Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [17]
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