Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [139]
The craftsman’s first objective was to discover where Harold’s family was being held. If possible, he would try and make contact with them, at least to give them a little comfort and hope. The question then would be how to get them out. It was unlikely that he would be able to sneak them away from their captors. To make things more difficult, it was possible that Astrid had been separated from her children, if they were to be sold in different markets. He might, of course, be able to bribe the guards; but he thought it unlikely. He stood a better chance of buying them outright from the Munster men at the full market price. But then he’d have to explain who he was, and that could prove to be troublesome. He could even finish up, he thought grimly, in the slave market himself.
The quay was in front of him now. It was crowded with ships. Nobody took much notice of him as he started to make his way along. A group of armed men came swinging down from an alley on his right. He paused to observe them as they went past.
But they didn’t go past. Hands suddenly seized his arms. He struggled, tried to protest, but realised at once that it was useless. Immediately, therefore, he became very calm.
“What is it you want, boys?” he enquired. “Where are you taking me?”
The officer in charge was a swarthy figure, with a look of quiet authority about him. He came to stand in front of the craftsman and smiled.
“What we want, Morann Mac Goibnenn, is the pleasure of your company. Where are we taking you? It’s to King Brian Boru himself.” He turned. “And you wouldn’t want to keep the man waiting, now, would you?”
It was Morann who was kept waiting. He was kept waiting all afternoon. Whatever his fate was to be, he was curious to see the Munster king, whose talent and ambition had raised him almost to the pinnacle of power; and while he waited, he went over what he knew about him.
He’d been born the youngest son of his father, Kennedy, beside the River Shannon by a ford. Morann had heard somewhere that quite early in his life, Brian had been told by a fili that he was a man of destiny and that, having been born by a ford, he’d die by a ford also. Well, he was by Ath Cliath now, but he was very much alive. “He likes the women.” They all said that. But then who didn’t? He’d had three wives so far. The second had been a tempestuous woman, the sister of the King of Leinster. She had already been married to both the Viking King of Dyflin and the O’Neill High King. But she’d given Brian a fine son before he’d discarded her.
There were many people, Morann knew, who thought that this divorce had led to the bad feeling behind the revolt of the Leinster and Dyflin kings against Brian; but a chief who knew the King of Leinster well had assured Morann that the rumour wasn’t really correct. “He may not have been pleased, but he knows his sister’s trouble,” he’d told the craftsman. And God knows, divorce was common enough amongst the royal families of the island. More likely, in Morann’s opinion, the bad feeling against Brian was the inevitable jealousy against a man who rises so far and so fast. What nobody denied was the Munster king’s prowess. “He’s as patient as he’s daring,” they acknowledged. He would be in his late fifties now, but full of vigour, it was said.
And so it proved to be. It was nearly dusk when Morann was finally brought into the big hall of the Dyflin king, which Brian had taken over. There was a fire in the centre, where several men were standing. One of these, he noticed, was the rich merchant who imported amber. Beside him, turning to look at him, was the figure he guessed must be Brian Boru.
The king was not a tall man, hardly above middle height. He had a long face, thin nose, intelligent eyes. His hair, where it was not greying, was a rich brown. The face was fine, almost intellectual; he might have been a priest, Morann thought. Until Brian took a few steps towards him. For the southern king moved with the dangerous grace of a cat.
“I know who you are. You were seen.” He wasted no time. “Where have you been?”
“To Kells,