Fin Gall (28 page)

             
Brigit let the blanket hang on her shoulders as she undid the belt around Harald’s waist and let it fall to the floor. Harald reached through the folds of the blanket, ran his hand lightly over her breast. His hand was rough and calloused, but his touch was light, and it sent a chill through Brigit. She tugged up on the hem of his tunic and Harald pulled it over his head and tossed it away.

             
His chest was broad and strong, as smooth and hairless as his face, and the muscles on his arms stood out bold in the light of the fire. Brigit ran her hands over his chest and his arms. Once again, Harald, in his eagerness, grabbed her and pulled her roughly toward him. Once again Brigit pushed him back. “Slowly, slowly,” she cooed and he seemed to understand.

             
Brigit’s late husband, Donnchad Ua Ruairc, was the only man she had ever been with. She had been fourteen, Donnchad was twenty-eight. Brigit had been terrified.

             
But Donnchad, perhaps not as considerate as he might have been, still was not cruel, had not just used her for his own pleasure with no thought for hers.

             
Her wedding night was a blur of terror and uncertainty. It was terribly painful, despite what Donnchad did to make it better.

             
And Donnchad was a passionate man. He came to her nearly every night after that. And soon the pain passed, and soon after that it became a genuine pleasure, and soon Brigit was looking forward to the night as much as Donnchad.

             
She missed that, since her father killed her husband, missed the strong embrace of a man, the wonderful sensation of helplessness as she was taken by one whose strength was so much greater than her own. She had looked with longing at some of the rí túaithe who courted her at Tara, strong and handsome young men. But they looked on her first as a way to gain political power, second as a way to sate their lust, and third, if at all, as a woman with whom to share themselves. Brigit could not stomach them.

             
That feeling, that desire she had felt for Donnchad had come again as she sat by Harald’s bed, watching the young Norseman as he convalesced. At Tara she would never have acted on such a thing. But now, it seemed as if there were no rules anymore.

             
She pushed Harald back, just a step, and kneeled in front of him. She looked up at him. His blue eyes were wide with surprise. Before, she had wondered if Harald had ever been with a woman, but now she knew for certain he had not. She would not have thought of a Viking as an innocent, but here he was.

             
Brigit untied Harald’s shoes and he kicked them off. She untied the leather thong that held Harald’s trousers in place and pulled them down his muscular legs and he kicked those off as well. She stayed on her knees and she introduced him to things he probably had never thought of, learning about sex by watching the animals on some farm in Norway. His breathing came hard and fast. Twice he almost fell over.

             
Finally Brigit stood and let the blanket fall to the floor. Harald looked her up and down and ran his hands over her skin, over her neck and her back and her breasts, but he moved slow now, the roughness was gone. In its place was a sort of worshipfulness.

             
Brigit took his hand and led him over to the straw pallet. She lay down and pulled him down after her, and he followed, eager. He pushed her down on the straw and gently pushed her legs apart, but she shook her head and pulled him down beside her. She wanted to make the pleasure of the touch go on and on. She did not think that the final act would last very long.

             
For some time they lay on the straw pallet, caressing one another, until finally she could stand it no more and it was clear that Harald felt the same. She rolled back and pulled him toward her and he pressed himself down on top of her. She gave a gasp at the little jab of pain she felt as he entered her - it had been some time since her husband’s death - but soon it felt simply wonderful and they moved together, the straw crunching underneath them.

             
As Brigit imagined, it was over soon, and it was not as entirely satisfying as it had been with Donnchad, but still it was wonderful, the sensation of being with a man, even a young man, such as Harald. They lay together, her cheek against his smooth chest. There was no awkwardness. They could not speak even if they had wanted to.

             
Not very much time passed before Harald was ready to go again, which surprised Brigit, as it took Donnchad much longer than that to regain his strength. But that was fine with Brigit, and the second time was better than the first. Harald was a quick learner, and she was happy to instruct.

             
After that they fell asleep, warm, spent, dry and content, and Brigit thought that the whole amalgam of sensations was as wonderful as a thing could be.

             
They slept for hours, undisturbed. When Brigit finally came awake, it was slowly. She felt Harald beside her and reached out her arm. He was sitting up. She propped herself up on her arm and looked at him. He was staring off into the dark room, his face lit by the last embers of the fire. He was listening, focused on the sounds from beyond the stone walls.

             
Then suddenly, to Brigit’s utter surprise, he leapt out of bed and snatched up the trousers he had left crumpled on the floor. He pointed at his ear, and at the wall.

             
Brigit listened. That was when she heard, far off, the frantic barking of the dogs.

Chapter Thirty

It is better to live

than lie dead.

A dead man gathers no goods.

                                     Hávamál

              I

t was a long and ugly morning, but by the time the sun was heading for the western horizon, Cormac Ua Ruairc was starting to feel better about his circumstance.

              Magnus had escaped, rode clean away to the north. He had run off while Cormac was trying to get his horse under control. Niall Cuarán, rather than pursue Magnus, had leapt off his own horse and grabbed up the reins of Cormac’s, steadied the animal, and helped Cormac dismount. Niall showed admirable concern for his Lord’s wellbeing. And Cormac, though he would have rather Niall Cuarán had gone after Magnus, was touched by the sentiment and said nothing.

             
By the time they had straightened themselves out, there was no hope of catching Magnus. They did not even try. Instead, they rounded up their Irish warriors and fell on the dubh gall, cutting them down like deer driven into a pen. No more than half a dozen escaped, fleeing off south, no doubt making for Dubh Linn.

             
Cormac let them go. They would be put to the sword eventually, after he had the Crown of the Three Kingdoms, after he had avenged his brother by ripping Máel Sechnaill’s heart out, after he had taken Tara for himself and led the combined armies to clear all the filthy Norsemen out of Ireland.

             
And then around noon they experienced some luck, or what one might think was luck, if one did not recognize the hand of God. First, the rain slacked off to a light drizzle and the fog cleared away, leaving several miles or more of visibility. Enough, anyway, that they could keep the fin gall ship in sight as they hurried along the hilly shore.

             
Their second bit of good fortune came when the fin gall, for some reason, took down their sail.

             
Magnus had mentioned a few reasons why the sail might not work, though Cormac could not recall what they were. He was too furious at the double insult of losing his tent on a rainy day, and having that same tent used by his enemy to escape, to listen to what that incompetent had to say. But Magnus must have been right, because for some reason the sail came down and the oars came out and the longship slowed to a crawl. Soon Cormac’s small army was even with the ship, easily matching its pace across the water.

             
And that put them in just the right place when the longship swung its bow around to the west and started closing with the shore.

             
Cormac stood, with Niall Cuarán at his side, at the edge of a cliff. His horse was a few paces away, nibbling at the grass. Cormac never liked sitting on top of his horse near a cliff. He always had this vague worry that the animal would decide to fling itself over the edge.

             
At the bottom of the steep, rocky drop was a small, shingle beach, nearly lost in the gloom of the gathering dark. Two miles or so out to sea, the longship was pointing like a weathervane at that beach.

             
“Here is where the crown is buried,” Cormac said with finality.

             
“No doubt, my lord,” Niall said, then, after a respectful pause, added, “Or it may be where the fin gall intend to spend the night.”

             
“No. The crown is here,” Cormac said. “In any event, we won’t let them escape again.” If the crown was not there, then Cormac would most certainly make the fin gall tell him where it was. The coward Magnus might not have the stomach to do what needed to be done to make these men talk, but he, Cormac Ua Ruairc, deposed ruiri of Gailenga, certainly did.

             
A rider approached, swinging off his horse as he reined to a stop. “Lord Cormac, there’s a path to the south that will lead down to the beach. Treacherous, to be sure, but not impossible.”

             
“Very good,” Cormac said, his eyes still on the longship. “Let’s get the men down now, get them in place.”

             
It took the better part of an hour for the hundred men in Cormac’s army to file down the narrow trail to the beach. Cormac went fifth, behind the color bearers and a couple of pages. In that way he was ostensibly leading, while the four in front of him would find any weak places in the trail before he got there.

             
The shingle beach was a hundred perches wide and half as deep, with rocky ledges and sparse brush pushed up against the cliff side, just enough to hide his men. They kept to the cliff wall as they spread out, though Cormac did not think that in the evening dark, and with the longship still a mile off, they were any in danger of being seen.

             
They were soon positioned, couched down in the various hiding places the beach offered, waiting. The men had their instructions. Anyone who moved before Cormac, who gave away their position or spooked the Norsemen in any way would be impaled, then and there.

             
The longship seemed to melt into the dark sea as it approached with the setting sun, until finally Cormac could not see it at all, and a spark of fear began to glow inside.
Did they see us, from out there? Is it not too dark for them to beach their damned ship?

             
And then from over the water, and close by, he heard a voice call out, the guttural tongue of the fin gall, announcing the depth of the water, and Cormac felt a surge of relief.

             
Soon the Crown of the Three Kingdoms would be his.

             
After all this time, after all the careful planning. All the work convincing his brother Donnchad to spit on his marriage alliance, so that Máel Sechnaill would kill him and clear the way for Cormac’s succession. After the humiliating truce with the dubh gall Magnus, soon it would be his. The only road by which the brother of a ruiri of a minor kingdom might become the rí ruirech of three kingdoms, and by extension the most powerful man in Ireland.

             
Just a matter of minutes.

             
Cormac startled at the loud grinding sound of the longship running up on the shingle, breathed deep and shallow as his heart settled down again. There were voices now coming out of the dark, the fin gall calling back and forth. They were making no attempt to be silent. They did not know the enemy was in hiding, and ready to fall on them.

             
A dim light came from the dark place by the water where the longship was grounded. It grew brighter, revealing the outline of the ship, the mast, the horrible dragon’s head on the bow. Someone stood on the ship’s deck, a torch flaming in his hand. He touched the fire to another torch, and another, and soon the longship and the Norsemen were clearly visible in the light of the flames.

             
Fools,
Cormac thought. They gave their own position away and blinded themselves to any threat from the dark. They were making his task all the easier.

             
The torch bearers led the way down the gangplank and onto the beach and two dozen men followed, armed with swords and shields, and behind them, to Cormac’s giddy delight, three men bearing shovels. There was only one reason he could think of to carry shovels onto that beach at night.

             
Every bit of him wanted to shout and to lead the attack now, but he forced himself to wait.
Let the fin gall do your work for you, let them show you where the crown is...

             
The party of Vikings marched up the beach, moving slow, spreading out, the lead torchbearer searching the ground as he moved. Someone in the band of men behind shouted, “Thorgrim! It is more to the north!” The lead man with the torch shouted back, “No, it is this way! You men, spread out, keep your eyes open!”

             
Cormac shook his head at their stupidity.
“Keep your eyes open!” And yet he blinds his own men with torches!

             
“Here!” the one called Thorgrim shouted. A few others gathered around to look. They stared down at the beach where the first man pointed. “There is the mark I left. The crown is here.”

             
The torchbearers stepped aside and the men with the shovels stepped up and Cormac felt a surge of panic as the first shovel ground into the rocky sand. If the Norsemen grabbed the crown right then, they could get back to the longship and get away before he could stop them.

             
Cormac leapt to his feet, driven by the cold terror that he had waited too long in hiding. “At them! At them!” he shouted as he drew his sword.

             
With wild yells and the sound of running feet and metal drawn against metal the Irish warriors burst from the brush and from behind the rocks that hid them and raced for the fin gall, ten perches away. Cormac ran as well, once the first wave was sufficiently advanced, shouting his war cry and brandishing his sword.

             
The surprise was complete. Over the war cries of the Irish, Cormac heard the panicked shouts of the fin gall. The torchbearers flung their torches at the charging enemy, turned and fled down the beach. Only the lead man stood his ground, torch in one hand, sword in the other, shouting, “Come back! Stand and fight, you worthless cowards!”

             
But it was no use. He was alone, and he could not fight off Cormac’s army by himself. A spear flew through the air and into the circle of light surrounding his torch, missing him by inches, and that was the end of his defiance. He, too, flung his torch, turned and ran for the shore.

             
“After them! After them!” Cormac shouted as his men continued down the beach, toward the edge of the water and the fleeing fin gall.

             
Cormac himself had no intention of following the Norsemen. He ran up to the place where the shovel still stood upright in the gravely beach, where the fin gall had begun to dig, and there he stood. He would not lose that place, after all he had done to get there.

             
In the light of the guttering torches Cormac looked down at the beach, trying to find the mark that the fin gall leader had mentioned, but one rock looked like another to him. No matter. This is where they were digging. This was where he would find the crown.

             
There was shouting and splashing and the sounds of a fight down by the water. Cormac strained to see what was happening, but now it was he who was blinded by the torches and he could see nothing. Soon after he heard the crunch of men walking on the shingle and then Niall Cuarán stepped into the light.

             
“We could not stop the fin gall,” he said. “They got aboard and shoved off before we could stop them.”

             
“No matter,” Cormac said. They had not come for the fin gall, he did not care about the fin gall. He was, at that moment, physically closer to the Crown of the Three Kingdoms than all but a few had ever been in the history of Ireland. He was desperate to have the thing in his hands, on his head.

             
“Pick up those torches, don’t let them go out,” Cormac snapped. He wanted to pick up a shovel and go after the crown himself, but such eagerness was unbecoming for the soon-to-be rí ruirech of the Three Kingdoms.