Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [44]
And then? Marriage to the king. She didn’t blame her father. There was nothing he could have done about it. She didn’t even blame him for being so pleased. It was natural. And how could she tell him that, as she stood with him facing the king, she had felt nothing but a physical horror? It wasn’t just that the High King could have been her father. Older men could be attractive. But his swarthy face with its bloodshot eyes, his thickening body, the hands which, to her, seemed like hideous hairy paws, all filled her with revulsion. Would she really have to offer her body to him the following night? Was this the only loving she was ever to know, year after year, until he died? Or she did? It had taken all the self-control she possessed, in front of that company, not to shudder openly. Even the man from Ulster, she had thought bitterly, would not have been so bad. He hadn’t repelled her. She could probably have learned to love him.
And Conall? What had he been planning to say to her in the morning? Had he decided, after waiting so long, to ask for her in marriage after all? The thought was so painful she could hardly bear it. Useless. Too late.
It seemed to her now that, in the blackness ahead, she could just make out the shape of their cart. She moved forward cautiously. She reached it. Yes. She was sure this was the one. She listened for the sound of her brothers’ snores. She started to raise the leather flap at the back.
And froze, as a hand clamped onto her arm.
“Out walking?” The voice was a low hiss. She gave a little gasp and tried to break free, but the grip on her arm was too strong. “I’ve been waiting for you.” This time the voice was more like a growl. She still wasn’t sure who it was who held her so fast. Only with the next words did she realise. “You think you can challenge me?”
It was the queen.
“No.” She stammered it out. In her misery and fear she had forgotten about the queen. “This was no choice of mine,” she said hoarsely.
“Little fool.” She could feel the queen’s breath on her cheek. It smelt of ale, stale. “Do you think I shall let you live? Speak softly now. Do you?”
“I …” Deirdre wanted to say something, but no words came.
“Poison, drowning, an accident …” the terrible hiss went on. “Easy to arrange. If you marry the king, young lady, I can promise you, it’s not a month you’ll live. Do you understand?” The grip on her arm was now so tight it was all Deirdre could do not to cry out.
“What can I do?” her whisper was almost a wail.
“I will tell you.” The queen’s lips pressed against her ear. “Flee, young Deirdre. Flee for your life. Flee from Uisnech. Flee from Dubh Linn. Run to a place where no one can find you. Run tonight and never stop running. For if the king finds you he will bring you back; and if he does, I will have your life. Run.”
The grip was suddenly relaxed. There was a rustling sound; and then the queen was gone.
Deirdre gasped for breath. She was shaking violently. She wanted to run, somewhere, anywhere, to a place of safety. It was no good going to her brothers or her sleeping father. She started to move, hurrying, tripping, almost running, she hardly knew where until in the darkness she found a path that seemed to lead somewhere. The path was rising. There was a sweet smell of long grasses. And then, above, a handful of stars burst through the clouds and she realised that she was climbing the Hill of Uisnech.
Conall sat with his back against the big five-sided stone and stared blankly ahead from the top of Uisnech into the darkness. His mood was as black as the night.
First that announcement about the cattle raid. It was the intent behind the thing which so enraged him. Instead of speaking with him beforehand as he had promised Larine, his uncle had made a public announcement that left Conall in an impossible position. Any argument would now be a defiance of the High King. His uncle had meant to outmanoeuvre him, use him, treat him with a cynical contempt. He hated him for it.
But even this was nothing compared to the shock of the second announcement.