“Who leads them?”
“The Ard Ri’s youngest son.”
Teigue abruptly stopped licking his fingers and wiped them on one of the linen napkins which were among the luxuries of Kincora. A tall, slim man, he had his dead mother’s colouring. His hair was dark brown, his eyes a soft blue screened by thick eyelashes.
“You can’t mean Donough’s in command of the army?” he asked as if not certain he had heard correctly.
“Apparently he is. He rides in the lead and the banner of clan Dal Cais is carried beside his horse.”
Teigue immediately told the nearest servant, “Run; find Mac Liag for me if he is anywhere in Kincora. Tell him I need him in a hurry!”
The servant trotted away, soon returning with a puffing and panting Mac Liag at his heels. The man who had for so many years been Brian Boru’s chief poet was past the age when running was possible, but he scurried as fast as he could. As he entered the hall he complained, “You have no reason to put such strain on an old man, Teigue! You know I’m not well. I was just about to go to my own house for a little rest and to work some more on the lament for …”
“I sent for you because I need an honest answer,” Teigue interrupted, knowing the spate of Mac Liag’s words would continue indefinitely if unchecked. “I need the truth and I know I can hear it from you.”
The poet smiled. A praise singer by profession, he was as amenable to flattery as the nobility he served. “Poets are not always concerned with facts, but they are scrupulous about the truth,” he replied.
“Then tell me truly—you’ve observed my half-brother Donough throughout his life; is he tainted by his mother’s blood?”
Mac Liag was puzzled. “Why ask me about him? He could hardly be less important in the …”
“He could hardly be more important,” Teigue contradicted. “According to the news we have received, Murrough, Flann, and Conor are all dead, which means that of my father’s sons by noble mothers, only Donough and I still live.”
As Teigue spoke of the slain princes, Mac Liag’s eyes misted and his mouth began working; eulogies were shaping themselves on his tongue.
Before the poet could launch into them, Teigue asked him bluntly, “If only we two survive, which of us is best equipped by character and disposition to succeed our father?”
Mac Liag looked distressed. “I can hardly answer you. I know you well and I’ve known young Donough all his life, and you are very different from one another. Frankly, I never envisioned either of you wearing Brian’s mantle.”
“Neither did I, Mac Liag. But our father’s titles are now vacant, and Donough is bringing the Dalcassians home even as we speak. Gormlaith’s son is leading Brian Boru’s personal army, do you understand?
“This is what I need you to tell me: Is there enough of his mother in Donough to make him dangerous?”
“I honestly don’t know,” the poet replied.
As Donough and the warriors approached the east bank of the Shannon, Fergal Mac Anluan recalled, “Years ago Brian had a big wine cellar built someplace around here, did he not? To store the three hundred casks of imported wine the Limerick Vikings paid him in tribute every year?”
Donough was too young to have remembered the construction of the cellar, but several of the officers grinned. “It’s in this general area,” one of them affirmed. “He hid it on this side of the river so the warriors garrisoned at Kincora would be less likely to raid it. But we might as well find it and bend our elbows; it’s the least we deserve after what we’ve been through.”
Without even glancing toward Donough for permission, a score of men plunged into the undergrowth, searching for the path that would lead them to the cellar.
“Halt!” Donough shouted after them. “We have no time for that now!”
Ronan promptly challenged him. “And why not? What else do we have to do?”
“You have to follow me,” said Donough, summoning all the authority he could muster. Here was the real challenge to his leadership; not at Athy, facing the Ossorians, but here in Thomond with the lure of drink tempting weary warriors. He would have liked to find the wine cellar himself, he felt as if he could drain a cask without help from anyone.
Then Ronan said patronizingly, “Go on without us. Too much red wine makes boys ill.”
Some of the other men sniggered.
Now, a voice within himself told Donough. Now or never.
He was startled; the words were spoken in a deep, calm voice not recognizably his own. But in one smooth motion he found himself drawing his sword, pivoting on his horse, and leaning forward to press the sword point against Ronan’s throat.
“We’re going to Kincora,” said Donough. “The wine can wait.”
For a long, long moment no one moved. The foot warriors were watching him; the horsemen kept their eyes on Ronan.
The balance shifted one way and then the other. Both men felt it as they read one another’s eyes.
Then Ronan drew back an infinitesimal distance and said in a carrying voice, “On to Kincora it is, Commander.”
Donough lowered his sword.
He said nothing and kept his face impassive.
But he was astonished and not a little relieved that Ronan had backed down. Perhaps he would not need to name a new second-in-command after all.
They splashed through the shallows, fording the river where for centuries thousands of cattle had crossed to be paid as grudging tribute by Leinstermen to the King of Munster. Brian’s birthplace, a seventh-century ring-fort which he had assimilated into the northern ramparts of Kincora, was known as Beal Boru—The Fort of the Cattle Tribute. The enforced tribute had long been a cause of bitterness between Leinster and Munster.
Gazing up at the timber palisades and countless outbuildings of Kincora sprawling along the west bank of the Shannon, Fergal Mac Anluan wondered if the cattle tribute would be paid this year, now that Maelmordha of Leinster and Brian of Munster were dead.
A sound like the voices of angels drifted to them, clearly audible above the roar of the falls below the ford. Members of the nearby monastery of Kill Dalua were chanting the Pater and the Alleluia.
Donough was the first to canter his horse up the incline from the river. He did not even wait for the man carrying the Dalcassian banner to precede him as convention dictated.
With a broad smile on his weary face, Donough came home.
Chapter Twelve
For the construction of his stronghold thirty years earlier, my father had employed the most skilled craftsmen in Munster. The massive oak gates were carved with the heads of saints intermingled with zoomorphic figures from a more pagan age; the iron hinges that held them were elaborately wrought Even the smallest nailheads were engraved. Timber ceiling posts and rafters were both carved and ornamented with copper and silver. Wattle-and-timber walls were coated with dazzlingly white limewash. The stone used in the construction of private chambers, and the chapel, was precisely cut and fitted so tightly a knife blade could not be inserted.
Brian Boru’s own restless mind had designed numerous innovations to add to Kincora’s magnificence. Uniquely among Irish strongholds, his fortress was filled with light Every chamber boasted small windows set just below the eaves, so that any stray sunbeam—or moonbeam—might find its way inside.
The late Ard Ri had with justification called Kincora his palace, a testimony to that Irish artistry which created incomparable gold work and illuminated gospels unequaled in Christendom. Viking Dublin seemed offensively crude by comparison.
As I entered the stronghold I felt again a sense of timeless familiarity. It was as if I had always known this place, always been a part of hopes and dreams and events unfolding within its walls. Long before I was born, some essential element of myself had existed at Kincora. With birth I had begun to take an active part in a life I had previously been observing from the shadows.
Chapter Thirteen
FROM THE WATCHTOWER OVER THE GATE A SENTRY WAS SIGNALING TO s
omeone inside, informing them of the size of the contingent approaching. Kincora was accustomed to armies. As many as three thousand warriors had been garrisoned there at one time, and on occasion three hundred boats moored on the banks of the Shannon.
When the gates creaked open, Brian’s youngest son rode forward without looking to left or right, as he thought a conquering hero should.
Teigue was waiting for him inside.
Donough was filthy from the journey, and when he saw his brother he regretted that he had not taken time to bathe at the river. By contrast Teigue’s face glowed from a vigorous scrubbing and every item of clothing he wore was fresh; his silk-lined blue mantle with its marten fur trimming was fit for a king.
His wife Maeve claimed it heightened the color of his eyes.
Teigue welcomed the returning heroes of Clontarf effusively, and his greeting for Donough contained all the cordiality of one loving brother for another. He insisted everything must wait until the weary men had been given a chance to bathe and refresh themselves. “Then I shall meet you in the great hall and hear all about it,” he told Donough. “You will be using your old apartments, of course?” he added innocently.
Gormlaith’s old apartments.
Donough hesitated. “They hold unpleasant memories.”
It was Teigue’s turn to hesitate. Then, “Of course, of course, we can find somewhere better for you. For now you may use my chamber. There’s a fire in the brazier and I’ll send servants to you with heated water and a change of clothing.”
“Something like you’re wearing?”
Teigue glanced down at himself and his lips twitched, fighting back a smile. “I don’t always dress this grandly,” he admitted.
“So I recall.”
“My wife chose these for me.”
Donough made no comment.
He was ushered into Teigue’s private chamber, a circular room carpeted with freshly gathered rushes. A woman’s touch was obvious in its appointments.
It had been a long time since Donough had seen much luxury. Gormlaith had always surrounded herself with costly things, but her taste was florid, excessive. She insisted on dyes vivid to the point of garishness, and never satisfied herself with one of any item if she could get three or four.
In Teigue’s chamber, his wife Maeve had exerted more subtle taste. A gilded book shrine sat on one small trestle table in isolated splendor. Another table displayed Maeve’s copper-alloy toilet implements decorated with bird-head motifs against a field of red enamel; works of art in their own right.
Cushions were piled on a linen-covered mattress plump with goose down and sweet herbs. Donough glanced at it; looked away. He felt like a child invading the closed world of adults.
He almost expected to hear Gormlaith shout at him to go away.
A gray-haired bondwoman brought him a copper ewer of heated water and a basin. She stood patiently waiting, staring into space, while Donough washed himself, then she carried the dirty water away as another bondwoman entered the chamber with a pile of clothing in her arms.
Mindful of Teigue’s costume, he selected a leine with bell-shaped, pleated sleeves. He drew the finely woven bleached linen garment up through his belt until it hung just above his knees, to show off the muscles of his legs. Over this he wore an embroidered green and gold mantle, which he fastened at the shoulder with a penannular brooch set with amber. Because he was a prince in his own palace he did not go barefoot, but donned leather shoes ornamented with scrollwork of silver wire.
His saffron-dyed warrior’s leine and muddy brat were left abandoned on the floor.
When Donough finished dressing he picked up a mirror from among the collection of women’s toilet articles. The face that looked back at him was older than he remembered, beginning to be stamped by experience; to his joy there was a definite moustache growing and his jaws needed a razor. He was fumbling among the various implements in hopes of finding one when a woman cleared her throat behind him.
He swung round.
Teigue’s wife was only a few years older than Donough; a dimpled woman with fair hair dressed in curls and plaits. She wore a long smock of silky linen bound with a blue girdle. Her fingertips were rouged with ruam, but the red of her lips was natural.
Donough found himself staring at those lips. They made him think of ripe fruit.
Since his marriage, Teigue had rarely returned to Kincora, having a fort of his own beyond Crag Liath in a broad valley embraced by mountains. And he had never brought Maeve with him; this was the first time Donough had seen her.
Or she him. She did not remember him as a boy. She was looking at a man.
She smiled. “Donnchad? Or is it Donough now? I seem to recall hearing my husband mention you had changed your name.”
“It is Donough,” he replied with an answering smile. “How did you know me?”
“Because of your resemblance to the Ard Ri.”
From that moment Donough was devoted to Maeve.
She accompanied him to the great hall, listening with flattering interest to whatever he said. She could not help noticing when he reached out to touch a carving on a post with appreciative fingers, or paused to take an admiring look at the elaborate ironwork of a torch holder.
He saw her watching. “Home,” he said softly.
Maeve understood. She loved her own home in the valley beyond the hills.
The hall was crowded when they arrived. Members of the handpicked company of warriors Brian Boru had left behind to guard Kincora were stationed around the walls, every man holding a spear upright.
With a broad smile, Teigue came forward to greet his brother. The smile faded when Donough’s first words to him were, “My father never allowed weapons in the banqueting hall.”
“He did on occasion,” Teigue countered. “You were probably too young to remember.”
The reference to his age irritated Donough. It was exactly the sort of remark his mother might have made to put him in his place; he assumed it was deliberate, as he assumed Teigue’s regal attire was a deliberate attempt to intimidate him.
His face hardened. “Why are all these people here?”
“Surely you know many of them,” Teigue replied. “There stands Cathal Mac Maine, Abbot of Kill Dalua since the death of your uncle Marcan. Beside him is Eamonn, chieftain of clan Cuinn, and over there is your cousin Fergal. And Enda, my chief steward, and Conor, a cattle lord from Corcomrua, and …”
Donough responded to each face with a nod of acknowledgment. But his eyes kept returning to a small cluster of men who stood apart. They wore heavily embroidered triangular mantles, and ankle-length tunics innocent of girdling.
“And those men over there, Teigue?”
For the first time, a note of wariness crept into Teigue’s voice. “Brehons,” he said.
“Why are there so many judges here? I can’t recall my father having more than one or two at Kincora.”
“That would have been the usual complement,” Teigue agreed. “But under the circumstances we need the advice and counsel of every expert in the law.”
“Under what circumstances?”
Teigue looked at his brother blankly. “Why … the fact that both our father and Murrough, his tanist, his chosen successor, died at the same time. The Dalcassians have lost their chieftain and brehons must preside over the election of another.”
But tribal chieftainship, as both men were aware, was the least of the titles so abruptly vacated. Thomond was the tribeland of the Dal Cais, but only one of many tribelands tributary to the larger province of Munster.
Brian Boru had also held the title of King of Munster, the first major step he had taken on his way to becoming High King of the Irish.
Ard Ri.
In the days since news of Clontarf reached him, Teigue had accepted that he would follow his father as chieftain of the Dal Cais. He had even conceded he might claim the crown of Munster as well. But no mention of the high kingship had crossed his lips. Teigue was basica
lly a simple man who would rather stay with his herds and his family than slog through deep mud to wave a sword in the face of some rebellious under-king.
Only Maeve knew how dismayed he had been to find himself the senior prince of his clan.
Upon receiving the news, Teigue had sent for every brehon he could gather. Whatever decisions were taken now must have the support of the practitioners of the ancient Brehon Law.
Brian Boru had overthrown tradition but not the law itself; he had, however, reinterpreted various laws to support his own ambitions. Traditionally the kingship of Munster had been held alternately by a prince elected from the senior branch of the Dalcassian tribe and one from the Owenachts, just as the high kingship had been held alternately by a chieftain from the northern tribe of the Ui Neill and one from the southern branch.
Until Brian Boru had wiped away alternate succession, and the divisiveness it engendered, with sword and strategy.
Now he was dead. In the vacuum of power following Clontarf, leadership might be redefined.
The timing of Donough’s arrival was fortuitous; the two surviving sons could now hear the brehons’ pronouncements together.
Chapter Fourteen
THE GREAT HALL OF KINCORA WAS ABUZZ WITH CONVERSATION: THE low, angry rasp of a swarm of bees about to attack.
“Why didn’t you bring the Ard Ri home?” the patriarch of a Dalcassian family challenged Donough as he and Teigue were making their way to the top of the hall. “You brought other dead princes with you for their people to bury; surely you could have returned the Ard Ri to us.”
“He should be entombed here, in the chapel of Saint Flannan!” insisted the sonorous voice of Cathal Mac Maine. The portly, tonsured abbot bore little resemblance to the late Ard Ri, though his father had been Brian’s first cousin. Only his ambitious eyes and the stubborn set of his jaw revealed their kinship. “Is there any place in Ireland so suitable for the tomb of Brian Boru as the chapel where he said his prayers?”
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