Last Summer in Ireland. Anne Doughty
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to make, or were party to a dispute. Today, as she joined the groups of people making their way between the King’s Hall and the storehouses, she felt full of dread. However much she had tried to master her feelings, she knew she was afraid. Lying awake in the short summer night, part of her wanted to run away, to slip out of the well-gate which was never guarded these days, and disappear into the Long Wood. Another part of her argued that it would be no use. There was nowhere to run to, no neighbouring encampment to shelter her. And besides, although she bore no slave mark, for Merdaine had refused to permit it, her situation would be obvious. A slave was a slave and the law tracts were quite specific as to how they were to be treated. No, there was no escape that way.
‘Cumail, where do you think you are going?’
Deara stopped short by the doorway of the hall and turned to face the man who had spoken. It was Conor. Only he would call her ‘slave’ instead of using the name the woman who had nursed her had given her, or even the commonly used word, ‘handmaiden’.
She looked him full in the face. ‘I go to petition the King.’
‘Oh ho, and by what right does a female cumail enter the Hall of Council?’
‘By the right of pledge and token given. I act as the Lady Merdaine instructed me.’
‘Pledge? Token?’
Conor’s face grew red and he spluttered in fury. These days everyone was challenging his authority. The King rarely consulted him and then ignored his advice, the brehon looked through him, the bard had taken to making jokes at his expense, and now this slip of a girl was quoting the law tracts at him, looking at him quite directly, not even shading her eyes as a woman should when addressing a King’s Druid.
‘Show me the pledge. Here, let me see it,’ he demanded angrily.
Deara regarded him steadily, her grey eyes taking in the deep flush which suffused his face, the pulsating veins at the side of his neck. This man was ill, wounded in spirit by his own weakness. But the illness could not be cured by medicine or healing. Only those disorders of spirit recognised by the sufferer could be treated. Conor would admit no weakness. So, like a wounded animal, he would defend himself by attacking anyone who crossed him.
‘I am bidden to show the pledge only to the King. It is not for a cumail to disobey even for Conor, son of Art, chief of the Druids of the Ullaid.’
She cast her eyes to the ground and hoped the gesture might appease him. But the heavy body did not move aside. Not till a quiet, world-weary voice intervened.
‘Let the girl go, Conor. The Council will deal with her.’
She looked up and saw a thin hand wave her past. Sennach, the brehon, a tall, emaciated man, pale like a plant grown in deep shade, an unsmiling man, meticulous, moderate in all things. She wondered how a man could live with so little joy.
The Hall was full as she took her place on the lowest bench, nearest the door. The heat was intense already and the smell of men and hounds made her long for the woods and fields. Almost immediately her thin linen tunic began to stick to her back where it touched the wall behind her. She fingered the brooch in the woven purse tied to her kirtle and settled to wait.
Because of the heat, the door of the Hall stood open and a broad shaft of sunlight fell amongst the gathering. It picked out the gold ornaments of the warriors, the worn clothes of the freedmen and the brindled fur of the hunting hounds who lay at the King’s feet. As the morning moved on, so the beam of light moved from left to right. Deara thought of Merdaine’s finger pointing at the patterns she had drawn in the ash with a piece of stick.
‘Come now, child, the brehon sits on the King’s right hand, the Druid on his left. Now who is this? And this? And this?’
Deara had learned their names, their ranks and titles, the position which each must occupy. She knew who might address the King, what decisions he would be asked to make, how agreements were made, sureties given, how the law was to be enforced. When other children played at seven stones or touch-and-run, Deara had moved stones in battles and raids fought long ago, had drawn in the dust the heroes and kings of every part of Ireland. She had sailed in willow bark ships to Albi and Gaul, Dalriada and the land of the Bretons, and always Merdaine was there asking her questions, punishing her if she forgot the genealogy of Niall, or Cui Roy, or Maeve of Connaught, the names of the tribes of Albi, or the rank order at a King’s Council.
At noon, a woman left a pitcher of water by the door and a warrior took a drinking horn to the King. The heat grew steadily stronger as the Hall became less crowded. Throughout the morning clients had stated their cases. As time passed, the King had grown steadily more irritable. A big, heavy man, he sat with his head half-turned from his petitioners, as if his mind was somewhere else. From time to time he would interrupt, ask a question, pretend he had not understood what was said. Then he would shout and abuse both plaintiff and defendant, threatening what he would have done to such troublesome clients. The punishments he described were brutal, but they did not in themselves alarm Deara. Not only was it part of Morrough’s usual way of behaving, it was a tradition, a reminder of bloodier times past and a restatement of the King’s enormous power. But it did remind Deara, if reminder she needed, that there was little in either law tract or tradition to protect a female slave.
It was late afternoon by the time her turn came. The water from the pitcher had long gone and her left arm was burning from where the sun had caught it as it moved across the open door. But she was grateful as she rose to her feet and crossed the now empty Hall to kneel before the King.
‘The handmaiden of the Lady Merdaine begs by pledge and token to petition her Lord and King, Morrough, son of Ferdagh, ruler . . .’
‘Enough girl, enough. The day has been long. What do you want of me?’
Deara bent to take the brooch from its place at her waist, and saw that Conor, who had dozed most of the afternoon, had stirred himself. He was now looking at her intently.
‘Sire, the Lady Merdaine bade me give you this as token of the pledge made between you and her last Samain.’
‘Pledge, what pledge?’
Morrough turned to look at her, as she held the inlaid brooch towards him.
‘What’s your name, girl?’
‘Deara, my Lord.’
‘No, my Lord it is not, the girl lies, as cumail always lie, her name is Deirdre.’
It was Conor who had spoken. Deara saw the familiar flush suffuse his face.
‘Deirdre? What of it, Druid?’
‘If my Lord would but give me leave to speak, then it would be clear to him. Was it not Art, my father, that warned Carrig Dhu, my Lord’s brother, of the doom that awaited him in the wood of Carore? And was it not I that prophesied my Lord’s taking of Emain and all the lands of the Ullaid?’
Deara watched the King’s face, the brooch in her hand still proffered towards him.
‘Speak then, Druid. Tell me what enchantment this Deirdre is to bring upon us.’
Morrough snatched the brooch from her and turned it over in his fingers, his body turned towards the Druid, his eyes still upon her.
‘Lord, at your command I tended the Lady in her sickness that I might perform those rites which would restore her to health. But, Lord, I was defeated in my purposes. I, Conor, who have served at all the shrines and brought peace and prosperity to Emain these many years, I was defeated by this Deirdre who has lied in the Hall of Council. This girl bewitched the Lady Merdaine with hand passes and with potions so that she was spirit lost. Then she tied back the hanging and called the God. I could not stop her for I was powerless to resist, held immobile as was the Lady by her wicked powers. And since the Lady’s untimely death my Lord has had news, dark news I think, for my powers are not fully restored to me. Lord, this girl bears the name of sorrow. Sorrow she has brought and yet more will she bring. Evil she has done to the Lady Merdaine, evil she will bring to this place and to my Lord if she be not cast out. The Lady,