Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [60]
He had him. He knew it. The end was only a question of time. Long moments passed. They went back another twenty paces, Finbarr advancing through the watery shallows that were red with the other man’s blood. Conall was slipping. He seemed about to fall.
And now, close to triumph, all the frustration of the last year and, though he scarcely realised it himself, the many years of jealousy spoke for themselves when he cried out, “Do not think I shall kill you, Conall. I shall not. It’ll be tied and walking behind my chariot that you and Deirdre will come with me, this day, to the king.” And swinging his sword high, he leaped forward.
He never saw the blade. It moved so fast, he did not even feel it for a moment, in his battle fury. But it smashed through his breast and severed every tissue just above the heart, so that Finbarr frowned, first in puzzlement as he became aware that something had stopped. Then he felt a huge, red, aching pain, and found that he was choking, that his gorge and his mouth were full of blood, and that everything was running away from him like a river as he crashed into the shallow water. He felt himself being turned and saw Conall’s face looking down at him, infinitely sorrowful. Why was he so sorrowful? His face was becoming blurred.
“Oh Finbarr. I had no wish to kill you.”
Why did Conall say that? Had he killed him? Finbarr tried to say something to the blur.
“Conall …”
Then the light grew bright as his eyes opened wide.
Conall and the charioteer carried his body to the chariot, to be taken back to the king. Only now did Conall realise that Cuchulainn the hound was tied up in the chariot, waiting for his master. With a last sad look over the wide waters of the Liffey, Conall limped back towards Deirdre and the island.
Goibniu’s single eye surveyed them all: the High King, the queen, the chiefs, and the druids. He listened but said nothing.
It had been that afternoon, after two days’ hard driving, that the exhausted charioteer had arrived at the High King’s camp with Finbarr’s body. The women were preparing it for burial. And in the big hall, with its wicker walls, they were all talking.
There were at least twenty young men who wanted to go after Conall. They would, of course. Kill the hero who had killed noble Finbarr—what a chance for young men eager for glory. The druids, on the whole, seemed to think this was the best plan. Larine was there, Conall’s friend. He was looking sad, but saying nothing. The queen, however, was talking. She had never, it seemed to Goibniu, taken much interest in the hunting of Conall; but now she was adamant. Conall and Deirdre should be killed. “Let her father bury his daughter at Dubh Linn,” she cried. “And bring me the head of Conall.” She looked round the chiefs and young heroes. “The man who brings me Conall’s head shall have twelvescore cows.” One thing was clear: she did not want them back. But what interested Goibniu far more was the thought process of the king who, though he sat on his large covered bench looking depressed, had still not spoken. Was he, perhaps, thinking as Goibniu thought? Did he look for deeper causes?
As so often happened when Goibniu listened to men talking, it seemed to the smith that their words were empty, signifying nothing. For what was the king’s real problem? The failure of the harvests. And what caused the bad harvests? Were they really the fault of the High King? Could they be cured by the death of Conall? Goibniu did not know, but he doubted. Nor,