Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [90]
“They are wonderful stories,” he told them, “full of poetry. You must not worship the old gods anymore. They have no power, because they are not real. But never lose the stories. I make Larine recite them whenever I spend an evening with him.”
As she looked back over the day’s extraordinary events and the wonderful turn that they had taken, there was only one small thing that puzzled Deirdre. Towards the end of the evening, she confided it to Larine.
“You say that Bishop Patrick is austere? He never touches a woman?” It was one aspect of the new religion she found a little strange.
“That is true.”
“Well, when I went into the water, I was just wearing my shift, you know. So when I came out, it was all stuck to me.” She glanced across to make sure the bishop could not hear her. “And … I saw his eyes light up. He noticed me, you know.”
And now, for the first time since his arrival, Larine threw back his head and laughed.
“Oh, I’m sure he did, Deirdre. He would indeed.”
They left soon after dawn. Bishop Patrick gave his blessing to them all, and promised Deirdre once more that he would send her son back to her safely again. Morna, for his part, bade his mother a tender farewell, and likewise promised to return.
So it was with relief and happiness, rather than grief, that Deirdre watched the great chariot with its accompanying wagon and riders, with their cross and staff, sweep away across the Ford of Hurdles and take the track northwards towards Ulster.
Indeed, everybody involved in the day’s work was pleased, with the possible exception of Larine who, around midday, when they were resting, ventured to make a small complaint to Bishop Patrick.
“I was a little surprised that you decided to override my counsel,” he remarked. “In fact, I was somewhat embarrassed. I had hoped to send a young Christian to the High King at Tara. But all I achieved was to bring you a few converts at a rath by a ford.”
Bishop Patrick watched him calmly. “You were angry.”
“I was. Why did you do it?”
“Because, when I saw them all, I thought the woman was right. I returned to this island to bring the Gospel’s joyful message to the heathen, Larine. Not to make martyrs.” He sighed. “The ways of God are inscrutable, Larine,” he said gently. “We do not need to be so ambitious.” He patted the former druid’s arm. “Morna is a chief. The ford is a crossroads. Who can tell what Dubh Linn may be worth?”
FOUR
VIKINGS
981
I
THE RED-HAIRED BOY stared at the ship.
It was nearly midnight. The sea was like dusted silver, the sky pale grey. He had met men who had sailed beyond the islands in the distant north, where the sun shone at midnight and for long weeks in summer there was no darkness at all. But even here at Dyflin, in July, the night was almost banished. For an hour or so there was enough darkness to see a few stars, but for the rest of the sun’s short absence, the world was full of the strange, luminous greyness that is special to midsummer nights in the northern seas.
The ship was moving silently. It had come up the coast from the south. Instead of using their oars, the crew were letting the breeze bring them into the Liffey estuary along the northern shore where the pale sandbars lurked.
Harold was not supposed to be down by the sandbars; he was supposed to be asleep in the big farmstead. But sometimes, on summer nights like this, he would sneak out and take his pony from the field and come here to the coast to watch the huge, silver-grey waters of the