The Viking Prince

by Sarah Woodbury

  She lowered her voice even further. “Not everyone will believe what is written on that paper. People have a staggering capacity to lie to themselves, even when presented with what might seem to be irrefutable evidence. When the truth goes against what they want, it leaves room for doubt. While Prince Brodar would become king, it would be without the support of his people that he needs to be successful.” She paused to look meaningfully at Conall. “And Ottar would still be alive.”

  Conall rubbed his chin as he studied Cait, and then he turned abruptly on his heel to return to the dais. “I will send men riding to King Diarmait within the hour,” he said, back to speaking Danish. “I wish you hadn’t already told the ambassadors from Brega that you wouldn’t be meeting King Gilla’s terms. We could have used a little more time.”

  Helga shook her head. “It is better this way. Men are better fighters when the threat is imminent. We will marshal the men of Dublin and the surrounding area and march them at dawn to ground of our choosing above the ford at Lucan. We will burn the bridge across the Liffey before we leave, so the only possible approach to the city is from the west.”

  Her point about the Liffey was well taken, and Helga spoke with as much authority as her husband might have, as if she’d been giving military orders for years. While the men of the court conspired and fought, Helga had sat silently by, but Cait was thinking now that Helga had always been the mind behind Ottar’s throne. Her brother and Godfrid had assumed it was Sturla.

  It was too bad she’d been born a woman, because Cait would have liked to see what kind of king Ottar’s queen would have made.

  As they left the palace shortly thereafter, Cait said to Godfrid, “I don’t suppose you had a thought to send for Prince Hywel a few weeks ago?” She was walking beside him, her hand tucked into his elbow. It was in the back of her mind that they were starting to look a familiar sight to the gossips of Dublin.

  Godfrid was rueful. “What I wouldn’t give to have the men of Gwynedd fighting at my side tomorrow. But no. I didn’t know it was time.”

  Conall grunted. “We shall just have to make do without him and Gareth.”

  Godfrid glanced down at her. “How did it go at Finn’s warehouse with your friends, by the way? I never had a chance to ask.”

  “Not well.” She shot him a rueful smile, quickly gone. “It’s my own fault.”

  “In time, they will come to understand that deceiving them was never your intent. What you did was for good reason and never directed at them.”

  “You may well be right, but I am angry with myself—and ashamed, truth be told. All the while I was with them, I treated my disguise as a game. I didn’t think about it as lying.”

  “I tried to warn you,” Conall said mildly.

  “You would know.” Cait kicked a stray rock in the road out of her way. “Like a child, I’m angry at you for being right. It’s easier to be angry at you than to acknowledge how badly I myself behaved.”

  “Here’s the real question you need to ask yourself—” Though he appeared to hesitate at first, after a moment, Godfrid put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. Then he let go and made sure to return to a position about a foot away. “Knowing what you know now, would you have come anyway?”

  “I would have.” The words came immediately and with a little more force. “I was of use. I think I would still be now if all this hadn’t happened.”

  “Then don’t be too sorry. Look how far we’ve come in a very short amount of time, much of it due to your efforts and insight.”

  She couldn’t stop a smile from quirking the corners of her mouth. “We did a credible job uncovering a murderer or three, didn’t we?”

  Godfrid grinned. “We did.”

  “I look forward to telling Gareth of it,” Conall said.

  “And Gwen.” Cait found herself clenching Godfrid’s arm too tightly, and she tried to ease her grip.

  Godfrid noticed and patted her hand. “Your brother and I will be fine.”

  “So you say. It is the worst feeling in the world to have to wait for the men to return from battle, not knowing if they will return.”

  “We will,” Conall said. “You saw to that.”

  “I did?” She turned her head to look at her brother.

  “Ottar won’t want Brodar or Godfrid anywhere near him,” Conall said. “Thus, they will be posted far enough from the front lines that they can’t stab him in the back.”

  “Would you, if you had the opportunity?” She looked up at Godfrid. “Stab him, I mean?”

  It was a genuine question, and Godfrid took it seriously. “Murder is not to my taste, and while I can’t speak for my brother, fate does not smile upon a man who takes the throne over the murdered body of his predecessor.”

  Conall tsked through his teeth, clearly impatient with Godfrid’s reasoning. “We are hoping that the men of Brega will kill Ottar for us.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Day Four

  Godfrid

  Godfrid’s ancestors had lived for battle, though they had preferred to practice a very one-sided kind of warfare where they attacked unsuspecting and undefended steadings and villages. His family’s wealth had been initially won that way. The enormously tall tower at Kells to the northwest of Dublin had been built precisely to warn the citizens of Ireland of the approach of marauding Danes and give the villagers time to flee. They could never take all their possessions with them, however, so the end result had been better from a Danish perspective. An easy victory was still a victory.

  Conall and Cait’s ancestors had lived for war too, but of a different kind. The Danes, for the most part, presented a united front, even back in Denmark. One lord might go to war against another for ultimate power, as was happening now for the throne of Denmark, but they didn’t have the constant warfare among clans that appeared endemic to Ireland. It was one of the reasons the Danes had been able to gain a foothold in the country in the first place. All they had to do was pit one clan against another and stake their claim to the leftovers. The Irish were warlike enough to rule the world if they could ever leave off fighting among themselves.

  Which meant that, as Godfrid prepared himself for battle the next morning, he had no illusions about what he faced. It could be a bloodbath, on either side—or both, even if King Diarmait marched an army to support them.

  Just after dawn, Godfrid led his horse to Conall’s house to find Conall awake and dressed in full armor. Until the arrival of the Danes, the Irish had been lightly armored—another reason Godfrid’s ancestors had achieved so much here—but in time they’d adapted to their new enemy. Conall wore a chainmail vest with padding underneath and a leather tunic over the top of that. He had heavy leather bands around his upper arms and bracers on his forearms. His leather boots went up to his knees, and while his thick leather pants wouldn’t stop a direct slash of a sword, they would slow it some without compromising his ability to move.

  Godfrid was dressed similarly, with the addition of metal armbands, as his ancestors of old had worn, and a metal helmet that he carried under his arm. He wasn’t going to wear it until he had to. He didn’t want to wear it at all, really, but having just been hit on the head, he was reminded of how terrible it felt, and how much he didn’t want it to happen again. It seemed all Conall was going to wear on his head was a leather hat with a wide brim and a big feather. It might not do much to protect his head in battle, but he was going to be better off when it started to rain.

  Cait came a step or two behind, and when their eyes met, Godfrid felt a pull behind his navel. Conall looked from one to the other and said, “I’m going to see about my horse.”

  It was wholly unnecessary, since both horses were being held in the yard by stable lads, but Godfrid let him go, leaving him and Cait alone in the entrance to Conall’s hall.

  Cait approached and put her hands to Godfrid’s chest, smoothing the fabric of his tunic that he wore over his mail. “I’m angry at you for going to war.”

&n
bsp; “I know. You have every right to be.”

  “I’m not a Danish shield maiden from the sagas, who picks up sword and shield when her man falls and fights in his place. I can’t think anything but evil thoughts about what has led you here.”

  Godfrid put his hands on her upper arms and leaned forward until his forehead touched hers. “I will do everything in my power to protect your brother.”

  “And he you. I know.” She gave a little laugh. “How odd to have reached this point where a Dane and an Irishman are best of friends.”

  “Or a Dane and an Irish woman?” Godfrid held his breath.

  “That too,” she said softly.

  Godfrid felt the tension in his stomach ease, having been far more afraid of her response to his question than of fighting the coming battle. “You would give up your freedom for me?”

  “Is that what I’ll be doing?”

  “By your law and mine.”

  “I’m not afraid of change.”

  They looked at each other for a moment, and then he bent his head to briefly touch his lips to hers.

  “I will come back. I promise.”

  “You’d better.”

  Conall eyed him as he mounted his horse, but the bustle of leaving meant they were a quarter of a mile from the city before he spit out his complaint. “I see that you and my sister have come to an understanding.”

  Godfrid cleared his throat, his eyes skating left and right as the men around them gave them a little more space. “I apologize for not speaking to you of her earlier. Do you object to the match?”

  Conall scoffed. “I would have told you sooner if I did.”

  “I have been so focused on Cait, I realize I neglected the traditionally important opinion of her brother.”

  “I am quite certain Cait will do what she wants, when she wants, regardless of my approval.”

  Godfrid drew in a breath, while at the same time putting out a hand to Conall in a way that he knew was going to seem very different to everyone watching. He hadn’t yet discussed with Conall the point at which their external animosity needed to end, but to his mind, it was time. “I not only want it, I need it.”

  Conall didn’t smile all that often, but his bright eyes and the twitching of his lips told Godfrid that he recognized the moment too. Since he was riding to Godfrid’s right, he twisted in the saddle and leaned across the space between them to grip Godfrid’s forearm. “In truth, I could not ask for a better man for her, Irish or Dane.”

  Godfrid grinned back, touched and humbled. “Thank you.”

  Then Conall’s expression darkened, looking more like his usual self. “We’ll see what your brother has to say about it.”

  “He may not realize it, but it isn’t his place to meddle.”

  “It is if he’s your king.” Conall released him and straightened in the saddle to look ahead. His tone was light, however. “And then there’s my king.”

  Godfrid’s chin firmed. “I won’t borrow trouble.” But inside, he wondered what Cait would do if her uncle forbade the union. And would he forgo Cait for Brodar and marry Sanne as was his brother’s wish?

  Godfrid frowned. No.

  “Brodar is not your father,” Conall said softly.

  “I have come to the same conclusion.” Godfrid shifted in his seat, cheerful again and basking in the memory of Cait’s arms around him and her lips on his. “A glorious day awaits.”

  Conall snorted. “We are not your pagan ancestors.”

  “Nor yours.” Godfrid said innocently. “Every day is a gift from God, is it not?”

  “It is, my friend.” Conall barked a laugh. “It truly is.”

  Then riding side-by-side, revealing a familiarity and contentment in each other’s presence that had to be astonishing to everyone around them, they continued at the head of their marching men, following the southern side of the Liffey, which they would take all the way to Lucan. There, Ottar intended to occupy a ridge of higher ground overlooking the ford, the perfect spot to begin their defense, since it was a good hundred feet above the level of the river.

  They’d ridden only a mile when Brodar appeared around a curve in the road at the head of an army of a hundred men, ten of whom were mounted. At the sight of them, a cheer went up from the fifteen hundred that marched from the city.

  All Danes, of whatever profession, were warriors, and the men in their army ranged in age from fifteen-year-old boys to sixty-year-old men. Their enthusiasm was heartening, but the inexperience of many meant Godfrid didn’t have a great deal of confidence in their ability to fight a pitched battle. While they had a strong core of warriors, many of whom had participated in that battle against the men of Brega in which Godfrid’s father died, or in other raids, Ottar hoped that the Irish they faced would be intimidated by their numbers more than their experience. Thus, Brodar’s seasoned warriors were very welcome.

  After greeting Godfrid and Conall, Brodar sent his men to join the marching soldiers and urged his own horse towards the head of the army where Ottar rode among his personal guard and his captains, Sturla among them. Godfrid and Conall followed.

  “I have some bad news. The Bregans have already crossed the Liffey,” Brodar said to Ottar by way of a greeting. “My scouts report that they’ve taken the heights above the river, facing Dublin.”

  Godfrid ground his teeth. “Those are the same heights we intended to take.”

  “Smart of them,” Conall added.

  “My scouts have not returned.” Ottar’s shoulders hunched slightly, but then he straightened in the saddle. He was conniving and dishonest, but nobody had ever said he wasn’t brave.

  “Likely they won’t,” Brodar said.

  Godfrid had sent word to Brodar yesterday of what they faced, which was why he was here now, but he’d included very few details. Brodar knew about Ottar’s warrant for his death, of course, but not about the treaty with Prince Donnell, something which Godfrid hadn’t felt he could commit to writing. Still, Ottar might assume that Brodar knew all and had to be wondering not only what Brodar was going to do, but how much of the truth he’d told his men.

  The front ranks were close enough to have heard Brodar’s news, and the knowledge of the Bregans’ move spread quickly among the rest of the army. Knowing he had to counter their fears, Ottar found a place to halt, and while his men took a moment to rest, he urged his horse to a patch of higher ground. Sturla, who rode beside him as his adviser and confidant, clenched his fist above his head, and everyone stopped to listen.

  Ottar stood in his stirrups. “My fellow Danes! I speak to you now of the grave news our brother Brodar has brought us. The Bregans have crossed the ford of the Liffey, in defiance of us and King Diarmait of Leinster. What I haven’t told you is who leads them ... We fight not only King Gilla of Brega but Prince Donnell of Connaught!” He threw his voice at his men, and the prince’s name echoed over their heads.

  The response was an immediate roar of outrage. Godfrid was reminded again why Ottar had not only managed to wrest the kingship from his father but keep it.

  Sturla waved both hands above his head, asking for silence so the king could speak again. When it was quieter, Ottar went on: “We know Donnell fights his own brother for the right to rule as high king upon their father’s death. He intends to push us into the sea, to wipe Dublin from Ireland like a cloth across a table in order to prove to his father that he is the man to rule after him. But he has not taken our fortitude into account. He has forgotten our courage and our resolve. He thinks he has the upper hand, but WE WILL NOT YIELD!”

  The last words came quickly, shouted such that even Godfrid, who thought he was resistant to Ottar’s charms, felt the power of them buffet him.

  Ottar got the reply he wanted. The men threw their fists into the air, pounded on their breasts, and cheered.

  Brodar shifted in the saddle and leaned in to speak to Godfrid. “He always could give a good speech.”

  “He called you brother, the duplicitous snake.”


  Brodar scoffed. “Ottar does what is expedient. Always has.”

  Godfrid turned to look at his brother. “I apologize for not coming myself to tell you of what has transpired. I couldn’t leave the city last night.”

  “You knew about Prince Donnell?”

  “And more.” Godfrid glanced at Conall, who nodded, having agreed to speak only of what Brodar needed to know to get through the day. “Suffice to say, Ottar’s speech aside, his downfall is imminent, whatever the outcome of this battle. Be prepared to be crowned King of Dublin after we defeat the Bregans.”

  Brodar’s mouth opened, but no sound came out, and then he transferred his gaze to Conall. “I have Leinster’s support?”

  “More has happened than we dare speak of here,” Conall said. “I have not heard that King Diarmait sends his army in support, but you should know that if it comes, it is for you my kinsmen ride, not Ottar.”

  Brodar seemed to grow several inches taller, and though Godfrid hadn’t meant to do anything more than tell his brother a bit of the truth, he realized now that, in this hour, there was nothing he could have said that would have been better. They had both been beaten down by years of deception and being second best. It was as if Brodar was a butterfly, shaking off the casing that had previously contained a caterpillar.

  “What of Ottar?”

  Godfrid shrugged. “He is probably still hoping he can salvage his crown. Know that he can’t.” This wasn’t the time to tell him that the sudden escalation of the conflict with Brega was Helga’s idea, and that Godfrid was quite sure she saw more clearly than her husband.

  Ottar’s choices were poor at best. If Leinster came, and they defeated Prince Donnell’s forces, he was still a traitor to Leinster. If Dublin lost, they would be subsumed into Connaught, or worse, pushed into the sea. Then Ottar would be ruler of nothing. Of a fallen people.

  It was a conundrum not unlike the one Godfrid’s father had faced: die with honor or live a little longer but in shame.

  Chapter Twenty-nine