Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [96]
“It is not.”
“And why is that?”
“They quarrelled amongst themselves.” Up to a point this was true. Long ago, the mighty royal house had split into two branches, known as the Northern and Southern O’Neill. Generally these two had skilfully avoided dissension by alternating the High Kingship between them. But in recent generations there had been bickering. Other powers on the island, especially the kings of Munster in the south, had been chipping away at the authority of the O’Neill in the time-honoured manner. One young Munster chief, named Brian Boru, seemed ready to stir up trouble with scant respect for any of the settled kingships. The O’Neill were still strong—hadn’t they just defeated the Vikings of Dyflin?—but the lesser Irish kings were watching. Like a huge bull, the great power in the north was showing signs of age.
“Perhaps. But I will suggest to you a deeper cause. The O’Neill are not to be blamed. They could not have foreseen the consequences of their actions. But when the Ostmen first began to attack our shores, the O’Neill were so strong that the Ostmen could not establish a single port on the coasts of their land. Not one. All the Ostmen’s ports lie farther south. Yet that strength may have been a curse. Can you tell me why?”
“The ports bring wealth?” his son offered.
“And wealth is power. How do you imagine Niall of the Nine Hostages became so mighty before Saint Patrick came? By raiding Britain. He had treasure and slaves to reward his followers. The Ostmen are pirates and heathens, mostly. But their ports are rich. The more ports a king has, if he can control them, the more riches and power he has. That is the weakness of the O’Neill now. The ports are not on their lands. That’s why they need Dyflin, the richest port of all.”
“So that’s why you want me there?”
“It is.” Goibniu looked at his son seriously. Sometimes he thought the boy was too cautious, too careful. Well, if so, it might be for the best. He gestured to the tomb and its broken roof again. “I’ll never like the Ostmen. But Dyflin is the future, Morann, and that is where you’re going.”
She was dancing. Such a slim, dark little thing—white legs like sticks and a tangle of black hair tumbling down her back—a shuffle it was, she danced, this way and that; and he, watching her all the time, the child in the street. Caoilinn was her name; his, Osgar. And as he watched her, he wondered.
Was he to be married that day?
Wherever you looked in the Viking town of Dyflin, you saw wood. The narrow streets that rolled up and down the uneven slopes were made of split tree trunks; in the winding alleys and footpaths you walked on planks. All the lanes were lined on both sides with blank-faced wattle or picket fences behind which, in their narrow plots, could be seen the thatched roofs of the rectangular wicker-walled dwellings or timbered halls of the Norsemen. Some tenements contained pens for pigs, hens, and other livestock, some were given over to workshops; and the wooden walls around them were to deter thieves or attackers or, like the sides of a ship, to keep out the winter wind from the wide, grey estuary and the open seascape beyond. Enclosing this twenty-acre wooden village was an earth rampart topped with a wooden palisade. Beyond the palisade, on the waterfront, was a stout wood quay, against which several longships were tied. Just upstream was the long wooden bridge and past that the Ford of Hurdles. The Irish people still mostly called the place by its old name, Ath Cliath, even if they often crossed by the Viking bridge instead of the Celtic ford. But though Caoilinn was Irish, she called the wooden township Dyflin, because she lived there.
“Shall we go over to the monastery?” She suddenly turned her green eyes on him.
“Do you think you should?” he said. She was nine and he was eleven. He had a better sense of what was fitting.
“Come on,” she cried; and, with an amused shake of his head, he followed her. He still didn’t