Dublin (7 page)

  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 so 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 brought 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 stiffen 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…" "That cloud is almost off the sun now."

  You're no use to me.

  "And yet," he took his time, speaking meditatively, as though discussing a historical curiosity, "we must remember that I have serviced a mare."

  "So you say.

  "Oh, the thing was done. I could not be sitting here otherwise."

  The initiation ceremony when a great clan elected a new king on the island went back into the mists of time and belonged to a tradition found amongst the Indo-European peoples from Asia to the western outliers of Europe. In this ceremony, after a white bull had been killed, the king-to-be must mate with a sacred female horse. It is explicit both in the legends of Ireland and the temple carvings of India. Nor was the business as difficult as might be supposed. The mare in question was not large. Held by several strong men, her hindquarters suitably spread, she was presented to the future king who, so long as-by whatever means-he could be aroused, would have no great difficulty in penetrating her. It was a fitting ritual for a people who, since they emerged from the Eurasian plains, had depended for their leadership upon men who were wedded to the horse.

  Whether the queen was thinking about the mare or not was hard to say; but after a little time she spoke again, in a low voice.

  "The harvest was ruined."

  The High King frowned. Involuntarily he glanced back inside the empty hall, where the three-faced head was gazing out from its totem pole into the surrounding shadows.

  "That is your fault," she added.

  And now the High King pursed his lips. For this was politics.

  The High King was very good at politics. When he put his arm round a man's shoulder, that man was always his to command-or to be duped. He knew most men's weaknesses, and their price. His family's success had been remarkable. His royal clan had come from the west and they were hugely ambitious. Claiming descent from mythical figures like Conn of the Hundred Battles and Cormac Mac Art-heroes they may even have invented-the clan had already pushed many Ulster chiefs off their land. Their rise had culminated, in quite recent times, in the successes they ascribed to their heroic leader Niall.