Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [43]
“As you know, I have been fortunate indeed to have the company of my lovely wife for many years.” He inclined his head towards her, and there was a murmur of not entirely heartfelt assent. “However,” he continued, “it is the custom amongst us, from time to time, to take an extra wife.” A deathly hush fell now. “And so I have decided, in addition to my dear wife, to marry again.”
There was a gasp. All eyes turned on the queen, who looked stunned, as if she’d been hit by a rock. Husbands, who knew about her domineering ways, glanced at each other. Wives, some of them, were shocked. Yet not a few had suffered at the queen’s hands at one time or another. And in just a moment or two, all round the hall, like mist condensing in droplets on the leaves of the trees, the communal thought was forming itself: she had it coming to her.
But who was the bride? At a sign from the king, they now saw a tall figure step forward, with long moustaches, accompanied by a handsome girl who, until shortly before, had been serving the ale and mead. People looked at each other. What did this mean?
“Deirdre, daughter of Fergus, son of Fergus, of Dubh Linn,” announced the king. And smiling at Deirdre, he drew Fergus close and put his arm round the older man’s shoulder so that the chief, who now looked as pleased as if he’d defeated an army single-handed, found himself held, by his kingly son-in-law, in a grip like a vice.
It was Goibniu, while the company was still collecting its thoughts, who quickly rose to his feet and raising his beaker called out, “Long life, good health, to our king and to Deirdre.” To which the company, having seen which way the wind was blowing, assented with a friendly roar.
From under his bushy eyebrows the High King watched them all. He could have divorced the queen. Divorce was common and easy on the western island. But that would have offended her family, who were important, whereas by choosing an extra bride, he merely cut her down to size. The masterstroke lay in his choice. While any man on the island might take extra wives, a king had to be careful. Choose the daughter of one great chief and you offended all the others. You could have concubines, of course, but that was not his purpose. Marriage was a balance of power, whether you liked that fact or not. He had needed to undercut the queen and he had done it. The cleverness of the choice was that the girl was noble and looked a princess, but that her father was of no account at all. Lord of a marsh, a no-man’s-land, a deserted ford.
The prospective husband in Ulster would give no trouble. He would send one of his men to give the fellow a generous present. The Ulster man would understand: a High King took priority. As for Goibniu, the High King had already secretly compensated the cunning smith for his loss of a marriage fee late that afternoon. So everyone who needed to be was happy; except perhaps Conall and the girl.
“The marriage feast will be tomorrow evening,” he said.
It was dark that night; the stars had hidden their faces behind the clouds. Not even a pinpoint of light was offered from above to help Deirdre as she groped her way through the blackness that, creeping close, seemed to pore over her, smothering in its attentions.
Sometimes she felt the ox-hide flaps of the wagons and other temporary shelters that dotted the grounds; several times she disturbed sleeping bodies wrapped in their cloaks. She heard snores or other more intimate murmurs all around. Her father was back in the hall, lying contentedly in sleep along with fifty others. But she could not bear to remain there, and so she had left him, gone out past the dying torches, and begun to wander towards the place where their cart should contain her two younger brothers. It was strange that, in this moment of crisis, she should have sought out the comfort of their two, probably drunken bodies; but at least they were her family. For better or worse, that was something. One last night