slew him at Ardee.”
“It is not fitting a kern should wear the sword of a king,” said Murrogh brusquely. “Let one of the chiefs take it and give him an axe instead.”
Conn’s iron fingers locked about the hilt.
“He who would take the sword from me had best give me the axe first,” he said grimly. “And that suddenly.”
Murrogh’s hot temper blazed suddenly and with an oath he strode toward Conn who met him eye to eye and gave back not a step.
“Be at ease, my son,” ordered King Brian. “Let the kern keep the blade; he has striven hard to gain it.”
Murrogh shrugged his mighty shoulders and then his mood changed.
“Aye, keep it and follow me into battle; we shall see if a king’s sword in a kern’s hand can hew as wide a path as a prince’s blade.”
“My lords,” said Conn, “it may be God’s will I fall in the first onset – but the scars of slavery burn deep in my back this night, and may the dogs eat my bones if I am backward when the spears are splintering.”
IV THE CASTLE OF THE SEA-KINGS
And while King Brian communed with his chiefs on the plains above Clontarf, a grisly ritual was being enacted within the gloomy castle that was at once the fortress and palace of Dublin’s king. With good reason did Christians fear and hate those looming walls; Dublin was a pagan city, ruled by savage heathen kings, and dark and fearsome were the deeds done therein.
In an inner chamber in the castle stood the Viking Broder, somberly watching a ghastly sacrifice on a grim black altar. On that monstrous stone writhed a naked frothing thing that had been a comely youth; brutally bound and gagged he could only twist convulsively beneath the dripping inexorable dagger in the hands of the white-bearded wild-eyed priest of Odin.
The blade hacked through flesh and thew and bone; blood gushed in horrid torrents to be caught in a broad copper bowl, which the priest, with his red-dabbled beard, held high, invoking Odin in a frenzied chant. His thin bony fingers tore the yet pulsing heart from the butchered breast and his wild half-mad eyes scanned it with avid intentness.
“What of your divinations, priest?” demanded Broder impatiently.
“If ye fight not on Good Friday, as the Christians call it,” said the priest, “your host will be utterly routed and all your chiefs slain; if ye fight on Good Friday, King Brian will die – but he will win the day.”
Broder cursed with cold venom. “A noble choice is left us, by Thor! Yet if I fall, I would take Brian with me to Helheim. Enough of such mummery! We go against the Gaels on the morrow, fall fair, fall foul!” He turned and strode from the chamber.
He traversed a winding corridor and entered another, more spacious chamber, adorned, like all the Dublin king’s palace, with the loot of all the world – gold-chased weapons, rare tapestries, rich rugs, divans from Byzantium and the East – plunder taken from all peoples by the roving Norsemen; for Dublin was the center of the Vikings’ wide-flung world – the head-quarters whence they fared forth to loot the kings of the earth.
A queenly form rose to greet the sombre sea-king. Kormlada, whom the Gaels called Gormlaith, was indeed fair, but there was deep cruelty in her face and in her hard scintillant eyes. Of mixed Irish and Danish blood, she looked the part of a barbaric queen, with her pendant ear-rings, her golden armlets and anklets and her silver breast-plates set with jewels. But for these breast-plates her only garments were a short silken skirt which came half-way to her knees and was held in place by a wide silk girdle about her lithe waist, and sandals of soft red leather. Her hair was red-gold, her eyes light grey and glittering. Queen she had been, of Dublin, of Meath and of Thomond. And queen she was still, for she held her son Sitric and her brother Mailmora in the palm of her slim white hand.
Carried off in a raid in her childhood by Amlaff Cuaran, king of Dublin, she had early discovered her power over men. As the child-wife of the rough Dane, she had swayed his kingdom at her will, and her ambitions increased with her power.
Now she faced Broder with her luring, mysterious smile, but secret uneasiness ate at her. Kormlada was a wanton; she snared all men by her wiles; but there was one man she feared in all the world, and one woman. And the man was Broder. With him she was never entirely certain of her course; she duped him as she duped all men, but it was with misgivings.
“What of the words of the priest, Broder?” she asked lightly.
“In the bleeding heart he read it,” the Viking answered moodily. “If we wait, we lose the battle. If we attack on the morrow, Brian wins but falls. We attack on the morrow – the more because my spies tell me Donagh is ravaging Leinster with a strong band, and cannot reach the battle-field by the morrow. We have sent spies to King Malachi, who has an old grudge against Brian, urging him to desert the King – or at least to stand aside and give no aid to either. We have offered him rich rewards and Brian’s lands to rule. Ha! Thor grant he falls into our trap! Not gold but a bloody sword we will give him. With Brian crushed, we will turn on Malachi and tread him into the dust. But first we must conquer Brian.”
She clenched her white hands in savage exultation. “Bring me his head! I will hang it above our bridal- bed!”
“I have heard strange tales,” said Broder sombrely. “Sigurd has boasted in his wine cups.”
Kormlada started and scanned the inscrutable countenance closely. Again she felt a quiver of fear as she gazed at the sombre Viking, with his tall, strong stature, his dark menacing face and his heavy black locks which he wore braided and caught in his sword-belt.
“What has Sigurd said?” she queried, striving to make her voice casual.
“When Sitric came to me in my skalli on the Isle of Man,” said Broder, “it was his oath that if I came to his aid, I should sit on the throne of Ireland with you as my queen. Now that fool of an Orkneyman – Sigurd – boasts in his ale that
She forced a laugh. “He was drunk.”
Broder burst into wild curses as the violent passion of the Viking surged up in him.
“You lie, you wanton!” he grated, seizing her white wrist in an iron grip. “You were born to lure men to their doom! But you cannot play fast and loose with Broder of Man!”
“You are mad!” she cried, twisting vainly in his grasp. “Release me or I will call my guards!”
“Call them!” he snarled. “And I will slash the heads from their bodies. Cross me now and blood shall run ankle-deep in Dublin’s streets. By Thor, there will be no city left for Brian to burn! Mailmora, Sitric, Sigurd, Amlaff – I will cut all their throats and drag you naked to my longship by your yellow hair! Now dare to call out!”
And she dared not. He forced her to her knees, twisting her white arm brutally till she bit her lip to keep from screaming.
“Confess!” he snarled. “You promised Sigurd the same thing you promised me, knowing neither of us would throw away his life for less.”
“No! – no! – no!” she shrieked. “I swear by the ring of Thor – ” then as the agony grew unbearable she cried out: “Yes! – yes! – I promised him – let me go – oh, let me go!”
“So!” the Viking tossed her contemptuously onto a pile of silken cushions where she lay whimpering and disheveled.
“You promised me and you promised Sigurd,” said he, looming darkly above her, “but the promise you made me, you will keep – else you had better never been born. The throne of Ireland is a small thing beside my desire for you – if I cannot have you, no one shall.”
“But what of Sigurd?”
“He will fall in battle – or afterwards,” he answered grimly.
“Good enough!” Dire indeed was the extremity in which Kormlada did not have her wits about her. “It is you I love, Broder; I only promised him because he would not aid us otherwise – ”
“Love!” the grim Viking laughed bitterly. “You love Kormlada – no one else. I understand you; but you will keep