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could she forget? Hadn't he been telling her since before she could walk? Nuadu of the Silver Hand, the cloudmaker. In Britain, where he was depicted like the Roman Neptune, they had built a great shrine to him by the western river Severn. But on the western island, he was adopted as one of the Tuatha De Danaan- and the kings of that part of the island even claimed him as their ancestor. Nuadu had taken a personal liking to her great-grandfather.
      Her future husband would have to reckon with that, and all the rest of the family heritage. She glanced sidelong at her father.
      "Perhaps I'll refuse," she said. By the ancient laws of the island, a woman was free to choose her husband-and to divorce him later if she wanted. In theory, therefore, her father couldn't compel Deirdre to marry someone, though he would doubtless make it unpleasant for her if she refused ever to marry at all.
      Men had made offers for her in the past. But after her mother's death, with Deirdre running the household and acting as a mother to her brothers, the business of her marriage had been put to one side. The last occasion that she knew of had taken place one day when she had been out walking. On her return, her brothers had told her that a man had been asking for her. But the rest of the conversation had not been encouraging.
      Ronan and Rian: two years and four years her juniors. Perhaps they were no worse than other boys their age. But they could certainly exasperate her.
      "He came by while you were out," Ronan said.
      "What sort of man?"
      "Oh, just a man. Like father. Younger. He was travelling somewhere."
      "And?"
      "They got talking."
      "And? What did father say?"
      "He was just-you know-talking." Ronan looked at Rian.
      "We didn't listen much," added Rian. "But I think he made an offer for you."
      She looked at them. They weren't being evasive.
      Just being themselves. Two gangling youths without a thought to share between them. Like a pair of large puppies.
      Show them a hare and they'd chase it. That was about the only thing that would excite them. Hopeless.
      What would they do without her, she wondered?
      "Would you be sorry if I left you to get married?" she had suddenly asked.
      They had looked at each other again.
      "You'll be going sooner or later," said Ronan.
      "We'd be all right," said Rian. "You could come to visit us," he had added, encouragingly, as an afterthought.
      "You're very kind," she said, with bitter irony, but they didn't see it. There was no use, she supposed, in expecting gratitude from boys of that age.
      When she had questioned her father about it later, he had been terse.
      "He didn't offer enough." The marriage of a daughter was a careful negotiation. On the one hand, a handsome young woman of noble blood was a valuable asset to any family. But the man who married her would have to pay the bride price, of which her father would receive a share. That was the custom of the island.
      And now, with his affairs in the state they were, Fergus had evidently decided he must sell her.
      She knew she shouldn't be surprised. That was the way things were. But even so, she couldn't help feeling a little hurt and betrayed. After all that I have done for him since my mother died, is that really what I am to him? she wondered. Just like one of the cattle, to be kept as long as needed, and then sold? She had thought he loved her. And indeed, she reflected, he probably did. Instead of feeling sorry for herself, she should be reeling sorry for him, and try to help him by finding a suitable man.
      She was good-looking. She had heard people say she was beautiful. Not that she was so special. She was sure there must be dozens of other girls on the island with soft golden hair, a red and generous mouth with good white teeth like hers. Her cheeks, as the saying was, had the delicate colour of foxgloves. She had pretty little breasts, too, she had always