The Viking Wars (Carthal Chronicles Book #1)

  "You..."

  Ygraine shrieked with laughter as her husband buried his face in her neck and began to kiss her, tickling her soft skin with the stubble on his chin.

  "Is it bad for the baby if we...?" he asked as they sank to the ground, the dense, soft grass swallowing them up.

  Ygraine shook her head as she gripped his firm biceps, his hands cradling her gently as she positioned herself on top of him. "No. Not at all. In fact the physician even advised it."

  "For you or for I?"

  "Does it matter?"

  "No, I suppose it doesn't," Gryndall answered with a smile, reaching under her skirts.

  Chapter Eleven

  Prince Tyrion was born two weeks later, in the early afternoon. It was a happy time in Clarendon and indeed, across Carthal, as word spread of the arrival of the new heir to the throne. There were parties thrown in every city, each lasting twenty-four hours or more. Here, at the castle, all the citizens of Clarendon were invited and this old man, for one, witnessed a party unlike any he had ever seen. Women with their shirts pulled down to their waists, holding great mugs of beer and sloshing the liquid over their exposed bosoms. Men, thoroughly intoxicated, lapping up the elixir before climbing into the wrestling ring and battling it out to the amusement of the audience. Games of dice and dagger darts that, on a few occasions, turned violent. Children running to and fro, some hawking food to drunken adults at exorbitant prices. Needless to say, it was a splendid time and I shall never forget it. For it was the last time we were all together and truly happy.

  (June 26)

  Two Vikings sat at a long wooden table, an iron candle pot between them, illuminating their faces. One was Erik the Bald. The other, his head henchman, Krall.

  "Anwir has given us a second favour," said Erik the Bald, belching loudly as he leaned back in his chair.

  Krall, the larger of the two by far, and with his face hidden by a mass of unkempt black hair, stared squarely at his thain.

  "What is it?"

  "A woman."

  The bear man smiled, flashing a mouthful of rotted teeth.

  "She was an old flame of the priest's," said Erik the Bald, absent-mindedly. "He wants her snuffed out."

  Krall pondered the proposition for a minute before answering. "And do I get to...?"

  Erik the Bald shrugged. "You can do what you want with her. That's half the favour. In addition, her family is fairly wealthy and you can take anything you find. That's the other half of the favour. Just know that I am to get two thirds of that booty."

  Krall nodded, flexing his arms and folding them across his massive chest.

  "When do I leave?"

  "Tonight. Olaf is already preparing the boat. He and Leif and Ragnar will be going with you."

  The hulking man smiled, nodding. "I'll fetch my axe."

  Chapter Twelve

  (June 27)

  Donal, Dalwynn, and Theo are accompanying Gryndall on a hunt in the Great Wood. It is Carthalian tradition that within the first two weeks of a son being born, the father will go hunting and his son will inherit the traits of the animal he kills.

  "I stake a crown our Lord gets a bear!" Donal hollered as the hunting party turned off the main road and followed Gryndall into the brush.

  "An eagle!" Theo cried.

  "An eagle? Are you a bloody fool or what? How is our Lord going to bring down an eagle?"

  Dalwynn's words seemed to sting the young man and he said no more.

  "With my luck it'll be a boar," Gryndall joked, pushing a branch away from his face as their horses carried them deeper into the Great Wood, the road disappearing behind a wall of green.

  Donal smiled. "A boar? You wish your son to be fat and ferocious then?"

  "I wish my son to be brave. And strong. And proud. A defender of Carthal. A man of the people."

  "Well an eagle would be appropriate..."

  Gryndall waved a dismissive hand. "I don't believe in this silly tradition. He'll be whoever he's meant to be."

  "My father killed a wolf after I was born," said Dalwynn proudly. "And look how I turned out."

  Donal spat. "Ha! You're no more vicious than a pup!"

  "Is that so? How about we stop here and see? My sword is itching for some exercise."

  "I wouldn't want to waste our Lord's time," said Donal, glancing over his shoulder at the husky, red-headed knight. "Besides, my arrow would hardly pierce that fat flesh of yours."

  "Hold your tongue, friend."

  Donal smiled and returned his attention to the trail as their horses pressed forwards.

  It was Gryndall who spoke next. "Did you know it was the Romans who started this tradition?"

  "I thought it was the Celts," Dalwynn countered.

  "No. This was definitely a Roman invention. They believed very much in the idea that a man could gain the more noble characteristics of an animal he killed. Did you know they used to have fights, in large stadia, where murderers and thieves would be forced to fight lions and tigers and elephants?"

  "I don't believe it," said Dalwynn.

  "That's the smartest thing he's said all day," Donal quipped, glancing once more at Dalwynn whose look had turned murderous.

  "It's true!" Gryndall insisted. "I swear on my mother's grave."

  Theo laughed loudly. "Men used to fight lions and tigers? Come on, my Lord. We're not stupid."

  "No. Really. I swear it's true."

  "Right..."

  "And is it also true you once rode a dragon, my Lord?" Donal asked cheekily.

  Gryndall waved a hand at them as though to push their rebuttals away. "It's true. I'm telling you. And that's how this tradition started. Within the first fortnight of a child being born, the father shall go into the forest and hunt and his child will assume the traits of the beast he kills."

  "I still say it was the Celts," said Dalwynn. "I've hardly got a drop of Roman blood in me - I think it was one great-grandfather - and look at me. Pure Celtic strength. That's what I am."

  Donal grinned. "Yes, look at you, you big, dumb ox."

  "ALRIGHT! THAT'S ENOUGH OUT OF YOU!" Dawlynn roared, drawing his sword.

  "KNIGHTS!"

  "Yes, my Lord?"

  "That's enough!"

  "Sorry, my Lord."

  Donal looked once more over his shoulder at Dalwynn who gave him a murderous stare.

  The sudden sound of a horse's hooves in the distance shattered the gentle calm of the forest.

  "What in the..."

  There came the loud blast of a horn.

  "KING GRYNDALL! KING GRYNDALL!" AN URGENT MESSAGE FOR KING GRYNDALL!"

  "Bloody hell," Dalwynn snarled. "What now?"

  Gryndall's face grew hard. "I don't know. But I'm going to find out."

  He withdrew a small horn from inside his vest and sounded it three times.

  "KING GRYNDALL! I HEAR YOU! WHERE ARE YOU, MY LORD?"

  "Yes. Definitely Geoffrey. I could recognize that girly voice from ten miles away."

  "What the hell does he want at this early hour? We've hardly finished digesting our breakfast."

  "Quickly knights. Back to the road."

  All four horses were turned around and Gryndall, Donal, Dalwynn and Theo retraced the path along which they'd come.

  "GEOFFREY! IT IS I!" Gryndall called loudly.

  "MY LORD. THANK GOODNESS. I HAVE AN URGENT MESSAGE FROM RIORDAN."

  They couldn't yet see the royal messenger, but soon the four men broke through the trees and the road came into view. Geoffrey was waiting impatiently.

  "What is it? What's the matter?"

  "You'll have to read it for yourself, my Lord. The pigeon arrived not half an hour ago. I raced here to find you," he said, his pronounced lisp causing Donal and Theo to exchange a private smile.

  "Thank you, Geoffrey."

  Their horses reached the road and the knights moved off to the side, allowing Gryndall to move towards the royal messenger who stood there holding a folded piece of parchment, his arm extende
d and wrist bent in its usual feminine manner.

  "Here you are, my Lord."

  Without a word more, Gryndall took the letter and opened it, scanning the page quickly.

  "It says that a family was murdered...and beheaded...and that their house was ransacked and torched."

  He looked up from the letter and exchanged a worried glance with the others.

  "Murder in Riordan is not uncommon," said Donal, seemingly trying to placate his worried king.

  "No. It's not. But murdered and beheaded?"

  "Sounds like our man has struck again," Dalwynn growled.

  Gryndall nodded grimly and returned his attention to the messenger.

  "Geoffrey. I want you to fetch Constantine. Have him meet us at the castle gates and tell him we ride for Riordan in one hour."

  "It's just like the last one," said Constantine Blackwell as he and Gryndall stood over the charred remains of four headless bodies. "Bastard took the heads."

  The king grimaced and glanced around the burnt ruins of what once was surely a charming and luxurious manor. "In a way it's a good thing he's taken the heads, I suppose. We can safely assume that the same person responsible for Percy Goodfellow's murder is responsible for these murders as well. No?"

  Constantine Blackwell nodded. “Yes. I would make the same hypothesis."

  "Why would he do that, anyway? Take the heads. What's the purpose of that?"

  "Perhaps he collects them."

  "Or eats them?" asked the king, feeling nauseous at the thought.

  "Doubtful. I've seen this type of thing before - though not with heads. The murderer will often take something from the body of the victim. In this case, victims," he continued, enunciating the ‘s’.

  Gryndall looked skeptical. "Alright...and...so…he collects the heads as trophies or something?"

  "Thats exactly what he does," Constantine replied, the pad of his thumb pressed against his chin as he pondered.

  Gryndall looked once more at the blackened corpses.

  "And do we know who these people were?"

  "YES, WE KNOW WHO THESE PEOPLE ARE," came a surly voice from the doorway.

  Both men turned to face the stranger who had just spoken.

  "Mayor Kinnon."

  An old man with grey hair sprouting from his ears and wearing a kilt that showed off his spindly, pale legs. He stepped into the centre of the room and Constantine Blackwell moved to the fireplace and pretended to inspect something, leaving the mayor and the king to converse in semi-privacy.

  “Who are they then?”

  “They were the Tyndall’s. Julia and her husband Connor.”

  The grizzled, old man pointed to the two largest corpses. “And their two children, Garreth and Gwynned,” he said, pointing to the two smaller corpses.

  His accent was thick and it was obvious to Gryndall that Gaelic was his mother tongue.

  “And is there any reason you can think of why someone would do this to them?”

  Kinnon spat. “Madmen do not reason.”

  “You think a madman was responsible for this?” Gryndall asked, glancing at Constantine before returning his attention to the old man.

  His eyes were soft and hard at the same time, his hands gnarled and his knuckles like large bulbs. The dagger in his waist band looked well-used.

  “‘Tis only a madman could do something like this.”

  "Well madman or not," said Constantine Blackwell, inserting himself into the conversation, "the person responsible for this atrocity needs to be found. Is there any reason that you can think of, any at all, that might - "

  "We will find the person responsible for this," interrupted Kinnon, his eyes narrowing. "What happens in Riordan is Riordan's business. We can take care of our own affairs."

  Constantine looked to Gryndall for some support.

  "Mayor Kinnon, we've discussed this before. I have jurisdiction over Riordan whether you like it or not and we will be leading this investigation."

  "NO YOU WILL NOT!" Kinnon roared. "IN FACT IF YOU TOOK BETTER MIND OF THE PEOPLE IN YOUR OWN JURISDICTION, WE WOULDN'T HAVE MADMEN LIKE THIS ON THE LOOSE CUTTING OFF HEADS AND BURNING A FAMILY'S HOME! BECAUSE I'LL TELL YE RIGHT NOW - 'TWAS NO MAN FROM RIORDAN WHAT DID THIS. NO! 'TWAS ONE OF YOU CARTHALIANS WHAT DID THIS."

  "Is everything alright, my Lord?"

  Donal had entered, unseen, and was watching Kinnon carefully, his right hand on the butt of his sword.

  Gryndall nodded and gave the mayor a reproving stare. "Yes, Donal. Thank you. Kinnon, we are leading this investigation and I will be getting the information I need from the people here in Riordan. Constantine Blackwell here will be questioning some of the neighbours and I'll be talking to people in town and to the local militia. So you can either assist with our investigation or butt out."

  The old man growled, but said nothing. Instead he spat, glared at Gryndall, and left, shouldering roughly past Donal as he exited the house.

  "Well that went rather well, didn't it?" asked Donal, grinning from ear to ear.

  Gryndall shook his head in amused dismay. "Is it wrong that I wish Kinnon were one of these corpses?"

  Chapter Thirteen

  (July 4)

  The following week, with the Tyndall's buried, blessed, and largely forgotten, Gryndall landed at Lindisfarne.

  "Theo. Get out and pull us in the rest of the way," Dalwynn ordered as their small ship ran aground on a ridge of pebbles.

  "Why me?"

  "Because you're the youngest," Donal answered, attempting to dislodge the vessel with the end of an oar. "Bloody thing...tide's too low. They've really got to extend their dock."

  "Maybe they can use some of my money for that," Gryndall mused. "Surely that would be a better use for it than some monastery."

  Donal wagged a finger. "Aye, but these are religious men, my Lord. Practicality and religion don't mix. They've got to have their silver medallions and they're bronze altars and they're prayer rooms. Never mind a proper dock."

  "And that is why men of the cloth have little influence on our island," said Gryndall as he watched Theo jump from the side of the boat and land in the water. "They don't spend their money on armies and barracks and fortifications - they spend it on monasteries."

  "We might as well dump these chests in the sea then," said Donal, gesturing towards the eight enormous chests resting in the centre of the small boat.

  "Aye, but then I wouldn't be able to buy the boy's life."

  The boat rocked as Theo reamed against it, trying to get it to move.

  "Are you a boy or a man, Theo?" cried Dalwynn indignantly. "Put your back into it!"

  The boat swayed from side to side and then, slowly, teetered and slid, backwards, down the ridge.

  "Well, I guess that'll work," Dalwynn grumbled, fastening his sword belt around his waist before picking up a paddle.

  "WELCOME!"

  All four looked up. A man was running towards them, down the ridge that lead to the dock.

  "That looks like Antolis," said Donal. "Boy he's got speed for an older man."

  Dalwynn grunted. "I'll bet he trips and tumbles down the rest of the way. Breaks his neck at the bottom."

  "You're a morbid one today."

  "Realistic more like. Did you not see when Cato did the same thing that time at Hawthorne? You know the big hill they've got with the watchtower on top."

  "Yeah. What about it?"

  "He fell down it. Just the same. All the way to the bottom. Damn near died. He was laid up in hospice for a month."

  "Well, thankfully our Antolis is a little more sure-footed," Gryndall interjected Antolis reached the bottom of the hill and made for the dock.

  "Your Majesty! Welcome to Lindisfarne! We were not expecting you!"

  "I thought I would just drop in. Surprise visit."

  The portly monk's face was round and smiling. "Well, we are certainly glad to have you. It's been too long."

  "Aye. But first we have to get our boat moored. Your dock is to
o short when the tide is out."

  The monk surveyed the twenty yards between the edge of the dock and the bow of the boat. "'Tis a shame, that. I'll speak to Anwir about it. Perhaps something can be done."

  Gryndall nodded slowly, thinking that with two hundred and fifty crowns, Anwir could easily hire one of the local carpenters to add twenty yards to the dock and have plenty left over.

  "Yes, perhaps."

  Their boat was eventually brought in with the help of two other monks and tied to the dock.

  "Dalwynn. You'll stay with the boat. Theo, you'll come to the monastery to get some dry leggings. Your feet are soaked."

  "Thank you, my Lord."

  "Donal. You'll come as well. Antolis!"

  "Yes, your Majesty?"

  "Have you a wagon we can borrow to haul these money chests?"

  The fat monk smiled. "Of course. Of course. Brother Fenwir. Take Brother Isaac and go to Joseph's. See if we can borrow his wagon. Fetch a few more Brothers while you're at it. It looks as though we've got a rather large load here," he added, eyeing the eight money chests.

  "Yes of course, your Worship."

  The two monks hurried off towards the village.

  "Morcant would have been useful here," Donal observed, glancing at the money chests as they waited for the monks to return with the wagon. "Man can't fight, but he can practically move a mountain. Do you remember Dalwynn when he pulled that colt from the marsh?"

  "Aye. Carried him like a stack of hay."

  Gryndall grinned. "Are you telling me I should leave one of you two behind at the castle next time instead?"

  "No, no, my Lord," said Donal hastily.

  "Of course not," Dalwynn added. "How would you fare without us in a battle."

  "He'd still have me," Theo blurted, obviously hurt they'd not considered him a worthy protector of the king.

  "Aye, to babysit."

  "Let's just see about that, shall we!?"

  "Alright, settle down, men," Gryndall ordered. He looked at Antolis. "You see what a king has to deal with? Not food shortages and land disputes and feuds over betrothals. No. Petty arguments between his supposedly brave and valiant knights."

  The Deputy Priest smiled. "It's not unlike what Anwir and I deal with," he said, gesturing towards the two monks as they returned with the wagon, four more monks a short distance back.

  "Took you long enough. What? Did you stop for a pint of honey mead at Yolanda's?"

  Brother Fenwir shook his head. "No, your Worship. We went straight to Joseph's and came straight back."