MacAuliffe Vikings Trilogy 3 - Lord of the wolves (40 page)

Negotiations with Maelmorden stretched on endlessly, with a few minor clashes occurring between various troops.

They had Maelmorden well outnumbered, but Maelmorden had his uncle Niall, the Ard-Ri now, and if he were to die under such circumstances, Maelmorden might well claim the title. Though the son of the Ard-Ri frequently took the title from his father, it was not necessarily an inherited title.

A man had to prove his worth to be the Ard-Ri.

Niall"s sons were young—they had been kept home from the fighting.

In the Christian world it had become customary to pay danegeld, or bribe money, to send Viking invaders on their way. But though Maelmorden had called on their ancient enemies, the Danes, to do his fighting, he wasn"t after a prize of gold. He wanted the lesser kings to accept his authority, to bow down before him.

Long weeks into the campaign Conar stood once more with Leith, Eric, his father, and his other brothers on a field, with Maelmorden and his berserkers standing before him. Again Olaf set before him the demand that Niall be returned. He would never accept Maelmorden, nor his son after him. The king of Connaught cried out behind Olaf, and the other kings raised their voices.

Again Maelmorden went into a fury, swearing that Niall had little time left before his untimely demise.

In the end they all left the field. Tempers flared, skirmishes broke out. But there was no real fighting, and they returned to their encampments.

Conar slept that night right beneath the open sky. Watching the stars made him think of Ragwald, and then he thought of Melisande, though she was seldom out of his mind. He knew damned well that their position was precarious, and everyone knew that the Danes were amassing along the Frankish and Frisian coasts.

He wondered if there might have been some better way to answer her letter, then realized that there had not been.

He missed her incredibly. For all that so frequently rose between them, he missed her with an aching sense of loss that stayed with him night and day.

Night was worse, of course, because when he closed his eyes, the endless fields of men seemed to disappear, and he could hear her whispers again, see her as she walked to him across the room, naked. He could almost reach out and touch her.

In the long emptiness of the nights, when he reached over, his hands touched dirt where his wife might have lain.

There were women in the camp, but no matter how hotly his body burned, he had been startled to discover that he had no desire for simple appeasement; the little witch who had stolen his senses had also stolen his soul. He loved her. It was a strange emotion, not always so sweet, for it brought with it torture. He dreamed of her, he craved her, he thought of her by endless night and endless day.

Usually his dreams were sweet, but this night he found himself racing through the darkness, knowing he had lost her. He could hear the fierce pounding of his heart. His breathing was ragged and loud, his muscles ached and burned. He called her name and ran more quickly, and he heard her cry out in return, but he could not see her.

There were waves of the enemy before him.

He stopped and suddenly became part of an ancient tree that stood beside him. As the tree he could move through his enemies. He sought her again, searching high and low. He heard her voice.

They had buried her. She was deep in the earth. Her voice cried out to him softly now. Melisande … there were tears in it, she wanted to come home to him.

He was so close to reaching her. He heard her voice. Heard it again. He would reach her, no matter how the enemy surrounded him.

He awoke with a start, banging his head on a tree limb. Thor was at his side, gazing down upon him. He groaned and sat up, cradling his head. Nearby, his brother Leith stirred, having chosen to sleep under the stars as well, his saddle pack his pillow. Eric lay just beyond.

“Conar!”

He turned. Leith, grown into a serious man, no longer a boy who would tease a brother by seizing a play sword, was studying him with a puzzled frown.

“What is it? Are you all right?”

Conar nodded, studying his brother in return. “Why?”

“You"ve been tossing and turning, moaning in your sleep.” He didn"t flush easily, but he felt a seeping of color rise to his face. Damn her! His wretched dreams about her were even visible ones.

He hesitated a moment, standing, listening to his body creak as he stretched out the night"s stiffness. Leith and Eric both rose as well, still watching him.

Eric, more familiar with his life, asked him, “Are you worried about the situation at home?”

“I am always worried about the situation at home,” he agreed softly. He shrugged and grinned. “And when I am there, I worry about the situation here.” He paused a moment. “I had an interesting dream. That might stand us well.”

“What?” Leith demanded.

“We keep meeting them, army to army. What if we were to find out exactly where Niall was … and simply release him.”

“How?”

“One man slips in. One man, invisible when the enemy is looking for many.”

“Perhaps …” Leith said, looking at Eric.

They summoned their brothers and others in the family circle, then went to Olaf. Yet even before they spoke, they had sent spies out to the fringes of the enemy groups to learn where Niall was being kept.

“One man definitely risks his life. Perhaps capture, perhaps torture. Perhaps such a thing will cast us into further negotiations—” Olaf began.

“Father! How much longer can this go on!” Conar protested.

Olaf looked about. “Leith?”

“I believe my brother has a sound idea. Father, they keep us here endlessly, baiting us. We cannot rush them, fight them as we should, for if we were to slay Maelmorden, the Danes would slay Niall in retribution!”

“Who would go?” Olaf demanded.

“I would,” Conar said, dismayed by the chill that settled over him. “My dream, my thought. I must go.”

“How?”

“Monastic robes,” he said.

“My brother the monk!” Eric murmured, and there was a snort of laughter that broke some of the tension among them.

“Ah, but his habits have changed greatly as of late, haven"t you noticed?” Leith murmured. “What magic could have done this?”

“I believe she is tall, raven-haired—”

“And extremely willful and disobedient,” he replied, eyeing them one by one. “If we may get back to this?”

“Ah, of course. Back to business,” Leith stated.

“Father, I"d need to have secrecy to a certain point, then I"d need the whole of the army. I could get so far alone, then I would need help.”

“Niall is probably well guarded.”

“At the outer defenses. Within, I imagine he is watched by one or two men at a time. Yet his disappearance would soon be discovered, and that"s when the army would be so dearly needed.”

“What if Niall is injured, crippled?”

“It"s a chance I am willing to take, Father.”

“We"ll wait,” Olaf said. “We"ll wait until our people return and tell us what they know. Conar, stay a moment. I would have a word with you.” The others departed, and Conar was left alone with his father in the swiftly built wooden long house where they centered their command. Olaf strode some distance from him, then turned.

“Have you heard from your wife?”

A cold wave, like a wall of ice, seemed to fall over him. “No, I have not,” he said. “Not of late. She wrote when she had received a message from Ragwald about the number of Danes arriving, and I answered her. I have not heard from her again. What is it?”

“Nothing, perhaps. Erin has written that Melisande sailed with Rhiannon for Wessex, that is all. I had thought she might have written for your permission.” His temper soared, and his anger was doubled by fear. His mouth went dry.

“You"re free to return home, Conar. Someone else can carry out this plan.

If—”

“No, Father. I will carry out the plan. Today. Then I will be free to leave.” After a moment Olaf nodded. “Perhaps you are right. If you carry out this plan today, then we are all free.”

Their spies returned shortly. Niall was being kept in Maelmorden"s house, just behind the lines they had set for themselves. There were numerous people coming and going, indeed, members of the clergy, merchants, servants. The line of defense around the manor was all that protected it.

Niall and Eric were Conar"s escorts to the outer defenses. He left Thor in their care and knew that they would be waiting for him, that they would not fail him. Then, in his monk"s cape and cowl, he walked toward the enemy line.

They stretched out before him. Irishmen, Danes. Some in loose trousers, some in knee-high pants, their hairy legs bared. Many wore furs against the chill, all carried their battle-axes.

He was approached at last by a one-eyed man in a massive coat of bearskin.

“What do you do here?”

“I"ve come to tend to the soul of one you keep behind this line.”

“Niall?”

“Indeed. As you would seek to reach the halls of Valhalla, milord Niall seeks a different heaven, and might need guidance at this time.” The man grunted and told him to wait. In a while he was back, saying that Conar could go through. Maelmorden hadn"t given a damn about a black-cowled friar entering his domain.

Conar swiftly walked the distance from the lines to the manor which stood far back from them. Chickens and pigs blocked his way, even here, at a king"s house. It was the least well kept Conar had seen. His father"s Dubhlain was great with its walls, and his own fortress …

This manor was little more than wood and thatch, with strange additions built of wattle and daub.

He passed through the yard unmolested. A wide-eyed child greeted him.

The doorway was low. There were but two men before it. They ignored him, parting to let him enter, then continued with their conversation.

He ducked beneath the low frame of the doorway and entered the main room of the manor. There was a peat fire burning, and a veil of smoke filled the place, stinging his eyes. The floor was raw earth and rushes. Dirty, half-clad children scrambled about.

At a table in the center of the room Maelmorden sat, pointing out places on a rough map to the men who stood at his rear. He paused, looking up, when Conar entered the room.

Maelmorden was a tall, husky man, well built, with a wild mane of reddish brown hair and dark eyes. Conar had despised him from the moment he had first seen him—there was a flaw in his eyes, they were small, set too close together. They glinted quickly with greed.

Maelmorden looked up at Conar and grinned broadly. “You"re not one of mine, Brother, nor do ye have the look of a man of the cloth. But I hear you"ve come to tend to the Ard-Ri, and I"d not be denying any man his right to absolution.”

Conar bowed. “No last rites, Maelmorden. I"m a monk, not a priest. I"ve come only to give him company, spiritual guidance in these great days of travail.”

“He needs a priest,” Maelmorden said, and the men behind him burst into laughter.

Conar wondered if he hadn"t come just in time, if they weren"t planning his uncle"s murder even now.

“If he desires one now, I will send a man in my stead,” Conar assured him.

Apparently Maelmorden had given the matter enough time. He waved a hand in the air and beckoned to a thin, dark-haired woman who hovered in a corner of the room.

“Bring him to our—guest,” Maelmorden commanded.

He was taken down a long, dank hallway. A huge Viking sat on the ground before a heavy wooden doorway.

“The friar would enter,” the woman said.

She left him. The flame-haired Dane seemed completely uninterested in him.

He grunted and shoved the door open. Conar entered a small, drafty, peat-filled room with no windows. In the darkness he could barely see. He realized a man sat upon a bed of rushes on the floor, leaning against the wall.

“Welcome, Brother,” Niall said softly after a while. “Take your time entering. I have been here long now, and my eyes have grown accustomed to this darkness.”

Conar quickly made his way to his uncle, hunching down beside him.

“Have you come to raise my spirits, man? They have never fallen, and what comes will come, as is God"s will. Maelmorden will kill me, but he will never win. If my life no longer stands forfeit, my family will crush him.” His uncle sounded amazingly like his grandfather. Aed Finnlaith had been such a man, to calmly curl his fingers around that which he could hold—and defy fate when it could defy him.

“Aye, Ard-Ri!” Conar said softly. “But your family does not intend your life to be forfeit!”

“Who is it?” Niall whispered.

“It is I, Conar.”

He felt his uncle"s fingers touch his face. “Dear God, Conar! You"ve come alone? What foolishness! I have aged, my boy, my death would not be such a tragedy. You are young, with life stretched out before you!”

“Uncle, we haven"t the time to discuss that at the moment. I have to know, can you stand, can you walk?”

Niall was quickly on his feet, not unsteady in any way. “We risk all the fury of the gods!” Conar muttered.

“God, son. God. One God. This is Eire. Your father has turned Christian!” Conar sighed. “Uncle—”

“Aye, time, time! What is the plan?”

Conar was pulling off his robes. “Put these on.”

“But you—”

“I slay yonder dragon, lying at the door, seize his armor, and escort you out.

Do you see?”

“Aye, it could work, it could work …”

“It has to work!”

Conar left him and returned to the door. He watched the man and slowly drew his knife from his calf.