‘I would not have the noble O’Neills suffer any loss in the name of Brian Boru,’ the King of Munster said.
Hugh looked past Brian one more time, at the huge army with him. An army large enough to take anything in sight, if it wanted.
If Brian Boru wanted.
Hugh was a wise man. ‘The O’Neills of the north have no quarrel with Brian of Munster,’ he announced at last.
Brian spent three days with the northern princes. They served great feasts in his honour, and his bards taught their bards the poetry of the south.
‘And that’s how you win a war without bloodshed,’ Brian told Carroll when they were on their way back to Munster.
When they reached Kincora, they found that a small war had broken out there. Gormla had been bored with Brian away. She had managed to start a fight among some of the Dalcassians left to guard his stronghold. Brian arrived just in time to put a stop to it before someone was killed.
The quarrel was forgotten when the annual tribute from the Limerick Danes arrived. Every year since their defeat at his hands they had sent him 365 tuns of wine containing 32 gallons each. This was kept in the winecellar Brian had built across the Shannon, out of easy reach of his warriors. But to make his Dalcassians put aside their differences he ordered the wine to flow like water at Kincora, until no man remembered what the fight was about.
Brian did not take part. He climbed alone to the grey crag. There he whispered, to the listening spirit of Aval, ‘When I married her, I thought Gormla would make me happy. She was not like any of my other women. I could talk to her and she understood. I thought she would be a companion as we grew older.
‘Perhaps I made a mistake, Aval.’
He looked out across the land, across Lough Derg and the shimmering Shannon and the walls of Kincora.
‘Perhaps the only thing which it is safe to love is the land itself,’ Brian said sadly.
The land could not die. The land never disappointed him.
He stretched out his arms in love and longing, as if he would embrace all of Ireland.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Marching on Tara
Marcan mac Kennedy was pleased with the abbey his brother Brian had ordered built for him. As its abbot he had reached the limit of his worldly ambition. He also enjoyed knowing the abbey was safe from raiders. In the land Brian Boru controlled, raids on abbeys and monasteries had all but ceased. When anyone sought to plunder them, Brian hunted down the thieves and punished them savagely.
If Brian was trying to bring peace to Ireland, it seemed he was also trying to make his own peace with God.
But peace was not as easily won as a battle. In the province of Connacht, King Conor decided his daughter Ducholi had been insulted by Brian. ‘But I don’t want to live with him anymore, Father,’ she insisted, but Conor would not listen. He rebelled against Brian and declared support for Malachy instead.
Brian was forced to march into Connacht and put down the rising. Irish blood was shed by Irish men, and Brian felt it on his hands.
How long could he hope to hold his allies together, he wondered? Irish and Viking were an uneasy partnership at best. He did not believe Sitric and Maelmora would be loyal to him just for the sake of Gormla. She was using her influence on his behalf now, but that could change. One could never predict what Gormla might do.
Brian sent for Mac Liag. They sat together drinking red wine in a stone chamber lined with hangings of brightly dyed wool. A fire burned in a bronze brazier near their feet, to keep away the chill that lingered in spite of the springtime. One of Brian’s beloved shaggy hounds was stretched beside the king’s bench. The dog appeared to be asleep, but when Brian spoke it opened its eyes and thumped its tail against the stone floor.
‘Malachy will probably never again feel as weak as he does now,’ Brian said. ‘I know he isn’t afraid of me. I have simply outsmarted him. If I am ever to challenge him, this is the time. And I should like Donncha, the son Gormla has given me, to grow up as the son of a High King.
‘I shall ask Marcan my brother to come from his abbey and bless me, Mac Liag. Then I shall lead an army into Meath and demand Malachy submit to me.’
For a long time, Mac Liag had expected to hear those words. For a long time, Brian had made no secret of his ambition.
‘Take me with you, Brian,’ said Mac Liag. ‘I want to see it happen with my own eyes, so I can compose a great poem about it afterwards.’
‘You and Carroll will both go with me,’ Brian promised.
Murcha was going too. On such an occasion, Brian could not leave his oldest son behind. Even knowing there might be trouble between them – for when was there not? – Brian asked Murcha to ride at his shoulder.
All the years of planning and dreaming were coming together now. If Brian succeeded and Malachy surrendered the high kingship to him, he meant to rule a newly united Ireland, a thing that had never been before. And he wanted Murcha to be part of it, to understand, and to follow him when he was gone, and hold together what Brian had built.
Irish and Viking together at peace. Peace among the tribes. A land where no child would find its mother slaughtered.
In the early summer of the Year of Our Lord 1002, Brian Boru marched into Meath. The lion banner was vivid in the sunlight.
Brian sent a messenger ahead to Malachy, demanding that he surrender Tara and the high kingship.
The army advanced very slowly. Brian wanted to give the High King time to accept his fate and submit without fighting. Once again, the people watched as Brian Boru passed by. Some among them noticed that he wore a cloak of seven colours. Only the High King was entitled to wear seven colours.
When he learned that Brian was approaching with an army, Malachy sent one last, desperate appeal north, to Ulster.
The reply came back. ‘If you want us to stand with you against Munster,’ Hugh O’Neill said, ‘you must give us half of Meath.’
Malachy could not give up his homeland. Feeling totally deserted, he waited alone, except for his little band of loyal Meath princes, in the echoing halls of Tara.
At last runners came to tell him Brian and his army were setting up camp on the plains beyond. Malachy felt a curious sense of relief. At least the long wait was over. ‘How large is the army?’ he asked.
‘They blacken the earth, and the smoke from their fires blackens the sky.’
‘Ah,’ said Malachy. ‘Ah.’
Twilight fell on royal Meath. By himself, wishing no company, Malachy wandered through the deserted halls of Tara, murmuring their names to himself. The Fort of the Kings. The Fort of the Synods. King Laoire’s Fort. The great feasting hall with its fourteen doorways, where he had celebrated in times past. Empty now, the chieftains who had cheered him gone. Their banners hung limp and forgotten in the damp evening air.
Malachy wondered what Kincora was like. Larger than Tara, some said. Grander than the Fort of the Swords.
‘I have been a good king,’ Malachy said aloud, as if challenging the night wind to answer him.
He walked a little farther. A stone glinted white in the fading light. Drawing back his foot, Malachy gave it a kick, then listened to it rattle away in the darkness.
‘What did I do wrong?’ he asked aloud.
The night wind had no answer for him.
At dawn, a sleepless and red-eyed Malachy put on his finest robes and prepared to meet Brian Boru.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Brian Claims the High Kingship
With Tara rising behind him, Malachy approached Brian across Mag Breg, the Plain of Hills. He came as a High King should, accompanied by his standard bearer and most loyal princes, and followed by a guard of honour comprised of his best warriors with their swords.
The warriors carried the swords outstretched, in surrender.
This was the moment Brian had waited for, for so long. He wanted to stop time, so he could enjoy it. But it would rush past and be over; even he could not stop time. His bard and historian must capt
ure the moment for him.
As he watched Malachy approach his tent, Brian issued an order. ‘Collect as many of our best horses as Malachy has warriors with him.’
When the High King was twelve paces away, Brian stepped forward six paces, halving the distance.
Their warriors formed a circle around them, jostling one another in their eagerness to be in front and see and hear all that was said.
Whatever Brian might take from him, Malachy was a prince of the O’Neills, a man of dignity and personal courage. He held his head high and met Brian’s eyes with a steady gaze of his own. ‘If those who should have supported me had not failed me, I would meet you with raised shields between us, Brian Boru.’
In a deep voice Brian replied, ‘I am willing to meet you in single combat any time, Malachy.’
The High King sighed. ‘It would serve no purpose. The contest between us is already over, and we both know it.’
Raising his arms, he lifted a circlet of gold from his head. ‘I have worn this for twenty years,’ he said to Brian. ‘See if it fits you.’
Brian took the crown of the High King. Gazing down at it, he turned it over and over in his fingers. The men watched eagerly but his face told them nothing of the thoughts behind his eyes.
This is only metal, he was saying to himself. Like the title, High King, it means nothing by itself. Whatever meaning it has, men give it.
He looked up and gave Malachy a gentle smile. ‘You are a noble man,’ he said. Then, to the astonishment of all, he put his arms around the smaller Meathman and embraced him. As they broke apart Brian put the crown back into Malachy’s hands.
‘This isn’t mine until I am made High King in the ancient ritual,’ he said. ‘Until then, it should remain with you. And I should also like to give you the sort of gift kings of equal rank exchange.’ He turned and beckoned. Horseboys ran forward, leading the best Munster horses, one for every member of Malachy’s party.
The High King’s own men cheered Brian Boru.
Now that it was too late, Malachy began to realise what he had done wrong. He had followed all the traditions. As High King, he had demanded taxes in the form of tributes, taken sides in tribal feuds, fought and feasted and enjoyed the wealth of his rank. He had done what all the High Kings before him had done.
But Brian Boru had a different idea of kingship. He won support and admiration through gestures such as this, without fighting. He had made himself the image of what a High King should be.
Nobility comes more naturally to him than it does to me, Malachy thought sadly, though I was born to a great tribe and he an unimportant one. It was my misfortune to be born in the same generation as such a man.
Malachy ordered the feasting hall of Tara swept and garnished once again, so he could serve a feast in honour of the Lion of Thomond. He shall at least see me lose gracefully, Malachy promised himself. One last feast in the ancient hall, while the crown is still on my head.
‘I assume that Prince Murcha will be his father’s Tanist, the man chosen to succeed him,’ Malachy told his servants. ‘I have heard that Brian has been trying to train his oldest son for that purpose. So seat him at his father’s side for the feast.’
Sitting beside Brian, Murcha watched him closely. Other men at the feast were eating right-and-left handed and emptying their wine cups as fast as they were filled. Brian ate well, but drank very little. He sat quiet and watchful, always in control of himself.
When a servant approached with more wine, Murcha put his hand over his cup as Brian did. I can learn from you, father, he thought to himself. He saw Brian’s glance flick towards him, noticing. Then Brian gave the smallest nod of approval, one that none but Murcha saw.
Murcha smiled.
My son seems to have learned something from my bloodless victory, Brian thought. He is looking at me with new respect in his eyes. I suppose he never really expected me to become High King.
Nor did I! Brian suddenly admitted to himself. He felt joy swelling his chest. Joy, and a growing sense of the huge responsibility he was about to take upon himself.
At the doorways of the feasting hall, the banners of the chieftains hung from their poles. For the first time a banner of yellow silk hung among them – yellow silk, upon which were three crimson lions.
Brian did not send for Gormla to join him when he was formally made High King. Gormla had been Malachy’s wife. He would not use her as salt to rub in the other man’s wound.
At Kincora, she complained bitterly about being left out.
Brian’s army remained encamped on the plain below Tara while preparations were made for the ceremony. It was best to be prepared. No one could say how the tribes of Ireland might react to this break with tradition. The overthrow of a High King could shake the very earth upon which they stood, even if it was done without blood.
Each of the five great roads leading to Tara was guarded by a company of armed Dalcassians.
On the appointed day, a huge crowd came up those roads to see Brian become High King. Farmers had left their fields, women had left their pots boiling over the fire, children had left their play. Everyone wanted to be at Tara. An excited buzz ran through the crowd. ‘The Stone of Fal is supposed to cry out when a true king is crowned. Will it cry out for the Dalcassian, do you suppose?’
No one knew.
As historian of the south, Carroll had argued that Brian should be crowned at Cashel. But Brian had replied, ‘I am already King of Munster. The Stone of Fal at Tara is the sacred symbol of high kingship. I shall claim Ireland from the Stone of Fal or not at all.’
Hearing these words, Brian’s men had exchanged worried looks. Everyone knew the legend about the Stone of Fal, but most thought it was only a legend. Had the stone cried out for Malachy? Had he even bothered to stand upon it, according to the ancient tradition?
Brian sent for his brother, the abbot Marcan, to place the gold circlet upon his head when the time came. When Brian mentioned the Stone of Fal, Marcan said, ‘The voice in the stone is the voice of a demon, brother! It cried out for pagan kings. A Christian should have nothing to do with such a symbol.’
Brian gave Marcan a long look. ‘This land was pagan before it was Christian. This land is many things. You cannot cut out the parts you don’t like and throw them away, any more than I could drive out the Vikings.’
Of all of Brian’s followers, Murcha was the most worried. ‘What if my father steps onto the stone and it makes no sound?’ he kept asking Mac Liag. ‘What sort of poem will you compose then?’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Emperor of the Irish
Brian knew how important symbols were. He had made much use of symbols in his career. The strong walls of Kincora, the generosity of his gifts, the size of his army. These were symbols everyone understood. The Stone of Fal was the greatest symbol of all.
On the day before the ceremony, Brian went to see Tara for himself. No kings lived there now, but it was the true heart of the land as it had been since the days of the Tuatha de Danann.
‘I am here at last, Aval,’ Brian whispered to the wind. ‘On my own terms.’ He stopped before the Stone of Fal. The bards said the stone had been brought to Ireland by the Dananns in ancient times, before the coming of the Gael. The Gael had fought and defeated the Dananns, but kept their magical stone to crown their own kings upon. As a little boy, Brian had never tired of hearing the tales of conquests and heroic deeds.
So many conquests, he thought. Let it be over now.
The surface of the grey stone was rough and pitted. It lay flat on the earth, atop the Mound of the Hostages, as the sacred oak of the Dalcassians had stood on its mound at Magh Adhair before Malachy cut it down. There were two shallow hollows in the stone like the prints of forgotten feet. These marked where a king should stand – if he dared.
Brian walked slowly around the stone, his eyes narrowed in thought.
Tomorrow the Stone of Fal must cry aloud. It must announce him as the true and rightful High King.<
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Nothing must be left to chance, he told himself.
At dawn the next morning, Marcan came for him. Brian had dressed with care for the most important occasion of his life. His mane of red-gold hair was fading at last, and streaked with grey, but its damp waves bore the toothmarks of his comb. His head was bare, awaiting a crown.
He wore a new tunic with bell-shaped, pleated sleeves, and Celtic knotwork around the hem. It was belted with fine Munster leather, ornamented with gold. But the belt held no scabbard. For the first time in many years, Brian Boru carried no weapons.
His standard bearer came forward, lifting the banner of three crimson lions. The king and his party followed it up the hill. They were soon surrounded by the crowd of people who had come from as far away as Dublin to see the event. The air was filled with the voices of trumpets.
When Brian entered the main gate of Tara, a hush fell over the crowd. Malachy was waiting near the Stone of Fal. Malachy had not used the Stone during his own inauguration ceremony. His priests had been against the pagan custom. Now Malachy could not help noticing the way the people looked at the stone, with fear and something like reverence. Pagan and Christian lived side by side in these people.
The ceremony began with a reading from the Book of Rights, describing the duties of kingship. These laws had come to Ireland with the Gael, fifteen hundred years before Brian was born. When he swore to uphold them, the people nodded approval.
‘He looks like one of the kings from the ancient stories,’ they said to one another.
Next the historian recited Brian’s family history, so all present would know he was of noble blood. Finally, Marcan turned to Malachy and held out his hands.
Malachy had tried to prepared himself for this moment. But when he lifted the gold circlet from his own head and handed it to the Dalcassian abbot, he felt an awful sense of loss.
Marcan carried the circlet to Brian. As chief poet to the king, Mac Liag would hand Brian the white rod of authority, another pagan symbol. Marcan would set the High King’s crown on Brian’s head and recite a Christian blessing. The old and the new were mingled in the ceremony.
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