Ireland

  “Madam, I think the king misses you at table.”

  “I’ll go there now.”

  “Madam, I’m happy to escort you to your rightful place at the king’s side.”

  Blacksmiths are famed for their strength rather than their social delicacy. Dermot landed heavily everywhere, with his tongue as well as his feet. When the queen fell in step with him, a small, blond figure at the side of this big, black-bearded man, the timber floors of the palace corridor shook under Dermot’s boots. His next remarks had the same heavy touch.

  “Madam, a woman has arrived, and all Ulster’s talking about her. Your husband invited her. And if you want my opinion, the king should never have asked her to come here and when you see her, you’ll know what I mean.”

  Small people need to possess significant gifts, especially when faced with large people. In this matter, the queen had many—one of which was the gift of ice. Without breaking her stride, without saying a word, she let Dermot know that he had overstepped the mark. When the queen assumed this demeanor, it was as though a halo of frost surrounded her head and face, like a ring around the moon. Yet Dermot was too indelicate and, in any case, too far above her physically to feel this cold force, and so he sailed on blissfully beside his queen.

  But the servants along the corridors saw the icy halo and thought that the night might prove even more interesting. They were right, though not in the way they imagined.

  One entrance from the domestic quarters to the banquet hall led from the corridor through a heavy curtain. Here the king and queen had a special, private alcove, a breathing space, in which they might pause for a moment before facing their guests. Then they went through another great curtain and emerged immediately behind their two chairs at the head of the table.

  The blacksmith and the queen came to this curtain. Now Dermot had a dilemma; he wanted to be back among the banqueters when the queen first saw Dana. So he counseled the queen to take a little rest between the curtains. She, still furious with him, never said a word.

  The moment she disappeared behind those curtains, Dermot ran like the wind. His shiny curls shaking and shifting on his head like a little nest of black snakes, that enormous man raced like a great, hairy hound down the long palace corridor. The rush lights on the wall flickered as he passed, and it was said the following day that one of them actually blew out in the wind of his wake.

  At the door of the hall, he slipped, didn’t quite fall, hit the edge of a table, knocked over someone’s goblet, and clattered his way noisily to his chair near the king. Nobody around paid any attention to this—they were used to the noise of Dermot crashing through life. Dana, however, started a little, turned her head to see where the clatter came from, and looked straight into Dermot’s face.

  Everybody there that night remembered the scene all their lives. The tables had been decorated with great bunches of flowers and greenery. In front of each guest stood a drinking vessel of bright silver. Women wore little gold balls as decorations in their long, silken hair, or had wide golden combs pinning up their braids and tresses. Their gowns hung from shoulder to ankle in brilliant yellows or deep greens or soft reds.

  As for the men, they wore tunics of darker colors, deep blue or brown, sometimes tied with gold pins. Some wore the torc at their necks; this ornament, hammered from a lump of gold into an almost closed circle, protected its wearer from the blow of a blade on the back of the neck. Tonight the torc was for decoration; none of the men had a sword—in King Conor’s court, weapons couldn’t be worn at table. He believed that people should eat without fear, and he also knew that, with drink taken, some of the champions could get a bit flighty.

  That was the gowned and decorated scene that greeted the queen as at last she slipped from behind the curtain into the hall. Then she saw the king—gazing at this tall woman, whose eyes were as deep dark as that bitter little berry we call the sloe. And now the people all over the room at last saw what they were waiting for—the small, pretty blond woman in the crimson gown, their queen, a thin gold band around her forehead. And she was looking straight at Dana.

  We must understand the nature of an Irish monarchy at that time. In all the province of Ulster, the king and queen ruled no more than a few thousand people. Parts of the region had yet to be cleared of bears, forests, and wolves. Roads didn’t exist.

  All communication was personal. Everything went from the mouth of one person to the ear of another. Where you have that kind of communication, information is given and received with great intensity. The gossip about the king and Dana had now been a powerful and important part of Ulster life for a matter of weeks.

  The queen walked forward to her husband’s side, prepared for the greeting that all Ulster longed to see and hear about. Her name was Sorcha—the English call it Sarah—and she grew up in a family related to the king of Leinster. Her mother died when she was six. The father never remarried, and he raised Sorcha and her younger sister with the help of servants. A distant man, he never gave his older daughter the attention she wanted and, indeed, deserved. The younger daughter had a sweeter nature, and the bereaved father felt it easier to deal with her. This made the older girl feel she had to fight for everything. The one good thing about the characteristic was the fact that she learned to fight subtly.

  As she did now. She knew what had been tripping off the wagging tongues. And now she saw for herself that this woman, Dana, fell not one inch short of all that Queen Sorcha had heard—stately, elegant, calm, and exquisite. Being shrewd, the queen immediately took stock of the ingredients she had to mix so that her cake didn’t burn, so to speak.

  She couldn’t repudiate the newcomer. That would look cheap, jealous, and premature. Dana had done nothing wrong; she had merely—and quite properly—replied to an invitation from a monarch. Nor could Sorcha show anything but support for her husband, the king; otherwise, she’d undermine him and give him the right to rebuke or isolate her. Furthermore, she was the hostess of the evening, and in Ireland the laws of hospitality have always been sacred; no matter who the guest or what their behavior, the welcome must be gracious. There had to be a solution—and Sorcha found one.

  Her eye fell on Dermot the blacksmith. He’s a hasty man, she thought, sometimes incautious—but he’s also handsome, and even magnificent; and of course he’s very strong, muscles on his arms like small ropes. Sorcha also knew that few people spoke to Dermot on account of his abruptness. She reckoned, though, that he wasn’t rude but shy. Which all meant that Dermot was probably lonely. And she was right. Nobody asked for his company. The farmers and their servants feared him. And the champions excluded all but other champions from their group.

  The queen knew that this made Dermot feel bitter. All fine for them, he felt, to draw on his best skills for making their weapons or crafting a beautiful hilt on a sword—but not as much as a goblet of mead did they ever offer him, not as much as a word of praise, not a jot of social respect.

  She then turned her thoughts to the worst possibility of all: Will this beautiful stranger, she asked herself, gain greater influence with my husband the king than I already have? Followed by this thought: And if I give her a moment’s foothold, doesn’t that mean the battle is joined—and I mightn’t win?

  In short, she reasoned that if she didn’t take action there and then, she might as well give up.

  There’s an old Irish saying: If you don’t use your power, it will leave you for someone who will. Queen Sorcha had considerable powers, and now she drew on one of them. A rule in ancient Ireland decreed that a man without a wife and a woman without a husband could have a marriage arranged between them by a king or a queen. Sorcha stepped forward, smiled the warmest of welcomes, and accepted Dana’s outstretched hand; and she nodded graciously at Dana’s curtsy.

  Then she looked at her husband, Conor, and understood at last why he had made this appointment. She had been out riding with him in his chariot earlier that week, and now the answer came to her: this appointment couldn’t be
described as something the king did—it was a reflection of who the king was. He needed a woman for each side of his nature—the queen his white horse, Dana his black horse. That was why her husband had extended this invitation without discussing it with her, his beloved wife.

  When women feel danger, they look to strong men. Privately, the queen always thought her husband was a little weak. So she beckoned to the strong man gazing anxiously at her across the tables—the blacksmith Dermot.

  He came over. The queen took his hand and placed it on Dana’s.

  “I propose,” said Queen Sorcha, “that you, Dermot, my husband’s blacksmith”—she looked into his eyes, then turned to Dana—“take you, Dana, my husband’s chancellor, to wife.”

  Well, well, well! The gasp of wonder nearly blew out all the candles. Such a solution! The courtiers of Ulster looked at each other and laughed. The king would have his dark horse and his white horse—but only after a fashion. Dermot would certainly fall in love with Dana, because Dermot would have fallen in love with any half-decent woman who gave him a kind glance—and he’d kill any man who tried to take her away. And what better arrangement than to have the new chancellor married to the royal blacksmith, who would always be devoted to his queen and who would therefore advise her if anything ever came amiss in the king’s behavior—financial or otherwise?

  Dana, who was no fool, curtsied again to the queen. Yes, she could work as the king’s chancellor; for her, it meant protection, status, and a new husband. Looking at Dermot, she thought he was probably a slightly foolish man, but she’d bend him into a good shape.

  And thus the queen, who already took responsibility for the spiritual health of her husband’s kingdom, now got control over the court and finances. Above all, she tightened her grip on the man she loved, her own husband, the head of her household and her people.

  But wait! The king felt a toothache coming on. He saw what had happened; he knew his wife had trumped him, and this wasn’t the first time. What could he do? To accept it meekly would make him look a little silly, and he was too vain a man for that.

  Conor had flashes of brilliance, including gifts of anticipation. He guessed that the queen must have heard the gossip, and he’d been wondering how she’d react when Dana arrived. And he figured that she’d started making her own plans in plenty of time. He’d observed, for example, that when Dermot came over one morning with a new gold buckle, the queen asked him several questions—Who prepares your food? What do you do about sewing? And so on. Conor put two and two together, and he made four—the queen had known in advance about Dana the beautiful young widow, and always intended to match her with Dermot.

  But Conor wanted to come out on top, and he had made his own arrangements. Behind him every night at dinner hung a large bronze gong, and carved on it was the great emblem of Ulster, the red hand. Conor picked up his eating dagger and with the hilt struck the gong three times. Everybody thought he meant to make a speech; everybody was wrong.

  For the second time that night the great wooden doors opened, and down the wide aisle, two grooms backed the king’s chariot, with the black horse and the white horse yoked to it. They stopped a few feet from the king’s chair; the horses pranced a little, snorted, tossed their heads. Dana looked on, mystified, her hand in Dermot’s huge paw; the queen guessed and smiled to herself.

  King Conor of Ulster jumped into his chariot and galloped out of the banqueting hall, driving his black horse and his white horse. Long after he was out of sight the banqueters could hear the horses snorting with effort and the harnesses rattling and the hooves pounding—and then there was silence.

  Did the chariot take off into the night sky and land him on the moon? Well, it had about as much chance of doing that as Conor ever had of outwitting his wife. So that’s the end of this moral tale—of a king who thought he could outsmart his queen, who thought he could defy all the known wisdom about two women living easily under one roof, and in the end found that the best he could do was control his two horses, one black and one white.

  The Storyteller clapped his hands three slow times—his tale had ended. A neighbor’s infant stirred in her mother’s arms but didn’t quite wake. The adults rose from their chairs and rubbed their eyes. Little by little, everybody in the room returned to the year 1951. Someone opened the door, and a billow of November fog blew in like a giant’s breath. Ronan gazed into the flames of the fire and sighed because the tale was over.

  The neighbors said good night.

  “How d’you remember it all?”

  “It was like being back in that time.”

  And, “Will you be here again tomorrow night?”

  “I hope so. I’m at my host’s pleasure.”

  Soon the last few steps faded from the stone-flagged yard.

  The Storyteller sauntered to the door after them; John stopped him, handed him a full glass of whiskey. Ronan jumped from the bench, ran over to his father, and tugged his hand.

  “Dad!” He danced from foot to foot. “Dad!”

  John bent down. “Dad, listen! This is the best thing ever, ever happened.” He squeezed his eyes almost shut and shifted his feet again.

  The Storyteller patted Ronan’s head and went quickly out into the night.

  But Alison O’Mara stood waiting by the table; her eyes had hooded, and her high cheeks flushed red. She was coughing her “annoyed cough,” and Ronan heard her saying that she didn’t at all like the direction that story took. “Who was he getting at?”

  Kate said, “But you’re being ridiculous,” and Ronan caught some of his mother’s words—“don’t want him hovering around here too long” and “bad influence.” Earlier in the day she had asked in her sharp voice whether the Storyteller would go to mass tomorrow morning.

  Kate snorted—“The man’s probably still a pagan”—and John said, “Some people have their own gods.”

  Alison looked as though she relished neither remark.

  Ronan climbed the stairs, dimly aware of a rising problem. Worried that something might somehow be his fault, he curled up in bed and arranged the pillows so that the arguing voices blurred.

  His father arrived.

  “Well, champion?”

  Ronan said, “Wasn’t it grand? D’you think he’ll stay?”

  His father tucked in the blankets. “It’s cold outside.”

  “Dad, are you able to decide what you dream about?”

  John said, “Only when I’m awake. Are you?”

  Ronan thought for a moment. “I think so.”

  “And you’ll dream of—what? Horses?”

  John blew out the candle.

  Next morning they drove to Sunday mass in the black Ford, John’s pride and joy. Kate held Ronan’s hand; Alison stared ahead. At their pew she looked all around the congregation, twice. From the menace in her glance, Ronan somehow knew she was searching—and in vain—for the Storyteller.

  After mass, neighbors crowded round, and many asked whether they might invite themselves that night. John welcomed all, and a young farmer handed Kate a bag of apples, which caused much teasing in the car on the way home.

  Breakfast over, Alison folded her hands; she had been rigid all morning.

  “It’s time,” she said to John; and to Ronan, “Go and ask the gentleman to join us.”

  The Storyteller had long surfaced; he had eaten breakfast while the O’Maras were at mass. Ronan entered the barn and looked up to the loft.

  “Sir?”

  The old man came to the top of the ladder.

  “I suppose you’re talking to me.” He smiled down and smoothed his black coat.

  “My mother wants to see you, sir.”

  He came spryly down, snapped to attention, and saluted like a soldier.

  “Lead on, Macduff!”

  Ronan looked at him, alone with the magical man for the first time.

  “Thanks for your stories,” he said with the bravery such an effort costs a child.

  “I appreciate your rema
rk,” said the Storyteller, as though speaking to an adult. “What did you like best so far?” and he stooped to listen, folding his hands.

  “I liked Dermot the blacksmith.”

  “And Newgrange?”

  Ronan said, “Oh. That was the best. My aunt said we’re going there this summer.”

  “Good, good,” said the Storyteller, in no hurry to break off this conversation. “And would you like to learn how to tell stories?”

  Ronan felt his neck go cold.

  “I’d—love that, sir. A lot. How would we do it?”

  “This is what we’d do.” He rubbed his hands together. “First of all, we’d pick a time, a moment in Ireland’s history. It might be about a man who owned a wolfhound, or a woman who lived on an island in a river, or a boy who kept a secret horse. Whoever it was, the story would be about that person—because people always want to know about other people, that’s the heart of all stories.”

  “Ronan!”

  They started in fright at Alison’s call, and Ronan led the Storyteller across the yard. Despite his mother’s tone, he felt comfort and irresistible peace walking in the old man’s shadow.

  “We’ll talk again, you and me,” the man whispered.

  Alison had left the door wide open. The Storyteller spoke his greeting. “God save all here!”

  “And you,” said John O’Mara.

  “God’s name warrants more reverence,” Alison said, attacking immediately.

  “Oh!” said Kate.

  The Storyteller opened his mouth to draw breath. Ronan winced and blinked—as he always did before tears. He recognized this force too well.

  “I’ve something to say to you,” Alison continued. “In this house, stories must have a good moral code? D’you understand?”

  The Storyteller had taken off his hat in respect, and he held it in his hands like a supplicant. His fingers shook as he pleated the brim.

  “Ma’am—”

  “You know what I’m talking about. Why did you come here?”