Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [101]
This Astrid girl was pagan, too. Though most of their Fingal neighbours were Christian, the family of Harold had remained quietly true to their old gods. Morann’s wife had also been pagan, but converted to Christianity when she married him. He’d insisted upon that because he felt it showed respect to his family. Indeed, when she’d asked him what it would mean to become a Christian, he had given her an answer worthy of his one-eyed ancestor from six centuries ago: “It means you’ll do as I say.” He smiled when he thought of it. Five years of happy marriage and two children had taught him better.
Freya had certainly prepared a splendid meal. They lived in the Viking style: a modest breakfast in the morning, then nothing until the main meal of the day in the evening. Pickled herring and fresh fish from the estuary to start; two sorts of freshly baked bread; a main course of stewed calf, served with leeks and onions; cheese curds and hazelnuts to finish. All washed down with mead and a good wine shipped in from France. The stew was in its pot, hanging over the central hearth in the big main room. He could smell it from his workshop.
“You want me to go now?” he asked Freya. She nodded. Slowly, therefore, he began to gather up the objects on the table in front of him.
They were the various tools of his trade: the gimlets, tweezers, hammers that proclaimed he was a metalworker. More interesting was the small, flat piece of bone—the trial piece—upon which he had been carving rough designs for future items of metalwork. His talent was obvious. Even in this rough work, with its complex, interlacing forms, one could see the skilful blending of the abstract, swirling patterns of the island’s ancient art, with the snakelike animal forms so popular with the Norsemen. Under his clever hands, rude Viking sea snakes would be caught in cosmic, Celtic patterns that delighted men and women equally.
In a strongbox beside his table, which was neatly divided into compartments, were all kinds of curiosities. There were pieces of the dark stone known as jet imported from the British Viking city of York; another compartment contained bits of coloured Roman glass, dug up in London and used by Viking jewellers for decoration. There were beads of dark blue, white, and yellow for making bracelets. For Morann could make anything: copper buckles, silver sword handles, gold arm rings; he could decorate with gold filigree and pattern silver, and make jewellery and ornaments of every kind.
Also in his box were some small piles of coins. As well as the old ring money and hack silver, the Viking traders of Dyflin were used to transacting business with coins from all over Europe, although there was talk of setting up their own mint, like the English did in their towns, there in Dyflin. Morann owned one or two old coins from the mints of Alfred the Great in England, and even one, of which he was especially proud, two centuries old, of the Holy Roman Emperor Charlemagne himself.
Carefully, now, he put the contents of his worktable away in the iron-banded box, which he then locked and gave to his wife for safekeeping inside the house.
It was nearing the end of the working day. He made his way past the premises and workshops of comb makers and carpenters, harness makers and sellers of precious stones. Everywhere the busy prosperity of the Viking town was evident. He passed a blacksmith’s glowing forge and smiled—the occupation of his ancestors. But it had to be admitted, the Norse invaders were better craftsmen with iron and ringing steel than even the warlike men of the island had been. Turning down the street known as Fish Shambles, where the fish market was already closed, he saw a merchant who gave him a respectful nod. The merchant dealt in the most precious commodity of all—golden amber that