Shadowkin

by MrsRJLupin

Aedre has been surviving as a companion to the King of the Picts' son, having escaped from Bebbanburg and saving the boy's life. Always knowing he had a famous warrior brother, she's heartbroken that he never came back for her. When she is threatened she decides to get herself to Wessex to find him. Based on the Saxon Stories by Bernard Cornwell and Last Kingdom TV Series

7. The High King

Dedicated to Bernard Cornwell and his amazing adventures: I gave Uhtred a sister. Planned out and will include the Battle of Brunanburh - will I get there before the release of War Lord in October, when we find out BC's version? I also wanted to include some of the history of Ireland at the time - and wow! There was so much going on there, almost as much as in the Saxon Kingdoms, but not quite so revolutionary, maybe because they Christianised the Norse (to some extent) and fought them a bit more coherently, because they were smaller and had less disparate groups fighting - the original Irish who had once been the pagan, Iron Age Irish, and also the Gaels, who arrived from the western coast of Spain through trading routes. Plus, because the Romans had never conquered it, there was less infrastructure available to the Norse and they preferred the land in Northumbria, Wessex and Mercia - it wasn't worth the fight, and where it was, they stuck to the coasts.

Have you worked out what the title of this fic means yet?

Your reviews are genuinely valued. It's just a minute of your time to tell me what you think, and it really means such a lot. Thank you to you who have already reviewed.

7.

Harvest 879

The funeral procession took the route of the river as it flowed past them and towards the sea. The entirety of the royal court were with them, following the carriage on which the armoury, possessions and body of the deceased King Aed Findliath lay.

Osthryth walked with the servants. It was a chilly day. Tiny white flowers littered the short, well trodden grass, narrowing as it found the lower undulations and the wind tugged at clumps higher up on the hills. They had passed the town of the grassy water meadow where two rivers met and they had all rejoiced at the cool, refreshing river waters where the horses watered.

The last fortnight had been one Osthryth would only ever see once more in her life. The body of the kin, lay on a low bed in the as Queen Mael Muire addressed the palace's household as women, cloaked in black, stood at the four corners of the low table, watching the body, emitting a primal wailing around the king's body.

The wake would commence. Muire continued, over the wailing, from that moment, and that it was a blessing that, unlike her brother Aed, King of the Picts, Aed Findlaich had died in his sleep.

Morning found its way to the royal throne room, a weak sunlight, as if robbed, like the king, of its strength and might.

Feasting followed, and lasted all day and into the night, for fourteen days, as the marbhna-poets exalted the king's exploitsover the Leinster kings, those in Connaght and Munster, the Ulaid kings and the Norse. They told of his battles and reminded all he was the Rì Dabaill, the true king of all Eireann, while all the while women around the king wailed.

And now, they had passed Strabane, and were walking towards an Óghmaigh, to the monastery. It was still a good walk, Finnolai told her, as she held the hands if her two charges, the two little princes.

"I'm hungry!" Niall Glúbdubh squeezed Osthryth's hand. As the wake had gone on, she had been given responsibility of the young prince, and his cousin, MaelColm, and they were now all walking, despite horses which had carried them most of each days' way, to honour the king.

"Me too," little MaelColm echoed, taking her other hand. Osthryth drew them to the embankment, out of the procession, into a bed of clovers.

"Do not tell your mother," Osthryth instructed to young Niall, "nor your aunt," she added, to MaelColm. Both boys nodded in eager anticipation.

Osthryth watched as the warriors passed, making sure none of Domhnall's warriors saw her, and she removed a large hunk of bread taken at breakfast from her tunic. Splitting it between the two young boys, she watched two sets of jaws devour their shares quickly and they were soon back onto the path.

The monastery was in sight, but the boys were also tired, as well as hungry. They lingered back as Osthryth tried to stride on to catch up with the warriors. When MaelColm slumped onto the grass with a big, "Hmph!", Osthryth went back and picked him up in her arms. At once, Niall began to scream at the unfairness.

"Come on with me, Grubbyknees," said Tadhg who evidently had also stopped for a short time, "you can ride here, and I'll hold you." The tall, blonde warrior swung himself up gently up onto a roan-coated mare, and put the deceased king's second eldest son up in front of him.

"Won't be long now," Tadhg soothed, as the open plain stretched out before them. He held reins out to Osthryth, who took them. He meant for her to ride, Osthryth knew. Instead, she held the little boy to her hip, as she looked down on to the plain where they would next rest before travelling to the city where the ancient burials of royal kings, trailing the dappled-white mare behind her. She was no rider, and it would not do to risk the life of the little prince, who lay his tired head into her neck.

Osthryth looked at the land. They were no longer in Uì Nèill country, Tadhg explained as he rode slowly next to them. This was Airgíalla. They were kings in name only, for they owed their alliegance to the Uì Nèill for aid in their most recent battle against the Ulaid of the east.

"Saint Patrick rode here, once," Tadhg said to Niall Glúndubh, who was also leaning back in tiredness. "Do you know, he planted all the seamróg, all over here?" Grubbyknees' eyes widened and MaelColm leaned over, listening too.

"How?" The boy turned and put his pale grey eyes on the warrior.

"By walking over the land," Tadhg smiled. "God, is three in one, so he is: an Athair, agus a Mhic agus Spioraid Naoimh." He leaned forward, with a young clover in his hand. "Three parts, in one, altogether."

"You are a priest, Tadhg," Osthryth smiled. Tadhg looked turned his head and returned her smile.

"I can tell a story," the tall warrior acknowledged. "My mother's father was a seanchaí. He could tell the old stories, from dusk to dawn at mindwinter." Tadhg leaned towards her, lowering his voice.

'One night, he was invited into Scone, even though he was Gaelish." His eyes flashed with merriment. "King Drest wanted him to entertain him and the nobles, who were meeting there, while they waited to meet Ceinid mac Alpin. They thought the king of the Gaels wanted to sue for peace. Well," Tadhg shuffled Niall into a different position, "Drest listened to my seanair as he feasted, relaxing, with the other six nobles of Pictland, to the tales of battle and honour through the ages."

"Yes?" asked Grubbyknees, beginning to become enthralled.

"As they drank" continued Tadhg, his eyes sparkling in the summer afternoon's sunlight, "the Gaels, led by Domhnall's grandfather Ceinid, waited for them to be blind with the drink. Then, he pulled bolts from the benches, which he had spent a long time assembling, trapping the Picts with their king in pits in the earth, in them contained with deadly blades. And so, now," he added brightly, "the Gaels rule Pictland."

"Ruled," Osthryth murmured, as she frowned at Tadhg's horrific tale of treachery wrapped up so lyrically. "This is the cause of the uprising by Eochaid and Giric?"

"You are very well informed, for a servant," Tadhg nodded. .

"I am very underarmed for a warrior," Osthryth remarked, feeling, once again, the loss of Faedersword, as her thoughts drifted to the possibility of escape back over the sea again. "You tell your tales well, Tadhg of the Gaels," she added, remembering that her mother told her always to thank the storyteller, or they may lull you under a spell, to your doom.

"You will get another sword," Tadhg replied. "And by your arm, you will make it as good as the last."

Osthryth laughed at the warrior's words. They were indeed beguiling, soft like a bed of clover on a summer's day overlying tangleweed, bidding you to your own comfort while binding you path of its own.

"I'm still hungry," little Niall yawned, and then leaned into Tadhg's chest. He smiled down at Osthryth, as he made the horse canter, to catch up with the other warriors.

Osthryth looked down to little MaelColm: he too was asleep. And that night, exhausted with the journey as she lay on a bed of straw in the stables alongside Domhnall's other warriors, Osthryth's dreams would be filled with a Cumbraland Briton, holding up a small clover plant and enchanting the pagans with understanding of God.

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The procession marched on. They headed south west. This time, their destination was clear: up from the plain of green grew one large hill, and upon it, where once had been a hill fort, said to be the burial place of the goddess Macha, was St. Patrick's monastery.

Ahead of them rumbled the low cart, still watched over and wailed over by the mourning women. The monastery was their destination. It would be here that the body of the mighty Aed Findlaith, High King of the Irish would be laid to rest, at the most holiest of locations in the lands of the Uì Nèill.

Late the following afternoon, as she rode with two tired boys at the back of the kitchen cart, she watched Domhnall as he began walking with the royal group around the path that would take them up to the monastery. He had barely spoken to her since he had pulled Constantine from his bed on the morning of Aed Findlaich's death, his eyes narrowing with disapproval as Osthryth, too, had sat up in his cousin's bed.

Osthryth knew that, even of she was not really one of his warriors, and how ever informally she had given it, she had gone back on her word. What's more, his warriors knew there was something amiss: she had displeased the exiled heir to the Pictish throne, somehow.

But she could not approach Domhnall now: much as she would re-make her vow to him, Osthryth had felt she needed Constantine's closeness after their attack. So, she had to learn to be strong, to strengthen her feelings towards the boy now that he wasn't a boy but, at thirteen, a young man. And, for this young man less than three weeks had passed since the news of Aed mac Àlpin's murder at the hands of the usurpers, Eochaid and Giric - his father.

If he was feeling anything like Osthryth had felt, when she was made aware of her father's death on the battlefield, and the loss of her mother to become her aunt, then he would feel as if the sky and ground were pressing her, and she would climb and crawl, and find somewhere high and solitary in Bebbanburg, to feel the strong east wind rush through her hair and over her skin.

God spoke to her there, as he spoke to those blessed of saints: Cuthbert, Aidan and Chad all remarked that the forces of nature were divine communications. They were revered by the Saxons as well as the Northumbrians and, in the case of Aidan and Chad, in the heathen lands of Mercia too, last to stake their eternal life on Jesus Christ.

Yet, there was something heathen about attributing natural phenomena to the lord's doing. Kings did not proclaim that they looked for weather omens, even if they really did, and yet these men were, as saints, deeply blessed to sainthood, believing little more than heathens did.

Osthryth learned, one night in the barn with Feargus, Finnolei and Tadhg that Domhnall did not intend to challenge the throne, but remain with Constantine with their kin, this kin who was now on its way to the remarriage, for the sake of Dynasty, of their aunt to another Uì Nèill king.

Osthryth looked again on the dowager queen. Mael Muire had walked as if she were floating behind the carriage of her husband, silent and still as she paced, in a blue cloak, her dark hair glowing richly as it caught the summer sun.

"The gospels need to be completed in the monastery of Saint Patrick," Muire had told her, before they set out, and she gave the two young princes to her care. "Only those who had been trained at Ard Mhacha may spread the gospels." She had bent close to her ear, and whispered, "and the ink you collected will go to finish these gospels in this most sanctified of our places."

Aed Findlaich was put to rest early next morning. Osthryth was woken by Feargus before dawn and told to wait with his other warriors outside the monastery doors.

A cool wind blew her hair as the king was carried out on a bed covered with a silk cloth of red and gold. Domnall, the king's eldest son, held the front right corner; at the back, Domhnall. Next to Domhnall, a young man, as tall Domnall, but broader, with the same fiery hair as Aed. The same, fiery hair as the man at the front.

He was undoubtedly a king - a circlet of bright gold sat in amongst his bushy red hair - and he was undoubtedly the dead king's relative, for he stooped to carry Aed's body level with the other three men. In fact, he was so big, Osthryth thought, that he could have carried the body of the king himself.

The funeral procession strode slowly to the front if the monastery, where Muire stood with Mairi, Gormlaith and Eira, with Niall and MaelColm in hand.

With the warriors, behind the monks, Osthryth walked behind the body of Aed Findlaith. Constantine fell in next to them, his face solemn, his pale face even paler. He had not slept, Osthryth guessed. She thought about what she had promised herself and resisted the urge to take his hand.

"We - Domnhall and I - are not really the Irish king's relatives, "Constantine said, softly. "Once the king is buried, we with travel with Aunt Muire to Tara, and a festival will be called."

He pointed to the man at the front of the body, who had indeed, shouldered the king down, standing him upright, in a suit of armour. Only he could have managed that, Osthryth thought, given how large Aed Findlaich had been.

"Who is that man?" whispered back Osthryth, as the procession of cows given by the peasants lumbered behind. They were going to be slaughtered after the burial.

"Flann Sinna. He hopes to be made High King of Ireland. The nobles must vote. He is who Aunt Muire is to marry; he us already king of the Southern Uì Nèill - that will go in his favour.

Very shrewd, Osthryth thought, on both their parts. "Will he be king in the north?" Constantine nodded.

"He hates the Norse; wants to force them out. If he becomes High King, he might have the combined force to do that."

Then Constantine walked slowly over to the royal group, and stood between the tall Gormlaith and the spiteful Mairi, who turned her pale eyes upwards to him.

Osthryth drew her eyes back to the burial, and watched as Aed Findlaich was lowered into his grace. But not lengthways: Flann Sinna had moved Aed's body into the grave, a long, upright grave, and into a standing position. Around him, Muire passed Flann pieces of what looked like armour, a bowl, pots, a clay pipe, several highly decorated drinking cups made of animal horn, a checked gaming board and the king's weapons. Last to he lowered in was a bag of coins.

"And they say Ireland is a Christian country," Finnolai hissed, to Domhnall's warriors. "If the monks weren't here, it would look to me for all the world like a pagan burial. Especially with the airgeat."

"He's looking east, isn't he?" Feargus protested.

"North-east," Tadhg put in.

"That's the direction of Ulaid territory, sure?" Finnolai mused, catching Domhnall's eye. Osthryth saw the weight "And the damned Norse."

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A feast was held in the monastery that evening. Osthryth, for once, was gifted a seat with the warriors. Meat was shared, the cows who had followed Aed Findlaich's body had been butchered.

At the royal table, Muire called for words to be spoken of for her husband, toasts to be made, ale to be poured. Domhnall looked so solemn, Osthryth thought, as she imbibed a little ale. The princes had been taken from Osthryth and were asleep in the monastery, the royal servants watching over them.

Constantine, sitting next to Domnall, also looked sore, bitter, and he was deep in conversation with Domnall: they had something in common, Osthryth guessed, as she discreetly excused herself and made her way to the stables: both had lost their fathers, and both their fathers had been kings of ancient lands.

Osthryth had made part of her way across the stony courtyard of St. Patrick's monastery, the evening still underscored by a streak of yellow, when voices drew her attention. She stooped behind a low wall, listening.

"And I tell you once again, Donnchada, if you do not know where the queen is, then neither do I!"

A shuffling of feet suggested someone was struggling against someone else. Osthryth craned to listen.

"You, treacherous insect! I know you work for my conniving father!" More scuffling. "If you have lain one finger on her!"

"She was not your mother!" the antagonistic voice retorted. "Your mother was Gormflaith of the Ulaid! Flann turned her over for Ethne!"

"And does Muire know? Does Domnall? She's his sister, his true sister! Us he standing by and allowing it, to ingratiate himself with a future dynasty? Ethne is my own cousin, as Domnall is! Muire educates my dear sister, Gormlaith. You don't think - "

The voice stopped suddenly. In the darkness, Osthryth could feel a flush on her cheeks: it was her foot that had rested on loose stones, her fault that they had scraped, alerting the two men talking in whispers that they were being overheard.

She ran, kicking more stones as she went. Behind her, stones were kicked again.

Through the monastery garden, now in seed and being cleared, over tools and beds. Osthryth launched herself at the wa and scrambled up it, her arms feeling weaker than they usually did as she hung onto the wooden framework. Damn the ale, she cursed herself, as she scrabbled higher. She got up a little higher, but her leg was wrenched down. She kicked out, her foot impacting on skin: a head, she was guessing as the owner growled in pain.

She swung up, but her nails clawed at the wood, rather than grasp it. Osthryth fell, landing in a heap on someone below.

Hands grasped at her legs, her ankles, as she fought to escape. Another swift kick brought her out of reach and up into an apple tree. Osthryth climbed high as the commotion below.

"We have you now!" A triumphant voice below bellowed, as feet crunched on the tree detritus below. "And it will soon be morning. I have a sword!"

Osthryth closed her eyes. It was true. When she climbed down, everyone's eyes would be on her. Guilt swept over Osthryth as she imagined laughing eyes, mocking eyes. Eyes which belonged to the Uì Nèill and the monks and the children. Eyes belonging to Domhnall, to Constantine, narrowing in disappointment and shame.

Osthryth made a rustle in the tree canopy, and triumphant feet stopped pacing. She would come down, as best as she could. She would apologise in the morning.

But she found she could not go down: her feet coukd not find purchase, and her head swam. She climbed up, apples thudding to the ground as she went, over and over, making her way to the other side of the tree.

But, Osthryth found, there was no other side of the tree: no branches dipped down towards the ground.

A strip of paler blue underscored the night sky. Should she call down?

Osthryth carried on, tired arms gripping branch after branch. As the morning drew on, and she grew ever wearier, it occurred to her how big the tree actually was.

But, she was wrong. When, finally, she looked around, it was in astonishment: she was at the top of a tree canopy. But not the same tree as she had climbed: that had been the one on the other side of the wooden wall of the monastery. Osthryth realised she had climbed between dozens of trees, into the wood they had passed on their way in to St. Patrick's, the one which half-surrounded it, so high it was in the landscape.

With great care, Osthryth extracated herself from the branches of the tree she was in, her bodyweight stretching at her tendons as she climbed.

The door to the kitchen was pushed aside when she got to the north side of the monastery. An voice unibtelligible to her shouted as they heard a noise. It was the irascible cook, who was almost indistinguishable from the one in the kitchen at Doire. He bustled her in, shouting something angrily at Osthryth, which she couldn't make out, then thrust a bowlful of dirty root vegetables at her. Tired, though grateful, Osthryth turned a knife onto them, making them, in no time, into chunks that became the servants' dinner.

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They travelled to Kells, or Ceanannas, as Tadhg said it, as Domnhall told his warriors the next morning and onwards they would be travelling to Tara.

The royal family at first, in front, with the children in a carriage, Domnall in front, with his step-mother, and ahead, Flann Sinna, with his son Donnchada, who had had the heated conversation two nights before with someone, and had chased Osthryth up the tree.

Osthryth had to manage on a horse, which was as bumpy and uncomfortable as it had been when she had first tried it in the meadows surrounding Scone. It took all her concentration to balance, to keep up with the warriors. She glanced, every so often, over to Donnchada, wondering what he had meant, and who Ethne was: she, who was in some sort of danger.

He had also called his own father "conniving", yet he rode adjacent the King of the southern Uì Nèill impassively, long, dark hair flowing out from his head, pale skin and grey eyes, a match for Domhnall and Constantine, strong gaze searching the road ahead.

"They want to proclaim the new High King of Eirean," Finnolai explained, as they packed up the horses. "Flann Sinna seeks the position, as well as Muire's hand to seal the deal, and take Tara with both the Southern and Northern kingdoms. But it isn't that straightforward: others will contest, and the lords must vote. It is called a Thing."

Like a witan, Osthryth thought, as she strode to the rooms of Queen Muire, who would have her take charge of the boys again. She knew what a witan was: Father Beocca had explained that the nobles in Wessex and Mercia agreed in their kings.

But not in Northumbria: Uhtreds had held the fortress for many an age, right back to Ida, the first from across the sea to claim the headland overlooking the sea from the northern Britons and had taken a Brittonic wife.

Osthryth looked across to Finnolai. She wanted to ask him about Domhnall: the prince looked worn, as if his spirit had been slowly draining over a long time. Maybe, though, if the "conniving father" of Donnchada, Flann Sinna, did become High King, he may offer Domnhall aid to retake his throne - an alliance of sone kind must be being worked through, or why were they still in Eirann now Findlaich was gone?

It took two days to get to Kells, once an Uì Nèill palace belonging to ColmCille. Now, a monastery founded by his Ionan monks, it could not have been more different to St. Patrick's.

Indeed, St ColmCille's monastery, as the royal family called it, was made of stone, and not wood, and the round tower which arose high from its centre could be seen for miles before the procession got to its sturdy walls and had once been a royal palace. As they got closer, the way was marked with Irish crosses, those type with a circle at the centre, uniting the heathens' sun-worship with that of the symbol of Christ Jesus, the Redeemer.

It was between two such crosses that Osthryth took Niall and MaelColm, as she looked over the land. Were they close to the sea? Osthryth wondered. Were there heathen here who might welcome a warrior, albeit without a weapon, to protect them if they were travelling, say, over the sea, maybe boat to Cumbraland, or Waeleas.

Though she had found her way to King Aed's court in Dunnottar, and could easily fall in with Domnhall's warrior, Osthryth reminded herself that despite this life, her main objective was to find her brother, for she knew her uncle Aelfric would never give up looking for her - for she was of value to him, and it must have angered him greatly that she had defied him.

Flexing her arrow-damaged hand, she approached the two boys who had again been put in her charge. Niall was playing with an ash tree branch, trying to defeat an oak tree a little beyond the round oratory where the monks slept; little MaelColm sitting by him, using his stick to make patterns in the leaf litter.

A little illicit bread taken from the monastery's kitchens an hour before tempted the two royal princes to abandon their games and sit next to Osthryth, who smiled at their eagerness where food was concerned, before taking them up to the rooms that the royal family were occupying.

The rooms were wide and spacious, the stone walls covered in highly decorative hangings.

"They are as old as ColmCille himself," Muire told her, as the boys ran to her. Osthryth felt herself pink in the cheek as she realised how lost in the thread detail she had become.

The queen was a sight to behold. No longer in black, she wore a blue dress, her dark hair flowed long over her shoulders. Her eyes were bright: she had done her mourning and now, like a flower opening up its petals to the warmth of the morning sun, her face was alive with girlish hopefulness. She might be the older sister of Gormlaith, maybe no more than twenty years old.

She explained to Osthryth that there would be a declaration of her marriage to Flann Sinna, and that the Southern Uì Nèill had met and accompanied him and his son down to Tara, where they would meet them for the wedding.

"Is it by the sea?" Osthryth asked. For by the sea meant heathens collecting its fruits.

"Yes," Muire nodded. "And I wish you to be in charge of the boys," the beautiful queen continued, taking Osthryth's hands, as lightly as a girl in her first days of courting might. "And, you will wear a dress, as befitting your sex. I know you are my nephew's warrior, but I must put my household to rights: after the wedding the Uì Nèill will hold our festival, and one such as that has not been held for many a year."

"Festival?"

"A parley, a meeting of all the Uì Nèill families, and our allies." Muire sighed and straightened out the material on her bodice, before crossing over to her son, Niall, and taking him in her arms. MaelColm, looked up, wide-eyed and the queen put down a hand to him.

"We have been at war with the Norse for so many years that the annual festival has been suspended. It is held every seven years or, at least, it was.

"New laws and duties are ordained and councils are formed; anyone who has been convicted of brealing laws is formally banished. Sometimes, the High King chooses to be lenient. Should there be the need for a new High King, he is elected." Muire sighed, remembering.

"The last time it was held was when my father brought me over the sea to be married to Aed Findlaich. The Norse have been subdued and have settled; we are at peace now, so we can meet as we always did."

It does not mean it will stay peaceful, Osthryth thought to herself, grimly. Northumberland, Lindisfarne, Pictland...they all thought the same, and the Norse and Danes returned, and it got worse. Instead, she nodded in agreement.

"I am sure your future husband has a plan to keep the peace," Osthryth added. Muire's carefree look vanished from her pale blue eyes, and she narrowed them towards Osthryth.

"You understand well," she said.

"My father discussed this with my brother, and with me. To gain peace it must be belied with strength and might, that was what he said." It wasn't necessarily a lie, if "father" meant Beocca, who had indeed voiced her father's words

"Yet, your father lost his life as a pilgrim on his way to Iona." Osthryth lowered her head.

"Indeed, Lady," she replied.

Muire put her hand softly under Osthryth's chin and raised her head gently.

"Look," Muire said, stepping towards a low table. "Here is what your effort hadls brought us." She leafed over the pages and showed Osthryth the leather-bound pages of the half-completed manuscript that Domhnall brought from Iona.

The pages were brilliant, in gold and red, richly illuminated with the four apostles' names in the Irish script, framed with the Gaelish swirls of the sra, unending chains, animals and tbevancient symbol of the Lord: a right hand of God, stained with iron oxide pigment. It was as if Osthryth was looking into heaven itself, made clear to man in parchment and pigment.

"Glorious, is it not?" Muire said, placing the book open on that page. "The monks here will continue with it, and will make it into a much larger book and use it for their rituals and to preach to the heathens . And I cannot let your effots go unrewarded.

"Now, I have a role for you. I know Constantine will not be without you, but you can continue being his companion no matter what you wear. I hace spoken to Domhnall, and he agrees for you to continue to care for the two boys."

"And the girls?" Osthryth thought of the three princesses who would lead the way each morning from the castle to the monastery, silent, obedient, perfect in their studies. Eira, the beautiful, young golden-fair girl who was never parted from the nervy, ever-watchful Gormlaith, Donnchada's sister. The black-haired, big-eyed Mairi was the one in charge, though, or thought she was.

"They are in my care - oh, Mairi!" The girl had walked into Muire's rooms. Niall amd MaelColm rushed to her. But the girl held aloft the fabric she was holding to prevent it from being creased. She held it out to Muire.

Osthryth had never seen anything like it before: cream linen with a silk bodice, beautiful pearls embroidered at the front, with ribbons at the sleeves and waist.

"Do you like it?"

"I like it," Osthryth nodded, looking at the way the light bounced off the silk. "But I am the daughter of an artisan - I cannot accept this."

"Nonsense!" Muire rebuffed her, looking about her head. "Your golden hair down, combed down to show your maiden-ness, and you will be glorious on my wedding day. So, shall I leave you with Mairi 's help?"

"Help?"

"My child, it is a dress I wish you to wear, as Constantine's companion and the princes' assistant. She is more than able to help you make the nest of a poor artisan's daughter." Muire gave one final glance over her shoulder, one of approval, then took the boys by their hands, pacing towards the rear door, through which Mairi had come. Osthryth's head shot back to the dress, and then to Muire.

"You wish me to wear it?" She looked over the dress again, ashamed that her first thoughts were of disappointment that she would not be able to keep the company she liked, nor ride, or fight.

"Yes, indeed," Muire nodded, as she continued in her ourward momentum, boys still in hand. "Mairi, show Osthryth how it goes on."

"But - " But Muire was not listening, and, within seconds, she had whisked herself out of her chambers. Osthryth looked at Mairi, who was looking back, scathingly.

"Aunt Muire said to bring this, Mairi sniffed, haughtily, "Although, if you ask me, it is a waste. And Eira - " The girl broke off, as if she had said too much.

"No-one asked you," retorted Osthryth, as Mairi's face pinked. "Pass me the wasted dress and leave."

A look of indignation passed over Mairi's face, which solidified to imperiousness. She turned on her heel then, over her shoulder, shot back, "You ought to know, my Aunt Muire did not approve of you feeding the children on our progress. Only a savage, ignorant Saxon would behave with such poor manners!"

And, maybe because she knew Osthryth was capable a physical response, Mairi skipped off back towards the door, haste in her steps as her thick, black hair swung about her shoulders.

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A horse this time carried Osthryth south with the royal party. Green landscape surrounded them as they followed the royal party, low, undulating ground, softer rises and falls than those around Doire.

"St ColmCille was born here, in the Midh," Tadhg was telling Domhnall's warriors. "Some say, even at Teamhair."

"But, what is it?" asked Feargus.

"Ah, well, you see now," Tadhg replied. "You have Dunadd, do you not? For when Lord Domhnall becomes King of the Gaels?"

"And Scone," Finnolai chipped in, drawing his horse slower, to talk as the road curved leisurely around another gently-rising hill. "Scone is from where the Picts have long took their kingship. Domhnall will have to take both."

"You'd know about Domhnall taking things," Feargus chipped in, impertinently. Osthryth shot him a glance, just as Finnolai launched an apple pip at him.

"How will we know Teamhair?" She asked, changing the subject. "What does it look like?"

"It's a cnoc," Tadhg replied, "I have only ever seen it once, but it rises above the ground in all directions. There are five roads leading from it."

"And to it?" Feargus laughed, to which Tadhg replied, "Of course! We have followed the way from Doire itself, through Omagh, Armagh amd Kells. Our way is no accident."

Osthryth found herself looking over her shoulder. Whoever had built these roads, then, knew about the geography of Eireann. To her, the green rolling hills all looked the same to her.

"I have been to only one ceremony there - that was Aed Findlaich's wedding to Muire ingen Ceinid - the same lady who will be wed tomorrow. There is a long, narrow road with oak planks on it, which we must all take to follow her; there are hostages taken and placed on the hill - "

"Hostages?" asked Finnolai.

"Merely ceremonial, nowadays. To ensure no-one backs out of the wedding contract. And to prevent interruptions of the Synod as they decide the next High King. Laws are passed; prisoners are executed, or pardoned." He clicked his horse a little faster to keep up with the rest of the warriors. Osthryth did the same, clenching the reins as her mare picked up speed.

"We will eat at the Teach Miodhchuarta."

"Banqueting Hall?" transoated Feargus, interested. "The food will be good?"

"Don't get big ideas, little man," Tadhg laughed. "It is a big area next to the Lia Fael. We ate there last time, but the best food goes to our allies, to keep them our allies."

"Treachery!" declared Finnolai.

"It has not been held for many years now, though," Tadhg continued, "The Norse have occupied our warriors. And, of course, if Flann Sinna wants to become High King, he will have to marry Maeve, as well as Muire, at the Lia Fael, the Stone of Destiny. It howls three times when the correct King has ben elected."

"Maeve?" frowned Feargus.

"The goddess of the land," Finnolai scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Another pagan ritual that Christians still follow, and a howling stone!" Tadhg turned on him, rounding his horse in front of Finnolai.

"So, the footprint at Dunnadd was planted by Christ Jesus himself, was it? And you ignore the power of the sidhe at Samhain?" Tadhg's pale face reddened as shot hot words to the Gaelish warrior. "I was here last time! I heard it!"

"Must you argue?" Feargus complained, butting his horse between Tadhg's and Finnolai's. The two warriors backed away from Finnolai, then took up the path again, wordless, but annoyed.

There was silence for a while, as the royal party rounded another soft curved hill. Osthryth was behind again, and keeping up with thecwarriors was beginning to be an effort. So, she was surprised when Constantine and Domhnall flanked her. She smiled at them, grateful for a change of company from the squabbling warriors.

"It's been a long day, and tempers are difficult to keep," Domhnall nodded towards his warriors. "Within the hour we will be there."

He smacked his horse's reins and brought the animal to a canter, easily catching up with Finnolai, Feargus and Tadhg.

"You have ridden well, Osthryth," Constantine remarked. "And we are nearly there. We will camp and we will eat well."

"In the banqueting hall?" Osthryth asked. Constantine narrowed his eyes towards her.

"You know it?"

"Of it. Tadhg told us; he has been there before." Then, a thought ocvurred to her, and she frowned back to the prince.

"Tadhg spoke of hostages held at a hill. Constantine, what do you know if it?" At her serious face, the boy laughed.

"It holds people to guarantee loyalty to the next High King." But Osthryth continued to frown.

"Are you and Domhnall the hostages?"

As the realisation of the gravity of her question worked into his mind, Domhnall's voice called, "No, Osthryth. Constantine, and l - we are merely spectators, witnesses to our aunt's marriage."

Osthryth turned her had slowly to her lord. It was the first time since finding her with Constantine that he had spoken to her directly. For once, Constantine sensed that she wanted to speak to his cousin and reined his horse on. Osthryth slowed to a halt, as did Domhnall.

"My lord," Osthryth began, bowing her head as she made to say her apologies. But Domhnall nodded forward. She turned her head.

In the far distance, a green hill rose out of the landscape like the a sea kelpie, rippling the flat landcape around it.

"Teamhrach," Domhnall pointed. Then, a rare smile curved his lips. "We will rest there tonight." He reached over to Osthryth's horse, taking the rein.

"I regret that I did not honour my vow, my lord," Osthryth suddenly blurted out, unable to keep it to herself any longer. Domhnall stopped his horse and looked at her as she bowed her head. "And...I have no sword."

The heir to the Pictish and Dal Riadan thrones stared at her, then stroked the mane of her horse.

"You will have one again, I am sure, mo cróga," he replied, having declared her his warrior once more. Then, he gave her a smile.

"Greas ort do thóin, a-nis Osthryth, I do not want to be left with camp space downwind of the horses."

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The afternoon was hard work. Sun beat down as Finnolai, Feargus and Osthryth tramped between the carts, fetching greased linen, slinging it over trees and fixing it securely to the ground, assembling Domnhall's chair of an ash set upon more greased linen, with woollen and linen bedding.

Around her, the languages of many coloured the air. She could understand little, but each tongue was distinguishable as Gaelish or Irish, mostly tongues of workers hurrying to do what she and the men were doing, that is, preparing for their lords from an assembage of carts, covered wagons and horse panniers.

Food was beginning to be cooked, tbe smell of pig and pheasant, hen and fish permeated the high summer air, making Osthryth's stomach grumble.

Between the four of them it took many hours, as the household of the dowager Findlaith guarded the stores, and eventually, as the temperature dropped, and evening settled upon them, with Domhnall's canvas room erect, the warriors were invited to follow their lord to collect food from the old cook, who had accompanied them down from Doire.

He gave Osthryth a foul look when she attempted to ask for bread, though she tried anyway, pointing to the loaves wrapped up in a thin linen cloth, but he stood between her and the bread, giving her another tirade.

"He thinks you are a changeling!" laughed Finnolai. He had closed in on her amd stood beside her, amusement around his cheeks.

"Well, I'm not!" protested Osthryth to the cook, who was glaring at her, wishing again that Glymrie, Dunottar's cook, who favoured her, had come with Domhnall amd Constantine, and was not feeding the usurpers Giric and Eochaid.

"Only a changeling would deny their true form!" Finnolai continued, laughing aloud at Osthryth's fury. "Come on, we can get some bread, and some milk too, from the sputhern Uì Nèill. I know a man who owes me a favour."

They brought the food back to the warriors, who sat in the shade of the ash trees, enjoying their victuals.

"I suppose I am with you tonight, but tomorrow I am to sleep with the royal household tomorrow," Osthryth told the warriors, when they discussed the next day's wedding.

"And whyever is that?" Tadhg asked, frowning as he chewed on a crust. "Did I not hear Prince Domhmall call you his brave one? Will you not be practising with us? You nearly had me, yesterday."

Osthryth smiled. Following the loss of Faedersword, the warriors had taken pity on her and had each loaned her theirs so she could keep up with her fighting skills. It was a regular thing that one or other would tell her that, had he fought with less skill, she would have bested him.

Osthryth knew better: she had bested each of them frequently. So, it was a regular thing that she pretended to agree with them. Burping, Finnolai got up and shook the crumbs from his clothes, then finished tacking their linen covering next to that of Domhnall.

"I must look after the little princes during the ceremony. The queen gave me a dress I have to wear, look." From under her tunic she took the folded fabric and shook it out.

It was uncreased and, in the evening sunlight, long rays glinted off the cream fibres and making the pearls glisten.

"You, in a dress?" teased Finnolai. Osthryth kicked a stone towards him, as if in jest. But, the truth was, she hated dresses. She couldn't move in them to climb, or fight.

The last dress she had to wear her uncle had brought to her two days before she would have been taken to Dunholm to the dane Kjartan for his son in exchange for loyalty to Bebbanburg. She rolled it up quickly and lay it down on the thick, linen groundsheet, pulling off her sword-strap and outer tunic and covering them over the dress.

"So, what will be happening tomorrow," asked Feargus. The lord has not told us of our role."

"From what I recall," Tadhg said, slowly, "and I had drunk quite a bit o' ale that day, King Aed processed down the avenue to the Stone of Destiny. The cailíen, Queen Muire that was, was brought along by her father." His fair hair blew around his head from the blustery wind, and the warrior pressed at his temples, as if to stimulate the memory.

"An abbott from Kells joined their hands and gold was given by Ceinid mac Alpin to Aed, and, some, some less, was given to the cailín. Then, we all drank and feasted, all night til the morning. The bálach and the cailín are hand-wed too, o' course, so they make the most of it." He grinned, amd winked at Finnolai and Feargus, who blushed almost as red as his hair.

"Hand-wed?" Osthryth asked, as a young boy leading a donkey helped it pick its way between Domhnall's tent ropes.

"Hand-wed," Tadhg repeated, taking hold of the right wrist. "The King of the South, who might, the day after, be High King, like his cousin, Aed Findlaith, will marry the dowager queen."

He pulled Osthryth closer, his face suddenly taking on a serious tone. He looked right into her eyes, and gripped further up her arm; she in turn felt the urge to hold his.

"The young people, who want to be wed, will try it for one year, 'til the Parley is held again here at Teamhrach. Then, they will be asked again whether they want to stay wed. The bálach will look at the cailín and say, 'I will be your fear as wed, until harvest next, be only in your thoughts, only in your heart and only a hand away.' And then the cailín says - "

"I will be your bean as wed, until harvest next," Osthryth found herself repeating Tadhg's words, fixing his brilliant blue eyes with her own dull blue-green ones, "Be only in your thoughts, only in your heart and only a hand away."

The world melted away. Locked arm-in-arm, Tadhg and Osthryth were the only two people at this ancient Irish ceremonial ground. Them, and the green earth, the sidhe, and the old gods of the heathens.

"Come on," insisted Feargus, breaking the spell as Finnolai mock-applauded the happy couple while they unlinked arms and laughed, "I'm still starving, and the night's roast should be ready." He pointed across the Banqueting Hall. "We'll be on grease and crusts if we don't get a move on."

Food and speeches filled the glorious summer evening. The warriors and royals alike heard of the brave deeds of Flann Sinna against the Norse and seanchai told stories of the Eireann isles, of the fear dearg, Finn mac Fionn's bràdan feasa and the sidhe

and the gods of old just beyond as tbe sun sank slowly towards the western horizon.

Then, the night was filled with little dots of lantern-light and it seemed to Osthryth as if the stars had tumbled from the sky to bring comfort and happiness to the myriad factions gathered at this old hill, as their ancestors had, from time immemorial.

"I reckon Flann will have to call on the Morrigan," Tadhg said, as the four stumbled to where they guessed their tent was. "Queen Mab was there tonight, as we hand-wed," he teased Osthryth, who gave the Irish warrior a "Don't-ever-mention-that-again-to-anyone-ever" look.

He grinned, then smoothed his fair hair with his hands as Finnolai looked round with resigned uncertainty, thoughts of challenging his friend over heathen mythology far from his mind.

"We can sleep under the hedgerow," he suggested, as they stumbled about the campsite. "Only if we can't find it," he added, hastily as Feargus, Osthryth and Tadhg frowned at him, scornfully. "I know we are not downwind of the horses; that poor honour went to the guards of Flann Sinna's son."

"He will be in a foul mood tomorrow, then," Tadhg remarked. "Rumour has it, he hates his father so much that he is going to challenge him at the election of High King."

"Then Donnchada should be marrying Muire," Finnolai said, shaking his head, "And he's not, is she?" He tripped over a rope supporting the corner of a canvas belonging to the farriers. One came out and grumbled loudly to him in word that, after a good deal of weak ale, Osthryth could not discern, although she was sure one word had been, "draich" and another, "chnap".

"It isn't a pre-requisite," replied Tadhg, who then pointed in the direction of the Hill of Hostages. "We were over there, weren't we?"

"Yes, my fine warriors, you are," Domhnall replied, walkingtowards tbem from their camp. "Trust you had a fine evening."

"We did indeed, Lord," Feargus drawled, the ale at his head. "Beimid ag ól!"

"No, Feargus," Tadhg said, clapping the young warrior on the shoulder. We have already had it tonight."

"Right, I dare say I do not need a guard tonight - go and rest, my men; keep Osthryth safe," the prince added.

Before Osthryth could protest that she was the soberest one of them all, Domhnall, now more carefree than he had been on the progress since Armagh, or even Doire, beckoned towards Finnolai, who followed him at once.

Be up early, Osthryth told herself, as Feargus and Tadhd held the flap open for her, giving a mock-bow, her hand-wed husband adding, "My Lady", with a flourishing bow. Be clean and presentable for this beautiful dress, then you can give it back and then you can get out of it, give it back to the queen and put your own clothes on.

It was late in the night, as the noise and the singing had begun to quieten down that Osthryth began to close her eyes. Go down to the sea, Osthryth repeated to herself, go at dawn. Make sure you do not let the queen down.

Much later, and a rustling came to her ears. She listened in the darkness to thw background noises. This, however, was not the faint undercurrent of a whisper. Nor was it Feargus, nor Tadhg: their exhalations of breath out of unison made it clear they were asleep.

No, it was not the warriors. Osthryth felt for Faedersword by instinct, cursing herself when she remembered she was without it.

Another creak, this time of canvas moving rapidly. Osthryth was on her feet, arms out in the darkness to feel who or what was clearly coming in.

"Osthryth!" Constantine's voice hissed in the darkness. "I need you."

"Constantine?" She felt around in the darkness, and found his arm.

"Osthryth, I need you." He groped for her, feeling across her shoulders then smoothing down her untucked tunic, his hands feeling up it again, his hands feeling up for her breasts. Osthryth shot back, tripping over her bundle of day-clothing and her dress.

Constantine scrabbled in the darkness for her on the floor, his hands finding her shoulders again, his lips finding hers. Though he was stronger, Osthryth reminded herself that she was nimbler, and to use that to her advantage.

But, it was too late. As Osthryth turned to wriggle out from under him, panic rose in her stomach. He had never tried to kiss or touch her before, and Osthryth pushed him off. He flopped back, but then fought himself over to her and tried to kiss her again.

"No, Constantine! Cha toil leam e!" Osthryth shouted, her words diminished as he found the rest of her body and knelt over her, kissing her full in the mouth and holding her shoulders down to the linen groundsheet. She felt moisture on her face. Tears. Constantine's. He broke away.

"I am betrothed, Osthryth," Constantine complained bitterly, wiping an arm across his face. "Domhnall too. But I do not want Eira, I want you."

"Constantine," Osthryth interjected. "I cannot marry you: I will not marry anyone!" And, a jest of a thought played around the periphery of her consciousness which reminded her, "You are already, for a year."

"Then, just come with me, be with me, Osthryth!" There was triumph in his voice, as if he had just thought of a brilliant plan. "I have seen you looking out to sea. We could go to sea!"

"No, Constantine," Osthryth protested, still struggling, but failing to remove herself from under Constantine's body. "You will be king in Alba one day. I am your companion - " At this, his eyes widened and he began to kiss her, roughly.

"Your champion! I fight for you, nothing more!" Osthryth managed, jerking her head to one side.

"Come on!" Constantine growled, his weight suddenly lifting off Osthryth. She fought to get from his grip, from his face which was polluted by his ale breath. But, he was too quick, quicker than her in the darkness as he anticipated that Osthryth would run. Constantine seized her by the wrist and pulled her up, pulling her behind him as they left the tent.

A deep, sudden snort suggested that she had stepped on one of the warriors, but no apologising could be done as Constantine pulled her after him, over linen, over grass, over stones. The cold night air hit her face hard, and Osthryth gasped, taking a lungful, her shoulders aching as the prince pulled her on, pressing her up against bark of the oak tree from which their tent hung. The hardness in his breeches made it clear to Osthryth what he wanted and he began to work his way down inside her breeches.

She struggled, trying to get his hand away but the swish of canvas behind her as Finnolai and Tadhg stood behind Constantine was what caused him to pull away from her. In the moonlight, it looked as if they were about to jump on the prince, though to attack a noble meant death.

"Osthryth, do you think you ought to be getting yer beauty sleep?" Tadhg inquired. "Only, yer have a long day tomorrow, and Muire will not be thanking yer if the boy-princes are not well attended."

Osthryth looked over with relief when she saw the warrior's face picked out in the moonlight. Constantine's hands loosened their grip. He scowled at Osthryth, and then at Tadhg.

"I - " she began, her heart lightening as she saw Domhnall striding over to them. He glared at Constantine, who frowned deeply back to his cousin. Then, shooting Osthryth a foul look too, the prince stalked off into the darkness.

Osthryth made to follow, but Domhnall stood in front of her and put a hand on her wrist, waving away his three warriors.

"His father's death weighs heavily," he explained, as Osthryth felt herself begin to shake. "Now, go, mo churaidh. Sleep, for you are needed tomorrow."

But Osthryth could not sleep, no matter how hard she tried. Her eyes would close, but unconsciousnes evaded her. Instead, she got up, careful to step over the three bodues now, which took over most of the tent.

The air was cool and refreshing now; the moon had passed its zenith and was now heading to the opposite horizon. Dawn was some way off.

Osthryth picked a path out of the camp, taking what looked like a well worn route which she gauged took her to the sea.

It was the wrong time if day for any heathen to be here - few came at night for the natural resourves they needed for medicines or their religious rituals.

The time to come would be the day - mid-morning, just as the tide was moving and the sea creatures were high up in rockpools, unlucky to be left behind as the sea retreated. And they might even chance on the Fair of Tara for business opportunities: many like Tadhg, who were indeed Christian, also believed, deepdown, in the old ways.

Osthryth closed her eyes. A cold, easterly wind blew across the sand, whipping at her face, but otherwise, nothing but silence persisted as mute contellations inched overhead and dipped beloe the horizon.

She looked east again. Just over there, was Cumbraland, or Waeleas...if she were to find the heathen and offer to them what she had offered to Beatha, her warrior-arm for passage.

Will you admit, even to yourself this morning, Osthryth's mind cautioned her, sternly, that there is another reason you seek them?

Yes, she fought back with herself. I know deep down something's wrong with my body.

As dawn twinkled over the horizon, Osthryth strode into the sea in her cotton undergarments and, with the last of the fern, washed her body and hair, before making her way up to the royal encampment.

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Only Finnolai was awake when Osthryth returned to the warriors' tent. He nodded as she returned, and Osthryth was grateful that he said nothing of the previous night.

He seemed to have something on his mind, as Domhnall's favourite looked at the sky, the wisps of horse-tail vapours high up in the morning sky.

"I have to go to Muire," Osthryth said, after he had smiled and asked her how she was, picking her way over Tadhg and to the corner where she had been sleeping.

"He was probably drunk," Finnolai said, looking at the tangle of cloth and her meagre belongings, and then back to Osthryth.

Her mind drifted back to Constantine: he was thirteen now and she was sure he should be beyond the childish spitefulness against her at Dunnottar.

She said nothing, though, as she knelt to smooth over the greased linen, covering the green tufts of grass and soil. The dress was not torn: she held it up to the light streaming fiercely through the opening of the canvas and at its rich fibres.

Osthryth did not want to put it on. It was only a dress, but to her, the weight of it, the restrictions it put on her movement loomed heavily. It was a garment to show her off in, like a relic, to be admired and handled. Finnolai watched her, then got to his feet, misunderstanding her hesitation.

"Go, over there. The others sleep. You deserve to wear beautiful things; do not insist you go in your fighting clothes, Osthryth." He pointed to the corner, lowering his voice and leaning towards her ear.

"I, unlike other men, will not get excited by your naked body." He stepped forward, "And I can do your hair for you too, now you've washed it specially, I can see." He looked about her head. "I did the horses' tails."

Osthryth laughed at her friend's seriousness. Finnolai laughed too, gesturing with his hand to her corner. He must know that she knew about his time spent in Domhnall's company; he must have seen her that night, on the holiest of islands Iona when she chanced seeing them together.

Tadhg and Feargus ribbed him about it sometimes, but only when they were alone: such behaviour could bring a High King's disapproval, for example, and Flann Sinna was already proving to be an altogether different king to that of his cousin Aed Findlaith.

Osthryth stepped to the corner, Finnolai holding out his hands to receive her clothes as she pulled off her trousers and shirt, her leather jerkin and boots. The day was already beginning to feel lighter than the night before, the upset of Constantine's visit already fleeing from her mind. She was glad he hadn't spoken of Constantine's assault on her of the previous night.

Within half an hour, the bright sun irradiating the King's land of Teamhrach, Osthryth stepped out of the tent, a beaming Finnolai watching her walk up to the tents of the royals'.

There was something wrong with her body, Osthryth thought, as Finnolai has smoothed the cloth of the dress over her body. She was not the right shape; not as straight as she had once been: her bottom and hips were wider and her breasts were more rounded.

She didn't like it. For a start, her breeches were becoming more difficult to wear. She would have to have them altered when they got back to Doire, which would cost money. One silver coin would be more than enough, Osthryth knew, but really, she had been keeping that for a time when she had found the heathens.

Two months, Beatha had said, and one had already passed. Would the heathen woman really help her leave to go over the water back to Cumbraland or Waeleas? She had to believe the heathen woman's word.

"Yes?" asked the guard, as Osthryth approached the tent of the queen.

"I have been summoned."

"You are...?"

"Osthryth, warrior to Domhnall of Alba." The guard lowered his sword to her, then paused andvraised itvagain.

"I have been sent to the queen," she repeated, taking a step further. "Is this her tent?"

"And you are prince Domhnall's warrior!" laughed the guard.

"Lend me a sword, and I will prove it!" Osthryth demanded, as a second guard ambled over, the ungainly dress making her feel imprisoned. "Is this Queen Muire's tent?"

She folded her arms. But, instead of challenging her, the guards laughed. And held open the canvas.

It was her tent. Mairi approached the opening as Osthryth emerged, a sour look spreading over her face when she saw who was there. Osthryth ignored it as Mairi strode haughtily towards a canvas divide, pushing it open and allowing it to fall when Osthryth made to follow. She smacked it aside, following the girl to the crowd of people at the far end.

The sun's fingers pushed through the linen walls of the queen's tent and fall around the group. Osthryth felt her mouth open as Mael Muire stepped forward.

The dowager queen was a vision. Muire's black hair caught by the sun's rays glinted as if it had caught the night's stars. It cascaded down her back to her waist where it met the strong, indigo blue of her silk skirt, which flowed down to her feet.

As she turned, Osthryth's eyes were drawn to the silver and gold circlet at her brow, decorated with similar designs as the Kells gospels: unending intertwining animals with the three-circle symbol at either end.

"You will walk behind me with the boys." Muire's voice tinkled over the air as she appraised Osthryth. Then, she bent over to her ear.

"You are beautiful," Muire whispered. "Every man will have his eye on you." Osthryth forced herself to nod.

"And, this is a time young people find their husbands and wives, for security, for comfort. Many people will be hand-wed after Flann and I marry."

She did not direct me to marry, Osthryth thought, as she followed Gormlaith and Mairi as they followed Muire, arm in arm with Domhnall, who was giving her away. Up the oak path they trod, which led from the Hill of Hostages to the place where she would wed, the Stone of Destiny.

The boys walked with her, walking beautifully next to Osthryth, in exchange for some bread and milk that Osthryth had obtained for them the night before. The dress felt heavy, restrictive, and she felt very conspicuous, aware that people had their eyes on her. Sje looked for Domhnall's warriors, and saw them at the back of the King's guard, Constantine with them.

Osthryth found that she was glad to see the prince. He caught her eye, his mouth flickering up at the corners. Osthryth recognised this tiny gesture as one of Constamtine's ways of apologising without actually aologising: he would do this when he had been caught playing a cruel trick on her, like hiding Glymrie's ingredients and blaming her or locking her in the guardhouse for two nights.

He had put the night before past him, then, Osthryth thought. So should she, and when she was free from this wedding party, she could relax a little with the warriors.

She caught Finnolai's eye too, as the procession drew nearer. His was a reassuring glance, and Osthryth smiled at him, her heart lighter. Oh, to be out of this beautiful dress and be in her warrior clothes again.

The sun was directly overhead as the Abbot of Teamhrach heard their words of loyalty and union, to one another and to their kin, of the Uí Néill and Àlpin, and bonding the mid-lands to the north.

Flann Sinna had to stoop to kiss Muire, his long, flame-red hair brushing her cheek as his huge hands held her small, milk-white ones. They led the procession to the other side of the Lia Fáil, as men and women, boys and girls stood opposite one another, each in turn saying the words that she and Tadhg has spoken: "I will be your fear as wed..." "I will be your bean as wed - "

"At least, we will never have to be hand-wed." Mairi's voice tinkled through the vows like the start of spring over pebbles. "Eira, and I..." Osthryth looked up, as the black-haired girl leaned over to Gormlaith, as if pretending to whisper something of interest to her, glancing back slyly now and then to Osthryth.

"...until harvest next, be only in your thoughts, only in your heart and only a hand away..."

Osthryth said nothing. If Muire had asked directly, rather than hinting back there in her tent, she would have told the queen that she would never wed, not even as a jest with Tadhg.

"But what a thing for a servant to do," Mairi continued, as a faraway-looking Gormlaith turned to her and looked at her grinning cousin, "To be dressed as a bride then refuse tthe queen's offer. It makes you think she might be married already, or want to be."

"Or, that she is a castaway princess from a far off kingdom betrothed to a Danish prince." The words slipped hotly from Osthryth's lips. On realising what she had said, Osthryth forced her features to remain as they were: this was horrifying, and the best she could hope for was that the girl thought she was making a boastful jibe.

"Chan e muc, caílin, eu-coltach ri rìoghail!" she added, her Gaelish mangled but her message getting through: Mairi promply stopped smirking, her face sinking into feigned solemness as the hand-wed couples walked in procession behind Queen Muire and King Flann.

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The marrage ceremony continued into the afternoon, with singing of songs and feasting and ale, a speech from Flann Sinna which consisted, as far as Osthryth could tell, about the long and illustrious Uí Néill ancestors.

Now, as the seanchaí began their stories of the Gaelic royal family to their sated audience, of the journey long ago of the ancestors, of the great Fionn mac Cumhaill, and the Conan mac Morna; of Dermond, seducing Grainne as if he were the gancanagh himself.

Next, came Niall Noígíallach, the first of the Uí Néill, as they sang about the nine hostages, and the Hill of Hostages, where the story takes place, and they brought up people to represent the five from Eireann and the other four from Alba, Waeleas, Briton and France, as they recounted Niall as he fought against Eochaid, in the legend.

When each time the name Eochaid was spoken, "boos" came from the Gaels from Alba, Finnolai, Feargus and Tadhg banging their fists and drinking tankards as they showed their alliegance to Domhnall, against his cousin in Strathclyde who had made him and Constantine exiles.

Two of the queen's maids had taken Niall Glúndubh and MaelColm to bed and Osthryth had been promptly returned to the warriors' tent to dress in her proper clothes, as uncomfortable as they were around the middle.

It had bern difficult with the ties, as Finnolai had done them up well, but Osthryth had folded the dress carefully for Muire had given her clear instructions that she must care for the boys at the Senate when the High King was elected.

"What's wrong?" Finnolai asked, when she had slunk back in next to them later on.

"Nothing." Osthryth looked away, angry with herself that she had said what she had to Mairi, and now, getting tired, her annoyance was showing. She looked at Finnolai, her face downcast, and Finnolai moved closer, his concerned round face looking enquiringly at her.

She should be feeling light and free, as she had done that morning, now the summer fires burned, cinders drifting high into the heavens as the myths and legends were told.

But she could not. Had she given herself away? Had she condemned herself after everything, after over two years of hiding by a snappy retort to a spiteful girl? Now, all her mind was occupied with was how to get hold of a sword to fight her way out of this, or abscond.

"Nothing I can help, anyway," Osthryth added, as the main seanchaí got to the story of Finn tricking Benandona.

"Come on," Finnolai said, sitting closer. Osthryth folded her arms and looked away.

"Tadhg's sorry about the hand-wedding," Finnolai whispered as the seanchaí's voice rose to its climactic pitch, the audience enslaved. "He doesn't think you and he will work out the year."

Osthryth, staring as she was at the seanchaí, felt her heart lightening. She turned to Finnolai, and laughed.

It was the first time for so long, as far back as she could remember and, at first, Finnolai thought she was crying as she cradled her head into her knees, but when she threw her head back, as the audience applauded the play, he laughed too.

Several people turned their heads and stared at her, and she got up, striding towards the hedge at the back of the banqueting field.

"Come on, what is it?" Finnolau asked again, touching her shoulder. Osthryth turned to her friend, and sighed.

"I'm just - disappointed with myself; I said something out of turn -" She looked east, towards the shore, towards the land where her brother was. Where her brothers were, the thought suddenly appeared. Aelfric had married her mother and she had had a baby boy.

"I'm sure Domhnall will put it right," Finnolai soothed, putting his arm around her shoulders.

At this point, Osthryth had usually wriggled away from him, for she hated being touched and instead they would fight, but it was comforting today.

"Besides, Finnolai continued, waving his hand towards the storytellers' enthralled audience, this is a wedding! Things get said, ale gets drunk, there's plenty of merriment! It'll be the sake tomorrow night - probably worse, for it's the kings' night - all of Eireann will be celebrating."

"Except Connacht and Munster," Osthryth said, remembering.

"Well, those particular kingdoms don't properly count," Finnolai replied. "They're a bit like Pictland and Strathclyde fifty years ago, before Ceinid mac Àlpin - they need us Gaels to show them how to live, or they would remain as wretches with no leadership. Like the Saxons: the Britons everywhere were nothing without leadership."

Osthryth nodded, though didn't quite understand. Why was it any different to the invasions now, just that she was a Saxon and Finnolai and the royal house he served was Gaelish?

The Britons were like they were now with the Norse and the Danes, if the Norse and Danes were on a holy mission to get Christians to convert to their gods. All invaders murdered for land, even the first king of the Idings, leading his people onto the Northumbrian shore, flame high in his hand, as legend told.

"I'll see you later, I have a long day tomorrow," Osthryth said, as Finnolai waved back to Feargus, the dark-redheaded boy noticing their absence as the seanchaí took their leave and Flann was on his feet again.

"You are goimg to miss the beddimg ceremony?" Finnolai's eye caught Domhnall's.

"Yes..." Osthryth replied, as if it were obvious. Who on earth would want yo be around for that? Finnolai took her hajd and gave it a quick squeeze before Osthryth walked off in the direction of the shore, before rejoining the celebrations.

The dark blue sky overhead felt heavy as she trod over scrub and gorse towards the sea-line, heavy as if new stars were waiting to be pushed into existence into the canvas of the blackened heavens.

What was she to do? There was nothing that could be explained away if Domhnall - or any of them - inferred her identity.

Play dumb and make a plan of escape from wherever.

To, where?

Wessex.

Stones had given way to sand-grass and Osthryth slowed her pace.

What would her marriage there have been there? She had seen Kjartan of Dumholm, and his son, bandaged-face Sven.

She would have been nothing more than a piece if flesh for bargaining - and her uncle would have her back, if she were discovered amongst the Picts and Gaels, for a similar purpose.

Feet reaching the flat strand, Osthryth heard a voice call her name. But she didn't stop, though she knew the owner of the voice. On, and on she trod, but Constantine did eventually catch her up.

"Aren't you supposed to be at the wedding feast?" Osthryth said, trying to chide him.

"When we were last on a beach, you lost your sword, for me."

"And a man lost his finger," Osthryth replied. "Better than your..." She looked down to his groin. "And then Aed Findlaich died, and now we are here." Constantine stared at her, his chest breathing in and out rapidly. He had clearly run had to catch up with her. Now, in the moonlight, he did not look like the young man who had tried to rape her last night, more the child she remembered: vulnerable, motherless. Fatherless.

"I sat here yesterday, til the morning," Osthryth continued, setting her feet onto the sand. "Before I had to wear the dress your aunt gave me. Tha e na chladach àlainn."

Constantine, walking next to her, grabbed her hand, suddenly, in the same manner that he had used to declare, when they were at Dunnottar, she had to do a thing because he commanded her so.

Osthryth let him, closing her eyes as the part of her that wanted to flee was manoeuvred into silence. He felt such a different young man to the one of the night before, almost shy, revering, and he held her hand almost as if it were made of glass as the stars sprinkled down their tiny lightlets onto them. How could one day be so different from another?

A shiver went up Osthryth's arm as Constantine held her hand tighter, reminding her of his strength, and this time it was his companion, not the royal prince, who turned.

Osthryth pushed her lips onto his, as she put her hands to his face, waves of shivers passing down her face and neck and to every periphery of her body. Constantine returned her kisses, his own lips pushing back, hard, mirroring hers.

He slid his hands onto her shoulders and moved them down, tracing the straps of her leather jerkin, then pushing his fingers up underneath her shirt, onto her skin. They dropped to the sand, the waves roaring softly behind them.

And afterwards, they lay on the sand, warm from their bodies, and watched the sky until the pale grey line of dawn hastened them back to Tara.

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"Will it please Mebh Lethderg, Lady of Sovereignty, to take the High King of Ireland, to wed the land and to protect Christianity in this isle of Eireann?"

It was warm. Osthryth stood by two fidgety boys around the Stone of Destiny as the four kings proposing to be High King stood equidistant.

Around them, the Uì Nèill royal family made a circle: those of the northern and southern, of Flann's Midhe kingdom, their families behind each king, silent,

Other royal families were also there, in suppoert of Flann, those who owed their alliegance, the Airgialla, whose lands they had stopped in to bury Aed Findlaith, and the Uí Ceinsella, of Leinster.

As dawn broke that morning, Osthryth crept back into the warriors' tent to find her dress, happening on Finnolai, who was doing his own creeping in.

"Come on," the black-haired youth encouraged, shaking out her dress so that the embellishment twinkled and, as he carefully bound her up in it, explained the process of choosing a high king, that it was unlikely the other kings would succeed in gaining the position, given the power Flann Sinna held.

"All those princes and princesses he keeps safe at Teamhrean," Finnolai went on, "To educate and take care of, their lives at risk should any of their kin turn on Sinna."

And I am not altogether sure that Domhnall was right when he said he and Constantine were not hostages too, Osthryth thought, as she thanked Finnolai for dressing her, before hurrying up to the tents belonging to the servants of the royal family.

She should have been sleeping there that night, Osthryth thought, with the other servants, being obedient, not nestled in sheltered rocks holding Constantine's hand. And there would be little time to rest today, as she cared for Grubbyknees and his little cousin.

"You're awake," Raonaid, one of Muire's servants said, when she saw Osthryth standing in the tents, having slipped in with another two girls. And she gave Osthryth some bread before directing her to the boys, who were lively and energetic as she took them in procession with all at Teamhrean

to St ColmCille's church for a service of prayer for the new high king, whoever he may be.

Now, once the abbot at Kells had finished his service at Lia Fáil, the huge Destiny Stone where they were now, the council of nobles from all of the royal families would to go off to the meeting hall next to the church and deliberate.

Osthryth understood what Finnolai had meant now: here the most powerful man in the whole of Eireann was going to begin his High Kingship, as defender of God the Almighty and by marrying the land, as in pre-Christian times, the Eireann pagan gods and traditions undistillable in this land.

And, while Domhnall's favourite warrior was cynical and he ribbed Tadhg about it when he was bored, it somehow seemed appropriate: they weren't separate like the pagan gods, either the British, or Pictish, nor Gaelish, or Strathclyde, whose old gods had died quickly under Christianity.

Gytha, her mother, had been of Rheged, and had been taken to marry her father to secure the lands in Cumbraland. But, even now the Danes had taken it, and installed their own king, according to the monks' letters back at Doire. Perhaps that land wad the most similar to Eireann in its retention of the old gods in Christianity anew.

Aelfric had married Osthryth's mother to secure the same lands, and to continue to secure it, he would probably wish to marry a woman of King Guthfrith's kin, perhaps a sister.

In Englaland, Strathclyde and Pictland too, the old gods were nothing but shadow, yet here in Eireann, they were living, as real as the sun and earth and water, and speaking of them appeared to be the king and the priests merely communing with the land over which they ruled.

The High King would indeed marry the land, for the land and the people's Christian faith were one. And, Osthryth thought, he would do as Finnolai suggested: use that one-ness of being of Eireann to mobilise themselves against the Norse, and that included the ritual of kingship, done correctly so all could see that he who would be chosen was chosen correctly.

The service was coming to a conclusion. All four kings offering themselves over the others stood next to the stone and placed their hands upon it.

Osthryth looked round. Would Donnchada oppose his father, as Tadhg suggested? She looked over at the tall, chestnut-haired prince, son of Flann. He remained stolidly behind his father and made no gesture to place his hands on the stone and declare his intention to be King of all Eireann.

But someone did. Through the people strode a man. Black of hair and eye and face as pale milk. He loped around the kings' retainers, long limbed and determined, striding up to the Stone of Destiny.

All watched as he placed his hands on the stone, as the other four kings had done.

"I am come," said the king, as Rí Ulad, King of the Ulstermen, to claim High Kingship."

He spoke as the other kings had spoken, Flann Sinna of King of Tara, and the southern uí Neill; Muiredach of Airgíalla, who garnered support from Doire when the Ulaid battled for their lands; Ruairc Úi Briúin of Bréifne, another king with alliegance to the Úi Néill for support against Munster and Domnall Úi Néill, son of Aed.

Domnall was representing the northern Úi Néill lands despite his step-mother, Muire, marrying Flann Sinna the day before and who, Finnolai confidently predicted, would fold to his new stepfather: "They had to put someone forward in name only. Domnall does not have the power to be overlord."

But now the king of their bitterest enemy spoke. As he did so, Osthryth thought she recognised the man's features. How did she know him? Why did he look familiar?

"Cineál mac Conchobar," the wizened abbot announced, "Rí Ulad, you come to claim High Kingship. You must now justify your claim."

The breeze blustered his braid at the back of his head. The Ulaid king stood firm, looking at each of the other kings, and prince Domnall, as if daring them to dispute his claim. And one did.

"I am rí in Chóicid," Flann Sinna declared, his orange-red hair flying in tbe breeze too, their braids looking like snakes dancing a challemge to one another.

The crowd started. It was true: one of the monks at Doire, who had sat close to Osthryth one night on finding her reading the annals - histories - of the Eireann church, and less close on finding she was not a boy, had told her the Chóicid were what the first peoples of Eireann were called, right back into history, before the Gaels had sailed from southern lands. For Flann to claim so meant he claimed descent from the first peoples of Eireann.

But, clearly, Cineál would not let that be the end. He stood firm and continued his claim. He looked about those who flanked Flann, and a sneer crossed his face.

"I am called the fifth, but we are the first, we are the king of the people of early Eireann. I am the fír Ulaid, the true Ulaid; we have remained in this land, honoured its traditions, welcomed Christianity to these lands." He loomed at the kings again, waiting for them to disagree.

"Emain Macha was stolen from us - " at this, he glared at King Muiredach, whose people were now the former capital's occupants, " - by the Uí Néills," the dark man looked now across to the flaming head of Flann Sinna. "A fact which is readily known. "

And then, he looked at across at Muire, whose white skin only appeared more beautiful, enhanced as it was by another blue dress.

"Álpin are my kin - Ceinid mac Álpin and are of my line, of Gabrán mac Domangair." He the looked across to Domhnall and Constantine.

Osthryth glanced in Constantine's direction. She had been looking for the prince of house Àlpin for most of the morning. He at least had got back to the camp, for he had not been by her side that morning.

"I see that you have my kin with you, Flann Sinna."

"And I am Cruithin," King Flann declared. "These are my kin here, to give evidence of it." Donnchada was now by his side. "His mother was your kin, was he not? And, when Niall mac Aed has done with the throne, then shall Donnchada, of the Uí Néill and the Ulaid, be king of all of these provinces? Who better to represent all your interests?"

The king had a point. A man, embodied in Donnchada the Brown-Haired mac Flann representing all lines of Eireann kings would unite all interests, especially if all interests meant uniting against the Norse. But. Flann was not yet finished. The huge, red-haired man continued to stand his ground.

"It pleases the line of Uí Néill to represent my rule in the Doire kingdom with my cousin's son, Prince Domnall," Flann continued. Osthryth watched as her once-opponent stood still as his uncle - now stepfather -spoke.

"The line of Álpin are too of Cruithin: the Picts and Strathclyde Cymric," Flann continued, loudly so that all those assembled in the lower ground could hear, "Who travelled over the northern seas to the kingdom now known as Alba. My wife,"he looked at Muire, "Is ingen Ceinid, mac Àlpin; her mother was of Fortriu, and our children will be of Cruithín."

This must surely be it, Osthryth thought, as little Niall and littler MaelColm fought in her hands. These boys needed a drink, at least, against the hot sun. But, she did not have her clothes on; she could not conceal water for them in a form-fitting dress, not yet give it to them surrepticiously.

Her heart sank as another, a third voice spoke. Behind Ruairc, a man of his kin stepped forward.

"We, of the Airgíalla, are also first peoples," the man said.

"Tighearnán!" Muiredach snapped, but the man continued regardless.

"We were once slaves to the Ulaid, but broke free of their overlordship." He looked at the faces of the nobility before him. What could he say to justify his claim? He could not compete on lineage.

"It was us who first embraced. Saint Patrick," Tighearnán Uí Briúin continued. "See, he is buried at Ard Mhacha. No texts produced in our land can be released unless they are assessed by scribes of his teaching." He looked at Muiredach.

"We are of Saint Patrick! My brother's claim is strongest, not because of lineage, but because of faith!"

It sounded weak, even to Osthryth's poorly-knowledgeable ear. But, like the Angle and Saxon families, the lives of the Irish kings was like one weaving frame disaster, all the family threads had got tangled together over the centuries. Only skilled, learned people could possibly unpick it all and name a High King who was credible to all.

"And I say to you, Flann Sinna," Osthryth darted her eyes back to Tighearnán Uí Briúin, who was still pressing his brother's case, "That if you claim you are Cruithin through Àlpin, and you are also of Dal Riata, who were themselves, Ulaid, then the Rí Ulad supercedes you."

Everyone watched as Flann Sinna stared at the King of Airgíalla. Did Sinna have some of Muiredach's kin, wondered Osthryth, and this was why he looked so fiercely at him? Tighearnán was either brave to support his brother or stupid. Or had been paid in gold by King Cineál to do so.

The debating continued between the kings as the sun rose overhead until at last, the abbot led the kings Saint ColmCille's church, Flann Sinna taking the lead, followed by the the nobles, including Domhnall and Constantine who, Osthryth supposed, counted in the big tangle of kin, as they were Uí Àlpin.

Muire took the boys when the men had departed. Niall hugged his mother very tightly as she carried him down past the other royal families, telling him how good he had been and that he would have some food and drink now. Little MaelColm was at her side and jumped when he heard the word "biadh".

"Who was that?" Osthryth asked, now relieved of her duty of looking after the boys until the reconvention of the council. She sought the warriors on this bright day and found them on a grassy bank on the other side of the Ráth na Ríogh.

Sitting on the grass next to Feargus, as the young man tucked into meat which was being passed around, she smiled at them. But none were smiling back.

"King Cineál?" Osthryth prompted. Of the Ulaid? I didn't understand all he said..."

"Did you know his sons were with him?" Finnolai finally spoke up.

"Oh?"

"The ones you met in the beach at Lough Foyle?" Finnolai looked at her pertinently, mid-bite. "You were attracting some stares up there, so yer were, Osthryth, in yer pretty dress and all, but I don't think you want them rememberin' you took one of their fingers."

"Why do the Ulaid hate the Uí Néills so much?" Osthryth asked, taking a flask of ale and a joint of meat. She kbew the answer: Cobstabtine had told her. But she wanted to change the subject.

"It's a bit like you and tbe finger, really," Tadhg began. "The Ulaid king was diminished because the Uí Néill king's bees stung him in tbecetes ajd made him go blind. Cáech, they called him - "limited sight". You see, to be King of the Ulaid, over all three tribes, you yiu need to be whole of body." Tadhg tore into his meat with his teeth. "Now do you see why were concerned about yer, Osthryth? Yer one of us."

One of them, Osthryth mused. Yet, she could barely bask in their declaration of her as their equal: the two Ulaid princes had been young but revenge-driven. Their king from years ago lost an eye; the one who stole Faedersword lost a finger.

And then, she realised that she recognised him - his looks favoured theirs? Osthryth lowered her meat, feeling her face become chilly despite the day's warmth. What if King Cineál became high king and found out what she had done?

"What do we do now?" she managed, changing the subject again.

"Wait," Finnolai replied, finishing his meat and throwing the bones into the headge.

"For how long?" asked Feargus, concerned. "I thought there was to be another another feast?"

"Could be days," Tadhg replied, lazily, stretching out against the bank of the King's Enclosure.

"Has it been days?" Osthryth asked, supping some ale.

"It has," said Tadhg, blinking into tbe sunlight, "Before Aed Findlaich. The decision over his father, Flann's grandfather took nigh on a week..."

"A week?" Groaned Feargus, his dark red hair catching the light and turning to Tadhg.

"...But I cannot see it being more than the rest of the day: apart from Cineál he has little competition - he is too powerful."

As the day wore on, Domhnall's warriors ate and drank and told stories as everyone waited for the judgment. Once or twice warriors from other houses came over to greet them; Tadhg knew many; Feargus a few.

On one occasion spoke to Osthryth herself, who made it clear she did not want his company, sending the young man scurrying away, crestfallen.

It was the evening when the lords assembled back around the Stone of Destiny. All possiblities had been discussed and a decision had been made.

Osthryth searched the faces, looking for Domhnall and Constantine amongst the two-score nobles who had deliberated and decided.

"All has been considered," the abbot of Kells proclaimed. The lords have spoken. This king was out hunting with his brothers when they met a frail old woman who insisted that they should kiss her before she could give them water. While everyone else gave her a peck on the cheek, this king kissed her."

It couldn't be Domnall then, Osthryth reasoned, her eyes fixing on the door to the church. Though his father, Ard, had been the last king, Domnall'd more likely kill a woman not kiss one. Plus, his brother was little Niall, horse-wise in the future, perhaps, but not now.

"This woman who then transformed into a beautiful young lady, green of form and glowing with sunlight."

And here was the representation of the land, Osthryth thought, by a Christian priest. It slwould be odd in England, or even Alba. But here, you could just about manage

From tbe church priests led out Flann Sinna. Behind him, the three other kings and Domnall mac Aed Findlaith.

But...Osthryth peered behind Domnall in the dusk-light. Domnall had looked across to someone, and that someone was Donnchada Donnfalt, Flann's son

Was this a plan by the prince, as Finnolai predicted? For he was coming back with the rest of the proponents.

Was he supporting Domnall, for Osthryth was sure it was the prince's voice she had heard in the garden at Ard Mhacha? Was he supporting someone other than his father? Was he proposing himself?

"And it has been decided that Flann Sinna, shall wed the land, and elevated to High King of All Ireland!"

The abbot took Flann's hand while the other kings encircled him. Flann knekt on all fours, a difficult thing for he was so big, and placed his hands on the red sandstone block which formed the foundation of high, pointed stone that was Lia Fáil.

All of the lords knelt to him, touching the rock, a little crumbling into their hands.

"As if all Ireland included the kingdoms of Connacht and Munster!" Finnolai's words sprang to Osthryth's ear-memory. She tried hard to stifle a laugh.

When Flann was back on his feet, High Kingship his, he walked around the other kings who had bid, offering his hand to kiss his loyalty. When it came to King Cineál, however, Rí Ulad got to his feet, stalking away.

Osthryth felt a wave of relief come over her. With the king if the Ulaid gone, with him, if they were there at all, would go his sons.

Which was a pity, Osthryth thought, as she hoped she might be able to reclaim "Faedersword".

Now, Flann Sinna was back to the central block of stone. He made a speech about uniting the Irish against the Norse, who wanted their lands and didn't care whether a person was Bréifne, nor Airgialla; Uí Néill or Ulaid: all the Norse cared for were land and silver.

"I hereby honour Domnhall mac Constantine, of the line Alpin," Flann went on, his voice booming over the Banqueting Hall, "Our ally, our comrade, who forges new territory in Alba for the Gaels." He took Domhnall by the shoulder and drew him to the centre of the stone, showing him bodily to the nobles, to the retainers, to the servants and slaves of each of the kingdoms.

"We are of one kin; our terrotory expands and we have contained the Norse, who ravage our shores."

Osthryth glanced at Muire. She seemed very pleased, and was hugging Niall and MaelColm to her legs.

"His crown and his land has been stolen! But, there is resistance in the Isles. To show our love of our kin, this stone will be cleaved, and it will be used to crown him when the battle in Alba has been won!"

Behind him, a mighty axe fell. The man holding it wasvas big as the king, and he struck the red sandstone block with such a force that it cleaved into two.

"This stone, born of the Lia Fáil, will be taken and cared for at Iona, so that one day, Domnhall and his descendants will mirror our High Kingship in Alba."

Domhnall knelt by the rock, which had been cut for him, and Flann knelt by him, mimicking his own ceremony.

"And now," Flann declared, his arms wide, his smile also, "We are to feast; we are to play, we are to sing and make merry. Your High King says it will be so!"

From the near-silent crowd of people around the king, an eruption of cheers and shouts of approval overwhelmed the Hill of Teamhrach, as servants began to be ordered about; royalty congregated, families mingled.

The feast, which had been prepared at the time the deliberation over who to elect as High King, was set out on long tables around the king's hill: no person was higher or lower than one another tonight, and the food was eaten and shared under a blue blanket of pinpricks of stars.

After eating with the warriors, Osthryth reported back to Muire who, while diamissing her to go to enjoy herself, told her she must not change from her dress into her own clothes, as she had done the previous night.

This brought on a smirk from Mairi, who was nudged by Gormlaith, and which earned her a scowl from Muire.

Games and singing were being held, and the warriors, with Osthryth, ambled about, looking at the entertainments, the storytelling, the jestibg, the games of Fidchell began to be unfolded and younger nobles pitted their gaming skill against their elders.

"You may know it as Alea Evangelii," Finnolai said, as he nodded in the direction of the cheqyered game board on which a central collection of white stones batyled a more disparate wrmy of red ones.

Osthryth shook her head, and was surprised when it was Feargus who explainef that the peson playing centre had to take his swirly counters to the corners, and red had to stop him.

"Lugh invented it," Tadhg put in. "It is taken seriously; to helps battlefield decisions."

Osthryth left Finnolai and Tadhg gently ribbing one another. There was no heat to it: the length of the day standing still and silent had made them feel lazy and languid. Feargus was making his way through another ale, as the warriors sat to listen to the singers tell tales of the heroes past, Fionn mac Cumhaill making Lough Neaah and Mann; Oisin and Niamh; Cú Chulainn and Dagda.

She left them to look at the other entertainments: jugglers and jesters and people who had set up during the afternoon, selling trinkets and beads, wooden objects and those made of iron and bronze, imported, Osthryth knew, from Englaland, Cornwalum, as the smelks of cooking and wood fires permeated the air.

And medicines. The woman, near tge back of the crowd, with two chikdren suddenly caught her eye as a man retreated from her, pocketing something he gad presumably bought.

The woman noticed Osthryth, who was striding over to her determinedly, amd began to pull together herbs and roots she had discreetly pulled together onnan upturned basket.

It was Beatha. Osthryth rushed after the retreating woman, whose children were running on in front.

Could it be true? Was she here? Had the heathen woman travelked to Tara and was she travelling over the water?

She gained on the woman over the dunes, gaining on Beatha, her dress pushing at her chest, making her pant. Lower and lower, she ran as the woman made her way down to the shoreline, sand shooting up behind her as she went, throwing up onto her drrss and into her hair.

Six feet away from the heathen wonan and Osthryth saw that it was not Beatha, the woman who told her to meet in two moons' time to travel. Panting, Osthryth pulled to a halt as the woman, having dropped her basket, pulled out a short blade and held it in front of her, as her her two young children shivered vehind her.

Osthryth stopped. She could easily have overpowered the woman, but she needn't. She wasn't pursuing her to hand her over, nor to rob her. She took a step back and the woman lowered her blade.

"I thought you were someone else, another...healer," Osthryth said and, seeing the woman's spilt produce, knelt to collect it up off the dry sand. The woman strode over to Osthryth, grabbing up her goods, then offering the basket to her with a shove, scowling her displeasure.

"You are not Beatha," Osthryth repeated, then turned to go, hopes if leaving even that night to get on a boat and travelling east.

"Why are you looking for Beatha?" the woman asked.

"For moss," Osthryth began. "And transport. She told me to meet her to negotiate passage."

"To where?" the woman asked, her boy and girl closing in on each side of her.

"Englaland, or Cornwalum, or Waeleas."

The woman turned to go, now, and Osthryth felt the weight of her hidden sorrow, that of hope dashed, in her stomach, in her heart.

"What would you trade?" The woman asked suddenly.

"I am a warrior," Osthryth told her. "My arm and my sword."

"You?!" the woman scoffed, looking at her up and down. "You are no warrior! Why," you haven't even got a sword!" she laughed. "And, how can you fight in a dress? No," she corrected Osthryth, as if Osthryth had lied, putting her hands onto her hips. "I saw you with the two young princes. You are no warrior, just a silly, bored servant who is in trouble and wants to escape."

Then, the heathen healer turned, her laughter tinkling over the sand and out to sea.

And Osthryth stood there, watching her go, anger and humiliation vying for her attention.

She was a warrior - she could fight better than most boys her age; she had defeated grown men. And yet, she had allowed herself to be sidelined into service. She had no plan and no sword. She had become part of Constantine and Domhnall's retinue.

Osthryth looked out to the receding sea. She needed to get away from here, from the princes, no matter how well Domhnall treated her, or how happy she was with in the company of the other warriors.

She turned and began to stride back towards Tara, fury with herself at her own stupidity, angry steps thrustng her frustration out on the sand and rock as she went.

Why hadn't she made a better plan? Why hadn't she remained at Dunnottar? She would have been on the same isle as Wessex, and would just need to find passage south, or walk. Here, she had to cross the sea.

Heading towards her tent she could begin by taking off the stupid dress. Never again would she wear one: she could fight her way to Wessex, sword or no.

The festival was still under way. As she climbed up to the fields, laughter and enjoyment was coming from every area as people ate and drank, as they sang and danced.

The tent was just ahead of her, but Osthryth's attention was caught the clashing of swords. A fight? Had people become so inebriated?

She crouched down beside a cart, on which several barrels of beer still lay and watched and listened. The fighting was intensive - few pauses between the sword strikes. Had rival royals, or servants, got into an argument?

Over the ground she crawled, listening, and stood up when she heard the "ooing" and "aahing" of the crowd. Were they envouraging the fight?

Yes, in their way, Osthryth saw, for it was not a battle in anger, but some sort of competition. She could just work out what the host was saying, and she crept further forward, arriving at the back of the hot, animated crowd.

"And so, Brin of Midhe keeps the ring, while his opponent, Gerard of Airgealla retires." A man pushed through the crowd, as annoyed as Osthryth felt, pushing past people roughly. She shuffled further forward. What was going on?

"And, now, who will be the next man to fight Brin and hold the circle?"

Osthryth strained forward. At the other side of the circle, she was certain that she could see Tadhg and Feargus, but neither of them moved. The end of the fight sounded decisive, so whoever fought Brin, a large, dark-haired man holding his sword aloft, would have to be very nimble and very strong.

"Remember, the last person to hold the cicle will win this lovely, Frankish-sword." The old man who was hosting the conpetition held it aloft, withdrawing halfway so the swirls and patterns could be seen.

It was not Faedersword, but it would do. As her sword. As if in a dream, Osthryth shouldered past the men and strode over to the host, who bent his silver head down to her.

Could she do it? She had seen little of Brin's technique or any of his opponents. But anger at the heathen woman laughing at her and feeling ashamed of using the Gaels drove her forward

.

"Who do you represent?" The man asked lazily, looking past her for the man she represented.

"Osthryth."

"Osrit..." He peered down at her and growled, "Osrit what?" Osthryth thought for a moment.

"Lackland."

"Then," announced the man, "May your master Osrit step forward." He was still looking past her. There was a shuffling in the crowd as they waited for the next fight.

"I am to fight." She reached out for the sword with which to batle Brin. When he looked down at her, doubtfully, she insisted, "I am a warrior!" The old man ogled her breasts.

"You look like a servant girl who deserves a good ploughing." But Osthryth was too furious to accept insults. She leaned across the table and put her hands on the sword-hilt. The man slammed down the scabbard with the palm of his hand.

"And, you look like an old man who deserves his guts torn out for the crows!" Her anger poured our of her - Osthryth was ready for a fight, ready to prove to herself that she was no servant. It had been over a year since she had truly fought in a battle.

And now, as the man raised his hand from it, holding it out for the silver piece fee, she now faced a brute of a man who would kill her over a sword.

But she didn't care. She needed that sword; she needed passage. Her one remaining piece would have to suffice.

Brin stood a little away from the table tapping his foot impatiently. When he saw an adolescent girl in a tight-fitting dress stride towards him he burst into fits of laughter, digging the other challenging sword into the earth to lean on.

It was a mistake. Already, Osthryth was lunging at him with the light sword, its flexibility almost making it qualify as a sword, if the purpose of such a weapon was to cut and slice.

This first attack caught Brin off guard and he struggled to get the sword from the earth to party her blows. He ducked to one side, skilled feet keeping him anchored as he pivoted around.

Tightening his grip on his sword, Brin approached Osthryth, who shuffled, shifting to keep Brin in front of her as scufffles at the back of the crowd broke out, inaudible to Osthryth as she focused with her anger on the man.

He held himself with an air of arrogance, grinning wickedly at Osthryth, assured in the superiority of his sex. He reached far out to her, trying to slice down at her, but Osthryth slinked back.

He just wants to show off, Osthryth thought to herself. He thinks this will be easy because I am a girl. He does not know that less than two years ago I fought a Norse army in Scotland.

Yet her body felt strange, almost as if it was not her own as she dodged the next three attacks, all of them designed to try to scare her, none with any power or skill, and it took her concentration to move as she wanted to, to use his energy, to attack when his muscles began to labour.

She continued to drift around the man, maintaining the same distance and letting the tip of the sword within inches of her body. That was good, she told herself, as one swipe came a little too close, the crowd gasping in lurid fascination. He will get more confident, more lazy.

The setting sun cast long shadows onto the grass, and Osthryth focused on her feet, making sure she could dodge more accurately as the blade of her opponent skimmed her forearn, drawing a red line on the sleeve of her dress.

Then, unexpectedly, Brin sprang towards her lashing out with his flimsy blade towards Osthryth's neck. It was a cunning strike and as the blade darted towards her, Osthryth dived to the floor, one of the first moves taught to her by Ceinid.

The crowd, now swelling in number as news of a girl fighting a man spread around Tara's fields and two voices, from different sides of the makeshift arena called her name

Osthryth heard neither as the dive aimed at the man's feet. Brin of Midhe was too heavy to tackle to the ground but Osthryth squeezed tightly around the man's wide calves and drove her modest weight behind it. It was enough.

Unsteadied, the man stumbled, and Osthryth slammed the pommel of the sword against the man's bicep of his fighting arm, blocking a weak lunge as she did so that was aimed for hee stomach. Instead, it glanced off her hip.

Pain irradiated around this new blow but Osthryth ignored it, pulling herself up and blocking a passing blow from Brin's sword before it could even be fully extended.

"Steady," called out the owner of the competition, "His master does not want him killed, nor yours."

"I have no master!" Osthryth growled, but her words were lost in the cheering. She raised her arm to her face, wiping away the blood.

She was a warrior; this man would be defeated.

Osthryth then took full advantage of the man's insecure footing, for his blow had made him fall back unsteadily. She aimed hard at the base of his rib cage, not hard enough to pierce his leather jerkin but enough to wind him.

"Do you yield?" Osthryth shouted, stuttering the words as a trickle of blood from the man's trailing arm caught her at the side of the head. She had bitten her own lip and was lucky not have bitten into her own tongue.

Brin staggering around her, gasping for breath, and could not answer. Not in words. He must have wanted the sword badly to not yield, to not look so ungainly in his attack against a woman, not caring for his reputation.

So, it was a battle of wills: who wanted that sword more?

Osthryth had the upper hand, and she was to choose the next move. She chose badly.

Striking out, Osthryth's opponent moved his left hand, grabbing her own blooded forearm. The pain was enough for Osthryth to do her own ungainly dance and, as she did so, Brin's right came up, his blade slashing towards Osthryth's neck.

She leaned back, avoiding most of the stroke. But not all of it. The blade ripped across her clavicle, gouging flesh from her body.

Blood soaked into the fabric of the beautiful dress Muire had given to her, and part of Osthryth's mind was given over to regret that it was now ruined.

She faltered, as Brin got the advantage. He slammed his fist into her stomach, but Osthryth managed to reel back, avoiding most of the power. Her shoulder was throbbing insistently, and she fought herself to her feet.

Behind her, the man holding the contest, moved from lazy spectator to actively shouting at them both to stop, horrified at the extent of the battle that suggested that neither opponentvwas going to give ground amd may actually end up in the death of one of them.

He was even more vociferous when he saw nobles striding out towards him.

But neither opponent cared to stop, if they had heard him. Stabbing, forward with her right arm Osthryth drove her sword into the man's left armpit, putting as much strength as she could into the attack.

The man bellowed, and struck out with his own sword, but it was inaccurate and his arm flailed around.

About them, the crowd drew their circle closer, most cheering but some shouting their disapproval.

If Osthryth had looked up then, she would have seen two Uí Néill, standing just behind the competition instigator. But she didn't and instead raised her sword, amateurishly, the pommel in to hands, exposing her chest, ready to strike down.

The man was in too much pain to take advantage of Osthryth's mistake, but tangled his leg around her ankles.

Osthrth stumbled, dropping her sword, but the man was in agony from hs wound and again could not capitalise on her disadvantage.

"Do...you...yield...?" Osthryth's words were ragged, but she shouted them at Brin of Midhe's face.

The Uí Néill prince bent to the stall-man's ear, look of horror on his face and ran waving at the two warriors, waving his arms and shoutine for them to stop.

"He does!" The terrified man shouted back. "He does yield!"

But the man did not. Again, he kicked out, and Osthryth stumbled, the man's hand chancing on her dropped sword. A smile of triumph crossed his face as Osthryth fell on top of him, grabbing a fistful of his jerkin at his waist.

She tried to steady herself, but her left hand, the one damaged nearly three years before by the arrow sent on her uncle's orders as she fled Bebbanburg, refused to press against the man's torso. She fumbled.

Fire coursed over her back. The man had managed to twist Osthryth's sword around and slice it into Osthryth's back, tearing at the dress and scraping deeply.

Osthryth curled backwards, off the man as the he lay back, victory written over his features. He would not yield. He was the champion.

Or so he thought. Making the gargling, wild battle-cry of the Picts, a noise which had terrified even the savage Norse on the field that day so long ago, Osthryth sent her left fist into her opponent's groin, grabbing at what was there and twisting with all her might.

The man dropped her sword and Osthryth rolled away, staggering to her feet, then swinging the sword aloft. He was easy prey now, and she aimed the sword towards the man's agony.

But her blade met with another. Not the poor excuse of her opponent's sword, bit one with some real weight behind its steel. She looked into a face she knew, one who had once been her opponent.

Domnall mac Aed watched Osthryth drop her combat sword, and held her arm aloft.

"The victor!" He declared, as pulses of blood irradiated across Osthryth's shoulder and back. "Now, by decree of the High King, the competition is over

In the twilight, applause circulated around from the spectators, but there were also some discontent that it was over and the royal prince had not opened up the challenge to anyone else against her.

Instead, Domnall led her off by the arm, walking quickly past the crowd and out around the canvased, up towards the food tents. Around them, supperly kinds of smells of venison, rabbit and pork wafted on the evening air.

Domnall then stopped, suddenly, and threw her in front of him.

"The champion of a sword contest," he summarised, and released Osthryth's arm, thrusting her in front of him.

With her good arm, Osthryth reached for sword, but he pulled it out of her reach, a triumphant smirk on his face.

"I won!" panted Osthryth, protestingly" as she tried again.

"Come and get it," Domnall tormented, as guards began to surround him on all sides. Her features began to look fierce, but the fight was ebbing from her, her wounds demanding her body's attention.

Osthryth sighed, then turned to go. He obviously wanted to keep it from her, to keep it himself, perhaps.

"Guards!" Domnall raised his arm, addressing those who had surrounded them. Terrified, Osthryth struggled as the four men closed in on her.

"You fought my guardsman," Domnall growled, his eyes filling with anger as the guards' stale breath met her skin. Osthryth's words of protest stuck in her throat. Then, suddenly, Domnall lowered his arm and uttered, "Now!" At once, the four guards each siezed her by her limbs.

"Brin is my warrior; you dishonour him, like dishonoured Constantine!"

They dragged her to the back of the stores tent, one guard holding down each limb pressing each limb onto the rain-parched earth. She struggled, but there were too many of them.

"So, you like to fight?" he mocked, as Osthryth refused to submit, and he bent to the tear at the shoulder of the dress which his warrior's blow had begun. Clammy hands reached out for her breasts, which closed around them, in turn. It is just a body, Osthryth told herself. Do not submit your soul to him, do not submit to weak fear.

"It takes five of you to restrain me, Domnall mac Aed Uí Néill," she spat back, in defiance. His eyes narrowed, and he nodded at the guards who held her more firmly to the grass, small pebbles of sandstone pebble pressing into her back.

"You shamed my cousin, fighting in his place," Domnall continued, bending over her, then kneeling, put his hand between the tears in her dress skirt. "So, we have come to an understanding."

He pressed his fingers over the bumps between her legs, then pressed inwards, to a place only Constantine knew. When he is not humping you, you can hump me - or whoever I choose, and I will watch." Then, he groped himself, pulling his hand up and down his own cock.

"You are a whore to Constantine," he continued, getting more vigorous. It's just up and down, Osthryth reminded herself, nothing more.

But then a little thought suppressed that thought, and reminded her, "That's not how you felt when Constantine ploughed you on the beach last night."

"And now, you will be a whore to me," Domnall continued, getting breathless, while he worked himself hard, as she had chanced Tadhg do one night in the stables not long after they had arrived at Doire.

But I am no whore, Osthryth's mind protested. I do not do this for a few shillings - we are connected, Constantine and I, that is more than humping, and I have sworn I will never, she wanted to scream, and it will not happen again.

Domnall loomed over her in triumph, breeches around his ankles, the force in his cock straining against his hand. But, he was too slow. Osthryth had felt the guards waver in their commitment to comply in the prince's impending violation of her body. It was enough.

Kicking one leg free, she aimed her foot towards his scrotum. It was a bad shot for, as she extended her leg, the muscles in her back contracted and she caught his leg instead.

Domnall staggered away, fury on his face as the guards pressed her down even harder. But a voice, calm as a summer sea, settled over them all. Osthryth recognised the voice. She had fled from it as he spoke about a girl, at the monastery in Ard Mhacha.

She strained upwards, and her supposition was confirmed as her eye caught that of King Flann's eldest son.

"This is not the way a prince behaves," Donnchada chided. Osthryth felt her limbs lighten as the he added, "You, go." He stood away from her, as Domnall decorated the stores tent with his fluid.

"Who are you?" Donnchada asked, standing away from her and allowing Osthryth to get to her feet.

"I am.. no-one," Osthryth breathed as she regained her footing.

"This is Osthryth, servant of my cousin - our cousin Domhnall," Domnall sneered. Osthryth pulled her dress over her breasts, and tried to stand as tall as her injuries would allow.

"You don't treat servants like this, Domnall," Prince Donnchada chided.

"I am a warrior!"

"So you say," Domnall spat at her, "yet you betrayed Constantine by fighting in his stead, his whore!"

A frown crossed the southern Uí Néill prince's face and he took her right arm and wrenched her towards him. Osthryth just managed to kerp her footing.

"Why, a cailín?" He looked down at the outline of her breasts under the ruined cloth. She fought to cover them with her hands.

"Of course a girl! Am I Domnhall?" He looked furiously at Donnchada, and then mockingly back at Osthryth. "An Anglian Northumbrian skivvy of Constantine when he was a boy, and is now his whore. Who won this from my servant in the Sword Battle." He showed his step-brother the Frankish sword.

This time Osthryth did not miss. Domnall got the full force of her foot in the sack. He reeled, grabbing at the tent cloth that he had just decorated with his semen, writhing in pain. Donnchada turned to Osthryth and looked at her in disbelief.

"But you could only be - "

"I'm fourteen - nearly," Osthryth declared. "Constantine requested I accompany him in his exile." She looked at the sword she had won. "And yes, that's mine, I won it."

But Donnchada's face clouded, and he thrust his hand forward, grabbing her plait, twisting around his hand, her scalp in agony. He drew Osthryth's face to his own.

"You may think we Irish are fools, but we are not fooled by a girl," his words soft, steady. Donnchada nodded his head towards Domnall.

"You attached a noble - that is no way for a servant to behave."

"I am no servant!" Osthryth managed, her teeth gritted. "I am a warrior!" But Donnchada only hmph'd as he began to drag her past the stores tent, Domnall leering derisively at her, wincing as he followed behind Donnchada.

Beyond the canvas, fires burned, one heating a stew hung over it by thick chains, a woman tending the broth. She started when she saw Donnchada pulling Osthryth by her hair, and retreated when he pulled her close to the fire.

The flames danced before her eyes, her face growing dry and hot. By her side, Donnchada slid his sword from its scabbard. Osthryth saw it flash in the firelight as he raised it.

She braced herself for pain, by fire, by blade, but then felt her body releasing as the High King's first-born son slicrd through her braid, casting it into the fire before her eyes.

He let her go. Without looking back to see her hair alight, Osthryth scrambled to her feet, making for the warriors' camp on the other side of the ridge.

Get dressed, Osthryth told herself as she ran past Muire's household guard, take your silver and go. You owe no-one here your alliegance, no-one your loyalty, obedience.

Rounding the top of the ridge, and by a spinney of trees, fatigue came to her body and Osthryth slumped down onto the ground. She had fought, and won, and for being a girl she had had her prize confiscated and, worse, her hair shorn close. If she were home, would she look like her father...? Or Uhtred?

Osthryth closed her eyes. She might have not agreed to come with Constantine, find another way to be by her brother's side. Her hair was mutilated now; she was no longer a warrior. Was she really supposed to be a sister now, confined to baby-naking as part of a trade agreement?

Sighing at the thought of such a wretched fate, Osthryth got to her feet, pounding them towards the warriors' tent, furious with herself.

But the heat of her anger quelled when she saw Finnolai, standing, arms folded and looking out from tbe canvas entrance, a brave of rabbit roasting over a small fire.

His placid face filled with horror when he saw her, cut, bruised, torn.

"Who did this?!" he demanded, hand on his sword as he looked past Osthryth, looking for her assailant. But she looked past him and into the corner of the tent to her clothes.

He took her arm, and Osthryth looked up to him, her friend and warrior practise opponent, who now put his hand to over her face, looking at her wounds, then her shouder, before hovering his hand over her back.

Then, Finnolai put his hand to her head, to her short stumps of pale golden hair. When she didn't answer, he prompted, "Constantine?"

"Domnall," she said bluntly. "Donnchada," Then added, as she recalled her fight, "Myself"

Finnolai pressed no more, but instead helped her down onto his own fur, taking out the coineanaich from the pot, and began to bathe her and treat her wounds, starting with her back, listening as she let out pieces of the evening, her fight, her attack, anger growing, anger at herself.

Finnolai was helping her into her clothes as the canvas flap was pushed aside.

"Tadhg and Feargus told me they saw you battle," Domhnall declared. Finnolai backed away from Osthryth as their Lord strode in. She put her arm across her chest but Domhnall did not look away, instead he appraised her back, shoulder and arms so she continued to dress. Then, his eyes caught sight of her hair, crudely hacked, tufts hanging about her head.

"I am ashamed," was all Domhnall said, when Osthryth stood before him as upright as her back would allow.

"Why, my Lord? I wished to win a sword."

"Not that, Domnall," He growled. Osthryth remained silent. It would cause further trouble and she sensed that the new rule of Flann Sinna under whose protection he and Constantine were now placed by default, was much different to tgat of Aed Findlaith's.

"You are to apologise."

"Why?

"What did he do that you kicked the boy in the ball bag?" Osthryth said nothing.

"So you aren't going to tell me. I can guess." He strode past Finnolai then rounded back on Osthryth.

"lf you had been a man, you would have been put to trial - you could be put to death, Osthryth if you were a man, one of my warriors!"

"If I were a man he would not have tried to force himself on me, four guards holding me down."

"I saw you there!" Domnhall shouted angrily. "If you had wanted a sword that badly you should have asked."

"I could not, my Lord!" Osthryth shot back, outraged. "I lost my father's sword; it was encumbent of me to earn a new one."

"You fought Domnall's servant," he rounded on her. "I don't know what you did - things are not as they are in Pictland; I am treading a very thin political line while Muire shelters Constantine and I."

She saw him flash a look at Finnolai as a measure of grim satisfaction caught in her mind: it wasn't just her imagination, she was right to believe things were changed.

"In the morning, I will take you before the High King. You will apologise for your actions and the shame you have brought." His face flickered, then he placed a hand on her shoulder.

"You may be whipped for this; it will depend on Flann's disposition, and he is not well disposed to girls who fight."

He turned to go, then scowled at her.

"Rest, do not leave the tent even if Constantine does come looking for you; do not run away." Then, looking her up and down, he said, "I do not think I have ever seen a duel fought with so much heart."

8888888

8

Osthryth slept. The night wore on until the early hours of the morning as her body healed. Finnolai had explained that most of her injuries were superficial. Her shoulder was deeply cut, and she had said, to his concerned face, that she had had worse.

Feargus and Tadhg had returned much later, inebruated but merry and had asked whether she had won the sword.

"Where is it?" Feargus asked, looking about him. But she explained briefly that Donnchada had the sword.

"No-one believed you a girl," Tadhg had said. "They were behind you, Osthryth, wanted you to win against Brin, who plays dirty amd cheats at cards.

"But - "

"When we saw it was him, we tried to stop you, but..." Tadhg draped his arm around her, and grinned, "I suppose you did not hear us."

"We are returning to Doire the day after tomorrow," Tadhg continued, smoothing his fingers through his fair hair. "I heard him telling Muire when I was tasting the delights of her lady-in-waiting!"

"Morag?"

"The delightful Morag," sighed Tadhg, "but I was looking for Gormlaith!"

"You never were!" Finnolai declared, shock in his voice. "It would be death or banishment should a warrior seduce a royal princess."

"You can swive her when you get back to Doire," mumbled Feargus, his eyes opening and closing. The young man showed no interest in swiving anything, female, male or beast, and it was strange to hear him talking of it. "Does she sing well?"

They laughed again, even Feargus, who probably, by now, was unaware what he was talking about.

"Flann wants to stamp his mark on his new territory," Finnolai mused, passing Osthryth a wooden tankard with some sort of distillation in it, some of it probably water. "That northern coast is rich in stone and fishing, and the Norse have not spread that far."

"Yet," Osthryth contributed, "He would press Christianity on the kingdom, as he has done here. Churches, crosses."

And another thought broke through her exhaustion, reminding her that two moons' worth of days would have passed. Beatha had promised to meet her.

"Doire is Christian!" protested Tadhg of his homeland. "Unlike the heathen land you come from." Osthryth nodded.

"Yes, it is that, now the Danes control it," she sighed. "And, that'll be the once great Kingdom of Northumbria, now returned to Thor and Woden, having been lifted from its paganism by Cuthbert and ColmCille."

"Ha!" declared Tadhg, mostly for Finnolai's benefit. "My hand-wed bean comes from the land made Christian by ColmCille! Of Doire, you know!" He made to punch Finnolai on the arm, but missed, falling face first onto the linen groundsheet.

"The land that does not believe in the sidhe, because you can't believe in something you know is real," Finnolai antagonised. "That's like believing in my sword."

"Or my fist," Tadhg mumbled back, as he sat back up.

"Or my arse!" Finnolai laughed. Then they were all laughing heartily, something they hadn't done since before Aed Findlaith had died.

Then, Feargus collapsed onto his woollen blanket, dark red hair haloibg his head as he began snoring and farting, to the rest of their amusement.

Then, Osthryth she had closed her and eyes, knowing that they were the four of them again. Even Domhnall had hinted at his approval of her skill in the fighting circle.

It was still dark. Osthryth opened her eyes, which made little difference. Three lumps to one side of her indicated that her three warrior-compatriots were in the land of the sidhe.

And then came another crunch, over the broken twigs fallen from the ash trees surrounding their area of the Banqueting Hall.

Osthryth opened her eyes wider, pushing herself up with difficulty on Finnolai's fur mantle. Her back was stiff; she couldn't have raised her arm to fight with the Frankish sword even if she had it.

What happened next happened so suddenly, Osthryth could barely believe it. Hands, enough to abduct one of the sleeping lumps of a warrior without a murmur of protest came in through the front of the tent.

Osthryth scrambled to her feet, slowly and with difficulty as muffled shouts ebbed away on the breeze.

It was Finnolai. He regularly slept by the entrance as it was usually the last place available when he returned most nights, the last of them.

Scrambling to her feet she tripped over the lump that was Feargus, bowling out of the tent, then scrambling to her feet.

Osthryth looked about her, adrenaline hiding pain as her back beat a dull thud of injury. Where had they gone?

Morning had not yet broken, but there was enough proto-dawn for her to distinguish two figures carrying something between them.

She tore towards them, as someone else joined the two. But it was not Finnolai: the high-pitched scream told Osthryth that. It was a woman.

Pushing harder, the stiffness her body making running worse, she headed after them, down past the southern Uí Néill camp, past the middens and onto the path that took her down to the beach where she had met the heathens.

Stumbling over gorse, Osthryth tumbled down the narrow path and catching her head against a tussock of grass. She shook herself, looking out towards the beach.

And froze. A ship, oars flat in the water, floated still in the glass-like sea, its sails betraying its trade. Osthryth gasped at the air as she hurried herself upright to work out what was going on. A man, vast, broad, hands either side of his protruding stomach, crouched down and investigated the bundle, who swiped and scraped out with her fibgers.

The captors of this woman stood either side of her as she turned and, predictably, made to run. Osthryth crouched lower, as the behinnings of dawn shone light on the slave trader - for that's what he was, his ship crewed by muscle and sinew, eyes belonging to that muscle peering over the taffrail of the vessel.

Osthryth skirted around another gorse, sand filling her shoes as the woman's captors negotiated with the man.

There was clearly a discrepancy over price: the slaver was not happy with the money the woman's captors thought she was worth, and he pulled her to him, hands squeezing breasts, squeezing buttocks, thighs. A slow grin formed on his face.

But it was clear the woman wasn't going to be sold as a slave easily. Struggling out of the man's reach, she charged at one of her captors, bending low. The other man caught her around the neck, however, and caught up her arms behind her back.

A price was clearly negotiated quickly after this, and the man bundled the woman into the little boat he had clearly come to shore in from the slaver. Another man, perhaps a second in command, stood, one foot on the bow of the ship as if anticipating the slave-captain's return.

The two men, deal done, were now heading up towards the dunes. Osthryth tucked in as much as she could, trying to look up to see if she knew the men, but it still was not bright enough for her to make out their features. They were young, though, and trod the dune-grass easily.

Osthryth got to her feet. The slaver was clearly having difficulty with the woman, who was struggling in his arms and she ran as fast as she could towards the little boat.

The slaver slapped her in the face, but the woman remained defiant. She then opened her mouth, as if talking.

Osthryth raced on, stumbling though the sand was flat from the newly retreating tide.

And then drew to a stop. The woman's voice could be heard, on the wind.

"Ethne!" The woman was shouting, shouting with all her might. "Tha mi Ethne! I am the Queen of Tara! I am wed to - "

Another smack in the face lulled the woman - Ethne - as the little boat reached its parent.

And then another thought struck Osthryth: she knew the name. Donnchada had said that name - Ethne - on the night after Aed Findlaith had been buried.

Ignoring the throbbing agony across her shoulders, Osthryth drove herself on, running into the waves. From the prow, the other slaver called to his master, and pointed as Osthryth drove further and further on.

But, it was all for naught. The woman Ethne was bundked over the taffrail, and the little rowing boat was hauled up and into the ship. A wave of the hand from the slaver who had taken the girl, and a shout of instruction down to the slaves caused the oars to rise, and then strike the water, pushing away at it, one side doing more work than the other at first, in order to turn the boat and head it out to sea.

Osthryth stood, thigh deep, in the brine as the morning sun shone down on tbe slave ship and its odious cargo.

She had seen slavers before: they were common on the horizon and the far distance over the seascape. Osthryth had asked Father Beocca about them, and he had not minced his words.

"Men should not take other men for property," came his reply. Yet, her Unvle Aelfric bought slaves from time to time to work in the kitchens.

Where would that woman - Ethne - end up? She was feisty, but hunger would wear her out in the end.

Was she really Queen of Tara? She must have made that up as a desperate attempt to be freed.

And yet, mused Osthryth, the identical name to hers had been spoken by Donnchada at Aer Madcha...would she make up a lie so obvious, considering all had seen Muire marry Flann Sinna two days before.

As she got to the stubby beach grass, finding the way easily with her feet, Osthryth suddenly pulled up sharply.

If the bundle those two men had been carrying was that woman Ethne, what had happened to Finnolai? She knew he had gone; the waxed linen groundsheet where he had lain, asleep, had still been warm.

Osthryth hurried back towards the camp, looking up towards the ridge over which Domhnall's warriors' tent was hung. What had happened to Finnolai?

It did not take Osthryth long to find out. As her legs wearied climbing past the midden heaps, a groan came from the dense forest of trees that lay surrounding the bottom sectoon of the Banqueting Hall field.

Further investigation led Osthryth to the outline of a cage, strung over a vast branch of a tree. The noise was coming from inside the cage, a fuffing noise, as if whatever was in there was trying to catch its breath.

It was Finnolai. Sun from the east shon onto his face. Hevloomed up when he heard Osthryth's crunchibg footsteps.

"Go away!" Hissed Finnolai, when je realised who it was.

"No! What are you doing in there?"

"Praying. Or I might as well be." Then Finnolai's dry sense of hunour failed him and he hung his head.

"I am to be sold."

"Sold?"

"Slavery," Finnolai sighed. Osthryth trod closer to the cage. It was likely. Unlike prisoners about to be executed, Finnolai had not been touch, lest he lose his value.

"The slave ship's gone," Osthryth asserted, sitting down next to FinnolI and recounted her story, about following him, about Ethne, and being Queen of Tara.

"It's probably true, if that was her," Finnolai said, sadly. "Ethne was Domnall's sister, and she was, up until Muire married Flann Sinna, his wife."

Osthryth felt her mouth fall open. His wife? When he had married Muire? Did she know about this? And what of Domnall, and Donnchada?

"Donnchada was probably put in charge of it all," Finnolai continued, his voice low. "Mael Ruanaid and Oengus are too young to have carried out such an intrigue." He sighed. "Married five years and not one pregnancy, let alone a child. And, the line must continue."

"But..." Osthryth broke off, considering the outrageous news, "... Domnall's sister...?"

"It's likely he didn't know. Probably why

"I chased after her...I couldn't run fast enough to save her..." Then, Osthryth looked at Finnolai.

"Why are you here?"

"I've been taken for selling to the slaves, too," the black-haired warrior replied, resignedly.

"But why?" Osthryth looked at her friend, demanding an answer

"I? I am what he has paid for the support of the Gaels here to regain the Pictish throne." He looked up at Osthryth, putting his hands over hers. "Domhnall said the political situation was precarious: Flann Sinna is purifying Christianity, so that God will favour him and the Eireann can unite against the Norse, including those in Alba."

"But - "

"Domhnall will be king; I can not be the reason he is not. He knows it."

"Domhnall did this?" Now, things were getting unbelievable. The look in their eyes, when she had chanced seen them looking at one another was pure, was one of love. But Finnolai shook his head and looked to the floor.

"I doubt he knows, and when he finds out it will be too late."

"But - " Osthryth felt amazed at this turn. For politics, these kings would sell their own family?

"Did I not say that to love a royal prince meant death?"

"Then, they should take me, too," Osthryth argued, for I have lain many tines with Constantine when I swore to Domhnall I would stay chaste."

"Men," Finnola clarified, but Osthryth did not believe it. A royal princess was about to enter a life of poverty and abuse, for this king to futher his ambition? No wonder Domnall had been incandescent.

"We can dig the floor!" Osthryth suggested, warming to an idea of escape. She scraped the earth with her hands, which yielded few fragments of earth.

"It's baked solid. Youl could never burrow through in a thousand years."

"Thoin-thar!" Osthryth swore, leaning back onto the cage, searching for an obvious solution.

"Come on, think, Finnolai!" But the warrior sank onto the floor.

"You're giving up?" Osthryth now turned her anger at his imprisonment and imminent fate back onto her friend. "You are letting yourself be sold into slavery for Domhnall?!"

"I would die for him," Finnolai sighed. But, that was not the answer Osthryth would accept. She tried pushing and pulling at the willow, but it would not move. A heavy second ring held tbe cage onto the floor. A key was needed. But, thought Osthryth, from where?

Her answer came in tbe form of a heavy, thick-set guard, thumping his feet across the leaf litter. Finnolai shook his head, willing her not to try anything.

But, Osthryth had already pulled herself up into the tree and watched the man wipe his hand across his nose then the huge gobbet of mucus into the meagre food ration Finnolai was about to receive.

As the man undid the lock, Osthryth observed that he had put key inside his jerkin. Good. There was a key, and it was there against his no-doubt sweaty, clammy body.

Osthryth moved so she was directly in line above the man and, when he was about to bend down to lock the cage, allowed gravity to pull her down onto him.

The man had no time to struggle, or prorest at her riding on his back: Osthryth had taken his head, fingers pushing his eyes into their eye-sockets before lifting his hair up with the back of his head slammed it off the hard-baked earth. Blood seeped out from under his head, and Finnolai drew his breath in sharply.

But Osthryth was already fumbling in the man's leather jerkin for the key, which she found easily and with it clicked the lock open.

"Come on!" urged Osthryth, as Finnolai continued to stare at the man. "You have to go, Finnolai," she urged, trying to force the heavy man back under the cage.

Just when Osthryth thought he would never duck under the woven willow cage, Finnolai stepped out, clearly upset about his future enslavement, and his love's political future.

"He would want you to live," Osthryth added, guessing his thoughts. Finnolai nodded, but then backed away as Osthryth held out so ethibg. Her last silver piece.

"I cannot take this!" Finnolai protested.

"I won it betting on cups," Osthryth lied, pressing her much-needed silver coin against her fingers.

Suddenly, Finnolai closed his hand around the coin, taking it from Osthryth, before haring off into the forest. Osthryth watched him go, until he could see him no longer.

88888888

"What say you, Osrit Lackland?"

It was the afternoon. Osthryth knelt before the High King of all Ireland, closing her eyes. Maybe Flann Sinna had presided over other matters, in the few hours that he had been voted as such. Now, a full council of the Uí Néill had been convened, seated in a horeshoe arrangement just before the Lia Fáil, the Stone of Destiny.

Osthryth had managed a few hours' sleep before Domhnall had fetched her himself from the warriors' tent, telling her that she was in disgrace and, by extension, so was he.

The true king of Alba was seemingly unmoved at Finnolai's absence, as Tadhg and Feargus flanked her past breakfasts for warriors and servants, their delicious smells filling the air with gastronomic deliciousness.

Osthryth's stomach grumbled as the charge against her was levelled, that she attacked Domnall mac Aed Uí Néill, having been brought from the competition ring by him the night before.

Osthryth had said nothing: Domhnall had spoken for her, standing by her side, Feargus and Tadhg just behind him as Flann, next to Muire, listened to him in sombre silence.

As they walked away from the camp and up towards the hill of Temair, Domhmall warned her to say nothing. But, before they set foot on the hill, Osthryth turned to Domhnall and smiled.

"I will not, Lord, for fear of further shame to you. I am sorry for this." Osthryth searched his face for some flicker of guilt, something that would tell her he knew nothing about Finnolai, but she could discern nothing and had to content herself with trusting that her friend had got himself as far away from Tara, from Midhe, from Eireann as he possibly could.

Now, with Flann's sons, Donnchada, Oengus and Máel Ruanaid at his side, and Contantine by Muire's Osthryth had knelt low on the grass of that sacred hill, ready to beg forgiveness from the new king, under whose protection she depended.

Yet, how could she, honestly in her heart, ask for it when at least one of the men before her had been complicit in sending into slavery one of their own, a royal princess, whose position as Flann Sinna's previous wife, and sister of Domnall had not been enough to prevent her fate.

And now, the High King had asked to hear from her.

"My Lord," she nodded across to Domhnall, "Has been good enough to allow me to warrior by his side," Osthryth began. "I am, first and foremost, a warrior, and I saw an opportunity to replace my father's sword, which was taken from me." She raised her head, and looked at Domnall.

"I deeply regret my actions to Prince Domnall, King of Doire, of the northern Uí Néill." She sighed, before finishing, "and whatever punishment you see fit, I shall bear it with my head held high, and the honour given to my by my lord Domhmall, rightful King of Alba, in the name of the true God Almighty."

There was nothing else to say, Osthryth thought, as she got up from her knees, keeping her head bowed low. She must trust that Domhnall would defend her, as his warrior, and try to forget that he may have been complicit in casting Finnolai, also his warrior, aside.

"My Lord King," Domhnall said, by her left. "Indeed, it is right to bring to hear the actions of my warrior and proclaim a judgment. This saxon girl was travelling to the holy island of Iona, on pilgrimage with her family when all were killed by a Norse attack.

"She saved the life of our cousin, Constantine, when he was a young child on the field of battle and has sought to do her duty by the House Àlpin ever since."

Osthryth felt herself crumble with humility at Domhnall's eloquence, his words condensing and distilling her finer attributes for the ears of a King of Kings.

"Moreover," Domhnall continued, placing a hand on Osthryth's shoulder, "She warrior of exceptional skill that I have sought to use to my advantage, sonething she hadls delivered many, many times. By her own admission she did attack my cousin Domnall. I can only assume, my Lord King - " he looked across to Flann, "That in doing so, no doubt she was endeavouring to protect herself as I instructed her to."

"Protect?" asked Flann, as Osthryth saw Muire shifting uncomfotably in the seat next to her new husband. She suspected what happened, Osthryth guessed.

"She was about to be violated," Domhnall continued, baldly, "And I thank you, cousin Donnchada, for your timely intervention in preventing this act." He nodded at Flann's first born, who sat still, silent, and nodded his head once, in acknowledgement.

"This prevented shame being brought to my name." He looked across at Domnall, whose complexion, Osthryth noticed, had paled to a milky-white. "I am sure you too, cousin Domnall, were only seeking to prevent her dishonour.

Domnall did not make any move, but sat still and silent.

And now, the king called Osthryth over to him again, beckoning wuth a thick finger, amusement in his eyes. Getting slowly to her feet, Osthryth walked steadily towards the High King, then much closer, for the king kept beckoning until Osthryth was within inches of his face. He appraised her body, and her hair.

"Cailíean cannot be warriors," he said, quietly. "Yet you can better the warrior of my nephew to win a sword?"

"I am no cailín; I am Anglish," Osthryth replied. "The sword was a good sword."

The king beckoned her closer still, stale ale and meat on his breath as he spoke close to her ear.

"You are no warrior without a sword," Flann continued, whispering only to her. "Your hair will grow again. During that time you must find a way to earn it back." Then, almost as an afterthought, added, "My nephew is as much of a bastard as his sister was a bitch."

King Flann of Tara and High King of All Ireland then pushed her away, pointing to a spot three feet in front of him.

Osthryth looked at it, feeling the weight of Flann's words. Ethne, a bitch to equal her bastard of a brother. Did she really deserve slavery? She faltered on her feet as she realised that was where he wanted her to stand. Domhnall strode over to it, standing next to Osthryth

"Osthryth Lackland, do you swear loyalty to the Àlpin line, throughout its generations for the remainder of your life?"

Osthryth turned, and looked at Domnhall. Women did not swear alliegances for women were not warriors. Who could trust a woman's word? Especially as this one had a prior call on her honour to leave the Àlpin line as soon as possible find her brother?

Everyone waited. Osthryth realised all eyes were on her. She had to make it true.

Lowering her eyes, she fell to her knees, head lowered, eyes to the grass.

"I promise loyalty," she declared, as clearly as she could, so no-one could mistake what she said, "to the line of Àlpin, King of Alba, to Domhnall," she looked up into Domhnall's pale, narrow face, into his grey eyes, then across to Constantine, similar in feature to his cousin, and added, "Constantine mac Aed and all who come after!"

It was clearly popular. A cheer arose from the warriors behind the royalty. Tadhg and Feargus knelt too, proclaiming their loyalty to Domhnall. Osthryth looked at their boots, a pang of sadness passing through her, for the pair that were missing, and sent a rare prayer for Finnolai's safety to God.

"Then, rise, Osryt Lackland," declared King Flann, who also rose. "King Domhnall of Alba," he said, beckoning him over. "I leave punishment to you for the wrongdoing over your warrior." Osthryth chanced a look across to Domnall, whose face was even paler than before, his features frozen, as if he dare not move them for fear of unleashing his anger.

"I give this to you," Flann added, taking up the Flemish sword, Osthryth's win which Donnchada had confiscated. Osthryth realised for the first time that it had been, for the duration of the trial, at the king's feet. "You will keep it on behalf of your warrior, and only allow her to have it when she has proved her oath."

And with that, Flann put out his arm for Muire, who got to her feet, giving Osthryth an impassive look, before walking past Donnchada, past Máel Ruanaid, his second son and the image of his father, past young Oengus and, finally, Domnall, whose face was blacker now than thunder.

The first judgment of the King of All Ireland was over. Osthryth was still alive.

88888888

"I know what you did, and I thank you, Osthryth Lackland."

It was night, and Domhnall of house Àlpin had, after ordering her to rest, summoned her to his tent.

"You were very lucky this day," Domhnall continued, as she stood before him, still aching from her wounds, still ungainly in limb. "Flann is known for his severity; if it had been anyone else, he would have, no doubt, had you publicly flogged, then run through."

Osthryth nodded, thinking back to the words the king had spoken in her ear. Despite women being frowned upon as warriors, he had encouraged her. Flann Sinna had approved of her abilities as a warrior and given her hope.

"My punishment, Lord," Osthryth prompted. "I am here so you may thrash me."

Domhnall looked at Osthryth, his cold, grey eyes appraising her.

"Shall we say that the brutal fight you engaged in, to win your sword was punishment enough?" He held it up, withdrawing it, then, getting to his feet, spun it in his hand, feeling the weight.

"I may keep this: it is a good sword," he continued, then flicked the corners of his lips into a smile. "Perhaps it will be the sword I use to run Giric through, and reclaim my throne?"

Osthryth looked at the sword, dark texture on one side making it look as if it was sitting in shadow.

"Let it be so, Lord," Osthryth replied, "You said I can request a sword, so I request one." Domhnall shot her a look.

"You may not have a sword; not yet. I will keep this, it is yours - " Domhnall re-sheathed it into its fleece-lined scabbard, "But, you must realise, the situation with the Southern Uí Neills, especially Flann Sinna, with those in the north is precarious. You - "

Throwing down her sword, he drew Osthryth closer, placing a hand on both of her shoulders.

" - you fought and drew attention to yourself against Domnall's man, and not good attention. Flann hates Domnall, for Domnall is undermining the king; he wants his father's throne. You have played into their game." The King of Alba sighed.

"Osthryth, your actions are not worthy of an Anglish warrior." He pulled her closer, looking into her eyes. "Your actions today, yesterday, and always are worthy of a Gaelish Prince."

And then, Osthryth found she had pressed her lips to Domhnall's, breathing heavily as she brought her hands to his face. His hands were at her waist, and he kissed her, heavily, hungrily.

He was not like Constantine, who never kissed her; Domhnall felt strong under her arms, driving his lips against hers and the shivery sensations she had felt with Constantine came across her skin, faster, and more intensely.

A moment later, and Osthryth had pulled at his breeches, reaching down, touching him with her hand. His cock was not yet stiff: perhaps if she held it closely, and moved her hand up and down, as Domnall had done to himself before he had tried rape her, then -

Domnhall broke away, face beaded with perspiration, pulling her hand away.

"It cannot be, Osthryth," Domnhall protested.

"And I do not want it, really!" Osthryth protested, as the exiled King of Alba trailed a hand between them. Then, silently, she screamed, You could find Finnolai again; you could continue your love!

Osthryth chanced a step forward. "I would just need to be a warrior, by your side..." But Domnhall shook his head.

"I am to marry Mairi," he said, sorrowfully, turning his head from her. "These things are not for me; I do not want them as a man. I have to make Gaelish heirs, as must Constantine. But I must do them in order to be a king who will unite Alba under one ruler, and so, dear Osthryth," he looked up to her, torment in his eyes," I must be firm amd strong.

"Without Finnolai?" she asked, then regretted it as soon as she had said it. Hurt fillled Domhnall's eyes, and he narrowed his eyes towards her. And then, Osthruth realised, they were filling with tears.

"Without Finnolai," he confirmed.

"You may well see him again," Osthryth replied, quietly.

"He has been sold into slavery, shortly after Ethne. That is one reason Donnchada will rebel against his father some day." But Osthryth's heart began to lift and she smiled joyfully at Domhnall.

"What if I told you he hadn't?" Then, before Domhnall could ask her, she continued, "I let him go, I freed him!"

But, though Osthryth thought that Domhnall would be pleased, instead, he took her by the shoulders, his face filling with anger.

"You can't have! You mustn't have!" But Osthryth only smiled wider.

"I did! I freed him, I gave him all the silver I had!"

And then, the King of Alba drew her to him, holding her to him and kissed her forehead.

"You would indeed make a fine consort," Domhnall whispered, close to her ear.

"Then?" Osthryth whispered back. "For I would rather be wed to a king so I could continue to be his warrior." He drew her back, and looked into her eyes.

"That would never be possible. A king needs to further his line."

"If you required it of me."

"You are good, Osthryth; you have the heart of a Gael." Then, a thought occurred to Osthryth, a dangerous thought.

"What if I had something else," Osthryth babbled, desperately. "You want to expand your kingdom once you reclaim it?" He waited, looking into her face, said no words as Osthryth continued.

"I know you want to expand your kingdom into Northumbria," Osthryth's words tumbled over her tongue like spring water over rocks. "When you overcone your usurpers, this is what you desire?"

"It is."

"Well - " And then she stopped, her hypothalamus finally getting through to her hippocampus. It would be so easy to tell him who she was, that she had a claim on Bebbanburg, so any husband of hers would have a claim too, and on land in Northumbria

She could access the fortress through entrances only she knew...let his army in.

But then, Uhtred. Could she betray her brother?

The light dimmed in her eyes. She would not tell. She was the daughter of an artisan whose family died on the battleground before Dunnottar on a Norse attack.

"You should rest, Osthryth, for we have a long journey back to Doire." Domnhall stepped back from her, his mind filling with hope, hope that she had given to him. And Alba, he added, to himself, for we will be there sokner than anyone believes, thanks to the High King.

He watched the adolescent girl-warrior cross the stubby grass over to the waiting Tadhg and Feargus.

But no Finnolai. Because of her.

And because of what you did for him, you have saved yourself, Aedre of Bebbanbur

g

88888888

Whitsun 880

As Father Beocca left the church at Winchester that evening, a letter was pushed into his hand. Frowning in the candle-light he strode out onto Winchester's high street, the evening's sun's rays illuminating the yellowing sheet, looking over the letters once, and then once again.

"Good evening, Beocca." Uhtred Ragnarson's voice carried through the mellow air. He strode over to priest, who looked up from the missive. Beocca looked up, his face alight with happiness as he read the letter once more.

"Something pleases you?" Uhtred prompted, glancing between the priest and the letter in his hands.

"Uhtred!" Beocca snapped his head up, looking at the warrior almost as if he were a stranger. "Uhtred," he repeated, more softly.

"I went to see Alfred, as you suggested." Uhtred held his jaw, then shook his head. "I'm heading north, Father. I mean, Brida's gone with Ragnar - I feel Northumbria calling me."

"Do not tell me your gods call you," Beocca scorned.

"Bebbanburg calls me, and Dunholm and Eoferwic. So," he said, looking back at Beocca's letter. "What makes you look as if you have spent a year in a brothel?" Beocca gave him a deep frown.

"News."

"Good news?" Uhtred pressed. Beocca looked back to the letter once more.

"Good news Uhtred, or at least, I think it's good news. Now," he clipped, changing the subject before Uhtred could push it further, "If you are intent in going north, you should ensure someone responsible accompanies you."

88888888

"Why did you bring the child?"

It had been three days since the battle at Strathearn, three days since the Norse, repelled by a co-ordinated attack by Flann Sinna and the Uì Nèill allies, had been forced to leave Eireann, had mounted an attack, first at Eochaid's capital in the green hollow of Cathures then, pushing east, ravaged villages in Strathclyde and in Pictland.

The kin of Ivarr had been vicious. Strathclyde had lost hundreds, and a similar number of Pictish warriors were left beside the river. But they had done it. Norse did not occupy Alba, did not subdue it or terrify its people. Instead, they had pushed south, into lawless, ungoverned Northumbria, and had subdued, terrify and occupied that kingdom's lands instead.

Constantine had returned, injured but victorious. A great feast had been held, exalting the Picts and Gaels, and their Strathclyde cousins. Constantine had then proclaimed them as one, one kingdom , called Alba, who had been attacked by the Norse, but had also been divided from Eireann.

"I pressed that Flann Sinna should reconsider - that the Norse should attack our country." Osthryth had watched from outside the main hall doors as Constantine had walked around his guests, all but declaring treachery of his Eireann kin. "More will come. But, united, we are strong: Strathearn has proved this. So," he had stood before the throne, holding aloft his arms, "I declare the country of Alba united!"

In the banqueting hall, all of the nobles were seated, with their households, with their lords. Constantine spoke to them all, spoke for them all. It was a master-stroke of genius, all Alba kingdoms combined under one: much like the High King of the Irish, who had, inadvertantly, brought Constantine into an equivalent position here.

Even those who had fought with Giric against Domhnall at Scone, who had cursed the Àlpin name as they mourned the man they called "Lord" were applauding with hearty approval and unalloyed loyalty. It would seem that, on tbe anvil of invasion, as with Alfred, of subsumption by the Norse, as had been with the Danes in the south, had annealed a nation.

A huge cheer had arisen, and the king had continued, "how we are in the defence of our realm, so we will be in faith. Bishop Cellach works with me in this, for all-the-people-of-Alba!"

The applause, remembered now in Osthryth's mind, died away as Conatantine's question filled the room.

"Because I can have none of my own. And, out of choice, the choice of seeing a child live when so many have died." Osthryth put her hand to her stomach.

That first time, in the scrubland of Doire, where she her body had expelled the first child, many more followed. She had used the root too many times - hadn't Beatha, the heathen healer, told her as much?

It was not often that the king asked for her company. In truth, after she had arrived, on that cold, rainy October night nearly three years before, he had sought out her company often. But, with her consistent rejection of his bodily advances, Eira had replaced her in Constantine's affection. As was right.

Osthryth did not no quite had brought him to bring Aedre to his room that night, but her sleeping form seemed to bring him a sense of peace - the same peace Osthryth had once brought him as a frightened, unhappy child.

"I am sorry for your losses," Constantine said, and leaned across the child, taking Osthryth's hand. Osthryth closed her eyes, the weight of her own lack of concern for these...losses...pressing down on her as the king sought her breast. It waa a strange sort of comfort he gained from this, Osthryth knew, but still, she shook him off. He sought her hand again.

"When is it you wish me to leave?" she asked, changing the subject.

"Not yet. The Norse grow too restless - they began to fight one another - my Uncle Flanna is uncompromising in his dedication in eradicating them from Eireann. More will follow the grandsons of Ivarr."

Yes, mused Osthryth, staring upwards, into the darkness. Flann Sinna was most inflexible in his attitude to ruling. Perhaps that was what the land needed: Eireann was altogether different to Alba, Waeleas or any of the Saxon kingdoms. Flann Sinna should be applauded.

"The Norse he expels come here still: already this day, they have ravaged the fortress at Dunkeld, where the relics of Saint ColmCille rest. Or, maybe by now, rested." The king sighed, a breath of frustration, Osthryth knew, not resignation.

"They take the farmlands around the Tay - they have no wish to move on. And Eochaid! Eochaid calls for help - after everything!" Then his voice dropped lower "Yet it is not Eochaid, it is Owain - Ragnall has invaded his lands since we expelled them, since."

"Aethelflaed has given them the Wirrall," Osthryth said, blandly, fighting away her instinct towards that abhorrent girl. "Aethelred has an unknown illness: she is in command."

"You have done well, Osthryth Lackland, and you have not even left Alba yet." Constantine moved his hand and began to stroke Aedre's hair.

"I have more campaigning to do: you will be required to leave should I need information. What I really need is a long term field agent, and you will be of no use if your mind is on Aedre."

The girl lying between them sighed in her sleep. If someone were to have glanced at a three of them, they would be forgiven for thinking they were daughter, husband and wife.

"There is no great hurry yet: I fear Aethelflaed's plan will be her undoing. Norse do not just accept land - they fight to take more. What cities are near the Wirrall?"

"Chester," Osthryth whispered. "It is a fine walled city once belonging to the Romans."

"My guess," Constantine murmured, Is that they will take this city and try to hold it as a staging post so more Norse can come freely from Eireann."

"And you wish I should leave then?"

There was a softness in her now, Osthryth thought bitterly. She would never have returned here willingly: her uncle was still alive, even now, and even now Constantine could propose a trade deal with her for more land...whatever use she still might be - little, she hoped.

But the little girl, hair the same colour as her mothers, bright orange-gold, like a bright flame; bright blue eyes, those of her father, Beocca's eyes, had chosen for her. Osthryth pictured little Aedre's face: soft, like all young chikdren, but was her mother's, angular, strong, like a fox, waiting and watching.

Yet, her first words had not Danish, nor yet Saxon, but Gaelish, like Constantine. Indeed, Osthryth could hear her intomation, calling her "Màthair" and Constantine "Athair", as he had always insisted she should.

Aedre would put a thumb to her mouth, saying, "bainne" and "aran", just as a Ga would. Ula, the heathen in Winchester who had saved her life when Thyra was dying, had warned she had a strong connection to her mother - but Osthryth could not speak Danish, nor yet entreach that she should teach her to be a pagan.

But, of course, Thyra had been baptised and was an active part next to Beocca. There was a part of her that meant that leaving her gods and turning to God, closed the door on the horror she had suffered under Sven and Kjartan's hands at Dunholm.

"You should teach her her father's language," Constantine said, again stroking Aedre's hair as she slept. Osthryth smiled - she had never seen the king be so tender towards his own children.

"Yes," Osthryth nodded. "She must learn Anglish."

"Inglis?"

"Aye. Beocca is not Saxon: I will teach her. Yet, it always feels strange to speak it here."

"Take her to Culdees: the Lindisfarne monks speak it there. Indulf will accompany me, so he will not need your sword-training."

"Over the water?"

"Yes." Osthryth nodded, then shuddered as Constantine trailed his hand over the form of her breasts again. Why whe tormenting her, mind and body? Did he not care that, though she would travel by boat to the monastery across the river, she hated to?

"You can not forget him?" He stopped moving his hand, but did not withdraw it. "He who it is you love with passion?"

In her head, Osthryth saw Finan, the only man who had ever made her feel love, rather than just do love. Well, the second.

But, Ceinid, too, invaded her thoughts but, to Osthryth, the head of the palace guard felt more like a father to her than the lover she knew he wanted to be to her.

Her mind pushed Ceinid away and her mind filled with Finan again: his breath on her face; his body on hers causing her to sigh and gasp...his hands holding her body, making her feel protected and safe. She could feel like she might have been if she could have been Aedre again. Aedre of Bebbanburg, with her man, Finan the Agile.

No-one else had ever made her feel like he had. He could hold her even for a second, and it was just him and her, just the two of them in the whole world.

"He's probably dead," Osthryth said, dismissively. "This happens when you associate with my brother."

"Then, that is settled," Constantine murmured, still touching Osthryth's body, his hand moving between the folds of her tunic and onto her bare skin. "I am leaving in the morning, to Scone, to plan our defences against the Norse, and to begin the church reform needed for Alba. You will stay here, you will educate Aedre." He withdrew his arm and began to sit up.

"I will." Then, another face invaded her mind: Domhnall would not have concerned himself with matters of the church. Relics and ritual meant nothing to him.

At that moment, Constantine felt more of a king to his people, both a warrior in body and for their spiritual concerns than ever his cousin did. MaelColm, Domhnall's son was likely to be king after Constantine, with little Indulf following after, as was the Gaelish custom. If the footprint at Dunadd was Constantine's, MaelColm would have a big void to fill.

Then, as Osthryth began to relax, as Costantine rose to his feet, the king of Alba asked, " A bheil thu gaol agam ort?"

"Tha gaol agam ort fhathast," Osthryth whispered, taking Constantine's hand. "Agus bithidh gu brath."

With her confirmation reaffirmed, Constantine got up from his bed very carefully, tush-tushing Aedre sothingly before leaving them both to sleep.