Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [39]
“How soon?”
“Three days. Ask no more.”
Finbarr was feeling pleased with himself. The cattle had all been led through the fires. The High King’s feast would be starting soon. And hadn’t he just done Conall a huge favour? Yes, he had. He’d done the right thing. And if his friend didn’t rise to the occasion this time … Well, he’d done his best.
The High King’s feast was no small affair. Starting in early afternoon it would stretch far into the night. A large banqueting hall with wicker sides had been set up. Inside were trestle tables and benches for three hundred people. There would be pipers and harpists, dancers and bards to give recitations. The great chiefs and druids, the law-keepers and the noblest warriors would all be present. Conall, too, of course. Thirty of the most highly born young women, daughters of chiefs every one, were to serve the mead and ale to the company.
And this was where Finbarr had done so well. For Deirdre was to be one of them. It had been a favour from the woman in charge of the girls. Then a quick interview with Fergus and his daughter. Deirdre had held back, embarrassed, but her father had ordered her to do it. Even now she had no idea that she would be directed to serve ale to Conall. Finbarr had made sure of that, too. And more than this, he told himself, he could not do.
Noon had passed and the feast had begun when Goibniu the Smith made his way towards the banqueting hall. He was in a very bad temper. The reason was simple: he had failed to get a woman.
He had found one the day before. A handsome buxom woman, wife of a farmer from Leinster. At dusk she had told him, “My husband’s sticking like glue. Wait a while.” Later in the night she had come and whispered, “Meet me over there, by that thornbush, at dawn.” And that had been the last he saw of her—until a short while ago when he had observed her on the arm of a tall man who was certainly not the farmer from Leinster. It had been too late to do anything by then. Those who wanted to find partners had already done so. One girl had approached him, but she was so plain that it offended his pride. He’d been made a fool of, he was tired, and he was frustrated. Another man might have decided to get drunk. But that is not what Goibniu did. His single eye remained watchful. And just now, a moment ago, it had caught sight of something else that reminded him of business.
The big fellow from Dubh Linn. The one with the daughter he’d sold. There was no sign of the girl though. Goibniu went up to him.
What was it about Fergus that made the clever craftsman suspicious? Goibniu did not bother to analyse it. He did not need to. But from the first words of greeting, from the chief’s ready smile, from the cheerful way, when asked if Deirdre was there, he replied, “She is, she is,” Goibniu knew that something was wrong. His brow darkened.
“I’ll be taking her with me, then.”
“To be sure, you will. Not a doubt of it.”
Fergus was being too obliging. He had to be lying. It was not often that the cunning smith allowed his temper to get the better of him, but the experience of the previous night had affected his judgement.
With a sudden burst of irritability in which his contempt was plain, he burst out: “Do you take me for a fool? She is not here at all.”
It was the visible contempt which hurt Fergus. He drew himself up to his full height and glared balefully down at Goibniu.
“Is it to insult me you came here?” he demanded with some heat.
“I couldn’t care less,” the smith retorted, “whether I’ve insulted you or not.”
And now, as his face became suffused with blood, it would have been obvious to anyone who knew him that Fergus, son of Fergus, was about to become very angry indeed.
She knew she looked well. She could see it in the curious glances of the other girls as they all swept in their flowing gowns across the grass to the entrance to the banqueting hall. And why shouldn’t I look fine, she thought, for weren’t my ancestors as good as theirs? She felt