Lion of Ireland (36 page)

That which was forever dreadful to her gave Brian a reward she could not even begin to imagine. She put her hand against the back of his head and pressed his face into the hollow of her shoulder, so that he could not see the glitter of tears in her eyes. His heart hammered against her, his breath singed her skin.

But he was hers. The worst moment was over, endured, survived; now she was free to love him. Her fingers twined themselves gently in his hair.

“Welcome home, my lord,” she whispered softly.

In the dark and desolate cave beneath the roots of the tree Yggdrasil, where the three Norns dwelt at the ends of the earth, weaving the fates of men, the threads that controlled the life of Olaf Cuaran had become exceedingly tangled. Even in distant Dublin he felt them twisting about him, pressing the air from his lungs, and he grew irritable and morose. Everything seemed to be turning to ashes in his hands; the very foundations of his belief in himself were crumbling beneath his feet.

He spoke of it to his old viking comrade Magnus Ulricsson, whose warship Windwalker had just brought news of the latest setbacks in Northumbria. On Mother Night, the longest night of the year and parent to all other nights, they sat together over their drinking horns, and Olafs droughts were blacker than the starred darkness beyond the walls.

“It isn’t just the news from the Saxon lands, Magnus,” he said, staring gloomily at his clenched fists on the table. “The Saxons have always fought our efforts to control that land, and I suppose it is inevitable that they challenge our dominance from time to time.”

“This is more than a challenge, Olaf. We are suffering severe losses and we may even lose control of York city; then we would have no port on the Humber.”

York, once a glittering prize that Olaf had claimed as part of his far-flung kingdom, seemed that night to be a great distance away, and only a symptom of the disease that was gnawing his vitals. The possible loss of his holdings to the east was a fitting part of the dark tapestry his life had become.

“We are losing more than the Saxon territories, my friend,” he told Magnus. “The very gods have deserted us, and we suffer defeat after defeat at the hands of Celtic upstarts who would not have dared face us in battle a generation ago. My own wife laughs at me.” His broad shoulders slumped and his head sank forward in despair.

Magnus snorted derisively. “Your wife! What does that matter? She’s only Irish. Have someone run her through with a sword, that will teach her proper respect, and then get yourself a new and better one.”

“It isn’t that easy. For one thing, she is the sister of Maelmordha, prince of Leinster, and I would not have his hand raised against me. Already I am threatened by Munster and Meath, and the Ulstermen are howling like wolves at my door.”

“Munster, you say? You need fear nothing from them—they spend all their time fighting amongst themselves They

are even worse about it than the rest of the Irish. Besides, Ivar of Limerick will keep them too occupied to come adventuring in your territory.”

Olaf sighed heavily. “You have been away, Magnus, living a good life in the Saxon lands where things are simple. On this cursed island nothing is as it seems; friends become foes overnight and there is magic in the very rocks. Bad magic.” Magnus swung round on his bench to stare at his friend. “What’s this you’re saying? I do not recognize such words, coming from you; this is not the talk of the great Olaf Cuaran!

This is late night talk when the drinking horn has been filled too many times.”

“No, I only wish it were. But I speak the truth, Magnus. Ever since I wed Gormlaith—perhaps even before that—there have been signs, portents that I should have been quicker to recognize. This is the land of the Christians, not of Oldin and Thor and Freya. We cannot hold it in their names and if we continue to try we are doomed. We go into battle against the Cross and we are cut to pieces.”

Magnus was becoming alarmed. “Your wits are addled! You have a few unimportant setbacks and believe their one god is more powerful than all of ours. But just stop and think, man, how many times we have made the Celt flee in terror or grovel in the mud. Why, we hold all this island in one clenched fist!”

“No more, no more,” Olaf said in a barely audible voice.

“Why, what’s happened?”

“You spoke of Ivar of Limerick—he is Limerick no longer. Six months ago, Mahon of Munster destroyed Ivar’s army and sacked the city. It is ashes and rubble, and Ivar has fled to Scattery Island, where he is trying to rebuild his forces. I was no friend of Ivar’s, as you know; ours is an old rivalry, but his loss is mine too in this case. Munster is now united under the Dal Cais, and I fear they will join with Malachi of Meath, who has shown sympathy with their cause, and all march on Dublin.”

“Irish kings standing together? I don’t believe it!” “Neither did I, but it is true. There is a new feeling in the

land, spreading outward from Cashel, and we are beginning to hear rumors of a plan to drive Norse and Dane alike from Ireland.”

“Talk! Boastful Irish talk and nothing else. You know how they love to brag, these people who cannot fight.”

“Ah, but they can fight, Magnus. Like you, I underrated them, but no longer.”

“And where did they get this prowess on the battlefield? From the Munster king—what’s his name?--Mahon?”

“I suppose so. In his youth he was an indifferent warrior; he nipped at Ivar’s heels for years without ever being a real threat. Now all of that is changed. In one battle after another, the men of Munster have met and crushed good Northmen; this very day I heard that Ivar may be forced to flee to Wales, where Donovan of Hy Carbery has some allies who have offered him support.”

“I think I need more ale,” Magnus commented.

“I’ve tried ale and I’ve tried women; I’ve had the Runes read and made sacrifices to every god, but nothing helps. Day by day, fortune slips away from me and I am powerless to prevent it. I’ve come to one conclusion, Magnus, and I am telling it to you first because you’ve been my friend since we first fed our swords wound-dew together. I’ve decided to become a Christian.”

Magnus sat bolt upright. “You’ve what! I can’t believe my ears, the sea wind must have finally destroyed them!”

“You heard me. We are too far from the old gods; they have no power to help us here. I have long suspected it and now I am certain. I will convert to the White Christ and ask his protection instead, for he is young and vigorous in this land and his priests say he is a god of compassion. I need compassion. I’m an old man with a young wife and enemies on every side. There is more for me in Christ’s religion than in Odin’s.”

“That young wife of yours, is it her hand I recognize in this?”

Olaf laughed without .humor. “Gormlaith has no interest in converting new disciples to the Christ; she is much too

involved in her own schemes. I tell you, Magnus, that woman is not the least of my problems!

“When I first became aware of the threat from Meath, she was plaguing me at the time for something to occupy her mind. Almost in jest I asked her to learn something of Malachi and suggest a way to handle him—after all, she knows the Irish disposition. To my surprise, she set about it as if the whole thing were a serious military campaign! In a most unwomanly way she organized a system of spies and acquired a complete history of the man. She came to me and described his character for me as fully as if they had been raised in the same crib.”

“She must be an extraordinary woman.” Olaf’s expression became even more despondent. “She is that.

Extraordinary. She has no talent at all for woman’s business, and no interest in it; she must be forever pushing her oar in where it is not wanted, and her deepest desire seems to be to stir up trouble. If I did not exhaust myself keeping her occupied she would have every man in Dublin at his neighbor’s throat by this time tomorrow,”

“And yet it is said of her that she is the fairest woman in Ireland,” Magnus remarked, hoping to bring some ray of light to his downcast host, and curious to see for himself the Irish princess with a man’s mind and a body like no other woman’s. “There is a song sung of her in the streets; it is said that she is best gifted in everything that is not in her own power, and does all things ill over which she has any power.”

Olaf expelled a long, quivering sigh. “Aye, that’s Gormlaith.” “Then why do you not do as I suggested and get rid of her? Surely her brother’s goodwill is not that important to you—a mere Irishman, after all!”

“If I were a younger, stronger man, I would. I have several good sons by women I kept before her, all Northmen at heart and capable of taking my place when I am gone. But Gormlaith has also borne me a son, Sitric, a strapping big boy who reminds me more of myself than any of the others. When he is a man grown I will be proud to own him. If I throw out the mother and keep the son I know she will bring her brother down on me, and if you have contempt for the anger of the Irish, I do not. Not anymore. I want to make no more enemies among them. I am already spread too thin, Magnus, I cannot afford that.”

“You are in a trap, then, old Ravenfeeder.”

“I know it.”

Magnus swirled his drinking horn in his hand, staring down into the dark brown liquid. “Perhaps there is a way out, for a patient man,” he said at last. “The Irish cannot go for long without losing their tempers with one another, as you and I both know. They are divided into too many factions to all sleep comfortably in the same bed. If you only maintain things as they are and wait, they will fall to quarreling among themselves as they always have and can easily be destroyed.

“You can even work behind the bush to help them. Incite them against one another. Remind them of old grievances and start new feuds. They are an easy people to goad.”

“That would not be a Christian thing to do,” Olaf said, but there was a light in his eyes.

“Do you intend to adopt this Christianity all the way through, or only on the surface?”

“As deep as it needs to go, I suppose.”

“Then take my advice and keep your viking heart, my friend. If it gives you comfort to embrace the White Christ do so, but do not think that means you must abandon Ireland to the Celts. Give them enough time and the Irish will destroy their own strength.”

“But how much time is ‘enough time’?” Olaf asked.

The next morning, Magnus arose early. OlaPs unease had communicated itself to him in some fashion, and he had spent a bad night, fragmented by dreams that were too close to wakefulness. At cockcrow his head ached and his mouth tasted like dead fish. There was nothing to be done for it but get up and begin the day.

He stepped over the sleeping bodies of OlaPs men and made his way out of the hall. The pallid sky was pregnant with snow. He stood with his back to the Norse palace, stretching, forcing the cold air into his lungs where it cut like new knives.

“Magnus Ulricsson,” said a voice behind him. A throaty, rich voice; a voice the color of dark amber.

“Are you trying to escape without ever having greeted your king’s wife?” He turned.

Magnus thought himself a tall man, but the princess of Leinster was taller. Big-boned in the way of the Irish peasant class, she had the elegantly structured face of a noblewoman. Her bosom .was a white swan’s, broad and full, and no man could look at it without wanting to bury his face between those magnificent breasts. Firm-waisted, she was broad of hip and long of leg, and when she walked she undulated in a subtle mimicry of the way a woman thrust her pelvis against a man in the act of love.

He did not notice what she wore.

Gormlaith’s skin was rich cream, glowing and flawless. Her large mouth was red-lipped, quivering, the full underlip moistly inviting. Green eyes, the green of Ireland itself, blazing, emerald, fiery with unquenchable life.

And crowning it all, her hair. Her hair such as no other woman on earth possessed. “A flame of dark red so pure in color that it had bluish lights, it was plaited and crossed atop her head to form an incomparable crown, then hung in great loops and swags of braid to her hips.

She advanced toward him, insolent in her power, smiling and holding out her hand. She took one step closer than any other woman would have, and he steeled himself to avoid stepping back. The natural fragrance of her flesh was that of ripe apricots in the sun; beneath it lay a faint, more disturbing scent—the musk of an animal in heat.

“My husband never introduces me to his guests,” she said, although her eyes were saying other things.

“At least, not to the big, strong ones. He tells me about them after they’ve gone.” She took a deep breath and slowly shifted her weight from one hip to the other.

Magnus seemed to have acquired an obstruction in his

throat. He spoke around it with difficulty. “Your husband is a prudent man, my lady!”

Her eyes glittered with amusement. “He has learned to be one. Olaf is old and worn, not the man he once was. Tell me, Magnus Ulricsson—are you the man you were in your youth?” Challenge was implicit in every line of her body and syllable of her speech. Magnus felt that he was standing too close to a fire that would strip his flesh from his bones. He tried to move away unobtrusively.

But she noticed, and her eyes danced. “I suppose not,” she said, answering her own question. “I am a student of men, Magnus; did my husband tell you that? I collect them, as other women collect jewels or robes. But they must be the strongest and best. Why do you suppose is the strongest man in Ireland today?”

“Your husband, the Iron Shoe. Olaf Cuaran,” he answered loyally.

“You lie,” she laughed at him. “I don’t mind that—I tell lies myself. But surely you know that he has little strength left; his power is peeling away from him like the layers of a boiled onion. Forget Olaf, I will give you the answer.

“The superior man is Malachi of Meath, he who already calls himself Malachi Mor—Malachi the Great.

He will be Ard Ri when old Donall is dead, and the Stone of Fal will cry aloud for him. Ireland will have a High King such as she has not known for generations. The five provinces will kneel in submission before him!”