Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [49]
It had been that first day, as they were looking out at the Slieve Bloom Mountains, when he realised how important his abstinence was.
He had known, even that dark night when they had set out, that as soon as he got Deirdre out of danger, he would have to send his uncle some word of explanation. He must tell him about the threat from the queen. He was fairly confident his uncle would know he was telling the truth. He had taken Deirdre only to save her life. For if the queen was determined to cause her death, sooner or later she would find ways of doing so, and surely his uncle couldn’t want that. Perhaps, through Larine, they could reach an understanding. After a token pursuit, his uncle might even let him escape discreetly across the sea, and leave it at that.
It was during the morning that he saw other, more complex possibilities. What if his uncle sent the girl away for her safety, but demanded his own return? Or he might divorce the queen and send for Deirdre. Both unlikely, but possible. Of course, he reminded himself, he could never go along with either. After all, he loved Deirdre, and he knew she couldn’t abide the king.
But all the same, as he had stood with Deirdre looking at the mountains, the implication had suddenly hit him. For the negotiations to have any hope of succeeding, he must not touch her. Until then, she was still the king’s woman, and his flight with her had been for her protection. Unless he could swear to Larine, with a druidic oath of the most solemn kind, that the girl was untouched, then all his explanations of his conduct would fall to the ground.
So it was that, for the time being at least, he avoided contact with the woman he loved. It was not something he thought he could explain to her.
Larine read the message on the stick. It was terse: a name, a place, a date, and the word “alone.” Then he turned back to the messenger. It would not be difficult to find the fellow some employment. There were three or four chiefs still at Uisnech who, at a word from Larine, would give this bard a try and pay him something. If he was good, word would travel quickly enough.
“I can help you,” he told him.
But the message from Conall was more difficult. The festivities had been continued, as they had to be, but the air was tense. The High King was outwardly calm, but to those like Larine who knew him, he had never seemed so angry. And therefore dangerous.
Even though he had the protection of being a druid, did he dare go on such an errand to the fugitive? If Conall wanted to meet him, it might be to ask his advice, but it might also be to deliver a message. Did he really want to return and tell the king he had gone to see Conall behind his back? Was his friendship with Conall worth that much?
He pondered long and hard that day before deciding he would go. He was a brave soul.
They had rested three days now by the pool. It was a quiet spot, a little lake in a mountain declivity, fed by a stream, and from which, under an ash tree at the far end, a slip of clear water poured over a stone lip before descending through a gorsy gully into a winding ravine below. The slopes all round were thickly wooded. Nobody came there. Conall had built a shelter. They had fished in the pool, finding trout—small but good to eat. The first day they had rested there Conall had gone out, returning late the next morning with plentiful supplies and with wood he had cut for a fire. Deirdre, meanwhile, had washed their clothes in the stream.
The weather had been getting warmer for several days. Overhead, the sky was clear blue. The light breeze of the morning was growing faint. Conall was whittling a stick to spear fish when she asked him casually if he was going down into the valley that evening.
“No,” he answered quietly. “We have plenty of food. But tomorrow,” he added,