And now, for the first time since his arrival, Larine threw back his head and laughed.
“Oh, I’m sure he did, Deirdre. He would indeed.”
They left soon after dawn. Bishop Patrick gave his blessing to them all, and promised Deirdre once more that he would send her son back to her safely again. Morna, for his part, bade his mother a tender farewell, and likewise promised to return.
So it was with relief and happiness, rather than grief, that Deirdre watched the great chariot with its accompanying wagon and riders, with their cross and staff, sweep away across the Ford of Hurdles and take the track northwards towards Ulster.
Indeed, everybody involved in the day’s work was pleased, with the possible exception of Larine who, around midday, when they were resting, ventured to make a small complaint to Bishop Patrick.
“I was a little surprised that you decided to override my counsel,” he remarked. “In fact, I was somewhat embarrassed. I had hoped to send a young Christian to the High King at Tara. But all I achieved was to bring you a few converts at a rath by a ford.”
Bishop Patrick watched him calmly. “You were angry.”
“I was. Why did you do it?”
“Because, when I saw them all, I thought the woman was right. I returned to this island to bring the Gospel’s joyful message to the heathen, Larine. Not to make martyrs.” He sighed. “The ways of God are inscrutable, Larine,” he said gently. “We do not need to be so ambitious.” He patted the former druid’s arm. “Morna is a chief. The ford is a crossroads. Who can tell what Dubh Linn may be worth?”
FOUR
VIKINGS
981
I
THE RED-HAIRED BOY stared at the ship.
It was nearly midnight. The sea was like dusted silver, the sky pale grey. He had met men who had sailed beyond the islands in the distant north, where the sun shone at midnight and for long weeks in summer there was no darkness at all. But even here at Dyflin, in July, the night was almost banished. For an hour or so there was enough darkness to see a few stars, but for the rest of the sun’s short absence, the world was full of the strange, luminous greyness that is special to midsummer nights in the northern seas.
The ship was moving silently. It had come up the coast from the south. Instead of using their oars, the crew were letting the breeze bring them into the Liffey estuary along the northern shore where the pale sandbars lurked.
Harold was not supposed to be down by the sandbars; he was supposed to be asleep in the big farmstead. But sometimes, on summer nights like this, he would sneak out and take his pony from the field and come here to the coast to watch the huge, silver-grey waters of the bay which seemed to draw him to them, as the tides are invisibly drawn by the moon, with a magic he did not understand.
It was the biggest ship he had ever seen. Its long lines were like a great sea snake; its high, curved prow cut through the water as smoothly as an axe through liquid metal. Its big, square sail rose over the sandbar, blocking out a patch of sky, and even in the twilight he could see that it was black and ochre like dried blood. For this was a Viking ship.
But Harold was not afraid. For he was a Viking himself, and these were Viking waters now.
So he watched the blackening sea snake with its brutal sail as it passed by and glided away into the awaiting Liffey’s stream, knowing that it carried not only armed men—for these were dangerous times—but rich merchandise. Perhaps, the next day, he could persuade his father to take him down to see it.
He didn’t notice the other boy at first. There were so many people at the waterside below Dyflin’s dark wall. He didn’t even see him until he spoke.
He had been in luck. His father, Olaf, had agreed to take him to the port. The day had been bright when they had set out from the farmstead and started to ride across the Plain of Bird Flocks. The damp breeze had felt refreshing as it pressed against his cheek; the sky was blue, and the sun was shining on his father’s red hair.
There was no one like his father: no one so brave, no one so handsome. He was firm. When Harold was helping on the farm, his father would often push him to work a little longer than he wanted. But if you were down, he’d soon tell you a story to make you laugh. And then there was something else. When Harold was with his mother and sisters, he knew he was loved, and he was happy. But he couldn’t feel free. Not quite. Not nowadays. When his father scooped him up in his strong arms, though, and put him on his pony, and let him trot along beside his own splendid horse, then Harold felt something beyond happiness. A surge of strength seemed to flood through his small body; his blue eyes shone. That was when he knew what it was to feel free. Free as a bird in the air. Free as a Viking on the open sea.
It was nearly two centuries since the Vikings of Scandinavia had begun their epic voyages around the northern seas. There had been greater land migrations in the ancient world; sea traders, Greek and Phoenician, had set up ports and colonies round most of the shores known to classical civilization. But never before in human history had there been such a huge adventure as that of the Viking sea rovers upon the world ocean. Pirates, traders, explorers—they set out from their northern inlets in their swift longships and soon, all over Europe, men learned to tremble when they saw their square sails approaching by sea, or their great, horned helmets coming up from the riverbank. From Sweden they travelled down the huge rivers of Russia; from Denmark they first ravaged and then settled the northern half of England. Vikings sailed south to France and the Mediterranean: Normandy and Norman Sicily were their colonies. They voyaged westwards to the Scottish isles, the Isle of Man, Iceland, Greenland, even America. And it was the fair-haired Vikings from Norway who, coming to the pleasant island west of Britain, explored its natural harbours and, converting its Celtic name—Eriu, which they pronounced Eire—into their own tongue, first gave the place the Nordic name of Ire-land.
Harold knew how his ancestors had come to Ireland. The story was as wonderful to him as any of the Nordic sagas his father told. Almost a century and a half had passed since the great fleet of sixty longships had sailed into the Liffey’s estuary. “And my father’s grandfather, Harold Red-Hair, was in one of them,” his father had told him proudly. When a large party had rowed upstream to the Ford of Hurdles, they had been rather disappointed. After passing a burial mound, they had found a small rath protecting a jetty, a dark pool, and, on the high bank above it, a little monastery to which the head man of the rath seemed to attach great importance. The pagan Norsemen hadn’t thought much of it. Twenty armed men could scarcely fit into the stone chapel which contained only a modest gold cross and a chalice to take away for their trouble.
But if the trading post and its little monastery provided poor pickings, the Vikings could see at once that the site had potential. The old Celtic road system converged nearby, to use the river crossing; the tidal harbour was protected and the land was good. The area around the rath was defensible, too.
The Norwegians had settled. Though known to history as Vikings, or Norsemen, they often referred to themselves as Ostmen—men from the east. Soon, a little way upstream from the ford, a huddle of their timber-and-wattle huts and a Viking cemetery had appeared by the riverside. Learning that the dark pool was called Dubh Linn, the Norsemen produced their own version of the name: Dyflin. Nor was the Viking presence limited to their small port. Scandinavian farmsteads had spread across the territory north of the Liffey estuary. The farmstead of Harold’s family was one of them. And so it was that the old Plain of Bird Flocks had acquired an additional Celtic name: Fine Gall, the Foreigner’s Place—Fingal.
When Harold’s ancestor and the Norwegian fleet had arrived at Dubh Linn that day, the men at the rath had not tried to give battle. Since a single Viking longship carried anywhere from thirty to sixty fighting men, resistance would have been futile. And it was thanks to this reception that from that day on, the fair-haired Norwegians had taken the people of the trading post under their protection.
Not that the last
century and a half had been peaceful. Life was seldom peaceful for long in the Viking world. But to Harold, the coastal plain of Fingal and the small town of Dyflin were delightful places. And when today, as they rode down the long slope towards the Liffey, a bank of grey clouds moved across the sky, darkening the landscape, it had not affected his happy mood a bit.
The merchant ship had arrived from the harbour of Waterford, on the island’s southern coast. There were a number of ports round the coasts of Ireland—nearly all of them settled by Vikings and bearing Viking names. Though Viking fighting ships were long and sleek, their merchant vessels had a bulge at midship which allowed them to carry a considerable amount of cargo in their bellies. The Waterford ship had brought a cargo of wine from south-western France, and Harold’s father was going to buy a few barrels. While his father talked to the merchants, Harold had been admiring the ship’s handsome lines when he heard a voice from somewhere behind him.
“You. Hey. Cripple boy. I’m talking to you.”
As Harold turned, he saw a pale, black-haired boy, of nine or ten he guessed—about his own age—standing in a crowd. Though one or two of the crowd glanced in his direction when they heard the boy call out, nobody seemed particularly interested, but the boy’s eyes were fixed upon him intently. He had spoken in Norse, not Irish, and as Harold had never seen him before, he supposed he must have arrived on the ship. He wondered whether to ignore the rude stranger, but that might look like cowardice, so he limped over to him. The boy’s eyes were gazing at his legs as he approached.
“Who are you?” Harold asked.
“That’s your father, isn’t it?” the boy said, ignoring his question and nodding towards Harold’s father, who was standing some way off. “The one with red hair, like you.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know,” the boy said thoughtfully, “that you’d be a cripple. Your other leg’s good, isn’t it? Just your left that’s bent.”
“That’s right. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Perhaps not. Or perhaps it is. What happened?”
“A horse fell on me.” A horse his father had told him not to go near. The horse had bolted with him, then jumped over a ditch and fallen. His left leg, trapped under the horse, had been smashed.
“Have you any brothers?”
“No. Only sisters.”
“That’s what they told me. It’ll always be crooked, your leg, won’t it?”
“I should think so.”
“Pity.” He gave Harold a strange smile. “Don’t misunderstand me. I don’t care about your leg. I hope you’re in agony. I’d just prefer if you weren’t a cripple when you grow up.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s when I’m going to kill you. My name’s Sigurd, by the way.”
Then he turned round and walked swiftly back through the crowd; and Harold was so astonished that, by the time he tried to hurry after him, the dark-haired boy had vanished.
“So you know who he was?” Harold had been telling his father about the strange incident. Now his father was looking grave.
“Yes.” Olaf paused. “If this boy is who I think he is,” he explained, “then he comes from Waterford. He’s a Dane.”
The first Norwegian settlement at Dyflin had only been in existence ten years when the Danish Vikings arrived. With the northern half of England in their grip, they had been prowling round the Irish coast looking for places to raid and settle. The trading post that their fellow Vikings from Norway had established on the Liffey looked appealing. They arrived in force and told the Norwegians: “We’ve come to share this place.” For a generation after that, the port had gone about its business under various masters: sometimes Norwegian, sometimes Danish, sometimes both ruling together. Though there were still plenty of fair-haired Norwegian settlers like Harold and his family in the area, it was the Danish Vikings who ruled in Dyflin and many other Irish ports nowadays.
“But why should he want to kill me?” the boy asked. His father sighed.
“It goes back a long way, Harold,” he began. “As you know, the Ostmen of Dyflin have always had an enemy. I mean the High King.”
Even now, six centuries after Niall of the Nine Hostages had laid claim to the High Kingship of Tara, his descendants, the O’Neill as they were called, still held the High Kingship and dominated the northern half of the island. The Vikings had never been able to settle on the northern and western coasts which the O’Neill directly ruled; and the existence of the independent Viking port on the Liffey had always annoyed them. For it hadn’t been long before the Viking ruler there had started behaving like one of the provincial Irish kings. The last King of Dyflin, as he called himself, had married a princess of Leinster; his territory had included all of Fingal. “And he would have liked to control all the land up to the River Boyne and beyond,” Harold’s father had once told him. No wonder the mighty O’Neill looked at the newcomers with distaste. Every ten years or so, since the settlement began, the O’Neill High King had come to try to kick the Vikings out. Once, eighty years ago, the Irish had managed to burn the place down and the Vikings had left, though only for a few years. On their return, between Ath Cliath and the pool of Dubh Linn the Norsemen had built a new settlement on the ridge with a strong wall and stockade, and a stout wooden bridge across the river. But the present O’Neill king was a determined man. A year ago, in a big battle up at Tara, he had beaten the Norsemen of Dyflin. Harold’s father had not gone to that fight; but afterwards, he and Harold had watched the Irish king’s line of chariots crossing the long wooden bridge over the Liffey. The king had stayed in Dyflin for several months; but then he had left, taking away whole cartloads of gold and silver, and Dyflin was back under a Viking ruler. The port had to pay tribute to the Irish king now, but otherwise it was business as usual.
“Long ago,” his father began, “when Dyflin was still Norwegian, the High King attacked us one year. And he paid some Danes to help him. Did you ever hear the story?”
Harold frowned. There were many sagas about Viking battles and heroic deeds, but he could not recall hearing this one. He shook his head.
“It’s recorded,” his father said quietly, “but it’s not a popular story nowadays.” He sighed. “There was a particular party of Danes who’d been raiding the northern islands. They were bad people. Even the other Danes avoided them. The High King got word to them, and offered them a reward if they’d help him attack Dyflin.”
“And they came?”
“Oh yes.” Olaf grimaced. “We beat them off. But it was an ugly business. My grandfather—he was a child at the time—lost his father in that raid.” He paused. Harold listened carefully. He hoped that his ancestor had not died dishonourably.
“He was killed after the battle was over,” his father went on. “A Dane came up and stabbed him in the back, then ran away. The Dane’s name was Sigurd, son of Sweyn. Even his own men despised him for that deed.”
“It wasn’t avenged?”
“Not then. They got away. But years later, when my grandfather was on a ship trading in the northern islands, he saw a longship in a harbour and was told it belonged to Sigurd and his son. So he challenged them to fight. Sigurd was an old man by then, though still strong, and his son was my grandfather’s age. So Sigurd agreed to fight on condition that, if he was killed, my grandfather would fight his son as well. And my grandfather swore: ‘I will have both your heads, Sigurd, son of Sweyn, and if you had more sons I would take those away with me, too.’ As it was evening then, they agreed to fight the next morning, as soon as the sun was over the sea. So at dawn my grandfather went to where their ship was; but as he came near, they pushed away from the shore and started rowing out to sea. And they laughed at him and shouted insults. Then my grandfather ran back to his own ship and begged them to follow Sigurd. They refused and as he was only a young man, there was nothing he could do. But they’d all seen what happened, and Sigurd and his son were known as cowards all over the northern seas
.
“My grandfather got word of them from time to time down the years. They were on the Isle of Man, that lies between ourselves and Britain, for a while, then in England, in York. But they never came to Dyflin. And after my grandfather died, we heard no more of them. Until five years ago when a merchant told me that Sigurd’s grandson was in Waterford. I thought about going down there, but …” He shrugged. “It’s been too long. I thought that the grandson in Waterford mightn’t even know about the business. I put it behind me and I’ve never worried about it again—until today.”
“But Sigurd’s family didn’t forget.”
“It seems not.”
“If you choose to forget, why doesn’t this boy?”
“It’s his family who were disgraced, Harold, not ours. He seems to be prouder than his ancestors, at least. They never cared about their evil reputation, but he obviously does. So he must avenge their shame by killing you.”
“He wants to cut off my head and show it to everyone?”
“Yes.”
“So I’ll have to fight him one day?”
“Unless he changes his mind. But I don’t think he will.”
Harold considered. He felt a little frightened, but if this was his fate, then he knew he must be brave.
“So what should I do, Father?”
“Prepare.” His father looked down at him gravely for a moment. Then he smiled and clapped him on the back. “Because when you fight, Harold, you’re going to win.”
Goibniu the Smith glared at the mound. Then he grabbed his son’s arm.
“Will you look at that!”
The sixteen-year-old boy stared. He wasn’t sure what he was meant to see, but it was obvious that his father was furious about something. He tried, surreptitiously, to discover what point exactly his father’s eye was fixed upon.
The prehistoric mounds above the River Boyne had not greatly altered since the time of Patrick. Here and there a further subsidence had occurred. The entrance doorways were all hidden now; but in front of them, a quantity of white quartz stones were still strewn across the ground, glistening when the sunlight caught them. In the River Boyne below, the salmon and swans went about their quiet business as if they themselves had been there when the Tuatha De Danaan had gone to their bright halls within the ridge. But something had evidently displeased the eye of Goibniu. Unlike his distant ancestor, Goibniu had the use of both his eyes. But when he was considering something, he had a trick of closing one eye and squinting through the other, which seemed in the process to become unusually large. Men found his gaze disconcerting. And not without reason. He never missed anything.