A Game of Sorrows by S. G. MacLean

the passing of the time of compromise. We have been butchered, starved, harried and robbed, and our time is coming. The day is not long when we will make a new Ireland out of the ashes of the old.’
    A pallor had descended on the faces of many of the guests, and principally the English, for what in Murchadh’s mouth was a rallying call to the Irish was in their ears nothing less than sedition. Henry Blackstone stood up. His brother tried to pull him down, but the younger man struggled free, knocking over a tankard of ale as he did so.
    ‘Do you think we have come here to listen to this, you old Irish goat? Your poets and your harpers are gone, and your days are gone too, you and all your kind.’
    All along the principal table, and at the upper ends of the side tables, hands went to hilts. There was a dead silence. Andrew Boyd whispered to me, ‘At a word from Murchadh, they will slit his throat.’
    Edward Blackstone made another attempt to pull his brother down. ‘Henry, you make a fool …’
    ‘No, Edward, you are the fool. Do you allow yourself to be treated like this by your own wife? Having your family and your nation insulted in this way? Consigned to the lowest tables like an inconvenient stranger? Your wife’s lover flaunted in your face …’ Half-a-dozen Irishmen leapt from their seats; Sean was only kept in his by the firm hand of Eachan, who had rarely left his side all evening.
    Edward Blackstone let go his brother’s arm: he looked utterly defeated. He pushed his plate away and got to his feet. He ignored his brother now, and looked past him to Deirdre. ‘Well?’ he said to her.
    ‘It is not the place …’ she began.
    ‘No. It is not. And I will not stay here.’ He took his brother by the arm and began to walk from the hall. As he came to the stair head, he turned again to his wife. ‘Well? Do you come with me?’
    She had not moved. ‘My grandfather…’
    ‘Your grandfather be damned,’ he snapped. ‘You are my wife. I return to Coleraine two days from tomorrow; you will come with me then or not at all.’ Without waiting for her reply, he left.
    All eyes were on my cousin. Her long, loose hair glinted brilliantly like the red leaves of autumn in the candlelight. Her composure had not faltered, but I could see that she breathed deeply, and that her fingers gripped hard to the goblet in her hand. Cormac O’Neill stared long after my cousin’s husband, and I would not have slept easy in my bed had I been Edward Blackstone that night. Further down the table, Sean’s face was like thunder, and I noticed Eachan’s hand still pressed hard on his shoulder. At the centre of the table, Maeve had never wavered, and only a slight smile at the corner of her lips betrayed what she felt. She lifted high the glass in her right hand, and again her steward filled it.
    The players had their pipes and bows flying in a jig within minutes. The tension was broken, and soon all around the hall there was movement, music, the clamour of talk between old friends and the exchange of wary or defiant glances between old foes. Andrew Boyd had told me the names of as many of the mourners as he knew, and I had tried in my head to match them to Sean’s stories of rivalries and feuds between families and neighbours. Everywhere was brilliant light and warmth, yet when I looked at Roisin O’Neill I saw she sat alone, unreachable in her stillness and silence. I wondered what it was in her that my cousin had no interest in knowing.
    ‘What did Henry Blackstone mean,’ I said, ‘when he spoke to his brother about his wife’s lover?’
    There was no response from Andrew Boyd and for a moment I thought he had not heard my necessarily low whisper. I repeated my question. ‘Who did he mean by Deirdre’s lover? Is it Cormac?’ Murchadh’s oldest son was tall, striking, with a strange beauty to him that might dazzle man or woman.
    Andrew Boyd followed the direction of my gaze. ‘Your cousin has no lover,’ he said,