Erinsong (39 page)

A dull ache in her chest,
Brenna had to admit the
child at Grainne’s
breast did have a cherubic look
about him.
Who’d have thought a brute like Kolgrim
could father such a sweet boy?

And what, by all that’s holy, am I to do
about it now?

***

The next morning, a thin
sun broke through the clouds but gave no added warmth to the earth.
A
chill wind, an early breath of winter,
swirled Brenna’s
skirt and slid its icy
fingers down her neck as she stepped out of the cottage. She hadn’t
slept well on
her pallet by the fire,
dreaming fitfully of a red-haired
lad and
her flaxen-haired man, but now the brisk air
jolted her fully awake.

Finian appeared from the trees, coming up a
path from the river bearing a yoke with two buckets of water,
sloshing full.

“Good morrow,” Brenna said
with false cheer, her decision made and nothing to be gained in
delay.
Her
gaze
swept around the small farmstead. A swaybacked gelding leaned, one
hoof crooked up in repose, against
the
cattle byre. “I notice ye have a spare mount there.”

“Not exactly a spare,”
Finian said as he set the
buckets down. “I
use old Reuben for spring planting.
He’s
all we have now.”

“And probably not much use
over the winter but to
eat up your extra
grain and fill a stable with muck, aye?”

“Ye’ve the right of it, there, miss.”

“Would ye lend him to me
then? ‘Tis a long way to
Donegal and we’ve
only the one horse between us, Murtaugh and me.” Brenna reached for
the leather pouch and held it out to him, giving it a shake. The
bag emitted a satisfying jingle. “This should do for his hire.
Murtaugh will be coming back by the time
ye have need of him and can see him back to ye safe
before spring.”

Finian hefted the pouch and looked inside.
His brows shot up in surprise.

“Ach! Beggin’ your pardon,
but ‘tis plain ye’ve no
eye for
horseflesh. ‘Tis not a fair trade,” he said. “This
would buy a dozen the likes of old Reuben. I
cannot take your coin under false pretense.”

Honest and fair. She already knew Grainne
would protect Rory like a she-wolf would her pup. She was satisfied
Finian had the character she wanted instilled in her sister’s son.
Could she ask for more?

Aye, to have him meself.

She quickly stomped down the selfish desire.
After seeing Rory with the couple, she knew she couldn’t yank the
child from the only parents he’d ever known. She couldn’t do it to
Grainne and Finian, who obviously adored Rory. And she wouldn’t do
it to Sinead’s boy.

“Let’s say the coin is for the lad, then,”
Brenna said evenly. “He needs to be taught his letters when he’s of
age. See to his education with the extra. It would please me
greatly to hear that your Rory grew to be a man of learning. Will
ye do that for me?”

“Aye, with a willing heart,” Finian said,
tugging his forelock in respect. “I’m after thankin’ ye.” He shook
his head in wonderment. “Learning for me son. That’s a bargain I
can live with.”

“There is a priest in Donegal, Father
Michael, who’d be willing to advise ye on the lad’s education. When
the time comes, I’ll have him arrange for a tutor to be sent to
ye.” Then Brenna’s face brightened with another thought. “Me father
is Brian Ui Niall of Donegal. He’d foster the boy when he’s of age
if ye like. Or mayhap ye and Grainne might wish to come to Donegal
as well. Me father would see ye settled on a fine parcel if it came
to that.”

“Murtaugh told me ye were a princess, and I
guess I hadn’t believed it till now.” Finian stowed the pouch of
silver and hoisted his buckets once more. “It wouldn’t do for the
likes of me to question me betters, but I do wonder at your
interest in Rory.”

Had he noticed that the lad’s eyes were like
hers?

She waved her hand dismissively. “He’s a
bonny child and of lively intelligence. Anyone can see that. If I
wish to help him along in life, ye’ll not deny me, will ye?”

“Not for worlds,” Finian said. “Thank ye, I’m
sure.”

Brenna turned away to curry Reuben and to
inspect her sorry end of the deal. She examined his hooves and
determined Reuben was strong enough to bear Murtaugh’s weight. The
gelding was decidedly long in the tooth but still sound.

“That was well done, lass,” the old man said
as he joined her in the stable yard.

“Aye, well, I didn’t want to think of your
old legs walking the whole weary way to me father’s keep.”

“I meant about the lad.”

“He belongs with Grainne and Finian. Ye saw
to that.” Brenna brushed Reuben’s flank so hard small plumes of
dust rose from his hide. “I don’t see as I had much choice.”

“Aye, ye did now,” Murtaugh disagreed. “And
for what it’s worth, ye made the right one.”

“Is that why ye brought me here? So it would
be my choice? Or maybe ye’ve been feeling guilty over keeping the
truth from me?”

“There is that,” Murtaugh said. “I didna hold
with the abbot’s decision in the first place, but he meant it for
the best. And as bitter as ye were at the time of the lad’s birth,
I cannot but think he might have been right. Dinna be surly toward
the abbot on that account. But I couldna let ye think the boy
dead.”

“What if I wanted to take
him now?” She put
down the curry comb and
leveled her gaze at the old
man. “Would ye
help me?”

“
What if
is a bridge over a far river that leads to fairy
land,” Murtaugh admonished as he started to load their provisions
on Reuben’s bowed back.
“Let’s be off.
We’ve a fair bit to go before we see
Donegal’s keep.”

“About that,” Brenna said.
“Do ye know the way to
Ulaid? To Conaill
Murtheinne?”

“Aye,” he said. “And it’s a good bit closer
than Donegal.”

“Good,” she said with a
sudden longing in her
chest, sharper than
a blade. If anyone could help her
fill the
lonely time till Jorand rejoined her, it was Moira. She felt the
strange little flutter in her belly again and smiled. “I’m needing
to see me sister Moira. Queen Moira of the Ulaid.”

As they plodded out of the
little clearing, Brenna
felt the peace of
forgiveness descend on her heart.
Sinead
could rest easy now. Brenna had seen to her
bairn and would continue to mark his progress to manhood. In
time, perhaps Finian and Grainne might even bring the boy to
Donegal.

Brenna’s conscience pricked
her. She’d never been
able to tell her
father that Sinead was dead. Once a girl took the veil she was all
but dead to her former life, so
perhaps
Brian Ui Niall need not be burdened with the
truth now. Mayhap it was a telling that could wait,
Brenna decided, till she could present her father
with a
living grandson to lessen the pain
of a dead daughter.
When Rory came someday
to Donegal, Brian Ui Niall would recognize Sinead’s slate-gray
eyes, and his own
for that matter, in
Grainne and Finian’s cherished lad.

Moonlight wavered in a
jagged streak of silver across
the
Irish Sea. From their lookout in the sheltered
cove, Jorand could see the Island of St. Patrick, a bare knob of
rock rising from the frothing waves, with its shrine casting a dark
silhouette against the star-dappled eastern horizon.

“We’ve been here two days,” Thorkill
grumbled. “Are you sure about the time?”

“
Ja,”
Kolgrim said. “The pig of an Irishman I
questioned about it wouldn’t have lied to me. I threatened to cut
off his ballocks if he didn’t tell me everything I wanted to know.
A man will tell you anything to protect that bit of skin.” He
laughed unpleasantly at his own crude humor, then shrugged, wincing
as he cradled his barely healed arm. It had not been well set and
though he still had use of it, Kolgrim would always be in pain.
“Of course, I cut ‘em off anyway when he was done singing. Now
he’ll sing a pretty tune for the rest of his unnatural
life.”

“Quiet,” Jorand ordered.
“Sound travels over wa
ter, in case you’ve
forgotten. Are you trying to give
away our
position?”

More than anything he
wanted to shut Kolgrim up. Jorand was grateful to be away from
Dublin
again. He didn’t feel at home among
his own people anymore, and he feared Thorkill would sense it.
But
being trapped in a longship with
Kolgrim was even worse. Listening to the man’s lewd tales of
cruelty made Jorand’s gut curdle. How had he ever fallen in with
this lot?

Before he left Dublin with
Thorkill, Jorand arranged
to award all his
property to Solveig, including his boat, as settlement in the
dissolution of their marriage. As he suspected, she wasn’t long in
replacing
him. The knowledge didn’t pain
him in the slightest.

He was more concerned about
the success of his current scheme. He wished fervently there’d
been
more time to plan, some way to know
if Bjorn’s part
in his plot had borne
fruit. The day after Jorand and
Brenna
left Dublin, Bjorn was to snatch Father Ar
maugh and sail him to Ulaid. Jorand figured the Irish
would never believe a Northman who warned
them
of an impending raid, so the priest
would have to do it. But would the Ulaid trust a priest who
ministered
to Northmen?

Through Armaugh, Jorand had
given the Irish everything they needed to mount an assault on
Thorkill’s raiders, including their present location. He scanned
the craggy mainland, looking for any
sign
of archers. From the sea, the Northmen were to
tally hidden, but from the cliff face, they were
vulnera
ble as a naked babe. If Moira’s
husband and his men
were there, the battle
would be over before it began.

Would the Irish go along
with Jorand’s scheme? Or
had they
imprisoned or killed his friends and pro
ceeded with the queen’s yearly pilgrimage as
planned?

Jorand found himself
praying often, though not for himself. He promised Brenna he’d
return to
Donegal, but he realized now
that was wishful think
ing. He fully
expected to die in the upcoming fight. It would be fitting for a
traitor and oath-breaker. He de
served no
less than death for his treachery. But he still prayed for
Brenna.

May she come safe to
Donegal, and may she find happi
ness, even
if it be without me.

And surprisingly enough, he
found himself pray
ing to her Christian
God. He was sure the Norse gods would take a dim view of him since
he was even now
betraying Thorkill and the
men who went viking
with him. But Brenna’s
Christ was denied by one of
his friends,
and yet He forgave the man.

If any god would listen to the prayers of a
traitor, surely Brenna’s would.

The waves lapping against
the side of the longship
and the cries of
night birds were such a constant he failed to hear them anymore.
Suddenly, his ears pricked to a new sound.

Feminine laughter. A
silvery peal floated over the
water.

Moira.

The distant outline of an ungainly Irish
craft appeared around a spit of land, sail billowed in the fresh
breeze. The flapping fabric glared white in the moonlight.

So they’d come just the
same. The damned stiff-necked Irish had sent defenseless women into
harm
even after being warned of the
danger.

Then he heard another
voice, lower in pitch, but
musical and
soothing nonetheless. Though he couldn’t
make out her words, the timbre was unmistakable.

Brenna.

Panic curled in his belly
like an adder poised to
strike. What was
she doing here? She should be safe
in her
father’s keep by now.

“Put your backs to it, men,” Thorkill roared.
“The virgins are here. Let’s not keep them waiting.”

Jorand’s mind whirled at this new
development. He gripped an oar, wondering how to keep Brenna out of
the coming melee.

Twelve oars lifted in
unison and sliced the dark waves, setting the longship bounding
toward the hapless Irish vessel. Thorkill ran up the broad sail,
and the dragonship quickened its pace over the
choppy waves, like a living predator hastening to
de
vour its prey.

“Row faster, damn you!” Thorkill
bellowed.

A woman’s scream pierced
Jorand’s ear. He couldn’t
tell whether it
was Brenna or not.

Christ, how am I to save her?

The daughters of Erin had
spotted the longship, but there was no way for the Irish coracle to
outrun them, even if the monks hadn’t foolishly lowered their sail.
It was as if they wanted the Northmen to
close the distance as quickly as possible.