Dublin (10 page)

  And this was what he, Conall, experienced when he was alone- the sense of being at one with all things. It was so intense, so important, so precious to him that he was not sure he could live without it.

  It was for this reason that now, in the wonderful silence of the sun's rising, he shook his head. For here was the question he could not solve. Did you lose this great communion if you lived side by side with another?

  Could you share such things with a wife, or did you somehow lose them? An instinct told him that you did, but he was not sure.

  He wanted Deirdre. He was sure of that already. He wanted to return to her. But if he did, was he going, in some way as yet unclear, to lose his life?

  He was a good-looking man, you couldn't deny it.

  Tall, balding, about thirty years old, she guessed, with a face that reminded you of a mountain crag; eyes black but not unkind. They had talked pleasantly enough and after a time, when he had ascertained her likes and dislikes and, she had to suppose, made some judgements about her character-and she certainly didn't think his judgements would be foolish-she saw him give a little look to Goibniu which must have been a signal. For she saw that the smith soon afterwards took her father by the arm and suggested they walk outside.

  So that was it. She was about to be married. She had no doubt the offer would be handsome. And, so far as she could tell, her future husband was a fine upstanding man. She could count herself lucky. The only trouble was that, at the moment anyway, she didn't want him.

  She rose. He looked a little surprised. She smiled, said she would return in a moment, and went outside.

  Goibniu and her father were standing a little way off. They looked expectantly at her, but when she indicated that she wished to speak with her father, he came across.

  "What is it, Deirdre?"

  "Is it an offer he's making for me, Father?"

  "It is. An excellent offer. Is something the matter?"

  "No. Not at all. You may tell Goibniu," she smiled towards the smith,

  "that I like his choice. He seems a good man."

  "Ah." Her father's relief was palpable. "That he is." He seemed ready to go back to the smith.

  "But I'm wondering," she continued pleasantly,

  "if there's something I should tell you."

  "What is that?"

  There was nothing for it now. Whatever the risk, she must take her chance.

  Have you heard of Conall, son of Morna, Father?

  He's nephew to the

  High King."

  I have. But I don't know him."

  "But I do. I met him at Lughnasa." She paused as he stared at her in amazement. "It was he that came here yesterday. And I think it was me he came to see."

  "You are sure? He is serious?"

  "How can I tell, Father? We should need time to find out. But I think it is possible. Is there anything that can be done?"

  And now the chief who traded cattle smiled.

  "Go inside, child," he said, "and leave it to me."

  "She does not dislike him?" Goibniu asked sharply upon Fergus's return.

  "She came to tell me she likes him," Fergus said smiling, before adding gently, "well enough."

  Goibniu nodded briskly.

  "Well enough will do. And the price?"

  "It is acceptable."

  "We'll take her with us now, then."

  "Ah. That will not be possible."

  "Why is that?"

  "I shall need her with me," Fergus said blandly, "through the winter. But in the spring…"

  "It's in the winter he'll be wanting a woman, Fergus."

  "If his intentions are genuine…"

  "By the gods, man," Goibniu burst out, "he wouldn't be after coming all the way from Ulster to this miserable spot if he wasn't genuine."

  "I am glad to hear it," Fergus said solemnly.

  "And in the spring she shall be his."

  Goibniu's one eye narrowed.

  "You've another offer."

  "Indeed I have not." Fergus paused. "No doubt I could have had. But seeing it was yourself I was dealing with-was "I do not like to be crossed," Goibniu cut him short.

  "She shall be his," Fergus promised. "There's not a doubt of it."

  "And you will have to be his, Deirdre," he said to his daughter later, after their visitors had gone, "if your Conall does nothing before the spring."

  Ill Though Larine was one of the younger druids, he had a reputation for wisdom. The Peacemaker, they called him. So it did not surprise him, when he came one cold, early spring day to the camp by the Ulster coast where the High King was staying, that as soon as they were alone the king should have turned to him and asked, "Tell me your opinion, Larine. What I should do about my nephew, Conall?"

  The druid had always liked Conall and in recent months the young prince had confided in him a good deal.

  He felt a tenderness and loyalty towards him. He had also been concerned by the increasing sadness he sensed in the young man's mind.

  He answered cautiously, therefore.

  "It is my opinion that he is troubled. His duty is to obey you in all things and to honour his father's memory. He wants to do so. But the gods have given him the eyes of a druid."

  "You truly believe that he has a druid's gifts?"

  "I do."

  There was a long silence before the High King spoke again.

  "I promised his mother that he should follow his father's footsteps."

  "I know," Larine considered. "But did you swear an oath to do so?"

  "No," the king said slowly, "I did not. But that is only because, with my own sister, there was no need."

  All the same, you are not bound."

  Again, a long silence fell. And if only they had remained alone to talk quietly a little longer, it seemed to Larine that, there and then, the High King might have granted Conall's wish.

  So it must have been fate that the queen should have appeared at that moment. And probably there was nothing Larine could have done when, after the usual greetings, she had looked at him thoughtfully through narrowed eyes and demanded to know what they were talking about.

  "Condi's desire to be a druid," he answered quietly.

  Did she care whether Conall was a druid or not?

  He saw no reason why she should. Nor, until the High King explained it to him, had he any idea what she meant when she furiously cried, "Not until he has brought me that bull."

  "Your uncle has not yet decided," Larine told Conall later.

  "And the queen?"

  "The queen was angry," the druid admitted.

  It was an understatement. Of course, he knew about the queen's temper, but Larine had still been shocked by the way that she had cursed her husband. He had promised to send Conall, she shouted at him, promised her personally. He was a worthless betrayer. Her husband had tried to say something, but she was in full flood and refused to listen. One thing that the druid did gather from her storm of words, however, was the deeper reason for the planned raid: the assertion of royal authority. And here he couldn't deny the queen's point. Others could be sent, but the handsome and untested young Prince Conall was a clever choice to show the royal family's easy supremacy over the impertinent chief. The thing had style. But she had been foolish all the same.

  If she had spoken calmly and in private, she might have got her way. By shouting and heaping insults on the High King in front of a druid, she made it hard for her husband to give way and keep his dignity. Larine did not tell all this to Conall, however, but reported only: "The High King says he will decide later. He has promised me," he added, "that he will speak to you privately first."

  "I knew nothing of this plan to steal the black bull," Conall confessed.

  "It is a secret, and you must not let them know I told you." Larine paused. "You could get the bull, Conall, and then ask the High King to release you from your obligations. The queen would have nothing to say then."

  But Conall shook his head.

  "Is that what you really believe?" He sighed. "I know them, Larine, even better than you. If I succeed in getting the bull, then sure enough, before a month is out, they'll be asking me to do something else.

  There'll be task after task. Disgrace if I fail; and if I succeed, honour-for myself, of course, but above all for my uncle the High King.

  There will never be an end of it, until I die."

  "It may turn out otherwise."

  "No, Larine. That is how it will be. There is only one way to make an end of it, and that is not to begin."

  "You cannot refuse to go."

  Conall brooded silently awhile.

  "Perhaps I can," he murmured.

  It would be best, the druid thought, not to tell the High King about that.

  Winter had nearly passed, and still he had not come.

  Some days, Fergus thought, Deirdre looked paler than the moon. Even her brothers noticed she was moody. It was a bad day, her father thought, that I ever took her to the Lughnasa at Carmun. A sad thing, he saw it now, that she had met Conall.

  At first he had supposed Conall would come again.

  Deirdre was no fool; he did not think she had mistaken the young man's interest.

  Conall cared for her. But time went by and there was no sign of him. The chief even made discreet enquiries about the young prince. He had discovered, and gently warned his daughter about, the druids" geissi that governed Conall's life.

  "Men who are marked by the fates like that," he cautioned her, "do not always have easy and untroubled lives." But it was clear that such warnings meant nothing to her.

  So why hadn't he appeared? There could be many reasons. But as he saw his daughter silently pining, one thought came into his mind again and again, and each time it came, it grew insidiously.

  For whose fault was it that Conall did not come? It was not the prince's, nor Deirdre's. The fault was his own. Why should a prince like Conall marry the daughter of Fergus? There was no reason at all.

  If he were a great chief, if he had riches-it might be another matter. But he had none of these.

  Other men on the island, of no greater ancestry than he, had joined in the great raids across the sea or gone off fighting, winning riches and renown. But what had he done? Stayed at Dubh Linn, watched over the ford, entertained travellers at his house.

  That had been part of the trouble. When travellers came to the house of Fergus, they were well entertained.

  Fergus would think nothing of slaughtering a pig, or even a heifer, to provide a lavish meal for a guest. The old bard, who would recite to him most evenings, was always generously paid. The families from the outlying farmsteads, who called him their chief, would always find food and welcome at his house; and if they were behind with the modest tribute of cattle or hides that they owed him, these debts were often forgiven.

  It was the simple repetition of these modest displays of status, so essential to his dignity as he saw it, that had led Fergus in recent years to contract a number of debts which he kept hidden from his family. He had managed to get by, because the cattle had always saved him. He had an inborn talent as a cattleman and he thanked the gods for it. But his hidden embarrassment gnawed at him, especially since his wife's death, and now the realisation of his failure in life came to torture him.

  Yet what am I? he thought. What can men say of me? There goes a man that's proud of his daughter.

  There's a girl who'll bring her father a good price.

  And what have I ever done, that she should be proud of me?

  Little enough. That was the truth of it. And now there was his daughter in love with a man who wouldn't marry her because of her father.

  She never spoke of it. She went about her daily tasks as usual. Sometimes, before midwinter, he had seen her staring across the cold waters by the ford. Once she had walked over to the headland to look at the little island she loved so much. But by winter's end, she no longer looked at anything but what was to hand, unless it was to stare, dully, at the cold, hard ground.

  "You're paler than a snowdrop," he said to her one day.

  "Snowdrops wilt. I shall not," she answered. "Were you afraid," she suddenly asked with grim humour, "I should fade away before my wedding day?" And when he shook his head: "You'd best be taking me up to my husband in Ulster."

  "No," he said gently. "Not yet."

  "Conall is not coming." She sounded resigned. "I should be grateful for the good man you found me."

  You should be grateful for nothing, he thought. But aloud he said, "There's time enough yet."

  Then a few mornings later, telling them that he'd be gone several days and explaining nothing, he mounted his horse and rode away across the ford.