Lion of Ireland (71 page)

But the garrison of the Northmen was heavily armed and supplied with ample rations to last through the winter, and though they answered the Irish with taunts and jeers hurled from Dublin’s walls, as well as a goodly stock of javelins, they were not to be taken without great loss of life. At Christmas Brian ordered the siege raised and returned to Thomond, Murrough grumbling in his wake.

It was a bleak Christmas. Brian summoned all his family to Kincora for the holy days, but there was little of the festive mood. Since his mother’s banishment to Dublin young Donnchad had been restless and moody, and even the arrival of his kinsmen did not improve his humor. Murrough’s son Turlough was nearest to him in age, and tried to keep him company, but the younger boy was a lone wolf by nature, preferring to prowl the courtyards and hillsides alone.

“You should have sent him away with his mother,” Murrough commented after Turlough came to him in anger, stung by Donnchad’s latest rebuff.

“He’s my son as much as you are, Murrough,” Brian answered. “He should be with me, not isolated from his tribe

and forced to grow up as a Norseman. His mother would be a bad influence on him, and as for Sitric ...”

“As for Sitric,” Murrough growled, “I can hardly wait for the day he and I meet on the battlefield.”

“You may have a long wait.”

“Sitric fought at Drinan, against Malachi.”

“No,” Brian said, “Silkbeard was present on the field of battle at the start of the engagement, but I have heard no man say he actually fought.”

“He’ll fight with me when I catch up to him,” Murrough promised. “I’ll hit him such a blow it will turn his ears around.”

He is as lusty to swing a sword as he ever was, Brian thought. “You would kill your kinsman with such pleasure, Murrough?” he asked.

Murrough flared, “Sitric Silkbeard is no kin of mine! He’s the son of that woman you married, but I no longer consider that any deterrent to striking off his treacherous head. If anything, it’s all the more reason to hate him. He’s a Northman, isn’t he?”

“And so, of course we must hate him, is that what you’re saying?”

Murrough glared at his father. “You just don’t understand!”

Brian only shook his head gently and made no answer.

At Dublin, Gormlaith scarcely took notice of the feast of Christ’s birth. The final rejection had destroyed the woman in her; all that remained was the passion for revenge. She burned with it like a white flame, making everyone uncomfortable in her presence, but she would not stay in the house Sitric gave her.

Daily she came to his new hall, upsetting Emer and drawing Sitric away from his own affairs.

“The Irish have lifted the siege,” she kept reminding him. “We can get men out of Dublin now; we can send for aid.”

“Everything is being done as it should be, woman,” Sitric assured her. “At the moment I am very much involved in

preparing for the spring campaign—or was, before you interrupted me. What more would you have me do?”

“If you seriously intend to stand against Brian Boru” (she spoke the name as if it were tainted with vinegar), “then you will need more allies than my miserable brother and his Leinstermen, or even all the armies of Ulster. You should go across the sea, to the white Norse and the dark Danes, and offer them sufficient inducement to send men and ships to your aid.”

“It is not that easy to get allies,” he told her. “Svein Forkbeard fights Aethelred for the Saxon lands; the Danish king is aided by Olaf Tryggvesson of Lochlann and they have made a long campaign of it and smell victory now. There may be no warriors to spare us from the northern kingdoms.”

“But Dublin is important to the trade and prosperity of the sea-kings! Surely there are those who will stand with us for the sake of gold, if not for blood. I want you to go to the Orkneys—you, yourself, my son, and apply to Sigurd Hlodvisson. Make him whatever offer he indicates he would be willing to accept, but be certain that we can count on him to fight the Ard Ri.”

The court of Sigurd the Stout, jarl of Orkney, made Sitric Silkbeard welcome. The Norse chieftain gave him a superb drinking horn and an ax that had once belonged to Sigurd’s grandsire, Thorfinn Skull-Splitter, and listened with interest to Sitric’s proposals.

“You make an alliance sound very attractive,” Sigurd said at last, when the whole idea was laid out before him. “But I have been hearing tales of the Ard Ri for many years now, and I think he is a difficult man to kill. As long as he lives, no Northman will rule Ireland.”

“Boru is old,” Sitric said contemptuously. “My mother says his hair is white and his eyes are dim; surely, that is no opponent for you to fear.”

“Your mother—the princess Gormlaith?”

“That is she.”

Sigurd Hlodvisson fingered his neatly braided beard. His

eyes, set in deep folds of flesh, glinted above his pouchy cheeks. “Ah, that is a woman! Fit for a viking queen, she is; much too good to be wasted on the Irish.”

Aha, thought Sitric. “Many men have tried to tame her, and been forced to give up the struggle because they were not man enough . . .”

Sigurd squared his beefy shoulders. “That is because none of them was Sigurd Hlodvisson! Tell me, Silkbeard, is she still ... toothsome?”

The leer in Sigurd’s voice made the hands of Gormlaith’s son itch to close on that fat throat, but his voice revealed nothing as he lied, “Gormlaith never changes.”

“I see.” The jarl sat for a long time, considering. Sitric emptied his new drinking horn and held it aloft for a refill.

Sigurd broke his silence. “I like the idea. I will make you this offer, and you may take it back to Dublin with you. Give me the princess Gormlaith, and the rule of all Ireland when the Ard Ri is dead, and we will go viking together. I promise you enough men and ships to wipe this Irish plague off the earth!”

Gormlaith asked one question; “Will Sigurd destroy Brian Boru?”

“Completely; he vows it. He means to rule Ireland himself.”

“Very well. You may send word to him by the fastest ship: The day Boru is dead and Sigurd Hlodvisson controls Ireland, I am his.”

But even the addition of Sigurd’s fleet to the armies to be brought against Brian did not give Gormlaith peace in her bed at night. She remembered the Dalcassian as she had seen him many times, girded for battle, his sword in his belt and his warhorse prancing beneath him. In her memory he grew larger and the years that separated their ages diminished. She forgot the white in his hair and remembered the strength in his hands, and she writhed beneath her blankets.

She made another trip to Sitric’s hall. At the sight of her husband’s mother, come to inveigh further against Brian

Boru, Erner went to her chambers and wept into the thick fall of her hair, so that none but her maidservant heard her.

Gormlaith was feverish with her newest idea. “In the harbor they are saying that there is a fleet of thirty Norse ships anchored off the Isle of Man, under the command of two brothers, Ospak and Brodir. I want you to set sail quickly, Sitric; hurry to them and urge them to join with us! You said Sigurd and his allies will arrive around Eastertime?”

“We agreed that he would sail into Dublin harbor on Palm Sunday.”

“Then use whatever it takes, but convince Ospak and Brodir to bring their fighting men here at the same time. It’s imperative that we have a force large enough to crush the Ard Ri in one blow, or we will lose everything!”

Sitric looked at his mother. “You’re really afraid of him, aren’t you?” he asked.

Gormlaith shuddered slightly. “No,” she said, “I’m not afraid of Brian Boru.” Her voice was so low he could hardly hear it.

Brodir was impressive. Even Sitric was taken aback at the sight of the savage Norse chieftain. He was a tall, powerfully built man, and he had neither the silveP-blond hair of the Norseman nor the swarthier coloring of the Dane. His hair was coarse and almost black, and he wore it so long that it was tucked under his belt to keep it out of the way of his sword arm.

His reputation matched his appearance. Sitric had hardly set his anchor than he began hearing whispers of Brodir’s dark history. It was said that he had once been a Christian, even a deacon, but that he had renounced his faith and reverted to the worship of Thor and the most bloodthirsty of the pagan pantheon.

Seeing him, Sitric could believe it.

Ospak was not available for the meeting, being away on a voyage to the land of the Scots, but Brodir assured Sitric he could speak for both of them. “My brother does what I tell him,” Brodir announced’

firmly.

Sitric explained the alliance he had formed with the

Leinstermen and the agreement with Sigurd Hlodvisson. Brodir’s teeth flashed in his tangled black beard.

“You have already given away everything worth having, Silkbeard. I see no reason why I should fight for nothing.”

“There will be much plunder!”

“I have the whole Saxon coast to plunder. Offer me something I can get nowhere else. Offer me what you offered Sigurd the Stout.”

“You want me to dishonor my pact with him?”

Brodir’s smile remained; it was the mirthless grin of a wild animal baring its gleaming fangs, and the eyes above it were soulless and empty. “Words don’t matter,” he said in a harsh voice. “Nothing matters but the blood and the fire. Promise me what you offered him, and I will see that he dies on the battlefield as soon as the Ard Ri is dead. Give me Ireland—and this Gormlaith—or try to win without my help.”

At the back of his mind Sitric could hear his mother’s voice, icy with her implacable hatred. If it was hatred that drove her. “Use whatever it takes,” she had said.

I hope Sigurd and Brodir are both killed in battle, Sitric Silkbeard thought grimly. “You have my promise,” he said aloud.

Sitric returned to Ireland before Ospak arrived from the Scot Land, and Brodir himself put Sitric’s proposal to his brother. Hearing it, Ospak felt a cold finger trace a mark down his spine. He held up his hands in front of his face.

“I want no part of this, womb-fellow!” he exclaimed. “The Ard Ri has been a good man and a good king, and his fame has reached far beyond the shores of Ireland. It would be an evil thing to bring such a hero down. Odin himself might punish us.”

“Damn you, idiot! You think Odin would object to the death of a Christian?”

“That Christian, yes. I will not fight with you, Brodir.”

“Then consider our brotherhood dissolved! I have no need for a fool to swing an ax with me. When I am king of Ireland and you have only bones to gnaw, I think you will sing a different song.”

During the night, Ospak and the ten dragonships whose allegiance he claimed oared gently away from the anchorage they had shared with Brodir and took up a new anchorage, well within the mouth of the Sound.

The next night, late in the third watch, a terrible clamor as of metal striking metal rang through the air above Brodir’s ships. The men sprang from their berths, only to be greeted by a shower of some hot, reeking substance that smelled like blood. In superstitious terror they crouched beneath their shields until the ghastly rain ended, but in the confusion many men were injured, and on every ship, one man died.

Exhausted, Brodir’s men slept heavily throughout most of the next day. Almost an enchanted sleep, they whispered to one another later.

That night the noise came again, louder, more terrifying than before, the unmistakable din of a great battle. Many of the Northmen claimed they saw swords leap from their scabbards and fly through the air, wielded by invisible hands. It seemed that a war was taking place between unseen forces in the very air above them, and they crouched in their vessels in horror, crying aloud to the gods to save them. Many were slashed and wounded, and on every ship, one man died.

After a sleep like that of extreme drunkenness they awoke the third night to a repetition of the terror and the clamor, to which was added an incredible attack by a huge flock of ravens, swooping down on the ships and tearing at the faces and eyes of Brodir’s men. They held up their shields and defended themselves as best they could, but the birds inflicted dreadful wounds, and on every ship, one man died.

At the first light of dawn Brodir ordered a boat put down and an oarsman to take him to Ospak. He boarded his brother’s ship looking ten years older than when they had last faced one another.

“Brother,” he began, “a nightmare has come upon us, and I can find no explanation for it. You have always been wise; tell me what is happening, and how I may fight it!”

With his eyes, Ospak summoned his guards to stand near

him, and he kept his hand on the hilt of his sword. “If you seek my help, Brodir, you must first give me a pledge of peace. You said you were my brother no longer; do you think I give aid to every stranger who clambers into my boat?”

Brodir swore at him, but at last agreed to a temporary truce between them. They shared a measure of ale and Brodir recounted the events of the preceding nights. Listening, Ospak felt the icy finger on his spine once more.

“I can give you an explanation, but you won’t like it,” he told his grim-faced brother.

“Give me some more ale, then go ahead.”

, .. I, “was a rain

from the future, when you will shed much blood,” Ospak said.

Brodir smirked and nodded with satisfaction. “So I shall, so I shall!”

“The noise you were hearing is the world being torn apart by battle; the weapons attacking you are the weapons you will soon face, and the ravens are the ravens that will come to feed on your eyes when the fighting is over.”

Brodir sprang to his feet in rage. His anger was so intense he could not speak. With no further word to the man who had been his brother, he climbed over the side of Ospak’s ship and into his own boat once more, gesturing to the oarsman to take him away at once.

Brodir ordered his ships to set up a blockade, penning Ospak and his men within the Sound. Ospak must die for prophesying such disaster!

Ospak watched with a frown as dark clouds came riding up out of the Irish Sea, hanging over his own ships as well as those of his brother. Brodir’s plan to trap and kill him was obvious, but the oncoming darkness was his friend. As the rising wind whipped the water to whitecaps, he bade his men cover their ships as best they could with dark cloth and pole them along the shore. When they reached Brodir’s ships, the snoring of the men on board in their seemingly drugged sleep carried clearly to them across the water. Ospak sent men over the sides to cut the cables which fastened Brodir’s ships close together for the night, and then he steered his own ships safely past them into the open sea.