Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [168]
He had lived in many places. His three sons had been raised in Waterford; but he had fallen out with them some years ago and scarcely seen them since. They were fully grown. He owed them nothing. One thing, however, he had given them, when they were still children.
He had been trading at the small harbour on the River Boyne. There had been a woman there; he had stayed awhile. And because he was swarthy, the Celtic-speaking people at the port had called him Dubh Gall—the dark stranger. Even the women had called him that: “My Dubh Gall.” It had amused his shipmates. They had carried the name back with them. And before long, even in the Viking port of Waterford, his children were known as the family of Dubh Gall. The name had ceased to amuse him now. His companions in the longship called him by his real name: Sigurd.
For the last few years he had led a wandering life, sometimes working as a mercenary. He had arrived in Dyflin the night before with Brodar, who had been hired by the Leinster and Dyflin kings. And the reason why he was smiling was not because the pay and the prospects for looting were excellent, but because he had just made a pleasing discovery.
Harold the Norwegian, the red-haired crippled boy, was still living.
He had never forgotten about Harold; from time to time down the years, the lame Norwegian had come into his mind. But there had been so many other matters to attend to, and fate had not brought them close again. The nature of his feelings had also changed. As a boy, he had felt a burning need to avenge his family’s name: the Norwegian had to be killed. As a man, this old desire had become spiced with cruelty. He took pleasure in contemplating the pain and humiliation he could inflict upon the young farmer. In recent years, it had just become a piece of unfinished business, a debt unpaid.
But now he had found himself on the way to Dyflin to take part in a battle. The circumstances were perfect. Naturally, during the voyage he had thought about Harold. But it had been when he first stepped on to the wood quay, where they had met before, that all the sensations of his boyhood had suddenly come back at him with a rush. This was destiny, he concluded. The Norwegian must die. When that was duly accomplished, he thought, he would go back to Waterford and seek out his sons, who had never known about this business, and tell them what he had done and why and, perhaps, even be reconciled with them.
It had not taken long to find out about Harold in Dyflin. At first, when he had asked about a lame farmer, he had received some blank looks; but then a merchant in the Fish Shambles had smiled in recognition.
“Do you mean the Norwegian? The man with the big farmstead out in Fingal? There’s a rich fellow. An important man. Is he a friend of yours?”
Though he had traded, and fought, and stolen all over the northern seas, Sigurd had never become rich.
“He was, many years ago,” he had answered with a smile.
The merchant had soon told him all he needed to know: that Harold was a widower, the size of his family, the location of the big farmstead.
“He has powerful friends,” the merchant said. “The O’Neill king is his protector.”
“You mean he might be fighting against us?”
“I do not think he would do that. Unless he was obliged to. Possibly his sons might.”
If Harold and his sons were in the battle on the other side, so much the better. He would make his way towards them. If not, then during or after the battle, he would find them at the farmstead. He would take them by surprise, with luck; kill the sons as well and end their family line. It would be a fine thing indeed to bring not only Harold’s head but those of his sons back with him across the sea.
No wonder, then, that Sigurd wore a twisted smile. He was looking forward to the battle.
Morann reached King Brian’s camp at noon that day.
The Munster king had decided to encamp on the northern side of the estuary. To the east lay the headland of the Ben of Howth. To the west, not far off, was the Tolka stream,