Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [50]
Then she knew what she had to do. She did not know why, but she knew it must be that day.
It was early afternoon when they ate. She had cooked the two fish he had caught over the fire, which sent tiny wisps of blue-grey smoke into the still air. As well as the fish, she had cooked beans and lentils. He had brought a flagon of ale with him the day before, so they drank from that. To follow, she had made honeyed oatcakes. And it was as he lay back contentedly after this meal that she gently remarked, “It is lucky for me that we escaped, Conall. You saved my life.”
“That is probably true,” he agreed, staring up at the sky. “The queen is a fearsome woman.”
“Even without her, I’d not have gone back to the king. It was only you I wanted.”
“And yet,” he tilted his head forward to look at her, “if ever the king’s men catch us, they may kill me. Then you’d have to go back, you know.” He smiled. “Maybe the king would divorce the queen and send her away. It’s possible. You’d be safe enough then.”
But she only shook her head.
“The king will never have me, Conall. I’d kill myself.” She said it so simply he supposed it must be true.
“Oh,” he said, and leant his head back again and stared at the sky.
They remained silent after that, lying in the sun. There was not a breath of motion in the air now. The wisp of smoke from the fire was not dispersed, but rose straight up until it invisibly dissolved in the blueness above. It was silent all round the pond. Some way off, Deirdre saw a bird on an overhanging bough, its plumage gleaming like gold in the sun; but if it uttered any song, that sound, too, was stopped, as though the passing of time itself had ceased in the general silence of the afternoon.
Then, knowing what she must do, she quietly rose and, while he lay where he was, still staring up, went to the pond’s edge and, slipping off her shift and underclothes, stepped quickly into the tingling cold water and swam out towards the middle where she could tread water.
Hearing the sound, but unaware that she was naked, Conall glanced at the pond and, after a little time, sat up to look at her. She stayed where she was, making no suggestion he should join her, but quietly smiling at him, while he continued to look and the golden light was playing on the little ripples in the water that she made around her. They stayed like that, the two of them, for some time.
She swam a few strokes to the shallows and slowly rising up, with the water dripping from her hair and breasts, walked towards him.
And then Conall, with a little gasp, rose to his feet and took her in his arms.
For three days Larine waited at the meeting place. But he had only the birds, sweeping watchfully overhead, for company. Conall never came. And after waiting two more days, just to be certain, the druid returned, sorrowfully.
Despite his sadness over the disappearance of his friend, Finbarr could not help feeling elated as, with Cuchulainn bounding along beside him, he approached the Hill of Uisnech.
He had the black bull. It was certainly a most magnificent beast. While few of the island’s shaggy cattle came much above the midriff of a man, the black bull’s shoulder was level with his own. Its red and angry eyes glowered down at him. With both arms spread, he could only just touch the tips of the huge creature’s horns. Its coat was jet-black, the mighty tangle of its forelock as heavy as a man’s head.
The raid had been expertly carried out. Concealing themselves, he and his men had watched for two days until they were fairly certain that one of the cowmen who regularly disappeared into the woods must be the bull’s keeper. Following him the third day they found the huge beast, cleverly hidden in a small enclosure where the fellow was filling a trough to feed him.
“We shall need you to lead the bull,” Finbarr told him.
“What if I refuse?” the man enquired.
“I shall cut off your head,” Finbarr answered, pleasantly. So the