"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 R: he could hardly tell what she was thinking. be 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 I 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 1".

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 Churcha"

"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 Rathminesa"

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 be 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 I'l 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 His 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. be Thanks to Morann, however, who came with the old king, Harold and his big farmstead were not touched. Within days, more parties, andbrvbarbbreinforced by men from Dyflin, struck back. The King of Tara sent caret 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, anda "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 I house of God."

They all started to walk through the gateway together.

Osgar I 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 were 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 if 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-was 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.

I She received it just as the gates of Dyflin were closing. And if, in the I 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.