Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [47]
“From here,” Conall said, “we can follow the forest tracks deep into Munster.”
“And what will we be eating, may I ask?” she enquired.
“I saw a hare.” He smiled ruefully. “Hazelnuts will keep you going. There are fish in the rivers, and deer in the woods. I could go down to one of the farmsteads, tell them I’m a poor traveller and beg a little bread.”
“You’d better not be wearing that cloak then,” she laughed. “Or even be seen with it,” she added more seriously. “It’s the cloak of a prince.”
And as Conall looked at his cloak, its rich material and its trimming of fur, he knew she was right.
“What a fool I am,” he exclaimed, “running across the country with a thing like this.” He shook his head, went to one of the pack-horses and pulled out a light axe. Then, scraping away some leaves from a bare spot behind a tree, he began to dig a shallow pit. It wasn’t long before he had dug a good enough trench to receive the cloak, covered it over, and scattered the leaves across the place again. Satisfied with his work, he returned, replaced the axe, and gave her a smile.
“So, you’ve buried your fine clothes now, have you?” She returned his smile.
“Yes.” But suddenly the smile left his face and he looked thoughtful.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing of importance. Shall we ride on?”
And then she remembered the three geissi of which her father had told her.
Conall shall not die until:
He has laid his own clothes in the earth.
He has crossed the sea at sunrise.
He has come to Tara through a black mist.
He had just broken the first.
She started, a little uncertainly, to say something. But he was already riding ahead.
Only one thing puzzled Deirdre. He had made no physical advances yet. They had been travelling, of course: the circumstances were hardly convenient. But he had not so much as touched her. She supposed he would in his own time. Meanwhile, she wasn’t sure whether to do anything to encourage him or not. She tried holding his arm, or standing with her back to him waiting for him to put his arms round her. She tried standing facing him, waiting to be kissed. All she got was a smile.
She remembered her mother once remarking, “All it takes with a man is a little time and a good meal.” So she was doubly hopeful when, as they made their way along the high tracks of the Slieve Bloom Mountains, Conall told her, “Tomorrow, I’ll be away looking for food.”
The next morning, leaving her with the last of the bread, he set off early, promising to return by evening. The day passed pleasantly. The weather was fine. From a gap in the trees, she could enjoy a magnificent view. Apart from the twittering of the birds, it was silent.
Not a soul came near. The sun was already sinking onto the horizon when Conall appeared. He was carrying a bag containing bread, wheat cakes, and other provisions. He looked pleased with himself.
“I got food from a farmstead,” he explained. “Told them I was a messenger going to the King of Leinster.”
They ate well that evening. Conall made a small fire. When it was done, she lay contentedly on her back beside it. The firelight, she knew, was playing on her face. She smiled at him. But Conall only smiled back, yawned, remarked that it had been a long day, and, wrapping himself in a woollen blanket, rolled over and went to sleep.
He had not told her about the message he had sent.
It had been luck, finding the traveller on the road. There were travellers on the island, of course, as there were in most places in the world: merchants, messengers, holy men, entertainers. These last in particular, in the Celtic world, were always roaming. Musicians, dancers, bards. He supposed it was in their nature. Sometimes they would stop at a farmstead for the night and entertain the company in return for food and lodging. At the court of a great chief, however, they would be well rewarded.
He saw the man from a distance. He was on foot, walking down the woodland track with an easy, swinging gait. Concealing his horse in the trees, Conall