Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [14]
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