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

say Finnian was in any way disrespectful. He was not. Reserved. That was how he was best described. Reserved. He was not old, in his thirties, perhaps, and even the tonsure could not detract from his remarkably handsome face; nor could the loose brown robes of his calling entirely disguise a strong and athletic frame. Ireland was a land of abundance, and the monks ate well, and on some it showed. But not Father Finnian.
      Morrigan could not help but find him appealing. She had had dreams about him, unbidden nocturnal visions, and that disturbed her profoundly. In confession she could not bring herself to speak of her attraction - the word lust had come to mind, and she recoiled at the thought – and her failure to confess left the sin hanging and unforgiven.
      “Is there anything more I can do, Father Finnian?” Morrigan asked. The monk looked around the church, blue eyes taking in the fresh rushes on the floor, the swathes of bright colored cloth, the candles adorning the alter. He nodded, and his lips turned up in just a hint of a smile.
      “No, child, it appears you have seen to everything. You know, this church and all of Tara would be swallowed up if you were not here to look after it.” The words were kind, but the tone was no more obsequious than a comment about the weather.
      “Well,” Morrigan said, “it seems to have stood for all the years I was a slave to the dubh gall,” the words coming out more bitter by far than she had intended. She felt her face flush, but Father Finnian just nodded, with that look of calm understanding.
      “It stood, child, but it did not stand strong.”
      Finnian was dressed in his white vestments now, not the course brown robe in which he was most often seen. Of the many men in the order (and it was one of the most populous in Ireland, in no small part because of the protection that the ringfort of Tara offered against the ceaseless ravages of the Norsemen) Father Finnian was one of the few ordained to the priesthood, thus one of the few who could perform the sacrament of marriage. The hem of the garments were wet and plastered with mud and it was everything Morrigan could do to not snatch them up and try to rub them clean.
      Then, from above their heads, the bells of the church began to ring, calling those who had been waiting, the retinue of Tara, the rí túaithe , anyone of any significance within twenty miles, to the wedding of Brigit nic Máel Sechnaill, daughter of the late and greatly mourned Máel Sechnaill mac Ruanaid.
      Father Finnian turned to Morrigan. “The time is here,” he said.
      Indeed , Morrigan thought.
     
     
     
     
                 
     
     
     
     
     
     

Chapter Three
     
     
     
     
     
     
    There are ax-ages, sword-ages-
    Shields are cleft in twain, -
    There are wind-ages, wolf-ages,
    Ere the world falls dead.
                                                         The Fooling of Gylfe
     
     
     
     
     
    Thorgrim Night Wolf was tired.
      He was tired of the voyaging, tired of the thousand concerns that were the lot of any leader of men, weary of consideration. But for all that, he could not deny the stirring in his blood when he heard the bow of Thunder God scrape up on the beach, leading the other ships in.
      Starboard and larboard, the men aboard Black Raven gave one last pull, and as the momentum carried the ship the last fifty feet to the beach, Arinbjorn called out, “Ship oars!” As one, the long sweeps came inboard and the oarsmen held them straight up. Thorgrim tried and failed not to glance in Harald’s direction, but the boy was handling his oar as well as any of the more experienced men.
      A Viking raid. Tired as he was, he loved this. It reminded him that he was still alive. And he knew that if, in an hour’s time, that was no longer true, then he would die the way a man was supposed to die.
      “Who is that fellow?” Thorgrim asked Arinbjorn as