Nor, in his private estimation, did anyone else know. But they believed. That was what mattered: their belief. The killing of Conall would achieve revenge for the mocking of the king. But what if, after that, the next harvest failed as well? Wouldn't the druids still blame the High King? They would. Not a doubt of it.

He noticed that the High King was looking at him now. Well, Goibniu," he asked, "and what have you to say?"

Goibniu the Smith paused for a moment, considering carefully I before he answered.

"It seems to me," he said quietly, "that there is another way. May I speak with you alone?"

She had even dreamed they might go free, once or twice, during those days.

Nothing, she supposed, could be worse than that first morning, waiting on the island to see whether it was the chariot of Finbarr or Condi's handsome form that would come along the strand to fetch her. For her waiting was ended by neither, but by the bent, bloody shape of Conall, limping like a dying animal across the sand, so that at first she scarcely knew him. And when, finally, he fell out of the curragh onto the shingle in front of her, it was all she could do to hide her revulsion at the sight of his wounds.

She tended him as best she could. He was weak, and once or twice he fainted; but he told her what had happened and how he had killed his friend. She hardly liked to ask him what they should do next.

Late that afternoon her father had arrived.

"They will come for him. Finbarr's charioteer will show them where he is. But it will take a few days, Deirdre. We can think about what to do tomorrow." They debated whether to move Conall back to the rath at Dubh Linn, but Fergus decided: "Let him stay where he is for the moment, Deirdre. He's as well here as he can be anywhere." In the evening he left. And though Conall grew feverish in the night, in the morning he seemed better, and she fed him some broth and a little mead that her father had brought.

Towards midday, Fergus came again. After inspecting Conall and remarking that he would live, he addressed them both seriously.

"It's impossible for you to remain here any longer.

Whatever the risks, you have to cross the sea." He gazed out at the water. "At least you can thank the gods the weather is fine." He gave Conall a smile. "In two days I'll be back with a boat."

"But father," she cried, "even if you found one, how would I manage a boat all alone, with me in the state I'm in and Conall hardly strong enough to lift an oar?"

"There'll be a crew," said her father, and left.

The next day was anxious for Deirdre. At first she was grateful. Though almost every wave caused her to glance at the shore, expecting to see the king's men, nobody came. Physically, Conall seemed better. He even took a turn around their little island and she was relieved that his wounds did not open again. But his mental state was another matter. She was used to his moods, and when in the late afternoon he went to sit alone on the shingle beach and stare out to sea, she did not at first attach any particular significance to it; but after a while, he looked so unusually sad that she went and stood beside him. "What are you thinking about?" she asked. For a few moments he did not reply.

"It was Finbarr I was thinking of," he said quietly at last. "He was my friend."

She wanted to put her arms round him but he seemed distant, so she did not dare. She touched him on the shoulder, then withdrew her hand.

"He knew the risks he took," she said softly.

"It isn't you who's to blame."

He did not answer, and they fell into silence.

"He told me," Conall said quietly, "that the druids say the bad harvests are my doing-because of my humiliation of the High King."

"Then it would be my fault, too, Conall."

"It would not." He frowned. "It is mine."

"That is foolishness."

"Perhaps." He was silent again while she watched him anxiously.

"You must not think it, Conall," she said, and in return he touched her hand.

"It is not to be thought of," he murmured.

But he did not look at her. After a time, uncertain what to do, she moved away; and Conall remained there, sitting on the shingle, staring at the water until the sun went down.

Her father arrived the next morning. There was still a mist on the sea, as the boat came round the headland. It was a small vessel, with leather sides and a single square sail with which it could run, in a somewhat ungainly fashion, before the wind-hardly different from the curraghs in which her distant ancestors had first come to the western island. Her father had bought it from a fisherman at the southern end of the bay. He sailed it himself, accompanied by her two brothers. They all stepped ashore, looking pleased with themselves.

"Here is your boat," her father said. "The wind's from the west but it's light; the sea is calm. You needn't worry about making the crossing."

"But where is the crew you promised?" she demanded.

"Why it's your father and your brothers, Deirdre," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Put your trust in your father, Deirdre, and I'll put mine in Manannan mac Lir. The sea god will protect you. Is that not good enough for you?"

"Perhaps with just yourself," she suggested, looking doubtfully at her brothers. "The boat is small."

"Would you have me leave your brothers behind," he asked, smiling, "all alone in the world?"

And then Deirdre understood. "You mean you won't be coming back?"

"To face the king after I helped you escape? No, Deirdre, we'll go together. I've always had a mind to go on a voyage. I just left it a little late."

"But the rath, your lands, the cattlea"

"At Dubh Linn?" He shrugged. "It's not much of a place, I dare say. It's too marshy.

No, Deirdre, I'd say it's time to move on." And looking into the little boat, she saw that it was stocked with provisions, and a small sack of silver, and her father's drinking skull.

So she kissed her father and said not another word.

There was only one problem. Conall wouldn't go.

He was very quiet about it. The depression he had exhibited the evening before seemed to have subsided into something else. He appeared sad, perhaps a little absent, but calm. And adamant. He would not go.

"By all the gods, man," cried Fergus.

"What's the matter with you? Do you not see what we're doing for you?" And when this did not work: "Must we carry you into the boat by force?" But a look from the prince told him that, even in Conall's weakened state, this would not be a good idea. "Would you at least tell us why?" Fergus finally asked in despair.

For a few moments it was not clear whether Conall would answer, but in the end he said quietly, "It is not the will of the gods that I should go."

"How would you know that?" Fergus demanded irritably.

"If I cross the sea with you, it will not bring you any luck."

While her father cursed under his breath, Deirdre's two brothers looked at each other anxiously.

Had the gods cursed their sister's man? Since Conall looked like a druid, it seemed to them that he would know.

"There's no point in getting drowned, Father," one of them said.

"Are we to take Deirdre then, and leave you behind?"

Fergus almost shouted. Conall did not answer but Deirdre took her father's arm.

I cannot leave him, Father," she murmured. And though he cast eyes up at the sky with impatience, she led him to one side and continued, "Wait one more day. Perhaps he will feel differently tomorrow." And since there seemed to be no alternative, Fergus could only shrug his shoulders and sigh. Before he left, however, he warned, "You have not much time. There's yourself to think of Deirdre, and the child."

For some while after her father and brothers had gone, Deirdre said nothing. There was a flock of seagulls on the shingle beach. lin and again they rose up, crying into the blue September sky, while Conall sat watching them as though in a trance. Finally they departed, and then she spoke.

"What is to become of us, Conall?"

"I do not know."

"Why wouldn't you leave?" He did not reply.

"Was it a dream you had in the night." He did not answer, but she suspected he had dreamed. "Is it that you have spoken with the gods? Tell me the truth, Conall. What is it you know?"

"That I am to wait here, Deirdre. That is all."

She looked at his pale, handsome face.

"I shall stay here with you," she said simply.

He reached out and held her hand, so that she would know he loved her; and she wondered whether, perhaps, he might change his mind before the morning.

When she awoke, the sky was clear, but there was a thin layer of mist on the ground. Looking across the water to the shore, it seemed to her that everything was still. It was surely, in any case, too soon for anyone coming from the High King to have reached them. Then something caught her eye.

At first, in the distance, the little shape that was advancing across the misty plain seemed like a flapping bird.

All over the wide expanse of the Plain of Bird Flocks, the mist lay in torn veils or hovered in wisps like phantoms, and this whiteness poured over the shore and the intervening sea so that it was impossible for Deirdre to tell whether it was earth or water that lay beneath. As for the seeming bird, she could only surmise that it might be a man with a trailing cloak, borne swiftly by a chariot, unless perhaps it was one of the gods or their messengers who had taken the form of a raven or swan or some other flying thing to visit them.

Then, where the shore would be, the ghostly presence turned and stopped. And now, as Deirdre stared, she could have sworn it was a graceful deer. But after a pause, it disappeared into the mist only to emerge once more, as if it could change its shape at will, floating very slowly, still and grey, like a standing stone, towards her little island.

She glanced round, hoping to see her father's boat coming past the headland. But instead she saw Conall, standing behind her, looking grave.

"It is Larine," he said.

"He seemed to change shape as he came."

"He is a druid," he remarked. "He could probably make himself disappear if he wanted to." And now she saw that it was Larine, in a small curragh, being rowed towards them by his charioteer.

"Come Conall," he said quietly, as he stepped ashore, "we must talk." And as Deirdre turned anxiously to Conall, she was surprised to see that he looked relieved.

They were a long time together, at some distance from her, like two shadows hovering in the wreaths of mist that swirled along the water's edge; and the sun had just broken above the horizon when they returned to her, and she saw that Condi's face had become transformed.

All his unhappiness had disappeared andwitha gentle smile he took her hand.

"All is well. My uncle and I are reconciled."

Ill Samhain: ancient Hallowe'en, when the spirits of the dead walk for one night amongst the living.

Samhain, the turning point, the entrance to the dark half of the year. Samhain, when the beasts are slaughtered, Samhain the sinister. Yet in the western island with its gentle climate, the month that led to Samhain was usually a pleasant season.

Deirdre always found it so. Sometimes the days were soft and misty, sometimes the clear blue sky seemed so hard you could touch K. She loved the autumnal woods, the oak leaves brown on the trees or crisp underfoot. And when there was a chill in the air, she felt a tingling in the blood.

Larine had remained with them on their island for three days. He had brought herbs to cure Conall. The two men would spend hours together in conversation and prayer; and even if she felt excluded, Deirdre could see that Conall was being healed in body and spirit. After this time, Larine departed, but before he left he explained to her kindly, "It will be a little time, Deirdre, before Conall is entirely well. Rest here, or at your father's.

No one will trouble you. The High King wishes to be reconciled at the festival of Samhain, so you will come to him then." And, guessing her thoughts, he added with a smile, "You need not fear the queen anymore, Deirdre. She will not hurt you now."

The next day, her father brought them home.

The month they spent at Dubh Linn was a happy time. If she had any misgivings about whether Conall would tolerate her family, they were soon set at rest. He listened to her father's ancestry every evening without the slightest sign of boredom; he played hurling with her brothers and indulged in mock swordplay without killing them. He even persuaded Fergus to replace the broken planks at the Ford of Hurdles and helped him do it. She noticed that his wounds had not only healed but that one could scarcely see where they had been. As he lay down beside her at night, it seemed to her that his pale naked body was, once again, as perfect as before. As for herself, she could feel the child growing within her, and growing strong.

"He will come at midwinter," she said happily, "like the promise of spring."

"You say "he," was Conall remarked.

"It will be a boy, Conall," she replied. "I can feel it."

They would walk together along the Liffey where the willows trailed their branches, or into the groves of oak and beech. Each day they would also visit one of the three little sacred springs and Conall would gently anoint her swelling belly with water, running his hand over its roundness. There were days of mist and days of sunshine, but the breezes were very light that month, so that only a sprinkling of leaves had fallen from the trees still heavy and thick with the rich gold and bronze of mellow autumn. Only the gathering of the migratory birds foretold that the inevitable coming of winter was close. It was two days before Samhain, when crowds of starlings were wheeling around the trees at Dubh Linn, that the three chariots arrived.

Deirdre could see her father was pleased; he had never travelled like this before. The three chariots, each with a charioteer, were splendid indeed. He and his two sons were carried in one, Deirdre in the second; the third chariot, the finest of all, was Conall's own with its two swift horses harnessed to the shaft.

The day was fine. The sun glinted on the Liffey's wide shallows as they crossed the ford. Their path lay north-west. All afternoon they made swift and easy progress past rolling grasslands and wooded slopes. In the early evening they found a pleasant place to camp in an oak grove. The next morning the weather had changed. It was dry, but the sky was overcast. The light was leaden and grey; the slanting shafts of sunshine that sometimes broke through the clouds seemed to Deirdre to be vaguely sinister and threatening. But the rest of the party were in good spirits as they continued northwest towards the valley of the River Boyne.

We shall be there by afternoon," her charioteer remarked.

"We shall be at royal Tara."

And just afterwards, her father called out cheerfully, "Do you remember, Deirdre? Do you remember Tara?"

Of course she did. How could she forget? It had been years ago, when her younger brother was eight, that Fergus had taken them all, one summer's day, on the road to Tara. It had been a happy time. The great ceremonial centre had a magnificent site-a large, broad hill with gentle slopes that rose above the valley of the Boyne half a day's journey upstream from the ancient tomb with its midwinter passage where the Dagda dwelt.

Except for a guardian, the huge site had been deserted at that summer season, for apart from their inauguration, the High Kings usually only came to Tara for the festival of Samhain. Fergus had led his little family up as proudly as if he owned the place, and shown them its principal features-the big earthwork circles in which the shrines and banqueting hall would be erected for the festival. He had also shown them some of the magical aspects of the site.

"This is where the druids choose the new High King," he explained at one small earthwork. "One of them drinks bull's blood and then the gods send him a vision." Showing them a pair of stones set close together: "The new king has to pass between these in his chariot. If he gets stuck, then he's not the rightful king." But the most impressive feature to Deirdre had been the ancient standing stone near the top of the hill, the Stone of Fal. "When the true king's chariot comes and touches the Stone of Fal," he explained solemnly, "the druids hear it cry out."

"And after that," one of her brothers had demanded, "doesn't he have to mate with a white mare?"

"He does indeed," said Fergus proudly.

But if these details of the king's inauguration had fascinated her brothers, the magic of Tara for Deirdre had been its situation. It was not only the magnificent views in every direction during the day, but at sunrise and sunset, when the mists lay over the valleys all round, and the Hill of Tara seemed like a floating island in the world of the gods.

She should therefore have been happy as they drew towards it.

Midday was past when they came in sight of Tara.

As the three chariots sped along the broad track, the charioteers drew into a triangular formation with Conall in front, her chariot behind his left wheel, and her father's behind his right. Though the sky was still a dull, metallic grey, with only silvery glints of sunlight, the day was not cold. Ahead of them, lining the route, she noticed a scattering of people, many of them with baskets. Seeing them, Conall suddenly cast off his cloak that now, with his pale body stripped, he looked like a warrior going into battle. In their arrowhead formation, the three chariots raced forward and as they drew level with them, the welcoming people reached into their baskets and threw handfuls of wild autumn flowers into Conall's chariot. And although Conall was the High King's nephew, Deirdre was surprised that he should receive such a hero's welcome.