The Princes of Ireland

by Edward Rutherfurd

  No one came near them. There was no reason why they should. The nearby headland was deserted. On the main shore opposite, there was no one but the widow. A little farther up the coast there was a much larger island opposite an inlet. Nobody lived on the island, and the few fishermen by the inlet only occasionally went out to it.

  Even if anyone had thought of venturing in their direction, Conall had taken care to tell the old woman that he wanted to be alone, and she had no doubt passed this information on to the fishermen at the inlet. Druids who lived as hermits were not unknown; and it would be a foolhardy person indeed who risked a druid’s curse by disturbing him when he wanted to be left alone.

  The only thing, for the time being, that concerned Conall was that their island was so small. There was a beach to walk around, a grassy headland to climb, and a few trees, but that, and some rock pools, was all. Wouldn’t Deirdre grow restless? Surprisingly, it did not seem so. She appeared to be content. But several times, on moonlit nights, he had taken her in the curragh across to the headland, and they had climbed up to the top and from there they had gazed together not only northwards, at their little refuge, but southwards across the whole sweeping bay past Dubh Linn and the Liffey’s estuary to the southern headland and the silent, volcanic shapes of the Wicklow Mountains stretching down the coast, bathed in the silver moonlight.

  “It is a pity you cannot visit them,” he had remarked the first time, gesturing towards her family’s rath, dimly visible above the estuary.

  “It does not matter,” she said. “I have you.” And he hoped that it was true.

  Yet as the months went on, in addition to his happiness with Deirdre, Conall was surprised to discover another profound contentment. For if he had always supposed that the company of a woman would somehow interfere with the contemplative thoughts that occupied his mind, so far this had not proved to be the case. Quite the reverse in fact. Partly it was the silence of the place; certainly the fact that she instinctively understood that he needed to be left alone with his thoughts; and perhaps also, more than he realised himself, the fact that he was now free of his old identity. But whatever the causes, in the rhythm of their life he found a sense of peace, of freshness and renewal. His disguise, indeed, had become a new reality; for effectively he had now become a druid. Each day, in his mind, he would go over the vast stock of knowledge he already possessed. Each morning and evening he would watch the sea and listen to the waves. And sometimes, losing his sense of personal identity entirely, he would stand in a trance and, like the poet Amairgen, quietly recite: “I am the Wind on the Sea, I am the Ocean Wave.”

  So autumn passed into a mild winter, and winter into spring. Then, in late spring, Deirdre told him she was pregnant.

  By the midsummer after Finbarr’s return, it seemed the harvest would be a good one. In the little fields by farmsteads all over the island, the grain was ripening. The weather was fine. Lughnasa came and immediately afterwards, the High King began a tour of Leinster. He was encamped near the Slieve Bloom Mountains when the great darkness fell.

  Larine would always remember how it began. He had noticed the long banks of cloud along the horizon at sunset, but it was not until he awoke in the middle of the night that he noticed that the stars had been snuffed out. Then the night ended, but it still remained dark. “The dawn,” men called it afterwards, “which was no dawn.” All morning the sky remained not grey but black. Then it turned brown. Then it rained.

  It was not a storm; it was a downpour. But unlike any downpour that he had seen before, it lasted seven days. Every stream became a torrent, every riverbank a lake. Swans floated across the meadows; and in the fields, turned into muddy swamps, stood only the crushed and sodden stalks of harvest’s ruin. The High King went north into Ulster.

  It was early September when he sent for Larine. The druid found him subdued.

  “Three harvests lost, Larine.” He shook his head. “It’s myself they blame.” He relapsed into silence.

  “What is it you wish?”

  “When Conall shamed me …” the king began heavily, then sighed. “The Dagda, they say, punishes kings who are mocked. Is it true?”

  “I do not know.”

  “I must find him, Larine. But it isn’t easy. My men failed. Finbarr failed. None of the druids or the filidh can tell me where he is.” It had been a source of profound relief to the druid that the High King had not killed Finbarr for his failure as he had threatened. Larine had had the chance to question them closely, especially Finbarr, after their return, on the course their travels had taken and the places they had searched; but though he had considered carefully, he had not so far received any definite sense of where his friend Conall might be.

  The High King looked up bleakly from under his heavy eyebrows. “Can you tell me, Larine?”

  “I will try,” the druid promised, and went away to prepare himself.

  He had to wait a day or two, for the days in the druid’s calendar were clearly marked as lucky or unlucky for rituals of this kind. But as soon as the time was propitious, he got ready.

  The holy men of the Celtic world used many methods to see into the future. “Imbas” they called it: divining. The salmon, it was said, could impart wisdom and prophecy to some. Ravens could speak, if you knew what spells to use and how to listen. Even ordinary men, sometimes, could hear voices from the sea. But the method particularly favoured by the initiated class made use of the act of chewing. Some druids achieved powers of vision simply by chewing their thumb; but this was only a quick substitute for the proper method which was a version of one of the most ancient ceremonies known to man: the taking of a sacred meal.

  Upon the day, Larine got up, washed himself carefully, and put on his druid’s cloak of feathers. Next, he spent some little time in prayer, attempting to empty his mind of anything that might interfere with his receiving whatever message the gods were pleased to send him. Then he went to the small hut where, the night before, he had prepared everything in readiness. Two other druids were guarding the entrance to ensure that nobody disturbed the sacred rite.

  Inside the hut was bare except for a small table and three stands. On one stand was a little figure of the sun god, the Dagda; on another, the goddess Maeve, patroness of royal Tara; and on the third, Nuadu of the Silver Hand. On the table, on a silver dish, were three strips of meat. This might be the flesh of pig, dog, or other animal, and Larine had chosen dog. At a nod from him, the two druids outside drew the door at the entrance closed and after standing in silent prayer a few moments longer, Larine went to the dish. Taking one of the strips of meat, he chewed it carefully, showed it to one of the gods, and placed it behind the door. The process was repeated two more times, before he made a polite obeisance in front of each of the gods and said another prayer. Then, lying down on the floor, he placed the palms of his hands on his cheeks and closing his eyes, prepared to receive their message.

  There were many techniques, but the aim of all holy men, from the druids in the west to the shamans of Siberia, was always the same: to enter a trance in which the gods could communicate. For some time Larine lay still. It was silent. He emptied his mind. And then—he could not say how long it was—he felt himself beginning to float. Whether he had actually left the ground he had no idea. It was irrelevant. His body was no longer important. He was smoke from a fire, a cloud. He drifted.

  When he came out of his trance, he went to the door and tapped three times. The two druids opened it and he stepped out. Then he went to the king.

  “I saw the place,” he explained. “They are there.” And he described the little island with its cleft rock. “But whether it is on the north coast or the south, the east or the west, I did not see.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell?”

  “I saw Fergus led by Nuadu of the Silver Hand walking across the sea in moonlight to speak with Deirdre while she slept.”

  “So he knows where she is?”

  “That I don’t know. Perhaps.” />
  “I shall send Finbarr to him,” said the High King.

  It was evening when Finbarr came to Dubh Linn. He came with only his hound and his charioteer for company.

  He came sadly, but also with determination in his heart. The High King had made his position brutally plain. “You failed before, Finbarr, and there was no punishment. This time there will be.” They both knew why. When he had returned from his long search with the two chiefs, they had been so emphatic about his efforts to find Conall that to punish him would have looked petulant and weak. But the case now was different. He was being sent alone to find his friend. A respected druid had described the place where Conall was. The High King, after three failed harvests, could not afford any more failures.

  And truth to tell, after so many months of searching and of trouble, Finbarr was beginning to feel some resentment towards his friend.

  Fergus was at his rath and greeted him in a friendly manner. They went inside and even before any refreshment was brought Finbarr said to the old man, quietly but firmly, “Fergus, we know that you know where Deirdre is.”

  Yet, carefully though he observed him, Finbarr could have sworn that the chief was sincere when he looked at him sadly and replied, “I wish that I did.”

  So Finbarr told him of the druid’s vision and described the island that Larine had seen. And then Fergus knew where his daughter was.

  “I do not know that place,” he said.

  “I shall stay here until you do,” Finbarr replied.

  Fergus hesitated, considering his options.

  “There may be an island like that some way along the coast,” he said at last. “We could look for it tomorrow.” He ordered food and wine; and since Finbarr was tired after his journey, when darkness had fallen, he slept. When everyone in the rath was asleep, Fergus silently got up and went out. He took a little curragh of skins and put it on his back; because he was afraid of waking his visitors, he did not take a horse, but went down to the hurdles on foot and crossed the Liffey and started towards the headland that Deirdre had loved. His long legs easily covered the distance, but whenever he could, with the curragh on his back, the old man ran.

  It was late in the night when Fergus came to the shore. A three-quarter moon was high in the sky and the sea was calm. Then he put his curragh in the water and crossed to the island and found Deirdre and Conall asleep in each other’s arms. And he woke them, and when Deirdre saw him, she flung her arms around him. And seeing how they were, and that his daughter was to have a child, Fergus wept.

  It did not take the chief long to tell them what happened and to warn them, “You have only till morning before he finds you.” But what were they to do? “You’ll have to leave here tonight,” he said, though as he looked at his daughter he could not help adding, “for how long, Deirdre, can you run?”

  It was the problem that had concerned Conall all summer. Deirdre was not due to have her child until after midwinter, and she seemed strong and well. Conall had hoped that by now it might have been possible to cross the sea, but his secret trips along the coast had not been encouraging. Every harbour was still being watched. More than once he had wondered if she should go to her father. Surely, even if discovered, the king would not harm a helpless mother and child. But Deirdre was against it, and it had been she who hit upon an ingenious solution.

  “Take me to the shore when my time is near. I will tell the old widow I am an abandoned woman. She will help me.” She smiled.

  “Then perhaps the druid from the island will pass by and look at me.”

  “And then?”

  “You will find a way for us to leave, in due course.”

  Conall had supposed that this plan of action might work, but he was not sure; and as each day went by his secret misgivings had grown. So now, almost before he had time to think about it, he heard himself say, “Perhaps if I can draw Finbarr away, Deirdre can remain with you.”

  Fergus, for a moment, said nothing. Though he saw her pale and anxious face, he was lost in his own thoughts. What would be the consequences for him, and his two sons, if he were discovered hiding Deirdre? Did he really want the daughter he loved back in his house? And thinking how little he had managed to do for her, he felt ashamed.

  “Dubh Linn is her home,” he said, “and always will be.” But taking Conall by the arm he added, “You must get her off the island by dawn. For in the morning, I shall have to bring Finbarr along the coast. Once Finbarr has gone, let her come to the rath at night and I’ll find a way to hide her.” Then, anxious to return to the rath before he was missed, he set off back across the water.

  The moon was still some way above the horizon when he started to walk back along the shore. On his left, the high hump of the headland rose darkly; hurrying as best he could, it was not long before he reached the foot of the low ridge from the top of which he would see the broad expanse of the Dubh Linn bay. Pausing only for a moment to take a few, deep breaths, the old man started up. The track was easy going. He saw the line of the ridge ahead, outlined against the starry sky. There were a few clumps of trees and bushes along the way.

  He was nearing the top when he heard the jingle of a harness and the snort of a horse just ahead. He stopped and stared at the clump of bushes from behind which the sound had come. Then from the shadow, a large shape emerged.

  It was a chariot. It wheeled to face him down the slope, and from the chariot came Finbarr’s voice.

  “Thank you, Fergus, for showing me the way.”

  At last she was ready. She knew she could delay no longer; the sky was still full of stars, but there was now a hint of paleness in the east across the sea.

  She had taken as long as she could. The island was her sanctuary: once she left it, she sensed, she would never be safe again. Perhaps, Conall had told her, they might be able to return there. Was it possible? She glanced at Conall. He had been standing with his back to her for a long time now, staring silently across at the shore.

  The plan they had formed was simple enough. They would cross to the shore now, make their way inland, and hide in the woods. If Finbarr came to inspect the island, he would find only the little hut. The old woman at the shore would tell him that she had never seen anyone but the wandering druid at the place. In due course he would give up and go away. And then? Perhaps they might return to the island. Or Deidre might go to her father. Or they might still escape across the sea. Who knew?

  She rose and walked over to Conall. He did not move. She stood beside him, and touched his arm.

  “I am ready,” she whispered. But Conall only shook his head.

  “Too late,” he said, and pointed. As she stared into the darkness she saw the shadow of Finbarr’s chariot waiting on the shore; and before she could catch the words, they came out: “Oh Conall, I cannot go back. I should die.”

  They stood there watching, as the light grew and the sea turned grey, and the chariot became a hard, dark shape on the beach. Then Conall said, “I must go to him now.” She managed to keep him with her a little longer; but though she still tried to hold him back, as the lightness on the horizon grew he finally pulled himself away, and took the curragh and went across alone.

  He was halfway across when she saw the fiery edge of the sun break over the horizon and realised that Conall, breaking the second of the geissi, was crossing the sea with the rising sun behind him. She cried out, “Conall! The sun!”

  But if he heard her, he did not turn back.

  Finbarr did not move. He had been standing in his chariot, still as a stone, since long before the dawn. During this time, he had pondered: would he feel any of the old love for his friend? Did he feel sorrow or only frustration? He hardly knew. But he did know what had to be done and so, perhaps afraid of his own emotions, he had hardened his heart. Yet now, as Conall came across the water and drew closer, it was none of these, but an entirely different emotion that he felt. It was surprise. And wonder.

  He should have realised, he remembered, after what the old
woman had told him when he came that way before, that the figure who came from the island would look like a druid. But it was more than that. As Conall reached the beach and started walking towards him, Finbarr experienced the strangest sensation. Seeing him now, coming out of the waves, with his head shaved like a druid, dressed simply as a hermit, it was as if he were looking not at Conall but at Conall’s ghost. For if Conall had died and returned from the Isles of the Blessed, then surely this was how he would have appeared. It was the inner spirit, the very essence of the man he had loved, who now drew near like a sorrowful shade. A few paces away, Conall stopped and calmly nodded.

  “You know, Conall, why I am here.” Finbarr found his voice was husky.

  “It is a pity you came, Finbarr. It can do you no good.”

  Was that all his friend had to say to him?

  “It’s more than a year I’ve been looking for you,” he burst out.

  “What are your orders from the High King?” Conall asked quietly.

  “To bring you both safely back.”

  “Deirdre will not come, and I shall not leave her.”

  “That is all that matters—yourself and Deirdre?”

  “It seems so.”

  “It does not concern you, Conall,” he could not keep the bitterness out of his voice, “that there have been three years of bad harvests, that poor people are only kept from starving by what the chiefs can give them, and that all this is blamed upon you for the way you have shamed the High King, your uncle?”

  “Who says this?” Conall looked a little shaken.

  “The druids say it, Conall, and the filidh, and the bards.” He took a deep breath. “And I say it, too.”

  Conall paused thoughtfully before replying, and when he did so it seemed to be with sadness.