A Game of Sorrows (11 page)

He looked away from me, his voice hardened. ‘I am not made privy to such matters.’ And in that moment, I heard the answer to all the questions I might yet ask: it was not Cormac O’Neill who had been Deirdre’s lover.

I could say nothing, but after a moment something in him relented. ‘Maeve tried, of course. You know that already. But she was not dissuaded. She did it to defy your grandmother, to throw off her Gaelic roots and to find herself a place in this new Ulster.’

The woman I was looking at was an Irishwoman in every part of her being. ‘I think she is wasted with him.’

‘A pearl before swine,’ he murmured, and then he looked at me, a light in his eyes that I had never seen there before. ‘She told me once that she wanted to escape, as your mother had done. But I think your father was a better man than Edward Blackstone, and that your mother chose a better path. Deirdre would have done well to have fallen in with Maeve’s plan that she marry Cormac.’

When I looked again at the man she had refused, and thought of him she had chosen, I realised that my cousin’s abhorrence of our grandmother’s world must be great indeed.

As Andrew was showing himself more inclined to conversation than he had ever done before, I thought I would try my luck a little further. ‘Why will Sean not defy Maeve in the same way? It is evident that he does not love Roisin O’Neill.’

He squatted down on his haunches and regarded me as one would an inquisitive child.

‘You really do not understand these people yet, do you? But Sean does, for all his careless manner, he knows what is expected of him. Roisin is an O’Neill, and her father, by conforming to English law, has held on to some of the old O’Neill lands. With your grandfather’s money now coming to Sean, and trading on the FitzGarretts’ good standing with the English administration, they will buy into more lands. Sean will take his FitzGarrett name and his FitzGarrett money and dazzle the English with them. He will be given some of the old O’Neill lands in return, he will promise to nurture his tenants in loyalty to the Crown. The English will think themselves well served in this bargain.’

‘And will they be?’ He did not answer me at first. I persisted. ‘Will they be well served?’

He considered a moment and spoke slowly. ‘About as well served as a coop of chickens by a starving fox.’

I looked at Murchadh O’Neill and his sons. They might have kept their peace and kept their lands for twenty years, but everything in their bearing, their appearance and their speech told they were Irishmen, through and through. As Roisin’s brother called to the players for a livelier air, I suspected they would not dance to the English tune much longer.

Andrew got up. ‘I am needed downstairs,’ he said. ‘You should forget what we have spoken about tonight. And take care you do not move into the light; I thought I saw you once.’

As he was going down the steps from the gallery, I heard a shout from somewhere outside. Few in the hall appeared to notice it. After a moment it came again, and then a third time. Andrew had heard it too, and started towards the ground floor, taking the steps two at a time. It was a few minutes before he returned, his face set and determined. He went directly to Sean, whose expression darkened as he listened. Then they went to Maeve. Whatever message they brought had only a slight effect on my grandmother’s countenance, the briefest flicker of something – fear, surprise – then a deepening of its habitual resolution. She said a brief word to Andrew and took up her seat once more at the centre of the table. He hesitated a moment, but it was clear that Maeve was not going to give her order twice, and he went to do her bidding. After standing a moment in a kind of shock, Sean began to speak urgently to her. Maeve rewarded him with a few words only and continued to gaze straight ahead, a picture of composure. With a great reluctance, Sean took up his seat beside her once more. Both now watched the head of the stairs, waiting.

I too turned my eyes towards the stair head, wishing Andrew Boyd was still by me to tell me who the new arrival was. The man he led into the hall was like no one I had ever seen; he was a figure from an earlier age, from the age of the heroes. His garments were long, his mantle reaching almost to the floor; his tunic was gathered at the waist by a strong belt with silver buckle, and ended just above the knee, its sleeves wide and long, and bordered with threads of blue and gold. His long silver hair hung loose. His beard, like his eyebrows, was not silver, but dark, and his skin was that of a man not yet thirty-five. A silver bangle was at his wrist, and in his hand he held a long staff, tipped with a carved head. The room fell to complete silence as he walked to the head of it and came to rest in front of Maeve, who stood up and bowed her head slightly towards him.

‘You do honour to this house and to my husband’s name. Be welcome as an honoured guest.’ She indicated the seat to her right, which Sean at once vacated. No one in the room moved until the stranger sat down and was given wine. I could see, but not hear, much low whispering taking place amongst individuals and small groups. Food was brought to the newcomer – he was not left to help himself from the platters on the table as everyone else – even Maeve and Murchadh – had been. Sean stood behind our grandmother, never taking his eyes off the newcomer. The harper was called back to his instrument, and gentle airs soon began to rise from his strings, a contrast with the lively jig that had been taken up only a few moments ago and that had been so suddenly stilled. The stranger ate and drank his fill as muted conversations rose and died around the room. No one at the upper table spoke, but all watched or cast glances they thought unseen at the newcomer. Maeve had lost none of her composure, but Deirdre was pale, as pale as death. There was not one of the O’Neill men in the room who did not have his hand on the hilt of his dagger. I felt my own breathing come deeper and harder, for in this place there was a reckoning coming, and it would be soon.

At last the stranger stopped eating and had had his fill of wine. He closed his eyes, pressed clenched fists to the table and took a deep breath before standing up. The harper fell silent and even the movement of the servants in the hall stopped. It was only when he began to speak that I realised at last who he was: Finn O’Rahilly, the poet who had placed my family under the curse that had brought me here. My grandmother’s resolve was more than I would have believed even her to be capable of: she showed no trace of fear, but I could only guess at what turmoil the sight again of this man must have caused her. His words rolled through the house like a quiet thunder.

Hearken to me, you band of the O’Neill;

Hearken to me and hear your fate,

You who have betrayed Ireland and now think to enjoy her favour,

The hour is fast approaching.

It has come to pass, Maeve O’Neill, as it was foretold:

The Englishman is dead; do not pretend ignorance at the cause.

His leaving does not cleanse your guilt;

In English whoredom you have lived and so shall you die.

The daughters of this house have traipsed wanton in your wake,

They have their reward:

Grainne lies dead, at the ocean’s depths, claimed by the seagod Manannan

For her treachery to Erin.

Fickle Deirdre, dead already in her heart,

Will share her barren fate,

For no child shall she bear

To claim her English gold.

The line of the O’Neills has abandoned Ireland,

Your honour gone with Phelim and the earls.

Think not your grandson can restore your fortunes,

A harder path he has taken over tainted ground.

You think to make a union with the line of the Rose,

But the Rose will wither,

And bear no bud,

Its blossom poisoned by a bastard child.

And you, Murchadh O’Neill,

Who kept to your fold when the wolf devoured your brothers,

Do not think to redeem your honour with the Irish here,

For Shame is all your bounty at this table.

Now the poet turned and spoke directly to my grandmother, who sat aghast, her hands gripping the table.

I have spoken and you will heed my words,

For all these things will come to pass.

Your grandson will soon lie with his fathers,

In the cold chambers of the dead,

And your line will be no more.

Cormac O’Neill leapt from his seat, his knife in his hand, but was caught and held by his father and his arms bound behind him in Eachan’s firm grip. Finn O’Rahilly left the place unmolested, and nothing was heard save a thin, rising wailing of a woman, joined soon by others as the wake for my grandfather truly began.

Only the dead slept in Carrickfergus that night. An endless eerie wailing of women, the keening, echoed through the house and the tolling hours of darkness. I felt myself the inhabitant of some pagan nightmare. Within half an hour of the departure of Finn O’Rahilly everyone who was not related to my family by blood had gone. I began to make my way to the balcony steps. As I did so, Andrew looked up. For a second, his face froze, and then he made the smallest movement of his head. The muscles in his face and neck tightened, and he formed his lips into a silent ‘No’ that brooked no misapprehension. I slunk back into the shadows, into my secret place.

Soon, he had appeared beside me. ‘You were about to do something very foolish.’

‘There are none left in the house that are not friends or family.’

He shook his head almost wonderingly at me.

‘Did you understand any of what the poet said?’

I nodded. ‘Most of it, I think.’

‘Then you need to understand that behind the face of every friend in this house may be the face of a foe. These people play a long game: they have been playing it since before you were born, or your mother either. I would not trust one of them with my horse, never mind my life. I advise you to adopt similar caution.’ He turned back down the steps. ‘Come with me; your grandmother is asking for you.’

As we approached my grandmother’s room, I discerned the sound of raised voices intermingled with the weeping of women from other places in the house. Eachan opened the door to us. Inside it was much more brightly lit than on the night of my grandfather’s death. Deirdre sat on a footstool by the fire, crouched over the embers as if she would never get warm, and Sean and Maeve were on their feet in the middle of the room. Sean was in a fury. ‘He has no knowledge of the country or the people. How should he begin to discover what we wish to know? Send me and I will soon bring you an answer, on the end of my sword if need be.’

Maeve remained calm. ‘You cannot go; I will not permit it. Too much rests on you. You have been cursed, to the risk of your life. You will stay here, until the curse is lifted.’

He shook his head in frustration and spoke with near contempt. ‘Curse! The man has been paid to do this!’

‘The poets have always been paid,’ she said calmly. ‘They have never been the less honoured for that.’

‘Finn O’Rahilly is the dregs of the poets. He will take his coin from whoever will pay him. He has no honour. You can lift the curse tomorrow; you can lift it now. Tell everyone of Alexander, tell them what nonsense this charlatan speaks. And then let me find who it is that has set him up to this …’

Her face was grey with anger now. ‘What do you know of the poets? “Dregs”? He sat as a boy at the feet of Mac an Bhaird himself! He might have accomplished many things; all you see is what he has been reduced to. Lift the curse? He has made it and only he can lift it. And I will send Alexander to him, to show himself, and to show the curse is ill-founded.’

‘Please, Grandmother…’

Maeve turned with venom upon her granddaughter. ‘You dare to speak? What is this to you? You have turned your back on this family. I have only allowed you into my house because your brother insisted upon it!’

Deirdre stood up now and showed herself the equal of the old woman. ‘You could not have stopped me. He was my grandfather. There are things I know that you would not wish to have known. You could not have stopped me coming here now.’

Maeve had opened her mouth to speak, but something in my cousin’s words silenced her. She looked at Deirdre with something approaching hatred.

Sean took a step towards his sister. ‘Deirdre, there are other forces at work here. O’Rahilly has been put up to this. I will …’

‘I will go to him,’ I interjected. ‘Just tell me where to go.’

Only now did any of them notice me. Sean opened his mouth to remonstrate, but my grandmother held up her hand.
‘You have had your say. Let your cousin speak.’

I spoke directly to Maeve. ‘I will go to this man and tell him he is wrong. I will tell him that my mother did not drown, but lived to bear me. Let him make what protest he likes then – his “curse” can have no validity. And when that pretence is stripped from him, he may be better induced to reveal who is behind this.’

Deirdre came over to me and took my hands in hers.

‘Alexander, you have only just come back to us. We have so much to put right, we three. You do not understand the risk you will be placing yourself in. Sean, who knows this country so well, was very nearly murdered by an assailant in the darkness. His life is still threatened, endangered. How could you, a scholar and a stranger here, hope to go where you must go,do what you must do, and return to us in safety? Do not risk your life on this fool’s errand.’