Niamh of the Golden Hair (Manannan Trilogy Book 2)

by Michele McGrath

  “What did you dream?” she asked.

  “I can’t remember, it’s gone now,” Niamh answered, reluctant to describe what had frightened her so.

  “Nonsense! Tell us.” Geirdis snapped.

  “I cannot...”

  “You can. Don’t lie. Anything so powerful doesn’t fade that fast.”

  “I’ve seen such things before,” Elgr said. “This was no common nightmare. You were speaking aloud about Brunn and the raid. That’s why I brought you here.”

  “What did I say?”

  “Enough…and I’d prefer the others not to know the rest. Speak. Don’t be afraid. It’s no crime to dream dreams, even if they foretell what’s to come. In fact, it may be of use. Just tell us.” His eyes seemed to bore into Niamh who turned away to look into the fire, nerving herself to speak.

  “Are we going to be attacked?” Geirdis prompted her, her voice dropping into a whisper.

  “No.”

  “Danger?”

  “Not to us.”

  “The warriors?” Mutely, Niamh nodded.

  “Go on.”

  “Blood. I saw blood and many bodies lying on the ground. They will walk into an ambush and few will escape.” Niamh put her hands over her eyes and pressed them as if she would shut out the sight.

  “Who did you see?” Geirdis persisted. “Who died?”

  “Brunn died. An arrow took him in the throat. The small dark people that you call Bretlanders saw them coming and hid in the trees, waiting for them. He wasn’t the only one slain before they began to fight. Begla was another I saw die.”

  The woman nodded. “Who lived?”

  “Mar, Nokki, Eldi, and Vintr,” Niamh whispered. “Lyngvi and Mundi had been left to guard the ship. Frar came back carrying...”

  “Carrying who?”

  “Carrying Olaf. He will return half a man.”

  “Lucky to return at all, if what you dreamed is true.”

  “Tell me it isn’t. Please tell me.”

  “You know we can’t do that. If it’s true, we’ll all know it and you have given us time to prepare. If it isn’t true, nothing’s lost. For now, say nothing if anyone questions you. We will tell them it was no more than a dream about serpents and other vermin which frightened you. No need for anyone to fret before their time or indeed to know that you have this gift.”

  “If gift it is,” Niamh said.

  The old man smiled showing broken teeth. “We’ll see. Best for all of us if the dream proves false.” The shrewd old eyes looked into Niamh’s. “Olaf once said to me that you were special and that’s why he kept you with him. Did he know that you dream?”

  Niamh shook her head. “No. It’s only happened to me twice before and each time I was on a journey that changed my life. I was the traveller, no one else.”

  “Had you ever been fond of anyone before Olaf?” Geirdis asked.

  “No, only the sisters at the convent perhaps.”

  “Had you known them long?”

  “A few weeks.”

  “You have lived with Olaf for longer than that. Is he your first man?”

  “Yes. I was a virgin when I was captured.”

  “And he is important to you? Whole or wounded?”

  Niamh stared at her. “He is, either way.”

  “No wonder the outcome of his journey concerns you. You must brace yourself to accept him the way he is now, which may not be the same as the man who left.”

  “What will happen to him if he returns crippled?”

  “If he cannot fight, the leader will not heed his opinions or his comfort,” Elgr said. “He will have to work as he can and take a lesser place.”

  “You will not cast him out?”

  “There are always tasks to be done and not enough hands to do them, but it’s not the work he would choose. Everything will depend on his injury. If he can still fight, then he won’t have fared so badly.”

  “But if he can’t?” Niamh asked fearfully.

  “Some choose the quickest way to Valhalla and put themselves in front on the next raid.”

  “To be easily killed?”

  Geirdis nodded. “Death in battle is what every warrior seeks. Better than throwing himself into the bay from the top of a cliff.”

  Niamh shuddered, remembering Kolgrimma. “I want him to live, injured or not.”

  “Then, when he returns you must watch him and make sure that he makes the harder choice and not the easy one,” Elgr said, looking deep into her eyes.

  16

  The dragon ships limped into the bay, almost as if they had their tails between their legs. Three proud ships departed, but only two returned. Everyone came out to watch them, counting the oars as they rowed slowly towards the beach. A murmur of consternation arose when people realised how few the rowers were.

  “What’s happened?” someone asked, terror in her voice.

  Niamh stood with some of the other women. All were shivering but not with cold.

  “Olaf...” Niamh murmured, pale with shock and apprehension, in spite of the warning her dream had given her. Then her nostrils twitched at a familiar unpleasant smell.

  “You were right,” Geirdis whispered softly in Niamh’s ear.

  “How I wish I’d been wrong!” she replied.

  The ships slid onto the sand and willing hands pulled them further up the beach. Then they saw that only a few of the oarsmen were unmarked and their cargo, rather than being fine cattle and other riches, was groaning men. Geirdis stepped forward and quickly organised helpers so each injured man was lifted or supported back to the houses.

  Niamh had eyes only for Olaf and took one of the handles of the bier on which he lay as they carried him ashore. She bit her lip when she looked at him, to stop herself screaming. He was covered in blood and his left arm had been shattered. His lips were pressed together, stifling his groans. Niamh winced at every uneven step that jolted him and made him gasp. The journey from the shore to the houses had never seemed so long, but they managed it at last. The injured were laid in long rows in front of the doorways. Geirdis and some of the other wise women moved among them, looking at their injuries and deciding what had to be done. Elgr stood, leaning on his stick, too frail to offer much help.

  Gently, Niamh ran her hands over Olaf’s body, stripping off his clothes. He had no other wounds, except bruises and a gash on his forehead, but Niamh did not have to be told how serious his injury was. His arm was broken in several places and long gashes had been scored deep into the flesh, though none of the great vessels seemed to be severed. The wounds seeped dark blood, in spite of the rope bound tightly about him to stop the flow.

  “He will not live, you know. Better to put him out of his misery.” Niamh looked up as Geirdis bent over her, a bloody knife ready in her hand.

  “No!” Niamh hissed. “He won’t die. My dream has come true and, in it, I saw him live.”

  “What sort of life would you condemn him to? We can’t save his arm. It must come off and he will be a cripple. Who’d want that? This way, he’ll have died in battle and tonight he will feast with his ancestors.”

  “While he still lives, there’s a hope that his arm can be saved.”

  “Silly girl! He’s beyond your skill and mine as well. What do you know?” the woman scoffed. “How many battle injuries have you ever seen before?”

  “I found a way to stop the fever when you could not!” Fear for Olaf loosened Niamh’s tongue.

  “The girl’s right.” They both looked up, startled, to see Elgr looking over them. “Do you really think you can save this man as you saved the sick?” Elgr asked her.

  “I don’t know; I can only try.”

  “Try then.”

  “Olaf won’t thank us for letting him live. Better if he never regains consciousness.”

  “Let him speak for himself. If he wants to, he’ll find his own way to die with honour. He has that right, Geirdis.”

  “Then on your head be it. No warrior would freely choose th
e life you and this girl are condemning him to.” The old woman spat onto the ground. “Others need my care and I have no time to waste on a man who’s dying anyway.” She stalked away.

  “Thank you,” Niamh said to Elgr. “I think he will live and I'll do everything I can to save his arm.” The old man nodded and turned away.

  And so started one of the worst periods of Niamh’s life. Olaf was moved into the longhouse and Niamh hardly left his side, except to fetch water and food. Despite her brave words, she often wondered if she would be able to save his life or his arm. While he was deeply asleep, she straightened the broken bones and tied them to a splint. It was difficult, for the flesh was swollen and she could not feel their shapes properly. She wished her knowledge was greater, but she did not ask for help from the healers, believing they would side with Geirdis. None of them came near her; they had enough wounded to care for. She blessed the short time that she had spent with Renny, who had told her how to take care of wounds. She related the tale of Manannan sewing broken skin like cloth and the flesh had healed firm and clean. Hesitantly Niamh took her bone needle and a length of fine twine. Then, her heart in her mouth, she pushed the needle into the side of a small gash and drew the gap together. Into the long wound she fastened the small hollow bone of a bird, as she had been instructed, so the evil liquid might drain away.

  One day, Geirdis arrived. Someone had watched what she had done and Geirdis came to question her.

  “Did you sew him up? You will leave all the poison inside and hasten his end.”

  “No. The Red Lady told me this would heal, not hurt.” Niamh looked up, defiance in her eyes. “You left him in my care. I’m doing the best I can. Let me be.”

  “If he dies from such a strange treatment, I can’t answer for your life. Grettir may think you deliberately killed him.”

  “Grettir?”

  “He’s become the leader now Brunn is dead. Hadn’t you heard?”

  “I’ve heard nothing. No one has spoken to me until you came, except Mar and he only asked after his brother.”

  “No wonder. They are saying you’re bad luck. You can’t make a child and you ill-wished your man into this state. They remember your dream. Make no mistake, if Olaf dies you’ll be blamed and I doubt Grettir will show you mercy.”

  “I may not be able to bear a baby, but I love Olaf and, with the gods’ help, I’ll make him well. This will work and he will rise from his bed and live. You’ll see.” Niamh spoke far more confidently than she felt.

  Geirdis raised her eyebrows, but she only said, “So be it. I’ve warned you.”

  During the days that followed, Niamh washed Olaf’s injuries with sea water and smeared them with honey. Both of these things Renny had told her would keep the wounds fresh and allow them to heal. Then she bound them tightly with fresh linen. Often, she wondered if her dream would really come true and he would get better. Olaf lay in a deep sleep and did not respond to her touch. This was worse even than when he had writhed and thrashed when he was first brought ashore.

  At first the linen bandages were soiled very quickly, but gradually the seepage slowed and stopped. Renny had told her to sniff the wounds. An unpleasant smell meant there was poison inside and the arm must be removed. But Olaf’s arm smelt fresh and was no longer so swollen. The flesh seemed to join together. The day came when she cut the stitches and pulled the bird’s bone from his arm. Her tug made the wound bleed again, but a trickle not a torrent. In all that time, Olaf had not stirred and she wondered if he would ever open his eyes again.

  The night after she had removed his stitches, she slept beside him as usual and, for the first time, she felt him stir. She was instantly awake, pulling a branch from the fire to look at his face. He was asleep but he was frowning. She bathed him with water and it seemed to soothe him. His frown disappeared and he lay still again. He woke with the morning light for the first time. Niamh knelt at his side, watching him and let her tears flow. His eyes were glazed with pain but he recognised her and said her name, not once but twice.

  “Niamh...Niamh.”

  “Are you in pain, my love?”

  “My arm.” His voice was thin and rusty from lack of use.

  “It’s better than it was. You were injured in the battle. Do you remember?”

  “I think so.”

  “Drink this.” Niamh held a little flask of precious syrup Renny had given her, to his lips. “It’ll give you ease.”

  He swallowed a mouthful. “Sweet,” he said and fell asleep again.

  He woke in the evening. By then, Niamh had cleaned herself and put on fresh clothes. She prepared a broth of finely ground meat that he might be able to swallow and had fetched a pitcher of small ale. He would be both hungry and thirsty when he roused again, but he would not be able to tolerate chunky food. She was returning to his side when she saw his eyes following her.

  “You’re awake,” she said, smiling, as she carefully set the pitcher down beside him. “Are you hungry?”

  “Thirsty.”

  She struggled to lift him up so that he could drink. He put up his arms to help her, shouting with pain as he knocked the splint.

  “What has happened to me?”

  “You injured your arm. A blow from an axe, we think, that shattered your shield.”

  “How injured?” She saw something like terror in his eyes.

  “The bones were broken in several places and your flesh was cut, but it’s healing.”

  “Will I lose it?” This time the fear was definite.

  “Not now, but you are still very weak. You must eat and drink to regain your strength.”

  Between them they managed to get him sitting upright and Niamh brought him a box to lean against, padded with covers. Olaf drank most of the broth and all of the ale, before he spoke again.

  “How long was I asleep?”

  “Six days.”

  “As long as that! Who brought me back to the ship?”

  “Floki. Apparently you were almost there when you fell. He killed the man who attacked you, picked you up and heaved you on board. He tied a rope around your arm or you would have bled to death.”

  “I’m not sure that I should thank him.”

  “Certainly you should. You’re alive. You still have your arm and are back in your senses again. You have much to thank him for.”

  His lips curved slightly. “If I have to thank him, I should also thank you.”

  “No need.”

  “Yes there is.” Geirdis was bending over her shoulder. “I heard your voice as I passed and I’m glad to find you awake again. Niamh begged for your life when I would have given you mercy. Whether she did the right thing or not you’ll have to judge for yourself. In any event, if thanks are due, you owe them to both Floki and Niamh. Now you must make sure their efforts were not in vain.”

  17

  As the days passed, Olaf rapidly recovered. He was young and fit and, once he had started to eat again, his body responded. His arm healed too, although it was still too soon yet for the splint to be removed. Olaf complained that he had no feeling in the fingers of his injured hand and indeed he could not grip anything.

  “You must wait,” Niamh consoled him, “until the splint is off.” She made him a sling to hold his arm and he was able to move about again. Every day, Olaf walked further and further to increase his strength and often Niamh went with him, but she found it hard to match his stride. One day they went to the cove where first they had joined together. Olaf gave a laugh as he recognised the place and started to run down the hill onto the sands. Her heart was in her mouth as she watched him, for she knew running would jolt his arm. She followed him and had just got to the beach when he turned and made his way slowly back to her. She started to say something to him, but stopped when she saw the whiteness of his lips. He did not complain, but she knew he was in pain again. He sat down beside her on the sand and said with a sigh,

  “When will I ever get better?”

  “Have you never broken
a bone before?”

  “No.”

  “You’ve been very lucky.”

  “Odin has always favoured me until now.”

  “It’ll take some weeks for your bones to knit. Be patient.”

  “I’m not a patient man.”

  “I know.”

  “I can’t even enjoy you as I used to do, without two good arms to hold me up.”

  At that, Niamh smiled. “Perhaps we can find another way,” she said, carefully placing herself on top of him and bending forward for his kiss.

  All was well between them and, if anything, their bond was strengthened by the difficulty. Yet there was trouble brewing within the rath. Grettir ignored Olaf, always turning away when he saw him approaching. Niamh noticed also there was a change in the seating arrangements at the night meal. Where once Olaf had sat near the centre of the main table, now he was relegated to a seat at the edge. He used to join in the singing and telling of tales; now he was mostly silent. He answered when someone spoke to him, but he did not speak freely to the others as he used to do.

  “What’s wrong with him? He’s changed so much,” Niamh asked Geirdis one day.

  “Didn’t I tell you this would happen?” the old woman answered. “A one-armed man can’t fight and everyone knows it, including Olaf.”

  “He still has his arm!” Niamh retorted.

  “But can he use it?”

  “It’ll be weeks before we know for sure.”

  “I’ll offer you some advice against that day, if you’ll let me,” Geirdis said softly. “You had your way and you’ve shown me something I didn’t know. I still think you were wrong, but I’m grateful for the lesson.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Make preparation in case his arm remains useless.”

  “What sort of preparation?”

  “Olaf won’t take kindly to other tasks. He’s been a warrior all his life, a warrior of some renown. He’s been used to admiration and respect. He’ll hate remaining here where everything reminds him of his past, which can’t be regained.”