Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [92]
But if the trading post and its little monastery provided poor pickings, the Vikings could see at once that the site had potential. The old Celtic road system converged nearby, to use the river crossing; the tidal harbour was protected and the land was good. The area around the rath was defensible, too.
The Norwegians had settled. Though known to history as Vikings, or Norsemen, they often referred to themselves as Ostmen—men from the east. Soon, a little way upstream from the ford, a huddle of their timber-and-wattle huts and a Viking cemetery had appeared by the riverside. Learning that the dark pool was called Dubh Linn, the Norsemen produced their own version of the name: Dyflin. Nor was the Viking presence limited to their small port. Scandinavian farmsteads had spread across the territory north of the Liffey estuary. The farmstead of Harold’s family was one of them. And so it was that the old Plain of Bird Flocks had acquired an additional Celtic name: Fine Gall, the Foreigner’s Place—Fingal.
When Harold’s ancestor and the Norwegian fleet had arrived at Dubh Linn that day, the men at the rath had not tried to give battle. Since a single Viking longship carried anywhere from thirty to sixty fighting men, resistance would have been futile. And it was thanks to this reception that from that day on, the fair-haired Norwegians had taken the people of the trading post under their protection.
Not that the last century and a half had been peaceful. Life was seldom peaceful for long in the Viking world. But to Harold, the coastal plain of Fingal and the small town of Dyflin were delightful places. And when today, as they rode down the long slope towards the Liffey, a bank of grey clouds moved across the sky, darkening the landscape, it had not affected his happy mood a bit.
The merchant ship had arrived from the harbour of Waterford, on the island’s southern coast. There were a number of ports round the coasts of Ireland—nearly all of them settled by Vikings and bearing Viking names. Though Viking fighting ships were long and sleek, their merchant vessels had a bulge at midship which allowed them to carry a considerable amount of cargo in their bellies. The Waterford ship had brought a cargo of wine from south-western France, and Harold’s father was going to buy a few barrels. While his father talked to the merchants, Harold had been admiring the ship’s handsome lines when he heard a voice from somewhere behind him.
“You. Hey. Cripple boy. I’m talking to you.”
As Harold turned, he saw a pale, black-haired boy, of nine or ten he guessed—about his own age—standing in a crowd. Though one or two of the crowd glanced in his direction when they heard the boy call out, nobody seemed particularly interested, but the boy’s eyes were fixed upon him intently. He had spoken in Norse, not Irish, and as Harold had never seen him before, he supposed he must have arrived on the ship. He wondered whether to ignore the rude stranger, but that might look like cowardice, so he limped over to him. The boy’s eyes were gazing at his legs as he approached.
“Who are you?” Harold asked.
“That’s your father, isn’t it?” the boy said, ignoring his question and nodding towards Harold’s father, who was standing some way off. “The one with red hair, like you.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know,” the boy said thoughtfully, “that you’d be a cripple. Your other leg’s good, isn’t it? Just your left that’s bent.”
“That’s right. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Perhaps not. Or perhaps it is. What happened?”
“A horse fell on me.” A horse his father had told him not to go near. The horse had bolted with him, then jumped over a ditch and fallen. His left leg, trapped under the horse, had been smashed.
“Have you any brothers?”
“No. Only sisters.”
“That’s what they told me. It’ll always be crooked, your leg, won’t it?”
“I should think so.”
“Pity.” He gave