Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [87]
But above all, it was the way he spoke that impressed her. He had such passion, such certainty, such warmth. He brought her a sense of peace. Even if she did not exactly understand why this God of love of whom he spoke should necessarily be all-powerful, she found that she wanted it to be so. The cruel old gods were being chased away, like dark clouds fleeing over the horizon. And good riddance to them, she thought. The sense of warmth emanating from the preacher enveloped her. His confidence told her that he must be right. She glanced across at Morna. His eyes were shining.
By the time Bishop Patrick had finished speaking, the idea of doing as he wished did not seem so strange. When he asked if they would join in fellowship with him and be baptised, she realised that she wished he could stay with them longer. She did not want him to depart. Joining his new faith seemed a way of keeping his comforting presence with them. If she followed her heart, she was ready to do as he wished. But she had followed her heart once before, and so had Conall. The heart was a dangerous thing. Dangerous for Morna.
“Baptise me,” she suddenly cried out. “Baptise the rest of us. But spare Morna.” She couldn’t help it.
“Spare him?” Bishop Patrick was glaring at her. “Spare?” She saw the terrible flash of anger in the old man’s eyes. He took several steps towards her and for a moment she thought he might even be about to strike her, or curse her like a druid. Instead, to her surprise, he stopped in his tracks, shook his head, apparently at himself, and then, to her utter astonishment, went down on his knees in front of her.
“Forgive me, Deirdre,” he said. “Forgive my anger.”
“Why …” She didn’t know what to say.
“If I failed to touch your heart, the fault is mine, not yours. It is my own shortcomings that made me angry.”
“It was beautiful, what you said,” she protested. “It’s just …”
He had got to his feet again and he cut her off with a gesture of his hand.
“You do not understand,” he growled. He turned to Morna. “It is you who are chief of the Ui Fergusa now,” he said solemnly. “Is it your wish that your family should be baptised?”
“It is,” said Morna.
“And if you accept baptism from my hands, will you submit to my authority in matters concerning religion, and follow my instructions, as these young princes do?”
“I will,” said Morna.
“Come then,” the bishop commanded, “and I will tell you what we must do.”
The baptism they were to undergo required a simple immersion in water. A glance at the shallows of the Liffey had convinced Bishop Patrick that the river was not a very convenient place. The three local wells, which he now briefly inspected and blessed, were not suitable either. But the dark pool of Dubh Linn would do very well, he decided, and he told them to assemble there at once.
And so a little group of Deirdre, her two brothers, and Morna, dressed in only linen shifts under their cloaks and attended by their half-dozen slaves, trooped down on that fine but slightly chilly September afternoon to the edge of Dubh Linn to be baptised. And one by one they stepped into its dark waters, where Bishop Patrick was standing, and sank down under its surface for a cold moment to emerge back into the light, baptised by Patrick’s own hand, in the name of Christ.
They dried themselves quickly. Everyone except Deirdre seemed cheerful. And they were just starting back up towards the rath when they were brought to an unexpected halt by Deirdre’s youngest brother, Rian. He had just thought of something.
“Is it true that only Christians go to the good place?” he asked.
“It is,” they assured him.
“And the others all go to the