Last Summer in Ireland

‘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. The voice he used was no different from the voice he had used all day, to question, to clarify, to record. But something in his eyes spoke louder, less dispassionately. It told her what she was already coming to recognise, that something had come to help her in her deepest need. She had no idea what it was, but it had come, just as Merdaine had promised. Some would call it a miracle.

She looked at the brehon steadily and saw the weariness which dragged at his body. It looked as if his life was draining away. She who had been given back life, could not bear what she saw.

‘Sir, I thank you for your kindness to me . . .’

She paused and grasped more firmly the brooch in her right hand.

‘Sir, I would take an offering to the God and bring you back a draught from the well.’

The brehon laughed. The sound was short and brittle.

‘Would you heal me then of the cares of office? Will you give me back sleep and pleasure in food? Have you a wound salve for the heart, then?’

‘The God has all these things.’

‘And he will give them to you, if the offering is large enough?’

‘No, sir. The God gives, the God takes away. It is His wisdom, not the offering, but we who serve are permitted to ask, for those who will give us leave.’

The brehon glanced round the empty hall as if he were making an inventory of the blackened rafters, the wooden benches and the empty drinking horns.

‘And if I say yes, what offering will you take?’

‘I do not know, Sir. When I have held your need in my heart, the God may tell me what he wishes, and then I will go to the well.’

‘And bring back healing in a pitcher?’

‘If the God wishes.’

The brehon repeated the words thoughtfully and considered them, as he considered everything. On the face of it, it was quite obvious. The girl believed a traditional set of superstitions known to the tribe for centuries. Most women did. Quite unfounded in the face of any real danger, but no doubt useful for day-to-day ailments. One had to admit some of these things worked. Some didn’t. One could see that quite clearly. The girl herself was a different matter. Not clear at all. There was something unusual about her. She was almost enough to make one imagine the unimaginable.