Erinsong

by Mia Marlowe

  Suddenly Kolgrim went on the offensive, slicing and hacking. He had no finesse, but tremendous power. Jorand backed and dodged but there was no place to run from the relentless attack. His shield splintered with a sickening cracking sound. It dangled in pieces from his arm and yet Kolgrim didn’t stop.

  “Hold!” Thorkill bellowed above the noise of the crowd and the storm.

  Kolgrim changed direction in midstroke, but not before he’d managed to run the tip of his sword down the length of Jorand’s shield arm. Blood welled along the shallow cut and oozed toward his fingers.

  A chorus of hissing seethed from the crowd at this breach of holmgang rules, but Kolgrim just spat on the ground and scowled back at them.

  Furious with the course of the combat, Jorand stalked back to his corner to let Bjorn refit him with a fresh shield.

  “He’s a hard nut to crack,” Jorand said, sucking in air between the words.

  “He’s got your measure,” his friend said. “Don’t let him rattle you with words. His sword is menace enough.”

  Jorand shook his head, trying to quell the ringing in his ears. “The man’s strong as a bull. I think I’ve met my match.”

  It was a testament to their friendship that Bjorn didn’t disagree and rush to reassure Jorand. “He’s a little bigger than you and he’s fast, which is the very devil of it,” Bjorn said, eyeing Kolgrim appraisingly.

  Jorand lowered his voice. “If he wins, steal Brenna away and take her home. Don’t let her go to Kolgrim. Your word on it.”

  “I promise.” Bjorn clapped a hand on Jorand’s shoulder and nodded grimly. “But don’t let him win.”

  Jorand turned back to face Kolgrim without taking time to glance at Brenna. He couldn’t stand to see her, tight-lipped and terrified. It was bad enough he could feel her fear across the square as strongly as if he held her trembling body in his arms. He supposed she had a right. His opponent was the source of all the evil that had befallen her and her family, and if Jorand lost, she’d be Kolgrim’s chattel, to be used and tormented at his whim.

  Jorand would only be dead.

  ***

  All around her, Brenna heard the crowd of Northmen growling out what sounded like both encouragement and imprecations at the fighters. Rain pounded and she swiped the moisture out of her eyes so she could see.

  The two men collided in the center of the square again, blades slicing shimmering arcs through the downpour. Their swords struck and rasped against each other. The whine of metal on metal hurt her ears.

  Both men appeared to be tiring, but it seemed to Brenna that Jorand had to back away from the blur of blades more often than Kolgrim. Once Jorand’s foot left the pegged-down cloak and a roar of disapproval went up from the onlookers.

  “He gives ground,” Rika explained. “If both feet leave the cloak, he flees. It’s cowardice to run from a fight.”

  Brenna wished they could both run away, far, far away from Dublin and never look back.

  Jorand leaped toward the center of the cloak, trying to keep his steps from the muddy edge, pivoting to meet Kolgrim’s assault as the other man circled him like a corbie hovering over a battlefield.

  Brenna had to remind herself to breathe as the battle wore on. Both men lost another shield. Jorand managed to land a blow on Kolgrim’s thigh, opening a gash that reddened his leggings, but didn’t stop his sword from singing its deadly song.

  Kolgrim’s blade sliced across Jorand’s chest. Brenna’s vision tunneled for a moment, thinking him killed, but Jorand kept flailing away, even as the red stain spread across the front of his slashed shirt.

  Kolgrim seemed to sense Jorand was flagging. He dropped his shield and, grasping his broadsword with both hands, raised it above his head to deliver a deathblow. Jorand ducked and plowed into his enemy, using Kolgrim’s own weight and momentum to lift him off his feet and flip him onto his back. Jorand stomped on Kolgrim’s sword arm and wrenched the blade out of his hands.

  Brenna heard a loud crunch as the long bone in Kolgrim’s arm snapped under Jorand’s booted foot. A thrill of horror coursed through her as her husband raised his sword to bring it down on his fallen foe’s unprotected neck.

  “Hold!” Thorkill ordered. Rika continued to offer a whispered translation for Brenna, but since the headman knocked down the rope and entered the holmgang square, his intent seemed clear. “The contest is ended.”

  “This combat is to the death,” Jorand argued, blood in his eyes making them glint feral in the darkness like a wolf over a downed ram.

  “I am jarl and I say it is ended. Unless, of course, you wish to challenge me over the matter here and now?” The master of Dublin was even larger than Kolgrim and rested to boot. Brenna breathed a sigh of relief when Jorand let his sword clatter to the ground.

  Thorkill lifted Jorand’s arm in triumph, and the crowd gave the measure half-hearted approval. Beyond the disappointment over lost wagers, Brenna sensed only heart’s blood would truly appease them, but Thorkill’s will was not to be gainsaid.

  Solveig stepped forward and demanded Kolgrim forfeit all his property since Jorand had won.

  Thorkill reached down and yanked his injured lieutenant to his feet. “Since the fight was stopped, there is no clear winner. Kolgrim might have rallied, but Dublin is the victor, for I have need of both my lieutenants.” He raised a hand to forestall Solveig’s argument. “Still, Jorand deserves to be compensated. One possession among all that belongs to Kolgrim. Choose. Even if it be his dragonship, it shall be yours.”

  “This is most unusual,” Rika whispered to Brenna. “Jorand is Thorkill’s son-in-law, yet he seems to be protecting Kolgrim for some reason. Or perhaps ...” Rika bit her lip.

  “Perhaps he’s upset with Jorand for taking another wife?” Brenna suggested. Rika shrugged.

  “The silver,” Solveig hissed. “Demand the silver.”

  Jorand looked at his Norse wife for a moment, then met Brenna’s steady gaze.

  “When Kolgrim went viking up the Shannon, he pilfered a book from Clonmacnoise Abbey,” Jorand said. “I’ll have that.”

  Kolgrim cradled his broken arm, tight-lipped with pain. “As if you could read it. Have you been gone from us so long you’ve crossed over to the White Christ?” He spat on the ground with disgust.

  “If it has no value, why did you take it?” Jorand crowded close to Kolgrim.

  “Enough,” Thorkill shouted to be heard over the wind and rain. He stepped between them, a hand on each chest. “The book is in the jarlhof. Come. But first, bury your enmity here in the holmhring. I have need of both of you yet.”

  Thorkill turned and marched through the crowd, like a dragonship under full sail, expecting his followers to fall into his wake. Brenna trailed Jorand, thanking the saints and angels he was still alive. She scarcely believed they’d succeeded in regaining the Codex as well.

  Inside the jarlhof, Thorkill dismissed the rest of the populace and called for a large trunk to be brought from his chamber.

  “I can’t believe it,” Solveig muttered. “You have your pick of all a man owns and you choose a worthless book.”

  “Wait till you see it before you complain, daughter,” Thorkill admonished. He unlocked the trunk, drew out a parcel, wrapped in oilskin, and handed it to Jorand. “It’s yours.”

  When Jorand unwrapped the package, it was as though a living rainbow glowed in his hands. Precious stones gleamed in riotous color, sending shards of light dancing along the smoke-blackened beams of the jarlhof. The front and back of the bindings were encrusted with jewels.

  “I promised I’d see the Codex safe in your hands,” Jorand said in Gaelic as he crossed the room to deliver the incredible treasure to Brenna. “I always keep my promise.”

  “So I see,” Brenna said, lifting trembling hands to receive the unspeakably beautiful book. She’d been able to look at it only once before and knew as ornate as the cover was, the artwork inside was far beyond anything she’d ever imagined. “I thank ye... husband.”


  Solveig snatched the Codex from her hands, growling a string of Norse at her. Jorand started to grab it back, but Thorkill stopped him with a hand to the chest.

  “Never get between your women in a fight,” the master of Dublin advised.

  “No,” Jorand said as he shoved past Thorkill and reached for the Codex. “I won it for Brenna. Give it back.”

  Solveig picked up a long knife someone had left on one of the tables and waved it toward him threateningly. “Unless you wish a large wound, husband, I advise you to stay where you are. I will decide how the spoils are divided between your two wives.”

  She opened the book and slashed the binding. The folios of illuminated manuscript fluttered to the floor like so many oak leaves in autumn. Then she put down the knife and swayed back toward Jorand, her chin jutting toward.

  “I find I can no longer be the wife of a man who can’t even kill his opponent in the holmhring,” Solveig said evenly. “We both know I have grounds for divorce. You have become like one of those eunuchs from Miklagard since you took that little Irish to bed. No man would willingly avoid my couch if there wasn’t something seriously wrong with his manhood.” She delivered a ringing slap across Jorand’s face and her lips turned up into a malicious smile. “Now we’re even. You have grounds as well. Expect witnesses and a declamation tomorrow morning.”

  Bejeweled cover clutched to her chest, Solveig turned and strode from the hall with the dignity of retreating royalty. She stopped under the lintel and turned back to face her husband.

  “Know this as well, Jorand,” she said with a sly smile. “Being a widow had its rewards. When I was yours, my bed was never cold. Men lined up to console me and I accepted their comfort without a backward glance. You will be easy to replace.”

  She turned with a flourish of her ermine-trimmed cape and slipped into the night.

  Mutely, Brenna knelt to pick up the scattered pages, but her heart sang inside her chest. Jorand was about to be freed from his Norse wife. Then she jerked back the reins on her joy.

  He hadn’t been the one to make that choice.

  “I’m sorry,” Jorand said as he stooped to help her retrieve the damaged treasure.

  “ ‘Tis not your fault,” she said, carefully arranging the delicate parchment in the correct order. She forced herself to concentrate on the Codex to avoid thinking about what Jorand’s divorce from Solveig might mean. Gold filigree on the pages caught the torchlight and gleamed as she inspected a Chi-Rho page devoted to the adoration of a symbol for Christ. She knew the creation of that one page had consumed months of the illuminator’s life.

  “But she took the most valuable part,” Jorand said, his mouth hard as he glared after Solveig.

  “Sometimes, what’s inside is more valuable than the outside. The Almighty has caused the earth to yield thousands of gemstones. But the artist who worked this manuscript is no more. His like will not come again on earth till the last trumpet sounds.” Brenna laid a reverent hand on the stack of loose pages, an astounding collection of artwork and the Word of God. “I’ll not begrudge Solveig a rock or two when she’s left me the true treasure.”

  She bit her lip. Did he think she meant he was the treasure? Her heart certainly seemed to think so.

  “I imagine the abbot will see things differently.”

  “Mayhap,” she conceded, then let her gaze drift down from his tired face to the bloody gash on his chest. No matter what the morrow held, she was so thankful he was alive. “Ye’ll be needing a bit of tending, I’m thinking. Come ye back to the church with me and I’ll bind your wounds.”

  That offer brought a smile to his lips. He put an arm around her shoulders and started to lead her out of the jarlhof.

  “Stay a while,” Thorkill commanded. “Let your woman go, but I have need of you yet this night, Jorand.”

  Jorand motioned for Bjorn and Rika to see Brenna to Father Armaugh’s little church. Then he joined Thorkill by the fire.

  Kolgrim was seated there as well, his arm stuck out at an unnatural angle. He raised a horn to his lips and drained it in one long drink, obviously trying to dull the pain of the splintered limb. When he lowered the drinking horn, Jorand saw that Kolgrim was white as the chalk cliffs on the Isle of the Angles.

  His enemy was in agony.

  Good.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  “Not that I care, but what’s urgent enough to keep Kolgrim from the bonesetter?” Jorand asked.

  Sweat beaded on Kolgrim’s forehead and his jaw ticked with the effort of ignoring the pain of his broken bone. Jorand’s own wounds throbbed, but they were minor compared to Kolgrim’s obvious suffering.

  “Kolgrim’s got news, and he wouldn’t tell all during the feast. Said it wouldn’t do to speak it in the hearing of so many ears. If you’d killed him, Jorand, he wouldn’t be able to finish his tale.” Thorkill’s brows met over his long, thin nose. “Now, what was important enough for me to interfere in the holmhring? It had better be good.”

  “You mean to rule this island, ja?” Kolgrim said, breathing heavily between his words.

  Thorkill nodded gruffly.

  “I ask you, can it be done by the sword alone?”

  “You think we can’t outfight these miserable little Irishmen?” Thorkill demanded.

  “Not that,” Kolgrim said. “Of course we can defeat them. I mean, once the battles are done, can you hold Erin?”

  Thorkill frowned.

  “I think I know what he’s getting at,” Jorand said, surprised Kolgrim would be so far-thinking. “We can take the island by force, raze the monasteries and burn their farmsteads. We can kill their chieftains, but for each one we put down, another will take his place. The Irish outnumber us by a long stretch. We’ll be fighting forever to hold this rock.”

  “Exactly.” Kolgrim’s wary eyes flickered with grudging respect at Jorand. “Unless you win the hearts of the Irish, you’ll not hold Erin more than a short spate of winters.”

  “Win their hearts? Bah!” Thorkill paced like a caged bear. “Even if I wanted to, how would I go about doing that?”

  “My tongue is fair cleaving to the roof of my mouth,” Kolgrim said, holding out his empty horn for more mead. Thorkill filled it and Kolgrim knocked it back. “Jorand here has shown you the way.”

  What did he mean by that? In the week since his return to Dublin, Jorand had given Thorkill nothing of strategic importance. He meant it when he told Brenna he intended to stop Thorkill.

  Perhaps Kolgrim’s pain was making him stupid. Jorand knew the splintered bone shifted each time Kolgrim moved. If it wasn’t set properly, and soon, his enemy could lose the use of the arm. The thought caused a smile to flicker across Jorand’s lips.

  Kolgrim stifled a groan as he waited for the alcohol to dull the throbbing. “The Irish hold as much store in lineage as they do in might when it comes to their rulers. Join your blood to one of theirs. Take an Irish queen for yourself.”

  Thorkill’s eyes shifted back and forth as he rolled the idea around in his mind. “So you think an Irish wife will make the natives willing to follow me?”

  “Not an Irish wife. An Irish queen,” Kolgrim said. “Join yourself to the right house and this island will fall into your hand like a ripe plum. And I know exactly the one for you to take. Moira, Queen of the Ulaid.”

  Jorand schooled his features into a blank mask to hide his shock. He reached for his own horn and took a long gulp, not trusting his voice to speak.

  “She’s beautiful, as people of this island count beauty. Fair of face and form,” Kolgrim went on. “I’ve seen her with my own eyes and in this case, the rumors don’t do her justice. She’s only worn the crown for four months, but already the people of Ulaid think the sun rises and sets on her tight little arse. And I’ve got it on good authority that this Moira’s not only a queen, she’s the daughter of another king, Brian Ui Niall of Donegal. You’ve already got Dublin as your stronghold in the south. Take Moira of Ulaid as your queen and you
’ll control the northern clans as well.”

  Thorkill tugged thoughtfully at his beard. “Back in the Northlands, fostering was useful for binding allies. Raise a man’s son in your home and you’ve got them both for life. And fosterlings make admirable hostages if the bond is broken. If the Irish aren’t disposed to follow willingly,” Thorkill mused, “I’d think a queen of Erin with a blade hanging over her head would serve the same purpose as a fosterling.”

  Jorand watched helplessly as the leader of Dublin fell under Kolgrim’s spell. Thorkill was a ruthless warrior, but he depended on his lieutenants for strategy. In the past, Jorand had offered advice and counsel alongside Kolgrim. With a pang, he realized there had been a time when he’d have lent his support whole-heartedly to Kolgrim’s plan. Now the idea of Brenna’s sister being abducted and forced into a union with Thorkill left a bitter taste in his mouth.

  “Ulaid is far to the North. We’d need to take most of the ships and men to launch an assault on their stronghold,” Jorand said, wondering whether Ulaid had a stone tower like Donegal with successive levels and ladders designed to outlast the most determined siege. “Besides, I’ve seen an Irish keep from the inside. If they’re well-provisioned, Ulaid can hole up and wait for the rest of the clans to rally to his defense.”

  “Fearghus of Ulaid helps us with that. He’s just buried his father and come into his kingship, so his defenses aren’t what they should be,” Kolgrim reported. “And he’s an arrogant braggart from all reports, so the likelihood of reinforcements from surrounding clans is slim.”

  “Still, a raid of this sort would take too many men from Dublin,” Jorand argued. “What kind of victory would it be if you gained an Irish queen in the north while you lost your stronghold in the south?”

  “By Loki’s hairy toes! You sound like an old woman, Jorand.” Kolgrim turned his gaze back to Thorkill. “If you listen to my plan, it won’t take that many men. Your smallest dragonship will do it.” Kolgrim shifted his weight on his seat in obvious discomfort. “If we but wait till the next full moon, Moira of the Ulaid will nearly come to us.”