Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [77]
She was also conscious of the date. Samhain was not far off. The river crossing might be deserted now, but soon there would be parties of travellers making their way up the road from the south towards the feis at Tara. And now a further realisation came to her which, with everything else on her mind, she had not thought about before: the travellers would be passing by the rath. As chief, Morna would be expected to give them hospitality and to entertain them. Such a handsome young chief would be remarked upon. Someone arriving at Tara was bound to mention the successor to old Fergus at the Ford of Hurdles. Could it really be hoped that no word of Morna’s presence would reach the ears of the High King? No, it could not. The case was hopeless. Unless she could think of something, her lie was going to be discovered.
What else could she do? She couldn’t think of anything. Send Morna away? On what possible pretext? Common sense said that there was only one thing to do. She must tell him about the High King’s summons at once and let him decide what to do for himself. Yet the autumn season made it even worse. The sights, the smells, the feel of the chill autumn air, all seemed to be conspiring to drag her back to that season when she had gone so unwillingly on that terrible journey with Conall to Tara. She felt very lonely. She wished Fergus were there to give his advice, but she suspected that she knew what that advice would be. Tell Morna.
So why didn’t she do it? She couldn’t. That wasn’t an answer. She knew it. With every day that Samhain drew nearer, her predicament grew. Days passed. She began to promise herself, each night, that on the following day she would tell him. Each morning she would awake and decide to wait, just until that evening, in case something—she had no idea what—but something should turn up during the day to resolve the situation. And each evening, when nothing had changed, she had promised herself, once again, to tell him in the morning.
One of the British slaves saw them first. By the time she reached the entrance to the rath, the party of horsemen was halfway across the Ford of Hurdles. There seemed to be four of them. One, close to the leader, seemed to be carrying a spear or trident of some kind, which, when it swung behind the leader’s head, gave him a strange appearance, as if he were a deer with antlers. She watched curiously as they drew closer. And then, with a sudden, sickening sense, like that of a dream returning, she realised who the leader was.
It was Larine.
He must have come from the High King.
He rode up the path to the rath slowly. He was not much changed. His hair was grey now, but shaved in the same tonsure. He looked fit. His face was still quiet and thoughtful. She watched his approach with a sinking heart. And he was nearly at the entrance when the strangest thing occurred. The British slaves—there were half a dozen of them now—all ran forward and fell on their knees before him. He turned as he passed and gravely made a sign over them. A moment later he dismounted and stood in front of her.
“What is it you want, Larine?” she asked him, trying to keep the dread out of her voice.
“Only you, and your son,” he answered quietly.
That was it, then. He had come to take them to Tara. Only one thing struck her as odd. The slaves were standing round, with smiles on their faces.
“What are my slaves doing?” she demanded. “Why were they kneeling?”
“Because they are British, Deirdre. They are Christians.”
“Then why would they be kneeling to a druid?”
“Ah.” He smiled. “You did not know. You see, I am a Christian, Deirdre.” He paused. “In fact, I am a bishop.”
She gazed at him, confused.
“But haven’t you come from the High King?”
He looked at her in mild surprise.
“The High King? Not at all. I haven’t seen the king in many years.” He took her gently by the arm. “I see that I had better explain. May we go