monks here, it seemed, for all the renegades had been laid out and six were dead of crushed skulls. The only casualty had been one monk with his thumb flattened — carelessly getting it between skull and hammer — and Congalach with an arrow through his forearm, though it was his pride that truly smarted.
It must have come as a shock to Gorm and Fridrek, two of the dead, to find wolves when they sought mice, Crowbone thought. He asked if that had been the way of it when Oengusso brought him broth and the monk pursed his fleshy lips and frowned.
‘A person who would distress thee more, thou shalt not admit him to thee, but at once give him thy benediction should he deserve it,’ he said piously. ‘As the blessed Coluim would have it. Or thereabouts. So we gave them benediction.’
‘With what — a forge hammer?’
‘The holy cross,’ Oengusso replied blandly and fished it out from under his thick, rough tunic; Crowbone blanched, for it was as big as any forge hammer, suspended on a thick braided cord, the ends of the crosspiece capped with black iron, dented and streaked.
‘I had this from owld Brother Conchobar, who had it himself from one who knew it to have been wielded by Abbot Cathal of Ferns,’ Oengusso went on beatifically. ‘That was a wheen of years ago, when the monastery of Taghmon, assisted by Cathal mac Dunlainge, king of Ui Chennselaig at the time, made bloody war on the monastery of Ferns, in which four hundred were killed. Cathal made himself vice-abbot of Ferns after the victory.’
He went on, while Crowbone stood, mazed and wary of the room, which was still not as steady as he would have liked. It was a long litany of head-bashing, attack and counter-attack between Clocnamoise, Birr, Durrow, Drumbo, Taghmon and a score of other Irish monasteries. By the time Crowbone had finished the broth, he was reeling with Oengusso’s tales and had made up his mind that raiding Irish monasteries was not a sensible or easy occupation; if he wanted silver for ships and men he would look elsewhere than the Christmenn of Ireland.
He was relieved when the monk tucked the Christ amulet back inside his tunic, but impressed; this was the first time he had come on Christ priests who would fight and who sired sons with no shame, though Orm had told him of a Brother John whom he had met and travelled with. He had been Irish, too, Crowbone recalled.
‘You should not be on your feet.’
The voice brought both of them round and Crowbone smiled. Thorgunna stepped forward, neat in a sea-grey dress fastened with a loop of braided leather and wearing a white headsquare — it was a strange garb for her to be seen in, for Crowbone had usually seen her in brighter clothing and with more silver hanging off her, while the headsquare had not been part of her dress at all.
‘It is the way Christian women wear it,’ she answered, seeing his look. ‘If they are married.’
‘You are still married, then …’ Crowbone moved slowly towards her and took her hands in his own. ‘If so, there is a husband looking for you.’
‘You have seen him recently?’
Her voice, he thought, held only an echo of eagerness and he was sorry to hear so little.
‘Aye, not so long since. He seeks word of you, though he is in Gardariki lands at present. Conspiring with Vladimir, possibly.’
She heard the bitter bite of that and studied him a little. How he had grown — fine and tall and true. As fine and tall as any son she had hoped to have …
Crowbone saw the sudden flick of her head and the brightness in her eye, thought it was about Orm and was confused — apathy and now tears?
‘You have quarrelled with Orm,’ she said and he blinked a bit, wondering how she had reached out and grabbed that idea from the air. Before he could think, his mouth answered.
‘I am certain he has betrayed me.’
There. He could scarcely believe he had said it at all, but when it was out, he knew it had tumbled from his heart. Oengusso, not part of this and bewildered, shuffled his feet and looked from one to the other, as if it was a blow-for-blow
Thorgunna showed no surprise; Crowbone had never been able to keep his heart stopped up when she asked and she was pleased that growing up with the games kings play had not robbed him of it. Not yet, at least.
‘Why do you believe this?’ she asked and the dam in him split, spilling the whole tale of it through the cracks until, at the end, he had to sit down again. He felt better, all the same.
Thorgunna tasted the wormwood in it, saw his wavering pride and uncertain strength. Olaf Tryggvason knew what a king should be and would try to make himself one, she thought sadly, but it would eat the best of what made him a man.
‘I never liked this Martin,’ she said eventually. ‘Sleekit. Anything he was involved with always was rancid as old cod. You think he killed this Drostan?’
Crowbone nodded, too numb even to speak.
‘You are after thinking that he sent word to Orm, then went round all the others — Dyfflin and Orkney and the like — to set a trap?’
Again he nodded.
‘You believe Orm knew it was Martin who sent word? That he sent you without telling you of this because he desires this silly axe for himself?’
It was the sick heart of what Crowbone believed and she saw it in his eyes. For a time, she did not say anything at all and, eventually, Crowbone regained some strength, so she went on.
‘The matter of Eirik’s axe is certainly true,’ Thorgunna said, ‘otherwise there would be nothing to tempt Dyfflin or Orkney at all. Martin will be promising them a dazzle of prizes. Olaf Irish-Shoes needs men and the axe will also make him feel he has one more triumph over his old enemy, Eirik. Gunnhild in Orkney — well, you know more of that. She wants you as much as she wants her man’s old axe.’
‘I had worked this much out,’ he answered and she raised an eyebrow.
‘Had you now? This cleverness did not give you cause for an easy sleep, or ease the worry of what Orm’s part in all this was.’
He acknowledged it with a flap of one hand and Thorgunna sucked in a deep breath until her prow-built breast threatened the seams of her dress.
‘Ask yourself what Martin truly wants,’ she said simply. ‘Ask yourself what Orm truly wants.’
Crowbone blinked a bit, but his mind was smoke and mirrors, so he smiled wanly at her and risked standing up.
‘Orm wants you, lady,’ he said and she laughed, a bitter, sad affair that reminded Crowbone of blowing red leaves and claw-branched trees.
‘Aye, may be,’ she said simply and then waved one hand. ‘He has his faults in that regard — he is always saying how he hates faring here and there, yet he was away more often than home. He loves his gods and his men more than he loves me.’
‘Come back to Hestreng and see,’ Crowbone said, but she shook her head.
‘I will never go back to Hestreng.’
‘Somewhere else, then,’ Crowbone answered, remembering why she would hate Hestreng, where the malformed mite she had given birth to had been left on a stone, put into the care of the gods. Crowbone had stood with Orm and others round that stone, had seen the tears in Orm’s eyes and said as much.
‘Aye, aye,’ Thorgunna said. ‘If tears would undo the gods of Asgard, then I had enough to drown them all. They are unmoved; I am done with Asgard and Hestreng and the Oathsworn. If it means I am also done with my man, then so be it.’
She stopped and sighed, then held up her hands.
‘I miss my sister Thordis and cousin Ingrid, though,’ she added, ‘not least because no-one here can sew me into my sleeves, or unpick them again at night.’
‘So you are one of Christ’s women?’ Crowbone said and could not quite keep the sneer from his voice. She looked sharply at him, then smiled.
‘A nun? Not me. I am not about to climb off my knees to Odin just to get back on them to Jesus.’
Oengusso shook his head in sorrow and made the sign of the cross at her, but Thorgunna patted him lightly on one arm.
‘I am a Veiled Woman,’ she said. ‘Permitted to remain alongside priests and monks, provided I do not molest them or turn them from their ways. This is possible here in Ireland, less so elsewhere. I am happy here.’
