I will finish reading The Wooing of Bekphola in this last chapter five.
Please find a quiet comfortable place to sit or lie and relax.
Chapter Five In the morning as they sat at breakfast,
Four clerics were announced,
And when they entered the king looked on them with stern disapproval.
What is the meaning of this journey on Sunday?
He demanded.
A lank-jawed,
Thin-browed brother with uneasy,
Intertwining fingers and a deep-set,
Venomous eyes was the spokesman of these four.
Indeed,
He said,
And the fingers of his right hand strangled and did to death the fingers of his left hand.
Indeed,
We have transgressed by order.
Explain that.
We have been sent to you hurriedly by our master,
Molassus of Devonish.
A pious,
A saintly man,
The king interrupted,
And one who does not countenance transgressions of the Sunday.
We were ordered to tell you as follows,
Said the grim cleric,
And he buried the fingers of his right hand in his left fist so that one could not hope to see them resurrected again.
It was the duty of one of the brothers of Devonish,
He continued,
To turn out the cattle this morning before the dawn of day,
And that brother,
While in his duty,
Saw eight commonly men who fought together.
On the morning of Sunday,
Dermot exploded.
The cleric nodded with savage emphasis.
On the morning of this self-same and instant sacred day.
Tell on,
The king said wrathfully,
But terror gripped with sudden fingers at Bekvola's heart.
Do not tell horrid stories on the Sunday.
No good can come to anyone from such a tale.
Nay,
This must be told,
Sweet lady,
Said the king.
But the cleric stared at her,
Glumly,
Forbiddingly,
And resumed his story at a gesture.
Of these eight men,
Seven were killed.
They are in hell,
The king said gloomily.
In hell they are,
The cleric replied with enthusiasm.
And the one that was not killed?
He is alive.
That cleric responded.
He would be,
The monarch assented,
Tell your tale.
Molassius had those seven mescreants buried,
And he took from their unhallowed necks and from their lewd arms and from their unblessed weapons the load of two men in gold and silver treasure.
Two men's load?
Said Dermot thoughtfully.
That much?
Said the lean cleric.
No more,
No less,
And he has sent us to find out what part of that hellish treasure belongs to the brothers of Devonish,
And how much is the property of the king.
Bekvola again broke in,
Speaking graciously,
Regally,
Hastily.
Let those brothers have the entire of the treasure,
For it is Sunday treasure,
And as such it will bring no luck to anyone.
The cleric again looked at her coldly with a harsh-lidded,
Small-set,
Gray-eyed glare and waited for the king's reply.
Dermot pondered,
Shaking his head as to an argument on his left side,
And then nodded it again as to an argument on his right.
It shall be done,
As this sweet queen advises.
Let a relinquery be formed with cunning workmanship of that gold and silver,
Dated with my date and signed with my name,
To be in memory of my grandmother who gave birth to a lamb,
To a salmon,
And then to my father,
The Ard Re.
And as to the treasure that remains over,
A pastoral staff may be beaten from it in honor of Melasius,
The pious man.
The story is not ended,
Said that glum,
Spike-chinned cleric.
The king moved with jovial impatience.
If you continue it,
He said,
It will surely come to an end sometime.
A stone on a stone makes a house,
Dear heart,
And a word on a word tells a tale.
The cleric wrapped himself into himself and became lean and menacing.
He whispered,
Besides the young man named Flan,
Who was not slain,
There was another person present at the scene in the combat and the transgression of Sunday.
Who was that person,
Said the alarmed monarch.
The cleric spiked forward his chin and then butted forward his brow.
It was the wife of the king,
He shouted.
It was the woman called Bekphola.
It was that woman,
He roared,
And he extended a lean and flexible,
Unending first finger at the queen.
Dog,
The king stammered,
Starting up.
If that be in truth a woman,
The cleric screamed.
What do you mean?
The king demanded in wrath and terror.
Either she is a woman of this world to be punished or she is a woman of the she to be banished.
But this holy morning she was in the she and her arms were about the neck of Flan.
The king sank back into his chair,
Stupefied,
Gazing from one to the other,
And then turned an unseen,
Fear-damned eye towards Bekphola.
Is this true,
My pulse,
He murmured.
It is true,
Bekphola replied,
And she became suddenly to the king's eye a whiteness and a stare.
He pointed to the door.
Go to your engagement,
He stammered,
Go to that Flan.
He is waiting for me,
Said Bekphola with proud shame,
And the thought that he would wait rings my heart.
She went out from the palace then,
She went away from Tara,
And in all Ireland and in the world of living men she was not seen again,
And she was never heard from again.
