And indeed, wasn't the book laid out like a celestial city? Four Gospels: four points of the compass, four arms of the holy cross. Hadn't Ireland four provinces? Even the mighty Roman Empire, in the later days when it was Christian, had been divided into four parts. At the start of each of the Gospels came three magnificent full-page illuminations: first the winged symbol of the evangelist- Matthew the man, Mark the lion, Luke the calf, and John the eagle; second came a portrait page; third, the first words of the Gospel were worked up into a huge design. A trinity of pages to start each of the four Gospels.

Three and four: the seven days of the week. Three times four: the twelve apostles.

There were other full-page illuminations at appropriate places, like the eight-circle double-cross design, the Virgin and Child, and the great Chi-Rho symbol that began Matthew's account of the birth of Jesus.

The splendour of the pages was in their colour: deep, sumptuous reds and mauves, the purples, emerald greens, and sapphire blues; the pale tinctures of the saints' faces, like old ivory; and everywhere the gleaming yellow that made them look like gold enamelled screens.

But their magnificence was in their construction.

Trefoil spirals enclosed in discs, borders of interlacing ribbons and knots, and motifs from the island's most ancient past were joined to Christian symbols-the eagle of John; the peacock, symbol of Christ's incorruptibility; fish, snakes, lions, angels and their trumpets-all stylised into geometric patterns. There were human figures, too, grouped in spandrels in the corners, or round the bases of golden letters, men with arms and legs lengthened and interlaced so that human body and abstract design became one and the same in this Celtic cosmos. And these patterns were endless: repeating interfacings of such Oriental complexity that the eye could never unravel them; discs of spirals set in clusters like jewels, circle and stipple, snakelike forms and filigree-the rich riot of Celtic decoration seemed likely to run completely out of control were it not for the massive, monumental geometry of the composition.

Ah, that was the thing. That, Osgar thought, was the wonder of it. For whether it was the great cruciform image of the four evangelists, or the mighty sinuous curve of the Chi-Rho, the message of the illuminated pages was unmistakable. Just as, in its later days, the stolid empire of pagan Rome had tried with its numbered legions and massive walls to stem the tides of barbarians, so now the Roman Church, with the still greater power and authority of the true religion, was imposing its monumental order on the anarchy of the heathen, and building not just an imperial but a celestial city- timeless, eternal, comprehensive, and bathed in spiritual light. He would gaze at the pages by day and, sometimes, dream of them at night. Once he had even dreamed that he had come into the monastery church and found the book open.

Two of its pages, having detached themselves, had grown huge: one a gold mosaic on the wall; the other, like a great Byzantine screen of gold and icons across the choir, barring his way towards the altar. And as he had approached it the golden screen had glowed, as though burnished by a dark and holy fire; and he had softly touched it and it had be sounded, harshly, like an antique gong.

But now he had to leave with Morann and Sister Martha. He would accompany the nun to Kildare, then make his way into the mountains and back to Glendalough. And Morann would go to Dyflin and perhaps see Caoilinn. Well, he shouldn't complain.

This was the life he had chosen.

"The hand of Saint Colum Cille."

Osgar started at the voice behind his shoulder. It was the old monk who was in charge of the scriptorium. He hadn't heard him come up.

"So they say," he replied. Many people ascribed the Kells Gospels to Saint Colum Cille. The royal saint, direct descendant of Niall of the Nine Hostages himself-his name meant the Dove of the Church-who had founded the famous island monastery of Iona off the coast of northern Britain, was a noted calligrapher, certainly. But Colum Cille had lived only a century after Saint Patrick, and it seemed to Osgar, who had examined a number of books in the monastery library, that the great book was of a later date. Two centuries ago, Kells had been founded as a refuge for some of the monks of the Iona community after the island monastery had been attacked by Vikings. A few of the illustrations were incomplete; so perhaps the great book had been prepared in Iona and the Vikings had interrupted its completion.

"I have been watching you, you know."

"You have?" In the two months since he'd been there, the keeper of the scriptorium had hardly said a word to him beyond what was necessary, and when once or twice he had seen the old man looking at him severely, he had the feeling that the Kells man probably disapproved of him. He wondered what he'd done wrong. But to his surprise, when he turned his head, he saw that the old monk's mouth was drawn into a smile.

"You're a scholar. I can see it. The moment I saw you I said to myself, "Now there's a true scholar of our island race." his Osgar was as pleased as he was surprised. Ever since his uncle's lectures to him on the subject when he was a child, he had felt a justifiable pride in the achievements of his countrymen. Forwith barbarians occupying much of the world, it had been the missionary monks from the western isle who had gone out into the old Celtic areas of the ruined Roman Empire to reassert Christian civilization. From Colum Cille's Iona they had established other notable centres, like the great western monastery of Lindisfarne, and converted most of the northern part of England. Others had gone to Gaul, Germany, and Burgundy, and even over the Alps into northern Italy. In due course, the founders of monasteries had been followed by Celtic pilgrims, in remarkable numbers, making their way southwards down the pilgrim routes that led towards Rome. Not only had the Celtic Church carried back the torch of truth; it had become one of the greatest guardians of classical culture.

Latin Bibles and their commentaries, the works of the greatest Latin authors- Virgil, Horace, Ovid-even some of the philosophers: all these were copied and treasured. English princes sent their young men to study on the western island, where some of the monasteries were almost like academies; the island's scholars were known in courts all over Europe.

"These island Celts," it was said, "are the finest grammarians."

Personally, Osgar thought this proficiency owed much to the great tradition of the island's complex but poetic Celtic tongue. Indeed, he privately doubted whether the speakers of Anglo-Saxon could ever really appreciate classical literature. And he remembered how another of the monks at Glendalough had once remarked, Anglo-Saxon: that's how a thatched house would talk if it could." And he was glad that the monastic chroniclers had also taken care to record the old Celtic tradition in writing. From the ancient brenon law codes of the tribes and the druids to the old oral tales sung by the bards, the island's monks had set them down with their chronicles of past events.

The stories of Cuchulainn, Finn mac Cumaill, and the other Celtic heroes and gods were now to be found in monastic libraries, alongside the classical texts and scriptures. Not only that. A new literary tradition had arisen as the Irish monks, steeped in the sonorous tradition of their Latin hymns, had taken the rich alliteration of the ancient Celtic verse and transformed it into a written Irish poetry more echoing, more haunting than even the pagan original had been. Admittedly, the stories had often been changed a bit. There were things in some of those old tales, Osgar thought, that no Christian would want to commit to writing. You couldn't leave them as they were. But the grand old poetry was still there, the Celtic soul of the thing.

One thing he regretted: the old druidical tonsure of the island monks had been given up.

Two centuries after Saint Patrick, the Pope had insisted that all the monks in Christendom should shave just the tops of their heads, in the Roman manner, and after some protest the Celtic Church had gone along with it. "But we're still druids underneath," he liked to say, only half in jest.

"And tomorrow you're leaving?" the old monk asked him. 1 am.

"When there's so much trouble in the world." The old man sighed. "There'll be Brian Boru's men wandering all over Leinster and God knows what they'll be up to. You should stay here awhile. Wait until it's safe." Osgar explained to him about Sister Martha, but the old man shook his head. "It's a terrible thing for a scholar such as yourself to be out in the world, on account of a nun from Kildare." Then he turned and moved away. A few moments later, he came back.

He had a small piece of parchment in his hand, which he laid on the table in front of Osgar.

"Look at that," he said.

It was a design, traced in black ink. Osgar had never seen anything quite like it before. It was a trefoil of three loosely connected spirals, reminding him somewhat of the trefoils to be seen in some of the great illuminations. But unlike those, in which the spirals were arranged into a completed geometric design, the swirling lines seemed to wander away towards the edges, as if they had been caught in the midst of some endless, unfinished business.

"I copied that," the old monk said proudly. "From what?

"A big stone. By the old tombs above the Boyne.

I used to walk over there sometimes." He looked at his handiwork with satisfaction. "That's how it is carved. The copy is exact."

Osgar continued to gaze at it. The wandering design seemed ancient.

"Would you know," asked the old monk, "what it means?" "I wouldn't. I'm sorry."

"Nobody knows." The old monk sighed, then brightened. "But it's a curious thing, wouldn't you say?"

I It was. And strangely enough, after he had left the library that andbrvbarbbevening, it was the curious design, even more than the magnificent Gospels, which seemed to remain, haunting his imagination, as if be the wandering spirals contained an undeciphered message for those 'ab to set out on journeys as to their fate.

They left at first light. The snow had already vanished the day before; though it was cold, there was no frost and the ground was damp. They travelled in a small cart which Morann had provided. They met nobody else travelling. Each time they came upon a farmstead, they would ask for news of the forces from Munster, but nobody had seen or heard anything. It seemed that this part of the country, at least, was still quiet. Early in the afternoon, they reached the Boyne at a point where there was a ford. Once past the Boyne, they continued southwards, under a leaden sky.

The day passed quietly. They kept a careful lookout for raiding parties, but saw none. As dusk was drawing in, they saw smoke coming from a farmstead by an old rath, and found a shepherd and his family.

Glad of the warmth of a fire and shelter, they stayed the night. The shepherd told them that Brian Boru, together with a huge force, had all gone to Dyflin and were camped there now. "It's said he means to stay through Christmas," the shepherd reported.

Had there been any other trouble? "Not around here," he told them.

The next morning, when they set off again, the weather was overcast. Ahead of them stretched a large, flat terrain. On their right-hand side, to the west, began a huge area of bog. To the east, two days" journey away, lay Dyflin. Ahead, to the south, the plain consisted of woodland interspersed with large open spaces. By late afternoon, if they travelled at a reasonable rate, they would come to the largest of these open spaces, the bare tableland of Carmun where, since time out of mind, the people of the island had gathered for the pagan festival of Lughnasa and the racing of horses. And it was only a short distance from the ancient racing grounds to their destination, the great monastery of Kildare.

The afternoon was almost over and darkness nearly falling when they reached the edge of Carmun. A strange greyness pervaded the sky. The huge, flat, empty spaces seemed eerie and vaguely threatening. Even Morann was uneasy, and Osgar saw him looking anxiously about. It would be dark before they arrived at Kildare. He glanced at Sister Martha.

The kindly nun had certainly been an excellent travelling companion. She did not talk unless someone indicated that they wished to, but when she did talk, she gave evidence of a fund of cheerful good sense. She must be very good, he thought, at tending the sick. Was she a little nervous now? He was quite ready to admit, at least to himself, that he was. But she gave no sign of it. A few moments later she smiled at him.

"Would you like to recite something with me, Brother Osgar?" she suddenly asked.

He quite understood. It might help them all not to be nervous.

"What would you like?" he asked. "A Psalm, perhaps?" was "Patrick's Breastplate," I think," she replied.

"An excellent choice." It was a lovely poem. Tradition said it was composed by Saint Patrick himself, and it could have been so. It was a hymn of praise but also of protection, and it had not been com- I posed in Latin but in Irish-which was fitting, for this great Christian chant, so full of a sense of the wonder of God's earthly creation, had a druidical character that recalled the poets back to Amairgen from the ancient Celtic tradition.

Osgar took up the first verse, chanting it firmly: arise today, My spirit mighty; I call on the Three, The Trinity; I confess the One Creator of Creation.

Then Sister Martha took up the second: arise today By the birth of Christa Her voice had a cheerful strength. It was almost musical. She was a good companion, thought Osgar, as they went across the open space together. And as they came to the great druidical centre of the poem, they found themselves naturally taking turns, line by line, alternating the chant between them: arise today By the power of heaven: Light as the sun, Bright as the moon, Splendid as fire, Quick as lightning, Fast as wind, Deep as the seaa The evening air was growing cold; but as they chanted the stirring poem together in that echoing place with the harsh green turf all round, and feeling the cold air raw on his reddening cheeks, Osgar experienced a quickening of the spirits; there was a boldness and manliness in his voice, and Sister Martha smiled. And they did not finish their hymn until, in the gathering darkness, they saw the walls of Kildare looming ahead of them.

The following morning, having said goodbye to the nun, the two men prepared to go their separate ways. The weather had changed. It was cold, but the sky was clear and the day was crisp and bright. The journey from Kildare to Glendalough was not a difficult one, and as they had encountered no trouble upon the way, Osgar was happy enough to continue alone. First he would go to a small religious house that nestled below the western slopes of the Wicklow Mountains, not a dozen miles away.

By good fortune, the monks there had recently lent a horse to one of the abbey's servants, and it was agreed that Osgar should return it. After a night there, he proposed to take the mountain path that led up to Glendalough, a familiar path that would easily bring him there by the next afternoon.

Morann, meanwhile, intended to spend the morning conducting his business at Kildare, then leave on the road that went past Carmun. He, too, would break his journey, and arrive at Dyflin the following day.

As there was no need to hurry, Osgar spent a pleasant couple of hours looking around the monastery town of Kildare.

The place had always been a holy site. Osgar was aware that, before Christianity came to the island, there had been a shrine there, in an oak grove, sacred to Brigid, the Celtic goddess of healing, whose festival was Imbolc, at the start of February.

A patron of crafts and poetry, Brigid had also protected the province of Leinster, and to make sure of this favour, the priestess at the shrine kept a sacred fire always alight, night and day.

The exact details had never been I clear, but it seemed likely that, a generation or so after Saint Patrick's I activities in the north, the then high priestess of the shrine, who would have been known by her title, the priestess of Brigid, had I taken the new Roman religion. In the centuries that followed, not only had the shrine acquired a new name-Kildare, Cill Dara, the I church of the oak-but the nameless priestess had been transformed into a Christian saint with the same associations as the old pagan 1 goddess, and a life story and attendant miracles on the usual pattern. As a learned man, Osgar knew that the chroniclers always had such biographies preprepared for the necessary manufacture of the lives of saints. But that did not take away from the essential point, which was that Saint Brigid, the patron saint of poets, blacksmiths, and healing, had entered the Christian calendar, along with her saint's day, February 1, the ancient pagan festival of Imbolc.

It was a great place nowadays, bigger even than Kells. A large township-with a sacred centre, an inner ring of monastic buildings, and outer secular quarters-it contained a double monastery, one for monks and another for nuns, under the rule of a single head. Rich and powerful, Kildare even had its own retinue of armed men for its protection.

It was while he was inspecting one of the town's fine crosses that Osgar decided to change his plans.

The idea had first occurred to him while he was still working at Kells, but he had dismissed it as unnecessary.

During the journey, it had once or twice come into his mind again. But now, perhaps because of the sun shining so cheerfully on the frosty ground, and doubtless also because Morann was already going there, he suddenly felt an urge to visit Dyflin.

After all, he reminded himself, it wasn't as if he was expected on any particular day at Glendalough. If he hadn't gone down to Kildare on account of Sister Martha, he'd probably have been returning to Glendalough through Dyflin anyway.

It was surely his family duty, with all the present troubles going on, to check on the well-being of his old uncle. Moreover, since the little family monastery was nominally under the auspices of Glendalough, he could imagine that the Abbot of Glendalough would be grateful for a report on the state of things there. And if he should happen to see Caoilinn, whom Morann had told him was staying with her father in the city now, there could surely be no harm in that. So when Morann emerged from his meeting, Osgar asked the surprised craftsman if, instead of going to Glendalough, he might ride in his cart with him into the city.

The craftsman gave him a cautious look.

"It could still be dangerous out there," he warned.

"Yet you are going." Osgar smiled. "I'm sure I shall be safe with you."

They set off an hour before noon. For the first two hours, their journey was uneventful. There was a sheen of frost on the ground, and as they passed across the huge open spaces of Carmun, the terrain was sparkling green in the reflected sun. Osgar felt a strange happiness and a sense of tingling excitement that grew with every mile they passed. And though at first he told himself that this was because he was going once again to see his family at the monastery, he finally gave up and admitted, with an inward smile, that it was because he might be seeing Caoilinn. By early afternoon they had started up a wide track that led northwards, with the sweeping slopes of the Wicklow Mountains rising up some miles away to the west.

It was Osgar who spotted the first horseman. He was riding along a track about a mile away to their right. Even as he pointed him out to Morann, he saw that there were others not far behind. There were men on foot as well. Then he saw a cart in the distance, and more horsemen. And gazing southwards he realised that they were about to encounter a great stream of people flowing raggedly up the edge of the plain below the Wicklow Mountains. It wasn't long before they came close enough to hail one of them. He was a middle-aged man, with a blanket wrapped round him. One side of his face was streaked with dried blood. What had happened, they asked.

"A big battle," he called out. "Down there."

He waved towards the south. "At Glen Mama, by the mountains. Brian smashed us. We were destroyed."

"Where is Brian now?" asked Morann.

"You've missed him. He and his men would have passed this way long ago. He'd have been riding like the devil," he cried grimly. "He'll be in Dyflin already by now."

Morann pursed his lips. Osgar felt a little stab of fear, but said nothing. The horseman moved away. After a short pause, Morann turned to Osgar.

"I have to go on. But you've no need to. You could walk back to Kildare now and be there before dark."

Osgar considered for a moment. He thought of his uncle at the family monastery. He thought of Caoilinn.

"No," he said.

"I'll come with you."

As the afternoon went on they found themselves merging into a stream of men returning home. Many were wounded. Here and there were carts carrying those who could not walk or ride.

There was not much talking. Those who did speak all told the same story. "We left more dead than living down there at Glen Mama," they said.

The short afternoon was drawing to a close when they came sight of a small religious house beside a stream. "That's where we'll stop,"

Morann announced. "If we leave early from here tomorrow, we'll be in sight of Dyflin before the end of the morning." Osgar could see that there was already a large collection of people resting there.

Morann was worried. He hadn't really wanted to bring the monk with him. Not that he didn't like him; but he was a complication, an additional responsibility, possibly a risk.

What lay ahead? A conquering army after battle is a dangerous animal. Looting, pillage, rape: it was always the same. Even a king as strong as Brian would not necessarily be able to control his men.

Most commanders let their troops do what they wanted for a day or two and then reined them in afterwards.

The religious houses with their walled compounds would probably be safe. Brian would see to that. But going into the area round Dyflin would be perilous. How would the quiet monk cope with these things? What use could he be? Was he just going to get in the way and need to be looked after? There was another consideration, too.

Morann's first objective would be to find Astrid and her children and, if necessary, help them escape. He certainly didn't want the monk taking up valuable space in the cart. He wished that Osgar hadn't come.

And yet you couldn't help admiring him. The religious house where they had broken their journey was a small place, with less than a dozen inmates.

The monks there were accustomed to giving shelter to travellers, but by nightfall, their resources were completely overwhelmed. There must have been fifty or sixty tired and wounded men, some of them close to death, camped in the little yard or outside the gates; the monks were giving them what food and bandaging they could. And Osgar was aiding them.

He was impressive. Moving about amongst the wounded and the dying, giving food and water to one, bandaging the wounds of another, sitting quietly talking to some poor fellow whom food and bandages could no longer help, he seemed to possess not only a quiet competence but an extraordinary, gentle grace. During the night-for he appeared to be able to do without sleep-he sat with two men who were dying, praying with them and, when it was time, giving them the last unction. And you could see from their faces that he brought them peace and comfort. It was not only what he did, Morann concluded, but something in his manner, a quietness that radiated from his elegant, spare body, of which he himself was probably not conscious.

"You have a gift," the craftsman remarked to him once during a break in his vigil, but Osgar only looked surprised.

When morning came, the monks would obviously have been glad if he remained. A number of the men resting there were unfit to go on and others were still arriving.

"There will be raiding parties about this morning,"

Morann pointed out to Osgar. "Are you sure you would not do better to stay here?"

"No," said Osgar, "I'll come with you."

The morning was crystalline. The sky was blue. There was a dusting of snow, shining in the sunlight on the tops of the Wicklow Mountains.

Despite the sad scenes of the night and the possible danger ahead, Osgar felt a sense of excitement mixed with a glow of warm joy. He was going to see Caoilinn. The first part of their journey was quiet, and he allowed his mind to wander a little. He imagined her I in danger; he imagined himself arriving, her look of surprise and joy. He imagined himself saving her, fighting off assailants, bringing her to safety. He shook his head. Unlikely visions, boyish dreams. But he dreamed them all the same, several times, as the little cart bumped along below the gleaming mountains.

Then he felt Morann nudge him.

There was a small rise ahead. Just below it was a farmstead. And by the farmstead there were horsemen.

"Trouble." Morann was looking grim.

"How do you know?"

"I don't, but I suspect." He narrowed his eyes. "It's a raiding party." He glanced at Osgar. "Are you ready?"

"Yes. I suppose so."

As they went forward, they could see what was happening.