Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [142]
It was obvious that they’d done more than hold Harold down. They’d clubbed him over the head and given him a severe beating. He’d been unconscious when they brought him in, but now he groaned. The king went over to him, took him by the hair, and raised his face again. Harold opened his eyes, but they were glazed; he stared at the king dully. It was evident that he did not see Morann, or anyone else in the place.
“It is the king who speaks to you,” Brian said. “Do you understand?”
A mumble indicated that Harold did.
“It’s my own officer that you’ve attacked. He wants you dead. What have you to say?”
“I’d kill him first.” Harold’s voice was slurred, but the words were unmistakable.
“Are you defying me?” the king cried.
By way of answer, Harold suddenly twisted himself free of the two men holding him. God knows, Morann thought, where he finds the strength. He caught sight of the officer now and made a lunge towards him. It was Brian himself who caught him, before the two surprised guards seized him again and pushed him to the ground, while one of them pulled out a small club and brought it down heavily on Harold’s head. Reflexively, Morann started forward to intervene; but at this moment, Brian held up his hand and everybody froze. It was obvious that the king was furious.
“Enough. I’ll hear no more. It seems that some of these Ostmen still haven’t learned their lesson.” He turned to the officer. “Take him away.”
“And?” the dark fellow enquired.
“Kill him.” King Brian’s face was set, hard and implacable. Morann realised that he was now looking at the man who had destroyed the Viking port of Limerick and won a score of battles. When such a man had lost patience, it would be a foolish person who started to argue with him. However, there seemed little other option.
“Brian, son of Kennedy,” he began. The king rounded on him.
“What is it?”
“This man is my friend. The one I told you about.”
“The worse for you, then. And for him. And his cursed family in the slave house.” The king’s eyes stared at him angrily, daring him to say more. Morann took a deep breath.
“I’m only thinking that this isn’t like him at all to do such a thing. There must be a reason.”
“The reason is that he is a fool, and a rebel. He gave no other. And he is going to die. If it’s my friendship you want, Morann Mac Goibnenn, you will speak of this no more.”
The guards were starting to drag Harold out. After the blow from the club, he was unconscious again. Morann took another deep breath.
“Would you not let me speak with him? Perhaps …”
“Enough!” Brian shouted. “Do you want to join him in death?”
“You will not kill me, Brian, son of Kennedy.” The words came out, cold and hard, almost before he had time to think what he was saying.
“Will I not?” The king’s eyes flashed dangerously.
“No,” said Morann quietly, “because I am the best silversmith in Dyflin.”
For a moment, Morann wondered if he was about to discover that he was wrong. The hall had fallen very silent. The king was looking at the ground, apparently considering the matter. After a long pause, he murmured, “You have nerves of iron, Morann Mac Goibnenn.” Then he looked up and eyed him coldly. “Do not presume upon my friendship. My rule is to be respected.”
“That is not to be doubted.” Morann bowed his head.
“I will give you a choice then, Morann Mac Goibnenn. Your friend may keep his life and join his family in the slave house; or he may lose his life, and I will set his family free. Let me know which you prefer before I sit down to eat tonight.” Then he turned away. Morann knew better than to say anything more. They dragged Harold out of the hall and Morann followed sorrowfully behind.
It was a terrible choice, thought Morann; a cold, Celtic dilemma, as subtle and cruel as anything in the stories from the ancient days. That was why Brian had done it—to let him know plainly that he was dealing with a master of the kingly craft. He did not think that there was any hope of the Munster king changing his mind. A hard choice: but