Dubh-Linn: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 2) (27 page)

The snake-lair’s goddess,

her weeping eyes swollen

with bitter fruit, looks at me,

Odin’s craftsman, for consolation

                           Gisli Sursson’s Saga

The wind held fair from the mouth of the Liffey to the mouth of the Boyne, thirty-five miles north along the coast. The three longships kept close company, their square sails filled and holding shape in the steady wind, their long, narrow hulls heeling slightly to starboard, the seas curling around their bows and swirling aft in long, white wakes. They looked like serpents and they moved like gulls, and the heavily armed men aboard them took pleasure in the day, the rare, fine weather, and the free ride the wind provided.

  Thorgrim, too, tried to enjoy the time underway. Tried, and failed. Under most circumstances he could not have asked for better. But the hostility and anger that ran through the crew and swirled and tugged like ocean currents was too distracting and worrisome for him to find any pleasure in wind and sea.

  Freed from his oar, Harald came aft to sit with Brigit. This left Arinbjorn visibly displeased, and made Thorgrim realize that he might have designs beyond taking the wealth of Tara and sailing for Norway a rich and successful Viking. Designs that might include a lovely Irish princess. The gods alone knew how elaborate a fantasy Arinbjorn had woven around himself and Brigit. It was certainly clear that Arinbjorn did not want Harald to sit by the girl, but Arinbjorn did not speak Irish, and Harald did, to a surprising degree, and that made Harald the girl’s natural companion.

  But Brigit just as clearly did not wish to have a companion of any description. From the moment
Black Raven
had hit the open water she had been vomiting over the side until there was nothing left in her to vomit, and then she had slumped miserably against the strakes, wrapped in furs, her face going from pink to white to a slight greenish shade. Harald tried his best to comfort her, until Thorgrim could stand no more and called him aft.

  “Son,” he said in a soft voice, “I’ve seen this sea sickness often enough, and I can tell you, Brigit just wants to be left alone.”

  Harald glanced back at her. He had never been to sea in the company of women, only men who did not get sea sick or, if they did, quickly decided that comb making or blacksmithing was a trade more to their liking. “Are you sure?” he asked. “Women take it well when you tend to them, don’t they?”

  “Yes, they usually do. But not when they are sea sick.”

  “Should I offer her food? There’s salt fish in the tub forward.”

  “If you do, she will tear your throat out with her bare hands. Or would, if she had the strength.”

  At that Harald nodded and seemed to accept what Thorgrim said, which was becoming increasingly rare. He squatted down beside Brigit and said something, too soft for Thorgrim to hear, not that he would have understood the words in any event. Brigit nodded, never opening her eyes, and Harald stood and sat on the aftermost sea chest, where he could remain close but not too close.

  Arinbjorn, who had been standing on the after deck just forward of the tiller, striking the pose of a man in complete command of those below him, made a grunting noise but said nothing.

  The little fleet cleared the headland to the north of Dubh-linn Bay and two hours later passed to the west of Lambay Island, where the first raid on Irish soil by Norsemen gone a’viking had taken place more than fifty years before. Thorgrim surveyed the island, its steep cliffs and sloping green meadows, as the
Black Raven
slipped past its shore. He could see the ruins of the monastery that had once stood there, abandoned after being sacked again and again by his own people.

 
Fifty years…
he mused. Half a century the Northmen had been raiding that country. And now they had come to stay. They were building towns, taking sides in Irish wars, as he was now. How long before all of Ireland was half Irish, half Norse? If Brigit was telling the truth, then his own grandchild would be just that.

  The breeze continued steady as they made northing, bearing off to the northwest, bracing the yards around for a larboard tack and rigging out the beiti-asses, the spars that held the corner of the sails down and forward when sailing close-hauled. The afternoon was fading into evening when they finally spotted the low banks at the mouth of the River Boyne.

  For all his high talk about Thorgrim’s experience and leadership, Arinbjorn did not really welcome any of Thorgrim’s advice. That much Thorgrim had concluded long before. Thorgrim could not, however, resist suggesting a trick that might buy them another ten hours of surprise. Some men might be sent ashore in the boat that
Dragon Slayer
was towing astern. They could station themselves on the beach while the three ships sailed right past the mouth of the river, as if they never intended to enter the Boyne at all. Then the men on the beach would light a fire to guide them back.

  They were too far from shore to see if they were being watched, but Thorgrim did not doubt they were. Any confusion they might sew in the enemy’s mind could only help.

  Arinbjorn pretended to consider this idea. In the end he rejected it, as Thorgrim knew he would. Unnecessary effort for a raid that would meet with little resistance, he explained with an air of patience. It might discourage the men, if they thought there was a need for such trickery. Besides, Brigit could not tolerate being underway for even a minute more than was necessary.

  Thorgrim nodded. “Very well,” he said. He had done his duty, given the advice he thought he should give. Arinbjorn had shown him the courtesy of explaining all the reason for why he was rejecting it. All the reasons save for the real one, which was that some personal demon drove him to reject any idea that Thorgrim had to offer.

  The sun was an hour from the horizon when they lowered their yards, lashed the sails to them, then broke out the oars and set in for the long pull against the current. They covered about half a mile up the river before settling their bows into the mud banks of the southern shore. They ran lines over the water to a stand to oaks that grew there and made the ships fast. They posted watch and settled in for the night.

  With the ship now steady underfoot, Brigit was much improved. She stood and shed the furs and stretched her arms. She even accepted a bowl of food from Arinbjorn and made a bold attempt at eating. Once the ship was secure, Harald came aft to see if there was anything he could do for her. But Arinbjorn was already doing everything he could think to do, and he did not care to have Harald around.

  Thorgrim, leaning on the side of the ship just forward of the tiller, watched with amusement as their little power struggle played out.  Arinbjorn seemed reluctant to simply order Harald forward, perhaps thinking that Brigit might want him nearby, as he was the only one who spoke Irish. Harald, in turn, was taking every opportunity to do so, conversing with Brigit and flaunting his growing fluency.

  This foolish dance went on for some time before Thorgrim decided he would put an end to it. “Arinbjorn,” he said, “it’s only fitting the princess should have some privacy, don’t you think? There’s some spare sailcloth forward, we could rig her up a sort of tent easy enough. Right aft, here.”

  Arinbjorn pretended to consider this, but Thorgrim knew that he would have a hard time finding a reason to not follow this suggestion. Then Harald rattled something off to Brigit in the odd tongue of the Irish and Brigit seemed to brighten and she nodded her head. “Brigit would be most pleased with a tent,” Harald announced, and that settled it, to Arinbjorn’s visible irritation.

  The men fell to the work with a will. They lashed oars in place to form a solid wedge-shaped framework and draped the spare sailcloth over that, lashing it tight to the oars. Half an hour later there was a respectable tent standing on the after deck, its floor lined with furs and blankets, a fitting berth for a princess aboard a longship. With nods of thanks, a smile, and an unmistakable look of relief, Brigit bid her good nights and ducked into the new-made shelter.

  For a moment Harald remained at the tent’s entrance, and Thorgrim could see he was debated whether he should join her inside. He had, after all, been sharing a bed with her at Jokul’s house, or so Thorgrim was sure he was thinking.

 
He’s as big as a man, but he still has no more awareness than a boy
, Thorgrim thought. He caught Harald’s eye and gave him a barely perceptible shake of the head, and with the subtlest of gestures pointed forward with his chin. It was all he needed. He and Harald had been through enough together that they could speak volumes to one another with the slightest of gestures. And Harald, though he did not look happy, nodded as well and ambled off forward.

  That night Thorgrim dreamt of wolves. He was part of a pack, and they were set upon from all sides. They were in thick woods. They could not see, but their noses alerted them to enemies in every quarter. They ran, but they did not know to where they were running. They waited to be attacked but they did not know from where it would come. They were wolves but they did not have the power and strength of their kind.

  He woke in a sweat. There was a hint of dawn to the east, a barely perceptible lighting along the horizon. He stood and stretched his muscles then prowled up the deck, checking that all was well, trying to shake off the disturbing vestiges of his dream. He woke a couple of the men and told them they were on duty to cook breakfast. They made to protest, but one look at Thorgrim’s face in the dim light of the predawn convinced them to shut their mouths and get to work.

  Two hours later the men had eaten, the ships were ready to get underway, and Brigit had emerged from her tent looking considerably better than she had the day before. The food, the steady deck underfoot, the proximity to Tara, and the possibility that these men under Arinbjorn’s command would take it back for her, had all worked their magic. Arinbjorn hovered and Harald shot dirty looks aft from his rowing station, but once they were underway, Brigit chose to lean against the side of the ship just a few feet forward of where Thorgrim held the tiller. She smiled at him and nodded and Thorgrim nodded back. He was the only one there who had shown not the slightest interest in her, and he guessed that she felt safe in his company for just that reason.

 
Women…
he thought.

  It was fifteen miles up the river, a slow crawl with the current working against them. With more men than rowing stations, the hands at the oars could be relieved on a regular basis. Thorgrim was happy for that. He did not want the men’s strength drained getting up the river, because battle waited for them at the other end, or so he hoped. It would be a grave mistake to not attack that very day, to give the enemy another night to fortify and gather men. He hoped Arinbjorn would come to the same conclusion, so he was careful not to suggest it.

  The river was familiar. Thorgrim and Ornolf and Harald and the others who had come with them from Vik had come up that way half a year before. Their ambitions had not been so great then. They hoped only to rescue Harald and their other shipmates who had been taken hostage. They had nearly all died in the trying.

  But Thorgrim had a good memory for waterways and he recognized the various twists in the river, recalled where he had found sandbars and snags and back eddies, and so with
Black Raven
in the lead, the three ships made good way. On the shore he caught glimpses of horsemen trying to remain unseen in the stands of trees. He thought back to Cloyne, the horsemen on the ridge. Tara would be fully alerted to their coming, but there was nothing for it. Surprise was an impossibility when you had five leagues of river and another of land to traverse before arriving at the point of attack.

  It was midafternoon when they reached the spot where Thorgrim recalled having tied up before. Brigit, realizing where they were, became more animated, pointing up the river and saying something in her undecipherable Irish tongue. Thorgrim called Harald aft because he knew Arinbjorn never would.

  “What does Brigit say?”

  Harald said a few words to her, and she replied, speaking slower this time. “She says there is a good place to anchor half a mile up the river, and a road from the landing that leads straight to Tara.”