She was also conscious of the date. Samhain was not far off. The river crossing might be deserted now, but soon there would be parties of travellers making their way up the road from the south towards the feis at Tara. And now a further realisation came to her which, with everything else on her mind, she had not thought about before: the travellers would be passing by the rath. As chief, Morna would be expected to give them hospitality and to entertain them. Such a handsome young chief would be remarked upon. Someone arriving at Tara was bound to mention the successor to old Fergus at the Ford of Hurdles. Could it really be hoped that no word of Morna’s presence would reach the ears of the High King? No, it could not. The case was hopeless. Unless she could think of something, her lie was going to be discovered.
What else could she do? She couldn’t think of anything. Send Morna away? On what possible pretext? Common sense said that there was only one thing to do. She must tell him about the High King’s summons at once and let him decide what to do for himself. Yet the autumn season made it even worse. The sights, the smells, the feel of the chill autumn air, all seemed to be conspiring to drag her back to that season when she had gone so unwillingly on that terrible journey with Conall to Tara. She felt very lonely. She wished Fergus were there to give his advice, but she suspected that she knew what that advice would be. Tell Morna.
So why didn’t she do it? She couldn’t. That wasn’t an answer. She knew it. With every day that Samhain drew nearer, her predicament grew. Days passed. She began to promise herself, each night, that on the following day she would tell him. Each morning she would awake and decide to wait, just until that evening, in case something—she had no idea what—but something should turn up during the day to resolve the situation. And each evening, when nothing had changed, she had promised herself, once again, to tell him in the morning.
One of the British slaves saw them first. By the time she reached the entrance to the rath, the party of horsemen was halfway across the Ford of Hurdles. There seemed to be four of them. One, close to the leader, seemed to be carrying a spear or trident of some kind, which, when it swung behind the leader’s head, gave him a strange appearance, as if he were a deer with antlers. She watched curiously as they drew closer. And then, with a sudden, sickening sense, like that of a dream returning, she realised who the leader was.
It was Larine.
He must have come from the High King.
He rode up the path to the rath slowly. He was not much changed. His hair was grey now, but shaved in the same tonsure. He looked fit. His face was still quiet and thoughtful. She watched his approach with a sinking heart. And he was nearly at the entrance when the strangest thing occurred. The British slaves—there were half a dozen of them now—all ran forward and fell on their knees before him. He turned as he passed and gravely made a sign over them. A moment later he dismounted and stood in front of her.
“What is it you want, Larine?” she asked him, trying to keep the dread out of her voice.
“Only you, and your son,” he answered quietly.
That was it, then. He had come to take them to Tara. Only one thing struck her as odd. The slaves were standing round, with smiles on their faces.
“What are my slaves doing?” she demanded. “Why were they kneeling?”
“Because they are British, Deirdre. They are Christians.”
“Then why would they be kneeling to a druid?”
“Ah.” He smiled. “You did not know. You see, I am a Christian, Deirdre.” He paused. “In fact, I am a bishop.”
She gazed at him, confused.
“But haven’t you come from the High King?”
He looked at her in mild surprise.
“The High King? Not at all. I haven’t seen the king in many years.” He took her gently by the arm. “I see that I had better explain. May we go inside?” And indicating to his men that they should wait for him, he led the way.
She was still trying to comprehend his words as they went in. The tall staff she had mistaken for a trident turned out to be a cross. The young man who held it proudly in his hands remained outside with the two servants as she followed Larine in. But Larine the druid now a Christian? How could that be? What did she know about Christians anyway? She tried to think.
The Romans were Christians. Everyone knew that. Like many on the western island, she had vaguely supposed that with the breaking down of all things Roman across the seas, they would hear less of Christianity as the years went by. Strangely, however, the opposite had been the case.
It was her father who always picked up the news. From the occasional merchant ships that came to the landing place at Dubh Linn, he learned that far from giving up, the Christian churches in Gaul and even in Britain seemed to see the troubles and invasions as a challenge to their religion, and they were fighting back. She knew there were some Christians on the island, in the south. And once in a while her father used to return from one of his journeys and report: “Would you believe it, but we’ve another group of Christians in Leinster now. There’s only a few of them, but the King of Leinster has allowed them to be there. There’s no doubt of that.” But if the Christian priests had originally come to minister to the slaves, as the years went by Fergus had started to bring other scraps of news. A chief, or his wife, had been converted. One year he had heard of a development which made him shake his head. “A group of Christians are planning to set up a place of worship in sight of a druid sanctuary. Can you believe it?”
Yet if she had supposed that Fergus would have been passionately against these foreign encroachments, she was surprised to find that his reaction was quite muted. The worst he would say about the affront to the druids was that it was “unwise.” When she challenged him about this and asked him how the King of Leinster could have allowed such a thing, he had given her a thoughtful glance and remarked, “The king might be glad of them, Deirdre. If the druids get too powerful, it’s a way of keeping them in order. He can frighten them with the Christian priests.” His cynical attitude had rather shocked her.
But even her old father would surely have been astonished to see Larine the druid entering the rath now as a Christian bishop. As they sat down, Larine gave her a friendly but searching look, expressed his regret at the passing of her father, remarked that she looked well, and then, in a matter-of-fact way, observed, “You are afraid of me, Deirdre.”
“It was you who came to take Conall away,” she reminded him with a quiet bitterness.
“It was his wish to go.”
She stared at him. He might be a grey-haired bishop now, but all she could see at that moment was the quiet druid, the supposed friend who had persuaded Conall to desert her and give up his life to the cruel gods at Tara. If the autumn season had recently brought back the memories of that terrible time, now, in Larine’s presence, the day of the sacrifice itself, the sight of Conall walking out with his naked body daubed in red, the druids with their clubs and strangling ropes and knives—all these came rushing back to her with a vividness, an actuality that made her shudder.
“You druids killed him,” she cried, with a passionate anger. “May the gods curse you all!”
He sat very still. She had insulted him, but he did not seem angry. He only looked sad. For a moment or two he did not reply. Then he sighed.
“It is true, Deirdre. I helped perform the sacrifice. Forgive me if you can.” He paused while she continued to stare at him. “I have never forgotten it. I loved him, Deirdre. Remember that. I loved Conall and I respected him. Tell me,” he asked quietly, “do you have nightmares about that day?”
“I do.”
“So did I, Deirdre. For many years.” He looked down, thoughtfully. “It was a long time since the druids had sacrificed a man, you know.” He raised his eyes to hers again. “Do you approve of the sacrifices the druids make?”
She shrugged. “They have always sacrificed. Animals.”
“And men, too, in the past.” He sighed. “I confess to you, Deirdre, that after the d
eath of Conall, I began to lose my desire for sacrifices. I wanted no more of them.”
“You do not believe in the sacrifices?”
He shook his head. “It was a terrible thing, Deirdre, that was done to Conall. Terrible. I am stricken with grief, I cringe for shame whenever I think of it. Yet when it was done, we all supposed we were acting for the best. I thought so, Deirdre, and so, I can assure you, did Conall.” He shook his head sadly. “That is the way with the old gods, Deirdre. It has always been the same: always those terrible sacrifices, whether of men or animals; always the shedding of blood to placate gods who, if truth be told, are no better than the men who make the sacrifices.”
The thought seemed to depress him. He shook his head sorrowfully before taking up his theme again. “It is only here, Deirdre, that such things are still done, you know. In Britain, Gaul, and Rome, they have long since turned to the true God. Our gods are held in contempt. And rightly so.” He gazed at her earnestly. “Think of it, Deirdre, can we really suppose that the sun, the sky, the earth, and the stars were made by such beings as the Dagda with his cauldron, or the other multiplicity of gods behaving, often as not, like foolish, cruel children? Could this world be made by anything other than a supreme being so great, so all-embracing, that He passes our understanding?”
Did he expect her to reply? She wasn’t sure. She was so astonished to hear him speaking in this way that she would hardly have known what to say in any case.
“When I was a druid,” he continued quietly, “I often felt such things. I felt the presence of an eternal God, Deirdre, I felt it when I performed the morning and evening prayers, I felt it in the great silences when I was alone, yet without truly understanding what it was that I felt.” He smiled. “But now, Deirdre, I do understand. All these feelings come from the one, true God which the whole of Christendom knows.
“And the wonder of it is,” he went on, “that there is no need for any further sacrifice. You know, I suppose, why we are called Christians.” He briefly outlined the life of Jesus Christ. “God gave His only Son to be sacrificed on a cross. That sacrifice was made for all men and for all time.” He smiled. “Think of it, Deirdre: there is no need for any blood sacrifice, neither of man nor of beast. The ultimate sacrifice has already been made. We are free. All sacrifices are over.” He watched her as he gave her this news.
She was silent for a moment.
“And this is the message you preach now, in contrast to the druids?”
“I do. And it is a comforting message. For the true God is not a greedy or a vengeful god, Deirdre. He is a loving God. He wants only that we should love one another and live in peace. That is the finest faith I can think of, and I want no other. I have no doubt,” he added, “that it’s the truth.”
“Are you the only druid to become a Christian?”
“By no means. Many of the priests of the old religion are violently opposed. That is what you would expect. But some of the most learned of us have taken an interest for a long time. The Christian Church, you know, holds all the learning of the Roman world.”
Deirdre frowned. She still wasn’t sure what to make of this.
“But you had to abandon everything you had believed before.”
“Not entirely. For some of us, as I said, the new faith was really what we had been looking for all the time. As a Christian priest, I experience the same sense of things. The world is just as full of poetry. Do you remember the words of Amairgen’s great poem?
I am the Wind on the Sea
“One of our bishops has made a hymn, to the Creator of Creation—the one God, that is—and one of its verses is rather similar. Listen to this:
I arise today
Through the strength of heaven:
Light of sun,
Radiance of moon,
Splendour of fire,
Speed of lightning,
Swiftness of wind,
Depth of sea,
Stability of earth,
Firmness of rock.
“The inspiration is the same, but we recognise the true source of it.” He smiled and pointed to his shaven head. “You see, as a Christian priest, I didn’t even have to change my druid’s tonsure.”
“I suppose so.” She frowned. “And who,” she asked, “converted you?”
“Ah. A good question. A man called Bishop Patrick. A great man. It was he who made the poem, actually.”
Deirdre received this information but made no further comment. The fact was that her mind was working rapidly. The visit of Larine, with his startling new identity and his still more surprising message, might take a little time to sink in, but certain things seemed clear. There could hardly be any doubt of his sincerity; and whatever her feelings about the past, she was touched by his obvious goodwill. As for his religious message, she was less certain. Perhaps she was tempted by it; certainly she had little love for the sacrifices of the druids and their cruel gods. But it was another thought now that was forming in her mind.
“You said you had come to see me and my son. You wish to convert us?”
“Certainly.” He smiled. “I have found the light, Deirdre, and it has brought me joy and peace of mind. Naturally I wish to share that joy with others.” He paused. “But there is more than that. After all that has passed, I owe it to Conall to bring the Gospel to you and to his son.”
She nodded slowly. Yes, she thought, yes, this might be the way. The persuasive bishop, his father’s old friend, might be the one who could offer her a way out of her dilemma about Morna. At least, she considered, it was worth a try. So now, gazing at him steadily, she informed him: “You should understand something, Larine. Morna has never been told about how his father died. I couldn’t bear to. We all thought it was for the best. So he knows nothing.”
“I see.” Larine certainly looked surprised. “Do you mean,” he asked, “that you don’t want me to say anything either?”
“No.” She shook her head. “No, Larine, I think it is time that he should know. And I want you to tell him. Will you do that?”
“If that is what you wish.”
“Tell him what really happened, Larine. Tell him how the High King and his druids murdered his father. Tell him of the evil of it,” she continued passionately. “Tell him of your new and better God, if you like. Tell him, above all, to avoid the king and his druids. Will you do that for me?”
Did Larine look awkward for just a moment? She did not see why he should. Wasn’t this what he wanted? And wouldn’t it solve her greatest difficulty if Morna was sufficiently impressed with Larine’s Christian message to want to avoid the druids’ rites? If she told him about the High King’s invitation after that, he probably wouldn’t even want to go to the pagan feis at Tara. With luck, if they could keep him out of sight for a while, he should be able to avoid the attention of the High King in the future.
“I will do what I can,” said Larine, cautiously.
“That is good.” She smiled. And she was just wondering whether to tell Larine the whole story of the royal invitation and to ask for his advice, when their conversation was brought to an abrupt halt by the sudden appearance in the doorway of Morna himself.
“Who are these visitors?” he asked cheerfully.
And Larine gasped.
How strange, Larine thought, as he walked beside the young man down the slope towards the water. He had come to Dubh Linn expecting, in a sense, to put a painful memory to rest; yet instead, the past was coming alive before his very eyes with a vividness that was almost frightening.
For it was Conall himself who was walking beside him. True, young Morna had his mother’s strange green eyes. But his dark hair and his aquiline good looks were Conall to the life. It was as if his friend had arisen from the dead. Dear God, he even had his father’s gentle voice. And when the young man smiled at him, Larine felt as though someone had struck a druid’s knife into his heart.
It was easy enough to introduce the subject he had come to speak about; for as soon as Mor
na learned that Larine had been a friend of his father’s, he was eager to know all that the former druid could tell him. He was fascinated to hear about the prince’s poetic and religious nature. “I thought of him only as a warrior,” he said.
“He was a warrior, and a fine one,” Larine assured him, “but he was far more than that.” And he explained how Conall had wanted to be a druid. From there, it was only a little while before he told Morna about the sacrifice. The young man was astounded.
“And you yourself took part?”
“I was a druid. I was his friend. It was his own wish, Morna. He gave himself up as a sacrifice for the people of the island. The noblest thing a man can do. Your father died a hero’s death,” he told him. “You can be very proud. But now,” he continued, seeing that Morna was much impressed, “let me tell you about another person who gave himself up as a sacrifice.”
It was with great feeling that Larine explained to his friend’s son the powerful message of the Christian faith. “The old gods,” he concluded, “have yielded their place to the Supreme Deity. Just think of it, Morna: instead of a sacrifice to save a harvest, Our Saviour sacrificed Himself to save the whole world, not for a season but for all eternity.”
If Larine’s presentation of the faith to this young man, so obviously hungry to emulate the heroic father he had never known, was subtly different from the case he had made to Deirdre, he was pleased to see that it seemed to be effective.
“Do you think my father would have been a Christian,” he asked, “if he’d had the chance?”
“There is not a doubt of it,” Larine replied. “We’d have been Christians together. How I wish,” he sighed, “that he were here to join with me now. We’d have walked this path together.” He said it with real emotion.
“I could take his place,” Morna said eagerly.
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