“Vali, these men are my guests,” Magnus said, gesturing to Thorgrim and Ornolf, “them and all the bold men who sailed with them. Let their cups never be empty tonight, or you will answer to me!”
“Yes, sir,” Vali said, backed away and began barking orders to the slave girls, who swept around the crowded hall, filling the Norwegians’ cups to overflowing, then filling them again as they were quickly drained.
Thorgrim took a deep drink, felt the warm, sweet mead run down his throat. He looked around. The scene in the hall was reaching its zenith, the roaring, singing, shouting and fighting coming to a crescendo that would soon begin to taper off until all the men there were asleep or dead. He had seen it many, many times. It was like a battle that reached a point of ultimate fury, a madness that could not be sustained for long, and then as more and more men dropped, came to an end.
At the far end of the table, young Harald was already face down, one of the first casualties of the night, his mouth open, his snores lost in the din. He looked almost angelic, an odd contrast to the wild men around him.
Thorgrim Night Wolf smiled, drained his cup, set it down and stood. “Thank you for your kindness, Magnus Magnusson, but I must go.”
“Go? Won’t you have another cup with me?”
“Forget him!” Ornolf shouted. “He is like an old woman when he gets this way! I will have another cup with you, and then the iron in my trousers will be cooled and ready for another thrust in the fire, eh!”
Thorgrim left them, pushed his way though the men. He recalled that there was no one aboard the Red Dragon now, save for the six men he had left behind, and Thorgrim was not happy about that. He was wary by nature, and the strange turns of the evening had only made him more so.
He looked around the mead hall, picking out his own men, considering whether or not to order them back to the ship. They were well mingled with the Danes now, and well in their cups, as drunk as Ornolf had ever been on his best day. There would be no getting them out of the mead hall now. Thorgrim did not even try.
He stopped where Harald was slumped over the table and gave the boy a hard shake, which had no more effect than to make him groan, a feeble sound, and try to brush Thorgrim’s hand away.
At least he is still alive, Thorgrim thought. He had not been entirely certain. He pulled Harald to his feet, bent and grabbed him around the waist and hoisted him over his shoulder like a sack of grain. He pushed his way out of the mead hall and into the cool of the night.
The air felt good - moist and clean - after the smoky, hot, reeking hall, and Harald was no great burden as Thorgrim made his way back down the plank road to where Red Dragon thumped against the wharf. The six men on board were all as drunk as any up in the mead hall, but that had not made them any happier about being left behind.
Thorgrim climbed aboard under their surly stares and deposited Harald on a pile of furs. He stretched and looked around. The night was quiet, save for the lap of water, the muted noise from the hall, but Thorgrim’s nerves were firing, his senses wolf-keen. But he was helpless as well. The pack had run off, he was all but alone.
He made his way forward. “There’s some Dane bastard named Magnus, has ordered free drink to all from our ship. You had best get up to the hall before Ornolf has it all.”
The surly looks were transformed as if by magic, and the men leapt to their feet and rushed off, fearing no doubt that Thorgrim would come to his senses, revert to his usual miserable self in the nighttime.
Thorgrim watched them hurry up the road. There was nothing those men could do to help if trouble came. Thorgrim alone, in the black mood, was more dangerous than those six drunks, so he let them go.
He wandered aft, wrestled his furs out from where they were stowed, laid down. He feared sleep on nights like this because he knew it would be a night of wolf dreams, but sleep, like death, took him at last.
He was in among the strange wolf pack again, though he no longer held the precious thing in his mouth. The wolves moved around him, watching him, but he could not tell if they would attack, he did not know if they were friends or enemies. He felt taut, like a length of rigging under great strain.
And then the wolves turned on him. At some unseen signal they turned and the pack leapt with teeth flashing white and Thorgrim flew into the fight, snarling and ripping away at the killers bounding at him
He sat up, the sweat coating his body, the cold touch of iron under his chin. First light, the town of Dubh-Linn was lit gray-blue, and a dozen armed men were on board the Red Dragon. Thorgrim looked up the length of the spear to the bearded face of the soldier who held the lethal point unwavering against Thorgrim’s neck. The soldier expected that the threatening iron would be enough to stop Thorgrim from making any quick move. He was wrong.
Thorgrim took firm hold of the bearskin that covered him, flung the skin aside, flung it over the spear, tangling it in the shaft. He sprung to his feet, Iron-tooth in his hand. The spearman was trying to pull the shaft from the fur when he died, the heavy blade of Thorgrim’s sword nearly taking his head off.
The spearman’s body had not hit the deck when Thorgrim flung himself at the next man, who came at him with a shriek, battle-ax raised. Thorgrim wore only his tunic and trousers, there was no time to grab up his shield. He caught the swinging ax with Iron-tooth’s blade and delivered an awkward punch with his left hand.
The ax-man was a big man, and even a solid punch would not have done much. He kicked upward as Thorgrim swung. Thorgrim just managed to close his legs and ward off the blow that would have ended his fight then and there. The ax-man shoved with his shield and Thorgrim, off balance, stumbled back.
There was someone behind him. Thorgrim had not realized it. He leapt to his right, his eyes on the ax coming at him, saw a spear-thrust miss by inches. He half-turned, drove Iron-tooth into the man’s gut, grabbed him by the collar of his tunic and pulled him in front like a shield, just as the wicked ax was coming at his head.
The ax struck the spearman instead of Thorgrim. Thorgrim let go and leapt away, looking for fighting room. There were none of his men there and he had a vision of them waking up thickheaded on the floor of the mead hall, waking as he did with spear points in their beards. Would they fight? Some, but it would not matter.
Harald was forward, kneeling, hands clasped behind his head, four men around him with swords and spears and Thorgrim was glad at least that his son was not fighting. It would be like Harald to follow his father into this suicide attack.
The ax-man was coming at Thorgrim again, and now two more men, and two behind them, circling in as Thorgrim parried here and there. Spears reached in with tentative thrusts, taunting, each looking for a reaction that the other could exploit. The ax-man was circling behind. Thorgrim could just keep him in his peripheral vision, and that was trouble. He had to get his back against something.
“Alive!” A voice shouted out, a voice of command. Magnus Magnusson in his rich red cape, bright sword in hand, gleaming helmet on his head, stepped aft. “I want him alive!”
Thorgrim saw a flutter of activity, some burst of commotion. Harald had leapt to his feet, pushed the closest spear tip aside, jerked the weapon out of another warrior’s hands.
“Harald! No!” Thorgrim shouted, even as his own sword turned a spear aside. It was a berserker’s death, fighting against that many men. Not for Harald.
Thorgrim’s son paid no attention. He whirled the spear, took one of the warriors in the side of the head with the shaft, turned and thrust at another. But he could not fight on all quarters at once. The man behind him buried the wicked point of his spear in Harald’s shoulder.
Harald screamed in pain, the most terrible sound that Thorgrim had ever heard, arched his back as he fell. Thorgrim wanted to scream as well, but no sound would come.
And in that instant that Thorgrim’s attention was on Harald, the ax-man swung around hard and hit Thorgrim on the back of the head with the flat of the ax. The blow sent Thorgrim sprawling forward,
Iron-tooth flying from his hand, clattering on the deck. The spearmen standing behind yanked his weapon out of the way to prevent Thorgrim from impaling himself on it.
He hit the deck on hands and knees, his head whirling, his vision a blur. Strong hands grabbed his shoulders and pulled him back and sat him awkwardly down. He looked up. Through the fog in his head he saw the red-draped Magnus looming over him. Magnus spoke, and his voice sounded distant, and Thorgrim heard, “Now, Thorgrim, we must talk again. Really talk.
Chapter Ten
A guest needs
giving water
fine towels and friendliness.
Hávamál
M
áel Sechnaill mac Ruanaid was preparing for war when the stranger arrived. The great hall in Tara, where wattle and daub walls rose up to a rough-hewn beam ceiling so high that the light of the big fire hardly reached among the heavy timbers, the hall that was generally a place of feasts and celebrations was now a staging area for battle.
Two servants bustled around Máel, tightening leather straps on his armor, arranging swords, spear and shields for his inspection. Other servants did the same for the ten other men in various places around the big room. These were the rí túaithe, the tribal kings who owed their allegiances and their military service to Máel Sechnaill. In the quiet before the chaos of leading men into battle they checked that their weapons were in order. They would ride out at dawn.
On the gentle hill on which the great hall stood, nearly three hundred men sat staring into their cook fires or sleeping fitfully in their tents. One hundred or so of them were professional soldiers, the core of Máel Sechnaill’s army, and two hundred more were called up from the levy. It was no great host, not enough to drive the hated Norsemen from Dubh-linn, but events had forced Máel to set that goal aside. Tomorrow they would march south. In three days they would fall on the kingdom of Leinster.
“Tighter, tighter,” Máel growled and the servant pulled harder on the chest plate’s leather belt.
Máel Sechnaill sensed a motion in the big room, a rustle, as if every man’s attention was suddenly caught up by a single focus and he knew that his daughter had entered the great hall. He turned, pulling the chest plate belt from the servant’s hand.
Brigit came sweeping in from the west entrance. There were tiny flowers woven into her chestnut hair. Her gown was crafted to augment an already flawless figure. The rí túaithe stared with varying degrees of subtlety as she walked past. Those who were unmarried would have loved dearly to have her for wife, but none were important enough for Máel Sechnaill to waste his only daughter on.
Brigit was seventeen and a widow. At fourteen Máel Sechnaill had married her to Donnchad Ua Ruairc, the ruiri, the minor king of Gailenga on the Leinster borderland. It was more beneficial in the long run, Máel Sechnaill knew, to ally with Donnchad than to subjugate him.
But marriage to Brigit had not satisfied Donnchad Ua Ruairc. He and his brother, Cormac, continued to raid north into Sláine and the other túaths, the minor tribal kingdoms which fell under the kingship of Máel Sechnaill mac Ruanaid. Donnchad’s raiders stole cattle, sacked churches and monasteries and took slaves. They were more annoying than threatening, but Máel Sechnaill mac Ruanaid did not care to be annoyed.
Máel led his men south where they met Donnchad Ua Ruairc in battle. Máel Sechnaill’s army butchered their enemies, killing all but a handful who escaped, led by Donnchad’s brother, Cormac Ua Ruairc.
The victory put an end to the Leinstermen’s treachery. Máel assumed lordship over Gailenga, taking by force what Donnchad would not yield by treaty. He ordered Donnchad lashed to a pole and personally disemboweled him in front of those Gailenga chieftains who had survived the fight. He hoped the sight of Donnchad shrieking his life away as his guts pooled on the ground in front of him would serve as a dissuasive example.
Brigit was returned to her home at Tara. Máel Sechnaill was ready to marry her again if he could do so to advantage, but she was getting old and had developed something of a reputation for her sharp tongue. Máel Sechnaill could tell by the look on her face that she was about to further that reputation.
“Father, this is a mistake, I know it.” She stopped a few feet away, crossed her arms.
Máel Sechnaill sighed, softly. “The abbot of Glendalough decreed that the Crown of the Three Kingdoms should be given to me. If it has not arrived, and the dubh gall did not steal it, then Niall Caille means to keep it for himself.”
“Even if he does, the three kingdoms will not rally to him.”
“The rí túaithe will obey the man who wears the crown. And Niall Caille must be taught a lesson.”
Niall Caille was rí ruirech, the high king of Leinster, the kingdom to the south. He was not a man to be trusted. Máel Sechnaill suspected that he was allied with the Norsemen, was using the dubh gall to help him overrun Brega. It would not be the first time Irishmen had joined with Vikings. The Vikings had become yet another piece in the wildly convoluted puzzle of Irish governance.
It stood to reason that Niall Caille would not want Máel Sechnaill to wear the Crown of the Three Kingdoms.
“You do not know for certain that Niall Caille has kept the Crown,” Brigit insisted. “Don’t you think a delegation should be sent before a war party?”
Máel Sechnaill shook his head. It was beyond him, how his daughter had come to think she should meddle in men’s affairs. Her mother had not, and would not, say a single word concerning Máel’s plans for war.
Secretly, Máel Sechnaill hoped that Niall Caille had betrayed him. He welcomed the chance to teach Niall a lesson, to sack his towns, plunder his monasteries, annex his land and sell his people as slaves.
“What you think...” he began when he was interrupted again, this time by Flann mac Conaing, in battle dress, rushing in through the big front door.
“My lord.” Flann gave a perfunctory bow. “There is a man here who wishes to see you. He is from Leinster, Lord.”
Máel Sechnaill nodded. He did not meet Brigit’s eye, though he knew she was looking at him. “Very well. Send him in.”
Flann mac Conaing swept out of the hall. A moment later he was back, standing to one side of the door as the man from Leinster entered.
For a royal delegation, if such he was, he did not look too good. His clothes were torn and bloodstained, his hair and beard matted. He was bandaged in several places. In the light of the big peat fire burning in the fireplace Máel Sechnaill could see his skin was pale and drawn. He was supported by two young sheep herds who seemed to be bearing most of his weight.
As painful as it was for the man to walk, Máel Sechnaill did not move toward him, but instead made him cross the length of the great hall.
At last the four men - Flann, the Leinsterman and the sheep herds, stopped in front of Máel Sechnaill. The sheep herds lowered the Leinsterman to his knees, then knelt themselves.
“My Lord Máel Sechnaill mac Ruanaid,” the Leinsterman said, and his voice was strong despite his condition. “My name is Cerball mac Gilla, ruiri of Uí Muiredaig. I have come from Leinster, at the behest of King Niall Caille. I am the last man alive of our delegation.”
For a moment Máel Sechnaill just looked at the man and no one else dared say a word. Finally Máel spoke. “Did you bring the Crown of the Three Kingdoms?”
“We were charged by King Niall to bring the Crown to you. But we were attacked by the fin gall and it was stolen from us. The others...were butchered. Like sheep.”
“You’re lying,” Máel Sechnaill said. “We caught and killed the fin gall who were waiting for you. And they did not have the Crown.”
Cerball mac Gilla met Máel Sechnaill’s eyes, defiant and unflinching. “No, Lord. King Niall suspected the fin gall would lie in wait on the road, so he sent us by sea. We were caught in a storm, and truly we thought the storm would be the death of us, when the Northmen attacked. We fought to the last man. The Northmen left me for dead, but God be praised I lived. My curragh cam
e ashore at Barnageeragh Bay where these men found me.” He nodded to the sheep herds who glanced up. Sheepishly.
There was silence again, and this time it was Brigit who broke it. She swept forward, took Cerball by the arm and lifted him to his feet. “You’ve done your duty well, Cerball mac Gilla,” she said. She turned to the servants who had been helping Máel Sechnaill with his armor. “Take Lord Cerball to the guest chambers in the Royal house, see that he is fed and his wounds attended to. And see that the sheep herds are fed in the kitchen.” To the sheep herds she added, “I’ll see you are rewarded for your service.”
The servants took their place on either side of Cerball mac Gilla and the little party shuffled out of the great hall. Máel Sechnaill said nothing. When they disappeared through the door, he turned and glared at Flann mac Conaing, who shifted nervously.
“How,” Máel Sechnaill said at last, “could the fin gall have the Crown of the Three Kingdoms and I do not know it?” He spoke in a low growl, a sign that he was seriously angry. “Why do the Northmen seem to know more about the Crown than I do?”
“My Lord...I don’t know. Morrigan has sent no word. She must have heard nothing, or else something has happened.”
“Find out. You, personally. And quickly.”
“Yes, Lord Máel,” Flann said. He bowed and backed away, and when he was a safe distance from Máel Sechnaill, he turned and practically fled from the great hall.
“You’ll not attack Leinster now?” Brigit had a way of making a statement sound half question, half order.
“We will await word from Flann.” Máel Sechnaill looked his daughter in the eye, his expression as intimidating as he could make it. “And you will keep your nose out of men’s affairs.”
“Yes, father.” She did not sound intimidated in the least.
Chapter Eleven
Fin Gall (The Norsemen) Page 6