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.
Now the poet turned and spoke directly to my grandmother, who sat aghast, her hands gripping the table.
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.
SIX
Conferences in the Night
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.’