The sentries tried to stop her but she pushed past them as well. They did not dare turn their weapons against a woman, even this one. In Brian Boru’s Ireland no man raised his hand against a woman.
They had no such compunction when it came to her male companions, however. These were Dublin Vikings, all too recently the enemy. When Gormlaith’s escort tried to ride through the gate they found their way barred by crossed spears.
The captain appealed to Donough. “We aren’t supposed to leave her.”
The young man sighed. “I’ll take care of her,” he said with obvious reluctance. He turned to the chief sentry. “Find someplace for my mother’s bodyguard to spend the night. She’ll want them to accompany her back to Dublin tomorrow.”
As Donough followed his mother into the fort, two sets of armed men were left facing each other in the torchlight. Dalcassian eyed Viking. “I would be happier myself,” commented the chief sentry at last, “if you took her away right now.”
His opposite number frowned. “I cannot. Surely your prince would not deny hospitality for the night to a woman.”
“That woman?” The sentry squinted up at the man on horseback. “The Devil himself would deny her hospitality. But I suppose you might as well come inside until this is sorted out. There’s plenty of food and fodder, and you can sleep in the guards’ quarters. I like that horse of yours, by the way,” he added conversationally, to show there were no hard feelings. “Kildare horse, is he?”
Meanwhile the sentry who carried news of Gormlaith’s arrival to Teigue in the hall was getting a sample of the welcome she could expect. “Stone her before she puts one foot inside the gate!” cried a Dalcassian.
There was a shout of agreement from among the assembled guests.
“That woman is to blame for all the ills of Ireland!” cried a chieftain’s wife.
Mac Liag braced the palms of his hands on the trestle table in front of him and pushed himself to his feet. “Honesty compels me to disagree,” he said, his speech slightly slurred by an excess of red wine. “I feel no more affection for her than you do, but trouble has many parents. Surely on the occasion of her son’s wedding feast we can put side our animosity and—”
“Don’t make any special effort for me!” cried a voice from the doorway. Heads swiveled as Gormlaith swept into the room as if she belonged there. “And I don’t need you to champion me, Mac Liag,” she added. “I can take care of myself. And of my son, come to that.”
Her son was close on her heels. He tried to lay a restraining hand on her arm but Gormlaith shook him off. “Teigue! Are you to blame for this absurdity?”
Teigue had risen from his seat and started toward her with his arm outstretched and his hand raised, palm outward, to bar her way. “You are not welcome here,” he told her.
“Nonsense. When could a mother not come to her son’s wedding?” She turned to Donough. “Would you disgrace yourself in front of your tribe by such cruelty to your own mother?”
“I—”
“I thought not. There, you see, Teigue? He wants me.”
Donough tried to step between them. “I never said that, I was going to—”
“Be quiet now and let me handle this. You are in enough trouble, and I haven’t arrived a moment too soon. Where’s this wretched girl you purport to have married? Let me have a look at her.”
From the moment of Gormlaith’s entry Neassa had been staring at her, slack-jawed. Now she tried to slump lower on her bench, but the older woman’s unerring gaze sought her out in her place of brief honor at the front of the women’s gallery.
“You there! Stand up, if you aren’t a cripple!”
At Gormlaith’s command Neassa rose, trembling, to her feet. Maeve hissed at her, “Sit down, ignore her,” but the girl did not seem to hear.
Gormlaith raked Neassa with her eyes, then turned to her son. “You married this, Donnchad? I am astonished. Look at that face, she has no more brain than a gosling. How can you possibly expect to get brilliant children from a stupid woman? This is no second-degree marriage. At best it’s a union of the tenth degree because one partner is simpleminded.”
Gadhra’s face turned black with fury. Kicking back his bench, he hurled himself at Gormlaith. “You insult my daughter! I demand compensation under Brehon Law! I’ll fast on your doorstep, I’ll have a third of everything you own, I’ll demand the poets strike your name from the histories!”
Teigue was at a momentary loss for words. Donough seized the first thought that came into his head. “Gormlaith, I am called Donough now, not Donnchad. And you are insulting my wife as well as Gadhra’s daughter. You are—”
Recovering, Teigue interrupted, “You insult us all with your foul presence, woman. You persuaded your brother Maelmordha to rebel against my father and you enticed your son Sitric and his Viking allies to join him just to see Brian Boru dead. You have bathed Ireland in blood, and if I were not a Christian man I would—”
“If you were not as meek as a woodmouse you would have fought beside your father at Clontarf,” Gormlaith replied. “At least my Donnchad is—”
“Donough!” the young man cried.
One of Gormlaith’s gifts was the ability to think on several layers at once. Tonight was the first time she had heard his new name, yet the urgency in his voice told her it was important to him. She saw at once an advantage to herself, a way of winning some degree of gratitude if not affection. “My Donough,” she amended with no perceptible hesitation, “is a warrior. And a warrior prince has no business lumbering himself with a dreary cow who will bear sons with no shine on them.”
The hall was in uproar. Gormlaith’s last words were drowned in shouts and babble.
But Donough heard them. Some part of his brain registered agreement.
Neassa was staring at Gormlaith exactly like a heifer waiting for the butcher’s axe.
The girl in the red skirt would not respond in that fashion. Without ever having exchanged a word with her, Donough knew she would stand toe to toe with Gormlaith and give as good as she got.
Her face was stamped on his mind like the imprint left on the retina after staring at the sun; a fine-boned, intelligent face.
When and how would he see her again?
Meanwhile there was a tangle to be sorted out in the great hall of Kincora. Amid noise and drink and anger Donough must juggle his mother, his new wife, his ambitions—and the image of the girl in the red skirt.
For a moment he felt overwhelmed.
Then from some unguessed well within him, a voice spoke. A voice as curiously familiar to him as Padraic’s daughter.
Be cold, it instructed. Suppress all emotion so you can think clearly.
Donough stood immobile, his attention captured. An unseen but powerful presence stood beside him, invisibly filling space.
Be cold, the voice repeated.
Obeying, he began consciously distancing himself from his feelings.
Think. There are opportunities here. Find them and use them. One step at a time.
Donough drew himself to his fullest height. Looking down at his older brother, he said sternly, “Teigue, I will not allow you to insult my mother.”
“What about the insult to my daughter?” cried the furious Gadhra.
“I married Neassa and paid a good bride-price for her,” Donough reminded him. “That hardly constitutes an insult.”
“This woman insulted my Neassa,” snarled Gadhra, stabbing a forefinger at Gormlaith. “Disavow her. I demand it!”
Her eyes locked on Donough’s. “Would you repudiate your own mother? What would your father say?”
“Our father set you aside!” Teigue all but shouted at her.
Donough stood as if listening for a moment. Then he said, “But Brian Boru never insulted my mother in public, nor allowed anyone else to do so. And I would not be less a man than he.
“If my mother is not welcome here, neither am L The shame is on your beard, Teigue, if you drive a son of Brian Boru fro
m Kincora on his wedding day. Is this the method you choose to steal my patrimony from me?”
“Steal!” cried Teigue. He could hardly believe such a charge had been leveled against him. A more physical man would have struck Donough without hestitation, but Teigue merely stood with his eyes starting from his head. “Steal!” he repeated imprudently.
Those who had not heard the word the first time heard it clearly the second.
The hall was thrown into confusion. The name of Brian Boru had been invoked not once, but repeatedly.
Men who a moment before had been ready to stone Gormlaith glanced uneasily at one another.
“When the old Ard Ri was here …”
“Brian would never have …”
Their eyes rolled toward Teigue.
“Perhaps he lacks his father’s …”
“Perhaps,” suggested Fergal Mac Anluan, “Prince Teigue is not the right man to have Kincora. Prince Donough’s claim may be the more valid, in the light of his character. He holds a shield in front of his mother as a son should, and he has not lost his temper under provocation.”
Someone else added, “See how young Donough resembles his father!”
The poet Mac Liag looked from one of Brian’s sons to the other and stroked his beard.
Many in the hall were looking from one to the other. Donough exuded an unexpected dignity beyond his years; Teigue, off-balance, was red-faced and sputtering.
Deciding the time had come for clerical intervention, Cathal Mac Maine raised his arms to attract attention. “Our Lord who took part in the wedding feast at Cana would be grieved to see this occasion becoming one of discord! Put aside your disputes and let us celebrate together.”
But he might as well have tried to stop ripples spreading across the surface of Lough Derg.
The day had been studded with quarrels. As if each were one step on a stair, they had led inexorably to this moment when men must choose sides.
Gormlaith was aware of the change of mood before anyone else in the hall. She took note of the subtle way men began to range themselves on one side of the room or the other, closer to Teigue or to Donough.
More of them chose Teigue. But the young ones drifted toward Donough.
She wondered how Donough could have known that his father never insulted her in public. He had hardly ever been with the pair of them in public. A good guess, no doubt.
Obviously he was a clever young man. Gormlaith smiled. Donough was the future.
Chapter Twenty-three
IN THE ABBOT’S CHAMBERS AT KILL DALUA THE NEXT MORNING, Cathal Mac Maine sat brooding.
The room was more comfortably furnished than the usual monastic cell. Cathal had a bench with arms, a personal prayer stool, a small desk for his scribe’s use, and—in direct contravention of the Rule of Maelruain—a mattress of feathers. Around his neck he wore a gold chain given him by his kinsman, the late Ard Ri.
Yet he was not a happy man.
Staring out through the single small window the chamber boasted, he could catch a glimpse of the tree-fringed shore of Lough Derg. Beyond those trees lay Kincora.
Rising heavily to his feet, Cathal began pacing the flagstoned floor. Five steps one way, four steps the other. Once he could have crossed the room in three strides. Long ago, before his cousin Brian Boru stood atop Tara Hill and was proclaimed High King of the Irish.
A lifetime ago, it seemed.
Twelve years.
Now the old lion’s cubs were fighting over the spoils.
The abbot sighed and tugged at his lower lip with thumb and forefinger.
Quiet as a mouse in a corner, his scribe sat and waited. He had put down the quill and plugged the silver ink pot with a lump of beeswax. The morning should have been devoted to making annalistic entries, but little would be accomplished while Cathal was in this mood.
The abbot sighed again. “The life of man,” he announced portentiously, “is an endless burden.”
“Father Abbot?”
“A burden, Brother Declan. A cross to bear. Do you not agree?”
“Oh I do most emphatically agree, Father Abbot!” The monk leaned forward to emphasize his perfect accord with his superior.
“Then why did you not say so?” Cathal snapped.
Brother Declan blinked. Trying to keep up with the abbot was his personal cross. “I was just going to say so, Father Abbot.”
“Hunh.” Cathal resumed pacing. “What can you know of burdens, of the weight of responsibility I bear?” He waved an arm to include the monastery and undefined regions beyond. “To whom can I look for aid in doing God’s work?”
He gazed out the window again. “The late Ard Ri was a most generous patron to this monastery, you know. We wanted for nothing during his reign. He was an exceptionally devout man.”
“He was an exceptionally clever …” Declan stopped, realizing the words he was about to say would get him into trouble.
But Cathal snatched them unspoken from his mind. He glared at his scribe. “What calumny were you going to repeat? That Brian gave gifts to the Church merely to further his own interests? Have you forgot that according to the Rule of Maelruain of Tallaght, we are not allowed to accept gifts from sinful men but must pass all such on to the poor? I tell you, the late Ard Ri was the holiest of men and a credit to our tribe. Anything else is a lie put about by his enemies.”
Declan lowered his eyes contritely. “Indeed, Father Abbot.”
“There are even those who claim he maintained, ah, druid connections, but that is also a lie.”
“A lie. A malicious slander.”
“No more Christian prince ever walked the earth than my late cousin,” Cathal insisted. “His death was a tragic loss, but I have taken comfort in the knowledge that his son Teigue is an equally pious and obedient man who will continue his father’s good works.
“But I must say I have serious misgivings about his younger brother. Yesterday at his wedding—his own wedding, mind you!—Donough disgraced himself. He began by wanting his father’s old spear carrier and his pagan children to be made welcome in Saint Flannan’s chapel.”
“Shocking,” murmured Declan with downcast eyes.
“Then the Princess Gormlaith arrived, and that put the cat among the pigeons I can tell you. There was a frightful row. Donough claimed his brother was trying to steal his patrimony, and Teigue claimed Donough was trying to take Kincora away from him.
“Not content with quarreling under a roof, the brothers and their followers went outside and fought in the courtyard. They seized the weapons they had left at the door of the hall and attacked one another in spite of all I could do to separate them. Once they had weapons in their hands, the blows they rained on one another became deadly. Poor young Ruadri of Ara was killed, and several others may die of their injuries.”
Brother Declan interjected, “Fights between brothers can be savage. My own brothers and I, for example …”
“Indeed.” Cathal was not interested in a recitation of his scribe’s family squabbles. “I thought Teigue would unleash the entire force of his army upon Donough, but before that could happen, fortunately the youngster came to his senses and realized how badly outnumbered he was. He left Kincora and took his surviving supporters with him. And his wife and mother,” Cathal added.
“His mother? Princess Gormlaith?”
“The very woman. As if he needed to bring down any more curses upon his head.”
“Where did they go?”
“I have no idea, but they left a shambles behind them. I don’t mind telling you, Brother Declan, that I am deeply worried. This could mean a serious split in the Dal Cais. Should Donough and his supporters gain the ascendancy, I fear for our monastery. This is a young man who has sympathies with the Old Faith. He might not be as generous with us as Teigue.”
Declan scratched the bald top of his tonsured head above its circular fringe of hair. “What will you do?”
“Support Teigue, of course!” snapped the abbot. �
�But I’m not happy about this. To be perceived as siding with one of the Brian’s sons against the other is to invite trouble. Bear in mind, Declan, that more Irish chieftains have raided and looted Irish monasteries than ever Vikings have. Under Brian’s rule such crimes ceased, but in this new age …”
Cathal Mac Maine left the thought unfinished. He resumed pacing his chamber, five steps one way, four the other. Meanwhile his scribe occupied himself by pursuing an itch that made its way from the top of his head to the small of his back, settling maddeningly where he could not quite reach it no matter how he squirmed.
His woolen robe only made the itch worse.
Donough’s departure from Kincora had been bitter for all concerned. He was coldly angry, Teigue was hot with rage, Neassa was crying, and Gormlaith was protesting at the top of her lungs and threatening everyone in sight with reprisals.
“My son Sitric and his Vikings will burn this miserable heap of timber around your ears!” she shouted to the sentries on the gate as she left.
But it was an empty promise and she knew it.
Following Clontarf, Sitric’s warriors were in short supply. The few who now accompanied Gormlaith scarcely constituted a threat.
Donough regretted he did not have enough men to settle the issue then and there. Even if they had sided with him, however, most of the battle-weary veterans he had led back from Clontarf had long since departed for their own homes. Of the few Dalcassian officers who had attended the wedding, a majority proved loyal to Teigue.
A few left with Donough, however, including Fergal and Ronan—and also Conor of Corcomrua, who had a small band of his own warriors with him. “We’ll see more excitement by going with Prince Donough than we will if we take Teigue’s side and stay here polishing our shields,” Fergal assured Conor.
“I agree with you. I know a man meant for trouble when I see one. Donough’s not going to have a quiet life, whatever happens.”
To their surprise, Mac Liag and his son joined them. “My father wishes to offer you hospitality for a few nights, until you decide what you want to do next,” Cumara told Donough.
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