Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [106]
“You don’t have to leave,” his mother urged.
But he did, even if he neither then nor ever afterwards said why.
And so he had come to Dyflin. He had lodged for a year with Morann Mac Goibnenn. He had made himself so useful in the boatyards that he was nowadays a foreman. It was known that he was heir to a big farmstead out in Fingal; but he seldom went there, and it was said that his father and he were on poor terms. He worked hard, was a good companion, but though he seemed comfortable enough with women, he was never seen out walking with one.
The sunset was already sending a red glow over the water when Harold and Morann left the great Viking ship and began to stroll along the wooden quay. Several other longships were tied up there. One, the ship that had brought the slaves from Bristol, had just finished loading with huge bales of hides and wool. The turning to the Fish Shambles was just ahead.
“Remember me?”
Morann looked at the black-haired young man who was leaning casually against some bales that lay almost in their path. He was wearing a dark leather jacket that came down to his knees. His leather belt was drawn tight so that the jacket hugged what was evidently a lean, muscular body. His dark beard was trimmed to a jagged point over his chest. The craftsmen wondered who he was.
“Still a cripple I see.”
Harold had stopped and Morann stopped with him.
“I just happened to be in Dyflin.” He hadn’t moved. He just stayed there, leaning casually against the crates, apparently unguarded, as if the man he was insulting could be of no more danger to him than a passing fly.
“Good evening, Sigurd,” said Harold, with a calmness that surprised the craftsman. “Have you come about our business then?”
“I considered it,” said the stranger coolly. “But I think I’ll wait.”
“I supposed I wasn’t in danger as soon as I saw you in front of me,” Harold remarked. “They tell me the men of your family only attack from behind.”
Just for a moment, it seemed to Morann, the stranger winced. His hand moved, perhaps unconsciously, to the dagger on his belt. But though his long fingers briefly clasped it, they then slowly stretched out, and his hand went back to rest on his leg.
“I made enquiries about you,” he remarked. “And I was very disappointed. It seems you haven’t a woman at all. Would that be on account of your being a cripple, would you say?”
Morann had had enough.
“I can’t imagine any woman but a whore looking at you, you dirty black creature,” he snarled.
“Ah, the jeweller.” The stranger made a slight bow with his head. “A man of respect. I’ve no quarrel with you, Morann Mac Goibnenn. Does he know,” he asked Harold, “who I am?” And seeing Harold shake his head, “That is what I thought.”
“I could fight you now,” Harold said easily. “It’s no use my saying I’ll fight you in the morning; when we last agreed that, your grandfather ran away.”
“And yet,” the dark fellow said musingly, as though he had not heard this last remark, “it seems to me that I should be happier to kill you when you’ve a family to grieve for you. Children to be told that their father has been defeated and killed. Perhaps in time, then, we would be killing them, too.” He nodded thoughtfully, and then in a brighter tone, “Do you not think there’s a chance of your marrying?”
Harold had a knife in his belt. He took it out, flicked it expertly from hand to hand, and motioned for Morann to stand away to one side.
“I will kill you now, Sigurd,” he said.
“Ah.” The dark man straightened himself, but instead of moving forward, he took a step to one side. “I’d rather you had time to think about it though. Like on your wedding day.” He took a step backwards now, with the crates to one side of him. As he never looked behind him, Morann assumed he already knew where he was going. And sure enough, a moment later, “Goodbye for now,” he said, and quick as a flash, he was behind the crates, to the side of the quay, and with an easy leap he was in a small boat which, until that moment, the craftsman had not noticed.