Last Summer in Ireland, page 33
At the youngest Patrick, whose eyes followed her every move, she dared not look. She knew he saw all that was in her heart. She saw his hands move to the wooden cross which hung round his neck and rested just above the surface of the table. Before her resolve not to meet his eyes should weaken, she turned away. At this moment, no one could help her. Alone, she must do what she could, whatever was to come.
She walked back to the centre of the worn, wooden floor and spread out her hands in the age-old gesture which says: ‘Draw nigh and listen.’
The Prince of Oriel leapt to his feet and addressed the King.
‘My Lord, I crave your pardon. I am not familiar with the customs of Ulster, nor do I wish to be, but I beg my Lord to inform me by what traditions does this “Queen” fail to greet a Prince of the Royal blood, and now, in this Hall, submit us all to her undressing. Pray, what customs are these that some at this Court would have us follow?’
There was uneasy laughter from the right of the Hall and angry murmurs from those who had come from Ulster. Deara saw Laoghaire bend forward as if he were about to rise, his face dark with anger. Then he checked himself. In that moment, courage came back to her like a breath of cool air in a stifling room. She waited to see if the King would speak. He did not. She curtseyed low to the Prince of Oriel.
‘My Lord. I do not know on what occasion this discourtesy of mine could have taken place. I see but two possibilities. Tonight, when I came to my place at this high table and saw you for the first time, on which occasion I bowed to you . . .’
There were murmurs of agreement from both sides of the Hall.
‘Or this afternoon,’ Deara continued steadily, ‘when you arrived at this court. I was not present. But nor were any members of any court other than that of Tara. As I understand it, the custom of Tara has long been to welcome Princes of the Royal blood in a personal and intimate way, unobserved by others.’
Deara saw his eyes falter in their hostile stare as cries of ‘True. That is true,’ rose from both sides of the Hall. She paused and quite unexpectedly, the thought flickered through her mind that all would be well. She drew breath to continue her task.
‘As for the other matter which you mention, I cannot make any apology, though I regret your distress. I came tonight to this ancient hall, dressed, as indeed my Lord are you, with such finery as would honour this noble King and all this great company. But if I am to deploy what skill I have, as a healer, I must be free of such impediments. Gold has a beauty which we all regard, but only the colour of gold has any place in healing. Gold will not buy, or purchase, or command, that which may only come of love, whether that love be the love of God, or the love of men and women. So, my Lord, as you willingly parted with your sword and dagger, to demonstrate your love, pray grant me pardon for taking that same freedom to set aside what is not fitting, now that I know what I am called upon to do.’
There was cheering and clapping from many parts of the hall. With a dark look towards Conor, Oriel sat down.
Deara moved back to the centre of the open space, rotated slowly where she stood and in a clear voice which dispersed instantly the sounds and movements of the whole company said:
‘I am Tuan
I am legend
I am memory turned myth
I am guardian of man’s courage and dreams
By turf embers many tongues have spoken my tale
But still I am keeper of this story
This is my story.’
In years long after that great gathering at Tara, by house-fires and campfires, the story of Tuan was told, often and often. But sometimes, whether in the farthest north, where the great ocean pounds the rocky coasts, or in the remote blue-misted mountains of the south-east, at the end of the telling, an old man or an old woman would speak up: ‘Good man, well told, I give you joy. ’Tis a great story and power to you who have told it. But I did hear that story told once, in the court before the King at Tara, and told it was by a Queen. Never did I hear so much in a story or feel so much in both my heart and my head.’
For so it was. As Deara took her courage and spread her hands, faith came to her, that the words would return, across all the years since Merdaine had taught her this lengthy and potent tale. And return they did, in her hour of greatest need.
Nor was it simply the words that returned to her. With each line that rose effortlessly to her lips, came memories from the years of their learning. Her life passed before her, as if, like Tuan, she could take on shape after shape, eagle or bear, man or stag, and see all life, as he did, from many perspectives. And there, in the empty centre of the greatest gathering of nobles she had ever seen, in the hour or more of the telling of this long tale, she found the quiet and the stillness she had not dared to hope for, till Tara had been left many days behind.
The wine flagons were empty, for the servants, too, had leaned against the walls to listen. Torches burned low, for no one wished to break the spell of that single voice which commanded the whole company. Even on the highest table, the candles began to gutter, because no one moved to replace them. As the Great Hall grew dimmer and her own shadow lengthened, Deara became aware of a great weariness. Her arms began to feel heavy and her legs ached. But she went on to the very last words, as coolly and as steadily as if she had just begun.
‘I am memory turned myth
I am legend
I am Tuan.’
As she sank in a low bow before the throne in the deeply-shadowed Hall, a great roar rose from all around her. Tables were thumped resoundingly, warriors beat their fists on their metal collars, women clapped their hands and servants stamped the wooden floor, till they remembered themselves and hurried off to replace the torches and the candles.
Deara raised her eyes and saw that the King was sleeping peacefully. Conor had tried to rouse him, unsuccessfully, and now turned to Oriel, whose face was etched with annoyance. Laoghaire had risen to his feet and picked up her wine goblet. He waited now for a servant to refill it, so that he could bring it to her where she stood, acknowledging the tumult of the audience.
Laoghaire had just reached the steps, when an angry voice rang out over the excited hubbub. Cathal Rhu, Prince of Oriel, was on his feet, his finger pointing at him.
‘Hold hard, Laoghaire, Prince of Tara. By what right do you carry cups of wine to serve our enemy? The King has not bidden you. By what authority do you take this task? Have you forgot yourself? Or has Ulster so bewitched you, you think yourself King already?’
A hush fell again upon the hall and men hurrying to the doors to go and relieve themselves stopped where they were for fear of missing what should pass.
‘There is another story that this Queen must tell, and my noble lords will judge if I have not cause. Someone must keep hold of all that is dear to us, if the honour of Tara is not to be set at naught. Draw back, Laoghaire, and give me leave to speak with this Queen Deara, who has so bewitched you.’
Thirsty and tired and longing to sit down, Deara saw Laoghaire pause. Were he now to offer her the cup in his hand after Oriel’s challenge, it would mean he was claiming the Kingship. For that to happen while the King yet lived and before the meeting of the council could only lead to the bloodiest of struggles, and an end to all their hopes for a better time to come. She felt her whole body heavy, as if her last remaining energy had drained away with the final words of her story, but she knew she must do something to help Laoghaire, who stood staring at Oriel across the throne, the brimming cup still in his hand.
She rose from a final deep bow to the King and moved towards Oriel. The distance was not more than four paces, the width of Conor’s chair of state and the space between him and his neighbour, but it took an enormous physical effort, like walking in deep snow, and she wondered how she could remain on her feet much longer.
She bowed to Oriel: ‘My Lord, what story is it that you seek to hear?’
‘The story of your plot against Tara, my Lady,’ he replied, his voice dark, icily sarcastic in tone.
Angry shouts and sharp exchanges followed the gasp that rose from the company and Oriel’s face softened with pleasure as a group of his followers began to encourage him and further harsh words flew across the hall but a few moments ago a scene of lively and harmonious fellowship.
‘Do you deny, Queen of Ulster, that your followers have been meeting secretly with the connivance of that Prince, the one that would bear you cups of wine? Do you deny that secret signs have been exchanged in those meetings and oaths sworn in blood?’
In the stunned silence which greeted his words, Oriel paused, drew a deep breath and spat out his final accusation: ‘Do you deny the desire of Ulster to overwhelm Tara? Do you deny that your spies have conducted ceremonies and sworn to their aid servants and nobles, aye, nobles who sit in this very hall?’
Immediately, there was uproar. Many allies of Ulster rose to their feet in anger. Deara could not see them, but she heard the sound of overturned benches. She caught a movement to her left. Ferghal and Laoghaire had risen together, their hands clasped, but this she did not see either, for she dared not take her eyes away from Oriel. Momentarily, the noise abated. Like the words of the story of Tuan, Merdaine’s words came effortlessly into her mind: ‘In your deepest need, help will come, if only you believe that it will be so.’
‘Yes, my Lord, I do deny your charges,’ she said quietly, with all the steadiness she could manage. She paused. Whatever she said would have no effect upon Oriel and his closest allies, as they had already made up their minds. She had no idea how many there were in the hall who had not. At that moment, she felt a movement at her side.
‘Niall, my Lord, King of Tara, I pray you, give me leave to tell a story.’
The voice was young and strong. Startled, she looked round to find Patrick bowing low before the King.
‘A story? Yes, a story.’
The King’s eyes had jerked open. Refreshed, he showed a sudden flicker of interest. ‘Who are you, boy?’
Oriel shut his mouth and sat down, furious, but helpless. The King was speaking, so he had to give way. Conor whispered urgently in the King’s ear, but the King did not hear him.
‘What story, boy?’
‘My Lord, a powerful story, about a weakling boy, a brave woman and a mighty Prince. It is a good story, my Lord,’ said Patrick encouragingly. He had risen to his feet, his dark eyes shining and his voice light and easy. He was smiling at Niall as if quite certain the King would say yes to his offer.
‘That will be a good story,’ the King replied, as he smiled back.
‘My Lord King, I pray you . . .’ Oriel said as he bounced to his feet, able to restrain himself no longer.
Niall blinked at him and waved his hand. ‘Sit down, sit down. We’re going to have a story. I like stories. There was a woman coming to tell me stories, but she hasn’t come. You boy, what was the name of this weakling?’
‘Sceto, my Lord.’
The King chuckled to himself and nodded: ‘Weak. But fast, eh? Go on then, boy, I’m waiting.’
Patrick turned towards his audience and bowed. Only then did Deara realise he was wearing a warrior’s cloak that looked very familiar, a very handsome one, woven in gold and green, with the red embroidery for which the women of Emain were justly famous.
With a single gesture, he unfurled his cloak, spread it on the bare boards and bade her sit down, just as he might have done at any noonday halt by some river bank. She looked up at the slim, white-clad figure the handsome cloak had concealed. For the briefest moment he caught her gaze, as if merely to reassure himself that she was seated. There was a light in his eye and a firmness that instantly rekindled hope in her heart.
She had never heard Patrick tell a tale before. Indeed, she wondered if he had ever had the opportunity to practice. To read Greek or Latin texts, or take his part in a learned debate, perhaps, but traditional stories had not been part of his education at Emain and surely not in Albi.
The next minutes more than answered her doubts, for Patrick was a born storyteller. Not only had he the voice and commanding manner of the best tellers of tales, but through the litheness of his body he deployed a gift of illusion she had seldom seen bettered. He was successfully making the story happen before the eyes of the astounded audience.
For the first time in hours, Deara felt herself relax a little. With all eyes on Patrick, she could afford to look towards Ferghal and the Ulster party. She could see also that Conor had a face like thunder and Oriel was clutching his goblet so tightly his knuckles were white, though he was pretending to be bored with the whole affair.
A burst of laughter recalled her to the tale. Patrick had created the weakling boy, the youngest child with his large warrior brothers. Despite all her anxiety, she found herself drawn into the laughter by the sheer verve of his telling. As the weakling began his training as a warrior, tripping over his sword, dropping his spear, missing the target and hitting his instructor, she laughed as heartily as everyone else. Even the King was leaning forward, bright eyed, clapping his hands in childish delight.
Laughter again, as with slow steps the weakling bids farewell to the warriors and leaves his home, bound for a far encampment where other skills are taught. Now the weakling is sitting at a desk. He is writing so fast that it takes three scholars to keep him supplied with materials. He runs out of paper, writes on the floor, the table, the walls.
Suddenly, above the laughter in the hall, there comes the call to arms. The weakling drops his pen and puts on a sword. As ineptly as before, he runs with his fellows to man the walls. The defenders are few, old men, disabled warriors and scholars in white shifts. They look and listen. A great force is coming upon them, well armed warriors on great snorting horses. They carry swords and firebrands. The weakling draws his sword in readiness.
Throughout the hall, there is not a sound, not a movement.
‘Sceto!’ The voice is that of an old man.
‘Here, Sir,’ replies the weakling.
‘Sceto, take this message to The Place of Birth. Tell the Lady to rest where she is. Bid her to beware of smoke and to pray for our souls. We are outnumbered and cannot hold. Run, boy, as you have never run before.’
A pause. Then the noise of horses at the gallop.
‘To-me-to-me-to-me-to-me.’
The voice is a warrior’s rallying cry, high, undulating, with a strange, high-pitched nasal note.
A murmur runs through the company.
With incredible speed, Patrick makes three circuits of the hall, runs down a narrow passage and arrives, gasping, at the edge of the cloak where Deara sat. Before she had time to think about it, Deara had put out her hands to steady him. He crouched in front of her struggling for breath in order to get his message out.
Silence.
With a few movements of his hands, Patrick called up the labouring body of Bregella and the weary figures of the women who rested nearby. Then he rose to run back to the fight and was held by unseen hands.
He stood up. Sniffed. Went to the nearest table, grasped the candlestick and circled the bright island where Deara sat quite still. He coughed, moved in every direction, but was everywhere driven back by the tiny wisps of smoke he had laid on the still air.
So did Patrick of Dalriada hold in thrall all the company in the Great Hall of Tara as he took them through the labour of Bregella, the night of hiding in the passageway and the slow journey to Brolla with a baby under each arm. One by one the women arrived and sank exhausted on the ground. Patrick took off the wooden cross he wore around his neck, put it on the floor by the edge of the cloak, and knelt down briefly in prayer.
Then he stood up, and turning his back upon the audience, stepped lightly towards the throne and bowed to the King who nodded approvingly towards him.
‘My Lord, King of Tara. I am Sceto. I am the weakling.’
Niall nodded again and looked pleased.
‘My Lady of Emain, Deara, Queen of Ulster, is the brave woman.’
‘Yes, yes, I can see that. But where is the Prince?’
Patrick threw back his head: ‘To-me-to-me-to-me-to-me.’
The cry rang back from the high beams so fearfully that the women sitting at the tables nearest the entrance were startled.
‘My Lord, King of Tara, I never thought to hear that voice again, except in my nightmares. But I, Patrick of Dalriada, called Sceto, the only survivor of the defenders of Emain, when all the strength of Ulster had gone to the aid of Lisbane and Carnbanna and the defence of our land from invaders, I have heard that voice in this hall tonight. The mighty Prince is here, my Lord.’
There were angry shouts from the men of Ulster and cries of distress from the other side of the hall where the men of Tara sat. ‘No, no warrior he, no Prince he. Out. Out with Oriel.’
Oriel leapt to his feet, bitter hatred twisting his face into a mask.
‘He lies, he lies. It is all part of their plot,’ he shouted, waving his hands towards Deara and Patrick and then towards Ferghal and Laoghaire.
With a look of desperation on his face, Conor signalled him to be quiet. He leaned forward to the King and whispered in his ear.
‘Where? Where is she?’ said the King.
Silence descended once again as the King spoke.
‘There, my Lord, awaiting your pleasure.’
‘Oh good.’
‘Come, my dear,’ said the King, beckoning to Deara.
With an effort, Deara rose from where she sat. The floor had been hard and uncomfortable, her legs felt cramped and stiff. As she straightened up, she saw Ferghal and Laoghaire exchange uneasy glances. The King was smiling abstractedly. Though he was seated, Conor seemed to have grown to enormous proportions. Oriel’s face leered at her through the haze of candle smoke which seemed to be thickening every moment. She took a step forward, not sure whether her legs would bear her or not. And then another. She looked up at the King, whose eyes gleamed brightly and caught the light with their perpetual moistness.
‘You have come after all,’ he bleated. ‘Good. Now we shall have The Great Cycle. Seven stories to make me well, as you have promised. Make haste now and begin.’
She walked back to the centre of the worn, wooden floor and spread out her hands in the age-old gesture which says: ‘Draw nigh and listen.’
The Prince of Oriel leapt to his feet and addressed the King.
‘My Lord, I crave your pardon. I am not familiar with the customs of Ulster, nor do I wish to be, but I beg my Lord to inform me by what traditions does this “Queen” fail to greet a Prince of the Royal blood, and now, in this Hall, submit us all to her undressing. Pray, what customs are these that some at this Court would have us follow?’
There was uneasy laughter from the right of the Hall and angry murmurs from those who had come from Ulster. Deara saw Laoghaire bend forward as if he were about to rise, his face dark with anger. Then he checked himself. In that moment, courage came back to her like a breath of cool air in a stifling room. She waited to see if the King would speak. He did not. She curtseyed low to the Prince of Oriel.
‘My Lord. I do not know on what occasion this discourtesy of mine could have taken place. I see but two possibilities. Tonight, when I came to my place at this high table and saw you for the first time, on which occasion I bowed to you . . .’
There were murmurs of agreement from both sides of the Hall.
‘Or this afternoon,’ Deara continued steadily, ‘when you arrived at this court. I was not present. But nor were any members of any court other than that of Tara. As I understand it, the custom of Tara has long been to welcome Princes of the Royal blood in a personal and intimate way, unobserved by others.’
Deara saw his eyes falter in their hostile stare as cries of ‘True. That is true,’ rose from both sides of the Hall. She paused and quite unexpectedly, the thought flickered through her mind that all would be well. She drew breath to continue her task.
‘As for the other matter which you mention, I cannot make any apology, though I regret your distress. I came tonight to this ancient hall, dressed, as indeed my Lord are you, with such finery as would honour this noble King and all this great company. But if I am to deploy what skill I have, as a healer, I must be free of such impediments. Gold has a beauty which we all regard, but only the colour of gold has any place in healing. Gold will not buy, or purchase, or command, that which may only come of love, whether that love be the love of God, or the love of men and women. So, my Lord, as you willingly parted with your sword and dagger, to demonstrate your love, pray grant me pardon for taking that same freedom to set aside what is not fitting, now that I know what I am called upon to do.’
There was cheering and clapping from many parts of the hall. With a dark look towards Conor, Oriel sat down.
Deara moved back to the centre of the open space, rotated slowly where she stood and in a clear voice which dispersed instantly the sounds and movements of the whole company said:
‘I am Tuan
I am legend
I am memory turned myth
I am guardian of man’s courage and dreams
By turf embers many tongues have spoken my tale
But still I am keeper of this story
This is my story.’
In years long after that great gathering at Tara, by house-fires and campfires, the story of Tuan was told, often and often. But sometimes, whether in the farthest north, where the great ocean pounds the rocky coasts, or in the remote blue-misted mountains of the south-east, at the end of the telling, an old man or an old woman would speak up: ‘Good man, well told, I give you joy. ’Tis a great story and power to you who have told it. But I did hear that story told once, in the court before the King at Tara, and told it was by a Queen. Never did I hear so much in a story or feel so much in both my heart and my head.’
For so it was. As Deara took her courage and spread her hands, faith came to her, that the words would return, across all the years since Merdaine had taught her this lengthy and potent tale. And return they did, in her hour of greatest need.
Nor was it simply the words that returned to her. With each line that rose effortlessly to her lips, came memories from the years of their learning. Her life passed before her, as if, like Tuan, she could take on shape after shape, eagle or bear, man or stag, and see all life, as he did, from many perspectives. And there, in the empty centre of the greatest gathering of nobles she had ever seen, in the hour or more of the telling of this long tale, she found the quiet and the stillness she had not dared to hope for, till Tara had been left many days behind.
The wine flagons were empty, for the servants, too, had leaned against the walls to listen. Torches burned low, for no one wished to break the spell of that single voice which commanded the whole company. Even on the highest table, the candles began to gutter, because no one moved to replace them. As the Great Hall grew dimmer and her own shadow lengthened, Deara became aware of a great weariness. Her arms began to feel heavy and her legs ached. But she went on to the very last words, as coolly and as steadily as if she had just begun.
‘I am memory turned myth
I am legend
I am Tuan.’
As she sank in a low bow before the throne in the deeply-shadowed Hall, a great roar rose from all around her. Tables were thumped resoundingly, warriors beat their fists on their metal collars, women clapped their hands and servants stamped the wooden floor, till they remembered themselves and hurried off to replace the torches and the candles.
Deara raised her eyes and saw that the King was sleeping peacefully. Conor had tried to rouse him, unsuccessfully, and now turned to Oriel, whose face was etched with annoyance. Laoghaire had risen to his feet and picked up her wine goblet. He waited now for a servant to refill it, so that he could bring it to her where she stood, acknowledging the tumult of the audience.
Laoghaire had just reached the steps, when an angry voice rang out over the excited hubbub. Cathal Rhu, Prince of Oriel, was on his feet, his finger pointing at him.
‘Hold hard, Laoghaire, Prince of Tara. By what right do you carry cups of wine to serve our enemy? The King has not bidden you. By what authority do you take this task? Have you forgot yourself? Or has Ulster so bewitched you, you think yourself King already?’
A hush fell again upon the hall and men hurrying to the doors to go and relieve themselves stopped where they were for fear of missing what should pass.
‘There is another story that this Queen must tell, and my noble lords will judge if I have not cause. Someone must keep hold of all that is dear to us, if the honour of Tara is not to be set at naught. Draw back, Laoghaire, and give me leave to speak with this Queen Deara, who has so bewitched you.’
Thirsty and tired and longing to sit down, Deara saw Laoghaire pause. Were he now to offer her the cup in his hand after Oriel’s challenge, it would mean he was claiming the Kingship. For that to happen while the King yet lived and before the meeting of the council could only lead to the bloodiest of struggles, and an end to all their hopes for a better time to come. She felt her whole body heavy, as if her last remaining energy had drained away with the final words of her story, but she knew she must do something to help Laoghaire, who stood staring at Oriel across the throne, the brimming cup still in his hand.
She rose from a final deep bow to the King and moved towards Oriel. The distance was not more than four paces, the width of Conor’s chair of state and the space between him and his neighbour, but it took an enormous physical effort, like walking in deep snow, and she wondered how she could remain on her feet much longer.
She bowed to Oriel: ‘My Lord, what story is it that you seek to hear?’
‘The story of your plot against Tara, my Lady,’ he replied, his voice dark, icily sarcastic in tone.
Angry shouts and sharp exchanges followed the gasp that rose from the company and Oriel’s face softened with pleasure as a group of his followers began to encourage him and further harsh words flew across the hall but a few moments ago a scene of lively and harmonious fellowship.
‘Do you deny, Queen of Ulster, that your followers have been meeting secretly with the connivance of that Prince, the one that would bear you cups of wine? Do you deny that secret signs have been exchanged in those meetings and oaths sworn in blood?’
In the stunned silence which greeted his words, Oriel paused, drew a deep breath and spat out his final accusation: ‘Do you deny the desire of Ulster to overwhelm Tara? Do you deny that your spies have conducted ceremonies and sworn to their aid servants and nobles, aye, nobles who sit in this very hall?’
Immediately, there was uproar. Many allies of Ulster rose to their feet in anger. Deara could not see them, but she heard the sound of overturned benches. She caught a movement to her left. Ferghal and Laoghaire had risen together, their hands clasped, but this she did not see either, for she dared not take her eyes away from Oriel. Momentarily, the noise abated. Like the words of the story of Tuan, Merdaine’s words came effortlessly into her mind: ‘In your deepest need, help will come, if only you believe that it will be so.’
‘Yes, my Lord, I do deny your charges,’ she said quietly, with all the steadiness she could manage. She paused. Whatever she said would have no effect upon Oriel and his closest allies, as they had already made up their minds. She had no idea how many there were in the hall who had not. At that moment, she felt a movement at her side.
‘Niall, my Lord, King of Tara, I pray you, give me leave to tell a story.’
The voice was young and strong. Startled, she looked round to find Patrick bowing low before the King.
‘A story? Yes, a story.’
The King’s eyes had jerked open. Refreshed, he showed a sudden flicker of interest. ‘Who are you, boy?’
Oriel shut his mouth and sat down, furious, but helpless. The King was speaking, so he had to give way. Conor whispered urgently in the King’s ear, but the King did not hear him.
‘What story, boy?’
‘My Lord, a powerful story, about a weakling boy, a brave woman and a mighty Prince. It is a good story, my Lord,’ said Patrick encouragingly. He had risen to his feet, his dark eyes shining and his voice light and easy. He was smiling at Niall as if quite certain the King would say yes to his offer.
‘That will be a good story,’ the King replied, as he smiled back.
‘My Lord King, I pray you . . .’ Oriel said as he bounced to his feet, able to restrain himself no longer.
Niall blinked at him and waved his hand. ‘Sit down, sit down. We’re going to have a story. I like stories. There was a woman coming to tell me stories, but she hasn’t come. You boy, what was the name of this weakling?’
‘Sceto, my Lord.’
The King chuckled to himself and nodded: ‘Weak. But fast, eh? Go on then, boy, I’m waiting.’
Patrick turned towards his audience and bowed. Only then did Deara realise he was wearing a warrior’s cloak that looked very familiar, a very handsome one, woven in gold and green, with the red embroidery for which the women of Emain were justly famous.
With a single gesture, he unfurled his cloak, spread it on the bare boards and bade her sit down, just as he might have done at any noonday halt by some river bank. She looked up at the slim, white-clad figure the handsome cloak had concealed. For the briefest moment he caught her gaze, as if merely to reassure himself that she was seated. There was a light in his eye and a firmness that instantly rekindled hope in her heart.
She had never heard Patrick tell a tale before. Indeed, she wondered if he had ever had the opportunity to practice. To read Greek or Latin texts, or take his part in a learned debate, perhaps, but traditional stories had not been part of his education at Emain and surely not in Albi.
The next minutes more than answered her doubts, for Patrick was a born storyteller. Not only had he the voice and commanding manner of the best tellers of tales, but through the litheness of his body he deployed a gift of illusion she had seldom seen bettered. He was successfully making the story happen before the eyes of the astounded audience.
For the first time in hours, Deara felt herself relax a little. With all eyes on Patrick, she could afford to look towards Ferghal and the Ulster party. She could see also that Conor had a face like thunder and Oriel was clutching his goblet so tightly his knuckles were white, though he was pretending to be bored with the whole affair.
A burst of laughter recalled her to the tale. Patrick had created the weakling boy, the youngest child with his large warrior brothers. Despite all her anxiety, she found herself drawn into the laughter by the sheer verve of his telling. As the weakling began his training as a warrior, tripping over his sword, dropping his spear, missing the target and hitting his instructor, she laughed as heartily as everyone else. Even the King was leaning forward, bright eyed, clapping his hands in childish delight.
Laughter again, as with slow steps the weakling bids farewell to the warriors and leaves his home, bound for a far encampment where other skills are taught. Now the weakling is sitting at a desk. He is writing so fast that it takes three scholars to keep him supplied with materials. He runs out of paper, writes on the floor, the table, the walls.
Suddenly, above the laughter in the hall, there comes the call to arms. The weakling drops his pen and puts on a sword. As ineptly as before, he runs with his fellows to man the walls. The defenders are few, old men, disabled warriors and scholars in white shifts. They look and listen. A great force is coming upon them, well armed warriors on great snorting horses. They carry swords and firebrands. The weakling draws his sword in readiness.
Throughout the hall, there is not a sound, not a movement.
‘Sceto!’ The voice is that of an old man.
‘Here, Sir,’ replies the weakling.
‘Sceto, take this message to The Place of Birth. Tell the Lady to rest where she is. Bid her to beware of smoke and to pray for our souls. We are outnumbered and cannot hold. Run, boy, as you have never run before.’
A pause. Then the noise of horses at the gallop.
‘To-me-to-me-to-me-to-me.’
The voice is a warrior’s rallying cry, high, undulating, with a strange, high-pitched nasal note.
A murmur runs through the company.
With incredible speed, Patrick makes three circuits of the hall, runs down a narrow passage and arrives, gasping, at the edge of the cloak where Deara sat. Before she had time to think about it, Deara had put out her hands to steady him. He crouched in front of her struggling for breath in order to get his message out.
Silence.
With a few movements of his hands, Patrick called up the labouring body of Bregella and the weary figures of the women who rested nearby. Then he rose to run back to the fight and was held by unseen hands.
He stood up. Sniffed. Went to the nearest table, grasped the candlestick and circled the bright island where Deara sat quite still. He coughed, moved in every direction, but was everywhere driven back by the tiny wisps of smoke he had laid on the still air.
So did Patrick of Dalriada hold in thrall all the company in the Great Hall of Tara as he took them through the labour of Bregella, the night of hiding in the passageway and the slow journey to Brolla with a baby under each arm. One by one the women arrived and sank exhausted on the ground. Patrick took off the wooden cross he wore around his neck, put it on the floor by the edge of the cloak, and knelt down briefly in prayer.
Then he stood up, and turning his back upon the audience, stepped lightly towards the throne and bowed to the King who nodded approvingly towards him.
‘My Lord, King of Tara. I am Sceto. I am the weakling.’
Niall nodded again and looked pleased.
‘My Lady of Emain, Deara, Queen of Ulster, is the brave woman.’
‘Yes, yes, I can see that. But where is the Prince?’
Patrick threw back his head: ‘To-me-to-me-to-me-to-me.’
The cry rang back from the high beams so fearfully that the women sitting at the tables nearest the entrance were startled.
‘My Lord, King of Tara, I never thought to hear that voice again, except in my nightmares. But I, Patrick of Dalriada, called Sceto, the only survivor of the defenders of Emain, when all the strength of Ulster had gone to the aid of Lisbane and Carnbanna and the defence of our land from invaders, I have heard that voice in this hall tonight. The mighty Prince is here, my Lord.’
There were angry shouts from the men of Ulster and cries of distress from the other side of the hall where the men of Tara sat. ‘No, no warrior he, no Prince he. Out. Out with Oriel.’
Oriel leapt to his feet, bitter hatred twisting his face into a mask.
‘He lies, he lies. It is all part of their plot,’ he shouted, waving his hands towards Deara and Patrick and then towards Ferghal and Laoghaire.
With a look of desperation on his face, Conor signalled him to be quiet. He leaned forward to the King and whispered in his ear.
‘Where? Where is she?’ said the King.
Silence descended once again as the King spoke.
‘There, my Lord, awaiting your pleasure.’
‘Oh good.’
‘Come, my dear,’ said the King, beckoning to Deara.
With an effort, Deara rose from where she sat. The floor had been hard and uncomfortable, her legs felt cramped and stiff. As she straightened up, she saw Ferghal and Laoghaire exchange uneasy glances. The King was smiling abstractedly. Though he was seated, Conor seemed to have grown to enormous proportions. Oriel’s face leered at her through the haze of candle smoke which seemed to be thickening every moment. She took a step forward, not sure whether her legs would bear her or not. And then another. She looked up at the King, whose eyes gleamed brightly and caught the light with their perpetual moistness.
‘You have come after all,’ he bleated. ‘Good. Now we shall have The Great Cycle. Seven stories to make me well, as you have promised. Make haste now and begin.’
