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thing of value they carried.”
                  “Bah. Irishmen. Who knows why any of them do what they do?”
                  Thorgrim frowned. He had hoped he would not have to say what he now had to say. “I saw in a dream...that others would want to take this from us. They will kill us for it.”
                  In the dark, Thorgrim could see Ornolf’s eyes grow wide. “You saw the crown...in your dream?”
                  “No. But it was there, I could sense it.”
                  “Wolves?”
                  Thorgrim nodded.
                  “Very well,” Ornolf said. He needed no more convincing. “What would you have us do?”
                  “Let’s bury it ashore. You and me. Right now. Tell no one else. There it will be safe while we find its secret.”
                  Ornolf nodded his head, considering. “Very well,” he said.
                  Thorgrim went back to his bedding and retrieved his weapons. Like any good Norseman, he had been raised with the adage, “never walk away from home ahead of your ax and sword”. He would no more go anywhere without his weapons than he would without his clothes.
                  In the longship’s hold he found a shovel and lifted it slowly, careful to make no noise. This was good, what they were doing. He did not know why, exactly, but he knew it was good.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter Five
     
     
     
     
     
    By the Prince’s Truth fair weather comes in each fitting season...
                                                                        Testament of Murand
                                                                Ancient Irish Morality Tale
     
     
     
     
     
                  H
    unched against the cold, his cloak pulled up over his helmet and his mail shirt, Máel Sechnaill mac Ruanaid, of the clan Uí Néill , stood in the dark in the down-pouring rain. Round about him were his bodyguards, that small, elite band of fighting men, the core of the kingdom’s professional soldiers. Behind the bodyguard were men of the houseguard. They were, in all, twenty men-at-arms.
                  Máel Sechnaill was the rí ruirech, the high king of Tara, heart of the Irish kingdom of Brega, and could summon an army of hundreds, perhaps more than a thousand, if he needed them. But twenty was enough for the night’s business.
                  The soldiers shuffled a bit, uncomfortable in the weather, but they made no sound that would carry over the beating rain.
                  The men of the bodyguard were half Máel Sechnaill’s age, and Máel was careful to show no weakness around them. If the others began to flag on a march, Máel Sechnaill increased his pace. If a man was sleepy on watch, Máel Sechnaill stood watch with him. When an Irish king appeared weak, or crippled by age, then the aspirants to his throne, or the rulers of neighboring kingdoms, would be on him like a pack of wolves.
                  Máel heard movement through the brush ahead. The bodyguard tensed, spears came up to the ready, and the front guardsmen stepped up on either side of their king, as was their proper position. A voice called out, the messenger still unseen in the dark and rain.
                  “Flann mac Conaing, come back, my Lord.”
                  “Come,” one of the guardsmen replied. Flann mac Conaing, chief councilor and head of the bodyguard, resolved out of the dark, a black shape carrying sword and shield. He, too, wore mail, a luxury limited to the king and the elite ranks of his people.