ONE

DUBH LINN

AD 430

I

LUGHNASA. High summer. It would be harvest season soon. Deirdre stood by the rail and surveyed the scene. It should have been a cheerful day, but it brought only anguish to her. For the father she loved and the one-eyed man were going to sell her. And there was nothing she could do.

She did not see Conall at first.

The custom at the races was that the men rode naked. The tradition was ancient. Centuries ago, the Romans had remarked on how the Celtic warriors despised the protection of breastplates and liked to strip naked for battle. A tattooed warrior, his muscles bulging, his hair raised in great spikes, and his face distorted in war frenzy was a frightening sight, even to trained Roman legionaries. Sometimes these fierce Celtic warriors in their chariots would choose to wear a short cloak that streamed behind them; and in some parts of the Roman Empire, the Celtic horsemen would wear breeches. But here on the western island, the tradition of nakedness had been carried into the ceremonial races, and young Conall was wearing nothing but a small protective loincloth.

The great festival of Lughnasa was held at Carmun once every three years. The site of Carmun was eerie. In a land of wild forest and bog, it was an open grassy space that stretched, green and empty, halfway to the horizon. Lying some distance west of the point where, if you were following it upstream, the Liffey’s course began to retreat eastwards on the way to its source in the Wicklow Mountains, the place was absolutely flat, except for some mounds in which ancestral chiefs were buried. The festival lasted a week. There were areas reserved for food and livestock markets, and another where fine clothes were sold; but the most important quarter was where a large racetrack was laid out on the bare turf.

The track was a magnificent sight. People were encamped all around, in tents or temporary huts, whole clans together. Men and women both were dressed in their brilliant cloaks of scarlet, blue, or green. The men wore the splendid gold torcs—like thick amulets—round their necks; the women sported all kinds of ornament and bracelet. Some men were tattooed, some had long flowing hair and moustaches, others had their hair caked with clay and raised into terrifying warlike spikes. Here and there stood a splendid war chariot. The horses were in pens. There were campfires where the bards would tell tales. A group of jugglers and acrobats was just arriving. Throughout the camp, the sound of a harp, a bone whistle, or a bagpipe could be heard in the summer air, and the scent of roasting meat and honey cakes seemed to mingle in the light smoke that drifted across the scene. And on a ceremonial mound by the racetrack, presiding over the whole proceedings, was the King of Leinster.

There were four parts of the island. To the north lay the territories of the ancient tribes of Ulaid, the province of warriors. To the west lay a lovely province of magical lakes and wild coasts—the land of the druids, they called it. To the south, the province of Muma, renowned for its music. It was there, according to legend, that the Sons of Mil had first met the goddess Eriu. And fourthly, in the east lay the rich pastures and fields of the tribes of Lagin. The provinces had been recognised since time out of mind, and as Ulster, Connacht, Munster, and Leinster they would remain the geographical divisions of the island for all times to come.

But life was never static on the island. In recent generations there had been important changes among the ancient tribes. In the northern half of the island—Leth Cuinn, the half of the head, as they liked to call it—powerful clans had arisen to assert their dominance over the southern half, Leth Moga. And a new central province known as Mide, or Meath, had also come into being, so that now people spoke of the island’s five parts rather than four.

Over all the great clan chiefs in each of the five parts, the most powerful usually ruled as a king, and sometimes the greatest of these would proclaim himself High King and demand that others recognise him and pay him tribute.

Finbarr looked at his friend and shook his head. It was midafternoon and Conall was about to race.

“You could at least smile,” Finbarr remarked. “You’re such a sad fellow, Conall.”

“I’m sorry,” the other replied. “I don’t mean to be.”

That was the trouble with being too highly born, Finbarr considered. The gods paid too much attention to you. It was ever thus in the Celtic world. Ravens would fly over the house to announce the death of a clan chief, swans would desert the lake. A king’s bad judgement could affect the weather. And if you were a prince, the druids made prophesies about you from before the day you were born; and after that, there was no escape.

Conall: slim, dark, aquiline, handsome—a perfect prince. And a prince he was. Conall, son of Morna. His father had been a matchless warrior. Hadn’t he been buried standing up, in a hero’s mound, facing towards the enemies of his tribe? It was the finest compliment you could pay to a dead man in the Celtic world.

In the family of Conall’s father, it was unlucky for any man to wear red. But that was only the beginning of Conall’s troubles. He had been born three months after his father’s death. That alone made him special. His mother was the sister of the High King, who became his foster father. That meant the whole island would be watching him. And then the druids had had their say. The first had shown the baby a selection of twigs from various trees and the infant had stretched out a tiny hand towards the hazel. “He will be a poet, a man of learning,” the druid declared. A second had made a darker prediction. “He will cause the death of a fine warrior.” But so long as this was in battle, the family took it as a good omen. It was the third druid, however, who pronounced the three geissi which were to follow Conall all his life.

The geissi—the prohibitions. When a prince or a great warrior lived under geissi he had better be careful. The geissi were terrible, because they always came to pass. But since, like so many priestly pronouncements, they sounded like a riddle, you couldn’t always be certain what they meant. They were like traps. Finbarr was glad no one had bothered to lay any geissi on him. The geissi on Conall, as everyone at the High King’s court knew, were as follows:

The first made no sense; the second he must take care never to do. The third seemed impossible. There were often mists at the High King’s royal seat at Tara, but there had never been a black one.

Conall was a careful fellow. He respected family tradition. Finbarr had never seen him wear anything red. Indeed Conall even avoided touching anything of that colour. “So it seems to me,” Finbarr had once told him, “that if you can just stay away from the sea, you’ll live forever.”

They had been friends since the day, in childhood, when a hunting party that included young Conall had stopped at Finbarr’s family’s modest farm to rest. The two boys had met and played, and before long had a wrestling match and then played the game with stick and ball which the islanders call hurling, while the men looked on. A little while later Conall had asked if he might seek out his new acquaintance again; within a month they were fast friends. And when, soon afterwards, Conall had asked if Finbarr might join the royal household and train to become a warrior, this had been granted. Finbarr’s family had been overjoyed at such an opportunity for him. The friendship of the two boys had never wavered. If Conall loved Finbarr’s good nature and high spirits, Finbarr admired the young aristocrat’s quiet, deeper thoughtfulness.

Not that Conall was always reserved. Though not the brawniest of the young champions, he was probably the finest athlete. He could run like a deer. Only Finbarr could keep up with him when they raced their light, two-wheeled war chariots. When Conall threw a spear, it seemed to fly like a bird, and with deadly accuracy. He could whirl his shield round so fast that you could scarcely see it. And when he struck with his favourite shining sword, it was said that others may give harder blows, but take care—Conall’s blade is always swifter. The two boys were also musical. Finbarr liked to sing, Conall to play the harp, which he did well; and as boys they would sometimes entertain the company at the High King’s feasts. These were happy times when, good-humouredly, the High King would pay them as though they were hired musicians. The warriors all liked and respected Conall. Those who remembered Morna agreed: the son had the makings of a similar leader.

And yet—this was the strange thing to Finbarr—it was as if Conall wasn’t really interested.

Conall had been only six the first time he disappeared; and his mother had already been searching all afternoon when, just before sundown, he appeared with an old druid who quietly told her, “The boy’s been with me.”

“I found him in the woods,” Conall had explained, as if his absence was the most natural thing in the world.

“What did you do with the druid all day?” his mother asked after the old man had left.

“Oh, we talked.”

“What about?” his astonished mother asked.

“Everything,” he said happily.

It had been the same ever since his childhood. He would play games with the other boys, but then he’d disappear. Sometimes he’d take Finbarr with him, and they would wander in the woods or along the streams. Finbarr could imitate bird calls. Conall liked that. And there was hardly a plant on the island that the young prince couldn’t name. But even on these walks sometimes Finbarr would sense that, much as his friend loved him, he wished to be alone; and then he would leave him, and Conall would wander away for half a day.

He always insisted to Finbarr that he was happy. Yet when he was deep in thought, his face would take on a look of melancholy; or sometimes when he was playing the harp, the tune would become strangely sad. “Here comes the man whom sorrow makes his friend,” Finbarr would say affectionately when Conall returned from his lonely wanderings; but the young prince would only laugh, or punch him playfully and break into a run.

It was hardly surprising that by the time he reached the age of manhood at seventeen, the other young men should refer to Conall, not without awe, as the Druid.

There were three classes of learned men on the island. The humblest were the bards, the storytellers who would entertain the company at a feast; of a higher class entirely were the filidh, guardians of the genealogies, makers of poetry, and even sometimes of prophesy; but above them both, and more fearsome, were the druids.

It was said that long ago, before the Romans had come there, the most learned and skilful druids had lived on the neighbouring island of Britain. In those days, the druids used to sacrifice not only animals but men and women, too. That was long ago, however. The druids were in the western island now, and nobody could remember the last human sacrifice.

The training of a druid could take twenty years. He would often know most of what the bards and filidh knew; but beyond that, he was a priest, with the secret knowledge of the sacred spells and numbers and of how to speak with the gods. The druids performed the sacrifices and ceremonies at midwinter and the other great festivals of the year. The druids directed upon which days to sow the crops and slaughter the animals. Few kings would dare start any enterprise without consulting the druids. Quarrel with them and their words could be so sharp, it was said, that they raised blisters. A druid’s curse could last for seventeen generations. Wise advisers, respected judges, learned teachers, feared enemies: the druids were all these things.

But beyond this lay something more mysterious. Some druids, like shamans, could go into trances and enter the otherworld. They could even change their own shape into that of a bird or an animal. Was there something of this mystical quality, Finbarr sometimes wondered, in his friend Conall?

Certainly he had always spent a lot of time with the druids, ever since that childhood encounter. By the time he was twenty, it was said, he knew more than most of the young men training for the priesthood. Such an interest was not thought strange. Many of the druids came from noble families; some of the greatest warriors had studied with druids or filidh in the past. But Conall’s degree of interest was unusual, as was his expertise. His memory was phenomenal.

Whatever Conall said, it seemed to Finbarr he was sometimes lonely.

To seal their friendship, some years earlier, the prince had given him a puppy. Finbarr had taken the little fellow everywhere. He called him Cuchulainn, after the hero of legend. Only gradually, as the puppy grew, had Finbarr come to realise the nature of the gift. For Cuchulainn turned out to be a magnificent hunting hound, of the kind for which merchants came to the western island from far across the sea, and for which they would pay with ingots of silver or Roman coins. The hound was probably priceless. It never left his side.

“If ever something happens to me,” Conall once told him, “your hound Cuchulainn will be there to remind you of me and of our friendship.”

“You’ll be my friend as long as I live,” Finbarr assured him. “I expect it’s I who will die first.” And if he couldn’t give the prince a present of similar value in return, he could at least, he thought, make sure that his own friendship was as constant and loyal as the hound Cuchulainn was to him.

Conall also had another talent. He could read.

The people of the island were not strangers to the written word. The merchants from Britain and Gaul who came to the ports could often read. The Roman coins they used had Latin letters on them. Finbarr knew several amongst the bards and druids who could read. A few generations ago, the learned men of the island, using vowel and consonant sounds from Latin, had even invented a simple writing of their own for carving memorials in Celtic upon standing posts or stones. But though from time to time one would come upon a standing stone with these strange ogham scratch marks, like notches on a tally stick, down its edge, this early Celtic writing system had never become widely used. Nor, Finbarr knew, was it used for recording the island’s sacred heritage.

“It is not hard to tell why,” Conall had explained to him. “Firstly, the knowledge of the druids is secret. You wouldn’t want some unworthy person reading it. That would anger the gods.”

“And the priests would lose their secret power as well,” Finbarr remarked.

“That is perhaps true. But there is a further reason. The great possession of our learned men, bards, filidh, and druids is their feat of memory. This makes the mind very strong. If we wrote down all our knowledge so that we didn’t have to remember it, our minds would grow weak.”

“So why have you learned to read?” Finbarr had asked.

“I am curious,” Conall had said, as if this were natural. “Besides,” he had smiled, “I am not a druid.”

How often had those words echoed in Finbarr’s mind. Of course his friend was not a druid. He was going to be a warrior. And yet … Sometimes when Conall sang and closed his eyes, or when he returned from one of his solitary wanderings with a faraway, melancholy look, as though he were in a dream, Finbarr couldn’t help wondering if his friend had not entered … He did not know what. A borderland of some kind.

And so he had not really been surprised when, towards the end of spring, Conall had confessed: “I want to take the druid’s tonsure.”

The druids shaved straight up from their ears over the top of the head. The effect of this tonsure was to give a high, rounded forehead; unless of course the druid was already going bald at the front, in which case the tonsure hardly showed. In Conall’s case, since his hair was thick, the tonsure would leave a dark, V-shaped shaved area over his brow.

There had certainly been princely druids before. Indeed, many people on the island considered the druid caste to be higher than even kings. Finbarr had looked at his friend thoughtfully.

“What will the High King say?” he had asked.

“It is hard to say. It is a pity that my mother was his sister.”

Finbarr knew all about Conall’s mother: her devotion to his father’s memory, her determination that her son should follow in his father’s footsteps as a warrior. When she had died two years ago, she had begged the High King—her brother—to make sure that her husband’s line should be continued.

“Druids marry,” Finbarr pointed out. Indeed, the druid’s position was often transferred from father to son. “You could have children who would be warriors.”

“That is true,” said Conall. “But the High King may think otherwise.”

“Could he forbid you, if the druids want you to join them?”

“I think,” Conall replied, “that if the druids know the High King does not wish it, they will not ask.”

“What will you do?”

“Wait. Perhaps I can persuade them.”

It had been a month later that the High King had summoned Finbarr.

“Finbarr,” he had begun, “I know you are my nephew Conall’s closest friend. You know of his wish to become a druid?” Finbarr had nodded. “It would be a good thing if he changed his mind,” the High King said. That was all. But from the High King, it was enough.

She hadn’t wanted to come. There were two reasons. The first, Deirdre knew, was selfish. She didn’t like leaving home.

It was a strange place to live, but she loved it. In the middle of the island’s eastern coast, a river, having descended from the wild Wicklow Mountains just to the south and made a sweeping inland curve, came out through an estuary into a broad bay with two headlands—as if, Deirdre thought, the Earth goddess Eriu, the island’s mother, was stretching her arms to embrace the sea. Inland, the river formed a broad flood basin known as the Liffey Plain. It was a river of changing moods, subject to sudden rages. When it was angry, its swollen waters would hurtle down from the mountains in violent flash floods which carried all before them. But these fits of rage were only occasional. Most of the time, its waters were tranquil and its voice was soft, whispering, and melodic. With its wide tidal waters, wooded marshes, and low mudflats fringed with grasses, the estuary was usually a place of silence, but for the cries of the distant gulls and the piping curlews and the heron gliding over the shell-strewn shoreline strands.

It was almost deserted, except for the few scattered farmsteads under her father’s rule. Two small features there were, however, each of which had already given the place a name. One, just before the river opened out into its mile-wide marshy estuary, was man-made: a wooden trackway across the marshland, which crossed the river at its shallowest point on hurdles and continued until it reached firmer ground on the northern bank. Ath Cliath this was called in the island’s Celtic tongue—the Ford of Hurdles—which was pronounced roughly as “Aw Cleeya.”

The second feature was natural. For the spot where Deirdre was standing lay at the eastern end of a low ridge that ran along the southern bank overlooking the ford. Below her, a stream came from the south to join the river, and just before it did so, encountering the end of the little ridge, it made a small bend, in whose angle there had developed a deep, dark pool. Blackpool, they called it: Dubh Linn. To the ear it sounded “Doov Lin.”

But though it had two names, hardly anybody lived there. Up on the slopes of the Wicklow Mountains there had been settlements since time out of mind. There were fishing villages and even small harbours along the coast both north and south of the river’s mouth.

Down by the river marshes, however, though Deirdre loved their quiet beauty, there was not much reason to settle.

For Dubh Linn was a borderland, a no-man’s-land. The territories of powerful chiefs lay to the north, south, and west of the estuary, but even if one or the other claimed a sovereignty from time to time, they had little interest in the area; and so her father, Fergus, had remained undisturbed as the chieftain of the place.

Deserted as it might be, Fergus’s territory was not without significance, for it lay at one of the island’s important crossroads. Ancient tracks, often hewn through the island’s thick forests and known as slige, came from north and south to cross at the ford. The old Slige Mhor, the Great Road, ran west. As well as being the guardian of the crossing, Fergus also offered the island’s customary hospitality to travellers at his house.

Once, the place had been busier. For centuries, the open sea beyond the bay had been more like a great lake between the two islands where the many tribes of her people dwelt, and across which they had traded, and settled, and married back and forth for many generations. When the mighty Roman Empire had taken over the eastern island—Britain, they had called it—Roman merchants had come to the western island and set up little trading posts along the coast, including the bay, and would sometimes come into the estuary. Once, she knew, Roman troops had even landed and set up a walled camp from which the disciplined Roman legionaries with their bright armour had threatened to take over the western isle as well. But they had not succeeded. They had gone away, and the magical western island had been left in peace. She was proud of that. Proud of the land and people of Eriu who had kept to the ancient ways and never submitted.

And now the mighty Roman Empire was in retreat. Barbarian tribes had breached her borders; the imperial city of Rome itself had been sacked; the legions had left Britain; and the Roman trading posts were deserted.

Some of the more adventurous chieftains on the western island had done well out of these changing times. There had been huge raids on the now defenceless Britain. Gold, silver, slaves—all kinds of goods had come across to enrich the bright halls of Eriu. But these expeditions went out from harbours farther up the coast. Though merchants still ventured from time to time into the Liffey estuary, the place was hardly busy.

The house of Fergus, son of Fergus, consisted of a collection of huts and stores—some thatched, some roofed with turf—in a circular enclosure on the rise above the pool, surrounded by an earth wall and fence. This ring fort, to give the little earthwork its technical name, was one of a number starting to appear on the island. In the local Celtic tongue it was called a rath. In essentials, the rath of Fergus was a larger version of the simple farmstead—a dwelling house and four animal sheds—to be found all over the more fertile parts of the island. There was a small piggery, a cattle pen, a grain store, a handsome hall, and a smaller secondary dwelling house. Most of these were circular, with strong wattle walls. Into these various accommodations could easily be fitted Fergus, his family, the cattleman and his family, the shepherd, two other families, three British slaves, the bard—for the chief, mindful of his status, kept his own bard, whose father and grandfather had held the position before him—and, of course, the livestock. In practice, these numerous souls were seldom all there at the same time. But they could still be accommodated for the simple reason that people were accustomed to sleeping communally. Set on the modest rise overlooking the ford, this was the rath of Fergus, son of Fergus. Below it, a small water mill by the stream and a landing place by the river completed the settlement.

The second reason why Deirdre hadn’t wanted to come concerned her father. She was afraid he was going to be killed.

Fergus, son of Fergus. The ancient society of the western island was a strict hierarchy, with many classes. Each class, from king or druid to slave, had its derbfine, its blood price to be paid in case of death or injury. Every man knew his status and that of his ancestors. And Fergus was a chief.

He was respected by the people of the scattered farmsteads that he called his tribe as a chief of kindly but sometimes uncertain temper. At a first meeting the tall chieftain might seem silent and aloof—but not for long. If he caught sight of one of the farmers who owed him obedience, or one of his cattlemen, it could mean a long and expansive conversation. Above all, he loved to meet new people, for the guardian of the isolated Ford of Hurdles was deeply curious. A traveller at Ath Cliath would always be splendidly fed and entertained, but he could abandon any hope of going about his business until Fergus was satisfied that he had yielded every scrap of information, personal and general, that he possessed and then listened to the chief talk, and talk some more, and yet some more again.

If a visitor were especially favoured, Fergus would offer wine and then, going over to a table on which his prize possessions were kept, return with a pale object cupped reverently in his hands. It was a human skull. It had been carefully worked, however. The crown of the skull had been cut neatly off and the circular hole had been rimmed with gold. It was quite light. The pale bone felt smooth, delicate, almost like an egg. The empty eye sockets stared blankly, as if to remind you that, as all humans must, the tenant of the skull had departed to another place. The mad grin of the mouth seemed to say that something in the condition of death was meaningless—for everyone knew that around the family hearth you were always in the company of the dead.

“This was the head of Erc the Warrior,” Fergus would tell the visitor proudly. “Killed by my own grandfather.”

Deirdre always remembered the day—she had been only a little girl—when the warriors had come by. There had been a fight between two clans to the south and these men had been travelling north afterwards. There were three of them; they had all seemed huge to her; two had long moustaches, the third had his hair shaved except for a high, spiky ridge down the middle. These terrifying figures, she was told, were warriors. They were greeted warmly by her father and taken inside. And from a leather rope slung over the back of one of the horses, she had seen the grisly sight of three human heads, the blood on their necks congealed to blackness, their eyes staring, wide yet sightless. She had gazed at them with horrified fascination. When she had run inside, she had seen her father toasting the warriors with the drinking skull.

And soon she was to learn that the strange old skull should be venerated. Like her grandfather’s shield and sword, it was a symbol of the family’s proud antiquity. Her ancestors were warriors, fit companions for princes and heroes, and even for the gods. Did the gods in their bright halls drink out of similar skulls? She supposed they did. How else would a god drink if not like a hero? The family might rule only a small territory, but she could still think of the sword, and the shield, and the gold-rimmed skull, and hold her head high.

During her childhood, Deirdre could remember occasional flashes of anger from her father. These were usually brought on by someone trying to cheat him or failing to show him proper respect; though sometimes, she had realised as she got older, his show of temper might be calculated—especially if he was negotiating the purchase or sale of livestock. Nor did she mind that her father sometimes exploded and roared like a bull. A man who never lost his temper was like a man who was never prepared to fight: not quite a man. Life without such occasional explosions would have seemed dull, lacking in natural excitement.

But in the last three years, since her mother had died, a change had taken place. Her father’s zest for life had diminished; he had not always attended to his business as he should; his anger had become more frequent, the reasons for his quarrels not always clear. Last year he had almost come to blows with a young noble who had contradicted Fergus in his own house. Then there had been the drinking. Her father, even at the great feasts, had always drunk rather sparingly. But several times in recent months she had noticed that he and the old bard had been drinking more than usual in the evening; and once or twice his moroseness on these occasions had led to outbursts of temper, for which he apologised the next day but which had been hurtful at the time. Deirdre had been rather proud of her position as the presiding woman of the house since her mother’s death, and had secretly dreaded the thought of her father taking another wife; but in recent months she had begun to wonder whether that might be the best solution. And then, she thought, I suppose I shall have to marry myself, for there surely won’t be room for two women in the house. It was not a prospect she looked forward to in the least.

But could there be another reason for her father’s distress? He had never said so—he was too proud for that—but she had sometimes wondered if her father might be living beyond his means. She did not know why he would be. Most major transactions on the island were paid for in cattle, and Fergus had large herds. Some time ago, she knew, he had pledged his most valuable heirloom to a merchant. The golden torc, worn like an amulet round the neck, was the sign of his chiefly status. His explanation to her at the time had been simple. “With the price I’ve been offered, I can get enough cattle to buy it back again in a few years. I’m better off without it,” he had told her gruffly. Certainly there were few cattlemen in Leinster more skilful than her father. But she hadn’t been convinced, all the same. Several times in the last year, she had heard him muttering about his debts, and she had wondered what else he might owe that she didn’t know about. But it was an incident three months ago that had really frightened her. A man she had never seen before had arrived at the rath and rudely announced in front of the entire household that Fergus owed him ten cows and that he’d better pay up at once. She had never seen her father so angry, though she suspected it was the humiliation of being exposed in such a way that had really infuriated him. When he refused to pay, the fellow had returned a week later with twenty armed men and carried off not ten but twenty cattle. Her father had been beside himself and had sworn revenge. Nothing had come of his threat, but since that time, his temper had been worse than ever. He had struck one of the slaves twice that week.

Would there be other people to whom her father owed debts at the great gathering at Carmun, she had wondered? She suspected that there might. Or would he decide that someone had insulted him? Or, after drinking, start a quarrel for some other cause? It seemed to her that such a thing was only too possible, and the prospect filled her with fear. For at the great festivals, it was an absolute rule: there must be no fights. It was a necessary rule when you had a huge concourse of people competing and feasting. To cause a disturbance was an insult to the king, which would not be forgiven. The king himself could take your life for it, and the druids and bards and everyone else would support him. At other times, you could have a quarrel with your neighbour or go on a cattle raid and get into a fight with honour. But at the great festival of Lughnasa, you did so at risk of your life.

In his present state, she could just see her father getting into a fight. And then? There would be no mercy shown to the old chief from the obscure little territory of Dubh Linn. She trembled to think of it. For a month she had tried to persuade him not to go. But to no avail. He was determined to go, and to take herself and her two young brothers with him.

“I’ve important business there,” he told her. But what that business might be, he would not say.

So she had been taken by surprise by what had happened the day before they were due to leave. He had gone fishing early with her brothers and returned in the middle of the morning.

Even in the distance, you couldn’t mistake Fergus. It was his walk. When he was out on the hills with his cattle or moving along the riverbank to go fishing, Fergus was unmistakable. His tall frame moved with an unhurried ease; his long, slow strides ate up the distance. He seldom talked when he was walking, and there was something in his manner, as he moved across the quiet landscape, which suggested that he regarded not only this region but the whole island as his personal estate.

He had come across a stretch of grassland, with a long stick in his right hand and his two sons following dutifully behind. His face, with its big moustache and long nose, was watchful and quietly thoughtful in repose—in which condition, Deirdre realised, it reminded her of a wise old salmon. But as he drew close, his face had broadened and creased into an engaging smile.

“Did you catch something, Father?” she asked.

But instead of answering her question, he had pleasantly remarked, “Well, Deirdre, we’re off tomorrow to find you a husband.”

For Goibniu the Smith, the strange business had begun one morning the month before. He couldn’t really account for what happened that day. But then the place, it was known, was crowded with spirits.

Of all the island’s many rivers, none was more sacred than the River Boyne. Flowing into the eastern sea a day’s journey to the north of Dubh Linn, its rich banks were under the control of the Ulster king. Slow-moving, stocked with stately salmon, the Boyne flowed softly through the most fertile soil in the whole island. But there was one place—a site on a low ridge overlooking the Boyne’s northern bank—where most men feared to go. The site of the ancient mounds.

It was a fine morning when Goibniu came round the side of the mound. He always went up there if he was passing through the area. Other men might be afraid of the place, but he wasn’t. To the west, in the distance, he could see the top of the royal Hill of Tara. He had stared down the slope to where the swans were gliding on the waters of the Boyne. A fellow with a sickle was walking along the track by the riverbank. He glanced up at Goibniu and gave a grudging nod which Goibniu returned with ironic politeness.

Not many people liked Goibniu. “Govnyoo” the name sounded. But whatever they felt, the smith didn’t care. Though not tall of stature, his restless eye and quick intelligence soon seemed to dominate any group he joined. His face was not pleasing. A chin that jutted out like a rock, pendulous lips, a beak of a nose that came down almost to meet them, protruding eyes, and a forehead that receded under thinning hair: these alone would have produced a face not easily forgotten. But in his youth he had lost one of his eyes in a fight, and as a result, one eye was permanently closed while the other seemed to loom out of his face in a fearsome squint. Some said that he had assumed that squinting expression even before he had lost the eye. It might have been so. In any case, people called him Balar behind his back, after the evil, one-eyed king of the Fomorians, a legendary tribe of ugly giants—a fact of which he was well aware. It amused him. They might not like him, but they feared him. There were advantages in that.

They had reason to fear. It was not just that single, all-seeing eye. It was the brain that lay behind it.

Goibniu was important. As one of the island’s greatest master craftsmen, he had the status of a noble in all but name. Though he was known as a smith—and no one on the island could forge better weapons of iron—his calling included working in precious metals. Indeed, it was the high prices that the great men of the island paid for his gold ornaments that had made Goibniu a rich man. The High King himself would invite him to attend his feasts. But his true importance lay in that terrible, devious brain. The greatest chiefs, even the wise and powerful druids, would seek out his advice. “Goibniu is deep,” they would acknowledge, before quietly adding: “Don’t ever have him for your enemy.”

Just behind him was the largest of the huge, circular mounds that lay along the ridge. A sid, the islanders called such a mound—they pronounced it “shee”—and though mysterious, there were many of them.

It was clear that the sid had deteriorated since former times. The walls of the cylinder had subsided or vanished under turf banks in numerous places. Instead of a cylinder with a curved roof, it now seemed more like a hillock with several entrances. On its southern side, the quartz facing that had once flashed in the sun had now mostly fallen down, so that there was a little landslide of pale metallic stones in front of the former doorway. He turned back to face the sid.

The Tuatha De Danaan lived in there. The Dagda, the kindly lord of the sun, lived in this sid; but all the mounds that dotted the islands were the entrances to their otherworld. Everyone knew the stories. First one, then another tribe had come to the island. Gods, giants, slaves—their identities lingered in the landscape like clouds of mist. But the most glorious of all had been the divine race of the goddess Anu, or Danu, goddess of wealth and of rivers: the Tuatha De Danaan. Warriors and huntsmen, poets and craftsmen—they had arrived on the island, some said, riding upon the clouds. Theirs had been a golden age. It had been the Tuatha De Danaan whom the present tribes, the Sons of Mil, had found on the island when they had arrived. And it had been one of them, the goddess Eriu, who had promised the Sons of Mil that, if they gave the land her name, they should live upon the island forever. That was long ago now. Nobody was sure exactly how long. There had been great battles, that was certain. And then the Tuatha De Danaan had withdrawn from the land of the living and gone underground. They were living there still, under the hills, under lakes, or far away across the sea in the fabled Western Isles, feasting in their glittering halls. That was the story.

But Goibniu doubted. He could see that the mounds were man-made; indeed, their construction might not be very different from the earth and stoneworks which men built now. But if it was said that the Tuatha De Danaan had retreated under them, then they probably dated from that former age. So had the Tuatha De Danaan built them? Likely enough, he supposed. Divine race or not, he judged, they had still been men. Yet if this were correct, here was the curious thing: whenever he inspected the carved stones at these old sites, he always observed that the patterns of the carvings were similar to those on the metalwork of his own day. He’d seen pieces of fine worked gold, too, which had been found in bogs and other places, and which he guessed were very old. On these, also, the designs were familiar. Goibniu was an expert in these matters. Did the incoming tribes really copy the designs left by the departed race of the goddess Danu? Wasn’t it more likely that some of the former people had remained and transmitted their skills? Anyway, did an entire people, divine or not, really vanish under the hills?

Goibniu cast his cold eye on the sid. There was one stone there that always caught his attention whenever he passed by. It was a large one, a big slab about six feet across, in front of what had once been the entrance. He went over to it now.

What a curious thing it was. The swirling lines with which it was incised made several patterns, but the most significant was the great trefoil of spirals on the left face. As he had so many times before, he ran his hands over the stone, whose sandlike roughness felt pleasantly cool in the warm sun as his fingers traced the grooves. The biggest spiral was a double one, like a pair of eels coiled tightly together with their heads locking in the middle. Follow one of the coils outwards and it led to the second spiral, another double one below it. The third, smaller spiral, a single one, rested tangentially on the swirling shoulders of the other two. And from their outer edges the grooves gathered in the angles where the spirals met, like tidemarks at an inlet, before flowing on in swirling rivers round the stone.

What did they mean? What was the significance of the trefoil? Three spirals, connected yet independent, always leading inward, yet also flowing out into an endless nothingness. Were they the symbols of the sun and moon and the earth below? Or the three sacred rivers of a half-forgotten world?

He had seen a crazy fellow make a design like that once. It was just at this season of the year, before the harvest, when the last of the old grain goes mouldy, and poor folk who eat it act strangely and dream dreams. He’d come upon him by the seashore, sitting alone, big and bare-boned, his eyes fixed upon nothing, a tattered stick in his hand, tracing spirals just like these in the empty sand. Was he mad, or was he wise? Goibniu shrugged. Who knew? It was all one and the same.

Still tracing the swirling grooves in the morning silence, his hand moved to and fro. One thing was certain. Whoever made those spirals, Tuatha De Danaan or not, Goibniu felt he knew him as only a fellow craftsman can. Other men might find the sid grim and fearsome, but he did not care. He liked the cosmic spirals on the stone-cold earth.

And then it had come to him. It was a strange sensation. Nothing you could put a name to. An echo in the mind.

The season of Lughnasa was approaching. There would be a number of great festivals on the island, and though he had considered the big Leinster games at Carmun, he had been planning this year to go elsewhere. But now, standing by the stone with its spirals, the feeling had come into his mind that he should go to Carmun, though he did not know why.

He listened. Everything was quiet. Yet in the very silence, there seemed to be a significance, a message being carried by a messenger still far away, like a cloud that is hidden over the horizon. Goibniu was a hardheaded man; he was not given to foolish moods or fantasies. But he could not deny that, now and again as he had walked across the island landscape, he had experienced the sensation of knowing things he could not explain. He waited. There it was again, that echo, like a dream half remembered. Something strange, it seemed to him, was going to happen at Carmun.

He shrugged. It might mean nothing, but one shouldn’t ignore these things. His eye travelled along the southern horizon. He’d go down to Carmun then, at Lughnasa. When had he last gone south? The previous year, collecting gold in the mountains below Dubh Linn. He smiled. Goibniu loved gold.

Then he frowned. The memory of that journey reminded him of something else. He’d crossed by the Ford of Hurdles. There had been a big fellow there. Fergus. He nodded thoughtfully. That big fellow owed him a debt—to the value of a score of cattle. A debt that was long overdue. The chief was in danger of annoying him. He wondered if Fergus was going to the festival.

Deirdre had not enjoyed the journey to Carmun. They had set off from Dubh Linn at dawn with a light, misty rain falling. The party wasn’t large: just Deirdre, her father, her brothers, the bard, and the smaller of the British slaves. The men rode horses: she and the slave drove in the cart. The horses were short and stocky—in a later age they would have been called ponies—but sure-footed and sturdy. They would cover most of the distance by nightfall and arrive the following day.

The rain didn’t bother her. It was the kind that the people of the island disregarded. If you’d asked Fergus he would just have said, “It’s a soft day.” For the journey, she was dressed simply—a wool dress with a tartan pattern, a light cloak pinned at the shoulder, and a pair of leather sandals. Her father was similarly dressed in a belted tunic and cloak. Like most of the men on the island, his long legs were bare.

For a while, they went in silence. They crossed the ford. Long ago, so the story was, the hurdles had been laid down on the orders of a legendary seer. However that might be, as the chief who controlled the territory, Fergus maintained it now. Each hurdle consisted of a wattle raft held in place with stakes and weighted with heavy stones—solid enough, though they could be washed away if the river flooded. At the far end, where the bridgeway passed over boggy ground, the cart broke some of the wattle that had rotted. “That’ll have to be seen to,” her father muttered absently; but she had wondered how many weeks would pass before he got round to it.

Once across, they had turned westwards, following the line of the Liffey upstream. Willows grew on the riverbanks. On the dry ground, as in much of the island forest, ash trees and fine oaks abounded. Dair they called the oak tree in Celtic, and sometimes a settlement made in an oakwood clearing was called Daire—it sounded, approximately, “Derry.” As they went through the forest track, the rain had ceased and the sun appeared. They crossed a large clearing. And it was only after the track had led them back into the woods again that Deirdre spoke.

“So what sort of a husband am I to have?”

“We’ll see. Someone who can meet the conditions.”

“And what are they?”

“Such as are appropriate for the only daughter of this family. Your husband will be marrying the great-granddaughter of Fergus the warrior. Nuadu of the Silver Hand himself used to speak to him. Don’t forget that.”

How could she forget? Hadn’t he been telling her since before she could walk? Nuadu of the Silver Hand, the cloudmaker. In Britain, where he was depicted like the Roman Neptune, they had built a great shrine to him by the western river Severn. But on the western island, he was adopted as one of the Tuatha De Danaan—and the kings of that part of the island even claimed him as their ancestor. Nuadu had taken a personal liking to her great-grandfather. Her future husband would have to reckon with that, and all the rest of the family heritage. She glanced sidelong at her father.

“Perhaps I’ll refuse,” she said. By the ancient laws of the island, a woman was free to choose her husband—and to divorce him later if she wanted. In theory, therefore, her father couldn’t compel Deirdre to marry someone, though he would doubtless make it unpleasant for her if she refused ever to marry at all.

Men had made offers for her in the past. But after her mother’s death, with Deirdre running the household and acting as a mother to her brothers, the business of her marriage had been put to one side. The last occasion that she knew of had taken place one day when she had been out walking. On her return, her brothers had told her that a man had been asking for her. But the rest of the conversation had not been encouraging.

Ronan and Rian: two years and four years her juniors. Perhaps they were no worse than other boys their age. But they could certainly exasperate her.

“He came by while you were out,” Ronan said.

“What sort of man?”

“Oh, just a man. Like father. Younger. He was travelling somewhere.”

“And?”

“They got talking.”

“And? What did father say?”

“He was just—you know—talking.” Ronan looked at Rian.

“We didn’t listen much,” added Rian. “But I think he made an offer for you.”

She looked at them. They weren’t being evasive. Just being themselves. Two gangling youths without a thought to share between them. Like a pair of large puppies. Show them a hare and they’d chase it. That was about the only thing that would excite them. Hopeless.

What would they do without her, she wondered?

“Would you be sorry if I left you to get married?” she had suddenly asked.

They had looked at each other again.

“You’ll be going sooner or later,” said Ronan.

“We’d be all right,” said Rian. “You could come to visit us,” he had added, encouragingly, as an afterthought.

“You’re very kind,” she said, with bitter irony, but they didn’t see it. There was no use, she supposed, in expecting gratitude from boys of that age.

When she had questioned her father about it later, he had been terse.

“He didn’t offer enough.” The marriage of a daughter was a careful negotiation. On the one hand, a handsome young woman of noble blood was a valuable asset to any family. But the man who married her would have to pay the bride price, of which her father would receive a share. That was the custom of the island.

And now, with his affairs in the state they were, Fergus had evidently decided he must sell her. She knew she shouldn’t be surprised. That was the way things were. But even so, she couldn’t help feeling a little hurt and betrayed. After all that I have done for him since my mother died, is that really what I am to him? she wondered. Just like one of the cattle, to be kept as long as needed, and then sold? She had thought he loved her. And indeed, she reflected, he probably did. Instead of feeling sorry for herself, she should be feeling sorry for him, and try to help him by finding a suitable man.

She was good-looking. She had heard people say she was beautiful. Not that she was so special. She was sure there must be dozens of other girls on the island with soft golden hair, a red and generous mouth with good white teeth like hers. Her cheeks, as the saying was, had the delicate colour of foxgloves. She had pretty little breasts, too, she had always considered. But the most striking feature she possessed was her eyes, which were the strangest and most beautiful green. “I don’t know where they come from,” her father had told her, “though they say there was a woman with magical eyes somewhere in my mother’s family.” No one else in the family or anywhere near Dubh Linn had eyes like that. They might not be magical—she certainly didn’t think she had any special powers—but they were much admired. Men had been fascinated by them ever since she was a child. So she’d always felt confident that, when the time came, she’d be able to find a good man.

But she wasn’t in a hurry. She was still only seventeen. She’d never met anyone she wanted to marry; and in all likelihood, marriage would take her far from the quiet estuary at Dubh Linn, which she loved. And whatever her father’s problems with his debts, she wasn’t sure she should go away at the moment, leaving her father and her brothers without a woman to run the house.

The festival of Lughnasa was a traditional occasion for match-making. But she didn’t think she wanted a husband. Not this year.

The rest of the day had passed quietly. She asked no more questions, because there was no point. Her father at least seemed cheerful: that was something to be grateful for. Perhaps, with luck, he wouldn’t become involved in any quarrels, and would fail to find her an acceptable suitor. Then they could all return home safely and in peace.

Late in the morning they came to a hamlet in a clearing where her father knew the people; but for once he did not stop to talk. And soon after that, as the Liffey curved away to the south, the track began to rise from the narrowing river plain onto higher ground, taking them westwards. It was towards noon, reaching a break in the trees, that they came out onto a broad shelf of peaty heath, dotted with gorse bushes.

“There,” her father pointed to an object a short way ahead, “that’s where we’ll rest.”

The midday sun was pleasantly warm as they sat on the grass and ate the light meal she had brought for them. Her father drank a little ale to wash down his bread.

The place he had chosen was a small earthwork ring beside a single standing stone. These stones, either single or in groups, were a regular feature of the landscape—placed there, it was assumed, by ancestral figures or by the gods. This one stood quite alone, about the height of a man, looking out over a wooded plain that stretched away, westwards, to the horizon. In the great silence under the August sun, the old grey stone seemed, to Deirdre, to be friendly. After they had eaten, and while the horses grazed nearby, they stretched out in the sun to rest a little while. The quiet snoring of her father soon told her that he was taking a nap, and it was not long before Deirdre dozed off herself.

She awoke suddenly. She must have slept awhile, she realised, as the sun had shifted its position. She was still in that hazy condition of having been jolted through the veils of sleep into a too bright consciousness. As she glanced at the sun hanging over the great plain, she experienced a curious vision. It was as if the sun were a spoked wheel, like that of a war chariot, strange and menacing. She shook her head to dispel the last mists of sleep and told herself not be foolish.

But for the rest of that day, and while she lay trying to sleep that night, she was unable to rid herself of a vague sense of disquiet.

It had been late morning when Goibniu arrived. His single, all-seeing eye surveyed the scene.

Lughnasa: a month after the summer solstice, the celebration of the coming harvest, a festival where marriages were arranged. He liked its patron god—Lugh the Shining One, Lugh of the Long Arm, the magician master of every craft, the brave warrior, the healer.

People were arriving at Carmun from every direction: chiefs, warriors, athletes from tribes all over the island. How many tribes were there, he wondered. Perhaps a hundred and fifty. Some were large, ruled by powerful clans; some were lesser, ruled by affiliated septs; some hardly more than a group of families, probably sharing a common ancestor, but who proudly called themselves a tribe and had a chief. It was easy, on an island which nature had divided by mountain and bog into huge numbers of small territories, for each tribe to have lands of its own in the centre of which there was usually a sacred ancestral site, often as not marked by an ash tree.

And who exactly were these tribes? Where had they come from, these Sons of Mil who had sent the legendary Tuatha De Danaan under the hills? Goibniu knew that the conquering tribes had come to the western island centuries ago from neighbouring Britain and from across the sea to the south. The people of the western island were part of a great patchwork of tribes, whose culture and language, called Celtic, stretched across much of north-western Europe. With their swords of iron, splendid war chariots, and magnificent metalwork, their druid priests and poets, the Celtic tribes had long been feared and admired. As the Roman Empire had spread northwards and across to Britain, the main centres of each tribal territory had usually become a Roman military centre or market town and the Celtic gods of the local tribe likewise put on Roman clothes. Thus in Gaul, for instance, the Celtic god Lugh, whose festival this was, had given his name to the city of Lugdunum, which would one day become transmuted to Lyon. And the tribes in turn had gradually become Roman, even losing their old language and speaking Latin instead.

Except on the outer fringes. In the northern and western parts of Britain, which the Romans largely left alone, the former tongues and tribal customs had continued. Above all, in the western neighbour island across the sea, where the Romans came to trade but not to conquer, the old Celtic culture, in all its richness, remained intact. The Romans were not always certain what to call these various people. In northern Britain, which the Romans called Alba, lived the ancient tribes of Picts. When colonisers from the Celtic western island sailed over and established settlements in Alba, gradually pushing the Picts back towards the northern British interior, the Romans referred to these Celtic settlers as Scotti, or Scots. But the Celtic tribes of the western island did not call themselves by that Roman name. They knew who they were, ever since they had come to the island and encountered a friendly goddess there. They were the people of Eriu.

As he watched the Celtic tribesmen approaching the festival, however, Goibniu’s stare was cool. Was he one of them? Partly, no doubt. But just as up at those strange old mounds above the Boyne he felt a nameless sense of belonging, at these great Celtic gatherings he could not help an instinctive sensation that he was somehow alien, that he came from some other tribe who had been in this land since long before. Perhaps the Sons of Mil had conquered his people, but he still knew how to make use of them.

His single eye continued to move over the scene, separating, with knifelike precision, the colourful groups into different categories: important, not important; useful, irrelevant; owing him something, or owed a favour. By a large cart he saw two magnificent young champions, arms thick as tree trunks, tattooed—the two sons of Cas, son of Donn. Wealthy. To be cultivated. Some way off stood two druids and an old bard. The old man, Goibniu was aware, had a dangerous tongue, but he had a few pieces of gossip to keep the old man happy. Over to the left he saw Fann, daughter of the great chief Ross: a proud woman. But Goibniu knew that she had slept with one of the sons of Cas, which her husband did not. Knowledge is power. You never knew when such information could be used to secure a piece of future business. Mostly though, as his eye scanned the crowd, what Goibniu noticed were the people who owed him something.

Stately, plump Diarmait: nine cows, three cloaks, three pairs of boots, a gold torc to wear round his neck. Culann: ten pieces of gold. Roth Mac Roth: one piece of gold. Art: a sheep. They all borrowed, all were in his power. Good. Then he saw Fergus.

The tall fellow from Dubh Linn, who owed him the price of twenty cows. Fine girl with him: she must be his daughter. That was interesting. He moved towards them.

Deirdre had also been watching the crowds. The clans and septs were still swinging in from all parts of Leinster. It was certainly an impressive sight. Meanwhile, a curious exchange was taking place between her father and a merchant. It concerned the chief’s magnificent golden torc.

It was the custom on the island that, if you had given your jewellery away as security for a loan, you should be able to borrow it back for the great festivals, so that you should not be dishonoured. A kindly dispensation. If Fergus was embarrassed as he retrieved the splendid gold neck ring from the merchant, he certainly did not show it. Indeed, he solemnly took the heirloom from the other man, as though they were performing a ceremony. He had just placed it round his neck when Goibniu arrived.

Whatever the smith thought of Fergus, one couldn’t fault his politeness. Goibniu addressed him with all the high-flown courtesy he would have used to the king himself.

“May good be with you, Fergus, son of Fergus. The torc of your noble ancestors looks well upon you.”

Fergus eyed him cautiously. He hadn’t expected the smith to be down at Carmun.

“What is it, Goibniu,” he asked somewhat sharply, “that you want?”

“That is easy to tell,” said Goibniu, pleasantly. “I wished only to remind you of your promise to me, before last winter, of the price of twenty cows.”

Deirdre looked at her father anxiously. She knew nothing of this debt. Was this going to be the start of a quarrel? So far, the chief’s face remained impassive.

“It is true,” Fergus conceded. “You are owed it.” But then, in a lower voice. “It’s a hard thing you’re asking, just now. Especially at the festival.”

For it was another pleasant custom of the festival that Goibniu could not actually enforce his debt during the proceedings.

“You’ll be wanting to deal with the matter when the festival is over, perhaps,” suggested the smith.

“Not a doubt of it,” said Fergus.

During this exchange, Deirdre had continued to watch her father closely. Was he hiding his anger? Was this the calm before the storm? Goibniu was a man with many important friends. Perhaps that was keeping her father in check. She hoped it would continue to do so.

Goibniu nodded slowly. Then his single eye rested on Deirdre.

“You have a beautiful daughter, Fergus,” he remarked. “She has wonderful eyes. Will you be offering her in marriage at the festival?”

“It is in my mind,” said Fergus.

“It will be a fortunate man, indeed, who wins her,” the smith continued. “Don’t dishonour her beauty, or your noble name, by accepting anything but the highest bride price.” He paused. “I wish I were a bard,” he said, with a polite nod towards Deirdre, “so that I could compose a poem about her beauty.”

“You’d do that for me?” she said with a laugh, hoping to maintain the amicable mood of the conversation.

“Certainly.” Goibniu’s eye looked straight at Fergus.

And then Deirdre saw her father look at the cunning craftsman thoughtfully. Was Goibniu offering to find her a rich bridegroom? She knew that the one-eyed smith had far more influence than her father. Whatever bridegroom Fergus might consider, Goibniu could probably find something better.

“Let us walk together,” her father said, with a new softness; and Deirdre watched the two men move away.

So that was it then. Whatever momentary relief she had felt that her father had avoided a quarrel had now been ruined by this new turn of events. With her father, at least, she knew she could still keep some control of the situation. He might shout and rage, but he would not actually force her to marry against her will. But if her fate lay in Goibniu’s hands—Goibniu the confidant of kings, the friend of druids—who knew what his deep brain would devise? Against the one-eyed man, she hadn’t a hope. She looked at her brothers.

They were admiring a chariot.

“Did you see what happened?” she cried. They looked at each other blankly, then shook their heads.

“Anything interesting?” they asked.

“No,” she said irritably. “Just that your sister is to be sold.”

Lughnasa. High summer. At the ceremonies, the druids would make the harvest offerings to Lugh; the women would dance. And she, quite possibly, would be given to a stranger then and there and, perhaps, never return to Dubh Linn again.

She had started to walk alone across the open ground. Here and there, people at the bright stalls or standing in groups had turned to look at her as she passed, but she had scarcely been aware of them. She passed some tents and pens, and realised that she must be getting near the big track where they raced the horses. There was no big race due yet, but some of the young men would be exercising their horses, perhaps organising an informal, friendly race or two. It looked as if some horses were being led out for that purpose. The late-morning sun was filling the sky with a hard stare as she came to a railed enclosure where a number of riders were preparing to mount.

She stood by the rail and surveyed the scene.

The barebacked horses were skittish. She could hear good-natured taunts and laughter. Over on her right, she noticed a group of men, finely dressed, clustered round a dark-haired young man. He was a shade taller than they were, and as she caught sight of his face she noticed that it was unusually fine. An intelligent, perhaps a thoughtful face—whose quiet expression, despite his smile, suggested that his mind might be a little distant from the activity in which he was engaged. He might, she thought, be a highborn druid rather than a young champion. She wondered who he was. The little group parted and she realised that he must be about to ride in a race since, except for a protective loincloth, he had stripped his body naked.

Deirdre stared. It seemed to her that she had never seen anything so beautiful in her life. So slim, so pale, yet perfectly formed: an athlete’s body. He had not a single blemish, as far as she could see. She watched him mount and ride, easily, out onto the track.

“Who is that?” she asked a man standing nearby.

“That is Conall, son of Morna,” he replied; and seeing that she had not fully understood: “It’s the nephew of the High King himself.”

“Oh,” said Deirdre.

She watched several races. The men rode bareback. The island horses, though small, were very fleet and the races were exciting. She saw Conall come in just behind the leader in the first race; the second he won. He did not ride in the next two, but meanwhile, more and more people were arriving at the side of the track. One of the main attractions of the day was about to begin.

The chariot races. Already Deirdre could see that the King of Leinster had arrived on the small mound by the track from which vantage point he would preside. For if the racing of horses was the sport of warriors, the riding of chariots represented the highest and most aristocratic of the arts of war. The chariots were strong, lightly built, two-wheeled vehicles with a single shaft between two horses. Each chariot contained a two-man team—the warrior and his charioteer. They were swift and, in the hands of an expert charioteer, wonderfully manoeuverable. Against the disciplined armour of the Roman legions they were not effective, and so in the Roman provinces of Britain and Gaul they had long ago fallen into disuse; but here on the western island, where warfare was conducted along traditional Celtic lines, the ancient art was still practised. Deirdre could see about twenty chariots preparing to enter the track. But first, it seemed there was to be an exhibition. For now two chariots came out, unaccompanied, into the huge, grassy arena.

“There’s Conall,” remarked the man she had spoken to earlier, “and his friend Finbarr.” He grinned. “Now you’ll see something.”

Conall and Finbarr were both stripped, since it was also the tradition that Celtic warriors fought naked. She noticed that Finbarr was very strongly made, a little shorter than Conall, though thicker in the chest, upon which she could see curls of fair brown hair. Standing just behind their charioteers, each man carried a round shield decorated with polished bronze which flashed in the sun. The chariots went out together into the centre of the arena before wheeling apart to opposite ends. Then they began.

It was astounding. Deirdre had seen charioteers at work before, but never anything like this. Hurtling together at breakneck speed, their spoked wheels, each a blur, almost touched as they passed. Out to the ends they went and turned. This time each hero had taken up a great javelin. As they raced together again, they hurled their spears with devastating skill, Finbarr casting his just an instant before Conall. As the two spears crossed in the air, there was a sudden intake of breath from the crowd. And with good reason: for the aim of each was deadly. Conall’s chariot, hitting a small bump in the turf, was slowed just an instant so that the spear thrown by Finbarr would certainly have struck and probably killed the charioteer if Conall had not reached across with lightning speed and deflected it with his shield. Conall’s aim on the other hand, was so perfect that his javelin fell precisely on Finbarr’s shield as he raced forward so that, holding it up before him, Finbarr could neatly turn the sharp point to one side. There was a roar of appreciation from the crowd. This was warfare as a high art.

The two men were taking up their bright swords as the chariots wheeled round again. Now, however, it was the turn of the charioteers to show their skill. They did not dash straight at each other this time; instead, they began an intricate pattern of pursuit and avoidance, making dizzying circles and zigzags all over the field, swooping down upon each other like birds of prey, chasing and being chased. Each time they came close, sometimes careering along side by side, the two warriors struck and parried with sword and shield. If these fights had been choreographed in advance, it was impossible to tell. 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 stiffer. 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.

Like many of history’s successful leaders, Niall was partly a pirate. He knew the value of wealth. Since his youth he had led raids across to the island of Britain—easy pickings with the Roman legions withdrawing or gone. Mostly he had stolen boys and girls to sell to the slave markets; the profits he could use for himself and his followers. It was the custom, when one king submitted to another—when he agreed to “come into his house,” as the saying was—that he would pay tribute, usually in cattle, and give hostages for his continuing loyalty. So many kings were said to have sent their sons as hostages to Niall that he was remembered as Niall of the Nine Hostages. His mighty clan not only had dominated the island and claimed the high kingship but had forced the Leinster kings to give them the ancient royal site of Tara which they intended to make into their own dynasty’s ceremonial centre, from which they could rule the whole island.

But mighty though the clan of Niall might be, even high kings were at the mercy of larger, natural forces.

It had happened quite unexpectedly, immediately after the Lughnasa festival. Ten days of drenching rain: the ground reduced to a bog, the harvest utterly ruined. No one could remember a summer like it. And it was the High King’s fault. For though the motives of the gods were seldom clear, such terrible weather could only mean that at least one of them was offended with him.

Every place had its gods. They grew out of the landscape and the stories of the beings who had dwelt there before. Everyone could feel their presence. And the Celtic gods of the island were bright and vivid spirits. When a man went up to the island’s high places and gazed across the emerald woods and pastures, and breathed the soft island air, his heart almost burst with gratitude to Eriu, the mother goddess of the land. When the sun rose in the morning, he smiled to see the Dagda, the good god, riding his horse across the sky—the kindly Dagda from whose magic cauldron all the good things of life were provided. When he stood on the shore and looked out at the waves, it might seem to him that he almost caught sight of Manannan mac Lir, the god of the sea, rising from the deep.

The gods could be fearsome also. Down off the island’s southwestern tip, on a rocky outcrop in the roiling waters, lived Donn, the lord of the dead. Most men feared Donn. And the mother goddess, when she took the form of the angry Morrigain and came with her ravens and screeched over men in battle, she, too, could be a terrifying figure. Was she angry now?

Kings were powerful when they pleased the gods. But a king had to be careful. If a ruler annoyed a god—or even one of the druids or filidh who spoke to them—he might lose a battle. If men came to the High King for justice and got none, the gods would probably send plague or bad weather. Everybody knew: a bad king brought bad luck; a good king was rewarded with good harvests. There was a morality in it. People might not be saying so openly yet, but he knew what they were thinking: if the harvest was ruined, it was probably the High King’s fault.

Yet search his conscience though he might, the High King could not think of any great shortcoming on his part that should have brought the wrath of the gods upon him. He possessed all the kingly qualities. He was not mean: he rewarded his followers well; the High King’s feasts were splendid. He was certainly no coward. He wasn’t jealous or petty. Even his wife could have no complaint about him on that score.

What should he do? He had consulted the druids. Offerings were being made. So far, at least, no one had come up with any further suggestions. The weather at present was fine. A few days ago he had decided that the wisest course for the time being was to wait and see.

“You were shamed in Connacht.” His wife’s voice punctured the silence surrounding his thoughts like a dagger. Involuntarily, he winced.

“That is not true.”

“Shamed.”

“It was my shame in Connacht brought the rain. Is that what you mean?”

She said nothing, but, for once, a tiny smile of satisfaction seemed to pass for a moment across her face.

The business in Connacht had been nothing. It was the custom in summer for the High King or his servants to visit parts of the island and receive payments of tribute. Not only did this acknowledge the High King’s supremacy but it was an important source of revenue. Large herds of cattle would be collected and delivered back to the High King’s pastures. This summer he had gone into Connacht, where the king had received him courteously and paid without question. But there had been a shortfall and the King of Connacht had explained with some embarrassment that one of the Connacht chiefs had failed to bring his quota. As the man’s territory lay on his route home, the High King had said that he would deal with the matter himself. A mistake, he had realised afterwards.

When he had come to the chief’s territory, neither the man nor his cattle were to be found, and after a few days’ search, he had continued on his way. Within a month, the whole island knew of it. He had sent a party of men back to catch the cheeky fellow, but again the Connacht man had evaded capture. He had meant to go into the whole business thoroughly after the harvest, but the rains had distracted him. So now he was a laughingstock. That chieftain would pay dearly for this in due course, but until he had, the High King’s authority was damaged. Nonetheless, he would take his time.

“It will be a poor sort of hospitality we get this winter,” she resumed. If the High King collected tribute in summer, in winter he had another way of making his presence felt. He came to stay. And though many chiefs might feel honoured that the High King came to claim some days of hospitality, by the time that the royal party left, they were glad to see them go. “They’ve eaten almost everything we had,” was the usual complaint. If the High King wanted to eat well that winter, he needed to inspire fear as well as love.

“That man who shamed you. That little chief.” She laid emphasis upon the little. “It is ten heifers he owes you.”

“It is. But I shall take thirty now.”

“You should not take them.”

“Why is that?”

“Because he owns something more valuable, something he is hiding.”

It never ceased to amaze the king how his wife could discover the details of other people’s business.

“What is it?”

“He has a black bull. They say it’s the biggest on the island. He keeps it hidden away because he’s planning to breed a whole herd with it and make himself rich.” She paused and looked at him balefully.

“Since you don’t do anything else for me, you could bring me that bull.”

He shook his head in wonderment.

“It is like Maeve you are,” he said. Everyone knew the story of Queen Maeve, who, jealous that her husband’s herd of cattle had a larger bull than her own herd possessed, sent the hero of legend, the great warrior Cuchulainn, to capture the Brown Bull of Cuailnge, and of the tragic bloodshed it led to. Of all the tales of gods and heroes which the bards recited, this was one of the favourites.

“You get me that bull for my herd,” she said.

“Do you wish me to get it myself?” he asked.

“I do not.” She glowered at him. “It would not be fitting.” High Kings did not lead small cattle raids.

“Who should go, then?”

“Send your nephew, Conall,” she said.

As he thought about this, the High King, not for the first time, had to admit that his wife was clever. “It may be that I will,” he said after a little while. “It would perhaps take his mind off this desire he has to be a druid. But I think,” he went on, “that it should be done next spring.”

And now it was the turn of the queen, despite herself, to glance at her husband with some respect. For she guessed what was in his mind. It might even be, she realised, that he had deliberately left the business of the Connacht man unfinished. If there was any inclination amongst the island’s many chiefs to mount challenges to his authority, he would give them the months of winter to show themselves. They might think they were plotting in secret, but he was sure to learn of it. He was not High King for nothing. Once he knew who his enemies were, he would crush them before they had time to combine.

“Say nothing yet, then,” she said, “but send Conall for the bull at Bealtaine.”

There was a rainbow. It was not unusual, in that part of the island, to see a rainbow; and now, as the sun came through the filter of moisture after a brief shower, there was a rainbow right across the Liffey’s estuary and the bay.

How she loved the Dubh Linn region. With the prospect of leaving it for Ulster ever present now, Deirdre savoured every day. If the haunts of her childhood had always seemed dear, they now seemed to be imbued with a special poignancy. Often she would wander along the river. She loved its changing moods. Or she would go out to the seashore and follow the long, curved sands, scattered with seashells, that led to the rocky hill at the southern end of the bay. But there was one place that she liked even better. It took a bit longer to reach, but it was worth it.

First she would cross by the Ford of Hurdles to the northern bank. Then, following tracks across the low, marshy expanses, she would work her way round to the long, eastwards strand that formed the upper half of the bay. Mudflats and grassy sandbars, a little way out from the shore, accompanied her for a long time; but eventually they ceased and at last ahead of her, at the end of a long spit of land, she would see the big hump of the northern peninsula. And with a new sense of joy she would go forward and start to climb.

Up on the hump of the peninsula, standing all alone, there was a pleasant little shelter. Placed there by men or by the gods long ago, it consisted of a few thickset, standing stones with a huge, flat stone slab laid on top of them at an angle, aslant against the sky. Inside this dolmen, the sea breeze was reduced to a peaceful, hissing sound. But as she sat or lay on its stony roof, Deirdre could daydream in the sun or enjoy the view.

And if Deirdre loved gazing out from the top of the peninsula, it was hardly surprising. For it was one of the finest coastal views in all Europe. Looking southwards across the great sweep of the bay, its grey-blue waters appeared to be molten yet cool—aqueous lava, skin of the sea god, shining softly. And beyond the bay, all the way down the coastline, points and headlands, hills and ridges, and the pleasant sweeps of former volcanoes formed a hazy recessional into the blue beyond.

But much as Deirdre admired this wonderful southern view, what she specially loved was to look across the headland the other way, to the north. Here, too, there was a fine open sweep of the sea, if less dramatic, and the level coastland, known as the Plain of Bird Flocks, was a pleasant region; but what interested her were two objects that lay quite near. For immediately above the headland lay another, smaller bay in the shape of an estuary; and in this estuary were two islands. The larger, more distant, whose long lines reminded her of a fish, seemed sometimes, when the waters were in motion, to be drifting out to sea. Indeed, it was nearly clear of the estuary already. But it was the smaller island which charmed her most. It was only a short way from the shore. You could row out to it quite easily, she supposed. It had a sandy beach on one side and a heathery little hillock at its centre. But on the seaward side there was a small, rocky cliff which had been cleft, leaving a sheltered gap between its face and a pillar of standing stone, with a pebble beach below. How intimate it seemed. The island was not inhabited and had no name. But it looked so inviting. She found it fascinating and would sit on warm afternoons, gazing at it for hours. Once she had taken her father up there, and if she returned late after a long ramble, he would usually smile and say, “Well, Deirdre, have you been looking at your island again?”

She had been there this morning, and had returned in an irritable mood. She had been caught in the rain shower—but that was nothing. The thought of her marriage had depressed her. She hadn’t met the man that Goibniu and her father were proposing yet; but whomever she married, it would mean leaving these beloved shores. For I can’t marry the seabirds, she thought sadly. And then, on her return, she found that one of the two British slaves had foolishly cracked a barrel of her father’s best wine and lost more than half the contents. Her father and brothers were out, otherwise the slave could have expected a whipping, but she cursed him roundly by all the gods. It had irritated her still further that, instead of apologising or at least looking sorry, the wretched fellow, hearing the gods invoked, had fallen on his knees, crossed himself, and started mumbling his prayers.

On the whole, buying the two western British slaves had been one of her father’s better ideas. Whatever his shortcomings, he had a wonderful eye when it came to livestock, whether animal or human. Many of the British in the eastern half of the neighbour island couldn’t speak anything but Latin, she had heard. She supposed that after the centuries of Roman rule, this was not surprising. But the western British mostly spoke a language very similar to her own. One of the slaves was large and burly, the other short; both had dark hair, shaved close as a mark of their slavery. And they worked hard. But they had their own religion. Soon after they arrived, she had discovered them praying together once and they had explained that they were Christians. She knew many of the British were Christian, and she had even heard of small Christian communities on the island, but knew little about the religion. A bit concerned, she had asked her father about this, but he had reassured her.

“The British slaves are often Christian. It’s a slave’s religion. Tells them to be submissive.”

So she had left the burly slave mumbling his prayers while she went indoors. Perhaps in the peace and quiet of the house her mood would improve. Her hair had become tangled in the rain. She sat down and started to comb it.

The house was a good, solid dwelling—a circular structure with clay-and-wattle walls, about fifteen feet in diameter. Light came in through three doorways which were open to let in the fresh morning air. In the middle of the interior was a hearth; wisps of smoke from the fire filtered out through the thatched roof above. Beside the fire was a large cauldron and, on a low wooden table, a collection of wooden platters—for though they had once done so, the islanders did not use much pottery. On another table near the wall, the family’s more valuable household possessions were kept: a handsome, five-handled bronze bowl; a quern for grinding grain; a pair of dice, rectangular in shape with four faces, that you rolled in a straight line; several wooden tankards banded with silver; and, of course, her father’s drinking skull.

Deirdre sat there combing her hair for some time. Her immediate irritation had subsided. But there was something else, in the background, something that had been troubling her for the last two months, ever since her return from Lughnasa, and that she did not wish to acknowledge. A tall, pale young prince. She shrugged. It was no use thinking about him.

Then she heard the foolish slave, calling her.

Conall was in his chariot. Two swift horses were harnessed to the central shaft. On his arm, he wore a heavy bronze armlet. Befitting his rank, his chariot contained his spear, his shield, and his shining sword. It was driven by his charioteer. Over the sea, he noticed, there was a rainbow.

What was he doing? Even as the chariot came in sight of Dubh Linn and the ford, Conall had not been sure. He was about to conclude that it was all Finbarr’s fault, but had checked himself. It wasn’t Finbarr’s fault. It was the girl’s golden hair, and her wonderful eyes. And something else. He didn’t know what it was.

Conall had never been in love. He wasn’t without any experience of women. The members of the High King’s retinue had seen to that. But none of the young women he had met so far had really interested him. He had felt attractions, of course. But whenever he talked to a young woman for any length of time, he always felt as if some invisible barrier had come between them. The women themselves did not always realise this; if the High King’s handsome nephew sometimes seemed thoughtful or a little melancholy, they found it attractive. And he wished it were otherwise. It saddened him that he could not share his thoughts and that theirs, in turn, always seemed so predictable.

“You ask for too much,” Finbarr had told him frankly. “You cannot expect a young woman to be as deep and wise as a druid.”

But it was more than that. Ever since his early childhood, when he had sat alone by the lakes or watched the red sun go down, he had been overcome by a sense of inner communion, a feeling that the gods had reserved him for some special purpose. Sometimes it filled him with ineffable joy; at other times it seemed like a burden. At first he had assumed that everyone felt the same way, and had been quite surprised to discover that they did not. He had no wish to place himself apart. But as the years went by, these sensations had not passed away but had grown. And so it was that, whether he wished it or not, when he gazed into the eyes of some well-meaning girl, he was troubled by an uncomfortable inner voice that said she was a distraction, taking him away from the path of his destiny.

So why was this girl with the strange green eyes any different? Was she just a bigger distraction? He did not think she was different in kind from the other women he had met. Yet somehow the warning voice that usually troubled him, if it had been speaking, had not spoken loudly enough to be heard. He was drawn to her. He wanted to know more. It would have seemed strange indeed to Finbarr that he should have hesitated so long before he had summoned his charioteer, harnessed a pair of his swiftest horses to his light chariot, and, without saying where he was going, set off towards the Ford of Hurdles and the dark pool of Dubh Linn.

And now he found her alone, with only some of the farmhands for company. Her father and brothers had gone out hunting. He saw at once that the farmstead of Fergus was quite a modest one, and that seemed to make his visit easier. If he had called upon an important chief, the news would have travelled all over the island in no time. As it was, he crossed the hurdles, noted privately that they needed repairing, and came quite naturally to the rath of Fergus to ask for refreshment before he continued on his way.

She met him at the entrance. After greeting him politely and apologising for her father’s absence, she led him inside and offered him the usual hospitality for a traveller. When the ale was brought, she served him herself. She recalled their meeting at Lughnasa calmly and politely; yet it seemed to him that there was a quiet, laughing look in her eyes. He had forgotten that she was so delightful. And he was just wondering for how long he should prolong his stay when she asked him whether, after crossing the ford, he had looked at the dark pool that gave the place its name.

“I did not,” he lied. And when she asked if he would like her to show it to him, he said that he would.

Perhaps it was the fact that the leaves of the oak tree that stood above the pool had turned golden brown, or perhaps it was some trick of the light, but as he stood with Deirdre and looked down the steep bank to its calm surface, Conall had the momentary apprehension that the pool’s dark waters were about to draw him in, ineluctably, down into depths without end. Every pool, of course, might be magical. Hidden passages below its waters might lead down into the otherworld. That was why the offerings to the gods of weapons, ceremonial cauldrons, or golden ornaments were so often thrown into their waters. But to Conall at that moment, the dark pool of Dubh Linn seemed to offer him a threat more mysterious, and nameless. He had never experienced such a sense of fear before, and hardly knew what to make of it.

The girl close by his side was smiling.

“We have three wells here, too,” she remarked. “One of them is sacred to the goddess Brigid. Would you like to see it?”

He nodded.

They looked at the wells, which were pleasantly situated on the rising ground above the Liffey. Then they walked back across the open turf towards the rath. As they did so, Conall found himself uncertain what to do. The girl did none of the things that other girls did. She neither moved too close, nor brushed against him, nor put her hand upon his arm. When she looked at him, it was only with a pleasant smile. She was friendly; she was warm. He wanted to put his arm round her. But he did not. When they reached the rath, he said he must go.

Was there a hint of disappointment on her face? Perhaps a little. Was he hoping there might be? Yes, he realised, he was.

“It is this way you’ll be coming when you return,” she suggested. “You should stay with us for longer next time.”

“I will do that,” he promised. “Soon.” Then he called for his chariot and drove away.

When Fergus came home that evening and Deirdre told him that a traveller had come through, his curiosity was immediate.

“What sort of traveller?” he demanded.

“It was just a man going south. He wasn’t here for long.”

“And you didn’t think to find out anything about him?”

“He was at Carmun at Lughnasa, so he said.”

“And so was half of Leinster,” he retorted.

“He said he saw us there,” she said vaguely, “but I didn’t remember.” The idea of seeing a stranger not once, but twice, and still knowing nothing of his business was so far from her father’s comprehension that he could only stare at her in silence. “I gave him some ale,” she said brightly. “Perhaps he’ll come back.” And at this, to her relief, her father had turned away, moved to his favourite place near his drinking skull, wrapped his cloak around him, and gone to sleep.

For a long time after that, however, Deirdre had remained awake, sitting with her knees drawn up to her chin, thinking about the day that had passed.

She had been proud of herself that morning. When she had first seen Conall approaching she had let out a little involuntary gasp, and then felt herself tremble. It had taken all her concentration and willpower, but by the time he reached the entrance she had herself completely under control. She had not blushed. And she had kept it up the entire time he was there. But had she given him enough encouragement to return? That was the question. The thought of putting him off was even more terrible than making a fool of herself. As they had walked to the pool she had wondered: should she move closer, should she touch him? She thought not. She believed she had done things the right way. But how she would have liked it, on the way back, if he had put his arm round her. Should she have linked her arm in his? Would that have been better? She didn’t know.

One thing she did know was that the longer she could keep her father off the scent, the better. Given his love of talk, he was sure to cause her embarrassment. If there was to be any hope for her with the young prince …

And why, for her part, was she so interested in the quiet and thoughtful stranger? Because he was a prince? No, it wasn’t that.

It was an old tradition that the High King must be a perfect man. He could have no blemish. Everyone knew the story of the legendary king of the gods, Nuadu. When he had lost a hand in battle, he had resigned his kingship. Then he had been given a hand of silver, which eventually turned back into a natural hand. Only then could Nuadu of the Silver Hand be king again. So it was with the High King, supposedly. If the High King wasn’t perfect, then he would not be pleasing to the gods. The kingdom would be blighted.

To her it seemed that the handsome warrior, who, she sensed, had been reluctant to meet her at Lughnasa, had this kingly quality. His body was without blemish—she had certainly seen that. But it was his thoughtful manner, the sense of reserve, even private mystery and melancholy about him, that set him apart in her eyes. This man was special. He was not for any thoughtless, coarse-grained woman. And he had come down to Dubh Linn to see her. She was sure of that. The question was: would he return?

The next day the weather was fine. The morning passed uneventfully, as everyone went about their usual business. It was nearly midday when one of the British slaves called out that there were horsemen crossing the ford, and Deirdre went out to see. There were just two of them, in a light cart with a small train of pack-horses. One man she recognised easily. The other, a tall man, she did not know.

The smaller man was Goibniu the Smith.

Conall awoke at dawn. The evening before, after leaving Deirdre, he had crossed the high promontory at the foot of the Liffey’s broad bay and, choosing a sheltered spot by a rock, had spent the night on its southern slopes. Now, in the dawn’s early glow, he climbed up the rock and gazed southwards at the misty unveiling of the panorama below.

On his right, catching the first gleams of the sun, the gentle hills and volcanic mountains rose into a pale blue sky in which the stars were still departing; on his left, the white mist and silver sheen of the sea. Between these elemental worlds, the great sweep of open country unrolled like a green cloak down the slopes and along the coastline as far as the eye could see until the mists curtailed it. And like a border along the green cloak’s edge ran the little cliffs of the shoreline below which the sea spume spread on the distant waiting sands.

Some way down the slopes before him, he saw a fox lope across open grass and disappear into the trees. All around, the dawn chorus filled the air. Far away, by the edge of the sea, he saw the silent shadow of a heron sliding over the water. He felt the faint warmth of the rising sun on his cold cheek, and turned his face eastwards. It was as if the world had just begun.

It was at times like this, when the world seemed so perfect he wished he could open his mouth like the birds around him to give praise, that Conall would find the words of the ancient Celtic poets coming into his mind. And this morning, it was the most ancient of them all whose words came to him—Amairgen, the poet who arrived on the island with the first Celtic invaders when they took it from the divine Tuatha De Danaan. It was Amairgen, stepping ashore on a coastline like this, who uttered the words that became the foundation for all the Celtic poetry since. As well they might—for Amairgen’s poem was nothing less than an ancient Vedic mantra of the kind to be found right across the huge Indo-European diaspora from the western Celtic bardic songs to the poetry of India.

So the great chant began. The poet was a bull, a vulture, a dewdrop, a flower, a salmon, a lake, a pointed weapon, a word, even a god. The poet was transformed into all things, not just by magic but because all things, atomised, were one. Man and nature, sea and land, even the gods themselves came from one primal mist, and were formed in one endless enchantment. This was the knowledge of the ancients, preserved on the western island. This was what the druids knew.

And this was what he, Conall, experienced when he was alone—the sense of being at one with all things. It was so intense, so important, so precious to him that he was not sure he could live without it.

It was for this reason that now, in the wonderful silence of the sun’s rising, he shook his head. For here was the question he could not solve. Did you lose this great communion if you lived side by side with another? Could you share such things with a wife, or did you somehow lose them? An instinct told him that you did, but he was not sure.

He wanted Deirdre. He was sure of that already. He wanted to return to her. But if he did, was he going, in some way as yet unclear, to lose his life?

He was a good-looking man, you couldn’t deny it. Tall, balding, about thirty years old, she guessed, with a face that reminded you of a mountain crag; eyes black but not unkind. They had talked pleasantly enough and after a time, when he had ascertained her likes and dislikes and, she had to suppose, made some judgements about her character—and she certainly didn’t think his judgements would be foolish—she saw him give a little look to Goibniu which must have been a signal. For she saw that the smith soon afterwards took her father by the arm and suggested they walk outside.

So that was it. She was about to be married. She had no doubt the offer would be handsome. And, so far as she could tell, her future husband was a fine upstanding man. She could count herself lucky. The only trouble was that, at the moment anyway, she didn’t want him.

She rose. He looked a little surprised. She smiled, said she would return in a moment, and went outside.

Goibniu and her father were standing a little way off. They looked expectantly at her, but when she indicated that she wished to speak with her father, he came across.

“What is it, Deirdre?”

“Is it an offer he’s making for me, Father?”

“It is. An excellent offer. Is something the matter?”

“No. Not at all. You may tell Goibniu,” she smiled towards the smith, “that I like his choice. He seems a good man.”

“Ah.” Her father’s relief was palpable. “That he is.” He seemed ready to go back to the smith.

“But I’m wondering,” she continued pleasantly, “if there’s something I should tell you.”

“What is that?”

There was nothing for it now. Whatever the risk, she must take her chance.

“Have you heard of Conall, son of Morna, Father? He’s nephew to the High King.”

“I have. But I don’t know him.”

“But I do. I met him at Lughnasa.” She paused as he stared at her in amazement. “It was he that came here yesterday. And I think it was me he came to see.”

“You are sure? He is serious?”

“How can I tell, Father? We should need time to find out. But I think it is possible. Is there anything that can be done?”

And now the chief who traded cattle smiled.

“Go inside, child,” he said, “and leave it to me.”

“She does not dislike him?” Goibniu asked sharply upon Fergus’s return.

“She came to tell me she likes him,” Fergus said smiling, before adding gently, “well enough.”

Goibniu nodded briskly.

“Well enough will do. And the price?”

“It is acceptable.”

“We’ll take her with us now, then.”

“Ah. That will not be possible.”

“Why is that?”

“I shall need her with me,” Fergus said blandly, “through the winter. But in the spring …”

“It’s in the winter he’ll be wanting a woman, Fergus.”

“If his intentions are genuine …”

“By the gods, man,” Goibniu burst out, “he wouldn’t be after coming all the way from Ulster to this miserable spot if he wasn’t genuine.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Fergus said solemnly. “And in the spring she shall be his.”

Goibniu’s one eye narrowed.

“You’ve another offer.”

“Indeed I have not.” Fergus paused. “No doubt I could have had. But seeing it was yourself I was dealing with—”

“I do not like to be crossed,” Goibniu cut him short.

“She shall be his,” Fergus promised. “There’s not a doubt of it.”

“And you will have to be his, Deirdre,” he said to his daughter later, after their visitors had gone, “if your Conall does nothing before the spring.”

III

Though Larine was one of the younger druids, he had a reputation for wisdom. The Peacemaker, they called him. So it did not surprise him, when he came one cold, early spring day to the camp by the Ulster coast where the High King was staying, that as soon as they were alone the king should have turned to him and asked, “Tell me your opinion, Larine. What I should do about my nephew, Conall?”

The druid had always liked Conall and in recent months the young prince had confided in him a good deal. He felt a tenderness and loyalty towards him. He had also been concerned by the increasing sadness he sensed in the young man’s mind. He answered cautiously, therefore.

“It is my opinion that he is troubled. His duty is to obey you in all things and to honour his father’s memory. He wants to do so. But the gods have given him the eyes of a druid.”

“You truly believe that he has a druid’s gifts?”

“I do.”

There was a long silence before the High King spoke again.

“I promised his mother that he should follow his father’s footsteps.”

“I know,” Larine considered. “But did you swear an oath to do so?”

“No,” the king said slowly, “I did not. But that is only because, with my own sister, there was no need.”

“All the same, you are not bound.”

Again, a long silence fell. And if only they had remained alone to talk quietly a little longer, it seemed to Larine that, there and then, the High King might have granted Conall’s wish.

So it must have been fate that the queen should have appeared at that moment. And probably there was nothing Larine could have done when, after the usual greetings, she had looked at him thoughtfully through narrowed eyes and demanded to know what they were talking about.

“Conall’s desire to be a druid,” he answered quietly.

Did she care whether Conall was a druid or not? He saw no reason why she should. Nor, until the High King explained it to him, had he any idea what she meant when she furiously cried, “Not until he has brought me that bull.”

“Your uncle has not yet decided,” Larine told Conall later.

“And the queen?”

“The queen was angry,” the druid admitted.

It was an understatement. Of course, he knew about the queen’s temper, but Larine had still been shocked by the way that she had cursed her husband. He had promised to send Conall, she shouted at him, promised her personally. He was a worthless betrayer. Her husband had tried to say something, but she was in full flood and refused to listen. One thing that the druid did gather from her storm of words, however, was the deeper reason for the planned raid: the assertion of royal authority. And here he couldn’t deny the queen’s point. Others could be sent, but the handsome and untested young Prince Conall was a clever choice to show the royal family’s easy supremacy over the impertinent chief. The thing had style. But she had been foolish all the same. If she had spoken calmly and in private, she might have got her way. By shouting and heaping insults on the High King in front of a druid, she made it hard for her husband to give way and keep his dignity. Larine did not tell all this to Conall, however, but reported only: “The High King says he will decide later. He has promised me,” he added, “that he will speak to you privately first.”

“I knew nothing of this plan to steal the black bull,” Conall confessed.

“It is a secret, and you must not let them know I told you.” Larine paused. “You could get the bull, Conall, and then ask the High King to release you from your obligations. The queen would have nothing to say then.”

But Conall shook his head.

“Is that what you really believe?” He sighed. “I know them, Larine, even better than you. If I succeed in getting the bull, then sure enough, before a month is out, they’ll be asking me to do something else. There’ll be task after task. Disgrace if I fail; and if I succeed, honour—for myself, of course, but above all for my uncle the High King. There will never be an end of it, until I die.”

“It may turn out otherwise.”

“No, Larine. That is how it will be. There is only one way to make an end of it, and that is not to begin.”

“You cannot refuse to go.”

Conall brooded silently awhile.

“Perhaps I can,” he murmured.

It would be best, the druid thought, not to tell the High King about that.

Winter had nearly passed, and still he had not come. Some days, Fergus thought, Deirdre looked paler than the moon. Even her brothers noticed she was moody. It was a bad day, her father thought, that I ever took her to the Lughnasa at Carmun. A sad thing, he saw it now, that she had met Conall.

At first he had supposed Conall would come again. Deirdre was no fool; he did not think she had mistaken the young man’s interest. Conall cared for her. But time went by and there was no sign of him. The chief even made discreet enquiries about the young prince. He had discovered, and gently warned his daughter about, the druids’ geissi that governed Conall’s life. “Men who are marked by the fates like that,” he cautioned her, “do not always have easy and untroubled lives.” But it was clear that such warnings meant nothing to her.

So why hadn’t he appeared? There could be many reasons. But as he saw his daughter silently pining, one thought came into his mind again and again, and each time it came, it grew insidiously. For whose fault was it that Conall did not come? It was not the prince’s, nor Deirdre’s. The fault was his own. Why should a prince like Conall marry the daughter of Fergus? There was no reason at all. If he were a great chief, if he had riches—it might be another matter. But he had none of these.

Other men on the island, of no greater ancestry than he, had joined in the great raids across the sea or gone off fighting, winning riches and renown. But what had he done? Stayed at Dubh Linn, watched over the ford, entertained travellers at his house.

That had been part of the trouble. When travellers came to the house of Fergus, they were well entertained. Fergus would think nothing of slaughtering a pig, or even a heifer, to provide a lavish meal for a guest. The old bard, who would recite to him most evenings, was always generously paid. The families from the outlying farmsteads, who called him their chief, would always find food and welcome at his house; and if they were behind with the modest tribute of cattle or hides that they owed him, these debts were often forgiven. It was the simple repetition of these modest displays of status, so essential to his dignity as he saw it, that had led Fergus in recent years to contract a number of debts which he kept hidden from his family. He had managed to get by, because the cattle had always saved him. He had an inborn talent as a cattleman and he thanked the gods for it. But his hidden embarrassment gnawed at him, especially since his wife’s death, and now the realisation of his failure in life came to torture him.

Yet what am I? he thought. What can men say of me? There goes a man that’s proud of his daughter. There’s a girl who’ll bring her father a good price. And what have I ever done, that she should be proud of me? Little enough. That was the truth of it. And now there was his daughter in love with a man who wouldn’t marry her because of her father.

She never spoke of it. She went about her daily tasks as usual. Sometimes, before midwinter, he had seen her staring across the cold waters by the ford. Once she had walked over to the headland to look at the little island she loved so much. But by winter’s end, she no longer looked at anything but what was to hand, unless it was to stare, dully, at the cold, hard ground.

“You’re paler than a snowdrop,” he said to her one day.

“Snowdrops wilt. I shall not,” she answered. “Were you afraid,” she suddenly asked with grim humour, “I should fade away before my wedding day?” And when he shook his head: “You’d best be taking me up to my husband in Ulster.”

“No,” he said gently. “Not yet.”

“Conall is not coming.” She sounded resigned. “I should be grateful for the good man you found me.”

You should be grateful for nothing, he thought. But aloud he said, “There’s time enough yet.”

Then a few mornings later, telling them that he’d be gone several days and explaining nothing, he mounted his horse and rode away across the ford.

Finbarr listened carefully when Conall told him about the cattle raid, and his feelings about it. Then he shook his head in wonderment.

“There is the difference between us, Conall,” he said. “Here am I, a poor man. What wouldn’t I give for such a chance? And you, a prince, are dragged to glory against your own will.”

“It is you who should lead this raid, Finbarr, not I,” Conall replied. “I shall tell my uncle.”

“Do not do that,” said Finbarr. “It would only bring down trouble on my head.” And then, after a pause, he looked at Conall curiously. “Is there anything else,” he enquired gently, “that you wish to tell me?”

It had been at the start of winter that he had noticed the change in his friend’s behaviour. Of course, Conall had been moody anyway, but when he had begun to frown, and purse his lips, and stare vacantly at the horizon, Finbarr had decided that something new must be disturbing his friend’s thoughts. So now, as Conall told him about the bull, he assumed that this was the secret problem on his friend’s mind. But when he asked, “How long have you known?” and Conall replied, “Two days,” it was clear that the moods he had noticed must still have been caused by something else. “Are you sure there is nothing on your mind?” he tried again.

“Nothing at all,” said Conall.

And it was just then that a tall and unfamiliar figure strode into view.

It had taken Fergus some days to find the camp of the High King, but once he arrived, a man had directed him to Conall at once. He looked with secret admiration at the handsome prince and his good-looking companion.

“Greetings, Conall, son of Morna,” he said gravely. “I am Fergus, son of Fergus, and I have something to say to you in private.”

“There is nothing that my friend Finbarr may not hear,” said Conall calmly.

“It concerns my daughter, Deirdre,” Fergus began, “who you came to see at Dubh Linn.”

“I will hear this alone,” said Conall quickly, and so Finbarr left them. But he had noticed, with surprise, that his friend was blushing.

It did not take Fergus long to tell Conall about Deirdre. When he spoke of her love for him, he saw Conall look guilty. When he explained about the offer that Goibniu had arranged, he saw the prince go pale. He did not press the troubled young man to declare himself one way or the other, but simply stated, “She will not be given until the feast of Bealtaine. Then she must be given.” And with that he strode away.

Finbarr smiled to himself. So Conall had gone all the way down to the Liffey to see that girl he had brought to him at Lughnasa. That was what his friend had been brooding about. Not a doubt of it. For once the mysterious druid prince was behaving like a normal man. There was hope for him yet.

He hadn’t hesitated to confront his friend as soon as Fergus had left. And this time Conall gave in and told him everything.

“I think,” said Finbarr with some pleasure, “that you’ll be needing my advice.” He looked at him hard. “Do you truly want this girl?”

“Perhaps. I think so. I hardly know.”

Bealtaine. The start of May.

“You have only two months,” Finbarr pointed out, “to make up your mind.”

IV

Goibniu grinned. All over the landscape he could see little parties of people—some mounted or in carts, but mostly leading cattle—making their way towards the single hill that stood in the middle of the plain.

Uisnech: the centre of the island.

Actually, the island had two centres. The royal Hill of Tara, which lay only a short day’s journey to the east, was the greatest political centre. But the geographical centre of the land was here at Uisnech. From Uisnech, said the legend, the island’s twelve rivers had been formed in a mighty hailstorm. The island’s navel, some people called it: the circular hill in the middle of the land.

But Uisnech was far more than that. If Tara was the hill of kings, Uisnech was the hill of druids, the island’s religious and cosmic centre. Here lived the goddess Eriu, who had given the island her name. Here, before even the Tuatha De Danaan came, a mystical druid had kindled the first fire, whose embers had been carried to every hearth in the island. Hidden at Uisnech, in a secret cave, was the holy well which contained the knowledge of all things. At the summit of the hill stood the five-sided Stone of Divisions around which lay the sacred meeting grounds of the island’s five kingdoms. At this cosmic centre, the druids had their conclaves.

And it was at Uisnech also, each May Day, that the druids held the great assembly of Bealtaine.

Of all the festivals of the Celtic year, the two most magical were surely Samhain, the original Hallowe’en, and the May Day festival called Bealtaine. If the year was split into two halves—winter and summer, darkness and light—then these two festivals marked the junctions. At Samhain, winter began; at Bealtaine, winter ended and summer took over. The eve of each of these two festivals was an especially eerie time. For during that night the calendar entered a kind of limbo, when it was neither winter nor summer. Winter, season of death, met summer, season of life; the world below met the world above. Spirits walked abroad; the dead came to mingle with the living. They were nights of strange presences and fleeting shadows—frightening at Samhain, since they were leading you to death; but at Bealtaine, less fearsome. For the spirit world in summer was only mischievous, and sexual.

Goibniu liked Bealtaine. He might have only one eye, but he was complete in every other way, and his sexual prowess was well known. As he watched the people gathering, he felt a keen sense of anticipation. How long before he had a woman? Not long, he thought. After all, this was Bealtaine.

By evening, there were thousands gathered in the rosy light, waiting for the ascent. There was a faint, warm breeze. The sound of a piper wound its way round the base of the hill. Expectancy was in the air.

Deirdre glanced at her little family. Both her brothers were carrying sprays of green leaves. She should have been doing the same: it was the custom at Bealtaine. But she wasn’t in the mood. Her brothers were grinning foolishly. While they were getting their green sprays, an old woman had asked them if they were going to find themselves girls that night. Deirdre had said nothing. Small chance, in her view. Such things happened of course. By the end of the following night, when everyone had been dancing and drinking, there would be all kinds of illicit couplings in the shadows. Young lovers, wives who had slipped away from their husbands, men who had deserted their wives. It was always like that in the May season. Not that she would ever have done such a thing. As the unmarried daughter of a chief, she had her reputation to think of. She couldn’t behave like the farmhands or the slave girls. But what about her father? She glanced at him curiously. Since she was, she supposed, about to be leaving home to be married, her father would no longer have a housekeeper. Would he use the festival of Bealtaine to find himself a woman? There was no reason why he shouldn’t, though he had given no indication that such a thing might be in his mind. She wondered how she would feel about it.

Without her wishing it, her gaze wandered amongst the crowd. Conall was there somewhere. She hadn’t yet seen him; but she knew he must be there. He had not come to look for her. She had seen that the High King was there with a large retinue; but she had not gone to see if Conall was there. If he wanted to find her, let him do so. If not … She could wait no longer. Her bridegroom was coming, and he could not be denied.

Perhaps Conall wanted her, but only in the May Day fashion and nothing more than that. Would he approach her, offer her a night of love, and then leave her to her fate? No. He was too fine for that. But what if he did come to her, up on the hill, in the night? What if, like a phantom, he appeared at her side? Touched her? Asked her, in the dark, with his eyes? What if Conall … Would she go with him? Would she give herself to him, like a slave girl? The thought of it. She thought of it.

As the sun was going down, the whole crowd started to move up the hill. There were people climbing hills like this all over the island.

On Bealtaine eve, the whole community kept watch together to guard against the evil spirits who were abroad that magical night. The spirits were up to every kind of mischief: they’d steal the milk, give you strange dreams, bewitch you, and lead you astray. Just for their private amusement. But they liked to take you unawares. They were sly. If you were looking out for them, they usually went away. That was why, in the Celtic world, whole communities kept watch all night on the eve of May.

Deirdre sighed. It was going to be a long vigil until the dawn. Despite herself, not meaning to do it, she glanced around once again.

How strange Conall’s face seemed in the starlight. One moment, Finbarr thought, it looked as hard as the five-edged stone that stood only forty paces away at the centre of the hilltop. Yet concentrate upon it for a while, and you might think it was dissolving into the darkness. Could Conall’s face be melting? No. It was just the faint flickering glimmer of the starlight upon the dew which was forming on all their faces.

Soon they would see the first hint of dawn. Then the sunrise ritual, and after that, in the full light of day, the great ceremony of the fires of Bealtaine. But as yet it was still night. Finbarr had never seen the sky so clear. The stars blazed out of the blackness; the plain around the hill was covered in a thin shroud of ground mist to which the starlight gave a soft sheen so that the Hill of Uisnech with its standing stone seemed to be set on a cloud at the centre of the cosmos.

“I have seen her,” he said quietly, so that only Conall could hear.

“Who is that?” Conall asked.

“You know very well it’s Deirdre I mean.” Finbarr paused, but getting no reaction from Conall he went on: “She is over there.” And he pointed away to the right. Conall had turned his head so that his face was a shadow. “Will you not see her?” In the long silence that followed, the stars moved, but Conall did not answer. “You know these are the last days,” Finbarr whispered. “Her bridegroom is waiting. Are you not going to do anything?”

“No.”

“Shouldn’t you tell her?”

“No.”

“So you’re not interested.”

“It is not what I said.”

“You are too complicated for me, Conall.” Finbarr said no more, but he wondered: Was it some strange self-denial that his friend was practising, as warriors or druids sometimes did? Was it mere hesitation, the fear that most young men have when faced with commitment? Or was it something else? Why was Conall deliberately pushing this girl into the arms of another man? To Finbarr it seemed perverse. But perhaps, even now, there might be something he could do to help his friend. At least he would try.

Now half the sky was pale. The stars were fading. There was a golden glow along the horizon.

The High King watched intently. At dawnings like this, he could still feel a tingling inside him, as if he were a young man again. But despite the anticipation of the sunrise, his thoughts remained on the serious matter which had occupied them through the night. He had made up his mind some time ago. His plan was complete. Only one piece, minor but important, was missing before he could put it into action.

Two things had to be accomplished. The first, of course, was to obtain a good harvest. He had handled the druids carefully. Gifts, flattery, respect—he had given these liberally. The priests were on his side. Not that you could trust them very far. It was the nature of priests, in his experience, to be vain. But whatever was required for ceremony or sacrifice, he had promised they should have it. They must all pray to the gods for good weather.

The second was to reassert himself. Some measures were easy. The raid to seize the black bull would be a good beginning. His wife, whatever her faults, had been right to insist upon it, and the timing was perfect. But the matter went deeper than that. When a king’s authority was eroded, the process soon became so subtle and widespread that it entered every aspect of his life. The disrespectful way his own wife had spoken to him in front of the young druid, though not important, was evidence of this. And to cure this condition he needed more than a mere demonstration of authority. A king must be respected, a High King dreaded. Like a god, he must be unknowable, deeper than his enemies. Deeper than his friends. They must discover that if they flouted his authority, he had let them do so, watched them expose their disloyalty, known their thoughts and actions all the time. Then he must reveal himself in all his power, fierce and awesome as the rising sun.

It was time to strike where they would least expect it, and he knew exactly what he was going to do. He needed just one more piece to put in place. One person whom he had not yet chosen. Who knew, perhaps he would find that person today.

Conall had not spoken during the rest of the night. If his motives were obscure to Finbarr, to him they were clear enough.

His main worry, when he arrived at Uisnech, had concerned the cattle raid. When Larine had spoken to him earlier that year, he had assured Conall that the High King had not reached a decision on the matter and had promised the druid he would speak to his nephew privately before he did so. For weeks he had waited anxiously for his uncle to broach the matter, but his uncle had never done so. He had gradually come to the conclusion that the High King’s plans must have changed. And the growing sense of relief he felt over this had encouraged him in his thoughts about becoming a druid.

But there was still the question of Deirdre. Was she part of his priestly destiny? Was he prepared to make the commitment, to take the irrevocable step of going down to Dubh Linn to claim her? Time and again, as the days and months had passed, he had turned that question over in his mind. Yet each time he had thought about the journey, something had held him back. And finally, just before he set off for Uisnech, he had come to the realisation that had given him some peace of mind. If I still have not gone to her, he thought, then it must be that I did not truly want her. And therefore she is not my destiny.

It was just as the sun was about to rise that Finbarr touched his arm.

“We should move over there,” Finbarr murmured, pointing to a place a little way to their left. “The view of the sunrise is better there.” It hardly seemed to Conall that it would make much difference, but he didn’t argue, and so they moved across.

They waited, with all the thousands of others on the slopes of Uisnech, for the magical moment. The horizon was glimmering. The huge orb of the sun was just breaking free from the liquid embrace of the horizon. Its golden glow spread across the misty plain and set the dew on the side of the hill gleaming. And now began one of the most lovely May Day customs of the Celtic world: the bathing in the dew.

Deirdre did not see him as she stooped down, cupped her hands in the shining wetness of the dew, and washed her face. Nearby, another woman was holding her infant child naked, and gently rolling him in the grass. Now Deirdre stood up straight, and her cupped hands once again spread the dew on her face; and then, stretching wide her arms so that she could feel the warmth of the rising sun on her breasts, she tilted back her head, and her breasts lightly rose and fell as if she were breathing in the sunbeams.

Conall stood, and stared. Finbarr watched his face. Then, realising that Finbarr had tricked him, with a scowl at his friend, Conall turned round and walked away.

The heat was intense. The line of cattle was long. They had been kept in pens for the night and now they were being led, one by one, towards the fires. They did not like it. The roar of the fires ahead frightened them. A line of smaller fires, arranged like a funnel, guided them to the two great bonfires between which they must pass. They started to bellow; some had to be goaded. But the most fearsome sight, at least to human eyes, was not the burning fire but the strange figures who gathered like a flock of huge, fierce birds just beyond the blazing gateway.

It was the same all across the world. From the druids of Ireland to the shamans of Siberia, from the Persian temples of Mithras to the medicine men of North America, at the time of sacred rituals, those who communed with the gods in trances put on cloaks of feathers. For the plumage of birds was nature’s richest array, and contained more than a hint, no doubt, that holy men could fly.

At the ceremonies of Bealtaine, the druids of Uisnech wore huge, brightly coloured cloaks with high bird’s-head crests that made them seem almost half as tall again. As each beast was led between the purifying fires, they splashed it with water. This was the May Day ritual that should ensure the health of the all-important livestock in the coming year.

Larine was standing beside an older druid. His attention should have been on the line of cattle. There were only fifty to go. It was hot work at the fire, and with so many cattle, the druids had taken turns. His turn had finished some time ago and he had taken off the heavy cloak of feathers. But now, while the older druid continued to watch the fires, his own eyes strayed to the plain around the hill.

For Larine had things on his mind. The first, and surely the least important, was a rumour—hardly even a rumour, really, more a whisper on the horizon. He had heard it the month before.

It concerned the Christians.

He knew that there had been Christians on the western island for a generation now. They were small communities—a chapel here, a farmstead there, a scattering of missionary priests ministering to the Christian slaves in the area and, if they were lucky, to some of their masters. As a well-informed druid, Larine had made it his business to know something about them. He had even made the acquaintance of a Christian priest down in south Leinster, with whom he had discussed the Christian doctrine in some detail. And it was the priest who had told him, the previous month, about the rumour.

“They say that the bishops in Gaul are planning to send a new mission to the island to enlarge the community, perhaps make an approach to the High King himself.” The priest had been uncertain of the details. Even the names of the missionaries to be sent were unclear. “But they say the Holy Father himself has sanctioned the mission.”

The mighty Roman Empire had adopted Christianity as its state religion a century ago. For several generations, therefore, the druids of the western island had been aware that they were the last, isolated stronghold of the old gods beside the vast territories of the Christian Roman Empire. But there were several factors which had given them comfort. The Christianity of the empire was by no means complete: there had still been important pagan temples in Britain, and within living memory the emperor Julian had actually tried to reverse the process and return the empire to its proper pagan tradition. In any case, the western island was protected by the sea. And with the withdrawal of Roman garrisons from Britain and Gaul, there seemed no chance at all that Rome could trouble the realm of the High King now. Without Roman troops, what could the Christian priests do? The little communities in the south of the island were tolerated because they gave no trouble. If any Christian missionary came to trouble the High King, the druids would soon deal with him.

He had said as much to the priest, and perhaps he had said it too bluntly; for the priest had become irritated, muttered words to the effect that it wasn’t so long since the druids had performed human sacrifices, and told Larine that he should remember how the prophet Elijah had vanquished the pagan priests of Baal. “He came to their festival,” the priest declared, “and built a great fire which burst into flame when he prayed to the Lord, while the priests of Baal could not get theirs to light at all. So take care,” he had added severely, “that the missionaries of the true God do not come to shame you at Bealtaine.”

“The fires of Bealtaine burn brightly,” Larine had replied. The Christian, he judged, was a victim of wishful thinking.

Yet something, he could not say what, had troubled him about the conversation. A vague apprehension. Absurd though it was, he had even glanced about once or twice to see if any of the Christian priests had decided to come to make a nuisance of themselves. But of course they had not. The fires of Bealtaine were burning brightly. As he scanned the horizon, he saw nothing to disturb the sacred ceremonies of the day.

If a feeling of unease continued to afflict him, he decided that it must be on account of the second and more serious of his concerns.

Conall. The prince had just appeared in the crowd that lined the other side of the pathway along which the cattle were led after passing between the fires. He was standing behind the front row, but his height gave him a good view of the fires at which, like the rest of the crowd, he was staring. He did not see Larine. It seemed to the young druid that, while everyone else was obviously enjoying the festivities, Conall’s face looked tense.

Several of the beasts being led through the fires were especially fine. Instead of bringing whole herds, farmers who had come a long distance might only bring their best animal, usually a bull, to serve as proxy for the rest. And just now a splendid brown bull was being led through by a tall figure and a girl. The man was a minor chieftain of some sort, Larine guessed, a handsome old fellow with long moustaches. But the girl, with her golden hair, was striking. The druid looked at her with appreciation. Her face was flushed red from the heat of the fire; so were her bare arms. He had the impression that her whole body was glowing. Conall seemed to have noticed the pair as well, for he was staring at them. What a contrast his taut, white face made, the druid thought, with the girl’s ruddy glow: like a pale sword before a smithy’s furnace. The girl, if she saw Conall, walked straight past without looking at him. She probably did not know who he was. Then another beast came through the fire, and the druid turned his eyes to that. But a few moments later he observed that Conall was still staring straight ahead and looking more like a ghost than ever.

He turned to the older druid beside him.

“What is your opinion of Conall?”

“Why is it you ask?”

“I am concerned about him.”

“Ah.” The druid glanced at him sharply. “And what is it, Larine,” she asked, “that you wish to know?”

Though most druids were men, there had always been female druids, too. Such women, often gifted with second sight and admitted to the mysteries of druidism, could be fearsome. If kings feared the rebuke of the druid men, the scorn of the female druid could be even more dangerous. And this old woman was formidable.

Larine looked down at her thin face. It was wrinkled now. Her hair, which fell almost to her waist, was grey, but her eyes, which were of the palest blue, might have belonged to a young woman and were strangely translucent, as if you could walk through them. As briefly as he could, he tried to answer her. Would his friend find happiness? Would he become a druid? But as he asked, she only shrugged impatiently.

“Foolish questions.”

“Why?”

“The fate of Conall is already foretold. It is in his geissi.”

Larine frowned. Whatever else you might say, Conall had always been a careful man.

“You know he never wears red because the colour is unlucky in his family. I cannot think he will break any of the geissi.”

“Yet he must break them, Larine, since he cannot die until he has.”

“That is true,” Larine agreed, “but that is far in the future; and it’s the present I’m worried about.”

“How do you know? Is it for you to decide such things, Larine? As a druid you should know better.” She paused and gave him a sharp look. “This I will tell you, and no more. Your friend Conall will break the first of the geissi very soon.”

As he stared at the old woman’s eyes and then at his friend’s pale face, Larine felt a cold shiver pass through him. She had second sight.

“How soon?”

“Three days. Ask no more.”

Finbarr was feeling pleased with himself. The cattle had all been led through the fires. The High King’s feast would be starting soon. And hadn’t he just done Conall a huge favour? Yes, he had. He’d done the right thing. And if his friend didn’t rise to the occasion this time … Well, he’d done his best.

The High King’s feast was no small affair. Starting in early afternoon it would stretch far into the night. A large banqueting hall with wicker sides had been set up. Inside were trestle tables and benches for three hundred people. There would be pipers and harpists, dancers and bards to give recitations. The great chiefs and druids, the law-keepers and the noblest warriors would all be present. Conall, too, of course. Thirty of the most highly born young women, daughters of chiefs every one, were to serve the mead and ale to the company.

And this was where Finbarr had done so well. For Deirdre was to be one of them. It had been a favour from the woman in charge of the girls. Then a quick interview with Fergus and his daughter. Deirdre had held back, embarrassed, but her father had ordered her to do it. Even now she had no idea that she would be directed to serve ale to Conall. Finbarr had made sure of that, too. And more than this, he told himself, he could not do.

Noon had passed and the feast had begun when Goibniu the Smith made his way towards the banqueting hall. He was in a very bad temper. The reason was simple: he had failed to get a woman.

He had found one the day before. A handsome buxom woman, wife of a farmer from Leinster. At dusk she had told him, “My husband’s sticking like glue. Wait a while.” Later in the night she had come and whispered, “Meet me over there, by that thornbush, at dawn.” And that had been the last he saw of her—until a short while ago when he had observed her on the arm of a tall man who was certainly not the farmer from Leinster. It had been too late to do anything by then. Those who wanted to find partners had already done so. One girl had approached him, but she was so plain that it offended his pride. He’d been made a fool of, he was tired, and he was frustrated. Another man might have decided to get drunk. But that is not what Goibniu did. His single eye remained watchful. And just now, a moment ago, it had caught sight of something else that reminded him of business.

The big fellow from Dubh Linn. The one with the daughter he’d sold. There was no sign of the girl though. Goibniu went up to him.

What was it about Fergus that made the clever craftsman suspicious? Goibniu did not bother to analyse it. He did not need to. But from the first words of greeting, from the chief’s ready smile, from the cheerful way, when asked if Deirdre was there, he replied, “She is, she is,” Goibniu knew that something was wrong. His brow darkened.

“I’ll be taking her with me, then.”

“To be sure, you will. Not a doubt of it.”

Fergus was being too obliging. He had to be lying. It was not often that the cunning smith allowed his temper to get the better of him, but the experience of the previous night had affected his judgement.

With a sudden burst of irritability in which his contempt was plain, he burst out: “Do you take me for a fool? She is not here at all.”

It was the visible contempt which hurt Fergus. He drew himself up to his full height and glared balefully down at Goibniu.

“Is it to insult me you came here?” he demanded with some heat.

“I couldn’t care less,” the smith retorted, “whether I’ve insulted you or not.”

And now, as his face became suffused with blood, it would have been obvious to anyone who knew him that Fergus, son of Fergus, was about to become very angry indeed.

She knew she looked well. She could see it in the curious glances of the other girls as they all swept in their flowing gowns across the grass to the entrance to the banqueting hall. And why shouldn’t I look fine, she thought, for weren’t my ancestors as good as theirs? She felt like a princess anyway, whatever they might think.

She hadn’t wanted to do this. She had been so embarrassed and mortified when Finbarr had come to her father. “I can’t,” she had cried. How was it going to look if she turned up where she wasn’t supposed to and pushed herself in front of him for all to see? But they had made her, and having got so far, she was determined about one thing. She wasn’t going to take any special notice of him. He could take notice of her if he pleased. She’d hold her head high and let the other men see her for the princess she was. Didn’t she already have a husband waiting for her anyway? It was with this thought firmly in her mind that she stepped through the entrance into the banqueting hall.

It was a rich smell that pervaded the air: ale and mead, stewed fruits, and, above all, the aroma of well-fatted roasted beef. In the centre of the hall was a huge cauldron full of ale. On tables beside it, small bowls of mead. Around the walls ran the tables where the company sat. Reds and blues, green and gold—the bright dress and gleaming ornaments of the chiefs and their wives gave the hall a splendid air. There was conversation and laughter, but the gentle strains of the three harpists in the corner could still be heard.

She felt the eyes of the men upon her as soon as she entered, but she didn’t mind. She went about her business, moving gracefully, pouring ale and mead as required, with a polite word or a pleasant smile but, apart from that, scarcely troubling to look into their faces at all. Once she had to pass in front of the High King himself, and she was aware, out of the corner of her eye, of his swarthy figure, which she found rather distasteful, and of the large presence of the queen. They were both deep in conversation and she was careful not to stare at them. Indeed, she was kept so busy that at first she hardly noticed when she was directed to serve at the place where Conall was sitting.

How pale he looked, how serious. She served him exactly as she had everyone else, even gave him a smile.

“I am glad to see you, Deirdre, daughter of Fergus.” His voice was gentle, grave. “I did not know you were to be at the banquet.”

“It was as much a surprise to myself, Conall, son of Morna,” she answered pleasantly. Then she swiftly passed on without looking at him again.

She had to return to the table several times, but they did not speak again. Once she saw his uncle the High King beckon him to come over, but then her attention was distracted by a piper who began to play.

Conall returned from the interview with the High King feeling disconcerted. Under those heavy, swarthy black brows, his uncle’s eyes, dark blue and somewhat bloodshot, glittered in a way that made you realise he had missed nothing.

“So Conall,” he had begun. “It is the feast of Bealtaine, yet you are sad.”

“It is only the way my face looks.”

“Hmm. Who is that girl—the one you spoke to? Have I seen her before?” In answer, Conall explained as best he could who she was and about her father, the chief at Dubh Linn. “This Fergus is a chief, you say?”

“It is true.” Conall smiled. “A small one. His ancestors were of some note.”

“It’s a fine-looking daughter he has, anyway. Is she betrothed?”

“There is an agreement, I believe. Someone in Ulster.”

“But,” the king’s eyes looked up shrewdly, “it’s for yourself you’d like her?”

Conall had felt himself blush. He couldn’t help it.

“Not at all,” he had stammered.

“Hmm.” His uncle had nodded, then ended the conversation; though after he had returned to his seat, he had noticed the king give Deirdre a thoughtful glance. Was his uncle giving him a message? Hinting that he should marry her? At the very least he was telling him that his love for the girl was obvious. And wasn’t he now, whatever his reasons, in the act of letting her marry another? Without the decency of giving her even a word of explanation? There was no denying it. And why was he doing this? Was it really what he wanted?

For a while he sat there, speaking to no one. Then at last he looked up and saw that she was approaching. She came so close that if he reached out his hand, he could have touched her golden hair.

“Deirdre, daughter of Fergus.” He said the words quietly, but she heard them. She turned her head. Did he see, just for a moment, a look of pain in her wonderful eyes? “I must speak with you. Tomorrow morning. At dawn.”

“As you wish.” She looked hesitant.

He nodded. Nothing more. And she was just moving away when the shouting began.

All heads turned; druids frowned; the High King glared; even the piper ceased. On the sacred site of Uisnech, at the feast of Bealtaine, someone was daring to disturb the High King’s peace.

The shouts continued. Then there was silence. One of the king’s personal attendants came into the banqueting hall and said something to the king, who gave a bleak nod. And a few moments later two figures were ushered in. The first, looking irritable but cautious, was Goibniu the Smith. Behind him, the very picture of an affronted chief, stalked Fergus. Conall glanced across to where Deirdre was now standing and saw her go very pale. When the two of them were in front of him, the king spoke. He did so quietly, to Goibniu first.

“The quarrel?”

“I had words with this man.”

“About?”

“His daughter not being here. She is promised to a man in Ulster, and I am to take her there. Then,” he glanced contemptuously at Fergus, “the fellow struck me.”

The High King turned his eyes on Fergus. So this was the chief from Dubh Linn. One glance and he understood Fergus entirely.

“Yet as you see, his daughter is here.” He indicated Deirdre. Goibniu looked and registered astonishment. “What have you to say, Fergus?”

“That the man called me a liar,” Fergus said hotly, and then, more humbly, “but that my daughter is worthy of a prince and now I have brought disgrace upon her.”

Out of the corner of his eye the king saw several of the great nobles give the poor, proud chief a look of approval. He rather agreed.

“It seems, Goibniu,” the king said gently, “that you were mistaken about the girl. Is it possible, do you think, that you were mistaken also about the blow? Perhaps you only thought he was about to strike you?” And the king’s dark blue eyes looked up at the smith steadily.

Whatever Goibniu was, he was never stupid.

“It may have been so,” he conceded.

“You might have been confused.”

“Confused. That would be it.”

“Take your place at our feast, Goibniu. Forget this matter. As for you,” he turned to Fergus, “you will wait Fergus, son of Fergus, for me outside. For it may be that I have something to say to you.” And with that, he gave a nod to the piper, who began to blow his pipes at once, and the banquet resumed.

But as the festivities continued, and Fergus waited outside, and Deirdre, uncertain what the king had in mind for her poor father, did her best to attend to her duties, no one present, glancing at the bushy eyebrows and red face of the island’s monarch, had any idea what in truth was passing in his mind.

It was perfect, he thought. His plan was now complete. He had only to see this fellow from Dubh Linn and the trap for them all was set. What an unlikely bearer of good fortune the gods had sent. He would make the announcements at the height of the feast. At sundown.

Late that afternoon, in front of an amused crowd, a small ceremony took place, witnessed by one of the senior druids.

With a decent show of politeness, Fergus and Goibniu stood facing each other. At the druid’s order, Goibniu went first. Pulling open his shirt, he bared his chest for Fergus who solemnly stepped forward, placed one of the smith’s nipples in his mouth, and sucked it for a moment or two. Then, stepping back, he offered his own chest, and Goibniu stepped up and returned the compliment. After this, both men nodded to the other and the druid pronounced the ceremony complete. For this, upon the island, was the way that two men who had quarrelled sealed their reconciliation. Fergus and the smith, whatever their differences, were now linked by a bond of friendship. Other lands sealed such bargains with a handshake, or the smoking of a pipe, or the mingling of blood. On the island it was done by kissing the nipple.

It was done upon the express order of the High King. For nothing, he told them, was to mar the peace and general happiness of the royal banquet.

They stood, Conall and Finbarr, at the top of Uisnech. The sun was on the horizon and its fiery light put a red glow on Conall’s pale face as he turned to his friend and said they should go down. It was time to return to the feast. And now, having stood in silence for so long, Finbarr ventured, “Did you see the girl?”

“I saw the girl.”

“And what will you do?”

“It was you who arranged for her to be at the banquet?” Conall had just realised.

“It was. Do you forgive me?”

“It was the right thing to do.” Conall smiled gently. “Will you always be my good friend, Finbarr, whatever happens?”

“I will,” Finbarr promised. “So what will you do about Deirdre?”

“Ask me tomorrow.”

Finbarr sighed. He knew it was useless to pursue the matter further. Instead, he reached out his hand and gave his friend’s arm an affectionate squeeze.

They came down the hill as the darkness fell. Torches were being lit around the base. As they made their way towards the banquet they saw an old druid woman, who gave a nod to Conall, which Conall politely returned. By the entrance to the hall they parted and Finbarr watched his friend go in. A moment later he saw Fergus and his daughter also enter. The chief looked cheerful now. Obviously the High King had taken pity on him; but it seemed to Finbarr that Deirdre looked strangely unwell.

The High King stood, and the banqueting hall fell silent.

He began quietly, a slight smile on his heavyset face, and welcomed them to what was always a happy occasion. He thanked the druids. He thanked the chiefs for the loyal tribute they had paid. Indeed, he remarked, he was glad to say that there had not been a defaulter anywhere on the island. He paused.

“Except for a man in Connacht.” They were all watching him now. Watching for signs and signals. Slowly he allowed a look of wry amusement to form on his face. “It seems he was out when we called.”

There was laughter. So, the High King was amused. But what was he going to do? The look of amusement lingered just long enough to become threatening.

“My nephew Conall,” he nodded towards the pale prince, “together with some others, will be paying him a visit.” He glanced around the hall. “They’ll be leaving at dawn.” He gave them all a friendly nod. He turned to his wife and nodded to her. Then he sat down.

There had been a tiny intake of breath around the room. Now there was laughter, nervous for a moment, then more robust. Men began rapping on the tables in applause. “At Bealtaine,” a voice called out. “The Connacht man will not be expecting that.” More laughter. “He’ll be sorry he wasn’t there before.”

He had them. It was the firm smack of authority, mixed with devious cunning. They respected that. They liked the grim humour of the thing. And when, instead of tribute, the prize bull itself was brought back, the whole island would admire his revenge. Some, who knew of Conall’s desire to be a druid and his distaste for such ventures, saw deeper. Even the favourite nephew must bow his head under the royal yoke. “The king is right, though,” these murmured. “It had to be done.”

The High King glanced across to where poor Conall was standing. His nephew looked shocked. No doubt Larine had told the young man of his promise to consult him before taking such a decision. Well, that was too bad. It would be a lesson to Larine and his nephew. Kings use princes: they should both know that. Besides, his uncle considered, the young man seemed so uncertain what he really wanted that by sending him out like this he might be doing the boy a favour. Then he looked at his wife. She was beaming at him, as he had hoped and expected. She had got her way. He smiled back at her.

There was some surprise, a little while later, when he rose again to speak. Perhaps someone was to be honoured. They listened politely.

“I have a further announcement to make. A happy one.” He looked round them slowly so that they knew clearly that happiness was a requirement.

“As you know, I have been fortunate indeed to have the company of my lovely wife for many years.” He inclined his head towards her, and there was a murmur of not entirely heartfelt assent. “However,” he continued, “it is the custom amongst us, from time to time, to take an extra wife.” A deathly hush fell now. “And so I have decided, in addition to my dear wife, to marry again.”

There was a gasp. All eyes turned on the queen, who looked stunned, as if she’d been hit by a rock. Husbands, who knew about her domineering ways, glanced at each other. Wives, some of them, were shocked. Yet not a few had suffered at the queen’s hands at one time or another. And in just a moment or two, all round the hall, like mist condensing in droplets on the leaves of the trees, the communal thought was forming itself: she had it coming to her.

But who was the bride? At a sign from the king, they now saw a tall figure step forward, with long moustaches, accompanied by a handsome girl who, until shortly before, had been serving the ale and mead. People looked at each other. What did this mean?

“Deirdre, daughter of Fergus, son of Fergus, of Dubh Linn,” announced the king. And smiling at Deirdre, he drew Fergus close and put his arm round the older man’s shoulder so that the chief, who now looked as pleased as if he’d defeated an army single-handed, found himself held, by his kingly son-in-law, in a grip like a vice.

It was Goibniu, while the company was still collecting its thoughts, who quickly rose to his feet and raising his beaker called out, “Long life, good health, to our king and to Deirdre.” To which the company, having seen which way the wind was blowing, assented with a friendly roar.

From under his bushy eyebrows the High King watched them all. He could have divorced the queen. Divorce was common and easy on the western island. But that would have offended her family, who were important, whereas by choosing an extra bride, he merely cut her down to size. The masterstroke lay in his choice. While any man on the island might take extra wives, a king had to be careful. Choose the daughter of one great chief and you offended all the others. You could have concubines, of course, but that was not his purpose. Marriage was a balance of power, whether you liked that fact or not. He had needed to undercut the queen and he had done it. The cleverness of the choice was that the girl was noble and looked a princess, but that her father was of no account at all. Lord of a marsh, a no-man’s-land, a deserted ford.

The prospective husband in Ulster would give no trouble. He would send one of his men to give the fellow a generous present. The Ulster man would understand: a High King took priority. As for Goibniu, the High King had already secretly compensated the cunning smith for his loss of a marriage fee late that afternoon. So everyone who needed to be was happy; except perhaps Conall and the girl.

“The marriage feast will be tomorrow evening,” he said.

It was dark that night; the stars had hidden their faces behind the clouds. Not even a pinpoint of light was offered from above to help Deirdre as she groped her way through the blackness that, creeping close, seemed to pore over her, smothering in its attentions.

Sometimes she felt the ox-hide flaps of the wagons and other temporary shelters that dotted the grounds; several times she disturbed sleeping bodies wrapped in their cloaks. She heard snores or other more intimate murmurs all around. Her father was back in the hall, lying contentedly in sleep along with fifty others. But she could not bear to remain there, and so she had left him, gone out past the dying torches, and begun to wander towards the place where their cart should contain her two younger brothers. It was strange that, in this moment of crisis, she should have sought out the comfort of their two, probably drunken bodies; but at least they were her family. For better or worse, that was something. One last night with her family.

And then? Marriage to the king. She didn’t blame her father. There was nothing he could have done about it. She didn’t even blame him for being so pleased. It was natural. And how could she tell him that, as she stood with him facing the king, she had felt nothing but a physical horror? It wasn’t just that the High King could have been her father. Older men could be attractive. But his swarthy face with its bloodshot eyes, his thickening body, the hands which, to her, seemed like hideous hairy paws, all filled her with revulsion. Would she really have to offer her body to him the following night? Was this the only loving she was ever to know, year after year, until he died? Or she did? It had taken all the self-control she possessed, in front of that company, not to shudder openly. Even the man from Ulster, she had thought bitterly, would not have been so bad. He hadn’t repelled her. She could probably have learned to love him.

And Conall? What had he been planning to say to her in the morning? Had he decided, after waiting so long, to ask for her in marriage after all? The thought was so painful she could hardly bear it. Useless. Too late.

It seemed to her now that, in the blackness ahead, she could just make out the shape of their cart. She moved forward cautiously. She reached it. Yes. She was sure this was the one. She listened for the sound of her brothers’ snores. She started to raise the leather flap at the back.

And froze, as a hand clamped onto her arm.

“Out walking?” The voice was a low hiss. She gave a little gasp and tried to break free, but the grip on her arm was too strong. “I’ve been waiting for you.” This time the voice was more like a growl. She still wasn’t sure who it was who held her so fast. Only with the next words did she realise. “You think you can challenge me?”

It was the queen.

“No.” She stammered it out. In her misery and fear she had forgotten about the queen. “This was no choice of mine,” she said hoarsely.

“Little fool.” She could feel the queen’s breath on her cheek. It smelt of ale, stale. “Do you think I shall let you live? Speak softly now. Do you?”

“I …” Deirdre wanted to say something, but no words came.

“Poison, drowning, an accident …” the terrible hiss went on. “Easy to arrange. If you marry the king, young lady, I can promise you, it’s not a month you’ll live. Do you understand?” The grip on her arm was now so tight it was all Deirdre could do not to cry out.

“What can I do?” her whisper was almost a wail.

“I will tell you.” The queen’s lips pressed against her ear. “Flee, young Deirdre. Flee for your life. Flee from Uisnech. Flee from Dubh Linn. Run to a place where no one can find you. Run tonight and never stop running. For if the king finds you he will bring you back; and if he does, I will have your life. Run.”

The grip was suddenly relaxed. There was a rustling sound; and then the queen was gone.

Deirdre gasped for breath. She was shaking violently. She wanted to run, somewhere, anywhere, to a place of safety. It was no good going to her brothers or her sleeping father. She started to move, hurrying, tripping, almost running, she hardly knew where until in the darkness she found a path that seemed to lead somewhere. The path was rising. There was a sweet smell of long grasses. And then, above, a handful of stars burst through the clouds and she realised that she was climbing the Hill of Uisnech.

Conall sat with his back against the big five-sided stone and stared blankly ahead from the top of Uisnech into the darkness. His mood was as black as the night.

First that announcement about the cattle raid. It was the intent behind the thing which so enraged him. Instead of speaking with him beforehand as he had promised Larine, his uncle had made a public announcement that left Conall in an impossible position. Any argument would now be a defiance of the High King. His uncle had meant to outmanoeuvre him, use him, treat him with a cynical contempt. He hated him for it.

But even this was nothing compared to the shock of the second announcement. Deirdre was gone. At this last moment, after the months of difficulty, of agonising, his love was suddenly impossible. She belonged to the High King. She was unobtainable. Clearly she didn’t want his uncle. A glance at her face had told him that.

As he had contemplated the terrible fact that she could never be his, Conall had experienced a new and intense emotion. It was as if his doubts had never been. Deirdre. He could hardly take his eyes from her. All the rest of that evening, whenever she was in the hall, he had found himself watching her every gesture. She, for her part, had never looked at him. How could she? Although once, when he had been turning away, he thought he had caught sight of her glancing in his direction. Would she still try to meet him at dawn? Probably not. What could they say? He was not sure. But even after he had left the banquet, the sense of her presence had stayed with him, like a shadow.

And then, behind the stone, he heard a faint sound, and a shadow came and sank to rest against the other side so that, had he wished, he could have reached his hand across to touch it; and next the shadow started softly weeping, before, in a voice he recognised, it murmured: “she will kill me.” And then, realising who it was, and trying not to startle her, he whispered, “Deirdre.”

It was not long before he was holding her in his arms. Soon she had told him about her interview with the queen.

“Tell me, Conall, what I should do,” she cried. “How can I run, and where would I be running to, with the king looking for me, and myself all alone in the world?” Then, tearfully, “Is she really meaning to kill me? Tell me it is not true.”

But Conall was silent. For he knew the queen.

So for some time they remained there, she trembling in his arms, while he, afraid for her, too, considered the impossibilities of his own life. Until at last he came to a decision. And as soon as he had made it, he felt a huge new warmth in his heart and a sense of exultation that seemed to him to fill his world with a visionary light. At last, he thought with relief, at last, he knew what he must do.

“We’ll run together,” he said then, “if need be, to the end of the world.”

Finbarr waited nervously, while Fergus hesitated.

“Well?” The High King fixed the man from Dubh Linn with an unyielding stare.

The answer to the first question—Did he know anything of his daughter’s plan to run away?—had been easy. He did not. Indeed, Fergus had been horrified, and the fact was obvious. But did he know that Conall was courting Deirdre? He decided honesty was the best policy.

“It would have been a fine thing for me,” he confessed, “but it was hard to tell if he was serious. He never came for her,” he explained.

They were all turning to Finbarr now: the king, the queen, the two chiefs who had been summoned to the banqueting hall that morning. So Finbarr did the only sensible thing. He told them what he knew of Conall’s feelings, and how he himself had arranged for Deirdre to encounter Conall at the feast the day before. Bowing his head respectfully to the king—and trying not to look at the queen—he added: “I had no knowledge, then, of your interest in her.” To his relief, the king accepted this with a brief nod.

“It’s clearly with Conall the girl’s run away,” the king concluded.

Nobody spoke. Given the insult to his pride and authority, Finbarr considered, you had to admire the king’s calmness. But the king was also looking thoughtful. “I am wondering,” he said quietly, “if there may have been some other reason that caused them to run away.” They all looked at each other. Nobody knew. The queen’s face was impassive. Then she cut in.

“What about that bull?”

“Ah. The bull.” The king glanced around. “Finbarr shall fetch it.” He gave Finbarr a cold look. “Be sure you succeed,” he added.

Finbarr again bowed his head. The message was clear. The king accepted that he was not directly to blame and was even giving him a chance to distinguish himself. But if he failed to bring the king what he needed, he could expect an end to all favours.

“And the runaways?” It was one of the chiefs who spoke.

“Take fifty men,” the king answered shortly, “and find them. Bring the girl back.”

“And Conall?”

The king looked at him, surprised.

“Kill him,” he said.