Fin Gall (32 page)

             
As she searched for a weapon, it occurred to her that escape would be easier if the fin gall did not know she wanted to escape. She closed her eyes, summoned her resolve, then met Harald’s eyes and rewarded him with a big smile. The look of pleasure on his face made her even more eager to throw something at him, but she held fast to her subterfuge.

             
What now, what now?
She desperately had to urinate and it was making it hard to think.
How am I supposed to do that, in this idiot boat?

             
And then the plan came to her, seemed to spring full born into her head. She took a step aft, smiling at Harald. She pointed to the bank, a clump of brush and trees near a bend in the river.

             
Harald frowned and shook his head. Brigit pointed again and again Harald shook his head.

             
How on earth am I supposed to make this fool understand?

             
Brigit sighed, made a squatting motion, pointed to the bottom of the boat. Harald’s white skin flushed red and he suddenly looked very uncomfortable. He nodded his head in agreement, then fixed his eyes on the river bank by the trees, as if it would be lost forever if it left his sight for a second.

             
The boat ran silently into the mud and came to a stop. Harald pulled the sweep in and made ready to climb out, but Brigit swung herself over the gunnel and dropped into the stream below. The water was up to her ankles and the mud grabbed at her shoes but she did not mind, as she was already all but soaked.

             
She looked Harald in the eye and as emphatically as she could pointed to his seat in the boat, trying to convey the idea that he was to remain there. Harald was still blushing and he wore a very uncomfortable look. He nodded his head and patted the seat beside him, indicating his unwillingness to interfere with any female issues.

             
“Good,” Brigit said out loud. She rewarded Harald with a smile and then slogged through the mud and clambered up the river bank and into the thick brush growing there.

             
The branches grabbed at her cloak and tangled her hair as she fought her way though the undergrowth. She looked back to see if Harald seemed at all suspicious, but the river and the boat were already lost from sight. She pulled up her skirts and squatted and relieved herself, a great relief indeed, and when she stood again she felt vastly more able to take action. She fought on through the bracken and came at last to the far end of the copse, where the thick brush yielded to open fields, rolling away to the distance.

             
That was easy
, she thought, but she was not free yet, she had to remember that. Still, she was sure her father’s men would be following the Boyne east, hoping to intercept them before they reached the sea. All she had to do was follow the Boyne west to meet up with them. But first she had to get well away from Harald.

             
Across the open ground there was another clump of brush and trees, no more than a quarter mile away. She stepped out into the open ground and moved fast toward the next hiding place. Again and again she looked over her shoulder, making certain that she kept the trees on the riverbank between herself and the boat. She wondered how long Harald’s discomfort would keep him from coming in search of her. Long enough to get to the next hiding place, or the one after that, she hoped.

             
She ran, lifting her skirts and cloak out of the way, splashing through the wet grass. She felt her breath coming harder but she did not slow, save to turn and check that the trees still blocked Harald’s view of her, and that he was not chasing after her.

             
She was heaving for breath when she reached the next hiding place, crashing into the brush and dropping to her knees. She looked back the way she had come as she tried to regain her breath. Harald was not following, which was good, but her feet had left a clear path through the wet grass and she would be easy enough to follow when he finally decided he should go looking for her.

             
I have to keep going...
she thought. She forced herself to her feet and pushed on through the tall growth, toward the far side of that stand of trees. She had to find the next hiding place, but not get so far from the river that she lost her way. She thought of the bandits Harald had killed back at the fisherman’s cottage. There were plenty of dangers for a woman on her own in that wild country.

             
She came at last to the far end of that patch, where once again the open fields stretched away. There was a rider, half a mile distant and coming toward her. She felt a great surge of hope. Bandits and peasants did not ride horses. This one had to be a noble, or at least a man of wealth, and if he was either of those, then he was most likely one of her father’s men, out searching for her.

             
She kept to her hiding place, watching the man as he came closer. He had a red cape around his shoulders, a tunic over what she guessed was a mail shirt. A man of wealth, to be certain. She wondered why he was riding alone. Not that it mattered. Any man of means in Brega owed his allegiance, his fortune, even his life to Máel Sechnaill mac Ruanaid.

             
Brigit made to step from the undergrowth, but then hesitated, some warning sounding in the back of her head.
This is ridiculous,
she thought, but still she paused.

             
And then she thought of her wet track through the grass, the easy trail for Harald to follow. The Norseman had beaten down every attack against him. But this fellow on the horse, he looked as if he would be a match for Harald.

             
“You there!” Brigit stepped boldly out of the wood. Two perches away the man on the horse reined back in surprise, the horse spinning a tight circle before the rider had it under control.

             
“I am in need of help!” Brigit called, walking confidently toward the man. “I am Brigit mac Ruanaid, daughter of Máel Sechnaill mac Ruanaid. Princess of Tara.”

             
The rider had his mount under control now, and he rode the few paces to where Brigit stood. A handsome man, light hair, with a few days’ growth of beard on his square jaw. He looked down at her. He did not speak. It made Brigit nervous.

             
“My father will reward you, handsomely, if you bring me safe to Tara.”

             
The man on the horse smiled. He spoke. Brigit heard the word “Magnus” which she thought might be the man’s name. But she understood nothing else, because, to her horror, he did not speak in her lovely, lilting Gaelic, but rather in the coarse, rough tongue of the Vikings.

Chapter Thirty-Four

The good dream-woman

led me, the poet, to sleep

there
, where soft beds lay.

                               
Gisli Sursson’s Saga

              M

orrigan felt her whole world rocking, as sur
ely as the
Red Dragon
rocked in the swells rolling in toward the mouth of the Boyne.

             
They spent the night on the beach where the crown had been recovered, a restless night with watchers stationed at intervals inland, looking for any sign of the Irish army that had been following behind.

             
Morrigan did not let the Crown of the Three Kingdoms out of her sight. In truth, she did not let it out of her grip. She loved the feel of it, the weight of it. She held it in her lap and put her hands under the coarse cloth and ran her fingertips along the cool metal, feeling the intricate designs etched in the surface, the smooth, hard stones embedded in the gold. When no one was watching she unwrapped the canvas and stared at the dull yellow band and buffed it with her sleeve to make it shine. She had never, in her life, seen its like, and it took hold of her like nothing ever had.

             
Well into the dark hours she sat up on the afterdeck, the crown pressed tight in her lap, until Thorgrim Night-Wolf came back from his rounds of the watchers. She looked at him close, though she could see little beyond shadows in the dark. But she could see with certainty that he was a man, fully a man. If he was a shape-shifter, he was not shifting tonight.

             
“You are awake, still?” Thorgrim asked, standing over her. “How are you?”

             
She clutched the crown tighter. “I am well,” she said. As much as getting possession of the Crown of the Three Kingdoms had worked oddly on her mind, so too had Ornolf’s revelation about Thorgrim. The old people, the ones who still half clung to the old religions, talked of such things as men who became wolves. Morrigan dismissed it all as nonsense.

             
But she could not deny that Thorgrim seemed to know things that other men did not, and she had never seen a man who could fight like him. Ireland was a land infused with magic, and it was hard to dismiss such a thing as this. She found herself frightened and fascinated, all at once.

             
Thorgrim took his leave of her and made his way forward. She watched as he moved among his men - Ornolf’s men, really, but it was clear to her who was really in command - talking to them in low tones. He was a good leader. Strong, unyielding, and yet he cared about his men. She had seen that even back at Dubh-linn, when she first came to tend to their wounds.

             
Morrigan leaned back on the rail and hugged the crown to her chest. Her mind wandered off to thoughts of the incredible wealth that the crown represented. The gold and jewels alone were worth more than she or Flann would see in several lifetimes, and they with their close ties to the very king of Tara.

             
Such a thing as this, hidden away, given out by rich abbots to wealthy kings.

             
Finally Thorgrim stepped aft. “I’m worried,” he said.

             
“Worried?” Morrigan came out of her reverie with a guilty start.

             
Thorgrim sat on the chest beside her. “I am worried about Harald. I am getting a sense for trouble with him. Something is wrong.”

             
Morrigan wanted very much to ask him if this was a wolf dream, but she did not dare, and part of that was because she was afraid to hear the answer. “Do you...get these feelings?”

             
“Oh, yes,” Thorgrim said. “It is sometimes as if Harald and I have one mind. I know when he is in trouble, or if he is in a good way. It has always been thus.”

             
Morrigan thought about that. “Does Harald also get such feelings?”

             
“Sometimes. Sometimes he does, sometimes he knows how I am, or what I will do. But he does not see as clearly as me.”

             
“The king will not harm him,” Morrigan said. She was trying to sound reassuring, but she did not have enough conviction herself to make her words sound genuine. Máel Sechnaill could be a cruel, thoughtless bastard. Morrigan, in all honesty, did not know what he might do with a Viking who fell under his authority, even one who was a hostage.

             
When she thought about it, she had to admit that Máel Sechnaill had probably killed Harald already. She had no notion of what she would do when they all arrived at Tara, so she tried not to think about it.

             
Thorgrim looked over at her, and she could see her words did nothing to mollify him. Indeed, he looked more concerned for her attempt at reassurance. There was a vulnerability she had not seen before, a fear that his son had come to harm. Morrigan guessed it was the only thing on earth that Thorgrim Night-Wolf feared.

             
Finally he made a grunting noise. “Soon we will know,” he said. Then after a moment of silence, as he stared out into the night, he said, “Will you sleep?”

             
“Yes.”

             
Thorgrim stood and then lay down on the deck, on the pile of furs set out there. Morrigan lay beside him as had become her habit. She felt vulnerable, sleeping among the Norsemen, but pressing close to Thorgrim made her feel safe. Even now, unsure about who or what Thorgrim really was, she felt safer with the feel of him against her.

             
Thorgrim pulled a heavy fur over the two of them, a bearskin so big it covered them both completely, even up over their heads. It was warm underneath, and the fur kept them from the soft rain that was still falling. She hugged the crown tight. Her head felt as if it was spinning. And soon she was asleep.

             
Morrigan woke in the dark hours of morning. She pulled the crown tighter to her and listened to the night sounds. An owl somewhere ashore was speaking in its eery voice and it made her shiver. The ship, where it was grounded, made a soft crunching sound as the small surf charged and retreated, charged and retreated along the beach.

             
The crown was still in her arms and she hugged it tight. Forward she could hear the sounds of the men snoring where they lay, thick animal sounds, just what she might expect for animals such as them.

             
Thorgrim was asleep, his arm flung over her, and she could feel his chest press against her back as he breathed. Automatically now her hand reached under the crown’s canvas cover and she ran her fingers along the slick gold surface. She shuffled closer to Thorgrim and Thorgrim made a soft murmuring sound but did not wake.

             
Morrigan unwrapped the canvas and stared at the dark metal of the Crown of the Three Kingdoms. Her Crown. Somehow, it changed everything.

             
She rolled over so her face was inches from Thorgrim’s. He was frowning in his sleep, his brow creased, and she wondered if he was running with wolves in his dreams. He made a soft growling noise.

             
The crown was between them now, so Morrigan carefully set it down on the deck above her head, the first time since she had snatched it from Egil Lamb’s hand that she was not physically touching it. She reached her face up to Thorgrim’s and pressed her lips against his. His bristly beard pricked at her skin, tickled her, but she did not mind. She felt a sudden and desperate need for closeness. It was a thing she had not felt in some time.

             
Thorgrim did not wake up as Morrigan kissed him, so she pressed tighter and kissed him again, kissed him with some force. With a start he woke, eyes wide. He half sat up and his hand shot out for the sword that always slept at his side.

             
“Shhhh, shhhh,” Morrigan said, soft and soothing like the surf on the beach. She saw Thorgrim visibly relax as he understood what it was that had disturbed his sleep. He eased himself down again, down on his side, and pulled the fur back over them. Their faces were almost touching, and for some time they just savored the closeness.

             
Finally Thorgrim leaned toward Morrigan and kissed her and she kissed him back. His strong arms reached out and wrapped around her and she felt completely enveloped, completely safe in that powerful embrace. She pressed her lips into his, lost herself in the smell and taste and feel of him.

             
Thorgrim’s calloused hands moved over her back, though her hair, his touch amazingly light for such a man. During her time as Orm’s thrall, he had taken her, brutally and whenever he wanted, and she had come to think she would never be able to endure a man’s embrace again. But here she was, shivering with the pleasure of Thorgrim’s hands on her, warm and languid in their bearskin cocoon.

             
Morrigan pushed away from Thorgrim, just a bit. She grabbed on to the damp wool of her dress and pulled it up over her head, squirming out of the garment, still covered over by the thick bearskin. She felt Thorgrim’s hand exploring her, running over her back and her bottom. She felt the gooseflesh stand up on her arms and neck.

             
She grabbed the bottom of his tunic and pulled, more as a way of signaling her desire than in any hope of getting the tunic off. But Thorgrim understood and he pulled the tunic up over his head, disrobing somewhat less gracefully than she had.

             
Morrigan ducked down under the bearskin, like withdrawing into a cave, and felt around for the ties that held Thorgrim’s trousers around his waist. With one pull of the bitter end the ties came loose and she helped him ease the trousers off his legs. He kicked the trousers off his feet as she caressed him and stroked him and took pleasure in the way he writhed and tried to stifle his enthusiastic moans.

             
She ran her lips over his hard stomach, ran her fingers through the thick hair on his chest, over the hard, raised lines of sundry scars.
He is half wolf now, shape shifter or no,
she thought, but the memory of that wicked secret made her even more excited.

             
She pushed Thorgrim on his back and squirmed up on top of him, the dried flesh of the bear skin rough on her naked back. They came together easily, and she worked her hips back and forth, closed her eyes and made a soft moaning noise, deep down. The feel of Thorgrim inside her was more wonderful than anything she had felt in a long time.

             
They moved together like that, utterly lost in their own world under the bearskin, and all the horror Morrigan had known or would know was forgotten in the moment. Thorgrim ran his hands over her as they moved together, ran his hands over her back and her breasts and held onto her waist. Then after some time of that he gently pushed her over and rolled over on top of her. She lay with her back now on the soft, warm fur spread on the deck and Thorgrim, up on his elbows, was on top of her. She wrapped her legs around his waist, dug her heels into the small of his back and he moved faster, and with more need.

             
Morrigan could feel the tension building in her, she was ready to shatter like glass. She bit down on her lip to keep from shouting out loud, felt a coppery taste of blood in her mouth. She reached her arms up over her head and her hands fell on the Crown of the Three Kingdoms. She grabbed it, squeezed it hard, so hard it dug painfully into the flesh of her palms. Thorgrim was moving fast, she could see the white of his clenched teeth, and her whole body shuddered with every thrust.