The Seeds of Heimdall: The Four Masters Series

By Martin J Bird

As the last decade of the first millennium approaches, the struggle for power in Ireland is intensifying. The High King, Mael Sechnaill Mór, seeks to dominate and is bent on conflict. One provincial king in particular stands in his way. In Munster, Brian Ború conceives an audacious plan to throw off the influence of the north, but treason stalks the halls of Ceann Coradh.

 

The hidden hand of politics has thrown fortunes and futures into turmoil in Rannal Halvorsen's family, setting brother against brother. As they are drawn once more into the eye of the storm, fighting for their homeland, lessons must be learned, or all could be lost before they can confront the ultimate test of strength.

Viking warlords play to their own agendas, striving to maintain independence from the old order while vying for power among themselves.

In this, the concluding part of the Four Masters Trilogy, the escalating tensions brought by tribal, class, religious and cultural divisions bring a foretaste of the spiralling conflict between two giants of Irish history whose stories will dominate the next quarter of a century and echo down to today.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Martin Bird
• Release date: Jun 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201860448

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.

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Martin Bird

The Seeds of Heimdall

Part 3 of the Four Masters Trilogy

Copyright © 2022 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.

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2022 marks the 175th anniversary of Black ‘47, the darkest year of An Gorta Mór, the Great Hunger.

This story is dedicated to the suffering of all those affected, among whom more than a million perished. In particular, I am grateful to two small families, the McDonoughs and Concannons, who lived through this awful period in Swinford and Dunmore. Without their perseverance, I would not be here.

Contents

Foreword

1. Playing up

2. North and south

3. Feast or famine

4. Undercurrents

5. Betrayer

6. Parting

7. Malignancy

8. Falling

9. Blinded

10. Alarm

11. Crossroads

12. Divisions

13. Disaster

14. Rage

15. Flames

16. Assault

17. Exodus

18. Chase

19. Stronghold

20. Blockade

21. Tumult

22. Accounting

Afterword

About the Author

Also by Martin Bird

Foreword

The concluding novel in this series takes place a few years after Brian Ború defeated Ivar of Limerick on Scattery Island. During the intervening period, the King of Munster made his presence felt on the broader political stage of Ireland, becoming embroiled in a period of wide-scale conflict. Some commentaries on the uptick in violence point a causal finger at tensions in the established protocols for power transfer, shifting from tanistry towards a direct inherited model. This change likely had a complex origin. Doubtless, the capability and ambition of individual leaders at the time had a lot to do with it, as did the growing influence of Hiberno-Norse settlements. Technology change and style of warfare played their part, these being particular points of difference underpinning the rise of Brian Ború himself.

For this third story, I could not find a single defining event to provide a good backdrop for the character play. The Annals of All Ireland includes plenty of detail on supposed happenings at the time. Unfortunately, there is inconsistency in some of the entries. I have therefore developed the story by melding together three events, two of which appear to have elements in common. If you do not want to trip up over spoilers, I suggest you return to these quotes when finished reading.

The action takes place in geography familiar from the first two books but extends into Méde and skips through southern Galway. I am not a resident of Ireland, and travel has been impractical during the pandemic. A repetition of the experience I enjoyed while scripting the first novel, enriched by a tour of specific sites, was impossible. Inaccuracies and poor description might have resulted, but I hope the impression offered broadly represents the region.

Every book like this has heroes and villains. Some of the historical figures come over to me as both at different times. This might be because the folklore status of Brian Ború tends to cast shade on others. I’ve characterised some historical figures as compassionate and inspiring, others as power accretive and untrustworthy. These qualities are not written about in the annals, so I apologise if I’ve done one tribe or another a disservice.

The passages I took inspiration from and the year each relates to are reproduced below. I leave it up to you to decide whether the book does adequate justice to them. The first extract records a bitter struggle between Connacht and Munster in 987. In the following year, an entry demonstrates how longships were critical to the strategy of Brian Ború. It could, in part, refer to the previous year’s events, given that the death of the royal heir of Connacht is in both extracts. The final reference is for the year 991. In it, we see the hand of the High King and a reference to a mysterious disappearing act managed by Brian Ború.

* * *

#1 —The men of Munster came in hosts upon Loch Ribh, and the foreigners of Port-Lairge [Waterford]. The Connaughtmen assembled to oppose them, and a battle was fought between them. A great number of the Munstermen and the foreigners were slaughtered by the Connaughtmen. Among the slain was Dunlaing, son of Dubhdabhoireann, royal heir of Munster, and many others along with him. Muirgheas, son of Conchobhar, royal heir of Connaught, was slain by them in the heat of the conflict.

#2 —A fleet of 300 boats, was put on Loch Rí by Brian, and they harried Mide and went to Uisnech. And twenty five boats of these went into Connacht, and a great slaughter of their crews was inflicted there, including Dúnlang, king of Raithlenn, Ruadhri Ua hEirc, Dúngalach Ua Loingsig, and many others. And by them was slain Muirgius son of Conchobar, royal heir of Connacht.

#3 —An army was led by Maelseachlainn into Connaught; and he brought from thence a prey of cattle, the greatest that a king had ever brought. After this, Brian came with the men of Munster and Connaught into Meath, as far as Loch Ainninn [modern Lough Ennell]; and he did not take a cow or person, but went off from thence by secret flight.

* * *

This book continues with the theme of racial tensions and class divisions. It provides a glimpse of the emerging struggle for domination across all of Ireland between Brian Ború and the incumbent High King, Mael Sechnaill Mór, of the southern Uí Néill tribe. Brian’s spectacular rise to become the self-style Imperator Scottorum is foreshadowed. A strong theme throughout is Viking trade and technology’s impact on traditional warfare and settlement patterns.

The characters of the first two books take up their stories as Rannal Halvorsen plans a second pilgrimage after finishing his commitment in service to the Monastery of Clonmacnoise. This time he intends to travel to the Holy See in Rome.

For ease of reference, here is a short summary of the main characters, their affiliations and, where it might be useful, tips on pronunciation.

Nobility of Connacht

Cathal mac Conchobar (KA hul)

King of Connacht, (973 to 1010), referred to as Ó Connor

Muirgheas mac Cathal

Son of Ó Connor (fictional, based on Muirgheas mac Conchobar)

Fionn (F-een) mac Cú Cheanann

King of the Uí Díarmada (fictional)

Lorcán (Lor-kan) mac Conaill

Lord of Rinn Duin (fictional)

Brecc (Brak)

King of Tir Olliol (fictional)

Cosgrove

Chief of the Uí Briúin Seola (fictional)

Murtagh mac Mulrooney

Lord of Moylurg, later referred to as Chief of Clan MacDermot (dates uncertain)

Díarmat (Dermot)

Chief of the Uí Fiachrach Muaidhe (fictional)

Cormac (Kor-muc)

Lord of An Líonán (fictional)

Tadg Mór (Tyge)

Chief of the Uí Máine tribe (Died 1014)

Nobility of Munster

Brian mac Cennétig (Brian Ború)

Brian Ború, King of Munster (978 to 1015) and Imperator Scotorum (1002 to 1014)

Cairbre (Kar-bruh)

High Steward of Ceann Coradh (fictional)

Bradán

Marshall (Cath milid) of the Dal gCais (fictional)

Dunlain

Tánaiste of Munster (fictional, modelled on Dunlaing mac Dubhdabhoireann)

Cian (K-ee-an)

Grandson of Mael Maude, Lord Desmond (fictional, modelled on Cían mac Máelmuaid)

Nobility of Méde

Máel Sechnaill mac Domnaill

King of the Southern Uí Néill, High King of Ireland (980 to 1002)

Clan mac Rannal (all fictional)

Rannal Halvorsen

Former prior of Clonmacnoise

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

Gudrun Halvorsen

Sister of Rannal Halvorsen

Torsten

Shipwright from Orkney, husband of Gudrun

Liv Torstensen

Wife of Seíghín mac Ginn

Viking Northmen of Orkney (all fictional)

Ulf Járnkne

Leader of the lagmenn from the north

Trygve

Longship Steersman

Axel

Longship Steersman (formerly Skipper for Gudrun Halvorsen)

Viking Ostmenn (Danes) and Uí Ímair

Ivar of Waterford

Lord of Waterford and King of Dyflinn (intermittently 986 to 995)

Jarl Håkon

Lord of Luimneach, (fictional brother to Ivar of Limerick)

Godred of Weisfjord

Lord of Wexford

Oddr

Blacksmith of Luimneach (fictional)

Svend

Merchant of Wexford (fictional)

Other Characters (fictional)

Bran

Steersman of Ériu

Lennan

Bodyguard of Lady Muirgel

1

Playing up

Rinn Duin, mid-summer CE 987

A part of Rannal strove for control even as he gave himself into the moment. He let go of restraint, and waves of mirth took over. Tears squeezed between his half-closed eyes. He could neither breathe nor stop laughing. It was an agony of pure joy. Relief! He was free again.

The sense of liberation was unexpected. Latterly, his duties in the monastery town of Clonmacnoise had consumed every waking moment. He’d borne the burden with equanimity at the behest of Abbot Dúnchad. Who, after all, could refuse that sternly compassionate man, especially in the grace of his final years? But the new abbot, Mael Finnia, was made of different stuff. Maintaining personal integrity under pressure to siphon wealth into the hands of power brokers was a grinding distraction. Being supplanted by a more compliant man was a release rather than a disappointment. So now, the challenge was to find his place in the future. He lacked for nothing in spiritual and material domains, although he was landless and without the inherent protection conveyed by social rank.

On the ground, unable to think what to do, was Lorcán mac Conaill, Rannal’s oldest friend in Ireland and former high steward of Kiltullagh. The greying giant was distraught with the indignity of being beset by a horde of children. They beat him with play-swords and sticks, darting in from all sides. A pretend helmet of linen and twigs was knocked askew to sit at a jaunty angle. He bowed his head between raised arms in futile defiance and was beaten again.

That’s enough! Medb, the matriarch of the Uí Díarmada, strode across the lís, scattering the children. Her face was radiant, hazel eyes alight with the brilliance of the day. What’s going on? Is that any kind of example to set?

Ah! Sweet Medb, wheezed Rannal, if we that are growing old cannot indulge the young with our stories, what is left to us? We have little strength for the battlefield and fewer wits. All we can do is recount the defeat of our enemies and hope to be remembered beyond our mortal span.

Lorcán sat and brushed his clothes. So much for Murchad Glun! He pulled the costume armour away from his shaggy mop of hair. Motes of dust rose in clouds illuminated by the slanting, late-afternoon sunlight. He clapped his great hands together, preparing to push himself upright, but grunted and twisted in pain.

Rannal studied his friend’s face. How’s your shoulder?

The latter-day Lord of Rinn Duin flexed his arm. Stiffer by the year. I’d have been dead in the snow that day on the Slí Mór but for Fionn and Ruairí. He grunted and pushed himself to his feet. Still, here I am, proudly decrepit and eating at Cinnéide’s table. Bless him for his sacrifice! His comment was a weary insight into the disappointment of his diminished vitality.

Automatic words of consolation came to Rannal. We’ve come far, my friend. Our victories have been many, but no one defeats time. Life is a battle we all lose, but don’t wish it away. There is more left for you to give.

You oaf! Medb spoke sharply. This was never Cinnéide’s ráth, and he only did what you would have done in his place. The holdfast belongs to the chief and benefits the tribe. You were chosen by the council as its guardian for a good reason. No one has your experience. Besides, family is all! You should know that better than anyone. If we pension our heroes to poor pastureland, it’d not be long before the rest of us follow.

Lorcán was about to respond when a solitary but persistent hand clap drew their attention across the water on the northeast side of the peninsular. They turned and watched as a magnificent vessel arrived. It was a longship fit for a king. Rannal recognised Skithblathnir, looking as fresh as the day she’d been launched, but carrying only a skelton crew.

With practised precision, the 100-foot leviathan swung in and came to rest. The longship’s hull made the lightest of kisses on the staves of the pier. A thick-set man at her bow ceased his lonely applause and vaulted confidently over the rail. Unfortunately, the aplomb he aimed to demonstrate evaporated when his feet landed. A loud crack from tortured wood reached the onlookers, and Cormac lurched to his hands and knees. Blood of Christ! he cursed red-faced, pulling his leg from an alarming hole in the deck. He picked himself up and started forward afresh. Is everything rotten around here?

Lorcán shrugged off his momentary lapse. Apparently, no Irish timber is now stout enough to hold the wealth of your weight!

The erstwhile Lord of An Líonan turned scourge of the sea attempted once more to pretend to his youth in a laboured jog up the foreshore. Out of my way, land-lubber! Cormac brushed past Lorcán with a scowl. He glanced at Rannal and came to Medb, whom first he had met only a day after helping to steal Skithblathnir. He swept her up in an embrace. By the bones of my sainted mother, you look well. And I see you have the time to keep these two balding goats in check!

Be careful who you call a goat, said Lorcán. Don’t make me regret saving your sorry backside from the Vikings while you were busy protecting that longship. I’ve looked after Rinn Duin for ten years and taken pride in showing unwelcome visitors the wet way home. I’ll not suffer injury to come to it by the feet of a fat fisherman from the west.

Ah! said Medb, pressing herself from the embrace. Normality returns!

Cormac feigned a look of hurt and then switched focus. And how is my favourite man of God? A trunk-like arm extended towards Rannal.

Happily less encumbered by the affairs of church estate. I’m blessed to greet you and fully prepared for our great pilgrimage. I see you’ve been busy with the shipwrights refitting Sveinssen’s pride and joy.

She’s solid enough for our purpose. Unlike that damned pier! Mind you, there’d have been less to do had she been in my care from the day we liberated her. It was the opening comment in an old and, by now, ritualised exchange.

Then you should have understood the power of Thor’s hammer earlier. Rannal looked pointedly at the golden charm suspended, as always, from its leather thong around Cormac’s neck.

Hark at you, still full of contradictions! Cormac fiddled with the charm and dropped it behind a layer of clothing. Piety and holiness mixed with pagan symbolism. No wonder this land is spread at your feet.

I believe in the fortitude of the human spirit and God’s will. Rannal’s credo came to his lips without conscious thought. He works through all things and rewards the pure in heart.

Like the new Abbot of Clonmacnoise, I suppose! In God and silver, he doth trust! More especially the latter. It was an unworthy but accurate provocation that failed to penetrate Rannal’s studied reserve.

You, sir, can try to disguise the kindness of your nature with cheap words, but your soul shines through. The world may be fooled by your ill-grace, but you can hide your true self from neither friend nor maker.

Pah! Cormac gave up. This is not Sunday. There will be time enough for your sermons soon enough.

On that, you may depend.

Oh! How I’ve missed you both, said Lorcán, but my ears will grow wings and fly away if I listen to much more of this.

Medb interrupted the banter. Come, you’re here in perfect time. My mother has slaughtered the wealth of the tribe so we can eat well and send you and the saintly Rannal off with a full stomach.

A whistle drew their focus towards the main gate across the far side of the lís through which walked Medb’s husband, Fionn, and Rannal’s stepson, Ruairí. Ahead of them, and now halted by his master’s command, was a great grey wolfhound. The dog was full of energy and desperate to be released back to its purpose of investigating the new arrival. Fionn’s word was law, though. He beckoned it to heal, and it dutifully obeyed.

The bloodline is still strong, observed Cormac, studying the rangy dog.

Third generation, said Medb. Fionn grieves for each one that passes, but he’s like his father and wouldn’t be without. It looks as though they’ve finished checking the livestock.

The two men skirted the rise upon which stood a new meeting hall built as the centrepiece of renovations commissioned by Lorcán and his wife, Iseult. The architecture of the longhouse spoke as much of peaceful times as the hard labour of the tribe. Its walls were high, and its width accorded it an airy feel. New sheaves of thatch on the roof reflected a warm glow from the summer sun. Ruairí’s attention was drawn to its entrance as Brigida emerged, wiping her hands on a cloth, her curiosity aroused by the activity. She was joined by Iseult and they walked across to accompany her son and the Chief of the Uí Díamada as they converged on the flat ground where the theatrics had taken place.

Welcome, Cormac! said Fionn. It has been too long since you were here.

You should not have waited fifteen years to invite me, replied Cormac.

Is it really only the second time we’ve had the pleasure?

I’d hardly call the first occasion a pleasure. As I recall it, we stopped only briefly on our way north to rescue the king at the Sionainne ford.

The king was not the only one in need at the time. I well remember you dragging me away from the hooves of a thousand head of cattle after I lost my senses and put you all at risk. So, more shame on me that you have not been back since.

We were all lost in the madness of that day. Ruairí’s comment sounded vaguely flat despite the smile he wore. Rannal noticed but let it go. The hand of change at Clonmacnoise had excised Ruairí from his hard-earned position, just as it had forced Rannal from his own role. Graciously, Ó Connor, the King of Connacht, had lost no time in welcoming Rannal’s stepson into royal service; his value recognised by a grant of tenure over lands around his childhood home of Duncarrow. Trouble lay below the surface, though.

Speak for yourself, my son, said Brigida while standing to one side. In contrast to Ruairí, her face was sternly impassive, except her eyes, which could not hide her delight. It’s good to see you. She looked the newcomer up and down, assessing the growth in his girth. Though you might come to regret sharing our journey. Looks like there’s work to be done if you’re not to drop dead on the way.

Cormac groaned. Would you condemn a man for enjoying the odd jug of ale?

Odd and even successively, if you ask me!

Rannal shrugged as if to say, ‘What did you expect?’

Medb intervened, trying not to smile. May I suggest you save that particular conversation for after the feast.

Brigida relented, and the light in her eyes spread across her face. Of course! What was I thinking? Our pilgrimage is not yet begun.

Cormac brightened. I humbly accept your challenge and will bear the infinite pleasure of your company as though sipping from the wine of the gods. Each moment of our travels will be a testament to your grace and caring nature.

You’re a silver-tongued rogue! Brigida swiped the tangle of hair on Cormac’s head. But bless you for that.

A warm zephyr stirred the air around the group, carrying the enticing smell of roast meat emanating from cooking fires all around the lís. The aroma was impossible to ignore and caused Cormac’s ample torso to emit an involuntary grumble of anticipation.

Brigida laughed. Why don’t you bring your crew up from the longship? They can go and eat with the crown prince’s men-at-arms.

Lord Muirgheas is here already?

How else would Ruairí be standing among us? replied Brigida. Our future king is in the gathering hall with the Chief of the Uí Briúin Seola, Lord Cosgrove. They’re making a tally of the annual tribute.

He’ll not be disappointed if the changes here are any guide to Uí Briúin prosperity, said Cormac, appraising the evidence of recent construction. It was good of Lord Cosgrove to come all the way from the southwest for the farewell. There was a hint of wry humour in his words.

Muirgel would have graced us regardless, said Rannal, not rising to the bate of Cormac’s tone, but the event is also convenient for Lord Cosgrove. Besides his tribe’s tribute, they have brought their son, young Ruadhri. He’s going to Cruachan as a hostage to good faith.

There’s still a place for some of the old ways, said Cormac.

You would not be so stoic if it was your son, said Iseult. My cousin Muirgel has had a lot to bear over the years, not least being married off to an older man of brittle disposition by order of the king.

I guess not. Ruadhri must have been an unexpected consolation for her.

My half-brother is tender in years, said Fionn, but will survive the experience and be the better for it. We should not dwell on such matters nor disparage a revered chief of the Uí Briúin. But speaking of trials, he nodded down to the partially crewed longship, won’t you be challenged on your voyage with so few hands aboard?

Not ideal, I admit, said Cormac. There’s talk of a great raid, and all the sea rats have eyes only for plunder. Still, the expedition must pay for itself, so now I have more room for traders. Anyone bringing goods will pay for space and take a turn on the oars.

Aye, as they will for me, added Rannal, though I believe we should not be over-anxious to encumber our holds. If Jarl Thorfinssen’s legacy can do anything for me, it is in giving us the freedom to roam without constraint.

Fionn wrinkled his brow. That’s a funny way to refer to your father.

I guess it is, now you mention it, replied Rannal, also struck by his choice of words. It’s strange to think of myself as the bastard son of a Viking noble from far off Orkney. But, that’s all in the past, and I am interested only in the future. What’s this about a raid, Cormac?

No one knew or was prepared to say, but news has gone out about a fleet bigger than Brian Ború has ever mustered. And, before you ask, Liv knew nothing, and your son, Seíghín, wasn’t in port.

Rannal shrugged. Not our concern anymore, though I expect we’ll find out when we head south. He glanced speculatively at Lorcán and saw him wearing the queasy expression he often had during discussions about sailing. How about it? Your one good arm is as useful as many a deckhand with two! It’s not too late to change your mind.

Lorcán gulped and belatedly resumed his rightful role as the steward for the gathering. Call yourself a friend! You come to my house and deign to suggest I have nothing better to do than sail the seven seas with a bunch of decaying has-beens. I have duties and responsibilities, or so my queen seems to think. Now, let there be no more talk of co-opting crew here. Come; we have a feast to enjoy.

2

North and south

Luimneach, a few days earlier

Out of the corner of his eye, Seíghín noticed the merciless killer. He held his breath. Thor crouched perfectly still; senses trained on something out of sight. The house cat extended a paw with quiet precision. It touched the beaten floor, feeling for grip. The executioner inched forward, body slung low between shoulders, head perfectly level, as though supported on gimbals.

The days of playing with prey as an end in itself were long gone. This was a deadly business. Thor had a mental map of every corner of the longhouse and an uncanny ability to squeeze into impossible spaces. He was no mangy beast like the strays that inhabited the weather-worn untidiness of the town. A long grey coat, painstakingly-preened, made him look twice his size. Silent as a spectre, he usually stole about indifferent to the noisy humans who shared his hunting ground.

The children occasionally tried to tease him. Every once in a while, he tolerated being stroked. Mostly he slept or came and went according to the rhythm of his self-appointed mission. Seíghín had never seen his like. Gudrun, his mother-in-law, called it a Norwegian forest cat and lavished Thor with uncharacteristic attention during her visits. Incomprehensibly, the cat seemed to tolerate her firm hand, perhaps knowing who held ultimate authority in the house.

Thor’s wary independence, his graceful economy of movement and the focus lying within unfathomable eyes fascinated Seíghín. More-especially, he admired the cat’s lightning transformations and athleticism. Feline precision, guided by twitching ears and an icy stare, meant he rarely missed.

Naturally, Thor was a ship’s cat. He’d arrived as no more than a kitten, scrawny and flea-ridden, aboard one of the vessels taken from Ivar’s ruined invasion fleet. Seíghín didn’t often take him out to sea these days, just on longer voyages purposed on trading for perishable goods. He never strayed, and the crew always spoiled him for his role as scourge of the bilges.

Seíghín smiled to himself, touched by a frisson of memories. He’d been blessed. Ten years ago, amid the chaos surrounding King Mathgamain’s death, he could never have predicted where life would take him. If someone had cast an oracle, he would undoubtedly have disbelieved it. His stepfather often said never to be resigned to the omnipotence of indecipherable chance. He always counselled to look beyond the obvious and prepare for the unexpected. Rannal’s belief learned from the old sage, Morann, conveyed and reinforced the power of making deliberate choices. That said, events and forces outside the ambit of his own influence played a considerable part in his success.

He stirred in his seat while continuing to observe. Quietness in the longhouse accentuated the sound of the deluge outside. It was one of those strange days of contrast. The morning had been golden and sunny, dew heavy on the ground, encouraging for eager arms and backs bent to the myriad activities in the boatyard. Satisfaction was seeing needed work done on the pride of the royal fleet beached on the south side of the pool at Luimneach. During summer, time in homeport was precious, a rare reprieve from naval and merchant engagement. To be ordered into port was a curious turn, but he intended to use the time effectively.

Most of the skippers were, like him, young men of ambition. He knew them, having helped with their selection and schooling. The fleet, unique in Ireland, represented an impressive and vital part of Munster’s growing influence.

The morning’s fresh vigour had wilted with rising temperature. Then an afternoon cloud seemed to absorb energy from the land’s warmth, lifting to tower over the valley, darkening as it grew. When the rain came, it chased everyone undercover, running like chickens before a fox, leaving tools to the mercy of the elements and tasks incomplete.

Thor stopped moving. The muscles in his back bunched and released a couple of times, betraying indecision. It was too far to sprint; his prey would be gone. The cat inched ahead again and then wove in behind a stool draped with bearskins. Whatever his senses were intent on cowered under a bed frame set against the wall of the longhouse. Muscles bunched again, and then, from a standing start, Thor launched forward and disappeared from sight beneath the slats. A brief struggle ensued, and then out came the ghostly grey victor, prize wriggling in his mouth. One look at Seíghín, as if to rebuke him for spectating, and off he went down to the darkened recesses of the building, far from disturbance.

Seíghín shook his head and wondered how long it would be before a younger, fitter, and faster feline would displace his old friend as the chief rat-catcher. He would be sad when it happened.

The sound of running feet disturbed the quiet in the longhouse. He refocussed, put down a beaker of small beer and turned a fraction before receiving the clambering embrace of his youngest son. Still wet from dashing along the path down from the market and across the bridge, Colm was all arms and heads and legs, muddy feet leaving their imprint on Seíghín’s breaches.

Da! The king’s here with all his lords. Come and see…

Seíghín pried Colm from his grip, stood and gently set him down. He glanced towards the door and saw Liv standing there, late-term bump in evidence, equally damp and carrying a basket of produce in either hand.

He’s right, she said, walking forward in a flatfoot waddle. I don’t know what it’s all about, but I guess we’ll know in due course. Meanwhile, as you’ve some time to spare, you can help me with this stuff. Erika can’t prepare everything herself, and I won’t give my mother the satisfaction of seeing how unprepared for her arrival we are. She’ll be here soon enough, king or no king.

Good thought, said Seíghín, feigning enthusiasm for the regular visitation. Have you seen the other two children?

I don’t have eyes in the back of my head. Messing about with the usual crowd, I should think. Now, seeing as you enjoy living in such a fine house but can’t keep it tidy, why don’t you take these baskets to the storeroom while I start to straighten things up. There’s a goose to be plucked, and if you don’t want to end up spitting feathers about undue criticism, I’d be quick about it.

Err, right you are. He stepped towards Liv and bent to kiss her reproving comment away. But let me go to the meeting hall and find out how many extra guests we might have before we set a fire that’s the wrong size.

Any excuse! replied Liv, staring him down before relenting. "Go on, but be smart about it. Tidying up wouldn’t take so much effort but for your heedless