Morann thanked him for the advice, but couldn't take it. "I'll be careful," he promised; and leaving his cart at the monastery, he walked down into the town.

The streets of Dyflin were much as he had left them.

He had expected to see fences down, perhaps some thatched roofs burned; but it looked as if the inhabitants, wisely, had accepted their fate without resistance. Groups of armed men lounged here and there. The Fish Shambles was crowded with carts of provisions, and the presence of pigs and cattle in many of the little yards indicated that the occupiers meant to feast well over Christmas. Many of the houses had obviously been taken over by the Munster men, and he wondered what had happened to his own. He had told Harold's wife to take her family there in his absence; so that was his first destination.

When he reached his gate, he saw a couple of armed men leaning on the fence, one of them apparently drunk. Turning to the other, he asked if the woman was in there.

"The Ostman's woman, with the children?"

Morann nodded. The fellow shrugged.

"They took them all away. Down by the quay I think."

"What are they doing with them?" Morann asked casually.

"Selling them. Slaves." The fellow grinned.

"Women and children. It'll make a change to see some of the Ostmen being sold, in stead of selling us. And every one of us that fought for King Brian will get a share. We're all going home rich this time."

Morann forced himself to smile. But inwardly he was cursing himself. Had he brought this on his friend's family, by persuading them to go into Dyflin from the farmstead?

His first impulse was to go down to the wood quay to try to find them, but he quickly realised that this might be unwise; nor was it yet clear how he could help them. He needed to find out more.

Next, therefore, he went to the house of Caoilinn's father, and told him where his daughter was.

"Brian's men have already been here," the old merchant declared. Caoilinn's husband, he explained, had already been fined in his absence. "He's to pay two hundred cattle and give his eldest boy as a hostage," he said gloomily. "I've already lost half my silver and all my wife's jewellery. As for you," he cautioned the craftsman, "if these Munster men discover who you are, you'll suffer like the rest of us."

When Morann told him about his problem with Harold's family, the older man was not encouraging.

There were already several I hundred, mostly women and children, being kept in a big compound under close guard down by the quay. And they were bringing in more each day.

He advised Morann not to go near the place for the moment.

A short while after leaving the merchant, Morann was moving carefully down towards the wood quay. Though he was shocked by what had happened to his friend's family, he knew he shouldn't be entirely surprised. The slave markets were always being fed with I people who had lost battles or been caught in Viking raids. Hard though it was, King Brian was simply making a point that the whole northern world would understand.

The craftsman's first objective was to discover where Harold's family was being held. If possible, he would try and make contact with them, at least to give them a little comfort and hope. The question then would be how to get them out. It was unlikely that he would be able to sneak them away from their captors.

To make things more difficult, it was possible that Astrid had been separated from her children, if they were to be sold in different markets. He might, of course, be able to bribe the guards; but he thought it unlikely. He stood a better chance of buying them outright from the Munster men at the full market price. But then he'd have to explain who he was, and that could prove to be troublesome. He could even finish up, he thought grimly, in the slave market himself.

The quay was in front of him now. It was crowded with ships. Nobody took much notice of him as he started to make his way along. A group of armed men came swinging down from an alley on his right. He paused to observe them as they went past.

But they didn't go past. Hands suddenly seized his arms. He struggled, tried to protest, but realised at once that it was useless. Immediately, therefore, he became very calm.

"What is it you want, boys?" he enquired.

"Where are you taking me?"

The officer in charge was a swarthy figure, with a look of quiet authority about him. He came to stand in front of the craftsman and smiled.

"What we want, Morann Mac Goibnenn, is the pleasure of your company. Where are we taking you? It's to King Brian Boru himself." He turned. "And you wouldn't want to keep the man waiting, now, would you?"

It was Morann who was kept waiting. He was kept waiting all afternoon. Whatever his fate was to be, he was curious to see the Munster king, whose talent and ambition had raised him almost to the pinnacle of power; and while he waited, he went over what he knew about him.

He'd been born the youngest son of his father, Kennedy, beside the River Shannon by a ford.

Morann had heard somewhere that quite early in his life, Brian had been told by a fili that he was a man of destiny and that, having been born by a ford, he'd die by a ford also. Well, he was by Ath Cliath now, but he was very much alive. "He likes the women." They all said that. But then who didn't?

He'd had three wives so far. The second had been a tempestuous woman, the sister of the King of Leinster. She had already been married to both the Viking King of Dyflin and the O'neill High King. But she'd given Brian a fine son before he'd discarded her.

There were many people, Morann knew, who thought that this divorce had led to the bad feeling behind the revolt of the Leinster and Dyflin kings against Brian; but a chief who knew the King of Leinster well had assured Morann that the rumour wasn't really correct. "He may not have been pleased, but he knows his sisters trouble," he'd told the craftsman. And God knows, divorce was common enough amongst the royal families of the island. More likely, in Morann's opinion, the bad feeling against Brian was the inevitable jealousy against a man who rises so far and so fast. What nobody denied was the Munster king's prowess. "He's as patient as he's daring," they acknowledged. He would be in his late fifties now, but full of vigour, it was said.

And so it proved to be. It was nearly dusk when Morann was finally brought into the big hall of the Dyflin king, which Brian had taken over. There was a fire in the centre, where several men were standing. One of these, he noticed, was the rich merchant who imported amber. Beside him, turning to look at him, was the figure he guessed must be Brian Boru.

The king was not a tall man, hardly above middle height. He had a long face, thin nose, intelligent eyes. His hair, where it was not greying, was a rich brown. The face was fine, almost intellectual; he might have been a priest, Morann thought. Until Brian took a few steps towards him. For the southern king moved with the dangerous grace of a cat.

"I know who you are. You were seen." He wasted no time. Where have you been?"

"To Kells, Brian, son of Kennedy."

"Ah, I see. And you hope your valuables will be safe from me there. They tell me you left nothing much in your house. Those who rebel have to pay the price, you know."

"I didn't rebel." It was the truth.

"Did you not?"

"That man could tell you." Morann indicated the amber merchant. "I told the Dyflin men that it was a mistake to oppose you. They were not pleased. Then I left."

King Brian turned to the amber merchant, who nodded his confirmation.

"So why did you come back?" the king demanded.

Morann related the exact details of parts of his journey, how he had set out with Osgar and the nun, and his discovery that Harold's wife and children had been taken. He discreetly omitted the incident at Rathmines and his flight with Caoilinn and her husband to the monastery, and hoped that Brian was unaware of it.

"You came back for your friends?" Brian turned round to the others and remarked, "As this man's not stupid, he must be brave." And then, turning back to Morann again, he coolly observed, "You are a friend to Ostmen, it seems."

"Not especially."

"Your wife's family are Ostmen." It was said quietly, but it contained a warning. This king was not to be deceived. "That must be why you came to live here in the first place: your love of Ostmen." Was King Brian playing with him, like a cat with a mouse?

"In fact," Morann replied evenly, "it was my father who brought me here, when I was little more than a boy." For a moment he smiled at the memory of that journey down, past the ancient tombs above the River Boyne. "My family were craftsmen, honoured by kings since before Saint Patrick came.

And my father hated the Ostmen. But he made me come to Dyflin because he said that Dyflin was the place of the future."

"Did he now? And is he alive, still, this man of wisdom?" It was hard to tell whether this was sarcastic or not.

"He's long dead."

King Brian was silent. He seemed to be thinking to himself. Then he moved close to the craftsman.

"When I was young, Morann Mac Goibnenn," he spoke so softly that Morann was probably the only person who heard him, "I hated the Ostmen.

They had invaded our land. We fought them. I once even burned down their port of Limerick. Do you think that was wise of me?"

"You had to teach them a lesson, I should think."

"Perhaps. But it was I, Morann Mac Goibnenn, who needed to learn a lesson." He paused, and then he took a small object from his hand and placed it in Morann's. "What do you think of this?" It was a small silver coin. The King of Dyflin had started minting them just two years ago. In Morann's opinion, the workmanship was not especially fine, but passable enough. Before waiting for his reply, Brian continued. "The Romans minted coins a thousand years ago. Coins are minted in Paris and in Normandy.

The Danes mint coins in York; the Saxons have mints in London and several other towns. But where do we mint coins on this island? Nowhere, except in the Ostmen's port of Dyflin. What does that tell you, Morann?"

"That Dyflin is the island's greatest port, and that we trade across the sea."

"Yet even now our native chiefs still count their wealth in cattle." The king sighed. "There are three realms on this island, Morann. There is the interior, with its forests and pastures, its raths and farmsteads, the realm that goes back into the mists of time, to Niall of the Nine Hostages, and Cuchulainn and the goddess Eriu-the realm from which our kings have come. Then there is the realm of the Church, of the monasteries, of Rome, with its learning and its riches in protected places. That is the realm our kings have learned to respect and love. But now there is a third realm, Morann, the realm of the Ostmen, with their ports and their trading across the high seas. And that realm we still have not learned to make our own." He shook his head. "The O'neill High King thinks he is a great fellow because he holds the right to Tara and has the blessing of Saint Patrick's Church. But I tell you, if he does not command the Ostmen's fleets and make himself also the master of the sea, then he is nothing. Nothing at all."

"You think like an Ostman," the craftsman remarked.

"Because I have observed them. The High King has a kingdom, but the Ostmen have an empire, all over the seas. The High King has an island fortress, but without ships of his own, he is always vulnerable. The High King has many cattle, but he is also poor, for the trade is all in the Ostmen's hands. Your father was right, Morann, to take you to Dyflin."

As Morann considered the implication of these words, he looked at Brian with a new curiosity. He had realised that, by taking the southern half of the island, the Munster king had already taken control of all the major Viking ports. He was also aware that, on some of his campaigns, Brian had made extensive use of water transport on the River Shannon. But what Brian had just said went far beyond the sort of political control that kings had exercised up to now. If the High King without Viking fleets could be dismissed as "nothing," then this was confirmation that Brian, as many people suspected, did indeed intend, sooner or later, to take over as High King. But more than that, it sounded as if, once he had made himself master of the island, he meant to be a different sort of king. Dyflin seemed to interest him more than Tara. Morann suspected that the Ostmen of Dyflin would be seeing more of this new kind of ruler than they had been used to, and that this foolish revolt had probably given Brian just the excuse he was looking for to assert his authority in the place. He looked at the king respectfully.

"The Ostmen of Dyflin are not easy to govern,"

Morann remarked. "They are used to the freedom of the seas."

"I know that, Morann Mac Goibnenn," the king replied. "I shall need friends in Dyflin." He watched the craftsman shrewdly.

It was an offer. Morann understood at once. He could hardly believe his luck. After his arrest down at the quay, he had not known what to expect. And now here was Brian Boru offering him friendship in return for his loyal support. No doubt there'd be a price to pay, but it would surely be worth it. He couldn't help admiring the vision of the Munster king as well.

Just as Brian looked beyond his present position, to the time when he would be master of the whole island, so even here, when he had just crushed the opposition in Dyflin, he was already laying the groundwork for a peaceful and friendly rule of the port in the future. Perhaps, Morann thought, he even meant to base himself there one day.

And he was just about to assure the king of his loyal friendship, when there was a disturbance at the entrance, the sound of raised voices, and then the leader of the armed guard who had brought him there burst into the hall. His face was covered in blood.

"I have been attacked by an Ostman, Brian, son of Kennedy," he called. "I ask for his death."

Morann saw the king's brows close and his eyes grow dark.

"Where is he?" he demanded.

And now, at the entrance, Morann saw the men drag in a figure who looked familiar; and as they pulled back his red hair to raise his head, he saw by the firelight that it was Harold.

Morann had not caught the dark fellow's name, but evidently he was well known to King Brian; and at a curt nod from the king, he related his tale.

Despite the fact that his head was bleeding quite a lot, he was brief and to the point.

Harold's ship had entered the Liffey estuary just after dark. It seemed the crew had seen the bonfires by the Thingmount, but had assumed they must be connected with the celebration of the Christmas feast. They had tied up at the wooden quay and immediately been held by the watch, who had taken Harold's name and sent for their officer who had gone up to the royal hall.

"As I came down onto the quay," the dark fellow explained, "my men told the Ostman," he indicated Harold, "to stand forward. But the moment I got close, he turned round and grabbed a spar that was lying there; I put my hand to my sword, but before I could get it out, he caught me in the face with the spar. He's very fast," he remarked, not without respect, "and strong.

It took three of my men to hold him down."

It was obvious that they'd done more than hold Harold down. They'd clubbed him over the head and given him a severe beating. He'd been unconscious when they brought him in, but now he groaned. The king went over to him, took him by the hair, and raised his face again. Harold opened his eyes, but they were glazed; he stared at the king dully. It was evident that he did not see Morann, or anyone else in the place.

"It is the king who speaks to you," Brian said. "Do you understand?"

A mumble indicated that Harold did.

"It's my own officer that you've attacked. He wants you dead. What have you to say?"

"I'd kill him first." Harold's voice was slurred, but the words were unmistakable.

"Are you defying me?" the king cried.

By way of answer, Harold suddenly twisted himself free of the two men holding him. God knows, Morann thought, where he finds the strength. He caught sight of the officer now and made a lunge towards him. It was Brian himself who caught him, before the two surprised guards seized him again and pushed him to the ground, while one of them pulled out a small club and brought it down heavily on Harold's head. Reflexively, Morann started forward to intervene; but at this moment, Brian held up his hand and everybody froze. It was obvious that the king was furious.

"Enough. I'll hear no more. It seems that some of these Ostmen still haven't learned their lesson." He turned to the officer. "Take him away."

"And?" the dark fellow enquired.

"Kill him." King Brian's face was set, hard and implacable. andbrvbar; Morann realised that he was now looking at the man who had destroyed the Viking port of Limerick and won a score of battles. When such a man had lost patience, it would be a foolish person - who started to argue with him. However, there seemed little other option.

"Brian, son of Kennedy," he began. The king rounded on him.

"What is it?"

"This man is my friend. The one I told you about."

"The worse for you, then. And for him. And his cursed family in be the slave house." The king's eyes stared at him angrily, daring him His to say more. Morann took a deep breath.

"I'm only thinking that this isn't like him at all to do such a 1 thing.

There must be a reason."

"The reason is that he is a fool, and a rebel.

He gave no other.

And he is going to die. If it's my friendship you want, Morann Mac His Goibnenn, you will speak of this no more."

The guards were starting to drag Harold out. After the blow from the club, he was unconscious again.

Morann took another deep breath.

"Would you not let me speak with him? Perhapsa"

"Enough!" Brian shouted. "Do you want to join him in death?"

"You will not kill me, Brian, son of Kennedy."

The words came 'ou, cold and hard, almost before he had time to think what he was were" saying.