Emerald Magic_ Great Tales of Irish Fantasy - Andrew M. Greeley [134]
“What, lads?” he asked. “Have you grown tired so quickly of a life of plenty, and fair maidens to attend you?”
In the corner was Diurán, who had said nothing. He said nothing now, but only met my gaze. I left to await the Lady in her day chamber.
The thread she had been spinning came to an end and was finished that day.With no carding and combing to do, the other maidens were gossiping and idle, speaking of the men’s restlessness. I sat quiet and watched as the Lady removed the thread from the wheel and wound it into a little ball, her white hands working deftly. It was a mottled thing when it was done, brown and black and red, with bits of gold glinting here and there.
“Lady,” I said when she was done, “why do you keep Máel Dúin here against his will?”
After I spoke the chamber went very quiet, for the others were shocked at my boldness, but the Lady smiled and shook her head to show she was not angry.
“I do nothing against his will, little bird,” she said to me. “A warrior’s pride is a fearsome burden. I have given him leave to lay it down.”
And with that I had to be content, for the Lady said no more, but tucked the ball of thread in the bodice of her robe and went forth to greet Máel Dúin in the great hall, and we went with her.
That night, Diurán played the harp and sang of Máel Dúin’s father, Ailill, who was called Ailill Edge-of-Battle. And it came that Máel Dúin had never known his father. He had been fostered as a Queen’s son and raised in ignorance of his true parents, for Ailill had gotten him upon a nun in a convent who had taken vows against such things. But when a jealous rival taunted Máel Dúin with his lack of knowledge, he went to the Queen, and she brought him to his mother in the convent, who told him where to find his father’s people. And that was Duncloone, where Máel Dúin learned how his father Ailill had died, defending a church from reavers who came raiding. But he was slain, and reavers burned the church around him.
There it was that the monk had showed him the burnt and blackened bones of his father and charged him to set forth to find the reaver who had slain him.
And when Diurán laid down his harp, all the men were silent, and I saw there were tears in Máel Dúin’s eyes. When the Lady led him from the hall, his steps were slow, and twice he turned to look back at his men.
“Cébha.”Diurán held out his hand to me. “Will you have me this night?”
It was in my thoughts to say no, for he had set himself against my Lady’s will, but his eyes were dark and sad, and I knew he took no joy in it. So it was that my heart answered, and I said yes.
There were words he whispered into my ear that night, but they were for me and me alone, and not for others to hear. Though it grieved me, I knew it was in his heart to say farewell, and that was why he had come to share my pallet. In the morning, when dawn cast a rosy glow in the narrow window of my chamber, I watched him rise and don his clothing.
“Why must you attempt this thing, Diurán?” I asked him. “You know there is no harm in this place, nor in the Lady.”
In the act of settling his belt, he paused, and his hands went still. “It would not be ill done if Máel Dúin were to lay aside vengeance,” he said slowly.“But he must come to it in his own way.”Diurán leaned down and kissed me. “Good-bye, little songbird.”
He left, then, and after he had gone, I rose and donned my clothing. I knew the rhythms of the dún, and I knew the mind of Diurán. They would wait until the Lady had left upon her daily duty to hear the concerns of the isle folk and give them counsel.
When it was time, I climbed to the ramparts.
I watched them push the curragh to the shore, seventeen strong men straining, the curragh leaving a deep track in the coarse