Chapter Twenty-Six
The traveler must
train his wits.
All is easy at home.
Hávamál
M
agnus Magnusson was riding the cliff edge. To his left the wet fields rolled away inland, their usual startling green color muted in the rain and fog. To his right, the steep, rocky ledges fell to the breaking surf below.
He looked out over the water, to the place where the sea and fog melded into one another. He hoped very much to see the Norwegian longship come dipping out of the mist, hoped the Norwegians would decide the safest bet was to keep an eye on the shoreline, so that he could keep an eye on them. Magnus was worried.
The deal was simple enough. The Crown of the Three Kingdoms, and Cormac Ua Ruairc’s rule over Brega, Leinster, and Mide, in exchange for the combined Irish army deposing Orm and setting Magnus in his place. An alliance of Irish and Danes. Once they stopped fighting one another, all of Ireland would be at their mercy.
The alliance with Cormac had taken months of terribly dangerous negotiations. One misplaced word, one betrayal by any of the several men involved, and Orm Ulfsson would have put Magnus to death, just as he wanted to. Through it all, Magnus had steered his course true, had managed to pull together all these elements, fire and water. But now things seemed to be coming apart, and Magnus was starting to wonder if the time had come for him to cut and run.
He reined his horse to a stop and stared off north along the coast. Cormac and that bastard Niall Cuarán had ridden off by themselves. What are they plotting? Magnus wondered. Once they had the crown, they would have no further need of him. The truth of that had occurred to Cormac and Niall Cuarán, Magnus could see as much, and they were intending to take advantage of the fact.
He looked over his shoulder. Maybe I should just run now, he thought. There was no other way to extract himself, that he could see. His men were outnumbered by the Irish, and though they were better armed and better able to fight, they might well be butchered if they tried to leave.
I could ride back to Dubh-linn, tell Orm we were attacked by an Irish war party. Everyone was killed. Chances were if he did that, Cormac would kill all his men, so there would be no one left to speak against him. It would be most important of all, of course, that Asbjorn be killed.
Perhaps I should kill Asbjorn now, Magnus thought. Yes. Regardless of what he decided to do, Asbjorn was too much of a liability to be left alive. He had had his fun with the fat whore’s son. Time to end it.
He wheeled his horse around and headed back toward the place where they had made camp. The baggage train would be coming from that direction, with Asbjorn on his leash following behind. He heard hoof beats, twisted in the saddle, saw the familiar shape of Kjartan Swiftsword riding toward him.
“The riders are well spaced, and I sent Vifil Ketilsson, he has the fastest mount, sent him on ahead to see what beach those Norwegians might come to tonight,” Kjartan said, reigning up beside Magnus.
“Good,” Magnus said, though he wondered how the Norwegians would find the beach in that weather, or if they would even dare close with the shore. Or if they had decided to just piss on the crown and row back to Norway. He scowled as his mind wrapped around those thoughts.
“Where away, Lord Magnus?” Kjartan asked after they had rode some distance in the wrong direction.
“Back to the baggage train. I’ve had my fun with Asbjorn. Time for him to die.”
Kjartan did not say anything. He had favored killing Asbjorn straight off.
Magnus pulled his cloak further over his shoulders. His clothing was soaked clean through to his skin and the best he could hope for was that the cloak would block the wind a bit. As an experienced raider and campaigner, he was well used to such misery, but that did not make it any less miserable. He thought of the big, comfortable tents that Cormac and Niall Cuarán carried with them and he found himself longing for one, and bitterly resentful that he did not have one, and would not be invited into theirs.
“Those men left with the baggage train are taking their own time,” Kjartan observed and his voice pulled Magnus from his funk.
“What?”
“The baggage train. I would have thought it would be here by now, but I can’t even see it.”
Magnus looked down the worn, muddy strip that passed for a road. The baggage train was nowhere in sight. Sure, they could not see far, thanks to the rain, but far enough that they should have been able to see it by now.
“Let’s go give those lazy dogs a kick in the ass,” Magnus said, digging his spurs into his horse’s side, pushing the animal to a canter. Hard riding helped dispel his own irritation, doubt and suddenly gnawing worry.
The path ran over a low hill then dipped down into a stand of oaks. They crested the hill and still could not see the wagons. They had left an even number of Danes and Irish to guard it, along with the dozen slaves Cormac and Niall Cuarán brought for their own comfort. Magnus would have expected the Danes, at least, to show a little more initiative in getting things moving along.
They rode down into the arms of the oak grove, slowing their horses to a walk as the trees rose up on either side of them. The path twisted off to the right. They were just rounding the turn when they saw the first body. Vestein Osvifsson, who had been left in charge of the baggage train. They recognized him by his bright colored tunic, though when they had seen him that morning there had been a mail shirt over it. He was face down in the mud.
“By the hammer of Thor!” Kjartan shouted but Magnus’s stomach was twisting and he did not trust himself to speak. As they rounded the curve in the path more and more of the scene of the disaster opened up to them. Dead men strewn around the grass, hacked down with swords, run through with spears. Irish and Danes. If the men who had done this had lost any in the fight, they had taken the bodies with them.
Magnus looked on the scene in silence while behind him Kjartan cursed enough for the both of them. The bodies had been stripped of anything worthwhile - mail, purses, helmets, shields. There was not one weapon left that Magnus could see. He searched the ground, rode past the death scene, hoping desperately to see Asbjorn’s fat corpse staring blankly at the sky, but Asbjorn was nowhere to be seen.
“Damn!” Magnus said. He wheeled his horse around and rode back into the trees. Kjartan was on the ground, looking at the tracks.
“Bandits, do you think?” he asked.
“No,” Magnus said. Half these man had been killed with swords. Bandits did not carry swords.
“You can see here where they turned the wagons around,” Kjartan said, pointing to the torn-up, muddy patch on the ground. He straightened and followed the path with his eyes. “Headed back from whence they came.”
Magnus nodded. His mind was racing through the implications. How long ago did this happen? Judging from the state of the bodies, they had been lying there for an hour at least. The blood had been washed clean by the rain, leaving the horrible jagged wounds gaping open, and faces white as fine linen.
“Let me ride back and get a party together,” Kjarden suggested. “We may be able to run these whores’ sons down yet.”
“No,” Magnus said. “Let us go, you and me, and see where these tracks lead.”
Kjartan mounted and they rode off. The tracks were easy enough to follow, the horses and wheels of the wagons leaving deep cuts in the sodden grass. Magnus kept a sharp eye out for Asbjorn, or for Hallkel Half-wit, dead or alive, something to tell him how things lay. But he saw nothing.
The wagon tracks left the path once it emerged from the trees and ran down hill toward the water, and Magnus’s certainty and horror grew with every perch they rode. They crossed fields, winding around clumps of brush, following the wagons’ tracks down hill toward the sea.
They found the wagons on the beach. Abandoned, broken up, parts taken for firewood, most likely. Everything was stripped out of them - food, mead, utensils, weapons, everything. The horses were gone.
“Thor,
strike those sons of bitches down!” Magnus shouted in pure rage. That fat loud-mouth Ornolf had utterly outfoxed him, standing off shore and then returning to the same beach to come up behind them. How had he known that they were following on shore?
Damn them all, he thought.
Asbjorn was gone, and there was no doubt he was heading back for Dubh-linn, with tales for Orm of Magnus’s treachery. There could be no abandoning Cormac now and returning to Dubh-linn himself. But any status he still enjoyed with Cormac would be gone once this was discovered. He had nothing left.
Magnus slid down off his horse and walked around the shattered wagons. They had really taken everything there was to take, including the big tents. That at least gave Magnus reason to smile. Cormac Ua Ruairc and Niall Cuarán would be sleeping in the rain like the rest of the dogs.
Why would they take the tents? Magnus wondered. Tents would not do them much good on board a longship. What they needed was a sail.
Magnus stopped short as he realized what they were about. “Oh, damn them!” he shouted into the rain and the fog.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
When passing
a door-post
watch as you walk on,
inspect as you enter.
It is uncertain
where enemies lurk
or crouch in a dark corner.
Hávamál
B
rigit struggled for all she was worth. She kicked her legs, beat at Harald’s back with her fists, but it seemed to have no effect. It was maddening. She could not believe the strength of the young fin gall’s arms, even after a week of wasting fever. Her only real experience with a man’s embrace had been with her husband, Donnchad Ua Ruairc. Donnchad was a warrior, and no weakling, but his strength was nothing beside Harald’s.
She did not scream. She considered it, felt fairly sure that it would bring the guard running in pursuit, but still she held her tongue. If they caught Harald carrying her off they would kill him in some brutal way. Angry as she was, she could not bring herself to condemn him to being publicly and horribly put to death.
“Harald! No! Put me down!” she said in a harsh whisper, but he did not respond to the words any more than he responded to the kicks and punches.
Oh, God help me, I am such an idiot! Brigit thought as she watched the road pass by beneath her, Harald’s goatskin shoes moving back and forth in a steady, unbroken rhythm. Stolen by a Viking whom she herself had set free. It was the last word in humiliation and it made her furious, and in her fury she began pounding on Harald again.
Brigit punched and kicked for as long as she could, and then she slumped over in exhaustion. Harald’s pace did not slacken at all.
Dear God, this is humiliating...she thought. They were too far now from Tara for her screams to be heard, even if she wanted to scream, which she didn’t. For all the stories about Vikings raping their victims and carrying women off to be sold in the slave markets of the Moorish countries, she did not think that that was Harald’s intention. He was stealing her away, to be sure, but she did not think he meant her any harm.
I wonder if he wants to make me his wife? she thought. The idea was only a little less worrisome than the slave market.
Brigit was spent, hanging limp over Harald’s shoulder like a sack of barley, when he finally slowed and set her down. She stumbled, dizzy, finding herself suddenly upright again. Harald’s big hand shot out and grabbed her by the arm to steady her. She saw the look of concern on his face. Whatever stupid thing he had in his dull Norse mind, he had no intention of hurting her.
“Well...” she said as the spinning faded. Harald was breathing hard and even in the dim light she could see his face was pale. He had used much of his diminished strength in carrying her off.
Maybe he’ll faint, she thought. Then she could escape.
She looked around. They were on a road, surrounded by dark fields and darker patches of trees in the distance. Dawn was still some hours away. It was raining harder now, and Brigit felt the water seeping through the front of her clothing, which had remained dry while she was draped over Harald’s shoulder.
She had no notion of where she was. She did not often venture away from Tara, and when she did, it was with a company of guards in attendance. The Irish countryside was far too dangerous for a princess to travel alone. Even if Harald fell over dead she could not find her way back.
Harald crouched down, resting on his heels. He was still grinning his stupid grin and suddenly Brigit wanted to slap him, but she resisted. That would not help things. She tried to think of what would help things.
For several minutes they remained there, Harald smiling, Brigit trying to guess where she was and what she could do, the rain falling on them with increasing force. Finally Harald stood again, nodded to Brigit, then turned and marched off down the road.
Brigit watched him go. Harald was two perches away before he realized she was not following. He stopped, turned back and gestured for her. She hesitated.
She could not get back to Tara on her own. She did not know the way, and even if she did she would likely be robbed and killed or worse if she tried. Harald could not bring her back because he would be killed if he returned. She could not stay where she was. She was stuck.
“Ahhh!” she shouted, a sound of pure exasperation, then marched off after Harald.
They walked for hours, side by side. The dark sky lightened until it was wolf-gray and the rain continued to fall, sometimes just a mist, sometimes a torrent. The road they followed was soon no more than a long, winding patch of mud that grabbed at their shoes and splattered their legs. Brigit wondered if Harald knew where he was going. She did not see how he could, though he walked with the bold confidence of one quite familiar with his path.
If they had met with anyone, a sheep herder, a band of traveling monks, a theater troupe even, then Brigit would have asked the direction back to Tara, and would have promised a substantial reward for returning her to her father’s court. But no one was abroad in that driving rain.
It was around noon, by Brigit’s estimate, when her hunger and exhaustion finally became more than she could bear. She had by then fallen several paces behind Harald, and when she saw a large rock which presented an irresistible seat she stepped off the road and sat. She closed her eyes and savored the delicious sensation of taking the weight off her feet. After a moment she opened her eyes again. Harald was marching off, unaware that she was no longer behind him. She toyed with the idea of just letting him go.
“Harald!” she called at last, and he turned and looked back. “I need a rest.”
Dutifully he came back to where she was sitting and she had a sudden urge to scratch him behind his ears and see if his tongue would wag when she did. He sat beside her and smiled and she ignored him. She picked up the sewing basket she had set on the ground and dug around under the linen cloth. The biscuits she had packed for Harald were sodden, but with care she was able to pick them up complete. She handed one to Harald and he took it gratefully. It fell apart as he tried to eat it, but he caught the bits in his hands and put them one by one into his mouth. Brigit did the same.
The dried meat fared better, and was even somewhat improved for its soaking, which made it less leathery. They ate that as well, and Brigit felt a bit better, though she was soaked through and starting to shiver.
These miserable damned Norsemen may be used to this sort of thing, but I am not, she thought. Then Harald reached a big arm around her and pressed her close to him. She could feel his warmth, even though various layers of wool, and her misery dissipated a bit, along with the cold.
After some time of that, Harald stood and helped Brigit to stand. Her feet ached and her muscles protested and she felt as if she could not straighten up. But Harald seemed not to be feeling any ill effects from the cold and the hardship of walking, despite his prolonged sickness. Brigit did not want to appear weak, so she forced herself to stand straight and to match Harald’s pace.
They had gone half a mile from their resting place when they saw the smoke. Brigit thought at first it was a darker, wispy cloud, low down on the horizon, but as they drew closer she realized it was smoke, from a hearth most likely, whipped away in the wind as it rose.
“Harald, look!” She tugged at the sleeve of his monk’s robe, which she had thought would be such a clever disguise, and pointed toward the smoke. Harald looked in the direction she was pointing. Finally he saw the smoke too. He nodded gravely and turned to walk in the opposite direction.
“Harald, no!” Brigit said. She pointed toward the smoke again, more emphatically this time. The sight of the smoke, and its promise of a warm, dry hearth, blankets and food, were suddenly irresistible to her. And where there was smoke there was someone who could take her back to Tara.
Harald shook his head and pointed in the opposite direction. He thinks there’s danger there, Brigit thought. Or perhaps he really is stealing me.
It did not matter. The thought of a warm house, even some rude sheep herd’s cottage, now quashed any other consideration. She turned and marched off in the direction of the smoke.
She covered maybe ten paces before she felt Harald’s hand on her arm, but she was not going to be carried off again. She whirled around, breaking his grip, and smashed the sewing basket into the side of Harald’s head. The thin reed basket was too insubstantial to make any real impression, but from surprise alone she managed to knock Harald clean off his feet. She wound up to kick him hard but he was faster than that, sweeping his leg in an arc and knocking her feet out from under her. She fell with a grunt, right on her rear end, scrambling back to her feet before Harald could pounce.
She turned to face him, furious, the basket held ready to hit him again, but to her surprise Harald was laughing. He got to his feet, slowly, smiling, keeping his eyes on hers as he did. He picked up the two spears he had dropped with her surprise attack. He nodded and pointed toward the smoke.
Fin Gall Page 18