Part 14

“With aid from you, and guided by the powers unseen, I have brought here in secret my vow offering,” said Dervail. “That is my pledge—a fair white pledge—not to go backward on the road we are walking. In one year—two years—a thousand men and women will face sunwise about the circle where we alone stand now. You will be the honored priest of divinings, the thousands will give you their strength when their fear is lifted—and lifted it will be if you show me the time and the road for Tara.”

“That will come—and strife will come—and terrors. Great hostings will come, and kings will fall; but you will live through all, and your name—your name—it is a name whispered secretly now, but in days to come there will be shouting of that name—Dervail—Dervail—Dervail!”

His speech was half whispered, and he said her name as if repeating echoes of it afar off. A faint smile was on his lips and his face serene.

For the first time Ardan spoke.

“For what reason is Tara the key to any greatness when Tara itself was cursed by Ruadan the saint, and is deserted ground, and crumbling walls in our day?”

Duffagan did not at once make reply. It was as if he had drawn out of hearing. Then he came back and spoke.

“Tara even in desolation is a word of power. Images of greatness belong in that place—and some mortals see them! Tara is the mid-court of dominion, and the Ard-Ri should face the sunrise from that center. Tara is a symbol, as are these things before me symbols of the heavens and the earthly life. By symbols spirit is caught in the silence and held, breathless, for the union with knowledge. Tara holds a message for the woman or man who would rule Erinn—and the message cannot be carried to another. Each finds there that which his own soul can circle. Dervail has made record that it is the rule desired by her. My task is to study stars, and phases of the moon, and find the safe time for such journey.”

“Will he, my friend, be beside me?” asked Dervail, and Duffagan peered at her in the falling twilight.

“He will not be there. His road touches yours strangely, and a veil between! Is he of your kindred?”

“I have no kindred,” said Ardan.

“I think that is not true,” said Duffagan, “for I see you bear shadows or burdens of kindred.”

“Where do you see these things?”

“I read it in the leaves of your holly when the flame curled them into shapes before burning; if not kindred to Dervail, it is to some mortal close to Dervail.”

“We are going, Duffagan,” she said. “The dark will be coming, and the spies of Tiernan on the road. I come to the sunset of Beltain because of your prayers here, and in other days many will follow me.”

“They will,” he said. “I hear the voices of many calling your name.”

He held his hands out over her head in blessing, and made gesture of the way they should circle the altar and the path of descent. He did not look at them again, and as they passed without the great circle they looked back. He was holding at arms’ length the hoop of the hazel, and looking through it at the faint silver line of the new moon against the dark purple of the western sky.

Dervail drew near to Ardan, and laid her hand on his as if to know a mortal beside her, for red light from the sun long gone reflected itself on a cloud in midheaven and fell on Duffagan. It turned his robe and the stones about him into soft light of flame—and left a strange image.

“It is as if a furnace of fire had opened at his feet, lighting him only, and leaving all the other pillars in cold gray,” said Ardan, as he watched the light fade again.

“Strange signs follow Duffagan, or, does his thought compel them? He has fasted since set of last night’s sun, and will have no feast until tomorrow. All this he does for the craft he follows.”

“His belief is strong as though his birth had been in Phadraig’s day, and not in this,” said Ardan. “It is a strange end to my last day with you, Dervail.”

She pressed his arm and walked beside him into the shadows of the wood.

“Make me a song of this place, Ardan. A song of the old, old days when sharp edges were yet on these great stones, and this hill was saffron and white with the robes of Ancient Faith people.”

“That is far to go for a song, Dervail. I have made you songs most of my years, but this is not the place I would seek for songs of you, lest they be sad songs.”

The wife of Tiernan peered at him from under her golden mane.

“Is it fear on you, Ardan?”

“I think it is not fear, but this mystic hill is not a place to seek lightly on the eve of Beltain.”

“What could come to us?” she asked and clung to his arm. “Ardan—many times you have come close in my thoughts of old in my dreams. But the words of Duffagan of the veil between—what meant he by that? Look, Ardan, what other man would not turn warm when my warm hand touched him? Yet you are cold; what is it, Ardan? Did some veil indeed fall between at that altar? See, my hand did not touch you as we went up; yet were we more close than now, Ardan.”

“Duffagan has given you dreams and fears, and it is best not to speak of them now in this place,” he said.

“What could come to us?” she repeated.

“What could not? Is that altar jewel you wear so holy that it is strong enough to guard you in all places?”

She drew away and stared at him, and drew her robe more closely over her breast.

“Have you ‘the sight,’ Ardan? Times are when I think it. You know that great jewel of white diamond and red ruby?”

“I heard of it at Armagh. It was the wondrous star of Clonard, and strange wealth to wear riding the forest.”

She laughed at that, and shook forward the gold of her hair over her breast. They were again near to Kauth, who stood with the horses.

“Tiernan forbade that the altar jewels see the light of day in his absence,” she confessed. “But what use has a pilgrim of penitence with gems of richness?”

He did not answer, but helped her on the horse. The question of the jewel had changed the momentary love-light in her eyes, or the claim of warmth for warmth. He knew she had been touched by fear in the druid circle, and it had driven her to his arms if he would have her there.

Kauth looked at them as they came down, but had no question. Though drawn to Duffagan as a mate for his comfort, she had no wish to know the secret things of his dark delvings.

They rode hard and fast until in sight of the castle, and then Ardan spoke.

“I will carry your message south, Dervail, and I will go tonight instead of on the morrow. I have seen your hopes and your dark road to them.”

“And your thoughts are baleful and apart from me!”

“No. Call on me for that which I dare to serve you. But you have taken yourself out of the world we know together. It may be I cannot follow. Your strange Duffagan says there is a veil between our roads of life—and neither of us can prove that this day. But take deep thought to what you do, Dervail. Duffagan spoke of symbols, and I saw one when you offered the white-feathered thing there for the altar knife.”

“Ardan, what did you see?” and he knew she was thinking of that strange _crowded_ feeling within the circle. The unlaid ghosts of the centuries swept to the altar at the call of blood.

“I saw the white bird of a boy’s dream of beauty in a cloister. I saw the caged bird I rode north to seek sight of, and to lead spears of aid to—and I saw a queen who offered that bird as token for ambitions of earth power. It was only a symbol, Dervail, but you placed all in one under the knife there! Your white bird was a symbol instead of the children other women, in other ages, have borne up to that druid rath for sacrifice.”

“Ardan!” and her white hands were flung out toward him. “That will be the veil between, and I will be a lone woman—terribly lone.”

“You will be queen of beauty and power, Dervail. But put your all of white dreams and of heart-love on that altar, and you will then indeed be alone in life and in death!”

She drooped there, her hair a veil about her in the gloaming, and her hands clasped over her knee.

Two kerns ran out the castle gate and stood with lights at either side to light her entrance. She straightened and tossed back her hair, and rode forward in pride.

“Yet the dream of Tara is a great dream for a life,” she said.

The harvest of the year was not yet garnered when the pearl of Dervail went south to Diarmod of Leinster by the hand of Duffagan.

It found him flushed with the victory of Moanmore against Turlough O’Brian, and strong with the thought that O’Conor of Connaught owed him and owed Meath too much of grace to lift sword or spear if the sacking of Clonard Abbey by O’Ruarc was avenged at last by the lords of Leinster.

In every secret way Diarmod and Malachi, Prince of Meath, had gathered strength and made bonds in friendship for that hosting when the time came, and the messenger of Dervail told the day O’Ruarc was going north on a hosting of his own against a rebellious sub-chief who had taken sides with O’Lochlainn of Ulster in his claims to the rule of Ard-Ri of Erinn as against Turlough O’Conor, whose word was the most weighty in all but the northlands.

The days of going and the days of return had been reckoned with care by Duffagan, and there were plenty for the task.

As to a joyous fair rode the men of the spears of Diarmod, and he, kingly in pride, in the midst of them. Years sat light on him, for the message of Dervail had brought back his youth. It had come at a time when the music of life was dulled by the discords of rule, and the watchful eyes of Conor, the heir-apparent. But the dream of the forbidden maid brought deep longings, and her secret call to him brought again the fairy songs of youth to his soul.

Fierce was the assault on Breffni, and lightning quick the conquest of the castle where Kauth had seen to it that every lock was loosed.

No woman was touched but the wife of O’Ruarc, who was bidden forth with her chosen woman, as hostage to Diarmod of Leinster.

In garb royal, clad in the cloak of seven colors, walked Dervail out from under the roof of the prince who had been her Key!

The men of Leinster and Meath gave long looks to her as she walked between the rows of them to the champing racer straining on his bit, and their eyes turned to each other, dazzled by the brilliant beauty of her. No such hostage had ever been given from prince to king in Erinn.

It was the hand of Diarmod touched her foot in the mounting, and they two were speechless as their hands met. It was the wild dream coming true, and the stars read by Duffagan had all her faith in that moment!

Kauth mounted her horse, and among her goods fastened to the saddle was the gift-cup given by hand of Diarmod in the castle of Donough. The sight of it helped Dervail to her voice.

“It has not been drunk from under that roof,” she said, “but now we will be drinking from it again—and at the well of Nemnach in Tara we will drink.”

“Your word is the word—and will be,” said Diarmod the king.

Murtagh, King of Meath, knew nought of the hosting until the spears of Leinster were north of Ath-Luain, and there was none for comfort but Donough of Orielle—and him only with the hope that Dervail would seek shelter from all men in the abbey of Mellifont.

But Malachi, Prince of Meath, rode back the richer for the plundering of Breffni, and spoke his content at the sisterhood claimed for Dervail.

“No queen so queenly in Erinn,” he made boast, “and it is a foolish thing to hide, as you have hid—her daughterhood! Take pride that she is of our line, even though a shadow is on her dam—whom no one is knowing! She will yet be queen for Diarmod—and our house remembered because of her name.”

“That has been a long, dark, fear of mine!” said Murtagh the king.

But Malachi had no knowledge of the secret held by the older man, and thought it a foolish saying.

“Meath has been made strong for us by this act,” he boasted. “The troubles of yours with the clerics will be at an end, for Diarmod has made pledges for Meath. From Clonard to the Shannon you are to be protected by hostage; from Clonard eastward to the sea I am to divide the rule. This makes stronger the border; thus much of gain already for your tie—whatever it be—with the wife of Breffni.”

Murtagh frowned at the words and walked apart, deep in thought ere he spoke.

“I wish death in peace,” he said, “and I can have that best by forgetting the tie. Pray God she makes choice of a cloister!”

But she made choice of a different thing; from the rath of Malachi, whom she now called “brother,” she went for some secret thing to the ancient rath of the Kings at Tara on Midsummer’s Eve. There went Diarmod to keep tryst with her, and drink from the well of Nemnach.

Until the morning star shone over the plain to the east they were alone on the height where his forefathers had been high kings through the centuries, and the look on his face was a look of entrancement when he came down from that place, and Dervail beside him.

“She is my mate, and no woman before has been that to me,” he said to Malachi. “The clerics must find a way for it, for she is queen to me.”

Yet, because of fear for her at the hands of Conor, the son of Mor, who was moving toward death, he took her not among his own children at Ferns, but in gorgeousness and much comfort placed her in the castle of O’Faelain in Kildare with a loyal guard, and the hostages of a princess claimed for her safety from Rhudri, lord of the castle.

Thus came the daughter of Dyveke south into the region where the Danes had their holdings under Leinster, and where her mother had cursed the land, and all kings and all clans of Erinn!

Great wealth had been taken out of Breffni by Leinster—not only her own dower wealth, but rich plunderings of Clonard, and the droves of cattle taken were the wonder of the country in crossing.

Like fire in the forest after falling of the leaves ran the story of that hosting, and of the vengeance on Breffni for the sacking of Clonard. Murtagh of Meath, and Donough of Orielle, and Duighal the prior went into prayer and deep converse over it. All things within human power had been done by them for the hiding of Dervail—yet had she ridden free and set their world afire!

But prayers of piety could do naught to stem the flood of rage unloosed by her ambitions and the pillaging of Breffni. Turlough O’Conor, the high king, took sides with O’Ruarc. Erinn was divided in the struggle. The enemies made by Diarmod in his proud domination turned their spears against him, and annihilation threatened on every side. Turlough, the High King, sent a priest to deliver the doom of Leinster unless Dervail and her dower were returned to O’Ruarc of Breffni. And troops of Breffni followed the messenger.

Diarmod raged like a wounded bull.

“My men will die for her, though they may not save her,” he said. “I cannot be the one to make choice; that is hers to make. But the army of Turlough and Breffni have crossed the Shannon.”

Rhudri of O’Faelain came riding a foaming steed, and stumbled, dazed and spent, before Diarmod.

“My plea is to serve you in some other way,” he begged. “More than my troops are needed in the guarding of Queen Dervail for you. Her name has carried on the wind to strange places, even to the cells of monks in the wilderness. One of them, old and blind, and housed for charity in my hall, made his way in secret to her chair, an evil knife under his monk’s robe, and—”

“Harm to Dervail?” thundered Diarmod, and the speaker quailed—“the lives of your household will answer!”

“No harm has come to her beyond the baleful deed done under her eyes. Her dark friend, Duffagan, gave his blood instead of hers, and wounded the monkish murderer to the death. But the dying monk said some things of horror for her ears, and all who lavished courtesies on that fair lady now flee from her! It is a mystery—like rats seeking holes, they scatter as I turn my back. To save her there in life and dignity is beyond the power of man without guards—without servants.”

“What is their fear?”

“They will not voice it. May happen it is the death of the monk, or his words not heard by me. It may be the death of Duffagan of whom they had great awe. At her feet it is he died, and her own robe red with the blood of them both, yet there was no shrinking of her and no scream.”

“She is a fitting queen, and royal her daring,” muttered Leinster, “and it is a baleful task to speak any going backward on the road for her! There is none to bear that word but one friend, and he would be loth, though constant. You, Donall, send to Glendalough for Ardan, the fosterling of Donough.”

The lord of O’Faelain put out his hand to stay the son of Diarmod.

“That message has gone on swift feet,” he said. “It was the first request of Queen Dervail.”

“Gone? And for what purpose?”

Donall the Illegitimate looked at him and gave quiet but scornful laughter.

“Ardan has a good shape and good looks,” he said.

The great hand of Diarmod smote him on the mouth, and the dirk of Diarmod was out.

Conor, the heir-apparent, caught his arm and was flung aside, and Rhudri of O’Faelain stepped between.

“Take time with you in counsel, Diarmod, ere you slay a son for sake of a hostage you will be forced to return.”

“Hostage?” said Diarmod, glowering.

“Is not that word the right word?” asked Rhudri. “It is the only one used for our queen guest in our keep. Connaught and Breffni are moving their troops to win her return, for the loss of Dervail is a greater blow to the pride of O’Ruarc than the loss of Longford and Leitrim. Is not hostage the wise word? Hostages are ever to be given back again, and in safety.”

“She was hostage of Destiny to me, and not to be given back ever in life,” said Diarmod.

Conor got Donall, with his bleeding mouth, out of the hall, and Diarmod sat steeped in gloom, turning over in his mind the attack on the life of Dervail. The word “hostage” as applied to her to cover her flight was a bitter word and—heavier than all—the thought of her going again out of his life, and she the glory of his dream of kingship over Erinn!

He arose, frowning, and with set jaws.

“No other must tell her since it must be told. I ride with you.”

Ardan was first at the castle of O’Faelain, and there was sickness on his soul for what he met in that place.

Herdsmen and kern, ploughman and smith, raged like a sea of storm about the walls of Faelain, and the name of Dervail was shouted in hate heard even at a distance. At times it would die away to a murmur, and then some wild voice would shrill aloud and the wave of sound would again roll upward—“Dervail the Shadow! Dervail of dark crafts! Dervail, the curse of Leinster!”

At sight of the scholar’s robe of Ardan and the foam-wet steed, the mob made way, and held parley.

“Be our spokesman to the white slut who is harlot of two kingdoms,” they said, “and we will let you pass safely. You are of the cells—they will let you speak. Tell the woman, and tell the governor, that none of our men will fight to hold her for Diarmod. The High King of Erinn is against him, and much of Leinster is against him. A free road to her if she takes the Breffni way; and death on her if she makes a stand in Kildare! A holy man is done to death in there by her dark comrade, and the curse of all saints is against her forever for that! Dervail! Dervail, the malediction of men!”

They let him pass, and inside the gates white, stricken faces turned to him. The guard held spear and battle-axe against a rush of the crazed household. They pointed dumbly within when he spoke the name of Dervail. Only one man of the guard led the way, and he halted at the portal of her chamber.

A horrid weeping was heard within, quivering sobbing and choking. It was the woman Kauth, who had seen Duffagan dragged into the court below, and there hung in ghastly manner against the castle wall for the killing of Kieran Dall.

But the more ghastly thing was that Kieran had not yet died. He was coming out of a swoon of pain, and was prodded by Dervail, who sat beside him, dagger in hand, and steadily, in a dull, weary tone, making question.

“You lie, monk, but I would have you damn your soul with other lie at the last breath! What reason to ban my race more than the race of another? What reason to ban my mother? Speak ere I rack your wounds! What reason—blind monk?”

“The reason—the reason—Dyveke—is—proving—itself—in you! Your hand gave death—to him—to the father of your child, ere you went to your lover Thorold, fierce Dyveke!”

“Again you lie yourself to hell! The name Dyveke is a name I never heard; I am a queen—Dervail the queen! Speak again the name of the race of the father of Dervail—speak!”

The woman Kauth never ceased the dreary, smothered keione of despairing, but neither Dervail nor the man with the black wounds gave heed. He had again sunk half out of life, and the breath of him was a hollow rattle.

“Speak, monk!” And again the prick of the knife was in his flesh. “You said it; say it again! The race of ancient kings? The branch sanctified in secret ways? It exalts me, that blood—and you shall speak! I am Dervail—I would know of that race. Speak! Speak again!”

There was a struggle, a twitching of the body, and a whisper.

“The race—dies out! Hark you! I hear wild waves on the shore; they are shouting curses—hark you! Dervail—Dervail! Dervail! The world rocks with that name of evil—

For eric in breaking - - - - A thousand years’ yoke On the bent neck - - of Erinn! A - - thousand years’ tribute of blood - - - Inis Fair!”

Then there was only the rattle—and after that no whisper, and his head lolled sideways and was pricked by the dagger to no good. And Ardan made the sign of the cross at sight of the thing she did, and caught her hand in horror.

“Dervail! He has gone to God—and was a holy man!” “He has gone to hell—and was a liar! Also he was a cheat! He died too soon, not telling all—only fragments of his hate for me. He brought death to Duffagan, and he brought that pack of wolves howling below—and without Duffagan the road I crave is a dark way for me! Is Diarmod dead that these things are?”

It had been a long night and a morning she had sat there with her blind victim, and she viewed his dead face with disdain. And from weariness she was as in a daze. She looked at the blackened dagger, and again at Kieran Dall.

“Who was he that a place was made for him at the table of a noble?” she asked. “Who was he that he was filled with hate against me in the lands of Leinster?”

“He was a prince whose name was hidden under the robe, Dervail.”

“Learn all for me and tell me! He made speech of things to madden my soul! I want Diarmod, and I want you to go to him! Hearken to the cries down there! It has been since sunrise—and ever more coming. Hearken to my name! Dervail! Dervail!”

“That is the thing prophesied by Duffagan, whom they call your ‘Dark Comrade.’ He told you in Breffni he heard the echoes of your name in countless voices on the winds.”

“That is true,” and she crouched there looking over her shoulder at him in a strange and fearful way; “but—but _Ardan_—this calling is in hate! They are not human beings down there—they are a hunting pack, howling for victim!”

“They are mortals, indeed, Dervail, but they are made mad by fear. An army of men are bearing shields against Leinster for the sake of you, and there is only one road of life and safety open for your feet.”

“And that road, Ardan?”

“That road is north into Breffni.”

“No! Not with Diarmod for my safety; not with his words of bondage still sounding in my ear!”

She rose to her feet as if the very words gave strength to her, and her eyes looked proud even while her face went pale at the louder screams of fierceness down below.