Brian stiffened; his memory was as sharp as a whetted sword, even in small things.

“Thou!” he said. “Aye, I remember him. Well, Conn, have you come back, and you with your red hands?”

“Aye, King Brian,” answered Conn stolidly. “My hands are red, it’s true, and so I would like to wash off the stain in Danish blood. I slew wrongfully, well I know, but no sorrow of mine can undo the act.”

“And you dare stand before me, to whom your life is forfeit?”

“This alone I know, King Brian,” said Conn boldly. “I am the son of a man who was with you at Sulcoit and the sack of Limerick, and before that followed you in your days of wandering, and was one of the fifteen warriors who remained to you, when King Mahon your brother came seeking you in the forest. And I am the grandson of a man who followed Murkertagh of the Leather Cloaks, and my people have fought the Danes since the time of Thorgils. You need men who can strike strong blows and it is my right to die in battle against mine ancient enemies, rather than shamefully at the end of a rope.”

King Brian nodded, somewhat absently. “You have spoken well. Take your life; your days of outlawry are at an end. King Malachi perhaps would say otherwise, since it was a man of his you slew – but – ” he paused; an old doubt ate at his soul as he thought of the king of Meath.

“Let it be,” he repeated. “Let it rest until after the battle – mayhap that will be world’s end for us all.”

Dunlang stepped toward Conn and laid hand on the copper collar.

“Let us cut this away; you are a free man now.”

Conn shook his head. “Not until I have slain Thorwald Raven who put it on my neck. I’ll wear it into battle as a sign of no quarter.”

“That is a noble sword you wear, kern,” said Murrogh suddenly.

“Aye, my lord,” answered Conn. “Murkertagh of the Leather Cloaks wielded this blade until Blacair the Dane slew him at Ardee.”