DEIRDRE AND THE SONS OF USNA - PART 3

Now at this time Conor had a great guard called the Red Branch Knights, and he set out with them from Emhain Macha to Felim’s entertainment. A grand sight they were, for always Conor wanted people to see him covered in glory and to say, “There goes our King, Conor MacNessa, and none other.” Because though Conor had grown used to his kingship and had no mind to relinquish it back to Fergus, in the furthest corner of his heart he knew he had done nothing to deserve it and was thereby all the more determined that men should acknowledge it.
Rows of knights in bright colors preceded him, wave upon wave grandly mounted and bearing full arms though they went to a place of peace. Their banners glittered in the sun. Behind them, still more knights richly attired were driven in chariots and at last came King Conor himself in the grandest war chariot of all, with many hundreds of his lesser retinue following.
At first they went under a shining sun, with cheering people lining the road. But as the day grew late, clouds and winds beset the land, the wind stirring up dust so that it settled upon all the people and chariots, cloaking their bright banners. Conor the king proceeded in a cloud of choking dust but little glory.
No sooner had they reached the castle of Felim the storyteller than there was a huge crash from the heavens and blue-white lightning split the land, casting an eerie glow upon the castle and all the outbuildings Felim had raised at such cost. Clouds writhed above as if all the hounds of hell had been loosed and coursed the very heavens. Rain emptied from those clouds in a torrent and Conor was hard put to make his way to the doorway of the castle, so relentlessly did rain pelt and winds blow. Nonetheless Felim his host came to Conor, greeting him gladly and with many inquiries after his good health which Conor had begun to doubt at that point. Men thought perhaps that was why he sat silent and of a sober countenance as the banquet commenced amidst a crash and roar of thunder, and they marked that never had such a storm visited Ulster. Irishmen all they were and accustomed to the rains and gales that visited their island, but even Conor agreed it seemed no normal storm and that he, too, had a feeling of doom.
“Nonsense,” Felim insisted stoutly as the king began to partake of food, for he saw all his plans dashed to destruction and the favor he wished of Conor turned to stone. “’Tis but a storm!”
Hardly had the words left the storyteller’s mouth than a terrifying scream split the air, a sound to raise the bristle hair on a hound’s back.
“’Tis only my wife, who labors,” Felim insisted, but the king took not a bite of his food and sat with a pale and ashen face.
“’Bring her here,” Conor ordered, “that I may see if that is the scream of any mortal woman, for I much doubt it.”
And so the unfortunate woman was required to present herself to the king, doubled in pain though she was.
“Tell me true,” Conor demanded, “was it you who screamed?”
Felim’s haggard and trembling wife, fearing for her life, nonetheless shook her head, for she knew her maidservants would give her away if she lied to the great king.
“Nay, my lord,” she replied. “’Tis the child that screamed from inside my womb.”
“This is a thing I have never known!” Conor exclaimed, while beside him his druid Catha stood up abruptly and lay a hand upon the mother’s belly, his expression dire.
“’Tis the scream of a girl child,” he predicted, “and her name will be Deirdre, the call of alarm, for she will bring war.”
Greatly troubled, Conor the king ordered Felim’s wife back to her chambers, where in due course she gave birth to the predicted female child. Hearing it, the Red Branch knights (who knew Catha’s predictions to be accurate) demanded the death of the infant.
Conor was a hard man who had done hard things, and he also knew of his druid’s prowess, but it was not in the heart of him to murder a helpless infant. “No,” he refused his guard, “we shall not have recourse to such an evil deed.” Once more he asked his druid to prophesy, and Catha went out onto the ramparts beneath a sky still dark but no longer bearing rain. There, while the others at last began to enjoy the comforts of the castle, Catha scried the future of the child he had called Deirdre, but no difference could be find from his first prediction.
At last he returned to the banquet, where all men noted the king choked on his own drink while looking into the face of his druid.
“There is no change, my lord,” Catha told him. “Deirdre shall grow to be a woman of such beauty that kingdoms will contend for her. She is born for misfortune.”
Over the protests of his men, Conor had the child brought in again. And when she crowed and smiled at her king, his mind was set upon its path.
“’Tis no disbelief in the prophets or seers that prompts me,” he said. “This part is true; I will make her my queen. She shall be taken from here to a secret place and raised under my protection. He that would try to harm her acts against me and shall pay the price.”
The knights all were silent, still fearing the child meant their doom but unable to speak against him. Only Catha dared that and his words were grim.
“You will regret this, my king,” he said bluntly, “but as it is your will, I shall name her Deirdre of the Sorrows.”