Dubh-Linn: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 2) (4 page)

  And then he reached it, and the land sloped sharp away, and Harald put his foot down in front of him and skidded to a stop. In the low place between that hill and the next, drawn up in a line several hundred feet long, was the real shieldwall, the real defense of Cloyne, and not a decoy which Harald now understood the first one had been. The Irish had hoped the Norsemen would do just what Harald had done, charge mindlessly after the retreating men and right into the arms of the real army.

 
Maybe the old men are not such fools
, Harald thought, not for the first time.

  The Irishmen below stood locked shield to shield, and behind them, archers stood with arrows knocked. The flanks of the shieldwall were anchored by mounted warriors with lances. Even young Harald, raw and inexperienced as he was, could see that these men would not be so easily brushed aside.

Harsh was the rift

that the wave hewed

in the wall

of my father’s kin.

                      Egil’s Saga

Brigit nic Máel Sechnaill, the new bride, the lovely young woman around whom the events of that festive wedding day revolved, sat all but ignored at the head table in the great hall of Tara. She felt the smile that was plastered to her face slipping away and she forced it back on, in the off chance that someone was looking at her. She reached for her goblet of wine and took a deep gulp. She hoped it would ease the memories of the morning past, and the anticipation of the night to come.

  The great hall was one of the features that set Tara apart from the other, less substantial royal residences within its sphere of influence. That spacious gathering place, scene of coronations, weddings, feasts, preparations for battle, made Tara more than just another seat of power situated within the confines of a ring fort, a smattering of round wattle and daub homes, albeit bigger than most. The hall was timber framed, heavy built, like the church, but twice its size. It was here that the local
rí túaithe
were wont to gather, summoned to councils several times a year, or when there was some threat to their region and they and their men were called up for military service.

  In either case, such gatherings turned invariably into raucous bacchanals. It was through copious food and strong drink, doled out under the high-beamed roof of the great hall, as much as through military strength or carefully arranged marriages, that the kings of Tara cemented their power.

  Brigit was certainly no stranger to such things. Indeed, she had endured dozens of them, but this was the first at which she was ostensibly the center of attention. Her previous wedding had been held at Gailenga, on the Leinster borderland, at the home of her husband, Donnchad Ua Ruairc. In the presence of the high king, Máel Sechnaill mac Ruanaid, and on Donnchad’s express orders, the
rí túaithe
who gathered for the royal wedding had all had been on their best behavior.

  This time, absent the intimidating presence of Máel Sechnaill, and with one of their own the bride-groom, the minor kings felt no such restraint. The space was loud with shouting, laughter, arguments. At the far end of the hall a huge fire burned in the hearth, warming the already warm room and filling it with a weird, undulating light.

  Sitting beside Brigit at the center of the head table, as poorly behaved as any of the
rí túaithe
, actually worse than most, was the groom, Conlaed uí Chennselaigh, a minor king from Ardsallagh, which was a minor kingdom to the north west of Tara. Brigit watched him chew – not a pleasant sight - then ducked aside as he hurled a chicken bone at one of the
rí túaithe
seated at the long table down the center of the hall. The bone bounced off the head of the intended target and the man looked up, furious, but then on seeing who had thrown it he laughed, a great guttural laugh, and Conlaed joined him.

 
Oh, Dear God in Heaven, preserve me
, Brigit prayed. But of all the
rí túaithe
Conlaed uí Chennselaigh was not the most objectionable, and indeed he had a number of attributes in his favor. He was young, certainly no more than ten years senior to Brigit, who was herself eighteen. He was good looking in a thick, muscular sort of way. His hair was blond and his eyes blue, which was important for Brigit’s purposes, and he was far too dim-witted to try anything as ill-considered as exercising any real authority. Indeed, he was too dim-witted to even wonder why the beautiful daughter of Máel Sechnaill mac Ruanaid, the most sought-after woman in Brega, would show this sudden interest in him.

  Brigit sighed, softly, as she watched her husband wipe mead from his chin with the sleeve of his tunic. It was her own weakness and stupidity, she knew, along with some damned bad luck, that had brought her to this place. But she was the daughter of Máel Sechnaill mac Ruanaid, descended from a long line of tough, sometimes brutal kings of Brega, men who did what they needed to do and did not agonize over it, and she would do the same. The past three months had been very instructive to Brigit. The scales had fallen from her eyes.

  And so she had taken uí Chennselaigh for husband. He was one of the only men she could count on. She could count on him to spend his days in hunting and drinking and gaming and silently blessing his good fortune. She could count on him to avoid any sort of official duties or responsibility, to actually be grateful to her for her willingness to oversee the running of Tara and the lands that fell under its influence. She could count on the men at arms under his command and the lands of his kingdom to now be hers. Conlaed would not involve himself in the struggle for power that Brigit could see coming between herself, Flann mac Conaing, and his sister Morrigan.

  This fight for control of the Kingdom of Brega would have been hard fought in any event, but now with the Crown of the Three Kingdoms sent to Tara, the stakes were higher by far. The crown was an ancient thing, how old no one knew, but it was rumored to have been crafted by the druids before the coming of the new faith. It was now held by the abbot of Glendalough, and it had not left that place in living memory. But ancient law decreed that the
rí ruirech
, the high king who was given the crown would be
rí ruirech
not just of Brega or Leinster or Mide, but of all three, until such time as the abbot called for the crown’s return.

  The Crown was to be given out only when there was a grave threat to the land. And there was. The spreading stain of
fin gall
, the white strangers, the Vikings in Dubh-lin. They needed to be eradicated, stamped out like vermin before they became too numerous to defeat. The
fin gall
could not be driven back into the sea if the three kingdoms were making war on one another. The Northmen were powerful, and only united could the Irish counter that threat. That was the purpose of the Crown. That was what Brigit would do. Once she had given birth to the
tánaise ríg
, the heir apparent, and through him solidified her own rule over the seat of the high king.

  “A toast! A toast!” Flann mac Conaing stood, three places down from Brigit, and raised his goblet. Flann had given Brigit away in the absence of her father. She had allowed him to do so, despite her suspicion that her father had actually been killed by Flann in the confusion of battle.

  “I give you Conlaed uí Chennselaigh of Ardsallagh, and Brigit nic Máel Sechnaill,” Flann shouted over the roar of the hall, which dimmed only a bit with his calling for the toast, “who I this day had the honor of giving away as bride!”

 
You’d like to give me away, wouldn’t you, you traitorous bastard
, Brigit thought as she smiled down at the several hundred or so drunken revelers.
Like to give me to the devil, I shouldn’t doubt.
But now was the time for unity, or the appearance of it, until Brigit was ready to make her move.

  A cheer rose up from the crowd in the hall, shouting, thumping of fists and cups on the table. With all the drink that had gone down their throats they would have cheered one of the ubiquitous hounds defecating on the floor. “May the happy couple live long, fruitful and joyous lives!” Flann concluded.

 
And may they rule with wisdom over Tara and the Three Kingdoms,
Brigit added silently, certain that Flann would add no sentiment of that kind. Flann raised his goblet, the others in the hall did as well, and they drank deep. And that was all Brigit could endure. She turned to Conlaed to make her excuses when another voice filled the hall. Now it was Father Finnian standing, still dressed in the white vestments he had worn while performing the sacrament of marriage. Finnian had been asked to sit at the head table while his fellow brothers sat elbow to elbow with the
rí túaithe,
sharing with them their enthusiasm for food and drink.

  Now he was standing, arms raised. “A blessing on the couple!” he called, and this time the noise in the great hall quickly tapered off to just a few voices, until those people caught on that they were the only ones still causing a ruckus and so dropped off into an embarrassed silence.

  “May the blessings of the Holy Trinity, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, shine down on this couple, and may their union be a means by which the Most High brings peace to our troubled land. May their union be fruitful, and may their spirits, united with our Lord Jesus, calm the troubled waters of Tara and the Three Kingdoms and bring everlasting peace and unity to our land.” His voice was clear and loud, his tone both subservient and commanding, a neat trick. Throughout the hall the
rí túaithe
muttered their “amen”s with an enthusiasm, or lack thereof, that was in proportion to their loyalty to Flann mac Conaing.

 
Morrigan will not care for that blessing
, Brigit thought. She looked around the room. Morrigan had been at the head table, by her brother, but now she was gone.

  Morrigan. She was the one, Brigit suspected, who was the ambition behind Flann. For years Flann mac Conaing had served her father loyally and well, while Morrigan had suffered in unimaginable ways at the hands of the
dubh gall
. Now she seemed eager to make up for those years. She had seen a path to power, and to the wealth of Tara, and she had eagerly pursued it, and she had taken her brother along with her. Like Brigit, she needed a man to be the face of the power she wielded.

  It took less than a minute after Father Finnian finished his blessing before the noise in the great hall built back to its previous level. Brigit turned to her husband and tugged on his sleeve, then tugged harder until she had his attention. “I am very tired,” she said. She spoke loud but he still had to lean in to hear her. “I am going to go to bed.”

  Conlaed nodded and smiled, his mouth full of food. “Will you remain here long?” Brigit asked, and Conlaed shook his head. “Very well. Good night, husband,” Brigit said. She stood and stepped down from the raised floor on which the head table stood, and the crowd in the hall banged the tables and cheered in appreciation of her. There was an undercurrent to their enthusiasm which she did not think was quite appropriate, but she ignored it, and them, and she sailed out of the hall. Had Máel Sechnaill still been alive, or Donnchad, any man who treated her with such disrespect would have seen his guts spilled out on the floor. But they were dead, and Brigit had only herself as lord and protector.

  As she moved to the door she heard a voice behind her. “Brigit? Brigit, dear, are you off to your chambers, then?” Father Finnian had also slipped away and come after her.

  “Yes, Father Finnian,” she said. “I’m very tired.”

  “May I see you to your door?”

  “I would be grateful.”

  Father Finnian pushed open the heavy oak door and they stepped from the loud and suffocating great hall into a night that was dark and cool, still wet from the rain that had fallen earlier. There were frogs and insects filling the night with sound, but they sounded quiet and muted after the noise of the wedding celebration.

  The two of them walked across the muddy grounds of the ringfort, toward the royal residence. This, like the church and the great hall, was something that set Tara apart from the seats of the minor kings. The homes of those lesser nobles tended to be roundhouses, wood structures with conical thatched roofs, larger versions of the cottages that most Irish occupied. But not that of the high king of Tara. Tara’s royal house, like the great hall, was timber framed, wattle and daub, a great rectangular building with a high thatched roof and a multitude of private chambers, an imposing and intimidating edifice by Irish standards.

  Brigit had always occupied a chamber in that house, but with the death of her father she had moved into the royal chamber, the largest room in the largest house. She had wondered before she did if Flann and Morrigan would try to claim it for themselves, but they were clever enough to avoid so brazen a grab for power.