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Day Four
Dai
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“You were rooting for the Irishman. I could see it.” Vigo nudged Dai and spoke low in his ear. “Why?”
Dai blinked before coming up with an answer on the spot that wasn’t even a lie. “He was so much smaller than the other man, I didn’t think it was fair. I’m not so big myself yet.” He bit his lip. “The Irishman was very good.”
“He was good at street fighting, typical for an Irish sailor. Perhaps he wouldn’t be so good in battle.” Vigo tapped a finger to his lip as he watched Conall greet some men who approached with their congratulations. Conall moved towards where Iona waited for him, tugging off his mask and putting on the hat he’d worn to the fights. Pulling it down low over his eyes, he put his arm around Iona’s shoulders and walked off into the darkness.
Dai was thinking that Vigo should be thinking that there were too many foreigners at the fights tonight. He also remembered where he’d seen Goff before: coming out of Vigo’s shop right before Dai himself entered it. He hoped Cadoc and Jon were close enough to notice and remember too.
For his part, Vigo had already lost interest. He tugged on Dai’s elbow. “I don’t know how it was that Fate brought you to me yesterday. As it turns out, I have need of you. Come.”
Dai didn’t argue. He was here as Vigo’s guest. He thought he’d performed well in the ring, especially given that it was unexpected. At first, he hadn’t liked pretending to be a worse swordsman than he was, but he’d managed to find a perverse sort of pleasure in being very bad—and then suddenly improving there at the end, so Sitric, and thus Goff, could feel he’d taught him something.
His parents had worried when he was younger how easy he found it to lie. Dai could see, maybe, he could be a little bit concerned about it himself—except today, it had been very important he be good at it. And Conall, effectively, had done the same thing. Now that he was a man, Dai saw the difference between lying to protect the role he was playing or the people he loved and lying to his parents.
They left the crowd, with a new fight starting behind them, and walked north through the woods, over a rise, and came out next to a byre for cattle, set on the edge of a field. A split rail fence ran around the lean-to that protected mounds of hay from the weather, but was open to the elements on two sides.
No cattle were in it at the moment. Only Steffan, on his knees with his hands bound behind his back. A man Dai didn’t recognize stood before him with his arms folded across his chest and a glaring look on his face. A younger man with a shock of white-blond hair stood a few feet away, looking somewhat worried. Horses and men were clustered off to one side, dressed in Irish fashion, but most of the men around the byre were Danish.
Vigo touched the younger man’s shoulder as he went by. “Thank you, Arnulf. You can go now.”
Dai tried not to gape as a look of relief crossed Arnulf’s face, and he nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Unless this was an elaborate ruse to entrap Dai, Vigo really did trust him with details he might not mention to anyone else. It did really seem that Vigo didn’t know he’d sold Arnulf out. At the same time, Arnulf’s respect for Vigo was clear, along with the fact that the two of them knew each other well.
“Why are you here, Donnell? I thought we talked about this. You weren’t supposed to come tonight.” Vigo spoke in fluent Gaelic, Dai’s other new language. This was another surprise, and Dai tried not to stare. This couldn’t be Donnell, the prince of Connaught ... could it? Regardless, Vigo’s words were not respectful, as befitting a prince.
“And where else should I be?” Donnell replied. “I’ve been curious as to whether you would keep your end of the bargain. I’m wondering now if you haven’t betrayed me too.”
Vigo scoffed. “I have not.”
Donnell gestured to Steffan. “You say that, but you allowed strangers in your midst.” Both men’s accents were similar, but slightly different than Conall’s. “And Diarmait is still alive.”
Dai dropped his head so nobody could see his face. He wasn’t supposed to know Gaelic, of course, and he was glad he was standing out of either man’s line of sight, a few paces behind and to the right of the two men so he could see their faces in profile. Dai’s father had spoken of the political situation among the Irish clans, and the hatred Diarmait held for Donnell and Rory, who themselves were locked in a battle for edling to the throne of Connaught and the High Kingship. If this was Donnell, who did that make Vigo?
The prince turned his head and lifted his chin to indicate Dai. “And now you’ve brought another!”
Vigo motioned for Dai to come forward. “He’s a newly freed slave. Welsh. He can translate.”
Donnell grumbled, but he gestured Dai towards Steffan. “Tell the captive who I am.”
Dai was saved by how hard he’d been working to keep his face impassive, along with the time needed to translate the Gaelic into Welsh. As it turned out, Donnell hadn’t been speaking to him but to Vigo.
Unaware of the emotions roiling Dai—or that he spoke Gaelic too—Vigo said to him in Danish, “This is Prince Donnell, heir to the throne of Connaught—and the High Kingship, he would have me tell you. He would like you to translate our words into Welsh for the benefit of this cretin.” He kicked out a foot at Steffan’s thigh.
Steffan winced but then immediately smoothed his expression again.
Dai nodded quickly, not having to feign that he was genuinely overawed. His eyes went to Steffan, who raised his head to look up at him. Steffan had an abrasion on his jaw, perhaps from a ring when someone had backhanded him across the face. His nose wasn’t broken, which was some consolation, and Steffan’s brown eyes gazed calmly back at his captors.
Really, Dai had decided long ago that he wanted to be Steffan when he grew up. But first he had to get him out of this. He glanced at Vigo. “Who is he? Why is he captured?”
“He is one of the Welshmen who came with Prince Hywel from Gwynedd. A member of the patrol caught him in the woods, spying on us.”
“He’s a Dragon?” Dai made his eyes go wide. “You’re sure? Maybe he’s a former slave like me, wanting to learn how to fight?”
“With that gear?” Vigo shook his head. “He knows how to fight already. Besides, I saw him in the street when they arrived. There is no chance he’s here just to watch, and I want to know why before—” he broke off, and made a gesture. “Enough! You ask too many questions. Tell him to whom he is speaking and ask him why he’s here.”
“What’s this? What are you saying?” Donnell was impatient with the Danish, which he apparently didn’t speak at all.
Vigo put out a calming hand and reverted to Gaelic once again. “The boy asked if the man before us is one of the Dragons.”
Donnell looked extremely put out.
Dai took in a deep breath, not having to pretend to force himself to calm and to think. Then he did as Vigo had first bid, explaining to Steffan about Donnell and adding, “They want to know why you’re here.”
“Tell them I’ll talk if they tell me what gave me away. My guess? Someone back in Dublin sold us out, either someone in Godfrid’s house or Conall’s. Someone working for this mochyn.”
Dai shook his head. “I can answer that right now. Vigo recognized you from when we arrived.”
Steffan looked pained. “I thought his shop was off the main street?”
“It is,” Dai said. “He still saw you.”
“So why doesn’t he know you?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t want to ask.”
“Find out what they want.”
Donnell was looking fierce. “What is he saying?”
Dai hastily spoke in Danish to Vigo. “He wants to know why you captured him. He was doing nothing wrong.”
Vigo’s eyes narrowed. “Why was he in the woods?”
Dai obediently translated into Welsh for Steffan.
“Tell him I overheard sailors talking about the fights and thought I’d look in. Tell him I’m a sailor, not a Dragon. I was merely walking into Dublin with Gareth. I don’t work for him!”
Dai translated this for Vigo, who did the same for Donnell with Gaelic. It was both a brilliant and awkward way to communicate, and Dai had to make sure, when Vigo and Donnell spoke, that he kept his eyes unfocused, as if he was waiting to be spoken to again.
Donnell slammed his fist into the palm of his hand, his anger barely contained. “Your fighting ring is a distraction we don’t need. I told you it was going to get out of hand. I don’t find these fights as amusing as you do.”
“They have been useful. It’s through them that unrest against Leinster has spread throughout Dublin. Keep a man entertained; keep him fed; and he’ll do anything you want. Each man out there is a spark just waiting to burst into flame. Ottar never understood the people he ruled. I do.”
Around Dai, none of the Danish men appeared to react to the disdain in Vigo’s voice. Either none spoke Gaelic, or they were so loyal to Vigo they didn’t care how little respect he had for their people.
“Too bad we couldn’t have figured out a way for Ottar to survive the battle,” Donnell said. “He was more malleable than Brodar has proven to be. I regret the need for you to kill him.”
Vigo’s chin jutted out. “It is a deed for which I am still waiting to be fully compensated.”
Donnell frowned. “Patience, dear brother. The throne is within reach. If Diarmait had died, like he was supposed to, we might have taken the city today and be one step closer to total victory. Brodar would have listened to reason, stopped the wedding, and renounced Dublin’s subjugation to Leinster.”
“Brodar might not have believed Connaught’s rule would have been any better.”
“He would have if I promised him autonomy for Dublin.” Donnell made a disgusted gesture with one hand. “Now we have to start over.”
“Perhaps.”
It was what Donnell had tried to negotiate with Ottar, through the men of Meath, though the death of Merchant Rikard had exposed the plot and forced Ottar to march on them instead of becoming their allies. This new scheme appeared somewhat more straightforward than the first: kill Diarmait, maybe kill Rory too, and take advantage of the chaotic aftermath. With those deaths, Donnell’s path to the throne of Connaught and the high kingship would have been clear—and Dublin could rule itself.
If Dai were Danish, he might think it was a good deal.
As steward for Prince Hywel, Dai’s father was heavily involved in the running of Gwynedd. Hywel had many brothers, though so far there’d been no infighting to speak of amongst them. Within the Dragons, it was Aron who thought about political strategy the most, and with whom Gareth consulted when he had a problem he couldn’t immediately solve. Or, more often, when he knew how to solve it, but wanted to talk through the repercussions of his decisions and actions. Dai wished fervently that any of the other Dragons were here, because this was too big of a problem for him to solve alone.
Vigo turned to Steffan. “I’ll ask one more time, why are you here? Is it at the behest of this Gareth? Or someone else?”
Dai kept on translating.
“I am just here to see the fights.”
“He’s lying,” Donnell said.
“Of course he’s lying,” Vigo said mildly.
“We should kill him. Bury him in the woods where nobody will ever find him.”
“We could do that,” Vigo said, patience evident in his voice, “but he is a Dragon and servant to the edling of Gwynedd. He might have told someone where he was going, and when he doesn’t return, this Gareth person will start asking questions—questions you don’t want answered. We are not ready yet.”
“You don’t want them answered either, brother.” Donnell visibly ground his teeth, his temper building again. “We can’t let him tell what he knows. He has seen me.”
“I did suggest to you earlier that you shouldn’t come here tonight,” Vigo said, again in that mild tone.
Now Donnell turned on him. “It’s too great a risk to keep him alive. Get it done quickly and quietly.”
“No.”
Donnell’s eyes narrowed. “You are disobeying me?”
“You are not my liege lord, brother.” Vigo spat out the word. “We are in this together, for what we both achieve if you inherit the throne from our father.” Then he put up a hand and softened his tone. “Why waste good Welsh muscle? Ever since Father put a stop to our raiding, our income has dropped precipitously. I have buyers in the north who would pay well for these two.”
Vigo gestured to Danish men behind Dai. And then, between one heartbeat and the next, two of Vigo’s men had Dai against a pillar. A moment after that, his hands were tied in front of him, with the rope looped around his neck.
Vigo had a smirk on his face. “There. That’s better.”
Dai was shocked—and ashamed—to have been taken so much by surprise. “What-what are you doing?” he stuttered in Danish.
Steffan had surged to his feet with a look of horror on his face.
Vigo’s face was a mask of hostile amusement. “Tell him as long as he behaves, you will live. If he fights or tries to escape, we will first hurt you, and then kill you.”
Dai managed to translate through his mounting horror, and though Steffan glared ferociously, he didn’t fight when the man who’d tied Dai wrapped a rope around his wrists too.
When Vigo next spoke, his tone was full of satisfaction, and his words were for Donnell, since they came once again in Gaelic. “Just as I thought. A Dragon.”
Donnell frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Vigo motioned with his head for them to lead Steffan and Dai out of the byre, which their captors did. Once outside, they were both forced to their knees. “It means our prisoner is so stuffed full of honor he values the life of a Welsh boy he only just met. He will behave if it means I don’t hurt the boy.”
Donnell looked Steffan up and down and laughed. “You always did have the luck of the devil, brother. Send word to me when Diarmait is dead. It better be soon. I’m tired of waiting.”
He strode to his horse, and the half-dozen men he’d brought with him sprang into action. Within a count of ten, the whole company had ridden away north, leaving Dai and Steffan beside the byre, with four heavily armed guards around them.
Vigo made another motion with his head towards Steffan. “Take them to the steading. I’ll arrange for their transport tomorrow.”
This time Steffan came up from his knees a little stiffly, which Dai hoped was an act but feared was not. “I don’t understand what you’re doing.”
“Translate!” Vigo grasped Dai by his hair and hauled him to his feet too.
Dai obeyed, trying to breathe evenly like Steffan was. Of course, Vigo was right that Dai made an excellent hostage to Steffan’s good behavior, just not entirely for the reasons he thought.
“I’m making a calculated choice.” Now that Vigo had the true upper hand, he appeared to be even more talkative and willing to answer questions.
“In allying with Donnell, you’re exchanging one master for another,” Steffan said. “How can that be a calculated choice? You are Danish, aren’t you?”
After Dai translated, Vigo tsked. “Half-Danish.”
Dai hadn’t yet explained to Steffan that Vigo and Donnell were half-brothers, both sons of the high king. and there wasn’t time now either because Vigo ordered his men to tie the other end of the ropes that bound Steffan and Dai to the saddle of one of the horses. At least neither had a sack over his head, so they could still see and hear.
When they were both secured, Vigo said, “Your only concern is to do as I ask, when I ask it.”
Dai translated.
“How do I know you won’t kill him anyway?”
“I give you my word.”
Steffan scoffed. “Why should I believe you?”
Vigo laughed. “He is worth more to me alive than dead. As long as you behave, you both will live.”
“To be sold,” Dai added bitterly.
Steffan paused. “My fate aside, am I correct in thinking this is about overthrowing Brodar?”
Dai knew it wasn’t now, but rather than explain to Steffan, he translated in order to hear what Vigo had to say.
In reply, Vigo scoffed yet again. “If Brodar is the practical man I think him to be, he can keep the throne. Once Diarmait is dead, Leinster will be weak. Brodar knows what it means to be a real Dane. He just has to be reminded.”
“What do you get out of it?” Dai was genuinely curious. “Donnell becomes High King and King of Connaught and you get ... what?”
“Leinster,” Vigo said with satisfaction.
“Do you really think Donnell will give it to you?”
“He has to. He knows I have the power to destroy him.”
“Then he could just have you killed.” At this point, Dai figured he had nothing to lose and would ask questions as long as Vigo would answer.
Vigo sneered. “He can try.” Then a genuinely pleased expression crossed Vigo’s face. “You are a smart boy, aren’t you? I might have to keep you.”
“Slavery is illegal in Dublin,” Dai said instantly.
“Not for long. And not in the rest of Ireland. Many things will change when Donnell is crowned High King.”
And when Dai translated this last bit for Steffan, it was the first moment Steffan looked genuinely shaken.
