Dublin (13 page)

  His single eye remained watchful. And just now, a moment ago, it had caught sight of something else that reminded him of business.

  The big fellow from Dubh Linn. The one with the daughter he'd sold. There was no sign of the girl though. Goibniu went up to him.

  What was it about Fergus that made the clever craftsman suspicious? Goibniu did not bother to analyse it. He did not need to. But from the first words of greeting, from the chief's ready smile, from the cheerful way, when asked if Deirdre was there, he replied, "She is, she is," Goibniu knew that something was wrong. His brow darkened.

  I'll be taking her with me, then."

  "To be sure, you will. Not a doubt of it."

  Fergus was being too obliging. He had to be lying.

  It was not often that the cunning smith allowed his temper to get the better of him, but the experience of the previous night had affected his judgement.

  With a sudden burst of irritability in which his contempt was plain, he burst out: "Do you take me for a fool? She is not here at all."

  It was the visible contempt which hurt Fergus. He drew himself up to his full height and glared balefully down at Goibniu.

  "Is it to insult me you came here?" he demanded with some heat.

  "I couldn't care less," the smith retorted, "whether I've insulted you or not."

  And now, as his face became suffused with blood, it would have been obvious to anyone who knew him that Fergus, son of Fergus, was about to become very angry indeed.

  She knew she looked well. She could see it in the curious glances of the other girls as they all swept in their flowing gowns across the grass to the entrance to the banqueting hall. And why shouldn't I look fine, she thought, for weren't my ancestors as good as theirs?

  She felt like a princess anyway, whatever they might think.

  She hadn't wanted to do this. She had been so embarrassed and mortified when Finbarr had come to her father. "I can't," she had cried. How was it going to look if she turned up where she wasn't supposed to and pushed herself in front of him for all to see? But they had made her, and having got so far, she was determined about one thing. She wasn't going to take any special notice of him. He could take notice of her if he pleased. She'd hold her head high and let the other men see her for the princess she was. Didn't she already have a husband waiting for her anyway? It was with this thought firmly in her mind that she stepped through the entrance into the banqueting hall.

  It was a rich smell that pervaded the air: ale and mead, stewed fruits, and, above all, the aroma of well-fatted roasted beef. In the centre of the hall was a huge cauldron full of ale. On tables beside it, small bowls of mead. Around the walls ran the tables where the company sat. Reds and blues, green and gold-the bright dress and gleaming ornaments of the chiefs and their wives gave the hall a splendid air. There was conversation and laughter, but the gentle strains of the three harpists in the corner could still be heard.

  She felt the eyes of the men upon her as soon as she entered, but she didn't mind. She went about her business, moving gracefully, pouring ale and mead as required, with a polite word or a pleasant smile but, apart from that, scarcely troubling to look into their faces at all. Once she had to pass in front of the High King himself, and she was aware, out of the corner of her eye, of his swarthy figure, which she found rather distasteful, and of the large presence of the queen. They were both deep in conversation and she was careful not to stare at them. Indeed, she was kept so busy that at first she hardly noticed when she was directed to serve at the place where Conall was sitting.

  How pale he looked, how serious. She served him exactly as she had everyone else, even gave him a smile.

  "I am glad to see you, Deirdre, daughter of Fergus." His voice was gentle, grave. "I did not know you were to be at the banquet."

  "It was as much a surprise to myself, Conall, son of Morna," she answered pleasantly. Then she swiftly passed on without looking at him again.

  She had to return to the table several times, but they did not speak again. Once she saw his uncle the High King beckon him to come over, but then her attention was distracted by a piper who began to play.

  Conall returned from the interview with the High King feeling disconcerted. Under those heavy, swarthy black brows, his uncle's eyes, dark blue and somewhat bloodshot, glittered in a way that made you realise he had missed nothing.

  "So Conall," he had begun. "It is the feast of Bealtaine, yet you are sad." 'It is only the way my face looks."

  "Hmm. Who is that girl-the one you spoke to? Have I seen her before?" In answer, Conall explained as best he could who she was and about her father, the chief at Dubh Linn. "This Fergus is a chief, you say?"

  "It is true." Conall smiled. "A small one. His ancestors were of some note."

  "It's a fine-looking daughter he has, anyway.

  Is she betrothed?"

  "There is an agreement, I believe. Someone in Ulster."

  "But," the king's eyes looked up shrewdly, "it's for yourself you'd like her?"

  Conall had felt himself blush. He couldn't help it.

  "Not at all," he had stammered.

  "Hmm." His uncle had nodded, then ended the conversation; though after he had returned to his seat, he had noticed the king give Deirdre a thoughtful glance. Was his uncle giving him a message?

  Hinting that he should marry her? At the very least he was telling him that his love for the girl was obvious. And wasn't he now, whatever his reasons, in the act of letting her marry another? Without the decency of giving her even a word of explanation? There was no denying it. And why was he doing this? Was it really what he wanted?

  For a while he sat there, speaking to no one. Then at last he looked up and saw that she was approaching.

  She came so close that if he reached out his hand, he could have touched her golden hair.

  "Deirdre, daughter of Fergus." He said the words quietly, but she heard them. She turned her head. Did he see, just for a moment, a look of pain in her wonderful eyes? "I must speak with you.

  Tomorrow morning. At dawn."

  "As you wish." She looked hesitant.

  He nodded. Nothing more. And she was just moving away when the shouting began.

  All heads turned; druids frowned; the High King glared; even the piper ceased. On the sacred site of Uisnech, at the feast of Bealtaine, someone was daring to disturb the High King's peace.

  The shouts continued. Then there was silence. One of the king's personal attendants came into the banqueting hall and said something to the king, who gave a bleak nod. And a few moments later ?"'8andbrvbarbbandbrvbar; two figures were ushered in. The first, looking irritable but cautious, was Goibniu the Smith.

  Behind him, the very picture of an affronted chief, stalked Fergus. Conall glanced across to where Deirdre was now standing and saw her go very pale.

  When the two of them were in front of him, the king spoke. He did so quietly, to Goibniu "The quarrel?"

  "I had words with this man."

  "About?"

  "His daughter not being here. She is promised to a man in Ulster, and I am to take her there. Then," he glanced contemptuously at Fergus, "the fellow struck me."

  The High King turned his eyes on Fergus. So this was the chief from Dubh Linn.

  One glance and he understood Fergus entirely.

  "Yet as you see, his daughter is here." He indicated Deirdre. Goibniu looked and registered astonishment. "What have you to say, Fergus?"

  "That the man called me a liar," Fergus said hotly, and then, more humbly, "but that my daughter is worthy of a prince and now I have brought disgrace upon her."

  Out of the corner of his eye the king saw several of the great nobles give the poor, proud chief a look of approval. He rather agreed.

  "It seems, Goibniu," the king said gently, "that you were mistaken about the girl. Is it possible, do you think, that you were mistaken also about the blow? Perhaps you only thought he was about to strike you?" And the king's dark blue eyes looked up at the smith steadily.

  Whatever Goibniu was, he was never stupid.

  'It may have been so," he conceded. You might have been confused."

  "Confused. That would be it."

  "Take your place at our feast, Goibniu.

  Forget this matter. As for you," he turned to Fergus, "you will wait Fergus, son of Fergus, for me outside. For it may be that I have something to say to you." And with that, he gave a nod to the piper, who began to blow his pipes at once, and the banquet resumed.

  But as the festivities continued, and Fergus waited outside, and Deirdre, uncertain what the king had in mind for her poor father, did her best to attend to her duties, no one present, glancing at the bushy eyebrows and red face of the island's monarch, had any idea what in truth was passing in his mind.

  It was perfect, he thought. His plan was now complete. He had only to see this fellow from Dubh Linn and the trap for them all was set. What an unlikely bearer of good fortune the gods had sent.

  He would make the announcements at the height of the feast. At sundown.

  Late that afternoon, in front of an amused crowd, a small ceremony took place, witnessed by one of the senior druids.

  With a decent show of politeness, Fergus and Goibniu stood facing each other. At the druid's order, Goibniu went first. Pulling open his shirt, he bared his chest for Fergus who solemnly stepped forward, placed one of the smith's nipples in his mouth, and sucked it for a moment or two. Then, stepping back, he offered his own chest, and Goibniu stepped up and returned the compliment.

  After this, both men nodded to the other and the druid pronounced the ceremony complete. For this, upon the island, was the way that two men who had quarrelled sealed their reconciliation. Fergus and the smith, whatever their differences, were now linked by a bond of friendship. Other lands sealed such bargains with a handshake, or the smoking of a pipe, or the mingling of blood. On the island it was done by kissing the nipple.

  It was done upon the express order of the High King.

  For nothing he told them, was to mar the peace and general happiness of the royal banquet.

  They stood, Conall and Finbarr, at the top of Uisnech. The sun was on the horizon and its fiery light put a red glow on Conall's pale face as he turned to his friend and said they should go down. It was time to return to the feast. And now, having stood in silence for so long, Finbarr ventured, "Did you see the girl?"

  "I saw the girl."

  "And what will you do?"

  "It was you who arranged for her to be at the banquet?" Conall had just realised.

  "It was. Do you forgive me?"

  "It was the right thing to do." Conall smiled gently.

  "Will you always be my good friend, Finbarr, whatever happens?"

  "I will," Finbarr promised. "So what will you do about Deirdre?"

  "Ask me tomorrow."

  Finbarr sighed. He knew it was useless to pursue the matter further. Instead, he reached out his hand and gave his friend's arm an affectionate squeeze.

  They came down the hill as the darkness fell.

  Torches were being lit around the base. As they made their way towards the banquet they saw an old druid woman, who gave a nod to Conall, which Conall politely returned. By the entrance to the hall they parted and Finbarr watched his friend go in. A moment later he saw Fergus and his daughter also enter. The chief looked cheerful now.

  Obviously the High King had taken pity on him; but it seemed to Finbarr that Deirdre looked strangely unwell.

  The High King stood, and the banqueting hall fell silent.

  He began quietly, a slight smile on his heavyset face, and welcomed them to what was always a happy occasion. He thanked the druids. He thanked the chiefs for the loyal tribute they had paid. Indeed, he remarked, he was glad to say that there had not been a defaulter anywhere on the island. He paused.

  "Except for a man in Connacht." They were all watching him now. Watching for signs and signals.

  Slowly he allowed a look of wry amusement to form on his face. "It seems he was out when we called."

  There was laughter. So, the High King was amused. But what was he going to do? The look of amusement lingered just long enough to become threatening.

  "My nephew Conall," he nodded towards the pale prince, "together with some others, will be paying him a visit." He glanced around the hall. "They'll be leaving at dawn." He gave them all a friendly nod. He turned to his wife and nodded to her. Then he sat down.

  There had been a tiny intake of breath around the room. Now there was laughter, nervous for a moment, then more robust. Men began rapping on the tables in applause. "At Bealtaine," a voice called out. "The Connacht man will not be expecting that." More laughter. "He'll be sorry he wasn't there before."

  He had them. It was the firm smack of authority, mixed with devious cunning. They respected that. They liked the grim humour of the thing. And when, instead of tribute, the prize bull itself was brought back, the whole island would admire his revenge.