Deirdre of the Sorrows | Page 4

long taking my will, and it's that way I'll be living always.
CONCHUBOR -- dryly. -- Call Fergus to come with me. This is your last night upon Slieve Fuadh.
DEIRDRE -- now pleadingly. -- Leave me a short space longer, Conchubor. Isn't it a poor thing I should be hastened away, when all these troubles are foretold? Leave me a year, Conchubor; it isn't much I'm asking.
CONCHUBOR. It's much to have me two score and two weeks waiting for your voice in Emain, and you in this place growing lonesome and shy. I'm a ripe man and in great love, and yet, Deirdre, I'm the King of Ulster. (He gets up.) I'll call Fergus, and we'll make Emain ready in the morning.
[He goes towards door on left.
DEIRDRE -- clinging to him. -- Do not call him, Conchubor. . . . Promise me a year of quiet. . . . It's one year I'm asking only.
CONCHUBOR. You'd be asking a year next year, and the years that follow. (Calling.) Fergus! Fergus! (To Deirdre.) Young girls are slow always; it is their lovers that must say the word. (Calling.) Fergus!
[Deirdre springs away from him as Fergus comes in with Lavarcham and the Old Woman.
CONCHUBOR -- to Fergus. -- There is a storm coming, and we'd best be going to our people when the night is young.
FERGUS -- cheerfully. -- The gods shield you, Deirdre. (To Conchubor.) We're late already, and it's no work the High King to be slipping on stepping-stones and hilly pathways when the floods are rising with the rain.
[He helps Conchubor into his cloak.
CONCHUBOR -- glad that he has made his decision -- to Lavarcham. -- Keep your rules a few days longer, and you'll be brought down to Emain, you and Deirdre with you.
LAVARCHAM -- obediently. -- Your rules are kept always.
CONCHUBOR. The gods shield you.
[He goes out with Fergus. Old Woman bolts door.
LAVARCHAM -- looking at Deirdre, who has covered her face. -- Wasn't I saying you'd do it? You've brought your marriage a sight nearer not heeding those are wiser than yourself.
DEIRDRE -- with agitation. -- It wasn't I did it. Will you take me from this place, Lavarcham, and keep me safe in the hills?
LAVARCHAM. He'd have us tracked in the half of a day, and then you'd be his queen in spite of you, and I and mine would be destroyed for ever.
DEIRDRE -- terrified with the reality that is before her. -- Are there none can go against Conchubor?
LAVARCHAM. Maeve of Connaught only, and those that are her like.
DEIRDRE. Would Fergus go against him?
LAVARCHAM. He would, maybe, and his temper roused.
DEIRDRE -- in a lower voice with sudden excitement. -- Would Naisi and his brothers?
LAVARCHAM -- impatiently. -- Let you not be dwelling on Naisi and his brothers. . . . In the end of all there is none can go against Conchubor, and it's folly that we're talking, for if any went against Conchubor it's sorrow he'd earn and the shortening of his day of life.
[She turns away, and Deirdre stands up stiff with excitement and goes and looks out of the window.
DEIRDRE. Are the stepping-stones flooding, Lavarcham? Will the night be stormy in the hills?
LAVARCHAM -- looking at her curiously. The stepping-stones are flooding, surely, and the night will be the worst, I'm thinking, we've seen these years gone by.
DEIRDRE -- tearing open the press and pulling out clothes and tapestries. -- Lay these mats and hangings by the windows, and at the tables for our feet, and take out the skillets of silver, and the golden cups we have, and our two flasks of wine.
LAVARCHAM. What ails you?
DEIRDRE -- gathering up a dress. -- Lay them out quickly, Lavarcham, we've no call dawdling this night. Lay them out quickly; I'm going into the room to put on the rich dresses and jewels have been sent from Emain.
LAVARCHAM. Putting on dresses at this hour, and it dark and drenching with the weight of rain! Are you away in your head?
DEIRDRE -- gathering her things together with an outburst of excitement. -- I will dress like Emer in Dundealgan, or Maeve in her house in Connaught. If Conchubor'll make me a queen, I'll have the right of a queen who is a master, taking her own choice and making a stir to the edges of the seas. . . . Lay out your mats and hangings where I can stand this night and look about me. Lay out the skins of the rams of Connaught and of the goats of the west. I will not be a child or plaything; I'll put on my robes that are the richest, for I will not be brought down to Emain as Cuchulain brings his horse to the yoke, or Conall Cearneach puts his shield upon