THREE

PATRICK

AD 450

HIS FIRST VISIT had been inauspicious, and few of those who had sent him back imagined that he would achieve very much on the distant western island. Yet after his coming, everything was changed.

He left an account of his life; yet that account, being chiefly a confession of faith and a justification of his ministry, leaves many details of his life a mystery. The stories about him were numerous, but they were mostly inventions. The truth is that history knows neither the date of his mission, the names of the Irish rulers he encountered, nor even where, exactly, his ministry was based. All is uncertainty; all is conjecture.

But Saint Patrick existed. There is not a doubt of that. He was born a minor British aristocrat. As a boy, he was taken from near his home, somewhere in the western side of Britain, by an Irish raiding party. Kept on the island as a slave for some years, during which he mostly tended livestock, he managed to escape and find his way back across the sea to his parents. But by now he had already decided to follow the religious life. For a time he studied in Gaul; he may have visited Rome. He suggests that certain churchmen considered his learning to be below standard, no doubt because of his interrupted education. But there may be some irony in these statements, for his writings suggest a literary as well as a political sophistication. In due course he was sent, at his own request, as a missionary bishop to the western island where he had once been a slave.

Why did he want to return there? He states in his writings that he had a dream in which he heard the voices of the islanders calling to him, begging him to bring them the Gospel. There is no reason to doubt the authenticity of the record: accounts of supernatural visions and voices abound in the early Church, and have been recorded from time to time ever since. In Saint Patrick’s case, the experience was decisive. He begged to be given the thankless and possibly dangerous mission.

The traditional date of his arrival in Ireland, AD 432, is only a guess. It may be too early. But at some time during the decades that followed the collapse of the Roman Empire in the west, Bishop Patrick began his mission. He was by no means the first missionary to reach Irish shores: the Christian communities in Munster and Leinster had already been there for perhaps a generation or more. But he was probably the first missionary in the north if, as seems likely, his base of operations was near Armagh, in Ulster, where the king of the ancient Ulaid, bullied into a reduced territory by the mighty clan of Niall, liked the missionary bishop enough to give him his local protection.

Of Saint Patrick’s actual preaching, no reliable record remains. His famous sermon, in which he explained the mystery of the Holy Trinity by comparing it to a shamrock, is a delightful legend, but there is no evidence that he ever said such a thing. Equally, it may be added, no one can say with certainty that he did not. More can be inferred about Saint Patrick’s personality and missionary style. Humble himself, like all those who live the life of the spirit, as a bishop of the Holy Church he demanded and received the respect due to a Celtic prince. From his base in Ulster, he may have gone westwards and set up a second missionary front in Connacht. No doubt he was also in contact, from time to time, with his fellow Christians in the southern half of the island.

And did he, upon his travels, descend the ancient road that led across the Liffey at the Ford of Hurdles, and come to the little rath beside Dubh Linn? History can only say that the record, upon this point, is silent.

It would be any day now. They all knew. Fergus was dying. The autumn leaves were falling and he was ready to go.

And now he had summoned his family to a meeting. What was he going to say?

Fergus had ruled so long that he was the only chief that most of the folk in the area had ever known. With increasing age, his shrewdness and wisdom had continued to develop. Men came to him for justice from all over the Liffey Plain; and the territory around Ath Cliath had come to be known, in much of Leinster, as the Land of Fergus. And for the last twenty years, ever since the death of Conall, she had kept house for him faithfully. Day after day she had nursed him this last, long year, as his splendid old frame gradually broke down. Even now, at the very end, she always kept him clean. And he had been touchingly grateful. “If I’ve reached such a great age, Deirdre, it’s thanks to you,” he had told her more than once, in front of her brothers.

Yet it was herself, thought Deirdre, who should be thanking him—for the peace that he had given her. Twenty years of peace beside the Liffey. Twenty years to walk beside its waters, out to the great open sands of the bay and the promontory she loved. Twenty years to bring up her son, Morna, safe under the gentle guardianship of the Wicklow Mountains.

Morna, son of Conall. The one they all loved. The one they protected.

The one they had hidden. Morna: the future. He was all she had.

After Conall’s death, she had never taken up with any other man. It wasn’t that she hadn’t felt the need. Sometimes she could have screamed with frustration. The problem had been the men. At first she had supposed that she might find someone at one of the great festivals. “You won’t find another Conall,” her father had warned her. But she had hoped that perhaps some young chief might take an interest. Her time with Conall had at least given her confidence with men. She held her head high. She could see that she created a stir. But though people were polite—after all, she had been chosen as the bride of the High King himself—they were cautious. The prince who had gone to sacrifice was a figure of strange honour and awe. But his woman, the cause of the trouble, made people nervous.

“You think I’m a bird of ill omen?” she laughingly challenged one young noble. “Are you afraid of me?”

“I’m afraid of nobody,” he’d retorted indignantly. But he’d avoided her all the same.

She’d stopped going to the festivals after a year or two.

So what did that leave? A few brave souls in the Dubh Linn region. Two sturdy farmers, a widowed fisherman with three boats: they didn’t inspire her. Once her father had brought home a merchant from Britain, who’d sold him some slaves. He was more interesting. But she would have had to go and live across the sea. She was touched that her father should have suggested such a thing, for she knew that he needed her and that he loved his little grandson; when she hadn’t wanted to go, he had not looked too sorry.

Morna, they had called him, after Conall’s father. His first two years, for her, had been especially difficult. Perhaps if he had not looked so like Conall it would have been easier. He had her strange, green eyes; but in all other respects he was the image of his father. She couldn’t help it. Every time she looked at his little face, she had visions of his father’s fate awaiting him. She had been troubled by nightmares: nightmares about Tara, nightmares of blood. She had developed a terror of druids—a terror that they would somehow snatch her baby from her and destroy him. A year after Morna’s birth, Larine had come, as he had promised that he would. She knew he meant it kindly. But she could not bear to see him and told her father to ask him to go away. Fergus was concerned that if Larine took offence, this might bring on a druid’s curse, but Larine had seemed to understand. She had not seen him since.

Morna: he was such a sunny boy. He liked to play, to go hunting with her father. Fergus doted on him. To her relief, he showed no signs of going off alone or of moodiness. He was a lively, affectionate little fellow. He loved to fish, find bird nests, and swim in the waters of the Liffey or the sea. By the time he was four, she had taken him on her favourite walks up to the headland overlooking the island and along the shore where the seabirds cried. Her brothers were kind to him, too. When he was little, they seemed content to play with him all morning. They taught him to fish and drive the cattle. He laughed at their jokes. By the time he was ten, he would cheerfully go off with them on the long cattle drives that might last a month or more.

But above all, it was Fergus who took the boy’s education in hand. Once, when Deirdre had started to thank him, he had cut her short. “He’s my only grandson,” he had growled. “What else would I do?” Indeed, the boy had seemed to give his grandfather a new lease on life. Fergus had seldom been depressed once he had Morna to look after. He drank sparingly. He had seemed to find a new vigour. But she knew there was more to it than that. For he had sensed a special quality in the boy. Everybody did. His quickness at learning delighted Fergus. By the time he was six, Morna knew all the tales of Cuchulainn, and the island’s legendary kings, and the ancient gods. He could relate the stories of his mother’s family, too, of the slaying of Erc the Warrior. It delighted Fergus to let Morna hold the old drinking skull in his hands while he told it. He taught the boy to use a sword and throw a spear. And, of course, Morna had demanded to know if his own father had been a great warrior, too.

Deirdre had been uncertain what to say, but Fergus had satisfied him without any difficulty. “He fought all kinds of battles,” he would say airily. “But the greatest was against Finbarr. A terrible man. Your father killed him near here, on the shores by the Plain of Bird Flocks.” Morna never tired of hearing details of the battle, which in due course included the additional slaying of a sea monster. It was hardly surprising, then, that Morna should dream of becoming a warrior and a hero himself. But Fergus had handled this quite well. “I wanted the same thing when I was a boy,” he told his grandson. “But warriors mostly go across the sea to plunder other men’s goods; whereas look at all the cattle we have here. You will have to defend this place, though.” If, as he grew to be a man, Morna sometimes dreamed of being a warrior, he did not speak of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At last Fergus spoke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You are angry,” he said quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who is it, Deirdre?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is that?”

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

“You think he will return in time though?”

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

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

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

She had just lied to the High King.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was also conscious of the date. Samhain was not far off. The river crossing might be deserted now, but soon there would be parties of travellers making their way up the road from the south towards the feis at Tara. And now a further realisation came to her which, with everything else on her mind, she had not thought about before: the travellers would be passing by the rath. As chief, Morna would be expected to give them hospitality and to entertain them. Such a handsome young chief would be remarked upon. Someone arriving at Tara was bound to mention the successor to old Fergus at the Ford of Hurdles. Could it really be hoped that no word of Morna’s presence would reach the ears of the High King? No, it could not. The case was hopeless. Unless she could think of something, her lie was going to be discovered.

What else could she do? She couldn’t think of anything. Send Morna away? On what possible pretext? Common sense said that there was only one thing to do. She must tell him about the High King’s summons at once and let him decide what to do for himself. Yet the autumn season made it even worse. The sights, the smells, the feel of the chill autumn air, all seemed to be conspiring to drag her back to that season when she had gone so unwillingly on that terrible journey with Conall to Tara. She felt very lonely. She wished Fergus were there to give his advice, but she suspected that she knew what that advice would be. Tell Morna.

So why didn’t she do it? She couldn’t. That wasn’t an answer. She knew it. With every day that Samhain drew nearer, her predicament grew. Days passed. She began to promise herself, each night, that on the following day she would tell him. Each morning she would awake and decide to wait, just until that evening, in case something—she had no idea what—but something should turn up during the day to resolve the situation. And each evening, when nothing had changed, she had promised herself, once again, to tell him in the morning.

One of the British slaves saw them first. By the time she reached the entrance to the rath, the party of horsemen was halfway across the Ford of Hurdles. There seemed to be four of them. One, close to the leader, seemed to be carrying a spear or trident of some kind, which, when it swung behind the leader’s head, gave him a strange appearance, as if he were a deer with antlers. She watched curiously as they drew closer. And then, with a sudden, sickening sense, like that of a dream returning, she realised who the leader was.

It was Larine.

He must have come from the High King.

He rode up the path to the rath slowly. He was not much changed. His hair was grey now, but shaved in the same tonsure. He looked fit. His face was still quiet and thoughtful. She watched his approach with a sinking heart. And he was nearly at the entrance when the strangest thing occurred. The British slaves—there were half a dozen of them now—all ran forward and fell on their knees before him. He turned as he passed and gravely made a sign over them. A moment later he dismounted and stood in front of her.

“What is it you want, Larine?” she asked him, trying to keep the dread out of her voice.

“Only you, and your son,” he answered quietly.

That was it, then. He had come to take them to Tara. Only one thing struck her as odd. The slaves were standing round, with smiles on their faces.

“What are my slaves doing?” she demanded. “Why were they kneeling?”

“Because they are British, Deirdre. They are Christians.”

“Then why would they be kneeling to a druid?”

“Ah.” He smiled. “You did not know. You see, I am a Christian, Deirdre.” He paused. “In fact, I am a bishop.”

She gazed at him, confused.

“But haven’t you come from the High King?”

He looked at her in mild surprise.

“The High King? Not at all. I haven’t seen the king in many years.” He took her gently by the arm. “I see that I had better explain. May we go inside?” And indicating to his men that they should wait for him, he led the way.

She was still trying to comprehend his words as they went in. The tall staff she had mistaken for a trident turned out to be a cross. The young man who held it proudly in his hands remained outside with the two servants as she followed Larine in. But Larine the druid now a Christian? How could that be? What did she know about Christians anyway? She tried to think.

The Romans were Christians. Everyone knew that. Like many on the western island, she had vaguely supposed that with the breaking down of all things Roman across the seas, they would hear less of Christianity as the years went by. Strangely, however, the opposite had been the case.

It was her father who always picked up the news. From the occasional merchant ships that came to the landing place at Dubh Linn, he learned that far from giving up, the Christian churches in Gaul and even in Britain seemed to see the troubles and invasions as a challenge to their religion, and they were fighting back. She knew there were some Christians on the island, in the south. And once in a while her father used to return from one of his journeys and report: “Would you believe it, but we’ve another group of Christians in Leinster now. There’s only a few of them, but the King of Leinster has allowed them to be there. There’s no doubt of that.” But if the Christian priests had originally come to minister to the slaves, as the years went by Fergus had started to bring other scraps of news. A chief, or his wife, had been converted. One year he had heard of a development which made him shake his head. “A group of Christians are planning to set up a place of worship in sight of a druid sanctuary. Can you believe it?”

Yet if she had supposed that Fergus would have been passionately against these foreign encroachments, she was surprised to find that his reaction was quite muted. The worst he would say about the affront to the druids was that it was “unwise.” When she challenged him about this and asked him how the King of Leinster could have allowed such a thing, he had given her a thoughtful glance and remarked, “The king might be glad of them, Deirdre. If the druids get too powerful, it’s a way of keeping them in order. He can frighten them with the Christian priests.” His cynical attitude had rather shocked her.

But even her old father would surely have been astonished to see Larine the druid entering the rath now as a Christian bishop. As they sat down, Larine gave her a friendly but searching look, expressed his regret at the passing of her father, remarked that she looked well, and then, in a matter-of-fact way, observed, “You are afraid of me, Deirdre.”

“It was you who came to take Conall away,” she reminded him with a quiet bitterness.

“It was his wish to go.”

She stared at him. He might be a grey-haired bishop now, but all she could see at that moment was the quiet druid, the supposed friend who had persuaded Conall to desert her and give up his life to the cruel gods at Tara. If the autumn season had recently brought back the memories of that terrible time, now, in Larine’s presence, the day of the sacrifice itself, the sight of Conall walking out with his naked body daubed in red, the druids with their clubs and strangling ropes and knives—all these came rushing back to her with a vividness, an actuality that made her shudder.

“You druids killed him,” she cried, with a passionate anger. “May the gods curse you all!”

He sat very still. She had insulted him, but he did not seem angry. He only looked sad. For a moment or two he did not reply. Then he sighed.

“It is true, Deirdre. I helped perform the sacrifice. Forgive me if you can.” He paused while she continued to stare at him. “I have never forgotten it. I loved him, Deirdre. Remember that. I loved Conall and I respected him. Tell me,” he asked quietly, “do you have nightmares about that day?”

“I do.”

“So did I, Deirdre. For many years.” He looked down, thoughtfully. “It was a long time since the druids had sacrificed a man, you know.” He raised his eyes to hers again. “Do you approve of the sacrifices the druids make?”

She shrugged. “They have always sacrificed. Animals.”

“And men, too, in the past.” He sighed. “I confess to you, Deirdre, that after the death of Conall, I began to lose my desire for sacrifices. I wanted no more of them.”

“You do not believe in the sacrifices?”

He shook his head. “It was a terrible thing, Deirdre, that was done to Conall. Terrible. I am stricken with grief, I cringe for shame whenever I think of it. Yet when it was done, we all supposed we were acting for the best. I thought so, Deirdre, and so, I can assure you, did Conall.” He shook his head sadly. “That is the way with the old gods, Deirdre. It has always been the same: always those terrible sacrifices, whether of men or animals; always the shedding of blood to placate gods who, if truth be told, are no better than the men who make the sacrifices.”

The thought seemed to depress him. He shook his head sorrowfully before taking up his theme again. “It is only here, Deirdre, that such things are still done, you know. In Britain, Gaul, and Rome, they have long since turned to the true God. Our gods are held in contempt. And rightly so.” He gazed at her earnestly. “Think of it, Deirdre, can we really suppose that the sun, the sky, the earth, and the stars were made by such beings as the Dagda with his cauldron, or the other multiplicity of gods behaving, often as not, like foolish, cruel children? Could this world be made by anything other than a supreme being so great, so all-embracing, that He passes our understanding?”

Did he expect her to reply? She wasn’t sure. She was so astonished to hear him speaking in this way that she would hardly have known what to say in any case.

“When I was a druid,” he continued quietly, “I often felt such things. I felt the presence of an eternal God, Deirdre, I felt it when I performed the morning and evening prayers, I felt it in the great silences when I was alone, yet without truly understanding what it was that I felt.” He smiled. “But now, Deirdre, I do understand. All these feelings come from the one, true God which the whole of Christendom knows.

“And the wonder of it is,” he went on, “that there is no need for any further sacrifice. You know, I suppose, why we are called Christians.” He briefly outlined the life of Jesus Christ. “God gave His only Son to be sacrificed on a cross. That sacrifice was made for all men and for all time.” He smiled. “Think of it, Deirdre: there is no need for any blood sacrifice, neither of man nor of beast. The ultimate sacrifice has already been made. We are free. All sacrifices are over.” He watched her as he gave her this news.

She was silent for a moment.

“And this is the message you preach now, in contrast to the druids?”

“I do. And it is a comforting message. For the true God is not a greedy or a vengeful god, Deirdre. He is a loving God. He wants only that we should love one another and live in peace. That is the finest faith I can think of, and I want no other. I have no doubt,” he added, “that it’s the truth.”

“Are you the only druid to become a Christian?”

“By no means. Many of the priests of the old religion are violently opposed. That is what you would expect. But some of the most learned of us have taken an interest for a long time. The Christian Church, you know, holds all the learning of the Roman world.”

Deirdre frowned. She still wasn’t sure what to make of this.

“But you had to abandon everything you had believed before.”

“Not entirely. For some of us, as I said, the new faith was really what we had been looking for all the time. As a Christian priest, I experience the same sense of things. The world is just as full of poetry. Do you remember the words of Amairgen’s great poem?

“One of our bishops has made a hymn, to the Creator of Creation—the one God, that is—and one of its verses is rather similar. Listen to this:

“The inspiration is the same, but we recognise the true source of it.” He smiled and pointed to his shaven head. “You see, as a Christian priest, I didn’t even have to change my druid’s tonsure.”

“I suppose so.” She frowned. “And who,” she asked, “converted you?”

“Ah. A good question. A man called Bishop Patrick. A great man. It was he who made the poem, actually.”

Deirdre received this information but made no further comment. The fact was that her mind was working rapidly. The visit of Larine, with his startling new identity and his still more surprising message, might take a little time to sink in, but certain things seemed clear. There could hardly be any doubt of his sincerity; and whatever her feelings about the past, she was touched by his obvious goodwill. As for his religious message, she was less certain. Perhaps she was tempted by it; certainly she had little love for the sacrifices of the druids and their cruel gods. But it was another thought now that was forming in her mind.

“You said you had come to see me and my son. You wish to convert us?”

“Certainly.” He smiled. “I have found the light, Deirdre, and it has brought me joy and peace of mind. Naturally I wish to share that joy with others.” He paused. “But there is more than that. After all that has passed, I owe it to Conall to bring the Gospel to you and to his son.”

She nodded slowly. Yes, she thought, yes, this might be the way. The persuasive bishop, his father’s old friend, might be the one who could offer her a way out of her dilemma about Morna. At least, she considered, it was worth a try. So now, gazing at him steadily, she informed him: “You should understand something, Larine. Morna has never been told about how his father died. I couldn’t bear to. We all thought it was for the best. So he knows nothing.”

“I see.” Larine certainly looked surprised. “Do you mean,” he asked, “that you don’t want me to say anything either?”

“No.” She shook her head. “No, Larine, I think it is time that he should know. And I want you to tell him. Will you do that?”

“If that is what you wish.”

“Tell him what really happened, Larine. Tell him how the High King and his druids murdered his father. Tell him of the evil of it,” she continued passionately. “Tell him of your new and better God, if you like. Tell him, above all, to avoid the king and his druids. Will you do that for me?”

Did Larine look awkward for just a moment? She did not see why he should. Wasn’t this what he wanted? And wouldn’t it solve her greatest difficulty if Morna was sufficiently impressed with Larine’s Christian message to want to avoid the druids’ rites? If she told him about the High King’s invitation after that, he probably wouldn’t even want to go to the pagan feis at Tara. With luck, if they could keep him out of sight for a while, he should be able to avoid the attention of the High King in the future.

“I will do what I can,” said Larine, cautiously.

“That is good.” She smiled. And she was just wondering whether to tell Larine the whole story of the royal invitation and to ask for his advice, when their conversation was brought to an abrupt halt by the sudden appearance in the doorway of Morna himself.

“Who are these visitors?” he asked cheerfully.

And Larine gasped.

How strange, Larine thought, as he walked beside the young man down the slope towards the water. He had come to Dubh Linn expecting, in a sense, to put a painful memory to rest; yet instead, the past was coming alive before his very eyes with a vividness that was almost frightening.

For it was Conall himself who was walking beside him. True, young Morna had his mother’s strange green eyes. But his dark hair and his aquiline good looks were Conall to the life. It was as if his friend had arisen from the dead. Dear God, he even had his father’s gentle voice. And when the young man smiled at him, Larine felt as though someone had struck a druid’s knife into his heart.

It was easy enough to introduce the subject he had come to speak about; for as soon as Morna learned that Larine had been a friend of his father’s, he was eager to know all that the former druid could tell him. He was fascinated to hear about the prince’s poetic and religious nature. “I thought of him only as a warrior,” he said.

“He was a warrior, and a fine one,” Larine assured him, “but he was far more than that.” And he explained how Conall had wanted to be a druid. From there, it was only a little while before he told Morna about the sacrifice. The young man was astounded.

“And you yourself took part?”

“I was a druid. I was his friend. It was his own wish, Morna. He gave himself up as a sacrifice for the people of the island. The noblest thing a man can do. Your father died a hero’s death,” he told him. “You can be very proud. But now,” he continued, seeing that Morna was much impressed, “let me tell you about another person who gave himself up as a sacrifice.”

It was with great feeling that Larine explained to his friend’s son the powerful message of the Christian faith. “The old gods,” he concluded, “have yielded their place to the Supreme Deity. Just think of it, Morna: instead of a sacrifice to save a harvest, Our Saviour sacrificed Himself to save the whole world, not for a season but for all eternity.”

If Larine’s presentation of the faith to this young man, so obviously hungry to emulate the heroic father he had never known, was subtly different from the case he had made to Deirdre, he was pleased to see that it seemed to be effective.

“Do you think my father would have been a Christian,” he asked, “if he’d had the chance?”

“There is not a doubt of it,” Larine replied. “We’d have been Christians together. How I wish,” he sighed, “that he were here to join with me now. We’d have walked this path together.” He said it with real emotion.

“I could take his place,” Morna said eagerly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, however, it was Larine who was confused.

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

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

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

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

“Of course,” agreed Larine.

“There will be sacrifices.”

“Of animals. Yes.”

“And the king will mate with a mare?”

“I imagine he may.”

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

“It would not be appropriate.”

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

Larine hesitated only a moment.

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

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

“Mother?”

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

And then, suddenly, she understood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Larine was shaking his head.

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

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

“He is our guest.”

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

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

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

“A man of blood!” she shouted.

“I am a bishop of the Holy Church.”

“Deceiver.”

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

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

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

He did not reply.

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

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

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

“What is that?” She suddenly felt weary.

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

“It was for your own good.”

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

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

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

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

“I must go to Tara, Mother.”

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

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

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

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

Not surprisingly, Larine had declined to return.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let us give thanks,” Larine called out.

So this, thought Deirdre, was Bishop Patrick.

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

“What does he say?” she demanded.

“That your son has an honest face.”

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

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

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

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

“I was.” She couldn’t help it, whether the man was her enemy or not, she was touched.

“And it’s yourself, I should say,” Bishop Patrick continued, “who holds everything together here. Isn’t that so?”

“It is,” she said with feeling.

“Thanks be to God for that.” He smiled at her kindly. “You are afraid for your son’s safety?” She nodded. “What good mother would not be?” He paused thoughtfully. “Tell me, is it God that you fear, Deirdre, or is it the druids?”

“The druids.”

“You do not think that the God who made all things can protect your son?”

She was silent; but he did not seem offended. Then he turned to Morna.

“And so, young man.” He was staring keenly into Morna’s eyes. “You are the young man who this is all about. The kinsman of the High King.” He took a step back as though to survey the youthful chief. “You have been summoned to him, have you not?”

“It is true,” Morna answered respectfully.

Bishop Patrick appeared to be meditating. His eyes seemed to be half closed as he considered the subject before him. There was no question, she thought, he might have been some royal druid prince. Was he going to encourage Morna, or perhaps rebuke him? She had no idea.

“And you would like to go to the High King’s feis at Tara?”

“I should.” Morna wasn’t certain whether this was the correct response, but it was the truth.

“It would be a strange young man who did not,” said Bishop Patrick. “And you have quarrelled with your mother?”

“It is …” Morna was about to explain, but the bishop went on gently.

“Honour your mother, young man. She is the only one you possess. If it is God’s will that you should do a certain thing, she will be led to understand the rightness of it.” He considered for a moment. “You wish to serve the one true God. Is that correct?”

“I think so.”

“You think so.” Bishop Patrick paused. “His service, Morna, is not always easy. Those who follow the Christian path have to try to do God’s will, not their own. Sometimes we have to make sacrifices.” At the mention of sacrifices, Deirdre tensed; but if Bishop Patrick saw this, he took no notice. “Are you prepared to make sacrifices to serve the God who gave His only Son to save the world?”

“Yes.” He said it quietly, but he did not seem to hesitate.

“From those who follow me, Morna, I expect complete obedience. My followers have to trust me. These young men,” he indicated the princes standing nearby, “obey my commands, which are sometimes hard.”

Morna glanced at them. They looked a noble group, the sort of group to which any young chief would be proud to belong. But having told him this, the bishop did not seem to be expecting any reply. For turning round abruptly, he went over to where one of the priests was holding his staff. Taking it from him, he held it firmly in his hand and in a clear voice addressed them.

“This is the staff which gives me strength, for it is the staff of life, the staff of Jesus, the only Son of God the Father, who died for our sins. Jesus who sacrificed his life that each of us may live eternally. I, Patrick, bishop, humble priest, penitent sinner,” he continued solemnly, “I, Patrick, come here not on my own authority—for I have none—but at the command of God the Father, made known to me through His Holy Spirit, to bear witness for His Son and to bring you the good news, that you, too, if you believe in Him, may have eternal life in Heaven and not perish into nothingness or the terrible fires of Hell. I shall not try to impress you with great learning, for my own is modest. I shall not persuade you with eloquent words, for I have no eloquence unless it be that given to me by the Holy Spirit. But listen to my poor words carefully, for I have come to save your souls.”

It was strange: Deirdre could not afterwards remember exactly what he had said. Some of it she recognised from what Larine had told her; but when Patrick spoke, it was different. He told them the story of Christ, and how he had gone to sacrifice. He described the cruel old island gods and explained that they were not real. They were stories, he told them, to give pleasure or to frighten children. How much greater, he explained, was the single, all-powerful God, who created the whole world.

One part of the sermon she did recall in detail. He had made much of the fact that, like so many of the gods from the ancient days, this Supreme Being had three aspects: Father, Son, Holy Spirit—the Three in One, he called it. Nor should this be surprising, he explained. All nature was full of triads: the root, stem, and flower of a plant; the spring, stream, and estuary of a river; even the leaves of plants, like that of the tripartite shamrock, for instance, showed this principle of Three in One. “This,” he explained, “is what we mean by the Holy Trinity.”

But above all, it was the way he spoke that impressed her. He had such passion, such certainty, such warmth. He brought her a sense of peace. Even if she did not exactly understand why this God of love of whom he spoke should necessarily be all-powerful, she found that she wanted it to be so. The cruel old gods were being chased away, like dark clouds fleeing over the horizon. And good riddance to them, she thought. The sense of warmth emanating from the preacher enveloped her. His confidence told her that he must be right. She glanced across at Morna. His eyes were shining.

By the time Bishop Patrick had finished speaking, the idea of doing as he wished did not seem so strange. When he asked if they would join in fellowship with him and be baptised, she realised that she wished he could stay with them longer. She did not want him to depart. Joining his new faith seemed a way of keeping his comforting presence with them. If she followed her heart, she was ready to do as he wished. But she had followed her heart once before, and so had Conall. The heart was a dangerous thing. Dangerous for Morna.

“Baptise me,” she suddenly cried out. “Baptise the rest of us. But spare Morna.” She couldn’t help it.

“Spare him?” Bishop Patrick was glaring at her. “Spare?” She saw the terrible flash of anger in the old man’s eyes. He took several steps towards her and for a moment she thought he might even be about to strike her, or curse her like a druid. Instead, to her surprise, he stopped in his tracks, shook his head, apparently at himself, and then, to her utter astonishment, went down on his knees in front of her.

“Forgive me, Deirdre,” he said. “Forgive my anger.”

“Why …” She didn’t know what to say.

“If I failed to touch your heart, the fault is mine, not yours. It is my own shortcomings that made me angry.”

“It was beautiful, what you said,” she protested. “It’s just …”

He had got to his feet again and he cut her off with a gesture of his hand.

“You do not understand,” he growled. He turned to Morna. “It is you who are chief of the Ui Fergusa now,” he said solemnly. “Is it your wish that your family should be baptised?”

“It is,” said Morna.

“And if you accept baptism from my hands, will you submit to my authority in matters concerning religion, and follow my instructions, as these young princes do?”

“I will,” said Morna.

“Come then,” the bishop commanded, “and I will tell you what we must do.”

The baptism they were to undergo required a simple immersion in water. A glance at the shallows of the Liffey had convinced Bishop Patrick that the river was not a very convenient place. The three local wells, which he now briefly inspected and blessed, were not suitable either. But the dark pool of Dubh Linn would do very well, he decided, and he told them to assemble there at once.

And so a little group of Deirdre, her two brothers, and Morna, dressed in only linen shifts under their cloaks and attended by their half-dozen slaves, trooped down on that fine but slightly chilly September afternoon to the edge of Dubh Linn to be baptised. And one by one they stepped into its dark waters, where Bishop Patrick was standing, and sank down under its surface for a cold moment to emerge back into the light, baptised by Patrick’s own hand, in the name of Christ.

They dried themselves quickly. Everyone except Deirdre seemed cheerful. And they were just starting back up towards the rath when they were brought to an unexpected halt by Deirdre’s youngest brother, Rian. He had just thought of something.

“Is it true that only Christians go to the good place?” he asked.

“It is,” they assured him.

“And the others all go to the fiery place?”

That was so, too, they said.

“Then what about my dad?” he asked, with genuine concern. “That means he’ll be going to the fire.” And after a few moments of consultation with his brother, they both agreed. Their logic might be a little strange, but it was held with conviction. Their father was resting with the family’s gods. Right or wrong in the visitors’ eyes, those gods had always been there and, somehow, would protect their own. But if Dubh Linn and the rath of Fergus became Christian, then the family would have turned their backs on the gods. Insulted them. Fergus would be left, as it were, stranded. The old gods would probably want nothing more to do with him, while the Christian God, apparently, would consign him to hellfire.

“We can’t let that happen to him,” he protested. His brother, Ronan, was looking worried, too.

Yet if Deirdre felt embarrassed, she observed that none of the priests seemed in the least surprised.

For this was by no means an uncommon problem for Christian missionaries. If we are to be saved, their converts would ask, then what is the fate of our revered ancestors? Are you telling us they were wicked? The normal answer to this question was that God would make at least a partial dispensation for those who, through no fault of their own, had not the opportunity of accepting Christ. Only for those hearing Christ’s message and then refusing it could there be no salvation. It was a reasonable explanation, but it did not always satisfy. And it was typical of the great northern bishop that he had, upon occasion, employed a method of dealing with this problem which was all his own.

“How long is he dead?” he asked.

“Five days,” they replied.

“Then dig the man up,” he ordered. “I’ll baptise him now.”

And that is what they did. With the help of the slaves, the brothers disinterred their father from his mound down by the Liffey’s edge. While the pale form of Fergus lay stiffly on the ground, looking remarkably dignified in death, Bishop Patrick splashed some water upon him and, with the sign of the cross, brought him into the Christian world.

“I cannot promise you he will reach heaven,” he told the brothers with a kindly smile, “but his chances have greatly improved.”

They reburied the old man in his mound, and Larine placed two pieces of wood, joined in the sign of the cross, above it.

They had returned to the rath and were about to enter the big thatched hall where the fire was burning, when Bishop Patrick stopped and turned to the members of the family.

“There is now,” he announced, “a small kindness that you can do for me.” They asked him only to tell them what it might be. He smiled. “You may not like it. I am speaking of your slaves.” At these words the slaves standing around looked up hopefully.

“Your British slaves.” He smiled. “My fellow countrymen. They are Christians, you know. Part of my flock.” He turned to Deirdre. “The life of a slave is hard, Deirdre, daughter of Fergus. I know because I was one myself. Seized from their homes. Stolen from their families and their Church. I wish you to set your British slaves free.” He smiled again. “They do not always leave, you know. I see you treat your slaves well. But they must be free to return to their homes if they wish. It’s a barbarous trade,” he added with sudden feeling.

Deirdre saw Larine and the priests nod automatically. Obviously they were used to these strange proceedings. For herself, she wasn’t sure what to say. Morna looked astonished. It was Ronan who spoke up.

“Are you saying we should set them free without payment?”

Patrick turned to him. “How many slaves have you?”

“There are six.”

“The raids produce so many. They cannot have cost you much.”

Her brother thought a moment.

“But three of those are women,” he pointed out. “They do all the heavy work.”

“Lord preserve us,” the bishop murmured, and turned up his eyes to heaven. A silence followed. With a sigh, Bishop Patrick nodded to Larine, who reached into a small pouch hanging from his belt and produced a Roman coin.

“Will that do?” Larine enquired. It seemed he was used to making such bargains to help the British Christians.

“Two,” said Deirdre’s brother quickly. He might be stupid, she thought, but he was still her father’s son when it came to bargaining for livestock.

Larine glanced at Bishop Patrick, who nodded. A moment later, the British slaves were on their knees before the bishop kissing his hands.

“Give thanks to God, my children,” he told them kindly, “not to me.” Deirdre wondered how much he spent like this each year.

But none of these events, as far as Deirdre was concerned, did anything to lessen her agony.

Morna was a Christian. He was going to Tara. The missionary bishop might possess the tongue of an angel, he might be sent by God, but he was still going to place her only son in mortal danger. And there was nothing she could do about it. A heavy gloom descended upon her.

Bishop Patrick had indicated that he would depart the following day. Until then, he and all his party must be treated as honoured guests. The bishop retired for a while to rest by the fire. Larine wandered down to the estuary and paced about there for a time, before returning to sit alone by the entrance to the rath. Deirdre and the slaves set to work to prepare a feast. Morna, meanwhile, had joined the company of the young princes who formed the bishop’s retinue. She heard them laughing together outside, and it was obvious that Morna was impressed with them. Once he appeared and told her, “They are splendid fellows. Every one is a prince. They travel about with Bishop Patrick and treat him like a king.”

It was only after he had rested that Bishop Patrick, looking much refreshed, sent one of his priests to summon Larine and Morna, and called upon Deirdre to join them. When the four of them were gathered by the fire, he turned to Morna.

“You will recall that you promised to obey me,” he began

Morna bowed his head.

“Very well, then,” the bishop continued. “Let me tell you what I wish you to do. You are to accompany me tomorrow. I wish you to join these young men who are travelling with me. I want you to remain with us for a time. Would you like that?”

“I should indeed.” Morna’s face lit up with delight.

“Do not be too pleased,” Bishop Patrick cautioned him. “I also told you that there would be sacrifices, and there is to be one now.”

He paused. “You are not to go to Tara.”

Deirdre stared. Not go to Tara? Had she heard him correctly? Evidently she had. Morna’s face had fallen, and Larine was looking horrified.

“I may not go to the feis?”

“You may not. I forbid it.”

Larine opened his mouth to say something, but Bishop Patrick gave him one look and he was silent.

“But the High King …” Morna began.

“He will probably notice your absence. But as you will have gone tomorrow, any travellers to Tara who come across the ford will say you were not here. And if in time the High King hears that you have gone away with me,” he smiled, “he is used to me making a nuisance of myself. It was I, after all, who took away Larine. It is I who would be blamed, not you. You may be sure of that.” He turned to Deirdre. “You will miss him, I dare say.”

Yes, she would miss him. She would miss him desperately. But he would not be at Tara. That was all that mattered. She could scarcely believe it was happening.

“Where would he be?” she asked.

“In the north and west with me. I have protectors, Deirdre. He’ll be safe enough.”

“And would he … would I …”

“See him again? You would indeed. Didn’t I tell him to honour his mother? I would send him to you after a year. You and your brothers could manage at Dubh Linn until then, I should think, could you not?”

“Yes,” she said gratefully. “We could.”

Morna was looking utterly downcast, but the bishop was firm.

“You swore to obey,” he reminded him sternly. “Now you must honour your oath.” Then he smiled kindly. “Do not grieve for Tara, my young friend. Before the year is out, I promise you, I will show you even better things.”

It was a pleasant little feast that they all enjoyed in the rath that night. The company was in a cheerful mood. Deirdre was so relieved that she was radiant. Her brother Ronan, with the prospect of acting as chief for a year, was looking pleased with himself. And even Morna, in the company of the young nobles, was visibly brightening. The food was well prepared, ale and wine flowed. And if the old drinking skull that gleamed softly in the corner might have seemed inappropriate at such a Christian feast, no one appeared to think of it. Not only did the kindly bishop prove to have a rich store of good stories and jokes, but he even insisted upon Larine reciting some of the tales of the ancient gods.

“They are wonderful stories,” he told them, “full of poetry. You must not worship the old gods anymore. They have no power, because they are not real. But never lose the stories. I make Larine recite them whenever I spend an evening with him.”

As she looked back over the day’s extraordinary events and the wonderful turn that they had taken, there was only one small thing that puzzled Deirdre. Towards the end of the evening, she confided it to Larine.

“You say that Bishop Patrick is austere? He never touches a woman?” It was one aspect of the new religion she found a little strange.

“That is true.”

“Well, when I went into the water, I was just wearing my shift, you know. So when I came out, it was all stuck to me.” She glanced across to make sure the bishop could not hear her. “And … I saw his eyes light up. He noticed me, you know.”

And now, for the first time since his arrival, Larine threw back his head and laughed.

“Oh, I’m sure he did, Deirdre. He would indeed.”

They left soon after dawn. Bishop Patrick gave his blessing to them all, and promised Deirdre once more that he would send her son back to her safely again. Morna, for his part, bade his mother a tender farewell, and likewise promised to return.

So it was with relief and happiness, rather than grief, that Deirdre watched the great chariot with its accompanying wagon and riders, with their cross and staff, sweep away across the Ford of Hurdles and take the track northwards towards Ulster.

Indeed, everybody involved in the day’s work was pleased, with the possible exception of Larine who, around midday, when they were resting, ventured to make a small complaint to Bishop Patrick.

“I was a little surprised that you decided to override my counsel,” he remarked. “In fact, I was somewhat embarrassed. I had hoped to send a young Christian to the High King at Tara. But all I achieved was to bring you a few converts at a rath by a ford.”

Bishop Patrick watched him calmly. “You were angry.”

“I was. Why did you do it?”

“Because, when I saw them all, I thought the woman was right. I returned to this island to bring the Gospel’s joyful message to the heathen, Larine. Not to make martyrs.” He sighed. “The ways of God are inscrutable, Larine,” he said gently. “We do not need to be so ambitious.” He patted the former druid’s arm. “Morna is a chief. The ford is a crossroads. Who can tell what Dubh Linn may be worth?”