It was years since Harold had thought about Sigurd the Dane. It was not as if, even back at the time of Glen Mama, the man had actually appeared; and the embarrassment that his delusion had caused on that occasion made Harold even less willing to trouble himself by thinking about the fellow again. He assumed that, as the years had passed, the Dane had probably forgotten about him anyway.

And the years had been good to Harold. Dyflin and Fingal had been at peace. Brian Boru had succeeded in all his ambitions. Two years after the submission of Dyflin, the head of the proud O’Neill had acknowledged him as High King of the whole island, though, as the head of the mighty O’Neill, he was still usually referred to as the King of Tara. The northern chiefs in Connacht and Ulster had been grudging about the business, but Brian had gone up and made them submit. Cleverly, he had also made a pilgrimage to the great church of Saint Patrick at Armagh and secured the blessing of the priests there with a huge present of gold. Meanwhile, in the peace of Fingal and the busy port of Dyflin, Harold had enjoyed an ever-increasing prosperity.

It was not until after a decade that Harold’s happiness had been marred by a loss: in 1011 Astrid, his wife of more than twenty years, had died. The blow had been great. Though, for the sake of his children, he had forced himself to go about his business as usual, the heart was gone out of him. He had continued almost like a sleepwalker all through that year, and it was only thanks to the affection of his children that he had not fallen into a worse state than he did. Not until the next spring did his spirits begin to rise again. Late in April, he went into Dyflin to stay with his friend Morann.

Caoilinn first caught sight of him one April afternoon. She was visiting her family in Dyflin. Her father having died some years before, her brother and his family occupied her old home now. She and her brother’s wife had gone for a walk to the Thingmount, and they had just started across Hoggen Green when they caught sight of two figures riding towards them from the direction of the Long Stone out on the mudflats. One she recognised as Morann Mac Goibnenn. The other was a tall figure, splendidly mounted. She asked her sister-in-law who he was.

“That’s Harold the Norwegian. He has a big farmstead in Fingal.”

“He’s handsome,” Caoilinn remarked. She remembered hearing about the Norseman in the past. Though he was middle-aged, she saw that his hair was still red, with only a few streaks of grey, and that he had a pleasant air of vigour and health about him.

“He has a limp. A childhood accident, they say,” her kinswoman remarked.

“That’s nothing,” said Caoilinn. And as he came up, she smiled at him.

The four of them had a pleasant conversation. When Morann glanced at his friend, the handsome Norwegian seemed to be in no hurry to move on. Before they had finished, he had suggested that Caoilinn might like to ride over to the farmstead with him the following week, and she had accepted. The following Tuesday, they did so.

By the month of June, the progress of their courtship had become a subject of some amusement to their families. Their children also welcomed it. Caoilinn’s eldest son, Art, was more than ready to take his father’s place and would not be entirely sorry if her energetic presence were removed from the management of the family’s affairs. And for all the children, the prospect of having the kindly Norwegian as a new father was, if truth were told, an improvement on the gloomy memory of Cormac. As for Harold’s children, they loved their father, found Caoilinn agreeable enough, and were glad if she brought him happiness. So it was made clear to both parents that they should conduct their courtship as they pleased.

It had begun easily enough, the day they rode out to Fingal, when Caoilinn asked him about his crippled leg. The question was casual and friendly, but they both understood: she’d spent years looking after one sick man and she didn’t want another. He told her the story and explained how, after his life had been threatened, he had worked so hard to prepare himself for a fight. “My lame leg’s probably even stronger than the other.”

“It doesn’t ache at all?” she asked solicitously.

“No,” he said with a smile, “it doesn’t.”

“And what about this Dane who wants to kill you?” she demanded.

“I haven’t seen him for twenty years,” he said with a laugh.

The farmstead was impressive. She didn’t need to count the cattle—though of course she did, and discovered that she only had a dozen more herself. She was too proud to marry far beneath her former station; and besides, her children might have been suspicious of a poor man. She did, however, notice some small improvements that could be made in the running of the farm. She would say nothing yet, of course, but it pleased her to think that she would be able to make her mark upon the Fingal estate and garner some admiration. Not that she would try to overshadow Harold. He was too much of a man for that, thank God. But it would be pleasant for him, she thought, to be able to say to his friends, “Look at what my clever wife has done.”

For some weeks she made further observations and enquiries. And as she satisfied herself as to the Norseman’s suitability, she also took care to make herself desirable.

When Harold looked at the handsome, green-eyed woman who was taking such an interest in him, he had to admit that he was flattered. Though he had been attracted to her from the moment they met by the Thingmount, it was a small incident the next week which had really caught his attention. They had just arrived at the farmstead, and he had reached up to lift her down from her horse. As he took her in his strong arms, he had hardly known what to expect. Unconsciously, he had braced his crippled leg to take her weight.

And she had floated down, light as a feather. Before her feet touched the ground, she had half turned in his arms, smiling, to thank him, and as well as her lightness, he had become instantly conscious of her wiry strength. So strong, yet so light in hand: such a woman promised many sensual delights.

As the weeks went by, her attraction grew. He soon discovered the strength of her intelligence: he respected that. She was proud: her pride did him honour. She was also cautious. It was not long before he noticed that if she offered to spend time in his company, it was partly so that she could observe him. Sometimes she would start seemingly innocent conversations. She might say, “I felt sad last night and the sadness would not leave me. Do you ever feel like that?” And only afterwards would he realise that she had been testing him to find out if he was subject to moods. When he visited her at Rathmines, she had the servants bring him wine repeatedly, to see if he would drink too much. He did not mind these little traps she set for him. If she was careful, so much the better. And it was gratifying that, beyond the cautious enquiries, she let him see that she was starting to care for him.

He, of course, knew all about her. He hadn’t needed to make his own enquiries; his friend Morann had seen to that, and the silversmith’s investigations had led to only one conclusion.

“You could hardly do better,” Morann told him. It would certainly look well to have such a wife at his side; and though Harold was too sensible to be much swayed by such things, he saw no reason why he shouldn’t cut a handsome figure in the world.

In fact, there was only one obstacle to their marriage. It did not appear until halfway through June, when he proposed to her. For after the usual expressions, instead of answering at once, she told him that she must first ask him a single question.

“What is that?” he asked.

“Would you mind my asking, what religion it is you follow now?”

The question was not strange. She had known that, at the time of his marriage, Harold had been a pagan, but it was harder than ever to know, nowadays, what religion people followed in Dyflin. Though some of the Vikings in Dyflin had remained faithful to Thor, Woden, and the other gods of the north, since her childhood the old Norse gods had been in steady decline. There had been too many marriages with Christians. The King of Dyflin was the son of a Christian Leinster princess. Besides, if the pagan gods protected their own, people might ask, then how was it that every time the men of Dyflin had challenged the High King, they had lost? And Brian Boru, the patron of monasteries, was their master now. The old wooden church had been rebuilt in stone, and the Viking King of Dyflin had openly worshipped there. So it was not surprising if the Ostmen nowadays were often vague about their religious beliefs. Harold, for instance, wore a talisman round his neck that might have been taken for a cross or a symbol of Thor; and certainly few of the varied folk who came into the busy port would have pressed him as to which it was.

In truth, like most middle-aged men, Harold no longer had any strong feelings about the gods, and it would have mattered little to him whether he were Christian or not. But faced with her sudden question, he hesitated.

“Why is it you ask?”

“It would be hard for me to marry a man who was not a Christian.” She smiled. “It is easy to be baptised.”

“I will think about what you say,” he replied.

She waited for him to say more. He watched her instead. She flushed a little.

“I hope you will do it,” she said.

He waited to see if she would concede any more, but she did not.

Soon afterwards, he returned home. A week passed before they met again.

Harold considered the matter carefully during those days. The business of baptism, as such, was nothing. He didn’t mind that. But it was the way Caoilinn had brought it up that concerned him. Why, if it was so important to her, had she waited this long? It could only be because she thought that, once he had committed himself so far, he could be manipulated. True, the fact she’d waited also showed that she had been anxious not to put him off. She wanted to secure him. But look at it however you liked, she was raising her price. If he loved her, of course, he could pay the price and laugh it off. But if she was going to play a trick like that once, mightn’t she do it again? He was old enough to know that, however subtle the game, marriage was a balance of power; and he wasn’t sure he liked the way she played. By waiting a week, he was indicating his displeasure and giving her a chance to back down.

But what if she didn’t. What was he going to do? Did he really intend to give her up on account of her god? If he did, and she married someone else, wouldn’t he regret it? Each time he went over the matter in his mind, he found that it came down to the same thing. It’s not what she asks for, he thought, that I care about, but how she asks for it. What matters is her attitude.

It was late in June when he rode back again to Rathmines. He had no definite plan, even then. He did not know whether he was going to offer to be baptised, and whether he’d be married or not. As he approached the big earth wall and palisade of her rath, he had no other plan than to watch, and listen, and follow his instincts, and see what happened. After all, he told himself as he rode up to the entrance, I can always leave and come back again another day. Only one thing worried him a little: how was he going to open the conversation on such a delicate subject? He still didn’t know when he saw her coming to the gateway. I’ll just trust, he supposed, to luck.

She met him with a smile. She led him inside. A slave brought him mead. She told him how glad she was that he had come. Was there something new, something almost respectful in her manner? It seemed to him there was.

“Oh, Harold, son of Olaf,” she said, “I am so relieved that you have come. I have been feeling so embarrassed by my impudence—truly impudence—to you when we last met.”

“It was not impudence,” he said.

“Oh, but it was,” she cut in earnestly. “When you had done me the honour—the honour—to make the offer you did. And I never expect it to be repeated now. But that I should have dared to impose conditions on a man I respect so much …”

“Your god is important to you.”

“It is true. Of course. And because I believe He is the true God, I was anxious to share … I certainly won’t deny,” she allowed her hand lightly to touch his arm, “that if you were ever to come to the true faith, I should rejoice. But that is no excuse for what I did. I am not a priest.” She paused. “I was so anxious to say this to you and to ask for your forgiveness.”

It was admirably done. He might not be entirely deceived, but it was agreeable, very agreeable, to be so flattered.

“You are kind and generous,” he replied with a smile.

“It is the respect you are owed, nothing more,” she said, placing her hand on his arm again. She waited a few moments. “There is something else,” she said. She led him towards a trestle table on which there was an object of some kind, covered with a cloth. Supposing this might be a platter of food, he watched as she carefully pulled away the covering. But instead of food, he saw an arrangement of small, hard objects that glinted in the weak, interior light. And coming closer, he stared in surprise.

It was a chess set. A magnificent chess set, the pieces carved of bone tipped with silver and set on a polished wooden board. He had seen it before, in Morann’s workshop.

“It is for you,” said Caoilinn. “A token of my respect. I know,” she added, “that the Ostmen like to play chess.”

It was perfectly true that the marauding Viking traders had developed a liking for the intellectual game, though this may partly have been because the carved chessmen were often objects of great value. Though Harold seldom played the game himself, he was touched that Caoilinn should have gone to such trouble on his account.

“I wanted you to have it,” she said, and he scarcely knew what to reply.

He realised, of course, that she had outmanoeuvred him. He guessed that she was betting that sooner or later he would convert to the faith of the Christians to please her. And he supposed that he probably would. By raising the issue, moreover, and then giving way so graciously, she had placed him in her debt. He saw through her, understood, but didn’t mind. For hadn’t she also signalled clearly that she knew when she had gone too far? That, he reckoned, was good enough.

“I have only one request,” she continued, “though you may refuse it if you wish. If ever you should wish to marry me at some future time, I should ask if there could be a ceremony conducted by a priest. Just for my sake. He would not be asking you what you believe, you may be sure.”

He waited a few more days, then he came back to ask her, and was accepted. Since she wanted to complete the harvest at Rathmines before she left that estate, it was agreed that they would marry, and she would come to his house in the autumn.

For Harold, the days that followed began a period of both anticipation and contentment. Rather to his own surprise, he had already started to feel younger; and he looked forward to the autumn eagerly.

For Caoilinn, the prospect of marriage meant that she was ready to fall in love. Although, when she had first asked him to be baptised, she had fully intended that Harold should give in, she realised afterwards that she was glad that he had fought her. She respected him for it, and she had rather enjoyed the challenge of bringing him round. The vigorous, red-haired Ostman was like a spirited horse that one could only just control, she thought. Yet at the same time, he was a sensible man. What could be better? He was safe and he was dangerous and he was where she wanted him. By July, as the fields were ripening in the summer sun, she enjoyed some very pleasant fantasies about the times they would spend together. By the time he next came to call, her heart was quite in a flutter.

And it was just then that she had another happy thought.

“I shall ask my cousin Osgar to marry us,” she told Harold. “He’s a monk at Glendalough.” And she explained to Harold about Osgar and their childhood marriages, though she left out the incident on the path.

“Does this mean I have a rival?” he asked cheerfully.

“Yes and no,” she answered, smiling. “He probably still loves me, but he can’t have me.”

“He certainly cannot,” said Harold firmly.

She sent a message to Osgar the very next day.

The blow fell two days after that. It fell without warning, from the summer sky.

The northern headland of the Liffey’s bay, with its lovely view down the coast to the volcanic hills, was a pleasant place to hold a quiet conference. As well as its Celtic name of Ben Edair, the Hill of Edair, it had acquired a Norse name also nowadays, for the Ostmen called it Howth. Often as not, therefore, the local people mixed the two languages together and referred to it as the Ben of Howth. And it was on a warm day in early July that Harold and Morann Mac Goibnenn met upon the Ben of Howth to discuss the situation.

It was Harold, in his genial way, who summed it up when he remarked, “Well, Morann, I think we may say that the men of Leinster have finally proved that they are insane.”

“It cannot be doubted,” Morann wryly replied.

“Thirteen years of peace, thirteen years of prosperity, put at risk for what? For nothing.”

“And yet,” Morann added sadly, “it was inevitable.”

“Why?” The Leinster men had never forgiven Brian, of course, for daring to be their master. But why, after years of peace, should they have decided to challenge him now? To Harold it made no sense.

“An insult was offered,” said Morann. The rumour was that the King of Leinster and Brian’s son had fallen out over a game of chess, and that Brian’s son had taunted the king with his humiliation at the battle of Glen Mama more than a decade before. “That could start a war,” the Celtic chiefs of Leinster cheerfully agreed. “That would do it.” Worse, the Leinster king had left Brian’s camp without permission and struck the messenger Brian had sent after him. “And then,” Morann added, “there was the woman.” Brian’s ex-wife, the King of Leinster’s sister, longing to see Brian humbled: like a vengeful Celtic goddess, like the Morrigain herself, she was reputed to be stirring up trouble between the parties.

“Why is it,” the Norseman burst out, “that the men of Erin allow their women to make so much trouble?”

“It has always been the practice,” said Morann. “But you know very well,” he added, “that it’s your own Ostmen who are behind this as well.”

Harold sighed. Was he getting old? He knew the call of the high seas; he’d sailed them half his life. Those adventures were past though. All he wanted was to live on his farm at peace. But around the seaborne settlements of the Norsemen, a restlessness had arisen that year, and now it had come to Dyflin, too.

The trouble had begun in England. More than a dozen years ago, at the very time that Brian Boru had crushed the Dyflin men at Glen Mama, the foolish Saxon king of southern England, known to his people as Ethelred the Unready, had unwisely attacked the Vikings of northern England and their mighty port of York. He had soon paid for his foolishness. A fleet of Viking longships had crossed the sea from Denmark and returned the compliment. For the next decade, the southern English had been forced to pay Danegeld—protection money—if they wanted to live in peace. And now, this year, the King of Denmark and his son Canute had been assembling a great Viking fleet to smash poor Ethelred and take his English kingdom from him. The northern seas were echoing with the news. Every week, ships had come into the port of Dyflin with further reports of this adventure; small wonder, then, if some of the Dyflin men were growing restless. Ten days ago, in the middle of a drinking session by the quay in Dyflin, Harold had heard a sea captain from Denmark call out to a crowd of local men, “In Denmark, we make the King of England pay us. And now we’re going to throw him out. But you Dyflin men sit around paying tribute to Brian Boru.” There had been some angry murmurs, but nobody had challenged him. The taunt had hit home.

Because of the excitement caused by the English business, every Viking troublemaker and pirate in the northern seas was on the lookout for an adventure.

And now the men of Dyflin were going to get their chance. If the Celtic King of Leinster wanted to revolt, his Viking kinsman the ruler of Dyflin was ready to join him. That, at least, was the word in the port. Had they learned nothing from their defeat at Glen Mama? Perhaps not; or perhaps they had.

“They won’t try to fight Brian in the open again,” Morann told Harold. “He’ll have to take the town, which won’t be so easy.” He paused thoughtfully. “There may be a further consideration.”

“What is that?”

“The north. Ulster hates Brian. The O’Neill King of Tara was forced to resign the High Kingship and swear an oath to Brian, but the O’Neill are still powerful, and just as proud as they ever were. If they could get back at Brian …”

“But what about the old king’s oath? Would he break it?”

“He would not. He’s an honourable man. But he might allow himself to be used.”

“How?”

“Suppose,” said Morann, “that the men of Leinster attack some of the O’Neill lands. The old King of Tara asks Brian for help. Brian comes. Then Leinster and Dyflin and others too perhaps, combine to destroy Brian, or at least to weaken him. Where does that leave the old King of Tara? Back where he was before.”

“You think the whole business is a trap?”

“It may be. I do not know.”

“These devious tricks don’t always work,” the Norseman remarked.

“In any case,” Morann pointed out, “there will be fighting and looting all around Dyflin, and your farm is one of the richest.”

Harold looked grim. The thought of losing his livestock at his time of life was deeply depressing. “So what should I do?”

“Here is my suggestion,” the jeweller replied. “You know that I have sworn a personal oath to Brian. I cannot fight against him, and the King of Dyflin knows that. I can hardly fight against my own people in Dyflin either. But if I were to go to the O’Neill king, who’s also bound by oath to Brian, then my obligations are fulfilled.

I avoid,” he smiled wryly, “embarrassment.”

Yes, thought Harold, and if a trap had been set for Brian as his friend suspected, he would still finish up with the winning side.

“You are a cautious and a devious man,” he said admiringly.

“I think therefore that you should stay on your farmstead,” Morann advised. “Do not let your sons join any raiding parties that go to attack Brian or the O’Neill King of Tara; since I have vouched for your loyalty to Brian, you can’t do that. Keep your sons with you. The danger to you will be when Brian or his allies come to punish Leinster and Dyflin. And I will tell them that you feel bound by the oath I made on your behalf and that you stand with me. I can’t guarantee that this will work, but I think it’s your best chance.”

It seemed to Harold that his friend was probably right, and he agreed to do as he suggested. There was only one other thing to consider.

“What about Caoilinn?” he asked.

“That is a problem.” Morann sighed. “Her estate at Rathmines will undoubtedly be at risk; and I don’t know what we can do for her.”

“But I could help her,” Harold said. “I could marry her at once.”

And he set off for Rathmines that afternoon.

It was a pity that Morann’s knowledge of Caoilinn had been imperfect. But then it was scarcely his fault that, when he had told his friend Harold about her, he could not see into all the secret places of her heart. As for Harold, during their courtship he had avoided any discussion about her former husband; he had no idea of the handsome widow’s passionate fixation with the person of Brian Boru. It was a pity, also, that instead of talking outside in the daylight, where he might have gauged the expression on her face, they had gone into the privacy of the thatched hall in whose penumbra he could hardly tell what she was thinking.

He began by remarking in a cheerful way that there was a good reason why they should marry at once. She had seemed to be interested. Remembering how careful and practical she was, he set out his case in a businesslike way.

“So you see,” he concluded, “if we marry now and you came across to Fingal, you could bring at least some of the livestock and keep them with me until the trouble is over. I believe there’s a good chance that we could save them. With luck, thanks to Morann, we might even be able to protect the estate at Rathmines, too.”

“I see,” she said quietly. “And by marrying you, I’d be giving my loyalty to Brian Boru.” If there was a new coldness in her tone, he missed it.

“Thanks to Morann,” he answered, “I think I can guarantee it.” Knowing the misfortunes she had suffered when her husband had opposed Brian before, he imagined she’d be glad for a way of staying out of trouble now. In the shadow, he saw her nod slowly. Then she turned her head and glanced into a dark space near the wall where, on a table, the yellowed old drinking skull of her ancestor Fergus glimmered like a savage Celtic ghost from a former age.

“The men of Leinster are rising.” Her voice was faint, almost distant. “My husband was of royal blood. And so am I.” She paused.

“Your own Ostmen are rising, too. Does that mean anything to you?”

“I think they are very stupid,” he said, frankly. He thought he heard a little intake of breath from her, but he wasn’t certain. “Brian Boru is a great war leader.” He said it with admiration. “The Leinster men will be crushed, and they deserve to be.”

“He is an impostor.” She spat the word out with a sudden venom that took him by surprise.

“He has earned respect,” he said soothingly. “Even the Church …”

“He bought Armagh with gold,” she snapped. “And a despicable thing it was, to be bought by such a man.” And before he was quite sure what to say next: “What were his people? Nothing. River raiders no better than the pagan savages of Limerick they fought with.” She seemed to forget that these insulting expressions about the pagan Norsemen in Limerick might have been applied to Harold’s antecedents, too. Perhaps, he thought, she didn’t care. “He is a pirate from Munster. Nothing more. He should be killed like a snake,” she cried with contempt.

He saw that he had touched upon a raw nerve, and that he must tread gently, though he could not help feeling a little annoyed.

“Whatever may be said of Brian,” he said quietly, “we have to consider what to do. We both have our estates to protect. When I think,” he added, hoping to please her, “of all that you have done, so splendidly, here at Rathmines …”

Had she heard him? Was she listening? It was hard to tell. Her face had become hard and pale. Her green eyes were flashing dangerously. He realised, too late, that a rage was upon her.

“I hate Brian,” she cried. “I’ll see him dead. I’ll see his body cut to pieces, I’ll see his head upon a spike for my sons and daughters to spit upon; I’ll have their children drink his blood!”

She was splendid in her way, he thought. And he should, he knew, have waited for her rage to subside. But there was, he sensed, a disregard for him in it which displeased the powerful Norseman.

“I shall protect my own farm in Fingal, anyway,” he said grimly.

“Do what you like,” she said contemptuously, turning her head away from him. “It has nothing to do with me.”

He said nothing, but waited for some word of concession. There was none. He rose to go. She remained as she was. He tried to see in her face whether she was angry and hurt, waiting perhaps for some word of comfort from him, or whether she was merely contemptuous.

“I am going,” he said at last.

“Go to Munster and your friend Brian,” she replied. Her bitter voice fell like death in the shadow. She looked at him now, her green eyes blazing. “I have no need for traitors and pagans to be limping into this house again.”

With that, he left.

The events of the weeks that followed fell out very much as Morann had supposed they would. The men of Leinster made a raid into the O’Neill king’s territory. Soon after this, the King of Tara came down to punish them and swept across Fingal to the Ben of Howth. Thanks to Morann, however, who came with the old king, Harold and his big farmstead were not touched. Within days, more parties, reinforced by men from Dyflin, struck back. The King of Tara sent messengers south to ask Brian for help. And by mid-August the frightening rumour was spreading through the countryside.

“Brian Boru is coming back.”

Osgar glanced quickly around. There was smoke drifting up the valley. He could hear the crackle of flames.

“Brother Osgar.” The abbot sounded impatient.

Behind him, the monks were going up the ladder into the round tower—a quite unnecessary precaution, the abbot had told them. But their faces looked white and scared. Perhaps he looked like that, too. He didn’t know. He suddenly wondered if the brothers would pull up the ladder as soon as he and the abbot were out of sight. How absurd. He almost smiled at his own foolishness. But the image remained—he and the abbot, running back through the gateway with the Munster men chasing behind, reaching the round tower, looking up, seeing the door closed and the ladder gone, and running round the sheer walls helplessly until the swords of the plunderers raised, and flashed, and …

“I am coming, Reverend Father.” He hurried towards the gateway, noticing as he did so that all the monastery’s servants had miraculously vanished. He and the abbot were alone in the empty precinct.

He had heard that Brian Boru’s raiding parties were sweeping the countryside as the Munster king came north to punish the Leinster men, but he had never supposed that they would come here, to disturb the peace of Glendalough.

He caught up with the abbot at the gateway. The track was deserted, but from down the little valley he saw a flash of flame.

“Couldn’t we bar the gates?” he suggested.

“No,” said the abbot. “It would only annoy them.”

“I can’t believe that King Brian’s men are doing this,” he said. “They’re not pagans or Ostmen.” But a bleak look from the older man silenced him. They both knew from the chronicles of the various houses that more damage had been done to the island’s monasteries in princely disputes than had ever been inflicted by the Vikings. He could only hope that Brian’s reputation as a protector of the Church would hold good on this occasion.

“Look,” the abbot said calmly. A party of about twenty men was coming up the track towards the gateway. They were well armed. In the centre of the group walked a handsome, brown-bearded man. “That’s Murchad,” the abbot remarked, “one of Brian’s sons.” He stepped forward, and Osgar kept by his side.

“Welcome Murchad, son of Brian,” the abbot called out firmly.

“Did you know it’s the monastery’s property you’re burning down there?”

“I did,” said the prince.

“You’ll surely not be wishing to do harm to the sanctuary of Saint Kevin?” said the abbot.

“Only if it’s in Leinster,” came the grim reply, as the party came up to them.

“You know very well that we’ve nothing to do with this business,” said the abbot reasonably. “I have always held your father in the highest regard.”

“How many armed men have you?”

“None at all.”

“Who is this?” The eyes of the prince rested on Osgar with a level stare.

“This is Brother Osgar. Our finest scholar. A wonderful illuminator.”

The eyes looked at him sharply now, but then lowered with, it seemed to Osgar, a hint of respect.

“We’ll be needing supplies,” he said.

“The gates are open,” the abbot replied. “But remember this is a house of God.”

They all started to walk through the gateway together. Osgar glanced at the round tower. The ladder had disappeared. The door was shut. At a nod from the prince, his men began to move towards the storehouses.

“You will give my respects to your father,” the abbot remarked pleasantly, “unless he means to favour us with a visit himself.” He paused a moment for a response, which was not forthcoming. “It’s wonderful how he keeps his health,” he added.

“Strong as a bull,” the prince replied. “I see your monks have run away,” he noted. “Or more likely all in the tower with your gold.”

“They do not know your pious character as well as I,” the abbot answered blandly.

While his men collected a small cartload of cheeses and another two cartloads of grain, the prince went round the monastery with the abbot and Osgar. It was soon obvious that he was looking for valuables. He eyed the golden cross on the altar of the main church, but did not take it, nor any of the silver candlesticks he saw; and he was starting to mutter to himself irritably when at last, making a desultory inspection of the scriptorium, his eye fell on something. “Your work?” he suddenly enquired of Osgar, and Osgar nodded.

It was an illustrated Gospels, like the great book at Kells, though much smaller and less elaborate. Osgar had only started it recently and hoped to complete it, including all the decorated letters and several pages of illumination, before the next Easter. It would be a handsome addition to the minor treasures of the Glendalough monastery.

“I think my father would like to receive it,” the prince said, gazing at the work thoughtfully.

“It is really for monastic—” Osgar began.

“As a mark of your loyalty,” the prince continued with emphasis. “He’d like it by Christmas.”

“Of course,” said the abbot smoothly, “it would indeed be a fitting gift to so devout a king. Do you not agree, Brother Osgar?” he went on, giving Osgar a look.

“Indeed,” said Osgar sadly.

“So there we are then,” said the abbot with a smile like a benediction. “This way.” And he led his royal visitor out.

It was after the prince and his men had departed and the monks had started to come down from the tower that a thought had occurred to Osgar. “I was supposed to have been going down to Dyflin to marry my cousin,” he remarked to the abbot, “though with all this going on, I suppose it may be delayed.”

“Out of the question anyway,” the abbot cheerfully replied. “Not until you have finished the book.”

“I’ll have to send a message to Caoilinn, then,” said Osgar.

She received it just as the gates of Dyflin were closing. And if, in the weeks that followed, she was unable to send any message in return, it was because she was trapped inside.

It was September 7, the feast of Saint Ciaran, when King Brian, at the head of an army drawn from Munster and from Connacht, arrived before the walls of Dyflin. No attempt was made by the Dyflin defenders to give battle; instead, with a large contingent of Leinster men to help them, they fortified the ramparts of the town and dared the Munster High King to fight his way in. Brian, ever cautious as he was bold, inspected the defences thoroughly and camped his army in the pleasant orchards all around. “We’ll starve them out,” he declared. “Meanwhile,” the ageing king remarked, “we’ll take in their harvest and eat their apples while they watch.” And that, as the warm weeks of autumn passed into a pleasant October, is what the besieging army proceeded to do.

In Dyflin, meanwhile, Caoilinn had to confess that life was rather boring. In the first days, she had expected an attack. Then she had at least supposed that the King of Dyflin or the Leinster chiefs would make some attempt to harass the enemy. But nothing happened. Nothing at all. The king and the great men kept mostly to the royal hall and the enclosures round it. The lookouts maintained their lonely vigil on the ramparts. Each day in the open space of the marketplace in the western corner the men practised with their swords and spears, in a desultory fashion; the rest of the time they played dice or drank. So it went, day after day, week after week.

The food supplies held up well. The king had shown foresight and brought a large quantity of cattle and swine within the ramparts before the siege began. The granaries were full. The wells within the town supplied ample water. The place could probably hold out for months. Only one important part of Dyflin’s usual diet was missing: there was no fish. Brian’s men were watchful. If anyone set foot outside the defences to place nets in the river, by day or night, they were unlikely to return. Nor, of course, could any boats enter or leave the port.

Each day, Caoilinn would stand upon the ramparts. It was strange to see the wood quay and the river empty. On the long wooden bridge a short way upstream, there was a guard post. Looking out towards the estuary, she could see a dozen masts on the north side of the water, where a stream called the Tolka came down to the Liffey. Brian had placed his longships there, with a command post at a fishing hamlet called Clontarf close by. The longships effectively blockaded the port and had already turned away dozens of merchant vessels trying to enter. She had never realised before how entirely the life of the place depended upon the arrival of ships. The unending silence was eerie. She would also go round to the rampart on the southern side and gaze towards her home at Rathmines.

It had been her eldest son, Art, who had insisted that she and the younger children stay with her brother in the greater safety of Dyflin while he remained at Rathmines. A mistake probably. She felt sure she could have saved the livestock from that cursed Brian just as well, probably better than he. She had looked towards Rathmines every day and never seen any sign they were burning the place, but since the Munster men’s camp lay across the orchards and fields between them, she didn’t know what was happening. What annoyed her particularly was that she had a suspicion that her son had not been entirely sorry to get her safely out of the way. Anyway, here she was, trapped in Dyflin.

Osgar’s message, arriving the day she had gone into Dyflin, had come as a surprise. The truth was that with so many other matters on her mind since the summer, she had forgotten all about him.

Since the day she had thrown Harold out of her house, she had not seen the Norseman. She was not sure that her son had been pleased about her break with Harold. The worse for him then. Every day now, as she looked out at the hateful Munster king’s camp, her fury was rekindled. She wished she had stayed at Rathmines if only to curse Brian as he passed. What could he have done to her, the snake? Let him kill her if he dared. And for Harold to have supposed she would lend support to such a devil—it made her white with anger to think of it. Even her own son had tried, once, to argue with her about it. “Harold is only doing his best for you,” he had dared to suggest.

“Are you forgetting who your own father was?” she snapped back. That had silenced him.

The only mistake she admitted to herself was her choice of parting words to the Norseman. To have called him a pagan and a traitor was no more than the truth. But telling him not to limp into her house again—calling him a cripple—that was wrong because it was beneath her. She would even have wished to apologise, if the circumstances had been different. But, of course, that was impossible. No word had come from Harold since that day; in all likelihood, she thought, she would never see him again.

Morann Mac Goibnenn was still uneasy. As the next months passed, he had ample opportunity to observe the forces ranged against Dyflin, and he was still convinced that his own estimation of the situation had been correct.

When, back in the late summer, he had taken his family north to the O’Neill King of Tara, he had been well received. Tall, handsome, with a flowing white beard, the old king had a noble air about him, though his eyes, it had seemed to Morann, were still watchful. It had not been difficult to secure a protection for the farmstead of his friend Harold; but his plan to stay safely out of trouble with the O’Neill king had not been so successful, since the old monarch had required him to accompany the party that had gone, in August, to summon Brian to his aid. So anxious was he that the craftsman should go, and so fervent were his expressions of loyalty to Brian, that Morann suspected O’Neill was using him to convince the Munster king that the call for help was genuine.

Brian Boru had welcomed him warmly. “Here’s a man who keeps his oath,” he had told the chiefs around him. It was ten years since Morann had seen the Munster king in person. He found him still impressive. He was grey; his teeth were long and yellow, though remarkably he had kept most of them. A quick calculation reminded Morann that Brian must be more than seventy years old, but even so, a sense of power exuded from him. “I am slower, Morann,” he confessed, “and I get aches and pains that I never had before, but this one,” he indicated the young woman who was now his wife, “keeps me younger than my years.” This was the fourth wife, by Morann’s count. You had to admire the old man.

“You shall accompany me,” Brian told him, “on my way up to Dyflin.”

It had been early in September, on a bright day when Brian’s advancing army, on its way to Dyflin, had just emerged onto the Liffey Plain. Morann had been riding not far from the Munster king, in the vanguard of the army, when to his surprise he saw, coming towards them, the splendidly mounted figure of Harold, quite alone. He had been even more surprised when he had learned why the Norseman was there.

“You want me to ask King Brian to spare Caoilinn’s estate? After all she has done?” He had been shocked, the previous summer, by the treatment his friend had received from Caoilinn. At first Harold had only given him a general idea of the interview; but it was his wife who, after a long walk with the Norseman, reported back, “She as good as called him a cripple and threw him out.” Freya had been furious. “Whatever her reason,” she had declared, “she had no cause to behave so cruelly.” And it soon became obvious to Morann that his friend had been seriously hurt. He had even wondered whether to go and see Caoilinn himself. But Harold had been so definite in saying that the affair was over that Morann had concluded that there was nothing to be done.

The Norseman had only shrugged.

“It would be a pity to destroy what she built up.”

Morann wondered if perhaps the two of them had made it up and that Harold had a stake in the business; but the Norseman explained that this was not the case, that Caoilinn and he had never spoken and that even now, she was behind the ramparts of Dyflin.

“You are a generous man,” Morann marvelled.

To his relief, when he explained the matter to King Brian, the king was not angry but amused. “This is the Ostman who hit my fellow over the head in Dyflin? And now he wants me to save a lady’s farm?” The king shook his head. “It is more, perhaps, than I should have done.” He smiled. “Men with great hearts are rare, Morann. And they are to be cherished. In times of danger, keep big-hearted men about you. Courage brings success.” He nodded approvingly. “What sort of place is this Rathmines and where exactly?” Morann gave him an account of Caoilinn’s estate and its handsome hall. The situation, he explained, was close by Dyflin, and her herd of cattle was large. “The cattle will all be hidden in the hills by now,” Brian remarked.

“Where your men will sooner or later find them,” Morann pointed out.

“No doubt.” Brian nodded thoughtfully. “Very well,” he continued briskly, after a short pause. “I will stay at Rathmines myself. The estate will supply me and my personal household. The sooner Dyflin is given to me, the sooner I leave and the more of this lady’s livestock will be left. Those are my terms, Morann. Will you agree to them?”

“I will,” said the craftsman. And he rode ahead with Harold to prepare the house at Rathmines. Caoilinn’s son might not have relished having Brian Boru in the house, but he could see the merit of the deal. “You can thank Harold if you have any livestock at the end of this,” Morann told him.

Brian kept Morann with him at Rathmines until nearly the end of October. During that time, Morann had the chance to see how the great warlord conducted himself—his ordered camp, his well-trained men, his patience, and his determination. Then Brian sent him back to the King of Tara with some messages.

“This game will play out peacefully in the end,” he remarked to the craftsman as he was leaving. But Morann was not so sure.

The message did not come until December—in the form of a single horseman arriving on a cold, grey day at the gates of Glendalough. Over his shoulder was slung an empty leather satchel which he laid on the abbot’s table as he announced: “I have come for the book.”

The prince’s book: the present for Brian Boru. Christmas was approaching. It was due.

“Unfortunately,” said the abbot with some embarrassment, “it is not quite ready. But when it is,” he added, “it will be very fine.”

“Show it to me,” said the messenger.

Osgar had been working hard. By the end of October he had prepared the vellum, laid out the book, and copied the entire Gospels in a perfect hand. The decorated capital letters came next. He had left spaces for each of these and in the first ten days of November he planned a schema: while each letter would be treated differently, certain details—some purely geometric, others in the form of serpents, birds, or extended human figures—would subtly repeat themselves or balance each other in an exotic counterpoint, thus producing a hidden, echoing unity to the whole. He also intended to add little decorations to the text, as the spirit moved him. Finally, there would be four, full-page illuminations. He had rough sketches for three of these pages, and knew how they would come together; but the fourth was more ambitious, and about this he was more uncertain.

By mid-November Osgar had made a good start on the drawing and painting of the capitals, with more than a dozen completed by the end of the month, and when the abbot had inspected the work he had pronounced himself pleased; but the abbot had nonetheless made one complaint.

“Every year, Brother Osgar, you seem to take longer to complete each illustration. Surely with so much practice, you should be getting more proficient, not less.”

“The more I do,” Osgar had answered sadly, “the harder it gets.”

“Oh,” said the abbot, irritably. It was at times like this that he found the perfectionist calligrapher tiresome and even rather contemptible. And Osgar had sighed because he knew that he could not explain such things to any man, however intelligent, who had not practised the druidic art of design himself.

How could he explain that the patterns the abbot saw were not the result of simple choice or chance, but that often as not, as he worked upon them, the strands of colour would mysteriously refuse to conform to the pattern he had first envisaged. And that only after days of obdurate struggle would he discover within them a new, deeper, dynamic pattern, far more subtle and powerful than anything his own poor brain would have been able to design. During these frustrating days, he would be like a man lost in a maze, or unable to move as though caught in a magic spider’s web, trapped within the very lines he drew. And as he came through, each discovery revealed to him new rules, layer upon layer, so that like a ball of twine that is slowly growing, the artefact he was making, simple though it seemed, had a hidden weight. Through this exhausting process, from these unending tensions, were the elegant patterns of his art constructed.

And of nothing was this more true than the fourth of the full-page illuminations. He knew what he wanted. He wanted, somehow, to echo that strange spiral which the old monk had copied from the stone and shown him up in Kells. He had only seen it once, but the strange image had haunted him ever since. Of course he had seen trefoils and spirals in many books; but this particular image was haunting precisely because it was subtly different. Yet how could you capture those swirling lines when their mysterious power came from the very fact that they were wandering, indeterminate, belonging to some unknown but profoundly necessary chaos? Every sketch he made was a failure, and common sense, especially when he was labouring under such lack of time, should have told him to give it up. Something conventional would do. But he couldn’t. Each day he puzzled over it, while he continued with the rest.

Fortunately, when the prince’s messenger was shown the partly completed book, it was already clear that it would be handsome.

“I will tell the prince it is in hand,” the messenger said, “but he won’t be pleased it isn’t finished.”

“You will have to work faster, Brother Osgar,” said the abbot.

The siege of Dyflin was raised at Christmas. Brian and his army retired southwards to Munster. No attack upon the ramparts had been made by the besiegers and no one had come out to fight them. When the men of Dyflin saw the Munster king depart, they congratulated themselves.

In early January, after Brian had departed, Morann decided to leave the O’Neill King of Tara for a while and pay a visit to Dyflin. He was not surprised to receive a summons to attend the Dyflin king and his council in the royal hall. They welcomed him cheerfully. “We all know you were under oath to Brian,” the king reassured him. They had numerous questions about the Munster king and the disposition of his forces, which Morann answered. But the craftsman was surprised by the air of truculence he detected in some of the younger council members.

“You might as well have stayed with us, Morann,” said one. “Brian came to punish us, but he’s had to give up.”

“He never gives up,” Morann replied. “He’ll be back. And you had better prepare yourselves.”

“What a gloomy fellow he is,” the king answered with a smile, and the others had laughed. But when Morann had happened to meet him in the street the next day, the king had taken his arm and told him quietly, “You’re right about Brian, of course. But when he comes back, we’ll have a different reception ready for him.” He gave Morann a friendly nod. “Be warned.”

It was two days after this conversation that Morann went out to Fingal to visit his friend Harold. It was four months since he had seen him.

He was pleased, on his arrival at Harold’s farmstead, to find the Norseman looking fit and cheerful. They spent a pleasant hour looking over the farmstead, which was in excellent order, in the company of his children. Only when they were alone did Morann broach the subject of Caoilinn.

“I hear that Rathmines was left with more than half its livestock.”

“I heard it, too. And that other farmsteads there were stripped. I am grateful to you, Morann.”

“You have not been over there?”

“I have not.” It was said firmly, and grimly.

“Have you received any word of thanks? I told her son, at the time it happened, that it was you who should be thanked.”

“I have heard nothing. But I do not expect to. The thing was done. That is all.” It was clear to Morann that his friend had no further wish to discuss the subject, and he did not bring it up again during his stay that day. When he left the following morning, however, he had come to a private decision. It was time he went to see Caoilinn himself.

She was not alone, the next day, when he arrived at Rathmines. Her son was with her. Was it for that reason, he wondered, that she was guarded?

It was certainly clear that she had no wish to see him. When, sitting in the big hall, he politely mentioned that he was glad to hear her livestock had survived the trouble at Dyflin, her son gave a nod of acknowledgement and murmured, “Thanks to you.” But Caoilinn stared straight ahead, as though she had not heard him.

“I was out in Fingal recently,” he said. His words fell like a stone on the ground. There was silence. He thought that she was about to move away, and he was ready to follow her if she did; but then an interesting thing happened. Her son abruptly got up and went outside, so that he was left alone in the hall with Caoilinn. Without breaking all the rules of hospitality, she could not very well do the same and desert him. He saw her frown with vexation. He didn’t care.

“I was at Harold’s farmstead,” he said calmly. Then he waited, practically forcing her to respond.

But whatever response he might have expected, it was not the one he got. For after a prolonged silence, in a voice that was quiet with anger, she remarked, “I am surprised that, in the circumstances, you would mention his name in this house.”

“In the circumstances?” He stared in disbelief. “Didn’t he save you from ruin? Have you no word of thanks for his kindness?”

“Kindness?” She looked at him with scorn and also, it seemed, incomprehension. “His vengeance, you mean.” Though Morann’s face still registered bewilderment, she did not appear to see it. Indeed, she seemed to be talking to herself rather than to him as she went on. “To have Brian Boru, the filthy devil, living in my own husband’s house. Eating his cattle. Waited upon by his own children. Wasn’t that a fine revenge for my calling him a cripple?” She shook her head slowly.

And for the first time, Morann realised the extent of her pain and sadness.

“It was not Harold,” he said simply. “He never had any dealings with Brian. He is under the protection of the O’Neill king, you know. But he asked me to persuade Brian not to destroy your husband’s estate. So it was I that caused Brian to come here.” He shrugged. “It was the only way.” He saw Caoilinn make a gesture of impatience. “You must understand,” he went on more urgently, even taking her by the arm, “that he only tried to save you and your family from ruin. He admired what you had done. He told me so. You do him an injustice.”

She was very pale. She said not a word. He couldn’t tell whether he had got through to her or not.

“You owe him,” he quietly suggested, “at least some thanks, and an apology.”

“Apology?” Her voice was rising sharply.

He decided to go on the offensive.

“Dear God, woman, are you so blinded by your hatred of Brian that you cannot see the generosity of spirit of the man from Fingal? He ignores your insults and tries to save your children from ruin, and still you cannot see anything but a malice that is of your own imagining entirely. It’s a fool you are,” he burst out. “You could have had the man for a husband.” He paused. Then in a lower voice and, apparently with satisfaction, he added, “Well, you are too late for that, anyway, now that there are others.”

“Others?”

“Of course.” He shrugged. “What would you expect?” Then, suddenly and unceremoniously, he left.

It was February when the news began to arrive at the port. Remembering the King of Dyflin’s warning, Morann had been expecting it.

The Vikings were coming. From the Isle of Man, just over the horizon, its Viking ruler was bringing a war fleet. From the faraway Orkney Islands in the north, another great sailing was coming. Warrior chiefs, merchant adventurers, Nordic pirates—they were all making ready. It would be another great Viking adventure. Who knew, if they defeated old Brian Boru, there might even be a chance to take over the whole island, just as Canute and his Danes were doing in England. At the least, there would be valuable pickings.

In Dyflin, by the middle of the month there were all kinds of rumour.

It was said that the King of Leinster’s sister, the turbulent former wife of Brian, had even offered to marry again if it would help the cause. “They say she’s been promised to the Isle of Man king and to the Orkney king as well,” a chief close to the family told Morann.

“She can hardly marry them both,” Morann remarked.

“Don’t count on it,” answered the other.

As yet, there was no word from King Brian in Munster. Was the old warrior aware of the preparations in the northern seas? Undoubtedly. Would he hesitate to return against such odds, as some in Dyflin still supposed? Morann did not think so. He had no doubt that the cautious conqueror would, as usual, take his own time. At the end of February, a ship arrived from the Orkneys with definite news.

“The fleet will be here before Easter.”

It had been in early January, as he had been despairing of ever finishing his work in time, that Osgar had received news of a very different kind, from Caoilinn. She apologised for failing to send a message before, but explained that she had been trapped in Dyflin throughout the siege. A little guiltily perhaps, she sent him tender expressions of affection. And she let him know that, for reasons she did not explain, she would not be marrying again, after all. “But come to see me, Osgar,” she added. “Come to see me soon.”

What could he feel, at such a message? He hardly knew. At first he received it calmly enough. He realised that it had been some time since he had even given her a thought. During that day, he had gone quietly about his business as usual; only at the end of the afternoon, as he put his pens away and his fingers encountered the little wedding ring that still resided in the bag, did he suddenly experience a sharp stab of recollected emotion at the thought of her.

She came to him that night in his dreams and again when he awoke in the dark January dawn, bringing with her a strange sense of warmth, a tingling of excitement—he hardly remembered when he had last felt this way. Nor did the sensation depart, but remained with him throughout the day.

What did it mean? That evening Osgar reflected carefully. When he had returned to Glendalough after his uncle’s death, he had suffered from melancholy moods for some time. His inability to go back to Dyflin and his abiding sense of failure over Caoilinn had been hard to bear. With the news of her forthcoming marriage, however, a door in his mind seemed to have closed. She was departing once again into the arms of another. He was still married to Glendalough. He told himself to think of her no more, and was at peace. But now, with the knowledge that she was not, after all, to marry, it was as if, in some strange and unexpected way, she belonged to him again. They could renew their friendship. She could come to Glendalough to see him. He could visit Dyflin. He would be free to indulge in a relationship as passionate as it was safe. In this way, whether through the agency of good or evil powers, the sorrow of Brother Osgar was converted to a new kind of joy.

He noticed a difference the very next morning. Was there more sun in the scriptorium that day, or had the world grown brighter? When he sat down at his desk, the vellum before him seemed to have acquired a new and magical significance. Instead of the usual, painful struggle with an intricate pattern, the shapes and colours under his pen burst into life like the bright new plants of spring. And more extraordinary still, as the day progressed, these sensations grew stronger, more urgent, more intense; so utterly absorbed was he that by the late afternoon he did not even notice that the light outside was fading as he worked, with a growing fever of excitement, immersed in the rich and radiant world he had entered. It was only when he felt a persistent tap on his shoulder that he at last broke off with a start, like a man awoken from a dream, to find that they had already lit three candles round his desk and that he had completed not one but five new illustrations. They almost had to drag him from the page.

And so it had continued day after day as, lost in his art, in such a fever that he often forgot to eat, pale, absentminded, outwardly melancholy yet inwardly ecstatic, the middle-aged monk—inspired by Caoilinn if not by God—now in the abstract patterns, verdant plants, in all the brightly coloured richness of sensual creation, for the first time discovered and expressed in his work the true meaning of passion.

Late in February, he began to trace the great, triple spiral of the last full page, and stretching it out and bending it to his will, found to his astonishment that he had formed it into a magnificent, dynamic Chi-Rho, unlike any that he had seen before, that echoed on the page like a solid fragment of eternity itself.

Two weeks before Easter, his little masterpiece was completed.

She was not expecting him; and that was what he intended. Harold was counting on an element of surprise. Though the real question was, should he be going there at all?

“Stay away. She’s more trouble than she’s worth.” That had been Morann’s advice. Twice since he had gone to see Caoilinn, the craftsman had let her son know that Harold would be visiting him on a particular day in Dyflin. It would have been easy enough for Caoilinn to come in from Rathmines and encounter the Norseman, seemingly by chance, on the quay or in the marketplace. Indeed, her son, who was quite ready for his mother to move out of the house, was anxious to help. But she had neither come, nor sent any word at all to Harold. And though, originally, Morann had hoped to see a reconciliation of the lovers, he had now changed his mind. “Find another wife, Harold,” he counselled. “You can do better.”

So why was he going? In the months since her rejection of him, the Norseman had often reflected upon the subject of Caoilinn. She had hurt him, of course. Indeed there had been times when, thinking about her contemptuous treatment of him, he had clenched his strong hands in rage and sworn to himself that he would never set eyes on her again. But in his generous way, he had still tried to understand what might have caused her to behave in such a manner; and after learning more of the details about her husband from other people familiar with the household, he had formed a shrewd idea of what might be in Caoilinn’s mind. He made allowances; he was ready to forgive. But he was also mindful of the inner contempt for his own feelings that her behaviour had shown. Morann had let him know of his visit to Rathmines. As he thought about the matter in the early months of that year, Harold had agreed with his friend that he should wait for her to make a move, but she never did.

When Morann had warned Caoilinn that she had rivals, he was not entirely bluffing. There were two women who had made it clear to Harold that, if he showed an interest in them, that interest would be returned. One of these, Harold was sure, had a genuine affection for him; the other, though he thought her a little foolish, was certainly in love with him. Did Caoilinn love him? Not really. He had no delusions. Not yet, anyway. But he would make either of the other two women happy and his life with them would be pleasant and easy.

And perhaps, in the end, that was the trouble. Whatever their attractions, the two women offered a life that was just a little too easy. Caoilinn, for all her faults, was simply more interesting. Even in middle age, it seemed, Harold the Norwegian was still looking for the excitement of a challenge.

So having considered the whole business very carefully, on the last day of March, he rode out once again towards Rathmines. Had he decided exactly what to say? Depending on how he found her, yes. But just as he had in his encounter with her before, he knew he would rely on his instincts. And he was still half curious about what he would do as the gates of the rath came in sight.

If he had meant to surprise her, he succeeded. For as he rode through the gateway, she was in the act of milking a cow. As she turned and rose from the stool on which she had been sitting, her dark hair fell across her face; with a single gesture she swept it back; her two hands smoothed down her dress, and her large eyes stared at him as at an intruder. For a moment he thought she might be going to say something insulting, but instead she remarked, “Harold, son of Olaf. We did not know you were coming.” Then she remained dangerously silent.

“It’s a fine day. I thought I’d ride this way,” he replied blandly, gazing down from his horse.

Then, without dismounting but making casual remarks as if he might move on at any moment, he began to talk. He spoke quietly, about his farmstead, events in Dyflin, a cargo of wine that had just arrived at the port. He smiled now and then, in his friendly, easy way. And never once did he allude to the fact, by word or look, that she had insulted him or that she owed him an apology. Not a word. Nothing. He was magnificent. She could not deny it.

But what had really shaken her was something else entirely. It was the one thing, in the turbulent months since their separation, that she had forgotten. She had forgotten he was so attractive. The moment he had ridden through the gateway and she had turned to see him, it had hit her almost like a blow. The splendid horse with its gleaming harness; Harold’s figure, powerful, athletic, almost boyish; his red beard and his eyes, those bright blue eyes: for a moment, as she smoothed down her dress to deflect his attention, she had found she could hardly breathe; she had fought down a flush and stared at him with a furious coldness so that he should not know her heart was beating faster, far faster than she wished. Nor was she entirely able to subdue these sensations which, like little waves, continued to form and break all the time he was talking.

It was then that Harold, gazing at her calmly, made his move.

“There was talk last year,” he observed with perfect coolness, “that you and I would get married.”

Caoilinn looked down and said nothing.

“Time passes,” he remarked. “A man moves on.” He paused just long enough to let this message sink in. “But I thought I would come by.” He smiled charmingly. “I should not wish to lose you through carelessness. After all,” he added graciously, “I might do as well, but I could never do better.”

She had to acknowledge the compliment. What else could she do? She bowed her head.

“There were difficulties,” she managed to say. She did not apologise.

“Perhaps they can be overcome,” he suggested.

“Several difficulties.” For just a moment she nearly brought up the question of religion, but then thought better of the idea.

“It is for you to decide, Caoilinn.” He looked at her quite sternly. “My offer is still open. I make the offer gladly. But whatever your decision, I will ask you to make it by Easter.”

“Am I understanding you right,” she asked, with a trace of irritation, “that the offer will no longer be open after Easter?”

“It will not,” he said, and wheeled his horse away before she could say another word.

“Dear God,” she murmured, as he went out of sight, “the cheek of the man.”

Morann was not surprised when, ten days into April, no word had come from Caoilinn.

“If she does come,” Harold told him, “she’ll wait until the last moment.” He smiled. “And even then, you may be sure there will be conditions.”

“She won’t come at all,” said Morann, not because he knew but because he did not want his friend to be disappointed.

A few days later, however, events arose which made even Harold’s marriage a secondary consideration. A longship arrived at the port with news that the northern fleets were setting out and would soon appear. And two days later came a horseman from the south who announced: “Brian Boru is on his way.”

When Morann and his family arrived at Harold’s farmstead the next day, the craftsman was very firm. The Norseman wanted to stay and protect his farmstead as he had done before.

“But this time it will be different,” Morann warned him. There would be all kinds of men—marauders, pirates, men who killed for pleasure—in the Viking longships. “Nothing can protect your farm if they should come that way.” He was going back to join the O’Neill king, as he had done before. “And you and your sons must come with me,” he told him.

Still Harold made excuses and prevaricated. Finally he objected: “What if Caoilinn should come?” But Morann had anticipated the question.

“She moved into Dyflin yesterday,” he told his friend bluntly. “No doubt she’ll stay there, as she did before. But you can leave word for her to follow if she comes.” Eventually he persuaded the Norseman of the wisdom of leaving. The farmstead’s large cattle herd was split into four parts; and three of them, each under a cowman, were driven away to different places where they might not be found. There was nothing for Harold to do then but hide his valuables and prepare to set out, accompanied by his sons, on the journey north-west. Four days later, they reached the O’Neill King of Tara.

The King of Tara’s camp was impressive. For his renewed campaign, he had collected a formidable army from some of the finest fighting tribes in the north. When Morann brought Harold and his sons to him, he welcomed them and told them: “When the fighting begins, you shall stand by me”—an arrangement, Morann noted, which honoured his friends as well as practically guaranteeing their safety.

Morann soon made himself familiar with the military situation. He estimated that there were nearly a thousand fighting men in the camp. It was rare in the Celtic island to see a fighting force much larger; Brian Boru had not brought more than that to the siege of Dyflin. Many were drawn from the most loyal base of the king’s power, the central kingdom of Meath; but others were still arriving from farther away. The quality of the men was good. Morann watched, impressed, as they underwent their practice in hand-to-hand combat. The old king was planning to remain at his camp until he heard that Brian was in the Liffey Plain; then he would move south to join him, coming down by way of Tara.

But what would he do when he got there? Everything Morann could see—the daily arms practice, the king’s councils of war—all confirmed that he meant to keep his word to Brian, and to fight. Might there be a more devious plan? As Morann looked at the King of Tara’s cragged, shrewd old face, he found it impossible to decipher his intentions; perhaps, the craftsman concluded, the truth lay in a conversation he had when the king summoned him the next day. The old monarch seemed in a reflective mood, though Morann had little doubt he had calculated everything he wished to say. They talked quite extensively, of the men he had brought, of the expected Munster army, and of the forces ranged against them.

“You know, Morann, that Brian has many enemies. He wants to rule as High King with more authority than the O’Neill ever had; for we never really subdued the whole island. Those Leinster kings especially resent him. They’re almost as proud as we are. And they’re not the only ones.” He gave Morann a quick, sharp glance. “But if you think about it, Morann,” he went on quietly, “you’ll see that the truth of this whole business is that we can’t afford to let him lose.”

“You fear the Ostmen.”

“Of course. They have seen Canute and his Danes take over England. If Brian Boru loses this battle now, we shall have Ostmen from all over the northern seas descending upon us. We may not be able to withstand them.”

“Yet it’s Leinster which has begun this business.”

“That is why they are so foolish. Firstly, they are acting out of pride. Secondly, they suppose that, because they have close family ties to the Ostman King of Dyflin, that they will be honoured by any Ostmen who invade. But if all the fleets of the north were to descend, Leinster would be treated just the same as the rest of us. Indeed, being close to Dyflin, they will be the first to be taken over. Then they will be under the rule of an Ostman king instead of Brian.” He smiled sadly. “If that occurs, Morann, then it will be our turn to withdraw from the lordship of the land. Like the Tuatha De Danaan, we shall all go under the hill.” He nodded thoughtfully. “So you see, Morann, whatever happens, Brian Boru must win.”

The messenger from King Brian arrived at the camp the following morning, with a request that the King of Tara should advance forthwith to join the Munster army on the northern bank of the Liffey. He also carried a message for Morann. The silversmith was to join Brian at his camp as quickly as possible; and if his friend the Norseman was with him, King Brian wanted Morann to bring him, too. The first part of the summons came as no surprise to Morann, but he had not expected the one for Harold. Remembering King Brian’s amused admiration for the Norseman when he had come to save the estate at Rathmines, however, he thought he understood. What was it Brian had said to him? “In times of danger, keep big-hearted men around you. Courage brings success.” Before this greatest of all his battles, the ageing commander was reaching out for loyal and valiant men.

Leaving his family and Harold’s sons with the O’Neill king, he and the Norseman set out at once.

They rode easily and made good time. They did not speak much, each no doubt occupied with his own thoughts. Morann was glad to think that he could give Brian a detailed account of the King of Tara’s forces and their conversation, which he had no doubt the Munster king would ask for. Harold, as far as Morann could see, was rather excited by the prospect ahead. His normally ruddy face looked a little pale and his blue eyes were gleaming.

The road led south towards Tara; but at a certain point, a track turned away to the left, towards the south-east.

“If we go that way, the road is less good, but it leads more directly to Dyflin,” Morann suggested. “Which way would you rather take?”

“The direct route,” said Harold, easily; so that is what they did. And for several hours more, they rode towards the River Boyne.

Why had he chosen to go that way? From some instinct—he scarcely knew what it was—he had given Harold the decision. But by telling him, correctly, that this was the more direct way, he had known it was this one that the Norseman would choose. And why had he wanted to go that way? Morann did not know. Perhaps because it was the way his father had brought him when he had come to Dyflin for the first time, all those years ago. But whatever the reason, he felt a strange, inner compulsion to return to that path again.

It was late afternoon when the two men approached the great green mounds above the Boyne. The place was silent, not a living soul to be seen; the sky was dull and grey, and in the waters below, the swans had acquired a pale luminosity, like gleaming specks upon the iron waters.

“This,” Morann said with a smile, “is where the Tuatha De Danaan live.” He pointed to the damaged roof of the biggest mound. “Your people tried to get in there once. Did you know that?”

The Norseman shook his head. “This place is grim,” he said.

They walked around the tombs, staring at the carved stones and the fallen quartz. Then Harold said he wanted to walk along the ridge a little way, but Morann chose to remain, in front of the entrance of the largest of the tombs, where the stone with the three great spirals stood. From somewhere came the cry of a bird, but he heard no other sound. The light was imperceptibly fading.

Grim. Was the place grim? Perhaps. He was not sure. He stared over the river. He remembered his father. And he had been waiting like that for some time, he supposed, when it seemed to him that he sensed something moving up the slope from the river towards him.

The strangest thing was that he felt neither fear nor surprise. He knew, as did all men upon the island, of the many forms the spirits may take. There were the ancient gods who might appear as birds or fish, or deer or lovely women; there were fairy folk and dwarfs; before the death of a great man, you might hear a terrible wailing—this was the keening of the spirit they call a banshee. But what he sensed, though he suspected at once that it might be a spirit, was none of those things. It had no form at all; it was not even a floating mist. Yet he was nevertheless aware of it moving up the slope towards him, as though it came with a definite intention.

The invisible shadow passed close beside him and Morann felt a curious sensation of coldness before it drew away towards the mound and, passing by the stone carved with spirals, entered it.

When the spirit had gone, Morann remained perfectly still, staring over the Boyne; and though he could not say how, he knew with certainty what was to come to pass. He was not afraid, but he knew. And when some time later Harold returned, he told him, “You must not come with me. Go to your farm in Fingal.”

“But what about Brian Boru?”

“It is me he wants. I will make an excuse for you.”

“You told me it was dangerous to remain at the farm.”

“I know. But I have a presentiment.”

The next morning, the two men rode southwards together, but as they came to the northern edge of the Plain of Bird Flocks, Morann pulled up his horse.

“This is where we part, but before we do, Harold, I want you to make me a promise. Stay on your farmstead. You cannot go back to the O’Neill king after Brian summoned you; in any case, your sons will be safe enough with him, I think. But you must promise not to follow me into this battle. Will you do that?”

“I do not like to leave you,” said Harold. “But you have done so much for me that I don’t like to refuse you either. Are you sure this is what you want?”

“It is the one thing I ask,” said Morann.

So then Harold departed to his farmstead while Morann turned westwards to seek King Brian to whom he had just denied the company of a big-hearted man.

“The monk is to bring the book himself. King Brian was very definite,” said the messenger. “Is it ready?”

“It is,” said the abbot. “Ten days ago. This is an honour for you, Brother Osgar. I expect the king wishes to thank you in person.”

“We’re going down to Dyflin, where the fighting will be?” asked Brother Osgar.

“We are,” said the messenger.

Osgar understood the abbot’s need to oblige King Brian. Though the Leinster king was preparing for a conflict he thought he could win, not everyone was so certain of the outcome. Below the Wicklow Mountains, down the coastal plain, the chiefs in the south of Leinster had failed to join their king and the Leinster men. The unprotected abbey at Glendalough, though it was one of the noblest in the Leinster kingdom, could hardly be expected to insult King Brian by refusing what was, in any case, owed.

It was the Friday before Easter week, in the middle of April, when the messenger arrived. On Saturday morning at dawn, the messenger and Osgar rode out of the great gateway of Glendalough, and headed northwards into the long pass that would take them over the mountains towards Dyflin. By the time they reached the open high places, the sky was clear and blue. It seemed it would be a fine day.

With the damp breeze catching his face, Osgar was suddenly reminded of the day he had crossed these mountains, so many years ago, when he went to tell Caoilinn he was joining the monastery. For a few moments he felt exactly as if he were that same young man again; the sharpness of the sensation surprised him. He thought of Caoilinn now, and his heart was racing. Would he see her?

Yet there was danger down there on the Liffey Plain: he was approaching a battlefield. Would he be able to deliver the book to Brian and withdraw to safety, or would he be caught up in it?

Tomorrow was Palm Sunday: the day of Jesus’s entry into Jerusalem. A day of triumph. He had ridden into the Holy City on a donkey; they had strewn palms in His way to signal their respect, sung His praises, called Him the Messiah. And five days later, they had crucified Him. Was that, Osgar wondered as they crossed the mountains, to be his own fate? Was he about to descend from this deserted place, have his praises sung on account of his little masterpiece, and then perhaps fall to a Viking axe? There would be irony in that. Or, it even occurred to him, might he happen to encounter Caoilinn and meet his end heroically after all, saving her from a burning Dyflin or a Viking marauding party? A surge of warmth accompanied this vision. He had failed in such a business once before; but that was long ago. He was another man.

And indeed, in a way, Osgar was a changed man. The little book of Gospels was a vivid masterpiece. There was no doubt that King Brian would be delighted with it. The passion for Caoilinn that had produced it, that had driven his work for three months, had left Osgar in a state of elation. He had a compulsive desire to do more, a sense of urgency he had never experienced before. He needed to live in order to create. Yet at the same time, he also knew with a tiny warmth of certainty that if he were suddenly taken from this mortal life, he had now left behind a bright little jewel that, in the eye of God also, he hoped, seemed to make his uneventful life worthwhile.

They passed over the high mountain gap, taking the way that led north-west. By that nightfall they would have descended the slopes, skirted the Liffey’s broad basin, and crossed the river by a small monastic bridge a dozen miles upstream from Dyflin. The day was pleasant, the April sky remaining unusually clear. It was past midafternoon when they emerged on the northern slopes and saw below them and to the east the wide magnificence of the Liffey estuary and the huge sweep of the bay laid out before them.

Then Osgar saw the Viking sails.

It was the whole Viking fleet, strung out from the northern curve of the bay, past the Ben of Howth, and away into the open sea where, finally, they became indistinct in the sea mist. Square sails: he could see that those nearest were brightly coloured. How many sails? He counted three dozen; no doubt there were more. How many fighting men? A thousand? More? He had never seen such a sight before. He stared in horror, and felt a terrible, cold fear.

There were no palm trees in Dyflin, so on Palm Sunday Christians went to church with all kinds of greenery in their hands. Caoilinn carried a sheaf of long, sweet grasses.

It was a strange sight that morning to see the stream of worshippers, Leinster and Dyflin people, Celtic Gaedhil and Nordic Gaill, carrying their greenery through the wooden streets, watched by the men from the longships. Some of the warriors from the northern seas were good Christians, she noted with approval, for they joined the procession. But most seemed to be either heathen or indifferent, and they stood by the fences or in the gateways, leaning on their axes, watching, talking amongst themselves or drinking ale.

It had been a remarkable sight when their longships had started coming up the Liffey the evening before. The two fleets had arrived together. The Earl of Orkney had brought with him Vikings from all over the north, from the Orkneys and the Isle of Skye, from the coast of Argyll and the Mull of Kintyre. From the Isle of Man, however, the scar-faced warlord Brodar had brought a fearsome collection, drawn, it seemed, from the ports of many lands. Fair-haired Norsemen, burly Danes; some were light coloured, some dark and swarthy. Many, she judged, were nothing more than pirates. Yet these were the allies that her Leinster king had called upon to strike at Brian Boru. She could have wished he had found other sorts of men.

As she made her way to church, she wondered what to do. Was she making a terrible mistake? For a start, it was now clear that her move back to her brother’s in Dyflin had been premature, and probably pointless. King Brian would not be troubling Rathmines this time, because he was coming up the other side of the Liffey, far away. Her eldest son had already gone back to the rath to watch over the livestock that morning. But the real question was, why hadn’t she gone to Harold? Her son had been unequivocal.

“For God’s sake go,” he had told her. “You’ve no complaint against Harold. The man has nothing to do with Brian Boru. You’ve honoured my father’s memory longer than you need. Haven’t you done enough for Leinster?”

She didn’t even know for certain where Harold was now. Was he at his farmstead or with the O’Neill king, perhaps? His offer had been clear. She must come to him by Easter, but not afterwards. If the man was in any way reasonable, she thought, a few days or weeks wouldn’t matter, but there was something in the Norseman’s nature that indicated he would not budge. Irritating though it was, she rather admired him for it. If she came to him after Easter, his mind would have swung closed, like a heavy wooden gate. The offer would be gone. She knew it.

Even if she could accept what he had done before, even if she could accept that she was in the wrong, Caoilinn didn’t like being told what to do. By making the offer in the way he had, he was asserting his authority, and she couldn’t see how to get out of it. Her pride still made it difficult for her to let him win and she meant to put off the decision as long as possible until she could think of a way of getting even.

She was also a little nervous. So far, no one had troubled Harold about his equivocal position. People knew that Morann had secured protection for his friend, just as, in turn, Harold had mitigated the damage to her own estate. But now there was going to be a great battle; whoever won would suffer terrible casualties. If she were seen leaving Dyflin now to go across to a man under Brian’s protection, and the men of Dyflin were to succeed in smashing Brian, they might not take kindly to her desertion. There could be ugly reprisals. Alternatively, of course, if she stayed where she was and Brian won, she could be trapped in a burning Dyflin. But the worst aspect of the business lay in the bluntly cynical proposition her son had put to her just before he departed.

“As a family, you know, it would be best if we had a foot in each camp, so that we could help each other whatever the outcome. I’m in the Leinster camp, of course, but if you were with Harold …”

“You mean,” she said bitterly, “you’d want me in Brian Boru’s camp?”

“Well, not exactly. Only with Harold being Morann’s friend, and Morann …” He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, Mother, since I know you won’t.”

Curse them all, she thought. Curse them. For once in her life, Caoilinn truly didn’t know what to do.

The church service for Palm Sunday had already started as the solitary figure made his way along the wood quay towards the boat. He walked with a slight stoop. He was alone. His companions in the longship were elsewhere. They were, in any case, only companions for this voyage; after this, he might see some of them again, or he might not. It was all the same to him. He had no use for friends. At this moment, his face wore a twisted smile.

He had lived in many places. His three sons had been raised in Waterford; but he had fallen out with them some years ago and scarcely seen them since. They were fully grown. He owed them nothing. One thing, however, he had given them, when they were still children.

He had been trading at the small harbour on the River Boyne. There had been a woman there; he had stayed awhile. And because he was swarthy, the Celtic-speaking people at the port had called him Dubh Gall—the dark stranger. Even the women had called him that: “My Dubh Gall.” It had amused his shipmates. They had carried the name back with them. And before long, even in the Viking port of Waterford, his children were known as the family of Dubh Gall. The name had ceased to amuse him now. His companions in the longship called him by his real name: Sigurd.

For the last few years he had led a wandering life, sometimes working as a mercenary. He had arrived in Dyflin the night before with Brodar, who had been hired by the Leinster and Dyflin kings. And the reason why he was smiling was not because the pay and the prospects for looting were excellent, but because he had just made a pleasing discovery.

Harold the Norwegian, the red-haired crippled boy, was still living.

He had never forgotten about Harold; from time to time down the years, the lame Norwegian had come into his mind. But there had been so many other matters to attend to, and fate had not brought them close again. The nature of his feelings had also changed. As a boy, he had felt a burning need to avenge his family’s name: the Norwegian had to be killed. As a man, this old desire had become spiced with cruelty. He took pleasure in contemplating the pain and humiliation he could inflict upon the young farmer. In recent years, it had just become a piece of unfinished business, a debt unpaid.

But now he had found himself on the way to Dyflin to take part in a battle. The circumstances were perfect. Naturally, during the voyage he had thought about Harold. But it had been when he first stepped on to the wood quay, where they had met before, that all the sensations of his boyhood had suddenly come back at him with a rush. This was destiny, he concluded. The Norwegian must die. When that was duly accomplished, he thought, he would go back to Waterford and seek out his sons, who had never known about this business, and tell them what he had done and why and, perhaps, even be reconciled with them.

It had not taken long to find out about Harold in Dyflin. At first, when he had asked about a lame farmer, he had received some blank looks; but then a merchant in the Fish Shambles had smiled in recognition.

“Do you mean the Norwegian? The man with the big farmstead out in Fingal? There’s a rich fellow. An important man. Is he a friend of yours?”

Though he had traded, and fought, and stolen all over the northern seas, Sigurd had never become rich.

“He was, many years ago,” he had answered with a smile.

The merchant had soon told him all he needed to know: that Harold was a widower, the size of his family, the location of the big farmstead.

“He has powerful friends,” the merchant said. “The O’Neill king is his protector.”

“You mean he might be fighting against us?”

“I do not think he would do that. Unless he was obliged to. Possibly his sons might.”

If Harold and his sons were in the battle on the other side, so much the better. He would make his way towards them. If not, then during or after the battle, he would find them at the farmstead. He would take them by surprise, with luck; kill the sons as well and end their family line. It would be a fine thing indeed to bring not only Harold’s head but those of his sons back with him across the sea.

No wonder, then, that Sigurd wore a twisted smile. He was looking forward to the battle.

Morann reached King Brian’s camp at noon that day.

The Munster king had decided to encamp on the northern side of the estuary. To the east lay the headland of the Ben of Howth. To the west, not far off, was the Tolka stream, running down to the Liffey’s shore, a small wood, and the little hamlet of Clontarf. “The bulls’ field” the name of the hamlet meant, though if there had been any bulls in the pasture before, their owners had wisely removed them before the army of Brian arrived. It was a good choice. The ground sloped, giving the defenders an advantage, and anyone approaching from Dyflin across the Liffey still had to wade across the Tolka to reach the camp.

On entering the camp, Morann received his first surprise. For instead of encountering Munster or Connacht men, the first part of the camp he passed through consisted entirely of Viking Norsemen, whose fearsome faces he had never seen before. Seeing one of Brian’s commanders whom he knew, he asked him who they were.

“They are our friends, Morann. Ospak and Wolf the Quarrelsome. Fighting bands, much feared on the seas, they say.” He grinned. “If the Dyflin king can call in friends from across the water, King Brian’s just returning the compliment.” He laughed. “You have to admit, the old man’s lost none of his cunning.”

“They look like pirates,” said Morann.

“Dyflin has their pirates, and we have ours,” the commander replied, with satisfaction. “Whatever it takes to win, Morann: you know Brian. Where’s the King of Tara, by the way?”

“He is coming,” said Morann.

He found King Brian at the centre of the camp, sitting on a silk-covered chair in a large tent. With his white beard and deeply lined face, the ageing king looked a little tired, but his spirit, as ever, was sharp and he was in a good humour. Morann apologised quickly for Harold’s absence. “His horse tripped when we were crossing a stream and he fell. With his crippled leg, you know, I sent him home.” And though King Brian gave him a cynical look, he seemed to have too much else on his mind to pursue the matter further. The first thing he wanted was news of the O’Neill king, and he listened intently as Morann gave him a careful report. At the end, Brian looked thoughtful.

“He will come then. That is clear. He said he could not let me lose. That is interesting. What do you think he means?”

“What he says. No less, and no more. He won’t break his oath, but he will sit out the battle and preserve his own strength while yours is wasted. Only if he thinks you’re in danger of losing will he intervene.”

“I think so, too.” Brian gazed into the distance for a moment. He seemed sad. “My son will command the battle,” he remarked. “I’m too old.” He glanced up at Morann with a flash of shrewd irony. “It is I, however, who will plan the battle.”

Certainly the old king seemed confident. He had already sent a large detachment of his army away to raid parts of Leinster that its king had left unguarded. He chatted briefly about these developments with Morann, then fell silent; and the silversmith was about to take his leave when Brian suddenly reached onto a table beside him and took up a small book.

“Look at this, Morann. Did you ever see anything like it?” And opening its pages he showed the craftsman the astonishing illustrations that the monk of Glendalough had done. “Send in that monk,” he called out, and a few moments later, Morann was pleased to see Osgar. “You know each other. That is good. You shall both stay by my side.” He smiled. “Our friend here wanted to go back to Glendalough but I told him he’s to stay here with me and pray for victory.” Brother Osgar looked rather pale. “Don’t worry,” the king said to him genially, “the fighting won’t reach here.” He glanced at Morann mischievously. “Unless, God forbid, your prayers fail.”

At the end of the following day, they saw the great host of the King of Tara arrive from the north. They pitched camp on the slopes below the Plain of Bird Flocks, some distance away but within sight.

The next morning, the King of Tara arrived with several of his chief men. They went into Brian’s tent and spent some time there, before returning. That afternoon, as Brian was making a tour of the camp, he saw Morann.

“We have had our council of war,” he told him. “Now we have to draw them out to fight on our ground.”

“How will you do that?”

“Anger them. By now they’ll be getting reports of the damage my raiding parties are doing behind them. Then they’ll see the flames here. If the King of Leinster thinks I’m going to destroy his kingdom, he won’t sit in Dyflin for long. So, Morann,” he said smiling, “it’s time to tease him.”

Harold saw the smoke on Wednesday morning. There was no sign of Caoilinn. The fires seemed to be coming from the southern edge of the Plain of Bird Flocks. Then he saw the plumes of smoke appearing farther east; then flames, breaking out on the slopes of the Ben of Howth. By the afternoon, the fires extended right across the southern horizon. It was probably as well that Morann had persuaded him to go back to the farmstead. He made what preparations he could. There were a few slaves left there, so he armed them and together they put up a barricade in front of the main house—though whether they could do anything if a raiding party of any size came along, he seriously doubted.

The next morning, the fires were closer. The breeze from the south-west was blowing the smoke in his direction. Around noon, he saw smoke away to his right, then behind him. The firings were encircling him. Early in the afternoon, a horseman came in sight, cantering towards the farmstead. He seemed to be alone. He stopped by the entrance and, cautiously, Harold went towards him.

“Who owns this place?” the man called out.

“I do,” said Harold.

“Who are you?” the man demanded.

“Harold, son of Olaf.”

“Ah.” The man smiled. “You’re all right, then.” And wheeling his horse round, he rode away. Once again, as he gave a sigh of relief, Harold gave thanks to his friend Morann for protecting him.

But if the farmstead appeared to be safe, there were other urgent matters to worry about. He had to assume that Caoilinn was still in Dyflin. The army of Brian Boru and the fires lay between them.

There was little chance of her reaching him now. If there was a battle and Brian won, he would quite likely burn down the town as well. What would become of Caoilinn then? Even if, as it certainly appeared, she had decided to reject his offer, was he really going to leave her in the burning town and make no attempt to save her?

Then in late afternoon a small cart came towards the gate, and huddled in it he saw the family of a farmer from south of him. Their farm had been torched and they were looking for shelter, so of course he took them in. Had they any news of what was happening at Dyflin, he asked.

“Brian Boru and the King of Tara are both drawn up to fight,” the farmer told him. “It could start any time.”

Harold considered. Morann had been so insistent he should stay at the farmstead; and Morann always had good reasons for everything he did. But for the moment anyway, the farmstead was safe; whereas his sons were with the O’Neill king who was about to go into battle. Could he really stay here instead of riding to fight beside his sons? Shouldn’t he at least arm himself and ride towards the battle. He smiled to himself: there had been a time when he had trained himself to become a formidable warrior.

Should he keep his promise to Morann, or break it? He wasn’t sure. That evening, he cleaned and sharpened his axe and his other weapons. Then, for a long time, he remained staring into the darkness at the glow of the fires on the horizon.

Good Friday, 23 April 1014. One of the most holy days of the year. They marched out of Dyflin at dawn.

Caoilinn watched them from the ramparts. She was one of a large crowd. The day before she had watched fearfully as a big raiding party had even had the cheek to cross the Liffey by Ath Cliath, under their very noses, and set light to farmsteads out at Kilmainham and Clondalkin. She had been worried they might go round to Rathmines as well, but they had dashed back across the river before the Dyflin defenders had managed to get a war party together to stop them. The fires over Fingal and out at Howth had been bad enough, but this last humiliation had been too much. It was said that the King of Leinster’s sister had given him a piece of her mind about it. Troublemaker though the royal lady was, Caoilinn would have agreed with her. During the night, the Fingal and Kilmainham fires had all died down, but there was no knowing what fresh ones Brian’s men might start. It was almost a relief, therefore, to see the army move out.

But it was a fearsome sight. And most terrifying of all, the Leinster people agreed, were the Vikings from across the seas.

It was their armour. The Celtic people of the island no longer stripped for battle as their ancestors had done. The Leinstermen who marched out of Dyflin wore long, brightly coloured vests or leather padded tunics over their shirts; some had helmets, most carried the traditional painted shield, strengthened with bosses of iron. But splendid though this battle gear was, it did not compare with that of the Vikings. For the Vikings wore chain mail. Thousands of tiny links of iron or brass, tightly woven and riveted, and worn over a leather undershirt, that stretched to below the waist or even the knee, the chain mail was heavy and slowed the warrior down, but it was very hard to pierce. In their use of chain mail, the Vikings were only following a practice that had evolved in the Orient and was now in use across much of Europe. But to the people of the western island it made them look strangely grey, dark, and evil. This was the armour worn by most of the men from the longships.

It was a huge force that marched out of Dyflin and went across the wooden bridge. Though their armour was different, the weapons carried by Irish Gaedhil and Viking Gaill were not so unlike, for as well as the customary spear and sword, more than a few of the Celtic warriors carried Viking axes. There were some archers with quivers of poisoned arrows, and there were several chariots to carry the great men. But the battle would be fought not by manoeuvre but by massed lines in hand-to-hand fighting. Watching them go, Caoilinn did not try to keep count, but it seemed to her that there were well over two thousand men.

There was still a pale mist on the water as they crossed the bridge and for a little way on the other side it looked as if they were floating, like an army of phantoms, along the opposite bank. To the right, farther off, she detected movements in the camp of Brian Boru; and on the slopes in the distance, she could make out the vague mass of the army of the King of Tara.

The question now was, what should she do? The way was open before her. After the army had passed through, the town gates had been left open. The bridge was clear. On the far bank, the army would soon be two miles away or more and the camp of the O’Neill king was at a similar distance. If she chose to do so, she could take the old road to the north and be at Harold’s farmstead in less than two hours. Once the battle started, however, who knew what would happen? At the least, the way could be barred again. This might be her last chance.

Should she go? Her son thought so. Did she want to go? Over the last few days she had thought of little else. If she were to leave to marry someone, she certainly didn’t know a better man than Harold. She’d make him a good wife, too; and that knowledge was also an attraction. She desired him. It was futile to deny that. Did she love him? When she had seen the smoke and flames from Fingal and thought of the Norseman and his farmstead, she had experienced a pang of fear, and a little wave of tenderness for him, before she had reminded herself that, as he was under the King of Tara’s protection, he and his farm were probably safe.

But now, as she watched the men of Dyflin go out to battle, she decided that whatever her own feelings, and whatever her eldest son might wish, her most important duty must be to secure the best chance of success for her younger children. She must be calculating and, if necessary, cold.

Today was Good Friday. With luck the battle would be decided by nightfall. If Brian Boru was defeated, then marriage to Harold would be foolish. But if he won, that would leave one day before Easter in which to go to the Norseman. Harold might be killed, of course. He might also think her timing opportunistic. That couldn’t be helped. Easter was Easter. As a mother, there was only one sensible course to follow.

So it was, a short time later, that the lone figure of Caoilinn on a chestnut mare, followed by her two younger children, rode slowly out of Dyflin and across the wooden bridge. Once across, she followed the track up to a vantage point on some raised ground from which she could watch the outcome of events. Depending on how the battle went, she could either go with all haste to the man she loved, or retire discreetly back to Dyflin.

“Let us pray, children,” she said.

“What for, Mother?” they asked.

“A clear victory.”

They had drawn up the battle in three great lines. In the centre, the front line was made up of the men of Brian’s own tribe, led by one of his grandsons; behind them came the Munster host, with the Connacht men in the third line. On the two wings were the Norse contingents of Ospak and Wolf the Quarrelsome. Opposite them, advancing across the Tolka, the Leinster and Dyflin forces were in similar battle lines.

Morann had never seen anything like it. He was only a few feet away from King Brian. Around the old king, his personal guards had formed a protective enclosure, ready to form their shields, if necessary, into an impenetrable wall. The slight slope gave them a good view of the battle which was to take place below them.

The lines of troops were packed so thickly and were so deep, it seemed to Morann that you could have driven a chariot over their helmets from one wing to the other. Both sides had unfurled their battle banners, dozens of them, which were streaming in the breeze. At the centre of the enemy line, a huge wind sock in the form of a red dragon seemed ready to devour the other banners, while over the centre of Brian’s line, a black raven banner flapped as though screeching in fury.

It was as soon as the enemy had waded across the Tolka stream that the war cries began, starting with bloodcurdling shouts from individual warriors or groups, but then gathering into a single huge roar from one line, only to be echoed by an answering roar from the other. Again the roar came as the two lines advanced, and again. And then, from the Celtic centre came the great opening shower of javelins. A second shower of spears followed the first; and then, with a mighty roar, the two front lines rushed forward and, with a huge bang, crashed together. It was a terrifying sight.

Morann glanced at the little group in the enclosure. The king was sitting on a broad bench covered with furs. His eyes were fixed on the battle ahead, his face so alert that, despite his lines and his white beard, he seemed almost youthful. Beside him, waiting for an order, stood a faithful servant. Behind him, his face now paler than a ghost, was Osgar the monk. Several of the guards also stood ready to carry any messages he might wish to send. He had already sent one or two messages to his son, as to troop dispositions, but now, for the time being, there was nothing to do but watch and wait.

If Osgar the monk looked frightened, Morann could hardly blame him. Would the enemy break through and sweep towards them? Scar-faced Brodar’s fearsome Vikings appeared to be making terrible inroads on one part of the line. But though it seemed to sag, Morann saw the standards from the centre suddenly start to move, creating an internal bulge in the line as they went towards the most hard-pressed point.

“There goes my son,” said Brian with quiet satisfaction. “He can fight with a sword in each hand, you know,” he remarked to Morann. “Left or right, he strikes just as well.”

In a little while the advance of Brodar’s men seemed to be contained; but it was soon clear that neither side had a definite advantage. Now and then part of a line would give ground, and troops from the line behind would take their place. Individual warriors could be seen, both by their standards and also by the eddies and swirls they produced as they struck down those around them. Where there were Vikings engaged, Morann could see little flashes as the blows struck against the chain mail produced sparks. The battle cries grew fewer as time went on. The sound of the blows made Morann wince. As for Osgar, his eyes had grown wide in a sort of fascinated horror. And perhaps Brian Boru could sense the palpable fear behind his shoulder, for after a while he turned round to the monk and smiled.

“Sing us a Psalm, Brother Osgar,” he said amiably, “since God is on our side.” He reached down into a satchel beside him and pulled out a small volume. “You see,” he added, “I even have your Gospels here. I shall look at them while you sing.” And to Morann’s amazement and admiration, that was exactly what the old king did, remarking casually to his servant: “Keep an eye on the battle and let me know if anything happens.”

One thing, Morann thought, that should have happened, was that the King of Tara should by now have come to join the fight. But as yet, though he was not far off, he had not moved. The silversmith did not say anything on the subject. To look at King Brian, calmly perusing the book, you would never have guessed he even expected him.

Almost to his own surprise, Morann did not feel much afraid. It was not because he was behind the shield wall with King Brian. For the battle in all its fury was only a few hundred yards away. No, he realised, his calmness was due to something else. It was because he already knew that he was going to die.

It was past noon when Sigurd saw the movement to his right.

He had looked hard for Harold, as the two forces approached. Though Harold was a Norseman, Sigurd thought it most likely that, if he were in the battle, he would be with Brian’s own tribe or the Munster men. Or alternatively, he might be one of the men guarding the old king in person. He saw no sign of him yet, however, and though he had asked several men in the various detachments to call out if they saw him, he had heard nothing.

He had killed five men so far and wounded at least a dozen others. He had chosen a steel sword to fight with today. In close fighting, he found it better to stab than try to swing an axe. Though good blades were forged in Dyflin, the Viking armaments were still superior to anything made on the Celtic island, and the blue-bladed, double-edged sword he had acquired in Denmark was a deadly weapon. He had known this would be a hard fight, but it had gone far beyond his expectations and he had pulled back now, to take a short rest.

By midmorning a sharp, cold breeze had sprung up from the east. In the heat of the battle he had scarcely noticed it, but now it caught him in the face. It was wet, like sea spray—except, he suddenly realised, that it could not be. It was too warm. It was sticky also, getting in his eyes. It tasted salty on his lips. He blinked, frowned, and then cursed.

It was not from any sea. Each time the warriors in front of him crashed together, each time he heard the huge thud of a blow being landed, the shock of it sent up a little spray of sweat from the combatants. And of blood. And now, like the spume from the sea, it was a mixture of blood and sweat that was being carried back by the wind into his face.

Brodar had been hard-pressed by Wolf the Quarrelsome and his Norsemen. It seemed he was pulling back from the battle line to regroup. He had about a dozen men with him. Sigurd could see the warlord clearly. Brodar was pausing to rest.

Or was he? Unseen by their comrades fighting in front of them, the group was starting to move away towards the small wood near the hamlet.

Sigurd was not a coward; but his reason for being there was straightforward. He couldn’t care less whether Munster or Leinster won. He hadn’t come here to die but to fight and be paid for it; and Brodar was paying. If the scar-faced warrior was going to shelter in the wood, then so was Sigurd. He started to follow.

Harold watched carefully. It was midafternoon, and he thought he saw how it would go.

He had ridden out at dawn and stationed himself at a point from which he could see the King of Tara’s camp and the battle down at Clontarf. He was fully armed and he had decided upon a clear plan. If the O’Neill army, where his sons were, started to move into battle, he would ride across to join them. And if he saw the army of Brian being routed and Morann in danger, then despite his promise, he would go over and try to rescue his friend.

All morning he had watched. The King of Tara had not moved. As usual, he thought, his clever friend had foreseen events. Though neither battle line had yet given ground, he could see signs that Brian had the upper hand. He had already seen one of the Viking warlords sneaking away. The ranks of the Leinstermen were thinning, and though both sides were visibly slowing down, Brian still had reserves of fresh troops in the third line. He watched a little longer. The Leinstermen were giving ground.

It was safe to go home. He turned his horse’s head. He had not the least idea that, from a point behind the Leinster line, Caoilinn also was watching to see how the battle went.

“They’re giving ground,” murmured Morann.

“It isn’t over yet.” King Brian’s voice was quiet. He had risen and he was standing beside the craftsman now, surveying the battle.

Breaks in the cloud had allowed slanting rays of afternoon sun to light up patches of ground, and in the yellowish glow, the field before them looked in places almost like charred woodland after a forest fire with clumps of damaged trees still standing amidst the tangled mess of the fallen. But in the centre, the great mass of the battle was still heaving. There was no question, the advantage was with their side, but the fighting was stiff.

Catching the sunlight near the centre was a golden banner. This was held by the standard-bearer of Brian’s son. Sometimes the banner moved from one part of the fight to another. Though Brian said nothing, Morann knew that his eyes were fixed upon the banner. From time to time he gave a grunt of approval.

Suddenly there was a mighty surge, as another banner from the other side came towards it. The golden banner, apparently aware of the move, also stirred in that direction. There was a sound of shouting, a small roar as the two banners seemed almost to touch. He heard Brian hiss through his teeth, then there was an intake of breath. A long pause followed, as if the whole battle line was holding its breath. Then came a huge cheer from the other side, followed by a moan from the Munster men. And suddenly, like a firefly that has been extinguished, the golden standard fell and was seen no more.

Brian Boru said nothing. He stared straight ahead, obviously trying to see what was taking place in the melee. His son’s standard was down and nobody had raised it. That could only mean one thing. He was dead, or mortally wounded. Slowly the old man turned, went back to his former place, and sat down. His head sank forward. Nobody spoke.

Down in the battle line, however, the death of their leader seemed to have inspired the army with a desire to avenge him. They surged forward. For some little time, the enemy managed to make a last stand, but soon they were falling back, first one section of the line then another, until the whole front broke and fled towards the estuary and the Tolka.

Brian’s servant and Morann looked at each other. Neither of them liked to interrupt the king at such a moment. But it had to be done.

“The Leinstermen have broken. They’re running away.”

Did the old man hear? It was hard to tell. Some of the guards who made up the shield wall were obviously itching to join in the fray, now that the danger to the king was past. After a short pause, Morann decided to speak for them.

“May some of the guards go down to finish them off?” he enquired. This was acknowledged with a nod. A few moments later, half the guards went quickly down towards the water, the rest remaining at their posts by the king.

For a little longer, Brian Boru sat silently, his head bowed. If he had just won the greatest victory of his career, he did not seem to care. Suddenly, he looked very old.

Meanwhile, at the water’s edge some hundreds of yards away, a truly terrible scene was taking place. The Leinstermen and their allies had fled to the water’s edge, but having got there, were trapped with no further escape route. Those running westwards were caught as they tried to wade back across the stream. And in these two places they were slaughtered without mercy. Already the bodies were piling up in the stream and floating out into the estuary.

King Brian Boru did not watch. His head remained bowed, his shoulders stooped in pain. At last, turning his eyes sadly towards Brother Osgar, he motioned him to his side.

“Pray with me, monk,” he said quietly. “Let us pray for my poor son.” So Osgar came, and knelt at his side, and they prayed together.

Not wishing to disturb them, Morann moved to the edge of the enclosure and stepped out. The remaining guards were watching the events down by the water. Strangely, though it was only hundreds of yards away, the massacre seemed distant, almost unreal, while by Brian’s small enclosure there was an eerie quiet.

So the battle was over, and he was still alive. Morann had to admit that he was surprised. Had his intimation back at the tombs by the Boyne been wrong?

It was a few moments later that he saw the movement away to his right. No one else had noticed. It came from the small wood which ran down to the hamlet. From the top of it, now, a party of Vikings was emerging. There must have been at least a dozen of them. The people down by the water had their backs to them. They were fully armed, and they were running, rapidly, towards King Brian’s enclosure.

He let out a shout.

Caoilinn had seen enough. She could not tell exactly what was happening at the water’s edge, but the outcome of the battle was clear. The Leinster and Dyflin men had lost and Brian’s men were going to massacre them.

“Come, children,” she said, “it is time to go.”

“Where to, Mother?” they asked.

“Fingal.”

They headed north. At first, she urged her horse into a canter. It would look better, after all, if they could arrive at the farmstead quickly, before news of Leinster’s defeat reached Harold. She could claim that she had set out that morning and been delayed by troops on the road, rather than admit she had waited to see the outcome of the battle. She’d have to instruct the children in their story, too. But then she shook her head and almost laughed at herself. How absurd. What an insult to Harold’s intelligence, demeaning to them both. If they were going to marry, there would have to be more honesty than that.

So as soon as she was certain they were clear of any danger, she slowed her horse to a walk. She would take her time. She might as well look her best.

Osgar had already jumped up by the time Morann was back in the enclosure. The guards, caught unawares, were still snatching their shields and weapons. One of them had let Morann have an axe, and the silversmith was placing himself directly in front of the king. Osgar had no weapon. He felt helpless and naked.

The Vikings were getting near. He could hear their footfalls. He saw the guards tense. There was a loud bang that almost made him jump out of his skin, as a Viking sword struck an upraised shield. Then he saw the Viking helmets—three of them, four, five. They seemed huge, larger than life, looming over the shield wall. Their axes were crashing down. He saw one axe hook itself over the top of a shield, tearing it down while a sword blade stabbed through into the defender’s stomach, causing him to scream and then wilt in a welter of blood. Another guard fell, and another, writhing and biting the grass in his agony. The Vikings were through. Three of them, two with axes, one with a sword, were coming straight towards him. To his horror, he found himself unable to move, as in a dream. He saw Morann bravely raise his axe and swing at a Viking with a scarred face. With a clever stoop, the Viking dodged the blow while his companion, a black-haired, swarthy man, moving so quickly that Osgar hardly saw it happen, plunged a great, blue-bladed sword straight into Morann’s ribs below the heart. Osgar heard the ribs crack and then saw Morann sink down to his knees, while his axe dropped at Osgar’s feet. Efficiently, the dark fellow put one foot on Morann’s shoulder, pulled out his sword, and the silversmith fell forward, facedown onto the ground. Osgar saw his body twitching as the life left him.

For a moment the Vikings paused. They were looking at Osgar and Brian Boru.

Osgar had not been watching the king. To his surprise, he realised that Brian was still in the same position, slumped in his seat, where they had been praying together. There was a sword leaning against the back of the seat, but Brian had not bothered to reach for it. Until this moment, paralysed by fear, Osgar had not moved; but now, faced with death, instead of terror he felt an unexpected anger. He was going to die and no one, not even Brian Boru the warrior king, was going to do anything about it. The axe Morann had dropped was at his feet. Scarcely knowing what he was doing, he snatched it up.

The shield wall had collapsed. The rest of the Vikings were coming into the enclosure, but evidently the man with the scarred face was the leader, since they all kept behind him. Then the dark man pointed his sword at Brian and spoke.

“King.”

The leader looked from Osgar to Brian, then shook his head.

“No, Sigurd. Priest.”

“No, Brodar.” Sigurd was grinning as he pointed his sword at Brian’s white beard. “King.”

And now Brian Boru moved. Quick as a flash, with remarkable agility, he reached back over his head as he sat, grasped the sword behind him; and almost in the same instant it flashed forward, striking Brodar in the leg. As the sword bit, the Viking chief let out a roar and with a mighty swing brought down his axe on the old king’s neck, smashing the collarbone and opening a huge gash. Brian rocked, blood burst from his mouth, his eyes opened very wide, and he keeled over on his side.

And now Sigurd stepped forward with his broad, two-edged sword. Somewhere behind the swarthy Viking, Osgar heard someone say, “Priest,” but he hardly took it in. As he came towards Osgar, he wore a curious smile. Osgar, clutching his axe across his chest, backed away. Slowly Sigurd brought the blade of his sword up in front of Osgar’s face, showing it to him.

Osgar shook. He was going to die. Should he accept death like a Christian martyr? Earlier, he had not been able to bring himself to kill. But now? Even if he raised the axe to strike at Sigurd’s head, the swarthy pirate would plunge the fearsome sword through his rib cage before the axe had even started to descend.

As Osgar hesitated, Sigurd, taking no notice of the axe at all, took two steps up to the monk and, lowering his sword so that the flat of the blade caressed Osgar’s leg, brought his face so close to Osgar’s that their noses almost touched. His eyes stared into Osgar’s with a cold, terrifying menace. Osgar felt the sword blade slowly moving up his leg. Dear God, the pirate was about to stab it, with a terrible force, into his stomach. He would see his own entrails burst out. Only half aware of it, he vaguely felt a warm wetness running down his legs.

And then, suddenly, without warning, opening his mouth wide as though he was going to bite him, Sigurd the pirate let out a huge, bloodcurdling roar, into his face.

“Aarrgh! Aarrgh!”

And before a third was even out, Osgar had turned and fled, fled for his life, running as fast as he knew how, his legs wet, his face cold with terror. He did not even hear the laughter of the men behind him, but ran northwards, away from Sigurd, away from the battle, away from Dyflin. He did not stop until, breathless and panting, he reached the edge of the Plain of Bird Flocks and realised that there was no one behind him and that all was silence.

Brodar was bleeding badly; Brian’s blow had almost severed his leg. Down by the water, the Munster king’s forces had still not realised what had happened to him, but there was no time to lose.

Sigurd looked around him. When Brodar had pointed to the enclosure and led the raiding party, Sigurd assumed that the warlord was looking for loot to plunder. That was certainly what Sigurd wanted. Morann had been wearing a gold armband and was carrying some coins. Sigurd had those in a moment. Brian Boru had worn a magnificent clasp on his shoulder. By rights this was Brodar’s, but Brodar was no longer in a condition to take it. Sigurd swiftly detached it. The other members of the party were taking what they could. One had snatched a rich damask; another had the furs on which the old king had been sitting. A third had picked up a little book of illustrated Gospels that had fallen to the ground. He had shrugged, but put it in his pouch, supposing it must have some value.

“It’s time to go,” said Sigurd.

“What about Brodar?” asked one of his men.

Sigurd glanced at Brodar. The lower part of his leg was only hanging by a fragment of bone and fleshy tissue. The warlord was a pale grey colour; his face looked clammy.

“Leave him. He will die,” he said. It was no use trying to go back towards Dyflin, but some of the longships there would probably put out and work their way up the coast, looking for survivors. “I will meet you on the beach north of Howth,” he said. “If you find a longship, keep it there until nightfall.”

“Where are you going?”

“I have a piece of business to attend to,” said Sigurd.

It was only a short walk to the tents of the Munster camp where, Sigurd knew, there would be plenty of horses. It was guarded, so he had to move stealthily; but before long he saw a horse tethered to a post, and quietly untying it, he led it away. Moments later, he was on its back and heading north. His sword hung from his belt at his side. For the time being, he took off his heavy metal helmet and let it hang by its strap down his back. The cool breeze on his face felt refreshing. At a stream, he paused and dismounted for a moment to drink. Then, at a walk, he rode on. There were still a few hours of daylight. And thanks to his informants in Dyflin, he knew exactly where Harold’s farmstead was.

Only when he stopped running did Brother Osgar discover, to his surprise, that he was still clutching the axe.

There was no danger in sight at the moment, but who knew what threat might be lurking out there in the landscape. The axe was rather heavy, but he decided not to let it go just yet. Where should he seek refuge? Nearby he saw a burnt-out farmstead. No shelter there. Anyway, those pirates might come up here. Tomorrow or the next day, when he was sure there were no more Vikings around, he would go to Dyflin; but for the moment, he would continue until he reached some place of safety. So as soon as he had caught his breath, he pressed on.

He passed another ruined farm, crossed a patch of marshy ground, and had just emerged onto a track with a good view of the surrounding country when he caught sight of the woman and the two children riding some way ahead. When he first glimpsed them, he received a small shock. The woman looked like Caoilinn. Hardly realising he was doing so, he quickened his pace. The three horses reached a slight rise in the ground. Just as she was going over it, the woman half turned and he got a sight of her face. It was Caoilinn: he was almost sure of it. He called out, but she did not hear him and a moment later the three riders passed out of sight. He started to run.

They had cantered across some level terrain and were farther away from him when he caught sight of them again, but he managed to catch glimpses of them for some time. Then he lost them. But he continued in the same direction and, a little while later, passing through a small wood, he realised that he had come to the place where he had been attacked by the robbers when he was a youth. Sure enough, moments later, he saw spread out ahead of him, not a mile away, a large farmstead. The big wooden barn, the thatched storehouses, and the hall were all standing unharmed. They happened, at that moment, to be in a broad patch of sunshine, and bathed in its gentle evening light they seemed to him to glow like an illuminated page. It was Harold’s farmstead. A place of refuge. Caoilinn must have gone there. He went forward, joyfully.

The track to the entrance was of short, green turf. In his growing excitement, he felt a new spring in his step.

He was approaching the gateway when he saw her. She was standing in the open space in front of Harold’s hall. Her children were waiting by the horses. She was looking around. Apparently nobody was there. Her dark hair had fallen to her shoulders, just as he had pictured it a thousand times. His heart leaped. As a widow, now, she was even more beautiful, more alluring than he had remembered. He hurried forward.

She did not see him. She seemed still to be looking for someone. She came towards the gateway to look outside. And then he saw her staring towards him. He waved. She stared blankly.

He frowned, then smiled. Of course, a bedraggled figure in a monk’s habit, carrying an axe: he must look a strange sight. She probably hadn’t recognised him. He called out.

“Caoilinn. It is Osgar.”

Still she stared. She looked puzzled. Had she understood? Then she pointed at him. He waved again. She shook her head, pointing once more, urgently, to something behind him; so he stopped and turned.

The horse was only ten yards away. It had stopped when he did. It must have been walking behind him, but in his excitement at seeing Caoilinn, he had not heard its hoofs on the grassy track. Sigurd was riding it.

“Well, Monk, we meet again.” The pirate gazed at Osgar, apparently considering what to do with him.

Instinctively, clutching the axe, Osgar started to back away. Sigurd moved his horse slowly forward, keeping pace with him. How far was he from the gateway to the farmstead? Osgar tried to remember. He dared not look behind him. Could he make a run for it? Perhaps Caoilinn was closing the gate, trapping him outside with Sigurd. Suddenly he realised that the pirate was talking to him.

“Run away, Monk. It isn’t you I’m interested in.” Sigurd grinned. “The person I want is in that farmstead.” He waved him away. “Go on, Monk. Run.”

But Osgar did not run. For Caoilinn was there. The memory of that miserable day when he had let Morann go into Dyflin alone to save her flashed into his mind with bitterness. He had failed to strike a blow then. He had chosen his monk’s vocation over her, just as he had been doing for most of his life. And now this devil, this monster was going to take her. Rape her? Kill her? Probably both. The time had come. He must kill. He must kill this Viking or die in the attempt. Terrified of Sigurd though he was, the fighting spirit of his ancestors stirred within him, and calling loudly to Caoilinn behind him, “Close the gate,” he took a step back and raising the axe over his head, barred the way.

Slowly and carefully, Sigurd got down from his horse. He did not trouble to cram the helmet back on his head, but he drew out his double-edged sword. He was not going to argue with the monk, but Osgar was in the way. Would the fool really strike? The monk did not know it, but his stance was all wrong. His weight was so distributed that one of two things might happen. Sigurd would make a feint, Osgar would swing down and, meeting only thin air, probably cut off his own leg. If he didn’t swing then, Sigurd would take one nimble step to the right and plunge his sword straight into the monk’s side. It would be all over before the axe was halfway down. Osgar was about to die, but didn’t know it. If he tried to fight, that is.

But would he? Sigurd took his time. He slowly raised the blade of his sword, showing it to Osgar as he had done before. The monk was trembling like a leaf. Sigurd stood two paces away from him. Suddenly he let out a roar. Osgar quivered. He almost dropped the axe. Sigurd took one more step forward. The poor fool of a monk was so frightened that he had closed his eyes. In the gateway behind, Sigurd could see a dark-haired woman with a pale face. Handsome, whoever she was. He measured the distance. No need even to make a feint. He gripped his sword for the thrust.

And just at that moment, coming round the outside of the farmstead fence, he saw Harold. What luck.

Osgar struck. He had sent a single, fleeting prayer to heaven, half opened his eyes, seen the pirate, just for an instant, shift his gaze elsewhere and known that God, for all his sins, had granted him one chance. He struck with all his might. He struck for Caoilinn whom he loved, he struck for his hesitating life, his chances lost, his passion never practised. He struck to end his cowardice, and his shame. He struck to kill Sigurd.

And he did. Distracted for an instant, the pirate did not heed the blow until it was too late. The unexpected blade bit through the bone, cleaving the skull with a sickening crunch and a splatter of brains, shattering the bridge of his nose and smashing the jaw before it buried itself with a thud in the neck bone. The tremendous force of the blow drove the body onto its knees. It knelt there for a moment, like a strange creature with an axe for a head, the haft sticking out in front like a yard-long nose, while Osgar stared in disbelief at what he had wrought. Then it keeled over.

Harold, who had come in from a nearby field, unaware that he had any visitors, gazed at the scene before him with great surprise.

Three weeks later, Harold and Caoilinn were married in Dyflin. At Harold’s suggestion, it was a Christian ceremony, the bridegroom, with great good humour, having allowed himself to be baptised beforehand by the bride’s cousin Osgar, who also officiated at the marriage. Just before the ceremony, Osgar silently handed the bride a little antler ring. Despite many renewed requests, Osgar did not take up the position of abbot at the family monastery but preferred to return to the peace of his beloved Glendalough. There he produced another book of illustrated Gospels, which was very fine; but it lacked the genius of the one which was lost.

The Battle of Clontarf is rightly regarded as the most important of Celtic Irish history. It has often been depicted as the decisive encounter between the Celtic Gaedhil and the Nordic Gaill: Irish Brian Boru against the invading Vikings, by which Ireland was triumphant against the foreign aggressor. Such was the foolish propaganda of romantic historians. Although it may well have deterred further Viking raids at this unstable time in the northern world, Dyflin itself was left in the hands of its Viking ruler, just as before. The Nordic element in Ireland’s ports remained strong and the two communities, the Hiberno–Norse as they are often called, became indistinguishable.

The real significance of the Battle of Clontarf was probably twofold. First, Clontarf and the events surrounding it made clear the strategic importance of the island’s richest port. Never a tribal nor a religious centre, its trade and ramparts meant that, while the holding of ancient Tara was symbolic, to rule all Ireland, it was Dyflin that was crucial.

Secondly, and sadly, far from being a triumph, Clontarf was Ireland’s great missed opportunity. For though Brian Boru had decisively won the battle, he had also lost his life. The descendants of his grandchildren, the O’Briens, would earn high renown; but his immediate successors were unable to unite and hold all Ireland as, for a decade, the old man had briefly done. Twenty years later, the High Kingship would pass back to the O’Neill kings of Tara; but it was and remained only a ceremonial shadow of the kingship of Brian Boru. Disunited Ireland, like the fragmented Celtic island of ancient times, would always be vulnerable.

So Brian Boru won, but lost; and Harold the Norseman and Caoilinn the Celt, who were not in love, married and were very happy; Morann the Christian craftsman, having received a pagan warning, died like a warrior in battle; and Osgar the monk killed an evil man, even if he did not understand why.