Dublin (51 page)

  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 southeast.

  "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 bebbandbrvbar; cause 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, he felt a strange, inner compulsion to return to that path again.

  It was late afternoon when the two men approached the great I 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 mid- afternoon 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: the 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 gateways, leaning on their axes, watching, talking amongst themselves or drinking ale.

  It had been a remarkable sight when their longships had started rowing 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 roast of Argyll and the Mull of Kintyre. From the Isle of Man, howsver, 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.

  Even if she could accept what he had done before, even if she could accept that she was in the wrong, Caoilinn didn't like being told what to do. By making the offer in the way he had, he was asserting his authority, and she couldn't see how to get out of it.

  Her pride still made it difficult for her to let him win and she meant to put off the decision as long as possible until she could think of a way of getting even.

  She was also a little nervous. So far, no one had troubled Harold about his equivocal position. People knew that Morann had secured protection for his friend, just as, in turn, Harold had mitigated the damage to her own estate. But now there was going to be a great battle; whoever won would suffer terrible casualties. If she were seen leaving Dyflin now to go across to a man under Brian's protection, and the men of Dyflin were to succeed in smashing Brian, they might not take kindly to her desertion. There could be ugly I reprisals. Alternatively, of course, if she stayed where she was and Brian won, she could be trapped in a burning Dyflin. But the worst aspect of the business lay in the bluntly cynical proposition her son had put to her just before he departed.