The day was fine. In the clear morning air, the great crescent of the Wicklow Mountains to the south seemed so close that you could touch them. Osgar made his way towards the slopes on the seaward side with a cheerful, swinging stride. On his left, marshy ground gave way to scattered woodland. On his right, fields and clumps of trees. He passed an orchard and was just approaching a ford across a stream named the Dodder, when to his great surprise, by a tree beside the path he saw Caoilinn. She was leaning against the tree and had wrapped herself in a long cloak. He supposed she must have been waiting some time if she was cold. She smiled.
“I came to say goodbye,” she said. “I thought you might like to see me before you go.”
“Your father was back there.”
“I know.”
“It’s very kind of you, Caoilinn,” he said.
“You’re right,” she said. “It is.”
“Have you been here long?” he asked. “You must be cold.”
“It’s been a while.” She was looking at him thoughtfully, as if she was considering something about him. “Did you keep the ring?”
“I did. Of course.”
She nodded. She seemed pleased.
“And you’re on your way to be a monk in the mountains?”
“I am indeed.” He smiled.
“And you haven’t been tempted by any lusts of the flesh, have you, Osgar?”
“I have not. Not recently anyway,” he said kindly.
“That’s good. Because you have to overcome them, you know.”
And he was just thinking of something to say when, to his astonishment, she opened the cloak and he found himself looking at her naked body.
Her skin was creamy pale; her breasts young and firm, but a little larger than he had supposed, a rich darkness at the nipples making him involuntarily gasp. She was entirely naked. He found himself staring at her stomach, her thighs, at everything.
“Will you remember me now, Osgar?” she asked, and then closed the cloak again.
With a cry, he ran past her. A moment later, he was splashing across the ford. At the other side he looked back, half afraid she might be following him. But there was no sign of her. He crossed himself. Dear God, why would she do such a thing?
As he walked on, he realised he was trembling as if he had seen a ghost; he could hardly believe it had actually happened. Had he imagined it all? No. She had been real enough. What had possessed her? Was this Caoilinn the child, indulging in a last wild and foolish joke? Or was it a young woman, smarting from a rejection, trying to shock and humiliate him? Perhaps both. And was he shocked? Yes. Not by the sight of her body, but by her crudity. He shook his head. She shouldn’t have done it.
Only as he hurried farther along the path did it occur to him that there was also another, profounder explanation. The temptations of the flesh. The devil and his snares again. The abbot had warned him. This was what really lay behind the encounter. Was he tempted? Surely not. Yet, as he went on, to his horror, the vision of her body kept rising before his mind. Scarcely knowing whether he was afflicted by lust or by fear, he tried to shut the vision out; but it only returned, each time more vivid than before. Worse yet, after a little while, he saw that she was starting to do lewd things—things he did not think she even knew about—and the more he tried to dismiss them from his mind, the worse they got. He even tried to return to the simple, pure nakedness with which he had begun, but it was no use. The more he struggled, the worse she got, as he found himself watching, half fascinated, now, and half repelled.
This was not Caoilinn. She had not done these things. It was he, not she, who was imagining them: he, not she, who was in the devil’s grip. A hot sensation of guilt swept over him, then cold panic. He stopped.
The devil had prepared a challenge for him on his way to Glendalough. How should he meet it? A short way ahead, he saw that beside the path there was a bank on which bushes were growing, and beneath it a dark green patch. As he hastened forward he saw that it was just as he had supposed: the dark green vegetation had been placed there by God who, in His wisdom and kindness, had foreseen everything. Stinging nettles.
For what had Saint Kevin of Glendalough done when he was tempted by a woman? Driven the girl away and mortified his flesh. With nettles. It must be a sign.
He looked around. There was nobody in sight. Quickly he stripped off his clothes and, hurling himself into the nettles, rolled in them over and over, again and again, wincing with the pain.
The wedding of Harold and Astrid took place that winter. It was a happy occasion for several reasons.
In the first place, and most important of all, it was clear that the young couple were well suited to each other. Secondly, they were obviously in love.
If there had been a spark between them the first evening they met, at the house of Morann and his wife, his future bride had realised that it would take time and effort to break down his resistance. So she had set about it patiently. She had asked to see over the ship, and when he had taken her round she had asked to see his own handiwork, after which she had remarked appreciatively, “You’re good at what you do, aren’t you?” A week later, Astrid had met him and offered him some sweetmeats wrapped in a napkin. “I think they are the kind you like,” she had said hopefully. And when he had replied, with some astonishment, that indeed they were his favourite kind, she had explained, “You said so when we were at Morann’s.” He had forgotten. “I wanted you to have them,” she added and then, affectionately, she had touched his arm.
Astrid had waited three weeks before, out walking one day, she had turned and casually enquired, “Does your leg hurt you?”
“No. Not really,” he had answered, then shrugged. “I wish it was straight, but it isn’t,” he had added, before falling silent.
“It doesn’t worry me,” she replied simply. “To tell you the truth,” and now she allowed herself to gaze into his eyes for a moment, “I like you the way you are.”
But perhaps her wisest move was the one she made in the third month of their courtship. They were standing on the wood quay, beside the site where work had already commenced on a new, smaller ship, and looking towards the river where the great ship Harold had built was now moored. What, she had asked him, would he most like to do in his life? What was his dream?
“I think one day,” he confessed, “of sailing in that vessel.” He pointed to the ship, which was soon to leave on a voyage to Normandy.
“You should,” she said, and gave his arm a squeeze. “You should do it.”
“Perhaps.” He paused, almost glanced at her, but didn’t. “The voyages are long. The seas are dangerous.”
“A man must follow the call of his spirit,” she said quietly. “You should be sailing away over the horizon on an adventure and returning to find your wife waiting for you on the quay. I can see you doing that.”
“You can?”
“You can do that,” she said frankly, “if you marry me.”
It had not taken long after this for Harold to realise he should marry Astrid, and so her courtship of him was brought to its conclusion. It had been a very successful courtship. For him, the discovery that he was respected and loved opened the floodgates of his passion. For her, though she did not tell him so, the process of overcoming his hesitancy had produced a transformation: at the start, he was the man she had decided to love; by the end, he was the object of an intense desire.
The marriage also had the happy effect of reuniting Harold with his family. To say they were delighted with his bride was an understatement; and if, on Harold’s part, there was any lingering resentment, he was far too happy to worry about it now. The marriage was celebrated at the family farmstead in the old pagan way and the couple received his father’s heartfelt blessing.
Only one person at the wedding was not smiling. Morann Mac Goibnenn, God knew, was pleased enough at his friend’s happiness. His present to the couple had been a silver bowl, beautifully inlaid and decorated by his own hand; he and
his family were there to eat and to dance at the wedding feast. But all the time, as the fires burned high outside and the guests went in and out of the Viking hall, Morann stood quietly apart, watching. He watched the late arrivals to the feast; he looked down the lane and across the Plain of Bird Flocks towards Dyflin; he scanned the horizon eastwards towards the sea. He felt the long knife, concealed in his cloak, ready for use if the dark-haired Dane should come.
Morann did not like taking chances. Unknown to Harold, as soon as his marriage had been decided, the craftsman had made some careful enquiries about the Dane. He learned that he had become involved in a fight in Waterford and soon afterwards had left with a crew of fellows like himself and sailed northwards. The rumour was that they had gone to the Isle of Man. Did he know about the wedding of Harold? He might have heard. Would he come now to disrupt it? Morann kept up his watch until after dusk had fallen; and after that, inside the hall, his eyes continually moved to the doorway until late into the night. But at last, when they departed in the morning, there had still been no sign of Sigurd.
A week after this another marriage took place, in Dyflin, which also gave the families concerned great pleasure. For some time now, Caoilinn’s father had been in negotiation with the family of a young man from the nearby settlement of Rathmines. Not only was his family prosperous, but he was descended, by only four generations, from the kings of Leinster. “Royal blood,” Caoilinn’s father had announced proudly; and he had been quick to let the bridegroom’s family know that Caoilinn herself, by her distant descent from Conall, had royal blood as well. Caoilinn’s cousins from the old rath by the monastery were all at the wedding, of course, including Osgar who had come from Glendalough, and whom the bride greeted with a calm and modest kiss upon the cheek. Osgar’s uncle conducted the marriage service and everyone agreed that the bride and groom made a very handsome couple.
But the highlight of the wedding, it was generally agreed, was when Osgar the monk gave the couple an unexpected wedding gift. It came in a wooden box.
“My father always kept this,” he explained. “But it surely belongs better to you and your husband,” he said with a wry smile, “than it does to me.”
And from the box he drew a strange, ivory-yellow object with a gold rim. It was the drinking skull of old Fergus.
Caoilinn was very pleased.
And if she noticed, she did not mention the fact that, whether through tact or because he had forgotten, Osgar had not kept his promise to produce the little antler wedding ring.
FIVE
BRIAN BORU
999
I
AT FIRST, when he had warned them, his neighbours had laughed at him. Everyone in Dyflin knew that Morann Mac Goibnenn didn’t like taking chances, but surely his fears were unjustified. “We’re in no danger at all,” the King of Dyflin had announced. How could the craftsman still doubt? Some people even called him a traitor.
“He’s not an Ostman,” an elderly Dane remarked. “What can you expect?” And though, given the situation, this reasoning was completely illogical, there were plenty of people to nod their heads wisely in agreement. Not that Morann cared much, whatever they thought. But it was not long before all Dyflin was in a state of panic. The question was: what to do? One thing could be agreed upon, and soon the entire Liffey Plain was empty of livestock, which had all been driven to places of safety on the high ground. But what about the human population? Some went with the cattle and took refuge in the Wicklow Mountains; some remained on their farmsteads; others came into Dyflin to seek the protection of its walls. Osgar’s uncle and his sons retired into the little monastery and closed the gates. Meanwhile, a huge force was gathering. Eager sons of chiefs from all over Leinster were arriving to camp in the orchards near the city walls. Longships were arriving from other Viking ports, the men drinking heavily and roaring cheerful battle cries down on the quay. King Sitric of Dyflin, in a splendid cloak, his long beard and red face making him look very jolly, rode around the town with a retinue that grew larger every day. Finally, when the first frost of winter was on the ground, the King of Leinster arrived and, with King Sitric beside him, they all set off towards the south with the happy assurance that the enemy would never even get close to the Liffey Plain.
The next day, as Morann was walking through the streets, which seemed very quiet now after the previous busy weeks, he saw one of the town’s senior craftsmen walking along with a handsome, dark-haired woman who looked vaguely familiar. Pausing to greet him the craftsman remarked, “You remember my daughter, Caoilinn, who lives out at Rathmines.”
Of course. He did not know the family well, but he remembered the dark, green-eyed girl who married a man from Rathmines, of the royal house no less. She smiled at him.
“My father tells me you had doubts about this business of the king’s.”
“That may be so,” he answered.
“Well, my husband’s gone away with them. He’s very confident.”
“He would know, then, I should say.”
“But my father wanted myself and the children to come into Dyflin.” There was now a hint of uncertainty in her eyes, he noticed. “We’re safe enough in Dyflin, I suppose,” she remarked. “I see that you’re still here.”
“You do,” he said. “You do.”
He loaded the wagon that night. Early the next morning, the wagon, containing his family and all their valuables, lumbered across the long wooden bridge over the Liffey and disappeared into the mists on the other side. Morann was gone.
His first objective was not far away. Across the Plain of Bird Flocks lay the farmstead of Harold.
Though he had no reason to doubt that his friend was happily married, Morann couldn’t help wondering whether Harold’s wife, Astrid, might sometimes regret encouraging him to go to sea. It had brought them wealth, of course. Harold the Lame, as he was called, had already become a notable sea trader; but his voyages sometimes kept him away for weeks at a time. More than a month had passed since he had set out on a voyage that was to take him to Normandy and England. Since his father had died in an accident three years ago, Harold and his wife had taken over the running of the farmstead as well. But as Harold’s wife and children came out to greet him that morning, Morann’s message was blunt.
“You must leave the farm,” he told them, “and come with us.” And when Astrid was unwilling, and remarked, “They have come here before,” he shook his head and urged her to pack up at once.
“This time,” he said, “it will be different.”
It was six centuries since Niall of the Nine Hostages had founded the mighty dynasty of O’Neill, and in all that time, despite the ebbs and flows of power amongst the island’s Celtic chiefs, no one had ever dislodged the O’Neill from the High Kingship. Until now.
Brian: his father’s given name was Kennedy, so he was properly called Brian, son of Kennedy. But like Niall of the Nine Hostages many centuries earlier, Brian was so well known for the tribute he collected that he was called “Boruma,” the cattle counter, or Brian Boru. He had astounded all Ireland by his rise.
His people, the Dal Cais, had only been a small and unimportant Munster tribe in his grandfather’s day. They lived on the banks of the Shannon just upstream from where it opens out into its long western estuary. But when the Vikings founded their settlement nearby at Limerick, Brian’s grandfather had refused to come to terms with them. For three generations, the family had conducted a guerrilla war against the Vikings’ river traffic. The Dal Cais had become famous. Brian’s grandfather had called himself a king; Brian’s mother had been a princess from Connacht; his sister had even been chosen as a wife by the king at Tara—though this hadn’t done the family much good after she was executed for sleeping with her husband’s son.
The Dal Cais were ambitious. They had a hardened fighting force. Brian’s brothers had already tested their strength against several of the other rulers in the region. But no one could have imagined what they did next. All Ireland gaspe
d when the news of it came.
“They’ve taken Cashel.”
Cashel—the ancient stronghold of the Munster kings. True, the Munster kings were not what they were. But the cheek of it! And when the King of Munster got the Vikings of Limerick to join him to punish these insolent upstarts, the Dal Cais beat them all, and plundered Limerick, too. A few years later Brian Boru took over as King of Munster.
A minor chieftain’s family had taken one of the four great kingships of Ireland—where the Celtic royal dynasties went back into the mists of time. And indeed, to go with their new position, the Dal Cais decided to improve their ancestry. Suddenly it was discovered, and declared in the chronicles, that they had an ancient, ancestral right to share the old Munster kingship with the previous dynasty—a claim that would certainly have surprised Brian’s grandfather. But these alterations to the record were not as rare as might be supposed: even the mighty O’Neill had falsified large parts of their genealogy.
Brian was in his prime. The tides of fortune were with him. He was King of Munster. Where else could ambition take him? Only gradually did it become clear that he had decided to aim at nothing less than the High Kingship itself.
He was bold, methodical, and patient. One year he moved against the nearby territory of Ossory; another, he took a great fleet into Connacht; a dozen years after becoming King of Munster, he even moved into the island’s central heartland and camped by the sacred site of Uisnech. He had taken his time, but the message to the O’Neill was clear: either they must crush Brian Boru or give him the recognition he asked for. Two years ago the High King had come to meet him.
It was fortunate for Brian, and probably for Ireland, that the O’Neill High King at this time was of a noble and statesmanlike mind. The choice was clear, but not easy: either he must challenge the Munster man to a war, which could only involve a huge loss of life, or he must swallow his pride and come to terms with him, if the thing could be done with honour. He chose the latter course. And reviving the ancient division of the island into two halves, the upper Leth Cuinn, and the lower Leth Moga, he declared, “Let us rule jointly: you in the south, and I in the north.”
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