Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [63]
“That I am to wait here, Deirdre. That is all.”
She looked at his pale, handsome face.
“I shall stay here with you,” she said simply.
He reached out and held her hand, so that she would know he loved her; and she wondered whether, perhaps, he might change his mind before the morning.
When she awoke, the sky was clear, but there was a thin layer of mist on the ground. Looking across the water to the shore, it seemed to her that everything was still. It was surely, in any case, too soon for anyone coming from the High King to have reached them. Then something caught her eye.
At first, in the distance, the little shape that was advancing across the misty plain seemed like a flapping bird. All over the wide expanse of the Plain of Bird Flocks, the mist lay in torn veils or hovered in wisps like phantoms, and this whiteness poured over the shore and the intervening sea so that it was impossible for Deirdre to tell whether it was earth or water that lay beneath. As for the seeming bird, she could only surmise that it might be a man with a trailing cloak, borne swiftly by a chariot, unless perhaps it was one of the gods or their messengers who had taken the form of a raven or swan or some other flying thing to visit them.
Then, where the shore would be, the ghostly presence turned and stopped. And now, as Deirdre stared, she could have sworn it was a graceful deer. But after a pause, it disappeared into the mist only to emerge once more, as if it could change its shape at will, floating very slowly, still and grey, like a standing stone, towards her little island.
She glanced round, hoping to see her father’s boat coming past the headland. But instead she saw Conall, standing behind her, looking grave.
“It is Larine,” he said.
“He seemed to change shape as he came.”
“He is a druid,” he remarked. “He could probably make himself disappear if he wanted to.” And now she saw that it was Larine, in a small curragh, being rowed towards them by his charioteer.
“Come Conall,” he said quietly, as he stepped ashore, “we must talk.” And as Deirdre turned anxiously to Conall, she was surprised to see that he looked relieved.
They were a long time together, at some distance from her, like two shadows hovering in the wreaths of mist that swirled along the water’s edge; and the sun had just broken above the horizon when they returned to her, and she saw that Conall’s face had become transformed. All his unhappiness had disappeared and with a gentle smile he took her hand.
“All is well. My uncle and I are reconciled.”
III
Samhain: ancient Hallowe’en, when the spirits of the dead walk for one night amongst the living. Samhain, the turning point, the entrance to the dark half of the year. Samhain, when the beasts are slaughtered, Samhain the sinister. Yet in the western island with its gentle climate, the month that led to Samhain was usually a pleasant season.
Deirdre always found it so. Sometimes the days were soft and misty, sometimes the clear blue sky seemed so hard you could touch it. She loved the autumnal woods, the oak leaves brown on the trees or crisp underfoot. And when there was a chill in the air, she felt a tingling in the blood.
Larine had remained with them on their island for three days. He had brought herbs to cure Conall. The two men would spend hours together in conversation and prayer; and even if she felt excluded, Deirdre could see that Conall was being healed in body and spirit. After this time, Larine departed, but before he left he explained to her kindly, “It will be a little time, Deirdre, before Conall is entirely well. Rest here, or at your father’s. No one will trouble you. The High King wishes to be reconciled at the festival of Samhain, so you will come to him then.” And, guessing her thoughts, he added with a smile, “You need not fear the queen anymore, Deirdre. She will not hurt you now.”
The next day, her father brought them home.
The month they spent at Dubh Linn was a happy time. If she had any misgivings about whether Conall would tolerate