They stayed there for a while, playing by the Thingmount and along the banks of a little stream that crossed the grass nearby; but at last it was time to return. And Caoilinn had just slipped off the ring and handed it to Osgar when they noticed two figures coming in their direction. One was a tall red-haired man on a splendid horse; the other a red-haired boy on a pony. They rode slowly along the riverside edge of Hoggen Green.
“Who are they?” Osgar asked Caoilinn. She always knew everybody.
“Ostmen. Norwegians. They’ve been here a long time,” she said. “They live out in Fingal but they come into Dyflin sometimes. Rich farmers.”
“Oh.” He thought he knew the farmstead, and gazed at the two riders curiously, supposing they had come to visit the Thingmount. But to his surprise, though they glanced in the mound’s direction, the two figures abruptly turned away towards the estuary and started heading into the shallows. “They must be going to the stone, then,” he remarked.
It was a strange sight. Out on the watery mudflats, a single standing stone stood like a lonely sentinel, with only the crying seabirds for company. Behind it, bare mud and sea pool; before it, the breeze-blown waters of the estuary: the Long Stone, as it was called, had been set there by the Vikings to mark the place where, a century and a half earlier, their leading longship had first run aground on the Liffey’s shore. For the two Norwegians, Osgar supposed, the Long Stone at the sea’s edge might evoke the same ancestral echoes as the tomb of old Fergus did for him.
There was no question, he thought, that the tall Ostman with his red hair was a fine-looking man. And as if catching his thought from the wind, he heard Caoilinn beside him remark, “The boy’s name is Harold. He’s handsome.”
Why should that strike a discordant note? No doubt she’d noticed him in Dyflin. Why shouldn’t the Norwegian boy be handsome?
“Are they Christian or heathen?” he asked casually.
Many of the Vikings in Dyflin were still pagan. But the situation was fluid. The Irish living within the walls, like Caoilinn and her family, of course, were all Christian. Over the water, in England, Normandy, and the lands where they had taken their place beside other Christian rulers, the Viking chiefs and their followers had mostly availed themselves of the prestige and recognition that came with membership in the universal Church. But in Ireland, you still had to ask. Those who live and trade on the high seas often learn to show respect to different gods in different lands. The old Viking gods like Thor and Woden were very much alive. So if a merchant in Dyflin had something like a cross hanging round his neck, you could never be sure whether it was a crucifix or the hammer symbol of Thor.
One thing was certain, though. His cousin Caoilinn’s family were as devoutly Christian as his own. Caoilinn would never be allowed to marry a pagan, however rich or handsome he might be.
“I don’t know,” she said, and a brief silence fell between them. “The boy’s a cripple,” she added casually.
“Ah. Poor fellow,” said Osgar.
II
991
“You’d better go and collect him, Morann. You know what he’s like.”
Morann Mac Goibnenn looked up at his wife, Freya, with a smile and nodded.
It was the end of a warm and quiet summer. All the world, it seemed, was at peace this year. Seven years ago, the rising warlord from Munster, Brian Boru, along with some of the Waterford Vikings, had tried to raid the port. Two years ago, the High King had paid the place another brief and terrifying visit. But last year and this, everything had been quiet. No warships, no thundering of horses’ hoofs, no threatening fires or clash of arms: the port of Dyflin under a new king, Sitric, had gone quietly about its business. It was time to think of family pastimes and of love. And since Morann had these things for himself, it was time to think of them for his friend Harold.
What was the matter with him? Was it forgetfulness, as he pretended, or shyness that caused him to miss appointments with pretty girls? “Just so long as it isn’t to meet some woman,” he’d said, when Morann had invited him. They’d tried introducing him to a girl about a year ago. He’d remained silent for the whole evening. “I wouldn’t want her getting any ideas,” he’d explained afterwards, while Morann had shaken his head and his wife, behind Harold’s back, had cast her eyes up to heaven. Now it was time to try again.
Freya had selected the girl, whose name was Astrid and who was a kinswoman of her own. She’d spent a whole morning talking to her about Harold, told her everything about him, good and bad. Though the Norwegian knew nothing about it, the young woman had already been down to where he worked and observed him several times. In order to get round the problem of Harold’s shyness, they had agreed to say that she was on her way to Waterford, where she was betrothed.
Morann would have been glad to see his friend married to a good woman like his own wife. He looked up at her fondly. There might be two communities in Ireland, Celtic and Scandinavian, and in describing their battles, the bards might like to build them up as heroic adversaries—Celt against Viking, Gaels against Foreigners, “Gaedhil and Gaill” in the poetic phrase—but in reality, the division had never been so simple. Though the Viking ports were certainly Nordic enclaves, the Norsemen had been marrying island women since they first arrived, and Irish men wed Nordic women.
Freya was dressed as a good Scandinavian wife should be—plain woollen stockings, leather shoes, a full belted dress over a linen shift. From the tortoiseshell clasp at her shoulder, on a silver chain hung two keys, a little bronze needle case, and a small pair of scissors. From her broad brow, her light brown hair was tied back severely under a hairnet. Only Morann knew the fires that burned beneath this demure exterior. She could be quite as wanton, he thought approvingly, as any harlot. That was the sort of wife his friend needed.
This Astrid girl was pagan, too. Though most of their Fingal neighbours were Christian, the family of Harold had remained quietly true to their old gods. Morann’s wife had also been pagan, but converted to Christianity when she married him. He’d insisted upon that because he felt it showed respect to his family. Indeed, when she’d asked him what it would mean to become a Christian, he had given her an answer worthy of his one-eyed ancestor from six centuries ago: “It means you’ll do as I say.” He smiled when he thought of it. Five years of happy marriage and two children had taught him better.
Freya had certainly prepared a splendid meal. They lived in the Viking style: a modest breakfast in the morning, then nothing until the main meal of the day in the evening. Pickled herring and fresh fish from the estuary to start; two sorts of freshly baked bread; a main course of stewed calf, served with leeks and onions; cheese curds and hazelnuts to finish. All washed down with mead and a good wine shipped in from France. The stew was in its pot, hanging over the central hearth in the big main room. He could smell it from his workshop.
“You want me to go now?” he asked Freya. She nodded. Slowly, therefore, he began to gather up the objects on the table in front of him.
They were the various tools of his trade: the gimlets, tweezers, hammers that proclaimed he was a metalworker. More interesting was the small, flat piece of bone—the trial piece—upon which he had been carving rough designs for future items of metalwork. His talent was obvious. Even in this rough work, with its complex, interlacing forms, one could see the skilful blending of the abstract, swirling patterns of the island’s ancient art, with the snakelike animal forms so popular with the Norsemen. Under his clever hands, rude Viking sea snakes would be caught in cosmic, Celtic patterns that delighted men and women equally.
In a strongbox beside his table, which was neatly divided into compartments, were all kinds of curiosities. There were pieces of the dark stone known as jet imported from the British Viking city of York; another compartment contained bits of coloured Roman glass, dug up in London and used by Viking jewellers for decoration. There were beads of dark blue, white, and yellow for making bracelets. For Morann could make anything: copper buckl
es, silver sword handles, gold arm rings; he could decorate with gold filigree and pattern silver, and make jewellery and ornaments of every kind.
Also in his box were some small piles of coins. As well as the old ring money and hack silver, the Viking traders of Dyflin were used to transacting business with coins from all over Europe, although there was talk of setting up their own mint, like the English did in their towns, there in Dyflin. Morann owned one or two old coins from the mints of Alfred the Great in England, and even one, of which he was especially proud, two centuries old, of the Holy Roman Emperor Charlemagne himself.
Carefully, now, he put the contents of his worktable away in the iron-banded box, which he then locked and gave to his wife for safekeeping inside the house.
It was nearing the end of the working day. He made his way past the premises and workshops of comb makers and carpenters, harness makers and sellers of precious stones. Everywhere the busy prosperity of the Viking town was evident. He passed a blacksmith’s glowing forge and smiled—the occupation of his ancestors. But it had to be admitted, the Norse invaders were better craftsmen with iron and ringing steel than even the warlike men of the island had been. Turning down the street known as Fish Shambles, where the fish market was already closed, he saw a merchant who gave him a respectful nod. The merchant dealt in the most precious commodity of all—golden amber that came all the way from Russia in a ship of the Baltic trade. Only a few of the craftsmen in Dyflin could afford to buy amber, and Morann was one of them.
Morann Mac Goibnenn. In Irish it sounded “Mocgovnan”—son of the smith—for both his father and grandfather had borne the name of Goibniu. It was only in the last generation or two that this form of individual family name had begun to be used. A man might be called Fergus, son of Fergus, and might belong to a great royal tribe, like the O’Neill; but the tribe was not, as yet, a family name. Morann and his children, however, were now the Mac Goibnenn family.
And it was used, by both Irish and Viking townsmen alike, with respect. Young though he still was, the maker of jewellery had shown himself to be a master of his craft. He was also known to be cautious and canny, and already he was a man who was listened to in the Viking port. His father had died two years after he had first come to Dyflin and it had been a great grief; but it gave Morann pleasure to think of how proud his father would be if he could see him now. Almost unconsciously, as though to keep alive the memory of his father, he had begun since the old man’s death to imitate his trick of fixing people with one eye when he was negotiating or studying them for some reason. When his wife had complained of it, he had only laughed, but had not stopped doing it.
At the bottom of Fish Shambles, he came out onto the big wooden quay. There were still plenty of people about. A party of slaves, chained together with iron rings round their necks, was being led along it from one of the boats. He glanced at them quickly, but with a critical eye. They looked strong and healthy. Dyflin was the main slave market for the island and there were regular shipments from the great British slave port of Bristol. The English, in his opinion, being somewhat slow and docile, made good slaves. Swiftly, he made his way along the quay to the end where he knew his friend would be. And there, sure enough, he was. He waved. Harold saw him, and smiled.
Good. He suspected nothing.
It took a little while to get Harold away from the quay; but he seemed quite happy to be coming, which was all that mattered. His real concern, however, seemed to be that Morann should admire the great project upon which he was working, and of which he was obviously very proud. Nor had Morann any difficulty in doing so.
“It’s magnificent,” he agreed. In fact, it was awesome.
It was a Viking ship. All over the Viking world, nowadays, the port of Dyflin was famous for building ships. There were many shipyards around the coasts of Scandinavia and Britain; but if you wanted the best, you went to Dyflin.
Like everyone else in the town, Morann knew that the latest boat was special; but today they had been taking down some of the scaffolding which had surrounded it, and the ship’s sleek outlines were now visible. It was massive.
“A yard longer than anything built in London or York,” Harold said proudly. “Come, see inside it.” And he led the way to a ladder, while Morann followed.
It always amazed Morann that, despite his limp, Harold could move as fast, indeed faster than other men. Watching him run up the ladder and then, with a laugh, leaping lightly over the ship’s side, the craftsman could only marvel at his agility. Having known him only since the young Norwegian came to work in the port, however, he had no idea of the years of painful training and hard work that had achieved this result.
Ever since the meeting with Sigurd, it had been the same. Early in the morning, he would be up to help his father on the farm. But by midday he was always free, and then his regimen would begin. First came the physical training. He would drive himself ruthlessly. Ignoring the pain and humiliation of his stumbles and falls, the little boy at the farmstead would force himself to walk as fast as he could, dragging his crippled leg along, pushing it into use. In due course, with an erratic, hopping kind of action, he could run. He could even jump, leaping with his good leg and tucking the damaged one under him as he cleared an obstacle. In the afternoons his father would usually join him. And then the fun would begin.
His father had made him little wooden weapons first: an axe, a sword, a dagger and shield. For two years it was like a game he would play, teaching Harold to strike, parry, thrust, and dodge. “Move away. Hold your ground. Strike now!” he would call. And, weaving, ducking, or whirling his toy axe, the boy would go through every exercise his father could devise. By the age of twelve, his skill was remarkable and his father would laugh: “I can’t catch him!” At thirteen, Harold was given his first real weapons. They were light, but a year later his father gave him heavier ones. At the age of fifteen, his father confessed he could teach him no more, and sent him to a friend up the coast, whom he knew was highly skilled. It was there that Harold learned not only greater agility but even to make use of his physical peculiarities to strike unconventional blows that would take any opponent by surprise. By the age of sixteen, he was a killing machine.
“Strangely enough,” his well-meaning father once remarked to him, “by threatening your life, that Dane may have done you a favour. Think what you were then, and look at you now.”
And Harold kissed his father affectionately and said nothing, because what he knew was that he had developed extraordinary skills, but that he was still a cripple.
“The lines are fine,” Harold called to Morann, as the craftsman clambered over the ladder. And indeed they were. The long clinker-built lines of the ship swept forward to the huge prow so smoothly and with such power that when you imagined it in the water its swift passage didn’t just seem natural, it seemed inevitable—as inevitable as fate, in the hands of the pagan Nordic gods themselves. “The space for the cargo,” Harold was gesturing towards the empty centre of the huge vessel, “is nearly a third larger than anything else on the water.” He pointed down to the bottom of the ship, where the mighty spine of the keel ran like a blade. “Yet the draught is still shallow enough for all the main rivers on the island.” The Liffey, the massive Shannon waterway in the west, every major river in Ireland had seen the Viking oarsmen come skimming up their shallow waters into the interior. “But do you know the real secret of a ship like this, Morann? The secret of its handling under sail, on the sea?”
They were strong. They never capsized. The craftsman was aware of these. But with a grin, the Norwegian went on: “They bend, Morann.” He made a wiggling motion with his arm. “As you feel the power of the wind on the sail, running down the mast, and you feel the power of the water against the sides, you can feel something else. The keel itself bends, it follows the water’s curve. The whole ship, braced against the wind, becomes at one with the water. It’s not a ship, Morann, it’s a snake.” He laughed with delight. “A great sea snake!”
How handsome he looked, the craftsman thought, with his long red hair, like his father’s, and his bright blue eyes, so happy on his ship.
Once Freya had asked Morann, “Did you never wonder why Harold left the farmstead and came to work in Dyflin?”
“He loves building ships,” he’d answered. “It’s in his blood,” he had added. It was obvious to any man.
And indeed, if there was more to the matter than Morann Mac Goibnenn supposed, he had never heard of it from his young friend
Harold had been almost seventeen the summer when they presented him with the girl. She came from over the sea, from one of the northern islands—a girl of good ancestry, they told him, whose parents had died leaving her in the care of her uncle. “He’s a fine man,” his father told him, “and he has sent her to me. She’ll be our guest for a month and you’re to look after her. Her name is Helga.”
She was a fair, slim girl, blue-eyed, a year older than he was. Her father had been Norwegian; her mother, Swedish. Yellow hair framed her cheeks, pressing them close, like a pair of hands taking her face between them before the lips were kissed. She did not smile much, and her eyes had a slightly distant look, as if half her mind was somewhere else. Yet there was a hint of sensuality in her mouth that Harold found a little mysterious, and exciting.