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

8. Battle

Chapter 8

The last chapter was very long, I had a lot to fit in. What did you think? Do you prefer longer chapters or shorter?

I promise Osthryth is heading in Uhtred's direction!

A couple of readers have asked questions about this story: I always wanted to explore the back story of the "Celtic" nations at this time. They become, when Aethelstan becomes king, his main opponents (with the Danes/Norse still a big thorn in both his and Constantine's stories.)

When Aethelstan had provoked and humiliated the Scots (although it will be several centuries before Alba is called Scotland, and evennow it calls itaelf Alba) over many years, they remembered that the Britons were people who were there before the Saxons and Angles, and allied with Owain of Strathclyde and five Welsh (Cymric) kings. He also had help from Ireland, but NOT from Donnchada, who was High King in the 930s (there is drama with Domnall, the son of Aed Findlaith, and little Niall Glundubh, who gets to be king after his big bother but unfortunately gets on the wrong end of the Norse in the end - Osthryth has not seen the end of Domnall mac Finnlaith yet.

The help Constantine gets is from a cousin of Sygtrygrr - who we meet in the TV series 4, and in Warriors of the Storm where he has been expelled in one of Flann Sinna's purges of the Norse over the decade of the 900s.

This cousin I will not name yet, for he is intricately linked to Stiorra's children through Sygtrygrr's family. But, of course, Wikipedia contains all of this if you want to read ahead.

So, Constantine's cousin could not or would not help. And the irony is the king of Alba fought to expel the Saxons with the alliance he formed in 937 on the premise that the Saxons and Angles were invaders from across the sea, yet, he is Gaelish, whose ancestors came to Ireland at the same time as the Saxons came to Britain, with Norse allies, similarly "invaders". As such, the pagan "Celts" in Ireland had more in common with the Norse, with their multitude of gods than with the Gaels.

Thank you to all who have read my fic so far and the messages of some of you. So, what do you think? What are your predictions for the day Uhtred finds out he has a sister (another sister)?

8.

October 879

They had travelled back to Doire. The slow, steady stream of carts which had left four months before, taking the dead king Aed to his resting place at Ard Mharcha, the light-hearted, happy Muire to her new life married to the king of Tara, and the parley of the chlanns, of the children of the Uí Néill, for trade, for fun, for justice, for renewal.

It was autumn. Harvests had been gathered, food plentiful. Mornings began mild, with mists rising from the fields.

All Saints' Day, where every saint in Eireann would be remembered in a service at the monastery, as it had been a year ago was nearly upon them, and, the day before, dinner would be eaten in silence, apples would be shared and little trinkets laid about the land to mark samhain, the liminal line again between Christianity and heathenism.

There was renewal, Osthryth had thought, riding on the covered cart, MaelColm asleep next to her; Niall Glundubh begging for another story, of the princess in the castle by the sea.

(She would never tell that one again, Osthryth told herself, as she led the three girls and two young boys over the monastery: the boy remembered it too well. Instead, she stuck to the stories of Kings Solomon and David, of goodness and hope, of might and wisdom.)

On their return, the mood of the procession was solemn. They did not stop at Kells, nor Aer Mhadcha, instead, covered as much ground as possible.

Flann was concerned about this, the northern Uí Néill territory, and that of the Air Gealla. Cineál mac Conchobar, king of the Ulaid would not rest from the challenge to take the land he thought rightfully his: his departure from Tara was merely a retreat not a submission. The Ulaid would never accept a Uí Néill king as their High King and it was suspected that he would mount an attack, and soon.

No, Osthryth did not know the suspicions of the king: Tadhg told her, one night as they were resting in the stables of a monastery just outside Streadh Bainne, that this was his fear, which is why they were running, fast, for the fortress at Doire, to establish Flann's kingship in the north.

Osthryth found it was difficult without Finnolai, strange: they could all feel it. When they were riding, no-one was there to respond to Tadhg's suppositions that the spirits had made the day fine for them, or the water nymphs the rain.

Neither she nor Tadhg had Finnolai's patience practising swordsmanship with Feargus, ferocious, stolid, but with few tactics and both spat frustrated words at him. Osthryth missed him dreadfully: he had grown to he her friend; he had helped her with her hair, her clothes, her battle skills...sat with her when she wearied ahead of the other warriors.

He never demanded anything of her, not her time or her body and Finnolai's goodness left behind a gnawing hole in Osthryth's soul, balmed only with the knowledge that she had done what she could for him. He had silver; he would find a way to stay alive, well away, Osthryth hoped, from the Gaelish royal family who had plotted to enslave him like they had a fierce, inconvenient young queen that morning on the beach near Tara.

It had struck particularly hard on the morning they had left Streadh Bainne, just south of the river Foyle before they headed down river to Doire. Osthryth had asked Tadhg to battle her, and he murmured that he was a poor replacement, meaning to Finnolai, his verbal sparring partner.

Did they know where he was? That Domhnall was involved? Should she tell them she helped him escape?

But, in truth, both warriors had turned in on themselves. As Osthryth watched Tadhg's white-blonde hair spilled from under his helmet, and Feargus's fire-kissed head absorbing the afternoon sun's deep gold, she felt the weight of guilt on her stomach: she was with them yet Finnolai was not.

They had followed the Foyle along the valley as fast as the horses could take the retinue, laden with canvases, cooking pots, wood poles and chests.

Osthryth had looked on, towards Lough Foyle. It was nearly two moons; the heathen Beatha said to meet her then.

But, when Osthryth had slipped away to meet the heathens, she hadn't been there. For a week Osthryth walked the five miles to the sandy beach in the mornings and each time there was no sign. Not that she had the silver to pay any longer. But she had a sword, of sorts, and her ability to fight.

So she had gone back to the palace, increasingly annoyed at their arrangement being broken, avoiding Domnall mac Finnlaith, who had taken it upon himself to watch her walk, nothing more, just watch her pass the monastery and walk up towards the stables to sit with Tadhg and Feargus, his pale grey eyes resting on her until Osthryth turned her head and looked at him, the want-to-be king of Doire and all of the northern Uí Néill territory.

And it struck her, the second night, how frustrated he must be to lose his birthright, to be passed over at Teamreach, at the vote of High King and marriage to Mael Muire, to Flann Sinna. The young man, who had spent a good deal of his time up to his neck in drink and up to his groin in serving girls, his sister gone, must be very bitter indeed.

Osthryth's first duty when they arrived back at the northern Uí Néill's palace at Doire was to aid with the feast. Stirred by months of inactivity, like patting a chair heavily laden with dust, the maids, servants, kitchen boys, stable hands and housekeepers sprang into action.

Osthryth had been taken to the kitchens on the night they had arrived back and had worked into the night as the cook, harried with the journey, barked orders at her with words she could not understand.

The other servant girls did, however, and they scuttled about, carrying barrels, bringing chickens, plucking and de-gizzarding them; bringing ale.

As usual, they ignored Osthryth, instead, pointing to head, to her hair as she passed.

It was growing back, thick and stubbily and now, three days after arriving back, she was standing outside Mael Muire's chambers, answering her summons.

Dressed in a dark woollen dress, knitted shawl around her shoulders, King Flann's wife beckoned her in.

It was colder now, much darker than the last time she had been there, to receive instruction about educating theg children and had seen the gospel book, to be embellished by the squid ink from the sea beasts she was to find.

Queen Muire was not happy with Osthryth and said so. She began with the dress she had been given, which lay in shreds in the hedgerow about Tara. Then, to her battle with Domnall's man, whom she had killed, finishing with her refusal to marry.

Osthryth listened, keenly and intently, as the queen looked her over, insisting she see her wounds then insisting on Raonaid, her maid, bathe them.

They were not as bad as they could have been - Raonaid pointed out new skin forming on her shoulder and neck, and all at once, Osthryth was reminded of her good friend Finnolai, who knew how to treat her injuries and had quietly and gently soothed her mind, and was overcome with a shiver of guilt - he had had to run. For the Uí Néills; a girl, Domnall's sister, once queen to Flann had been enslaved: did Muire know this?

She was to continue teaching the children, Muire relayed. Osthryth's skill was valued, for both the princesses and the young princes and she should spend time in the monastery learning more. And to serve. Her bed was to be at the back of the kitchens so she could more easily work for Muraidh, the ill-tempered cook.

Before she left, Raonaid shaped her hair, bringing a thin blade that reflected the sun's mellow light onto its steel to Osthryth's head. Muire watched, but said nothing. Was she waiting for Osthryth to say something, about her treatment that night, by Domnall and Donnchada?

Muire was about to dismiss her, when the look on Osthryth's face instead caused the queen to call her to her.

"What troubles you?" she asked, kindness in her voice.

"My body," Osthryth blurted out. She had not meant to say anything, but her shape had been concerning her, "It has changed; it is different to once it was." The will had gone out of her fight, too, but this was nothing a queen could help her with.

Muire looked earnestly at her, as Osthryth felt her face redden with her confession and the queen laughed.

"You are becoming a woman," Osthryth, she tinkled, "You are...sixteen now?"

"Fourteen," Osthryth corrected, annoyed that these changes were because she was growing into femininity. Would it stop her from fighting? Domhnall had told her to eschew sex, lest she became with child - yet if her body was going to change anyway, and she could not continue to be a warrior, was there any point?

"You could marry," Muire suggested, still smiling at Osthryth, "We have warriors to whom you could be wed, and be safe; Domhnall has spoken to me that Tadhg or Feargus may be suitable, or one of our own; you speak Gaelish well."

"Marry?!" Osthryth scoffed, touching across to her shoulder. "I will never marry!" she declared, feeling the void which was Finnolai in her heart. He was the closest she would ever come to marriage, and his predelection for men would prevent anything - perfect to prevent children. Where was he? Osthryth sent up a silent prayer that he was well, and not recaptured.

And then, as she stood before the queen, who had taken Osthryth's declaration solemnly, she resolved to never give in to passion again, to remember she was seeking her brother, Uhtred, and yes, she would, she should fight the changes in her body and continue to be a warrior despite tiredness, lethargy, effort of will to fight. Despite Muire's reassurances, Osthryth still knew there was something not right with her body. She put her hand to her hair.

"It will grow, and you will be beautiful again," said Muire, misunderstanding Osthryth's decision to deny herself marriage. She nodded dumbly to the queen, who dismissed her. Yes, it would grow, and with it, so must she. She must leave this land.

But, did it need to? Men, Saxon men sheared their hair short - as did criminals within Gaelish society. She had lost her hair for her mistake - as long as it was short she would not forget it.

Instead, her shorn head would help her when she bidded to travel to Wessex, to Father Beocca, to Winchester, and to her brother.

88888888

As usual, Osthryth was already up the next morning before dawn, carrying and fetching in the palace kitchens: water, vegetables, deceased chickens. Her tasks had increased since she was last in that cold, stuffy place, the meagre fire doing little to raise the temperature as several of the jobs the servant girl, who looked ready to give birth any day, did had fallen Osthryth's way and the servants purchased at Tara were slow and reluctant, still at the "beat them to break them" stage.

Osthryth stared through the open courtyard door at the wretches, many from over the water, from Cumbraland, her mother's kingdom, and southern Northumbria, by the coast opposite the coast of Eireann. Osthryth had seen a map in the monastery showing all of the kingdoms of both isles, a young monk, Anndra, who opened the monastery to the little scholarly party each morning pointed them put to her one night when she had returned claiming to be preparing her lessons, but instead was seeking more information about Uhtred.

He had shown her Alba and Mercia, Wessex in the south, and East Anglia, Waeleas and Cornwalum. On the smaller isle the Uí Néill territories were picked out large and bold, marking their importance. But Osthryth's eye had caught a tiny fortress on Englaland's east coast, marked Bebbanburg, close to Pictland; far from Wessex.

Now, as the sun stretched its rays over the stony courtyard that morning, Osthryth wondered whether they had all come from Englaland? Christians were not supposed to enslave Christians, yet half a dozen were young men with strength in their arms, who whipped their chains and begged in vain for God to grant their freedom.

Poor men, Osthryth thought, as the guards beat the men with sticks until they cowered away towards the damp, mulchy earth. Poor men traded for gold, men like Finnolai, who may have wronged someone more powerful than them, or had just gone voluntarily to prevent their families from starving to death.

Not all of them were from the British Isles, though: two other men were dark-skinned, clearly purchased by the Danish slaver from a land overseas.

They were more willing than the other men to work, and worked faster than the Irish servant girls, who clearly resented their efficiency, hurling terrible insults to the two men about the tortures they wished on them in hell as they went by, though not being understood at all. One or two of the slave women looked up, the ones Osthryth suspected were of Cumbraland, for Cymric was similar to Gaelish, and they cowered behind ther buckets of well water, hoping that the servants did not curse them to hell next.

Osthryth empathised with the dark-skinned girls, their black hair standing proud of their heads against the pale blue autumn sky, wishing she could offer her sympathy. But neither spoke Gaelish, Anglish, Saxon or Cymric - the slave keepers had tried those languages out on them the day before.

They did understand the stick and the leather horse lash however, though neither of the two had done anything to deserve a beating, but they got one anyway, to show them their place.

Osthryth had decided to give them bowls of gruel a little fuller than those of the Irish servants and, that morning, smiled at them as they beat the laundry with stones and stood between them as two stable hands tried to back them into the store house, the handle of Tadhg's short-sword in her grip, ready to pull it.

It was they who found Osthryth that morning, when the Irish servant began to groan, a thin liquid, dark and bloody, running down her leg.

Shouting what sounded like instructions to Osthryth, pointing and grasping her tunic, Osthryth realised that the girl's baby was to make an appearance, and soon.

As she turned to look for help, Osthryth realised she was the help for which the pregnant girl's eyes were searching and a sudden feeling of panic flashed through Osthryth and she grasped for the thick, oak ill-fitting planks that boarded over ancient posts, nausea following soon after.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked down. It was the other servant girl pulling at her jerkin, trying to get her attention, speaking Irish so fast that Osthryth could not make out the words. Terror was etched into her brow. There was something wrong - something very wrong with the birth and both Irish girls knew it.

Osthryth approached the girl, looking at her face, her hands, and down to her legs. It was clear both girls expected her to do something.

She did: she reeled, acid sickness catching in her throat as the girl cradled her hands between her legs, more blood seeping out onto them.

"Come!" Osthryth encouraged, beckoning both girls down back to their beds. But both of them stopped still, the other girl gabbling something which sounded beseeching, panicky.

Maybe she could stay in the hall and get someone else to help? Osthryth knew little of birth, and she paced away from the servants, to a howl of dismay as the pregnant girl buckled over towards the whitewashed wall of the back kitchen, her friend shouting back to Osthryth as she supported her.

Before Osthryth she had a chance to find anyone however, a knock at the kitchen's oak door drew her attention. As she opened it, it was none other than the princess Mairi, giving her a solemn, doubtful look.

"You are to take us to the monastery now!" the girl demanded, folding her arms. Beyond the gate, in the quadrangle of the palace gardens, the oher children stood. "Aunt Muire commands it, and - "

A scream broke her sentence. Startled, Mairi looked past Osthryth and up along the stone-floored passage.

"It's the servant girl," Osthryth explained, looking towards the scream, low and long as it was, like a cow in pain.

"You are helping," Mairi concluded, stepping back through the door, trying to ose it behind her. But Osthryth gripped onto the iron ring of the latch, holding the door firmly, her knuckles going white. Mairi looked up into Othryth's face.

"You are going to help," she declared, as vomit regurgitated into Osthryth's throat.

"And do what?" Osthryth managed, gagging on the sour backwash in her mouth. "You would have been drowned the day you were born," her uncle Aelfric had often told her bitterly, usually when he had given a good proportion of his wealth in tribute. So Osthryth had ensured she had behaved as much like a boy as she could, and avoided learning womanly skills, including childbirth.

Mairi looked between Osthryth's hand, still gripping the door frame, and her face. Another scream, low and cold made Osthryth shudder. Mairi beckoned terrified servant girl who had followed Osthryth. Beside her, Aila, the Irish servant babbled something again.

"Go!" Mairi commanded, in Gaelish to the girl, then turned her haughty face to Osthryth.

"You will know what to do - go with her!" And, before waiting for an answer, the princess strode off in the direction of the kitchen.

Ailie, the pregnant servant, was still moaning, though not so loudly; her face was pale, shimmering with perspiration. Osthryth went to console her, to help her, but the girl's body felt too fragile, as if the next sigh would be her last.

"Lie her down," she suggested, but Aila pushed her away.

"She must stand," the servant girl said, then pointed towards the back rooms, where they slept.

Osthryth bent to curl Ailie's arm around her neck, to get her to the back rooms but she shuddered, then screamed. Aila shouted at Osthryth to stop.

"No!" Mairi's voice rang out down the stone passageway. Osthryth turned to see the Limerick princess hurrying after them, pointing. "No! Black water!"

"Black water?" Osthryth echoed, looking around. Aila, who washolding Ailie's other arm screamed, pointing behind the now weakening girl.

"The baby is in danger!" Mairi shot back, dropping the nundle of blankets she was carrying. "Stand her up, as tall as you can make her."

"And then what?"

What, indeed. The morning passed, whether it was hours or minutes, Osthryth could not say. Ailie howled as Osthryth drew her upright, walking her to the rooms in which they slept, Aila comforting her.

"The babe that grows within her takes her strength," Mairi told Osthryth, who narrowed her eyes as the girl thrust a bucket of hot water into Osthryth's hand, demanding the kitchen maid bring them more.

"You know a lot about this," Osthryth commented, as Mairi instructed Aila to take her clothes, then position Ailie so she could help birth the child, through a tangle of blood, black water, clear fluid.

"My sister is married to the king in Munster. I am here for my education, but before I came, I helped my sister." Mairi smiled, and Osthryth realised the smile was intended to reassure her.

After that, the time passed indeterminedly, as Mairi took charge, comforting and encouraging the girl on turn as she laboured painfully to produce, in the end, a small but healthy boy.

Osthryth stood back as Mairi instructed Aila on how to help Ailie with her son, just one thought in her mind: to find the heathen, Bheatha, and beg her to show her ways of getting rid of it.

"Now get water," Osthryth heard a tired, fluid-covered Mairi tell the kitchen maid, "She needs rest and to drink." Osthryth stumbled past them, nausea in her throat, darting as she was for the door to the courtyard and into the open air.

She stood by the hay cart that one of the slaves was unloading, inhaling the fresh harvest's scent deeply.

After a few moments, she was aware that a now cleam, spotless Mairi was approaching her. Osthryth turned her head, smiling at the girl.

The sun shone high and warm in the summer sky as Mairi began to speak to her, but she turned aay and vomited.

"All that blood...!" was all Osthryth could manage, and she felt the girl's smile light on her face.

"You have been in battles!" Mairi replied, astonishment in her voice. "You have known such horrors!" Osthryth looked at the princess, who had conducted herself with such grace as she comforted and soothed the servant girl.

"Battle, yes," Osthryth scoffed, holding her stomach and vomiting again. "Battle is easy: you stab, cut, kill and the ground fills with the filth of spilled guts and the mounds of metallic-smelling bodies of men, now meat. But birth..." Osthryth broke off, looking past Mairi to the back kitchen rooms where a soft crying was coming, "It is delicate, it is cautious...how did you know what to do?"

"My sister, Queen in Munster, she has had many children, not all of them living. I learned to help her." Osthryth turned and vomited again

Mairi laughed gently, not mockingly and Osthryth laughed too. The younger girl placed an arm on her shoulder, tenderly.

"Perhaps there is a place for all of us: to be a warrior, like you, to be a midwife, like me. We will both become mothers, in the end."

"Not I. I will never marry," Osthryth declared.

"Do you think she is married?"

"I will never bear a child," Osthryth corrected. "No child will grow in me; I could never warrior if I became with child." Mairi patted her shoulder, which twinged a little still from her fight in Tara.

'I think you will be a mother," Mairi said, as Osthryth heaved again onto the earth. "Would you like to see the baby?"

A warm summer wind wove around them, as Osthryth watched Mairi walk towards the kitchen doors. No, a thought told her, but she followed the princess anyway - haughty Mairi who had probably saved two lives that morning.

Ailie was producing the afterbirth as Osthryth made her way through the oak doors, which caused her to pale again. Mairi thrust a wooden bowl of now-cooled boiled water towards her, which Osthryth drank down gratefully.

A few words between Aila and herself, which Osthryth couldn't quite grasp, though sounded like instructions amd reassurances, then Mairi told Osthryth she was to change.

"When Aunt Muire asks if this, you must tell her you did this," Mairi sighed, exhauted with the effort of the morning.

"But -"

"It is unseemly that I would have intervened - Aila will wash my clothes - she will tell it was you, not me."

"But -" Then Osthryth stopped protesting. It was clear Mairi had breached royal - and social - boundaries by birthing bastard child that morning. It was also clear that the haughty, imperious princess felt it was safe to confide in her - Osthryth - female warrior, daily reminder to everyone that she was damned for it. Osthryth watched Mairi head towards tbe royal quarters, and she turned, in the warm sun, making her way towards the monastery.

The children had been taken across by Gormlaith and, when Osthryth arrived, had been busy on their letters, for the younger boys, Gormlaith, noticeably thinner than Osthryth remembered from her time at the Tara Fair, stood reading the gospels, her heart-shaped face lined and colourless. She smiled her delicate smile as Osthryth entered the tiled library, though Osthryth discerned its bow seemed weighed by a heavy force.

Mairi joined them shortly afterwards, and Osthryth's mind turned from Gormlaith as that morning's midwife resuming her proud, lordly demeanour as if that morning had never had been.

Once or twice, Osthryth glanced at the girl as she looked up from her work, twinkling her pale blue eyes at Osthryth, yer the rest of the day passed uneventfully before she organised the little party to cross back to the palace.

Leaving them at the door to Muire's chamber, mind filled with thoughts of the monastery, and particularly a fresh batch of letters which had srtivedvthat morning, Osthryth was surprised when, as the door opened to let in the royal children, it remained open and she was summoned in.

"I'm hardly dressed for an audience with the queen," she thought, as she trod her muddy boots onto the delicately woven carpet, yet it was Queen Muire who had summoned her and, with the children at her side, asked her about the events of the morning, confratulaying her.

"Yet, you neglected your duties," Muire rebuked, harshly. "The children were left unprotected for nearly three hours; they had to find their way to the monastery themselves - Mairi has missed her studies, for you did not know where she was - ".

Osthryth stopped herself from looking at the girl, but she could feel her eyes on her, begging Osthryth to hold her peace.

"I...could not see the girl suffer; the child was in danger. We are all God's creatures and my instinct was to help one of them to live." Then, she bowed her head, hoping she sounded penitent. "I should have guarded the children, your grace, only I thought the other servant girl could handle the birth. Yet, Ailie produced black waters, and - "

A look of horror passed over Muire's face for a moment, betraying to Osthryth that the queen knew the gravity of such an event, even though she - Osthryth - didn't.

But, she would never forget the look on Ailie's face, the look men gave her at the point of death on a battlefield: she never wanted to put herself into tbat much danger, and resolved again to find Bheatha and Finn, to procure from them herbs and roots to prevent a child - even permanently - if only she could find them again.

"I will overlook it," Muire said, interrupting Osthryth's thoughts, "But this evening, Mairi will make up her studies with you before your meeting with Domhnall."

That was news to Osthryth, and she said so, the thought of an evening searching for her brother and Beocca in the monastery's recent correspondence evaporating like morning dew.

"My son told me," Muire said, then raised her hand, dismissing Osthryth, with Mairi at her side.

Domnall? Why was he privy to a meeting with Domhnall? Osthryth thought about this as they trod the dry earth between the back of the palace again and the St. ColmCille's monastery, Mairi walking silently next to her.

And she was still wondering that when she dismissed the now more educated Mairi back to the palace before crossing over the short grass to the stables.

The warmth of the animals was oppressive on that balmy night and Osthryth found Taghd and Feargus up on the stable roof. With them was the heir to the northern Uí Néill, who stared at Osthryth as she sat down next to Taghd, who offered her the rest of his apple.

She bit into it, listening as Taghd and Feargus discussed why it might be that Domhnall wished to see them, her heart sinking at the realisation that one of them was missing: Finnolai!

She had been expecting to see the warrior sitting with them, stretched out next to Taghd as he ribbed the blonde-haired warrior about his belief in the sidhe, or sipping ale from a tankard as Feargus regaled them with a far-fetched story about a battle in the highlands against the Àlpin family's biggest rivals, now firmest friends, the Grighiurs.

Her eyes rested on Domnall again as Taghd passed her ale: what was he doing here? Why was he at Domhnall's meeting? She knew she would be subject to a beating, otherwise she would have leapt on the prince and beat him, for what he had done to her at Tara, and what he had done two days before, laughing as he fouled the passage she had spent the morning cleaning, with horse-shit, causing her to have to re-clean the whole lot.

Sensing tension, Taghd moved nearer to her, congratulating her on birthing the servant's child so well that morning. Osthryth nodded, dismissively: it had been Mairi, of ourse, and she felt as if she should congratulate Constantine, who had settled down next to her on the sun-warmed clay tiles, on his betrothal to such a sensible girl."My son told me," Muire said, then raised her hand, dismissing Osthryth, with Mairi at her side.

Domnall? Why was he privy to a meeting with Domhnall? Osthryth thought about this as they trod the dry earth between the back of the palace again and the St. ColmCille's monastery, Mairi walking silently next to her.

And she was still wondering that when she dismissed the now more educated Mairi back to the palace before crossing over the short grass to the stables.

The warmth of the animals was oppressive on that balmy night and Osthryth found Taghd and Feargus up on the stable roof. With them was the heir to the northern Uí Néill, who stared at Osthryth as she sat down next to Taghd, who offered her the rest of his apple.

She bit into it, listening as Taghd and Feargus discussed why it might be that Domhnall wished to see them, her heart sinking at the realisation that one of them was missing: Finnolai!

She had been expecting to see the warrior sitting with them, stretched out next to Taghd as he ribbed the blonde-haired warrior about his belief in the sidhe, or sipping ale from a tankard as Feargus regaled them with a far-fetched story about a battle in the highlands against the Àlpin family's biggest rivals, now firmest friends, the Grighiurs.

Her eyes rested on Domnall again as Taghd passed her ale: what was he doing here? Why was he at Domhnall's meeting? She knew she would be subject to a beating, otherwise she would have leapt on the prince and beat him, for what he had done to her at Tara, and what he had done two days before, laughing as he fouled the passage she had spent the morning cleaning, with horse-shit.

Sensing tension, Taghd moved nearer to her, congratulating her on birthing the servant's child so well that morning. Osthryth nodded, dismissively: it had been Mairi, of ourse, and she felt as if she should congratulate Constantine, who had settled down next to her on the sun-warmed clay tiles, on his betrothal to such a sensible girl.

They were to return, Domhnall told them, at Samhain, to spring a surprise winter attack on Eochaid at Glaschu, offer peace terms and make the usurpers pledge fealty to Domhnall; take some of their kin as guests into the household - hostages in lieu of Eochaid and Giric's alleigance.

His troops had, he explained, pledged loyalty to Giric, but would turn on the usurpers once Domhnall had shown himself ready to battle in late autumn.

"I need every one of you to be at my side; my royal guard. Should I fall - " he looked at Domnall, " - Constantine must retreat - you must!" Domhnall insisted, as Constantine opened his mouth to protest, "For you are of Ceinid mac Àlpin's kin - you are my heir!"

That last sentence, spoken clear and true in the late August evening, brought them all silence; the sharp, direct point of them being there, and being in exile too. Minds laid dormant over the time they had been in Muire's court over the water in Eireann sprang to attention.

"Domnall is accompanying us. As Constantine and I have been graciously harboured in exile, so will we do for our Aunt the same service for Domnall.

Domnall mac Àed said nothing, just looked solemnly at his cousin.

Then, Osthryth recalled Domhnall's words when she had stood before Flann Sinna, in his first act as High King: you have come between Domnall and Donnchada.

Both sought the throne after Flann, Osthryth realised, and Muire had arranged with Domhnall for her eldest son to be exiled with Domhnall when they returned to Alba in return for his battle service.

She looked across to Domnall, who caught her eye, narrowing scornfully at her. Better hope he grew out of silly pranks, as Constantine had done, before they left, or he might find himself on his arse.

And better, Osthryth thought, that she sought the heathen again, Bheatha and Finn, so she was fit to fight for her Lord.

Before dawn, Osthryth trod the miles past the monastery and out to Lough Foyle, thoughts of illness and lily root in her mind and silver in her pocket should Bheatha be able to sell her more.

There was no sign of either woman or boy however, and Osthryth chose to bathe in the cool water before hurrying back to the monastery.

Out beyond the castle, as she raced into the grounds, Domnall was drilling his men, a banner in the ground - a red right hand gripping a cross - like the ancient symbol of the Ulaid in the gospel book that Muire left to be completed at Kells.

Osthryth smiled to herself at the rivalry: the Uì Nèill had gone one better, declaring for Christ that the ancient pagan red hand of loyalty took up Christ in its fist.

Was he convincing his step-brother, however? Domnall was not the most diligent of people, and to now be drilling his men after his meeting with Domhnall seemed to Osthryth a little suspect. Yet, reports had come in that Danes had been raiding the Ulaid coast - it was good for everyone that they were prepared.

The children were waiting at the royal buildings' doors: she was late, and Mairi looked to be preparing to walk with the children across to the monastery: each older girl had two of the younger boys squirming in their grasp, and she smiled at the sight of Osthryth racing towards them.

Anndra, one of the novices, let them through the side door of tbe monastery, straight into the church, warm harvest sun lighting up the cloister, spilling over the six scholars like melted butter as they trooped to the chapter house through the side door, then down to the scripture room, where they would have their lessons.

Osthryth thanked Anndra as he opened the day's learning out in front of her.

Why Mairi or Eira still needed teaching, Osthryth didn't know - they were soon to be wed to Domhnall and Constantine, yet they had followed her as brightly and silently as they always had done, helped the boys up to the tables as the willowy Gormlaith, whose face seemed even more pale in that morning's early light laid out scripts, and, as ever, Osthryth heard them read, copy out texts as the children recited passages in turn.

When they were writing, Osthryth took a chance on some freshly stored manuscripts, hoping for a word or two from Wessex. But, it was only when she felt Mairi's delicate hand on her shoulder that Osthryth realised she had spent so long reading. Their relationship had changed since Ailie's birth, and Mairi's cool, capable demeanour contrasting with Osthryth's horror at it all.

Now, Mairi treated her with a littke more respect; Osthryth confided more work to the girl, allowing her to manage her own wprk and take charge of the younger princes.

"Good book?"

"It tells of the kingdoms over the sea." Osthryth tried to sound vague. For, she had discovered, a great victory had been won: the Danes had taken every kingdom of the heptarchy bar one. Wessex was the last kingdom still ruled by Saxons; Alfred of Wessex, the king, had taken a few dozen men to fight them, a last stand. And, at Ethandun, they soundpy beat the Danes. Guthrum, whose sins pillaged Ulaid territory, had been baptised.

A powerful king, Osthryth thought that night, as she listened to the murmurings of the little child with its mother across by the other stone wall. Beocca had been there - he had written the letter, which had gone the long way: Lindisfarne, Culdees, Iona, Rathlin, before it ended up at Doire, each monastery taking a copy before sending the original on.

She had traced over his letters with her fingers, the same rounded letters as she had seen in illuminated books wrote of King Alfred's glory. Could she imagine he would be reading it? Dear Beocca, who gave his lessons to her, fleeing himself from Bebbanburg.

That she had found him, at least alive, as recently as May gave her reason to hope. Osthryth closed her eyes, and prayed, for the battle survivors, for Beocca and Uhtred, whose name was not mentioned, but, from another document, credited him with loyalty to Alfred. She prayed she would see her brother healthy and that, after all those years.

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Osthryth's persistent scouring of the dark sand beyond the wide, open lough paid off a week after Domhnall's meeting.

Before dawn, Osthryth would rise, a lump in her throat at the anticipation of finding Bheatha, the jumble of words in her mind about her body and its differences spinning round through her kind as she scrambled through her duties in the kitchen - collecting water from the well, lighting a fire, preparing the day's vegetables, then walk quickly the few mikes to the coast.

Domnall would always be up, a more disciplined prince altogether, as he drilled his troops, mind more focused since his meeting with Domhnall, red hands holding the cross standing out for miles, even as far as the ridge over which Osthryth must pass in order to descend into the shallow scooping of the lough's bay.

That she would have joined him, Osthryth had considered it, yet he was still not above silly pranks: only three nights before, when all of her bedding from the ledge in the tiny room at the back of the kitchen had vanished, only to mysteriously reappear after a wasted hour's search for it.

And, she had a pressing matter to attend to each morning: that was, to search for the heathen healer.

Two moons had passed, so each morning the strength of her hope faded that she would ever see the heathen again, but this morning, a bright, cool September Monday, Bheatha's black-haired, russet-clothed figure contrasted easily against the blue-green of the rising tide. Beside her, little Finn scampered, picking up ribbons of knobbly seaweed with joy, before placing them in his mother's basket.

As Osthryth approached, Bheatha gave a little start, as if to flee, but then on recognising Osthryth, stood still, waiting for her to approach, long black hair moving in the morning breeze.

"Good morning," Osthryth said, then stopped, when the woman did not return her smile.

"You sold me lily root," Osthryth reminded the heathen woman, in the late spring time."

"You stole our squid," the woman returned. "I do remember you, warrior girl...Saxon." She spat the last word, folding her arms.

Osthryth frowned. Is that what the heathen woman thought? She turned to go, then remembered why she was there.

"The squid were no more mine as yours," she replied, coolly. "I came, as you asked, two moons later, and you were not here; I have come most mornings."

"We do not recognise agreements with Christians!" Bheatha retorted. "This land, on which we have moved for the longest time, we are being forced from! It is no more theirs as ours!"

Osthryth frowned, trying to work out the riddle. From the heathens' point of view, her mother had once told her, land to the heathen belonged to the gods; there was little sense of property, only territory presided over by leaders and those with knowledge of hunting, healing, cooking, ceremonies and so on. Who had taken their land?

"Norse? Danes?" Osthryth asked.

"Gaels!" Bheatha handed her basket to Finn, who was sheltering behind his mother. "The Norse do not force their beliefs onto us, nor will us to give up our beliefs, or ways. We are more alike than we are different! They want land, we merely pass over it. But the Gaels!" The woman, her ire a ferment, narrowed her eyes to Osthryth then turned on her heel.

"But...!"

"And you are no better, Saxon girl, for it is the same intolerance that burned my family!" Osthryth watched as the woman turned to go, scooping up her son.

"Your family...burned?"

"All the way back to the ancient days: all the way back to the First Peoples!" Bheatha glared at Osthryth, before stalking back through the footprints she had made in the damp sand.

The First Peoples? Osthryth had a vague idea the woman meant their dead, for pagans kept the dead together in one place, the only tine they claimed land, of sorts. Osthryth had seen such a grave setting in Pictland, where the heathen would take offerings and wood, chipped with lines of various lengths: a language of some kind, old, ancient. Ogam, it was called, by the monks.

And High King Flann had been determinedly purging all pagan sites: groves, burial chambers, spinneys of trees in order to embed Christianity amongst every person on the island of Eireann. Perhaps men had destroyed Bheatha's family graves?

"Can I help?" Osthryth called after her. "I am no Gael! I am called Lackland."

Bheatha stopped her fierce striding and turned.

"You are not a Gael, but you mimic them. I have seen you, running, guiding, fighting. From wherever you came, you are using them for shelter. That makes you no better." She looked up and down Osthryth's body.

"I can fight for you!" Osthruth declared. "I can protect your family!" But Bheatha shook her head, her thick black hair tossed in the coastal breeze, so it followed behind her like a storm cloud.

"You came here because you want something from me, Lackland," Bheatha said, warningly.

"Yes."

Osthryth lowered her head, as humbly as she could. "Yes, I do. I...need your help." From her jerkin she pulled out the last of her silver, holding it out to the heathen woman, whose eyes flashed at the rarity. Then, she reached down to the basket, pulling out a linen packet, soft and motile.

"Here is a balm made; it is of terabinth, from a very distant land, and honey. This will soothe your injuries: it will make your flesh strong again. And..." She looked at Osthryth again, not at her face, but extended a hand, looking at her stomach.

"Have you felt the quickening?"

"Quickening?" Osthryth stumbled over the word.

"Here. Movement." Bheatha looked down to her hand, as if her palm would induce this quickening. "Do you not know? A woman is not considered to be with child until she declared she has felt the quickening. It is the child gaining its soul." And when Osthryth didn't answer, Bheatha asked, "Have you felt a quickening?"

"I am not with child; I am a warrior!" Osthryth protested.

"Do you have your bleedings?" Osthryth stopped, thinking. It had been several months since she had sought the leaves to pack inside herself.

"Not for some months."

"You grow a child, landless warrior." Osthryth felt her mouth fall open.

"I cannot - I have to be - " Iona, Dal Riata, Pictland, and her role by Domhnall's side flashed into her mind

"But, you are," the healer said. "The quickening...have you felt...movement?" Osthryth shook her head.

"Then, should you not wish to be with child, then take these." Over Osthryth's hand the woman held a tangle of yellow flowers and root.

"Tansy. But it is a terrible way to be without a child. Though they do it for selfish reasons, your Christian nuns and monks have the best route to childlessness."

Osthryth touched her fingers to the flower, then withdrew her hand, looking at the woman, who was about to turn away.

"Why do this, when you would not wait for me, as you agreed?" The woman shrugged.

"We can never trust Christians; they worm and twist until their religion destroys our own. And you - " Bheatha looked appraisingly at Osthryth, "You want to be more than a woman; you would be a man - " she shook her head, looking at Osthryth's face. "Motherhood would not suit you, indeed."

Osthryth's mind drifted, like the light, autumn clouds far above her, to the boy born to the servant girl and her revulsion at the birth, how Ailie had nearly died, as did her baby. What a risk to take. Her eyes moved to Bheatha's face, sharp, clever features with the knowing that she would come to recognise in all pagan healers.

And maybe she was wrong. Yet the heathen woman was definite about her being with child.

Osthryth extended her hand towards the tansy, holding in the other the silver. Bheatha swiped the piece, thrusting the tansy root towards her.

"You must take it soon, before the child comes into its soul," the woman warned. "It is more a curse than a gift. You must take it soon, or the child will have begun to shoot from the germ taking hold inside you. At that time, you will be risking your life to remove it."

Then, as Osthryth made to push the tansy into her hand, Bheatha gripped her wrist.

"In exchange, you will leave their company; go on the path you so desperately desire to tread - leave these people!"

"I want to..." ventured Osthryth, earnestly, the thought that she was with child roaming wildly in her head.

"Then do it!" Bheatha shouted, as Finn shrunk into her skirt. "To be a woman, you must work twice as hard as a man to be equal, and more so to triumph. You cannot have attachments if this is the path you choose, if you want to succeed. And you must bear the defeats with more strength than a man does." Osthryth shivered" and the woman loosed her grip.

"And yes, if you cannot choose chastity, the risk of a child will be your penalty."

She pushed her hand deep within her red-brown cloak, securing the last of Osthryth's silver, shaking her head as Osthryth examined the tansy.

"Take it in a morning; steep it in hot water, then drink it when it has cool - drink it all down. It will be painful, but quick."

And, before Osthryth could ask more of the heathen woman, Bheatha was gone, Finn in her wake, looking over his shoulder every so often as they pressed bare footprints into the sun-bathed sand.

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Osthryth did not make any decisions immediately based on the healer's words. She continued to work in the kitchens, and when she was required, took the children to the monastery for their education. Things felt normal, as if she were back at Dunnottar: a royal palace running to order in partnership with a monastery. Even now, as September eased by, the stores of grain and salted meat began to grow, just like harvest would around Dunnottar, or Glaschu or Bebbanburg.

Yet her mind would not forget Bheatha, her anger at the desecration of her ancestors, and the land that supported her people. But, it was happening throughout Eireann, throughout Alba and Northumbria, too. Waeleas was a pagan country melded to the oldest Christianity, and their ways: worship of water and hills and sun were testament to that. How much of the pagan - the old Brittonic life would survive now the Gaels and the Saxons doubled down in their efforts to eradicate it, to become more pious in the eyes of God, in the hope he would grant favour in battle over the Danes?

Often, when she had a quiet moment between taking the children and her tasks, Osthryth would remember the tansy root and flower, and she would clasp them, thinking of the healer's words: break away from the Gaels; follow your own path.

"You are here very early, or too late," he added. "Did you get locked in?" Osthryth took a step towards him, closing her hand tightly around the tansy.

Then, he saw a manuscript with a map on it - someone else must have been using it, and had not put it away. It was a map of the English kingdoms.

"I wished to learn I could about them," Osthryth said, trying to sound vague as Anndra scooped upthe parchment amd returned it its correct place.

"I didn't think it would hurt, as we are due here after dawn."

"Be careful: if the abbot had found you, he would have had you whipped: these are valuable and rare." Osthryth watched him as he continued to his job, which consisted of filling pots with water from a bucket he had brought in with him, before putting them next to the quills on the scholars' desks.

"You are good with your scholars," said, conversationally. "For a warrior."

"Warriors can be learned," Osthryth replied, mildly, thinking about how to leave without drawing too much attention to herself: if Anndra was awake, others would be too. She edged towards the cloister.

"I thought a monastery never slept, anyway," she added, repeating the young monk's words that he had told them all, proudly, a few days before.

Yes," he rallied, eyeing Tadgh's sword in her belt. "Have you always wanted to be a warrior?"

"Not always," Osthryth conceded (just a few more steps and she would be at the door - she could get to the guard room and across the courtyard, past Domnall and his troops and into the door at the back of the kitchen).

"Why a warrior?"

"I couldn't think to be anything else. It feels like I was meant to be one."

"That is like being a monk, but without the sword," he added, chuckling. "Trials of food, comfort, shelter, chastity, we all get closer to Him." Anndra was making his way back towards her now, filling more cups, before taking the water bucket and tgrowing it through the window, making the muddy courtyard even muddier.

"And what happens when yu are closer?" Osthryth asked, listening. Anddra turned to her, brightly, his voice full of joy.

"You hear. His words so clearly, like the sun shining through your very soul! Not the sun," Anndra frowned, "no, something much stronger." He looked at Osthryth.

"It is...exhilarating, fighting for your lord," Osthryth replied, matching Anndra's ebbulence. "War makes me forget any pain it causes...doubts vanish, and I am alone, with God, doing His will." She shifted her feet. Then, a little calmer, asked, "Did you always want to be a monk?"

"Me?" Anndra asked. "I wanted to be a farmer, like my father. But, the monastery sought more apprentices because of the raids from the Norse some years ago. Out of all the boys in my village, I was chosen to be educated, and to be a monk." He glanced to the floor.

"It wasn't long after that my village was sacked by Norse. My family were killed."

"Mine too," lied Osthryth, readying to trot out the worn-out story. "I was on pilgrimage with my family. We were at Culdees, in Pictland...Norse came and murdered the pilgrims, and a great deal of the monks. But, it was outside Dunnottar...King Aed was waitiig with his army. I saved Constantine's life."

"The prince?" Osthryth nodded, as Anndra recommenced his job of furnishing the table with objects - this time, he was putting new candles into the holders. Though tallow, new candles drew the soot up towards the ceiling and away from the manuscripts they were writing.

"I would have had to fight, if King Aed Findlaith had called me to, if I were a farmer. But I would not choose it. You? Did you want to be a monk?"

"Women have to be nuns, don't they?" Osthryth asked. "Or abbesses? In what way are they different? Or do they do the same as monks?" Anndra lowered the candle in his hand, thinking on her words.

"Only monks can touch the words of God," he said, slowly, stepping towards Osthryth, a confused expression on his face.

"Why? I have been touching them, for months."

"But you're a - " he frowned, confusion etched around his eyes. "You're a - "

"I'm a girl," Osthryth confirmed. "In body, not in soul, not in spirit. I am a warrior." She waited for Abndra to continue to work, but he was staring at her.

"A girl?" Osthryth nodded.

"You have - teats?" He approached Osthryth, amused, his hand outstretched, disbelievingly then, seeing the look on Osthryth's face, withdrew it, his face clouding, then jabbing a finger. "You? Women's teats feed the devil!"

"Are all babies devils, then?" Osthryth asked, thinking of Ailia, the serving girl, who was probably lying next to hers, allowing her nipple into her son's little mouth, giving him life-giving sustenance. "For that is all there is: a way to feed a child!" Then, she peeled off her tunic, seized his hand and put it firmly onto her left breast.

"It is a mound, a teat, to nourish young. You might say that a sow suckles the devil, or a mare."

Anndra's hand was cold, and he stared at his hand, as if it has was itself bedevilled. Then, as moisture seeped between his fingers, he drew it back, as if it was cursed.

They do that? Osthryth thought, as she stared at him, moisture dripping down her chest. Do all women's breasts expel milk as they grow? It seemed wasteful, if not for a babe.

And the ghost of a thought haunted the corners of her mind - was the heathen woman right?

A small cry escaped Anndra's lips, and Osthryth's thoughts evaporated as she loked at him urgently.

But, though he willed it, Anndra's face betrayed...not horror, no. Osthryth was trying to work out what the young monk, only a little older than her, was feeling when he drew up his cassock.

From his groin, a tentative erection sprang, as if afraid, shy. Osthryth tried not to laugh at Anndra's arousal, before grasping it in her hand, working him up and down, pulling back his foreskin a little before drawing it over the ever-growing heat and dampness of the tip.

Inevitably, a groan came from the young monk's mouth as Osthryth wanked him, until Anndra had decorated the tiled monastery floor with his ejaculate, his cock curling back in on itself as its hardness melted.

He looked at Osthryth wide eyed, darting to her face, and then to the floor, as if disbelieving what had just happened.

"You can do it yourself, too," Osthryth whispered, putting her tunic and jerkin back on.

"I have," Anndra confessed, looking into Osthryth's face. "But it has never felt like that."

Then, he gave her a smile, as if grateful, turned to go, then trod back hastily to her, seizing her lips with his own, pressing an urgent kiss to hers before dashing away

Corrupting the monks, that could be the next charge she could face, Osthryth thought, as she let herself out into the courtyard, the thump of Domnall's troops keeping rhythm, her mind thinking of the joy coursing through that young man's body.

Women's bodies could feel like that, Osthryth had once been told, by one of the older servants, but a man had to take his time. And when did men ever do that?

Osthryth hurried through the dark, musty kitchen to her own bed, wondering what Anndra would say to her tomorrow, when he let them into the chapter house.

But, little did she know, and little still the monastery, that a Norse raid would see the end of Anndra and so many of the scribes, as they mounted an attack on the palace.

But Osthryth's thoughts were not with war, but of the tansy secreted in her clothes, that she must use if Beatha was right and she truly was with child, be ready to do away with it, depart to Alba and find Uhtred.

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The day began as usual with matins sung, filtering through the palace's doors and windows.

As usual, Osthryth collected the children, walking across the courtyard to the monastery. As usual, they were met at the door by novice monk Anndra, who greeted the school and ushered them through the cloister to the manuscript room, unusually not meeting Osthryth's eye.

She was too tired to think about what they had done a few hours earlier, though the solidified evidence of his desire was still there, on the wooden floor. Instead, she helped MaelColm and Niall up onto the higher chairs as Mairi brought over the letters they were to copy out that morning.

Osthryth watched as Anndra pushed his way hurriedly through into the church, making a mental note to find him at another time to talk about what they had done, but he was pushed to one side as an older monk burst through, shouting quickly in Gaelish, too quickly for Osthryth.

But the room, which had been slowly filling with scribes was now in disarray. Another monk, the abbot's deputy, ushered them out, and called to the princesses too, who were standing close to the young princes, hands together.

"What is the matter?" Osthryth asked Mairi, as they, too hurried through into the monastery. The door which led to the Foyle's bank was open, and the monks poured through it, out into the daylight.

Osthryth pushed her way through. Then froze.

On the ridge, in line blocking the path to Lough Foyle, Norsemen stood, one long line of them, their brightly-painted shields in one hand and their swords, axes and cudgels in the other.

Just standing.

The monks had stopped themselves, out of fear, perhaps, or of confusion. The Northmen were doing nothing. But, it was clear what they were about to do.

The Norse and Danes in the area, Osthryth knew, were kin of Guthrum, who had been defeated at Ethandun, a battle that was rarely out of Osthruth's mind, for it pinned Uhtred at a definite time and place - a target.

As part of the peace, Guthrum was baptised, with Alfred as his godfather and, as King Aethelstan, Guthrum was now king of East Anglia. Alfred had secured his kingdom, and pacified the Danes by demarking the Saxon kingdoms.

A lone bang of weapon on oak shield brought Osthryth back to the present - the monks, ranging in front of their doors, were looking out onto the ridge, searching for the origin of the noise.

Next to her, the children started as tbe noise came again. Niall buried his head into Eira's dress. Mairi took the other two boys' hands in hers. Both Mael Dubh and Mael Duin looked terrified, as did Gormlaith, though she was fighting hard not to show it, yet her tall, thin frame quivered. They mustn't be here, Osthryth decided, and strode back into the monastery as ironware was passed between the monks: it was clear they were going to make their stand.

"Get the warriors!" Osthryth shouted, to the nearest monk, who stared at them all, that they were there.

"There is no time."

"Get what weapons you can, take anything sharp if you don't have enough." An image of that cold day, when she was feigning Constantine's identity appeared.

"They will expect you to charge at once," Osthryth told the monk, who was now focusing on the Northmen. "Go in row; take your time, do not let them surround you; do not let them drive you towards the river." The monk looked at Osthryth again, his thick, black eyebrows folded into a confused "V".

The bang came again, and this time, Gormlaith screamed. Both Mairi and Eira were trembling and the boys looked too terrified to make any sound at all.

"Tell them! Tell them all!" Osthryth said, as the words of the Lord's Prayer in Latin drifted over the monastic heads like autumn mist.

Then, beginning the Prayer, but in the Gaelush tongue, Osthryth led the children across the church and out through tbe guardroom door. The courtyard was just in front of them. What she needed was for the children to go in an orderly manner, else their panic would encourafe the Norse to raid the palace earlier than they might, and the warriors would not be ready.

She looked across the courtyard, spying that the kitchen doors were open. The slaves, busy with their morning tasks, had stopped. If there were to be a raid, slaves were usually taken, for their value in labour, and they might get a better deal slavibg for a new master. Not that they had any choice about it.

But the Norse did not, as Bheatha had said, force paganism onto people like the Gaels did with Christianity. If any of the slaves were pagan, or worshipped different gods, the Norse would not care.

"Gormlaith," Osthryth spoke calmly to the older girl, who moved her long neck and looked at her. Osthryth pointed to the kitchens. "Take the children; carry Mael Dubh and Eira -" the dark haired princess looked to Osthryth, her pale eyes looking older, somehow, "You carry Mael Duin. Mairi must keep Niall in hand. Walk slowly back to the palace and hide in the cellars. Lock yourselves in if necessary."

Then Osthryth bent her head and whispered close to Mairi's ear, "for they will take as slaves who they can, and ravage and kill those they can't, then burn down the palace and monastery." Mairi jerked her head to look at Osthryth, alarm in her eyes, but she said nothing. "If you are locked in, and there is a fire, that stone room where the food and ale is kept will protect you, until the Norse have left, at the very least." The girl nodded, gravely.

None of Osthryth's meaning was lost on the princess, and she suddenly felt proud of the younger girl, who turned and straightened her dress, before straightening Niall's clothes and brushing off any dirt (always a difficult job with Niall), just as if they were about to go into church.

"Walk as if you are in prayer, and - " Osthryth turned at the crunch under foot of leaves behind her. It was Anndra, a sharp scribe-staff in his hand, usually used for pointing out the letters in a manuscript. He was going to use that, Osthryth scorned silently.

He looked at Osthryth, a slight pink to his cheeks and was about to speak, when Osthryth laid a hand on his arm. He looked at it, then back to her.

"Did you hear what I told the children?" He nodded.

"So," Osthryth concluded, "Anndra will lead you to the kitchens; you will follow behind him as if you are in Sunday progress in the monastery church."

"And after, we get dinner?" asked Niall, his clean-on-today breeches already filthy at the knees.

"Dinner, for good boys who can walk in prayer," Osthryth laughed, trying to make light of it all. "Balaich mhath!"

Then, Osthryth turned back to Anndra. He was still holding his slave stick, looking at Osthryth fixedly.

"What is needed is for them to walk," Osthryth said, "as if they have just learned from the scriptures a most rapturous thing, silently, and with reverence." She leaned close to Anndra, her warm breath on his ear.

"One scream and the game is up." She pointed back to the library room. "Take your parchments if you must - in fact, even better, carry them so the boys can see you with them, as the abbot does."

A minute passed as the group assembled, although for Osthryth it seemed like an hour. The battle noise was rising, though no-one would be fighting yet, the noise made by the Norse, loud and fierce rhythmical banging on their shields would be enough to terrify most of the monks.

And yet, now, a song was being sung, low, persistent, like a battle horn of war. The holy men wete singing together, and it sounded as terrifying as the Norse's beating.

And, once they were away, Osthryth withdrew the sword Taghd had given her, found her battle stance, shifting the blade in her grip, before walking back through the monastic church of Saint ColmCille as the monks charged up the hill.

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It took some minutes for the warriors to appear, through the courtyard and then fan out around both sides of the monastery, joining in the battle at both periphery.

Behind them, mirroring the Norse flag of a hammer and lightning bolt, Domnall's cross clutched in a red handed fist stood out proud and clearly in the morning sunlight.

Osthryth did not see Domhnall at first; he had taken his warriors to the rear of the monks, spreading out and taking strategic positions behind the monks, who though valiantly fighting, were little match for the Northmen, who were cutting through rows of men like a knife through butter.

Finding a place to fight, where the line of Norse looked weaker, Osthryth ran at the battle line, stopping short of the shield wall, before sweeping up a part-broken Norse shield, pushing her arm through the back of it and holding fast, as monks surged past her, and were met with weapons and death.

Some monks, clearly trained to fight, held back, and a line formed by several of them. The only way to fight was to hold a line, even a part line, and weaken the enemy before making a move to attack and kill - this was the first thing Ceinid had taught her, and drilled in her when she trained, back when Aed was king of the Picts and before Domhnall and Constantine had to flee to exile.

Even now, a tall, thick-haired youth of a Norseman had Osthryth in his sights, to try to misfoot her or goad her into charging on. Osthryth managed to twist away and raise the pommel end of Taghd's sword, jabbing it towards his face, which was, as usual for a Northman, unprotected.

At the same time, a surge of monks screaming almost as loudly as the Norse as they charged at the left of the line caused some dusruption. That section was less disciplined than the rest - it was clear the Northmen had concentrated many inexperienced fighters there. A clatter of metal on wood caused several Norse to go down.

Another one before her, Osthryth thought, as the young Northman's attention was drawn for a second. Just enough time for Osthryth to pull the handle of the axe he was holding from his fingers.

The Norse roared as in delight as the monks, untrained and leaderless, met their end to Osthryth's right, where the best warriors were positioned: stoic, steady, willing to wait until their enemy was weak before attacking the line, holding, and then massacring the monks.

But where she was, Osthryth's attack was not enough to break through, not when untrained men were meeting disciplined warriors. The young Norseman, though disarmed, was not defeated; she could not break through to give the monks who were being smashed either side of her a chance.

The Norseman, angry at his mistake as his weapon lay now in the dirt somewhere, forced himself down to hold the line, trying to reach around and grasp the handle of Taghd's sword. Osthryth tried to hold fast on ground that was becoming slippery with blood as the man's fingers now added to it: a man behind, with a cudgel, had smashed the young boy, and he was sinking down Osthryth's body, anguished cries accompanied desperately groping fingers, as if begging her for life.

She stepped over his form, as she picked up her head: here was the gap, she told herself - she had to be quick or the line would reform and her chance would be lost.

A blow to her back made Osthryth start and she paused as monks - clearly more experienced than those beneath their feet - took advantage of the breach of the shield wall. Pain lanced up Osthryth's back and into base of her skull as she twisted her body away - her old injury from Tara amplifying the blow.

A smash of ironware drew Osthryth's breath and she turned to face the Norse again. The breach was widening as more Norse were holding back, for what reason, Osthryth did not know: retreat was an anathema to them. The boy, though injured, was not dead. He wobbled, his legs struggling to hold him upright. He grasped the lower edge of his helmet with one hand, adjusting it, and Osthryth caught sight of a shadow at the base of his neck. His sword had cut the man after all. Not fatally, but he had drawn blood.

Another roar, this time from her left, and now, the monks, shouted and screamed a war cry of their own, charging for the Norse again. Osthryth looked back to where her wounded opponent lay.

Except he wasn't. Staggering back and gripping all he had brought to fight with him, the young man gripped his axe with both hands and charged, baring his teeth bared in a feral grin, ready to enjoy what was about to be the end of her.

But he was wrong: Osthryth's hand found the end of the axe and managed to pull it free from his grip. The boy's face changed from one of anticipatory triumph to the horror of knowing he was to meet his doom.

The axe swept back up and Osthryth darted to his left, sweeping the bloody weapon up to slam its handle against the the boy's face. But it missed, instead, ricoched off the arm of a monk by her side, who crumpled down to her right.

She took the advantage, lunging forward as the boy slipped on the monk's blood, which had made the damp earth slippy. It was what Osthryth needed. Taghd's sword came up, then thrust down through his ribs, and he slumped forward at her feet.

A shout came from behind her as she scooped up the axe, just in time for the next row of Norse to seep into the gaps of the front line, the keen youngsters and those in punishment position, there for a wrongdoing, having borne the brunt of the monks' ferocity.

But these were the elite Norse, tall, mighty, determined that today was the day the land of Doire was to be theirs.

Yet, behind her, Osthryth knew, Flann Sinna would have mobilised his army, Donnchada leading the main fighting force, Domhnall with Feargus and Taghd, and Domnall, with his red handed banner fighting with all his might next to his usurper for the land that was once his father's.

Oh yes, they were behind her, but the Norse were in front, long, braided hair shining in the morning's sunlight as they bore down in groups onto the Uí Néills, and their fine hair was probably the last most would see as their guts were spilt on Saint Columba's earth.

And now, one was before her, axe raised, ready to cut her down. Fast, she must he fast. A woman must be nimble to be a warrior, for she could not match a man for strength, Ceinid had taught her that; Domhnall had, too.

Yet, she was slower than she once had been - why?

Dodging left, Osthryth was drawn by the laugh of a Norseman to another, clapping him on the back as he failed again to end her. "Ragnar! You can do better than that!"

"If only, Cnut!" the warrior called Ragnar complained, then turned to make a concerted effort to smash Osthryth again, snapping his right hand out, fist driving into Osthryth's throat.

She'd had worse, but the blow made her throat close. Gagging, she felt her grip on the axe loosen. The Norseman hit her again, and she barely managed to tuck her chin down. His fist scraped across her jaw—once, twice.

Osthryth stumbled back. The man's blow had less energy as she had expected, yet Ragnar the Norseman pressed his advantage further, pounding Osthryth with short jabs. They weren't terribly powerful hits, but the flurry of punches kept her off balance, forcing her to retreat.

To her left, two monks pressed forward into the space Osthryth left, beaten down with two strokes by the Norseman Cnut. But it was enough to allow Osthryth to see a chance: her opponent, still pushing forward, hitting her around the face, was covered from head to foot with boiled leather and close-fitting mail, but it did not cover the entirety of the palms. At the base of the hand there was a patch of exposed skin. As long as the Norseman held a weapon, it wasn't vulnerable, but without one …

As the Norseman punched her again, Osthryth jabbed upward with the Tadhg's sword, held at close quarters, shoving the point into the base towards the man's hand with all of her strength. The Norseman's fist cocked at a strange angle. Osthryth felt the knife grind against bone, and she shoved and twisted the blade.

The Norseman roared with pain and Osthryth caught a flash of the whites of the man's eyes as her target hit home, before twisting it and pulling back.

"Let me finish him, son of Ragnar!" Cnut insisted, pushing Ragnar aside. Osthryth stumbled back, dropping the axe. Cnut the Norseman looped his left arm around the Osthryth's right, pinning her elbow against her side.

Osthryth, moaning and spitting, threw her weight against the Norseman, a desperate attempt to overwhelm the man, but Cnut dropped his hips and twisted his body around as he swept her right leg back.

Osthryth tried to stop the throw, but she was too off balance. She was about to fly off his feet but, the dall didn't come.

What did come was a thrust to the side: a monk had joined their battle. It was Anndra. Osthryth got one fleeting glance towards him, his eyes focused on attacking Cnut, who was still holding onto her arm, causing all three to come tumbling down.

They crashed to the ground, and there was a bone-snapping crunch as Anndra's elbow twisted too far in the wrong direction.

Cnut rolled off Anndra as Osthryth, having just rolled away, missing the full weight of the Norseman, the roar of battle filling her ears again.

Crouching, she warily regarded her downed opponent while her right hand tried to explore a painful gash in her back, just where it had healed from her fight at Tara: her hand came away red with blood. She staggered tok her feet: she could still fight.

Unlike Anndra.

The monk whom she had pleasured was struggling to turn over, but his brain hadn't quite realized how useless his right arm was. His back had been gouged by Cnut's axe and his elbow was bent at a hideous angle.

But she had little time to contemplate: ahead of her, the Norseman, Ragnar, was reeling around for another blow. Tightening her grip on Taghd's sword, she approached him. Ragnar fell into an easy stance, axe held ready, exchanging jovial words with Cnut, who was fighing a fierce battle now over Anndra's body with a heavy-set, older monk who was matching the Norseman blow by blow in front of him, hammer raised.

Osthryth circled back so Ragnar's axe-swing only just missed her

He shuffled, shifting to keep Osthryth in front of him when, out of her eye's periphery, Domnall's red hand clutching cross told her that his men'at least, had the advantage, onthe side opposite the Foyle.

Yet, Osthryth knew as much as they had gained ground up here, and equal, if not greater quantity of men, had their backs to the river and were bei g forced into it, being cut down as they went. Despite being exhausted, Osthryth steeled herselfagainst another blow from Ragnar.

The Norseman held himself with an easy confidence, assured in the superiority of his weapons and armour. His reach was longer than Osthryth's; he had no reason to attack first. Osthryth would have to get in closer to use Taghd's sword and, during that time, the Norseman would have every chance to use his axe.

Ragnar and Cnut were laughing, however, swapping easy exchanges which, to Osthryth, sounded like friendly motivation to drive one another on.

Arrogance is good, Osthryth thought. It will make him slow down.

Ragnar, almost sensing her deduction, leaped forward, his axe dashing it against Osthryth's neck. It was a marvellously delivered blow, the weight of the Norseman's body behind it and, like Cnut's studded cudgel-work on another monk to her right, should have taken her head clean off.

But Osthryth was faster, and she weaved to the left, the blade scraping her neck, a bleeding wound.

"Haaaaa!" Ragnar the Norseman raged, at her survival, and Osthryth thought of the battle, two years before, where she wore Constantine's mail and fought as him, shaming him, but keeping him alive. Would he have been fighting that day? Or would Domhnall and Muire have kept the heir to the Dal Riadan and Pictish thrones away from the field?

Domhnall had defeated Ivar the Boneless that day, as the Norseman had tried to drive home an attack like this man's: he never had made it, and neither did Ragnar.

Because something had made the Norse fighters stop and turn. A sound which rippled up Osthryth's spine, stopping her head, as if a tgousand beasts were in their death-agonies; as if all the Bean-Sidhe of the whole of Eireann had risen and were writhing in the air all around them.

Yet, she knew what was causing it: it was no wonder some of the Norse had stopped fighting, why sone were looking to the heavens, to the river, to the sea.

It was the battle-cry of the Dal-Riadans, of Domhnall, and of Donnchada, a cry of bellowing energy, whoo-hoo-hooing in their attack. And they were attacking fast. At the rear of the lines, where the vulnerable, where the weaker warriors were positioned, the attacks were coming. Osthryth couldn't see who or from where, but the Norse were bunching into groups, retreating from the monks, who were still continuing to attack.

Osthryth stopped, bracing herself for Ragnar the Norseman to turn back and continue his attack, but instead he raced away, engaging the Irish who were fighting with...Osthryth strained to see...

...it was Domhnall, with Constantine at his side, and around them, Irish under the banner of a red, right hand, palm-facing on a yellow field, such as Osthryth had seen in the illuminations that Muire had shown her at Kells. She had seen it in a banner again, at Tara, over the Hill of the Hostages: it was the Ulaid.

Their cry did not diminish as they fought the Norse; rather it sustained and broke around the ridge on which they were fighting, rolling around the air as if itself alive and part of them. Presumably, though they were the Uí Néill's bitterest rivals, they had usited against an overarching enemy. And, it looked as if that decision was paying off: they were winning.

The monks continued their advance behind them, surging uphill, over the bodies of their dead. But Osthryth did not advance. Instead, her thoughts turned to the children, who she had sent to safety in the kitchens' cellars. Had they got there? She had to know.

Stumbling back down the hill, parrying an attack from a young Norse boy barely older than she was, before sticking him clean in the guts as he wpuld just not clear out of her way, Osthryth tore towards the palace.

"The children!" She shouted in Gaelish to the guards, who had drawn in the ramparts around the courtyard. "Let me pass!" Her yell was to the household guard, who were the royal family's last line of defence should the Norse have broken through the line of defence, which they very nearly had. "It's me, Osthryth!" she added, waving the sword belonging to Taghd.

But, this was a mistake. From the wooden cross-sections one of Flann Sinna's men, hugely-built, black, curly hair on both sides of his wide face launched himself at her. Behind him, Osthryth's brain registered what she sought, however - Muire wss leading the children, unharmed, holding each other's hands, into the palace.

That was just before he guard tried to fight her. Instead, Osthryth, her job done, crumpled at the knees and fainted.

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It was Flann Sinna's eldest son, the massively-built, flame-haired Donnchada before whom Osthryth knelt, in the throne room of the palace, three days after a decisive rout of the Norse from the lands of Doire.

The Norse would be back, there was no doubt about that. But it proved to them, and to any other Irish rival house that the Uí Néills were mighty and were formidable, even without the help of the Ulaid.

The children had been safe, that was her last thought, and while the guard had made to pierce her body with his sword when she collapsed before the ramparts, the two slaves given the job of guarding the rest had ran at him, pushing him off and bringing her inside.

Osthryth had sustained wounds: a shoulder injury, making her original one worse and cuts by her throat and arms, painful but not lethal.

Muire had sent Aila had been sent to treat her with "lus an torranain", a balm made of figwort, whose red-brown flowers grew by beaches near Bebbanburg Osthryth knew, and whose pungent odour she recognised from the men injured in her uncle's army. Tadhg, too, had been to see her, his own shoulder wounded, his head cut so that a good portion of his fair hair was missing.

It would grow again, he laughed, when Osthryth put her hand up from the brown woollen blanket which Ailie had wrapped around her, touching his temple with her fingers, and he took her hand as recounted how they had watched the monks' defence of their monastery, dedicated to the blessed Saint Columba, and they had watched her, too.

"I thought you were terrific," Taghd told her, when she brushed away Domhnall's praise of her. 'Never be afraid to show it - warriors have much to boast about." He bent to kiss the back of her hand, the rest of his long hair spilling over his face as Osthryth glowed that her lord was pleased with her.

And it was true: she had held her own against the Norse warriors, against Ragnar and Cnut, and against those puppy-like boys eager to fight and gain prestige in battle and who she had cut down, some easily, some not so.

Domhnall, later, wet with blood and perspiration, had told her to recover and let the servants treat her, but before she could rejoin Feargus and Taghd in Domhnall's company; before she could discover much about the rear attack on the Norse or the plans Domhnall had to return over the water, or indeed, boil water to imbible the lily root - an act which was just a process now, a thing to do to get rid of the lethargy and restore her strength - Constantine had found her out to tell her the king sought her presence.

He looked how she felt: battered face with a gash down one side of his face and an injury to his leg which looked as if it had been caused by a low, back-swiping sword blow. But he was elated, and told her that it had been Prince Domnall's strategy to hold back a good proportion of the men, and while the Norse had expected some sort of strike, it was more than enough to lay a great deal of their second row - their elite - down to the mud.

And, they had lost no royalty: Domhnall and all of his guard still lived; the Queen was unharmed, for the Norse had never made it down the hill to test the ramparts' reinforcements, and the chikdren had done as she had said.

Domnall and Donnchada, now stepbrothers, now at a peace that suited the Uí Néill - probably at the command of the High - working together, for once, had made a great show of their force and, with the Ulaid, had been enough to rout the field of the Norse.

"But they'll be back," Constantine commented, happily, before giving Osthryth the news that her presence was required.

"When?"

"Now." And Constantine had waited for her, watching her pull on her clothes before escorting her to the throne room, before she had time to ask about the children, or indeed the Ulaid.

The king had not been present but, Muire had been, standing beside her step-son with her other two sons, Domnall and Niall, at her side.

What was it they wanted? The question darted like a minnow through Osthryth's brain, and a feeling of panic began to build, as she stood there in the ever-increasing moments of silence. Had they discovered that she had pleasured Anndra? Was her pregnancy discovered?

But Donnchada, who had looked across her short, golden hair, that which he himself had taken - and which Osthryth had taken care to maintain to embed the idea of her warriorness - who sat before her. Feeling that it was necessary, Osthryth kneltand bowed her head.

"You have proved yourself," Donnchada said, his voice warm and, for once, was smiling. "You kept the children safe; you schemed to make them calm and put them in a place few men would have dreamed to look. The boys would most certainly have been killed if they had remained at the monastery, and the girls taken for whores. We owe you our deepest gratitude."

The prince took a step towards her l, hand outstretched to help her to her feet. Osthryth took his warm hand and felt herself smile.

"My father away to the Ulaid to discuss terms of a potential treaty, such was our victory against the Northmen, or he would be here to give you this." He returned her smile.

Osthryth watched as, in the morning sunlight, glancing through the wooden window-holes, its light played on a blade. Not just any blade, but the one she had won at the competition at Tara.

She flicked a glance across to Domnall who, for once, did not glare foully at her, for it had been his man she had beaten; Domnall who she had shamed, and he had almost avenged himself in her on that night had his new step-brother not intervened.

"They attack because of hunger," Donnchada continued, and Osthryth realised she had not been listening to the Prince. "My father's strategy against the Northmen and rid them from Eireann is to deprive them of trade and only deal with Christians. He is to recognose King Cineál as the King of the Ulaid territories and desist his claim for their lands in return for Cineál's desistance in claims on Emain Macha."

Clearly, this information was for her and Constantine's benefit, for both Queen Muire and Domnall looked impassive. So, a ceasefire of both warfare and territory claims while they combined their forces to starve out the Norse? She supposed it could work. Yet, from what she had seen of Cineál's sons and what they were capable of, on the beach, losing her father's sword preventing them from castrating Constantine, a lot of historic enmity would have to be put to one side.

Besides, would Domhnall and Constantine be here too? Or Domnall for that matter? Would they be recommencing their own blood-feud against King Eochaid and Giric the Usurper? And a second thought struck - what of the pagans, the heathens Bheatha and little Finn? They were no Christians. Were they to be starved out too?

"Again, we thank you," Donnchada said, his hair orange as his father's catching the light as he held it out the sword to her. Osthryth took it, looking at it as a mother might her infant. Beautifully inlaid with garnets as the scabbard was, it was nothing to the blade, whose steel, beaten over and over by a blacksmith who knew his trade, who had formed wavy patterns like a stormy sea through it. Though she hated to admit it, the sword was better quality than her father's had been.

"Buaidh," she said quietly, echoing the words she had heard on the hill, as the keenimg faded to nothing - "buaidh-buaidh-buaidh!" Victory! Victory! Victory!

And "Victory" she was. Donnchada burst in to the same hearty laughter as Flann Sinna so often did.

"We have a name!" He declared, his mirth filling up the throne room. "The warrior has declared its name!" He clapped her on the back, before adding that the Uí Néills were happy to have warriors such as Osthryth.

Yet, Osthryth thought to herself, as she strode next to Constantine, towards the stables, to see Domhnall at last, her mind filled with Ethne and Finnolai. She was useful to the Irish Gaels; Ethne had not been - she was in the way of Flann Sinna and High Kingship. Yet, she was their kin. And Domhnall had been forced to lose his lover in exchange for support to reclaim the Gaelish and Pictish thrones. Their lives were nothing to the royal family, except for use or to discard.

"Mairi was brilliant," Contstantine told Osthryth as they paced through the mud of the courtyard. "She sang to the children; fed them, saw them to bed. She even covered the doorswith fleeces to muffle any noise they made. Eira too," he added.

And, for the first time in a long time, Constantine's beaming face seemed, in that autumn evening's sunlight, to glow. Perhaps he was now, thought Osthryth, accustomed to his future, accepting of his marriage, and that of his cousin.

As they got to the light of the stables, lit with lanterns at the one end, Osthryth turned quickly as she heard footsteps. Constantine turned too and they both looked at the figure of Prince Domnall, who must have followed them from the throne room and who now looked between both of them.

Osthryth found her hand was twitching down towards "Buaidh". He looked at Osthryth, a strange expression on his long, pale face, before waving his arm towards her sword.

"It was well deserved," he declared, nodding towards her. "You fought better than some of the men I have in my army. For a woman."

"I am not a woman, I am a warrior," Osthryth replied, impassively.

"You look like a woman from where I'm standing, so ye are," he retorted.

"Pity you had to have four men hold me down to find out!" Osthryth's hand curled around her sword hilt. The metal was cold against the warmth of her palm, and she could just so easily bring it out, naked, and take the young man's life for what he had tried to do to her.

Constantine, sensing her anger, took a step towards his cousin to stand between them.

And then Osthryth loosed Buaidh. She realised that Domnall's expression was not a hostile one. It was what she had once seen in Ceinid's eyes, and Domhnall's face, though never in Constantine's. The Uí Néill prince was looking at her with respect. She loosed Buidhe and, in her mind, pity replaced defence.

"Donnchada was in a good mood, considering he lost so many Midhe men," he opined, as Osthryth considered the prince again, and a pang of sorrow caught her throat. Domnall had been the heir to throne, but his mother had remarried Flann Sinna to solidify the northern amd southern Uí Néill.

His whole life had changed; his sister had been enslaved for the good of his family, for she had been Flann's first wife. If she had lived, her presence would have factioned the Uí Néill, rather than united them. The Norse would have won and the palace and the monastery would have been a smoky ruin.

"Not as many as we thought," Domnall replied, stepping past Constantine and continuing towards the stables. Osthryth followed, as did Constantine. Clearly, he was still set on going with Domhnall. "But considering what his father's done, it's a wonder he can smile at all: he is very fond of his sister."

"Considering...Gormliath...?" Constantine's sentence trailed to nothing.

"You mean you don't know?" At the pine-slatted door of the stables, Domnall paused in the act of pushibg it open. Behind him, horses at rest hmmppphhhd and snorted at the minor disturbance. He grinned, but there was no humour in it.

"Dangerous ground, that's what King Flann is treading," Domnall continued. "The king of Munster, a man who has been our loyal ally for so long had wanted her not a year ago for his bride: Flann refused. And now..." He eyed Constantine as if his cousin was having him on, and he knew really.

"You really don't know?"

"What?"

"She is to marry the younger of

Cineál's sons." He shook his head, bitterly. "You know of whom I speak, Constantine," he added.

Osthryth knew too. They had nearly caught her too, and do heaven knows what. Oh, she would have fought them, but they would have offered no mercy, and she suspected they would have enjoyed making her die slowly. Osthryth looked at Constantine, who nodded.

"They are southern Ui Neill; they don't understand about the Ulaid - the years of trouble, of taking out livestock, our women, the perpetual war of belligerance. Willing to give over his daughter like - " Domnall broke off, and turned his head. Then, looking into the stables, strode into it.

No wonder Gormlaith looked unwell, Osthryth thought. She would know about the Ulaid; heard the stories. It would be the younger of the two men who had harrassed them that would be her husband. Could she stop it, and help the poor girl? She closed her eyes momentarily. No. It was too big for her, the diplomacy, the treaty between two long-standing enemies. If she tried, all of this, her battle prowess, her warrior status, her position serving Domhnall, would all disintegrate and diffuse like autumn mist, and she would be treated like any other traitor. She could not bear the look on Domhnall's face if it came to that.

"You are coming to Alba with us?" Constantine hissed, as Feargus got to his feet from his position next to Taghd on the straw in the last stall, pushing ale towards them.

"Yes," hissed back Domnall, "But as of tonight, I will be acting as if I want nothing at all to do with my cousin's war; I'll be acting my usual self." He drank from the wooden tankard.

"I do hope not," Osthryth muttered. It came out louder than she expected, and Domnall turned to look at her, breaking into a grin. He clapped her on the back, and laughed.

"The taste of victory!" He declared, then smashed is tankard against Constantine's. "Sláinte!"

"Slàinte mhath!" Constantine replied, which was echoed by a voice behind them. Domhnall, a grin as wide as Lough Foyle's bay.

The warriors sat, and drank for a while, exchanging battle stories, gruesome and gory and terrifying. Osthryth listened, and added several of her own, including Ragnar and Cnut, who may have been defeated by Domhnall's men, or the monks, or may not. She tried to ignore that she had fainted outside the palace, but Domnall brought it into the conversation, almost deliberately Osthryth thought, and she steeled herself not only to take the lily root as soon as ever she could but to be very careful trusting Domnall. While he may have some respect for her as a warrior, she sensed some resentment, the shame of not being able to punish her by rape at Tara, or having to accept her as an equal under Domhnall now he decided to join his cousin's cause in Alba and was glad when Constantine changed the conversation.

For, by joining with his cousin, he was accepting the unspoken levelness that warriorship brought: he was equal to Taghd and Feargus, and to Osthryth. They were unshakeably loyal to one another and would go to lengths to protect and help one another, if they were cornered in battle, for example. Perhaps Prince Domnall was finding equality to Osthryth difficult to take.

"When do you plan that we leave?" he asked Domhnall.

"Imminently. I have had word from Ceinid that they seek to retire this season's fighting by Samhain." This was not uncommon - wars were rarely fought in the winter, but often stretched into November. That Eochaid and Giric had chosen to retire earlier suggested that those loyal to the old king Aed, and to Domhnall, using hit and run tactics to deplete them of supplies and resources, were succeeding, and had worn down the King of Strathclyde.

Osthryth inagined him in his palace in the green hollow, where they had sat and been welcomed - before realising it was a trap - discussing plans, both knowing Domhmall would be coming to reclaim his father's throne, and coming strong and hard in proportion to their treachery.

As she listened to the plan, of joining with Ceinid and Domhnall's army at Dunadd, her mind drifted to her brother: she must go with them, back to Pictland, for it would be far easier to get to Wessex on the same land than Eireann.

And it was at that moment she realised: maybe finding Uhtred was not her main priority: she was a warrior here; she had a lord, and could fight. All memory of Bebbanburg and her flight from Aelfric, her uncle, was far from her mind.

Would Uhtred even want to know her, or believe she was his sister? And, even then, would Beocca force her into a marriage?

Her hand reached down to Buidhe and made a silent oath on its patterned handle: she was Domhnall's warrior; she had earned her place. She would stand on winter ground and face the Strathclyde Cymric and the Pictish hostile to the Àlpin family.

For as long as he wanted her, Osthryth was Domhnall mac Álpin's warrior. She would not run to Wessex; she would stay by her king's side.

88888888

If Osthryth had looked up to the sky the next morning, as she rounded the head of land above the Foyle estuary, she would have noticed there was something very wrong with the sun.

Drinking had gone on to the early hours of the morning, and stories of war had given way to stories of women they had humped, or would hump, or wanted to hump.

Ale then heralded the stories, of the Sidhe told carefully by Taghd and Feargus recounted a tale from Pictland, of King Breidi's revenge for Oswiu's massacre, his trap for the Northumbrian king at Dun Nechtain in deepest Fortriu on the Feast Day of Saint Ceadd.

Osthryth knew the story, how her ancestor Ecgfrith's army fought Breidi, who had trapped them on the hill at Nechtan, adjacent the loch at Dunachton. Ecgfrith took his army up a hill to fight a Pictish warband, and were trapped with his back to the loch, whereupon Breidi surrounded the hill with the remainder of his army.

"And Breidi spat at his cousin for the Great Massacre!" Feargus had drawled, raising his tankard, "and ran the Anglian bastard through from stomach to spine!"

Feargus told the story with relish, about Ecgfrith's defeat and rout from the Pictish lands to the river Tuide while the royals roared with triumph and cheered at the slaughter while teasing Osthryth for being an Angle.

"My mother was of Cumbraland!" Osthryth protested, sleepily. "I am not an Angle!"

"But you are a Northumbrian bratling!" Domhnall said, affectionately, and it was he who saw her safe to the kitchens, where she had promised Muire she would always sleep.

And it had been before dawn she had risen and carefully taken hot water that the cook was about to use to boil up bones from the recently slaughtered livestock for broth. She had ladled it out into a stoneware jar dissolving the grated root in it before drinking it down in one go in the corner of the kitchen behind the rush screens that partitioned the kitchens in summer.

It was bitter and Osthryth had paused, panting, with the liquid half drunk, before wiping her mouth on her sleeve and swigging the rest. And then, in the darkness she crept past the guards and hurried past the monastery. She needed to be back for the children; she needed to be far away from the palace when it happened.

The morning was not a misty one, though it was October. The air was crisp and clear and, as she trod the sandy track next to the river, it did not occur to Osthryth that the sun did not seem to be rising.

Low beams of light radiated past her as she stood on the cliff, an hour later, which overlooked Lough Foyle. She should get down there, Osthryth thought, she should be near the sea when it happened, so the water could take it all away.

The sun's weak rays lit on the stones that acted as a steep path to the beach, and seemed to ooze across the flat, wide strand, as if held back, hindered in its progress. There were no clouds, ad to Osthryth's mind, dawn seemed to be getting weaker, not stronger.

She stopped and pressed her back against the cliff when she had descending, for an insistent discomfort was increasing and decreasing in a regular pattern around her hips. Osthryth breathed deeply.

She had wondered about the abortificant, the eradication of the germ of life growing inside her. She had felt no quickening, no evidence of an actual child and...even if she had, she would still have, God help her, done it. Yet, nearly two hours after taking it, she'd felt nothing. Until now.

Now, the pain was acute, and insisent, causing her to catch her breath and hold onto the cliff wall to brace herself against the pain. Liquid began to ooze down her leg, and it trickled into her boots and onto the sand. It was blood. There was no going back.

A sharp pain struck ger lower abdomen, and she cried out, gripping at the rock and she pulled off her boots and breeches, staggering towards the sea. The salt water would help, that she knew, and as the sky grew gradually darker, and the pain grew increasingly intense, Osthryth passed blood-streaked matter into the sea, while the ice-cold water stung her legs.

Each time the pain came, she was compelled to push against it, each time more furious than the last, until the pain receded, then began again. Each time, Osthryth thought she could not bear another.

When the pain finally started to diminish, Osthryth stretched out in the cold, refreshing water. She felt it cleansing her, refreshing her, and the weak morning sunlight on the ocean seemed to absorb some of its coldness. She looked at the sun's outline, which seemed strange reflected off the blue-green water.

When cleansing was replaced by coldness in her arms and legs, Osthryth waded out of the water, seaweed clinging to her thigh. What had been most shocking was it was over so quickly, yet the pain, worse than her monthly bleeding, was far less than she had on any battlefield.

Using the seaweed, channelwrack and gutweed and orache, she began to pack it between her legs so that the viscose fluid which was flowing out of her sore cunt would, with luck, begin to clot before wading back out of the ebbing sea. Shadows were beginning to form, around the rocks from which the moon was pulling the sea, and Osthryth sat, knees up and apart, supporting herself on her elbows as she breathed deeply and heavily.

It had been a lot of blood, left behind for the sea creatures to eat, a lot of blood and tissue. Yet, what she had produced was not a child, was not a baby. You couldn't be sinful if the child was merely germ, and not formed. Beatha had been right: if she was to be a warrior - and she was - the only path to that was chastity.

After a time of staring out to sea thinking of nothing, Osthryth realised the pain was increasing again, and she braced herself for it. When it came, a sensation to push came also, and the soft, spongy weed soon becme saturated again.

Dragging it from her body, Osthryth made her way to the shoreline. The tide had gone out a lot further than she thought it would have, and she rolled onto her knees and pulled herself to her feet before loping heavily towards the water's edge and casting the sopping weed as far as she could, before stooping to clulean her arm and her wrist.

How could a germ of life produce so much blood? It was no wonder she had felt exhausted, and she decided to try to steal some meat as soon as she was able, to restore her strength.

It will be worth it, she told herself: you are a warrior, Osthryth told herself as she scooped up more weed and wrung it between her hands. You can't have a child about you, nor risk birthing one.

It was getting difficult to see the weed in her hands as she spught to shape it before pushing it between her legs. Why was it darker than it had been, when it should be getting lighter?

She looked up and scanned the sky: no cloud; no mist. But, the shape of the morning sun...it was not as it should be. It looked as if a small section of it had disappeared.

Was this the end of the sun, as Taghd had told, of the sun-god Bel destroying the world? She glanced up again: it was clear. The sun had lost a part of itself and the world was darkening.

Her instinct was to get to her breeches and boots as soon as possible, to get back to Doire as soon as she could and make pretence that she had merely been searching for the children for their lesson but for the sun.

And, in her haste, Osthryth realised all too late that she had been followed.

Two figures, coming from the cliff path, were heading towards her. There was no mistake that she was their destination, for there was nothing on the strand, such as a fishing boat, and they hurried as she hurried to dress, her gut guessing who they were, and her brain hoping against hope that she was wrong.

Osthryth took up Buaidh in her damp, sandy hand. The figure with his index finger missing loomed ahead of his brother, Faedersword held by the other four.

"King Flann is negotiating a treaty," Osthryth blurted out. She nodded in the direction of the younger, black-haired Ulaid prince. "You are to marry his daughter." She needed to negotiate; her strength for a fight was low. But she suspected she would have to anyway.

"Southern Uí Neíll!" Spat Ninefingers. "They have their infinite war with Leinster! They do not know that you, Uí Néill, your ancestors began this war! And, I am going to have my revenge!" He raised Faedersword.

"Recognise this?" Osthryth said nothing. She had long given up hope of getting it back, and though it had been her father's, it wasn't hers any more. She would not waste energy today fighting to reclaim it.

Ninefingers turned to the younger and spat some words towards him which Osthryth did not catch. She raised Buidhe, the blade feeling heavy in her arm as blood seeped down her legs.

"The Uí Néill allowed bees to half-blind our ancestor, King Congall," Ninefingers declared. "Shall we half-blind - "

"You?" A voice finished. The younger Prince, so fast in his movements, was behind her and had seized her shoulders.

"I am not Uí Néill!" Osthryth protested. "I am - "

But before she could tell them what she was, Ninefingers had tackled her to the ground his long shadow casting towards the east. Osthryth fell heavily, the sand was hard and she felt her thighs impact on the sand.

"You fought with the Uí Néill, against the Norse!" Osthryth screamed in protest, knowing it was in vain. Ninefingers had a personal vendetta against her; she had lightened him to the sum of one finger. Now, he was going to do the same.

The younger prince was already spreading out her right arm, her sword arm, as Ninefingers sat on her stomach. Pain shot around her hips again as his weight compressed her organs.

"Eyes, or fingers," he mused, tormentingly, as Osthryth writhed under him. And then his hand went to her chest. A look of surprise crossed his features, then he tore away at her shirt that revealed her breasts. The coldness of the morning took the heat from them and her nipples stood taught against the air.

"Bean na Uí Néill!" Ninefingers laughed triumphantly. "An Uí Néill woman! Better still!"

Osthryth fought the man's stripping of her, but it was of no use. The younger prince said nothing, but held Osthryth's arms down as his brother pulled her legs apart. Osthryth protested and writhed her hips, as Ninefingers found the seaweed absorbing her blood. He made to rub at the bump at the top of her cunt, but when he did so, his hand became coated in viscous redness.

"Dirty bitch!" The prince bellowed in disgust, pushing her legs away and wiping his hand on her leg. He then brought a short knife to her throat.

"So, you brought on your curse so I would not touch you? Are you a witch?" He circled the knife by her throat.

"I am a witch," Osthryth confirmed, the words coming to her lips from nowhere. "And I am taking away the very light from the world." She endeavoured to strain her head in the direction of the sun.

It was getting darker still: Osthryth had noticed more of the sun had disappeared. She was terrified, not knowing what would happen if the sun did disappear. But she was not controlling it, and she could guess what would happen if she did not get away from the two Ulaid princes. And all this had not gone unnoticed by a figure at the bottom of the cliff path.

She made to pull away at Ninefingers' confusion but he wrestled her back to the strand and, grappling at it, he took a handful of sand, forcing it into her mouth.

Osthryth spluttered as Ninefingers undid his breeches. Already his cock was erect, its scarlet end shimmering with fluid in the failing light and he was breathing heavily, anticipating its use. Osthryth guessed too, but Ninefingers had her pressed close to the ground. The younger prince was still pinioning her arms, still silent as he watched his brother.

And use it got as he lay over her, forcing his hardness into her mouth, the sand making it raw as he thrust and thrust, like humping, but her mouth instead, his balls hitting her chin.

She tried not to gag as the hot end could take the stimulus no more, semen filling her mouth as she tried not to gag as it spilling down her throat. Finding some air, Osthryth bit on his flaccid cock, hard.

But, Ninefingers was off her now, screaming at the pain, his cock limp, still out of his breeches as he hauled her up to ger feet. Osthryth swallowed as more sand went dowb her throat and up her nose. She choked.

"Witch, you are going to die, unless you restore the sun!" He grabbed her by her short hair and twisted her head around.

"Never!" Osthryth spat back, and Ninefingers kicked her in the stomach. She fell onto the ground hitting her head.

"Come on!" Ninefingers growled to his brother. "Over there!"

A shout went up, too far away to be of any help to her, as it ran towards them. Osthryth looked past desperately, bitter liquid still dripping from tbe corner of her mouth as Ninefingers dragged her by the hair towards the sea. She squirmed and fought, but the younger Ulaid prince drew back his hand and slapped her around the face as she resisted as they dragged her into the cold water.

The rock around which Osthryth was now being bound had been uncovered as the tide had gone out, but now, as the sun dimmed further, the tide had come back in.

"Say your curses, witch!" Ninefingers growled, as he threw her against the rock, arms and legs spread back over the rock, her whole body exposed to the air and the sea. Which was rising.

Osthryth screamed. It was clear what was going to happen. And there was nothing she could do about it. She writhed, hoping the rush cords holding her could catch on the roughness of the slate rock stack, to loose her, before the sea came over her body, over her shoulders, over her head. Her scream clearly disturbed the Ulaid, for Ninefingers took her hair in his hands, smashing her head off the rock. It knocked her out, and when she came to, she saw, through hazy eyes, that someone had Buidhe and was fighting someone with it.

It was Constantine. In the increasing twilight, he lunged at one of the Ulaid, who dodged and thrust at them.

A wind blew around the beach, and, through her injured eye, Osthryth gazed to the sky. Only a slim crescent of light was now visible; Constantine, who had now abandoned Buidhe had thrown himself at the younger Ulaid Prince.

But Ninefingers was now looking into the heavens. Little by little, the light of the sun diminished. Ninefingers grabbed his younger brother by the shoulder and they both stumbled away in terror.

Osthryth opened her mouth and tried to scream, but the cold of the sea had stiffened her body and she gasped against the cold. Constantine loomed towards her, stumbling into the water towards her, but he too looked into the sky. But, he plunged on, reaching her.

"Osthryth!" he gasped, reaching in tbe near darkness for her hands, trying to find the twine which held her fast. "Osthryth!"

"Constantine!" she managed, her shoulder muscles weak at the strain of her body, as her body grew weak ang her leg muscles losing their strength. And then terror struck her. Water was now shoulder height, and Constantine stopped.

Around them, the sound of the sea birds diminished, and the whole landscape dropped to an unnatural dormancy.

Osthryth felt panic rise in her chest, and she tried to scream to him, but the salt water of the sea spashed into her face: Constantine ran through the water, and out onto the beach, glancing at the sky.

And, at the moment he reached the shore, the sun was destroyed.

Somehow, Osthryth found the strength to raise herself up on tiptoe. It was no use, she knew, for the waves were now up to her neck. This was the end.

Thoughts of her Uncle Aelfric andb Bebbanburg, of Beocca, comforting her after being in trouble, and of Uhtred, holding Seobhridht's head passed through her mind. When she met God, would she be able to justify her life? Was it worthwhile?

The water was close to her ears now, as she stood as tall as she could, head back so her nose was clear to breathe.

And, just as suddenly as it had vanished, the sun beamed in one long shaft over the water. Osthryth looked up to it.

A wave, larger than the last, washed over her head. Osthryth swallowed the saline liquid, trying to force her head up over it. It was no use. Memories swirled as the sun shot beams of light all over the northern sea. Under the waves, the black was illuminated before her eyes. Osthryth let her body slump, as she inhaled water into her lungs, to weak even to choke.

Was this death? Was this the might of the Lord bringing her forth to heaven to make her answer for her misdeeds, before condemning her to Lucifer's fires of hell?

Strong arms seized Osthryth's arms as her bonds were uncut. The light slowly began to be restored to the world as Domnall mac Aed Uí Néill, the exiled prince, carried Osthryth out of the water as the sun recovered its strength, her thin, drowned body held fast to him all the way back to Doire.

88888888

"What day is it?"

From a richly-linened in a sunlit room, Osthryth opened her eyes. For a long time, she looked at the oak beams above the bed, then moved. She wished she hadn't. There wasn't a part of her body that didn't feel in pain, from cracks around her lips, to her chest when she breathed. Even blinking was painful.

But Osthryth moved her head anyway at the sound of a creak of a chair. Domnall mac Aed leaned towards her.

"October 24th, if you really want to know," he said. "You pupils are missing you terribly."

Osthryth opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Whether it was because she didn't know what to say, or because she hadn't the energy, she did not know. She closed her eyes.

And awoke, after vivid dreams of the sun and an ebbing tide, of a rock and a returning tide. And water over her head.

"Are you with us?" It was Domna again. "27th October," he told Osthryth. "How do you feel?"

"Glad to be fourteen," Osthryth croaked.

Over the next few days she had visitors: the children; Domhnall, Muire, even Donnchada along with the servants. But not Flann Sinna. And not, noticeably, Constantine.

Muire was pleased to hear she wished to resume teaching, and she thanked her for Domnall.

"He was always the same; bringing home injured animals. Both my boys are the same," she smoothed her blue dress over her small bump. "This one too, maybe? While he has a furious side, he equally has a tender one." Then, Muire had leaned forward.

"Constantine?" She asked simply. Osthryth didn't need to know the context; it was plain they knew of her loss.

"I felt pain; I thought to bathe...it was so quick."

"I will overlook your use heathen medicine," Muire replied. "For many a Christian woman has had to respect the old knowledge. When you are ready to be a warrior again, he can see you then." Leaning forward, she whispered, "Men just don't understand - Constantine certainly didn't. Domhnall has spoken to him."

"I have tried to be chaste," Osthryth replied, earnestly. "He was just very - "

"Persuasive?" Muire laughed when Osthryth nodded. "He has a bond with you that cannot be broken: you saved his life; you saved Domhnall's against Ivarr the Boneless. You saved all of my children seceral days ago. The House of Àlpin is pleased to have you amongst its warriors." She leaned forward, "My father would be proud that an Angle such as yourself recognised my brother's kindness and have spent the subsequent years in lotal service to his line. And, had he seen any warrior so despoiled by his so-called allies, would have gone to challenge Cineál mac Conchobar himself - oh, don't move," Muire said kindly. "All of the warriors, even Donnchada, have begged the king to challenge Cineál, or his sons - for what they did was breaking the truce Flann agreed with him. But my husband will not allow it."

And he will allow Gormlaith, his own daughter, to be married into a family such as would do to her what Ninefingers had done to her. Was the ceasefire really that significant to the High King?

"You may resume teaching as soon as you feel well enough," Muire added. "The royal children have missed you. And, you are to have this." She handed over a sword, much worked, much polished, barely the blade she had won, at Tara.

"Buidhe!" Osthryth breathed. She was vaguely aware of Constantine using it to fight the Ulaid princes. And then Muire left and she had slept, and Domhnall had been to see her, praising her, his warrior still, for her bravery.

"Those princes will pay," he said, meaningfully. Then, told her they were expecting her in the stables just as soon as she was ready. "Constantine too," Domhnall added, pointedly, then leaned forward. "I hope this has taught you the value of chastity?"

"Yes, my Lord," Osthryth replied, then added, "He likes me to be close, or else - "

"He has been told that I will castrate him if he touches you again," Domhnall replied, grimly. "And a king in exile does not lightly make threats such as these to his heir." Osthryth nodded, gravely.

If only they could marry; she would be safe from Aelfric, and she would always be chaste. But, of course, Eira was to marry Domhnall, for succession was all: raise a warrior, build a dynasty, otherwise your throne was in danger.

In the end, it was two days later, two days before Samhain , that she met in Muire's chambers the children. Niall gave Osthryth a running hug and wrapped his little arms around her middle. It was quite far from the manners he was supposed to show. Muire chided him, telling his she was in pain after fighting.

"And we beat the Norse!" he replied, happily, before seeing his mother's sten face. Osthryth tried not to laugh - laughing hurt - when she saw the knees of his breeches: dirt-encrusted, as usual, from his habit of digging through the soil in search of worms or woodlice.

"But you said, Mairi!" Niall protested, failing to see where he had erred.

"We do not greet our injured heroes thus," his mother smiled, "for they need to heal. But, yes, Osthryth is to commence with your learning.

She half expected poor Anndra to open the door to them, as she led the royal school across the courtyard, Buidhe at hand. Mairi smiled at her, pleased to see her, but she could see from her eyes the same expression of emotion that Osthryth felt about the family who had adopted her: had she been in a different place, Osthryth's fate might have been hers. Osthryth smiled back through her bruised face. She was alive, and she would mend. There was nothing that she couldn't do when she was well, and she intended this to be by her lord's side.

The young monk apprentice showed the party into the script room and, once the young boys were busy writing the gospels out on recycled vellum in charge of the boys, he hed her to the manuscripts of letters. Clearly it was thought that her habit of viewing the missives was part of what she was there for.

"We are lucky the Norse did not get here," he said, lifting down the most recent volume for her. "All this would have gone." He glanced at her again, and added, "I remember you; I was fighting ten men away. Gosh," he exclaimed, "It was a tough section where we were."

A letter from the Lindisfarne monks to those at Iona had made its way there, to St. ColmCille's. It reported the usurper of Bebbanburg had been seen talking to Danes.

The usurper, Osthryth scoffed. Clearly, the monks at Lindisfarne relied on Aelfric and needed his money, so therefore wrote his propaganda.

Yet, he was still in league with the Danes, as another letter plaintively put, this time, coming from Culdees: Bebbanburg's lord supported two brothers with their incursions over the border into southern Pictland.

She examined the letter more closely as she followed the words, rereading the horror that had been communicated: Uhtred had stolen the pagan bride, sister of the new king of Cumbraland - a sub-king to these brothers - who was to marry Aelfric. He had been punished, though the letter did not say how.

Uhtred. Not in Wessex any more. Come north to challenge Aelfric.

Suddenly, her spirits rose. His cause was clearly true; he had never given up his dream of Bebbanburg, and that made Osthryth feel a warmth of happiness in her stomach.

There were more letters, saying more or less the same thing: news of Northumbria was always hotly received, for it gave an indication of whether lords were plotting expansion into neighbouring territories.

But, Northumbria was ruled by Danes, now. Osthryth closed her eyes and imagined the young man who had come to threaten Aelfric at Bebbanburg's gates. His features were indistinct, so it was unlikely she would recognise Uhtred on sight.

But, Osthryth was certain, she would know him, and a leaving-hunger gnawed in her stomach. She wanted to go to him, after all; the loyalty to her lord was not enough alone. All would be right when Osthryth had found Uhtred.

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They were returning to Alba on the same night as they had left: All Saints' Day. That was the next day. Samhain, that day, would come and go, in a faithful marking of harvest offered to the dead, silent dinner, and doors locked and double-locked.

Osthryth made her way over to the stables that night, after bidding a farewell to the children - she had grown fond of them, especially little Niall and the capable, forthright Mairi, and suspected she may have to leave without notice when they crossed the sea to restore Domhnall to the thrones of the Gaeos and the Picts, to cobtinue Ceinid mac Alpin's line, to be the first king of all Alba.

She had gone that evening to the stables, and was grateful that no fuss had been made of her return. Taghd had taken her sword to sharpen, though it had not needed much to put an edge back on it, for it had returned from Muire as if the Sidhe had been responsible for its polishing.

Feargus had been packed off to collect food for them all, as they are in silence sitting in the straw of the warm stables, save the quiet hmmphing of the horses, and though Osthryth hoped it wasn't the case, it seemed like there was extra meat than usual on her platter.

Danes, Domhnall had said, confirming the monasterial letters, 2 brothers Erik and Siegfried, had incurred into Strathclyd. Poor inhabitants had fled and set up primitive traps, it had not slowed down the brothers, and they had incurred into Glaschau and across to Stirling, raiding as they went.

"Eochaid has done nothing to check this," Domhnall told his men. "We will win support if we can repel these Danes. Now is the best tine to attack, though winter us upon us. They will never expect us to be upon them after Samhain."

Later, once ale had been drunk and the men had listed off to sleep, Domhnall took Osthryth aside, to the outbuilding where he sometimes slept, so they were quite alone.

"You may stay, Osthryth," Domhnall said, raising an arm as if to clap her on the shoulder, but then stopped, as if conscious of his phtsical touch. " Muire has a place for you here." Osthryth's eyes widened.

"Oh, no, my lord!" She protested. "I would return to Alba; I would be at your side! Have I shamed you such that you do not want me?" And, she could only gain wealth to get to Wessex by sharing silver as spoils of war, preferably that of the Danish brothers.

"Shamed?" Domhnall echoed. "You have not shamed me! Dear girl, you have borne this braver than any man I know!" He looked into her eyes, as she turned away, and hevraised his hand to tilt her chin back to for him to look at her. "I would see you safe."

"I will never marry," Osthryth protested, definitely.

"Osthryth, I want you by my side; you are an outatanding warrior, far better than many men. But, there are dangers in Alba."

"How can there be dangers with you as my king?" Osthryth asked, quietly. She felt her heart sink: he was trying to release her from his service, of that she was sure." Domhnall was noble, valiant and, above all, monstrously ambitious. He would not chance his position as king, and she had shown, through her sex that she was more liability to him than an asset.

Then, he did sonething she did not expect. Raising her left arm, he drew his palm to his mouth, pressing his lips to it. Then, just as suddenly, Domhnall stepped away, dropping her hand as if it were ice. Osthryth stepped towards him, kissing him on the mouth. He pushed her away, hands on her shoulders. She would beg, if necessary.

Domhnall took her hands.

"Osthryth, I would show you the greatest love that a man would give to you, and I am showing it. You are a child still; choose a husband from the warriors and I will arrange it. Choose Domnall, now he has decided to renounce his father's throne and come with us."

Osthryth shuddered. Domnall as a husband? He was more disagreeable than Constantine, even if he had rescued her, she didn't wholly trust him.

"Lord king -"

"It can never be, Osthryth." He looked away, as if his will was different than his words. "I take a wife back with me."

"If you marry me, you could continue to be with Eira," Osthryth suggested, quietly. She had been about to say "Finnolai" and her mind wondered where he was, now he had escaped and was free, and she hoped, maybe the warrior, her best friend, had made his way back to Alba to wait for Domhnall. Please do not let him be a wandering spirit tonight, she added, silently.

"And I could continue to be a soldier."

"And what about a dynasty...children?" asked Domhnall.

"We could have children," she insisted. But Domhmall pushed her away.

"You are nothing - no-one - "

"I am - " Aedre of Bebbanburg, Osthryth he was about to say, and if they married, he could take the throne of Bebbanburg, and all lands to the Roman wall, as was his grandfathet's ambition. But, before she could say anything, Domhnall put a hand to her mouth. When she had fallen silent, he dropped it.

"I love you, Domnhall mac Caustin," Osthryth declared. "Not the love of a man and a woman, but the love of a warrior and lord..."

She knelt, on both knees, on the straw in the dim lantern-light. Domhnall knelt too.

"You are..." He took her hair in his hand, it was growing back. "You could be content with one of my men if not Domnall? Feargus? Taghd?"

Osthryth closed her eyes, as they knelt together, picturing both. Feargus, strong and broad, a thick head of hair, dark russet red, stoic, reliable, trustworthy; Taghd, tall fair haired and strong, like a branch of willow, soulful, strung with faith and belief: they had enacted a handfast at Tara, after all.

"I just want to be your warrior, Lord. I will fight, Lord Domnhall."

"You will fight," he confirmed. "I need the best around me this day." And then he took Osthryth in his arms, kissing her deeply, before leaning past her face, whispering in her ear.

"You would be in great danger if I were to take you for a wife, no matter who you were, and - "

A noise outside, rattling, banging. The candles guttered in the lanterns and went out.

The Sidhe. It was Samhain, after all, Osthryth knew. She got to her feet, hand on her sword. Domhnall put his hand on hers, to stay her unsheathing of it.

"Stay still...stay here," he instructed, striding to the door, which banged open just before he reached it. The noises hammered through the stables, like horses, huge horses, galloping, followed by a noise, like a keening, the sound the Eireann women made when King Aed was buried, at Ard Marcha.

Osthryth stood, listening as the stables were ransacked: hammerings and bangs, a wibd and tbe keening. What was it?

"They seek someone," Domhnall said, striding over to her.

"The Uí Néill?"

"The Sidhe."

Why? Though Osthryth.

"Whether it is the Uí Néill or the sidhe, they will not find us. And tomorrow, we go back to Alba, to fight for my throne." Domhnall explained.

"But, if it is not the Sidhe..." Osthryth protested, then she crumpled. The horror of what she had suffered, discrete images, swam in pieces through her mind.

"The door is barred," Domhall said, pulling her close to him. Osthryth. could feel his heart beating through his jerkin. will remain awake. "Nothing can get to you if I am here, Osthryth Lackland."

He sat down in the straw, leaning back against the stall, grey eyes like his father willing her to sit by him. Behind them, a mare snorted in her sleep at the movement of the oak panels as Domnhall raised his arm, inviting her close.

That night Osthryth slept in the arms of a king. In the morning, before the sun had risen she was riding next to two on the shore of the Foyle, where once she hunted squid for their ink and pagans for potions.

It was not yet dawn. Boats, prearranged to take advantage of the high tide of the lough, were rowing in, their hazy outlines picked put by the pre-dawn light.

They passed the rock next to where she had been tied by Ninefingers, around which the coracles were piloting. Osthryth could feel her chest swelling with brine as the waters engulfed her and she relived again the cold panic of helplessness, and death approaching with every incoming wave.

It was only when Constantine took her bridle, that she was aware their journey was over and she was grippng the reins tightly. She was shaking and, reluctantly, allowed the prince to help her down.

Six boarded two coracles belonging to the monks of Rathlin: Osthryth and Constantine with Taghd in one; Domhnall with Domnall and Feargus in another. Should one boat sink, the other held a man who could be king.

Osthryth held the side of the boat, fighting visions of her drowning as they began their risky journey across the northern sea and to Iona, where Domhnall, with his cousins Constantine and the dispossessed Domnall by his side, would fight to regain the thone of his family, Àlpin.

88888888

St. John's Eve, 904

"Tell me the story of the princess mama!" Begged Aedre, holding up her hand to Osthryth. She smiled down to the child, who was lying, eyes lighted up, mind filled with sounds of the far-off festivities.

Osthryth eased herself onto the silk coverlet as the flame-coloured hair of her adopted daughter spilled out onto the pillow and she stroked Aedre's temples with the backs of her fingers, a trick which soothed the girl.

"There was once a princess," she began.

"I love this story!" Aedre opened her bright blue eyes and looked at her mother.

"I know, beautiful," Osthryth sighed, trying to keep her voice low. "And she lived in a castle by a wild sea..."

Soon, the rhythm of the story began its soporific result, yet Aedre was resisting sleep.

"...the hero of the story, the priest, guarded the crypt in which the bones of all the saints of the realm lay. His was a studious, job, yet he was as bravevas any warrior, held a sword like any warrior and fought. Vicious pirates often came to raid, but could not breach the walls of tbe fortress, and - "

"The Norse?" asked a tiny voice.

"Danes," Osthryth confirmed, withdrawing her hand. Maybe her touch was disturbing Aedre.

"What are Danes?"

"Like the Norse." Osthryth sighed, listening to the distant shouts and laughter of people enjoying themselves far away. The heathen would be there; Ula would be there, plying her knowledge - good knowledge, which worked - but was against the law.

Osthryth looked across to Aedre, whose eyes were determinedly open.

"Sit up, my darling," Osthryth said, moving her pillow up the polished oak bedframe. Nothing had ever been too good for Aedre, in Constantine's eyes, and now Mairi had died, he took little interest in his children, besides Cellach and Indulf, and Domhnall's eldest, MaelColm, all fighting-age boys.

"You are a Dane," Osthryth told her, hesitatingly. "Your grandfather ruled vast areas of land which once belonged to my family. He was a great warrior - " Osthryth paused, considering her choice of words, "he was just, and true, he took pity on the weak and was fair minded. Your mother was his only daughter - "

" - and I am your only daughter," Aedre pressed, her cornflower-blue eyes twinkling at Osthryth. "You have often said it."

I have often said it to Constantine, Osthtyth thought, in Gaelish, as he reminds me of my requirement of espionage for your keep. And you understand me, as well as the Anglish I speak to you, and the Cymric if the servants and the Danish the two slaves speak to you, though they are Norse, and it is the same tongue. You truly are a wonder.

"I am your mother, yes," Osthryth nodded. "But the lady who carried you, in her body as you grew was a brave fierce Danish lady with hair the colour of fire."

"Like mine." She held out her hair in her fingers. "And Constantine is my father - he said so." And then Aedre threw herself at Osthryth fiercely, as if she never wanted to let her go, before pulling her down next to her and demanding the story of the cousins' war: Ecgfrith the Angle and Breidi the Pict at Dun Nechtain, saying that oft-repeated epithet that, "No Angle or Saxon will ever take Alba, willl they, Mamma?"

It was too soon for her to understand, Osthryth told herself, as Aedre settled, finally, into a slow, rhythmical sighing. She was too young to know.

But time had passed too quickly. She should write to Beocca. The last she heard of his whereabouts, the elderly priest, Aedre's father, had been ministering in Wessex and travelling from parish to parish following Alfred's death and Aelswith's expulsion of him from the palace.

She did not want the husband of a Dane, even the good and true man Beocca was, to be in any way involved in decisions. No, Osthryth knew, from a letter Beocca had written to a monk he knew at Culdees, Aethelhelm had taken his place, Aethelhelm, whose daughter had usurped Edward's first wife, for the interest of the money he could bring to Wessex's crown.

And despite all of that, Osthryth had gleaned, from Beocca's missive, not one phrase, not one sentence spoke of anger or resentment, just pity and regret for the future of Wessex, whose political decisions were now being made not by wisdom, but money.

He should be made into a saint, Osthryth thought. He didn't make rain stop, or start, or bring an abbess back to life, or repel a wind or anything that makes men saints. But then, he never was truly in the favour of Alfred, especially after her brother appeared in Wessex. Deeds, however minor, needed to be recorded, but what of a priest who had calmed a mad Danish woman, out of her wits for the abuse she had suffered at the hands of other Danes? What of the peace he had bestowed on Alfred's greatest warrior? What of the good he had done, every day, inch by inch, second by second.

Saint Beocca, the man who knew the little things mattered to the lives of ordinary people. He had been like a father to her, as Aedre, and to Uhtred she had often heard him say so to Finan, when they thought they were alone.

She should write back to Beocca, Osthryth thought, as she held Aedre, his daughter, in her arms. But what to tell him when he did not know his daughter lived.

Nearly five years old as she was, and ever month, every year, it was more and more difficult to know what to say.

She should travel with Aedre - she should show him his daughter, her life born from Thyra's death. But Osthryth was afraid; she was a coward. Telling Beocca she lived, lived with Constantine in Alba caring for his daughter: it would take a day, if not less, for Uhtred to find out. And she did not want Uhtred to know her for, by now, after her foolish telling of it to Finan, he was bound to know.

August 904

The opportunity came when August brought victory to Constantine. He had refused her to fight with the army against the Norse at Strathcarron, though she accompanied him, with Aedre. The battle was bitter, and many Picts and Gaels fell to the Norse. However, many more Norse fell, as did their leader Ivarr Ivarrson, causing the Norse to leave Alba.

But, Osthryth's fears came true, despite her wishing that the facts did not speak for themselves: Uhtred bargained for land with Constantine, who travelled down to the Roman wall, deep into Northumbria.

Taking Cellach as an agreed hostage again - the prince would be fed and educated as long as Constantine did not make war to reclaim Northumbria to the wall - Uhtred then sided with Ivarrson, and had had to retreat. Osthryth had feared for Cellach, but Constantine told Osthryth he was safe.

While Uhtred plotted to reclaim Ecgfrith's lost lands to Dun Edinn, Constantine also had land ambitions, and if he could expand Pictland to beyond the Roman wall then he would fo so.

Domnall, who had also fought the battle at Strathcarron next to his cousin, had also told her of Donnchada's treachery against Flann Sinna, who had sacked Kells as part of an agreent with the Ulaid. Fifteen years after leaving Eireann, abd this was the first time Osthryth had seen him look pained for his homeland.

She liked Domnall, and Osthryth often told herself that she could have married him and been an exiled Princess, despite their disastrous start.

Had she had done so in Doire, Osthruth knew, Domhnall and Constantine would still have found out about the ransom her uncle offered in any case. Osthryth always checked herself by this and knew Domhnall would have annulled their marriage and handed her over to Aelfric. Or Kjartan. Which is why she had run.

Domnall was another prince who had never forgiven her for leaving so suddenly. Yet, he had taken her in his arms and had refused to leave her bedside on thevday of the eclipse, not until she had awoken and Muire had assessed her abuse at the hands of the Ulaid, and her drowning under the dying sun.

He had insisted on royal quarters for her, and when Flann had refused, had her taken to his own before petitioning both Domhnall amd Donnchada to claim apology from King Cineál for the wrong his sons had done her and dissolve the betrothal of Gormlaith to his younger son. If anyone embodied the Christian virtues of humility and justice it was Domnall mac Aed Uí Néill.

"Donnchada tried to tell Flann of the Ulaid," he told Osthryth sadly one night. "But his father would have none of it. He trusted Cineál mac Conchobar too much, and the Northern Uí Neíll knew how it would end. Even Donnchada in the end."

"At least Gormlaith is happy now."

"Gormlaith," Domnall smiled, passing over a stone beaker of uisge-beatha. The spirit warmed Osthryth's chest, and she closed her eyes momentarily in the warmth of the room. "Married to Niall Glundubh now," he mused.

Little Niall, Domnall's young brother, now twenty nine, with the implacable fairness of his line. Gormlaith, sorry and maltreated princess, was now his wife, having been abandoned by not only the younger Ulaid prince - who had himself eventually been sold into slavery for the shame of taking a mistress by Ninefingers, his brother, a mistress set up by the Uí Néill - but also returned to Flann Sinna having been barren in her marriage to the King of Munster.

Osthryth often wondered how the little boys had grown up in their palace at Doire after she's left, and wondered, at a fancy, whether Gormlaith, older than her third husband by nearly ten years, spent her time washing the mud put of the knees of his breeches.

"We may not have liked it, but Flann and Cineal's starvation war worked," Domnall continued. "The Norse could not fight back, few new Norse would settle in hostlile land, and now, with Constantine's success, they will not stop in Alba."

"Wessex," Osthryth answered Domnall's next question before he asked it, "Or the west coast of Northumberland: Cumbraland, or Mercia. Cnut will welcome them in York as exiles."

"Then there will be war in Englaland soon," Domnall said. "I will co-ordinate Constantine's fleet, or army, whichever he chooses.

And, before that war, Osthryth decided, she must take Aedre to see her father.

88888888

September 904

"You don't like the water." There was concern on Aedre's tiny features. Osthryth turned away from the glass-like strait between Dunnottar and Culdees.

"I like it well enough," she replied, trying not to catch Ceinid's eye.

A month after her first conversation with Aedre and was now heading out of the black-watered Dee and into the north sea.

They would be passing Lindisfarne and Bebbanburg, at a distance far enough away that her uncle's army would not intercept them and demand a fee.

But, there was a lot of water between Lindisfarne and Cent, around which they must sail to get to Hamptun, then up towards Winchester, and plenty of opportunity for attack by anyone. And Osthryth was not about to admit to anyone, not least Aedre, that water: river, sea or lake, was the only thing that made her feel helpless and cowardly.

"What did the West Saxons know of us?" Constantine had asked her, the night before she left. It was clear from his demeanour, from his expression, the tone of his voice, that he feared she would not return. To be sure, he had taken all but the barest amount of silver from her and had told her Cinead would guard them.

Ceinid was also under orders to bring them back, Osthryth was certain, but she had no intention of staying in Wessex, not least with Edward Rex on the throne.

"They know little: very few knew of me. I could have been safe in Wessex for longer, for much longer." Had I not made the mistake of telling Uhtred's best friend that I was his sister, Osthryth added, silently.

"Yet, you fled, with Aedre, to me?" Constantine reminded her, grimly. In tbe throne-room that evening, he was not sitting, but looking out of the window, at the late summer sun on the Dee, refusing to meet Osthryth's eye.

"To here, the only place I could consider my home. Wessex is not home. And few in the Saxon kingdoms consider you at all." Constantine turned, looking impassive.

"That will be their mistake. One day. When the Cymric, the Britons, remember it was the Sais who invaded, long before the Norse and Danes. For now, we must contain the Norse beyond the wall, to prevent their incursions, prevent their return." Constantine turned away.

"Do you miss Domhnall?" Osthryth asked suddenly.

"Yes," Constantine replied, "We were the same, alone, exiled. Like Domnall. Domhnall made some bitter choices to regain the throne again. You were there."

"Giric."

"Giric." Constantine returned. "Osthryth, why did you return if you were going to go back?" His eyes were full of hurt, and for once he did not try to force himself on her for comfort.

Why had she? Alfred had died, yes. Thyra had run, and she had followed. She had been so close before, when she had been with Uhtred carrying out a faux raid into Pictland.

"Because I do not believe you will sell me to Aelfric now," Osthryth replied. "I am no longer worth anything to him."

And, because she missed the north. She could stand no longer in a place of ritual, so far removed from Cuthbert's faith, so driven on schedule that there was no place for an individual to directly challenge themselves on God's might.

Her choice had come when Osthryth had been her choice remove yet another germ from her body - no, not a germ. This was a child, and she had screamed to the air when the Cymric healer had pulled out the unwanted life This time, she had grown gravely ill; she had lost a deal of blood. Finan had nursed her through: dear Finan, who knew why she suffered, what she had done, and could not wholly trust it was not his own.

She had failed to return to Edward's side, and broken her oath as his warrior. Although, now Edward was no longer the aethling. He was the king. He would have had no more use for her anyway.

But, more than that, she had truly known her brother, his divided loyalty, his bravery, the love his men showed him. He had shown he could not serve Alfred on the king's terms, but he did, and felt the king owed him more for his service. He had taken the detestible Aethelflaed as his lover, yet sworn to Edward as Rex.

The more she knew of Uhtred the more she despised him. The brother she had dreamed of all those years ago, standing before Bebbanburg's gates, Seobhridht's head clasped in his hand, never had been. He was a myth, a story, he was just a dream.

"Your will was to be with your brother," Constantine conceded, though Osthruth noted now, as salt water from the North Sea whipped her face, he had never denied she had been part of a bargain with Aelfric. "I have met Uhtred; I admire him," Constantine had said.

"I do not." But that was not entirely true. She did respect all he had achieved, but as a person? No. He was not what a brother would be. She had never felt more at home than in the company of the royal Gaels, the house of Àlpin.

She had stood between Finan and Uhtred on Constantine's meeting with Ragnar Ragnarsson, south of Dùn Edinn all those years go, seeing Mairi's clever eyes in Cellach, who so resembled his father.

Would she have run to his side? Would have stood by him if Ragnar had attacked...if Uhtred and Finan had attacked? He was, even now as a man the stubborn, demanding boy she knew, those characteristics had matured into strategic cunning and forthright leadership, yet she bought Aedre's comfortable life, and Constantine ever treated her as the servant she had always been to him, a thing to be used at his will.

And it had been to him, at the risk of her own life that she had run; for the same reason she had run from Dunnottar and her life in the court of Domhnall: she had been afraid. Not afraid in the same way as she had been when she realised King Domhnall knew her identity, and had been terrified he would trade her back to Aelfric.

No, this was worse terror. In short, she was ashamed he was her brother, that he had taken up with Aethelflaed, had Wessex and Mercian interests when he should have his eye only on Bebbanburg.

Once she had admitted she was his sister to Finan, in a moment of weakness, he would undoubtedly have told his Edward who she was to him.

She hated him, hated what he was. Not a noble, loyal saxon lord, to whom she could run, confide, offer loyalty and strength to regain their home that he so badly desired.

Instead, his slave-life in the house of Ragnar the Fearless, their father's killer had shaped him into the man, a man whose loyalties were so deeply divided neither Danes nor Saxons could anticipate his loyalties, neither, Osthryth suspected, could her brother himself. He had married for love into the kin of Ivarr the Boneless, yet this served a purpose of striking at Aelfric, their uncle. Yet, his Saxon ties had bound him to Alfred and his family, tighter ever than to Bebbanburg.

She had run because she despised the man he was, and did not care whether he lived or died. Any information she had Constantine could have to further his claim to Northumbria up to the Roman wall, or further into Northumbria - she didn't care. Besides, she was valueless to Aelfric now.

Osthryth Lackland would cut her links Uhtred of Bebbanburg: he was no longer her brother. He was now, with the agreement she had made with Constantine to spy against Wessex, her enemy.

And it would begin, when she returned - just south of Strathclyde - it would begin in Cumbraland, with King Guthred. For Constantine had told her so: King Guthred held the key to the lands in the south, and Osthryth: she was the lock into which the King of Cumbraland would fit.