Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [65]
“And after that,” one of her brothers had demanded, “doesn’t he have to mate with a white mare?”
“He does indeed,” said Fergus proudly.
But if these details of the king’s inauguration had fascinated her brothers, the magic of Tara for Deirdre had been its situation. It was not only the magnificent views in every direction during the day, but at sunrise and sunset, when the mists lay over the valleys all round, and the Hill of Tara seemed like a floating island in the world of the gods.
She should therefore have been happy as they drew towards it.
Midday was past when they came in sight of Tara. As the three chariots sped along the broad track, the charioteers drew into a triangular formation with Conall in front, her chariot behind his left wheel, and her father’s behind his right. Though the sky was still a dull, metallic grey, with only silvery glints of sunlight, the day was not cold. Ahead of them, lining the route, she noticed a scattering of people, many of them with baskets. Seeing them, Conall suddenly cast off his cloak so that now, with his pale body stripped, he looked like a warrior going into battle. In their arrowhead formation, the three chariots raced forward and as they drew level with them, the welcoming people reached into their baskets and threw handfuls of wild autumn flowers into Conall’s chariot. And although Conall was the High King’s nephew, Deirdre was surprised that he should receive such a hero’s welcome.
The hill was looming above them now. She could see crowds of people on the long earthwork wall that enclosed the summit. In the middle of the wall stood a line of priests, holding long bronze trumpets and the great bull horns that were the sign of kingship. Behind them were the wicker-walled structures that had been erected for the festival. There were a few fires sending thin trails of smoke into the air. They reached a patch of flat, grassy ground, dotted with trees at the base of the hill, the track up the long slope just ahead of it. The priests were raising their trumpets. From these now came a huge, deep-throated, darkly pulsating blast that grew into a terrifying roar.
And then the black mist arose.
It was so sudden and so violent that she screamed. The starlings rose up in front of them with a huge whirr that was almost a roar. Starlings, thousands of them, enveloped the chariots in a swirling black cloud. They wheeled round them as though both they and the travellers were caught in the strange, dark vortex of a whirlwind. Turning and turning, their myriad flapping was so loud that Deirdre could not even hear her own screams. In front of them, all round, behind, the dark cloud rose, fell, rose again and then, just as suddenly veered away with a great rush to descend in a swoop on the nearby trees.
Deirdre looked across. Her father and brothers were laughing. Conall’s face she could not see. But glancing at the crowds on the earthwork walls above, she realised, with a new, foreboding horror what they had witnessed.
Conall had just passed through a black mist, as he came to Tara.
The geissi were complete.
There was no time to think of that now as they raced up the slope and into the huge enclosure of Tara. There were burning torches lining the route which led to the crest of the hill. As they reached the final stretch, two of the chariots halted, leaving Conall to proceed alone up the short ceremonial avenue with its earthwork walls at the head of which, flanked by his chiefs, the High King was standing.
Deirdre saw Conall step down from his chariot and go to the king. She saw the king bare his breast for his nephew to kiss and then return the gesture of reconciliation. Next Conall kneeled before his uncle, who placed his hands on the younger man’s head in a blessing. Though she might have been glad of these signs of love and forgiveness, she was still so shaken by the swarming birds that she felt only a sense of unease. It seemed to her, now, too good to be true. And why, after they had finished their greeting, did the High