She had to acknowledge the compliment. What else could she do? She bowed her head.
“There were difficulties,” she managed to say. She did not apologise.
“Perhaps they can be overcome,” he suggested.
“Several difficulties.” For just a moment she nearly brought up the question of religion, but then thought better of the idea.
“It is for you to decide, Caoilinn.” He looked at her quite sternly. “My offer is still open. I make the offer gladly. But whatever your decision, I will ask you to make it by Easter.”
“Am I understanding you right,” she asked, with a trace of irritation, “that the offer will no longer be open after Easter?”
“It will not,” he said, and wheeled his horse away before she could say another word.
“Dear God,” she murmured, as he went out of sight, “the cheek of the man.”
Morann was not surprised when, ten days into April, no word had come from Caoilinn.
“If she does come,” Harold told him, “she’ll wait until the last moment.” He smiled. “And even then, you may be sure there will be conditions.”
“She won’t come at all,” said Morann, not because he knew but because he did not want his friend to be disappointed.
A few days later, however, events arose which made even Harold’s marriage a secondary consideration. A longship arrived at the port with news that the northern fleets were setting out and would soon appear. And two days later came a horseman from the south who announced: “Brian Boru is on his way.”
When Morann and his family arrived at Harold’s farmstead the next day, the craftsman was very firm. The Norseman wanted to stay and protect his farmstead as he had done before.
“But this time it will be different,” Morann warned him. There would be all kinds of men—marauders, pirates, men who killed for pleasure—in the Viking longships. “Nothing can protect your farm if they should come that way.” He was going back to join the O’Neill king, as he had done before. “And you and your sons must come with me,” he told him.
Still Harold made excuses and prevaricated. Finally he objected: “What if Caoilinn should come?” But Morann had anticipated the question.
“She moved into Dyflin yesterday,” he told his friend bluntly. “No doubt she’ll stay there, as she did before. But you can leave word for her to follow if she comes.” Eventually he persuaded the Norseman of the wisdom of leaving. The farmstead’s large cattle herd was split into four parts; and three of them, each under a cowman, were driven away to different places where they might not be found. There was nothing for Harold to do then but hide his valuables and prepare to set out, accompanied by his sons, on the journey north-west. Four days later, they reached the O’Neill King of Tara.
The King of Tara’s camp was impressive. For his renewed campaign, he had collected a formidable army from some of the finest fighting tribes in the north. When Morann brought Harold and his sons to him, he welcomed them and told them: “When the fighting begins, you shall stand by me”—an arrangement, Morann noted, which honoured his friends as well as practically guaranteeing their safety.
Morann soon made himself familiar with the military situation. He estimated that there were nearly a thousand fighting men in the camp. It was rare in the Celtic island to see a fighting force much larger; Brian Boru had not brought more than that to the siege of Dyflin. Many were drawn from the most loyal base of the king’s power, the central kingdom of Meath; but others were still arriving from farther away. The quality of the men was good. Morann watched, impressed, as they underwent their practice in hand-to-hand combat. The old king was planning to remain at his camp until he heard that Brian was in the Liffey Plain; then he would move south to join him, coming down by way of Tara.
But what would he do when he got there? Everything Morann could see—the daily arms practice, the king’s councils of war—all confirmed that he meant to keep his word to Brian, and to fight. Might there be a more devious plan? As Morann looked at the King of Tara’s cragged, shrewd old face, he found it impossible to decipher his intentions; perhaps, the craftsman concluded, the truth lay in a conversation he had when the king summoned him the next day. The old monarch seemed in a reflective mood, though Morann had little doubt he had calculated everything he wished to say. They talked quite extensively, of the men he had brought, of the expected Munster army, and of the forces ranged against them.
“You know, Morann, that Brian has many enemies. He wants to rule as High King with more authority than the O’Neill ever had; for we never really subdued the whole island. Those Leinster kings especially resent him. They’re almost as proud as we are. And they’re not the only ones.” He gave Morann a quick, sharp glance. “But if you think about it, Morann,” he went on quietly, “you’ll see that the truth of this whole business is that we can’t afford to let him lose.”
“You fear the Ostmen.”
“Of course. They have seen Canute and his Danes take over England. If Brian Boru loses this battle now, we shall have Ostmen from all over the northern seas descending upon us. We may not be able to withstand them.”
“Yet it’s Leinster which has begun this business.”
“That is why they are so foolish. Firstly, they are acting out of pride. Secondly, they suppose that, because they have close family ties to the Ostman King of Dyflin, that they will be honoured by any Ostmen who invade. But if all the fleets of the north were to descend, Leinster would be treated just the same as the rest of us. Indeed, being close to Dyflin, they will be the first to be taken over. Then they will be under the rule of an Ostman king instead of Brian.” He smiled sadly. “If that occurs, Morann, then it will be our turn to withdraw from the lordship of the land. Like the Tuatha De Danaan, we shall all go under the hill.” He nodded thoughtfully. “So you see, Morann, whatever happens, Brian Boru must win.”
The messenger from King Brian arrived at the camp the following morning, with a request that the King of Tara should advance forthwith to join the Munster army on the northern bank of the Liffey. He also carried a message for Morann. The silversmith was to join Brian at his camp as quickly as possible; and if his friend the Norseman was with him, King Brian wanted Morann to bring him, too. The first part of the summons came as no surprise to Morann, but he had not expected the one for Harold. Remembering King Brian’s amused admiration for the Norseman when he had come to save the estate at Rathmines, however, he thought he understood. What was it Brian had said to him? “In times of danger, keep big-hearted men around you. Courage brings success.” Before this greatest of all his battles, the ageing commander was reaching out for loyal and valiant men.
Leaving his family and Harold’s sons with the O’Neill king, he and the Norseman set out at once.
They rode easily and made good time. They did not speak much, each no doubt occupied with his own thoughts. Morann was glad to think that he could give Brian a detailed account of the King of Tara’s forces and their conversation, which he had no doubt the Munster king would ask for. Harold, as far as Morann could see, was rather excited by the prospect ahead. His normally ruddy face looked a little pale and his blue eyes were gleaming.
The road led south towards Tara; but at a certain point, a track turned away to the left, towards the south-east.
“If we go that way, the road is less good, but it leads more directly to Dyflin,” Morann suggested. “Which way would you rather take?”
“The direct route,” said Harold, easily; so that is what they did. And for several hours more, they rode towards the River Boyne.
Why had he chosen to go that way? From some instinct—he scarcely knew what it was—he had given Harold the decision. But by telling him, correctly, that this was the more direct way, he had known it was this one that the Norseman would choose. And why had he wanted to go that way? Morann did not know. Perhaps because it was the way his father had brought him when he had come to Dyflin for the first time, all those years ago. But whatever the reason, h
e felt a strange, inner compulsion to return to that path again.
It was late afternoon when the two men approached the great green mounds above the Boyne. The place was silent, not a living soul to be seen; the sky was dull and grey, and in the waters below, the swans had acquired a pale luminosity, like gleaming specks upon the iron waters.
“This,” Morann said with a smile, “is where the Tuatha De Danaan live.” He pointed to the damaged roof of the biggest mound. “Your people tried to get in there once. Did you know that?”
The Norseman shook his head. “This place is grim,” he said.
They walked around the tombs, staring at the carved stones and the fallen quartz. Then Harold said he wanted to walk along the ridge a little way, but Morann chose to remain, in front of the entrance of the largest of the tombs, where the stone with the three great spirals stood. From somewhere came the cry of a bird, but he heard no other sound. The light was imperceptibly fading.
Grim. Was the place grim? Perhaps. He was not sure. He stared over the river. He remembered his father. And he had been waiting like that for some time, he supposed, when it seemed to him that he sensed something moving up the slope from the river towards him.
The strangest thing was that he felt neither fear nor surprise. He knew, as did all men upon the island, of the many forms the spirits may take. There were the ancient gods who might appear as birds or fish, or deer or lovely women; there were fairy folk and dwarfs; before the death of a great man, you might hear a terrible wailing—this was the keening of the spirit they call a banshee. But what he sensed, though he suspected at once that it might be a spirit, was none of those things. It had no form at all; it was not even a floating mist. Yet he was nevertheless aware of it moving up the slope towards him, as though it came with a definite intention.
The invisible shadow passed close beside him and Morann felt a curious sensation of coldness before it drew away towards the mound and, passing by the stone carved with spirals, entered it.
When the spirit had gone, Morann remained perfectly still, staring over the Boyne; and though he could not say how, he knew with certainty what was to come to pass. He was not afraid, but he knew. And when some time later Harold returned, he told him, “You must not come with me. Go to your farm in Fingal.”
“But what about Brian Boru?”
“It is me he wants. I will make an excuse for you.”
“You told me it was dangerous to remain at the farm.”
“I know. But I have a presentiment.”
The next morning, the two men rode southwards together, but as they came to the northern edge of the Plain of Bird Flocks, Morann pulled up his horse.
“This is where we part, but before we do, Harold, I want you to make me a promise. Stay on your farmstead. You cannot go back to the O’Neill king after Brian summoned you; in any case, your sons will be safe enough with him, I think. But you must promise not to follow me into this battle. Will you do that?”
“I do not like to leave you,” said Harold. “But you have done so much for me that I don’t like to refuse you either. Are you sure this is what you want?”
“It is the one thing I ask,” said Morann.
So then Harold departed to his farmstead while Morann turned westwards to seek King Brian to whom he had just denied the company of a big-hearted man.
“The monk is to bring the book himself. King Brian was very definite,” said the messenger. “Is it ready?”
“It is,” said the abbot. “Ten days ago. This is an honour for you, Brother Osgar. I expect the king wishes to thank you in person.”
“We’re going down to Dyflin, where the fighting will be?” asked Brother Osgar.
“We are,” said the messenger.
Osgar understood the abbot’s need to oblige King Brian. Though the Leinster king was preparing for a conflict he thought he could win, not everyone was so certain of the outcome. Below the Wicklow Mountains, down the coastal plain, the chiefs in the south of Leinster had failed to join their king and the Leinster men. The unprotected abbey at Glendalough, though it was one of the noblest in the Leinster kingdom, could hardly be expected to insult King Brian by refusing what was, in any case, owed.
It was the Friday before Easter week, in the middle of April, when the messenger arrived. On Saturday morning at dawn, the messenger and Osgar rode out of the great gateway of Glendalough, and headed northwards into the long pass that would take them over the mountains towards Dyflin. By the time they reached the open high places, the sky was clear and blue. It seemed it would be a fine day.
With the damp breeze catching his face, Osgar was suddenly reminded of the day he had crossed these mountains, so many years ago, when he went to tell Caoilinn he was joining the monastery. For a few moments he felt exactly as if he were that same young man again; the sharpness of the sensation surprised him. He thought of Caoilinn now, and his heart was racing. Would he see her?
Yet there was danger down there on the Liffey Plain: he was approaching a battlefield. Would he be able to deliver the book to Brian and withdraw to safety, or would he be caught up in it?
Tomorrow was Palm Sunday: the day of Jesus’s entry into Jerusalem. A day of triumph. He had ridden into the Holy City on a donkey; they had strewn palms in His way to signal their respect, sung His praises, called Him the Messiah. And five days later, they had crucified Him. Was that, Osgar wondered as they crossed the mountains, to be his own fate? Was he about to descend from this deserted place, have his praises sung on account of his little masterpiece, and then perhaps fall to a Viking axe? There would be irony in that. Or, it even occurred to him, might he happen to encounter Caoilinn and meet his end heroically after all, saving her from a burning Dyflin or a Viking marauding party? A surge of warmth accompanied this vision. He had failed in such a business once before; but that was long ago. He was another man.
And indeed, in a way, Osgar was a changed man. The little book of Gospels was a vivid masterpiece. There was no doubt that King Brian would be delighted with it. The passion for Caoilinn that had produced it, that had driven his work for three months, had left Osgar in a state of elation. He had a compulsive desire to do more, a sense of urgency he had never experienced before. He needed to live in order to create. Yet at the same time, he also knew with a tiny warmth of certainty that if he were suddenly taken from this mortal life, he had now left behind a bright little jewel that, in the eye of God also, he hoped, seemed to make his uneventful life worthwhile.
They passed over the high mountain gap, taking the way that led north-west. By that nightfall they would have descended the slopes, skirted the Liffey’s broad basin, and crossed the river by a small monastic bridge a dozen miles upstream from Dyflin. The day was pleasant, the April sky remaining unusually clear. It was past midafternoon when they emerged on the northern slopes and saw below them and to the east the wide magnificence of the Liffey estuary and the huge sweep of the bay laid out before them.
Then Osgar saw the Viking sails.
It was the whole Viking fleet, strung out from the northern curve of the bay, past the Ben of Howth, and away into the open sea where, finally, they became indistinct in the sea mist. Square sails: he could see that those nearest were brightly coloured. How many sails? He counted three dozen; no doubt there were more. How many fighting men? A thousand? More? He had never seen such a sight before. He stared in horror, and felt a terrible, cold fear.
There were no palm trees in Dyflin, so on Palm Sunday Christians went to church with all kinds of greenery in their hands. Caoilinn carried a sheaf of long, sweet grasses.
It was a strange sight that morning to see the stream of worshippers, Leinster and Dyflin people, Celtic Gaedhil and Nordic Gaill, carrying their greenery through the wooden streets, watched by the men from the longships. Some of the warriors from the northern seas were good Christians, she noted with approval, for they joined the procession. But most seemed to be either heathen or indifferent, and they stood by the fences or in the ga
teways, leaning on their axes, watching, talking amongst themselves or drinking ale.
It had been a remarkable sight when their longships had started coming up the Liffey the evening before. The two fleets had arrived together. The Earl of Orkney had brought with him Vikings from all over the north, from the Orkneys and the Isle of Skye, from the coast of Argyll and the Mull of Kintyre. From the Isle of Man, however, the scar-faced warlord Brodar had brought a fearsome collection, drawn, it seemed, from the ports of many lands. Fair-haired Norsemen, burly Danes; some were light coloured, some dark and swarthy. Many, she judged, were nothing more than pirates. Yet these were the allies that her Leinster king had called upon to strike at Brian Boru. She could have wished he had found other sorts of men.
As she made her way to church, she wondered what to do. Was she making a terrible mistake? For a start, it was now clear that her move back to her brother’s in Dyflin had been premature, and probably pointless. King Brian would not be troubling Rathmines this time, because he was coming up the other side of the Liffey, far away. Her eldest son had already gone back to the rath to watch over the livestock that morning. But the real question was, why hadn’t she gone to Harold? Her son had been unequivocal.
“For God’s sake go,” he had told her. “You’ve no complaint against Harold. The man has nothing to do with Brian Boru. You’ve honoured my father’s memory longer than you need. Haven’t you done enough for Leinster?”
She didn’t even know for certain where Harold was now. Was he at his farmstead or with the O’Neill king, perhaps? His offer had been clear. She must come to him by Easter, but not afterwards. If the man was in any way reasonable, she thought, a few days or weeks wouldn’t matter, but there was something in the Norseman’s nature that indicated he would not budge. Irritating though it was, she rather admired him for it. If she came to him after Easter, his mind would have swung closed, like a heavy wooden gate. The offer would be gone. She knew it.