Dubh-Linn: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 2) (26 page)

  “Haul away!” Arinbjorn called next and the dozen men on the halyard pulled, the yard jerked up the mast a couple of feet and the sail began to billow out. Hand over hand, in the same steady rhythm they employed on the oars, the men heaved away on the halyard and the yard made its slow climb aloft.

  And then it stopped.

  “Haul away!” Arinbjorn called again and the men pulled, the strain clear on their faces, but the yard did not move. Thorgrim ran his eyes aloft. A stray bit of rope, frayed and twisting in the breeze, was jutting from the sheave in the mast through which the halyard passed.

  “Halyard’s jammed!” Thorgrim called. Arinbjorn squinted aloft, but before he could give any orders, Starri leapt into the rigging with the agility and frenetic energy of a squirrel. He pulled himself aloft hand over hand, his legs wrapped around the shroud up which he was climbing.
Black Raven
was all but stopped in the water now and starting to roll more heavily in the swell, but that seemed to have no effect on Starri’s effort. He reached the masthead as quickly as if there had been a ladder to that spot, and with his legs and one arm still wrapped around the shroud he jerked on the stray bit of rope, then jerked again and it came free. He looked down at Arinbjorn and waved the bit of rope at him.

  “Haul away!” Arinbjorn called and the men took up their rhythmic pull once again and the yard resumed its steady climb up the mast. The men at the braces swung it amidships as it went up. The sail flogged and snapped and Starri remained where he was, ostensibly to clear away any other jam that might occur but mostly, Thorgrim suspected, because he liked being up there.

  At last the yard reached its highest point and Starri climbed onto it and settled himself into his self-appointed job as look out. The men at the sheets hauled the lines aft and made them secure and the big square sail, checkered red and white, filled and bellied out and the ship gathered momentum once again. Even more than when she was under oars, the vessel felt like a living thing, a powerful but slightly skittish horse, a creature that was dangerous to those who could not control her, swift and agile to those who could.

  Thorgrim breathed deep. He loved this, loved it with all his heart. The salt water, the tiller in his hand, the roll, pitch and yaw of the vessel, the pull of the sail. He and Brigit were alone on the little deck aft, and he thought to smile at her and nod to let her know all was well. He doubted she had been to sea very often, if ever. He pulled his eyes from the luff of the sail and looked her way, just in time to see her toss off the fur blanket, swivel

around and vomit noisily over the side.

[M]en with black keen spears

will blight the fruits of noble rule.

                                                      Irish Poem of Prophesy

                                                     attributed to Bec mac Dé

It was a fine day, sunny, warm, the wind soft from the southwest, the ugly wet spring yielding at last to summer. The sun was just a few hours from setting and the windows of the monastery were still open. The breeze drifted through the big room, which had formerly served as the sacristy but which Flann mac Conaing and Morrigan now used as their apartments from which they ran the affairs of Tara, and Brega.

  Through the open windows came the sounds of the ongoing effort to rebuild the royal residence. Morrigan had been pushing the builders and laborers hard. The debris had been cleared, the new walls framed in, staves set, withies rove and ready for the fresh daub. Through the window, Morrigan could hear the creaking of ropes and blocks, the shouting of the carpenters as they raised the new roof beams in place. A couple of weeks more and the big house would be ready to receive its occupants again. Just a couple of weeks, but Morrigan genuinely did not know if she would still be alive by then.

  Patrick was standing in front of her, shifting nervously though trying not to. She was not looking at him, however, but out the window, off at the hills in the distance, but she was not really seeing them, either. She had a vague thought that if she made Patrick repeat what he had just said, perhaps this time she would hear some hopeful note she had missed the first time. She wished it was Donnel here and not Patrick. Donnel was older, and steadier. But of course that was why she had sent him to Wykynlo, where she needed the utmost discretion.

  She turned back to Patrick, and she tried to make her voice calm, even soothing. “Tell me again, Patrick, my dear…Segene said what, exactly?” Segene mac Ruarcc was the
rí túaithe
of a decent track of land to the west of Tara, the fifth such minor noble to whom Morrigan had sent requesting men-at-arms to come to the defense of the throne of the high king.

  “Segene says he regrets he does not have the men to send. He says he has been much plagued with the theft of his cattle by the neighboring lord and he must employ his men in putting stop to that.”

 
No
, Morrigan thought,
it did not sound any better the second time.

  “Very well, Patrick,” she said. “Go get something to eat, you look as if you might fall over.”

  Patrick nodded and smiled his relief, relief at the thought of food and at getting out from under Morrigan’s gaze. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, gave a half bow and left the room as swiftly as decorum would allow.

  Morrigan let her head slump down. She considered praying for the Lord’s help, but she was not sure the Lord was of a mind to help her. With the things she had done, and ordered others to do, she had been walking a cliff’s edge with the solid ground of righteousness on one side and the chasm of wickedness on the other. In her mind she had not gone over the edge, but she understood that God might not employ such subtle distinctions as she did.

  The door opened again and Morrigan knew it was Flann, because Flann was the only one who could open that door without knocking on it first. She looked up. Her brother was a tall man, well made, strong and handsome, a bit of grey hair showing at the temples. But he was looking tired as of late, his face thinner than she remembered, and drawn. The weight of rule did not sit so easy on him as it did on other men.

  To her surprise, Flann slammed the door shut, the iron hinges screaming, the heavy oak boards hitting the frame with a thunder clap. Morrigan jumped in her seat. Her brother did not look tired. He looked angry, and that took her aback. “Brother, what news?” she said, her tone as light as she could make it.

  “I hear things, various things. What of you? What news from Dubh-linn?”

  “No more than the last I told you. Brigit is staying at the house of the blacksmith, Jokul. She has apparently taken up with the fin gall. I know no more than that.”

  “You know no more than that?”

  “That’s what I said. What is troubling you, brother?”

  Flann crossed the room and looked out the window. His back was to Morrigan and he did not speak. The silence hung like smoke in the room.
If we turn on one another, we are finished,
Morrigan thought.

  Flann wheeled around and looked at her. “You are not the only one who hears things from Dubh-linn. I have heard tales. A great row at the blacksmith’s house. Men dead. A girl carried off.”

  Morrigan shook her head. “I know nothing of any of this,” she said, which was true. She was waiting on some word from Donnel, but thus far, nothing. She had heard from Almaith, by way of her messengers who moved like ghosts through the longphort, that Brigit still lived but that the fin gall had no interest in sacking Tara. That, however, did not fit with other bits of news she heard, that an expedition was fitting out, with Tara as its object. She did not know what to believe, so, for the sake of caution, she had called for the
rí túaithe
to send men, which they had not.

  “Well?” Flann demanded. “What do you know of this? Any of this?”

  Morrigan shook her head, held up her hands. “Nothing, brother. I know nothing.”

  Flann took a step toward her, the most menacing move he had made in her direction in all their lives. “I will ask you this, sister, and you will tell me the truth. Did you order Brigit killed?”

  “No,” Morrigan stammered.

  “The truth!”

  “No! By the love of God, I swear to you I did not order her killed!” She had ordered Donnel to find men to take her, bring her to him at Wykynlo, and then do what they would with her. She had never directly ordered anyone to kill Brigit nic Máel Sechnaill.

  That was one of those instances in which she feared God, and likely Flann, might not parse the matter quite as finely as she did.

  But Flann seemed to relax a bit at her vehement denial, as if all he needed was to hear her protest her innocence. He was older than she was, but had not seen, as she had, how grotesquely wicked people could be, and it made him proportionally more naïve than she.

  “Well, I thank God things have not come to that,” Flann said. “Though they may come to worse yet.”

  “Worse? What do you mean?”

  Flann did not answer her directly. “What have you heard of late about the fin gall launching a raid on Tara?” he asked.

  “I have heard that they would, and I have heard that they won’t. I don’t know what to believe.”

  Flann nodded. “You’ve sent word to the
rí túaithe
for them to send men-at-arms?”

  “I have. And they won’t do it. Each has his excuse, and it’s usually that he must go fight his neighbor, but I say they are just cowards to a man.”

  Flann sighed and began to pace, not a good sign with Flann. “They are not cowards, and you know it. They won’t fight to defend my place on the throne of Tara. If Brigit nic Máel Sechnaill sat on the throne, they would come.”

  “That’s not true. They’ll be cautious, see how this all plays out.”

  “What of Leinster? Have you had word from Ruarc mac Brain at Líamhain?”

  “His wife passed away not long ago and he is in mourning. He will not bring his army here.”

  Flann stopped his pacing and looked at Morrigan directly. “Did you hear this from Ruarc mac Brain? Did you send word to him, at all?” The accusatory tone was back in his voice, but Morrigan had found her footing again and was ready to stand up to him.

  “No, I did not send word,” she said. “We do not want the Uí Dúnchada of Leinster meddling in our affairs. If Ruarc mac Brain marches an army here, he will not leave, he’ll take the throne for himself.”

  “You would rather see the Northmen sack Tara than take the chance that Ruarc mac Brain will usurp the throne?”

  “We don’t need Ruarc mac Brain or any of the swine from Leinster. The
rí túaithe
will rally to your banner. I have made it known that Brigit has gone over to the fin gall, and once they see that’s true, they will stand by you.”

  “It would be nice to think so, but in truth I don’t think they will get the chance. Because, sister, I just had word. Word from the coast. Three longships were spotted at the mouth of the Boyne. That would be more than one hundred fin gall warriors. One hundred and fifty, I wouldn’t doubt. And we have maybe seventy men that we can put under arms, and they are never a match for the Northmen.”

  Morrigan’s mouth fell open. She felt as if she had been punched in the stomach. “Three longships? And you think they are coming here?” It was a stupid question, and she asked it just because she had to ask something. Of course they were coming there. If they had entered the Boyne, there was no other place they might reasonably be going.

  She had expected that the fin gall would come, but she did not expect them to come so soon. A few more weeks, another month for those drunken fools to organize a raiding party. She had counted on that. But they were here now, and the main gate to Tara was wide open to them.

  “Yes, of course they are coming here,” Flann said. “Where else? And how we will fight them, I don’t know.”

  Morrigan did not know either. But even as Flann said the words, she was flooded with a great determination. She would not stand idly by and see Tara snatched from her. There had been too much suffering in her life, and she had committed too many sins already to get where she was, just to see all her work undone by the filthy foreign swine, to see her brother killed and herself once again condemned to the slow death of a thrall.

  “We will fight them, brother, and we will beat them,” she said. “And if we can’t beat them by force of arms we’ll beat them by other means. Because honestly, Flann, if we can’t outwit these stupid, pagan animals, then we do

not deserve to sit on the throne of the high king.”