Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [78]
She was still trying to comprehend his words as they went in. The tall staff she had mistaken for a trident turned out to be a cross. The young man who held it proudly in his hands remained outside with the two servants as she followed Larine in. But Larine the druid now a Christian? How could that be? What did she know about Christians anyway? She tried to think.
The Romans were Christians. Everyone knew that. Like many on the western island, she had vaguely supposed that with the breaking down of all things Roman across the seas, they would hear less of Christianity as the years went by. Strangely, however, the opposite had been the case.
It was her father who always picked up the news. From the occasional merchant ships that came to the landing place at Dubh Linn, he learned that far from giving up, the Christian churches in Gaul and even in Britain seemed to see the troubles and invasions as a challenge to their religion, and they were fighting back. She knew there were some Christians on the island, in the south. And once in a while her father used to return from one of his journeys and report: “Would you believe it, but we’ve another group of Christians in Leinster now. There’s only a few of them, but the King of Leinster has allowed them to be there. There’s no doubt of that.” But if the Christian priests had originally come to minister to the slaves, as the years went by Fergus had started to bring other scraps of news. A chief, or his wife, had been converted. One year he had heard of a development which made him shake his head. “A group of Christians are planning to set up a place of worship in sight of a druid sanctuary. Can you believe it?”
Yet if she had supposed that Fergus would have been passionately against these foreign encroachments, she was surprised to find that his reaction was quite muted. The worst he would say about the affront to the druids was that it was “unwise.” When she challenged him about this and asked him how the King of Leinster could have allowed such a thing, he had given her a thoughtful glance and remarked, “The king might be glad of them, Deirdre. If the druids get too powerful, it’s a way of keeping them in order. He can frighten them with the Christian priests.” His cynical attitude had rather shocked her.
But even her old father would surely have been astonished to see Larine the druid entering the rath now as a Christian bishop. As they sat down, Larine gave her a friendly but searching look, expressed his regret at the passing of her father, remarked that she looked well, and then, in a matter-of-fact way, observed, “You are afraid of me, Deirdre.”
“It was you who came to take Conall away,” she reminded him with a quiet bitterness.
“It was his wish to go.”
She stared at him. He might be a grey-haired bishop now, but all she could see at that moment was the quiet druid, the supposed friend who had persuaded Conall to desert her and give up his life to the cruel gods at Tara. If the autumn season had recently brought back the memories of that terrible time, now, in Larine’s presence, the day of the sacrifice itself, the sight of Conall walking out with his naked body daubed in red, the druids with their clubs and strangling ropes and knives—all these came rushing back to her with a vividness, an actuality that made her shudder.
“You druids killed him,” she cried, with a passionate anger. “May the gods curse you all!”
He sat very still. She had insulted him, but he did not seem angry. He only looked sad. For a moment or two he did not reply. Then he sighed.
“It is true, Deirdre. I helped perform the sacrifice. Forgive me if you can.” He paused while she continued to stare at him. “I have never forgotten it. I loved him, Deirdre. Remember that. I loved Conall and I respected him. Tell me,” he asked quietly, “do you have nightmares about that day?”
“I do.”
“So did I, Deirdre. For many years.” He looked down, thoughtfully. “It was a long time since the druids had sacrificed a man, you know.