Fin Gall (25 page)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

When passing

a door-post

watch
as you walk on,

inspect
as you enter.

I
t is uncertain

where
enemies lurk

or
crouch in a dark corner.

                             
Hávamál

              B

rigit struggled for all she was worth. She kicked her legs, beat at Harald’s back with her fists, but it seemed to have no effect. It was maddening. She could not believe the strength of the young fin gall’s arms, even after a week of wasting fever. Her only real experience with a man’s embrace had been with her husband, Donnchad Ua Ruairc. Donnchad was a warrior, and no weakling, but his strength was nothing beside Harald’s.

              She did not scream. She considered it, felt fairly sure that it would bring the guard running in pursuit, but still she held her tongue. If they caught Harald carrying her off they would kill him in some brutal way. Angry as she was, she could not bring herself to condemn him to being publicly and horribly put to death.

             
“Harald! No! Put me down!” she said in a harsh whisper, but he did not respond to the words any more than he responded to the kicks and punches.

             
Oh, God help me, I am such an idiot!
Brigit thought as she watched the road pass by beneath her, Harald’s goatskin shoes moving back and forth in a steady, unbroken rhythm. Stolen by a Viking whom she herself had set free. It was the last word in humiliation and it made her furious, and in her fury she began pounding on Harald again.

             
Brigit punched and kicked for as long as she could, and then she slumped over in exhaustion. Harald’s pace did not slacken at all.

             
Dear God, this is humiliating...
she thought. They were too far now from Tara for her screams to be heard, even if she wanted to scream, which she didn’t. For all the stories about Vikings raping their victims and carrying women off to be sold in the slave markets of the Moorish countries, she did not think that that was Harald’s intention. He was stealing her away, to be sure, but she did not think he meant her any harm.

             
I wonder if he wants to make me his wife?
she thought. The idea was only a little less worrisome than the slave market.

             
Brigit was spent, hanging limp over Harald’s shoulder like a sack of barley, when he finally slowed and set her down. She stumbled, dizzy, finding herself suddenly upright again. Harald’s big hand shot out and grabbed her by the arm to steady her. She saw the look of concern on his face. Whatever stupid thing he had in his dull Norse mind, he had no intention of hurting her.

             
“Well...” she said as the spinning faded. Harald was breathing hard and even in the dim light she could see his face was pale. He had used much of his diminished strength in carrying her off.

             
Maybe he’ll faint,
she thought. Then she could escape.

             
She looked around. They were on a road, surrounded by dark fields and darker patches of trees in the distance. Dawn was still some hours away. It was raining harder now, and Brigit felt the water seeping through the front of her clothing, which had remained dry while she was draped over Harald’s shoulder.

             
She had no notion of where she was. She did not often venture away from Tara, and when she did, it was with a company of guards in attendance. The Irish countryside was far too dangerous for a princess to travel alone. Even if Harald fell over dead she could not find her way back.

             
Harald crouched down, resting on his heels. He was still grinning his stupid grin and suddenly Brigit wanted to slap him, but she resisted. That would not help things. She tried to think of what
would
help things.

             
For several minutes they remained there, Harald smiling, Brigit trying to guess where she was and what she could do, the rain falling on them with increasing force. Finally Harald stood again, nodded to Brigit, then turned and marched off down the road.

             
Brigit watched him go. Harald was two perches away before he realized she was not following. He stopped, turned back and gestured for her. She hesitated.

             
She could not get back to Tara on her own. She did not know the way, and even if she did she would likely be robbed and killed or worse if she tried. Harald could not bring her back because he would be killed if he returned. She could not stay where she was. She was stuck.

             
“Ahhh!” she shouted, a sound of pure exasperation, then marched off after Harald.

             
They walked for hours, side by side. The dark sky lightened until it was wolf-gray and the rain continued to fall, sometimes just a mist, sometimes a torrent. The road they followed was soon no more than a long, winding patch of mud that grabbed at their shoes and splattered their legs. Brigit wondered if Harald knew where he was going. She did not see how he could, though he walked with the bold confidence of one quite familiar with his path.

             
If they had met with anyone, a sheep herder, a band of traveling monks, a theater troupe even, then Brigit would have asked the direction back to Tara, and would have promised a substantial reward for returning her to her father’s court. But no one was abroad in that driving rain.

             
It was around noon, by Brigit’s estimate, when her hunger and exhaustion finally became more than she could bear. She had by then fallen several paces behind Harald, and when she saw a large rock which presented an irresistible seat she stepped off the road and sat. She closed her eyes and savored the delicious sensation of taking the weight off her feet. After a moment she opened her eyes again. Harald was marching off, unaware that she was no longer behind him. She toyed with the idea of just letting him go.

             
“Harald!” she called at last, and he turned and looked back. “I need a rest.”

             
Dutifully he came back to where she was sitting and she had a sudden urge to scratch him behind his ears and see if his tongue would wag when she did. He sat beside her and smiled and she ignored him. She picked up the sewing basket she had set on the ground and dug around under the linen cloth. The biscuits she had packed for Harald were sodden, but with care she was able to pick them up complete. She handed one to Harald and he took it gratefully. It fell apart as he tried to eat it, but he caught the bits in his hands and put them one by one into his mouth. Brigit did the same.

             
The dried meat fared better, and was even somewhat improved for its soaking, which made it less leathery. They ate that as well, and Brigit felt a bit better, though she was soaked through and starting to shiver.

             
These miserable damned Norsemen may be used to this sort of thing, but I am not,
she thought. Then Harald reached a big arm around her and pressed her close to him. She could feel his warmth, even though various layers of wool, and her misery dissipated a bit, along with the cold.

             
After some time of that, Harald stood and helped Brigit to stand. Her feet ached and her muscles protested and she felt as if she could not straighten up. But Harald seemed not to be feeling any ill effects from the cold and the hardship of walking, despite his prolonged sickness. Brigit did not want to appear weak, so she forced herself to stand straight and to match Harald’s pace.

             
They had gone half a mile from their resting place when they saw the smoke. Brigit thought at first it was a darker, wispy cloud, low down on the horizon, but as they drew closer she realized it was smoke, from a hearth most likely, whipped away in the wind as it rose.

             
“Harald, look!” She tugged at the sleeve of his monk’s robe, which she had thought would be such a clever disguise, and pointed toward the smoke. Harald looked in the direction she was pointing. Finally he saw the smoke too. He nodded gravely and turned to walk in the opposite direction.

             
“Harald, no!” Brigit said. She pointed toward the smoke again, more emphatically this time. The sight of the smoke, and its promise of a warm, dry hearth, blankets and food, were suddenly irresistible to her. And where there was smoke there was someone who could take her back to Tara.

             
Harald shook his head and pointed in the opposite direction.
He thinks there’s danger there,
Brigit thought.
Or perhaps he really is stealing me.

             
It did not matter. The thought of a warm house, even some rude sheep herd’s cottage, now quashed any other consideration. She turned and marched off in the direction of the smoke.

             
She covered maybe ten paces before she felt Harald’s hand on her arm, but she was not going to be carried off again. She whirled around, breaking his grip, and smashed the sewing basket into the side of Harald’s head. The thin reed basket was too insubstantial to make any real impression, but from surprise alone she managed to knock Harald clean off his feet. She wound up to kick him hard but he was faster than that, sweeping his leg in an arc and knocking her feet out from under her. She fell with a grunt, right on her rear end, scrambling back to her feet before Harald could pounce.

             
She turned to face him, furious, the basket held ready to hit him again, but to her surprise Harald was laughing. He got to his feet, slowly, smiling, keeping his eyes on hers as he did. He picked up the two spears he had dropped with her surprise attack. He nodded and pointed toward the smoke.

             
Brigit lowered the basket. She nodded, and walked off. She felt in charge, in control, for the first time since the fight with the guards that morning. It was a good feeling. Brigit was used to being in control, and she liked it.

             
The source of the smoke was a mile away, at least, hidden behind a low hill. Brigit and Harald crossed the open ground that ran up the hill, and then suddenly, as they neared the crest, they saw spread out below them a river, gray under the thick clouds and fog.

             
They both stopped, surprised by this unexpected sight. It was not a stream, but a substantial stretch of water, half a mile wide, and rolling along to the eastward, its surface broken and confused in the rain.

             
“Boyne,” Brigit said, pointing, for this had to be the River Boyne. There were no others this substantial within a day’s walk of Tara.

             
“Boyne,” Harald said, nodding and smiling. The sight of water seemed to have cheered him greatly. Brigit wondered if he understood that Boyne was the river’s name, and not the Irish word for river.

             
Not that it mattered in the least. Nor did the sight of the river distract her long from her goal of reaching the house beyond.