Crowbone

It was a vicious slap, particularly about Kaup and he felt the twin embers of Mar’s hate burn his shoulderblades, but did not look back as they moved through the dark, where other fires glowed and men, blood- dyed with the light, looked up as he passed.

One or two acknowledged him with a brief ‘heya’ or a wave and Crowbone knew Gjallandi had been busy spreading the saga of Crowbone’s fight with Raghnall. He was sure there was no mention of a woman in it, all the same.

To the right of where they picked a way through the flowering field of fires, was the dark earth and rampart wall of Dyfflin, now under siege. Crowbone knew Mael Sechnaill had no val-slongva, the war-slings the Romans of Constantinople called ballista and, without them, the Irish would have to storm the walls or starve out the defenders. He knew the harbour was open and, though the Irish had taken some ships in a lesser trade harbour just outside the walls to the south, they did not have enough vessels to blockade the place.

So it would be over the walls, he thought to himself. He had the sick feeling in his bowels that this was really what Mael Sechnaill wanted to see him about — the Oathsworn, leading the way over the walls of Dyfflin. Crowbone did not think any of his men would follow him if he ordered it and would have been away with them if he could — but he had come into this mess because he needed to know what Olaf Irish-Shoes had found out from Hoskuld. He needed Hoskuld. If any of them still lived, they lived in Dyfflin.

The High King had a grand tent, a maze of poles and lines and as big as a steading, striped like a sail. Outside it was a fire in a brazier and guards who grinned at the messenger and stood with their spears butted under a tall pole which held the head of Raghnall.

Inside was all guttering lamps and harp music, a contrast with the dark that left Crowbone and Murrough blinking. There were, when either of them could see, benches filled with the lesser kings and their entourage, clustered round a raised wooden dais where the High King himself sat, listening to his harper, the blind Ollumh Meartach, who stopped playing a heartbeat before the messenger rapped a bench with his spear.

‘Prince Olaf of Norway and Murrough macMael.’

The High King looked up and there were a few cheers from those who had warmed to Crowbone and the Oathsworn after the day’s fighting. Mael Sechnaill grinned; even Gilla Mo looked pleased, though that was shown only by his lack of scowl.

‘Your val-haukr showed its talons today,’ Mael Sechnaill declared with a grin and Crowbone frowned at that — val-haukr meant ‘carrion-hawk’ in the Norse and he did not care for that description of his new banner. Wisely he said nothing.

‘Mark you,’ Mael Sechnaill went on, ‘there are folk here who would not, perhaps, agree with you.’

Bewildered, Crowbone looked cautiously around as he walked to the ushered place at table. Then a short, stocky man stood up, his blue tunic trimmed with red and a deal of silver sparkling at his throat and wrist. He offered Crowbone a stiff bow, as did another barrel of a man next to him and a woman, young and pretty in a long- nosed way with her dress cut tight and low, designed to have the effect it had on Crowbone’s groin. Not worn for him, he noticed. For Mael Sechnaill.

‘This is Gluniairn, son of Amlaib,’ said Mael Sechnaill and the stocky man bowed a little.

‘The other is his brother, Sitric,’ the High King went on, bland as milk. ‘This is Queen Gormflaeth.’

Crowbone reeled but managed not to gawp or make a sound. Murrough was not so good and let out a ripping curse, which he covered with a fit of coughing. The pair sat down, stiff-faced, grim as wet cliffs while Crowbone reined in the plunge of his thoughts.

Olaf’s queen and his two sons — Odin’s bones, half-brothers to the man whose head was stuck on a spear outside …

‘Prince,’ he said eventually, for he knew that Gluniairn was the Irish way of saying Jarnkne, Iron Knee, just as Amlaib was how they mush-mouthed Olaf, but he did not know if the man liked to be known only by his by-name. Mael Sechnaill chuckled.

‘King Gluniairn it is, since his da has given up his High Seat and taken himself off,’ the High King said and turned, all sweet innocence, to the glowering Iron Knee. ‘Where was it, now?’

‘Hy,’ Sitric growled before his brother could speak and had back a squinted glare for it. ‘The death of Raghnall and the day’s ills broke him entire. He has took himself to the monastery at Hy and left us to deal with the mess of it.’

His voice was bitter, the words sludge in his mouth and Crowbone saw the mess and how the brothers and the wife had to deal with it. Olaf’s eldest son was here to make peace, to beg for the High Seat his da had disowned, though it meant being under the rule of the High King of Ireland. The quivering cleavage of their stepmother, Gormflaeth, was the seal on it.

He should have been leaping for joy at not having to go over the walls of the place, but Crowbone only had one thought, even as he asked polite bland questions that revealed Hoskuld was not held by Dyfflin’s Danes and that Olaf Irish-Shoes was gone.

He could do nothing but brood on it, all the same, while the hall roared and reeked. Folk drank until it came down their nose and then spewed most of it up and started in to drinking more. There was boasting and shouting, arm-wrestling and some frantic humping, not limited to the shadowed corners either. A few fights broke out, bones were flung, benches overturned and, at one point, a pole was split, so that the High King himself, red-faced and greasy-chopped, launched himself into the affray, cursing those who were destroying his fine tent.

In short, it was as satisfying an Irish victory feast as any seen in the land, according to Murrough, shortly before his nose sank into a puddle of drink and he started in to snoring.

Crowbone had sipped, watching the two brothers and their stepmother, who were equally light on their drink. At the end of the roaring and struggling round the pitfire, the High King staggered out of the ruck, his arm round the shoulders of a man whose long straight hair, streaked a little with grey as if a gull had shat on him, was plastered to a streaming face with eyes like a mad owl.

‘Domnall Claen mac Lorcan,’ the High King declared blearily. ‘Sure, it is good to have you back among us, so it is.’

‘Good,’ agreed the man, who clearly wanted to say more but had little control of either legs or lips, for he slipped and sat, then giggled a little. His eyes rolled and he sank back on the reeking straw and snored.

‘Behold,’ Mael Sechnaill declared, waving one paw at the fallen figure, then clawing his way back to his High Seat, ‘the king of Leinster.’

He sat down and gasped, blinking and grinning at the two brothers. Then he leered at Gormflaeth.

‘You should … know him well. He was your guest for some time.’

‘A year or two,’ Iron Knee admitted, his face wooden as the table he leaned on. ‘His freedom is part of the agreement making peace between us.’

‘Jus’ so,’ Mael Sechnaill said, nodding. He belched, then he looked slyly at Gormflaeth and Crowbone realised the High King was not nearly as deep in drink as he appeared.

‘My dear,’ Mael Sechnaill said, his words grime on her skin. ‘Patience. I have one more kingly act to perform, then you and I can discuss other parts of the agreement of peace.’

Gormflaeth had the grace to flush a little, but she also wriggled in her dress, so that the cleavage deepened. Mael Sechnaill cleared his throat and blinked.

‘Reward,’ he said and though he spoke to Crowbone, he was unable to stop staring at what was on show. ‘Suitable. For your part in the victory. State your … what do you want?’

‘As many men as will follow me,’ Crowbone said, ‘rather than stay as thralls to the Irish.’

Mael Sechnaill blinked away from Gormflaeth to Crowbone, then he sat back and laughed.

‘No gold? Silver?’

Crowbone was tempted, but he had the riding of this horse now and he knew what he had to do. He had seen the shuffling prisoners and knew them for what they were — hired men, not about to stand and die for old Olaf Irish-Shoes; they would be looking for a way out of their predicament.

Mael Sechnaill saw it too, stood up and held out his hand for Gormflaeth to take.

‘As many as will follow you,’ he said to Crowbone, ‘as long as it is out of Ireland and out of Dyfflin. How you do that is your affair but if you are here after a week, matters will alter. I do not want the likes of you with a bunch of sword-wavers at your back plootering about Ireland causing trouble.’