Dubh-Linn: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 2) (10 page)

 
Bloody whore…make me look the fool…does she think me not man enough to rut with her?
With each swallow, with each moment, his anger and confusion grew. And then another thought came to him, shot out of the dark like a bolt of lightning.

 
What if she was with child when we wed, and she married me just to make others believe the bastard was not a bastard?
With that thought, the lightning spread until the whole puzzle was illuminated, lit up bright. All the disparate and scattered bits of his scattered thoughts suddenly fell into perfect order.

  Conlaed pounded the table and shot to his feet. “Traitorous bitch!” he shouted, so loud the other men at the table suddenly looked up at him. They were silent, just for a beat, and then one shouted, “Do you mean Aidan, here?” and the rest roared with laughter.

  “Bitch!” Conlaed shouted again and he grabbed the edge of the table and flung it over, spilling food and drink on the hard-packed dirt floor, sending half the men leaping clear as it fell. The
rí túaithe
were bent double with laughter, hardly able to speak.

  He turned on his heel and staggered purposefully for the door.
Find out if she’s with child, find out who…the bloody…who…
Behind him, the laughter and shouting of the men of the hunting party did not diminish a bit. No one made a move to follow Conlaed uí Chennselaigh from the room, no one

asked him to where he was bound.

When we parted, flaxen goddess,

my ears rang with a sound

from my blood-hall’s realm.

                                                          Gisli Sursson’s Saga

Through the thick walls, tapestry-covered, though the shuttered windows of the royal household, Brigit had heard the shouting of the guards, the creaking of the main gate swinging open as Conlaed and his hunting party returned. She had felt as much as heard them go by, the pounding of their horses’ hooves setting up a faint vibration in the floor and walls. And then, nothing.

  It had been that way for a week, every night since her wedding. Alone in her dim-lit room she braced herself for the possibility that Conlaed uí Chennselaigh, her husband, would make an appearance in her bed chamber.
Their
bed chamber.

  That possibility created a great stew of emotions in her mind. Fear was one, maybe the most prominent one. Hope. She had lured Conlaed into marriage for the express purpose of quickly consummating it and giving legitimacy to her child. Luring Conlaed with the tacit promise of wealth and sex had been about as difficult as luring a ravenous wolf with a slab of raw meat, which made her present situation all that more inexplicable. But if he would not cooperate with regard to consummating, then she had made a terrible mistake.

  Anticipation? Yes, she felt a bit of that. Brigit was not adverse to the attentions of men. It was what had put her in that awkward situation to begin with. In the end she looked on Conlaed’s appearing in her bed chamber the same way she might look on a visit to the barber surgeon to have a tooth out – as a thing to be dreaded but which could not be avoided, with a faint hope it might not be as bad as she thought, and the near certainty her situation would be much improved when it was over.

  She ate alone in her bed chamber as she had for all the past nights, and listened for the sound of his approach, but there was nothing. The night was still, the quiet punctuated occasionally by a barking dog or a muted laugh or shout from the great hall. She worked at her embroidery by the gutting light of a candle until her eyes began to shut of their own accord, then she set the work down on a table and sighed. She was wearing a fine white linen leine that gently hugged her body and featured a neckline that plunged down to reveal the tops of her breasts. It had made her feel desirable when she put it on, but now it made her feel foolish.

  Certain at last that Conlaed would not be making an appearance any time soon, if ever, Brigit stood, stretched, then climbed into bed and pulled the heavy blankets and furs over her. She could not imagine what the problem was. She was showing just a bit, but she did not think enough that Conlaed would notice. Every man had always reckoned her a great beauty, and she was sure she was not so changed as to alter that.

  She had heard that there were some men who preferred the company of other men, not just in fellowship but also in what would normally be a woman’s office. The idea seemed unfathomable to Brigit, and she was not even sure how it would work, but she was beginning to wonder if Conlaed was such. And so her mind turned to thoughts of how she might now rid herself of this problem.

  For some time she lay awake, staring into the dark, her mind racing with thoughts of her predicament, and paths that would lead her out of it, and lead her son, if such he was, onto the throne of Tara, preferably with the Crown of the Three Kingdoms on his head. She thought of Harald, his young, perfectly sculpted body, the ease with which he had killed the men who had tried to do unspeakable things to her. She could see his long, blond hair, the voluptuous curve of the muscles in his arms.

  At some point, in the dark hours, she drifted off to sleep and her sleep was sound, her body compressed under the pile of bed clothes. She dreamed an elaborate dream of being chased by some unseen thing, racing for the door of the church, slamming the door against the approaching menace, and then she was awake, her eyes open, staring out into the dark.

 
What was that
? she thought. Had the slamming door been just in her dream, or had the dream incorporated the real sound? She cocked her head and now she could hear fumbling in the passageway outside the bed chamber, and she thought she heard a low, muttering voice. Conlaed, come at last? If so, he was likely too drunk to do her any good.

  She sat up and looked toward the door, but there was no light at all in the bed chamber, and she could see nothing. She heard a hand on the latch. The door swung open and the faint light of a candle spilled into the room. Conlaed was holding the candle, and he was not a pretty sight.

  “Conlaed…” Brigit called out hopefully. “Husband…?” She pushed the bed clothes off her legs and swung her legs off the bed. Conlaed closed the door behind him.

  “Stand up,” Conlaed growled and he took a step across the room and set the candleholder on the table. Brigit stood. They looked at one another. Brigit could see that Conlaed was drunk, quite drunk. He swayed a bit as he stood and his head was cocked forward. He was scowling. His brows were crushed together.

  “What is it, husband?” Brigit said. She spoke softly, soothingly, as she would to a dangerous animal from which she could not escape. She was afraid.

  “Disrobe,” Conlaed said.

  Brigit’s hand went to the neckline of her leine, but she hesitated. Did he mean to bed her like this? She had prepared herself for any number of unpleasant situations, but this was beyond what she was ready for. “Why?” she asked. “What do you mean to do?”

  Conlaed took a step forward, the motion pure menace. “I said disrobe!” Three words, rising in volume until the last syllable was a full shout. Brigit pulled the neckline of her leine closed.

  “Husband, you are in your cups,” Brigit said, still in her soothing tone. “Come to bed.”

  Conlaed took another step. “Are you with child?” he demanded. Brigit sucked in her breath. The question was like a punch in the gut and she had not seen it coming.

  “How could you think…how could that be?” she stammered.

 
Morrigan, you hellish witch
, she thought.

  Conlaed took another step toward her. His hand came around in a great arc. The swing was slow and clumsy and Brigit saw it coming, but she was paralyzed by the shock of the thing and could not move. Conlaed’s open hand hit her on the side of the head and sent her staggering, knocked her right off her feet. The flame of the candle seemed to separate into two, three flames, the room whirled, and the concussion of the blow shuddered through her skull as she fell across the bed.

  She pushed herself up on her elbows, pushed the hair from her face. Conlaed was standing over her, his open hand now clenched in a fist. “You whore! You damnable whore! I asked you if you were with child!” His arm shot out and he grabbed a handful of her leine and jerked her to her feet. Conlaed may have been stupid, but he was a man of great physical strength, and he could jerk her around like one of the cloth dolls she had played with as a girl.

  Their faces were no more than a foot apart and Brigit could see the unchecked fury in Conlaed’s eyes. But in the few seconds it had taken for him to pull her to her feet, Brigit had passed from fear to shock to her own level of fury. She was not a cloth doll. She was not bloody meat to be thrown to the dogs. She was Brigit nic Máel Sechnaill, daughter of Máel Sechnaill mac Ruanaid, the high king of Tara.

  “Go to hell, you pathetic pile of horse shit,” she said, her voice no more than a growl. She raised her hand in a fist and when Conlaed’s glance shifted in that direction she kicked him hard in the crotch. It was a solid blow, but the aim was off, and when Conlaed released his grip and doubled over it was as much from instinct as pain.

  Still, it was enough. Brigit shoved him and raced off to her left, to where she would have fighting room. Conlaed roared, straightened, plunged after her. Brigit grabbed a wide, shallow wash basin on a table by the wall and whirled around just as Conlaed closed with her. The water from the basin hit Conlaed first and then the earth ware bowl smashed against his face.

  “Whore!” Conlaed shouted and grabbed at her, but she was past his grip and heading for the other side of the room. An iron candle holder, a tall one, floor standing, was near the head of the bed and Brigit managed to grab it with two hands like a broadsword and swing it around as she turned. Had Conlaed been a foot further behind, the base would have taken him in the head and ended it there, but he was faster than that, right on Brigit’s heels, and the stand bounced against his shoulder, knocking Brigit off balance.

  In that instant Conlaed was on her. His two powerful hands grabbed her neck, thumbs pressing into her throat and squeezing hard. Brigit felt her eyes bulge, her hands flail and claw at Conlaed’s face, but his grip did not falter, his expression of pure hatred did not change, and he squeezed harder still.

  The room began to swirl, the pain in her throat was excruciating, as if he was crushing the bones in her neck. She clawed at him, slashed at him with her nails, kicked his shins. She felt the consciousness draining from her, but still she fought. Her hand fell on something at Conlaed’s side, the hilt of his hunting dagger. With never an organized thought she drew it free, cocked her elbow and drove the needle blade into Conlaed’s stomach.

  The effect was instantaneous. His hands fell from her throat, grabbed at the dagger, but Brigit pulled the blade free before Conlaed could touch it. They staggered away from each other, Conlaed bent in the middle, hands clamped on the wound, Brigit reeling and gasping. Conlaed’s mouth was open, his eyes wide. She could see the dark blood running over his fingers.

  Their eyes met, and Brigit felt her own blood rise, the blood of generations of Irish kings coursing through her, and she felt her fury far beyond anything she could have imagined. This lowly piece of garbage had struck her? Her? Brigit nic Máel Sechnaill?

  “You son of a bitch!” she screamed and stepped forward and drove the dagger into Conlaed guts one more time. He made a gasping, gurgling sound. His eyes bulged. Brigit grabbed his hair and pulled him upright and stabbed him again. He tried to double up but she would not let him. Instead she held him up by a handful of his hair, looked into his eyes, made sure he was looking into hers, and then with a great arching slash of the dagger opened up his throat with a cut so deep she felt the blade bounce off bone.

  Blood sprayed from the wound, showered her, but she did not flinch from this baptism, did not move; she just watched at Conlaed flailed his arms and blood erupted from the gash. Then she shoved him aside, let him drop to the floor and kick out the last thirty seconds of his insubstantial life.

  Brigit watched him die. She felt nothing. The fury began to ebb and her hands began to tremble, not with fear or disgust or remorse, but with the excess of energy still coursing through her. She tried to drop the dagger on Conlaed’s now still body but already the blood had congealed enough that it stuck to her skin and she had to use her left hand to peel it free. She sat down on her bed, stared vaguely at the inert form lying on the floor.

 
Now what?
she wondered.