Dublin (47 page)

  The trouble had begun in England. More than a dozen years ago, at the very time that Brian Boru had crushed the Dyflin men at Glen Mama, the foolish Saxon king of southern England, known to his people as Ethelred the Unready, had unwisely attacked the Vikings of northern England and their mighty port of York. He had soon paid for his foolishness. A fleet of Viking longships had crossed the sea from Denmark and returned the compliment. For the next decade, the southern English had been forced to pay Danegeld- protection money-if they wanted to live in peace. And now, this year, the King of Denmark and his son Canute had been assembling a great Viking fleet to smash poor Ethelred and take his English kingdom from him.

  The northern seas were echoing with the news. Every week, ships had come into the port of Dyflin with further reports of this adventure; small wonder, then, if some of the Dyflin men were growing restless. Ten days ago, in the middle of a drinking session by the quay in Dyflin, Harold had heard a sea captain from Denmark call out to a crowd of local men, "In Denmark, we make the King of England pay us. And now we're going to throw him out. But you Dyflin men sit around paying tribute to Brian Boru."

  There had been some angry murmurs, but nobody had challenged him. The taunt had hit home.

  Because of the excitement caused by the English business, every Viking troublemaker and pirate in the northern seas was on the lookout for an adventure.

  And now the men of Dyflin were going to get their chance.

  If the

  Celtic

  King of Leinster wanted to revolt, his

  Viking kinsman the ruler of Dyflin was ready to join him. That, at least, was the word in the port. Had they learned nothing from their defeat at Glen Mama? Perhaps not; or perhaps they had.

  "They won't try to fight Brian in the open again,"

  Morann told

  Harold.

  "He'll have to take the town, which won't be so easy." He paused thoughtfully. "There may be a further consideration."

  "What is that?"

  "The north. Ulster hates Brian. The

  O'neill King of Tara was forced to resign the High Kingship and swear an oath to Brian, but the O'neill are still powerful, and just as proud as they ever were. If they could get back at Brian…"

  "But what about the old king's oath? Would he break it?"

  "He would not. He's an honourable man. But he might allow himself to be used."

  "How?"

  "Suppose," said Morann, "that the men of Leinster attack some of the O'neill lands. The old King of Tara asks Brian for help. Brian comes.

  Then Leinster and Dyflin and others too perhaps, combine to destroy Brian, or at least to weaken him. Where does that leave the old King of Tara? Back where he was before."

  "You think the whole business is a trap?"

  "It may be. I do not know."

  "These devious tricks don't always work," the Norseman remarked.

  "In any case," Morann pointed out, "there will be fighting and looting all around Dyflin, and your farm is one of the richest."

  Harold looked grim. The thought of losing his livestock at his time of life was deeply depressing. "So what should I do?"

  "Here is my suggestion," the jeweller replied.

  "You know that I have sworn a personal oath to Brian. I cannot fight against him, and the King of Dyflin knows that. I can hardly fight against my own people in Dyflin either. But if I were to go to the O'neill king, who's also bound by oath to Brian, then my obligations are fulfilled. I avoid," he smiled wryly, "embarrassment."

  Yes, thought Harold, and if a trap had been set for Brian as his friend suspected, he would still finish up with the winning side. "You are a cautious and a devious man," he said admiringly.

  "I think therefore that you should stay on your farmstead,"

  Morann advised. "Do not let your sons join any raiding parties that go to attack Brian or the O'neill King of Tara; since I have vouched for your loyalty to Brian, you can't do that. Keep your sons with you. The danger to you will be when Brian or his allies come to punish Leinster and Dyflin. And I will tell them that you feel bound by the oath I made on your behalf and that you stand with me. I can't guarantee that this will work, but I think it's your best chance."

  It seemed to Harold that his friend was probably right, and he agreed to do as he suggested. There was only one other thing to consider.

  "What about Caoilinn?" he asked.

  "That is a problem." Morann sighed. "Her estate at Rathmines will undoubtedly be at risk; and I don't know what we can do for her."

  "But I could help her," Harold said. "I could marry her at once."

  And he set off for Rathmines that afternoon.

  It was a pity that Morann's knowledge of Caoilinn had been imperfect. But then it was scarcely his fault that, when he had told his friend Harold about her, he could not see into all the secret places of her heart. As for Harold, during their courtship he had avoided any discussion about her former husband; he had no idea of the handsome widow's passionate fixation with the person of Brian Boru. It was a pity, also, that instead of talking outside in the daylight, where he might have gauged the expression on her face, they had gone into the privacy of the thatched hall in whose penumbra R: he could hardly tell what she was thinking. be He began by remarking in a cheerful way that there was a good reason why they should marry at once.

  She had seemed to be interested. Remembering how careful and practical she was, he set out his case in a businesslike way.

  "So you see," he concluded, "if we marry now and you came across to Fingal, you could bring at least some of the livestock and keep them with me until the trouble is over. I believe there's a good chance that we could save them. "With luck, thanks to Morann, we might even be able to protect the estate at Rathmines, too."

  "I see," she said quietly. "And by marrying you, I'd be giving my loyalty to Brian Boru."

  If there was a new coldness in her tone, he missed it.

  "Thanks to Morann," he answered, "I think I can guarantee it." Knowing the misfortunes she had suffered when her husband had opposed Brian before, he imagined she'd be glad for a way of staying out of trouble now. In the shadow, he saw her nod slowly.

  Then she turned her head and glanced into a dark space near the wall Where, on a table, the yellowed old drinking skull of her ancestor I Fergus glimmered like a savage Celtic ghost from a former age.

  "The men of Leinster are rising." Her voice was faint, almost distant. "My husband was of royal blood. And so am I." She paused.

  "Your own Ostmen are rising, too. Does that mean anything to

1"

  you:

  "I think they are very stupid," he said, frankly.

  He thought he heard a little intake of breath from her, but he wasn't certain. "Brian Boru is a great war leader." He said it with admiration. "The Leinster men will be crushed, and they deserve to be."

  "He is an impostor." She spat the word out with a sudden venom that took him by surprise.

  "He has earned respect," he said soothingly.

  "Even the Church…"

  "He bought Armagh with gold," she snapped. "And a despicable thing it was, to be bought by such a man."

  And before he was quite sure what to say next: "What were his people? Nothing. River raiders no better than the pagan savages of Limerick they fought with." She seemed to forget that these insulting expressions about the pagan Norsemen in Limerick might have been applied to Harold's antecedents, too. Perhaps, he thought, she didn't care. "He is a pirate from Munster. Nothing more. He should be killed like a snake," she cried with contempt.

  He saw that he had touched upon a raw nerve, and that he must tread gently, though he could not help feeling a little annoyed.

  "Whatever may be said of Brian," he said quietly, "we have to consider what to do. We both have our estates to protect. When I think," he added, hoping to please her, "of all that you have done, so splendidly, here at Rathmines…"

  Had she heard him? Was she listening? It was hard to tell. Her face had become hard and pale. Her green eyes were flashing dangerously. He realised, too late, that a rage was upon her.

  "I hate Brian," she cried. "I'll see him dead. I'll see his body cut to pieces, I'll see his head upon a spike for my sons and daughters to spit upon; I'll have their children drink his blood!"

  She was splendid in her way, he thought. And he should, he knew, have waited for her rage to subside.

  But there was, he sensed, a disregard for him in it which displeased the powerful Norseman.

  "I shall protect my own farm in Fingal, anyway," he said grimly. "Do what you like," she said contemptuously, turning her head be away from him. "It has nothing to do with me."

  He said nothing, but waited for some word of concession.

  There. was none. He rose to go. She remained as she was. He tried to see I'l in her face whether she was angry and hurt, waiting perhaps for some word of comfort from him, or whether she was merely contemptuous.

  "I am going," he said at last.

  "Go to Munster and your friend Brian," she replied.

  Her bitter voice fell like death in the shadow. She looked at him now, her green eyes blazing. "I have no need for traitors and pagans to be limping His into this house again.":; With that, he left.

  The events of the weeks that followed fell out very much as Morann had supposed they would. The men of Leinster made a raid into the O'neill king's territory. Soon after this, the King of Tara came down, to punish them and swept across Fingal to the Ben of Howth. be Thanks to Morann, however, who came with the old king, Harold and his big farmstead were not touched. Within days, more parties, andbrvbarbbreinforced by men from Dyflin, struck back. The King of Tara sent caret messengers south to ask Brian for help. And by mid-August the "frightening rumour was spreading through the countryside.

  "Brian Boru is coming back."

  Osgar glanced quickly around. There was smoke drifting up the valley. He could hear the crackle of flames.

  'Brother Osgar." The abbot sounded impatient.

  Behind him, the monks were going up the ladder into the round tower-a quite unnecessary precaution, the abbot had told them. But their faces looked white and scared. Perhaps he looked like that, too. He didn't know. He suddenly wondered if the brothers would pull up the ladder as soon as he and the abbot were out of sight. How absurd. He almost smiled at his own foolishness. But the image remained-he and the abbot, running back through the gateway with the Munster men chasing behind, reaching the round tower, looking up, seeing the door closed and the ladder gone, and running round the sheer walls helplessly until the swords of the plunderers raised, and flashed, and…

  "I am coming, Reverend Father." He hurried towards the gateway, noticing as he did so that all the monastery's servants had miraculously vanished. He and the abbot were alone in the empty precinct.

  He had heard that Brian Boru's raiding parties were sweeping the countryside as the Munster king came north to punish the Leinster men, but he had never supposed that they would come here, to disturb the peace of Glendalough.

  He caught up with the abbot at the gateway. The track was deserted, but from down the little valley he saw a flash of flame.

  "Couldn't we bar the gates?" he suggested.

  "No," said the abbot. "It would only annoy them."

  "I can't believe that King Brian's men are doing this," he said. "They're not pagans or Ostmen."

  But a bleak look from the older man silenced him.

  They both knew from the chronicles of the various houses that more damage had been done to the island's monasteries in princely disputes than had ever been inflicted by the Vikings. He could only hope that Brian's reputation as a protector of the Church would hold good on this occasion.

  "Look," the abbot said calmly. A party of about twenty men was coming up the track towards the gateway. They were well armed. In the centre of the group walked a handsome, brown-bearded man. "That's Murchad," the abbot remarked, "one of Brian's sons." He stepped forward, and Osgar kept by his side.

  "Welcome Murchad, son of Brian," the abbot called out firmly.

  "Did you know it's the monastery's property you're burning down there?"

  "I did," said the prince.

  "You'll surely not be wishing to do harm to the sanctuary of Saint Kevin?" said the abbot.

  "Only if it's in Leinster," came the grim reply, as the party came up to them.

  "You know very well that we've nothing to do with this business," said the abbot reasonably. "I have always held your father in the highest regard."

  "How many armed men have you?"

  "None at all."

  "Who is this?" The eyes of the prince rested on Osgar with a level stare.

  "This is Brother Osgar. Our finest scholar. A wonderful illuminator."