Princes of Ireland

  “Did he now? And is he alive, still, this man of wisdom?” It was hard to tell whether this was sarcastic or not.

  “He’s long dead.”

  King Brian was silent. He seemed to be thinking to himself. Then he moved close to the craftsman.

  “When I was young, Morann Mac Goibnenn,” he spoke so softly that Morann was probably the only person who heard him, “I hated the Ostmen. They had invaded our land. We fought them. I once even burned down their port of Limerick. Do you think that was wise of me?”

  “You had to teach them a lesson, I should think.”

  “Perhaps. But it was I, Morann Mac Goibnenn, who needed to learn a lesson.” He paused, and then he took a small object from his hand and placed it in Morann’s. “What do you think of this?” It was a small silver coin. The King of Dyflin had started minting them just two years ago. In Morann’s opinion, the workmanship was not especially fine, but passable enough. Before waiting for his reply, Brian continued. “The Romans minted coins a thousand years ago. Coins are minted in Paris and in Normandy. The Danes mint coins in York; the Saxons have mints in London and several other towns. But where do we mint coins on this island? Nowhere, except in the Ostmen’s port of Dyflin. What does that tell you, Morann?”

  “That Dyflin is the island’s greatest port, and that we trade across the sea.”

  “Yet even now our native chiefs still count their wealth in cattle.” The king sighed. “There are three realms on this island, Morann. There is the interior, with its forests and pastures, its raths and farmsteads, the realm that goes back into the mists of time, to Niall of the Nine Hostages, and Cuchulainn and the goddess Eriu—the realm from which our kings have come. Then there is the realm of the Church, of the monasteries, of Rome, with its learning and its riches in protected places. That is the realm our kings have learned to respect and love. But now there is a third realm, Morann, the realm of the Ostmen, with their ports and their trading across the high seas. And that realm we still have not learned to make our own.” He shook his head. “The O’Neill High King thinks he is a great fellow because he holds the right to Tara and has the blessing of Saint Patrick’s Church. But I tell you, if he does not command the Ostmen’s fleets and make himself also the master of the sea, then he is nothing. Nothing at all.”

  “You think like an Ostman,” the craftsman remarked.

  “Because I have observed them. The High King has a kingdom, but the Ostmen have an empire, all over the seas. The High King has an island fortress, but without ships of his own, he is always vulnerable. The High King has many cattle, but he is also poor, for the trade is all in the Ostmen’s hands. Your father was right, Morann, to take you to Dyflin.”

  As Morann considered the implication of these words, he looked at Brian with a new curiosity. He had realised that, by taking the southern half of the island, the Munster king had already taken control of all the major Viking ports. He was also aware that, on some of his campaigns, Brian had made extensive use of water transport on the River Shannon. But what Brian had just said went far beyond the sort of political control that kings had exercised up to now. If the High King without Viking fleets could be dismissed as “nothing,” then this was confirmation that Brian, as many people suspected, did indeed intend, sooner or later, to take over as High King. But more than that, it sounded as if, once he had made himself master of the island, he meant to be a different sort of king. Dyflin seemed to interest him more than Tara. Morann suspected that the Ostmen of Dyflin would be seeing more of this new kind of ruler than they had been used to, and that this foolish revolt had probably given Brian just the excuse he was looking for to assert his authority in the place. He looked at the king respectfully.

  “The Ostmen of Dyflin are not easy to govern,” Morann remarked. “They are used to the freedom of the seas.”

  “I know that, Morann Mac Goibnenn,” the king replied. “I shall need friends in Dyflin.” He watched the craftsman shrewdly.

  It was an offer. Morann understood at once. He could hardly believe his luck. After his arrest down at the quay, he had not known what to expect. And now here was Brian Boru offering him friendship in return for his loyal support. No doubt there’d be a price to pay, but it would surely be worth it. He couldn’t help admiring the vision of the Munster king as well. Just as Brian looked beyond his present position, to the time when he would be master of the whole island, so even here, when he had just crushed the opposition in Dyflin, he was already laying the groundwork for a peaceful and friendly rule of the port in the future. Perhaps, Morann thought, he even meant to base himself there one day.

  And he was just about to assure the king of his loyal friendship, when there was a disturbance at the entrance, the sound of raised voices, and then the leader of the armed guard who had brought him there burst into the hall. His face was covered in blood.

  “I have been attacked by an Ostman, Brian, son of Kennedy,” he called. “I ask for his death.”

  Morann saw the king’s brows close and his eyes grow dark.

  “Where is he?” he demanded.

  And now, at the entrance, Morann saw the men drag in a figure who looked familiar; and as they pulled back his red hair to raise his head, he saw by the firelight that it was Harold.

  Morann had not caught the dark fellow’s name, but evidently he was well known to King Brian; and at a curt nod from the king, he related his tale. Despite the fact that his head was bleeding quite a lot, he was brief and to the point.

  Harold’s ship had entered the Liffey estuary just after dark. It seemed the crew had seen the bonfires by the Thingmount, but had assumed they must be connected with the celebration of the Christmas feast. They had tied up at the wooden quay and immediately been held by the watch, who had taken Harold’s name and sent for their officer who had gone up to the royal hall.

  “As I came down onto the quay,” the dark fellow explained, “my men told the Ostman,” he indicated Harold, “to stand forward. But the moment I got close, he turned round and grabbed a spar that was lying there; I put my hand to my sword, but before I could get it out, he caught me in the face with the spar. He’s very fast,” he remarked, not without respect, “and strong. It took three of my men to hold him down.”

  It was obvious that they’d done more than hold Harold down. They’d clubbed him over the head and given him a severe beating. He’d been unconscious when they brought him in, but now he groaned. The king went over to him, took him by the hair, and raised his face again. Harold opened his eyes, but they were glazed; he stared at the king dully. It was evident that he did not see Morann, or anyone else in the place.

  “It is the king who speaks to you,” Brian said. “Do you understand?”

  A mumble indicated that Harold did.

  “It’s my own officer that you’ve attacked. He wants you dead. What have you to say?”

  “I’d kill him first.” Harold’s voice was slurred, but the words were unmistakable.

  “Are you defying me?” the king cried.

  By way of answer, Harold suddenly twisted himself free of the two men holding him. God knows, Morann thought, where he finds the strength. He caught sight of the officer now and made a lunge towards him. It was Brian himself who caught him, before the two surprised guards seized him again and pushed him to the ground, while one of them pulled out a small club and brought it down heavily on Harold’s head. Reflexively, Morann started forward to intervene; but at this moment, Brian held up his hand and everybody froze. It was obvious that the king was furious.

  “Enough. I’ll hear no more. It seems that some of these Ostmen still haven’t learned their lesson.” He turned to the officer. “Take him away.”

  “And?” the dark fellow enquired.

  “Kill him.” King Brian’s face was set, hard and implacable. Morann realised that he was now looking at the man who had destroyed the Viking port of Limerick and won a score of battles. When such a man had lost patience, it would be a foolish person who started t
o argue with him. However, there seemed little other option.

  “Brian, son of Kennedy,” he began. The king rounded on him.

  “What is it?”

  “This man is my friend. The one I told you about.”

  “The worse for you, then. And for him. And his cursed family in the slave house.” The king’s eyes stared at him angrily, daring him to say more. Morann took a deep breath.

  “I’m only thinking that this isn’t like him at all to do such a thing. There must be a reason.”

  “The reason is that he is a fool, and a rebel. He gave no other. And he is going to die. If it’s my friendship you want, Morann Mac Goibnenn, you will speak of this no more.”

  The guards were starting to drag Harold out. After the blow from the club, he was unconscious again. Morann took another deep breath.

  “Would you not let me speak with him? Perhaps …”

  “Enough!” Brian shouted. “Do you want to join him in death?”

  “You will not kill me, Brian, son of Kennedy.” The words came out, cold and hard, almost before he had time to think what he was saying.

  “Will I not?” The king’s eyes flashed dangerously.

  “No,” said Morann quietly, “because I am the best silversmith in Dyflin.”

  For a moment, Morann wondered if he was about to discover that he was wrong. The hall had fallen very silent. The king was looking at the ground, apparently considering the matter. After a long pause, he murmured, “You have nerves of iron, Morann Mac Goibnenn.” Then he looked up and eyed him coldly. “Do not presume upon my friendship. My rule is to be respected.”

  “That is not to be doubted.” Morann bowed his head.

  “I will give you a choice then, Morann Mac Goibnenn. Your friend may keep his life and join his family in the slave house; or he may lose his life, and I will set his family free. Let me know which you prefer before I sit down to eat tonight.” Then he turned away. Morann knew better than to say anything more. They dragged Harold out of the hall and Morann followed sorrowfully behind.

  It was a terrible choice, thought Morann; a cold, Celtic dilemma, as subtle and cruel as anything in the stories from the ancient days. That was why Brian had done it—to let him know plainly that he was dealing with a master of the kingly craft. He did not think that there was any hope of the Munster king changing his mind. A hard choice: but who should make it? If Harold came round, Morann had no doubt what his friend would choose. Freedom for his family, death for himself. So if Harold did not come round, was that the choice he should make for him? Or should he save his life and leave them all in slavery? The latter course might be preferable, if he could buy them out afterwards himself. But what if the king refused to let him do that, or they were shipped over the seas to the foreign markets. Would Harold ever forgive him for that?

  As they left the hall, the officer went off to tend to his wound while they were led across the yard in silence to a small wooden building. Morann had hoped that perhaps the cold night air might bring his friend round, but it did not. They were pushed into the room and a guard placed at the door.

  There was a single taper in the room and a small fire. Morann sat by the fire. Harold lay on the floor with his eyes closed. Time went by. Morann asked for water, and when it came, he dashed a little on Harold’s face. It had no effect. After a while, Harold groaned. Morann raised his head and tried to get some water through his lips. He thought he got a few drops in, and Harold groaned again; but though his eyes flickered, he did not come round.

  After perhaps another hour, one of the guards arrived and announced that King Brian was waiting for his answer. Morann told him that his friend had still not come round.

  “You’re to bring an answer regardless,” the fellow said.

  “Dear God, what am I to say?” Morann burst out. He looked down at Harold. He seemed to have fallen into a restful sleep. Thank God at least that the Norwegian was so strong. Morann had a feeling that he might come round if he could only wait a little longer. He still wasn’t sure what answer he was going to give the Munster king. “I can’t make any sense of the business at all,” he said in exasperation. “Why would he attack your man anyway?”

  “I don’t know,” the fellow replied. “But I can tell you this: Sigurd did nothing to him. Come on.”

  “If I must,” Morann muttered absently, and started to follow. And he had already walked halfway across the yard to the big hall when he stopped and turned to the man. “Just a moment,” he said. “What did you say his name was—the officer that my friend attacked?”

  “Sigurd. Officer of the watch.”

  Sigurd. A Viking name. The dark fellow wasn’t a Viking, as far as Morann knew; but then it wasn’t uncommon these days, especially around the ports, to find Vikings who had taken Celtic names and vice versa. Sigurd. Until this moment it had never occurred to him that the officer’s name could be significant. He tried to imagine it—the confusion on the quay, the swarthy figure suddenly advancing …

  “Were you there on the quay when it happened?” he asked the guard.

  “I was.”

  “Did someone call out a name?”

  The fellow considered.

  “Sigurd arrived. We said to the Ostman, ‘Step forward. Our man wants to see you.’ Then I called out, ‘Here’s your man, Sigurd.’ And then as Sigurd got close, the Ostman took one look at him and …”

  But Morann was no longer listening. He was already striding into the hall.

  “I know, Brian, son of Kennedy,” he called out. “I know what happened.”

  He ignored the king’s look of irritation when he began his story. He did not obey when the king told him to be quiet. He continued even when it looked as though the guards would remove him. And by this time, in any case, the king was listening.

  “So he thought my fellow Sigurd was this Dane who had vowed to kill him?”

  “I have no doubt of it,” cried Morann. “Imagine it: in the darkness, a similar-looking fellow, he hears the name called out—and in the very place, remember, where they had met before …”

  “You swear that this story is true?”

  “Upon the Holy Bible. Upon my life, Brian, son of Kennedy. And it is the only explanation that makes sense.”

  King Brian gave him a long, hard look.

  “You want me to spare his life, I suppose.”

  “I do.”

  “And free his wife and children, too, no doubt.”

  “I would ask it, naturally.”

  “They have a price you know. And after all that, you would be my loyal friend, would you, Morann Mac Goibnenn?

  “I should indeed.”

  “Even to the death?” He looked Morann in the eye.

  And just for a moment, because he was honest, Morann hesitated.

  “To the death, Brian, son of Kennedy,” he answered.

  Then Brian Boru smiled.

  “Will you look at that,” he called out to the company gathered in the hall. “Here’s a man, when he swears to be your friend, who really means it.” He turned back to Morann. “Your friend’s life, Morann, I will give you if you vouch for his future loyalty also, and if he pays five of those silver coins you mint here to my man Sigurd, who never did him any harm. His wife and children you may buy from me yourself. I shall be needing a silver chalice to give to the monastery at Kells. Could you make me such a thing by Easter?”

  Morann nodded.

  “No doubt it will be a fine one,” the king said with a smile.

  And it was.

  II

  1013

  There was no doubt about it, at the age of forty-one, with her dark hair and brilliant green eyes, Caoilinn was still a very striking woman; and it was also generally agreed, by summer’s end, that she was looking for a new husband.

  She had earned some happiness. Nobody would have disputed that. She had looked after her sick husband devotedly for more than a dozen years. Cormac had never recovered his health after the battle of Glen Mama.
With one arm missing and a terrible wound in his stomach, it was only thanks to Caoilinn’s nursing that he had lived at all. But worse even than his physical disabilities had been his melancholy. Sometimes he was depressed, sometimes angry; increasingly, as the years went by, he drank too much. The last years had been difficult indeed.

  To get through them, Caoilinn had clung to her memory. She did not see before her the broken man that he now was. She managed instead to see the tall, handsome figure he once had been. She thought of his courage, his strength, his royal blood. Above all, she had wanted to protect his children. Their father was always presented to them as a fallen hero. If he lay idle for weeks on end, or suddenly burst out in a rage over nothing, these were the tribulations of his heroic nature. If his mood in the last days descended into a morbid darkness, it was not a darkness of his own making but one created by the evil spirits who had surrounded him and were dragging him down. And from what quarter did these spirits come? Who was the evil influence behind them, and the ultimate cause of all this misery? To be sure, it could only be one person: who else but the instigator of the trouble, the upstart who had come deliberately to humiliate the old royal house of Leinster to which her husband and her children were proud to belong. It was Brian Boru who was to blame. It was not her husband’s weakness but Brian’s malevolence that was the cause of their misery. So she taught her children to believe. And as the humiliations gathered with the passing of the years, she even came to believe it herself. It was Brian who had caused her husband’s sickness, his sadness, his rage, and his dissolution. It was Brian who was the evil presence in their family life. Even when their father started a drinking bout, it was Brian Boru who drove him to it, she told them. It seemed the Munster king had a personal animus against the family at Rathmines. So perfect was her belief that, in the course of time, it had transformed itself into something that was almost tangible, as though King Brian’s enmity had solidified into a stone. And even now, when she was a free woman again and her children grown, she still carried her hatred of Brian like a flint in her heart.