Sheltered by hempen awnings lay the book-stalls, with a large display of plain, waxed tablets, made of birch, elm, and the inner bark of ash; scribes were busy among them with reed and stylus. Towering above were some ancient papyrus rolls, fifteen cubits in length—reed-written with ink of gum-water and soot, and there were many plain boc-fell folios such as Cormac’s countrymen wrote on by day and night in tower and monastery, with red cinnabar and cuttle-fish ink. There were a few Hibernian bindings, splendid and massive, with clasps, hinges, and bosses upon them, that might have been used upon an abbey-door. But it was a poor collection after former days of Roman splendour—when bejewelled diptycha of gold and silver had been common—now people contented themselves with coarse birch, joined by common wire.
Leaving the book-stalls behind him, Cormac made his way through many cubics’ length of earth covered with basket work of every shape and size—the famous wicker-work of ancient Britain. Marvels, too, he saw of British wool—which the Romans had taught them to spin so finely it was likened to spiders’-webs.
At every point he was assailed by eager vendors. At length he sat down, tired, upon some felled trees where a group of diviners, with their dice and knuckle-bones were lounging; close to a booth where a fluttering pennon announced that a two-headed cow was on show within.
From his position on the fallen tree, Cormac caught glimpses of the stone chair of the Brehon or Judge, which was placed on the great burial mound around which the Fair centred. On his right-hand stretched the race-course and wrestling rings; on his left the sea gleamed in the distance.
It was not long before Cormac became aware that a woman formed one in the group of people around him. Although half-hidden by the foliage of the tree, she was quite close to him—so close that her flowing lenn almost brushed his knee, and the saffron fragrance of her robes was quite distinct to him.
It was a strange thing to see a fair and delicately-dressed woman amongst these rude jugglers. Cormac was full of wonder. He wished he could see the girl’s face. Every moment his wonder increased; was she some high-born Druidess, mated by caprice with one of these low serpent-charmers? No, the ring on her hand would never be worn by a Druidess; he could see her hand, plainly with the ring upon it—bearing the monogram of Our Lord, the bezel ornamented with a dove within an olive branch.
What power in the loosely-lying hand and arm! White and delicate, but of a strength to wield a battle-axe. And the wide sloping shoulders and snow-white column of her throat, gleaming like marble through the meshes of her yellow hair—such women, surely, stood before the southern sculptors when they chose their images to bear the weight of temple and palace!
Where had he seen such women? Not amid the nervous fiery creatures of his own race, not among the beautiful fragile ladies of Roman-Britain. A faint dislike, a sudden shuddering sense of disaster came upon him—he knew now where he had seen such great, fair, goddess-like women! But they had not been thus clothed in delicate raiment, glossy-haired, perfumed, and dainty—but dishevelled and gory with hair streaming in the fore-ranks of the Saxons.
Every moment his wish to see her face grew stronger.
He could see she made her replies unwillingly to the man at her side; and evidently wished to remain silent and unnoticed. Indeed, there were strong reasons why she should desire to escape notice, for at these great fairs men and women were kept apart under fear of death.