Fin Gall (17 page)

             
The
Red Dragon
was well past the mouth of the Liffey now, and her bow was meeting the ocean swells, lifting up high and swooping down in that way that told Thorgrim they were in open water. It was time for a decision.

             
“We’re free of the land now, Ornolf,” Thorgrim said. “Where do we go?”

             
“We get Harald, that’s where we go. This thrall will lead us to Harald.” He looked down at Morrigan. “Where away?”

             
Morrigan did not answer. She stood, and her motion was quick and agile. She stretched her arms and pulled the hood off her head. Thorgrim realized he had never seen her before in the light of day, outside their dark prison. She was even younger than he had thought, her skin smooth, a pretty face with prominent cheekbones. But there was also a hardness in her eyes he had not seen before, the kind of look he associated with men who led warriors into battle, not thralls with the healing arts.

             
Morrigan spoke at last, and the hardness of her voice matched the look in her eyes. “There is something we must speak of, first.”

             
Thorgrim tensed and frowned. He had no notion of what was coming, but he knew it would not be to their advantage. Suddenly everything Morrigan had done - the healing, the daggers, the murder of Orm, the offer to carry the wounded away - all took on a different look as if, like her face, Thorgrim was seeing her actions in daylight for the first time.

             
“Speak,” he said.

             
“There is a crown, an ancient crown, that is held in the keeping of the abbot of Glendalough. It’s called the Crown of the Three Kingdoms. The abbot decreed that the crown should be given to the king of Tara, Máel Sechnaill mac Ruanaid. It was sent by boat, in the care of twenty noblemen. It never arrived at Tara.”

             
Thorgrim was silent. He resisted meeting Ornolf’s eyes. Finally he prompted Morrigan. “Yes?”

             
“I think you have the crown.”

             
“You may search the ship if you wish. Magnus did, and he found nothing.”

             
“I know it’s not on board. You were too clever to bring it to Dubh-linn. I think you hid it somewhere first.”

             
“What is the meaning of this Crown of Three Kingdoms?” Thorgrim asked. “Why is it so important?”

             
“That’s not your business. It’s a matter for Irishmen, not fin gall. The crown is important, that’s all you need to know.”

             
“Damn your impertinence, woman!” Ornolf roared. “And damn this crown, and damn whoever has it, I say!”

             
Morrigan was unmoved. “The future of Ireland rests with the crown. So does the life of Harald and your men.”

             
“Harald?” Thorgrim said and then he caught her meaning and he felt his fury rise like a storm, fury at Morrigan’s treachery, fury at himself for being taken in like a silly child.

             
“You black-hearted...” Thorgrim growled. “Where is my son?”

             
“He’s safe. He’s unhurt. He will be well cared for. And when the crown is brought to my lord Máel Sechnaill, who should rightfully posses it, then he and your other men will be returned to you.”

             
This time Thorgrim looked up at Ornolf, and he could see the jarl, Harald’s grandfather, was feeling as furious as he was, and just as trapped.

             
Without a word, Thorgrim pushed the tiller to starboard and swung the
Red Dragon
’s bow north, making his head for the little bay where the Crown of the Three Kingdoms slept under the sand.

Chapter Eighteen

By the Prince’s Truth the great armies

are driven off into the enemies’ country.

                                    
Testament of Murand

                                           
Ancient Irish Morality Tale

              B

rigit wiped the young man’s brow with a damp cloth.
These fin gall are a well-made race,
she though to herself. This one - Harald, they called him - was genuinely handsome. Blonde-haired, square-jawed. A few years younger than herself. Not tall but well set up, solid, even after the wasting effects of the fever. The sunlight coming in through the one window illuminated his skin and hair so he seemed to glow, like an angel might.

             
He stirred a bit and moaned and Brigit took the cloth from his forehead and watched close, wondering if he would say anything. Every once in a while he uttered some strange word in his Norse tongue which she did not understand. There was no one at Tara who could speak the fin gall language save for Flann mac Conaing, though Brigit had insisted he teach her a few words.

             
Flann had arrived the day before, with the two sheep herders and the dozen men who had gone to Dubh-linn with him, the men who had waited with horses and carts beyond the palisade walls of the city to get Flann and the hostages back to Tara. The wounded Norsemen were given rooms in the king’s great house, with healers to care for them and guards on the doors, as befitted men who were hostages, not prisoners.

             
Brigit put the cloth down and picked up a bowl of broth that sat on a table by the bed. She took a spoon-full and touched it to his lips and reflexively he took a sip. She did it again.

             
She heard footsteps in the hall. She expected them to pass by but they did not. The door opened. Brigit turned as her father walked in. He was dressed for court and not for war, with a red cloak that hung nearly to the floor and a green tunic, elaborately embroidered.

             
“This is the one?” he asked.

             
“Yes.”

             
Máel Sechnaill crossed the room and frowned down on Harald as if looking on some unknown and generally disagreeable creature. “Will he live?”

             
“He’s strong. Gormlaith has been in to see him, and she says Morrigan did a good job with her healing. His fever should break soon. I can already see improvement.”

             
“Humph,” Máel said, the life of the fin gall apparently a matter of complete indifference to him. “Why God does not strike all these heathen dead is a mystery to me.”

             
“Ask Father Gilbert.”

             
“I have. It’s a mystery to him as well.”

             
Máel Sechnaill watched as Brigit fed Harald broth. “Has he said anything?”

             
“He’s made sounds. Whether they are words or not, I cannot tell.”

             
“Perhaps we should get Flann to listen. Try and divine what these vicious animals are about.”

             
Brigit looked up at her father. She could hear that familiar tone in his voice. “Father, this one is a boy.”

             
“Boy... And a wolf cub looks the dear puppy, but still it will grow to be a wolf. So it must be killed first.”

             
“But you can’t kill Harald. Or the others. They are hostages. When the crown is brought to you, they must be released.”

             
Máel Sechnaill did not answer, but rather stared down on Harald, his look an odd mix of curiosity, revulsion, hate and indifference. “Of course,” he said, then turned and left.

             
Magnus Magnusson watched as the last of fifty horses was coaxed aboard the longship and tethered in place. Fore and aft the crew lifted the long oars from the V-shaped racks on the gunnels and passed them along to the men at each of the fifty rowing stations. In the bow, mail-clad and well armed, were the twenty men he had picked to go with him on his hunt for the Norwegians. In the stern, similarly equipped, stood Asbjorn’s men.

             
The shipboard part of their journey would not be long. Three hundred yards to the north shore of the Liffey, and then by horse along the rugged Irish coast.

             
Asbjorn the Fat came huffing up from the dock where he was supervising the loading of a cart onto a knarr that he himself owned. He, too, was dressed in a mail tunic, black from the oil that had been applied to it to keep it from rusting. The armor showed little sign of wear. His waist was bound around by a belt. A sword with an elaborately engraved silver hilt hung at his side.

             
How many cows died to make a belt big enough for that fat pig,
Magnus wondered.

             
“I hope you are right, Magnus, that the Norwegians went north,” Asbjorn said when he had recovered his breath. “After all this, we’ll never find them if they went south.”

             
“They went north,” Magnus said. “I had men follow.”

             
“An impressive degree of foresight. One wonders how much of this you knew beforehand.”

             
“Wonder if you wish. Foresight is something a man develops when he fights battles. It is hard for women and children and men who stay at home as...advisors...to understand. What is in the cart?”

             
“Food. Bedding. I provide for my men.”

             
“My men provide for themselves. That cart will slow us down. Leave it.”

             
“I’ll leave it if I decide to leave it. I take no orders from you.”

             
Indeed...
Magnus thought. Two leaders, each with his own hird, sent on the same mission. It could not be better organized for disaster. Magnus was certain that Orm knew it and planned it that way. Not that it mattered, really.

             
Kjartan Swiftsword waved from the steerboard of the longship. The horses were all aboard, the rowers had settled in place, oars held up. “Lets go,” Magnus said and he headed down to the dock. He did not wait to see if Asbjorn was following.

             
It took less than twenty minutes for the longship to cross from the south shore of the Liffey to the north. The first of the horses was untethered and led to the gangplank even as Magnus’s feet stepped onto the lush Irish grass. Asbjorn, who had elected to cross the river in his knarr, was fussing with the crew to see his cart safely offloaded.

             
The cart was still swinging from ropes made off to the yard when the last of the horses was led ashore. Magnus stepped down to the edge of the muddy riverbank.

             
“I told you that cart would hold us up, damn it.”

             
“Haul away!” Asbjorn called to the men at the fall of the tackle. They pulled and the cart lifted slowly off the deck and was guided onto a long gangplank run up over the muddy bank to the shore.

             
“We’ll waste more time raiding for food than it will take to get this cart ashore,” Asbjorn snapped. “Ease away, there!”

             
The cart was lowered onto the gangplank where a half-dozen men grabbed onto to keep it from rolling away. The tackle was cast off, the cart eased down the wooden boards, which bowed dangerously under the load.

             
“I admire your concern for your men’s bellies, but I suspect...,” Magnus began when the gangplank gave a great cracking sound and then buckled, snapped right in two, dropping the cart and the six men into the mud below.

             
“Catch up to us when you get this straightened out,” Magnus said. He turned and walked away before Asbjorn could make any reply. Twenty paces from the river, his men and Asbjorn’s men were saddling their horses.

             
“Mount up,” he shouted to the collected men, though he knew only his own men would follow his orders. Kjartan Swiftsword handed him the reins of his horse. He put his foot in the stirrup and swung himself up. He adjusted the shield that was slung on his back and saw that his sword was hanging right and his score of men did the same.

             
Asbjorn struggled ashore, climbing along the broken gangplank to avoid waddling though the thick mud. He would not tolerate Magnus riding off on his own.

             
“Go!” Magnus shouted. He reined his horse over and gave it a kick in the flanks, trotting off across the rolling countryside, with the pounding of twenty horses behind him.

             
They were in open country now, the green fields like long ocean rollers stretching away on either hand, broken here and there with clumps of trees and ragged stone walls that snaked between fields. Off to the east, visible when they crested the low hills, the straight horizon of the sea blinked in the muted sunlight. They rode on.

             
The Liffey and the longships were far behind them when Magnus finally twisted in his saddle to see who was following. His men were still riding in a tight group, grim-faced with bright colored shields slung over their backs. Half of Asbjorn’s men were there too, and though their loyalty was given to Asbjorn, Magnus knew them to be good men, hard fighters, reliable warriors. And they would be his men, before too long.

             
Behind them all rode Asbjorn, awkward and clearly uncomfortable. His heavy face was red and he was sweating quite a bit, but Magnus’s sympathy was with the horse, bearing its fleshy burden. Asbjorn might hate this hard riding, but he would think it preferable to letting Magnus ride off on his own.

             
They came at last to the high cliffs that looked down on the ocean below. Magnus reined his horse to a stop, swung his leg over and dropped to the ground. Behind him, thirty men did the same. He could hear Asbjorn grunting as he dismounted.

             
The longship was less than a mile off shore. It was exactly where Magnus had known it would be, crawling north along the coast, no sail set despite the fair wind from the south west. They were too far away to see any detail, but they could make out the steady rise and fall of the oars. Magnus smiled. He could almost hear the grousing of the men at the rowing stations.

             
“Well done, Magnus,” Asbjorn came huffing up behind him. “There they are.”

             
“There they are,” Magnus repeated. “Leading us at a comfortable pace to the Crown of the Three Kingdoms.”

             
“Comfortable, indeed,” Asbjorn grunted. “Plenty of time to off-load my cart. But now I’ve had to leave it behind, with half my men to bring it along. And us with no food.”

             
Magnus turned to Asbjorn. It was time to drive a verbal sword into his fat belly. The real one would come later. “My men supply themselves like Vikings, not like women who bring their provender with them.” He turned and looked north, and when he spoke again his voice was louder, his words for everyone to hear. “Five miles north along the coast there’s a monastery at a place called Baldoyle. It has not been put to the sword for years. We’ll sack it, take what we need, take what we want, and follow the longship. What say you, Asbjorn?”