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

Máel’s death, the wailing and gnashing of teeth, Morrigan knew him for what he really was, a vicious, brutal man. She was certain his wickedness had not escaped the attention of her Lord, was certain that even before his body hit the sod, God had plunged Máel’s soul down into the depths of hell.
      His enemy on the field that day had been Cormac ua Ruairc, king of Gailenga, brother to Brigit’s late husband. The loyalties, the enmities, the intrigues of Ireland were like the Northmen’s carvings of mythical beasts, all interwoven and twisted around and around, endlessly complicated.
      Cormac had lost the day, and for his efforts to usurp the power of the high king, Lord of Brega, he had been tied to a stake and disemboweled before the remnants of his army. On the positive side, it made Cormac’s surviving troops welcome the chattel slavery that would now be their station in life.
      How Máel Sechnaill had been killed, no one knew. In the madness of the battle, no one had seen him fall. It was not until the men from Gailenga had called for quarter, had thrown down their arms, that the high king had been found, mud-spattered, wide-eyed, a great rent from a sword thrust in his neck.
      Morrigan ran her critical eyes around the church once more, frowned at the tall candles burning on either side of the altar. One was ten inches shorter than the other. It would certainly look better if they were the same height, but was it worth the expense of getting two new ones? If she left it, would it appear as if she did not care about Brigit’s wedding? In point of fact she did care. At present she thought of little besides Brigit and what might happen as a result of this marriage. She cared so much it made her wild with fury. She was like a wineskin, stretched to bursting with anger, but containing it, keeping it all inside.
      The candles were fine as they were.
      Morrigan heard a door open and the flames in the various candles swayed, guttered, then came to attention again as the door closed. Donnel swept into the church, his cloak hanging heavy and dripping off his shoulders, his shoes and leggings brown and glistening with mud.
      Donnel and his brother Patrick were sheep herders, or had been sheep herders, when they had come upon the young nobleman who was carrying the Crown of the Three Kingdoms to Tara, from whom the Northmen had stolen it. The sheep herders had brought the man to see Máel Sechnaill, and they liked what they saw of Tara. And Morrigan liked what she saw of them; young, strong and smart, and they were eager enough to never herd sheep again that they would do whatever was asked of them.
      “Donnel,” Morrigan said. “Are you just now back?”
      “Yes, ma’am,” Donnel said, giving a shallow bow, like a wealthy bishop genuflecting. “I come direct to see you, ma’am.”
      Morrigan nodded her approval. “Cloyne?”
      “Fair warned this week or more.”
      “Clondalkin?” Morrigan asked.
      “Clondalkin as well, if your men in Dubh-lin are to be trusted at all.”
      “Do you trust them?”
      “I do, ma’am. They’ve too much to lose, and naught to gain. Patrick feels the same.”
      Morrigan nodded. These young men were learning the rules of the game, leaning them fast. Information. Knowledge. That was what she had learned from that bastard Máel Sechnaill. The late high king had been sure to know everything that went on in his kingdom.
      Well, nearly everything.
      “You’ve made a good job of it, Donnel. Now, go and dry yourself, and eat and rest. I’ve more need of you, and I won’t have you laid low.”
      Morrigan did indeed have need of Donnel. And Patrick. And all the men she had working in the shadows. Morrigan’s brother, Flann mac Conaing, had taken command at Tara on the death of Máel Sechnaill mac Ruanaid. Flann had his following among the minor kings, the rí túaithe , who owed their allegiance to the high king at Tara. Flann was part of Máel