Princes of Ireland

by Edward Rutherfurd

  “You are so like him,” Larine answered. “That would bring me great joy.” He nodded reflectively. “You might say, the circle would be complete.”

  They were standing beside the river. Now they turned to go back to the rath. Morna was clearly excited. As the former druid glanced at him, did he feel, just for a moment, a pang of guilt at what he was doing? He thought of his plan. Was he making use of the son of Conall for his own ends? No, he told himself. He was bringing the family of Conall into the light. If, in so doing, he was serving the larger cause of the mission, then so much the better. For that was an even greater cause. And his sense of mission was strong.

  By the time they entered the rath again, Deirdre and the slaves were preparing the meal, and Ronan and Rian had returned. The two brothers were already engaged in a conversation with the young priest who had accompanied Larine. He was a decent man from Ulster whom Larine had converted a few years ago, and the brothers seemed to like him; but when they saw Larine, they were careful to be respectful. As a former druid, the bishop was clearly not a man to be crossed. They chatted for a while. He made the usual small conversation, spoke about Ulster and the harvest up there; and this led easily enough to a brief account of his mission. They listened politely as he outlined some of the essentials of the Christian faith. It was hard to tell what they thought, but he had the impression that they would probably follow Morna and Deirdre in most things. Before long they were called inside to eat.

  It was when the household had all gathered in the big thatched hut, and Larine had blessed the food, that he made the announcement.

  “Tonight, my friends, we eat together, and enjoy the excellent hospitality of this house. But now I must tell you that tomorrow you will receive a far greater guest than I. For I have come only to prepare the way for him; whereas he will come to preach and to baptise.” He paused impressively. “It is Bishop Patrick himself I am speaking of.”

  This was a technique that Larine had used before with success. He, the former druid, would go into an area where Bishop Patrick was not known to prepare the path for the great man and make sure the audience understood the importance of their visitor. Briefly, he said a few words about the missionary. He outlined the bishop’s ancestry—for it was always important, in the ancient society of the western island, that his hearers should know that Patrick was a man of noble birth in his own right. That, for a start, would gain their respect. He gave them some account of how he was captured, of his years on the island as a slave, and of his subsequent return. He also named some of the princes in the north who had given Patrick their protection and had even been converted. This information, too, would impress his hearers. He also gave some indications of the great man’s character.

  “He is a prince of the Church; to his followers, his word is law,” he explained. “And yet, like other men who have reached the high places of the spirit, he has a great simplicity. He is austere. He honours all women, but he is entirely celibate. He is humble. He is also quite without fear. People have sometimes threatened him for preaching the Gospel, but it never has any effect.”

  “He has a terrible temper,” the young priest added with some relish.

  “It is not often seen,” Larine gently corrected, “but it is true that his rebuke is terrible. But now,” he said with a smile at Deirdre, “let us attend to this feast.”

  Deirdre was proud of the meal she had prepared. There was a watercress salad; several meat dishes, including the traditional pork for an honoured guest; stewed apples; cheese; and ale—the best of the island’s fare. When Larine complimented her warmly on the food and was joined by a chorus of approval, she knew that she had deserved it.

  If it was strange that the Christian bishop should be sitting amongst them while in the background the drinking skull of Erc the Warrior gave a pale and ghostly glimmer in the firelight, it did not seem to strike anyone. Larine talked easily to the men, speaking of everyday things. He told them about events up in Ulster, and encouraged them to tell him stories about old Fergus. The conversation was light and cheerful. The only time he mentioned the subject of religion came after they had already finished the main courses, when he turned to her and remarked: “It may take a generation or two, Deirdre, but once it has established a sound foundation, it’s inevitable that the true religion will triumph here on the island, just as it has in every other land where it has come. The communities down in Munster and here in Leinster are still small and scattered, but they have protectors and they are starting to grow. And now Bishop Patrick is making great strides in Ulster, especially with the princes.” He smiled. “Once the princes are convinced, you see, their people will follow.”

  “You do not think the druids could bring people back to the old faith, once they have known the new?” she asked.

  “I don’t. At the end of the day, our pagan gods are only superstition. Idols. Before the higher understanding, they must fall away.”

  Deirdre was not so sure about this last assertion. It seemed to her that the druids and their gods would not so easily retreat, but she said nothing. She would have liked at this point to have told Larine about the invitation of Morna to Tara and to have asked his advice, but the others would have heard, and so she said nothing. But shortly afterwards, watching the bishop and her son conversing happily and seeing the admiration in the young man’s face, it seemed to her that it shouldn’t be a difficult matter for Larine to persuade him to avoid the pagan ceremonies. And so she sat back with a sense of comfort and well-being and let the talk go on around her. Her mind even wandered a little. She saw Larine say something to Morna and saw her son look surprised. Then, suddenly, she was all attention. What was he saying? She stared.

  At first, when he said it, she thought she had misheard.

  “The High King’s feis,” Larine repeated. “I wondered when you were leaving for Tara. As you’re taking part.”

  “Myself? Taking part?” Morna was looking slightly bemused. “The keeper of the ford provides hospitality to the important men on their way up to Tara,” he explained, “but I wouldn’t be going there myself.”

  Now, however, it was Larine who was confused.

  “But you can hardly fail to obey your kinsman the High King when he has summoned you,” he said.

  “The High King has summoned me?” Morna looked blank.

  Deirdre went cold. Larine appeared strangely put out. But nobody was looking at her yet. They hadn’t guessed. How, she wondered, had Larine known of the king’s summons to the young chief at Dubh Linn? Hadn’t he told her he never went near the High King now? She supposed that, as in times past, Larine probably had sources of information in many places. But what should she do? Was this the moment to confess the truth? She couldn’t see a way out. But she decided, just for a few more moments, to play for time. Besides, there was something that was puzzling her.

  “At the feis,” she pointed out quietly, “it will be the druids who conduct the ceremonies.”

  “Of course,” agreed Larine.

  “There will be sacrifices.”

  “Of animals. Yes.”

  “And the king will mate with a mare?”

  “I imagine he may.”

  “Would you take part in such a pagan rite yourself?” she asked Larine.

  “It would not be appropriate.”

  “So if Morna becomes a Christian, he should avoid such a pagan rite, surely?”

  Larine hesitated only a moment.

  “If the High King summoned Morna to come, it would be difficult, I should say, for him to refuse. I should not insist upon it. In fact …” He stopped. Then he looked at her shrewdly. “So tell me, Deirdre, how is it that Morna does not know that he has been summoned by the High King?”

  They were turning to her now. She was silent. Morna was frowning.

  “Mother?”

  Her brothers were staring, too. It was no good. She was going to have to confess what she had done. She was going to be humiliated in front of them. She could see it.
Her brothers were going to blame her. And Morna … much as he loved her, he would curse her, too. She knew it. Her hopeless, desperate plans, her plans that suddenly looked so foolish, were all unravelling. She gazed miserably at Larine, and saw a little glint of expectation in his eye.

  And then, suddenly, she understood.

  “This is why you’re here,” she cried. “This is what you came for. You came for Morna because you thought he was going to Tara.”

  Yes, a faint shadow of guilt had passed across Larine’s face. Morna was about to intervene, but she cut him off.

  “You don’t understand,” she snapped at her son. “He’s using you.”

  She saw it all. Larine might be a bishop, she thought, but he was still Larine; and he had come again, in a different guise, as he had come before. All her old memories came flooding back: the black mist of birds, the raucous trumpets, the body of Conall daubed in red. “You’re just another sacrifice,” she said bitterly.

  Larine was clever. You couldn’t deny it. What was it he’d said? Convert the princes first. That was his game. If you couldn’t get to the prince, then get to his family circle. He’d heard that the new king was taking an interest in young Morna. So of course he wanted to convert him. Then he could insinuate a convert into the circle of the High King himself.

  “What’s the plan?” she demanded. “For Morna to reveal that he’s a Christian at the feis?” Morna, the image of his father, Conall, the kinsman of the High King who had given his life for the druids and their pagan gods—Morna was to arrive and say he was a Christian? At Tara itself, the sacred royal site? At the inauguration? It would create a sensation. “Or do you prefer he should conceal his faith until he has made the High King his friend?” That might be even better for Larine. If the High King and his family took a liking to the handsome boy. Of course they would. How could they not? Then in due course he would reveal he was a Christian.

  Either way it was a brilliant move, an insidious undermining of the ancient pagan order.

  And what would become of Morna? If he revealed his religion at Tara, the High King could hardly tolerate it, and the druids would probably kill him on the spot. If he gained the king’s friendship and confessed his new faith later, he would still, at the least, incur the druids’ undying enmity.

  “They’ll destroy you,” she cried to her son. “They’ll kill you just as they killed your father.”

  Larine was shaking his head.

  “Mother,” the young man protested, “Larine is our friend.”

  “You don’t know him,” she answered furiously.

  “He is our guest.”

  “No more!” She struck the table and rose to her feet. “Traitor!” She pointed her finger at him. “You can change your shape but never your nature. You are always the same, and I know you. The same cunning fox. Leave!”

  Now Larine had risen to his feet also. He was white and shaking with fury. The priest who accompanied him had risen, too.

  “This is no way to treat a guest in your house, Deirdre,” Larine protested. “Especially a Christian man of peace.”

  “A man of blood!” she shouted.

  “I am a bishop of the Holy Church.”

  “Deceiver.”

  “We’ll not sleep in this house,” Larine said with dignity.

  “Sleep with the pigs,” she rejoined, and watched as, followed by his people, he stalked out into the darkness. Her brothers, after a moment’s pause and a rather bewildered look at her, followed after them, presumably to arrange their sleeping quarters in one of the other huts. That left herself and Morna.

  He did not speak. She wondered what to say. For a moment, she almost said, I’m sorry. But she was afraid to do so. In the end, she said, “I’m right, you know.”

  He did not reply.

  She began, angrily, to help the slaves clear up the remains of the meal. He silently helped her, but kept at a distance. Neither of them spoke. After they had finished her brother Ronan returned.

  “They’re in the barn,” he said, and seemed about to say more; but she silenced him with a look. Only then did Morna speak.

  “There is something, Mother, you seem to have forgotten.”

  “What is that?” She suddenly felt weary.

  “It is not for you to tell our guests to leave. I am the chief now.”

  “It was for your own good.”

  “I will be the judge of that. Not you.”

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Ronan smirk.

  “You have also deceived me, Mother,” Morna went on quietly. “It is true, isn’t it, that the High King summoned me to Tara?”

  “I was going to tell you.” She paused. “I was afraid. After your father …” She trailed off. How could she ever explain it all to him? “You do not know the danger,” she said.

  “I must go to Tara, Mother.”

  She nodded her head sadly. Yes, he would have to go.

  “But do not go as a Christian, Morna. I beg you. At least do not do that.”

  “I will decide that also.” His words felt like a heavy stone hung round her neck. She sagged. “I am going outside now, to apologise to Larine. If he comes back inside, you will be courteous to him. But it may be better if you sleep in the barn yourself.” He left.

  Ronan remained. He was looking at her curiously. She supposed that after all the years in which she had been the dominant force in the household, and after his humiliation at being passed over for the position of chief, he probably took some satisfaction in her own. In a little while, Morna came back.

  Not surprisingly, Larine had declined to return.

  The situation the following morning was not good. The Christians were outside, but had announced that they would not be leaving until Bishop Patrick arrived. No doubt they were looking forward to watching the missionary from the north exhibit his famous temper. Deirdre knew that she should apologise, but since her brothers were standing truculently with the visitors, she could not bring herself to do so. She had told the slaves to feed them and a large bowl of porridge had been prepared. Morna was outside also, but had tactfully decided to occupy himself with the animals. She had no idea what he was thinking.

  The morning wore on. Larine seemed to be spending his time in prayer. His followers were talking to her brothers. At one point Ronan came in and remarked: “There’s a lot in what these Christians say, Sister. They tell us you’ll be going to eternal hellfire.” Then he went out again.

  It was nearly midday when one of the slaves announced that a chariot was approaching. Larine rose, looked through the gateway of the rath, and went out. A long pause followed. Obviously the two bishops were conferring. Perhaps, Deirdre thought, as she followed Larine to the gateway, Bishop Patrick would go away.

  The cortege which had halted a short distance in front of the entrance to the rath consisted of a chariot, a large wagon, and several horsemen. The chariot, which led the way, was magnificent and could have been a king’s. Deirdre had to admit she was impressed. From the wagons, a number of priests were emerging; there seemed to be five of them, along with the several young men on the horses who, by their rich dress and golden ornaments, were clearly sons of princes. They were forming a little procession. The priests were dressed in white. From the chariot she now saw a grey-haired man descending, also in white. He was not especially tall, but he stood very upright. He took his place just behind the priests, with Larine behind him and followed by the rest of the party. The single priest who led the procession now raised a tall staff in the air. It was not a cross, such as Larine had brought, but at the end of the long shaft was a curved head, like a shepherd’s crook, polished so that it shone. When the priest raised it high in the air, it gleamed in the sun.

  Slowly the procession came towards the gateway. Deirdre and the family watched silently. She noticed that all the slaves had come out to the side of the track and that they were kneeling. The procession reached the gateway and started to enter the rath. But when the bishop from the north
reached the entrance, he stopped, knelt down, and kissed the ground. Then, straightening, he passed inside. They drew up in front of the doorway to the house. There was nothing else, in courtesy, that she or her family could do but welcome him and offer him the usual hospitality. As soon as this was done, the man from Ulster gave her a kindly smile, and in a clear voice announced: “Gratias agamus.”

  Deirdre realised that this was Latin, but did not know what it meant.

  “Let us give thanks,” Larine called out.

  So this, thought Deirdre, was Bishop Patrick.

  There was no mistaking his authority. He had a fine, aristocratic face. His eyes were very clear and sharp, but there was something special—she could see it at once—an aura of spirituality that seemed to radiate from him, and which was impressive. With two priests close behind him, he started on a little tour of inspection. First he went over to where two of the female slaves were still kneeling, briefly inspected their hands and their teeth, nodded, apparently satisfied, and proceeded to her brothers. He looked at them only briefly, then he moved on. He came to Morna and looked long and hard at him, while Morna blushed. Then he said something in Latin to Larine. Deirdre had not known the clever druid spoke Latin nowadays.

  “What does he say?” she demanded.

  “That your son has an honest face.”

  Bishop Patrick was coming to her now. She was conscious that before he reached her, she had already been keenly observed. She was aware of his thinning grey hair as he bowed his head courteously before her.

  As he moved on to inspect two more of the slaves, Morna was standing at her side. She could see that the bishop had greatly impressed him.

  Bishop Patrick had completed his circle. He glanced across to Larine, nodded his head in a way that indicated that Larine should stay where he was, and then returned to Deirdre and Morna.

  “I am sorry for your trouble, Deirdre, daughter of Fergus,” he said to her. He was speaking in her own tongue now. His eyes, looking out from under a thatch of grey eyebrows, seemed to see everything. “I hear you were a good daughter.”