DEIRDRE -- very defiant. -- I would not,
Conchubor. (She goes to tapestry and begins
to work.) A girl born the way I'm born is
more likely to wish for a mate who'd be her
likeness. . . . A man with his hair like the


23

raven, maybe, and his skin like the snow and
his lips like blood spilt on it.
CONCHUBOR -- sees his mistake, and
after a moment takes a flattering tone, looking
at her work. -- Whatever you wish, there's no
queen but would be well pleased to have your
skill at choosing colours and making pictures
on the cloth. (Looking closely.) What is it
you're figuring?
DEIRDRE -- deliberately. -- Three young
men and they chasing in the green gap of a
wood.
CONCHUBOR -- now almost pleading. --
It's soon you'll have dogs with silver chains
to be chasing in the woods of Emain, for I
have white hounds rearing up for you, and
grey horses, that I've chosen from the finest
in Ulster and Britain and Gaul.
DEIRDRE -- unmoved as before. -- I've
heard tell, in Ulster and Britain and Gaul,
Naisi and his brothers have no match and they