"And the others all go to the fiery place?"

That was so, too, they said.

"Then what about my dad?" he asked, with genuine concern. "That means he'll be going to the fire." And after a few moments of consultation with his brother, they both agreed. Their logic might be a little strange, but it was held with conviction. Their father was resting with the family's gods. Right or wrong in the visitors" eyes, those gods had always been there and, somehow, would protect their own. But if Dubh Linn and the rath of Fergus became Christian, then the family would have turned their backs on the gods. Insulted them. Fergus would be left, as it were, stranded. The old gods would probably want nothing more to do with him, while the Christian God, apparently, would consign him to hellfire.

"We can't let that happen to him," he protested.

His brother, Ronan, was looking worried, too.

Yet if Deirdre felt embarrassed, she observed that none of the priests seemed in the least surprised.

For this was by no means an uncommon problem for Christian missionaries. If we are to be saved, their converts would ask, then what is the fate of our revered ancestors? Are you telling us they were wicked? The normal answer to this question was that God would make at least a partial dispensation for those who, through no fault of their own, had not the opportunity of accepting Christ. Only for those hearing Christ's message and then refusing it could there be no salvation.

It was a reasonable explanation, but it did not always satisfy. And it was typical of the great northern bishop that he had, upon occasion, employed a method of dealing with this problem which was all his own.

"How long is he dead?" he asked.

"Five days," they replied.

"Then dig the man up," he ordered. "I'll baptise him now."

And that is what they did. With the help of the slaves, the brothers disinterred their father from his mound down by the Liffey's edge. While the pale form of Fergus lay stiffly on the ground, looking remarkably dignified in death, Bishop Patrick splashed some water upon him and, with the sign of the cross, brought him into the Christian world.

"I cannot promise you he will reach heaven," he told the brothers with a kindly smile, "but his chances have greatly improved."

They reburied the old man in his mound, and Larine placed two pieces of wood, joined in the sign of the cross, above it.

They had returned to the rath and were about to enter the big thatched hall where the fire was burning, when Bishop Patrick stopped and turned to the members of the family.

"There is now," he announced, "a small kindness that you can do for me." They asked him only to tell them what it might be. He smiled. "You may not like it. I am speaking of your slaves." At these words the slaves standing around looked up hopefully.

"Your British slaves." He smiled. "My fellow countrymen. They are Christians, you know.

Part of my flock." He turned to Deirdre.

"The life of a slave is hard, Deirdre, daughter of Fergus. I know be cause I was one myself. Seized from their homes. Stolen from their families and their Church. I wish you to set your British slaves free."

He smiled again. "They do not always leave, you know.

I.

see you treat your slaves well. But they must be free to return to their homes if they wish. It's a barbarous trade," he added with sudden feeling.

Deirdre saw Larine and the priests nod automatically. Obviously they were used to these strange proceedings. For herself, she wasn't sure what to say. Morna looked astonished. It was Ronan who spoke up.

"Are you saying we should set them free without payment?" I Patrick turned to him. "How many slaves have you?"

"There are six."

"The raids produce so many. They cannot have cost you much."

Her brother thought a moment.

"But three of those are women," he pointed out. "They do all the heavy work."

"Lord preserve us," the bishop murmured, and turned up his eyes to heaven. A silence followed. With a sigh, Bishop Patrick nodded to Larine, who reached into a small pouch hanging from his belt and produced a Roman coin.

"Will that do?" Larine enquired. It seemed he was used to making such bargains to help the British Christians.

"Two," said Deirdre's brother quickly. He might be stupid, she thought, but he was still her father's son when it came to bargaining for livestock.

Larine glanced at Bishop Patrick, who nodded.

A moment later, the British slaves were on their knees before the bishop kissing his hands.

"Give thanks to God, my children," he told them kindly, "not to me." Deirdre wondered how much he spent like this each year.

But none of these events, as far as Deirdre was concerned, did anything to lessen her agony.

Morna was a Christian. He was going to Tara. The missionary bishop might possess the tongue of an angel, he might be sent by God, but he was still going to place her only son in mortal danger. And there was nothing she could do about it. A heavy gloom descended upon her.

Bishop Patrick had indicated that he would depart the following day. Until then, he and all his party must be treated as honoured guests. The bishop retired for a while to rest by the fire. Larine wandered down to the estuary and paced about there for a time, before returning to sit alone by the entrance to the rath.

Deirdre and the slaves set to work to prepare a feast. Morna, meanwhile, had joined the company of the young princes who formed the bishop's retinue. She heard them laughing together outside, and it was obvious that Morna was impressed with them. Once he appeared and told her, "They are splendid fellows. Every one is a prince. They travel about with Bishop Patrick and treat him like a king."

It was only after he had rested that Bishop Patrick, looking much refreshed, sent one of his priests to summon Larine and Morna, and called upon Deirdre to join them. When the four of them were gathered by the fire, he turned to Morna.

"You will recall that you promised to obey me," he began.

Morna bowed his head.

"Very well, then," the bishop continued. "Let me tell you what I wish you to do. You are to accompany me tomorrow. I wish you to join these young men who are travelling with me. I want you to remain with us for a time. Would you like that?"

"I should indeed." Morna's face lit up with delight.

"Do not be too pleased," Bishop Patrick cautioned him. "I also told you that there would be sacrifices, and there is to be one now." He paused. "You are not to go to Tara."

Deirdre stared. Not go to Tara? Had she heard him correctly? Evidently she had. Morna's face had fallen, and Larine was looking horrified.

"I may not go to the feis?"

"You may not. I forbid it."

Larine opened his mouth to say something, but Bishop Patrick gave him one look and he was silent.

"But the High Kinga" Morna began.

"He will probably notice your absence. But as you will have gone tomorrow, any travellers to Tara who come across the ford will say you were not here. And if in time the High King hears that you have gone away with me," he smiled, "he is used to me making a nuisance of myself. It was I, after all, who took away Larine. It is I who would be blamed, not you.

You may be sure of that." He turned to Deirdre.

"You will miss him, I dare say."

Yes, she would miss him. She would miss him desperately. But he would not be at Tara. That was all that mattered. She could scarcely believe it was happening.

"Where would he be?" she asked.

"In the north and west with me. I have protectors, Deirdre. He'll be safe enough."

"And would hea would Ia"

"See him again? You would indeed. Didn't I tell him to honour his mother? I would send him to you after a year. You and your brothers could manage at Dubh Linn until then, I should think, could you not?"

"Yes," she said gratefully. "We could."

Morna was looking utterly downcast, but the bishop was firm.

"You swore to obey," he reminded him sternly.

"Now you must honour your oath." Then he smiled kindly. "Do not grieve for Tara, my young friend.

Before the year is out, I promise you, I will show you even better things."

It was a pleasant little feast that they all enjoyed in the rath that night.

The company was in a cheerful mood. Deirdre was so re lieved that she was radiant. Her brother Ronan, with the prospect of acting as chief for a year, was looking pleased with himself. And even Morna, in the company of the young nobles, was visibly brightening. The food was well prepared, ale and wine flowed. And if the old drinking skull that gleamed softly in the corner might have seemed inappropriate at such a Christian feast, no one appeared to think of it. Not only did the kindly bishop prove to have a rich store of good stories and jokes, but he even insisted upon Larine reciting some of the tales of the ancient gods.

"They are wonderful stories," he told them, "full of poetry. You must not worship the old gods anymore. They have no power, because they are not real. But never lose the stories. I make Larine recite them whenever I spend an evening with him."

As she looked back over the day's extraordinary events and the wonderful turn that they had taken, there was only one small thing that puzzled Deirdre.

Towards the end of the evening, she confided it to Larine.

"You say that Bishop Patrick is austere? He never touches a woman?" It was one aspect of the new religion she found a little strange.

"That is true."

"Well, when I went into the water, I was just wearing my shift, you know. So when I came out, it was all stuck to me." She glanced across to make sure the bishop could not hear her. "Anda I saw his eyes light up. He noticed me, you know."

And now, for the first time since his arrival, Larine threw back his head and laughed.

"Oh, I'm sure he did, Deirdre. He would indeed."

They left soon after dawn. Bishop Patrick gave his blessing to them all, and promised Deirdre once more that he would send her son back to her safely again. Morna, for his part, bade his mother a tender farewell, and likewise promised to return.

So it was with relief and happiness, rather than grief, that Deirdre watched the great chariot with its accompanying wagon and riders, with their cross and staff, sweep away across the Ford of Hurdles and take the track northwards towards Ulster.

Indeed, everybody involved in the day's work was pleased, with the possible exception of Larine who, around midday, when they were resting, ventured to make a small complaint to Bishop Patrick.

"I was a little surprised that you decided to override my counsel," he remarked. "In fact, I was somewhat embarrassed. I had hoped to send a young Christian to the High King at Tara.

But all I achieved was to bring you a few converts at a rath by a ford."

Bishop Patrick watched him calmly. "You were angry."

"I was. Why did you do it?"

"Because, when I saw them all, I thought the woman was right. I I returned to this island to bring the Gospel's joyful message to the heathen, Larine.

Not to make martyrs." He sighed. "The ways of God are inscrutable, Larine," he said gently.

"We do not need to be so ambitious." He patted the former druid's arm. "Morna is a chief. The ford is a crossroads. Who can tell what Dubh Linn may be worth?"

VIKINGS.

I.

The red-haired boy stared at the ship. It was nearly midnight. The sea was like dusted silver, the sky pale grey. He had met men who had sailed beyond the islands in the distant north, where the sun shone at midnight and for long weeks in summer there was no darkness at all. But even here at Dyflin, in July, the night was almost banished. For an hour or so there was enough darkness to see a few stars, but for the rest of the sun's short absence, the world was full of the strange, luminous greyness that is special to midsummer nights in the northern seas.

The ship was moving silently. It had come up the coast from the south. Instead of using their oars, the crew were letting the breeze bring them into the Liffey estuary along the northern shore where the pale sandbars lurked.

Harold was not supposed to be down by the sandbars; he was supposed to be asleep in the big farmstead. But sometimes, on summer nights like this, he would sneak out and take his pony from the field and come here to the coast to watch the huge, silver-grey waters of the bay which seemed to draw him to them, as the tides are invisibly drawn by the moon, with a magic he did not understand.

It was the biggest ship he had ever seen. Its long lines were like a great sea snake; its high, curved prow cut through the water as smoothly as an axe through liquid metal. Its big, square sail rose over the sandbar, blocking out a patch of sky, and even in the twilight he could see that it was black and ochre like dried blood. For this was a Viking ship.

But Harold was not afraid. For he was a Viking himself, and these were Viking waters now.

So he watched the blackening sea snake with its brutal sail as it passed by and glided away into the awaiting Liffey's stream, knowing that it carried not only armed men-for these were dangerous times-but rich merchandise. Perhaps, the next day, he could persuade his father to take him down to see it.

He didn't notice the other boy at first. There were so many people at the waterside below Dyflin's dark wall. He didn't even see him until he spoke.

He had been in luck. His father, Olaf, had agreed to take him to the port. The day had been bright when they had set out from the farmstead and started to ride across the Plain of Bird Flocks. The damp breeze had felt refreshing as it pressed against his cheek; the sky was blue, and the sun was shining on his father's red hair.

There was no one like his father: no one so brave, no one so handsome. He was firm. When Harold was helping on the farm, his father would often push him to work a little longer than he wanted. But if you were down, he'd soon tell you a story to make you laugh. And then there was something else. When Harold was with his mother and sisters, he knew he was loved, and he was happy.

But he couldn't feel free. Not quite. Not nowadays.

When his father scooped him up in his strong arms, though, and put him on his pony, and let him trot along beside his own splendid horse, then Harold felt something beyond happiness.

A surge of strength seemed to flood through his small body; his blue eyes shone. That was when he knew what it was to feel free.

Free as a bird in the air. Free as a Viking on the open sea.

It was nearly two centuries since the Vikings of Scandinavia had begun their epic voyages around the northern seas. There had been greater land migrations in the ancient world; sea traders, Greek and Phoenician, had set up ports and colonies round most of the shores known to classical civilization. But never before in human history had there been such a huge adventure as that of the Viking sea rovers upon the world ocean. Pirates, traders, explorers-they set out from their northern inlets in their swift longships and soon, all over Europe, men learned to tremble when they saw their square sails approaching by sea, or their great, horned helmets coming up from the riverbank. From Sweden they travelled down the huge rivers of Russia; from Denmark they first ravaged and then settled the northern half of England. Vikings sailed south to France and the Mediterranean: Normandy and Norman Sicily were their colonies. They voyaged westwards to the Scottish isles, the Isle of Man, Iceland, Greenland, even America. And it was the fair-haired Vikings from Norway who, coming to the pleasant island west of Britain, explored its natural harbours and, converting its Celtic name-Eriu, which they pronounced Eire-into their own tongue, first gave the place the Nordic name of Ireland.

Harold knew how his ancestors had come to Ireland.

The story was as wonderful to him as any of the Nordic sagas his father told. Almost a century and a half had passed since the great fleet of sixty longships had sailed into the Liffey's estuary. "And my fathers grandfather, Harold Red-Hair, was in one of them," his father had told him proudly. When a large party had rowed upstream to the Ford of Hurdles, they had been rather disappointed. After passing a burial mound, they had found a small rath protecting a jetty, a dark pool, and, on the high bank above it, a little monastery to which the head man of the rath seemed to attach great importance. The pagan Norsemen hadn't thought much of it. Twenty armed men could scarcely fit into the stone chapel which contained only a modest gold cross and a chalice to take away for their trouble.