Erinsong (35 page)

“We aren’t likely to catch
a queen roaming un
escorted.” Jorand
snorted. “Even the Irish have bet
ter sense
than that.”

“In that, you’d be wrong,”
Kolgrim said. “Every
fall before the foul
season hits, the queen of Ulaid
must make
a pilgrimage to a monastery on St. Patrick’s
island, an undefended bit of rock sticking up out of the
Irish Sea.”

“Surely the queen will have
heavy protection,” Jo
rand said.

“Not at all. Once she sets
sail, all she’ll have with her
are a
couple of spineless priests to sail the Irish excuse
for a ship and a complement of twelve virgins to
pray
with her. Something to do with
prayers for all the souls
of the clan and
seeing them safe through the winter.”

Kolgrim’s coarse laughter
turned into a coughing
fit that wasn’t
abated till he hacked up a huge glob of
phlegm and spat it on the packed earth floor.

“The man I squeezed the
information from said the queen was to pray for a son as well since
she’s
been wed several months and is still
as flat-bellied as
a child herself.”
Kolgrim swilled another gulp of mead. “That’s a prayer a Northman
could answer
quicker than one of those
thin-wicked Irishmen.”

“By the gods, I’ll give it
my best effort!” Thorkill
roared with
laughter. “You’re right, Kolgrim. I could
do with a change of women. We’ll take a few of the
virgins as well.”

Jorand had sworn an oath of
fealty to Thorkill shortly after he came to Dublin. Perhaps he’d
been
swayed by the force of Thorkill’s
personality, or the
way he’d carved the
thriving town out of hostile ter
ritory.
Probably it was the siren song of Solveig’s icy
beauty. But whatever the reason, Jorand had sworn.

In all his life, it was the only decision
he’d ever regretted.

He used to believe that a
man was entitled to what
ever wealth his
sword arm could bring him. Now, he
realized that just because he
could
take something,
that didn’t mean he
should.
It was an odd notion,
one
he was still getting his mind around,
but the principle was glaringly true in this case. Thorkill
couldn’t be allowed to take Moira, even if it meant Jorand must
break faith with his own kind.

Still, if he was going to be damned as an
oath-breaker, at least it was for a good cause. He needed to get
Brenna out of harm’s way first.

“You should sleep on a decision like this. An
Irish wife may be more trouble than she’s worth,” Jorand said.

Thorkill lifted a wiry brow at him in
question.

“I’ve had no joy of mine since we arrived in
Dublin.” Jorand shrugged eloquently. “Willful, disobedient, and
full of all sorts of strange ideas.”

Thorkill nodded sagely. “I heard your little
Irish bit had taken up residence with the priest. You’re too soft
with your women,” his father-in-law accused. “She’s begging you to
show her who’s in charge. Cuff her across the face a time or two
and she’ll come to heel. Truth to tell, I’ve even had a few who
grew to like a beating now and then.”

“No, she’s tried my patience for the last
time. I’m through with her.” Jorand laid his horn on the table and
stood up. “Now is as good a time as any to give up women in
general. In fact, once Solveig and I have finished our business in
the morning, I plan to take Brenna back to that abbey Kolgrim
sacked.”

“Well, I can’t say Dublin will be sorry to
see her go. Even though you and Solveig will divorce, your place
with me is still secure. Only be sure you’re back by the next full
moon,” Thorkill said. “And you—” He pointed at Kolgrim. “Get to the
bonesetter now. I’ll want you both with me when we round up Queen
Moira and her twelve virgins.”

He punched Jorand in the shoulder. “I’ll give
you first pick after me. Maybe you’ll be ready to try another
woman by then.”

Jorand’s brain worked
furiously, trying to puzzle a way to both whisk Brenna to safety
and keep Moira
from being
taken.

“
Ja,
a successful raid together. That’s all the two
of
you need to bury this feud once and for
all.” Thorkill
slapped both of their
shoulders soundly. “Almost makes me wish it was a boatload of those
damned Irishmen guarding the queen instead of a gaggle of
girls. It’d be a little better sport at least.”
He snorted.
“But only a
little.”

Kolgrim made his way out of
the
jarlhof,
cradling his
wounded arm. Jorand
followed him into the night.

The rain had stopped, but
the full moon was still ob
scured by thick
clouds. Only a sliver of light, curved as
an Arab’s blade, managed to slice its way through the
scuds. Twenty-eight days till the next full moon.
He
only had twenty-eight days to see
Brenna to safety and figure out some way to thwart Kolgrim’s
plans
for Moira. With a sigh, he trudged
toward his home.

Jorand heard footsteps
behind him and whirled,
drawing his long
knife in a fluid motion.

“Be easy, friend. It’s only
me.” Bjorn’s voice came
to him from the
shadows. “Thought I’d watch your
back in
case Kolgrim has allies who decide to try and
finish what he couldn’t.”

Jorand relaxed his
defensive stance and breathed
easier as
Bjorn came alongside him, falling into step
with him as he had so often in the past. “You saw Brenna back
to the church?”

“
Ja,”
Bjorn said, scratching his head. “Though you
didn’t warn me how much trouble she’d be. She didn’t
want to go at first. Kept insisting on waiting to
tend your wounds. I had to threaten to carry her before
she agreed to go peacefully.” Bjorn shook his
head in
disbelief. “The woman is as
stubborn as a rock.”

Jorand smiled and nodded.
“That’s my princess.
I’d say she let you
off easy. She skewered me with a
pike the
first time I laid eyes on her.”

“No wonder you’re so
smitten.” Bjorn chuckled, then his tone turned serious. “I know you
didn’t intend to wed twice, but you’ve got a hornet’s nest
for
yourself here and no mistake.
Slighting the
jarl’s
daughter is a game for fools. We’ve been in some tight
spots together over the years. For once, friend,
you’re
in more trouble than I can help you
out of.”

Jorand sighed. Bjorn didn’t
know the half of it. Not
only was he
saddled with the unpleasant prospect of
untangling his domestic arrangements, he was
de
termined to keep Thorkill from seizing
Moira—and
all of Erin with her.

“Thorkill still needs my
services for the time being
and at least
there’s an end in sight to my woman
troubles. You can be a witness at my divorce
tomor
row,” Jorand said, then stopped dead
as an idea
struck him. Something Thorkill
had mentioned trig
gered a plan in his
mind. It was a dicey job at best,
but it
might work. How else was he to set all the elements in motion and
see Brenna back to Clonmacnoise? “If
you’re willing, there is something you can do to help
me with another matter as well.”

“Anything. You know that.”

“Good.” Jorand put a hand
on his friend’s shoul
der. “After Brenna
and I leave in the morning, I need
you to
kidnap the priest.”

“We should reach Clonmacnoise by midday
tomorrow,” Jorand said, fingering their route on the leather
map.

Brenna slanted a glance at
him. It was the sixth
time he’d consulted
the chart since they made camp.
He was
definitely avoiding her.

“That’s good then.” Brenna
banked their small fire
for the night and
sat down, pulling her knees up to her chin, and wrapping her arms
around her shins.
Autumn chilled the
night, sending a crisp breeze ruf
fling
over her, a harbinger of frost soon to come.

The morning after
the
holmgang
, she
had watched
while Jorand and Solveig
dissolved their marriage.
Then another man
escorted everyone from the house
Jorand
had built and closed the door behind them.
The man stayed inside with Solveig, and Brenna
de
cided the beautiful Norse woman had
wasted no time in replacing her first husband.

After a warm good-bye to
Rika, Brenna left Dublin
with a lighter
heart, but no real peace about her rela
tionship with Jorand. If only he’d been the one to end it
with Solveig. Brenna wasn’t prepared to be his second choice and
if he wasn’t willing to broach the subject, she wasn’t about to.
Much as she loved him, she still wouldn’t beg.

After studying the map, Jorand had insisted
on a different route from the one they’d taken to reach Dublin.
They sailed up the Liffey instead of back down and out to sea. In
little more than a week of sailing, they covered an amazing
distance in the little ship, owing much both to fair winds and
Jorand’s ability to tack and reef the craft to take advantage of
the smallest breath of air.

When they reached the headwaters of the
Liffey, Jorand had tied up the boat and traded with some locals
for a pair of sturdy horses to take them overland for the
relatively short march to Clonmacnoise.

Brenna had reassembled the tattered remains
of the Skellig-Michael Codex and bundled the precious folios in
thick oilskin. The jewels might be lost, but the artistry remained.
She hoped it would be enough to satisfy the abbot. If not, she
didn’t know how they’d make Father Ambrose keep his end of the
bargain.

She looked across the fire at Jorand,
flickers of light licking at his features. A shiver quaked under
her ribs. She recognized the faint shimmer as hope, but it was
quickly overpowered by a stronger, sinking sensation.

Loving this Northman was like falling into a
well, she decided. A sudden drop, a disappearing circle of light,
and the sure knowledge she’d never claw her way out again.

She’d been thrilled when he
came to tell her they were leaving Dublin, but his manner had been
so stern and silent since then, her joy was quickly dashed. They
walked on tiptoe around each other during the past few days,
neither speaking to the other beyond the few phrases necessary to
smooth travel. So she huddled behind distant courtesy, a
wholly inadequate shield for her
heart.

“When we find the child,
I’m thinking you’ll want
to return to
Donegal as soon as possible?” His voice
interrupted her thoughts and she looked up at him.
His eyes were hooded under half-closed lids, his
expression blank as a new sheet of parchment.

“Aye, ‘tis best. I mean to
compensate the child’s foster parents, of course.” She patted the
leather pouch she kept hidden under her kyrtle, filled with the
small amount of silver she’d scraped together in Donegal. It might
not be much, but it was all the portable wealth she possessed in
the world. “Still, they may take it hard to lose the bairn. With
the ab
bot’s blessing on the matter,
they’ll have little to say, but ‘twould be best to be off before
they think things
over and come to a
different view.”

Jorand plucked a foxtail
and studied it with ab
sorption. “That
Murtaugh,” he said with seeming in
difference. “He struck me as a capable fellow.”

“For his age, he’s a handy man in a pinch, is
Murtaugh.”

“Do you think he’d make the trip?”

“To Donegal?”

Jorand nodded.

“The boat will be crowded
enough with us and an
infant on board, let
alone another adult. Why—” Suddenly his unspoken reason hit her
with the force of a blow. Her innards twirled in a slow spiral. Her
voice sounded distant to her own ears, as though
someone else was speaking.
“Ye
don’t mean to make
the trip, do ye?”

He closed his eyes for a
moment, squeezing them
tightly together as
if shutting out bright sunlight.
The fine
lines around them, reminders of rough liv
ing on the sea, had become more deeply etched since
they left Dublin. He looked thin and worn as an
old
cloak. Then those startling blue eyes
opened and she
read the answer to her
question in their crystal depths.

God in Heaven! He means to leave me.

“I
see,” Brenna whispered. Her eyes were dry. She
wished she could cry. If only the tears would
start,
she’d feel the relief of them. But
instead she felt dead as the lichen-covered rock at her back. “I do
see.”