Last Summer in Ireland. Anne Doughty

beam of sunlight that had filled the chamber all day finally moved westwards. Shadows sprang up in all the corners. Deara, still standing before the King, felt again the sense of desolation that had come to her as she tied back the hanging after Merdaine’s death. Then, she had faced the blinding light of day with no protection from its strength, now, what strength she had seemed to be draining away with the light, as the King and brehon argued.

      ‘Well, then, open it. If you have no key, let Fergus fetch Ulrann and his hammer from the forge.’

      The brehon, however, had already produced the key. Like everything he had done, all day, he proceeded meticulously. Watching him, Deara realised that his manner was both a defence against the King’s turbulence and a compliment to it. These two men, opposite as they seemed, were in some way bound to each other. It was not a bond of love, such as she saw amongst the young warriors. It was a bond of need, a defence against a loneliness which neither colleagues, nor warriors, wifes or concubine, could take away. In the midst of her own need, intensely aware of her own unprotected isolation, suddenly she saw a need just as great in two men who, it seemed, had everything that she lacked. They, who had position and power, who could dispose of her life by a word to a warrior, or a mark on a tablet, were in a way she could only dimly grasp, as weak, as vulnerable, as unsure of their place in the world, as she herself was.

      ‘By all the Gods.’

      The King turned to Deara from the open kist behind which the brehon still knelt.

      ‘What do you know of this, girl?’

      ‘Of what, my Lord?’

      By way of answer, the King leaned down and showered at her feet a handful of coins and a cluster of armbands, beaten in gold and inlaid with bronze. In the dim light they gleamed like pale flowers at dusk.

      The thin hands of the brehon set down on his table a silver drinking cup, a set of gold torcs, a terracotta figurine and a jewelled belt.

      Deara looked from one to the other.

      ‘Well, then, what do you say?’

      ‘My Lord, it is the custom to bring an offering to the God when one comes to ask for his healing.’

      ‘And do my people bring such gifts as these that I, their King, have not the least of them?’

      ‘No, my Lord, the people of Emain bring food and drink, and neighbouring peoples bring cloth or skins. Only the traders bring such gifts as these.’

      ‘Traders? The Lady Merdaine traded? With what?’

      ‘Wound salves, sire.’

      ‘To salve the wounds of our enemies?’

      ‘No, my Lord. All that I could make went to Albi.’

      ‘You? You made them?’

      ‘Yes, my Lord, at the Lady’s bidding. They are very good wound salves, the same as we use ourselves.’

      The King sat down suddenly, filled the silver drinking horn from a pitcher of beer and downed it in one long swallow. He wiped his face and began to laugh.

      It was a real laugh, not the hard, uneasy laugh Deara had heard so often that day. She glanced at the brehon, but his face had not relaxed its habitual close scrutiny. He was examining the final items from the bottom of the box and marking their value on a tally.

      ‘Well, then?’

      ‘Between 200 and 300 milk cows, Sire. I must consult to be sure.’

      ‘So, Deara – that was your name, was it not?’

      ‘Yes, my Lord.’

      ‘So, you shall have your dowry. How say you to Marban, son of Dairmid, a brave young warrior? He lacks nothing but a wife to furnish him with new weapons, a good horse and a handful of sons.’

      Deara’s heart sank. She knew little of the young warriors, for the Lady never spared her to serve with the other young women in the King’s Hall, so much was there to do in preparation for the coming of the traders. But Marban she knew of by repute, as did all in Emain. A small, swarthy man, boastful even beyond the custom of warriors, a man who took pleasure in cruelty to any weak creature, be it child or hound puppy. The thought of Marban made her tremble more than the threat of Conor.

      The King was staring at her again, fiddling impatiently with the brooch she had brought as a token.

      ‘Come then, girl, your word, and let Sennach draw up the agreement.’

      ‘If it please my Lord, I would ask my dowry in gold, that I may enter the house of Alcelcius.’

      ‘Alcelcius? What manner of man is this, Sennach, with such a name. Is he a trader?’

      ‘No, my Lord, he is not of our people. He came here from Dalriada and was once a surgeon with the legions from Gaul.’

      ‘And you would go to be his concubine?’

      ‘No, my Lord, Alcelcius is an old man, who takes pleasure in books and writings. I would go to learn what the Lady Merdaine would not teach me.’

      ‘And what was that?’

      ‘To read and write, that I might set things down as she did.’

      ‘And make wound salves?’

      ‘If they are needed.’

      The King swung away from her and thrust the sword by his chair into the earthen floor at its owner’s feet. The man started and the King laughed, short and hard.

      ‘Make your wound salves, Deara, aye and learn well to bind and splint – but pray to Lug that they will not be needed. D’ye hear, girl?’

      Deara dropped her eyes from the King’s face in acknowledgement of his command. She saw the glint of jewels at her feet. When she looked up again her fear disappeared, for in the King’s eyes she saw a fear far greater than her own. Not for himself, but for his people, for all that was entrusted to him.

      Morrough, the strong and mighty Morrough, King of Emain, ruler of all the Ullaid, sat in his carved chair, fondling the muzzle of his hound bitch and looking at her. What she had seen in his eyes was something she knew with her heart. This man stood alone. Alone in spirit and every bit as unprotected as she had known herself to be. She felt herself shiver and knew the flesh had roughened on her bare arms, though the Hall was thick with heat.

      ‘D’ye hear me, girl?’ he repeated more insistently. ‘Pray to Lug. Wear this for the Lady Merdaine.’

      Morrough pushed the brooch into her hand, roused a sleeping hound with his toe and left the chamber without a backward glance, followed by the dogs, the chief of the guard and a small group of warriors on duty by the door.

      Deara stood staring at the precious object in her hands, unable to grasp what had happened to her.

      She had entered the Hall of Council, a slave, a fearful slave, knowing that her life might be forfeited without the protection of Merdaine. And now in her hands, she held the Royal brooch of Emain. Worn by the Princesses of the Ullaid for as long as bard or Druid could remember, worn by the King’s mother, and mother’s mother and by his mother’s youngest sister, Merdaine. Now hers. This thing of power and beauty and protection. No man of the Ullaid would dare raise a hand against her. Even the enemies of the tribe would heed such a token, if only in hope of the ransom money such a captive might bring.

      ‘Deara.’

      The sound of her name seemed to come from a long way away. She looked up, her eyes still held in the swirling tracery of the brooch. The Hall of Council was empty, except for one pale face, Sennach, the brehon. He sat at his table looking at her.

      ‘You serve Nodons?’

      She bowed her head in acknowledgement, for words seemed to have deserted her.

      ‘Your God has been kind.’

      His statement was matter-of-fact.