Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [41]
“Deirdre, daughter of Fergus.” He said the words quietly, but she heard them. She turned her head. Did he see, just for a moment, a look of pain in her wonderful eyes? “I must speak with you. Tomorrow morning. At dawn.”
“As you wish.” She looked hesitant.
He nodded. Nothing more. And she was just moving away when the shouting began.
All heads turned; druids frowned; the High King glared; even the piper ceased. On the sacred site of Uisnech, at the feast of Bealtaine, someone was daring to disturb the High King’s peace.
The shouts continued. Then there was silence. One of the king’s personal attendants came into the banqueting hall and said something to the king, who gave a bleak nod. And a few moments later two figures were ushered in. The first, looking irritable but cautious, was Goibniu the Smith. Behind him, the very picture of an affronted chief, stalked Fergus. Conall glanced across to where Deirdre was now standing and saw her go very pale. When the two of them were in front of him, the king spoke. He did so quietly, to Goibniu first.
“The quarrel?”
“I had words with this man.”
“About?”
“His daughter not being here. She is promised to a man in Ulster, and I am to take her there. Then,” he glanced contemptuously at Fergus, “the fellow struck me.”
The High King turned his eyes on Fergus. So this was the chief from Dubh Linn. One glance and he understood Fergus entirely.
“Yet as you see, his daughter is here.” He indicated Deirdre. Goibniu looked and registered astonishment. “What have you to say, Fergus?”
“That the man called me a liar,” Fergus said hotly, and then, more humbly, “but that my daughter is worthy of a prince and now I have brought disgrace upon her.”
Out of the corner of his eye the king saw several of the great nobles give the poor, proud chief a look of approval. He rather agreed.
“It seems, Goibniu,” the king said gently, “that you were mistaken about the girl. Is it possible, do you think, that you were mistaken also about the blow? Perhaps you only thought he was about to strike you?” And the king’s dark blue eyes looked up at the smith steadily.
Whatever Goibniu was, he was never stupid.
“It may have been so,” he conceded.
“You might have been confused.”
“Confused. That would be it.”
“Take your place at our feast, Goibniu. Forget this matter. As for you,” he turned to Fergus, “you will wait Fergus, son of Fergus, for me outside. For it may be that I have something to say to you.” And with that, he gave a nod to the piper, who began to blow his pipes at once, and the banquet resumed.
But as the festivities continued, and Fergus waited outside, and Deirdre, uncertain what the king had in mind for her poor father, did her best to attend to her duties, no one present, glancing at the bushy eyebrows and red face of the island’s monarch, had any idea what in truth was passing in his mind.
It was perfect, he thought. His plan was now complete. He had only to see this fellow from Dubh Linn and the trap for them all was set. What an unlikely bearer of good fortune the gods had sent. He would make the announcements at the height of the feast. At sundown.
Late that afternoon, in front of an amused crowd, a small ceremony took place, witnessed by one of the senior druids.
With a decent show of politeness, Fergus and Goibniu stood facing each other. At the druid’s order, Goibniu went first. Pulling open his shirt, he bared his chest for Fergus who solemnly stepped forward, placed one of the smith’s nipples in his mouth, and sucked it for a moment or two. Then, stepping back, he offered his own chest, and Goibniu stepped up and returned the compliment. After this, both men nodded to the other and the druid pronounced the ceremony complete. For this, upon the island, was the way that two men who had quarrelled sealed their reconciliation. Fergus and the smith, whatever their differences, were now linked by a bond of friendship. Other lands sealed such bargains with a handshake, or the