Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [143]
As they left the hall, the officer went off to tend to his wound while they were led across the yard in silence to a small wooden building. Morann had hoped that perhaps the cold night air might bring his friend round, but it did not. They were pushed into the room and a guard placed at the door.
There was a single taper in the room and a small fire. Morann sat by the fire. Harold lay on the floor with his eyes closed. Time went by. Morann asked for water, and when it came, he dashed a little on Harold’s face. It had no effect. After a while, Harold groaned. Morann raised his head and tried to get some water through his lips. He thought he got a few drops in, and Harold groaned again; but though his eyes flickered, he did not come round.
After perhaps another hour, one of the guards arrived and announced that King Brian was waiting for his answer. Morann told him that his friend had still not come round.
“You’re to bring an answer regardless,” the fellow said.
“Dear God, what am I to say?” Morann burst out. He looked down at Harold. He seemed to have fallen into a restful sleep. Thank God at least that the Norwegian was so strong. Morann had a feeling that he might come round if he could only wait a little longer. He still wasn’t sure what answer he was going to give the Munster king. “I can’t make any sense of the business at all,” he said in exasperation. “Why would he attack your man anyway?”
“I don’t know,” the fellow replied. “But I can tell you this: Sigurd did nothing to him. Come on.”
“If I must,” Morann muttered absently, and started to follow. And he had already walked halfway across the yard to the big hall when he stopped and turned to the man. “Just a moment,” he said. “What did you say his name was—the officer that my friend attacked?”
“Sigurd. Officer of the watch.”
Sigurd. A Viking name. The dark fellow wasn’t a Viking, as far as Morann knew; but then it wasn’t uncommon these days, especially around the ports, to find Vikings who had taken Celtic names and vice versa. Sigurd. Until this moment it had never occurred to him that the officer’s name could be significant. He tried to imagine it—the confusion on the quay, the swarthy figure suddenly advancing …
“Were you there on the quay when it happened?” he asked the guard.
“I was.”
“Did someone call out a name?”
The fellow considered.
“Sigurd arrived. We said to the Ostman, ‘Step forward. Our man wants to see you.’ Then I called out, ‘Here’s your man, Sigurd.’ And then as Sigurd got close, the Ostman took one look at him and …”
But Morann was no longer listening. He was already striding into the hall.
“I know, Brian, son of Kennedy,” he called out. “I know what happened.”
He ignored the king’s look of irritation when he began his story. He did not obey when the king told him to be quiet. He continued even when it looked as though the guards would remove him. And by this time, in any case, the king was listening.
“So he thought my fellow Sigurd was this Dane who had vowed to kill him?”
“I have no doubt of it,” cried Morann. “Imagine it: in the darkness, a similar-looking fellow, he hears the name called out—and in the very place, remember, where they had met before …”
“You swear that this story is true?”
“Upon the Holy Bible. Upon my life, Brian, son of Kennedy. And it is the only explanation that makes sense.”
King Brian gave him a long, hard look.
“You want me to spare his life, I suppose.”
“I do.”
“And free his wife and children, too, no doubt.”
“I would ask it, naturally.”
“They have a price you know. And after all that, you would be my