride back from the clearing, they’d wrested more of the story from Goff—the part Goff knew, anyway. He seemed desperate to clear his conscience—and avoid the accusation of treason.

  In a way, what he had to say was hardly more than Gareth had known already: Goff had started the fighting ring under Ottar in an attempt to bring old-fashioned Danish values back to Dublin. As a Welshman, Gareth wasn’t necessarily in favor of some of them, including the ability to hack a man to pieces with a dull blade. But those of honor and loyalty were timeless and, under Ottar, they had not been prized sufficiently.

  They got the rest of the story from Dai, whose language skills had proved invaluable: Vigo had been Donnell’s eyes and ears in Dublin before Ottar’s death—and he’d been the man who stabbed him in the back at the Battle of the Liffey. After Brodar’s elevation to king, Vigo and Donnell had hatched a new plan to murder Diarmait and their brother Rory to ensure Donnell’s inheritance. Vigo would then step to prominence, bastard or not, in Leinster, which then, like Dublin, would be a client state to Connaught.

  In a way, Brodar should consider himself lucky not to have been a target, but even Vigo and Donnell seemed to have realized the Danes would never accept direct rule by either of them.
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  On the ride back to the city, Godfrid had told Vigo that trusting Donnell to follow through once he’d gained what he wanted was foolish. As Vigo had been gagged and thrown over the back of a horse at the time, he couldn’t reply, and Gareth had agreed to leave the questioning of him to Brodar and Godfrid. As a son of the High King, bastard or not, even tying him up was dangerous, and Gareth was perfectly happy to steer clear of the political winds that might blow from Connaught when the High King found out.

  That left Arnulf, whom Gareth placed in a penitent cell at the church to think about the error of his ways. Gareth hadn’t even stopped to bathe and change, only grabbing an apple and a bite of cheese after leaving his horse at Godfrid’s house.

  “You should be with your sister.” Gareth eyed Conall, who intercepted Gareth as he crossed the churchyard. Workers were picking up every stray leaf and twig from the surrounding grass, laying out the woven reed mat Cait would walk upon from the gate to the church door so as not to dirty her dress, and scattering flower petals, which Gareth and Conall skirted so as not to undo their good work.

  “She is with our mother and Gwen. If I were smart, I’d be drinking a warm cup of mead—or better yet, sleeping—but that would leave this last task to you alone. Trust you not to shirk it and to finish what you started.”

  “In the wake of the night’s events, I expect few others except Bishop Gregory to remember what we were here for in the first place.”

  “Haven’t you heard? There’s an important wedding today,” Conall said.

  Gareth gave him a wry smile. “Oh, I know, and the murder of an unpopular monk is hardly as exciting as uncovering treason. But Harald deserves justice, in whatever form that might take.”

  “What if Arnulf can’t tell us what happened to Harald?”

  “He will tell us,” Gareth said grimly, “or he will point us to the person who can.”

  “If he’s smart, it will be someone who died tonight.”

  “I’m praying he isn’t that smart.”

  Arnulf sat on the low bed in the cell, hunched over with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Bishop Gregory was just leaving, his expression one of sadness. “I’ll be in in the little chapel, praying for the souls of all who’ve died this week.” He shot Arnulf a glance. “And for those still living. Please come find me after you’ve finished with him.”

  “You are welcome to stay as witness,” Gareth said. “There will be no hurting him.”

  Bishop Gregory smiled gently. “I know you won’t. That’s why I can leave you to it.”

  At the arrival of Gareth and Conall, rather than trying to stonewall them, Arnulf chose to go on the offensive and started speaking the moment Gareth walked into the room. “I just explained everything to Bishop Gregory, and I’ll tell you too. I didn’t kill Harald.”

  “Then tell us what happened, preferably from the beginning.”

  Arnulf gripped the wooden siderail of the bed so hard his knuckles turned white. Now he’d started, he was reluctant to continue. But continue he did: “You can’t know what it means to be born Danish, neither of you. From birth, every boy is taught to be a warrior. Except now, few are given the opportunity to become one.” He’d been looking down at his feet, but now he looked up. “It is our birthright, and the kings of Dublin have squandered it for years.”

  Gareth didn’t bother to argue the point since Arnulf was past listening.

  Now the priest waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, I know Ottar sent men to Wales to fight for Cadwaladr, and we fought against the men of Meath just last spring. But we weren’t prepared. There was a time when every Danish man was a fighter.” He plucked at his robe. “Not this.”

  Conall canted his head, keeping his voice level. “You regret taking the cloth?”

  Arnulf’s mouth twisted. “I am a younger son. My father died when I was a boy, and I had no one to train me. I joined the Church because my mother wanted it, and it seemed the better of my options.”

  “When did you enter Goff’s company?” Conall asked.

  “Near the beginning.”

  “Which was when?” Gareth said.

  “Two years ago?” Arnulf didn’t sound sure, but Gareth didn’t feel the need to press that particular point.

  “What about Vigo?” he asked.

  “He supplied us with weapons. Goff listened to him and was a good teacher, but not so good at speeches—or rather, he had one good speech and gave it every time, the one you heard, in fact.”

  Gareth could see how that might be. “And Harald?”

  “He came later. His brother was the soldier, not him. He came home to Dublin because Tiko had died and, as far as I could tell, Harald could think of little else but emulating the heroes of the past.” Arnulf’s expression turned doleful. “He tried hard, but he wasn’t very good.”

  “You fought with him?” Gareth said.

  Arnulf nodded. “We were thrown together, as you might expect, given our shared secret. At first, I was angry with him for joining, because I feared he would betray me. But he was on fire with Dublin’s warrior past and furious with Bishop Gregory and Brodar for not standing up to the Irish.” Suddenly his expression, which had become momentarily animated, turned sad. “A week ago things changed. He came to me with a story about how Vigo was really the bastard son of the High King and was set on betraying us with his brother Donnell, who’d been behind Ottar’s death and the war last May.”

  Conall straightened in the doorway. “How did he know?”

  “He’d followed Vigo to a meeting with Donnell. I have no idea how he found the time or what prompted him to do it. The risk he took!” Arnulf shook his head. “At the time, I didn’t see how it could be true and told him so. He railed at me, Vigo, and Goff so much it was as if he’d lost his mind. He wasn’t making sense.”

  Arnulf paused, and when next he spoke, his tone was heavy with guilt. “I went to Vigo about it.”

  Now they were getting to the meat of the matter. “Talk us through what happened the night he died.”

  From behind Gareth, Conall added, “If you didn’t kill him, you have nothing to fear.”

  Arnulf bent his head anyway. “It isn’t fear I must live with, but shame.”

  Gareth let the silence lengthen, knowing Arnulf couldn’t help but fill it.

  Finally, Arnulf sighed. “Vigo invited Harald to a private lesson, just him, me, and Harald. Full armor, as you saw. We fought hard.”

  “Which is why his sword had untreated nicks in it,” Gareth said.

  “Yes. He always endeavored to polish those out, but—” Arnulf looked down at his hands.

  “But he died before he could. Tell me about that.”

  “After the lesson, we drank toasts to our ancestors, as we always do. Vigo kept urging more drink on Harald, chiding him, accusing him of not being as tough as his forefathers. I thought Harald had been drinking before he arrived. Even after our training had sweated some of it out of him, he still wasn’t entirely sober, and he became even more belligerent, as some drunk men do, over the next hour. Finally, before the neighbors got involved, Harald and I left together. I was relieved, in truth. I was afraid of Vigo by then, and I feared—” he stopped.

  “You feared what?” Gareth wasn’t going to let him end there.

  Arnulf sighed. “I feared what Vigo might do to Harald if I left them alone together.”

  “Harald was sober enough to walk?”

  Arnulf nodded. “In retrospect, I should have steered him to his mother’s house, but we went home instead.”

  “Did you see him to his room?”

  “I told him he needed to get out of his armor, but he refused my help or to help me. He said he wanted to pray, and since I was hardly sober myself, all I could think about was getting caught out of bed. I left him heading towards the church. He was walking on his own, and I thought—” Arnulf stopped and swallowed. “I hoped prayer would be the best thing for him, and he would have forgotten all about his grievances by mor
ning. I managed to claw my way out of my own armor and went to bed with a lighter heart.”

  “Until the bishop found Harald dead in the chapel,” Gareth said, “in full armor.”

  Arnulf nodded. “Until then.”

  “Do you know why Harald died in the chapel?”

  Arnulf had a look on his face that implied he’d thought of little else since the body had been found. “Harald was angry, betrayed—first by the bishop and then by Vigo. He was angrier at Vigo than with Bishop Gregory, however. Now that I’ve had a chance to consider, I don’t think he meant to profane the chapel.”

  “Why else would he go there? Why lie on the altar?” Conall said.

  Arnulf looked up, tears streaming down his cheeks. “In his mind, he was a monk and a warrior. In his drunken state, what better place could he have found to pray?”

  “Or to lie?” Gareth said.

  Arnulf nodded miserably.

  From behind Gareth, Conall said in Welsh, for Gareth’s ears only, “There but for the grace of God go how many of us? I’ve rarely been that drunk, but when I was, thank all the saints I had better friends to watch over me than poor Harald.”

  They’d been focused on Harald and his motives, but that didn’t mean Arnulf himself was off the hook, and now Gareth said, “Tell me about the quote on his bedside table.”

  Arnulf’s expression turned sheepish. “I left it there.”

  Gareth had guessed that, of course. Conall finally left the doorway and came closer. “You wanted us to think Harald killed himself? That was your idea?”

  “Sort of.”

  “What does that mean?” Gareth said.

  Now a sulky look crossed Arnulf’s face. “When Bishop Gregory sent me to find you, first I stopped by Vigo’s shop and told him Harald had died and where his body had been found. He thought it would be enough to start the rumor. People love to gossip, so it didn’t take much.”