by Neil Oliver
For all that the skeleton reflected what the warrior may have looked like, it was the things buried with him that revealed his cultural identity. Most indicative of all was a perfectly preserved comb, painstakingly carved from several pieces of antler that had then been skilfully assembled, using tiny iron rivets, to create a delicate but highly functional composite object. Both sides of the comb were decorated with patterns of incised, crisscrossing lines that had carefully been stained with a dark pigment to highlight the design. In every respect it was as quintessentially Viking as could be — a classic, telltale find. Viking men were known to be fussy about their personal appearance but, as well as keeping long hair in order, combs were used for removing nits — an important part of healthcare. Even more personal than the comb was a small bone pin found near the warrior’s right shoulder and used presumably to fasten some item of his clothing. It was a poor thing, without any real value, but the head was carved in the likeness of some small, long-eared and bright-eyed animal, perhaps a hare. The fact that it was essentially worthless, and even slightly broken while still in use, suggested it was carried and cherished as a memento of a loved one — girlfriend, mother, father, wife. That he took it to his grave is a reminder that here was not just a warrior or an adventurer, but someone’s son, someone’s lost love.
Also in his grave was a mysterious composite object crafted of iron, bone and wood. Two plates of metal were held together by tiny rivets, leaving a narrow gap between them. Fused in among it all, held in place mostly by corrosion products, was a small iron blade, so that the whole suggested nothing less than a little penknife.
Laid out on the table, bones and trinkets, the warrior seemed made more of questions than answers. Isotope analysis carried out on the teeth of all four skeletons revealed that while two had spent their early lives in Scandinavia, the other pair had likely grown to adulthood in Norse settlements in northern Scotland. The radiocarbon dates suggested all four died quite early in the history of Viking Dublin — perhaps as part of a raiding party that went badly wrong for some of them. In any event all four young men were buried by their colleagues close by the banks of the dubh linn — the black pool that gave the place its name.
Since two of them seemed, at least on the basis of a shared spinal abnormality, to have been relatives, it was tempting to imagine them setting out on a great adventure together. It was an expensive business to kit out a warrior in the ninth century: weapons had to be sourced and paid for, as well as clothing and other necessities. No doubt they departed from Norway carrying not just their own hopes and ambitions but also those of the families that had helped underwrite the expense in hope of sharing in the rewards of a successful venture. But instead of returning to the fjord laden down with silver and other riches, they came to grief far from home. Theirs was a violent time and they would have understood the risks of their undertaking. No doubt they learnt brutality as part of their stock in trade and expected nothing more in return. It is nonetheless moving to think, at least, of whoever made the gift of the little bone pin carved like a hare, who waved its recipient farewell little knowing he was gone for ever.
The foursome buried by the black pool, at some early stage either just before or during the earliest Viking occupation recorded by the writers of the annals, had almost certainly come in search not just of silver but slaves as well. As the second half of the ninth century wore on, Dublin was increasingly used by Vikings as a holding point for captives en route to markets elsewhere. In 871 the annals record the arrival from Scotland of a fleet of 200 ships loaded to the gunwales with ‘Angles, Britons and Picts’. Those poor souls were just a tiny sample of the many thousands of men, women and children gathered up from their homes all over the British Isles. During a single raid on Armagh the Viking slavers collected 710 men, women and children.
The literature is unhelpful on the subject of just how many slaves serviced Viking society. On the one hand there are the accounts in the sagas, written much later, in which slaves — thralls — appear as almost sub-human stereotypes. They are invariably portrayed as short, ugly dullards, in contrast to the quick-thinking, blue-eyed, blond heroes of the piece. On the other hand they are referred to in legal papers, also written later and detailing the status of such unfortunates in society.
What is clear from the available writings is that many thralls in Scandinavia had been acquired in Ireland, so that island was indeed either the source, or at least the hub, of a plentiful supply. Slavery of one sort or another is as old as humankind. The Byzantine emperor Justinian wrote in the sixth century about the rights — or the lack of them — extending to those individuals captured in the aftermath of conflict. Put simply, a person defeated in war and not slaughtered — as was customary — had no right to continued existence, far less freedom. Whoever had been spared in such circumstances was in receipt of a gift they did not deserve and therefore owed a debt of service for the rest of their lives to those who had suffered them to live.
Slavery did not start in the Viking Age and it did not finish after they were gone either. From the seventeenth century Barbary pirates made these islands of ours a regular destination when they came in search of captives, so that communities all around the coastlines of Britain and Ireland lived in fear of them up to comparatively modern times. The population of the village of Baltimore in County Cork — 109 men, women and children — was taken on a single night in 1631 for sale in North Africa. Throughout the Iron Age, from around 800 BC, the European markets apparently demanded one valuable commodity in favour of anything else: slaves collected from the British Isles.
We talk about being ‘enthralled’ or of being ‘in thrall’ to something or someone. We owe this word to the Old Norse language and what we mean, of course, when we use such an expression, is that we are enslaved. Historians differ in their opinions of just how many individuals might have been enthralled, taken and traded by Vikings; but it is certainly true that captives from the British Isles and around the coastlines of western Europe were sold on to Arab slavers and as far afield as the marketplaces of the Byzantine Empire, along with the amber, oils, furs and the rest of the western commodities valued in the East.
In the storerooms of the National Museum of Ireland, in Dublin, out of sight of the prehistoric gold torcs that glimmer and dazzle from the display cases in the ground-floor gallery, I had the opportunity to handle some of the tools of the Viking slave trade. Iron collars and chains used for controlling the captives lie carefully boxed, wrapped in tissue paper. It seems a strangely gentle cradling for such cruel things. More than anything else it is the sheer weight of them that chills the blood. The collars are small in diameter, so as to be tight-fitting around all but the most slender neck, and yet massively made and therefore unbreakable, escape-proof.
Historians are agreed that many slaves were taken so they might be sold back to their fellows on payment of a suitable ransom. The various chains in the National Museum are a stark indication of how the status of any given individual — financial or social or both — determined their fate. Some are almost works of art, cast in bronze and carefully crafted to suggest jewellery, but of a mocking, corrupted sort. The richest and most elaborate of the collars were clamped, if only briefly, around the necks of captured aristocrats or even kings and queens. Having been displayed as prisoners, such men and women were surely reacquired by their people in short order once the necessary gold, silver and trading terms had either been handed over or agreed. The annals record that Abbot Forannan, leader of the monastery of Armagh, was taken captive in 845, along with many of his fellow churchmen and the relics of St Patrick. They were not returned until the following year — no doubt after the payment of a breath — taking ransom. According to a work called Cogadh Gaedhel re Gallaibh, ‘The War of the Irish Against the Foreigners’, it was around this time that a Viking warlord named Turgesius (Thorgils in his own tongue) burst onto the scene. Largely concerned with the exploits of the great Irish hero Brian Boru, Cogadh Gaedhel re Gal
laibh portrays Turgesius as a worthy opponent, who conducted a reign of terror the length and breadth of the island. Finally bested and captured by the would-be High King Máel Sechnaill, he was sewn into a sack and flung into Loch Owel, near Mullingar, to drown.
More troubling than the chains for the temporary restraint of high-status captives are the purely functional-looking iron collars, worn and smoothed by much use. Devoid of any decoration, they are just tools of restraint and humiliation. While kings and chiefs might have been clapped in irons as part of political wrangling and local power struggles, everyone knew they were being well treated in their captivity and going home sometime soon. The message to be read in the twists and clasps of the simplest shackles though is about lives changed for ever, people of the everyday sort who had been plucked away from their fields and homes so they might be sold into lifetimes of servitude.
The apparently industrial scale of the slave trade in Ireland is yet another indication of just how substantial an operation the Dublin long port must soon have become. Whether they were destined for ransom or for transportation and sale abroad, the large numbers of slaves had still to be housed, fed and watered for the duration of their stay. All of that accommodation, however basic, and all of the food had to be maintained and provided by someone. When Dublin was buzzing with traders and their cargoes, together with slavers and their captives, there must also have been a considerable resident population ready to meet the various needs of all concerned.
Always unclear is how far the most unfortunate of the captives were eventually transported for sale or exchange. On the one hand their strong backs would have been useful when it came to manhandling boats over dry land between rivers, but on the other they would always have been an encumbrance and a drain upon resources until a final marketplace was reached. On balance it seems more likely that slaves were captured and then either ransomed or sold as quickly and as locally as possible. Surely it made more economic sense to turn them into silent, non-protesting silver coins or bullion, booty that needed neither accommodation nor food and drink. Having been sold once — by Vikings keen to make a return on their efforts as quickly as possible — slaves may ultimately have changed hands many times, ending their days far from home.
Ireland was again a focus for Viking attention in the second half of the ninth century and then for much of the tenth as well. It seems likely that during times when opposition in other parts of Europe made life difficult or impossible for the raiders from the north — in Frankia and in England, for example — then Ireland served as a fertile fallback position. It is worth pointing out that as the ninth century gave way to the tenth, Viking faced opposition from Viking in many parts of Europe. Rollo’s command of Normandy, for instance, meant rival bands of Scandinavians had to seek their fortunes elsewhere rather than confront their own countrymen’s dominance of the area. It is telling that pioneers from the far north were so numerous in western Europe they were beginning to run out of opportunities. Because so many of them were busy exploiting the populations of vast swathes of territory, the openings for raiding, extortion and even for peaceful trade were, from the later 900s onwards, increasingly hard to come by.
The wealth of Ireland is amply demonstrated by finds of hoards of gold and silver — more numerous and often richer than have been recovered in the rest of the British Isles. The Carrick hoard, one of six found around Lough Ennell in Westmeath, amounted to 60 silver ingots weighing a total of over 66 pounds. Lough Ree, in the Midlands, was repeatedly occupied by Vikings during the ninth and tenth centuries and in 1802 the largest Viking gold hoard of them all was found there, at a site on Hare Island. As well as silver arm rings and silver ingots, no fewer than 10 gold arm rings, weighing more than 11 pounds, were found buried together. All of it was melted down and reworked by a jeweller around a decade later and now just a few notes and drawings survive to testify to the existence of the richest collection of Viking gold jewellery found anywhere in the world so far.
Until the advent of the Vikings, trade driven by an appetite for gold and silver was unknown in Ireland. But soon the island attracted a steady flow of ships carrying not just raiders but also merchants. The visitors came not just from their homelands, but also from Scandinavian outposts in Scotland, England and the Isle of Man. Many of Ireland’s principal towns were founded by Scandinavians keen to establish bases where valuable commodities might be bought and sold — places like Arklow, Cork, Limerick, Waterford, Wexford and Wicklow, as well as Dublin, largest and most valuable of all.
The primacy of Dublin is demonstrated by the fact that between 853 and 873 it was ruled over as a petty kingdom by two Scandinavians — Olaf the White, from Norway, and his kinsman Ivarr, from Denmark. When King Olaf died around 870, Ivarr ruled alone until his own death in 873, ending effective Viking control of the settlement until the middle of the tenth century. Between 950 and 980 Olaf Sigtryggsson ruled not just Dublin but also a swathe of its surrounding territory. His defeat by Máel Sechnaill II in 980 finally brought Viking supremacy to an end but despite his departure it was Scandinavians, subservient to Irish kings, who continued to run Dublin as a hub of international trade.
Archaeological excavations of Viking Age Dublin reveal it mattered at least as much as — if not more than — any other Viking town. Amber, soap-stone and walrus ivory from Scandinavia were traded alongside pottery, weapons and jet jewellery from England, glass from Europe and silk from the East. The waterlogged conditions have ensured unusual preservation of wooden buildings built to provide homes and workplaces for blacksmiths, comb-makers, leather-workers and wood-workers. Excavations of Fishamble Street revealed the remains of a whole street of buildings, each occupying its own fenced plot of land, together with associated animal pens, byres, latrines and storehouses. In the lanes and alleyways between the plots the owners had tried to stabilise the naturally marshy ground by laying down timbers and old doors to act as duckboards.
But while Ireland, with Dublin as a principal centre, was part of a Viking sea kingdom, it was just that — a part. It offered rich pickings that kept the incomers interested for over two centuries, but it was only one island (a large one, admittedly) in an archipelago of opportunities. If Ireland was an attractive and worthwhile destination for the Northmen, it was England that identified itself as the greater prize.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE GREAT HEATHEN ARMY
‘Go West, young man, and grow up with the country.’
John B. L. Soule
It was already dark when the boat slipped out of the fjord, heading due west. Although the wind was light and the sky clear, still there was a swell to cope with — the aftermath of a gale that had finally blown itself out only the day before. Clear sky or not, there was no moon and only the eye of faith could judge where sea ended and sky began. It was a journey into an empty void. The destination was Shetland, only a day away in ideal conditions, and the young skipper had made the crossing before. He was Norwegian, but Shetland hardly felt foreign to him — or to the other men aboard. There were already connections between the two lands, stretched thin across the sea like strands of spider’s web but strong. In the Norse tongue the name of the place had its origins in ‘Hjalt-land’ — hilt land, the land shaped like a sword hiltand it was a fight he was after sure enough, with whatever tools might come to hand. While he knew the journey was possible, still it posed innumerable threats to life and limb. The anxiety was made all the keener by the knowledge that, as skipper, he was responsible not just for his own neck but also for those of all the men aboard. Also demanding consideration were the hopes and expectations of families left behind. It was therefore necessity and urgent need that made the always perilous crossing of the North Sea as unavoidable as it was irresistible. Powerful and dangerous warriors were abroad in his homeland now. They had arrived in numbers that defied counting and their weapons were greater than anything he himself possessed. They had laid claim to the land of his fathers as though by right and any and all that o
pposed the new regime had no option but to look beyond the horizon — to believe that a better future lay out there beyond the restless sea. They would stay away no longer than necessary. Then they would return much stronger than before, with all the men and weaponry required to drive out the oppressors and take charge of their homeland — and their own destinies once more.
Mariners have been finding ways across the North Sea between the British Isles and the mainland of Europe — not to mention reasons for the trip — for thousands of years. Crossings have been driven by everything from curiosity to greed, and from hunger for conquest to the simple desire for a better life. The Vikings were neither the first nor the last to be lured by all of the above and more besides.
The voyage described at the opening of this chapter was made not by some nameless Viking of the ninth century, however, but by a young Norwegian man named Kaare Iversen and three of his friends, towards the end of 1941. Their vessel was the Iversen family fishing boat, the Villa, and they were driven by a desire to defy the Nazi occupation of Norway.
Having successfully made landfall on the Shetland Island of Fetlar — and been fed and watered there by a sympathetic and unquestioning farmer’s wife — Iversen soon volunteered for service in the clandestine operation that became known as ‘the Shetland Bus’. The efforts of men like Iversen forged a permanent link that continued after the end of the German occupation of Norway in May 1945. Agents and equipment were ferried across the sea, mostly during the winter months when darkness and bad weather lowered the risk of detection by enemy planes and vessels, and refugees and wanted men were carried to safety in Britain on the return trips. Much of the work of the Shetland Bus was conducted by fishing boats, and their crews consisted mostly of Norwegian and Shetland men, some barely out of their teens. Definite figures are hard to come but it is thought at least 160 of them perished in the line of duty, killed by the enemy or lost to the sea while fighting a secret and largely forgotten part of the war.
