Dubh-Linn: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 2) Read Free Page B

of advantages on our side. Surprise is just not one of them .
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     

Chapter Two
     
     
     
     
     
     
    It is rare to find one to trust
    amongst the men who dwell
    beneath Odin’s gallows
    for the dark-minded destroyer of kin
    swaps his brother’s death for treasure
                                                  Egil’s Saga
     
     
     
     
     
    The church that stood within the protective circle of the ringfort, the ringfort that surrounded Tara, the seat of the high king of Brega and some said of all Ireland, was nothing terribly remarkable, Tara and Ireland being as they were on the fringes of the civilized world. It was timber framed, rectangular, of no great size. But the high-peaked roof was made up of new thatch, the long dried reeds intricately braided and twisted around the peak and eaves. The walls, wattle-made, were smooth and whitewashed until they seemed brilliant on those remarkable and few days when the sun shone. The windows sported glass panes.
      Inside it was tidy, scrubbed and swept from tabernacle to vestibule. It looked as good as it was going to look, which was only proper, because on that day, the same day that Thorgrim Night Wolf and Harald Thorgrimson were preparing for a bloody fight on Irish soil, a royal wedding would be taking place.
      Had it been summer, the rafters and beams and the altar deep in the interior would have been brilliant with bursts of colorful wildflowers - bindweed, pink willowherb, yellow marsh ragwort and little robin – made up in raucous bouquets. The sun might even have been shining in blue skies, the windows and doors of the church open and sweet warm air blowing through.
      But it was not that time of the year. It was early spring and the skies were a gray that sometimes bordered on black and the rain was pouring down. The church was draped in swathes of colorful cloth, but that was a poor substitute for the flowers. The windows and doors were shut against the driving rain. The gloom of the church’s interior was dispelled at intervals by torches and candles, but still much of the space was lost in deep shadow, despite it not being quite noon. The stone floor was already slick with mud, and that just from the abbot and the women of the court getting the place ready for the joyous occasion.
      In command of the ceremony, overseeing preparations like a king at the head of an army, Morrigan nic Conaing whisked around the church, taking care not to slip on the glistening floor. She paused by the altar, looked down the length of the aisle and frowned. By the time all the guests had filed in, the mud would make that aisle genuinely treacherous. The bride might well slip and come crashing to the stone floor.
      Hmm... Morrigan considered the possibility. Would that be a bad thing? There were certain aspects of such an accident that might recommend it. But it was her brother, Flann mac Conaing, who would be giving the bride away, walking her down the aisle. If the bride went down, she might take him with her. It would do little to bolster his position at Tara to have him flailing on the muddy floor in a tangle with some pathetic tart in a near-white dress.
      “You there, Brendan,” she snapped at a slave who was scraping wax drippings from the floor.
      “Mistress?” he said, his tone properly cowed.
                  “See there are fresh rushes to lay along the aisle here. See that they are put down just before the guests take their places.”
      “Yes, ma’am.” That was all Morrigan wanted to hear.
      The bride was Brigit nic Máel Sechnaill, daughter of Máel Sechnaill mac Ruanaid, late high king of Tara, who had been cut down while fighting one of the many minor squabbles for power in which the numerous kings of Ireland were always engaged. For all the mourning at