Dublin Read Free

seemed to mingle in the light smoke that drifted across the scene. And on a ceremonial mound by the racetrack, presiding over the whole proceedings, was the King of Leinster.
      There were four parts of the island. To the north lay the territories of the ancient tribes of Ulaid, the province of warriors. To the west lay a lovely province of magical lakes and wild coasts-the land of the druids, they called it. To the south, the province of Muma, renowned for its music. It was there, according to legend, that the Sons of Mil had first met the goddess Eriu.
      And fourthly, in the east lay the rich pastures and fields of the tribes of Lagin. The provinces had been recognised since time out of mind, and as Ulster, Connacht, Munster, and Leinster they would remain the geographical divisions of the island for all times to come.
      But life was never static on the island. In recent generations there had been important changes among the ancient tribes. In the northern half of the island-Leth Cuinn, the half of the head, as they liked to call it-powerful clans had arisen to assert their dominance over the southern half, Leth Moga.
      And a new central province known as Mide, or Meath, had also come into being, so that now people spoke of the island's five parts rather than four.
      Over all the great clan chiefs in each of the five parts, the most powerful usually ruled as a king, and sometimes the greatest of these would proclaim himself High King and demand that others recognise him and pay him tribute.
     
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      Finbarr looked at his friend and shook his head. It was midafternoon and Conall was about to race.
      "You could at least smile," Finbarr remarked.
      "You're such a sad fellow, Conall."
      "I'm sorry," the other replied. "I don't mean to be."
      That was the trouble with being too highly born, Finbarr considered. The gods paid too much attention to you. It was ever thus in the Celtic world. Ravens would fly over the house to announce the death of a clan chief, swans would desert the lake. A king's bad judgement could affect the weather. And if you were a prince, the druids made prophesies about you from before the day you were born; and after that, there was no escape.
      Conall: slim, dark, aquiline, handsome-a perfect prince. And a prince he was. Conall, son of Morna. His father had been a matchless warrior. Hadn't he been buried standing up, in a hero's mound, facing towards the enemies of his tribe? It was the finest compliment you could pay to a dead man in the Celtic world.
      In the family of Conall's father, it was unlucky for any man to wear red. But that was only the beginning of Conall's troubles. He had been born three months after his father's death. That alone made him special. His mother was the sister of the High King, who became his foster father. That meant the whole island would be watching him. And then the druids had had their say.
      The first had shown the baby a selection of twigs from various trees and the infant had stretched out a tiny hand towards the hazel. "He will be a poet, a man of learning," the druid declared. A second had made a darker prediction. "He will cause the death of a fine warrior." But so long as this was in battle, the family took it as a good omen. It was the third druid, however, who pronounced the three geissi which were to follow Conall all his life.
      The geissi-the prohibitions. When a prince or a great warrior lived under geissi he had better be careful. The geissi were terrible, because they always came to pass. But since, like so many priestly pronouncements, they sounded like a riddle, you couldn't always be certain what they meant. They were like traps.
      Finbarr was glad no one had bothered to lay any geissi on him. The geissi on Conall, as everyone at the High King's court knew, were as follows:
      Conall shall not die until:
      First: He has laid his own clothes in the earth.
      Second: He has crossed the sea at sunrise.