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  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."

  That had been Morann's advice.

  Twice since he had gone to see Caoilinn, the craftsman had let her son know that Harold would be visiting him on a particular day in Dyflin. It would have been easy enough for Caoilinn to come in from Rathmines and encounter the Norseman, seemingly by chance, on the quay or in the marketplace.

  Indeed, her son, who was quite ready for his mother to move out of the house, was anxious to help. But she had neither come, nor sent any word at all to Harold. And though, originally, Morann had hoped to see a reconciliation of the lovers, he had now changed his mind. "Find another wife, Harold," he counselled. "You can do better."

  So why was he going? In the months since her rejection of him, the Norseman had often reflected upon the subject of Caoilinn. She had hurt him, of course. Indeed there had been times when, thinking about her contemptuous treatment of him, he had clenched his strong hands in rage and sworn to himself that he would never set eyes on her again. But in his generous way, he had still tried to understand what might have caused her to behave in such a manner; and after learning more of the details about her husband from other people familiar with the household, he had formed a shrewd idea of what might be in Caoilinn's mind. He made allowances; he was ready to forgive. But he was also mindful of the inner contempt for his own feelings that her behaviour had shown. Morann had let him know of his visit to Rathmines. As he thought about the matter in the early months of that year, Harold had agreed with his friend that he should wait for her to make a move, but she never did.

  When Morann had warned Caoilinn that she had rivals, he was not entirely bluffing. There were two women who had made it clear to Harold that, if he showed an interest in them, that interest would be returned. One of these, Harold was sure, had a genuine affection for him; the other, though he thought her a little foolish, was certainly in love with him. Did Caoilinn love him? Not really. He had no delusions. Not yet, anyway. But he would make either of the other two women happy and his life with them would be pleasant and easy.

  And perhaps, in the end, that was the trouble. Whatever their attractions, the two women offered a life that was just a little too easy. Caoilinn, for all her faults, was simply more interesting. Even in middle age, it seemed, Harold the Norwegian was still looking for the excitement of a challenge.

  So having considered the whole business very carefully, on the last day of March, he rode out once again towards Rathmines. Had he decided exactly what to say? Depending on how he found her, yes. But just as he had in his encounter with her before, he knew he would rely on his instincts. And he was still half curious about what he would do as the gates of the rath came in sight.

  If he had meant to surprise her, he succeeded.

  For as he rode through the gateway, she was in the act of milking a cow. As she turned and rose from the stool on which she had been sitting, her dark hair fell across her face; with a single gesture she swept it back; her two hands smoothed down her dress, and her large eyes stared at him as at an intruder. For a moment he thought she might be going to say something insulting, but instead she remarked, "Harold, son of Olaf. We did not know you were coming." Then she remained dangerously silent.

  "It's a fine day. I thought I'd ride this way," he replied blandly, gazing down from his horse.

  Then, without dismounting but making casual remarks as if he might move on at any moment, he began to talk. He spoke quietly, about his farmstead, events in Dyflin, a cargo of wine that had just arrived at the port. He smiled now and then, in his friendly, easy way. And never once did he allude to the fact, by word or look, that she had insulted him or that she owed him an apology. Not a word. Nothing. He was magnificent. She could not deny it.

  But what had really shaken her was something else entirely. It was the one thing, in the turbulent months since their separation, that she had forgotten.

  She had forgotten he was so attractive. The moment he had ridden through the gateway and she had turned to see him, it had hit her almost like a blow. The splendid horse with its gleaming harness; Harold's figure, powerful, athletic, almost boyish; his red beard and his eyes, those bright blue eyes: for a moment, as she smoothed down her dress to deflect his attention, she had found she could hardly breathe; she had fought down a flush and stared at him with a furious coldness so that he should not know her heart was beating faster, far faster than she wished. Nor was she entirely able to subdue these sensations which, like little waves, continued to form and break all the time he was talking.

  It was then that Harold, gazing at her calmly, made his move.

  "There was talk last year," he observed with perfect coolness, "that you and I would get married."

  Caoilinn looked down and said nothing.

  "Time passes," he remarked. "A man moves on." He paused just long enough to let this message sink in. "But I thought I would come by." He smiled charmingly. "I should not wish to lose you through carelessness. After all," he added graciously, "I might do as well, but I could never do better."

  She had to acknowledge the compliment. What else could she do?

  She bowed her head.

  "There were difficulties," she managed to say. She did not apol ogise.

  "Perhaps they can be overcome," he suggested.

  "Several difficulties." For just a moment she nearly brought up the question of religion, but then thought better of the idea.

  "It is for you to decide, Caoilinn." He looked at her quite sternly. "My offer is still open. I make the offer gladly. But whatever your decision, I will ask you to make it by Easter."

  "Am I understanding you right," she asked, with a trace of irritation, "that the offer will no longer be open after Easter?"

  "It will not," he said, and wheeled his horse away before she could say another word.

  "Dear God," she murmured, as he went out of sight, "the cheek of the man."

  Morann was not surprised when, ten days into April, no word had come from Caoilinn.

  "If she does come," Harold told him, "she'll wait until the last moment." He smiled. "And even then, you may be sure there will be conditions."

  "She won't come at all," said Morann, not because he knew but because he did not want his friend to be disappointed.

  A few days later, however, events arose which made even Harold's marriage a secondary consideration. A longship arrived at the port with news that the northern fleets were setting out and would soon appear. And two days later came a horseman from the south who announced: "Brian Boru is on his way."

  When Morann and his family arrived at Harold's farmstead the next day, the craftsman was very firm.

  The Norseman wanted to stay and protect his farmstead as he had done before.

  "But this time it will be different," Morann warned him.

  There would be all kinds of men-marauders, pirates, men who killed for pleasure-in the Viking longships. "Nothing can protect your farm if they should come that way." He was going back to join the O'neill king, as he had done before. "And you and your sons must come with me," he told him.

  Still Harold made excuses and prevaricated.

  Finally he objected: "What if Caoilinn should come?" But Morann had anticipated the question.

  "She moved into Dyflin yesterday," he told his friend bluntly. "No doubt she'll stay there, as she did before. But you can leave word for her to follow if she comes." Eventually he persuaded the Norseman of the wisdom of leaving. The farmstead's large cattle herd was split into four parts; and three of them, each under a cowman, were driven away to different places where they might not be found. There was nothing for Harold to do then but hide his valuables and prepare to set out, accompanied by his sons, on the journey north-west. Four days later, they reached the O'neill King of Tara.

  The King of Tara's camp was impressive. For his renewed campaign, he had collected a formidable army from some of the finest fighting tribes in the north.

  When Morann brought Harold and his sons to him, he welcomed them and told them: "When the fighting begins, you shall stand by me"-an arrangement, Morann noted, which honoured his friends as well as practically guaranteeing their safety.

  Morann soon made himself familiar with the military situation. He estimated that there were nearly a thousand fighting men in the camp. It was rare in the Celtic island to see a fighting force much larger; Brian Boru had not brought more than that to the siege of Dyflin. Many were drawn from the most loyal base of the king's : power, the central kingdom of Meath; but others were still arriving from farther away. The quality of the men was good. Morann watched, impressed, as they underwent their practice in hand-to- hand combat. The old king was planning to remain at his camp until he heard that Brian was in the Liffey Plain; then he would move south to join him, coming down by way of Tara. : But what would he do when he got there? Everything Morann could see-the daily arms practice, the king's councils of war-all andbrvbarbbccfirmed that he meant to keep his word to Brian, and to fight. Might there be a more devious plan? As Morann looked at the King

  Tara's cragged, shrewd old face, he found it impossible to decipher his intentions; perhaps, the craftsman concluded, the truth lay in a conversation he had when the king summoned him the next day.

  The old monarch seemed in a reflective mood, though Morann had little doubt he had calculated everything he wished to say. They talked quite extensively, of the men he had brought, of the expected Munster army, and of the forces ranged against them.

  "You know, Morann, that Brian has many enemies.

  He wants to rule as High King with more authority than the O'neill ever had; be for we never really subdued the whole island. Those Leinster kings especially resent him. They're almost as proud as we are. And they're the only ones." He gave Morann a quick, sharp glance. "But if His you think about it, Morann," he went on quietly,

  "you'll see that the

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  truth of this whole business is that we can't afford to let him lose." "You fear the Ostmen."

  "Of course. They have seen Canute and his Danes take over England. If Brian Boru loses this battle now, we shall have Ostmen from all over the northern seas descending upon us. We may not be to withstand them."

  "Yet it's Leinster which has begun this business."

  "That is why they are so foolish. Firstly, they are acting out of pride.

  Secondly, they suppose that, because they have close family ties to the Ostman King of Dyflin, that they will be honoured by

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  any Ostmen who invade. But if all the fleets of the north were to descend, Leinster would be treated just the same as the rest of us. Indeed, being close to Dyflin, they will be the first to be taken over. Then they will be under the rule of an Ostman king instead of Brian." He smiled sadly. "If that occurs, Morann, then it will be our turn to withdraw from the lordship of the land. Like the Tuatha De Danaan, we shall all go under the hill." He nodded thoughtfully. "So you see, Morann, whatever happens, Brian Boru must win."