4: Snares and Delusions

'We've decided to help you,' declared Inghen, as she swept into the main hall of the nunnery, flanked by twelve of her warriors.

'You have?' Abbess Aillinn regarded the savage, barbaric figures as they swaggered into her presence, and considered her position. Born the second daughter of a minor Galeoin chieftain from Northern Leinster, her vocation had been inevitable, and when it became clear that she was to leave Ireland's violent shores for the offshore nunnery of Innis Cotrice, she had felt a certain relief. Though not a rich house, Innis Cotrice was situated far, far away from the avaricious clans of Ireland, native or foreign, whose first reaction to the presence of a religious foundation was to loot it of its precious metals and jewels in order to finance their interminable wars. The Abbess had hoped she would be able to live out her life here in contemplation and meditation until the Lord gathered her up to heaven, and never become embroiled in the worldly matters that had led her father and two of her brothers to early, bloody deaths. But God punishes cowardice like any other sin, and now she found herself confronted by everything she had run away from.

And yet, these sinful pagans were offering to aid her.

'You will save my nuns from these evil men?' she murmured. 'Oh, the sweet saints be praised!'

'Forget them,' Inghen sneered. 'Your only salvation lies in our steel.' She frowned. 'Or whatever method we'll use to kill Varg and his cronies.'

The Abbess looked disconcerted.

'Why, what is the problem?' she asked. 'Surely you outnumber them?'

Inghen sighed. She crossed over the room to the Abbess, and looked her in the eyes.

'Let me explain,' she began.

'Some of my people are depraved enough to learn witchcraft at the feet of the sorcerers of Finnmark. With this they can do many marvellous things - make fetters spring from their limbs, calm the stormy waves, speak with the dead, or make themselves immune to fire and iron. The warriors we are faced with are some of these - blades won't cut them because of their magic. We intend to try and kill them, because apart from anything their leader slew my father. But also because we owe you something.'

'It is sinful and vain to seek vengeance,' murmured the Abbess. 'And as for this witchcraft - why, the saints can do all these things - and more. Not from sacrificing to devils, but from faith in Christ.'

Inghen shrugged.

'It doesn't really matter how you explain it,' she said. 'It still makes them very hard to kill. And nothing you say will stop us from trying. Anyway, I thought you wanted them dealt with?'

'But how do you hope to kill them, then?' the Abbess asked. She looked away, and before Inghen could reply, added; 'They sent us a message while you were at your ship. They say that if we don't hand over the gold from the chapel at sunset tomorrow, they will burn the nunnery around our heads.'

'But why don't they just come in and kill you?' demanded Thorir. 'Are they afraid of you?'

The Abbess spread her hands. 'I think they fear we could harm them with magic if they were under our roofs,' she murmured. 'That is all that has stopped them from raping or killing us all.'

'It makes sense,' replied Thorir. 'Berserkers were always a superstitious lot.'

Inghen looked thoughtful.

'Sunset tomorrow,' she said to herself. She glanced at Thorir. 'Do you think there is any way we could bring pressure to bear on Gunnholm? He knows all we need to know, but he isn't telling. If we could force him to tell us...'

Thorir wrinkled his brow. 'We could threaten to banish him from the ship,' he said slowly. 'That might work - then again, he might just go and join Varg's men, and then we'd be back where we started, and rather worse off. But he's loyal to you, Inghen. He's not the kind of berserker who wanders off to live by his sword.'

'We may as well try it,' Inghen replied. 'But pray to Odin that it works.'

Abbess Aillinn looked at the dynamic, vital figure before her, and the temptation of envy seized her heart. All of a sudden, she felt a deep longing to live the life of the Red Daughter - a woman, aye, but a free one. All her life, Aillinn had been at the beck and call of some man - her father when she was a child, abbots and bishops in later life... And even now, out amidst the lonely waves, surrounded by women all subordinate to her, she was not entirely free from the influence of the Bishop of Tuam, or even the Pope. But Inghen the Red spent all her life freely wandering the waves, and named no man on land or at sea her master. Oh, she was a sinner, and there were doubtless a thousand reasons why her soul would burn in hellfire for all enternity when she finally met her sordid end. But Aillinn recalled of the old legend of what Fionn Mac Cumhaill's companion, Conan the Bald, did when he had been justly sent to hell for his sinful, heathen life. The Devil had savagely cuffed him in a vain attempt to control him, but Conan had instantly struck back. "Blow for blow or claw for claw, as Conan said," was a phrase that had frequently been on the lips of her brothers. She'd hated it when she was a girl, seeing it as another example of their violent and abhorrent ways, but just at this moment she could understand it; the heroic triumph over the weaknesses of the self - dedication to the heroic ideal was a sacrifice as profound as that of any martyr, but more pathetic, and ultimately more impressive, since when the pagan warrior died, he - or she - had no glorious afterlife to look forward to.

But then she muttered 'Vade retro, Sathanas,' realising that the Evil One had entered into her heart. The Red Daughter was a vile sinner, doomed to the torments of hell, not a role-model - and yet, had the Lord truly sent her of all people to save them?

She looked up at the Vikings. 'If you will save my nuns from these evil men, I will pray for your souls,' she said determinedly. Inghen looked cynically at her, but then patted her on the cheek with surprising gentleness.

'If there was any point, I'd thank you,' she replied. She clasped Aillinn's hand fiercely then, as if to make up for this lapse into feminine weakness, and the Abbess felt the iron-hard muscles moving beneath her skin. Her grasp was as strong as any man's, stronger than most, in fact.

She went on. 'But since we're all doomed to death at the end of time, I won't.' She laughed grimly. But Aillinn could have sworn she saw a glint of something softer behind the hardness of Inghen's stony gaze.

The Red Daughter turned to her men.

'Right,' she said, her tone business-like again. 'Back to the ship. We've got some talking to do with Gunnholm Finsson.'

The Abbess watched them leave, and as Inghen strode out of the hut, it seemed to her that with the Red Daughter went a part of herself whose existence she had never previously suspected. But no. The shieldmaiden was a tool of God; not merely the nuns' salvation, but their temptation also. Aillinn realised that she had almost made the cardinal error of prizing worldly life over her eternal reward. Life down here was a hollow mockery of the Truth, and everything in it was a snare for the unwary soul.

Still, some temptations were more attractive than others. She wouldn't mind risking her immortal soul if only she could live as free a life as Inghen the Red.

Surely nothing could ever be an obstacle for a woman of such spirit.