Dublin (31 page)

  Wasn't he embarrassed? Not really. He could shrug it off. She was just his little cousin. Anyway, Osgar might be slim, but he was taller than most of the other boys of his age, and he was sinewy. The other children treated him with a cautious respect. So he usually indulged her. Once when he was busy, he'd refused, and seen her face fall and watched her grow silent. Then, with a defiant toss of her head, she'd come back at him.

  "Well, if you won't marry me, I'll have to find someone else."

  "No, I'll marry you," he had relented.

  Better himself, after all, than another.

  The mound wasn't far off. It stood on a grassy platform a little way back from the mudflats that lay downstream of the dark pool's inlet. When the Vikings first saw it they had named the place Hoggen Green, which meant "graveyard"; and as the Nordic people often did when they found a sacred place near a settlement, they used Hoggen Green for their assemblies where the freemen of the town came together to hold counsel and elect their leaders. And so it was that while the graves of his descendants, including Deirdre, Morna, and his children, gradually sank down until they were level with the rest of the grass at the Viking meeting place, the mound that was the last resting place of old Fergus was built up to be used as the platform on which the Viking headmen would stand to conduct their assemblies. The assembly was called the "Thing." Old Fergus's grave, therefore, had nowadays acquired a new name.

  It was known as the Thingmount.

  Before the Thingmount, the two children stood and prepared to get married. The marriage, they both knew, was appropriate. They were second cousins: Caoilinn's grandfather had become a craftsman and moved into Dyflin, while Osgar's had remained at the family farmstead by the monastery.

  The stately old Thingmount by the quiet river was also an appropriate place. For both knew that it was from under it that their ancestor Fergus had emerged to be baptised by none other than

I

  Saint Patrick himself. And both Osgar and even nine-year-old Caoilinn could recite with familiar ease the twenty-five generations that joined them to the old man.

  As he always did, Osgar had to act the part of both bridegroom and priest. He did it very well. Since his father had died four years ago, his uncle the abbot had taken charge of his education. To the great joy of his mother, who went down on her knees in prayer four or five times every day, he not only knew his catechism and many of the Psalms by heart, but he could recite large parts of the Church services, too. "You have a talent for the spiritual life," his uncle informed him. He could also read and write, haltingly, in Latin.

  Indeed, his uncle told his proud mother, young Osgar had shown more aptitude for these things than his own sons.

  Standing beside Caoilinn, but also just in front, he rather convincingly intoned the priest's part and gave the bridegroom's responses. The antler ring was fitted, the bride duly but chastely kissed on the cheek, and Caoilinn, delighted with herself as always, walked about with her arm linked in his and the ring on her finger. She would wear it until the end of their games when, upon parting, she would give it back to him, to be put safely in the pouch until the next time.

  What did it all mean? She might not know herself, but Osgar supposed that indeed, one day, they would marry in earnest.

  You could see they were cousins. They had the same dark hair and good looks that had usually run in the family. But whereas Osgar's eyes were deep blue, hers were a startling green. He knew that green eyes ran in the family, but of all his cousins, she was the only one to have them, and that had made her seem special to him, even when she was only an infant. There was something about a cousin, too. Their shared ancestry seemed to form a strange bond between them-familiar, yet magical. He couldn't quite explain it, but he felt as if they were destined to be together in a world from which other families were somehow excluded. Yet even if they hadn't been cousins, he would have been fascinated by her wild, free spirit. The grown-ups, his uncles and aunts, had always considered him the most responsible of all the children of the extended family.

  The boy who was most likely to lead. He wasn't sure why, but it had been so even before the death of his father. Perhaps that was why he felt a special protectiveness towards his little cousin Caoilinn, who always did what she wanted, and climbed the tallest trees, and insisted that he marry her. For in his heart he knew that he could not think of marrying anyone else. The bright little spirit with her green eyes had long ago enchanted him.

  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

  coma 99 1 and "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, I 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, andbrvbarbb8Gaedhil 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 comshe'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 buckles, 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.