They had been kept in pens for the night and now they were being led, one by one, towards the fires. They did not like it. The roar of the fires ahead frightened them. A line of smaller fires, arranged like a funnel, guided them to the two great bonfires between which they must pass. They started to bellow; some had to be goaded.

But the most fearsome sight, at least to human eyes, was not the burning fire but the strange figures who gathered like a flock of huge, fierce birds just beyond the blazing gateway.

It was the same all across the world. From the druids of Ireland to the shamans of Siberia, from the Persian temples of Mithras to the medicine men of North America, at the time of sacred rituals, those who communed with the gods in trances put on cloaks of feathers. For the plumage of birds was nature's richest array, and contained more than a hint, no doubt, that holy men could fly.

At the ceremonies of Bealtaine, the druids of Uisnech wore huge, brightly coloured cloaks with high bird's-head crests that made them seem almost half as tall again. As each beast was led between the purifying fires, they splashed it with water. This was the May Day ritual that should ensure the health of the all-important livestock in the coming year.

Larine was standing beside an older druid. His attention should have been on the line of cattle. There were only fifty to go. It was hot work at the fire, and with so many cattle, the druids had taken turns. His turn had finished some time ago and he had taken off the heavy cloak of feathers. But now, while the older druid continued to watch the fires, his own eyes strayed to the plain around the hill.

For Larine had things on his mind. The first, and surely the least important, was a rumour-hardly even a rumour, really, more a whisper on the horizon. He had heard it the month before.

It concerned the Christians.

He knew that there had been Christians on the western island for a generation now. They were small communities-a chapel here, a farmstead there, a scattering of missionary priests ministering to the Christian slaves in the area and, if they were lucky, to some of li, their masters. As a well-informed druid, Larine had made it his business to know something about them. He had even made the acquaintance of a Christian priest down in south Leinster, with whom he had discussed the Christian doctrine in some detail. And it was the priest who had told him, the previous month, about the rumour.

"They say that the bishops in Gaul are planning to send a new mission to the island to enlarge the community, perhaps make an approach to the High King himself." The priest had been uncertain of the details. Even the names of the missionaries to be sent were unclear. "But they say the Holy Father himself has sanctioned the mission."

The mighty Roman Empire had adopted Christianity as its state religion a century ago. For several generations, therefore, the druids of the western island had been aware that they were the last, isolated stronghold of the old gods beside the vast territories of the Christian Roman Empire. But there were several factors which had given them comfort. The Christianity of the empire was by no means complete: there had still been important pagan temples in Britain, and within living memory the emperor Julian had actually tried to reverse the process and return the empire to its proper pagan tradition. In any case, the western island was protected by the sea. Andwiththe withdrawal of Roman garrisons from Britain and Gaul, there seemed no chance at all that Rome could trouble the realm of the High King now. Without Roman troops, what could the Christian priests do? The little communities in the south of the island were tolerated because they gave no trouble. If any Christian missionary came to trouble the High King, the druids would soon deal with him.

He had said as much to the priest, and perhaps he had said it too bluntly; for the priest had become irritated, muttered words to the caret effect that it wasn't so long since the druids had performed human sacrifices, and told Larine that he should remember how the prophet Elijah had vanquished the pagan priests of Baal. "He came to their festival," the priest declared, "and built a great fire which burst into flame when he prayed to the Lord, while the priests of Baal could not get theirs to light at all. So take care," he had added severely, "that the missionaries of the true God do not come to shame you at Bealtaine."

"The fires of Bealtaine burn brightly," Larine had replied. The Christian, he judged, was a victim of wishful thinking.

Yet something, he could not say what, had troubled him about the conversation. A vague apprehension. Absurd though it was, he had even glanced about once or twice to see if any of the Christian priests had decided to come to make a nuisance of themselves. But of course they had not. The fires of Bealtaine were burning brightly. As he scanned the horizon, he saw nothing to disturb the sacred ceremonies of the day.

If a feeling of unease continued to afflict him, he decided that it must be on account of the second and more serious of his concerns.

Conall. The prince had just appeared in the crowd that lined the other side of the pathway along which the cattle were led after passing between the fires. He was standing behind the front row, but his height gave him a good view of the fires at which, like the rest of the crowd, he was staring. He did not see Larine. It seemed to the young druid that, while everyone else was obviously enjoying the festivities, Conall's face looked tense.

Several of the beasts being led through the fires were especially fine. Instead of bringing whole herds, farmers who had come a long distance might only bring their best animal, usually a bull, to serve as proxy for the rest. And just now a splendid brown bull was being led through by a tall figure and a girl.

The man was a minor chieftain of some sort, Larine guessed, a handsome old fellow with long moustaches.

But the girl, with her golden hair, was striking. The druid looked at her with appreciation. Her face was flushed red from the heat of the fire; so were her bare arms. He had the impression that her whole body was glowing. Conall seemed to have noticed the pair as well, for he was staring at them.

What a contrast his taut, white face made, the druid thought, with the girl's ruddy glow: like a pale sword before a smithy's furnace. The girl, if she saw Conall, walked straight past without looking at him. She probably did not know who he was. Then another beast came through the fire, and the druid turned his eyes to that. But a few moments later he observed that Conall was still staring straight ahead and looking more like a ghost than ever.

He turned to the older druid beside him.

"What is your opinion of Conall?" "Why is it you ask?"

"I am concerned about him."

"Ah." The druid glanced at him sharply. "And what is it, Larine," she asked, "that you wish to know?"

Though most druids were men, there had always been female druids, too. Such women, often gifted with second sight and admitted to the mysteries of druidism, could be fearsome. If kings feared the rebuke of the druid men, the scorn of the female druid could be even more dangerous. And this old woman was formidable.

Larine looked down at her thin face. It was wrinkled now. Her hair, which fell almost to her waist, was grey, but her eyes, which were of the palest blue, might have belonged to a young woman and were strangely translucent, as if you could walk through them. As briefly as he could, he tried to answer her. Would his friend find happiness? Would he become a druid? But as he asked, she only shrugged impatiently.

"Foolish questions."

"Why?"

"The fate of Conall is already foretold. It is in his geissi."

Larine frowned. Whatever else you might say, Conall had always been a careful man.

"You know he never wears red because the colour is unlucky in his family. I cannot think he will break any of the geissi."

"Yet he must break them, Larine, since he cannot die until he has."

"That is true," Larine agreed, "but that is far in the future; and it's the present I'm worried about."

"How do you know? Is it for you to decide such things, Larine? As a druid you should know better." She paused and gave him a sharp look. "This I will tell you, and no more. Your friend Conall will break the first of the geissi very soon."

As he stared at the old woman's eyes and then at his friend's pale face, Larine felt a cold shiver pass through him. She had second sight.

How soon?

"Three days. Ask no more."

Finbarr was feeling pleased with himself. The cattle had all been led through the fires. The High King's feast would be starting soon. And hadn't he just done Conall a huge favour? Yes, he had. He'd done the right thing. And if his friend didn't rise to the occasion this timea Well, he'd done his best.

The High King's feast was no small affair.

Starting in early afternoon it would stretch far into the night.

A large banqueting hall with wicker sides had been set up. Inside were trestle tables and benches for three hundred people. There would be pipers and harpists, dancers and bards to give recitations. The great chiefs and druids, the law-keepers and the noblest warriors would all be present. Conall, too, of course. Thirty of the most highly born young women, daughters of chiefs every one, were to serve the mead and ale to the company.

And this was where Finbarr had done so well. For Deirdre was to be one of them. It had been a favour from the woman in charge of the girls. Then a quick interview with Fergus and his daughter. Deirdre had held back, embarrassed, but her father had ordered her to do it. Even now she had no idea that she would be directed to serve ale to Conall. Finbarr had made sure of that, too. And more than this, he told himself, he could not do.

Noon had passed and the feast had begun when Goibniu the Smith made his way towards the banqueting hall. He was in a very bad temper. The reason was simple: he had failed to get a woman.

He had found one the day before. A handsome buxom woman, wife of a farmer from Leinster. At dusk she had told him, "My husband's sticking like glue. Wait a while." Later in the night she had come and whispered, "Meet me over there, by that thornbush, at dawn." And that had been the last he saw of her-until a short while ago when he had observed her on the arm of a tall man who was certainly not the farmer from Leinster. It had been too late to do anything by then. Those who wanted to find partners had already done so. One girl had approached him, but she was so plain that it offended his pride.

He'd been made a fool of, he was tired, and he was frustrated. Another man might have decided to get drunk. But that is not what Goibniu did.

His single eye remained watchful. And just now, a moment ago, it had caught sight of something else that reminded him of business.

The big fellow from Dubh Linn. The one with the daughter he'd sold. There was no sign of the girl though. Goibniu went up to him.

What was it about Fergus that made the clever craftsman suspicious? Goibniu did not bother to analyse it. He did not need to. But from the first words of greeting, from the chief's ready smile, from the cheerful way, when asked if Deirdre was there, he replied, "She is, she is," Goibniu knew that something was wrong. His brow darkened.

I'll be taking her with me, then."

"To be sure, you will. Not a doubt of it."

Fergus was being too obliging. He had to be lying.

It was not often that the cunning smith allowed his temper to get the better of him, but the experience of the previous night had affected his judgement.

With a sudden burst of irritability in which his contempt was plain, he burst out: "Do you take me for a fool? She is not here at all."

It was the visible contempt which hurt Fergus. He drew himself up to his full height and glared balefully down at Goibniu.

"Is it to insult me you came here?" he demanded with some heat.

"I couldn't care less," the smith retorted, "whether I've insulted you or not."

And now, as his face became suffused with blood, it would have been obvious to anyone who knew him that Fergus, son of Fergus, was about to become very angry indeed.

She knew she looked well. She could see it in the curious glances of the other girls as they all swept in their flowing gowns across the grass to the entrance to the banqueting hall. And why shouldn't I look fine, she thought, for weren't my ancestors as good as theirs?

She felt like a princess anyway, whatever they might think.

She hadn't wanted to do this. She had been so embarrassed and mortified when Finbarr had come to her father. "I can't," she had cried. How was it going to look if she turned up where she wasn't supposed to and pushed herself in front of him for all to see? But they had made her, and having got so far, she was determined about one thing. She wasn't going to take any special notice of him. He could take notice of her if he pleased. She'd hold her head high and let the other men see her for the princess she was. Didn't she already have a husband waiting for her anyway? It was with this thought firmly in her mind that she stepped through the entrance into the banqueting hall.

It was a rich smell that pervaded the air: ale and mead, stewed fruits, and, above all, the aroma of well-fatted roasted beef. In the centre of the hall was a huge cauldron full of ale. On tables beside it, small bowls of mead. Around the walls ran the tables where the company sat. Reds and blues, green and gold-the bright dress and gleaming ornaments of the chiefs and their wives gave the hall a splendid air. There was conversation and laughter, but the gentle strains of the three harpists in the corner could still be heard.

She felt the eyes of the men upon her as soon as she entered, but she didn't mind. She went about her business, moving gracefully, pouring ale and mead as required, with a polite word or a pleasant smile but, apart from that, scarcely troubling to look into their faces at all. Once she had to pass in front of the High King himself, and she was aware, out of the corner of her eye, of his swarthy figure, which she found rather distasteful, and of the large presence of the queen. They were both deep in conversation and she was careful not to stare at them. Indeed, she was kept so busy that at first she hardly noticed when she was directed to serve at the place where Conall was sitting.

How pale he looked, how serious. She served him exactly as she had everyone else, even gave him a smile.

"I am glad to see you, Deirdre, daughter of Fergus." His voice was gentle, grave. "I did not know you were to be at the banquet."

"It was as much a surprise to myself, Conall, son of Morna," she answered pleasantly. Then she swiftly passed on without looking at him again.

She had to return to the table several times, but they did not speak again. Once she saw his uncle the High King beckon him to come over, but then her attention was distracted by a piper who began to play.

Conall returned from the interview with the High King feeling disconcerted. Under those heavy, swarthy black brows, his uncle's eyes, dark blue and somewhat bloodshot, glittered in a way that made you realise he had missed nothing.

"So Conall," he had begun. "It is the feast of Bealtaine, yet you are sad." 'It is only the way my face looks."

"Hmm. Who is that girl-the one you spoke to? Have I seen her before?" In answer, Conall explained as best he could who she was and about her father, the chief at Dubh Linn. "This Fergus is a chief, you say?"

"It is true." Conall smiled. "A small one. His ancestors were of some note."

"It's a fine-looking daughter he has, anyway.

Is she betrothed?"

"There is an agreement, I believe. Someone in Ulster."

"But," the king's eyes looked up shrewdly, "it's for yourself you'd like her?"

Conall had felt himself blush. He couldn't help it.

"Not at all," he had stammered.

"Hmm." His uncle had nodded, then ended the conversation; though after he had returned to his seat, he had noticed the king give Deirdre a thoughtful glance. Was his uncle giving him a message?

Hinting that he should marry her? At the very least he was telling him that his love for the girl was obvious. And wasn't he now, whatever his reasons, in the act of letting her marry another? Without the decency of giving her even a word of explanation? There was no denying it. And why was he doing this? Was it really what he wanted?

For a while he sat there, speaking to no one. Then at last he looked up and saw that she was approaching.

She came so close that if he reached out his hand, he could have touched her golden hair.

"Deirdre, daughter of Fergus." He said the words quietly, but she heard them. She turned her head. Did he see, just for a moment, a look of pain in her wonderful eyes? "I must speak with you.

Tomorrow morning. At dawn."

"As you wish." She looked hesitant.

He nodded. Nothing more. And she was just moving away when the shouting began.

All heads turned; druids frowned; the High King glared; even the piper ceased. On the sacred site of Uisnech, at the feast of Bealtaine, someone was daring to disturb the High King's peace.

The shouts continued. Then there was silence. One of the king's personal attendants came into the banqueting hall and said something to the king, who gave a bleak nod. And a few moments later ?"'8andbrvbarbbandbrvbar; two figures were ushered in. The first, looking irritable but cautious, was Goibniu the Smith.

Behind him, the very picture of an affronted chief, stalked Fergus. Conall glanced across to where Deirdre was now standing and saw her go very pale.

When the two of them were in front of him, the king spoke. He did so quietly, to Goibniu "The quarrel?"

"I had words with this man."

"About?"

"His daughter not being here. She is promised to a man in Ulster, and I am to take her there. Then," he glanced contemptuously at Fergus, "the fellow struck me."

The High King turned his eyes on Fergus. So this was the chief from Dubh Linn.

One glance and he understood Fergus entirely.

"Yet as you see, his daughter is here." He indicated Deirdre. Goibniu looked and registered astonishment. "What have you to say, Fergus?"

"That the man called me a liar," Fergus said hotly, and then, more humbly, "but that my daughter is worthy of a prince and now I have brought disgrace upon her."

Out of the corner of his eye the king saw several of the great nobles give the poor, proud chief a look of approval. He rather agreed.

"It seems, Goibniu," the king said gently, "that you were mistaken about the girl. Is it possible, do you think, that you were mistaken also about the blow? Perhaps you only thought he was about to strike you?" And the king's dark blue eyes looked up at the smith steadily.

Whatever Goibniu was, he was never stupid.

'It may have been so," he conceded. You might have been confused."

"Confused. That would be it."

"Take your place at our feast, Goibniu.