Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [93]
“Why?”
“Because that’s when I’m going to kill you. My name’s Sigurd, by the way.”
Then he turned round and walked swiftly back through the crowd; and Harold was so astonished that, by the time he tried to hurry after him, the dark-haired boy had vanished.
“So you know who he was?” Harold had been telling his father about the strange incident. Now his father was looking grave.
“Yes.” Olaf paused. “If this boy is who I think he is,” he explained, “then he comes from Waterford. He’s a Dane.”
The first Norwegian settlement at Dyflin had only been in existence ten years when the Danish Vikings arrived. With the northern half of England in their grip, they had been prowling round the Irish coast looking for places to raid and settle. The trading post that their fellow Vikings from Norway had established on the Liffey looked appealing. They arrived in force and told the Norwegians: “We’ve come to share this place.” For a generation after that, the port had gone about its business under various masters: sometimes Norwegian, sometimes Danish, sometimes both ruling together. Though there were still plenty of fair-haired Norwegian settlers like Harold and his family in the area, it was the Danish Vikings who ruled in Dyflin and many other Irish ports nowadays.
“But why should he want to kill me?” the boy asked. His father sighed.
“It goes back a long way, Harold,” he began. “As you know, the Ostmen of Dyflin have always had an enemy. I mean the High King.”
Even now, six centuries after Niall of the Nine Hostages had laid claim to the High Kingship of Tara, his descendants, the O’Neill as they were called, still held the High Kingship and dominated the northern half of the island. The Vikings had never been able to settle on the northern and western coasts which the O’Neill directly ruled; and the existence of the independent Viking port on the Liffey had always annoyed them. For it hadn’t been long before the Viking ruler there had started behaving like one of the provincial Irish kings. The last King of Dyflin, as he called himself, had married a princess of Leinster; his territory had included all of Fingal. “And he would have liked to control all the land up to the River Boyne and beyond,” Harold’s father had once told him. No wonder the mighty O’Neill looked at the newcomers with distaste. Every ten years or so, since the settlement began, the O’Neill High King had come to try to kick the Vikings out. Once, eighty years ago, the Irish had managed to burn the place down and the Vikings had left, though only for a few years. On their return, between Ath Cliath and the pool of Dubh Linn the Norsemen had built a new settlement on the ridge with a strong wall and stockade, and a stout wooden bridge across the river. But the present O’Neill king was a determined man. A year ago, in a big battle up at Tara, he had beaten the Norsemen of Dyflin. Harold’s father had not gone to that fight; but afterwards, he and Harold had watched the Irish king’s line of chariots crossing the long wooden bridge over the Liffey. The king had stayed in Dyflin for several months; but then he had left, taking away whole cartloads of gold and silver, and Dyflin was back under a Viking ruler. The port had to pay tribute to the Irish king now, but otherwise it was business as usual.
“Long ago,” his father began, “when Dyflin was still Norwegian, the High King attacked us one year. And he paid some Danes to help him. Did you ever hear the story?”
Harold frowned. There were many sagas about Viking battles and heroic deeds, but he could not recall hearing this one. He shook his head.
“It’s recorded,” his father said quietly, “but it’s not a popular story nowadays.” He sighed. “There was a particular party of Danes who’d been raiding the northern islands. They were bad people. Even the other Danes avoided them. The High King got word to them, and offered them a reward if they’d help him attack