Pride of Lions (30 page)

"My women call me Ragnald

Long-Knife. Can you guess why?" he inquired.

Recognizing the smug innuendo she had heard in a thousand other male voices, Gormlaith yawned with boredom. "No," she said tersely.

She turned away from him and resumed gazing at the fire.

Ragnald had not expected a rebuff.

Surely such an old woman should be grateful for the attentions of a virile and vigorous Dane to heat the blood in her veins. He tried again.

"We have a long journey ahead of us and the farther north we go, the colder the nights will be."

"Good. I like the cold."

"I have warm furs for my bed."

"Enjoy them. Fur makes me sneeze," she lied.

"Then perhaps we would be more comfortable in your bed?"

Gormlaith swung around and this time looked squarely at the man. Her eyes glowed like coals in their deep hollows. "You aren't going to be in my bed."

Something flashed in the firelight.

To Ragnald's astonishment Gormlaith produced a knife out of nowhere; not the little household knife Viking women wore along with their shears and keys, but a serious dagger, honed sharp. In one lithe motion she was on her feet, holding its point to his groin.

"This is my long knife," she said in a conversational tone which was all the more deadly for its lack of emotion. "I am quite capable of using it to amputate yours."

Ragnald did not doubt she meant every word.

Nonplussed, he returned to his men and spent that night, and every night after, safely embedded among the Danish crew.

The Irish chuckled about the incident but kept their mirth to themselves. It would be unwise to offend men on whom their lives depended.

Gormlaith had no such inhibitions. Whenever Ragnald came too close to her, she openly sneered at him.

"The man's a sea raider for all he claims otherwise," Ronan advised Donough.

"Can't you get your mother to be nice to him? He could slit our throats and toss us overboard any time he likes."

Donough gave Ronan a sardonic glance.

"What makes you think I can get my mother to do anything?"

Gormlaith had nothing but contempt for Ragnald and his kind. She was weary to the soul of the mindless lust of men who neither knew nor cared about the person inside her head. Furthermore the Danes stank, having rubbed themselves copiously with rancid grease to keep out the cold. They could neither read nor write; she could not carry on an intelligent conversation with any of them about subjects that interested her. And as she told Donough, "I've seen much bigger ships than this in the harbor at Dublin. Your Ragnald is no wealthy merchant; he's a common pirate and not a very successful one at that, to judge by his ship and crew. You could have hired him for a great deal less."

"They cost so much," Donough informed his mother,

"because I had to bribe them to transport a red-haired woman. Without you I could have saved half the fare."

Gormlaith shrugged one shoulder. "I'm worth it," was all she said.

From the first day it loomed out of the mist, she thought the west coast of Alba very beautiful. Deeply cut inlets and innumerable small islands provided excellent hiding places for sea raiders, but the overall effect was one of rugged grandeur.

Past Cape Wrath, bouldered headlands soared up from the sea like mythical beasts with gleaming shoulders. They lacked the softening luxuriance of verdure, but Gormlaith liked them the better for it. Taking an engraved mirror from her chest of belongings, she gazed into its polished surface.

The softness is gone from my face too, she thought. Worn away by the storms of my life.

Now the bones show, and they also have a rugged grandeur.

Putting the mirror away, she returned to her favorite position in the prow of the longship. This time she did not look ahead, however, but back; back toward the oarsmen laboring on their benches.

I am old, thought Gormlaith, as

men reckon old. I should be wrapped in blankets and crouching by a smoky fire, gumming my food. Instead I ride behind the dragon and Vikings--Vikings!--are taking me to Alba, a land even Brian Boru never saw.

She threw wide her arms and laughed.

Although the northern coastline appeared desolate at a casual glance, numerous small settlements were snugged behind the headlands.

Coast-dwellers always anticipated trouble, and did not wait to learn if strangers were travelers or raiders. Whenever the longship drew close to shore, it met a rain of spears and shouted imprecations.

"Can they not tell us from Orkneymen?" Fergal asked Ragnald.

"They don't care. Anyone in a longship is a menace as far as these people are concerned."

Fortunately the Dane knew the area well enough to locate safe sites ashore for night camps, but nevertheless both he and Donough posted sentries.

Near Arbroath, they dragged their ship ashore and made a final night camp. Beyond a meadow of bracken, stands of pine and larch cut off their view inland. No sooner had they built a fire than a herd of excessively shaggy cattle with impossibly long horns materialized like ghosts at the edge of the meadow and stared curiously at the strangers. "I've not seen their like in the five provinces," Ronan murmured in wonder. But when he tried to get close for a better view they stampeded.

The others laughed. "I hope you have better luck with Alban women," jeered Fergal.

When Donough announced they would set out for Glamis at sunrise, his mother scowled.

"Nonsense. You are a prince of Ireland, you cannot appear like a beggar at Malcolm's gates.

It's a good thing I came with you to instruct you in proper behavior.

"We wait right here and send a messenger to Glamis with a formal announcement of your arrival, and request for a royal escort. We don't put one foot in front of the other until they come for us."

"But we're perfectly able to ..."

Gormlaith's scowl deepened. "You are perfectly able to look like a total fool who knows nothing. Listen to me."

Fergal sided with Gormlaith. "The woman knows more about royal courts than any of us, yourself included," he said. "I would listen to her if I were you. You don't want to be left-footed here."

At Donough's request, Ragnald dispatched four of his men to Glamis to inform Malcolm of his guests' arrival.

Then they waited.

"We should have gone, Donough," fumed Ronan.

"Myself and Fergal."

"Do you know the way to Glamis?"

"I do not, but I doubt if those Danes do either."

Donough smiled. "I'm sure they do.

Ragnald knows Alba far too well; I would say his ship has sailed these waters many times before, and not on innocent trading ventures."

"If that is so, will the Scots let his men get anywhere near Glamis?"

"They carry a formal message from a prince of Ireland, written in his own hand," Gormlaith interjected. "No matter what the circumstances, only a sentry who did not value his head would refuse to take them to his king. A messenger must be as sacrosanct as a bard or nothing could be accomplished."

While they waited for word from Malcolm, Donough tried to keep his mind occupied by envisioning the future. If Malcolm likes me, if I can form some sort of alliance with him--then how do I use it? To challenge Teigue for Munster?

Or to challenge Malachi Mor?

Donough ambled down to the edge of the dark water that had carried him this far, and stood gazing not outward, but inward, troubled by the amorphous quality of his ambition. I should have a more exact idea of what I mean to do. Life is short, any warrior knows that much.

I want ... but what do I want?

What did my father want when he was young?

Peace, surely. Ireland in his youth was ravaged by warfare, Gael and Viking at each other's throats. Brian won his battles and lived long enough to know he'd won them. But things are more complicated now. Clontarf forced the Northmen to abandon their dream of ruling Ireland, yet peace has slipped away from us again. We are plagued by struggles for power among the princes of the various provinces, while tribes and even clans fight among themselves. Then there are the outlaws ...

The Ard Ri is supposed to solve all these problems; to settle quarrels and make judgments and rule the island in the pattern my father established. If Malachi Mor fails to do so, the next High King must. The Irish grew accustomed to stability under Brian Boru, that's why there is so much upheaval now. They want the old days back.

As Ard Ri, I will be expected to restore them.

To devote my life ...

Donough gazed unseeing at the dark water.

It was not too late. He might still say to his mother, "This is a mistake, I want to go back to Ireland and ... and ..."

He could not think of what else he might do.

Princes followed the path their fathers trod; it was ever so. How could it be otherwise?

Unwilling to be alone with his thoughts any longer, Donough returned to camp. His men were sitting around the fire, telling tales of war.

Gormlaith occasionally joined in, taking evident relish in describing battles fought and men killed for her sake.

Donough stood outside the ring of firelight, listening. His brooding gaze wandered over the familiar faces in the gilding light. How simple things were--for them.

War and war and war, a voice said clearly.

Startled, he whirled around. But there was no one there.

Yet the voice went on. Kill or be killed, and where's the glory in it? When a sword runs through you, your bowels open and you die in your own stink.

"Is that you?" Donough whispered, shocked.

"Father?"

No one answered.

In due course an escort from Glamis arrived: a company of men in heavy woolen tunics, with gaudy plaids slung over their shoulders. Their features were similar to the Irish and they spoke, roughly, the same tongue, but their accents were so thick Donough could scarcely understand them.

They brought sturdy Pictish ponies onto which they loaded the travelers' baggage. There was no cart for Gormlaith, but their leader explained that no one had mentioned a female being with the party. "Besides," he added, "what kind of woman are ye that your legs don't work?"

Crimson flamed in Gormlaith's cheeks.

Without a word, she strode out ahead of them, determined to walk them all into the ground before they reached Glamis.

Ragnald and his men were busily preparing the longship for the return voyage to Ireland. "Real winter is a snowflake away," the Dane told Donough. "No one sails these seas then. You are here until spring; I trust you know that?"

"We know."

"You are here no matter what happens. Do you understand me?"

"Are you giving me a warning?"

"I'm just saying that you cannot leave Alba until the seaways open again. And take it from one who knows --these people, for all they look like you, are not Irish.

They have been here too long, they sing different songs now. Don't trust them."

Donough laughed. "This, coming from a Viking!"

Ragnald shrugged. Having delivered his passengers, he had no further interest in their fate.

But as Donough and his party entered the first stand of trees between themselves and Glamis, the Dane impulsively cupped his mouth with his hands and bellowed, "Remember what I said!"

The composure for which Blanaid was famous deserted her entirely.

She had been delighted to learn that her brother was actually in Alba. With Malcolm--as so often --away from Glamis, holding court at Scone, it fell to his wife to organize an escort to bring the guests to the castle. While she waited she busied herself with ordering a feast and overseeing the airing of a chamber suitable for a prince.

When Donough's party arrived, Blanaid was waiting for them at the entrance to the great hall. Her face was wreathed in smiles as she held out both her hands to her brother, recognizing him at once by his likeness to Brian Boru. He towered a head taller than the men around him.

"I apologize for not having an attendant waiting for you," Blanaid said to the person who pushed forward to stand beside him. "I did not know my brother was bringing a woman with him."

"Not just a woman," came the swift reply.

"I am his mother."

Blanaid was taken aback. "Gormlaith of Leinster?"

"Of course," snapped the other woman. "How many mothers has he?" She strode imperiously past Blanaid and surveyed the hall through narrowed eyes. "So this is Glamis. Well, I must say, it looks no better from inside than from out.

What a dark, dismal place. You have no windows!"

Blanaid made a swift recovery.

"Glamis," she said coldly, "has been a noble stronghold for generations and is now the primary residence of the King of the Scots and the Picts.

May I remind you that you are a guest here, and as such you have no right to insult ..."

Gormlaith chuckled. "Och, may I remind you I'm no guest here. You never invited me. I just came."

Blanaid turned toward Donough. In the moment before her eyes met his she could have sworn he was grinning, but when she looked at him full face he was suitably sober. "The Princess Gormlaith is a law unto herself," he told his sister.

Blanaid was trembling. Her face felt bloodless. "My ... our father is dead because of her. How dare you bring her here!"

This time Gormlaith laughed outright, a rich, throaty sound as disconcerting as it was unexpected.

"He couldn't have stopped me. And your father is not dead because of me. He's dead because your daughter's husband Sigurd, among others, tried to wrest control of Ireland from him."

"The "others" you mention include your own son Sitric and your brother Maelmordha!"

Blanaid retorted furiously.

"They're all dead now," the other replied, unruffled, "except my son Sitric, and he doesn't amount to much if the truth be known. This one here is twice the man, that's why I thought it was time you two should meet."

"You thought ..."

"Of course. Donough was not going to come, but I insisted. And a long journey it has been, I must say. Days at sea in an open boat, nights sleeping on cold ground--and I hate the cold!