Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [61]
He noticed that the High King was looking at him now.
“Well, Goibniu,” he asked, “and what have you to say?”
Goibniu the Smith paused for a moment, considering carefully before he answered.
“It seems to me,” he said quietly, “that there is another way. May I speak with you alone?”
She had even dreamed they might go free, once or twice, during those days.
Nothing, she supposed, could be worse than that first morning, waiting on the island to see whether it was the chariot of Finbarr or Conall’s handsome form that would come along the strand to fetch her. For her waiting was ended by neither, but by the bent, bloody shape of Conall, limping like a dying animal across the sand, so that at first she scarcely knew him. And when, finally, he fell out of the curragh onto the shingle in front of her, it was all she could do to hide her revulsion at the sight of his wounds.
She tended him as best she could. He was weak, and once or twice he fainted; but he told her what had happened and how he had killed his friend. She hardly liked to ask him what they should do next. Late that afternoon her father had arrived.
“They will come for him. Finbarr’s charioteer will show them where he is. But it will take a few days, Deirdre. We can think about what to do tomorrow.” They debated whether to move Conall back to the rath at Dubh Linn, but Fergus decided: “Let him stay where he is for the moment, Deirdre. He’s as well here as he can be anywhere.” In the evening he left. And though Conall grew feverish in the night, in the morning he seemed better, and she fed him some broth and a little mead that her father had brought.
Towards midday, Fergus came again. After inspecting Conall and remarking that he would live, he addressed them both seriously.
“It’s impossible for you to remain here any longer. Whatever the risks, you have to cross the sea.” He gazed out at the water. “At least you can thank the gods the weather is fine.” He gave Conall a smile.
“In two days I’ll be back with a boat.”
“But father,” she cried, “even if you found one, how would I manage a boat all alone, with me in the state I’m in and Conall hardly strong enough to lift an oar?”
“There’ll be a crew,” said her father, and left.
The next day was anxious for Deirdre. At first she was grateful. Though almost every wave caused her to glance at the shore, expecting to see the king’s men, nobody came. Physically, Conall seemed better. He even took a turn around their little island and she was relieved that his wounds did not open again. But his mental state was another matter. She was used to his moods, and when in the late afternoon he went to sit alone on the shingle beach and stare out to sea, she did not at first attach any particular significance to it; but after a while, he looked so unusually sad that she went and stood beside him. “What are you thinking about?” she asked. For a few moments he did not reply.
“It was Finbarr I was thinking of,” he said quietly at last. “He was my friend.”
She wanted to put her arms round him but he seemed distant, so she did not dare. She touched him on the shoulder, then withdrew her hand.
“He knew the risks he took,” she said softly. “It isn’t you who’s to blame.”
He did not answer, and they fell into silence.
“He told me,” Conall said quietly, “that the druids say the bad harvests are my doing—because of my humiliation of the High King.”
“Then it would be my fault, too, Conall.”
“It would not.” He frowned. “It is mine.”
“That is foolishness.”
“Perhaps.” He was silent again while she watched him anxiously.
“You must not think it, Conall,” she said, and in return he touched her hand.
“It is not to be thought of,” he murmured. But he did not look at her. After a time, uncertain what to do, she moved away;