Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [40]
She hadn’t wanted to do this. She had been so embarrassed and mortified when Finbarr had come to her father. “I can’t,” she had cried. How was it going to look if she turned up where she wasn’t supposed to and pushed herself in front of him for all to see? But they had made her, and having got so far, she was determined about one thing. She wasn’t going to take any special notice of him. He could take notice of her if he pleased. She’d hold her head high and let the other men see her for the princess she was. Didn’t she already have a husband waiting for her anyway? It was with this thought firmly in her mind that she stepped through the entrance into the banqueting hall.
It was a rich smell that pervaded the air: ale and mead, stewed fruits, and, above all, the aroma of well-fatted roasted beef. In the centre of the hall was a huge cauldron full of ale. On tables beside it, small bowls of mead. Around the walls ran the tables where the company sat. Reds and blues, green and gold—the bright dress and gleaming ornaments of the chiefs and their wives gave the hall a splendid air. There was conversation and laughter, but the gentle strains of the three harpists in the corner could still be heard.
She felt the eyes of the men upon her as soon as she entered, but she didn’t mind. She went about her business, moving gracefully, pouring ale and mead as required, with a polite word or a pleasant smile but, apart from that, scarcely troubling to look into their faces at all. Once she had to pass in front of the High King himself, and she was aware, out of the corner of her eye, of his swarthy figure, which she found rather distasteful, and of the large presence of the queen. They were both deep in conversation and she was careful not to stare at them. Indeed, she was kept so busy that at first she hardly noticed when she was directed to serve at the place where Conall was sitting.
How pale he looked, how serious. She served him exactly as she had everyone else, even gave him a smile.
“I am glad to see you, Deirdre, daughter of Fergus.” His voice was gentle, grave. “I did not know you were to be at the banquet.”
“It was as much a surprise to myself, Conall, son of Morna,” she answered pleasantly. Then she swiftly passed on without looking at him again.
She had to return to the table several times, but they did not speak again. Once she saw his uncle the High King beckon him to come over, but then her attention was distracted by a piper who began to play.
Conall returned from the interview with the High King feeling disconcerted. Under those heavy, swarthy black brows, his uncle’s eyes, dark blue and somewhat bloodshot, glittered in a way that made you realise he had missed nothing.
“So Conall,” he had begun. “It is the feast of Bealtaine, yet you are sad.”
“It is only the way my face looks.”
“Hmm. Who is that girl—the one you spoke to? Have I seen her before?” In answer, Conall explained as best he could who she was and about her father, the chief at Dubh Linn. “This Fergus is a chief, you say?”
“It is true.” Conall smiled. “A small one. His ancestors were of some note.”
“It’s a fine-looking daughter he has, anyway. Is she betrothed?”
“There is an agreement, I believe. Someone in Ulster.”
“But,” the king’s eyes looked up shrewdly, “it’s for yourself you’d like her?”
Conall had felt himself blush. He couldn’t help it.
“Not at all,” he had stammered.
“Hmm.” His uncle had nodded, then ended the conversation; though after he had returned to his seat, he had noticed the king give Deirdre a thoughtful glance. Was his uncle giving him a message? Hinting that he should marry her? At the very least he was telling him that his love for the girl was obvious. And wasn’t he now, whatever his reasons, in the act of letting her marry another? Without the decency of giving her even a word of explanation? There was no denying it. And why was he doing this? Was it really what he wanted?
For a while he sat there, speaking to no one. Then at last he looked up and saw that she was