Book of Kells

by R. A. MacAvoy

  Snorri looked up into her face. “At the Thingmount.”

  “That’s the best place, if you are going to do such a thing,” she agreed quietly. “He…he was once a good king.” She hesitated to say more. “He—my father fought beside him in York. We received wedding gold from him.” She turned away and headed slowly toward the bed. “Don’t come back to Dublin after this.”

  “I know, Thorfinn’s wife. I’m sorry to bring this grief to you,” Snorri said gently. “I will go out through the byre. No one will see me that way.”

  It was the end of the barrel, and Holvar was aware of the dregs floating heavily near the bottom. “Ah well,” apologized the alehouse keeper, “who would have anticipated that we should go through two great tuns in one week? But between the festivity at the law hall and all the uproar among the natives—the Gaels…”

  Holvar’s ears stretched upward half an inch toward the top of his head, bringing wrinkles to where the hair was thin. His nervous feet scraped the bag at his feet. He expressed his interest in a mumble which the man scarcely needed to keep talking.

  “With the poet’s complaint to the king, you know—or you ought to know, as I’m told it was a work of some power. And the attack of the Saracens, under this very roof!”

  Now Holvar’s mumble was more frankly confused. He took his meather of ale and peered into it with vague dissatisfaction, hoping the strainer had not let slip too much of the slime from the cask bottom.

  “And now all the Irish are talking about a Viking raid on Dublin. Supposedly by Norwegians, just as the prince of Norway is enjoying the hospitality of the king. What a flock of silly sheep these Gaels can be.”

  The alehouse keeper’s words were spoken in an undertone, strictly for the ears of this Norse visitor. He did not notice the two shocks which hit the Norseman’s frame, the first at the mention of raiders and the second—and stronger—when the name of the prince of Norway was spoken. Long training and longer years kept Holvar Hjor from displaying his surprise more obviously.

  “The prince of Norway is not called that by all,” Holvar grunted.

  “He is by all in Dublin,” the publican contradicted him equably.

  Holvar looked into the gloom of the windowless house, where figures in simple dress crouched on the floor or on low benches, under the smoke layer. One young fellow in the shirt of a peasant was cavorting by the hearth, illustrating by gesture some sort of sword battle. He appeared positively sorcerous in the half-light of the fire. After an explanation in such bad Norse that Holvar could not understand, he rolled on the floor, smacking the stones around him as he did so, and laughing.

  Tryggvason in Dublin.

  The alehouse keeper was saying, “It is their religion that makes them so. They fill the earth with saints and spirits, and depend on them for everything, letting their wills die from lack of use. Never met a Christian who wasn’t plain superstitious.” He cast a close look at this square-built, hard-faced traveler and took a chance. “Now, a man who worships Thor in reasonable manner—”

  Holvar snorted. “Thick-tongued god of slaves. They confuse him with their bleeding Christ, with all their crosses that look like Thor’s hammers.” He stooped, picked something up out of the bag, and tossed it lightly between his hands.

  The publican blinked. “Don’t take that to heart. The Irish rarely know who their own fathers are, let alone the gods. Thor is still Thor.”

  “And will never be All-Father,” murmured Holvar to himself. “Why do they believe there will be an invasion of Dublin?” he added in a louder voice.

  The innkeeper sighed, looked out the door, and struck a posture. “That…was the burden of the poet’s complaint. He had been in the Abbey of Ard na Bhfuinseoge—the place where all that fine carving comes from—and Vikings attacked it, leaving no stone upon a stone. And further, he said it was no simple raid, but an invasion, and that the reavers comb the coast for blood even now.”

  Holvar could not speak for a moment. He stared from the carved crystal to the cup beside him on the bench, where dark masses of matter swirled in a circle. A man survived also? A poet? A rich man? Who had friends? Holvar suddenly saw Skully’s arrogant, adolescent face in his mind’s eye. Anger washed hot and was gone. “But a Gaelic poet does not carry weapons. He survived this terrible attack?” The alehouse keeper nodded.

  “Then it was obviously not Norwegian raiders,” stated Holvar, with a smile of satisfaction.

  The publican blinked again at his customer. He was no Norseman himself, but a Dubliner, and uncomfortable at the direction the conversation took in this stranger’s mouth. His eye was caught by the sparkle in Holvar’s hands.

  “Probably it was just a war with Irish neighbors,” the Norseman continued, “and this fellow does not want to admit he ran away.” Holvar was very pleased with himself, producing this story. He was not normally a man of ready wit, and here was a tale that rang true even to himself. It was proof of the one-eye’s inspiration.

  The alehouse keeper slouched back a step, as though dissociating himself from the tenor of the conversation. “It would be hard to convince anyone in the city, Norse or native, that the Ollave MacCullen lied. He’s well known…sort of a local champion. Besides, my friend, he was not alone in his experience.”

  Holvar was now beyond startlement. He sat still, making no more encouraging grunts. They were not necessary. His cup weighed heavy in the hand that held it, and he listened to his heart beating. He also counted the men in the house.

  “There was also the daughter of Goban, the very carver who made the king’s throne of narwhal horn, and two strangers who are Gaill—excuse me—foreigners to the land. It is not two days since the little Saxon of their company sat in my house—where you are sitting, friend—and drew pictures of a strange skill on the stones of the hearth. There. Lean forward and they are visible yet.”

  Holvar leaned obediently forward and looked at the drawings his mind did not see. “These all escaped the sacrifice—the slaughter of this abbey?”

  The other man shrugged. “They are of MacCullen’s party. They went to the king together.”

  Holvar stretched his neck from side to side casually. “And what did the king say to this story?”

  The publican was silent. Perhaps he shouldn’t have let this conversation start. The town was full of Tryggvason’s men, and who knew what was safe to say? He honed his answer. “With the great visit, it was an inconvenient time to approach the king, I believe.”

  “Sigtryggsson wasn’t impressed.” Holvar felt a smile sliding over his face. The luck of Odin’s favorite. “He is not out for vengeance.”

  The alehouse keeper stirred the dregs in the tun with his wooden ladle, knowing he shouldn’t do that, knowing he was making things worse. “No,” he said to the Norseman. “And because of that the poet cursed him, and began a fast on his doorstep: a fast which the king desecra— Which the king did not enjoin. Then there was an attack (no one knows by whom) on the poet’s foster mother, Clorfíonn.” He congratulated himself on the subtlety of his tongue, in not admitting what the whole world knew: that it was the king’s friends who had gone to kill the brehan. “Now they have all departed together, the poet having proclaimed Olaf Cuarán no king.” He glanced from the tun to see the Norseman’s hand playing with a dead twig of charred wood on the hearth. His hands might have been those of the talented Saxon. The publican caught the man’s sullen eye and saw that he was laughing.

  “You don’t believe in the power of a poet’s curse?” the alehouse keeper asked.

  Holvar appeared to consider the question. “Depends upon whose poet is cursing.” He rose from the bench.

  “Where could I sell this in Dublin?” He let the alehouse keeper finger the ball of crystal.

  It was intricately cut. Snakes or dragons chased one another over the surface of the stone, and there was a bird with its wings outstretched. The alehouse keeper sighed in critical appreciation. He wished Jan the artist was still about, so he could sho
w the crystal to him.

  “I don’t know,” he said, staring into the unclouded depths of the stone, where the small light of his doorway fled and multiplied. “It is work one does not see every day, even in Dublin. Fit for a noble’s house. You could show it to Olaf himself.”

  He put it down and sighed more deeply. The mention of Olaf Cuarán and the sight of the stone together made a connection in the alehouse keeper’s mind. “What does this remind me of? There was someone who worked in crystal. Imported crystal, much like this. And ivory, I think. Someone well-known. Now where…”

  He raised his head from musing to find the Norseman gone.

  Behind Tryggvason sat his wife, Gyda, a woman as pale and conventionally pretty as her mother, Olaf Sigtryggsson’s first wife, had been. The king and the prince sat across from each other at the high table while the nuncheon grew cool and the juice of the meats gelled.

  Next to his father, young Sigtrygg kicked his heels and let his little crystal ball slide from hand to hand. His attention was all on the grownups. He hadn’t seen the younger of the two Olafs in a long time and he had missed him very much. The prince had brought little Sigtrygg a present, of course: a belt of silver gilt plates and a small purse to go on it. It went well with his dagger and sheath. His silky blond hair, uncut and long as a girl’s, fell forward over his eyes like a veil as he looked down at the new treasures around his waist. He grinned with pleasure and then frowned. He wanted so badly to go hunting with young Olaf today. It was raining, however, and of course there was the feast that made it impossible. He didn’t get to go hunting often, in fact, for his father was so tired that he didn’t go out much nowadays. Guthrim, his cousin, took him out sometimes, but mostly he had to content himself with the pleasures of the women: chess, music, and trips to the market. He felt slighted.

  Olaf kept Sigtrygg close to the house, lest harm come to the precious child, who it was hoped would not get himself killed like Ragnall, nor have more loyalty to his Irish relatives than to his father’s kin, as Gluniairn Iron-Knee seemed to have.

  The boy looked up at his father. The old man was talking earnestly with his son-in-law. Now he’s truly my brother, Sigtrygg thought gleefully. Suddenly the boy stood up on the bench and, pulling his knife, balanced it delicately between the thumb and forefinger. He was good with his knife, and as eager to show off his prowess to Olaf as he was eager to kill his first man.

  “Gyda, look at this,” he cried out in his high-pitched child’s voice as he threw his dagger straight across the room, where it snuffed the light from the tall wax candle at the dais. Conversation was for the moment arrested by laughter and cries of encouragement. “See that,” Olaf Sigtryggsson said. “He’ll be apt for battle. No hope for the assassin who pursues my son.”

  He had to keep that in mind with all the Irish kings he himself had murdered: all the Ui Neals and Ui Fáeláins.

  “Come here, Sigtrygg, my rose of many thorns.” Olaf beckoned to the boy, who had run to retrieve his weapon, his best-beloved toy, from the shadows on the floor. Sigtrygg was now the center of attention and, for now, entirely happy. He climbed into his accustomed place, his father’s lap, and received a kiss from the old man. Then he curled up like a lap dog with his fair head against the king’s breast.

  The light was quickly rekindled by an attendant. Fruit and hazelnuts were placed on the table. Ale was strained and poured into drinking vessels.

  “This first horn should be dedicated by you to the female deities of increase,” the king suggested to his son-in-law. Sigtrygg heard the breath rumble in his father’s lungs as he said this. Olaf Tryggvason stood, took up the horn, but then just before he was going to utter the blessing, he lowered it.

  “Father—I’ll make a bargain with you. I will spill ale to the old gods if you will spill ale to Christ and to the saints.”

  Olaf Sandal shifted in the chair. Sigtrygg knew it was time to get up out of his father’s way. He slid out of the chair as his father stood up.

  “Don’t bother me with this again, especially today.” He said it with such an air of exasperation that even the women laughed. “Have you been baptized; is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

  “I’ve been primsigned.” The younger Olaf smiled and nodded.

  The king of Dublin coughed and wheezed. “Well, what of it? I’ve been dipped in incense and it didn’t make a bit of difference to me. All right—whatever makes you happy. I’ll drink to your poor sniveling little Christ if it makes you happy. I’ve done it for the Bishop of York, so I guess I can do it with you.”

  The prince of Norway smiled and lifted the horn. “This ale to you, Mothers of the Earth. Bring me increase. Health to all who drink here together.” Olaf Tryggvason let a few drops fall to the floor of beaten earth between them, then drank deeply.

  “Mothers of the Earth, bring vigor to the loins of my son and daughter,” chanted the old king. “Timely and quick births of strong children.” He spilled and drank.

  They worked through all the deities. An hour passed. Each had to stop the libations once to piss.

  “It’s time to make vows,” Olaf Cuarán suggested as they sat down again. The women, hearing this, retired. Gormflaith, who had not joined in the drinking, came to take Sigtrygg off to bed, but Olaf insisted that he stay. This led to some shouting on Olaf’s part, fueled by ale, and she left angry, while her husband laughed. “She needs a good bedding,” the old king told his son-in-law lewdly. “I can still do it, but not often enough to make her keep her temper.” He wiped off his beard with a napkin. “I swear”—he raised his voice—“that if you make my daughter queen of Norway, I will cover your bedquilt with gold and silver to the depth of three fingers.”

  Gasps ringed the assembly hall. Sigtrygg grinned. There was no one like his father. His magnificence shamed all others. “My father, the King—the Gold-Scatterer!” cried the boy, who, drunk with ale and pride, lifted his own small horn and toasted him. Praise rang through the hall. It was a moment of glory.

  But Olaf Cuarán was not finished. He was building to a crescendo of drama. This would be his last great feast; he was sure of that, and it would not be forgotten by anyone in the hall. He had beggared himself to make it so. Signaling to his steward, he caused the crotta and timpan players, and the cláirseirs, to burst into music, and a procession appeared. Eight beautiful girls and an equal number of young men, all dressed in the great novelty of identical clothes, carried the edges of a coverlet of embroidered rainbow-colored Byzantine silk. It was lined and edged in furs of the best quality. Olaf Tryggvason groaned aloud with pleasure. “Here is the bedquilt that I will cover with wealth,” old Olaf announced. “These choice slaves are also yours and Gyda’s. I selected them personally for their intelligence, strength, and accomplishments.”

  “Father, I am overwhelmed.” Tryggvason crossed the space between them and embraced the old man.

  “But of course you must have a ship to carry all this in. So I built a longship for you. It is not yet put into the water. Would you like to see it?”

  Night had fallen, but torches made light enough for their progress, and the alcohol made the night warm and inviting. Sigtrygg walked hand in hand with his father, going to the wharf and coming back. The prince of Norway was more than pleased, for the ship was a masterpiece. The carving on the keel ends was lovely and expert work. Nothing was lacking, and in addition to the luxury, Tryggvason could see that it was as practical, as strong, and as perfect for warfare and traveling as it was beautiful. It was huge, longer than any longship that he had seen.

  He got the point too. Here was the warship with which he was expected to win the crown. Cunning even in his affection and generosity: Tryggvason had always known Olafr of Dublin to be that way.

  Tryggvason had been all but raised here in Dublin, after his uncle had rescued him from slavery in the Baltic. He was very fond of this old man who had fostered him, but he saw the backside of every smile of Olaf’s, the expectation behind every gift. The N
orwegian prince knew it was his turn to make vows.

  “If it is in my power, I swear,” he told the old man, as he stroked the gilded twining animals on the new ship, “Gyda will be queen of Norway! And moreover, Sigtrygg, your son, will have my support in fortune and trouble even as I have had yours.” He said it loudly.

  Olaf Cuarán hugged him and slapped his arm. His rotted teeth glinted in the torchlight as he smiled. “I also vow to sacrifice oxen, horses, swine, sheep, and fowl. I will sacrifice twelve captives, too, if the gods strike down Haakon. May his death come soon, who keeps you from your high seat.”

  Tryggvason grew silent after this, as if it did not please him. It was a short journey back to the hall. More ale and more time passed. Nearly all the guests had left, except members of the royal family and their intimate retainers. Sigtrygg lay asleep on top of sheepskins by the fire. “How is Astrid, your mother?”

  “She has had another child,” Tryggvason answered.

  “That’s good. Is she well?”

  “Very well. Lodin isn’t the man I would have chosen for her, but under the circumstances I am satisfied. Not every man can buy a queen at a slavemarket, but at least he has treated her with honor.”

  The old king nodded. “I saw a shadow come across your face, my son, down at the ship. What is troubling you?”

  The prince rubbed his forehead, and then vigorously rubbed his scalp, leaving his golden hair fluffed up around his ears. “Nothing, except that I think it is unlucky to vow prisoners now. Haakon has taken to that: he and those Jolmsvikings he loves so much. I hope that the allegiance of God cannot be bought but is given to the just. Haakon’s arrogance is beyond all bounds now; some of his berserkers have raided close to York. One of your favorite earls and mine is killed.”

  “Who?” Olaf Cuarán sat bolt upright in his ivory throne.

  “Oswald Cadmusson.”

  “Dog’s blood! It can’t be.”

  Tryggvason nodded and rubbed his hands together. “He and eighteen armed housecarls. They cut the blood eagle into the backs of all the survivors. A badly wounded servant pretended to be dead and so was spared. He said the party was led by Haakon’s retainer from the Jolmsburg: Holvar Hjor Roptson. It almost makes me laugh, too, because word reached me from the Orkneys that Haakon is angry with Holvar Hjor, too, for some reason—I don’t know what.” The prince lifted his silver-chased horn to drink.