Part 12

“Diarmod!” and her voice was a whisper of wonder, but her face held liking, and swift joy, and hope. It was plain to see that cold sanctuary was none of her choosing. “Diarmod, O some time Ard-Ri of Erinn!”

Fire of pride flamed in his eyes at her words. She had voiced his secret hope that the cloak of Leinster like the mantle of Brighde’s legend might gain magic growth to cover all the land.

“The prayer of you for that day, O Regina,” he said, and lifted the cup to drain the leavings of her draught. “By the Elements, I wish for you all you seek in life!” The emptied cup of silver he put in the hand of Kauth and stepped a pace aside as Duighal the prior spurred his steed forward, and spoke to Dervail without glance of the eye. He had known Dyveke, her mother, in her day of beauty, and had seen the christening of the wolfs whelp—also he knew the moods and loves of Diarmod of Leinster. Kindling for the pit of hell were both of them!

“Veil your face from the eyes of man, girl, and ride forward with your maid,” he said.

Dervail lifted her hand to the veil, but lifted proudly her head as well, and cast one slow look over the awed group. Between the church and the king none dared speak, and Maureen grasped the arm of Donough in fear.

The eyes of Dervail rested last on Leinster and her eyes spoke for her as she drew the veil and shrouded the beauty of her face.

Two by two the riders passed the outer portal, and yet Diarmod stood, stroking his beard, and staring after the blue cloak and the shrouding veil.

“What is your will for the day’s hunt?” asked Donough at last, and Leinster swung on him as if to find vent to his humor.

“What joy in the hunting of deer when Paradise opens portals a man may not enter?” he demanded. “You played well to get my promise before my eyes had looked on her! You played well, Donough!”

“But the promise was a good one, and you will live to give thanks for the making of it.”

“It will not be this day you will hear such thanks,” spoke Diarmod shortly. “The beauty of her is beyond belief, and it is not her beauty alone! There is something—something—”

“True, there is,” said Donough, “there is the beauty of Dyveke, her mother, but she is stronger than Dyveke, for she has the charm of the man named The Dark, because he was made Nameless, and those that were loving him could never see charm in another man. My sister, Ethnea, was one. Her life wore itself out making prayers because he died unshriven, and there is Kieran Dall, devoted even to vengeance if need be!”

“Oh, you make it strong, and I have given my word,” said Diarmod, “but it is well it was you and the church I promised. Had it been one man claiming her—Murtagh of Meath or _any_ man—I would be gathering a troop now to bear her back, and the monks with their prophecies might carry their runes to hell.”

Two years Ardan lived between the castle of Diarmod and the Culdees of Saint Hilary’s cloisters, and then, with Diarmod’s sanction and help, he joined a group of pilgrims for Tours, and thence on to see the glories of Rome.

Five years of books and songs and travel he had, but ever close was the craft of carving, and Diarmod’s attempt to make him a bard, and a bard only, had not been a success.

“Let me work out my poems in stone if I can find them that way,” he said. “Some need a pen, some need a brush and color for the telling, and surely the stone has its own hymns—and it endures.”

“It is not a bad thought,” agreed Diarmod. “If the ancient books had been carved of stone tablets the Dane raiders would not have carried away so many of the treasures. And in our own day O’Ruarc of Breffni is laying tribute on many an abbey of the north. The Culdees had best save their parchment and use the chisel.”

“I saw him when I was a child at the ford, O’Ruarc,” said Ardan, “and had bad dreams. He had only one eye, and an evil look. The monks told tales of him, but they say his castle at Lough Gilla has the riches of an emperor.”

“Well may be! His men hold the fords of the north for heavy toll, and his robbings give him jewels enough to cover the many women he steals.”

“As I mind him, he would get them no other way—none would go to Lough Gilla for love of him.”

“Aye! But he has his ruler, strong as he is,” said a monk of the north. “I heard of her in Armagh from a wandering bard who boasted that he traveled north in poverty, but by her grace he wanted for naught on his way back. Some message was his to bear for her, and he was fair delighted by the rare beauty of her. Songs he was making of her milk skin, and her gold of hair, until men fell in love to listen.”

“Where found Breffni such pleasing treasure?” asked Diarmod.

“I know not—God knows! There are tales told. One is that a boat of the Danes was wrecked on the north coast, and she was of that wreckage. Another is that he got her when he sacked the abbey of Clonard, and the new house of the nuns there. That may be. Her name is Regina, and that is no name of a Danish maid—it is christian name for a queen.”

“Regina!”

Diarmod whispered the name under his breath and stared at the guest of the north, but Ardan cried out in horror of the heart, and turned to Diarmod.

“My comrade maid, the white-winged one of sanctuary! Is there word from King Donough as to that?”

“There is no word,” and the face of Diarmod had brooding blackness on it. “To me he would not be sending that word. He would go first to Murtagh of Meath, and abide by his word, and the word of Duighal the prior. There is no love in their hearts for Breffni. It may be they care not for her taking, if she is taken far enough north—and the mountains and the bogs between!”

After that, Diarmod said no more, but left guests and tale tellers and singers to have their own cheer of the night—and went to his own chamber. There he sent for Ardan.

“You have art enough to pass for a wandering singer, a cunning worker in gold, or a carver of stone,” he said. “O’Ruarc adds to his craftsmen as he can, to change treasures of the abbeys into gauds for his women. Go you north into Breffni, and learn the truth of it. Here is gold for your faring. Guard your own life for me, but venture all else to bring me word.”

“And if Donough is on their track?”

“No word to Donough of this matter! If she is safe again in his castle, or safe in the convent, come you back to me in silence. If the tale be true, find her and bring me word of her need.”

So it happened that Ardan had crossed the Shannon at Ath-Luin when the wandering bard from the north found the way to the castle of Diarmod, and craving audience, knelt and offered a ring.

“This from her who calls herself Regina,” he said. “The dower given to the convent for her has gone to Lough Gilla Castle with many other things. The ring of the south should not be among the plunder of the enemy, and for that reason it is sent back.”

“Is that the only word?”

“All that was given me.”

“Is she—in prison?”

“She is the wife of Tiernan O’Ruarc, King of Breffni; she rules all within the castle by his love of her.”

“He has then taken a nun to wife against all rule of Rome? Has there been naught of protest from King Murtagh of Meath?”

“Nay, O Diarmod, no vows had been laid upon her. She was free to be sought in marriage to any man, and O’Ruarc was the man.”

That rankling thought was not good company for the man who had let her ride out from O’Carroll’s castle into the new prison, and the man who got her was his enemy!

Two days Diarmod fumed over the thought, and then rode with his spearmen and bowmen to council with King Donough.

“Is it in silence the men of Meath and men of Orielle let the plunderer from Lough Gilla strip the holy churches and carry away the cloistered women?” he asked. And Donough walked with him apart that Queen Maureen might not hear.

“As to Clonard Abbey, it is true, and we should stand against this, and send a spokesman to O’Ruarc; but as to women there was only one, and that one is his wife. There is no profit in going against that. She is Queen of Breffni and content enough. Since it is so, what call for speech of it among the people? It is well her own name is lost from her in those changes. To ride to her rescue would but bring her back for other princes to fight for. She is too fair for peace to be her dower in any land. Let that hawk of the north keep her safe at his own nest.”

“She has brought him lucky fortune, since he sweeps all of church wealths into his chests and goes scatheless, and it was a different prophecy of her told by Kieran Dall.”

“We are born, but not dead yet,” said Donough, “and it is ill profit to think of her now—and her a strong king’s wife.”

“Yet I am thinking of her, O’Carroll, and the promise holds me no more. From your castle I would not take her, nor from the church, but she is with neither. She and the other stolen things are now free to who can take them.”

“No man will fight for her when her name is known, and Turlough O’Conor will not be the man to let Breffni be robbed of a covenanted woman. Murtagh of Meath knows it, and cares not how soon she brings ruin to O’Ruarc—if bring it she does—_he_ is not of the line forbidden to her blood.”

Diarmod glowered darkly and showed contempt.

“The short sight was on me when I let her ride away, and foolish was the tale of Kieran Dall. Strong houses have ere this taken mates from the Lochlannach. Why should a ban, forgotten for a thousand years, be uncovered for her house or for mine? My own thought is that her dower was the dower of a king’s daughter, and a gain for any holy group of the veil. Without doubt she was a chance child of Murtagh of Meath, and the tale of Kieran Dall was made to fit. I have had no other word concerning Cuan the Dark; it is some old world tale of druid power.”

“If ban, or banishment and un-naming is pronounced in secret against a man, it is more than death against him, Diarmod. There is no record left that he was ever living. The father of Dyveke had youth with him—he was the firstling of a devout house, and was meant for holy life—there may be many who think he is living out his years in work and prayer among foreign pagans. As a man he has left no name and no record. Now that O’Ruarc has the maid, and caused question of the source of the dowry, there is but one thing to do in the house of Machflain. She is called ward of the King of Meath, and daughter as well. It is a rich cloak to cover her white shoulders and cover a buried and bitter scandal for the house of the man called ‘The Dark.’ It will never be safe to lift that cloak, Diarmod; too many pious hands have helped weave it, and work over each rough seam with careful broiderings. Hidden forever now is father or mother of hers. She is no longer Dervail of the Shadow; she is daughter of Murtagh Machflain, King of Meath, and is wife to Tiernan, Prince of Breffni. The whole of Erinn is between your shore and hers, and no cause for your thoughts to cross over.”

“Yet are they crossing over,” said Diarmod, and looked at a ring of gold. “There is no joy for her there in Breffni, and her own thoughts are crossing the wide land.”

Donough O’Carroll was not easy in his mind after that speech. He had remembrance of the words of Malachi, son of Murtagh of Meath. He also was afire because of her beauty, and the little love he had for Tiernan O’Ruarc. He also could see no reason why the maid, and her dowry as well, should go to a prince so well hated. For the truth of her was not told by Murtagh of Meath to any of his household. Duighal and certain monks knew it, and among them they hoped to hide the fact that the child of Dyveke lived though she should have died. Some fear of Dyveke’s curse was on Murtagh, and for that reason the maid was dowered for sanctity as had been his own daughter, with little thought that his enemy of the north would sweep hawklike on Clonard and bear away the troublous maid with all her mysterious wealth.

“Hark to me, Diarmod,” said O’Carroll in all kindness. “Murtagh Machflain is well pleased that she is taken to the far end of Erinn by a man—any man—strong enough to hold her there! You are not the only man she makes restless by a look, or a word, or it may be a pledge! If it is adventure you hunger for, forget her beauty and seek victories in the west where the men of O’Brian are ever snapping like wolves across borders of Connaught or Leinster; I am with you to join shields with Turlough O’Conor against them at any dawn you name to set forth. Make yourself strong with allies ere you venture a hosting into Breffni. With care you can be chief king of Leith Mogh.”

“You have the King of Meath and all the bishops on your side,” agreed Diarmod of Leinster, “yet if I was a wifeless man, I would make her a queen of more than Breffni. Tiernan of Breffni will yet pay with his life for having her before me!”

Diarmod had never forgotten her words of admiring when she greeted him as “Ard-Ri of Erinn.” It was but a tiny seed let fall from her rose-leaf lips, yet had it grown in his mind, nourished by the records and legends of his own royal line until he saw no head of Erinn more fit for crowning! This was a dear secret thought of his, spoken of to none, yet when he heard Turlough O’Conor called “King with opposition” there came flashing back to him the music of her words, and with them a long look ahead to the days when Turlough was gone! To be chief king of Leith Mogh—all southern Erinn—would seem to Donough a natural ambition. But to dream of the crown of High King over all would put fear in the mind of every friend who was loyal to Leinster. No thought of it had come to any heart but his own—and hers!

That was the hold she had over his dreams; she had voiced the secret thing much desired. And in his dreams she became a part of that which was desired—the beautiful part!

Yet Diarmod of Leinster did consider the words of King Donough, and did join shields with Turlough against the men of O’Brian to the west, and did make himself allies for the days when need would be his, for that was his way. The strong family of Mor, his wife, he had in bonds to him, and strong churchmen he had; if ever he ventured to follow his dream he meant to have help of Rome through princely clerics.

He took credit to himself for joining shields to Turlough the king at that time. His mind was to go north, but the counsel of Donough brought him thought and remembrance that Murtagh of Meath was no strong ally even if he should make choice of the road of spears into Breffni for the maid of beauty. Though reinstated in his holdings, no one was forgetting that, for the blow to Gelasius the bishop, Murtagh had suffered for a space the loss of all kingly rights, and the devout and the spiritual fathers held it against him. It was no good time for making bonds with him, even if he and Malachi, his son, had been eager—for Malachi held no great strength of his own. The time must be on another day.

But in all his thoughts of her there was the curious certainty that their own time would come. She was the music singing far in the forest of a fairy rath; she was the veiled maid beyond the lattice; she was ever Argatonel, the silver cloud out beyond the nearer gray! His men of the spears and battle-axes would have had curious thoughts if they had known that the music to which the great Diarmod of dread kept pace on his warhorse was the song of the boy, Ardan, in boyish praise of her beauty.

He had forgotten that song, or thought he had, but in some far corner of his mind it lay sleeping, and the thought of her whiteness in the arms of that red terror of the north wakened it, and gave it music until he heard the feet of his men and the feet of his warhorse marching to it!

And the young maker of the song?

His travels abroad made the wandering northward an easy path. He slept at monasteries, and was known only as ward of “Dall Clairineach,” who had been the scholarly abbot of Ardbreccan. But that name, given the learned O’Cahsadhe, was a key to every door. At Armagh, Ardan was even trusted with messages to other retreats of religious men further along his way, and at one monastery was offered a Saxon slave as gille, and a letter to Tiernan O’Ruarc, prince of Breffni, giving thanks from a fortunate prior to whom he had sent vestments and altar candles!

This lucky chance brought aid to Ardan and much comfort. He had only to say, “A letter from a grateful priest to a gracious prince.” And over mountain or moor the message was given a pleasure path. Near his own domains the O’Ruarc did not plunder or lay waste, and the way to Lough Gilla was an open way when within the Breffni borders.

But the Prince of Breffni was not at home to receive the priest’s letter of thanks. He was gone north to the shrine of Phadraig in Lough Dearg, as was his custom after great hostings. Even his enemies never could say the O’Ruarc shirked pious pilgrimage, or rich gifts of hospitality. The flat top of a great hill above Lough Gilla was seen afar as a landmark and named the “Table of Breffni.” It fitted in well with the giant cromlechs of the ancients to which the Saxon slave made curious circles of respect, and told to Ardan the faith for which the ancient gods had left such monuments. It was different from the faith of the saints by which Ardan had been given instruction, and he chided the slave and made a prayer, and went on between hills touched golden by the carpet of gorse, and touched blue as peat smoke when seen afar along the fair waters of lake and river.

The letter from the cleric opened the portals of Breffni for Ardan, and his own youth and sunshine of face made him welcome alike to steward and warrior. The cleric of the castle was less friendlike, and had searching and priestly questions, and another man in scholar’s robe gave long looks to him, but no question. He was called Duffagan, and had been of the captured at Clonard—a silent student to whom Tiernan gave care of the plundered books, because of his learning in such craft.

No word did Ardan send to Dervail, but with a bard of Breffni he made pact of friendliness, and told him of Erinn’s music in monasteries, and the courts of princes in Gaul and beyond it to the east. An Irish air he had brought back from Rome set to words of Italy, and he sang it to the delight of all in the great hall. After the supper and the songs of olden days, the little harp was given to his hands, and he took his turn in making music, as was the custom and joy among those of the musicians and poets. Young lovers would thus sing their thoughts to the one maid most longed for, and maids and women of the household of Breffni had their pleasure of the evening in that pastime. The castle took to itself neither silence nor added prayer for that Tiernan, the lord of it, had fared north for penitence at the shrine of Phadraig.

It was a gay and very beautiful hall where the music was made, for no stone of the wall but was covered with hangings of rich weavings from the lands foreign, and under foot were many skins of animals, and one of a great white bear was beneath the feet of Dervail where she sat on the throne seat.

At the far end of the hall she sat with her maidens, and the chiefs and ladies of Breffni’s household. Wearily enough she sat there above the others, and brooding she sat in a robe of white, heavy with gold threads and girdled with green ropes of gold-set emeralds from the Kerry hills. Her veil was of white, and fell from a crown of gold and glimmering green jewels. Her chin rested on her hand, and she had a sidelong look for a chief who sat near her, reciting some late glory of her lord’s victories.

Ardan noted it all afar off where he hid himself with the younger singers. The song that came to his mind was of a white bird weighted with golden chains. But in the old Irish tales of chained doves or swans there were ever two birds chained together with golden links—and she was alone. In his heart he was glad it was so. He could not think of her in another way. She was still to him the lone white bird, though a jeweled queen.

But it was not of that he dared sing when the tiny harp was put in his hand, for he was to the others only a chance bearer of a letter, and traveling in no great honor. And she was wife to Prince of Breffni and sat on a throne.

And the thing he sang was the farewell song he had made for her in a far dawn when she had worn a silver-gray veil instead of a queen’s crown. And he had named her silver cloud—Argatonel.

The sun has set at morning tide, Argatonel! The wall between is deep and wide, Argatonel! Above it stars of heaven may rise In witchery, But none so wondrous as your eyes Of mystery. Argatonel—white wings to you! Argatonel—white road to you! O Silver Cloud that wraps the world, My song to you!

He marked the very heart-beat in which she knew the song and the singer, though she did not turn head or glance to where he was, and her attention was given entirely to converse with the chief of Mac Roigh and his lady wife who was an Irish princess out of Alba, where Irish tribes had gone in a far-off time.

But when the song was ended, Dervail turned as if for mere courtesy, and spoke.

“It is a fair, mellow voice, and a new song for us,” she said. “Bid the singer come for speech.”

The steward of the castle brought forward Ardan, and told his name and errand, and showed the letter and spoke.

“I bade him wait the return of our Lord of Breffni, and while he waits we seek to give him fair courtesies, and the usage of a chief’s son.”

“You serve your lord well,” said the queen. “He shall be of our household. Whence come you, strange singer?”

“Late from Rome and other far lands,” said Ardan, his eyes on the golden hem of her robe, and not lifted to her face, for the eyes of the others were looking, and had nought else to do but look.

“Do pilgrims to Rome come back with songs of gallantry to bright eyes?” she asked, and smiled, and the younger maids pressed close to listen.

“A pilgrim sometimes carries the songs, and the memory of eyes, on all the wide circle from the white strand of Erinn to the harbor of return,” said Ardan, and she laughed at that, and bade him to a seat near, and told him he should sing for her again, and he might teach one of the maidens the song of “Argatonel,” for the air was a sweet air, and a plaintive.

Then, having shown him this much of courtesy, her mind in appearance strayed from him to matters of more import, but the youths and maids circled him, and had their pleasure in questions of far lands, and Roderick, son of Turlough, the King of Erinn, was there, and spoke of Rome and the scriptures of the Irish sent eastward to carry both religion and book craft to the Germanic peoples, and their neighbors, the Gauls.

“For that purpose was Erinn the savior of learning for all Europe,” said the Mac Roigh. “In the wars of the Huns and the Northmen the great eastern land was swept bare of scholars, and Greek was lost to the Gallic tribes until our books and our men carried it back again.”

“Strange to hear—that is,” mused Roderick. “As strange as to think that the Gaelic and the Latin we speak and read could be lost to our children in another day.”