Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [91]
It was the biggest ship he had ever seen. Its long lines were like a great sea snake; its high, curved prow cut through the water as smoothly as an axe through liquid metal. Its big, square sail rose over the sandbar, blocking out a patch of sky, and even in the twilight he could see that it was black and ochre like dried blood. For this was a Viking ship.
But Harold was not afraid. For he was a Viking himself, and these were Viking waters now.
So he watched the blackening sea snake with its brutal sail as it passed by and glided away into the awaiting Liffey’s stream, knowing that it carried not only armed men—for these were dangerous times—but rich merchandise. Perhaps, the next day, he could persuade his father to take him down to see it.
He didn’t notice the other boy at first. There were so many people at the waterside below Dyflin’s dark wall. He didn’t even see him until he spoke.
He had been in luck. His father, Olaf, had agreed to take him to the port. The day had been bright when they had set out from the farmstead and started to ride across the Plain of Bird Flocks. The damp breeze had felt refreshing as it pressed against his cheek; the sky was blue, and the sun was shining on his father’s red hair.
There was no one like his father: no one so brave, no one so handsome. He was firm. When Harold was helping on the farm, his father would often push him to work a little longer than he wanted. But if you were down, he’d soon tell you a story to make you laugh. And then there was something else. When Harold was with his mother and sisters, he knew he was loved, and he was happy. But he couldn’t feel free. Not quite. Not nowadays. When his father scooped him up in his strong arms, though, and put him on his pony, and let him trot along beside his own splendid horse, then Harold felt something beyond happiness. A surge of strength seemed to flood through his small body; his blue eyes shone. That was when he knew what it was to feel free. Free as a bird in the air. Free as a Viking on the open sea.
It was nearly two centuries since the Vikings of Scandinavia had begun their epic voyages around the northern seas. There had been greater land migrations in the ancient world; sea traders, Greek and Phoenician, had set up ports and colonies round most of the shores known to classical civilization. But never before in human history had there been such a huge adventure as that of the Viking sea rovers upon the world ocean. Pirates, traders, explorers—they set out from their northern inlets in their swift longships and soon, all over Europe, men learned to tremble when they saw their square sails approaching by sea, or their great, horned helmets coming up from the riverbank. From Sweden they travelled down the huge rivers of Russia; from Denmark they first ravaged and then settled the northern half of England. Vikings sailed south to France and the Mediterranean: Normandy and Norman Sicily were their colonies. They voyaged westwards to the Scottish isles, the Isle of Man, Iceland, Greenland, even America. And it was the fair-haired Vikings from Norway who, coming to the pleasant island west of Britain, explored its natural harbours and, converting its Celtic name—Eriu, which they pronounced Eire—into their own tongue, first gave the place the Nordic name of Ire-land.
Harold knew how his ancestors had come to Ireland. The story was as wonderful to him as any of the Nordic sagas his father told. Almost a century and a half had passed since the great fleet of sixty longships had sailed into the Liffey’s estuary. “And my father’s grandfather, Harold Red-Hair, was in one of them,” his father had told him proudly. When a large party had rowed upstream to the Ford of Hurdles, they had been rather disappointed. After passing a burial mound, they had found a small rath protecting a jetty, a dark pool, and, on the high bank above it, a little monastery to which the head man of the rath seemed to attach great