A Game of Sorrows by Shona MacLean Page B

the centre of the table. He hesitated a moment, but it was clear that Maeve was not going to give her order twice, and he went to do her bidding. After standing a moment in a kind of shock, Sean began to speak urgently to her. Maeve rewarded him with a few words only and continued to gaze straight ahead, a picture of composure. With a great reluctance, Sean took up his seat beside her once more. Both now watched the head of the stairs, waiting.
    I too turned my eyes towards the stair head, wishing Andrew Boyd was still by me to tell me who the new arrival was. The man he led into the hall was like no one I had ever seen; he was a figure from an earlier age, from the age of the heroes. His garments were long, his mantle reaching almost to the floor; his tunic was gathered at the waist by a strong belt with silver buckle, and ended just above the knee, its sleeves wide and long, and bordered with threads of blue and gold. His long silver hair hung loose. His beard, like his eyebrows, was not silver, but dark, and his skin was that of a man not yet thirty-five. A silver bangle was at his wrist, and in his hand he held a long staff, tipped with a carved head. The room fell to complete silence as he walked to the head of it and came to rest in front of Maeve, who stood up and bowed her head slightly towards him.
    ‘You do honour to this house and to my husband’s name. Be welcome as an honoured guest.’ She indicated the seat to her right, which Sean at once vacated. No one in the room moved until the stranger sat down and was given wine. I could see, but not hear, much low whispering taking place amongst individuals and small groups. Food was brought to the newcomer – he was not left to help himself from the platters on the table as everyone else – even Maeve and Murchadh – had been. Sean stood behind our grandmother, never taking his eyes off the newcomer. The harper was called back to his instrument, and gentle airs soon began to rise from his strings, a contrast with the lively jig that had been taken up only a few moments ago and that had been so suddenly stilled. The stranger ate and drank his fill as muted conversations rose and died around the room. No one at the upper table spoke, but all watched or cast glances they thought unseen at the newcomer. Maeve had lost none of her composure, but Deirdre was pale, as pale as death. There was not one of the O’Neill men in the room who did not have his hand on the hilt of his dagger. I felt my own breathing come deeper and harder, for in this place there was a reckoning coming, and it would be soon.
    At last the stranger stopped eating and had had his fill of wine. He closed his eyes, pressed clenched fists to the table and took a deep breath before standing up. The harper fell silent and even the movement of the servants in the hall stopped. It was only when he began to speak that I realised at last who he was: Finn O’Rahilly, the poet who had placed my family under the curse that had brought me here. My grandmother’s resolve was more than I would have believed even her to be capable of: she showed no trace of fear, but I could only guess at what turmoil the sight again of this man must have caused her. His words rolled through the house like a quiet thunder.
Hearken to me, you band of the O’Neill;
Hearken to me and hear your fate,
You who have betrayed Ireland and now think to enjoy her favour,
The hour is fast approaching.
It has come to pass, Maeve O’Neill, as it was foretold:
The Englishman is dead; do not pretend ignorance at the cause.
His leaving does not cleanse your guilt;
In English whoredom you have lived and so shall you die.
The daughters of this house have traipsed wanton in your wake,
They have their reward:
Grainne lies dead, at the ocean’s depths, claimed by the seagod Manannan
For her treachery to Erin.
Fickle Deirdre, dead already in her heart,
Will share her barren fate,
For no child shall she bear
To claim her English gold.
The line of the