Dubh-Linn: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 2) (15 page)

 
Will Finnian do that as well?
she wondered. There seemed to be no fear in the man, as if he could rid them of these pests at any time. He had his walking stick, a useful weapon in the right hands.
Does Finnian have the skill to fight them? Will he kill them all?

  Now it was the one eyed man who stood silent, and increasingly uncomfortable, unsure how to respond. He shifted from foot to foot, and then seemed to notice Brigit for the first time.

  “Here, are you too good to be seen by the likes of us?” he asked, sounding almost relieved to have something to say. His left hand shot out, reaching for Brigit’s cowl, but Finnian’s hand was faster still, whipping out and grabbing the man’s forearm. There seemed to be no force applied, as if Finnian was just resting his hand on Cronan’s arm, but Cronan’s motion was completely arrested.

  “Don’t do that,” Finnian said.

  Cronan shifted his one-eyed gaze back to Finnian, and now his look was anger and outrage. “Whore’s son priest,” he growled and swung the knife toward Finnian’s gut, but the priest caught that arm as well and held them both.

  “Don’t do that, either,” he said. Like the pace of his walking, the tone of his voice had not altered a bit, not once since they had woken up that morning, as far as Brigit could tell.

  For a long moment the two men stood there. Brigit wanted to scream, wanted to turn and see what the other two were going to do, wanted to hit Cronan with her walking stick, but instead she followed Finnian’s lead and remained still. And then Finnian let go of Cronan’s arms, just let them go, and dropped his own arms to his side and said, “My apologies for laying hands on you, Cronan.”

  Cronan grunted and again shifted foot to foot, looked down, looked at his companions, looked at the horizon. Finally he turned back and met Finnian’s eyes, which had not left his face, not once. They stood there, silent, face to face. They did not speak. From somewhere far off came the rat-tat-tat of a woodpecker, and nearby the buzz of bees hard at work in the sunshine. And the two men remained silent. Half a minute. A minute.

  “Well,” Cronan said at last, slipping the big knife back into its sheath, “we’ll be on, then.”

  He moved past Finnian, past Brigit. He seemed to move grudgingly, but with resignation. “Come on,” he growled at his companions.

  “Just a moment, friend,” Finnian said and stopped them in their tracks.
Don’t stop them when they are leaving!
Brigit wanted to scream, but still she remained silent. “Have you anything to eat,” Finnian asked. “Anything you might share with fellow travelers?”

  The three men glanced at one another, their uncertainty palpable. And then Cronan gave one of the others a quick nod. The man reached into a sack that hung at his side and withdrew a small loaf of coarse brown bread. Finnian took it gently from his hands.

  “God bless you, friends,” he said. He made the sign of the cross in the air and murmured “In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” and to Brigit’s utter astonishment the three men bowed their heads – just a bit, but clearly a bow – and accepted the blessing without comment. They even looked relieved, like boys who are forgiven for the mischief they’ve caused. Then they turned quickly and once more headed off down the road, as if they were trying to get away, moving faster, it seemed to Brigit, than they had when they had been trying to catch up.

  For some time she and Father Finnian watched them as they receded in the distance.

  “Well, then,” Finnian said at last. He broke the bread and handed the larger piece to Brigit. “There’s your answer, my dear.”

  “My answer?”

  “It seems that the good Lord means for you to reach Dubh-linn.”

Let us go our ways silently;

though the cove-stallion’s rider

be fallen, trouble is astir.

                             Gisli Sursson’s Saga

It was well past midnight by the time Thorgrim Night Wolf was able to extricate himself and Harald Thorgrimson and Starri Deathless from the mead hall. They seemed little inclined to go, and it was only after Harald noticed the spreading wet patch of blood on the dark cloth of Thorgrim’s tunic that they insisted on leaving. By then, Ornolf the Restless had found a thrall with whom he could satisfy his basest desires, but before he had even lured her off to a dark corner he had passed out in a great fleshy heap on the floor.

  Harald and Starri helped Thorgrim to his feet and even attempted to support him with his arms over their shoulders, but Thorgrim, feeling more old and feeble than he cared to admit, would not submit to that indignity, and insisted on walking unaided. Instead, his two companions took up positions on either side of him, as if ready to catch him if he collapsed, and that served to only further annoy him.

  They made their way down the plank road, the night dark and quiet, with only the muffled sounds of dying revelry coming from the mead hall. They found Jokul’s blacksmith shop, thatch-roofed, timber-framed, tucked among the other clustered buildings. It stood out, bigger than most, with more space surrounding it, a larger patch of open ground enclosed by a wattle fence, a roofed-over workspace where Jokul could follow his trade out of doors when the weather cooperated, and not fill the house with smoke and the smell of hot steel.

  The moon overhead cast blue shadows in the yard. They stepped through the gate and stumbled down the path that ran along the house. The surface was smooth and dry, made of split logs. When they had first arrived, the path had been had been made up of whole logs, treacherous and uneven, until Harald had dislodged each one, split it and set it down again with the flat side up to make a much more agreeable walking surface. Since splitting the logs had doubled their number, he had also built a path to the outdoor work area and a slightly raised platform at the forge so that even when the ground was an impenetrable mire of mud Jokul could work with feet relatively unencumbered.

 
That old dog will be glad to see Harald back,
Thorgrim thought as he stumbled toward the door. In the corner of the yard he could see the small altar he had erected with a battered iron statue of Thor at its center, a statue he had carried many years, over many, many miles. He had first set the altar up indoors, but Almaith had insisted that there be no worship of what she called false gods in her home, so he had moved it out of doors. He would have to sacrifice to Thor for returning him safe and mostly intact.

  Harald opened the latch as softly as he could and pushed the wooden door open. They stepped down, the floor of the house being dug down about a foot below the level of the street. They were greeted by smells that had become familiar in their time in Dubh-linn, the lingering smell of roast mutton and the peculiar sharp smell that Jokul’s blacksmithing produced. They could hear Jokul’s snoring, loud and bestial, coming from the far room.

  Almaith materialized out of the dark, the linen leine that draped over her body ghost-like, her dark hair swept back. “Ah, Thorgrim! Harald!” she said, soft-voiced but enthusiastic. “There’s been much high talk of your return, and I had hoped you would not shun us for another home!”

  “No, never, if you’ll have us,” Thorgrim said, his voice thick with exhaustion and pain.

  “Have you? To be sure, you’re always welcome here. I made up beds for you, on hearing you were back.” She steered them gently toward the open room at the far end of the house, the end opposite of where Jokul could be heard in his hibernation. A small peat fire was burning in the hearth on the floor, and against either wall there was a pile of blankets and furs.

  “This is my friend, Starri Deathless,” Thorgrim said, nodding toward Starri, who hung back in the shadows. “Might he sleep here as well?”

  “Certainly, certainly,” Almaith said. She spoke the Norse language almost to perfection, but she still carried the lilt of the Irish in her voice, and Thorgrim loved the sound. “I’ll make up another bed directly.”

  “No, no,” Starri said. “Outside, I saw a bench that looked just the thing. If I could borrow a fur or a blanket or such?”

  “It’s really no problem,” Almaith protested. “I’ve no objection to another under my roof.”

  “No, no,” Starri said again. Thorgrim could see his eyes moving around the room. “Walls, you know, walls sometimes are…bothersome to me. Hard to explain, really.”

  Almaith nodded. “Whatever you wish,” she said. “We’ve blankets and furs a’plenty.” She indicated a pile near the hearth. Starri grabbed up a heavy bundle that must have once belonged to some shaggy animal, nodded his thanks and was gone, as if afraid the roof was about to fall on him.

  Harald and Almaith helped Thorgrim down to the bed, and he found he was too tired and hurt to protest or even snarl at them. Almaith pulled a blanket up over him. He closed his eyes as she was saying something he could not hear. Wolves were baying all around him.

  It was no surprise to Thorgrim that the wolves came for him in his sleep. It was that sort of night. He was running through the woods, alone, the bracken, the trunks of the trees moving by fast as he ran, silently. Silently but not strong, not the powerful lope he was accustom to. He was limping, favoring one leg and it hurt. He could hear other animals around him, wolves, he guessed, but he did not know. He could smell them.

  And then he was in a clearing and the moonlight was illuminating the space, and it was lovely, but still he was not alone. He could see the eyes, glowing in the dark. He could hear the snarling. He knew these creatures, but they were not his friends. He wanted to cross the clearing, to reach the far side. He was not sure why, only that there would be safety there. Peace. But the wolves were in his way. His fellows, but they were in his way.

  He felt a sharp stab of pain in his side. He snarled and whirled around but he was met with a soothing sound, like a breeze through trees in full leaf or the gurgle of water running down a ship’s side, a ship sailing with just the right breeze on her quarter, heeling a bit, moving effortlessly, the wind warm, and strong enough to hold the sail full and immobile.

  He opened his eyes. Almaith was kneeling beside him and he could see the gleam of a sharp knife in her hands. He felt his muscles tense, instinct taking hold, but Almaith set the knife down and said, “Shhhhh, shhhhh…” as if to a child. Thorgrim felt his body relax. He looked down. Almaith had slit his tunic open from the hem to the shoulder and now with long and delicate fingers she peeled it back, away from his wound. The cloth was wet and his skin was wet and warm and he realized that she must have soaked the cloth in warm water to get it free of the dried blood.

  “My tunic…” he muttered. Ridiculous, but it was all he could think of to say.

  “Never mind that. I’ll sew you up a new one tomorrow. And we’ll burn the rag you’re wearing now.”

  Thorgrim laid his head back and looked up at the dark thatch above and felt Almaith’s competent fingers swabbing the wound and the dried blood around it. “Harald told me you were hurt, just before he went to sleep,” she said with her soft Irish lilt. “Foolish boy, he did not let on how bad it was. I heard you making noise in here, and then I saw the blood.”

  “Hmmm,” Thorgrim said. He could think of nothing else to say, and the warm water and her hands felt good. “It’s his age, you know. Nothing seems of any great import.”

  “I’m not sure I remember being that age,” Almaith said. “But I have no doubt you’re right.” As if in agreement, Harald made a noise in his sleep and then was silent again, his snoring light and rhythmic, like the alto to Jokul’s base

  They were quiet for a moment as Almaith carefully washed the wound and Thorgrim considered her age. He had no idea what it might be. Certainly not as old as Jokul. He did not think she could be past her twenty-fifth summer. Not even that old, he did not think.

  “There are stories in Dubh-linn about the great success you had at Cloyne,” Almaith said, wiping the water and blood from Thorgrim’s skin with a dry, soft cloth. “All you who sailed with Iron-skull. Was it such a great success, then?”

  “Hmmm,” Thorgrim said again and then realized he should elaborate. “It was a success. I could not say a great one. They fought hard, and when we finally won, there was not much to be found there.”

  “I see. That’s a shame, indeed,” she said. “Will you try for better luck elsewhere, then?”

  “Not me. And not Arinbjorn. He told me that after Cloyne he was bound for Norway, and I shall sail with him. Me and Harald. It’s why we agreed to go on the raid on Cloyne.”

  “I see,” Almaith said. She stopped her work and looked in his eyes for the first time. “Jokul will certainly miss Harald,” she said. “And I will miss you. Do you miss your wife?”

  Thorgrim did not answer immediately. “My wife is gone,” he said. “Childbirth. Two years gone, now.”

  “I’m sorry,” Almaith said, and Thorgrim could see the genuine sympathy in her face, in her deep brown eyes that seemed to shine in the dying light of the fire. She turned back to the gash in Thorgrim’s side, applied a poultice and a dressing. She worked in silence and Thorgrim closed his eyes and took comfort in her ministrations. The fire was low but he could feel its warmth, and her hands moved with the surety of a healer. Too long, too long, since he had enjoyed a woman’s touch. Not carnal gratification, that was one thing, and he had not been without that, but rather the loving touch of a woman who cared.

  Almaith smoothed the dressing down over Thorgrim’s wound, sat more upright and shuffled closer to him. She set her hands lightly on his chest. “The poultice will help,” she said, soft, nearly a whisper. “If it shows no sign of mending by morning I’ll have to sew it.”

  Thorgrim nodded, but he was lost in her eyes, and her words, which seemed to not really be about his wound at all. She was beautiful. Even in the light of day, which hid no imperfection, she was beautiful, despite the hard years of being married to Jokul. In the glow of the fire she was the kind of vision that could send any man into a berserker’s frenzy. She leaned a little closer, the fabric of her leine clinging to her and revealing the strong body beneath.

  “Thank you,” he said, soft, to match her tone. He reached out and stroked her arm. She reached up and gently took the silver charms around his neck in her fingers.

  “You wear Thor’s hammer,” she whispered, “and you wear a cross. That’s an odd thing.”

  “I am grateful for the help of any god,” Thorgrim said. “In truth, the cross was given to me by a woman I knew. An Irish woman.”

  Almaith rubbed the thin silver cross between finger and thumb. “A friend?” she asked, but the tone of her voice suggested there was more to the question.

  Thorgrim thought of Morrigan, and their time together, brief as it was. Iron-tooth had been taken from him, and she had returned it, somehow, left it stuck in the deck of his ship with the cross hanging from it. She may well have used magic to do it, he did not know, he had no notion of how she had conjured it there. “Friend?” he said. “I really don’t know.”

  Almaith let the cross go, but her hand remained pressed against him, warm and delicate, the fingers twining through the hair of his chest.

 
Can I do this?
he wondered.
Take another man’s wife, under his roof?
She was his for the taking, he could see that, and the less cerebral parts of his body had already made their decision. He would not take a friend’s wife, that he knew, but Jokul was hardly that.

  In truth, Jokul was not much of a friend to Almaith, either. He treated her more like a thrall than a wife, berating her and ordering her around, giving her the back of his hand on occasion. It had always annoyed Thorgrim greatly, but he did not think it was his place to say anything, him a guest in their house, albeit a guest who was paying a handsome rent for the privilege.

 
Yes, this could happen
, he concluded. But not that night, not with Almaith’s hands still sticky with his blood, his wound tender, his body aching. He gave her arm a light squeeze. “Thank you,” he said again. “I know your hands will be quick and sure, whether sewing a tunic or a sword wound.”