Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [68]
At his side stood the queen. She had been silenced as well. Ever since Larine had seen Conall on the little island, the king had known about her threats to poor Deirdre. He’d half suspected it all along. No words had needed to be spoken, but she knew that he knew. There’d be no more trouble from the queen for a good while. As for the girl, he frankly felt sorry for her. She would be allowed to return to her father and have Conall’s child. Even Goibniu agreed about that. One day perhaps he’d do something for the child. You never knew when a child from the fringes of the family might come in useful.
A path was clearing through the crowd. Conall, Larine, and two other priests were passing along it. He wondered if Conall would glance up at him, but the young man’s face was staring straight ahead with a rapt expression. Thank the gods for that. They reached the druids’ mound and went up. The druids in their feather cloaks stood at one end of the mound, while Conall’s naked, red-painted figure stood for a moment alone and apart, so that everyone could see him. The High King glanced towards the east. The sky along the horizon was clear. That was good. They would see the sun as it rose. The horizon was starting to gleam. It would not be long now.
Three druids came across to Conall. One was Larine. At a word from one of the older druids, Conall knelt down. From behind, the senior druid placed a garrotte around Conall’s neck, but he left it loose. The second held up a curved bronze knife. Larine held up a club.
There had to be three deaths in a Celtic sacrifice: one for the earth, one for the air, one for the sky—the three worlds. In a similar manner, some offerings were burned, others buried, and others thrown in rivers. Conall, therefore, would undergo three ritual deaths. But the actual process was merciful. For Larine would deliver a blow with the club that would stun him; while Conall was scarcely conscious, the senior druid would apply the garrotte that would kill him. Then the curved knife, slitting his throat, would release the blood to be scattered.
The High King glanced at the horizon. The sun was coming. Any instant. On the druids’ mound there was a movement as the other druids came across to form a circle around the victim. All the audience could see now was the backs of the druids covered with bright feathers, and in the centre, the club that Larine held high.
And now the king saw the sun flash brightly towards Tara, and turned just in time to see the club fall and vanish with a crack that sounded across the enclosure, followed by a long silence broken only by the rustling of feathers from within the druid’s circle.
He thought of the boy and the youth he had known, of Conall’s mother—his sister. It was hard, he thought, and he wished it could be otherwise. But Goibniu was right. The thing had to be done. In life there was always sacrifice.
It was over. The druids pulled back, except for the first three. Larine had a large silver bowl in his hands. Conall’s red body, its head lolling forward at a curious angle, was lifeless. While the senior druid pulled back the head to expose the neck, the druid with the curved knife moved in swiftly, gashing the throat, while Larine, holding the silver bowl in front of Conall’s chest, filled it with his friend’s flowing blood.
The High King watched. The blood, it was to be hoped, when scattered on the ground would ensure a better harvest. As he glanced round the crowd, it seemed to him that they were satisfied. That was good. By chance he noticed the girl, Deirdre, standing