Last Summer in Ireland, page 17
‘Merdaine? A follower?’
Morrough pulled his arm from her and sat bolt upright on the couch, his face red with fury.
‘Why did you not tell me this?’
‘I did not know till last evening, my Lord.’
Morrough wavered and beads of sweat broke on his face. He clasped his hands to his head.
‘How is this? Tell me,’ he insisted, his voice hoarse with distress, his anger quite gone.
Deara rose from her knees, moved his hands gently from his head and put her own on his hot, damp forehead. There was more throbbing pain. Violent, pulsing pain, as turbulent and intense as the power flowing from his right arm. It was not wound fever. It couldn’t be for it was too soon. It was also too strong.
Grief. The word came to her, but there was no image to help her. No image would come till the pain eased and to ease this wracking pain was even more urgent now than to ease the arm. She put her hands on his temples and answered him quietly.
‘The Lady Merdaine left a parchment for me written in the Latin tongue. It had been put away for safe keeping until Alcelcius found it last night.’
Morrough writhed in pain. There was enormous strength in his heavy body and as she tried to keep her hands in touch with his pain she could feel her own strength draining away from her.
‘Why did she keep it secret? Why? I would not have persecuted her, my own mother’s sister.’
The pain increased and she felt it as if it were her own: felt it, not as pain, but as a pressure that made her head feel as if it were about to burst. She knew the pressure would stop if she took her hands away from its source, but that she must not do; the pain had to be held.
‘She said it was the wrong time; events must wait upon their season.’
Something moved. Beneath her hands, Deara felt the pain subside and die away to nothing. As she took away her hands to put them back on his arm, the pressure ceased and she was able to breathe freely again.
‘Put your hand back on my brow.’
The colour had drained from Morrough’s face. Beneath the brown of wind and sun, his skin had an ashen look.
Deara put one hand on his forehead, the other on his neck. She closed her eyes. Instantly, the image came. A young woman, far gone in pregnancy, lay on a couch. Beside her stood Merdaine, her hand on the woman’s brow. The woman was dying. Her husband stood a little way off, his back half turned. It was Morrough.
A choking sob startled her. She opened her eyes as Morrough buried his face in his hands.
‘I have wronged a good woman. I blamed Merdaine for letting Essa die. I thought she could heal anyone if she chose, except the very old. I avoided her, neglected her, dismissed her council, though she was almost my only kin. And when she died, she left me all her treasure. May God forgive me.’
Morrough broke down and wept. Deara put her arms around him and comforted him. After a few minutes, he clutched her hand and wiped the tears from his eyes with his sleeve. ‘The pain in my head has gone. Why is that?’
‘The hurt has been healed.’
‘But why? Why, when I am not a good man, should I be healed by this God that you and Merdaine worship?’
‘Because healing was what you needed and He heals by forgiving those who see what they have done.’
Morrough shook his head slowly, lay back on the couch and held out his arm to her. She touched the wound. The outflow of energy had ceased. She retraced the lines of pain with some difficulty, for they, too, were dissolving.
Slowly, she began to salve the wound. From Morrough’s warm skin, the smell of herbs rose. Calendula and lemon balm. She thought of her garden, the heavy heads of comfrey and the wind-blown marigolds whose essence she would blend for others. Suddenly and unexpectedly, joy welled up within her. Once in the wood amongst the whirling leaves it had come, once in the rain-washed light of late afternoon and now, here at the heart of Emain, kneeling beside the King, the shadows from the lamps flickering around her, tall as a man.
She looked up from her work and saw that Morrough lay quite still. He was gazing around the room, his eyes resting on hangings and skins, carved furniture and ceremonial weapons, as if he had never noticed them before. She turned to her box and began binding the new dressing in place.
‘Did you know there was a plot to kill me?’
‘No, my Lord, I knew only that you were putting your own life at risk.’
‘Was I?’ He nodded to himself. ‘There have been many plots to kill me and I have never felt their danger. Today, I did. I felt my strength desert me. I wanted an end to the pain in my heart. I would have welcomed death. And now my pain is gone. I have never felt more alive.’
‘But weary, my Lord.’
‘Yes, Deara, weary. But weary only for sleep. Not weary of life any more, or even of the burden of office.’ He smiled, closed his eyes for a moment, then looked at her directly.
‘Deara, if I bow to your command for three days and to your God for what life is left to me, will you grant me a boon?’
‘If it is in my power, my Lord,’ she replied, as she released his bandaged arm and sat back to ease the ache in her own body.
‘It is this, Deara. I wish you to be my counsellor in all matters. I shall listen to you with patience, for you have more courage than any warrior and more love than any woman I have known, save only Merdaine. You are her equal. You must take her place. You shall be the Lady of Emain. Come, tell me you will. I shall not rest till you do.’
For a moment, Deara could think of nothing to say. There was no greater honour Morrough could bestow on any woman, short of making her his Queen.
‘My Lord
‘Pray, Deara, do not call me “My Lord” when we are alone. It is not fitting for the Lady of Emain, unless she wishes me to address her as “My Lady”.’
‘Morrough.’ She spoke the word quietly to test it. A noble name, strong and well-suited to the man who held Council and rode out with warriors to hunt. She shook her head and smiled at him: ‘If I am to be the Lady of Emain, then in private, I shall call you “Bear”, for truly you growl like a bear when you are wounded.’
Morrough grunted and laughed.
‘Give me your hand on it, Deara. I have growled long enough; it is time for a different way.’
She looked down at her hands; they glistened with the oils from the wound salve she had used on his arm. She glanced towards him. For the second time that day, a pair of dark brown eyes were asking her to return their gaze and to give of her love and her friendship.
‘They smell of marigolds, Bear.’
He took her hands and kissed the palms of each, curling them shut in his own large hands.
‘In three days’ time,’ he began, speaking very quietly, ‘I shall hold a great banquet. You will sit at my right hand with Ferghal on your right and on my left I shall place Laoghaire of Tara and Darmath of Thomond. In a special place of honour, of his own choosing, I shall seat Patricius with whatever followers he may wish for. Before the feasting begins, I shall kneel to your God and ask Patricius to bless not only the court of Emain, but the whole of this island of ours. We shall ask this God who forgives to forgive us the petty rivalries which have hurt and divided the people of this land. We shall ask for peace. Is it a good plan, Deara, or an old man’s dream?’
‘A dream, my friend, but a noble dream, the product of wisdom, not of age. And a good plan for setting out on a new path, to seek hope and strength beyond our own.’
‘Will you take some gold ornaments I have by me and wear them for my sake?’
Deara nodded gently, knowing full well they were gifts he had once given to his bride. As she listened to him talk about his plans, in this new, thoughtful way, she suddenly remembered the woven rug Deirdre had wrapped round her like a cloak. She heard again her friend’s words: ‘I could see you with great power.’
Power had come to her, unlooked for, in the most unexpected of situations. Deirdre had been right. There was no one in all Emain who could be more certain of being heard by the King than she herself.
She put her finger to her lips: ‘It is time you rested now. Even bears who do not growl have need of rest to bring them strength.’
‘There is yet work for me to do, my little one, but it has waited so long, it can wait three days more. But give me leave to instruct Sennach before I sleep that the heralds may go forth at first light, and leave also to summon our guests from Tara to speak with me here tomorrow.’
She was about to protest at this second proposal, but he went on steadily. ‘There are matters of great urgency, as you yourself will hear, for I wish you to be present. I promise I will listen to whatever you say.’
Deara nodded. Whatever eased his mind would help with the healing and she was sure now that he would keep his promise to rest. Suddenly aware of her aching weariness, she longed for the dark and quiet of the woods and the sheltering walls of her own room.
‘Do you rest here tonight, or does Alcelcius await your coming?’
‘He will be expecting me, but I will stay if you have need of me. Claudio will take him a message.’
Morrough nodded. ‘I shall always have need of you, but tonight I shall sleep. Go to Alcelcius, but as you leave me, you must send in my guard so that I can arrange your escort. I will not have you ride even that short distance with only a servant. Rest a little before you go. I shall bid them bring your mare up here to save you walking down. Will you come early to me tomorrow?’
‘Yes, I shall.’
He raised his head to be kissed, as children do before sleep. Beneath her lips his cheeks were brown and rough from sun and wind, the ashen colour quite gone. ‘Goodnight, Bear. May your sleep bring you peace.’
She picked up her box and walked the length of the chamber, her steps silent on the woven rugs. The heavy door was pulled open for her the moment she set her hand upon the latch. Weary and absorbed in her own thoughts, she was quite unprepared for the sight that greeted her.
The antechamber was large, but never before had she seen it so crowded. The Lords and counsellors Morrough had sent from his chamber stood or sat in silence. With them were dozens of Morrough’s guards and warriors and all the household servants. Sennach was writing at a small table and nearby Patricius knelt in prayer, a wooden cross in his hands.
Before she had time to collect herself Ferghal was standing in front of her. His brief bow was courteous, but his concern was clear: ‘Your task was long, lady. How fares the King?’
Beyond the tall double doors at the far end of the antechamber, open except in the worst of weather, she could see that it was now quite dark. How long she had been with Morrough she could not tell.
‘Better. Much better. The pain has gone. He bade me send him his guard. And he wishes to speak with Sennach before he sleeps.’
A sigh of relief rose from the assembled company. A hand touched her arm. It was Laoghaire, Prince of Tara. A heavy, carved chair had been brought to her side. As she sat down gratefully, he took her box from her hands and passed it to a servant.
‘This is good news, indeed, lady,’ Ferghal began, the relief on his face quite transparent. ‘I am my Lord’s guard while I am at Emain. I will go to him at once. My brothers Laoghaire and Darmath will stay with you till I come again.’
As she listened to his reply, she felt the colour drain from her cheeks and a heavy weariness envelop her whole body. It happened sometimes after a healing. She leaned back in her chair, watched Ferghal disappear into Morrough’s chamber and the warriors and servants disappear into the darkness.
‘You look very tired, my dear. You have had no supper. Come, what can we offer you?’ asked Sennach, coming towards her.
Laoghaire indicated a tray and a glass which had been placed by her chair. ‘Perhaps some blackberry cordial?’
Despite her exhaustion she was amused and intrigued. Of all the cordials made by the women of Emain, blackberry was her favourite. But who had brought it? She was sure that even Sennach, who knew so much of her taste, did not know about her love of blackberry cordial.
She sipped it slowly, grateful that no one expected her to say anything further. The antechamber was now empty and through the huge doors she glimpsed the moon rising into a clear sky. From the hall beyond came the shouts and laughter of warriors, gathered to drink and sing. The cordial, honey-sweetened with a rich, autumn tang began to restore her failing energy and she felt steadier.
She drained the glass and found Laoghaire, who stood easily at her side, his eyes upon the door of the King’s chamber, waiting to take it from her. Suddenly, she shivered violently. It was not with cold, but from the release of tension, something else that often happened after a long or difficult healing. Before she could say a word, Laoghaire had unclasped the gold pin of his short blue cloak and wrapped it round her shoulders. It was warm from his body and smelt faintly of lavender. Yet again, Deara thought of Deirdre and the rug she had placed round her shoulders only last night. What would Deirdre say if she could see her sitting here wrapped in the blue cloak of the Prince of Tara?
They waited in silence.
Moments later, Ferghal reappeared, his face composed to meet a crowded room. Surprised, he looked around, and finding that only Sennach and his foster-brothers remained with Deara, he smiled broadly.
‘The King has relieved me of my duties; for the next three days, he says he will have no guard but the Lady of Emain. So as to spare my feelings at being dismissed from my post, however, he has given me instead the task, together with my brothers, of guarding the Lady herself.’
‘But who, pray, is the Lady of Emain?’ asked Darmath.
Ferghal exchanged a glance with Laoghaire and smiled. He stood before Deara and bowed deeply. ‘Good brother, this is the Lady of Emain. Is she not well worth our guarding?’
Deara felt herself blush beneath her pallor and was grateful that Ferghal had turned immediately to Sennach.
‘Sir, the King would speak with you before he takes his rest. I promise you will find him in good spirits. I vow I have never seen any man benefit so much merely from the dressing of a wounded arm.’
Sennach nodded thoughtfully. ‘It is not uncommon, my Lord, here at Emain. I once knew a man given new life by the application of a glass of water.’
With a fleeting glance at Deara, he raised his hand in farewell and disappeared through the heavy oak door to the King’s chamber.
Four warriors rode ahead and four behind, as Deara and the party from Tara set out for Alcelcius’s villa. The moon was high as they passed through the gates of Emain, the night air fresh and crisp after the smoke of the lamps and the candles in the King’s chamber and his anteroom. They rode in silence, four abreast, on the broad trackway leading towards the woods, but as they passed under the first branches and the path narrowed, Laoghaire and Darmath reined back, allowing Ferghal to move ahead to Deara’s side.
Suddenly, as the two animals matched their stride, it came to her that she would ride often thus, this man at her side, his eyes upon her, eyes that were always able to meet her gaze, willing to let her see what was in his heart.
‘Deara?’
His voice was soft but clear. She looked towards him, his face bright in the moonlight.
‘Will you share your thoughts?’
‘They were hardly thoughts, feelings, rather. The darkness so often conjures up dreams that vanish with the light of day.’
‘But some dreams remain, do they not, images of what might be. How are we to judge between what is fantasy and what is inspiration?’
‘Time tests for us, I think. If a dream persists and refuses to be forgotten, then it is inspiration that speaks.’
‘And will be heard?’
They emerged from the wood and moved in single file across the narrow causeway to where the four advance riders awaited them at the foot of the trackway leading up through Alcelcius’s vineyard.
‘Wait here,’ he instructed them. ‘I shall return in a few minutes.’
Deara and Ferghal passed on up the steep track to the villa in silence. At the top, he dropped lightly to the ground and gave her his hand to dismount. The house lay behind them, its white pillars casting shadows in the brightness of the moonlight. Beyond the villa and the vineyard, deep patches of darkness lay. The tiny noises of bridles and harness came up to them from the horsemen waiting below.
‘Deara, I have only three days left to me, before I must return to Tara. I will tell you my dream. It is to ride ever at your side, in body or in spirit. And truly, that dream will never leave me. It came to me, when you looked at me over the copper bowl in the King’s chamber and it grows stronger by the hour. Whatever becomes of me, you will ever have my heart. I shall return here tomorrow, to ride with you to Emain. May your rest bring you peace.’
Without another word, he swung into the saddle and made his way downhill to where Laoghaire and Darmath waited with the warriors of her guard.
14
Alone at last, in the quiet of her room, Deara stood looking up at the moon now high in the clear sky. On the terrace below, the old amphora that held the roses Alcelcius had brought from Gaul stood in shadow. Beyond, moonlight glanced on the rain-scoured stones at the crest of the path where she had dismounted a little time ago. Ferghal had given her his hand, gazed at her as if his eyes would never leave her, but had not embraced her.
She had never felt a young man’s arms around her. Since she was fourteen years old, she’d salved and bound their injuries from the hunting field. She’d shown their mothers and sisters how to tend them if they fell ill with fever, but unlike the rest of the unmarried girls at Emain, she had never served in the King’s Hall where the young men and the boys joked and teased with them and arranged trysts in the unfrequented parts of the woodland or the quiet reaches of the riverbank.
Merdaine had always had other tasks for her and never allowed her to share in the entertainments or games the other young people enjoyed. She had seldom even spoken to a man of her own age except when he lay ill or wounded. In Alcelcius’s house, she was free to do whatever she wished when she was not studying with him, but there she had given all her time to reading. She was scarcely aware that the only person she really knew of the same age as herself was Claudio, grandson of Alcelcius’s housekeeper, Calpurnia, her own servant.
