The only mistake she admitted to herself was her choice of parting words to the Norseman. To have called him a pagan and a traitor was no more than the truth.

But telling him not to limp into her house again-calling him a cripple-that was wrong because it was beneath her. She would even have wished to apologise, if the circumstances had been different. But, of course, that was impossible. No word had come from Harold since that day; in all likelihood, she thought, she would never see him again.

Morann Mac Goibnenn was still uneasy. As the next months passed, he had ample opportunity to observe the forces ranged against Dyflin, and he was still convinced that his own estimation of the situation had been correct.

When, back in the late summer, he had taken his family north to the O'neill King of Tara, he had been well received. Tall, handsome, with a flowing white beard, the old king had a noble air about him, though his eyes, it had seemed to Morann, were still watchful. It had not been difficult to secure a protection for the farmstead of his friend Harold; but his plan to stay safely out of trouble with the O'neill king had not been so successful, since the old monarch had required him to accompany the party that had gone, in August, to summon Brian to his aid. So anxious was he that the craftsman should go, and so fervent were his expressions of loyalty to Brian, that Morann suspected O'neill was using him to convince the Munster king that the call for help was genuine.

Brian Boru had welcomed him warmly. "Here's a man who keeps his oath," he had told the chiefs around him. It was ten years since Morann had seen the Munster king in person. He found him still impressive. He was grey; his teeth were long and yellow, though remarkably he had kept most of them. A quick calculation reminded Morann that Brian must be more than seventy years old, but even so, a sense of power exuded from him. "I am slower, Morann," he confessed, "and I get aches and pains that I never had before, but this one," he indicated the young woman who was now his wife, "keeps me younger than my years." This was the fourth wife, by Morann's count. You had to admire the old man.

"You shall accompany me," Brian told him, "on my way up to Dyflin."

It had been early in September, on a bright day when Brian's advancing army, on its way to Dyflin, had just emerged onto the Liffey Plain.

Morann had been riding not far from the Munster king, in the vanguard of the army, when to his surprise he saw, coming towards them, the splendidly mounted figure of Harold, quite alone. He had been even more surprised when he had learned why the Norseman was there.

"You want me to ask King Brian to spare Caoilinn's estate? After all she has done?"

He had been shocked, the previous summer, by the treatment his friend had received from Caoilinn. At first Harold had only given him a general idea of the interview; but it was his wife who, after a long walk with the Norseman, reported back, "She as good as called him a cripple and threw him out." Freya had been furious. "Whatever her reason," she had declared, "she had no cause to behave so cruelly." And it soon became obvious to Morann that his friend had been seriously hurt. He had even wondered whether to go and see Caoilinn himself. But Harold had been so definite in saying that the affair was over that Morann had concluded that there was nothing to be done.

The Norseman had only shrugged.

"It would be a pity to destroy what she built up."

Morann wondered if perhaps the two of them had made it up I.

and that Harold had a stake in the business; but the Norseman explained that this was not the case, that Caoilinn and he had never spoken and that even now, she was behind the ramparts of Dyflin. "You are a generous man," Morann marvelled. To his relief, when he explained the matter to King Brian, the king was not angry but amused. "This is the Ostman who hit my, fellow over the head in Dyflin? And now he wants me to save a lady's farm?" The king shook his head. "It is more, perhaps, than I should have done." He smiled. "Men with great hearts are rare, Morann. And they are to be cherished. In times of danger, keep big-hearted men about you. Courage brings success." He nodded approvingly. "What sort of place is this Rathmines and where exactly?" Morann gave him an account of Caoilinn's estate and its handsome hall. The situation, he explained, was close by Dyflin, and her herd of cattle was large. "The cattle will all be hidden in the hills by now,"

Brian remarked.

"Where your men will sooner or later find them,"

Morann pointed out.

"No doubt." Brian nodded thoughtfully. "Very well," he continued briskly, after a short pause. "I will stay at Rathmines myself. The estate will supply me and my personal household.

The sooner Dyflin is given to me, the sooner I leave and the more of this lady's livestock will be left.

Those are my terms, Morann. Will you agree to them?"

"I will," said the craftsman. And he rode ahead with Harold to prepare the house at Rathmines. Caoilinn's son might not have relished having Brian Boru in the house, but he could see the merit of the deal. "You can thank Harold if you have any livestock at the end of this," Morann told him.

Brian kept Morann with him at Rathmines until nearly the end of October. During that time, Morann had the chance to see how the great warlord conducted himself-his ordered camp, his well trained men, his patience, and his determination. Then Brian sent be him back to the King of Tara with some messages.

"This game will play out peacefully in the end," he remarked to the craftsman as he was leaving. But Morann was not so sure.

The message did not come until December-in the form of a single horseman arriving on a cold, grey day at the gates of Glendalough. Over his shoulder was slung an empty leather satchel which he laid on the abbot's table as he announced: "I have come for the book."

The prince's book: the present for Brian Boru. Christmas was approaching. It was due.

"Unfortunately," said the abbot with some embarrassment, "it is not quite ready. But when it is," he added, "it will be very fine."

"Show it to me," said the messenger.

Osgar had been working hard. By the end of October he had prepared the vellum, laid out the book, and copied the entire Gospels in a perfect hand. The decorated capital letters came next. He had left spaces for each of these and in the first ten days of November he planned a schema: while each letter would be treated differently, certain details-some purely geometric, others in the form of serpents, birds, or extended human figures-would subtly repeat themselves or balance each other in an exotic counterpoint, thus producing a hidden, echoing unity to the whole. He also intended to add little decorations to the text, as the spirit moved him. Finally, there would be four, full-page illuminations. He had rough sketches for three of these pages, and knew how they would come together; but the fourth was more ambitious, and about this he was more uncertain.

By mid-November Osgar had made a good start on the drawing and painting of the capitals, with more than a dozen completed by the end of the month, and when the abbot had inspected the work he had pronounced himself pleased; but the abbot had nonetheless made one complaint.

"Every year, Brother Osgar, you seem to take longer to complete each illustration. Surely with so much practice, you should be getting more proficient, not less."

"The more I do," Osgar had answered sadly, "the harder it gets."

"Oh," said the abbot, irritably. It was at times like this that he found the perfectionist calligrapher tiresome and even rather contemptible. And Osgar had sighed because he knew that he could not explain such things to any man, however intelligent, who had not practised the druidic art of design himself.

How could he explain that the patterns the abbot saw were not the result of simple choice or chance, but that often as not, as he worked upon them, the strands of colour would mysteriously refuse to conform to the pattern he had first envisaged. And that only after days of obdurate struggle would he discover within them a new, deeper, dynamic pattern, far more subtle and powerful than anything his own poor brain would have been able to design. During these frustrating days, he would be like a man lost in a maze, or unable to move as though caught in a magic spider's web, trapped within the very lines he drew. And as he came through, each discovery revealed to him new rules, layer upon layer, so that like a ball of twine that is slowly growing, the artefact he was making, simple though it seemed, had a hidden weight. Through this exhausting process, from these unending tensions, were the elegant patterns of his art constructed.

And of nothing was this more true than the fourth of the full- page illuminations. He knew what he wanted.

He wanted, somehow, to echo that strange spiral which the old monk had copied from the stone and shown him up in Kells. He had only seen it once, but the strange image had haunted him ever since. Of course he had seen trefoils and spirals in many books; but this particular image was haunting precisely because it was subtly different. Yet how could you capture those swirling lines when their mysterious power came from the very fact that they were wandering, indeterminate, belonging to some unknown but profoundly necessary chaos? Every sketch he made was a failure, and common sense, especially when he was labouring under such lack of time, should have told him to give it up. Something conventional would do. But he couldn't. Each day he puzzled over it, while he continued with the rest.

Fortunately, when the prince's messenger was shown the partly completed book, it was already clear that it would be handsome.

"I will tell the prince it is in hand," the messenger said, "but he won't be pleased it isn't finished."

"You will have to work faster, Brother Osgar," said the abbot.

The siege of Dyflin was raised at Christmas.

Brian and his army retired southwards to Munster.

No attack upon the ramparts had been made by the besiegers and no one had come out to fight them. When the men of Dyflin saw the Munster king depart, they congratulated themselves.

In early January, after Brian had departed, Morann decided to leave the O'neill King of Tara for a while and pay a visit to Dyflin. He was not surprised to receive a summons to attend the Dyflin king and his council in the royal hall. They welcomed him cheerfully. "We all know you were under oath to Brian," the king reassured him. They had numerous questions about the Munster king and the disposition of his forces, which Morann answered. But the craftsman was surprised by the air of truculence he detected in some of the younger council members.

"You might as well have stayed with us, Morann," said one. "Brian came to punish us, but he's had to give up."

"He never gives up," Morann replied.

"He'll be back. And you had better prepare yourselves."

"What a gloomy fellow he is," the king answered with a smile, and the others had laughed. But when Morann had happened to meet him in the street the next day, the king had taken his arm and I told him quietly, "You're right about Brian, of course. But when he comes back, we'll have a different reception ready for him." He gave Morann a friendly nod. "Be warned."

It was two days after this conversation that Morann went out to Fingal to visit his friend Harold. It was four months since he had seen him.

He was pleased, on his arrival at Harold's farmstead, to find the Norseman looking fit and cheerful. They spent a pleasant hour looking over the farmstead, which was in excellent order, in the company of his children. Only when they were alone did Morann broach the subject of Caoilinn.

"I hear that Rathmines was left with more than half its livestock."

"I heard it, too. And that other farmsteads there were stripped. I am grateful to you, Morann."

"You have not been over there?"

"I have not." It was said firmly, and grimly.

"Have you received any word of thanks? I told her son, at the time it happened, that it was you who should be thanked."

"I have heard nothing. But I do not expect to. The thing was done. That is all." It was clear to Morann that his friend had no further wish to discuss the subject, and he did not bring it up again during his stay that day.

When he left the following morning, however, he had come to a private decision. It was time he went to see Caoilinn himself.

She was not alone, the next day, when he arrived at Rathmines. Her son was with her. Was it for that reason, he wondered, that she was guarded?

It was certainly clear that she had no wish to see him. When, sitting in the big hall, he politely mentioned that he was glad to hear her livestock had survived the trouble at Dyflin, her son gave a nod of acknowledgement and murmured, "Thanks to you." But Caoilinn stared straight ahead, as though she had not heard him.

"I was out in Fingal recently," he said. His words fell like a stone on the ground. There was silence. He thought that she was about to move away, and he was ready to follow her if she did; but then an interesting thing happened. Her son abruptly got up and went outside, so that he was left alone in the hall with Caoilinn. Without breaking all the rules of hospitality, she could not very well do the same and desert him. He saw her frown with vexation. He didn't care.

"I was at Harold's farmstead," he said calmly.

Then he waited, practically forcing her to respond.

But whatever response he might have expected, it was not the one he got. For after a prolonged silence, in a voice that was quiet with anger, she remarked, "I am surprised that, in the circumstances, you would mention his name in this house."

"In the circumstances?" He stared in disbelief.

"Didn't he save you from ruin? Have you no word of thanks for his kindness?"

"Kindness?" She looked at him with scorn and also, it seemed, incomprehension. "His vengeance, you mean." Though Morann's face still registered bewilderment, she did not appear to see it.

Indeed, she seemed to be talking to herself rather than to him as she went on. "To have Brian Boru, the filthy devil, living in my own husband's house. Eating his cattle. Waited upon by his own children. Wasn't that a fine revenge for my calling him a cripple?"

She shook her head slowly.

And for the first time, Morann realised the extent of her pain and sadness.

"It was not Harold," he said simply. "He never had any dealings with Brian. He is under the protection of the O'neill king, you know. But he asked me to persuade Brian not to destroy your husband's estate. So it was I that caused Brian to come here." He shrugged. "It was the only way."

He saw Caoilinn make a gesture of impatience. "You must understand," he went on more urgently, even taking her by the arm, "that he only tried to save you and your family from ruin. He admired what you had done. He told me so.

You do him an injustice."

She was very pale. She said not a word. He couldn't tell whether he had got through to her or not.

"You owe him," he quietly suggested, "at least some thanks, and I an apology."

"Apology?" Her voice was rising sharply.

He decided to go on the offensive.

"Dear God, woman, are you so blinded by your hatred of Brian that you cannot see the generosity of spirit of the man from Fingal? He ignores your insults and tries to save your children from ruin, and still you cannot see anything but a malice that is of your own imagining entirely. It's a fool you are," he burst out. "You could have I had the man for a husband." He paused. Then in a lower voice and, apparently with satisfaction, he added, "Well, you are too late for that, anyway, now that there are others."

"Others?"

"Of course." He shrugged. "What would you expect?" Then, suddenly and unceremoniously, he left.

It was February when the news began to arrive at the port. Remembering the King of Dyflin's warning, Morann had been expecting it.

The Vikings were coming. From the Isle of Man, just over the horizon, its Viking ruler was bringing a war fleet. From the faraway Orkney Islands in the north, another great sailing was coming. Warrior chiefs, merchant adventurers, Nordic pirates-they were all making ready. It would be another great Viking adventure. Who knew, if they defeated old Brian Boru, there might even be a chance to take over the whole island, just as Canute and his Danes were doing in England. At the least, there would be valuable pickings.

In Dyflin, by the middle of the month there were all kinds of rumour. It was said that the King of Leinster's sister, the turbulent former wife of Brian, had even offered to marry again if it would help the cause. "They say she's been promised to the Isle of Man king and to the Orkney king as well," a chief close to the family told Morann.

"She can hardly marry them both," Morann remarked.

"Don't count on it," answered the other.

As yet, there was no word from King Brian in Munster. Was the old warrior aware of the preparations in the northern seas? Undoubtedly. Would he hesitate to return against such odds, as some in Dyflin still supposed? Morann did not think so.

He had no doubt that the cautious conqueror would, as usual, take his own time. At the end of February, a ship arrived from the Orkneys with definite news.

"The fleet will be here before Easter."

It had been in early January, as he had been despairing of ever finishing his work in time, that Osgar had received news of a very different kind, from Caoilinn. She apologised for failing to send a message before, but explained that she had been trapped in Dyflin throughout the siege. A little guiltily perhaps, she sent him tender expressions of affection.

And she let him know that, for reasons she did not explain, she would not be marrying again, after all. "But come to see me, Osgar," she added. "Come to see me soon."

What could he feel, at such a message? He hardly knew. At first he received it calmly enough.

He realised that it had been some time since he had even given her a thought. During that day, he had gone quietly about his business as usual; only at the end of the afternoon, as he put his pens away and his fingers encountered the little wedding ring that still resided in the bag, did he suddenly experience a sharp stab of recollected emotion at the thought of her.

She came to him that night in his dreams and again when he awoke in the dark January dawn, bringing with her a strange sense of warmth, a tingling of excitement-he hardly remembered when he had last felt this way. Nor did the sensation depart, but remained with him throughout the day. be What did it mean? That evening Osgar reflected carefully. When he had returned to Glendalough after his uncle's death, he had suffered from melancholy moods for some time. His inability to go back to Dyflin and his abiding sense of failure over Caoilinn had been hard to bear. With the news of her forthcoming marriage, however, a door in his mind seemed to have closed. She was departing once again into the arms of another. He was still married to Glendalough.

He told himself to think of her no more, and was at peace. But now, with the knowledge that she was not, after all, to marry, it was as if, in some strange and unexpected way, she belonged to him again. They could renew their friendship. She could come to Glendalough to see him. He could visit Dyflin. He would be free to indulge in a relationship as passionate as it was safe. In this way, whether through the agency of good or evil powers, the sorrow of Brother Osgar was converted to a new kind of joy.

He noticed a difference the very next morning. Was there more sun in the scriptorium that day, or had the world grown brighter? When he sat down at his desk, the vellum before him seemed to have acquired a new and magical significance. Instead of the usual, painful struggle with an intricate pattern, the shapes and colours under his pen burst into life like the bright new plants of spring. And more extraordinary still, as the day progressed, these sensations grew stronger, more urgent, more intense; so utterly absorbed was he that by the late afternoon he did not even notice that the light outside was fading as he worked, with a growing fever of excitement, immersed in the rich and radiant world he had entered. It was only when he felt a persistent tap on his shoulder that he at last broke off with a start, like a man awoken from a dream, to find that they had already lit three candles round his desk and that he had completed not one but five new illustrations.

They almost had to drag him from the page.

And so it had continued day after day as, lost in his art, in such a fever that he often forgot to eat, pale, absentminded, outwardly melancholy yet inwardly ecstatic, the middle-aged monk-inspired by Caoilinn if not by God-now in the abstract patterns, verdant plants, in all the brightly coloured richness of sensual creation, for the first time discovered and expressed in his work the true meaning of passion.

Late in February, he began to trace the great, triple spiral of the last full page, and stretching it out and bending it to his will, found to his astonishment that he had formed it into a magnificent, dynamic Chi-Rho, unlike any that he had seen before, that echoed on the page like a solid fragment of eternity itself.

Two weeks before Easter, his little masterpiece was completed.

She was not expecting him; and that was what he intended.

Harold was counting on an element of surprise.

Though the real question was, should he be going there at all?

"Stay away. She's more trouble than she's worth."