Princes of Ireland

by Edward Rutherfurd

  “You’d do that for me?” she said with a laugh, hoping to maintain the amicable mood of the conversation.

  “Certainly.” Goibniu’s eye looked straight at Fergus.

  And then Deirdre saw her father look at the cunning craftsman thoughtfully. Was Goibniu offering to find her a rich bridegroom? She knew that the one-eyed smith had far more influence than her father. Whatever bridegroom Fergus might consider, Goibniu could probably find something better.

  “Let us walk together,” her father said, with a new softness; and Deirdre watched the two men move away.

  So that was it then. Whatever momentary relief she had felt that her father had avoided a quarrel had now been ruined by this new turn of events. With her father, at least, she knew she could still keep some control of the situation. He might shout and rage, but he would not actually force her to marry against her will. But if her fate lay in Goibniu’s hands—Goibniu the confidant of kings, the friend of druids—who knew what his deep brain would devise? Against the one-eyed man, she hadn’t a hope. She looked at her brothers.

  They were admiring a chariot.

  “Did you see what happened?” she cried. They looked at each other blankly, then shook their heads.

  “Anything interesting?” they asked.

  “No,” she said irritably. “Just that your sister is to be sold.”

  Lughnasa. High summer. At the ceremonies, the druids would make the harvest offerings to Lugh; the women would dance. And she, quite possibly, would be given to a stranger then and there and, perhaps, never return to Dubh Linn again.

  She had started to walk alone across the open ground. Here and there, people at the bright stalls or standing in groups had turned to look at her as she passed, but she had scarcely been aware of them. She passed some tents and pens, and realised that she must be getting near the big track where they raced the horses. There was no big race due yet, but some of the young men would be exercising their horses, perhaps organising an informal, friendly race or two. It looked as if some horses were being led out for that purpose. The late-morning sun was filling the sky with a hard stare as she came to a railed enclosure where a number of riders were preparing to mount.

  She stood by the rail and surveyed the scene.

  The barebacked horses were skittish. She could hear good-natured taunts and laughter. Over on her right, she noticed a group of men, finely dressed, clustered round a dark-haired young man. He was a shade taller than they were, and as she caught sight of his face she noticed that it was unusually fine. An intelligent, perhaps a thoughtful face—whose quiet expression, despite his smile, suggested that his mind might be a little distant from the activity in which he was engaged. He might, she thought, be a highborn druid rather than a young champion. She wondered who he was. The little group parted and she realised that he must be about to ride in a race since, except for a protective loincloth, he had stripped his body naked.

  Deirdre stared. It seemed to her that she had never seen anything so beautiful in her life. So slim, so pale, yet perfectly formed: an athlete’s body. He had not a single blemish, as far as she could see. She watched him mount and ride, easily, out onto the track.

  “Who is that?” she asked a man standing nearby.

  “That is Conall, son of Morna,” he replied; and seeing that she had not fully understood: “It’s the nephew of the High King himself.”

  “Oh,” said Deirdre.

  She watched several races. The men rode bareback. The island horses, though small, were very fleet and the races were exciting. She saw Conall come in just behind the leader in the first race; the second he won. He did not ride in the next two, but meanwhile, more and more people were arriving at the side of the track. One of the main attractions of the day was about to begin.

  The chariot races. Already Deirdre could see that the King of Leinster had arrived on the small mound by the track from which vantage point he would preside. For if the racing of horses was the sport of warriors, the riding of chariots represented the highest and most aristocratic of the arts of war. The chariots were strong, lightly built, two-wheeled vehicles with a single shaft between two horses. Each chariot contained a two-man team—the warrior and his charioteer. They were swift and, in the hands of an expert charioteer, wonderfully manoeuverable. Against the disciplined armour of the Roman legions they were not effective, and so in the Roman provinces of Britain and Gaul they had long ago fallen into disuse; but here on the western island, where warfare was conducted along traditional Celtic lines, the ancient art was still practised. Deirdre could see about twenty chariots preparing to enter the track. But first, it seemed there was to be an exhibition. For now two chariots came out, unaccompanied, into the huge, grassy arena.

  “There’s Conall,” remarked the man she had spoken to earlier, “and his friend Finbarr.” He grinned. “Now you’ll see something.”

  Conall and Finbarr were both stripped, since it was also the tradition that Celtic warriors fought naked. She noticed that Finbarr was very strongly made, a little shorter than Conall, though thicker in the chest, upon which she could see curls of fair brown hair. Standing just behind their charioteers, each man carried a round shield decorated with polished bronze which flashed in the sun. The chariots went out together into the centre of the arena before wheeling apart to opposite ends. Then they began.

  It was astounding. Deirdre had seen charioteers at work before, but never anything like this. Hurtling together at breakneck speed, their spoked wheels, each a blur, almost touched as they passed. Out to the ends they went and turned. This time each hero had taken up a great javelin. As they raced together again, they hurled their spears with devastating skill, Finbarr casting his just an instant before Conall. As the two spears crossed in the air, there was a sudden intake of breath from the crowd. And with good reason: for the aim of each was deadly. Conall’s chariot, hitting a small bump in the turf, was slowed just an instant so that the spear thrown by Finbarr would certainly have struck and probably killed the charioteer if Conall had not reached across with lightning speed and deflected it with his shield. Conall’s aim on the other hand, was so perfect that his javelin fell precisely on Finbarr’s shield as he raced forward so that, holding it up before him, Finbarr could neatly turn the sharp point to one side. There was a roar of appreciation from the crowd. This was warfare as a high art.

  The two men were taking up their bright swords as the chariots wheeled round again. Now, however, it was the turn of the charioteers to show their skill. They did not dash straight at each other this time; instead, they began an intricate pattern of pursuit and avoidance, making dizzying circles and zigzags all over the field, swooping down upon each other like birds of prey, chasing and being chased. Each time they came close, sometimes careering along side by side, the two warriors struck and parried with sword and shield. If these fights had been choreographed in advance, it was impossible to tell. As the blades flashed and rang out, Deirdre expected to see blood gush from the pale skin of either man at any moment, and found that she was almost breathless and shivering with nervousness. On and on they went, to the roars of the crowd. It was thrilling in its skill, fearful in its danger.

  At last, it was over. The two chariots, Conall’s in the lead, made a triumphant circuit of the field to receive their applause, and in so doing, passed in front of Deirdre. Conall had moved forward and was standing, perfectly balanced, on the shaft between the horses. The horses were in a lather, and his own chest was still heaving after the exertion as he acknowledged the applause of the crowd which was so obviously delighted. He was scanning their faces; she supposed he must be pleased. Then, as his chariot drew close, his gaze rested upon her and she found herself staring into his eyes.

  But the look in his eyes was not what she’d have expected at all. They were penetrating, yet they did not seem content. It was as if part of him was far away—as though, while he gave the crowd their excitement and delight, he himself had remained apart, lonely, as he balanced s
o skilfully between life and death.

  Why should he have chosen her to look at? She had no idea. But his eyes remained fixed on hers, as if he would like to talk to her, his head turning slowly as he went by. His chariot passed, and he did not look back; but she continued to watch after him when he had gone.

  Then she turned and caught sight of her father. He was smiling, and he waved at her, signalling that she should approach.

  It had been Finbarr’s idea that they should come to Carmun. He had hoped to lighten his friend’s mood. He had also not forgotten the High King’s instructions.

  “Have you no thought of finding a good-looking woman down here in Leinster?” he had already asked Conall.

  The previous evening when they had arrived and gone to pay their respects to the King of Leinster, it was not only the king of the province himself who had shown his delight in welcoming the High King’s nephew. There was hardly a woman in the royal company who didn’t give Conall a smile. If Conall had noticed these marks of favour, however, he had chosen to ignore them.

  Just now, it seemed to Finbarr that he had seen his chance.

  “There was a young woman with golden hair and amazing eyes, watching you before you rode,” he said. “Did you not see her?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Yet she watched you for a long time,” said Finbarr. “I think she had a liking for you.”

  “I didn’t notice,” said Conall.

  “It was the girl you were staring at yourself just now,” Finbarr continued. And it seemed to him that his friend was a little curious, and he noticed Conall glance around. “Stay here,” Finbarr said. “I am going to find her.” And before Conall could object, he started off with Cuchulainn in the direction in which, moments before, he had seen Deirdre go.

  “Goibniu has the man for you.” Her father was beaming.

  “How lucky.” She said the words drily. “Is he here?”

  “No. He is in Ulster.”

  “That’s far away. And what,” she asked shrewdly, “is he paying?”

  “A handsome amount.”

  “Enough for you to pay your debt to Goibniu?”

  “Enough for that and all my debts.” He said it without shame.

  “I should congratulate you, then,” she said with irony. But he wasn’t really listening.

  “Of course, he has not seen you. He might not like you. But Goibniu thinks he will. And so he should,” her father added, firmly.

  “A fine young man.” He paused, then looked at her kindly. “You’ll not have to marry him if you don’t like him, Deirdre.”

  No, she thought. You’ll just let me know I’ve ruined you.

  “Goibniu will talk to this young man next month,” her father was saying. “You could meet him before winter.”

  She supposed she should at least be grateful for this slight delay.

  “And what can you tell me about the man?” she enquired. “Is he young or old? Is he a chief’s son? Is he a warrior?”

  “He is,” her father said contentedly, “satisfactory in every way. But it’s Goibniu who really knows him. He’ll tell you everything this evening.” And with that he was off, leaving her to her thoughts.

  She had been standing quietly by herself for a little time when Finbarr and his hound came towards her.

  Finbarr had collected several men and women, only too glad to meet the nephew of the High King. When he had come up to her, Deirdre had hesitated for a moment, and might not have gone if Finbarr hadn’t quietly told her that to refuse would be seen as discourtesy to the prince. And since she was in the company of others, she did not feel embarrassed.

  Conall was dressed now, in a tunic and a light cloak. He did not speak to her at first, so she had the chance to observe him. Though still a young man, he moved round the group with a quiet dignity that impressed her. While everyone smiled at him, and his responses were courteous and friendly, there was a seriousness in his manner that seemed to set him apart. As he came towards her, however, she suddenly realised that she had no idea what to say.

  Had he sent for her? She didn’t know. When Finbarr had asked her if she would like to meet the prince, and indicated that it would be rude to refuse, he hadn’t actually said that Conall had sent for her. She would just be one more of the hundreds of faces to be paraded in front of him on an occasion like this—half of them, no doubt, young women eager to impress him. Her pride rebelled against that. She started to feel embarrassed. My family isn’t nearly important enough for him to take an interest in me, she told herself; and besides, my father and Goibniu have already found me a suitor. By the time he came to her, therefore, she had resolved to be polite but somewhat cold.

  He was looking into her eyes.

  “I saw you, after the chariot display.” The same eyes, yet instead of that lonely look, they were alive now with a different light. They were searching hers curiously, as though intrigued, interested. Despite all her determination to be cool towards him, she could feel herself starting to blush.

  He asked her who her father was and where she came from. He evidently knew about Ath Cliath, but though he said, “Ah, indeed,” when she mentioned Fergus as the chief of the place, she suspected that Conall had never heard of him. He asked her a few more questions and exchanged a few words about the races; and indeed, she realised that he had actually spent more time talking to her than to any of the others. Then Finbarr appeared and murmured to him that the King of Leinster was asking for him. He looked into her eyes thoughtfully and smiled.

  “Perhaps we shall meet again.” Did he really mean it, or was it just an expression of politeness? Probably the latter. She didn’t think it was very likely, anyway. Her father did not move in the circles of the High King. The fact that he couldn’t really be sincere annoyed her slightly, and she almost blurted out, “Well, you know where to find me.” But mercifully she checked herself, and almost blushed again at the thought of how crude and forward it would have made her look.

  So they parted, and she began to wander back alone towards the place where her father was likely to be found. Another chariot race had just begun. She wondered whether to tell her father and her brothers about her encounter with the young prince, but decided she had better not. They would only tease her, or gossip, or otherwise embarrass her.

  II

  It was autumn and the falling of the leaves was like the slow plucking of fingers upon a harp. Late afternoon, and the sun was beginning to decline; the ferns were gleaming gold and it seemed as if the purple heather was melting upon the hills.

  The summer quarters of the High King were set upon a low, flat hill with commanding views of the countryside all around. Enclosures, cattle pens, and the palisaded camps of the royal retinue were scattered across the hilltop. It was impressive, for the High King’s royal retinue was large. Druids, keepers of the island’s ancient brehon laws, harpists, bards, cupbearers—not to mention the royal warrior guards—these positions were highly prized and often inherited within a family. At the southern end was the biggest enclosure, and at its centre stood a large, circular hall, with timber-and-wattle walls and a high, thatched roof. A doorway gave entrance to this royal hall, in the middle of which, on an ingle post, was set a carved stone head with three faces staring out in different directions, as if to remind those gathered there that the High King, like the gods, could see everything at once.

  On the western side of the hall there was a raised gallery from which it was possible to look down upon the gatherings inside, or out at the grassy enclosure round the hall and the landscape beyond. And it was in this gallery that two covered benches had been set, a few feet apart, upon which the High King and his queen liked to sit in the late afternoon to watch the sun go down.

  In less than a month it would be the magical feast of Samhain. Some years this took place at the great ceremonial centre of Tara; other years it was held at other places. At Samhain the excess livestock would be slaughtered, the rest put out on the wasteland and later broug
ht into pens, while the High King and his followers set off on their winter rounds. Until then, however, it was a slow and peaceful time. The harvest was in, the weather still warm. It should, for the High King, have been a time of contentment.

  He was a swarthy man. His dark blue eyes looked out from under the broad crags of a pair of bushy eyebrows. Though his face was reddened by a network of tiny veins, and his square, once closely sinewed body was thickening, there was still a certain vibrant energy about him. His wife, a large, fair-haired woman, had been sitting enveloped in silence for some time. At last, just as the slowly sinking sun had passed behind a cloud, she spoke.

  “It is two months.”

  He did not answer.

  “It is two months,” she repeated, “two months since you made love to me.”

  “Is it?”

  “Two months.” If she had heard the irony in his tone, she ignored it.

  “We must do it again, my dearest,” he continued, falsely. There had been plenty of lovemaking once; but that was long ago. Their sons were all full grown. A short pause followed while he continued to stare over the temporarily sombre landscape.

  “You do nothing for me,” she said morosely.

  He waited, then made a small click with his tongue.

  “Will you look there?” He pointed.

  “What is it?”

  “Sheep.” He watched them with interest. “There’s the ram now.” He smiled with satisfaction. “It is a hundred sheep he can service.”

  There was a snort from the queen, followed by silence.

  “Nothing!” she suddenly burst out. “A soft, wet little finger of a thing. That is all I get! Nothing a woman can get hold of. I’ve seen a fish that was stiffer. I’ve seen a tadpole that was bigger.” The outburst was not entirely true, as they both of them knew; but if she hoped to shame him, his face remained serene. She snorted again. “Your father had three wives and two concubines. Five women and he could manage them all.” The people of the island saw no virtues in monogamy. “But you …”