"Come on," she cried; and, with an amused shake of his head, be he followed her. He still didn't know if he was to be married.

The little monastery stood on the slopes just south of the ridge where the old rath of Fergus had overlooked the dark pool of Dubh Linn. It had been there when first the Vikings came-a small religious house protected by the Ui Fergusa descendants of the old chief. In the centuries after the death of Fergus, other small chiefs had set up raths here and there in the broad plain of the Liffey's estuary and their names had survived. Rathmines, Rathgar, Rathfarnham all lay within a few miles' distance.

The old rath of Fergus now lay within the walls of Dyflin, but the little clan of the Ui Fergusa were still recognised as chiefs in the area, and they had a be farmstead nearby As he gazed across to the dark pool and the walled Viking settlement beyond, Osgar felt a comforting warmth spread through him. 5 This was home.

When the Norwegian Vikings first arrived, his ancestor, the Ui Fergusa chief of the day, had wisely decided not to put up a futile resistance. It was also fortunate that, like Fergus long before him, this master of the rath had been an excellent cattleman. The Vikings had no sooner arrived on the Liffey than they began to look for supplies. Having dispersed his livestock to places where they would be hard to find, the cattleman made himself useful to them in every way, supplying them with grain, meat, and cattle at prices which were fair.

The Vikings might be pirates but they were also traders. They respected him. Despite his Christian religion, this descendant of Fergus had still proudly preserved the family's ancient drinking skull. The Vikings could relate to that. He soon learned enough of their language to conduct business and made sure that none of his people gave them trouble.

He became quite a popular figure. There was open land all around: there was no need to throw the old chief off his territory. And if he wanted to keep the little monastery, whose only object of value they had already taken, the pagan Norsemen had no objection. The monastery paid them a small rent. The monks often had skill in medicine.

Vikings from the settlement would trudge over there for cures from time to time. And so it was that the family of Osgar had held on, by ancient Ath Cliath, down the centuries.

The two children were nearing the monastery gate, from which an elderly monk was emerging, when Caoilinn declared her intention.

"I think," she said, "I should like to get married in church today." And approaching the old monk, she asked politely, "Is the abbot in, Brother Brendan?"

"He is not," came the gruff reply. "He's gone fishing with his sons."

"We can't use the chapel, then," Osgar told her firmly, "or we'll be in trouble with my uncle."

The abbot was strict about such things. If he allowed the children into the little chapel when there was no service, well and good. But if they sneaked in there without permission, they could expect to feel his strap across their backsides.

The fact that Osgar's uncle the abbot was a married man with children was not an indication of moral laxity at the monastery. Ever since, about two centuries after Bishop Patrick's visit, the Ui Fergusa I. had allowed a party of monks from a great religious community to the south to settle near their rath, the family had associated itself with the monastery. From time to time down the generations, if some member of the family felt a desire for the contemplative life, what could have been more natural than for him to enter their own religious house? Indeed, it even added to their prestige: for just as their ancestors had sometimes become druids, so the greatest families in the island would often have one of their number in holy orders at any given time. And it was only natural, also, that the Ui Fergusa should think of themselves as guardians of the monks.

Not that the little monastery was in need of much protection.

Some of the great monasteries on the island had grown so rich that the chiefs in the region, for whom cattle raiding, after all, was an ancient and honourable tradition, could not resist the temptation to plunder the religious houses upon occasion. In the last two centuries, the Viking raiders had also plundered some of the monasteries when they came upon them near the island's coasts and navigable rivers. There had even, on some memorable occasions, been pitched battles between the monks from rival monasteries, over their possessions, precedence, or other matters. But the little religious house above the dark pool had suffered few of these troubles for the simple reason that it was too small and possessed no great treasures.

Nonetheless, it suited the family's pride that they should be its guardians, and in recent generations the chief of the family or one of his brothers had generally taken the position of lay abbot, which allowed the family to benefit from the modest living afforded by the place as well as giving it their protection. Such arrangements were quite common, both on the island and in many other parts of Christendom.

"Well," said Caoilinn crossly, "if we can't use the chapel, then it'll have to be somewhere else."

She thought for a moment. "We'll go to the mound," she then announced. "Have you got the ring?"

"I have the ring," he replied patiently, and reaching into the leather pouch hanging from his belt he pulled out the small ring, made of deer antler, with which he had already wed her at least a dozen times.

"Come on, then," she said.

The game had been going on for almost a year now: the game of getting married. She never seemed to tire of it. And still he did not know-was it just a little girl's game, childish and without meaning, or was there some serious intention behind it? He was always the one she chose to be the bridegroom. Was that just because he was her cousin and he played along, and she was afraid the other boys might have laughed at her? Probably.

Wasn't he embarrassed? Not really. He could shrug it off. She was just his little cousin. Anyway, Osgar might be slim, but he was taller than most of the other boys of his age, and he was sinewy. The other children treated him with a cautious respect. So he usually indulged her. Once when he was busy, he'd refused, and seen her face fall and watched her grow silent. Then, with a defiant toss of her head, she'd come back at him.

"Well, if you won't marry me, I'll have to find someone else."

"No, I'll marry you," he had relented.

Better himself, after all, than another.

The mound wasn't far off. It stood on a grassy platform a little way back from the mudflats that lay downstream of the dark pool's inlet. When the Vikings first saw it they had named the place Hoggen Green, which meant "graveyard"; and as the Nordic people often did when they found a sacred place near a settlement, they used Hoggen Green for their assemblies where the freemen of the town came together to hold counsel and elect their leaders. And so it was that while the graves of his descendants, including Deirdre, Morna, and his children, gradually sank down until they were level with the rest of the grass at the Viking meeting place, the mound that was the last resting place of old Fergus was built up to be used as the platform on which the Viking headmen would stand to conduct their assemblies. The assembly was called the "Thing." Old Fergus's grave, therefore, had nowadays acquired a new name.

It was known as the Thingmount.

Before the Thingmount, the two children stood and prepared to get married. The marriage, they both knew, was appropriate. They were second cousins: Caoilinn's grandfather had become a craftsman and moved into Dyflin, while Osgar's had remained at the family farmstead by the monastery.

The stately old Thingmount by the quiet river was also an appropriate place. For both knew that it was from under it that their ancestor Fergus had emerged to be baptised by none other than I.

Saint Patrick himself. And both Osgar and even nine-year-old Caoilinn could recite with familiar ease the twenty-five generations that joined them to the old man.

As he always did, Osgar had to act the part of both bridegroom and priest. He did it very well. Since his father had died four years ago, his uncle the abbot had taken charge of his education. To the great joy of his mother, who went down on her knees in prayer four or five times every day, he not only knew his catechism and many of the Psalms by heart, but he could recite large parts of the Church services, too. "You have a talent for the spiritual life," his uncle informed him. He could also read and write, haltingly, in Latin.

Indeed, his uncle told his proud mother, young Osgar had shown more aptitude for these things than his own sons.

Standing beside Caoilinn, but also just in front, he rather convincingly intoned the priest's part and gave the bridegroom's responses. The antler ring was fitted, the bride duly but chastely kissed on the cheek, and Caoilinn, delighted with herself as always, walked about with her arm linked in his and the ring on her finger. She would wear it until the end of their games when, upon parting, she would give it back to him, to be put safely in the pouch until the next time.

What did it all mean? She might not know herself, but Osgar supposed that indeed, one day, they would marry in earnest.

You could see they were cousins. They had the same dark hair and good looks that had usually run in the family. But whereas Osgar's eyes were deep blue, hers were a startling green. He knew that green eyes ran in the family, but of all his cousins, she was the only one to have them, and that had made her seem special to him, even when she was only an infant. There was something about a cousin, too. Their shared ancestry seemed to form a strange bond between them-familiar, yet magical. He couldn't quite explain it, but he felt as if they were destined to be together in a world from which other families were somehow excluded. Yet even if they hadn't been cousins, he would have been fascinated by her wild, free spirit. The grown-ups, his uncles and aunts, had always considered him the most responsible of all the children of the extended family.

The boy who was most likely to lead. He wasn't sure why, but it had been so even before the death of his father. Perhaps that was why he felt a special protectiveness towards his little cousin Caoilinn, who always did what she wanted, and climbed the tallest trees, and insisted that he marry her. For in his heart he knew that he could not think of marrying anyone else. The bright little spirit with her green eyes had long ago enchanted him.

They stayed there for a while, playing by the Thingmount and along the banks of a little stream that crossed the grass nearby; but at last it was time to return. And Caoilinn had just slipped off the ring and handed it to Osgar when they noticed two figures coming in their direction. One was a tall red-haired man on a splendid horse; the other a red-haired boy on a pony. They rode slowly along the riverside edge of Hoggen Green.

"Who are they?" Osgar asked Caoilinn. She always knew everybody.

"Ostmen. Norwegians. They've been here a long time," she said. "They live out in Fingal but they come into Dyflin sometimes. Rich farmers."

"Oh." He thought he knew the farmstead, and gazed at the two riders curiously, supposing they had come to visit the Thingmount. But to his surprise, though they glanced in the mound's direction, the two figures abruptly turned away towards the estuary and started heading into the shallows. "They must be going to the stone, then," he remarked.

It was a strange sight. Out on the watery mudflats, a single standing stone stood like a lonely sentinel, with only the crying seabirds for company.

Behind it, bare mud and sea pool; before it, the breeze-blown waters of the estuary: the Long Stone, as it was called, had been set there by the Vikings to mark the place where, a century and a half earlier, their leading longship had first run aground on the Liffey's shore. For the two Norwegians, Osgar supposed, the Long Stone at the sea's edge might evoke the same ancestral echoes as the tomb of old Fergus did for him.

There was no question, he thought, that the tall Ostman with his red hair was a fine-looking man. And as if catching his thought from the wind, he heard Caoilinn beside him remark, "The boy's name is Harold. He's handsome."

Why should that strike a discordant note? No doubt she'd noticed him in Dyflin. Why shouldn't the Norwegian boy be handsome?

"Are they Christian or heathen?" he asked casually.

Many of the Vikings in Dyflin were still pagan. But the situation was fluid. The Irish living within the walls, like Caoilinn and her family, of course, were all Christian. Over the water, in England, Normandy, and the lands where they had taken their place beside other Christian rulers, the Viking chiefs and their followers had mostly availed themselves of the prestige and recognition that came with membership in the universal Church. But in Ireland, you still had to ask. Those who live and trade on the high seas often learn to show respect to different gods in different lands. The old Viking gods like Thor and Woden were very much alive. So if a merchant in Dyflin had something like a cross hanging round his neck, you could never be sure whether it was a crucifix or the hammer symbol of Thor.

One thing was certain, though. His cousin Caoilinn's family were as devoutly Christian as his own. Caoilinn would never be allowed to marry a pagan, however rich or handsome he might be.

"I don't know," she said, and a brief silence fell between them. "The boy's a cripple," she added casually.

"Ah. Poor fellow," said Osgar.

II.

coma 99 1 and "You'd better go and collect him, Morann. You know what he's like."

Morann Mac Goibnenn looked up at his wife, Freya, with a smile and nodded.

It was the end of a warm and quiet summer. All the world, it seemed, was at peace this year. Seven years ago, the rising warlord from Munster, Brian Boru, along with some of the Waterford Vikings, had tried to raid the port. Two years ago, the High King had paid the place another brief and terrifying visit. But last year and this, everything had been quiet. No warships, no thundering of horses' hoofs, no threatening fires or clash of arms: the port of Dyflin under a new king, Sitric, had gone quietly about its business. It was time to think of family pastimes and of love. And since Morann had these things for himself, it was time to think of them for his friend Harold.

What was the matter with him? Was it forgetfulness, as he pretended, or shyness that caused him to miss appointments with pretty girls? "Just so long as it isn't to meet some woman," he'd said, when Morann had invited him. They'd tried introducing him to a girl about a year ago. He'd remained silent for the whole evening. "I wouldn't want her getting any ideas," he'd explained afterwards, while Morann had shaken his head and his wife, behind Harold's back, had cast her eyes up to heaven.

Now it was time to try again.

Freya had selected the girl, whose name was Astrid and who was a kinswoman of her own. She'd spent a whole morning talking to her about Harold, told her everything about him, good and bad. Though the Norwegian knew nothing about it, the young woman had already been down to where he worked and observed him several times. In order to get round the problem of Harold's shyness, I they had agreed to say that she was on her way to Waterford, where she was betrothed.

Morann would have been glad to see his friend married to a good woman like his own wife. He looked up at her fondly. There might be two communities in Ireland, Celtic and Scandinavian, and in describing their battles, the bards might like to build them up as heroic adversaries-Celt against Viking, Gaels against Foreigners, andbrvbarbb8Gaedhil and Gaill" in the poetic phrase-but in reality, the division had never been so simple. Though the Viking ports were certainly Nordic enclaves, the Norsemen had been marrying island women since they first arrived, and Irish men wed Nordic women. Freya was dressed as a good Scandinavian wife should be-plain woollen stockings, leather shoes, a full belted dress over a linen shift. From the tortoiseshell clasp at her shoulder, on a silver chain hung two keys, a little bronze needle case, and a small pair of scissors. From her broad brow, her light brown hair was tied back severely under a hairnet. Only Morann knew the fires that burned beneath this demure exterior. She could be quite as wanton, he thought approvingly, as any harlot.

That was the sort of wife his friend needed.

This Astrid girl was pagan, too. Though most of their Fingal neighbours were Christian, the family of Harold had remained quietly true to their old gods. Morann's wife had also been pagan, but converted to Christianity when she married him. He'd insisted upon that because he felt it showed respect to his family. Indeed, when comshe'd asked him what it would mean to become a Christian, he had given her an answer worthy of his one-eyed ancestor from six centuries ago: "It means you'll do as I say."

He smiled when he thought of it. Five years of happy marriage and two children had taught him better.

Freya had certainly prepared a splendid meal.

They lived in the Viking style: a modest breakfast in the morning, then nothing until the main meal of the day in the evening. Pickled herring and fresh fish from the estuary to start; two sorts of freshly baked bread; a main course of stewed calf, served with leeks and onions; cheese curds and hazelnuts to finish. All washed down with mead and a good wine shipped in from France. The stew was in its pot, hanging over the central hearth in the big main room. He could smell it from his workshop.

"You want me to go now?" he asked Freya. She nodded. Slowly, therefore, he began to gather up the objects on the table in front of him.

They were the various tools of his trade: the gimlets, tweezers, hammers that proclaimed he was a metalworker. More interesting was the small, flat piece of bone-the trial piece-upon which he had been carving rough designs for future items of metalwork. His talent was obvious. Even in this rough work, with its complex, interlacing forms, one could see the skilful blending of the abstract, swirling patterns of the island's ancient art, with the snakelike animal forms so popular with the Norsemen. Under his clever hands, rude Viking sea snakes would be caught in cosmic, Celtic patterns that delighted men and women equally.

In a strongbox beside his table, which was neatly divided into compartments, were all kinds of curiosities. There were pieces of the dark stone known as jet imported from the British Viking city of York; another compartment contained bits of coloured Roman glass, dug up in London and used by Viking jewellers for decoration. There were beads of dark blue, white, and yellow for making bracelets. For Morann could make anything: copper buckles, silver sword handles, gold arm rings; he could decorate with gold filigree and pattern silver, and make jewellery and ornaments of every kind.

Also in his box were some small piles of coins. As well as the old ring money and hack silver, the Viking traders of Dyflin were used to transacting business with coins from all over Europe, although there was talk of setting up their own mint, like the English did in their towns, there in Dyflin. Morann owned one or two old coins from the mints of Alfred the Great in England, and even one, of which he was especially proud, two centuries old, of the Holy Roman Emperor Charlemagne himself.

Carefully, now, he put the contents of his worktable away in the iron-banded box, which he then locked and gave to his wife for safekeeping inside the house.

It was nearing the end of the working day. He made his way past the premises and workshops of comb makers and carpenters, harness makers and sellers of precious stones. Everywhere the busy prosperity of the Viking town was evident. He passed a blacksmith's glowing forge and smiled-the occupation of his ancestors. But it had to be admitted, the Norse invaders were better craftsmen with iron and ringing steel than even the warlike men of the island had been.

Turning down the street known as Fish Shambles, where the fish market was already closed, he saw a merchant who gave him a respectful nod. The merchant dealt in the most precious commodity of all-golden amber that came all the way from Russia in a ship of the Baltic trade. Only a few of the craftsmen in Dyflin could afford to buy amber, and Morann was one of them.

Morann Mac Goibnenn. In Irish it sounded "Mocgovnan"-son of the smith-for both his father and grandfather had borne the name of Goibniu. It was only in the last generation or two that this form of individual family name had begun to be used. A man might be called Fergus, son of Fergus, and might belong to a great royal tribe, like the O'neill; but the tribe was not, as yet, a family name. Morann and his children, however, were now the Mac Goibnenn family.

And it was used, by both Irish and Viking townsmen alike, with respect. Young though he still was, the maker of jewellery had shown himself to be a master of his craft. He was also known to be cautious and canny, and already he was a man who was listened to in the Viking port. His father had died two years after he had first come to Dyflin and it had been a great grief; but it gave Morann pleasure to think of how proud his father would be if he could see him now.

Almost unconsciously, as though to keep alive the memory of his father, he had begun since the old man's death to imitate his trick of fixing people with one eye when he was negotiating or studying them for some reason. When his wife had complained of it, he had only laughed, but had not stopped doing it.

At the bottom of Fish Shambles, he came out onto the big wooden quay. There were still plenty of people about. A party of slaves, chained together with iron rings round their necks, was being led along it from one of the boats. He glanced at them quickly, but with a critical eye. They looked strong and healthy.

Dyflin was the main slave market for the island and there were regular shipments from the great British slave port of Bristol. The English, in his opinion, being somewhat slow and docile, made good slaves.

Swiftly, he made his way along the quay to the end where he knew his friend would be. And there, sure enough, he was. He waved. Harold saw him, and smiled.

Good. He suspected nothing.

It took a little while to get Harold away from the quay; but he seemed quite happy to be coming, which was all that mattered. His real concern, however, seemed to be that Morann should admire the great project upon which he was working, and of which he was obviously very proud. Nor had Morann any difficulty in doing so.

"It's magnificent," he agreed. In fact, it was awesome.

It was a Viking ship. All over the Viking world, nowadays, the port of Dyflin was famous for building ships. There were many shipyards around the coasts of Scandinavia and Britain; but if you wanted the best, you went to Dyflin.

Like everyone else in the town, Morann knew that the latest boat was special; but today they had been taking down some of the scaffolding which had surrounded it, and the ship's sleek outlines were now visible. It was massive.

"A yard longer than anything built in London or York," Harold said proudly. "Come, see inside it." And he led the way to a ladder, while Morann followed.

It always amazed Morann that, despite his limp, Harold could move as fast, indeed faster than other men. Watching him run up the ladder and then, with a laugh, leaping lightly over the ship's side, the craftsman could only marvel at his agility. Having known him only since the young Norwegian came to work in the port, however, he had no idea of the years of painful training and hard work that had achieved this result.

Ever since the meeting with Sigurd, it had been the same. Early in the morning, he would be up to help his father on the farm. But by midday he was always free, and then his regimen would begin. First came the physical training. He would drive himself ruthlessly. Ignoring the pain and humiliation of his stumbles and falls, the little boy at the farmstead would force himself to walk as fast as he could, dragging his crippled leg along, pushing it into use. In due course, with an erratic, hopping kind of action, he could run. He could even jump, leaping with his good leg and tucking the damaged one under him as he cleared an obstacle. In the afternoons his father would usually join him.

And then the fun would begin.

His father had made him little wooden weapons first: an axe, a sword, a dagger and shield. For two years it was like a game he would play, teaching Harold to strike, parry, thrust, and dodge.

Move away. Hold your ground. Strike now!" he would call. And, weaving, ducking, or whirling his toy axe, the boy would go through every exercise his father could devise. By the age of twelve, his skill was remarkable and his father would laugh: "I can't catch him!" At thirteen, Harold was given his first real weapons. They were light, but a year later his father gave him heavier ones. At the age of fifteen, his father confessed he could teach him no more, and sent him to a friend up the coast, whom he knew was highly skilled. It was there that Harold learned not only greater agility but even to make use of his physical peculiarities to strike unconventional blows that would take any opponent by surprise.

By the age of sixteen, he was a killing machine.

"Strangely enough," his well-meaning father once remarked to him, "by threatening your life, that Dane may have done you a favour. Think what you were then, and look at you now."

And Harold kissed his father affectionately and said nothing, because what he knew was that he had developed extraordinary skills, but that he was still a cripple.

"The lines are fine," Harold called to Morann, as the craftsman clambered over the ladder. And indeed they were. The long clinker- built lines of the ship swept forward to the huge prow so smoothly and with such power that when you imagined it in the water its swift passage didn't just seem natural, it seemed inevitable-as inevitable as fate, in the hands of the pagan Nordic gods themselves. "The space for the cargo," Harold was gesturing towards the empty centre of the huge vessel, "is nearly a third larger than anything else on the water." He pointed down to the bottom of the ship, where the mighty spine of the keel ran like a blade. "Yet the draught is still shallow enough for all the main rivers on the island." The Liffey, the massive Shannon waterway in the west, every major river in Ireland had seen the Viking oarsmen come skimming up their shallow waters into the interior. "But do you know the real secret of a ship like this, Morann? The secret of its handling under sail, on the sea?"

They were strong. They never capsized. The craftsman was aware of these. But with a grin, the Norwegian went on: "They bend, Morann."

He made a wiggling motion with his arm. "As you feel the power of the wind on the sail, running down the mast, and you feel the power of the water against the sides, you can feel something else. The keel itself bends, it follows the water's curve. The whole ship, braced against the wind, becomes at one with the water.

It's not a ship, Morann, it's a snake." He laughed with delight. "A great sea snake!"

How handsome he looked, the craftsman thought, with his long red hair, like his father's, and his bright blue eyes, so happy on his ship.

Once Freya had asked Morann, "Did you never wonder why Harold left the farmstead and came to work in Dyflin?"

"He loves building ships," he'd answered.

"It's in his blood," he had added. It was obvious to any man.

And indeed, if there was more to the matter than Morann Mac Goibnenn supposed, he had never heard of it from his young friend. be Harold had been almost seventeen the summer when they presented him with the girl. She came from over the sea, from one of the northern islands-a girl of good ancestry, they told him, whose parents had died leaving her in the care of her uncle. "He's a fine man," andbrvbar; his father told him, "and he has sent her to me. She'll be our guest for a month and you're to look after her. Her name is Helga." She was a fair, slim girl, blue-eyed, a year older than he was. Her father had been Norwegian; her mother, Swedish. Yellow hair framed her cheeks, pressing them close, like a pair of hands taking her face between them before the lips were kissed. She did not smile be much, and her eyes had a slightly distant look, as if half her mind Was somewhere else. Yet there was a hint of sensuality in her mouth that Harold found a little mysterious, and exciting.

Around the house, she seemed placid and content.

Two of Harold's sisters were married and away by then, but his remaining sisters got on with her well enough. No one had any complaints.