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

9. Griogair

Chapter 9

Too long? Too short? Do you want me to speed up Osthryth getting to Uhtred? Who else should she meet? I never intended for her to meet Guthred, the king who sent Uhtred into slavery and whose sister Uhtred marries. As Terry Pratchett once said, stories come alive when you write them and sometimes you don't know who's controlling who.

Osthryth's role with Guthred, king of Cumbraland, is important much later on too. Please review - thank you to you who have already!

Osthryth and Finan...let me just say their relationship post Alfred's death, now she is spy for Constantine and Finan being sworn to Uhtred, is going to become...complicated...

...and there will be heartbreak...

Onwards...

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Winter 879

Rain beat down as the little coracles rowed out of Rathlin. Iona was a day away in the calm, but in this, it could be longer.

Sweat and rain fell into the faces of the men; Osthryth too had an oar and was pulling with all her might as the salty blue-green notrthern sea drenched her for her efforts.

Domhnall's leather-covered coracle was ahead. They had taken on pilots from Rathlin and were heading north-east, to St. Cuthbert's Isle - Iona. Once or twice, the swell of the currents pitched them forward. Constantine had nearly been thrown out, and had only been saved because his boot had landed between Osthryth's own. After that, Taghd had lashed her to the mast, screaming over the howling gale that she was too light, and she may fall overboard. There would be no coming back from that churning, boiling sea.

Osthryth closed her eyes for the remainder of the journey, as the middle-aged monk who was guiding them picked up the strain.

It had been madness to even consider such a crossing, the abbot at Rathlin had told Domhnall. But, considered he had, and pursued, Saint ColmCille's Isle being their resting place, when they would finally reach it.

"ColmCille willl be with us all," he told them as they stood on a storm-soaked beach, the coracles knocking together as if they, too, were afraid. Osthryth had closed her eyes. As ColmCille was to the Gaels, Cuthbert was to the Northumbrians. Tossed and soaked in the little vessel, Osthryth prayed to their blessed saint.

The Danes and Norse are the best sailors in the world, Taghd had boasted that night, except for the Irish.

"What has Domhnall told you?" Constantine had asked, having woken her up in Rathlin's priory, the night before, where the warriors were sleeping.

She had blinked a few times, in the darkness, having slept surprisingly well, and a feeling of pity entered her chest that she was still not asleep.

"Are you frightened?" Constantine asked her. Osthryth propped herself up on the blankets, which smelled of horse, considering those two questions. Constantine moved across, taking care not to wake Feargus or Taghd, and sat close enough to Osthryth that she could feel his chest moving in and out.

Osthryth did not know how much he knew of her pregnancy - or loss - but she had heard Domhnall, on the morning before they left the Foyle's coast, to the loud protests of denial from Constantine, tell him that he was to restrain himself, and now, side by side, he did not even touch her hand.

"Frightened of what, Constantine?" Osthryth asked.

"About the plan? After, when we get to Dunadd? After Domhnall's coronation?"

Dunadd. Osthryth knew of the place, though what it was, she did not know. It was Tara to the Gaels of Dal Riada, their capital, where coronations were held.

"I don't know of any plan," Osthryth told him, wondering about the place. "So how can I be afraid of what I don't know?" She had stared into the darkness at Constantine, wondering at his vague question. Was he about to tell her something?

Dunadd was supposed to be mountainous, so she had an idea of a settlement with mountains like those in the Ulaid territory, gentle sloping mounds which made up the Mourne range. Ideal for Eochaid's snipers? She would fight. And Osthryth suddenly felt happy: she knew, after everything, after her abortion, after Ninefingers' attack, that she truly could. It had settled on her mind like as lightly as a butterfly might on one's hand: she was a warrior first, and no other life would fit for her.

"Frightened of what?" She had asked again of the prince. But Constantine hadn't answered.

The following morning, as she had pulled at the coracle's ashwood oar, she felt joy again that her strength was returning, as if confirming the the realisation of the night before.

But she needed to steel herself, like Buaidh, she needed to be Buaidh, and look after herself. If her own brute force was not enough, wit and guile must be employed. Osthryth wanted to fight, and enjoy the wealth and comforts warriors enjoyed, wealth being the most vital, she knew, for she injured more often than if she had been a man.

She could just choose to give up, be a servant, hide away, she supposed. Images of that day, on Lough Foyle's shore, still invaded her mind, but she had found that training, battle, even polishing the sword she had won - twice - drove the memories away. Osthryth was a warrior; she knew that in her heart, and to fight was all she wanted for the rest of her life.

And, should she ever go back to Eireann, means to support herself in pocket, she would seek out Ninefingers and chop his cock off.

In the darkness of the night before, Osthryth suspected Constantine knew how she felt about fighting for he wanted to know, "Will you continue to fight for Domhnall?" while ignoring her question.

"He is my lord - I am his warrior." Constantine said nothing more. It was strange, Osthryth thought, when she was in his company, thoughts of finding a peace with herself rapidly came to nothing. Constantine had a way of challenging her decisions before she had even decided what they were.

"You?" she added, as a storm in the making slammed noisy, energetic gusts around the stables, determined to make the most of being woken up.

"Yes," Constantine replied. "We are to meet our allies, the Grigoirs, and we are going, with the Tara stone to Dunadd, then Scone, with the Tara stone. Then," he added, laconically, "we are going to fight Eochaid and kill Giric. Domhnall says once Giric dies, Eochaid will renounce his claim to Pictland, to Scotland, and his son, Dyfnwal will submit to him. And even if Eochaid doesn't, Domhnall will still be crowned."

It sounded like a sensible plan to Osthryth: muster as many allies as possible, win the heart of the people with a coronation, crowning mcÀlpin's natural successor. Fight when the enemy suspects an attack least.

Yet, from what Osthryth had gleaned from their small encounter with Giric at Glaschu, at Eochaid's palace, was that the man had weasel cunning.

He was bound to have as many schemes half-built ready to be rolled out against Domhnall at a moment's notice, to keep himself, through Eochaid's grandfather's claim - Ceinid mac Àlpin again - on the throne of Pictland.

"What of Eireann?" Osthryth asked of Constantine. "Did Domhnall say anything of Muire? And the princes and princesses?" In the darkness, she glanced over to the sleeping form of Domnall, who was now an exile. What would become of his family? Of Queen Muire if Donnchada decided to seize the throne and fight his father? Of little Niall Grubbyknees?

"Once we have won, then Mairi and Eira will be sent for," Constantine replied. But, that was not what Osthryth had meant. Clearly, impending matrimony weighed on Constantine's mind.

Then, he added, "Domhnall thinks Donnchada will fight his father, in the end, for the southern lands, at least, if not the northern." Osthryth sighed. Civil war was as terrible as war between mortal foes, if not more so. And they had the Norse needling them, for she was sure the policy of starvation would not keep them reined in for long.

And, they were heading to another; Eochaid was their cousin through another sister of Muire and Constantine's father, Aed, and their grandfather, Ceinid mac Àlpin. His claim to Dal Riada and Pictland could be argued as strong as that of either Domhnall or Constantine.

Domhnall had spoken of a Dane who had taken some of Cumbraland's land, south of Caer Ligualid, Harthacnut, and who had been slaughtered by Eochaid, his son captured and enslaved; his daughter holed away at a monastery. Maybe incursions into Strathclyde were enough to distract Eochaid and give Domhnall the edge.

For, though they were only six, if Eochaid's spies were worth their pay, the King of Strathclyde would know of their return. And even if not, he would surely have heard of the arrival of a hundred tonnes of red sandstone arriving at Iona in the summer.

In the darkness, as rain beat on the slatted wooden roof above them, dripping down the walls and seeping into the straw, she had told Constantine to get his rest for the next day, and he had moved away from her, although Osthryth sensed his reluctance. They slept easily by one another - too easily, in the past. But the truth was, apart from Domhnall, whom she trusted above all men, she was relieved - Osthryth couldn't bear the idea of anyone touching her.

How she longed for battle - against whom, she didn't care. To kill men in battle because they were her lord's enemy, that thought cheered her. For, not do so meant, ultimately, reliance in the charity of men, who may see her back to Aelfric should someone figure the truth of her. She would not have her life goverened by any man. Osthryth's strength was returning.

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It took nearly two days for the little coracles to end their oft-sailed journey to Iona. Osthryth had made to row, but Taghd had tied her on again, as Constantine fed her bread part way, when the sun made an appearance, as if it had burst its rays onto a meeting to which it had not been invited, and quickly scuttled away behind the thick, grey clouds above them. Osthryth looked around them, over the seething grey sea, but could not see Domhnall's craft: she had lost sight of them almost immediately after both boats had left the Ulster coast.

But, it was there ahead of them when they finally drew to the island that eventually ahead of them, set within the backdrop of a flame-orange sky and she felt so pleased when three figures were waiting for them, Domhnall, Domnall and Feargus. Taghd was always quick to boast the epithet that the Norse and Danes were the best sailors in the world, except for the Irish. That they had crossed such a terribly fericious sea, promising to toss them high one minute and pull them under another, Osthryth could not be more in agreement.

Seeing that the boats tied to the harbour, Domhnall ordered them to the monastery, where the monks, remembering them leave, on a night not unlike that one, welcomed Domhnall and his warriors, piled more wood into the fire and before long a great blaze was growing. Osthryth was shivering, but the warmth soon evaporated the water from most of her clothes. And, there was food.

"We haven't a great deal," the abbot, an old man with a tonsured head in the Irish style, a shaved strip from ear to ear, explained, as a simple meal of dried fish and milk was put on the table, with a weak spirit that smelt to Osthryth like a weak uisge-beatha. "We were raided by the Norse, who have overtaken the northern islands. They have taken most of what we had stored after the harvest. At least we live!"

"You live," Domhnall confirmed, before inviting the seafarers to eat. None of them needed encouragement: to Osthryth the grainy, off-smelling fish and the hard bread were as delicious as any meal she had ever had. She would sleep well that night.

It was Domnall who shook Osthryth's shoulder the following morning as a weak, late autumn light filtered through the gaps in the wood. Heat from the fire had risen to warm the straw and Osthryth had slept well.

Rubbing her face, she stared vacantly at Domnall for a moment, before scrabbling to her feet: Domhnall would be angry with her for still being asleep.

"Easy," Domnall chuckled, handing Buaidh to Osthryth. "Domhnall wants to see you. He is in the courtyard."

Horror flooded through Osthryth and Domnall stood, hands on hips, amused as Osthryth pulled on her leather jerkin and boots, raking through her stubs of hair with her fingertips before racing down the rickety steps from the top of the barn, the exiled Irish prince behind her. But Domhnall waved her apologies away.

Constantine, Taghd and Feargus were already standing in the straw-strewn courtyard, and they watched her as she stood next to Taghd, at the end of the line. Domnall stood next to her, looking grave as Domhnall spoke.

"You are to be on guard tonight, all three of you. The monks are holding a service in honour of or blessed Saint ColmCille. You are to attend first for prayers. Then tomorrow - " He broke off, glancing at Constantine who he then took by the shoulder and drew to him. Domnall looked about them. His cousin had said nothing about Constantine.

He'll be at the service, Osthryth thought, the huge, red sandstone block on a cart outside Iona's monastic doors. He'll be with Domhnall, wanting Saint ColmCille to favour their victory over Giric.

She watched at the two princes walked, heads together in serious discussion, across the courtyard. Clearly something concerning just them.

Across their path a group of monks crossed, carrying candles, a huge book - presumably ColmCille's gospel - and two large boxes.

Was their guard to do with protecting these holy men? Or maybe from the Norse? They had been given a hearty welcome the night before, and the abbot had explained they were frequently raided nowadays. Perhaps Domhnall was concerned about his stone? Not that the viking Norse would have much use for it. Once all their valuables had been taken, though, then they would probably burn the buildings. Like in Doire she, with Taghd and Feargus, and the monks' own guards, were there to prevent that.

"Let's hope it doesn't rain," Feargus said, striding off in the direction of the blacksmith. "I don't want this rusted any more than it is already."

"I told you to oil it," Taghd called after him, before looking up to the sky. "Sheep fleece would have done it." Osthryth looked up too. It was leaden grey. Chances were that it would rain.

Osthryth yawned, stifling it with the back of her hand. It was strange, seeing the island in the daylight. A flat, small island, treeless, bar one yew tree growing close to the wooden stockade at the rear of the monastery, hemmed in by sea. This was what Domhnall's ancestor had gifted to ColmCille of Doire centuries ago on which to build a monastery, a base, from where he could send missionaries put to the Picts, to Christianise them. The small, raised section at the centre, a natural hill, was where today's monastery sat, the grey sea differentiating itself not one jot from the sky.

Her eye met the barn, and she remembered chancing on Domhnall and Finnolai together on their outward way to the Uí Néill. They had energetically loved one another, and had seemed so happy, so wrapt in themselves. And now Finnolai was gone. When Domhnall claimed the throne, Eira would join him as his queen.

"Come on," said Domnall, pointing in the direction of the kitchens, taking Osthryth by the shoulder. "Best you get a bite to eat before we have to go in."

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The body of Saint ColmCille, wrapped delicate, light white cloth, was at the altar with Domhnall on one side and Constantine the other. Both Àlpin princes were on their knees, in prayer, as the saint's bones were brought to them, one by one.

Though it was hard to follow all of the Gaelic, some was in Latin, which Osthryth knew, thanks to Father Beocca, and she sat in silence between Taghd and Domnall as the saint, akin to Cuthbert to the Northumbrians, was adored.

In the warmth of the church and the odour of the incense, Osthryth's mind began to wander. She thought of the only story Beocca had ever told her of the saint: Columba appeared in a dream to King Oswald of Bernicia, and announced the king's forthcoming victory against the King Cadwallon of Wales in the Battle of Heavenfield against the pagan king Penda of Mercia.

The people of Britain promised to convert to Christianity and receive baptism after the conclusion of the war.

"This victory signaled the re-Christianizing of pagan England," Beocca had concluded, closing the chapel's Annals with a heavy "thump". He had turned to Osthryth and added, "And this established King Oswald as ruler of the entirety of Britain. Your ancestor."

And, then, Beocca had glanced at the door, as if expecting Aelfric to enter. He drew Osthryth forward by the sholder, looking at her seriously and lowering both his voice and his shoulders. "Remember that, Aedre," he'd cautioned. "Your ancestor ruled the heptarcy; he already did what Aelfred of Wessex aspires to do."

And that is why his niece, Oswy's daughter Osthryth, chose to have his remains collected from the battlefield and buried in the Mercian monastery of Bardsey. He was as revered to the Mercians as Cuthbert was to the Northumbrians and Columba - ColmCille - was to the Gaels. Osthryth, her ancestor, whose name had come to mind when she had faced Aed mac Ceinid Uì Àlpin that day, having rescued Constantine, had been so brave. Osthryth, as Aedre, had read her story, how she had married the first king Aethelred, Penda's youngest son, as a political Northumbrian-Mercian pact to strengthen the one between her older sister and Aethelred's older brother, Wulfhere. But it didn't last, and the sons of Penda were regularly facing Osthryth's brother, Ecgfrith, on battlefields along the Northumbrian-Mercian border. Yet she had been loyal to Mercia, and for that, had been murdered in revenge for her sister's betrayal of the Mercian nobility and had allowed assassins to do their worst on the royal family one fateful night.

A tap on the shoulder brought Osthryth out of her memories. Domnall's voice was warm by her ear. "We must be in guard duty now."

Osthryth looked at the monks, who were still in mid-flow of the service. Domhnall too looked like he hadn't moved since he had knelt there. Constantine too, was the stillest she had ever seen him.

She got to her feet, Taghd and Feargus following her over the fresh, straw-strewn floors. Clearly no-one was taking the praising of ColmCille frivolously, a fact which was reinforced when no-one stopped to look at them - clearly it was vital to everyone there that the service was to be carried out as intended.

A few words between Domnall and one of the monks who had been on the earlier guard duty established the areas to watch. Norse had been spotted further north, so the harbour and the high ground were to be guarded, as the land facing the forest from the ramparts for anyone loyal to Eochaid and Giric.

That was to be Osthryth's guard with two monks, her back to the sea and the cold Atlantic wind. She climbed the wooden steps, curling her feet around the planks to stop herself from slipping on the damp wood. Behind her, Domnall trod - he was to take the rampart at the northern end, where the wooden posts gave way to cold earth and now, dense fog.

But first, he stood, six feet away from her, back to the wooden posts, his eyes west, to his homeland. Osthryth felt her heart soften: he was clearly as fearsome and determined for power as his cousins, and he had lost his position as Constantine and Domhnall had done. She should despise him for the distain and scorn he had shown her, attacking her, trying to rape her the coward's way - held down - holding her again as Donnchada cut her hair.

She had thought they were going to burn her on that fire, but they hadn't. Still, the whiteness of flame came to her mind when Domnall was near. He had shown that he could be frightening. But now, he was simply a young warrior, set on finding his ill-used sister.

And so the hatred, such that she felt for Aelfric, was almost entirely absent towards Domnall mac Aed - he treated her with friendly tolerance afterwards, been accepting of her position next to Domhnall after her protection of the princes and princesses, his brothers and cousins, when the Norse had attacked. And like any clansman, determined to protect all that was his or his family's, had followed her to the beach that day, when she had taken the lily root, and rescued her just before she drowned. Constantine, though just a few years younger than Domnall had, instead, fled. She shivered, remembering Ninefingers' attack and Flann Sinna's treaty with the Ulaid.

"Constantine told me about Flann and Donnchada," Osthryth said, when Domnall hadn't moved. She turned her head, hair a little longer than it had been, those few months before, now whipping by her ears. Domnall did not move his head, but nodded once, in the now hastening twilight.

"Muire said she would flee Ailech to Dunnottar with the boys if the situation worsened. Domhnall has sworn to accept her. Assuming he wins." He sighed deeply, and looked at Osthryth.

"And you?" She watched his pale face, framed with long black hair, freeze, as if solidified by the cold, incessant wind up in the wooden ramparts.

'I will serve Domhnall; I will search for Ethne, and keep her with me when I've found her, no matter what. She was a queen, once. And I will never give up claim my father's throne." He looked past her, and down towards the chapel.

"If winning is proportional to prayer, there is no doubt Domhnall will succeed," Osthryth replied, as Feargus's rain dropped in light spats onto her head. Domnall gave her a wry smile.

"Maybe ColmCille will help him. But Ailech? Doire? My war is a war between Uí Néills, between the descendants of Niall Noígíallach - of the Nine Hostages, since that time."

"Saint ColmCille was your ancestor?" Osthryth asked, as the rain began to fall steadily in big, sopping drips.

"He sailed from Doire, as we did, and was gifted Iona. Then, Oswy of Northumbria wanted an Iona of his own."

It was Oswald, Osthryth mentally corrected him, Osthryth of old's uncle, not Osthryth's brother. And that place had been Lindisfarena - Lindisfarne. She would have said so too, only Domnall had lapsed into silence. ColmCille was the ancestor of all Níall Noígíallach's descendants, even the Ulaid; the saint would have to decide who to favour.

So, if Aed Findlaith's eldest was to stage a battle for his father's throne, he would need men, as Domhmall had, not only fighters, large numbers as he had once drilled so early in the mornings at Doire, but also warriors, loyal because they knew the King would be loyal to them. And Domnall had already proved that he was loyal to his family by recovering Osthryth. Had she not sworn to Domhnall, she may easily have knelt to fealty to Domnall.

"And you?" Domnall asked suddenly, his face coursing with rain. "What do you want?"

"For this bloody rain to stop," Osthryth replied. Domnall's lips turned up at the corners.

"Marriage. You are fourteen? Girls marry at thirteen or fourteen."

"Not me," Osthryth replied, watching, amused, at the conflicting emotions on his face. "I will not marry, Prince Domnall. For no man will abide me as a warrior."

He looked thoughtful for a moment, and looked as if he was about to say something other than that which he did.

"No," he agreed. "Men need wives for children. I would need a mother of my children, not a warrior." Osthryth thought of the servant girl, from whom Mairi helped birth his son. What was that babe doing now? Did he thrive? Would Domnall ever acknowledge him?

"You may not always feel like you wish to be a warrior. You may change your mind." Osthryth turned to him.

"Will you?"

"No."

"Which is why I will never marry," Osthryth concluded, satisfied she had made her point. "The only thing I want is to be a warrior. If it means I am no longer a woman, to never give birth, so be it."

Osthryth expected Domnall to leave the conversation there, turn to go to his own guard duty, but instead, the Ailech prince pressed on.

"And you and Constantine?" Osthryth swallowed. What had Constantine told his cousin aleady about them? She decided to be honest.

"It is hard to explain," Osthryth conceded, the rain easing a little as the dusk sky darkened to inky blue in Eireann's direction. "Do you know I saved his life?" Domnall nodded.

"And, in a way, he saved mine after my family were murdered. I don't know where I'd be if King Aed, Constantine's father, hadn't taken me in as a servant, or if Ceinid, Aed's captain of the household guard hadn't trained me."

"You like to fight? Truly?"

"It is terrifying, at first, but then, you don't notice," Osthryth admitted. "I can be on the receiving end of a sword - women still die at the sword - but I get a far better chance of living now I am trained to use one."

"But you truly like to fight?" he repeated.

"Were that I had been born a boy," Osthryth replied, wistfully.

Domnall pressed his conversation no more. Chanting from the monastery filled the night air, and turned, treading the wet wooden planks to his station.

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It was a long night, and for the passing of the cold air, nothing moved. The monastery was now lit with candles, whose light leaked out into the mist from its windows and doors and Osthryth bided the hours by walking slowly around the inner palisade defences, waiting for attack, if there was to be one.

The moon rose, and carried on rising, until it was overhead, its silvery light blending with the gold from the monastery's light, and she glanced over to the door, through which the procession of monks, led by the abbot, who were joining, Domhnall and Constantine.

By the door, to the south, the light lit Feargus's flame-coloured hair, turning it silver, as the warrior stood stoicly, reliably, in the damp of the night. To the east, Osthryth knew, Taghd would be doing the same.

How long did they intend to remain inside? Did it really take all these hours to get the saint's attention?

A "crack" brought her attention to the cold, damp night, then another. Around the wooden ramparts, where monks were guarding, up high, a movement caught her attention: they had been attracted by something. The men hurried to the side of one who had flinched.

Rain began to spat - spat in big drops on Osthryth's leather jerkin as she strode over the courtyard. The men were unable to see what caused the disturbance for they moved left and right. Osthryth stopped, hearing foot crunches softly on the damp earth beyond.

"Domnall!" Osthryth hissed, when she doubled back to where Constantine's cousin stood on guard, to the west, near the harbour.

"Osthryth!" His voice sounded surprised, and there was a warm tone to it that hadn't ben there earlier. "I was about to find you."

"Me?" Osthryth felt surprised, and suddenly forgot why she sought him.

"Come with me to the monastery for the night prayers. Domhnall's service is still in progress. The guards won't miss us for a little time. We can add to the prayers to ColmCille." But, Osthryth shook her head, to get her attention on to her reason of finding him.

"There's intruders!" She blurted out. "Someone at the north gate."

Without hesitation the Irish prince sprang to his feet, pacing with her to the ramparts, then put an arm across her to stop her from moving when he, too heard the sound, of more than one pair of boots, of shuffling of people trying to be as quiet as they could.

"Domhnall!" Osthryth hissed to Domnall, but the prince caught her upper arm.

"They are still at prayer," Domnall reminded her. But she pointed, urgently, back the way she came.

Domnall trod the damp, leaf-litter floor next to Osthryth. They ran around the palisade until they reached the place underneath where she had been guarding. Large drops of water splashed down off the wooden surface and she held up a hand as the crunching and muffled voices were unmistakeable - they were those of people trying their very best not to be heard.

The ground tilted away between two shallow hills - these men knew what they were doing, where to hide for a surprise attack. Were they Norse? Likely, for there had been many yearly raids on the monastery.

Yet the Norse would have often announced their arrival by now, frightening their enemies with show of strength before even raising an axe.

Several words drifted upwards, many snippets of words, too indistinct to make out. It didn't sound like Norse, though; some of the phrases caught on the wind and sounded Cymric, and Gaelish.

Cymric and Gaelish, Osthryth thought. These were an alliance of different peoples of Alba, an alliance that were ambushing the holiest of monasteries at night, when Domhnall, son of Constantine, grandson of Ceinid mac Àlpin prayed for victory in Saint Columba's house.

How were they to do this? The ground sloped away, and the monks guarding the monastery had not accounted for such an hiding place to be occupied by a large force planning to attack. If there wasn't, they would be no worse off.

Osthryth pointed down, and Domnall nodded: he knew what she meant, amd moved to the left, and over the rampart. He would bring the warriors to fight, to guard the weak point.

Osthryth looked about her what could she do? She could fight, yes. She had Buaidh. But was there a way of surprising the attackers?

Beyond the ramparts a cluster of half a dozen trees grew, huddled together as if warming themselves from the cold Altlantic winds that battered the islands' coasts.

If she climbed those, she might be seen. Ordinarily. It was dark enough that she would likely get away with

And her? She could only fight. Yet, her blade was in her scabbard. It would be a mistake to charge out without a co-ordinated force. Yet, they must do something. She scanned the land in the foreground. There it was - their mistake.

It was a mistake to attempt to assault the monastery from where they were, for a rare yew tree, unusual for the western isles for them to even exist, branches densely clustered despite there being only half a dozen or of them: the prevailing west coasterly winds had permanently battered them together, and though it was mid-November and the leaves had thoroughly left them, their packed togther form would - should - offer cover.

She kicked at the parapet, to get Domnall's attention, who turned his long neck from craning over the wooden wall down to monks in the courtyard, who tore off towards the chapel, hair plastered to his head by the rain looked at Osthryth. She motioned to the trees and, after a few seconds, the prince nodded, understanding.

As she began to climb, the rain Feargus predicted earlier that day fell on large globs all around them. She knew she must scramble up fast before the bark of the tree became slippery.

Sticking a leg the other side of one of the pointed wooden overhang, Osthryth reached out with an arm. Her fingertips touched the branch, but that was her longest reach. It was all she could manage, and she swept the water from her jerkin.

There was only one way to manage it, Osthryth knew. Ignoring a sharp, brief stabbing pain from her left inside muscle pulling, she got herself carefully onto the very edge. If she slipped and missed the jump she was about to make, she would plummet fifty feet.

She closed her eyes, bending her knees, before launching herself at the boughs, the nearly-set sun her only gauge.

And caught hold of the soapy, stubby leaves of the yew branches. Her hands slipped through the branchlet spikes. Stopping her hands and clamping them together to stop her falling further, Osthryth thrust her knees together, gaining a better grip.

Voices, somewhere below, someone using the passage between the hills, filtered up to Osthryth in her sparse canopy. A mixture of Gaelish and Celtic words rose up to her, as Osthryth gripped the tree's trunk. They were moving. But where to?

Then her mind drifted back to the night nearly two years before, that Finnolai, at Eochaid's palace, had frantically aroused her from her sleep, to flee with Domhnall and Constantine and the rest of the warriors acriss the northern sea to Eireann.

The king's warriors had spoken a mix of both of those languages too, Gaelish, which Osthryth was learning, and Cymric, the language of the Strathclydians, and their kin who lived south of the Roman wall in Cumbraland, where her mother was from, a descendant of Coel Hen she had regularly whispered to Osthryth when she was very young, and whose king was a Dane turned Christian. Her uncle Aelfric would either have him in his pocket or, more likely, be at war with this King Guthred, for Bebbanburg claimed all of Northumbria as its own, even those lost by Ecgfrith to Breidi, as told by Taghd.

Who were they? She wouldn't have to wait long to find out, though many would die under Domhnall's men's blades, now Domnall was alert, so they would hardly be able to be asked. But, Osthryth suspected, they may be Giric's men.

Under the near-full moon, its light shining occasionally through dense cloud, the group of men came to rest. Osthryth could see their bodies huddling together, waiting, until one in front half-rose, and beckoned, and then they were shuffling slowly over the blunt grass making a quiet, scritching sound.

Osthryth made to put her hand out to grasp Buaidh as she followed the scritch as it made its way towards the wall of the monastery, wobbled, then seized the wood again.

They were heading, she reasoned, to the back of the monastery, where the buckets of soil waste were taken by the novices. Were they intended to assail the postern, hoping it would be undefended?

She hoped Domnall had collected the men, hoped he had sent two or three scouts out to find out what she had inferred. Then, as Osthryth would, regroup and organise an assault, throwing all the warriors at the enemy.

She listened and watched. But no sign of assault came; no warriors were coming as she looked behind her, only the moonlight illuminating the strong timber walls.

Osthryth's hand twitched towards her sword. She would be there, now. She would be on top of them, fighting now, fighting with her warriors, defeating them...

...she waited. Where was Domnall?

And closed her eyes, listening. Little sound drifted up to her, not voices, Gaelish, Cymric or otherwise; no steps of the guards on the walls. No service. That was quite clear: the monks were no longer chanting their prayers.

She waited, rain dripping a regular rivulet down her neck. And the enemy below waited. Until they moved. A crackle of small rocks moved under feet.

And then there was a crack beneath her hands. Osthryth knew in her mind that she should not have reached for her sword. But, impatience was too strong in her and she moved. The yew tree yawed at her shifted weight, then, presumably, the branch she was holding must have succumbed to rot, for after it cracked suddenly, the rain-smoothed wood crumbled in her hands.

Osthryth fell, knowing she was going to injure herself if she fell badly against the gneiss rocks jutting out from the short, stubby grass - not a nice fall.

But she didn't. Instead, she landed on something softer. A loud yell followed shortly afterwards, and Osthryth found her thrown off the back of one of the invaders, Buaidh slamming into her leg. Scrambling up, she stepped back onto another, who pushed her hard on to the rocky earth.

"Chan eil ach balach! Nothing but a boy!" he growled, trying to grab at Osthryth. But, uninjured, she had scrambled up, abandoning her search for the handle of Buaidh and launched herself at the first man, with fists and feet. There was no-one else, Osthryth thought.

It caught the man off-guard. He dropped his sword, swiping thick arms at Osthryth, who dodged them. From behind her, another warrior made to attack her, but she ducked and the warrior hit the other man in the face.

Osthryth backed away, rising to her feet, this time hand feeling for Buaidh about to withdraw the blade. In the darkness however, she was thrown to the damp ground again; a weight of a man landing on her arm, squashing the air in her lungs as her hilt slipped out of her grip.

Osthryth spluttered, flailing, then found a groin, kneeing as hard as she could. The man reared back, and Osthryth moved out of the way staggering back to find her feet.

Attack, her brain told her. Delay as many of these men as she could. Give Domnall time to bring the warriors.

She swung round, as the first man had found his feet again and, in the intermittent moonlight Osthryth saw a hand raised, in it a striped rock glimmered.

Osthryth dived, feet slipping on the now-muddying ground as the rain began to set in. She flung herself away from the rock's trajectory, which was clearly intended for her head, scabbarded sword swinging wildly against her leg. Get low, she knew, arms tight, head close to, and she could bring down anyone no matter their size.

The rock flew from the man's hand as he landed hard on an outcrop of rocks, the noise of metal reverberating into the night's air as Buaidh smashed onto the ground. It was enough to stall him, though, as Osthryth bent low and dived towards his legs, driving forwards and squeezing them together at the calves, her left hand clasping out, trying to grip his breeches, and failing to hold onto him properly.

Her foot slipped, and they both came crashing down, Osthryth's face receiving the thrusts and punches of the man's flailing hands.

Behind her, the second enemy pounced towards her, but Osthryth had seen his shadow in the moonlight. She turned, determintion steeling her stomachand she plunged on to fight.

Last time, it was for the royal Uí Néill children; the time before fighting Domnall 's man for her sword, who had been killed at the monastery battle.

Flinging up her arm, she aimed a blow at the second man, regaining her feet, but missed and now the first man was on his feet.

She would have to fight them both, Osthryth thought. It was dark at least, though the ground was treacherous.

But she was wrong. Before anyone could pull her off, or fight her, through the postern gate warriors burst, a storm of screams and viceral howls, the beginning of all Gaelish attack, began the battle, swords of all lengths and thicknesses, cudgels and axes flying in the direction of the enemy.

Domnall, Osthryth thought, relief trickling through her mind. Though she might have held off two, maybe even killed them, there were more than two.

Who now revealed themselves. Swords matched swords, axes, spears, short daggers all appeared. Domnall had the advantage, both of surprise and number, for though the seige was without warning he had sufficient time to field a counter-attack.

A blow to the arm brought Osthryth to her senses as bodies squelched around her in the muddy earth and not for the first time she wished she had a short blade, a seax, for use at close quarters. She turned, using both hands in a bold stroke to thrust Buaidh towards her assailant, running him through. She felt the man behind her pause, his feet unmoving rather than pursuing her.

Osthryth hauled her blade out of the man's body then, with all her might, swung it round to the first man, who was definitely standing, motionless, before her. The trunks of the twisted yews were behind him, and she backed him towards it, sword levelled at his neck.

And, somehow, she could see his face, clearly, as if the moon was now full, on a cloudless night, his small nose visible with his wide face, wrinkled forehead and deep-set eyes, thick neck set into a sturdy body, which now looked at Osthryth with hatred. Behind her, the noise of battle had ebbed. Osthryth glanced to one side, emphasising the man's predicament by poking the tip of Buaidh a little closer to his neck sinews.

The fighting had stopped. Not only that, Domnall and the wariors, monks and servants had lowered their weapons they were staring at her, lanterns in hand.

Presumably the enemy had surrendered, Osthryth thought, and she sought out the abbot, or the captain of the monastery's lean guard. Then, her eyes lit on Domhnall. He was standing next to his cousin, his other cousin to his left. Constantine was staring at her intently.

She heard the man she had at sword-point shift his feet. Osthryth jerked her head back and glared at him, redoubling her threat.

"Am I to kill this old man, my lord?" Osthryth called to the king.

"What is this, Domhnall?" The man called plaintively, "Sending this puny streak of rat's piss to do a man's job?"

But he did not continue for Osthryth pressed Buaidh closer to the man's throat. She watched as Domhnall strode across the sodden earth across to the. He looked at Osthryth and put his hand to Buaidh's pommel.

"Not today, Osthryth," Domhnall replied, pushing the sword away from the man, and was astounded when they clapped an embrace on one another's back.

"Griogair mac Dungal, old man!" Domhnall declared, then shook his head.

"You are glad your men recognised Constantine, or my warrior here would have skewered ye with her mighty fine blade here!"

"As with my kinsman," Griogair scowled a foul look at Osthryth, before glancing down at the dead man, his blood congealing at his stomach washing clean of his body in the rain.

And the two allies strode together back into the monastery, as Griogair mac Dungal turned, looked at the dead man on the floor by her feet, then drew his eyes level to Osthryth.

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Griogair was kinsman to Aed, his grandfather cousin to Ceinid mac Alpin, Osthryth found out that evening, as the monks brought the royal party food.

She had been escorted from the outer monastery ground. Domnall clapped Osthryth on the shoulder in triumph as the warriors followed the nobles in for a supper prepared in humility for the journey ahead of Domhnall, across Muile and to Alba's mainland, to Dunnadd. Osthryth flinched in pain - the blow from one of the other warriors, the one she struck dead - had exacerbated her wound from

Ninefingers from the man she had killed.

She was aware Domnall talking evenly and calmly, maybe even aware of how she was feeling, but it wasn't making any difference. Osthryth had thought she was protecting the king-to-be, but instead these assailants turned out to be allies. And she had killed one of them, kin to Griogair, Domhnall's once comrade-in-arms against the Norse in years past.

"Domhnall would speak to you about your actions tonight," Domnall said, then saw the expression of horror on Osthryth's face, which was illuminated by the many hundreds of candles still burning in the monastery's chapel, surrounding Saint ColmCille, no doubt.

"I killed a noble," Osthryth murmured.

"And it could very well have been I," Domnall replied. "The day a warrior is mde to account for his conduct in the heat of battle will be a sad day for an army. How were we to know they were allies? Honest folk don't creep around in the dark."

After another clap on the back Domnall strode into the monastery's hall, where they had eaten supper the night before, taking his place by Constantine and Domhnall, who was in animated, jovial discussion with his ally, his friend Griogair mac Dungal.

Osthryth trod the new straw lightly to where she saw Feargus and Taghd, eating fish and bread, the food prepared as a feast after the Saint's service, both warriors clearly relaxed and enjoying their repaste.

They welcomed Osthryth, Taghd pulling a wooden plate across for her, and she smiled and unwilling smile as he put a portion of guga onto it. The fire was banked with wood, and she could feel its warmth soothing her bones which were stiff, not just from the cold.

The monks, presumably having not finished the service due to the attack, continued addressing them in Latin, a huge bible - the huge bible, Osthryth deduced, that she had seen them carry over to the chapel that morning. All heads turned to them, but she knew if she did, her eye would catch that of the would-be beseiger of the monastery.

Instead, Osthryth wondered about her ancestor, as she wriggled against the wooden chair in which she was seated - though drier now, her arms ached from wielding Buaidh in the wet as she had sought to keep her footing.

Saint Oswald had come when he had been in exile. Edwin, his mother's brother inherited Northumbria's crown, and so Oswald had been exiled here, and asked for Ionan monks to establish Lindisfarena. Would it have been like this then? Nothing much could have changed.

Her eyes drifted to the abbot, who was still reciting the book in front of him and, as Osthryth tried again to follow the words while nibbling at the seabird.

But the nagging desire in her stomach about the man she had killed soured her will to listen more. As Griogair raised a tankard of spirit, calling all to toast the future king of all Alba, Osthryth slipped away.

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Osthryth had climbed the stable loft and thrown herself onto the straw, closing her eyes as the sound of merriment drifted through the evening mist abd up to the horse loft.

She had only done her duty, fought for Domhnall, her lord sworn. It was a good point that Domnall had made: he could very well have been this man's killer, not her, for Domnall would not have known these men as allies.

But the thought gave her little comfort as she remembered the look Griogair had given her as she had left, one of pure loathing.

Further, her shoulder, which had been injured in Doire had been torn again as she had scrambled in the mud and it was giving her pain. She closed her eyes.

Poor sleep came to Osthryth that night and every twitching, scratching or scraping, from rodents, and from Taghd and Feargus retiring late into the night singing a song about sailing awoke her from the sleep into which she did eventually fall.

When finally the morning light appeared through the slats of the stable roof Osthryth bent and stepped over Taghd and Feargus, both of whom were snoring softly where they lay, clearly a good night.

She needed to wash, she needed to look presentable. She need to find Domhnall amd speak to him. He must surely understand she was acting in good faith as he prayed to Saint ColmCille.

The horse trough had been refilled that night by rainwater, so Osthryth found a spot by the door and stripped to the waist, hoping that no monk decided to make an early morning visit to the stables.

Her head ached, her shoulder more so, and she pulled a strip of linen that Ailie had given her when she was injured, for her leg, and unfolded it, dabbing it into the fresh water and over her shoulder, where she could feel a deep gouge of flesh, already beginning to heal. It would have healed faster with the ointment Bheatha had sold her, terabinth. Were she to find a heathen healer again Osthryth determined to procure more.

Where would Domhnall be, Osthryth thought. She knew Constantine had a room which overlooked the west, for he had said he could see the harbour there, and the little boats in which they had travelled. Perhaps Domhnall's was nearer?

As she dipped the fabric into the water once more, Osthryth jumped as a hand took it from her own raised one. It was Taghd.

"You trod on me," he said, uncomplainingly. I wondered where you were to?"

"To get dressed and find Domhnall," Osthryth replied, as Taghd pressed the cloth to her shoulder blade. It felt good, Osthryth thought, and he pressed it further up her shoulder along the wound. "Did I stand on anywhere important?" She glanced over her shoulder with a grin, and Taghd shook his head.

"Just my arm - I have another," he quipped in return. Then, he bent past Osthryth and squeezed the linen out into the water. "You need it wrapped," he added. Osthryth turned, as he strapped the strip under her armpit then around her shoulder joint.

"You enjoyed the ale last night," Osthryth asked.

"Monks make good ale," Taghd replied, as Osthryth turned so he could make fast the bandage around her arm.

Osthryth felt Taghd's eyes light on her naked body and she suddenly felt self-

conscious, her mind transported back to the beach when Ninefingers tore her shirt away. Osthryth had forgotten the warrior from Doire wasn't Finnolai, who would happily help her with her clothing and was unconcerned at seeing her unclothed: it was for men, specifically Domhnall, who Finnolai's heart yearned.

She turned away as Taghd took his hands from her and back to her shirt, wetting and squeezing it quickly before strong, nimble hands came past her, patting the cloth carefully into the healing balm. Then, he helped her put her shirt over her head.

"Do you know where Domnhall is?" Osthryth asked, buckling on her sword, and stepping back a little. It was Taghd, from whom in two years she had never known anything other than filiality, but today, now, his touch repulsed her.

"He is preparing to speak to us all this morning, didn't you know?" Taghd looked past Osthryth and to the monastery's refectory, where they had partaken in the celebratory feast. His blonde hair, shoulder-length and tousled as a boisterous wind charged into the stable. "We are to go to Dunadd immediately. We must wait til we are summoned."

With that, Taghd strode past Osthryth and stood in the stableyard momentarily, letting the wind whipped past him before making his way in the direction of the kitchen.

"Thank you," Osthryth called to him, though she doubted he heard her. Then, she gave her arm an experimental twist. It still hurt, but the bandage was offering some support.

Dread crept into her chest now, as the previous night's events crept over her again. She needed to see Domhnall, explain the circumstances. Maybe she could take heart in the fact that he hadn't detained or imprisoned her.

Osthryth found her fears were soothed when she began to take to foot, pacing a large route inside the monastery, past the pig pens, now empty as the late autumn slaughter and harvest had already passed.

She trod through the mud to the outer gate, the monks on the ramparts nodding down to her as she passed by. They had fought as well as Domhnall's warriors, Osthryth thought, as brave as the monks in ColmCille's monastery at Doire; their ferocity was keeping the Norse at bay. Yet the men ambushing the monastery last night had slipped passed them.

She walked towards the harbour as last night's battle replayed again behind her waking eyes. How could she have known? If you hadn't wanted to risk being fought by guards why sneak up to the rear of the monastery? Why not announce your arrival, sit with Domhmall in the chapel?

Osthryth watched the little coracles, tubby, with high masts bob about their moorings with the swell of the waves. Where would she go if she took one, now? The nearest land was another island - Muile - she would have to cross that and sail further on to the mainland of Strathclyde. Strathclyde directly would leave her out in the sea far longer - it could barely be seen from here and she had little idea how to steer the craft, even if she was not anxious about the water (if ever she found Ninefingers she would drown him as he had tried to drown her, tied to a rock in the face of an incoming tide).

Her constant, elusive dream of meeting her brother was another possibility. But the monks on guard would probably loose arrows if the boats were touched. And besides, she had no silver - all she had was a waxcloth of herbs - some of the tansy and lily roots, some of the distant herb terabinth that Taghd had just pressed neat into wounds. They were her silver, Osthryth thought, though she doubted many would be bribed with them.

Mercifully, it wasn't long before Taghd was hurrying through the damp muddy earth and over the shingle, calling her.

"We are to go together, now, all three of us. Domhnall is to see us."

Osthryth ran to him, and they strode quickly back through the monastery gate. Feargus was hurrying too, it was clear he out of the two warriors, was worst for the previous night's ale and he skidded in the mud, narrowly avoiding falling face first into it.

Taghd led the way, across the stone slabs that led to the monastery's hall. The iron-worked oak door was closed, and Taghd beat on it, formally. It was Constantine who opened it, saying nothing to the three of them as he escorted them down the long corridor connecting them to the hall they had been in the night before.

The room was lighter now, candles were lit in two parallel rows leading to the open space ahead, in which a heavy carved wooden throne stood, its dark amber hue enhanced by its polished. Apart from the king sitting in it, the chair was about the majestic thing Osthryth had ever seen.

She looked again. No, it was no king sitting there, not yet. Deep blue robes fell about Domhnall's shoulders and he was wearing a circlet of bronze on his long, black hair, decorated with interlocking knotted patterns reminding Osthryth of the book so carefully taken by him, as bound parchments over to Mael Muire, finished in the monastery of Saint Patrick in Ard Macha. Domhnall mac Caustin Uì Alpin looked magnificent.

But, still, he was not yet king, despite Constantine and Domnall standing either side of his throne as if counsellors. He would have to get to Dunadd, to be crowned King of the Land. And Dunadd was at least two islands away, and it would be slow going with his stone brought from Tara.

To the right of Constantine, Osthryth saw, her stomach knotting at the sight, Griogair stood, his neck wound caused by Osthryth drawing Buaidh close to it illuminated in the light.

"Welcome, my warriors!" Domhnall beamed, holding out his arms wide and beckoning them forward.

"You fought for me as I heard Saint ColmCille yesterday. My allies, Griogair and his kin, have arrived with my possessions carefully taken under great personal risk from Dunnottar." Osthryth looked at the throne again. Was this the same throne on which King Aed, Constantine's father, once sat? She risked a glance at Constantine, but he stood impassive. Domnall, however, glanced at Osthryth and for a moment, turned his lips up into a brief smile.

"With the Griogair and his men, I am to move this day to Muile, whence to Griogair's stronghold at Glenorchy." He rose and stepped from the throne, his rich velvet robe spilling out behind him. Domhnall truly looked as if he belonged on a throne, and looked as if he knew it, too

"I wish to honour you, for protecting my bodily person on the night last, and - "

But before Domhmall could say much more, Osthryth threw herself to her knees, cold stone meeting her thighs as she bent her head.

"My lord king!" Osthryth declared, loud enough for all in the temporary throne room to hear.

"For myself, may you keep your honour. Whilst defending you I did kill the kin of your ally, Griogair mac Dungal - "

"My brother-in-law," Griogair specified, rolling the words in his mouth, his voice soft.

"I do humbly make my apology, lord," Osthyth bowed her head to Domhnall. I fought only to defend your self and your royal cousins.

"Ye killed Cailean," persisted Griogair. She felt his eyes on her. But Domhnall waved a hand in Griogair's direction.

"You did your duty, Osthryth," Domhnall said, stooping little, then holding out a hand to her. She took it, with her own strong right one as her left shoulder tingled from the strain, and he raised her to her feet. "You do deserve the honour. You - " he stepped back, looking at his three fighters.

"You three will be with me at Dunadd - you will witness my union with the land, with Constantine, with Domnall and with Griogar." He looked across to his ally.

Three, thought Osthryth. She looked at the king-elect, wondering whether Finnolai was on his mind. But then Griogair's strong, deep voice dissolved all thoughts of Domhnall's lover, her best friend.

"But, Cailean - " he protested. Domhnall raised his hand further higher.

"He will have a funeral this day, befitting his station. Osthryth has expressed her regret for her part his death."

"Her?" Griogair repeated sharply, glaring at Osthryth. She glanced at Constantine, who had shifted his weight briefly between feet. "A woman?" His eyes raked over her body.

"A warrior," Domhnall conferred. Osthryth said nothing, but continued to look at her king. It was a shock to be reminded she was female, so used she was of being treated as a warrior.

"I wish you to accompany me as the abbot sends the good Cailean to rest, for never a finer warrior trod earth for you, Griogair." Domhnall turned, clapping his ally on the shoulder. "Thanks to his efforts, we have means to get to Dunadd, and to fight."

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Like Aed Findlaith, Osthryth watched as the the warrior Cailean was laid to rest feet first deep in the monastery ground. A farouche sun shone through the clouds, brightening then dimming unpredictably, casting strong rays onto the ground one minute and hiding sullenly behind them the next.

Domhnall's possessions had been sebt on ahead to Muile - Griogair's dozen warriors, had spent that morning shoring up his throne and the huge sandstone block brought from Tara. They were departing after the burial Taghd had told her, and they would be leaving with Domhnall once the man was in the ground.

Like Aed Findlaith, Domhnall had carried the shroud with Griogar, Constantine and Domnall. Earth was prepared and the words of the funeral were spoken by the abbot. A lot Osthryth did not understand, but much of it she did - again, the Latin in the service was identical to that of Bebbanburg's church, when her aunt - which her uncle Aelfric had forced Osthryth to call her mother on his remarriage to her - was laid to rest within the grounds of the fortress.

She had stood by Beocca she remembered, in a white linen dress and he took her hand. Osthryth had felt the man knew how she felt, both sad and happy at the same time - sad that her mother was gone; happy that the baby - Osthryth's half brother, lived. Little did she know that it would only be six months later, when Beocca would leave for Winchester, that she would be made to wear that dress again, for the wedding Aelfric had planned for her, to Sven Kjartansson.

It was only when Domhnall moved, beckoning Constantine, Domhnall and the three of them that Osthryth felt she could breathe easier. But there was something still not right: she had killed a man in battle, a noble.

But there was more to it than that. Griogair had accepted Domhnall's decree, but he was still furious with her, that she could tell.

"C'mon, Osthryth," Domnall's voice broke her thoughts. The abbot was leading the monks away from the harbour and one of Griogair's men was loosening the painter. With a heavy heart, she allowed Domnall to help her in to a larger version of the coracle in which they had crossed the northern sea.

Osthryth looked back to Iona as they left, pushing away the concerns in her mind. The sky was now a purple-grey as the afternoon drew to evening. It was a short voyage to Muile, where they would be resting before the craftsmen took the boats out to the Strathclyde coast. From there, north, to Dunadd and Domhnall's coronation.

Around them the sea was empty, empty still of Norse.

"They will not come near," Domhnall said, when Osthryth mentioned this. "The land is poor for them now; they with to either take land, or try their luck in Eireann - even Flann Sinna's strategy of starvation is not deterring them." Osthryth chanced a look at Domnall - he was Aed Findlaith's heir; Flann Sinna should never have assumed kingship of the northern Úi Neill, yet through his marriage with Mael Muire he had done just that. Yet Domnall looked impassve.

From what she now knew of the prince's character, however, she suspected that he had a long, drawn-out plan to take it back. Or, perhaps Muire had; maybe there was an agreement that he was next in line should he willingly exile himself.

In any case, next to Taghd and Feargus, he was reliable in a fight, and Osthryth was glad he had been there hen they'd inadvertently ambushed the Griogairs.

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Wonderful, pellucid light lit the seascape all around the next morning as, after a damp night under canvas, the royal party began their journey across Muile. Osthryth was glad to have been near the king that night, for though she would have used Buaidh, she feared she would not close her eyes that night otherwise. They had slung oiled linen over branches and slept beneath them, Osthryth next to Domhnall, wrapped close with her cloak on a second linen. But she had barely closed her eyes before footsteps outside - Taghd on duty, then Feargus - made her open them.

As a chill wind buffeted the canvas,

miles across the waterheard stags roared from among the hills of far off island and far out in the bays the snort of a grey seal surfacing to breathe.

When Feargus roused her to her duty hours, the night sky was glowing with green and blue light, and she held Buaidh close to her as, after some hours, the lights faded and a reticent dawn appeared.

"Here," Domhnall passed food and what looked like ale in a leather skin around them all. He was no longer the king, as they sat, in the proto-dawnlight, chewing on hearty food, made of meat and oats, drinking water from a spring on the island.

But it was no water - instead spirit burned Osthryth's throat, and the warriors and the princes all laughed, and she laughed too. How could she have been so mournful?

After that, the trip was easier.

The water was high and stormy, which Osthryth disliked, and looking into it made her panic.

So instead, she looked at the scenery, high lands and a valley that was flanked by soft undulating mountains creating a natural barrier.

Indeed, as they neared, it seemed as if clouds were being trapped on the other side of the mountains, casting sullen darkness while on their side the sunlight illuminated the regular rock formations which looked to Osthryth as if giants might have carved the rocks and sculpted the waterway with flint hand axes which, if it were true, meant they would be as big as the stones standing upright in rings which appeared every so often, between mountains, or high points on the land.

Glenorchy, Griogair's fortress, nestled in a nest of mountains along a strait of water betweem Muile and the mainland. Osthryth thought she would recognise it, for it must have been the way they had come out to Iona, fleeing as they were Glasghu, and Eochaid and Giric. But Domhnall said that they had left the Clyde river further south in Strathclyde and travelled over the open sea to the Holy Island.

Finnolai had been with them, Osthryth remembered, as the fleet of boats arced around a headland, and she pictured his open, happy face, pale yellow hair and sparkling pale blue eyes. The day imbued Osthryth with optimism, and she felt sure he had made good his escape, and was now happy.

The day after next they would be going north, to Dunadd, and were staying here, in Griogair's castle, to prepare.

Osthryth watched as the red sandstone block was unloaded from its boat, followed by chests and, finally, Domhnall's throne, and carried slowly and procession-like into the wooden fortress.

"How are we getting north?" Taghd asked? "How far is Dunadd? Do we walk?"

"Many miles south," Domhnall replied. "Griogair has beasts we will ride. We must be there swiftly. Then, into Scone where I will be crowned thrice: of Dal Riada, of Pictland and of Alba."

And that would be the declaration of war, Osthryth thought. For to declare himself king of Alba meant king of the Strathclyde Cymric too, Eochaid's throne.

She looked up to the horses as she, Taghd, Feargus and several of Griogair's men cleaned them out. The animals looked good: well fed and healthy, and Osthryth wondered whether she would have more success in riding one than she had before.

We taught you to ride at Scone," Taghd reminded her, as Osthryth looked across the coat of the black mare she had just been brushing. She smiled

"Finnolai had had the patience," she said quietly. Taghd said nothing - not any of the three of them had mentioned his name since he had disappeared, and Osthryth would have dearly liked to have told Taghd that she had helped him escape slavery.

"Get up on her," Taghd urged. "You will need to practise." Osthryth nodded, springing up onto the mare's back. As Taghd let go the rope which tethered the horse to her railing, it turned, and she immediately fell off.

There was laughter, from Griogair's men and Feargus and Taghd, and Osthryth smiled weakly, brushing herself off of the stones and dirt, leaping towards the horse's back. It turned, and this time, she managed to keep her balance.

"Squeeze your knees into its flanks'" Taghd suggested, looking at Osthryth's form. That way you will stay on." He passed Osthryth the reins. "Use the leather on the bit to guide the horse, left, or right." He demonstrated.

The horse shook her head a little and then slowly turned in its stable. Osthryth wobbled, but bent low, keeping her knees close to the horse's sides.

"I remember now," Osthryth said, as the mare stepped slowly towards the stable door. If she was going to fall again, she did not want it to be in front of the warriors.

Instead, she guided the mare along the low path next to the harbour, the autumnal sun still high and bright, the air still warm from its irradiation.

It was as the horse bore right that she fell again, slipping from the saddle. As she jumped up to it again Osthryth heard a quiet chuckle ahead of her. It was Domnall, smiling lips, his pale eyes crinkled in mirth.

"Move the way the horse moves," he suggested, walking up to her. Osthryth took the horse a few steps, but then lost her balance, grabbing for the pommel of the saddle as her legs slipped.

"Come on, I'll show ye." He helped her up into the saddle again, leaping up behind her as she held the reins. She felt his warm breath on her neck as he mounted, putting his hands on hers. "Take her forward a little - we will just go to that llyn up ahead."

Deceptively, the pool Domnall meant was further than it looked, and as it looked as if she was going to fall off again, Domnall reached over and held her hips, holding them down onto the mare's back. They were warm and strong, and Osthryth felt her nervous determination to ride the horse give way to confidence.

"Use your knees," Domnall instructed, "but keep low. As she moves, go with her motion, like a good lover." At this, Osthryth laughed loudly, then bore her hips down as he suggested. The animal felt more in her control than before, and she quickened to the silver pool ahead of them. But she could not keep her bottom down: when the horse moved upwards, Osthryth's hips rose off its saddle and she had to push her knees inwards to stop herself from falling off.

"My thanks, Prince Domnall," Osthryth said, as he slid from behind the saddle.

"Not "prince", not here," Domnall said, guiding the horse around to face the way back.

How close are you to finding your sister? Osthryth wanted to ask. But instead, she tore her mind to the morning.

"How long will it take until we get to Dunadd?"

"Less than a day. Domhnall says we are to start early. Go on, I want to see you on your own." He let go of the rein, and Osthryth tentatively leaned her body down, pushing his firm hands onto her hips and bottom, pressing her onto the horse's back.

The horse trotted on, at a good pace, but then began to speed up. How was she to slow down when the mare had quickened so? Digging in her knees, Osthryth held on, until the horse brought its own speed down. Osthryth breathed, her heart hammering. Somehow she managed to get the beast to turn. Domnall was standing on the path, laughing.

"I would be most grateful, Lord, if you were to take this horse back to her stables."

She made to slide from the saddle, but Domnall had got on behind her, instead. "Move up, he said, shuffling her forward, and took the reins, easing the horse into a steady trot. "You need to get used to it. We ride south tomorrow and you must ride with the king. You can't be falling off." He took her hands and eased them onto the leather straps. "Take us back, Osthryth. You will soon get used to it."

But Osthryth knew she disliked horseriding. Even this docile beast she couldn't handle. Let me walk, Osthryth told herself, any time that I can.

But her thoughts were shattered as words, black curses, were being exchanged loudly, echoed up the valley as they approached the rear gates of the fortress. Domhnall and Constantine again. Or, rather, Constantine, angry at something his cousin had said, or done.

"I will put this mare to her hay," Osthryth said, diplomatically as Domnall slid from behind her, stalking towards the inner rampart, wherein the hall of the fortress sat, large and bold, at the very centre of Griogair's dominion. The swearing continued with some very select adjectives through the wood.

From here, Taghd had explained, Griogair, the enormously influential ally of King Domhnall, controlled a wide network of trade, with the Strathclyde Cymric, with families descended from the original Cymric abbots, who held different lands since before even the Gaels, and the Norse - at times warring with them, at many others supplying them goods.

"It is unfortunate that you killed Cailean," he had told her. "Griogair's sister married the chief of the Caimbeulaich." Leading the black coated horse into her stall, she thought of that night. What else could she have done?

The mare bent her head to her food, leaving a hefty deposit of gratitude at Osthryth's feet.

"You'll clean that." A voice behind her made her turn, as three warriors bore down on her, too late for Osthryth to draw her blade. "Ye killed our lord," one continued, before lunging at her. Osthryth ducked, two of the three men colliding with one another as she moved out of the way. The third barred her path, swinging an uppercut into her stomach. Osthryth sagged, the wind knocked from her as one of the other men grabbed her legs, tumbling her to the floor.

"Not his uneb," one said, as the man who stood near her head. Her face, Osthryth knew, in Cymraeg - presumably the voices skulking around outside Iona's fortifications. "He will need to look bonny for the king." There was menace in the voice, and she knew they were there to assault her for her killing. She scrabbled on the floor but this seemed to infuriate them, and one knelt her face into the horse droppings.

"Fight me, then!" Osthryth spluttered hoarsely, as she scrabbled for Buaidh.

"Anglish!" One of them declared, and another kicked her in the stomach again. "Don't let him up!"

She scrabbled on the floor, trying to avoid the blows. Osthryth's hand was close to Buaidh, but before she could get purchase on its handle, she had been kicked once more, this time in the bawbag, or where her ball bag might have been if she had been a man.

The second of confusion was enough. Launching herself at the men, she brought one down using the same tactic as one had used on her, toppling him like a tree flat onto his back into the straw. The mare she had ridden whinnied at the disturbance, stepping back on her hooves as the fight continued, Osthryth scrabbled Buaidh from her scabbard, holding the blade defiantly as horse excrement slopped off her face.

The warrior to her left had withdrawn his too, and he hovered before her, his face drawing into a snarl. The second, shorter and stockier, had also withdrawn his weapon.

"Bastard Anglish!" He launched himself at Osthryth, who was quicker and she ducked under his arm, whipping round and doubling back onto the taller man. But he was ready, and elbowed his sword-arm back into her ribs. There was a sickening crunch. Osthryth dropped to her knees, already a tightness in her chest grew as she struggled to ventilate her lungs.

The taller man gloated as Osthryth groped for Buaidh, on the floor before her. He made to stand on her hand, but Osthryth was too fast for him, and slashed left, using a stable hook, lying behind him, on which the horses' hay was usually hung. It scraped the back of his leg, and he fell onto her. Or rather where Osthryth had been: she had stretched right as the stockier man had thrust a fist in her direction, catching the hook quickly with force around his boot.

He tried to shake her off but only succeeded in slipping on his other foot, off balancing himself and crashing like a boulder to the floor. Osthryth scooped up Buaidh just before he crashed onto it.

She used her sword to help herself to her feet, staggering out of the stables, propping herself up outside, trying to breathe without the pain crushing in her chest.

Then, she felt her face. At least the horse-shit would come off, and Osthryth made her way steadily to the kitchen then, thinking better of it - the men who had ambushed her may have friends - made her way to the burn they had passed as Domnall had ridden the black mare back. She breathed, her chest feeling heavy.

She had fought three of them, no need for another warrior - no need for a man - to protect her, or fight for her. And she had enjoyed fighting - her experience with Ninefingers had not killed her will to battle.

Osthryth breathed deeply again. Not much to do for broken ribs, she thought as her feet got her to the rough path by the mountain bank, just rest them, but little chance if that if they were riding the next day.

Just as she was reaching the beck, a flame of red hair streaked in her line of sight as Feargus got to his feet, letting go of the hands of a black-haired maid, who ran at the sight of Osthryth.

At the sight of Osthryth covered in shit, Feargus began to laugh. She smiled too, despite the pain in her chest.

"What's her name?" Osthryth asked, as she sank her face into the fast-flowing water, grabbing at the water-weed and scrubbing at her face with it.

"Eilidh," he replied, as Osthryth came up for air. She had never seen Feargus with a woman, nor even speaking of one. A late beginner, she surmised.

"Is it all off?"

"The shit?" Osthryth nodded, and Feargus nodded too. She straightened up and proceeded to walk back the way she had come, her comrade in arms walking next to her.

"How did you...?"

"Cleaning the stables."

"With your face?" He looked at her attire, and Buaidh, which was dull and dirty and his brown eyes narrowed.

"You've been in a fight!" He accused. But Osthryth shushed him, as the commotion in the stable yard grew.

He gave Osthryth a, "So you've already had your fun" look, before tearing off from her side, adding his blade to the ever growing brawl that was taking place. Osthryth peered round, catching sight of all three Caimbeulaich men who had ambushed her, watching them exchange blows with Griogair's men. As she watched, Feargus had joined in, though fighting whom with whom was unclear, and behind him, Taghd's bright, fair hair glimmered.

Eventually, as night began to fall the fight petered out, and the men who had just been hammering one another hauled themselves into the hall for food. Osthryth followed, with a bright, chatty Feargus and a worse-for-wear Taghd, who had been jumped on by three of Griogair's men, giving as many thumps and kick as he had received.

Meat from recently butchered livestock, beef and mutton, was served, and a toast was made by Griogair to his king with what Osthryth heard to be water but was in fact uisge-beatha - "welcome water" - the "pure" which burned her throat and warmed her stomach as she joined in with the feast.

As in Iona, Constantine sat with his brother and with Domnall on a table with Griogair and another man, who Osthryth recognised as being one who had been with him creeping about outside Iona's monastery.

Had they really been simply searching for Domhnall? Could Griogair's explanation, that he thought the monastery over-run with Norse be true?

No matter how she considered it, sounded weak: they had brought Domhnall his finery and his throne, but had crept about thinking the occupants were Norse. That didn't make sense: they would have seen from the island's one tiny harbour no Norse ships, only the little coracles in which they had sailed from Rathlin. So why creep and ambush, risking deaths of your men if you knew it was only your king beyond the ramparts, and in prayer, too.

A tale began, as Osthryth took the ale jug from next to a very happy-looking Feargus: Inisbroglian, summer, and how Domhnall, aged twelve, had stood next to Griogair, his father Caustin and his uncle Aed. The island off St. Andrews had been his first battle, when Harald Finehair had gone on to lay waste to Pictland, and how, since he had killed the mighty Ivarr raids had disintegrated now the Scots posed a formidable foe.

The Scots, thought Osthryth. It was the first time she had heard that word, to describe an amalgamation of three distinct areas of Alba, and for each, once they had been to Dunadd, at the ceremony at Scone, Domhnall would be crowned king, the first king to rule equally, and as one, over all three. It was no wonder Eochaid had taken up arms against him, for one of those kingdoms was Strathclyde. Domhmall, no less, would be declaring his kingship over all of the lands above the Tuide, putting into practise what Ceinid mac Àlpin, his grandfather, had begun.

In the morning, Osthryth expected, they would ride to Dunadd, moving in procession carefully, slowly and with precision, like Aed Findliath and Flann Sinna, Muire's husband-kings: it was the ritual and ceremomy that would matter, for all to see a king moving through his land. Osthryth could see, in her mind's eye, her lord, as he carried himself as such through the landscape, his long, black hair combed neatly and arranged over his blue cloak, Constantine and Domnall just behind, Domnall taller with his oval face as serious as that of his cousin, gleaming grey eyes taking in the Dal Riadan countryside, whereas Constantine, a little shorter, for he was younger than Domnall, his nose more curled, his lips more serious, flanking Domhnall.

Yet, he had been cursing at the king just that afternoon and, for all to hear, Domhnall had allowed him to.

Osthryth looked across to their table. In the tallow candle-light, she looked at the serious features of her former lover. He had barely spoken a word to her since Doire, nor tried to hump her, which was something Osthryth was grateful for.

Domhnall got to his unsteady feet, raising his tankard in praise of Griogair and all the battles gone and to come. Three lands of people had to accept him, Osthryth thought, as Constantine sipped from his beaker too: the Gaels, the Picts and the Cymric. Strathclyde was by far the most difficult kingdom to rule, for not only Eochaid reigned but his kingdom claimed Cumbraland from the old times, from three hundred years before, when the Romans left.

But the Strathclyde Cymric were weak under Eochaid and Giric. Together they had struggled to defend Dunnottar, and had been pushed into retreat into the castle by two Danes leading their own army up from Eoferwic. The brothers were defeated, but Eochaid and Giric lost many men and the alliance between the Cymric and the Picts was all but broken. Domhnall had told them this as they were under sail from Muile, away from being overheard.

It always came down to Strathclyde. How was Domhnall to solve that problem?

Now, is the time to attack, he had declared. The brothers have gone souith to fight the Northumbrians, although there will always be others.

And then, as singing began, Griogair's eyes met hers. Osthryth realised, as she looked away, that the man had been staring at her for some time.

As Osthryth excused herself, citing the early start in the morning, she noticed, to her horror, that Griogar made to rise too. Osthryth's heart beat fast. Why was he getting up too? Did he want to speak to her? Had he sent the Caimbeulaich on her? But then Domhnall pushed him back into his chair and filled up his tankard, hand on his ally's shoulder, clearly happily inebriated and insisting his friend join him.

But his eyes were on her, as she left the hall and headed to the hay loft, where the warriors would sleep.

The night was cold, which suggested a fresh morning the next day. They were to camp overnight at another stronghold belonging to Griogair next to Dunadd, before Domhnall's coronation. Osthryth inhaled deeply of the crisp evening air. She would have to go back in and up the ladder through the hay loft hatch to reach the straw, rather than the quicker vault up the side of the wall. No matter how much she pretended, she really was in quite a bit of pain from the kicking and beating she had taken.

As she made her way past the horses, the black mare she had ridden that afternoon with Domnall, the two skewbalds and half a dozen of single colour: white, black and brown, she paused, wondering if it was the mare she would be riding the next day, or another of these. Would she stay on?

Would the she be able to control the horse? Those behind Muire at Aed Findlaith's funeral had walked slowly and not cantered away like the mare that afternoon. She supposed -

- she supposed what...? A noise had made Osthryth stop extrapolating her king's motives on his procession in the morning. Behing her, the horses, asleep, moved their hooves with a soft clatter, puffing quietly their soporific breath.

And there was the noise again, one of leather on stone. Someone was following her. But who? The leather scraped stone again and Osthryth silently withdrew Buaidh from her fleece-lined scabbard.

Her mind's thought first thought was that Constantine had followed her, to play a childish trick on her, and she stood silently, her breath as quiet as she could make it while her lungs pushed against her broken ribs. Who else could it be?

"Do not sleep tonight, Anglish boy," a voice came suddenly, but the speaker did mot move any closer to Osthryth. "For you killed our lord; do not sleep any night!"

And then, a quick sound of boots turning on stone left Osthryth alone at the bottom of the ladder to the hay loft, holding her sword.

But still she turned to shout, though no words took form. I was doing my lord's work! Osthryth wanted to scream, I was protecting my lord from harm!

And Osthryth didn't sleep, or at least, she thought she wouldn't; her body ached too much to get comfortable in the first place, and her heart was racing, her mind overwhelmed with thoughts.

Secondly, the man who had threatened her was clearly one of those, or kin of, the men who had deliberately pursued her that evening. They hadn't forgotten; indeed, they sounded more determined to harass her, Osthryth, the boy they thought her to be.

Instead, she listened to the sounds of tbe night, of the hall, still filled with laughter and singing; of an owl hooting not far from the burn; the moon passing through a gap in the wooden wall of the stables, only to ebb away as it moved higher.

And then Osthryth's ears caught the sound of people just outside, down below, past the cleared-out horse straw. They were talking purposefully quiet, so that their conversation could not be discerned, yet several phrases drifted up, through the still night air, through the small gap in the stable's wooden walls, and into her ears.

Was it the voice who had stopped her in the stables? Was it Griogair? It was hard to be sure. They didn't want to be heard, that was for sure, and they spoke Gaelish with a Dal Riadan accent: Constantine's and Domhmall's accent, not a Cymric one, nor yet an Eireann one.

She relaxed a little, trying to pick out words...

...Osthryth heard names: Eochaid and Giric. That was understandable: they were Domhnall's enemies...

...Thurgilson...Eirik and Siegfried. Norse brothers, one of them said. A shuffling below of feet in straw drowned out more phrases, but ones which did catch her ears were of more Danes, ones whose names she did know, ones which haunted her: Kjartan...Sven...and then Aelfric...

Osthryth sat up. Kjartan and his son killed? That was fine news indeed. And that Ivarr Ivarrson was king in Eoferwic, and another king, one said, on the Cumbraland throne: Guthred Harthacnut. And what was her uncle to do with anything? Ruthlessly bargaining again to defend with his life the fortress of Bebbanburg, which he had usurped from her brother. Her younger beother, Aelfric's son, would be a young child now, perhaps three. He would soon be trained in war, but also, in mind, that Bebbanburg was his own.

Osthryth stared out of the gap and at the night sky, as cheers and shouts, muted, yet persistent, drifted from the direction of the hall, merry still with laughter and song. A gibbous moon hung in the sky, glimmering its generous light over the fortress, lending light to the back boards of tbe stable.

Presumably these men, whoever they were, conversing below her, were discussing strategy of some kind: Strathclyde had once ruled Cumbraland, this Osthryth knew, for her mother, as her aunt, had told her many times. Presumably any king of Cumbraland would wish to ally himself to Strathcyde's enemies, to secure his land.

It was what she would do, Osthryth thought, as a shiver of fear she would be discovered. She lay down in the straw, wishing she hadn't, for the pain in her ribs stabbed into her chest muscles.

She was glad, Osthryth thought, as she tried, but failed, to catch more words from the secretive speakers, but heard nothing, so presumably they had gone.

Every fight, every success for her lord, Osthryth thought, went in her favour, for she fought in Domhnall's name. And then shame overcame her: she should be thinking about was escape, now she knew where her brother was.

But why? Osthryth's mind wrestled with the reasoning in the darkness. She was a success in her own right; she was good at fighting. She had proved she could escape: she had escaped from Bebbanburg, through her left hand was now crippled from the arrow that had passed right through it coming from her uncle's bowmen...

...reason gave way to memory as a vision...of the dress she had worn at her mother's funeral, the same given back to her on the night before her escape, the night before she was to be handed over...of the monstrous face of Sven Kjartansson, whom Aelfric had promised her in marriage to - a face she had never seen, but sometimes melded in her unguarded thoughts with the face of the dead leader of the Caimbeulaich family whose eyes glazed in horror as she stabbed him...

...Osthryth opened her eyes. The moon was no longer shining into the hay loft, but instead was nearly overhead...she had slept, but...

A shiver ran through her body. Neither Feargus nor Taghd were up asleep. Shameful though it was, Osthryth really wantedthem close by.

A bang from the stable door caused Osthryth to jump forward, her broken ribs objecting heartily. Was someone there? And, if so, were they seeking her?

She got to her knees, not daring to look over to the loft hatch, before took over and she was climbing out of the tiny window, holding onto its sill by her fingers.

Fool! Osthryth chided herself. She had not thought this through, and now faced the inevitable six foot drop onto the straw-strewn ground. However she landed, Osthryth knew it was going to hurt.

She let go, the still night air pushing upwards and back, opposing her fall as she landed in a heap on the ground. Osthryth loosened her steel blade, in its scabbard, to push against the ground with, the jolting to her torso adding more to her already weighty list of injuries.

But she did not need to. Strong hands took Osthryth's triceps, pulling her to her feet, and she struggled, her instinct to run overcoming her curiosity. But the man held her firm. Osthryth's heartbeat began to accelerate but, if it was to be run through to pay for Cailean Caimbeulaich's death, she determined she would see his face. Struggling, she took in his features, and blinked at a face she knew: it was Domnall.

"You're shivering," he said, loosening his grip, and guiding her by her arm closer to the stable building.

"Domnall!" Osthryth exclaimed, trying to control the quaking in her voice. "I heard noises in the stable, my sheepskin is still up there. I - " but, she could say no more: a lump had developed in her throat, angry with herself that she had allowed herself to be scared by men who were meant to be allies.

"I was dreaming badly," she panted, gulping the cold night air as he held her still, hearing a tremble in her own voice. She swallowed, catching the sound of a very raucous song being sung in the distance. Clearly the merriment was going strong.

"A bad dream caused you to jump out of a window?" Osthryth stared at Domnall, who wasn't mocking her, but instead seemed concerned.

"Come, Osthryth, walk with me," Domnall encouraged when she didn't answer and, feeling her shudder again, drawing his own cloak from his shoulders and wrapping it around her.

"Thank you," she said, quietly, smiling a little, as they approached the approximate place where the talking men had been. "I was expecting Feargus and Taghd." Domnall returned her smile.

"Asleep over their table; they were on for drinking. Come on."

"Where?" Osthryth looked around them. The stable was close to the back gate. Behind them was the hall, and beyond, the harbour

"Come on," he said gently guiding her elbow towards the rear gate of the fortress, which backed onto a steep escarpment of granite, the rocks sticking out from the steep incline and overhanging the burn.

Osthryth was not normally bothered about the night, but that night the sharp, angular cliff face seemed to loom over her, its shadows being cast onto the floor by the moon, making the narrow river seem beguilingly sinister, as if other people, who might have sought this body of water and been taken through its surface into some terrible place. Wind rushed down the gleann, and Osthryth turned to look in the direction of the mountains.

Then, she looked away, and back towards the stable. Perhaps the horses were having the best of it right now.

"May I say, "Domnall said, unexpectedly, stopping before Osthryth, "How sorry I am for my maltreatment of you." He bowed his head, looking to the blackness of the granite path.

"I am convinced the man who has come with his cousins in exile his land cannot be the same man who treated me soil," Osthryth ventured, putting a hand out to him, resting it on his shoulder. Domnall breathed out a quick sigh in reply, but otherwise said nothing, his eyes fixed on the darkness.

"I do sincerely accept your words, lord," Osthryth replied, and Domnall raised his head, his long black hair framing his face on eaach side. "And I thank you for that day you saved my life. I would have drowned, otherwise."

Domnall took her hand, lowering her arm then put a hand of his to her own to her uneven hair, touching the strands that had grown longer, into the nape of her neck over the last few months since he and Donnchada had hacked off her braid and burnt it, after Flann Sinna's High-Kingship accession at Tara.

Osthryth shivered, not from the memory, but from the sgurr formations, and the rushing wind, as if a living being had charged through her. Domnall withdrew his hand from her neck quickly and instead, offered it out to her. "Shall we walk?"

Towards the harbour they went, following the burn before it broadened into a delta and became the sea. The moon reflected its light off its surface, broken into lines periodically by the northern sea's waves.

"Do you miss your family?" Osthryth asked, when the boats that had brought them came into view.

"I miss the children: I miss the boys, especially my little brother, Niall." He chuckled quietly to himself. "I never do think I have seen a child as grubby as he can get. What sort of child will he become, I wonder?

"A curious little one," Osthryth replied. "A studious one. Wise. When I taught him, he was bright, always asking questions, and could write. I don't know the Gaelish letters, but Eira and Gormlaith taught the boys. MaelDubh. and MaelDuin, would always wriggle and try to play. But not Niall. He would wait until he was told to get down."

The moon caught Domnall's smile, one of pride for his half-brother.

"You defended them so well, Osthryth, the day; it's I who should be thanking you. You fought so well; you knew exactly what to do to protect them." Domnall's warm voice changed, suddenly. "Then, I saw you creep away. I believed you to be a spy, perhaps for the Ulaid? They so dearly want out lands, as you saw at Tara: King Cineál so bold as to challenge Flann Sinna."

An image of the red-headed king, lord of the Midhe, now High King of all Ireland melted into view.

"I am no spy; nothing more than a warrior." Domnall's eyes narrowed.

"A witch, then? As you told the Conochabar princes?"

"I was frightened of the sun disappearing too, and I knew they were. I just told them that to get them away from me."

"Well," replied Domnall, laughter in his voice. "It worked. Just be careful with Domhnall - I saw how quickly you left when you saw Griogair watching you. Witches are burned in Alba. And, a woman in battle who killed their kin...they may have an excuse to - " Domnall broke off as Osthryth turned away from him, and from the rocks that were haunting her, to the sea, out to the west.

"It is why I am afraid of politics," Osthryth said, quietly. "All men are equal, on the land, in a battle. No politics then, just your sword and your wit."

"And the hope that your lord has done his job properly and positioned you well, has assessed the enemy's weaknesses, used his strengths to his advantage...that's politics." He looked across to Osthryth's pale face in the moonlight.

"You were no spy, and when I saw what those bastard Ulaid were doing to you, I could not leave yer to drown. I had been following you as you caught the squid for Muire, how you defended Constantine and lost your sword, so I wasn't altogether sure. And then, at Tara, I was so angry you were not a spy, just a woman, that I wanted my man to fight you, and when he defeated you, to kill you!"

"I defeated him, and I would have killed him," Osthryth retorted. "Poor show if you trained him - he had very little anticipation."

"He was stronger than you," Domnall replied, wryly.

"You watched?"

"Of course! I put up the sword!"

"Buaidh," Osthryth replied, closing her hand instinctively around its rough handle, forged to give the warrior grip another edge, so to speak, in a battle. Domnall's sword. She had fought against it, once, using Constantine's blade.

"Men are uually stronger than me. I have to take care, be cunning. I didn't, that day."

An impulse of silence passed between them. Apart from Muire, none of the men had made mention of her action to remove the child using heathen knowledge. Maybe they didn't know - Osthryth was frequently surprised how little men knew about things so obvious.

"And you are no witch?"

"If I were, I would wish to wake as a man tomorrow! It is God that wills me to fight."

These last words came unexpectedly to Osthryth's mouth, but once she had spoken them, she knew she spoke the truth. "I cannot describe it more than that. My fear leaves me. It is no darkness that compels me. I am Osthryth, I am a warrior. I fight for my lord, and I fight for God."

"And you fight well. That day, I could not very well leave the victor's sword on the beach now, so I plunged it into the nearest Ulaid. Unfortunately, he lived, and he is, thanks to my step-father, bedding my poor cousin, Gormlaith. I could do no more, but put you straight and take you back."

"Constantine was there," Osthryth remembered, a vague and misty memory, like a heat haze over moorland in summer.

"He was scared," Domnall replied, misunderstanding her. "He did not pick up your sword and fight because he was afraid of doing so, because if he took a long time about it, you would drown, and if he didn't he couldn't get to you, anyway. He tried," Domnall added.

"I didn't question Constantine's bravery," Osthryth protested, pulling her arms to herself. Domnall held out a hand. She took it and they continued down the rock-strewn beach towards the boats. Domnall's hand was warm, Osthryth noticed, though was glad no-one else was around. They walked as equals, and when Osthryth thought back to her earliest memories of Domnall, it was never him attacking her at Tara, always of them talking, like equals, like friends.

"You should uestion Constantine," Domnall scorned. "If he doesn't learn, one day he will lose good men on the field. He is too proud. He needs more humility, and to respect a battle before he can direct it. And to direct it he needs to be at the front, seeing it from the warrior's view. He is a, "go on, men" leader, rather than, "come on, men." "

Osthryth knew what he meant. She had only ever known lords who stood next to their warriors: Aed, Constantine's father; Domhnall. Flann, too, though she had been no-where near his quarter on the day the Norse attacked the monastery, had stood by his front row and led his men to beat back the enemy.

But Constantine was young yet. He was shrewd, Osthryth knew, for she had been on the end of many of his tricks. At the moment, though, was he his cousin? Or his father? Maybe when he had men of his own to command, then it would be seen whether Domnall was right. When she said this aloud, Domnall laughed.

"Maybe. We must see who is right. You have a lot of faith in him. So," Domnall suggested, "if your wish came true, and you woke up tomorrow with a pair of balls, what sort of leader would you be?"

"I will be like you," Osthryth returned the compliment. "Slow to chide, a model of a warrior. Disciplined. Inspiring of loyalty." Domnall snorted wryly. "Someone to stand next to who would defend my life - that inspires men to defend yours. That's what a lord is." Domnall puffed out a breath at her words.

"I will not be a lord until I have found my sister."

"Ethne," Osthryth supplied, drawing Domnall's wool cloak closer about her.

"Ethne." Domnall repeated her name. There was sadness in his voice. "No matter what state she is in, I won't give up, unless she is dead." He turned his head to Osthryth in the moonlight. "She was barren; she had no children, not one. But, how cruel a fate to be packed off like a chattel to a slaver, though, many a royal has ended that way, fallen asleep after a night of drinking and awoken at the bottom of a ship with a face of cold water, limbs in chains!" His humour quelled and he fell silent again.

"Flann planned it, of course, him and Domhnall, for the support it would give him. If I only knew who'd taken her there - it was a genius stroke going to Tara to be married at the festival; the slaver never comes for only one, and - " Domnall broke off as Osthryth gripped his forearm. The long night she had spent in the trees outside the monastery at Ar Macha...Donnchada was there...he was with someone, but who? Not Flann, for his voice was different to that which she remembered.

"Donnchada," Osthryth hissed. "I once heard him say to someone how angry you would be if you knew what they were going to do with her...it fits, if he meant Ethne..."

"Where did you hear this?" Dimnall shot back at her, sharply.

"As we travelled to Kells, after your father's funeral." Domnall let out a deep sigh.

"Domhnall and Donnchada," he concluded sadly. In the darkness Osthryth stared at Domnall.

"Domhnall is involved?" Osthryth gasped, as Domnall slapped a hand across her mouth.

"Domhnall has agreed an alliance with Flann, for support for the throne. Money, men. Lack of support for Eochaid. Flann has taken a side has divided many Uí Néill, one which is so entrenched it could filter down for generations after. The Norse provide unity, for now, but he has put Domhnall in a position which, while trying to play politics with the Ulaid, he has alienated his own son and Flann's family. The young boys loved Ethne; she was the only mother they knew. And Donnchada blindly followed Flann's plan, believing it to be worthwhile." He let Osthryth go, trying to take her hand to walk on again. But Osthryth stood there, thinking. "He felt regret the minute it was done, but as I told him, it was too late then. It would be like allowing Muire to be enslaved!"

"Domhnall," Osthryth repeated, carefully. And then a horrible thought struck her. "The slaver never comes only for one..."

"Your man, Finnolai," Domnall said, sadly. "He was for the slaver too. Domhnall couldn't have any...complications..."

But Osthyrth this time had begun walking. Domnall hurried to catch her up.

"Now, don't you cry, so," he began, but Osthryth turned to him in the moonlight. But she wasn't crying: she was laughing.

"And, what is so funny?" Osthruth couldn't gauge his tone and made herself calm her mirth. They were at the opposite side of the hall now, and remnants of verses, dissected by much alcohol drifted along the glen.

"Finnolai," she smiled, thinking about her friend. He would braid her hair before battle, a task he did with happiness. He would urge the men to stop for rests, anticipating Osthryth needed one, which she invariably did. He would help Feargus with his swordmanship and play stones with Taghd. He had loved a king, with his heartvand with his body. He would fight like a man possessed and had never been defeated in battle. But, like Ethne, Finnolai had been defeated by politics.

And now, it was the realisation that the men who had taken Finnolai that morning had not been careful enough: for he had escaped, with her help.

"I followed him," Osthryth recounted, remembering the high trees which almost his the beach from view. "I got him free of the cage; I gave him silver, Domnall! He escaped!"

Domnall stared at her, as if she were lying.

"I saw Ethne."

An owl hooted again as Domnall drew himself still

"Truly?" His face was a conflict of disbelief and rising hope. Osthryth grinned.

"Truly. She was fighting the men, shouting she was Queen of Tara."

And then, suddenly, Domnall mac Aeda drew Osthryth close him, wrapping his arms around her body, and kissed her. As suddenly as his lips met hers, he drew away again. Osthryth's chest throbbed from her damaged ribs.

"Then your kind act has saved not just your friend but my sister!" Domnall declared and Osthryth could hear the overwhelming happiness in his voice. "That would have been her! It's so like her! And now I know, thanks to you, which slaver it would have been; I should be able to find it, and recover her!"

They walked in silence for a time, following the perimeter of Glenorchy's high wooden walls until they finally neared the guarded entrance through which they had first walked.

"So you want to tell me why you are afraid?" Domnall ventured at length. "You fled the hall after you noticed Domhnall's man Griogair starring at you.

Osthryth drew to a sudden stop, her happy bask in the hope Finnolai lived shattering.

She looked up where the guards were. Not one was there, not one Caimbeulaich, nor mac Griogair, nor a man for Domhnall. They were likely safe.

"That night, when I killed Caelean Caimbeulaich...I heard Gaelish being spoken, but also Cymric. Are the Caimbeulaich Cymric?"

"No," Domnall replied. "Not Pictish?"

"No. And..." Osthryth trailed off.

"Did the Caimbeulaich call you afeared when you fought them?"

"I did not - "Osthryth broke off. There was little use denying it, considering the confidences they had just shared. "I have no fear to fight," she told him.

"I know your fearlessness, remember?" Osthryth laughed. She remembered the day he had thrown rocks at the children in Osthryth's care on their way to the monastery for lessons one morning. Constantine had lent her his sword and they had fought; Domnall was stronger, but shevhad held her ground until Aed Finnlaith had broken them apart and then had felt her up. He had been stronger but she had had ferocity.

"I know you fear something, but not a fight."

"God takes my fear every time," Osthryth confirmed, as she bought time as she assembled her thoughts. And this was true: she had seen the monks at ColmCille, at Rathlin, Iona, quiet, still, lone monks finding God in the rain and the ice and the boiling heat of summer, just like Saint Cuthbert did on Farne. Isolation, rather than the collectivism of the Augustine church. It's no wonder the Irish church thrived where the heathen Britons lived: Patrick's natural link between their nature-worship and God's teachings, and the heathen, when they saw mercantile benefits of Christianity, and that they weren't giving up many of their own beliefs, would - and did - convert. In fact, it was Bheatha who had told her that the Gaels were merely heathens seduced by the benefits of Christianity by trade, and that the Christian god was yet another one to add to the others, like a stone to a collection.

"There's something...not right..." Osthryth said, eventually. "Something isn't clear, it doesn't follow. I don't know what it is, and I don't want to." And the gate was unguarded. What kind of lord did that?

"We'll be gone in the morning, to Dunadd," Domnall said. "I am looking forward to where my ancestors first became Kings of the Land. It's written, right there, in the rock. I'll show you it."

"Og-ham?" Osthryth asked. She had seen the lines, in groups of ones and twos, up to five at a time, the Gaelish language written, on the Pictish stones at Dunnottar. Constantine had been right, she couldn't read it. But it wasn't used as often as Latin letters of Gaelish written by the monasteries. Taghd had once told her it was a kind of permenance with the land; blind nobles could run their fingers over the letter-symbols decades, centuries later and know whose land it was, or who was buried there.

"Come," Domnall urged, as the gateway that led to the let us see what intruder this is."

"Yes" agreed Osthryth. Domnall supported her elbow, and guided her over a small stone bridge, treading the winding path to the unguarded inner postern gate, Osthryth glad to be leaving the menacing, towering rocks behind her.

The stables were much as Osthryth had left them. Domnall pushed open tbe closed door, peering past the frame. Nothing had disturbed the horses, who were harrmphing quietly to themselves in their sleep. Osthryth stepped beside him, and was greeted by a silent flutter of wings, and quiet footsteps, one by one, on a perch high above the horses.

"Comhachag," Domnall confirmed her thinking. "An owl? Maybe hunting the mice."

"Maybe a snake hibernating?" she suggested.

"A snake? Nathair? Saint Patrick himelf took all of thise from Eireann, so I could not tell."

Osthryth followed him further in, climbing towards the door that opened to the loft upstairs, as she recalled the tale of the saint, a Briton from Cumbraland so concerned with the native heathen knowing God that he returned after slavery for that very purpose.

Should have opened. But, it was nailed shut from the outside. Osthryth felt her face drain of warmth as she contemplated what might have happened if she couldn't have got out of the door. She tried to tear the barrings away, but the pain in her shoulder and ribs caused her to stagger back. From her left, Domnall kicked at the wood, which had been firmly nailed into the frame.

Could it have been Constantine, Osthryth thought, as Domnall jumped up tbe ladder behind the door, kicking it off its hinges. He cartainly hadn't grown out of childish tricks, even when Osthtyth thought he surely must now, being taller than she was, almost as tall as Domhnall, with the same straight, black hair, and pale grey-blue eyes, pointed chin and flat cheeks that marked all of the Gaelish nobility. He still wished to niggle at her, and torment her when he was angry about something, and he certainly was angry about something today, cobsidering his arguments with Domhnall of late.

"Come on," Domnall encouraged, holding out a hand. Osthryth took it and he half hauled her up the wooden rungs until she find her feet to push up. When she got to the top, Osthryth lay on the straw, warmed by the horses' breath, next to the hatch, feeling for her own blanket as she handed Domnall his back, then sat back up and pulled the woollen cloth close around her.

The straw shuffled and the boards creaked, and Osthryth felt her heart race as Domnall began to descend.

"Stay, will you?" Osthryth called, suddenly. The creaking stopped. In the moonlight she saw Domnall's dark hair move.

"I would feel happier this night with you beside me." In the darkness, the Gaelish prince gave a quiet chuckle.

"The warrior feels a-feared?"

"I am not afraid!" Osthryth shot back, then admitted, in response to Domnall's unseen, doubt-filled face, " I am afraid a little." She heard the boards creep again and the straw rustle, and felt again the might of the wind down the gleann. "But never tell anyone I told you, right?"

"Alright," he agreed. "It'll be much quieter here than the palace tonight, in any case."

There was silence for a little while as they sat in the darkness. Then, Domnall asked, as he shuffled closer to her, "Did you get in the fight this evening?" Osthryth could feel the warmth of his breath near her face, and she lay down in the straw, feeling a little less anxious about the sounds on the path below them.

"Yes," she replied, not mentioning that she had been the cause of it.

"I hope you gave them more than yer got. The Caimbeulaich have always been enemies of Griogair's family." Domnall shuffled again, and from the direction of his voice, Osthryth deduced he must also be lying down.

"But they are allies," Osthryth returned.

"Because they need to be. It's like I said about Flann amd the Uí Néill throne - the Ulaid work with him, as do the remnants of my family because of the Norse. The Griogairs and the Caimbeulaich have rival land. But they all submit to Griogair, and Griogair is a loysal bondsman to Domhnall. His father, Aed - Constantine's father, were cousins to Griogair's father Dungal, their grandfathers were brothers and cousins to Ceinid mac Alpin, through Aed Find. 'S Rioghal mo dhream, is their motto."

"Royal is my race," Osthryth mused. Then, something clicked in her mind. "So, they wish to take the throne themselves? Griogair, whose fortress this?"

"I am sure Griogair would not turn down the offer. But they have little support outside their lands, unlike Domhnall. He could not command Dunnottar, does not descend through the Pict or Cymric lines as Domhnall and Constantine do. They can barely put aside grudges with the Caimbeulaichs.

"I see." Osthryth yawned, warmth relaxing her, now. She was glad this headstrong Gaelish prince was now a comrade, and ally. His cold anger now would have been hard to bear.

After a few minutes of silence, where Osthryth expected that Domnall was falling asleep, she heard him turn in the straw.

"What was Constantine calling Domhnall? Tuchdeen...?"

"You don't want to know," Domnall replied, grimly. "He is unhappy about a decision Domhnall has made. Yet Constantine made it, really."

"He has grown since I've known him," Osthryth replied, "I always hope he has grown out of these childish sulks."

Maybe it was childish sulks that meant he had barely spoken to Osthryth since Doire. It also meant he hadn't tried to hump her, but maybe that was all finished. He had changed the day Domnall had carried her back to the fortresss at Doire from Lough Foyle after her attack naked, beaten and bloody, wrapped in his own cloak. Or, perhaps Constantine realised he was to marry and wished to be honourable to Mairi.

"You always defend him."

"I hope he becomes a good king. The people of Pictland, of all of Alba, are good, honest people, who do not deserve to be slaughtered by the Norse. And when Domhnall's conscience begins to trouble him over Finnolai he will need Constantine."

"Hmm," Osthryth heard Domnall sigh.

"I am glad about Ethne."

"I am so very glad I didn't molest you. You are so very good in a fight," Domnall said, after some time. Osthryth turned in the direction where he lay.

"I am not sorry I kicked you in the balls, no matter what I said to Flann Sinna. I would do that to anyone if they tried that."

"That is fair," he conceded. "Oidche mhath."

"Oidche mhath, Domhnall."

In the darkness, Osthryth's thoughts drifted...to their walk, then back to Iona and Griogair. Something still wasn't right with him...

...and about Uhtred...what would her brother say when she finally found him? How would she find him? Winchester seemed to be the place. Beocca was still there, from the manuscripts she had covertly spied at Iona, though six months dated.

...you should let it grow...Domnall had said this...he had accepted her, clearly...and she always felt her confidence grow when he stepped onto the field if battle. She could trust him to fight with head and heart...

...that's all she wanted, from Domnall, from all the men next to whom she fought and battled in a shield war, their warrior-sense, their loyalty in battle, that friendship of knowing what one anothet had been through to survive...Osthryth knew then, there was nothing better...

...what had Domhnall told her...you are a Gaelish warrior now...he had taken her oath, in the end...

She felt up to the ragged, uneven strands...four months of it growing: it would be years until it was Gael-length...

...perhaps...but she liked being thought of as a boy - she was a warrior; she wanted to fight. I am an Angle, and Angles cut their hair close, Osthruth reminded her sleepy self. And she was going to Englaland...

Osthryth heard his rhymical breathing as he slept. Domnall, the Gaelish prince who just wanted his sister back, like she wanted her brother. She could so easily have moved her head to rest on his arm, or his chest.

But instead, Osthryth thought of the morning, and their departure - on horseback - to the place where Domhnall would be crowned king.

88888888

Domnall was not in the straw near Osthryth the next morning. Shafts early of light pushed warm fingers into the hay loft, and showed emptiness where the prince had kept her company. There was a flattened section of straw where someone had Feargus and Taghd's prone bodies and Osthryth wondered vaguely where they had spent the night.

Domhnall would be at the hall, Osthryth reasoned, so she crawled up onto her knees and found the loft ladder, climbing down it sleepily her chest hurting at the exertion from her fight the day before, pulling Buaidh in her scabbard down after her.

"You're required at the hall," a voice said, in the semi-darkness of the stable. "Domhnall needs to see you." It was Domnall, standing near the door; Osthryth could just see him in the weak light that was diffusing through the stable's shutters.

"Are we leaving?" Osthryth asked, hopefully, as Domnall held the door of the stable open for her. Anything to get away from this fortress of the Griogairs.

"Yes, we ride for Dunadd, close to where Griogar has another fortress." The morning light caught a huge grin on Domnall's face.

"What?" Osthryth asked.

"You. All untidy with the straw." Osthryth laughed lightly as he reached up to her head, pulling one or two coarse pieces of it from her hair.

"The Caimbeulaich are to bring the horses. I'll wait for you," he added, smiling, leaning back against the door frame.

"Oh no, please don't!" Osthryth protested, her mind stumbling for the right words. Domnall said nothing, but did not move, either.

"Thank you for last night," Osthyth began again, "For I much appreciated your company." She reached over and held his forearm. "My worries are gone, and I thank you. But, I must find my own way to Domhnall, lest he thinks I cannot be a warrior for him without assistance." Domnall looked at her, taking her hand from his arm and holding onto it momentarily with his own, then nodded.

"Yes," he said, then looked round at the horses, many still sleeping, though some stamping their hooves in anticipation of the start of a new day. "I'll see you at the hall, Osthryth. Choose the skewbald mare if you get a chance; you were suiting her well yesterday."

He smiled at Osthryth again, before pushing open the stable door, its wooden planks scraping into the dirt, holding it open. Her mind drifted to the idea of riding, and she groaned as she followed him to the doorway and she watched Domnall him cross the ground between the stables, his raven-black hair blowing in the morning breeze. Then her eye surveyed the scene, her hand falling instinctively to Buaidh: what a sight to see!

Men, alone, or in twos and threes, were asleep, passed out, some outside the hall, some on the ground outside. One even wedged between two stone walls, snoring loudly and legs in the air. She might easily have mistaken it for a battle massacre!

Turning to where the horses' water trough had been refilled, Osthryth thrust her head in the fresh water, pulling her hair back with her fingers before brushing down her clothes, an excited, nervous feeling in her stomach. Domhnall - her lord - would be crowned king very soon; he only had to march across the country with his men and fight on his home ground, at Dunnottar.

Domhnall was waiting in the hall for her, Taghd and Feargus, both red-eyed and looking worse for wear, beside him. He smiled as Osthryth strode in.

She was to ride with Feargus and Taghd behind the princes to Dunadd, and, after a lengthy discourse on who would ride where in the royal procession, Domhnall led them to the courtyard, where horses were bring led from the stables. Any man who was still unconscious from the night before, outside the hall, was summarily being soaked with buckets of river water to revive them, to much swearing and swinging of arms.

The men leading out horses, Domnall had said, were Caimbeulaich, and they were leading them, including the little skewbald mare, to the waiting group of Griogair men, at the front of which Griogair mac Dungal stood, brown-red head held high. She caught his eye for a moment, and he smiled, a slow, lazy smile, like a cat which might be enjoying its toy with a mouse.

Osthryth dragged her eyes to the stables, as the Cambeulaich cleared: which horses would remain? Would she be able to ride it? Then she looked back. Griogair was looking at her still, the predatory expression gone, replaced with one of implacable thoughtfulness. Then his eyes shifted to a spot to the right of Domhnall.

Osthryth turned her hed to see that Constantine and Domnall had taken their place by Domhnall.

"We're to get the horses for Domhnall," Taghd murmured warmly by her ear. "Just remember what we taught you, and you will ride fine."

He led Osthryth and Feargus back to the stables. They were to saddle and make ready the horses for their ride that day and Osthryth began by pulling the leather straps from the wall, and adjusting their buckles for the six horse that remained.

"Where did you get to last night?" Osthryth asked Taghd as she passed the first bridle.

"Feargus and I stayed to drink with the Griogairs," Taghd replied, happily. "And stop them tearing the Caimbeulaich's throats out." He looked over the back of the large roan horse they were saddling. "And yerself? Left rather quickly, so yer did."

Osthryth said nothing for a moment, stooping to catch the strap underneath the horse's stomach. It stamped its rear hooves impatiently.

"You see," Taghd continued, thought through me haze of sight that I did see Prince Domnall leave these stables not so long ago."

"Yes," agreed Osthryth, then added defensively as Feargus, face still drink-weary, began to chuckle, "nothing happened, or nothing you're thinking, anyway."

"Nothing?"

"The sidhe are here, Taghd," Osthryth declared, suddenly, surprising herself. "And they were fair frightening me last night. Can't you feel them? All in the gleann, rushing up, and down?"

The tall, blonde warrior stood upright and stared at Osthryth.

"What you felt, that was the Morrigan."

"The Morrigan?"

"The great queen Macha. She rushes about when she wants to warn a man."

"Warn me?" Osthryth shuddered. "About what?"

"The king," Feargus said, surprisingly. "You should not trust the king, Osthryth."

Osthryth stared into Feargus's wide, honest face. What did he mean?

"The Morrigan comes to warn of battle," Taghd explained. Osthryth felt indignant.;

"I am not afraid of - "

"If she came to you," Taghd continued, ignoring her protestation, "then you are linked to a fight, a struggle, or perhaps surrounding the coronation. She is queen of land and earth. She is who Lord Domhnall will wed to tomorrow." He drew Osthryth close to, his ale-sore eyes wide.

Wed? Yes, she agreed. As Flann Sinna had done at Tara, spiritually, to the land. And Eochaid had not done that, so he hadn't the authority over the land as Domhnall would have, neither then support of the nobles from Pictland. Even the Strathclyde Cymric would find it hard to remain with Eochaid, even with Giric's leadership - some may even change sides.

"Did you hear a crow? See a crow? Last night?" Osthryth shook her head, trying to think.

"No...yes...there might have been...it was dark..." Then her mind drifted to Griogair...the look he gave her...Osthryth knew there was something to do with him, something more. What was it? This was something more than anger at the loss of a man. Was Macha warning her of him?.

"Take care," Taghd said, his ice-blue eyes fixing on Osthryth. "Stay close to us, until we leave this place." Osthryth nodded, and they hurried to saddle and rein the rest of the horses.

88888888

The day was a beautiful one. The sun shone warmly on Osthryth's face as it rose steadily into the forget-me-not blue sky even though it was the middle of November. The chill of the night had given way to a mild coolness.

The procession from Glenorchy to Dunadd, following the gleann meant that they were protected from most of the coldness that would have been felt had they ridden through the empty mountainous landscape, which filled Osthryth with joy. It was a land built for skirmish amd almost impossible, she imagined, for offence to be effected. Kings were kings because they were accepted. No-one could rule Dal Riada without consent, for rebels could easily flee to the hills.

Dal Riada: Domhnall's kingdom, sheltered by the mountains enclosing around them like protective hands.

It would take less than a day for their procession to reach the hillfort. Their line was led by the priest who had accompanied Domhnall from Iona.

Behind, on a cart, was the red sandstone block, cut from Lia Fàill, the huge stone at Tara around which the kings had knelt, who had offered themselves as high king on cart. It was to go with Domhnall to a place on the border of the three kingdoms, Osthryth knew, and Dal Riadan power would be conveyed to the stone at Domhnall's coronation. All who saw the stone would know it had also been made one with the earth of the Gaels and would know that whoever was crowned on it was true king of Dal Riada for all time

On the lower hills Tuathanach - farmers - tended beasts every so often little rivulets of water hurried and spurted on the way to the green sea.

The roan gelding had been given to Osthryth to ride from Glenorchy. Taghd helped her up onto the saddle and she managed to position it next to Feargus before the procession get under way.

Osthryth was concerned with holding on and keeping her balance but she was fairly sure she sensed every Caimbeulaich and mac Griogair watching her. But she didn't.

And as they passed the valley rocks on their way south, the sea always on the right, they just looked to Osthryth like ordinary rocks, not the terrifying, not soul-gripping monsters she had imagined in the part moonlight of the night before. That, or her misgivings about Griogair had translated into the landscape, for it was his fortress, after all.

Osthryth was certain that there was something more than an alliance, the death of a kinsman, was in play here. Why would you let all your men drink and have no guards at your entrance, for instance? It was as if Griogair was inviting trouble.

In any case, until they had got to Dunadd, Osthryth was content to ride between Taghd and Feargus, though she was less convinced in this bright morning that the wind in the valley was anything more than that.

The ride was as uncomfortable as Osthryth remembered the ride the day before to be, and the one from Dunnottar to Glaschu, Eochaid's palace. Domnall had taught her to grip the sides of the saddle with her knees, like Finnolai had tried to teach her, and move with the horse. But the stony ground had proved bumpy and the pressure on legs was hard. It took all her effort to use her knees to keep up with them and eventually, Taghd noticed, dropping his pace a little to help.

It helped Osthryth to keep her mind on other things, on Dunnottar, on the landscape, for riding came more naturally to her when she didn't think about it.

Domnall looked back at her once or twice as they journeyed, checking her riding, for he bent his knees into his own white mare to show Osthryth how to keep her balance better, and Osthryth did so, correcting her posture from prone wobbliness to one of upright strength.

Constantine had barely looked at her. Flanking Domhnall, the prince rode straight as a tree, hardly moving as his horse rode on. Osthryth wondered what the cursing had been about between them tbe day before.

It was near sunset when tbe procession turned a corner and a hill came into sight. Lying high, yet low enough to be an island in the clouds, this was Osthryth's first memory of the hill fort. They were to make for there, surrounding the stone on which Domhnall would be made one with the land.

Then, a group of men rode towards them, galloping their horses as they drew nearer.

Domhnall was the first to pull his sword from his scabbard, and every man in his procession, including the abbot, drew their own steel.

But the men were not riding armed: indeed, they were riding under a standard on whose cloth was embroidered a picture Osthryth had seen before, its golden threads catching the evening sun as they slowed, their brows glistening with sweat from exertion. It was the Dunnottar guard carrying the Pictish flag.

"We have ridden to find you," their leader called. Osthryth strained to see who the man was and, when she saw he was someone she recognised, Féilim. He was one of Ceinid's warriors, and hurriedly, Osthryth fought to scan each face before her.

But Aed's general and head of Dunnottar's guard was not amongst them. Swiftly they dismounted and knelt to Domhnall, Féilim explaining they had been searching for him, and he had brought forth the Mormaer lords from every region of Pictland to kneel to him the next day.

In addition, many Strathclyde Cymric nobles were with them, one of them, Aneirin, offered his fortress, in direct opposition to Eochaid and Giric's rule.

How pleased they all were at not having to camp, for that bright day would have yielded a cold night, and so the procession made its way to Dunadd, and to its stone at the centre, not placed there as Domhnall would place the Tara stone, but an exposure of the basalt which made up the land in all directions.

Osthryth was pleased to be out of the saddle of her horse when the call to dismount was given, and she followed Domhnall to the centre of the rock, protected as it was by passages beneath and walls around.

An indentation in the shape of a man's footprint was at the very centre of the rock and, beside it, ran a line off which were slashes, to the left or right, or sometimes slanted, single or in groups of up to five. A small figure of a boar lay next to it.

Constantine knelt by the markings and placed his fingers on them, running his hand upwards.

"It says," Constantine said, "that he whosoever places his foot in the land with the consent of his people is join to it for always."

"And the boar?" She asked.

"It was put here by the Picts." Domhnall's voice came from behind them. Osthryth turned to looknat her king, but he was looking past her, at the King's Stone, where his father Constantine had placed his foot here; as had his uncle Aed, Constantine's father, and their father, who was carried to the stone by the Pictish lords, such as he had been accelted by them: Ceinid mac Àlpin.

"This was their place, of strength and might with the land. The man crowned here as the King of the Gaels is implicitly King of the Picts."

A murmur of approval came from behind Domhnall: the Pictish lords were around him, giving him their assent.

Osthryth turned back to the stone and knelt, placing her fingers on the boar, following it's dynamic, running form with her fingers. Then, she & the line of markings with her eyes as they glowed red with the setting sun.

It must have been the og-ham Domnall had told her about, the marks that represented Gaelish. Older than the Pictish images, or even the words written in the manuscript sewn together and constructed when they had been at the monastery in Kells.

"They are the oldest written marks from of our language," Domhnall said softly. "These are our tongue. They are even before the Taliesin."

"Taliesin?" Osthryth asked.

"The Seanchaì. The storyteller of the Strathclyde Cymric." Domhnall shifted from foot to foot as the setting sun made the marks seem even more deeply embedded. "These marks were written even before the first book of the Britons. It was the first thing ever written by our people when they arrived at these shores. A declaration of connection to the land was first of all written down, in the rock, it is there now, and ever."

Prayers were said in the twilight, as the sandstone block was unloaded, blessings by this abbot that, through his ordination, back through the generations of ordinations, priest to priest, ColmCille himself reached out to this royal stone.

'It will be put at the boundary of the three kingdoms: Pictland, Dal Riada and Strathclyde," Domhnall said, as the failing light was only just enough to mount their horses."

"That will not please Eochaid and Giric," Féilim replied, a laugh in his voice.

"Indeed it will not."

There was a change in Domhnall, Osthryth thought, as he followed the guard from Dunnottar and Aneirin down the hill and to the fortress where they were to spend the night, whether it was gravity of being crowned, or the battles that would follow, battles which were to come. The Strathclyde Cymric were kinged by his cousin; Eochaid had as much right to his own throne through being Àlpin's kin. Domhnall was determined to preserve Eochaid if he gave him fealty.

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But not Giric.

The stables were to be their beds for the night and, after the Caimbeulaich and the mac Griogairs stabled their horses, Osthryth, Feargus and Taghd took theirs, led by Aneirin's men to a fortress by the river at the bottom of Dunadd. They held no torchlight, for they did not wish enemies to know their way and Osthryth gripped the reins of her horse as he nimbly navigated over the rocky ground.

As they rode their horses along the gleann to a turreted castle, Osthryth thought about Giric, the wily-faced man who had sat with them at Eochaid's table, as distant a claimant to the Pictish throne as Osthryth herself, and on which connection he based his claim.

The night they had stayed at Glaschu, Eochaid's fortress, Giric had set a trap. Finnolai had woken them and they had raced for waiting boats in the Clyde. No mention had been made by Domhnall about preserving Giric's life. This was politics; Domnall was right that it took its place next to warfare, directing it, adjusting to it. The best leader could observe the environment, orient their forces where they needed them to be, decide on strategy and where to use them. When the army fought, that was the final step which the preparation led up to, and some leaders had very little time to act.

After washing down the horses and putting them to feed, Feargus hurried to find them, insisting they were to attend Domhnall. They found him in a chamber just off a large hall, which was filling with delicious smells of cooking food. Osthryth hoped some of that would be coming her way.

Domhnall, clothed in his blue cloak, with Constantine and Domnall either side, was seated on the oak throne of Dunnottar, which had mafe it safely from Glenorchy. He ushered them into the chamber and told them so: a feast was being held in his honour, so he wished to tell them important news before they ate.

It went like this: after the coronation the next day, Domhnall would be marching as head of his army to Scone. He would also be sending a peace envoy south, past Eochaid's country to the new king in Cumbraland.

"King Guthred, a Dane, now a Christian, was chosen as king of Deria at York, and, too, of Cumbraland. He was once slave to Eochaid so I wish to acertain whether we can ally." He looked at his three warriors, a serious expression on his features.

"I send you, my three warriors because I can trust no-one more. You will be welcomed at Cael Ligualid; you will meet Bishop Eadred, in whose vision Cuthbert came to plant the face of Guthred as king."

"Cuthbert?" Osthryth asked, astonished.

"Which saint is that?" Taghd asked.

"He's Northumbria's saint," Osthryth told him, her heart filling with excitement. "He is as dear to us as ColmCille is to you." Then her brain kept her emotion in check: if Bishop Eadred was in a position to declare this Danish man as king, what about Aelfric? Did he still hold Bebbanburg? Deria was Northumbrian and Northumbria long claimed Cumbraland.

"Yes," Domhnall agreed, glancing a nod to Osthryth. "Which is why he has the support of the people. You will not be alone; I am sending two other warriors from my now vast array of supporters with you." Domhnall's voice sounded full of joy, proud of his support. Then, he lowered his head, as if to confide something crucial. Osthryth, with Feargus and Taghd, drew nearer.

"For this, you are the three people I trust most. I have gifts for Guthred, a promise of border recognition when I regain Aed's throne."

So, this king, Guthred, would never need fear of a war on his northern border, if he agreed to an alliance with Domhnall against Eochaid, Osthryth thought. That was a gift worth having.

"There is more. Two Norse brothers of the name Thurgilson, threaten to ally with Eochaid. They feel slighted by Harthacnut, Guthred's father for they believe that he promised them Cumbraland. I need to establish their position in Cumbraland, and whether they are a threat to Alba. More than any other Norse, of course. And so," Domhnall's tone changed from instructive to welcoming, and he leaned back, arms open wide as if embracing them, "Taghd, Feargus, to the hall. Aneirin will make you welcome, for we are to feast well tonight!"

When her warriors at arms had left, Domhnall beckoned Osthryth closer.

"Thete is more I need from you, Osthryth. I can ask no other."

"Yes, Lord King?"

"When you are in Caer Ligualid - Caeleol - there is more than friendship and alleigance that I need you for. Caer Ligualid's monastery has a vast repository of manuscripts. I know you can read, Osthryth, and I have sent word to Guthred that you are a training scholar at Culdees and wish to read the Cumbric histories." Osthryth nodded.

"What I need from you is to spy, Osthryth, read everything that you can; learn more Cumbric. Anything you can find out will be of value, do you understand?"

"Yes, Lord King," Osthryth nodded, feeling disappointment flood through her.

"I will not see you crowned?" Domhnall held a hand out to her, smiling kindly to her, and she took it.

"I know you wish to. But to do this, you are the only person I can send: can read four languages and you can write them; you can fight. No-one else loyal to me can do that."

"And Eochaid and Giric?" Osthryth didn't mean to ask, and she dropped Domhnall's hand, and took a step back, as the king-elect's face clouded. Then, he smiled, brightly.

"They are at Dunnottar," Domhnall admitted, "but are having difficulty holding off Norse attacks. Of those in Pictland who supported Giric, many are now in support of me. Eochaid's gorces were too few to defend both Strathclyde and Pictland, and the Picts got few defenders. Harald Finehair has set up in the east, and this has disaffected the Pictish people to those who have declared themselves king."

"Then I would fight!" Osthryth gave it one last shot, even though she knew it would be rebutted by her king before she had finished saying the word, "Then".

"Your role will be more than I need." He stood up suddenly, and approached Osthryth.

"Will you go?" It wasn't a command. It was Domhnall as her leader, who Osthryth had chosen to follow.

"I understand the risks to myself as a girl," Osthyth nodded.

"Woman," Domhnall corrected, looking over her form. She was starting to curve in the waist and hips, and out at the chest and this was becoming a problem.

Her breeches, which had survived from when she had first been given them, in the battle where she had taken Constantine's place, when Ivar Lothbrockson was killed, by Domhnall. They were tight over her hips, and tne shirt over chest; Osthryth had not seemed to have lost the larger breasts she had acquired on pregnancy, and wished she they were smaller, like when she had first escaped Aelfric. Heavy and inconvenient. Why did she even have them when she would never be a mother? It was true what she had told Domnall; she would wish one day to wake as a man.

"Your clothes are too small for you, Osthryth. "I will have more for you."

"I will go to Caer Ligualid for you," Osthryth replied. "I am your warrior and I will do as you ask." Domhnall stepped towards her and took up her hands, and held them firmly in his own, exhaling deeply.

"Take no unnecesary risks; do not reveal yourself to be a woman, but don't deny it if you are discovered, for this will make Eadred and Guthred disbelieve everything. Stick to the plan: Guthred we need as an ally; the Norse Thurgilson brothers, if we can get them on our side, would make reclaiming the throne cost fewer lives."

Osthryth nodded. That was important. The fewer Domhnall may lose on the way with a battle against the Norse could make the difference between success and failure when, inevitably, Eochaid and Giric battled Domhnall.

"I will try for peace, Osthryth, on tbe way to Scone; we have sent word to Eochaid to meet him in Glasghu. We will try to form a peace."

"And if not..."

"If not, war," Domhnall confirmed.

"And Constantine?" Osthryth's mind drifted to their argument the day before, at Glenorchy.

"It was Constantine's idea," Domhnall replied, wryly. "Whatever it takes to secure our grandfather's throne. One day it will he his, for when I have a son, he will not be old enough to assume the throne before my cousin. And I do not wish there to be war, like in Eirann. All of it was Constantine's idea, and it is brilliant."

Domhnall smiled, and walked towards the chamber door, gesturing through it towards the feasting hall. Osthryth left, with her new mission, to not stand by Domhnall as he was united with the Morrigan, but instead follow Constantine's plan.

One day in the near future, Osthryth would have cause to remember Domhnall's very definite emphasis if the word "all".

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"Osthryth!" Taghd stood up, calling her over in welcome. The hall, lit by candles was full of men, of the Pictish warriors, the Griogairs and Caimbeulaich, of the Strathclyde nobles who owned the fortress and had turned to Domhnall.

Platters and cups were over tables and men over platters, talking, laughing, roaring loud declarations to one another. It had not got to the singing stage yet, and Osthryth promised herself she would be well away up to the stables when that began, for she did not wish the mac Griogair and Caimbeulaich men to remember their feud with her.

Yet, as she stood by her comrades in arms she felt many eyes on her, mainly mac Griogair, amd a mumbling and pointing. Taghd pulled her down.

"We will be gone tomorrow," he counselled Osthryth. "You are with - " he pointed between himself and Feargus, " - good company."

Osthryth smiled as Feargus pulled her up a chair and put a wooden plate before her containing bread and cheese. Osthryth thanked him gratefully and ate; they had not stopped to eat all day and the smell of the food had suddenly made her hungry. And, yes, she was with her friends; why should she care about them? They were all on Domhnall's side.

"To the three warriors! Domhnall's trusted men!" Feargus got to his feet, however, and clashed her wooden drinking cup and then Taghd's before turning and toasting the rest of the room. One or two of the Caimbeulaich made to get to their feet, but were pulled back down by others. Feargus grinned defiantly, glugging back the contents.

Clearly, they had been drinking longer than Osthryth, and so had the men who now joined them, Féilim, the man who had knelt to Domhnall that day, Drostan and Uunst.

All three were Ceinid's household guard, and she rembered them from the feast after her first battle, where Ivarr died, her first feast, where Ceinid had treated her wounds. She remembered the touch of Aed's general's fingers on her hand that evening as she waited on the warriors, that same evening Constantine had tricked her to lie next to him in bed, then pushed himself in and out of her.

Ceinid, Osthryth thought, suddenly, pushing her empty plate away. How was he? Did he still live?

"Osthryth!" Taghd exclaimed as three men sat round the table with the. "You remember these warriors?" Osthryth looked amongst the men, Picts who she knew, and nodded. She had trained against Féilim and Uunst, under Ceinid's supervision. But they didn't know her

"Osthryth?" Féilim looked confused. "But you were..."

"It was over a year ago, Osthryth replied. "I've grown."

"I'll say you've grown," commented Uunst, which earned him a thump in the arm from Osthryth as Feargus, as warrior-in-arms, rose to do the same. Uunst took his chair with a nod to Osthryth, in acceptance of his insult towards her, and warriors in arms always stood to a slight against one of their own.

"May I ask...Ceinid...?" Osthryth looked between the other two Pictish guards. "The General?"

"He lives," confirmed Féilim. "He fought Giric but would not fight Eochaid, being Ùi Àlpin. But we escaped, because we tricked them that we were dead after the last Norse battle, two brothers..

"Two Norse brothers?" Osthryth asked, interested, pricking up her ears.

"Yes," nodded Féilim, drinking deeply from his tankard. "Attacked Culdees then, when tbey got no joy from the monks who forced them back from the outer perimeter wall, so they crossed the water and attacked Dunnottar, but were repelled. They've gone all the way back to Eoferwic."

"We feigned death," Drostan continued. "Took three bodies, did Ceinid, buried them, pretending to be us. But we went to the Picts, and then across to Strathclyde, many have followed us. Many more will come as Domhnall crosses the land...Eochaid will not expect a battle in winter, and - "

But the Pictish warrior broke off as the royal chamber door opened. Aneirin, the castle's lord strode first, chestnut-brown hair glowing in the candlelight. Behind him, Domhnall strode, swathed in his blue cloak, looking taller than Osthryth remembered. Behind Domhnall, as if in procession, were Constantine, Domnall and Griogair.

Domhnall looked magnificent. As one, the men before him rose, giving him respect as befitting his rank. He waited until he had everyone's undivided attention and then spoke.

"Gaels, of the land - " there was a cheer from several men, " - Picts - " another cheer," - and Cymric - " this last group gave the loudest cheer, "we have assembled here, at this site, Dunadd, ceded to our ancestors long ago, that we would be protectors, guardians of this land." Domhnall looked between groups of his diaparate warriors, all come from many different parts of the country, all there because they wanted him, Domhnall mac Caustin Uì Àlpin as their king. Not one man looked from him, not one unwavering in their pledge to serve him.

No, Osthryth noticed, there was one. Griogair was staring right at her.

"Tomorrow, I will join in union with our land," Domhnall continued to look right back at him, sldetermined she would not make eye contact with Griogar. She could go, quickly, and if anyone waited for in the hayloft above the horses at this fortress, she would have time to hide somewhere else. Then, Osthryth noticed food being brought in.

"Eat of the land," Domhnall concluded, sweeping his arm in an arc as he announced the meal, which women were bringing and serving onto the wooden tables before them.

It seemed to Osthryth, as a platter was brought between the six of them at their table, to be a boiled sheep's stomach. Feargus, ever keen to eat, used a short knife, holding it like a dagger as he stabbed into the organ, its guts of meat and oats slilled onto the platter.

"Tagais!" Feargus declared.

"Even the peasants support Domhnall," commented Taghd, using his fingers to pick up some of the contents and droppibg it into his mouth, before reaching for a small jar, out of which he poured a little of its contents, spirit which burned Osthryth's throat, which Féilim declared to be uisge-beatha, the welcome water which Aed had used to toast his success in defeating Ivarr Lothbroeckson, where she had shamed Constantine fighting in his place.

The evening played out with as much tagais and uisge-beatha as they could manage, with toasts to each of Domhnall's warriors, with only the mac Griogair men and the Caimbeulaich rising in opposition to one another when they were hailed.

As singing began, in praise of Ceinid mac Alpin, of battle, of wars and heroes of old, Osthryth followed Taghd out to behind the hall, hanging back as he watered the woodwork then leaning against it, relieved.

She needed to tell someone what Domhnall had charged her with, and she asked him to wait as she did so. But Taghd did not greet her espionage rôle with quite as much enthusiasm as Osthryth had delivered it.

"You have had fair warning," he chided her, sternly. Osthryth turned to go and he called after her.

"Are yer not on for drinking?"

"I must sleep, even if you and Feargus can go all night on the pure, and handle a boat tomorrow!"

She turned to walk back to the stable, but Taghd placed a hand on her shoulder. Osthryth turned, preparing to be defensive. But his tone had changed and he put his arms out towards her protectively, unsteady from the spirit.

"He does ask too much of you, Osthryth, that's all I'm saying." He looked at her up and down. "Considering what has happened to you..." But Osthryth did not want to hear it: he'd doubted her, her comrade-in-war!

"You may believe in the Morrigan if you wish!" she shot back hotly, "I do not." But almost as soon as she had turned to stalk off back to the hall, she regretted her harsh words to her friend, scorning his beliefs. She had been the cause of pain to flash over his features.

Taghd walked past her, without saying anything more and Osthryth watched as Taghd trod the ground and ducked back in, without a backwards look.

She sighed as she leaned back against the hall's wooden planks. Her head felt hot, and she regretted, too, drinking the uisge-beatha. She should go to sleep, she knew, but -

As she crossed the threshold of the hall, Osthryth looked for their table. Taghd was seated now, and Feargus andvthe three Pictish guards were still there. Should she sit with them again?

But, before she had a chance to decide, a hand on her shoulder began to escort her in tbe opposite direction. Osthryth's hand felt for Buaidh, but it was too late: Griogair mac Dungan had pushed her down at an empty table near the royal princes. Osthryth could hear Constantine talking matter-of-factly to Domnall about Dunnottar castle's architecture and grounds.

Osthryth's heart began to race and she made to get up, but an altogether different voice came from the man who had been nothing but hostile to her up to then, one of regret, and he sat on a stool a little away from her.

"I am sorry my men beat you, girl" he began, his dark red head bowed. "I did not wish it, and I hope the didn't hurt you a great deal."

"Nothing I couldn't handle," Osthryth replied carefully as she inhaled, pain from her damaged ribs catching her chest. Just say sorry to Taghd and do as he says, a warning came, in Osthryth's mind. He said to stick with hin and Feargus: do it, even if it means spending all night here!

"And, you are a warrior, girl."

"Yes." Griogair looked up, his hair falling by his ears.

"Here, drink!" Griogair offered, taking a jug of uisge-beatha from a servant, who was clearly taking it to Domhnall's table. The woman's shoulders dipped and she turned quickly, as Aneirin looked in her direction, clearly waiting for it, and he watched as Griogair poured out an aliquot for Osthryth into a cup resting on that table, before taking the whole jug to his own lips.

Despite her first thoughts screaming from her cerebellum to get up and go, Osthryth reached out for the cup, sipping at the uisge-beatha carefully.

"You have fought bravely, on Iona to protect the balach beag there," he went on.

The small boy?

"Domhnall, of course!" Griogair laughed, as if Osthryth knew who he meant, as if she had been there at a time long ago when had been conceived for the soon-to-be King of Alba.

"Domhnall says your family were killed." Osthryth nodded, confirming the old lie, playing with her cup to add texture to it.

"And have a fine accent. You are from Eoferwic?"

"Bernicia." Osthryth kept her hands on the cup and her eyes on her hands. "That was where my family was from."

Which was true: the family she had been given to by the Lindisfarne abbot after her hand injury. She had claiming she, too, was going to Iona to find her father, had been from Seahuises, and adopted the dead family as her own: an extra layer of mislead in case her uncle sought her still.

"We kill the Bernicians!" He leaned forward, play fighting at a battle like he might towards a child and, despite herself, Osthryth laughed. Then, Griogair pulled away, looking seriosly at her.

"I am sorry you were hurt, girl," he said again, a hand going to her arm, his fingers wrapping around it. My men felt Cailean's loss - still feel it." He leaned forward thrn, emphasising his words. "I have told them that you can walk naked amongst them and you will come to not a mote of harm!" Griogair laughed, at the idea he had created. "Let me make it up to you." He reached for yet another jug of spirit from a passing servant, dropping splashes of it into the cup she had drained.

"Drink, that's it!" He encouraged, and smiled at her indulgence. "See, we are getting on, are we not?" He held onto her arm. "

"Slaodaiche!" Osthryth urged. "Slower! I do not understand!." But Griogair's hand moved up and down her arm, tickling it.

"You have a fair beastie here, climbing up yer," he laughed, "Damhan-allaidh!"

A spider, Osthryth's slow mind translated, and a part of her sighed inwardly at his idiocy as he pretended to walk his fingers up her arm.

"I would have you queen of the whole land!" Griogair declared, leaning close to her ear. Osthryth could feel his uisge-infused breath on her neck as he moved his hand onto her thigh, so suddenly that Osthryth missed her chance to back away. "Yes," he murmured, pressed the flat of his hand between her betrousered legs, fingers searching the bumps of her cunt.

Osthryth managed to drag his hand away with both of her own, jumping to her feet. She looked up and caught Taghd's eye, who was waving his cup around in merriment as Feargus lay on the table, flat drunk, legs moving to his friend's songs. The Pictish warriors were laughing hysterically at then.

"If you will excuse me," Osthryth managed, kicking over her stool as Griogair made another attempt to finger her. "I must rejoin my friends." She strode across the floor, faltering a little as she remembered Taghd's face when she had belittled him.

She wheeled round, her face flushing hot. Go to the stable, she told herself. But Taghd had seen her and was calling her over, as if their cross words that evening had never been.

"Osthryth! Join us! We know a song about an asal - " he sang.

"Eyeore! Eyeore!" Feargus added, sitting up on the table, then burping loudly. "Or, or," Feargus continued. "I have a joke, an Anglish joke: "How many Gaelish horses do we all need?" He pointed around at the table at the Pictish warriors, Taghd and her.

"One each!" Uunst finished, laughing uproariously. "One...each!" He repeated. Osthryth smiled but shook her head.

"No, thank you." Taghd's face fell: he looked crestfallen.

"You're going so soon?"

"One of us must be going."

"With him?" Taghd looked past her, and Osthryth turned to see Griogair standing just behind her, hands on hips.

"No," she declared, stepping around Griogair. "Alone."

Taghd dipped his head and stepped over Feargus's legs, making to follow her, but Griogair was striding after her, and out into tne chill of the early winter night.

"Osthryth!" He pushed past Griogair, as Osthryth turned to look at her friend but the leader of the mac Griogairs put out a hand, pushing Taghd to the floor. Before Osthryth could protest, Buaidh half-unscabbarded, a figure appeared between the two men.

"Allow me."

"Prince Domnall!" Osthryth exclaimed, never before so pleaeed to see anyone in her life. He put out a hand to Taghd, who looked between Griogair and Osthryth.

"I can escort Osthryth," he declared. "Please, rejoin the feast." Domnall held Taghd's eye for a second, and the tall warrior nodded, walking gingerly over the damp earth. "Griogair."

"Aye, if you are sure," he added, looking at Osthryth.

"Prince Domnall can walk with me," she confirmed, and Domhnall's ally returned, with more care than Taghd, to the hall.

Domnall and Osthryth walked the short way to the stables in silence. He kept pace with her, arms by his sides, and made no attempt to touch her, as he had done at Glenorchy.

Yet, Osthryth wanted to grab Domnall, demand that he tell her if it was he who would accompanying them to Caer Ligualid, to the court of the Cuthbert-chosen Cumbrian king. Domhnall had said more...but, equally, she did not want to know, if it was not him.

Breaking from a quiet contemplation of his own, Domnall pulled at the door of the stable for her, but it appeared to be locked. Locked from the inside.

"Constantine!" Osthryth cursed.

"What do you mean?" Domnall's eyes were on her and to Osthryth it seemed for a moment that Domnall thought she had got him confused with his cousin.

"When Constantine was angry I wouldn't play, orvI had to get him to do something he didn't like, he would play tricks on me," Osthryth recounted, assessing the stable for access points, "lock me out of the castle or steal my food. Dirty a floor I''d cleaned or pass a false message from me." She sighed. "I wonder what he thinks I have done now." Then Osthryth smiled: there was an open shutter, and she pointed.

"I can climb up for you," Domnall offered. But Osthryth shook her head and despite twinges from her ribs began to scale the trunk of what was once a pine tree and was now one of four supports of a lean-to where Aneirin's horses had the luxury of a farrier.

No more than a few feet up and Domnall, who had been watching Osthryth shin unsteadily upwards exclaimed, "It was you! In Ar Macha." Osthryth looked lown, then jumped back to the damp grass. Domnall's face was animated, with a long-ago memory.

"We were asked to search, and I saw someone dash to the kitchens...then I remember how you jumped from the yew at Iona...

"Yes," Osthryth nodded. "I climbed when I heard Donnchada with someone...you told me it was Domhnall." Domnall nodded. Then, Osthryth saw his shoulders dip, and she extended a hand to his arm.

"I thought I could form an alliance, but I was very mistaken." He glanced over his shoulder. "Domhnall has been the best at forging an alliance in support of himself: just look at his supporters, from all over Alba! Even the Strathclydians have found that some amongst them cannot tolerate Eochaid with his kingmaker Giric."

"You could have, I am sure," said Osthryth, her head nagging her to get it down on the straw as soon as possible. "You're waiting for your moment to make your claim, and in the meantime, you search for your sister.

Domnall took a step from Osthryth, her hand falling away. He looked at her as if he was about to say something else, then nodded slowly, turning and striding off in the direction of the hall.

Osthryth wanted to call out her thanks for his consideration to walk with her, but he was too far away. So instead, Osthryth looked up to the sloping roof of the farrier's quarters and began to climb towards the shuttered window.

The shutter was not fixed closed, so she pulled it open, sticking one leg through the window and then the other.

But as she cleared the sill a hand caught her ankle, pulling her into the straw. It was Constantine.

Osthryth struggled, swinging around and managed to scramble to her feet. In the darkness, Constantine grabbed out to her.

"No! Constantine!" It was him! He had barred the door.

"You were speaking to Grigoir!" he accused. Straw shuffled by his feet as he tried again to grasp her.

"I speak to many men," Osthryth replied. The hay loft was wide and at the end by the steps it was taller. If she could get over to there, where a lantern glowed.

"He liked you," Constantine whined.

"So?" Osthryth shot back. "I didn't like him."

"When has that ever mattered?" He bore down on her, swiping towards her, then struck her face with the flat of his hand.

Osthryth was shocked! Constantine had barely spoken to her since leaving Doire, and now he had hit her. In the time it has taken for her to comprehend this, Constantine hot her again.

.

"No! Stop it, Constantine!" Osthryth shouted back, bearing down on her in anger. But it was the wrong thing to have done and he gripped her her shoulders and pushed her down onto the straw bales which were covered with oiled wool-cloth. She tried to get up but he was tearing at her jerkin, then at het shirt

Osthryth managed to swing out a leg, slipping from under him leaving a torn shirt in his hand, her chest throbbing with exertion. What was hos problem? Why was he attacking her?

Half naked, save some torn pieces of cloth across her chest, Osthryth swung her hand to strike out as he lunged for her again and this time, grabbed wrists, holding them tight over her head with one hand as he drive her towards the wall next to the window.

A thought struck Osthryth as she looked down through the blackness at the ground below, and she thought fow a momemt he would throw her out. But instead, he bore down on her, face close to her own.

"You liked him? Griogair?" He gripped both her wrists in one hand while swinging the other back and thumping her in the face when she squirmed. He was angry. Osthryth struggled again but he held her fast.

"You want what he would have done?" Constantine took her wrists higher, which hurt Osthryth's ribs as her back arched more. She tried to fight him off, but Constantine bent his head down towards Osthryth's face then, turning bit her hard on her neck, just under her, ear, his black hair brushing her shoulder as his left hand fought her ragged shirt for her breasts.

"No! No!" Osthryth cried and she struggled again but this only seemed to inflame him more, and she could feel his hardness on her leg. Inclining her head up, she got out of his grasp, hitting him hard in the shoulder to do so. He looked back, astonished.

"No, Constantine! Find a servant!"

"You are leaving!" Constantine complained, as if she had betrayed him. He fought to catch hold of her again but missed.

"You arranged it! You wanted me to! All of it was your idea says Domhnall." She could hear him catching his breath, an aerosol of that night's spirit leaving his mouth.

Constantine went to hit her again, and this time, Osthryth pushed him over, but he managed to catch her arm and he pulled Osthryth clumsily on top of himself.

They were fighting, as they had done in those years before, when Osthryth was more Constantine's size, when he envied her skill with a sword, when he commanded her and tricked her. He was stronger than Osthryth now, but she realised as he struck out, his blows were spirit-affected, inaccurate and weak.

"You want me to go?" Osthryth shouted back, able to push Constantine off, as he rolled on top of her and she tried to smooth down her damaged jerkin; the shirt was beyond repair.

But Constantine was quick enough now as he scrambled after her, and he grabbed her ankles. Osthryth fell, awkwardly, her mending ribs giving out a shooting pain.

"I need you to go, only you can do this!" He panted.

"And what is this?" Perhaps if she talked, he may relax, for she was still struggling against his strength. But he did not anwer. Instead, his hands roamed her body, as they had always done, to feel that she was there.

"No, Constantine!" Osthryth exclaimed as waves, from a different time and place, surrounded her, water pouring round her ears and up to her eyes as she tries to stand on tiptoe.

She shook her head, trying not to think of it: she was here and now, and here and now, Constantine was doing his best to get the rest of her clothes off.

He wanted to hump her, Osthryth knew , and she knew she did not want to be held down, she did not want to feel helpless, as Ninefingers and his brother had made her feel helpless, as Constantine made to push his cock i to her.

And Osthryth knew how not to drown that night, how to swim, to survive: she had seen a servant girl do it, with a willing soldier from Muire's guard at the back of the monastery on the night of Aed Findlaith's funeral.

And, Osthryth wanted him too - to fill her up, to make her feel that shiver all through her hips and back and chest. She found his cock, which was growing hard, and held onto it. She was in charge, not Ninefingers, she wanted pleasure, too. For that, she needed Constantine stiff.

The prince groaned, as Osthryth gripped his cock, getting from under him as the first in line to Alba's throne sank into the straw. She eased his foreskin back and forth so his wetness squelched between her fingers.

He wasn't yet fully stiff, but Osthryth sat on him anyway, engulfing him, her knees apart, on either side of his hips, moving herself on top of him.

She raised her bum more and found pleasure building around her hips almost at once as she drove him futher into herself. Then she found that squeezing her cunt and driving down onto him at the sake time was causing him to sigh out of control breaths and, as his own pleasure grew, so did hers.

Constantine reached up, under her shirt to fondle her breasts, running his sword-calloused hands over her skin, her nipples pushing against his palms and pushing into them. This friction caused Osthryth to jerk downwards onto him, warming pleasure flooding her breasts, her chest, her waist.

Reaching round to her buttocks, Constantine pulled her to his rhythm, which didn't take him long. Osthryth closed her eyes.

Then, unexpectedly, the face of a man crystallised in her mind: it was his deft hands moving her breasts, drawing out her nipples between thumb and forefinger making her groan, not Constantine - where had he learned to do that? - which catalysed her climax; his cock pleasuring her cunt, hitting a spot which was getting her off beautifully. Osthryth bore down onto Constantine's mound with all her might, and came.

Later, she would sleep in Constantine's arms, there, in the stables, and in the morning, would dress in the clothes Domhnall had arranged to be brought to the stables for her, left by the stable door, accompanying a tentative knock.

She would dress in them, considering them much more roomy, after rolling what she could salvage of her old clothes into her blanket, leaving Constantine asleep in the straw. She would consider Domhnall's words: be a man but do not deny you are a woman. Osthryth would consider that there was no doubt she was a woman last night.

She would slip off to the kitchens, dense-headed from the uisge-beatha, for a cup of hot water in which to stew the last of her abortificant root, wash her hair and tie the growing strands .in a lace and grab a crust of grey bread to satisfy her for the day, before wrapping more for them all in a linen cloth from the kitchen cupboard.

Despite his anger still at her leaving, she would ride to the coast with Taghd and Feargus, where a boat would carry them past Strathclyde to the north Cumbraland coast.

They were there to raise support for Domnhall, and the first place they would be looking for it would be Haligwerfolkland, the land of King Guthred. The second was to dissuade the Norse army led by two brothers from allying with Eochaid. And third, Osthryth was there to spy.

It was the three of them, Feargus at the sail as Taghd's expertise got them afloat and asail before daybreak and Osthryth felt pleased they were all three together again. It was as it should be.

And, as the boat was about to leave Aneirin's fortress harbour, Taghd to pilot the craft through the treacherous local waters, two men stood watching. Osthryth was unable to deduce who they were, until the mist cleared a little and she made out Domhnall and Constantine.

Her heart would beat faster when she missed the third cousin, and her spirits rose as one man ran to join them.

She turned her head, trying to discern who was the man was, willing it with all her might to be Domnall. The running man jumped aboard to join them just in time. It was Griogair.

88888888

27th October 905

King Constantine and Bishop Cellach had met at the Hill of Belief near the royal city of Scone that summer, before Osthryth the received news of Beocca.

Harvest was being gathered and Constantine had decided they could not wait. Would not wait, and a procession had been organised from Dunnottar with the good Bishop leading the royal family, the monks and the mormaers from every part of Alba.

That had been the shrewd part. Constantine had learned very well from being in Muire's court the need to devolve power to local lords, power for protection of the land, sub-reguli to whom only Constantine was higher.

And it had worked. The raids were getting worse ever since the exiled Dublin Norse had travelled to Strathclyde via Mann and attacked Owain, Eochaid's younger brother, not long come to the throne three years before.

The Irish had driven them out and when they had arrived on Alba's west coast, far from undefended, ill-trained people, at Stratherenn Constantine had stood next to his Cymric cousin and watched Ivarr Ivarrson sail away from Alba.

The homeless Norse then tried the east coast where, a year ago, just before Easter, the Pictish mormaers of Fortriu defeated and slew Ivarr Ivarrson in battle.

So they had stopped raiding Alba, flr now. Instead, the Dubhlinn Norse were now flooding Northumbria, Cumbraland, and more, down the Mercian west coast, giving Aethelflaed a headache. Couldn't happen to a nicer person, Osthryth thought, bitchily.

She finished folding the rest of Aedre's clothes, before wrapping the small parcel in sheepskin with thick leather straps. If Constantine could only see how little they took with them, surely he would be gratified that Osthryth would be returning.

Osthryth's thoughts drifted back to their journey east, so Constantine could establish the mormaers formally. How, under a beautiful August sun, not unlike the journey to Tara and Muire's wedding to Flann Sinna and Flann's accession as High King, the entire royal palace stepped out and began to walk or ride to Scone.

The entire Àlpin family had gone, with Mairi holding a princess in her arms, her oldest, Ildubh, riding next to his father, Cellach, now ten, managing reins skilfully while Eira, Domhnall's widow, her boys, MaelColm and MaelDubh, named after Eira and Mairi's cousins, travelled in a litter in the very centre of the procession.

Osthryth remembered then, and again now, the two little rascals, who would not keep still, nor study, put to shame by Niall Glundubh, the lover of the natural world, much younger and far more studious. What would have happened to them under Flann's machinations? They were cousins of Domnall and Niall, sent to court for a stable education from far south in Leinster, to protect them from the Norse incursions.

Osthryth had watched, as the iron-rich block, which Domhnall had gone to such efforts to bring from Tara stood at the very centre of the churchlands.

Ten years before, and Beocca had pointed out to her the stone the Saxons used at Kingston-upon Thames, in the church dedicated to Saint Mary. Not that he had known he was telling her; the whole of the Mercian royal guard had been standing, in the rain outside the church waiting for Aethelred, lord of Mercia, to whom Aethelflaed had been married.

Osthryth had served many lords, and he was not too disagreeable, was a good soldier and a good leader, and would have made a strong king, if Alfred had not chosen to use the Danish crisis to make a political move on the territory of Mercia. It rightly wanted its independence back, not to be a vassal of Wessex, and Osthryth long suspected her brother's decision to support Alfred with his dream of one Englaland was to spite Aethelred, his cousin by way of his mother's brother, their father's first wife.

Beocca had recognised that a good tale would entertain them and Osthryth had gripped Buaidh's hilt as the priest's words had stilled her racing mind and brought memories of the bible, read clearly and steadily, in Bebbanburg's chapel, Beocca touching each word with his fore-finger knowing that high up in the beams, she had climbed, face tear-stained from whatever she had done wrong most recently.

It had been a shrewd move by Constantine for his throne: Archbishop Cellach, holding his hands above Constantine's bowed head, as he knelt before his coronation stone - Saint ColmCille's stone as he now called it, brought by Domhnall from Tara his lords and warriors pledging themselves that the laws and disciplines of the faith, and the laws of churches and gospels, should be kept pariter cum scottis, that is, the Picts' rights and responsibilities were the same as those of the Gaels.

Everyone knelt to Constantine. Even those once loyal to Griogair.

Which Osthryth thought was incredible. Constantine had all of Alba before him, politically organised on the model of Aed Findlaith, in the Gaelish style of devolved power with himself as Taoiseach. Most Norse had gone and the kingdom called Englaland - Alfred's dream - did not even exist. He could so easily have marched south and claimed what he believed in his heart to be the natural territory of Pictland, the land to the wall.

And Osthryth would not be unhappy: this land included Bebbanburg and Aelfric still lived, as did her other brother named Uhtred, the baby born to Osthryth's mother Gytha, who had killed her.

He did not go by that name, though, her other brother, one which Osthryth did nor know. He had left Bebbanburg, in search of lands in tbe very far south. He may even be dead. Did Aelfric even care? He had done all he had done to Uhtred, tried to have him returned so he could be murdered, for what? What was legacy, if he had no son of his own to inherit Bebbanburg, anyway?

The night had come early, or so it seemed. They would be leaving at first light, Aedre and Osthryth, with her old friend Gert, who was now captain of a fleet of fishers, and the only craft that could sail uninterrupted from the Forth to Englaland's south coast. And Ceinid was accompanying then.

Constantine had broken the news to Osthryth the night before, when he had found her in the stables, preparing her horse. He had sought her company and they had woken to bright sunlight in the hay loft, creeping back into his own castle.

He had taken her departure well, on balance, Osthryth thought, and now he had called her to attend him in the throne room. Domhnall's throne room, Osthryth would ever think of it and she wondered whether they knew of the secret passage behind the wall, where once she had secreted herself, and heard the grave news which had driven her to Wessex and Uhtred in the first place.

Last night he had been accepting of Osthryth leaving with Aedre. But now, as she pushed open the oak door of the throne room, Osthryth knew he was angry. Angry about what, Osthryth didn't know, but she had a feeling she was about to find out.

"Guthred," he shouted at her. "Guthred did not come."

Osthryth knew he was talking about Scone and the mormaers and, too, he blamed her that Cumbraland was now not part of Alba: it was barely a part of Northumbria, one of the last areas of the whole larger British isle to bow to neither Constantine, through Strathclyde, or Guthred representing Deria at Eoferwic, nor even Bernicia through, presumably, Aelfric.

But Osthryth had never agreed to marry Guthred, no matter what the Caer Liguald bishop, Eadred decreed on paper. Most of the time, Constantine chose to believe her. This was not one of those times.

Guthred was weak, Constantine raged. He had to prop up his army with Danes and Norse, taking tribute from Bebbanburg. This made him Aelfric's bulwark.

No divisions, that was Constantine's code. It had been Ceinid mac Àlpin's code, too.

"There can be no divisions!" Constantine concluded, fury still in his words, and Osthryth considered she may be only one of two people Constantine could speak to like this, who would understand its implications. And, mentioning Guthred, he knew it would drive Osthryth to anger, and he wanted an argument with her, because he wanted to part on bad terms so he could accept she had left for Wessex with Aedre. It was not like the last time. But still, Constantine was angry..

"I will marry no-one!" Osthryth asserted. "And not Guthred. I did not marry him then and I will not now, so you can lay claim to Cumbraland. You can have Bernicia to the wall if you wish; to the Tyne of you want. I will happily lead an army to Bebbanburg and defeat my uncle; why attempt to take what is difficult in the west when I can give you easy lands in the east?

"I know what he did to your brother." Constantine's mood was black. "Is that why you will not go?"

"No!" Osthryth shot back. "I care for my brother to the limit God's requirement of me...if he had done to you what he did to me, you would know I don't care!"

Yet, that wasn't true. The times Finan had awoke next to her, fighting in his sleep against a long-ago captor, begging for food and water; begging for rest...Osthryth's heart had melted to nothing when she heard him toss and turn, fighting the slaver. If Uhtred suffered as Finan suffered, then she did, truly feel sorry for him.

She knew this was all about Osthryth taling Aedre away from him Aedre, who he thought of as his true, own daughter, who he had betrothed to Ildubh, against the model of the Gaelish royals.

"Espionage - isn't that what you want?"

"You want to be with your brother. A union of Ida's line to reclaim Bebbanburg - " Constantine bore down on her. "And you would use my army of which you speak for your own gain!"

"I?" shouted back Osthryth. "I would use you for political gain? I merely wish to show a dying man his only daughter! She crossed to Cobatantine, who had now turned his back to her, her hands on his folded arms. "You are her father in every other respect, Constantine. And, she thinks so, too!

It was true. Osthryth had watched them speak to one another and was utterly astonished the child. Spoiled though she was by Constantine, she spoke Gaelish to Ildubh and Cellach, indistinguishable from their own speech; she spoke Anglish with Osthryth's accent and was, like little Niall Glundubh at five, schooled in both Anglish and Latin, where her monk tutors were amazed at the five-year-old's good behaviour and remarkable progress.

"You are to spy, that is the least I expect," Constantine concluded, with the same tone he had used a few days before to condemn a man to hang for stealing bread. "Ceinid is to go with you. He is under orders to kill you and bring Aedre home should you not return by Twelfth Night."

Osthryth pushed her feet as firmly as she could into the stone floor. Talk calmly; don't provoke a fight or he might not let you take Aedre. Then, a look of hurt passed over his features, and he turned his from Osthryth.

"When you left before..."

"When I left before Domhnall were trying to arrange my marriage then!" Osthryth snapped. "You, now?" She knew it had been the wrong thing to say, and when she added, "And I learned my home is here, not in Wessex or Bebbanburg or anywhere near my brother!"

Later, Osthryth knew she should have turned then, turned and left, waited it out in the kitchens, by the elderly Glymrie's night-time fire. But instead she stopped too long, and Constantine found more words.

"And you will be with him." It was no question.

"Him?" Osthryth asked. As far as she knew, Finan might be dead, or gone from Uhtred's side. Besides it was Beocca she was intent on seeing.

"Edward." The word fell from his lips as a stone might from a cliff, cold and leaden and heavy. Perhaps Osthryth should have known then.

"Well, of course. He is the king, of Wessex, and Beocca lives in the palace at Winchester."

"And he will sleep with you, of course." He spat onto the stone floor and narrowed his eyes.

"And he may try and I will refuse." Osthryth replied, briefly. Because, he was on his third marriage already; more heirs of Alfred's line he could priduce the better, especially with Aethelstan still called a bastard by those who listened to the Wessex lords. "And - "

She had intended on giving it to him anyway, the silver, all she owned, the next morning. She knelt to the sheepskin and pulled out a cloth bag.

"And what is this?" He eyed the brown fabric with just a hint of hunger.

"My wealth. All of it." Cobatantine looked from the bag to Osthryth, and then folded his hand around it. Yet, he would be right to suspect she had money in Wessex, and he would be right. She had plenty, most of it taken as spoils by her brother and liberated by Osthryth while he was indulging of women of many repute.

If she wanted to leave, she had the means, which is why Constatine had taken the precaution to send Ceinid with her and she had no doubt that Constantine's general and head of the royal household guard would act on the king's word to the letter.

"And," Constantine continued, "I have a gift, from king to king." He held up the leather-covered book, fanning open the first page. Osthryth stared at it, recognising the script. It was like the book finished at Kells with the squid ink Osthryth had been sent to findfrom Lough Foyle but not as richly decorated. Clearly the Culdees monks had been busy making a copy in the Ionan style.

"He is no scholar," Osthryth said, finally. Constantine snorted.

"That's a waste: all kings should be scholars. Alfred was a scholar." Constantine brought his face close to Osthryth's. "Were that I had met him, I am sure we would have had much to discuss. And Edward..."

Suddenly, he dropped the gospels, and touched Osthryth's face, turning her towards him.

"Does he kiss you like I do? How does he touch you?" He drew her face closer to him, pressing his lips to hers while pressing his hand between tbe folds of her shirt, working it down her stomach before making his way to her buttock.

"My lord king!" Osthryth managed, breaking apart.

"I am not Domhnall!" Cobstantine roared at her, pulling her shirt apart so it exposed her. "You called him that! I was the boy you once shamed by fighting for me! He analysed what was before him, breasts bound, as a Norseman had once taught her so they would not get in the way in a fight. "If not Edward, .who is it you leave me for? Is it the other one...? Finan...?"

Water. Cold water from a different reality that those names invoked washed over her as Constantine used a sharp blade to hack through tbe binding of cloth.

"May the sidhe take your spirit!" he screamed, as Osthryth tried to fight him off.

"No!" protested Osthryth as her breasts came free. But Constantine took in in each hand, mauling them, before bending his head down, seeking one the nipple as he fumbled for the other.

Osthryth felt faint as she struggled against his assault. Was the light dimming? Was Ninefingers fucking her mouth again?

The air smelt of sweat and pre-cum as he bit the nipple he was sucking, and she tried to kick him off, recoiling when Osthryth's foot met flesh and she realised Constantine had dropped his breeches.

His cock was hard and he stopped grinding her nipple with his teeth, breathing heavily onto her chest as his hand dropped to it. Then, the king of Alba worked himself hard, his left hand squeezing rhythmically at her breast as he got lost in his wank.

The king strained back with the effort, then glared at Osthryth, his spy, with a look she knew, and what followed it: in and out, he would go with his cock in her cunt, and she would feel it poorly for she was not ready. It was nothing, if she only thought of it as in and out. Osthryth closed her eyes. The whole world went black as the sea splashed coldly on her cheek.

But it wasn't the sea: he was too late to rape her. Too soon, Constantine had come, with masturbation perfected over the years, ejaculating over face and neck and breasts, the viscous liquid oozing its way betwen them, slowly down her stomach.

The door closed, and a man stood in front of it looking between Osthryth, who had crumpled to the floor, and his cousin.

It was Domnall, Prince of the Ailech, back long in exile, after twenty years of successful reign.

Constantine said nothing, as he wiped his cock clean on her bindings. Then, he marched past Domnall without a word.

Aftervthe oak door of the throne room banged closed Domnall, with much care,sat by Osthryth, as the feeling that her hands and feet were being bound to a rock, immobile, as tbe darkening green sea was about to overcome her. She was shaking uncontrollably. Domnall patted her gently on the arm.

Osthryth turned her head to him, and she let him help her to her feet. When he realised her tunic and shirt were utterly destroyed, he sought for a covering, before undoing the clothes bundle packed for the next day's journey and looked away as she fashioned it round her body, to preserve what little dignity she had left. Then, she sat on the rugs covering the raised block on which the oak Àlpin thrine sat. Domnall sat next to her.

"He does not wish me to take Aedre," she justified, addressing tbe floor, "he thinks I will leave her with her real father. He is angry." Domnall huffed his dissent and she turned to look at him.

"You always take his side, Osthryth," he replied, harshly. " Why do you always do that?" Then, he got up, and trod mind-weary, to the door. Osthryth followed him.

"It is good to see you again," she called. Domnall turned, and nodded. He was older than Constantine, but looked younger. While Constantine's short reign had been troubled, Domnall had enjoyed salad days in abrelatively Norse-free Eireann.

Care though had taken its fee from his forehead where premature wrinkles sat between his still long, black, becurtained hair.

"Will you come back?" He stepped towards Osthryth, a man she esteemed highly and respected above so many others.

"Will you?" Domnall sighed.

"If Niall agrees that I may stay, then no."

"I will," Osthryth replued, hoping that Constantine's predecessor's spirit heard her. "I swore to him once; swore to Domhnall."

"I was there," Domnall smiled. "You swore to Flann that Domhnall was your lord, swore to Constantine and all those who come after. That's a promise for life."

"That's how I felt," Osthryth conceded.

"And now? Now you know your brother?"

"Yes. Constantine only did what you tried to do to me once." To his credit, Osthryth saw him flinch. He had been an angry young man, then.

"My brother Uhtred ensured what happened to me through blackmail to an odious man happened. Innocents would have died for the simple fact that they were heathen Britons."

But it had not been simple; Uhtred had discovered something, something she had done, which, in his mind, had caused harm to the person he held most dear. He did not know Osthryth was his sister; he did know that hundreds of people would be hanged, children slaughtered by the dying Great king had Aethelwold acted on his threat. What would that have done, to these people whose ways and language Osthyth felt she belonged to most in the world?

"My place is here," Osthryth concluded firmly. "But Aedre's father is dying. My father too..."

"Your father?"

"Athair naomh. Our priest. A more godly man you would never find in the world, except, perhaps Feargus." Domnall laughed.

"Well, Culdees does indeed work for Feargus: regular meals and ale in exchange for bookkeeping and the odd Norse incursion to keep his sword whetted." He held out his arm. Osthryth took a glance at it, and then they were young again, friends, where they walked and talked and laughed and she curled hers around it.

"You deserve your blade, "Domnall said, nodding down at Buaidh, scabbard scuffed where Constantine had kicked it. "My servant did not. He died at the Battle of ColmCille's monastery, anyway."

"Maybe he did need this," Osthryth laughed, a laughter which, uncharacteristically, turned into sobs as she looked at her blade. Domnall pulled her close and held her. He always had the ability to make her let her guard down, and make hervfeel better at the same time.

When Osthryth had finished sobbing, and withdrew from Domnall's shoulder, she pulled back in his arms far enough to see his face.

"I know what happened to Ethne," Osthryth said softly, and was not surprised when he pushed her back by the shoulders, giving her a serious look.

"She was on Finan's ship, Uhtred's ship. She and Finan married after the slaver was broken up, and they were happy, living not far from Bebbanburg."

Domnall still stared at her. When eventually he did speak, his voice was quiet, almost reverent, the words drying in his throat.

"Does she live?" Osthryth shook her head. "A fever. Finan was with her, he said."

"And she was happy?" Osthryth thought of the night he had told her. He had barely known her, and Uhtred's grief for Gisela had affected all of his men.

"He said so."

Domnall pulled her close again, and they held one another as if they were the last two humans in the world.

"Make it up with Niall, if you can," Osthryth whispered by his ear. "Agree, and ally against Donnchada!"

Osthryth knew in her heart she would never see Niall again. She remembered the kind little boy she had cared for, interested in even the smallest beetle as well as the largest horse.

Yet, Domnall had arrived again after Muire's death, after Flann Sinna's huge flame-haired son, Donnchada, had promised to support Niall's kingship of the Ailech, the northern Uí Néill as well as his high kingship at Tara as long as Niall rejected Domnall.

And, once Domnall had gone, Donnchada had betrayed Niall and put his own man, Flaithbertach mac Murchado

But Osthryth had trouble believing Niall would be swayed to reject his brother. Little Grubbyknees had even married poor, destitute Gormlaith who, having been overthrown by the Ulaid prince to whom Flann had arranged her to wed, but twice by the king of Connaught. She had literally had to walk back to Doire, and the soft-hearted Niall refused to hear advice when he married her. This also suggested to Osthryth that he was not bent on legacy, that he may accept his brother, for Gormlaith had been unable to produce even one child, dead or living, with either of her former husbands.

Osthryth felt Donnall move under her arms and she stepped away, despite wanting so desperately to cling to him for much longer.

"Will I see you again?" she gasped, in between ebbing jerks of emotion. Domnall moved one hand onto her back, and supported her head.

"I am certain of it,"he whispered, by her ear, then stepped aside as Ceinid strode towards them, new jerkin and shirt in hand.

Osthryth didn't watch him go, instead made deliberations in dressing, wiping off as much of Constantine's ejaculate from her body as she could with her old, now-rag clothes.

She knew if she saw Domnall retreat she would wish to tear after him, to go with him, across the land to Glaschu, a boat to Iona and across to Rathlin then to the Donegal coast to Doire. In the twenty five years since she had gone, in fellowship with Finnolai, Taghd and Feargus, in service with Domhnall and companion to Constantine, she had never forgotten Eirean, the journey all that way.

But she was going on a journey of her own, to Wessex and Ceinid was going with her. Sturdy, capable, reliable Ceinid who, for some reason just wanted to keep her like a bird, for his own, caged. Should she ever crave the quiet life, Osthryth knew that, if she agreed to his ongoing unspoken question, this would be the one man she would marry.

Later, as Osthryth sat in her old corner in the back room of the kitchen, hooves thudded on the grass outside. Domnall had at last gone to reclaim his throne and, God willing make an alliance with Niall Glundubh.

He had tried to ally with Niall against Flaithbertach mac Murchado, with Constantine's help and on both occasions Niall had brought his army out onto the field of battle to oppose him. This time he was alone. And a part of Osthryth's heart, a piece of her soul left that night with the Uí Néill prince, Domnall mac Aeda.

Then her mind turned to Constantine, and his anger over Edward. It had been five years since she had been south, and she was not the same person who had fled with Thyra and Beocca's baby girl in her clothes, nourishing it with the milk her body still produced even though she had done away with the child growing within her own self.

She was a mother now, and that was the only reason she was going. Sne may already be too late; Beocca, knowing nothing about any child,may already be dead.

But she had to do this. Aedre already had grown, long copper hair like her mother, but her face was Beocca's face, rounded, ears on the large side that stuck out through her hair.

Osthryth smiked when she thought of Aedre. Little Aedre greatest friend of Cellach, Constantine's second son.

Despite nights when Constantine sought the strange comfort her presence brought him, Osthryth had never become with child again. The last had been the one she had used heathen help with, when the root had failed, and Ula had intervened to use lye to flush out the foetus.

Edward's, probably. Or his, her blackmailer. Finan Mòr had nursed her from the edge of death, caring for her until she lived. He must have known what she had done and why. He must have realised it could have been his child she had destroyed. Yet he never said a word to her about any of it.

And Ula, having provided the result of four endings of life within Osthryth before that day had again aided her. Thirty eight, and if Osthryth had seen all pregnancies through, she would, at thirty eight, have been a mother of seven by now.

Rain and wind began and Osthryth sat in the darkness, thinking of Beocca. She had intended to write, to tell him he had a daughter. But the longer she had been in Alba the more she had put it off. Beocca would appreciate the gospels, Osthryth knew, and she looked at the sheepskin roll, in which she had bound the book from Constantine to Edward. What would he say, though, when she presented him with the flesh-and-blood image of his dead wife?

It was Ceinid who woke Osthryth who, despite all odds, had closed her eyes and slept. Constantine was in the throne room, looking pale-faced, but commanding tbe room remembered his father, Aed, had once done. He had checked she had gospels, asking her to pass on his geeetings to Edward, and, with Aedre next to him, allowed her to walk to Osthryth and wished her well, all as if nothing had passed between them.

And as Osthryth reiterated her promise to be back by Twelfth Night, she realised exactly why Constantine was sending the gospels, made in Iona and written in Gaelish, to Edward. Constantine was sending a message, one which told the king of Wessex: I am as scholarly as your father; we are a separate nation, a separate church. Alba is not to be included in you father's vision of uniting kingdoms.

Aedre waved her hand to the battlements where Constantine watched Ceinid help Osthryth onto Gert's boat, the blonde Frisian smiling at her, and more so, child-like, as Aedre found a seat by the nets before reaching up to take Osthryth's hand. Gert had been a boy her age when Osthryth had sneaked out of Dunnottar to escape to Wessex, with Ceinid's help. This time, her departure was no secret at all" for most of tbe castle was watching Aedre, to all intents and purposes his daughter, leave the royal palace.

Could she have left the girl at Winchester? She risked Aethelwold betraying her anyway. But Aedre was worth it.

And, haring over the quayside, as Gert made to cast off, was Glymrie, the old palace cook, pressing food into her hand and learter skins of water. Or, more likely, uisge-beatha Then, beside his father, Ildubh appeared. Aedre cried out to him.

In the same way Cellach favoured Mairi, their first son looked just like his father. She cried out and begged to be taken back when Ildubh waved back to her. He adored Aedre, and she him, and though he was in his teenage years, would still take time from study and swordsmanship to play children's games with her

"We will be back by Twelfth Night," Osthryth soothed the girl, who cried and cried until they had left sight of the land, until Lindisfarne and Bebbanburg came into view.

And then Osthryth began a story of everything she knew of Beocca, pointing to the monastery, and then to the fortress. There was a long way to go, so she began at the beginning. Ceinid, sensing a tale, looked across to her.

"Beocca of Bernicia was born, just over there." She pointed to the coast of Lothian, where she guessed Melrose must have been. "No, one knows much about his parents, and one day, the monks opened the doors, and there, in a basket, was a baby..."