The Princes of Ireland: The Dublin Saga - Hardcover

Buch 1 von 2: The Dublin Saga

Rutherfurd, Edward

 
9780385502863: The Princes of Ireland: The Dublin Saga
Hardcover
ISBN 10: 0385502869 ISBN 13: 9780385502863
Verlag: Doubleday, 2004

Inhaltsangabe

A fictional account of the legend of Cuchulainn recreates such events as the mission of Saint Patrick, the Viking invasion, the trickery of Henry II that led to England's establishment in Ireland, the failed rebellion of 1798, and the Great Famine. By the author of Sarum and London.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

EDWARD RUTHERFURD was born in Salisbury, England, and educated at Cambridge
University and Stanford University in California. His first bestselling novel, Sarum, is based on the history of Salisbury and Stonehenge. Russka, his second novel, recounted the sweeping history of Russia. London tells the two-thousand-year story of the great city, bringing all of the richness of London’s past unforgettably to life. His last novel, The Forest, was set in England’s ancient New Forest. A former resident of London and New York City, Edward Rutherfurd has had a home in Dublin for more than ten years. He has two children.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

ONE

DUBH LINN

AD 430

I

Lughnasa. High summer. It would be harvest season soon. Deirdre stood by the rail and surveyed the scene. It should have been a cheerful day, but it brought only anguish to her. For the father she loved and the one-eyed man were going to sell her. And there was nothing she could do. She did not see Conall at first.

**

The custom at the races was that the men rode naked. The tradition was ancient. Centuries ago, the Romans had remarked on how the Celtic warriors despised the protection of breastplates and liked to strip naked for battle. A tattooed warrior, his muscles bulging, his hair raised in great spikes, and his face distorted in war frenzy was a frightening sight, even to trained Roman legionaries. Sometimes these fierce Celtic warriors in their chariots would choose to wear a short cloak that streamed behind them; and in some parts of the Roman Empire, the Celtic horsemen would wear breeches. But here on the western island, the tradition of nakedness had been carried into the ceremonial races, and young Conall was wearing nothing but a small protective loincloth.

The great festival of Lughnasa was held at Carmun once every three years. The site of Carmun was eerie. In a land of wild forest and bog, it was an open grassy space that stretched, green and empty, halfway to the horizon. Lying some distance west of the point where, if you were following it upstream, the Liffey's course began to retreat eastwards on the way to its source in the Wicklow Mountains, the place was absolutely flat, except for some mounds in which ancestral chiefs were buried. The festival lasted a week. There were areas reserved for food and livestock markets, and another where fine clothes were sold; but the most important quarter was where a large racetrack was laid out on the bare turf.

The track was a magnificent sight. People were encamped all around, in tents or temporary huts, whole clans together. Men and women both were dressed in their brilliant cloaks of scarlet, blue, or green. The men wore the splendid gold torcs--like thick amulets--round their necks; the women sported all kinds of ornament and bracelet. Some men were tattooed, some had long flowing hair and moustaches, others had their hair caked with clay and raised into terrifying warlike spikes. Here and there stood a splendid war chariot. The horses were in pens. There were campfires where the bards would tell tales. A group of jugglers and acrobats was just arriving. Throughout the camp, the sound of a harp, a bone whistle, or a bagpipe could be heard in the summer air, and the scent of roasting meat and honey cakes 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.

**

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.
Third: He has come to Tara through a black mist.

The first made no sense; the second he must take care never to do. The third seemed impossible. There were often mists at the High King's royal seat at Tara, but there had never been a black one.

Conall was a careful fellow. He respected family tradition. Finbarr had never seen him wear anything red. Indeed Conall even avoided touching anything of that colour. "So it seems to me," Finbarr had once told him, "that if you can just stay away from the sea, you'll live forever."

They had been friends since the day, in childhood, when a hunting party that included young Conall had stopped at Finbarr's family's modest farm to rest. The two boys had met and played, and before long had a wrestling match and then played the game with stick and ball which the islanders call hurling, while the men looked on. A little while later Conall had asked if he might seek out his new acquaintance again; within a month they were fast friends. And when, soon afterwards, Conall had asked if Finbarr might join the royal household and train to become a warrior, this had been granted. Finbarr's family had been overjoyed at such an...

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Verlag
Doubleday
Erscheinungsdatum
2004
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0385502869
ISBN 13 
9780385502863
Einband
Gebundene Ausgabe
Anzahl der Seiten
752
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Doubleday
https://knopfdoubleday.com/imprint/doubleday/

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