The Princes of Ireland

by Edward Rutherfurd

  It was not, in any case, his potential as a warrior that had so impressed his grandfather. It was his quality of mind. It showed in all he did. By the time he was ten, Fergus made him sit at his side whenever people came to him for justice. After some years, the boy knew almost as much as he did of the island’s ancient brehon laws. He delighted in the knottier kinds of problem. If a man sold a single cow and then a month later she produced a calf, to whom did the calf belong: the new or the former owner? If a man built a water mill powered by a stream that came down from another man’s land, did the latter have a right to use the water mill free of charge? And subtlest of all, which of two twins was the elder, the firstborn or the second? Elsewhere in Europe, it was the firstborn, but not always on the western island. “For if he comes out behind the other,” Morna reasoned, “then he must have been in there first. So the second-born is the elder.”

  His sons would never have worked that out, Fergus thought. Unless the case concerned themselves, such abstract problems did not interest them.

  There was something else about Morna, something hard to define. It showed in his love of music, for he played beautifully on the harp. It showed in his bearing—and it went beyond his dark good looks. Even as a youth, he had the dignity of old Fergus; but there was something more, a magical quality which drew people to him. He was royal.

  It had not been easy, deciding what to tell Morna about his royal ancestry. Deirdre had wanted to tell him nothing. “He’ll get no good from that quarter,” she had argued, “anymore than his father did.” Royal blood was a curse, rather than a blessing. Her father didn’t disagree with that assessment.

  “But we have to tell him something,” he said. Morna was ten when his grandfather finally broached the subject.

  “Your father had royal blood on his mother’s side,” he informed him one day. “But it didn’t do him any good. The High King took a dislike to him. It was the king who sent Finbarr to kill him.”

  “Would the High King hate me, too?” the boy had asked.

  “He’s probably forgotten you exist,” Fergus replied, “and you’re better off if he has. You’re safe enough here at Dubh Linn,” he added; and since Morna nodded quietly, the old man assumed he had accepted what had been said.

  As for his mother’s role in the quarrel with the king and the sacrifice of Conall, Fergus gave orders to his sons and all his people that these things were never to be mentioned in the boy’s presence. And indeed, few people would have been inclined to do so anyway. The subject of the prince who had been sacrificed was something to be spoken of sparingly, in hushed tones. Many felt a sense of awkwardness about it; some openly said that the druids had been wrong to do it. The matter, by common consent, was best forgotten. A gentle and protective conspiracy of silence had arisen in the area. And if, occasionally, a traveller were to ask what had become of Conall’s woman, nobody even seemed to have heard of her.

  As the years had passed, and nobody came to trouble them, Deirdre had found a sense of peace. Her position as matriarch of the family was assured, for neither of her brothers had wives, and Fergus relied upon her entirely. People in the area treated her with respect. And when, that summer, news came that the old High King had died, she had felt at last that she was free: the past could be laid to rest; Morna was safe. Morna—the future.

  She did not know why her father had called them together. At his summons, however, her brothers had obediently come in from the pasture and Morna from the river, and they had all gone into the house. Now they waited to hear what he had to say.

  He was a stately old figure, sitting upright, wrapped in a cloak by the fire. His face was pale and gaunt, but his sunken eyes were still piercing. He motioned Morna to stand on his right, and Deirdre on his left, while his two sons stood facing him. Whatever he intended to say, Fergus took his time, gazing at his sons thoughtfully as if he were gathering his strength. While she waited, Deirdre gazed at them also.

  Ronan and Rian. Two lanky men. Ronan a little taller than his younger brother, his hair black where Rian’s was brown. His face showed some of the same proud features as her father’s, but had none of his strength; her brother had also developed a slight stoop at the shoulders, which gave him a hangdog look. Rian looked merely placid.

  How was it, in all these years, that neither of them had managed to get a wife? At least one of them could have married. Yet had they even tried? It wasn’t as if they had no interest in women. There had been that British slave girl for a while. Certainly Ronan had slept with her. She thought they both had. There had even been a child, except that it had died. Then the girl had become sickly and in the end Deirdre had sold her. She’d offered to buy them another, but somehow the business had lapsed and they’d never brought it up again. She heard that they found women when they were away on the cattle drives or at the festivals. But never a wife. “Too much trouble,” they had told her. And more gratifyingly, “No one else could ever keep house like you.” In a way, she supposed, she should be grateful not to have rivals in her little domain. The years had passed anyway, and her brothers had seemed happy enough, hunting and minding Fergus’s herd of cattle which, it must be said, had grown.

  Hadn’t her father been disappointed, though, at the failure of his sons to provide him with grandchildren? He probably had, but he never said so; and since during all the years that went by, he had never put any pressure on them to marry, she had realised that he must have come to his own private conclusions about his sons.

  At last Fergus spoke.

  “My end is drawing close. A few more days. Then it will be time for a new chief of the Ui Fergusa.”

  The Ui Fergusa: the descendants of Fergus. It was the custom on the island for a clan to elect its chief from the inner family—normally the male descendants, down to second cousin, of a single great-grandfather. In the case of the little clan who held Dubh Linn, there were no surviving male descendants, apart from Deirdre’s brothers, of Fergus’s father, Fergus, nor even of his grandfather who had supplied them with the old drinking skull. After Deirdre’s brothers, therefore, unless they provided male heirs, the clan would have a problem. The rules, however, were not absolute. Survival was the key.

  “Old though I am,” Fergus pointed out, “there has never been a designated Tanaiste.” This was the recognised heir to a chief. It was quite common for a clan to name an heir during a chief’s rule, even from the moment the chief was chosen. “Assuming one of you two, Ronan or Rian, should succeed me, there is no one to inherit after you except Deirdre’s son.”

  “It would have to be Morna,” they both agreed. “Morna should be chief after us.”

  “Would he make a good chief?” he asked.

  “The best. No question,” they both replied.

  “Then here is what I propose.” He gazed at them calmly. “Let Morna be chief instead of you.” He paused. “Consider. If you choose him yourselves, no one can argue as to his right. You both love him like a son and he thinks of you as a pair of fathers. Unite behind Morna, and the clan of Fergus will be strong.” He stopped and looked carefully from one to the other. “This is my dying wish.”

  Deirdre watched them. She had no idea that her father was going to propose such a thing. She had assumed that Morna might inherit from his uncles in due course, even though not in the male line. But she saw the deep logic in the old man’s words. The truth was that neither of them was really fit to be a chief, and in their heart of hearts they both probably knew it. But to have their hands forced like this, to give up their claims to their sister’s son, who was still a youth? That was a hard thing. In the long silence which now followed, she wasn’t even sure how she felt about it herself. Did she want such a thing so soon? Would this cause bad feelings, and even expose Morna to danger? She was just wondering whether to intervene and ask her father to reconsider, when her brother Ronan spoke.

  “He is too young,” he said firmly. “But if I am chief, then he can be named as my Tanaiste. What can be the objecti
on to that?”

  Deirdre stared. Ronan had gone pale; Rian was looking uncomfortable. Morna glanced at her, uncertain and concerned.

  “I should prefer to wait,” he said to his grandfather respectfully. “Ronan’s suggestion would make me happy.”

  But the old man, though he smiled at his grandson, shook his head.

  “It is better this way,” he answered. “I have considered this matter carefully, and I have made up my mind.”

  “You have made up your mind?” Ronan burst out bitterly. “And what does that signify? Isn’t it for us to decide after you’ve gone?”

  Deirdre had never heard her brother address her father with such disrespect, but Fergus took it very calmly.

  “You are angry,” he said quietly.

  “Let Morna have it, Ronan.” It was Rian who interposed now, his voice gently pleading. “What would either of us do with the chiefdom anyway?” It suddenly occurred to Deirdre that Rian might prefer having Morna as chief, to being ruled by his brother. As she looked at the two of them, she saw how deftly her old father had handled the business. For not only would Ronan have made a poor chief, but once they heard that Fergus had designated Morna, none of their people at Dubh Linn would accept her brother as chief anyway.

  And in the silence that followed, Ronan must have realised this, too. For after a while he sighed.

  “Let the boy have it then, if that is your wish.” He gave his nephew a wry smile. “You’ll make a good chief, Morna. I won’t deny it. With a little guidance,” he added, to save his face.

  “That is what I had hoped to hear,” said Fergus. “You have shown wisdom, Ronan, as I knew you would.”

  And now, placing a hand on Morna’s arm, the old chief slowly rose. Since he hadn’t walked unaided for nearly a month, Deirdre could only guess what the effort must be costing him, and she almost moved to help him; but she understood that this was not what he wished. With the cloak still wrapped round him, Fergus stood there like a statue, his gauntness only adding to his dignity.

  “Bring the drinking skull,” he quietly ordered her; and when she had done so, and held it in front of him, he placed his hand upon it and indicated that Morna and his uncles should do the same.

  “Swear,” he commanded them. “Swear that it is Morna who shall be chief.”

  So they swore. And when the thing was done, they embraced each other, and agreed what a fine thing it was that they had done; and then Fergus rested. And Deirdre, uncertain whether she was glad or not at what had just come to pass, could only wonder one thing: Ronan had given way to Morna gracefully, but would he keep his word?

  The single chariot arrived the following afternoon. It was a swift and splendid vehicle. Morna and his uncles, as it happened, were away with the cattle; Fergus, feeling weak after the events of the previous day, was resting inside; but Deirdre, who had been sitting in the sun outside the rath mending a shirt, had watched its approach with interest. It was not often such a noble equipage came that way. Standing in it, beside the charioteer, was a young nobleman of about Morna’s age, with long dark moustaches and a fine green cloak, who glancing down at her called out to know if this was the house of Fergus.

  “It is, but he is sick. What is your business with him?”

  “None of yours, I should think,” the young warrior, who obviously thought she was a servant, replied casually. “But it’s Morna, son of Conall, I have come to find.”

  “Morna?” She was suspicious at once, and was wondering what to reply when her father’s voice came faintly from within.

  “Who is it, Deirdre?”

  “Just a traveller, Father,” she called, “passing upon his way.”

  “Let him come in, then,” he cried weakly, but this was followed by a cough and the sound of the chief struggling to catch his breath again, so that it was easy for her to give a firm reply.

  “I am Deirdre, daughter of Fergus. As you can hear, my father is very sick. Indeed,” she lowered her voice, “it cannot be many more days now that he will live. You may give your message to me.”

  The messenger looked put out, but he could hardly argue.

  “It’s a message from the High King I’m to deliver. He is to hold the feis at Tara. And he asks that your son, Morna, attend.”

  “Tara?” Deirdre looked at the young noble with alarm. “Why should Morna rather than Fergus go to the feis?”

  And now it was the visitor’s turn to look surprised.

  “It would be strange if he didn’t,” he replied. “His being the High King’s own cousin.”

  The feis—the inauguration at which the king would mate with a mare—was not until Samhain. That was still some way off. She told herself she had a little time. But why should the new king have taken this sudden interest in Morna? Was it just an act of kindness to a relation whom the old king had ignored? Or was there some other purpose behind it? She had no way of knowing. What should she do?

  And then she was almost astonished to hear her own voice calmly replying.

  “This is wonderful news indeed.” She gave the young noble a smile. “My son will be honoured. We are all honoured. There is only one problem.”

  “What is that?”

  “He is not here. He is away.” She gestured towards the estuary. “On a sea voyage. He has promised to return before winter, but …” She sighed. “If I knew where he was I could send after him. He would be heartbroken indeed to miss such a great event.”

  “You think he will return in time though?”

  “He knows his grandfather is not long for this world. We hope he will return before his grandfather departs. But it is in the hands of the gods.”

  She offered him refreshment, but indicated that it would be better not to go into the sickroom where her father lay.

  The messenger stayed only briefly before departing. With him he carried messages of loyalty from the old chief and the clear impression that young Morna would hasten eagerly to the feis if he reached the island’s shores in time. Her performance, Deirdre told herself afterwards, had been rather impressive. There was only one problem.

  She had just lied to the High King.

  Why had she done it? She could hardly say. But Morna must not go. She felt sure of it. Even during the brief time the messenger had stayed at the rath, she had sat there in a state of misery. When he left, it seemed to her as if a dark and dangerous presence had departed from the place. That night, she had a nightmare in which she and Morna were approaching Tara and the starlings were rising up from the ground again in a black mist. She awoke in a cold panic. No, he must not go.

  The next day, Morna and her brothers returned. She had given the slaves instructions to say nothing of the messenger’s visit. But in any case, no one had heard what had been said. None of them—Morna, her brothers, nor the chief himself—had any idea what she had done.

  There was risk, of course. If the new High King ever discovered the lie, he would consider it an insult. But at least the lie was hers. He could do to her what he liked. She didn’t care. Indeed, there was only one small, niggling doubt that briefly troubled her conscience. Was it possible that she was wrong, that the new High King meant only courtesy or friendship—that in truth there was no danger to Morna in the invitation at all? Could it be that her fear was not so much for his safety, but rather that if he went to the High King and found favour at his hands, he might not want to return to her at Dubh Linn? Was she being not only foolish but even selfish? No. That wasn’t it. She put the unwelcome thought out of her mind.

  The final decline of Fergus the chief began three days later.

  They were trying times. There was the sadness of watching her father slipping away; the sadness, too, of seeing Morna’s grief at his passing. Her two brothers were subdued; several times Rian had seemed close to tears, and if Ronan felt anger at being passed over, even that seemed to be forgotten now. She nursed the old man assiduously. She was determined that his passing should be as gentle and as dignified as possible. But she
had to admit that there was also one other consideration in her mind.

  If she could just keep Fergus alive until Samhain. Let him die, if die he must, just after that. Even if the High King found out that Morna had been at Dubh Linn then, he would hardly complain about the young man remaining to attend his chief and grandfather on his deathbed. Live, she willed him. Live another month for me. “Let him live,” she prayed silently to the gods of her people, “at least past the festival of Samhain.” And when, instead, he had slipped from her in early October, her grief was made even sharper by her desperate anxiety.

  They gave a fine wake for him. Nobody could fault the family of Fergus for that. For three days the guests had drunk and talked, eaten and sung. They had drunk as only the friends of the dead can do. Chiefs, farmers, cowherds, fishermen, they had all turned up to drink him into the better world beyond. “A fine wake, Deirdre,” they said.

  They buried him, perhaps not quite as he might have dreamed—standing upright, fully armed, staring across the ford at his invisible enemies—but honourably enough, under a handsome mound beside the estuary waters. And at the same time, they proclaimed that Morna was the new chief.

  With the wake over, Dubh Linn returned to its customary quiet and settled into the rhythms of autumn. Morna and his uncles brought the cattle in from the summer pasture. In the woods, the pigs were getting fat on the fallen acorns. Down the road towards the mountains, one could hear, from time to time, the roar of a stag in the rutting season. At the rath, all was quiet. A morning might pass with only the sound of the stream splashing into the dark pool below and the gentle rustle of the falling leaves. The weather was fine, but Deirdre was conscious of the days drawing shorter and of a sharpness in the air.