The hill was looming above them now. She could see crowds of people on the long earthwork wall that enclosed the summit. In the middle of the wall stood a line of priests, holding long bronze trumpets and the great bull horns that were the sign of kingship. Behind them were the wicker-walled structures that had been erected for the festival. There were a few fires sending thin trails of smoke into the air.

They reached a patch of flat, grassy ground, dotted with trees at the base of the hill, the track up the long slope just ahead of it. The priests were raising their trumpets. From these now came a huge, deep-throated, darkly pulsating blast that grew into a terrifying roar.

And then the black mist arose.

It was so sudden and so violent that she screamed. The starlings rose up in front of them with a huge whirr that was almost a roar.

Starlings, thousands of them, enveloped the chariots in a swirling black cloud. They wheeled round them as though both they and the travellers were caught in the strange, dark vortex of a whirlwind.

Turning and turning, their myriad flapping was so loud that Deirdre could not even hear her own screams. In front of them, all round, behind, the dark cloud rose, fell, rose again and then, just as suddenly veered away with a great rush to descend in a swoop on the nearby trees.

Deirdre looked across. Her father and brothers were laughing.

Conall's face she could not see. But glancing at the crowds on the earthwork walls above, she realised, with a new, foreboding horror -What they had witnessed.

Conall had just passed through a black mist, as he came to Tara.

The geissi were complete.

There was no time to think of that now as they raced up the slope and into the huge enclosure of Tara. There were burning torches lining the route which led to the crest of the hill. As they reached the final stretch, two of the chariots halted, leaving Conall to proceed alone up the short ceremonial avenue with its earthwork walls at the head of which, flanked by his chiefs, the High King was standing.

Deirdre saw Conall step down from his chariot and go to the king. She saw the king bare his breast for his nephew to kiss and then return the gesture of reconciliation. Next Conall kneeled before his uncle, who placed his hands on the younger man's head in a blessing. Though she might have been glad of these signs of love and forgiveness, she was still so shaken by the swarming birds that she felt only a sense of unease. It seemed to her, now, too good to be true. And why, after they had finished their greeting, did the High King and his men step to one side, as though honouring Conall, as he walked through their midst towards the group of druids who, she saw, had been waiting behind the royal party? Why was Conall, the runaway prince, suddenly a hero?

"You are to come with me now." She looked down and was surprised to see Larine smiling beside her chariot.

"A place has been prepared for you to rest. You will be in good hands." Seeing her look at him doubtfully he added, "You carry Conall's child.

You will be greatly honoured. Follow me."

And leading the way, he took her towards a small lodging. Just before they reached it she noticed Goibniu the Smith. He was standing alone, watching her. She did not acknowledge him, nor did he make any attempt to greet her. He just watched her. She didn't know why. As they reached the lodge she asked, "Where is Conall?"

"I shall bring him to you shortly," Larine promised.

There was a slave girl there who gave her refreshments. Her father and brothers, she supposed, were being given lodgings else where. There were plenty of people moving about in the huge encampment, but nobody came over to her when she stood in her doorway. She had the sensation they were politely ignoring her, as if she had been set apart.

Then, at last, Conall came. He came with Larine, who lingered a few paces away.

How at peace Conall seemed. Grave, but at peace. She supposed it was relief at having been reconciled with his uncle. How kindly and lovingly he looked down at her.

"I have been with the druids, Deirdre," he said gently. "There were things to be done." He paused.

"They are going to do me a great honour."

"That is good, Conall," she said, without understanding.

"I am to go on a journey, Deirdre, that only a prince can make. And if it is pleasing to the gods, it will bring better harvests." He paused, gazing at her thoughtfully. "If it were necessary for me to travel across the sea to the blessed isles in order to speak with the gods, would you try to prevent my departure?"

"I should await your return. But the blessed isles," she added nervously, "are far away, Conall, in the western sea."

"That is true. And if I were shipwrecked, you would mourn me, but you would be proud, would you not? You would tell my son to be proud of his father?"

"How could your son not be proud of his father?"

"My father died in battle, with honour. So my mother and I did not grieve for him, because we knew he was with the gods."

What is this to me, Conall?" she asked, confused.

Now Conall was beckoning Larine to draw close.

"Deirdre," he said, "you know that you alone are the love of my life and that you carry my son.

If you love me as I love you, do not grieve if I depart upon a journey. And if you love me, remember this. Finbarr, whom I killed, was my dearest friend. But Larine here is an even better friend. I must leave you now because it is the will of the gods. But let Larine be your friend and counsellor always and you will never come to harm." With that, he lovingly kissed her; then he turned and strode away, leaving her with the druid. And then Larine told her what was going to happen.

Dawn was approaching. Was he afraid? He did not think so.

When Conall was a child, the eve of Samhain had seemed a magical but a dangerous time. People left food for the visiting spirits, but they put out their fires to make sure the dangerous visitors did not linger there. His mother would always make him sleep close to her that night when he was a little boy. After the long night, would come the culling of the animals-the cattle, pigs, and sheep selected for winter slaughter. There was always something melancholy to Conall in the lowing of the cattle as they were led towards the pen where the cattlemen were waiting with their knives. The other little boys always used to think it a great joke when the pigs were seized and the ropes tied round their trotters while they squealed. After the men had hauled them by their hind legs up a tree would come the throat slitting, with more squealing and red blood flooding out and splattering everywhere. Conall had never enjoyed the butchery, however necessary, and took his comfort from the druid blessing the scene.

On Samhain eve, when he was somewhat older, he used to slip out and sit by himself outside. All through the night he would watch for the vague shadows, and listen for soft footfalls as the spirits came to visit, sliding into wicker huts or brushing against the autumn trees. One in particular he had waited for.

Surely, he had thought as a little boy, his heroic father would come to visit him. Again and again he would conjure pictures of his father in his mind-the tall figure his mother had told him about, with flashing blue eyes and flowing moustaches. Wouldn't his father come? Yet he never had. Once, on the Samhain eve when he was fourteen, he had experienced something: a strange sense of warmth, a presence near him. And because he had longed and ached for it to be so, he believed it was his father.

But this last night had been different. He had been glad of Larine for company. He had asked that Larine should take him through the ordeal and the request had been granted. They had sat together, talked and prayed a little, recited from the sacred sayings. Then, towards the middle of the night, Larine had left him alone for a while.

So hard had he been concentrating on the ordeal ahead that he had even forgotten that the spirits were abroad that night. Sitting alone in the darkness of the druid's house, he was not sure whether he had fallen asleep or whether he was awake; but it was sometime in the deepest part of the night that he saw the figure enter. He was as plainly visible as Larine, which was strange perhaps, as there was no light; and he knew at once who it was. His father stood just in front of him, with a grave but kindly smile.

"I have waited so long for you, Father," he said.

"We shall be together soon, Conall," his father replied. "We shall be together always, in the lands of the bright morning. I have many things to show you." Then he went out again, and Conall felt a sense of great peace, knowing that he was going to his father with the blessing of the gods.

It had been a long time since they had sacrificed a man at Tara. Not for three generations at least.

That made the ceremony all the more solemn and important. If anything could lift the curse that had seemingly fallen upon the High King and the whole land, surely it must be this. If he hoped to purge his own sense of grief and guilt after his elopement with Deirdre and the killing of Finbarr, such a sacrifice would atone. Yet his overwhelming sense, as he prepared to pass through the portals into the next world, was not one of personal sacrifice. It was hardly even one of sorrow or joy. Sorrow was needless, joy not enough. What Conall felt now was a sense of destiny. It Was not just that the three geissi and the prophecy about Finbarr had disall been fulfilled, but rather that, in this act, all that he was-prince, rior, druid-found their perfect expression. It was the noblest death, the finest. It was what he had been born for.

To be at one with the gods: it was his homecoming. He remained at peace until, just as the first hint of dawn appeared in the east, Larine returned.

They fed him a little burnt cake and crushed hazelnuts, for the hazel tree was sacred. He took three sips of water and, when he was finished, stripped. Then, after washing him carefully, they painted his naked body red with dye. This took a little time to dry. When it had, Larine tied an armlet of fox fur round Condi's left arm. After that, he had to wait, but only for a little time. For already it was growing light outside the door. And soon enough, with a smile, Larine said to him, "Come."

There must have been a thousand people watching. The circle of druids stood on the mound, where all could see them.

On another mound, the High King was standing. The crowd had just fallen silent. They were bringing Conall.

The High King gazed across the crowd, thoughtfully. It had to be done. He was not sure he liked it, but the thing had to be done. He caught sight of Goibniu. There was no doubt, the smith had been clever. The return of the penitent prince and his willing sacrifice was a masterstroke. Not only did it restore the royal prestige-the royal house was giving one of its own to the gods-but it left the druids in a difficult position. This was their sacrifice, too, the most important they could make. If the island suffered another bad harvest, it would be difficult for them to blame it all on the king. He knew it and they knew it. Their own credibility would be at stake.

At his side stood the queen. She had been silenced as well. Ever since Larine had seen Conall on the little island, the king had known about her threats to poor Deirdre. He'd half suspected it all along. No words had needed to be spoken, but she knew that he knew. There'd be no more trouble from the queen for a good while. As for the girl, he frankly felt sorry for her. She would be allowed to return to her father and have ConalPs child. Even Goibniu agreed about that. One day perhaps he'd do something for the child. You never knew when a child from the fringes of the family might come in useful.

A path was clearing through the crowd. Conall, Larine, and two other priests were passing along it. He wondered if Conall would glance up at him, but the young man's face was staring straight ahead with a rapt expression. Thank the gods for that. They reached the druids' mound and went up. The druids in their feather cloaks stood at one end of the mound, while Condi's naked, red-painted figure stood for a moment alone and apart, so that everyone could see him. The High King glanced towards the east. The sky along the horizon was clear. That was good. They would see the sun as it rose.

The horizon was starting to gleam. It would not be long now.

Three druids came across to Conall. One was Larine. At a word from one of the older druids, Conall knelt down. From behind, the senior druid placed a garrotte around Conall's neck, but he left it loose.

The second held up a curved bronze knife.

Larine held up a club.

There had to be three deaths in a Celtic sacrifice: one for the earth, one for the air, one for the sky-the three worlds. In a similar manner, some offerings were burned, others buried, and others thrown in rivers. Conall, therefore, would undergo three ritual deaths.

But the actual process was merciful. For Larine would deliver a blow with the club that would stun him; while Conall was scarcely conscious, the senior druid would apply the garrotte that would kill him. Then the curved knife, slitting his throat, would release the blood to be scattered.

The High King glanced at the horizon. The sun was coming.

Any instant. On the druids' mound there was a movement as the other druids came across to form a circle around the victim. All the audience could see now was the backs of the druids covered with bright feathers, and in the centre, the club that Larine held high.

And now the king saw the sun flash brightly towards Tara, and turned just in time to see the club fall and vanish with a crack that sounded across the enclosure, followed by a long silence broken only by the rustling of feathers from within the druid's circle.

He thought of the boy and the youth he had known, of Condi's mother-his sister. It was hard, he thought, and he wished it could be otherwise. But Goibniu was right. The thing had to be done. In life there was always sacrifice.

It was over. The druids pulled back, except for the first three. Larine had a large silver bowl in his hands. Conall's red body, its head lolling forward at a curious angle, was lifeless.

While the senior druid pulled back the head to expose the neck, the druid with the curved knife moved in swiftly, gashing the throat, while Larine, holding the silver bowl in front of Conall's chest, filled it with his friend's flowing blood.

The High King watched. The blood, it was to be hoped, when scattered on the ground would ensure a better harvest. As he glanced round the crowd, it seemed to him that they were satisfied. That was good.

By chance he noticed the girl, Deirdre, standing by her father.

It was early afternoon when Deirdre announced that instead of remaining for the king's feast, she wanted to go home to Dubh Linn.

Rather to her surprise, nobody raised any objection. The High King, informed of her wish by her father, sent her his blessing and a ring of gold. Soon afterwards, Larine came to let her know that he would visit Dubh Linn soon and that two chariots were ready at their disposal. Her brothers, she was well aware, would have liked to stay for the feast, but their father had made them be silent. She knew she must go now. She could not remain at Tara any longer.

Yet strangely, during the killing of Conall, it was neither grief nor horror that she had felt. She had known what it would look like. Hadn't she seen the culling of the animals at Samhain all her life?

No, the emotion she had felt was entirely different.

It was anger.

She had started to feel it almost as soon as Larine had left her the day before. She was alone. Conall had gone and would remain with the druids until the ceremony. She understood their strength, and the king's, and the terrible power of the gods. But with a simple instinct she knew something else: no matter how it was explained, he had deserted her. And as she brooded about it during the night, it came to her again and again: all that time on the island, and even after Larine's visit, he could still have escaped. He had given his word, of course. The king and the gods themselves had demanded it. But he could have escaped. Conall would never have considered such a thing; her father would have told her not to be foolish. But they could have fled together across the sea. He had had the chance. And he had not taken it. He chose the gods, she thought.

He chose death, over me. That was all she knew. In her mind she cursed him, and the druids, and even the gods themselves. And so she watched his death with bitterness and anger. It protected her, for a while, from the pain.

It was just before they left that afternoon that she had an unexpected encounter.

She was standing alone by one of the chariots when she saw the queen coming in her direction. Thinking she had better avoid her, Deirdre looked for a means of escape; but the older woman had seen her and was coming straight towards her. So Deirdre stood her ground and hoped for the best. To her surprise, as the queen came close, she gave her a nod that did not seem unfriendly.

"It's a sad day for you, Deirdre, daughter of Fergus. I'm sorry for your trouble." Her eyes stared at Deirdre without any malice. Deirdre wondered what to reply. It was the queen after all. She must show respect. But she couldn't bring herself to do it.

"It's not your good wishes I'm wanting," she said bitterly. It was no way to speak to a queen, but she didn't care. What else had she to lose?

"You're still angry with me," the queen remarked, quite calmly.

Deirdre couldn't believe it.

"Didn't you tell me you were going to kill me?" she burst out.

"It is true," the queen agreed, then added, "but that was long ago.

"By the gods," cried Deirdre, "you're a strange woman." But the older woman seemed to accept this, too.

"He made a noble death, at least," she said. "You can be proud of him."

Deirdre only had to bow her head or mumble something polite, but her anger was on her now and she couldn't help herself.

"Proud of a dead man," she cried. "A lot of use to me, sitting all alone in Dubh Linn."

"He had no choice, you know."

"He could have chosen," she said furiously. "He did choose. But it was not myself and his child he chose, now was it?"

She had gone too far this time, and she knew it. She was insulting the High Kingship, the druids, Tara itself. Half defiant, half afraid, she waited for the queen's wrath to fall.

For a moment or two the queen was silent. Her head was bowed, as though she was deep in thought. Then, without looking up, she spoke.

"Did you not know about men, Deirdre? They always let us down."

Then she walked away.

IV.

On the day of the midwinter solstice in her father's rath at Dubh Linn, looking over the ford called Ath Cliath, Deirdre, as she had expected, had a son. To her, even at birth, he looked like Conall. She was not sure if she was glad or not.

The weather was fine that spring, and also that summer. The harvest, though not especially good, was not ruined. And men said that it was thanks to Conall, son of Morna, nephew to the High King, who had influence with the gods.

THREE.

PATRICK.

AD 450.

H.

is first visit had been inauspicious, and few of those who had sent him back imagined that he would achieve much on the distant western island. Yet after his coming, everything was changed.

He left an account of his life; yet that account, being chiefly a confession of faith and a justification of his ministry, leaves many details of his life a mystery. The stories about him were numerous, but they were mostly inventions. The truth is that history knows neither the date of his mission, the names of the Irish rulers he encountered, nor even where, exactly, his ministry was based. All is uncertainty; all is conjecture.