Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [58]
She rose and walked over to Conall. He did not move. She stood beside him, and touched his arm.
“I am ready,” she whispered. But Conall only shook his head.
“Too late,” he said, and pointed. As she stared into the darkness she saw the shadow of Finbarr’s chariot waiting on the shore; and before she could catch the words, they came out: “Oh Conall, I cannot go back. I should die.”
They stood there watching, as the light grew and the sea turned grey, and the chariot became a hard, dark shape on the beach. Then Conall said, “I must go to him now.” She managed to keep him with her a little longer; but though she still tried to hold him back, as the lightness on the horizon grew he finally pulled himself away, and took the curragh and went across alone.
He was halfway across when she saw the fiery edge of the sun break over the horizon and realised that Conall, breaking the second of the geissi, was crossing the sea with the rising sun behind him. She cried out, “Conall! The sun!”
But if he heard her, he did not turn back.
Finbarr did not move. He had been standing in his chariot, still as a stone, since long before the dawn. During this time, he had pondered: would he feel any of the old love for his friend? Did he feel sorrow or only frustration? He hardly knew. But he did know what had to be done and so, perhaps afraid of his own emotions, he had hardened his heart. Yet now, as Conall came across the water and drew closer, it was none of these, but an entirely different emotion that he felt. It was surprise. And wonder.
He should have realised, he remembered, after what the old woman had told him when he came that way before, that the figure who came from the island would look like a druid. But it was more than that. As Conall reached the beach and started walking towards him, Finbarr experienced the strangest sensation. Seeing him now, coming out of the waves, with his head shaved like a druid, dressed simply as a hermit, it was as if he were looking not at Conall but at Conall’s ghost. For if Conall had died and returned from the Isles of the Blessed, then surely this was how he would have appeared. It was the inner spirit, the very essence of the man he had loved, who now drew near like a sorrowful shade. A few paces away, Conall stopped and calmly nodded.
“You know, Conall, why I am here.” Finbarr found his voice was husky.
“It is a pity you came, Finbarr. It can do you no good.”
Was that all his friend had to say to him?
“It’s more than a year I’ve been looking for you,” he burst out.
“What are your orders from the High King?” Conall asked quietly.
“To bring you both safely back.”
“Deirdre will not come, and I shall not leave her.”
“That is all that matters—yourself and Deirdre?”
“It seems so.”
“It does not concern you, Conall,” he could not keep the bitterness out of his voice, “that there have been three years of bad harvests, that poor people are only kept from starving by what the chiefs can give them, and that all this is blamed upon you for the way you have shamed the High King, your uncle?”
“Who says this?” Conall looked a little shaken.
“The druids say it, Conall, and the filidh, and the bards.” He took a deep breath. “And I say it, too.”
Conall paused thoughtfully before replying, and when he did so it seemed to be with sadness.
“I cannot come with you, Finbarr.”
“There is no choice, Conall.” Finbarr indicated his chariot. “You can see that I am armed.”
“Then you must kill me.” It was not a challenge. Conall just stood quietly, looking in front of him, as though waiting for the blow to fall.
For long moments, Finbarr gazed down at his friend. Then, reaching down, he took three objects and threw them at his friend’s feet. They were Conall’s spear, and his shield, and his shining sword.
“Defend yourself,” he said.
“I cannot,” replied Conall, who did not pick his weapons up.
And now Finbarr lost patience with his friend entirely.
“Is it