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

face of the power she wielded.
      It took less than a minute after Father Finnian finished his blessing before the noise in the great hall built back to its previous level. Brigit turned to her husband and tugged on his sleeve, then tugged harder until she had his attention. “I am very tired,” she said. She spoke loud but he still had to lean in to hear her. “I am going to go to bed.”
      Conlaed nodded and smiled, his mouth full of food. “Will you remain here long?” Brigit asked, and Conlaed shook his head. “Very well. Good night, husband,” Brigit said. She stood and stepped down from the raised floor on which the head table stood, and the crowd in the hall banged the tables and cheered in appreciation of her. There was an undercurrent to their enthusiasm which she did not think was quite appropriate, but she ignored it, and them, and she sailed out of the hall. Had Máel Sechnaill still been alive, or Donnchad, any man who treated her with such disrespect would have seen his guts spilled out on the floor. But they were dead, and Brigit had only herself as lord and protector.
      As she moved to the door she heard a voice behind her. “Brigit? Brigit, dear, are you off to your chambers, then?” Father Finnian had also slipped away and come after her.
      “Yes, Father Finnian,” she said. “I’m very tired.”
      “May I see you to your door?”
      “I would be grateful.”
      Father Finnian pushed open the heavy oak door and they stepped from the loud and suffocating great hall into a night that was dark and cool, still wet from the rain that had fallen earlier. There were frogs and insects filling the night with sound, but they sounded quiet and muted after the noise of the wedding celebration.
      The two of them walked across the muddy grounds of the ringfort, toward the royal residence. This, like the church and the great hall, was something that set Tara apart from the seats of the minor kings. The homes of those lesser nobles tended to be roundhouses, wood structures with conical thatched roofs, larger versions of the cottages that most Irish occupied. But not that of the high king of Tara. Tara’s royal house, like the great hall, was timber framed, wattle and daub, a great rectangular building with a high thatched roof and a multitude of private chambers, an imposing and intimidating edifice by Irish standards.
      Brigit had always occupied a chamber in that house, but with the death of her father she had moved into the royal chamber, the largest room in the largest house. She had wondered before she did if Flann and Morrigan would try to claim it for themselves, but they were clever enough to avoid so brazen a grab for power.
      “Thank you, Father Finnian, for that fine blessing,” Brigit said, as much to break the silence as anything.
      “You are welcome, child.” They walked a few more paces, the muddy ground pulling at their shoes. Then Finnian added, “Tara could use a few blessings these days. I ask them of the Lord, and hope it is His will to provide.”
      “We could use blessings,” Brigit echoed. She liked Finnian. There was a strength about him, and a calm that she did not often see in the monks who made the monastery at Tara their home. He had only been there a year or so, but he had a presence that made it seem as if he had always been a part of the royal household. And he was attractive as well. Brigit could think of nothing nobler than a man following a call to the priesthood, but she could not help but regret that a man such as Finnian had removed himself from the pool of potential husbands.
      What a waste… she concluded.
      “It was a fine ceremony, dear, did you not think so?” Finnian said. His voice was soft like the night.
      “Yes. Thank you again for the sacrament.”
    Finnian made a gesture of dismissal. “My poor part was the least of it. I was pleased to see the effort Morrigan put into the celebrations. Nearly all of the local rí túaithe