Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [46]
“Take fifty men,” the king answered shortly, “and find them. Bring the girl back.”
“And Conall?”
The king looked at him, surprised.
“Kill him,” he said.
TWO
TARA
I
THE FIRST NIGHT had been kind to them. They had taken two strong, swift mounts and two good packhorses. They prepared in a hurry; Conall had not taken his sword or spear, but only a hunting knife; he also brought a small bar of silver, concealed in his belt. It was deep night when they made their way out of the encampment where everyone was sleeping. It would probably be long after dawn before anyone even noticed their absence. And though their pursuers would no doubt move fast, they would not know which way they had gone.
Which way should they go? Up into the wilds of Connacht? Over into Ulster, where they could find a ship across to Alba? No, Conall decided: that would be the first thing the king would think of; within days he’d have spies on the lookout in every harbour. If they wanted to escape across the sea, they’d better wait. So where could they evade the long arm of the High King?
“Our best hope lies south,” he told her. “In Munster.” The huge, lovely coastline of the south-west, with its innumerable hills, inlets, and islands, gave endless opportunities for concealment, as well as being less under the control of the High King than any other part of the island.
Through the first night, they took the track southwards. The country was flat, the forest frequently broken by open pasture. As dawn broke they found a landscape around them of empty bog and continued cautiously for a little while, fording a small river, until they reached some dry ground, where they rested. It was already early afternoon when Deirdre awoke, to find Conall standing beside her. “I’ve scouted ahead,” he told her. “We should keep moving on.”
All afternoon they rode carefully. The island’s main tracks were usually kept passable. In many places, the undergrowth beside them was so thick that it was only the work of a few moments to find concealment; but this meant that the tracks were the only way to travel. And so even in the least populated areas, there was always the risk of meeting someone on the road. Once, they came to some undulating heathland, where they encountered an empty shepherd’s hut. Later, discovering there was a farmstead ahead, they made a wide circuit to avoid being seen; but the branches whipping across their faces made progress so slow that they lost valuable time. It was midafternoon when they came over a ridge and Conall paused. “There.” He pointed southwards. And in the distance Deirdre could just make out a long, thickly wooded range of hills rising up out of the plain. “The Slieve Bloom Mountains,” he explained. “If we can reach them tomorrow without being seen, we’ll be hard to find.” And they were well within sight of them when, at nightfall, they wrapped themselves in their cloaks and lay down under the stars. Deirdre remained awake for some time, however, and when she did fall asleep, her sleep was fitful. Twice during the night, she thought she heard the distant howling of wolves.
Deirdre woke at the first grey glimmer of dawn and shivered. A cold, damp breeze had sprung up. Conall was already awake, and nodded to her. “It will be raining soon. That’s good, as we have to cross some open ground.
The rain was not heavy, but it persisted all morning, screening them as they followed a track that led across open grassland and heath until, around the middle of the day, it began to rise up a long slope. Trees appeared on either side, the track began to twist, and Deirdre realised with relief that they had reached the safety of the mountains. Soon after this, the rain began to clear, and from the occasional rocky outcrops she could see magnificent views of the countryside spreading out below. They paused and she discovered that she was very hungry. She had brought bread and meat with them when they left. Some of each remained. Now, sitting by a small mountain stream, they ate the last of the meat