Shield Maiden: The Four Masters Series, #2

By Martin J Bird

In a portent of strife to come, late winter weather lashes the southwest of Ireland. Rannal's sister, Gudrun, arrives on a lonely island in the Sionainne Estuary among a Viking invasion fleet commanded by the former King of the Foreigners in Munster. Ivar intends to reclaim his dominion, but his plan will trigger the rise in opposition of Ireland's first national hero, Brian Boru. The turbulent struggle between these two rivals will frame decades of subsequent history as the Imperator Scottorum rises to power.

 

In Part 2 of the Four Masters Trilogy, the action moves from Connacht to deep in Leath Moga where Gudrun searches for the truth behind her husband's disappearance. Rannal's family must protect the growing settlement in Clonmacnoise as regal ambition sweeps men and women into conflict in an elaborate conspiracy under the raven banner.

 

Silver and gold has been promised to Ivar's mercinary army, but blood and death are never far from where stolen wealth lies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Martin Bird
• Release date: Mar 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393194538

Martin J Bird

Martin Bird was born in the Wirral near Chester in the North West of England in 1960. He trained as a professional engineer and worked in the electricity industry for thirty years. He travelled extensively for work before taking up residence in New Zealand where he now writes for pleasure.

Book preview

Martin Bird

Shield Maiden

Part 2 of the Four Masters Trilogy

Copyright © 2020 by Martin Bird

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

First edition

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

Find out more at reedsy.com

For Barbara. Thank you for your encouragement during lock down.

"The death of Mathgamhain to me is grievous, the high king of Caisel the renowned…

Woe is me… that it was not in battle or combat. He was left dead, under cover of his shield,…

Cogaidh

[The War of the Gaidhil with the Gaill translation by James Henthorn Todd, 1867]

Contents

Preface

1. Arrival

2. Winter’s Veil

3. A Fractious Dynasty

4. Echoes

5. The Dark Pool

6. Reivers

7. Skins and Scrolls

8. Rivalry under God

9. Rowing Meadow

10. Dangerous Landscape

11. King of the Foreigners

12. Politics and Prejudice

13. Rescued from Ruin

14. Head of the Weir

15. In with the old

16. Rivertowns

17. Fire inside

18. St Senan’s Tower

19. End of the Beginning

20. Epilogue

Also by Martin Bird

Preface

From a 21st century perspective it is challenging to comprehend the constant level of conflict reported in the Annals of the Kingdom of Ireland and other records covering the early Middle Ages. Most pages in these venerable tomes are littered with a catalogue, not of ‘Who’s Who’, but rather ‘Who Killed Who’. From a read of them it would be easy to think that social order did not exist and that anarchy ruled. Yet running through the written words are clear codes for life that must have created stability of experience, even if that stability was a dependable level of organised chaos.

The characters in these novels are catapulted into a perilous setting consistent with the personal rivalries and tribal enmities that lay behind a lot of the lawlessness. They have only their wits and skills for defence and must learn about the colliding forces of the time to survive. They first appear in the bloody aftermath of a catastrophic battle that took place in the north of Connacht in the year CE 971. Defeat stares them in the face, and they embark on a quest to redeem the province from the disastrous decisions of its slaughtered nobility. In Part 1 of the trilogy they are pitted against the forces of the ‘King-in-the-North’, Murchad Glun re Lar mac Flaithbertaigh of Ailech, who has enflamed the old rivalry between two ancient tribes.

When peace comes, it dawns over a battered and bruised people. A new generation of leaders have faced their fears, defied the odds and survived. It was a formative time, doubly interesting because among the heroes of that period are the names of notable figures who became the eponyms for clan and tribal names that have survived through to the modern era.

While strife continued in many provinces, the next five years in Connacht were remarkable only because of their absence of mention in records. This feature suggests a period of respite. Inevitably, though, that was a false dawn. During this time, forces were gathering that would fracture the peace and bring war to many parts of Ireland, including Connacht. The origin of these influences was in the east. They were cradled in the misery of racial antipathies and born from the struggle to acquire space in which to live and grow.

Vikings originating in Denmark, driven from their hard-won Danelaw in England, swung their interests across the sea to their settlements around the coast of Ireland.

The dynasty known as the Uí Ímair, founded by Ivar the Boneless, spent decades converting summer raiding camps along the coast of Ireland into permanent settlements, the seeds that would go onto to become Ireland’s Hiberno-Norse port cities. Viking technology and fighting prowess provided an advantage in war, albeit one that reduced over time, sufficient to begin to gain control over rich farming land. So while Danish interests were on the wane in England, they began to grow in Ireland. The hold of the Ostmenn, as they called themselves, tightened, but the ultimate extent of their ambition remains a mystery. It is debatable whether the halt to their expansion was truly brought about by the Battle of Clontarf in 1014, but what was certainly true was that in the west around the time of the battle of Ceis Choran, friction with Irish nobility waxed strongly. In these circumstances one man would grow from relative obscurity to dominate the whole of Ireland in a supposed bitter campaign waged to stifle the expansionist zeal of the foreigners.

Brian Bóru’s story has been told a thousand times. He is in early middle-age during the events described in Part 1 of the trilogy, and yet to really make his mark. His mother was an Uí Briúin princess from near Galway, and his fighting family had their lands just to the south of Connacht. His rise to power through adversity is in many ways the story of Ireland’s first national hero. His victories are celebrated even today and his success ultimately in unifying Ireland by conquest makes him a unique influence on his times.

Less well known are the exploits of humble folk whose passion and commitment drew them into the storm of events that his life and ambition generated. Without these people, Brian’s successes might never have been. These are people such as those in this novel. Brian became known as an innovator in warfare, a brilliant general, a man of passionate religious commitment and an astute politician. He had to learn much from the Ostmenn he set out to oppose. He introduced the use of the broad axe to Irish warriors; he adopted smart tactics on the battlefield unique to an Irish general at the time, and he used naval power as a devastating component of strategy. He could not have done this without insight, but where that insight came from is not known.

As with Part 1 of the series, ‘The King’s Priest’, the broad sweep of events in this novel are loosely based upon recorded history. Nevertheless, in the grand tradition of storytelling, some of the principal historical characters and dates have been changed to capture a sense of immediacy.

For ease of reference, here is a short summary of the main characters and their affiliations.

Uí Briúin tribe

Cathal mac Conchobar

King of Connacht, referred to as Ó Connor

Dúnchad (Dun-ka) ua Bráein

Abbot of Clonmacnoise, 971 CE to 976 CE

Fionn (F-een) mac Cú Cheanann

King of the Uí Díarmada

Lorcán (Lor-kan) mac Conaill

High steward (rechtaire) of Kiltullagh

Cinnéide (Ken-e-day)

Flaith of Rinn Duin.

Conmacne Mara

Conmacne of the Sea who dwelt in modern day Connemara region

Lochlainn (Lock-lin)

Rí tuaithe of the Conmacne Mara

Cormac (Kor-muc)

Flaith of An Líonán

Dal gCais tribe

Mathgamain (also known as Mahon)

King of Munster

Brian mac Cennétig

Half brother of Mathgamain, later Imperator Scottorum

Cairbre (Kar-bruh)

High Steward

Characters from Clonmacnoise

Flann mac Máel Míchil

Prior of Clonmacnoise (actually Bishop, Died 979)

Brigida (Breed-a) mac Ruadh

Wife of Rannal and mother to Séighín and Ruairí

Séighín (Shane) mac Ginn

One of the twin stepsons of Rannal

Ruairí (Ror-ree) mac Ginn

Twin brother of Séighín

Bran

Potter and watch leader

Northmen (Kingdom of the Isles)

Jarl Halvor Thorfinssen

Advisor to Sigurd the Stout, Earl of Orkney

Gudrun Halvorsen

Shield Maiden

Torsten

Shipwright from Orkney, husband of Gudrun

Liv Torstensen

Daughter of Gudren and Torsten

Ragnvaldr Halvorsen

The King’s Priest

Ulf Iron Knee

Leader of the lagmenn from the north

Ostmenn (Danes) and allied Irish Tribes

Sigtrygg Silkbeard

King of Dyflinn (CE 989 … 1036), Son of King Olaf Cuarán of Dyflinn and Northumbria

Ivar of Limerick

Last King of the Foreigners in Munster (CE 960 to 977)

Olaf, Dubcenn and Harald

Ivar’s sons

Bloodaxe

Leader of the lagmenn from the Isle of Man

Jarl Håkon

Fictitious brother to Ivar of Limerick

Oddr

Blacksmith of Luimneach

Donovan

King of the Uí Fidgenti, son-in-law of Ivar

Máel Maud (anglicised as Malloy)

King of the Eógonacht, displaced King of Munster

Gillapatraic mac Donnchada

King of Osraige (Ossory), died CE 996

Máel Sechnaill mac Domnaill

King of the Southern Uí Néill, future High King of Ireland

1

Arrival

Scattery Island, CE 976

All-pervading cloud met and merged with white-flecked water in an unbroken transition of greyness. No horizon could be seen. Even the nearshore of the mainland was obscured.

Gudrun stood, braced against the elements, looking out at a scene that was at once familiar and yet alien. The wind teased at her clothing. It carried a persistent and uncomfortable spray of brine and sleet. Waves surged and broke on the foreshore, adding their regular pulse to a symphony of discomfort.

She shivered, but not because of the cold. A flutter of anticipation rose from the pit of her stomach and briefly absorbed her mind. She bit the inside of her lip and thrust away the emergent and distracting thoughts. They were foolish. It had been too long. The trail would be dead, and the numbing despair of her loss would soon close about her once more.

The view from where she stood on the rising apron in front of the longphort was incomplete, but sufficient enough to discern most of an island blanketed in the drab hues of late winter. Away in the north, she could just make out the ruins of a Christian monastery. The shell of a small chapel sat on the flat summit of a rise, surrounded by low grasses that were being tossed into erratic motion by the breeze. A winding path connected it to what remained of the rest of the complex. The track’s irregular course passed beside a holy well, enclosed by stone walls, and the brittle finger of an immensely-tall round-tower. The monolith was otherworldly, defying time and nature to point irresistibly at the heavens. It dwarfed everything else around and loomed over the decayed carcass of an oratory wherein once were heard prayers to a god that must not have been listening.

The remote settlement had been plundered and largely destroyed decades before. She felt a sense of desolation inveigle its way into her subconscious, where it replaced the intimate memories that had briefly threatened her composure with irrational hope.

Bleakness and isolation are the indispensable friends of those who seek out treasure. Inaccessibility creates a place apart from the influence of secular concerns for the pursuit of spiritual grace, the wealth of mind and soul. The men who lived here before had been drawn by the impulse to give; to subordinate themselves and search for the presence of something more potent than the petty struggles of their mortal existence. But that same physical quality had drawn in the darker baseness of human depravity carried on the wings of a different kind of pursuit. It was one born of avarice and nurtured by a callous disregard for those not their own. These were the forces she was a part of; the takers, the breakers and displacers that came to steal treasure to sustain temporal comfort, power and fame.

There was little natural shelter here, but the windswept exposure of the island didn’t detract from its utility as a summer raiding camp. Her rapacious countrymen had been attracted back year-in-year-out by a secure strand for their longships on its eastern shore, well protected from westerly gales and the fierce tides. Over time, permanent structures had raised their angular presence to adulterate the natural profile of the southern headland behind her. Mother nature had tried to take back what was hers in the years since the last time the reapers had barked their discordant voices of triumph into the ale soaked sky. That patient work would now need to start all over again. It had taken nearly a week of hard labour to repair the buildings, but the job was just about complete.

Why did the monks build in the north where they couldn’t defend themselves?

Gudrun looked sideways at her daughter and smiled. Liv had striking features; bleached hair, piercing blue eyes and a face that, even on such a bleak day, was radiant with youth. A cloak, draped across one shoulder, partially covered finely-woven wool garments that were proof against the elements. Liv was tall and moved with effortless grace. Her appearance was a constant reminder of the husband Gudrun hadn’t seen since the last time they’d been among the Ostmenn of the west.

They built long before we arrived, she replied. This was a holy place from way back in time. There’s supposed to be a healing spirit in the spring by the ruin.

The wind caught and teased some strands of her own unruly dark hair that had wrestled free from a tight plat. They flicked around in front of her eyes for a second. She reached a hand up and combed them back between the stiffened sinews of her cold fingers. The errant filaments tangled, pulled and then released. She felt badly in need of some time to make herself feel clean after the voyage and subsequent hard labour, but that would have to wait.

I thought the Christian god is believed to live above the clouds, not in a crevice underground.

True enough, but his priests are cunning. The Vestmenn tell stories about old beliefs from when they first came here. There were mystics among them who worshipped water in all sorts of places. I suspect the Christians adopted this island and other locations as a way of using those old mores to gain acceptance.

Liv watched the scudding clouds for a moment. I can see why a water god would be important to people living in a place like this!

Gudrun grinned, feeling her cheeks slightly numb with cold. You say that now, but I remember you happy as a skylark when we were here. It doesn’t always rain.

Liv wrinkled her face in a pretence of straining to recall. The soft skin between her eyebrows pulled into tiny furrows in a quirk that somehow conveyed charm and comedic intent at the same time.

I think you’re confusing your happiness with mine.

Gudrun knew better than to argue. Contradiction was still an essential but sometimes infuriating part of Liv’s developing sense of self.

Well, however you remember it, the point I was going to make is that the Celts who came here arrived from Iberia and much further east in the Grikksalt sea where water is rarer and more precious. So that’s probably where those ideas came from. Mind you, the inhabitants who lived here before them were even more curious.

Liv latched onto her reference to conquered peoples.

Ah! So the Celts are just like the Ostmenn. They came looking for something they wanted, found it, murdered the locals and settled down. They’ve no right to complain about the Danes then.

That’s not how the world works, said Gudrun, and you know it!

What brought them? I can’t believe it was the weather!

Copper and gold, most likely. I’ve heard stories about great wealth buried in the ground here.

Sounds like you were right about the previous lot being weird if they didn’t mine the riches under their feet.

That was so long ago no-one can say for sure, replied Gudrun. They’re referred to as the Tuatha dé Danann. Most of the stories that tell of them are confused about whether they were mortals or gods. Some folk say their leaders were driven underground by the Celts and that they still live there.

Like trolls?

Gudrun laughed out loud.

No! Not like trolls at all. More like the Aesir.

Maybe they’re the same, but in a different language, ventured Liv.

That’s a curious idea. But we’ll never know, and it doesn’t matter now anyway.

Liv thought for a moment and then contradicted herself.

No. Can’t be right. If it was, we’d have had to come from the same place, and I can’t see how that could be. They look so different to us.

Maybe to you, replied Gudrun. Not so much me. You look like your faðir, while I have my móðir’s hair and eyes.

Was she beautiful, like you?

Your grandfather must have thought so. Gudrun automatically recited the explanation used since Liv was a child. He fell for her after she’d been captured and taken to Orkney to be sold as a slave. So he paid her price and brought her into his own longhouse.

She’d long ago forgiven herself the lie spoken to hide Liv from the meanness of their origin.

Do you honestly think I still believe that story? asked Liv. I do have friends, you know.

Well, you asked about your Amma, so what am I supposed to say - that your grandfather’s a brute who brought no good and that we lived a life of misery.

No, just treat me like an adult and tell me the truth.

Gudrun sighed. There was little left of the innocent and carefree bundle of joy she’d nurtured.

The truth is more complicated. All I know is that, if any magic still exists in this land, your Amma carried it in her veins. She was a high-born princess from a kingdom to the east of here. Her people lived close to the Ostmenn settlement at Dyflinn during a time when relations were strained - too close by half. Her fate was the same as hundreds of others. She was uncommonly beautiful, though, and not just on the surface. Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I see the radiance in her face and hear the song in her voice, but even more I feel the lightness and warmth of her spirit. Your grandfather may have taken her, but he fell under her spell, and that’s the only reason we are free now.

It’s not fair, what happens to some people, said Liv.

No, but you are here because of it, so how can I complain. It’s the fate that was written for us. All we can do is make what we can with the life we’ve been given.

Christians say all men are created equal in the eyes of God. Surely that means slavery is a crime for them.

Christians say a lot of things! replied Gudrun. But that doesn’t stop them killing each other - whether they’re Northmen, Ostmenn or native Vestmenn. Besides, when your Amma was taken, Christianity was hardly known in Orkney.

Probably wouldn’t have mattered anyway. I bet most converts are just paying lip-service.

I’m sure you’re right to some extent, said Gudrun. Though you shouldn’t forget that it’s quite possible to make a conscious choice to believe in something new, but rather more difficult to put aside all you’ve grown up with.

I don’t understand what you mean.

Belief in a god or gods can change, but the history of a people, their narratives and ways of living will always be in the background. Every tribe has its unique lore and in it you can find a lot of wisdom if you care to look hard enough. Some stories are pure fantasy, though, such as the one that describes the monster rumoured to live around here. They say the priest who built the monastery banished it to dwell in the sea, from where it now preys on anyone who tries to come here bearing malicious intent.

Liv scoffed.

We’d better watch out for the Kraken then. Worse still, maybe this is the home of Jörmungandr, and we’re about to stir it into signalling the start of the final battle, Ragnarök!

Gudrun laughed again.

You’re so funny! Christian priests are powerful, but they just influence the imagination of their followers. They can’t control the fate of the world. There’s no monster, leastways not one that isn’t human, of that I’m sure. No woman was ever allowed to step ashore after the monks built the monastery, so maybe the mythical creature was just a metaphor for male weakness.

You’ve lost me.

And so I should, replied Gudrun. You’ve got your whole life ahead in which to become cynical about men, and how they control everything but understand so little.

How come you know so much about all this? asked Liv.

Gudrun looked at her daughter, wondering how to respond.

Then Liv realised what her question had implied and clarified herself. I mean about this place, not men!

Thank goodness for that! I was beginning to wonder.

Liv rolled her eyes in a half-sheepish, half-impatient apology.

There are two things for you to bear in mind, said Gudrun. Firstly, when you go to a new land, it’s sensible to understand what’s important to the people who already live in it. We were here for three summers, which is long enough to learn. Secondly, your parents are usually better informed than you are, so listening to their stories is a good idea. The winter nights were long in Orkney when I was growing up. Your Amma had many tales to tell and a captive audience of two, just Ragnvaldr and me.

I’d like to have had a brother or sister, said Liv.

The comment hurt Gudrun more than she could admit. It made her sad for both Liv and herself.

It’s been a lonely road for us, but at least we have each other.

I don’t remember much about being here, but you’re right, admitted Liv. I did like it. She made a sad face. I miss those times, but mostly I miss faðir.

You and me both, replied Gudrun.

Do you think we’ll find out what happened to him?

That is why we’re here. Love and hope are strange comforts to a sore heart. Somehow, I think I’d know if he’d died. Anyway, we can’t give up now. We’re too close.

What will happen if we find him? asked Liv. Would we have to leave the farm?

Hope not. It isn’t like the longhouse in Orkney, but it’s home. We’ve worked hard for it. There aren’t many opportunities for freed slaves. The land is small, but the soil is fertile, and the tenants are loyal.

You mean most of them, replied Liv, grizzling a bit. I don’t know why you had to bring Njal along. He’s an endless misery with his complaints.

Gudrun saw the disdain on Liv’s face.

Come on! Axel can’t row the longship by himself. Njal has the strength of two men, even if his mind is weak, and we had to leave some of the best men behind so the crops would get planted if we didn’t get back in time.

Do you ever stop thinking about what might happen if things don’t work out?

Gudrun shrugged. That’s my job. You’re too young to understand. We wouldn’t be in this mess if I’d thought more clearly years ago.

I suppose the murdered priests might have lived longer if they’d done the same.

I’m not sure, replied Gudrun. Some things are so unexpected you can’t plan for them. Besides, they probably thought their god or the sea monster would protect them.

Liv shrugged and abruptly changed the subject.

Have we finished digging and building for the halfbreed princelings yet? There’s not much more we can do except embroider their shit buckets. If Ivar doesn’t get his royal backside here soon, the Vestmenn will have had time to work out what’s going on. Her face screwed up in frustration. I can’t believe we’ve come back here to help those idiots.

Gudrun looked out beyond the end of the island. Her gaze wandered toward where the low line of the coast would have been on a better day. No vessels had approached, so there was a chance that their arrival had gone unnoticed. They’d certainly been left alone. But then who was likely to mount an attack on a fleet of a hundred longships bearing two thousand mercenaries and as many again camp followers?

She still found it strange that the Vestmenn didn’t have ships like theirs. She’d grown up thinking how the sea connected people and offered strength to those who commanded it. Here, people always seemed preoccupied with their lands, and the tribal struggles to defend them. It was almost as though they’d forgotten how they’d arrived by sea in the first place.

You should be more careful about what you say, she replied. The Uí Ímair have eyes and ears everywhere. But yes, we’re near enough through. I’m unhappy about the camp, but there’s not much to be done about that. We got the short straw. All the same, I should have expected that and Lord Ulf seems happy enough not to be mixed in with the Danes from Mann.

She owed much to Ulf. He had raided and fought alongside her brother and won favour with the Earl. His reward had been beyond price, a stretch of land on the Cotentin Peninsula in Frankia that was rich in climate and soils. It was a strategic possession, lying in the heart of Danish territory, and it needed an exceptional talent to keep it secure. Ulf Iron Knee was that man, and he trod deftly along a tight-rope stretched between diplomacy and strength of arms.

The beach was a perfect place for the longships, and their ranks were an impressive sight, most pulled up in a long line. Sadly, the excellence of the landing was not matched by the quality of the camp ground. The strip of land given over to their tents, sandwiched between the shore and a swamp behind, was narrow and congested. There was a defined pecking order in terms of position. Her eyes strayed to the far end where she picked out a cluster of A-frame shelters next to her longship. A few of the crew were busy with routine tasks. Smoke from a fire lifted in fits and starts and blew out to sea across the deck of her prized possession.

She looked down at the callouses on her hands. It had been hard work reinstating the decayed longhouses and reinvesting the defensive ditch, but it could have been worse. Ivar and his predecessors had pillaged the monastery of its precious timbers to build their structures. Most were still in place. They’d put a lot of effort into re-roofing the more significant buildings. Walls had been renewed with clay and straw to create habitable spaces for the so-called ‘King of the Foreigners’ and his entourage. The meeting hall wasn’t anywhere near the equal of the one she remembered in the settlement at Luimneach, but it would suffice. It perched above the rocky foreshore, right at the end of the island, and was big enough to accommodate all who needed to hear the word of the law.

I expect it won’t be long before he arrives, said Gudrun. Then we’ll find out what he’s planning. Knowing the way things have turned out makes me think we’ll be first in, while our cousins stay warm and dry in the longphort waiting for the weather to improve.

Better that than stay sitting around in this place! Liv turned at the sound of footsteps approaching behind and then plucked at Gudrun’s arm. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Speaking of our