Dublin by Edward Rutherfurd

realisation of his failure in life came to torture him.
      Yet what am I? he thought. What can men say of me? There goes a man that's proud of his daughter.
      There's a girl who'll bring her father a good price.
      And what have I ever done, that she should be proud of me?
      Little enough. That was the truth of it. And now there was his daughter in love with a man who wouldn't marry her because of her father.
      She never spoke of it. She went about her daily tasks as usual. Sometimes, before midwinter, he had seen her staring across the cold waters by the ford. Once she had walked over to the headland to look at the little island she loved so much. But by winter's end, she no longer looked at anything but what was to hand, unless it was to stare, dully, at the cold, hard ground.
      "You're paler than a snowdrop," he said to her one day.
      "Snowdrops wilt. I shall not," she answered. "Were you afraid," she suddenly asked with grim humour, "I should fade away before my wedding day?" And when he shook his head: "You'd best be taking me up to my husband in Ulster."
      "No," he said gently. "Not yet."
      "Conall is not coming." She sounded resigned. "I should be grateful for the good man you found me."
      You should be grateful for nothing, he thought. But aloud he said, "There's time enough yet."
      Then a few mornings later, telling them that he'd be gone several days and explaining nothing, he mounted his horse and rode away across the ford.
      Finbarr listened carefully when Conall told him about the cattle raid, and his feelings about it. Then he shook his head in wonderment.
      "There is the difference between us, Conall," he said.
      "Here am I. a poor man. What wouldn't I give for such a chance? And you, a prince, are dragged to glory against your own will."
      It is you who should lead this raid, Finbarr, not I,"
      Conall replied. "I shall tell my uncle."
      "Do not do that," said Finbarr. "It would only bring down trouble on my head." And then, after a pause, he looked at Conall curiously.
      "Is there anything else," he enquired gently, "that you wish to tell me?"
      It had been at the start of winter that he had noticed the change in his friend's behaviour. Of course, Conall had been moody anyway, but when he had begun to frown, and purse his lips, and stare vacantly at the horizon, Finbarr had decided that something new must be disturbing his friend's thoughts. So now, as Conall told him about the bull, he assumed that this was the secret problem on his friend's mind. But when he asked, "How long have you known?" and Conall replied, "Two days," it was clear that the moods he had noticed must still have been caused by something else. "Are you sure there is nothing on your mind?" he tried again.
      "Nothing at all," said Conall.
      And it was just then that a tall and unfamiliar figure strode into view.
      It had taken Fergus some days to find the camp of the High King, but once he arrived, a man had directed him to Conall at once. He looked with secret admiration at the handsome prince and his good-looking companion.
      "Greetings, Conall, son of Morna," he said gravely. "I am Fergus, son of Fergus, and I have something to say to you in private."
      "There is nothing that my friend Finbarr may not hear," said Conall calmly.
      "It concerns my daughter, Deirdre," Fergus began, "who you came to see at Dubh Linn."
      "I will hear this alone," said Conall quickly, and so Finbarr left them. But he had noticed, with surprise, that his friend was blushing.
      It did not take Fergus long to tell Conall about Deirdre. When he spoke of her love for him, he saw Conall look guilty. When he explained about the offer that Goibniu had arranged, he saw the prince go pale. He did not press the troubled young man to declare himself one way or the other, but simply stated, "She will not be given until the feast of Bealtaine. Then she must be given." And with that he strode