Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [100]
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
991
“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, 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, “Gaedhil 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.