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

Sechnaill’s derbfine , his family going back four generations. They were, in fact, second cousins, and that was enough under Irish law to give Flann a legitimate claim to the throne.
      But just because Flann had a claim to the throne, and was sitting on it now, did not mean it was his. He was not the tánaise ríg , the heir apparent. If Brigit gave birth to a son, grandson of Máel Sechnaill, there was every chance that the little bastard might be looked on as the tánaise ríg , and Flann – and Morrigan – would be out as soon as Brigit could arrange it. That could not happen.
      Despite being of the royal line, Morrigan had been taken captive by the dubh gall years before, had ended up as a thrall in Dubh-linn. She had suffered years of humiliation; raped, beaten, starved. And when she had the means to escape, word had come that Máel Sechnaill wished her to remain, so that she might keep an eye on the Norsemen in Dubh-linn, and keep Tara informed of what they were about. Years more of suffering were hers because of that, years of terror and degradation, until at last she had helped Thorgrim Night Wolf and his band escape from the Danes, and had fled the city with them.
      No. After all that, after seeing her brother rise to hold the throne at Tara, with the Crown of the Three Kingdoms in his possession, after enjoying the exalted position that his place gave her, she would not be pushed aside by some empty-headed little whore. And from her place at Tara Morrigan would quench that red-hot ember that burned in her, that hatred for all the heathen pigs who came across the sea in their longships and defiled her Ireland. If there was one thing she had learned from the bastard Máel Sechnaill, it was how power was gained and kept. And she had not been idle, not idle at all.
      “Thank you, ma’am,” Donnel said. He made another shallow, awkward bow, an imitation of the courtly manner which had been utterly foreign to him less than a year before, turned and was gone.
      “Very well!” Morrigan clapped her hands loudly to get the attention of the servants and slaves working at their various tasks. “It is near time, finish up and be quick about it.” It had been half an hour at least since the Angelus bells had chimed, and the monks who lived in the monastery within Tara’s ringfort would be finishing their prayers and turning their attention to the nuptial ceremony.
      The sound of the rain outside grew suddenly louder, and a blast of wet, cold wind wrapped around Morrigan as the main door to the church opened and Father Finnian came in, pushing the door closed against the storm. A cloud of dried rushes lifted in the wind and scattered along the floor of the nave.
      “Father Finnian,” Morrigan said, bowing her head in a respectful manner.
      “Morrigan.” Finnian lifted his hand and made the sign of the cross toward Morrigan, and Morrigan bowed deeper and crossed herself in thanks for the blessing.
      Of course she would have asked him to perform this atrocity , Morrigan thought. Morrigan was nothing if not true to her faith. It had sustained her during her years of captivity. She had spent hours meditating on the sufferings of Christ and of beloved Saint Patrick, he also a slave. It was one of the few things that had eased the agony of her ordeal.
      She loved all of the priests and brothers of the monastery. They were good men, simple men, for all their learning, steady and devout. But Father Finnian was different. He was an enigma. He was not much given to talk, for one thing. This set him apart from the others, who seemed to chatter away ceaselessly, as if to exercise their gratitude at not having had to take a vow of silence. Nor did Father Finnian show much deference to Morrigan’s new status. The others, unsure how the power struggle would shake out, sought to win the good graces of all, but Finnian took another tack, and seemed not to care about the good graces of any.
      That was not to