Chapter 10- January 1069
Not a face in the room displayed any signs of disappointment or anger when the messenger sprinted into the room. Said messenger was a fresh-faced young boy, panting from the run. Murchad guessed that he wasn’t the most fit, or that he was just young. Young people weren’t always the most athletic. It was a skill one gained with age.
Cathbad stood up from the Chancellor’s seat and asked the messenger, “What happened? It must be urgent, if you ran here this quickly.”
“I think I know.” Tryggve started rapping his fingers along his chin. “Tell me of the plan’s success, boy.”
“Morcar, Earl of Northumbria, is dead!” Domnall’s face twisted into a satisfied smirk. Murchad’s face did not do the same. He had known of and approved of his son’s plan, or at least, the desired result.
Murchad was not particularly happy about the news, but he was far from sad. He knew his son and his wife wanted it, and if he could gain an alliance from the Sudreyjar king for it, he did not mind the cost. And Murchad, above all else, was a family man.
Bjorn tipped his head, his fiery locks swinging to the side. “Um… why do we care about this?”
Domnall let out a low growl briefly before abating it. “If you would remember, we want him dead.”
“Yes.” Cathbad stroked his chin. “Congratulations on your marriage, Domnall. I wish you great luck in obtaining the bride.” The jibe flew over the prince’s head.
“So,” Tryggve inquired, “would you like to book a ship? Or do you think the bride will come to you?” This one did not.
Domnall curtly responded, “I will take that former option, thank you very much. I must leave, and soon.”
However, there was one thing everyone was forgetting, and while Murchad knew it, he guessed the rest of his council, minus possibly Cathbad, did not. “Cathbad, are you sure my son won’t be taking a trip to a Swedish prison?”
Cathbad smiled, baring his surprisingly white teeth. “You caught on. See, Domnall, you shouldn’t rush into these things. She’s free. The Swedes even took the liberty of dumping her back in York.”
Tryggve remarked, “Quite impressive. Sending her to a town under siege, bypassing the Norwegian forces via their allyship, knowing that they will soon win.”
“Wait, what?” Domnall’s face morphed into one of surprise, quickly transforming into anger. “Of course… Of course the Viking siege of York is progressing smoothly. I must depart!” And so he did. He promptly left the council room, in a rather ill-advised move.
Murchad chuckled at his son’s youthful naivety. He also trusted that things would end well for him. At least, with some help from his father. “Bjorn,” he ordered, “take a host of about ten men, or however many you think suitable, to accompany my son. I don’t want him at risk in a city under siege.”
“Yes, sir!” Bjorn marched out of the room, leaving just Murchad, Tryggve, and Cathbad. Abban had not arrived in the first place, as he was managing the Church’s donation of food to the peasants, who were suffering from a particularly harsh winter that year.
“Excellent.” Murchad took his seat at the head of the table. “Now, Cathbad, if you could recount for me what else is happening across the straits, that’d be excellent.”
“Well,” Cathbad reclined in his seat as he recounted all of the thing he’d found while out on diplomatic missions, “things aren’t going particularly well for the English, one might say. There’s no Norman threat yet nor likely ever. William the Bastard’s been humbled, and from what I hear, he’s under the thumb of his in-laws. Or something like that, anyway.”
“Alright, alright.” Murchad was completely fine with not having an aggressive pseudo-Frenchman on his borders, poised to strike into Ireland whenever he felt like. “What about the Norse?”
“Oh, the Norse.” Cathbad and Tryggve shared a look and a smile. “Well, they’ve captured York. Probably should’ve told Domnall that.”
“Yes, you should have.” Murchad glared at his Chancellor for making such a massive folly. “Now he’s walking into enemy territory without a clue in the world.”
Tryggve interrupted him, a smirk on his face. “I’m sure the Norse will take no issue with one so accepting of them.” His voice was lined with venom, his words bordering on treason.
But Murchad considered himself a forgiving man. Nonetheless, he reprimanded his spymaster, “You know that to be wrong. If they’re willing to take each other out, I doubt they’ll look favourably on Domnall.”
“Anyway,” Cathbad continued, cutting off his lord, “Not only is Morcar dead, his brother was killed in battle as well. Without their commanders, the northern half of England has, ah, collapsed. There’s not much between them and London at this point, so Godwinson’s survival is in some doubt.”
“Great.” The Earl, however, wasn’t paying much attention. “Now, we’re going to fetch my son and make sure he’s warned.” He marched out of the room, clearly expecting one or both of his remaining council members to follow.
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York was a… desolate place when Domnall arrived there. The Norse had clearly left their mark on the town, and very few dared roam the streets openly.
However, there was something very strange; no soldiers patrolled the town. Domnall saw no soldiers patrolling a freshly occupied town. Domnall, Bjorn, and the five men they had brought with them were the largest military force in York.
And yet, it could hardly be said that the Viking forces had done their work in the town. Bodies lined the streets, and blood stained the stones. Bjorn kicked a corpse to the side for his lord. Quite an honourable move.
Domnall gazed over the town, just watching. Watching as the people went about their daily life, completely unaffected by the sacking that had just happened.
People bought and sold goods with dead bodies not far from them. People collected their few remaining things from the burnt husks of their houses, ignored by their fellow upstanding citizens. Horse-drawn carts made their way past Domnall’s escort several times, paying no attention to the pools of blood their wheels ran through as they went. Said blood splashed onto the passerby, who did not seem to mind their already filthy robes developing a new shade of red.
Not only was it tragic, it was disgusting. These peasants had given up on life. Their hope had been lost, and what did they do? They did not take their own lives, that was good. They did not choose to fight back, either, however. Instead, they did nothing. They simply accepted their lot and bowed to the Norse boot pressing into their back.
After much searching, Domnall found Helga in a stable, sleeping. Her golden robe was stained with dirt, and her hazel braid had unravelled. But it did not matter for Domnall. He still found her beautiful, nonetheless.
She remained asleep as he walked up to her. He bent over and calmingly told her, “I am here now, my sweet. I am here for you.” He brushed the hay off her silk-clad arm and planted a kiss on her cheek.
The movement seemed to wake Helga up. When she saw Domnall, her normally bored face morphed into a confident grin. “I was hoping you would show up eventually. Or someone, at least. An attractive noblewoman like me has to attract some foolhardy suitor at some point.”
Domnall’s hearing was selective. He grabbed Helga’s hand and yanked her off the hay bale she was sleeping on, with her accidentally or not so accidentally falling into his arms. She steadied herself while still remaining in Domnall’s loose grip, brushing the hay off her robes. “Ugh. I suppose you wish to take me to Dublin now, marry me?” She brushed her hair behind her and flashed her lover a dazzling smile.
“Absolutely.” Domnall lowered his head to leave a trail of kisses along Helga’s neck, shifting the neckline of her dress much closer to the shoulder.
Helga giggled and gently pushed Domnall away. “Could we perhaps do it somewhere more sanitary? Like the comfort of your personal cart, perhaps?” Domnall did notice the unspoken assumption his lover had made, and was ashamed to say she was wrong. He thus sidestepped the issue.
“Say the word, my dear, and I will save you, rescue you from your misery.”
“Heh. I wouldn’t call it misery, per se. More like lordly neglect.” She sighed and rolled her eyes. “What kind of man, with a beautiful young wife eager to please him, barely visits her in two years of marriage? A eunuch could give me more pleasure than he did.”
That was indeed a tragedy. What man could turn down the offer of lying with someone like Helga? Certainly not Domnall. And he told her as much. He pulled her closer to him and bragged, “Do you remember our first night together? I can do that for you every night, if you wish.”
“Oh, Domnall.” Helga pretended to swoon and pulled Domnall in for a kiss.
When the couple broke for air, Helga remarked, “You know, staying in Sweden was not that bad, honestly. They treated me almost like I was one of them.”
Domnall shook his head. “But if you were in Sweden, you could not be with me.” He planted another kiss on her lips, but this one was much more fleeting.
“I suppose that is true.” Helga giggled coldly. “I must thank God you were here to rescue me, or I would be a young noblewoman on her own in an abandoned land. Being held for ransom would be one of the better things that could have happened to me.” She then aimed her gaze at the floor of the stable.
“You need not worry. I can take you away from all that.” Domnall wrapped Helga in a tight hug. “I will be your saviour. I can promise you that.” He planted a kiss on her head, regardless of her disheveled hair.
Helga smiled up at her lover. “Of course. I appreciate the… effort… you have taken to ‘save’ me.” Her, ah, peculiar choice of emphasis went unnoticed. Perhaps that was because she pulled him into a passionate kiss soon after, one that pulled her off her feet.
Cathbad stood up from the Chancellor’s seat and asked the messenger, “What happened? It must be urgent, if you ran here this quickly.”
“I think I know.” Tryggve started rapping his fingers along his chin. “Tell me of the plan’s success, boy.”
“Morcar, Earl of Northumbria, is dead!” Domnall’s face twisted into a satisfied smirk. Murchad’s face did not do the same. He had known of and approved of his son’s plan, or at least, the desired result.
Murchad was not particularly happy about the news, but he was far from sad. He knew his son and his wife wanted it, and if he could gain an alliance from the Sudreyjar king for it, he did not mind the cost. And Murchad, above all else, was a family man.
Bjorn tipped his head, his fiery locks swinging to the side. “Um… why do we care about this?”
Domnall let out a low growl briefly before abating it. “If you would remember, we want him dead.”
“Yes.” Cathbad stroked his chin. “Congratulations on your marriage, Domnall. I wish you great luck in obtaining the bride.” The jibe flew over the prince’s head.
“So,” Tryggve inquired, “would you like to book a ship? Or do you think the bride will come to you?” This one did not.
Domnall curtly responded, “I will take that former option, thank you very much. I must leave, and soon.”
However, there was one thing everyone was forgetting, and while Murchad knew it, he guessed the rest of his council, minus possibly Cathbad, did not. “Cathbad, are you sure my son won’t be taking a trip to a Swedish prison?”
Cathbad smiled, baring his surprisingly white teeth. “You caught on. See, Domnall, you shouldn’t rush into these things. She’s free. The Swedes even took the liberty of dumping her back in York.”
Tryggve remarked, “Quite impressive. Sending her to a town under siege, bypassing the Norwegian forces via their allyship, knowing that they will soon win.”
“Wait, what?” Domnall’s face morphed into one of surprise, quickly transforming into anger. “Of course… Of course the Viking siege of York is progressing smoothly. I must depart!” And so he did. He promptly left the council room, in a rather ill-advised move.
Murchad chuckled at his son’s youthful naivety. He also trusted that things would end well for him. At least, with some help from his father. “Bjorn,” he ordered, “take a host of about ten men, or however many you think suitable, to accompany my son. I don’t want him at risk in a city under siege.”
“Yes, sir!” Bjorn marched out of the room, leaving just Murchad, Tryggve, and Cathbad. Abban had not arrived in the first place, as he was managing the Church’s donation of food to the peasants, who were suffering from a particularly harsh winter that year.
“Excellent.” Murchad took his seat at the head of the table. “Now, Cathbad, if you could recount for me what else is happening across the straits, that’d be excellent.”
“Well,” Cathbad reclined in his seat as he recounted all of the thing he’d found while out on diplomatic missions, “things aren’t going particularly well for the English, one might say. There’s no Norman threat yet nor likely ever. William the Bastard’s been humbled, and from what I hear, he’s under the thumb of his in-laws. Or something like that, anyway.”
“Alright, alright.” Murchad was completely fine with not having an aggressive pseudo-Frenchman on his borders, poised to strike into Ireland whenever he felt like. “What about the Norse?”
“Oh, the Norse.” Cathbad and Tryggve shared a look and a smile. “Well, they’ve captured York. Probably should’ve told Domnall that.”
“Yes, you should have.” Murchad glared at his Chancellor for making such a massive folly. “Now he’s walking into enemy territory without a clue in the world.”
Tryggve interrupted him, a smirk on his face. “I’m sure the Norse will take no issue with one so accepting of them.” His voice was lined with venom, his words bordering on treason.
But Murchad considered himself a forgiving man. Nonetheless, he reprimanded his spymaster, “You know that to be wrong. If they’re willing to take each other out, I doubt they’ll look favourably on Domnall.”
“Anyway,” Cathbad continued, cutting off his lord, “Not only is Morcar dead, his brother was killed in battle as well. Without their commanders, the northern half of England has, ah, collapsed. There’s not much between them and London at this point, so Godwinson’s survival is in some doubt.”
“Great.” The Earl, however, wasn’t paying much attention. “Now, we’re going to fetch my son and make sure he’s warned.” He marched out of the room, clearly expecting one or both of his remaining council members to follow.
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York was a… desolate place when Domnall arrived there. The Norse had clearly left their mark on the town, and very few dared roam the streets openly.
However, there was something very strange; no soldiers patrolled the town. Domnall saw no soldiers patrolling a freshly occupied town. Domnall, Bjorn, and the five men they had brought with them were the largest military force in York.
And yet, it could hardly be said that the Viking forces had done their work in the town. Bodies lined the streets, and blood stained the stones. Bjorn kicked a corpse to the side for his lord. Quite an honourable move.
Domnall gazed over the town, just watching. Watching as the people went about their daily life, completely unaffected by the sacking that had just happened.
People bought and sold goods with dead bodies not far from them. People collected their few remaining things from the burnt husks of their houses, ignored by their fellow upstanding citizens. Horse-drawn carts made their way past Domnall’s escort several times, paying no attention to the pools of blood their wheels ran through as they went. Said blood splashed onto the passerby, who did not seem to mind their already filthy robes developing a new shade of red.
Not only was it tragic, it was disgusting. These peasants had given up on life. Their hope had been lost, and what did they do? They did not take their own lives, that was good. They did not choose to fight back, either, however. Instead, they did nothing. They simply accepted their lot and bowed to the Norse boot pressing into their back.
After much searching, Domnall found Helga in a stable, sleeping. Her golden robe was stained with dirt, and her hazel braid had unravelled. But it did not matter for Domnall. He still found her beautiful, nonetheless.
She remained asleep as he walked up to her. He bent over and calmingly told her, “I am here now, my sweet. I am here for you.” He brushed the hay off her silk-clad arm and planted a kiss on her cheek.
The movement seemed to wake Helga up. When she saw Domnall, her normally bored face morphed into a confident grin. “I was hoping you would show up eventually. Or someone, at least. An attractive noblewoman like me has to attract some foolhardy suitor at some point.”
Domnall’s hearing was selective. He grabbed Helga’s hand and yanked her off the hay bale she was sleeping on, with her accidentally or not so accidentally falling into his arms. She steadied herself while still remaining in Domnall’s loose grip, brushing the hay off her robes. “Ugh. I suppose you wish to take me to Dublin now, marry me?” She brushed her hair behind her and flashed her lover a dazzling smile.
“Absolutely.” Domnall lowered his head to leave a trail of kisses along Helga’s neck, shifting the neckline of her dress much closer to the shoulder.
Helga giggled and gently pushed Domnall away. “Could we perhaps do it somewhere more sanitary? Like the comfort of your personal cart, perhaps?” Domnall did notice the unspoken assumption his lover had made, and was ashamed to say she was wrong. He thus sidestepped the issue.
“Say the word, my dear, and I will save you, rescue you from your misery.”
“Heh. I wouldn’t call it misery, per se. More like lordly neglect.” She sighed and rolled her eyes. “What kind of man, with a beautiful young wife eager to please him, barely visits her in two years of marriage? A eunuch could give me more pleasure than he did.”
That was indeed a tragedy. What man could turn down the offer of lying with someone like Helga? Certainly not Domnall. And he told her as much. He pulled her closer to him and bragged, “Do you remember our first night together? I can do that for you every night, if you wish.”
“Oh, Domnall.” Helga pretended to swoon and pulled Domnall in for a kiss.
When the couple broke for air, Helga remarked, “You know, staying in Sweden was not that bad, honestly. They treated me almost like I was one of them.”
Domnall shook his head. “But if you were in Sweden, you could not be with me.” He planted another kiss on her lips, but this one was much more fleeting.
“I suppose that is true.” Helga giggled coldly. “I must thank God you were here to rescue me, or I would be a young noblewoman on her own in an abandoned land. Being held for ransom would be one of the better things that could have happened to me.” She then aimed her gaze at the floor of the stable.
“You need not worry. I can take you away from all that.” Domnall wrapped Helga in a tight hug. “I will be your saviour. I can promise you that.” He planted a kiss on her head, regardless of her disheveled hair.
Helga smiled up at her lover. “Of course. I appreciate the… effort… you have taken to ‘save’ me.” Her, ah, peculiar choice of emphasis went unnoticed. Perhaps that was because she pulled him into a passionate kiss soon after, one that pulled her off her feet.
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