As the petty kings of Connacht gathered their levies, encircling Dún Ailline like wolves testing a wounded boar, weeks turned to months.
Word of the Norse incursions, of villages burned and fortresses stormed under moonlight, crept across Europe like rot beneath a polished floor.
By then, Richard III, Duke of Normandy, had arrived in Rome.
It was a city gilded by legend but rotting beneath its painted saints. The marble streets swarmed with merchants, pilgrims, and thieves in equal measure.
Bells tolled for vespers as Richard's party was led through the Lateran's heavy bronze doors, the clamor of the outer city fading to murmured prayers and echoing footsteps.
Pope John XIX awaited him in a vast audience hall lined with mosaics so ancient the gold leaf flaked in places like old scabs.
Cardinals clustered near the papal throne, eyes narrowed with the oily attentiveness of court vipers.
