And there was the core of the problem. Not her ignorance, but her wisdom. Cera was a druid.
Even Brian Boru, Donough thought, had not dared offend the Church by marrying his druid woman.
The cold, hard facts of the situation shattered the magic as she looked up at him, waiting.
Anything he might say to her now would sound like an excuse, or, worse, a betrayal.
Yet how could he use her body and then just gallop away?
What had taken place between them was more than a sexual act; he knew that already. Had known it before he ever put his arms around her. Yet she belonged to a world that stood aside from his as if separated by a veil. She was—he passionately desired her to be—mystery and magic, ancient sorceries and youthful dreams.
She was more than he could afford.
Something seemed to be tearing inside him, like a piece of cloth being rent down the middle.
He mumbled a few words, claiming pressing obligations. She watched his face in silence. Her eyes were as limpid as lake water.
“I have to go,” he insisted with increasing urgency, afraid if he did not leave now he would never leave. “But I’ll come back for you. I will … as soon as I can … when I have accomplished …” Words failed. He waved one hand in the air, trying to define the indefinable.
He could not explain why he was leaving her behind, not without hurting her, and as he looked into those huge eyes he would rather anything than hurt her.
Baffled, angry with himself, he had finally turned his horse and ridden away.
Now Cera stood in the doorway of her father’s house and gazed east, the direction he had taken. Then she spoke over her shoulder to her father. “How far away is Alba?”
“How far away is Alba?” Gormlaith asked. “Once we reach the coast and arrange for a vessel to carry us, will we be there in a day? Two days?”
Fergal Mac Anluan shrugged. “I’m no seaman. You lived with the Vikings all those years; surely you know more about the duration of voyages than I do.”
Gormlaith hated admitting there was something she did not know, but in fact she had never been on the water. No man had been willing to entrust his life to the savage sea with Gormlaith in the boat beside him. In the days when her hair was like living flame, she had been denied on the grounds of superstition: a red-haired woman in a boat meant disaster.
The hair was faded now, but she was perfectly aware that boatmen would still like to refuse her. Donough would have to be forceful.
“I’ve been to sea a score of times,” she told Fergal airily, trusting her words would get back to Donough. “When I was in the boat there always seemed to be calm weather, in fact. My first husband, Olaf Cuaran, called me a good-luck charm. But I just don’t recall how long it takes to sail to the land of the Scots.”
Her son, since returning from some brief, mysterious journey about which he would not speak, had been worrying Gormlaith. His mood was distracted; he seemed almost uninterested in the trip to Alba, whereas he had been enthusiastic before. Now he acted as if it were some unpleasant task which must be gotten out of the way.
She hammered at him. “If you can make an ally of Malcolm of Alba, you will have extended your reach beyond Ireland. The Dal Cais will be forced to recognize you as their true leader and give you enough support to overthrow Teigue.”
“I don’t want to overthrow him,” Donough told her wearily, knowing she would not listen. “I just want what is rightfully mine. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. That, and to make my father proud of me.”
Her temper snapped. “Your father’s dead! What about making me proud of you?”
Donough stared at Gormlaith. “Aren’t you?”
Her eyes blazed, but for once she could think of no answer.
Accompanied by two score trusted warriors, including Fergal and Ronan, Donough would journey to the east coast to arrange passage on a boat for Alba. Since before the annals were written down, trading vessels and sea rovers had crisscrossed the Irish Sea, following routes established by leather coracles in the Bronze Age.
During the early centuries of the Christian era, Gaelic chieftains had sailed across those same waters from Ireland to settle permanently in the highlands of Alba. In time their new homeland had transformed the colonists, imbuing them with the characteristics necessary for surviving in a colder, more rugged land. They continued to refer to themselves as Scots, however, a reference to Scotia, one of the ancient names for Ireland.
Brian Boru had revived that ancient kinship by marrying a daughter into the clan descended from Kenneth Mac Alpin, who had been the first Gaelic chieftain to style himself king of both the Scots and the Picts, the indigenous Albans. By uniting these two peoples under one monarch in the middle of the ninth century, Mac Alpin had set a pattern Brian subsequently followed with the Gael and the Viking in Ireland.
In the wake of Brian’s death, however, the cohesion he had achieved took on an ugly form. As Donough and his party traveled across Ireland, they were several times set upon by bandits, roving gangs of Hiberno-Norse mercenaries owing allegiance to no one but their own greed.
The first band came roaring out of the forest near the crossroads know as Ros Cre, Cre’s Wood, where the Slighe Dala was intersected by a market road. In deference to Gormlaith’s cart, Donough had decided to follow the slighe almost as far as Dublin, then circle to avoid the city, and sail from one of the fishing villages to the north. He had no desire to try procuring a vessel in Sitric’s city.
But they were still a long way from the eastern coast when the first attack took place.
“Outlaws!” screamed Gormlaith. She saw them first; they had waited until Donough’s armed escort passed by, then ran out onto the roadway shouting threats and trying to seize her cart. The cart contained herself, a driver Donough had assigned to her, and all the personal baggage she could cram into it, including some items she had no intention of revealing or surrendering.
When the outlaws drew close Gormlaith snatched the whip from her driver and began lashing at them with it. Her cries were louder and more savage than theirs. “I’ll eat the face off you!” she screamed at a lantern-jawed youth who wore a tunic of untanned skins.
“And you … I’ll make you crawl back in the womb of the worm that bore you!” This to an older man who had succeeded in getting one foot inside the cart before she kicked him viciously. He fell back; Gormlaith leaned forward and spat on him as he writhed on the road clutching his private parts.
Meanwhile, Donough wheeled his horse and galloped back to defend his mother. Fergal and the warriors were close behind him. There were two score of them, trained and well-armed Dalcassians who could assess a combat situation at a glance and take appropriate action without waiting for orders. Swiftly they circled the outlaws, divided them, and proceeded to hack them down while Gormlaith shouted advice and encouragement from the cart.
At last she could restrain herself no longer. She leaped down, ran to the nearest fallen man, retrieved a short throwing spear from his dead hand, and hurled it at another bandit.
Her aim was surprisingly good, but her arm was not strong enough to drive a spearhead into living meat. The blow glanced off harmlessly. Her intended victim was surprised enough, however, to drop his guard, and in that moment one of Donough’s men severed his neck with an axe.
Donough took no prisoners. When all the bandits were dead he surveyed the wreckage triumphantly, only to be disconcerted when Ronan remarked, “You should have left one alive to go back to wherever he came from and warn them not to attempt you again. Brian Boru always left a witness alive.”
Next time, Donough promised himself. Next time.
Although he had a couple of injured men, which necessitated making camp for a few days until they were well enough to travel, Donough was exhilarated by the battle. The interlude with Cera sat more lightly on his conscience. Reality was here and now, fighting, winning, building—rebuilding? —a kingdom.
He stole a glance at his m
other. Her color was high, her eyes sparkling. She looked a decade younger, and he understood what men had seen in Gormlaith.
That night she sat close beside him at the campfire. “We showed them, did we not?” she kept asking excitedly. “If I had a sword I could have killed a couple myself. Would have done.”
“I suspect you would,” Donough replied, amused.
She looked at him quizzically. “What happened to … to your father’s sword? Do you have it?”
His jaw muscles tightened. “I do not have it. I don’t know where it is. I suppose it was entombed with him.”
Her eyes glinted. “The sword of Brian Boru?” It was the first time she had spoken that name in ages; it sounded sharp on her tongue. “I doubt if it went into the tomb to rust, and you know nothing about human nature if you think it did. At the last moment one of his devoted followers probably carried it off under his mantle.” Gormlaith laid her hand on Donough’s arm; softly, softly. “But it should be yours,” she murmured.
Sitting upright and naked in his bed, Malcolm turned his sword over in his hands, testing the edge with his thumb in his nightly ritual. A sword, he mused, was a powerful symbol. More powerful than a crown. With the sword Swein, King of Denmark, had beaten the Anglo-Saxons into submission and put Wessex under Danelaw. After Swein’s recent death, his son Canute had taken up his kingship together with his territorial ambitions, and Malcolm had little doubt that Canute would prove at least as formidable as his predecessor.
Malcolm did not intend for Alba to be included in the Danish grasp.
“I wish you would not keep your sword in the bed with you like a woman,” Blanaid protested. She was sitting on a bench by the brazier, plaiting her hair for the night.
“If you object to sharing the bed with my sword, then go back to your own chamber.”
“You sent for me,” she reminded him calmly. “Are you dismissing me now?”
He grinned, a flash of white teeth within his gray-streaked black beard. “Of course not. I need you.”
Blanaid went on plaiting her hair. They had been married too long for her to think he desired her sexually. “You need someone to talk to,” she said. It was not a question.
Resting the sword across his knees, Malcolm scratched the grizzled mat of hair on his chest. “Who else can I talk to? This is Glamis; the stones themselves are steeped in treachery. A king remains king only until he makes the mistake of trusting someone, but even so I must have ears to hear my thoughts. No man can live alone inside his head without going mad.”
Blanaid nodded. “This is Glamis,” she echoed. “The stones are steeped in madness.”
“Not mine. Nor splashed with my blood either, not while I keep my wits about me. And stay informed of Canute’s actions.” Malcolm picked up the sword again. “Canute is on my mind a lot these days. He’s a rapacious man like all the Land Leapers, Blanaid, and now that he has established himself in Albion I expect him to be a threat to Alba. I need a strategy to forestall him.”
Malcolm’s wife tossed the heavy plait of hair over her shoulder and stood up. Firelight from the brazier silhouetted her form within her linen gown, but Malcolm did not notice. How soon is eaten bread forgot! she thought.
“After you defeated him in Moray, you married our daughter Thora to Sigurd the Stout to help insure he and his Orkneyites would not attack you again,” she reminded her husband as she padded barefoot across the flagstoned floor and clambered into bed beside him. “That was a successful strategy … as far as it went. But.” Her voice was bitter.
“But,” Malcolm echoed. “Are you going to blame me for the fact that he attacked Ireland instead? Your father was able for him; Sigurd was slain.”
“So was my father,” Blanaid said huskily. Shivering, she pulled the blankets up around her shoulders. Malcolm never seemed to feel the cold and slept naked summer and winter. The bed smelled of him: a male smell, a bear smell, heavy and musky.
“Your father was an old man,” Malcolm reminded her. “He had an incredible life and a long one, but everyone must die sometime. In truth, I envy Brian Boru his death at the moment of his greatest victory. Few of us end on a mountaintop with the world at our feet.”
She wanted to change the subject. “What do you plan to do about Canute?”
“I do not know—yet. He’s a fierce young Dane with ambitions.”
“Has he a wife who might have Alban sympathies?”
“He married the daughter of a wealthy Northumbrian soon after arriving in Albion, I was told. The Northumbrians are eager enough to stay in my good graces … for now. But I would say Canute is not the sort of man to be influenced by any woman. Do not overestimate your sex.”
Eyes lowered, Blanaid replied, “My sex has more power than you credit. What of the Princess of Leinster? Was she not the lure that tempted Sigurd to his death—Sigurd and how many others?”
Malcolm bared his teeth again and stopped caressing his sword. “Gormlaith,” he said thoughtfully, “is a trophy. Men are hunters; we appreciate trophies. A woman who has been wife to three kings and is famed for her beauty is surely the ultimate trophy.”
In his voice was an undertone that made Blanaid bridle. “Gormlaith is an old woman,” she told him as she twisted on the bed to punch up her pillow. “An old, raddled woman, withered and juiceless. And you will never see her in Alba.”
Chapter Thirty-three
AT DUN NA SCIATH, MALACHI MOR WAS TAKING A REST. WELL-EARNED, he felt. The year 1016 had been a difficult one. From the beginning, reasserting his authority as Ard Ri had not been easy; too many Gaelic princes remembered that he had relinquished the title to Brian Boru without a struggle. In their eyes his stature was diminished and they could not resist challenging him. When the King of Ossory murdered Donncuan, King of Leinster—whom Malachi had placed in that kingship—it became necessary to march an army into Ossory, kill the offending warlord, plunder his tribeland, and carry off a number of hostages.
Hostages of noble birth guaranteed the submission of Ossory—for as long as their captor held them.
Then a revolt arose among the Ui Kinnsellagh, who refused to pay tribute to the Ard Ri. That meant another battle and more hostages taken. The guesting houses at Dun na Sciath overflowed and Malachi ordered more built.
As his chief brehon reminded him, “Hostages must be treated at least as well as their captor treats himself; anything less would be a cause of dishonor.” So whole roast oxen and tuns of ale disappeared into the bellies of Malachi’s enforced guests, who were thoroughly enjoying themselves and showing no desire to go home.
“I suppose I should begin negotiations with their tribes for their return,” he remarked to his son Ardgal, as he and another son, Congalach, joined their father for a day’s hunting with hounds in the rolling meadowlands beyond Dun na Sciath.
But Malachi had not got around to negotiations. It was easier to let the matter be, for now, and join the hostages at their feast in the banqueting hall. Malachi Mor had always enjoyed presiding over banquets and entertainments. Among his friends he was called “Malachi of the Cups” for good reason.
He was not left in peace to play the genial host, however. Messengers kept arriving, even from the most remote corners of the land, to inform him of fights and feuds and banditry, of monasteries looted and women abducted and cattle raided.
“Why are you telling me this?” he complained to a wall-eyed messenger from Connacht who entered the banqueting hall dripping from the rain.
“The former Ard Ri wanted to be kept informed of everything that happened in Ireland,” the man replied, surprised at the question. “So he could …”
“I know, I know. So he could interfere.”
“So he could take action if necessary,” the messenger corrected, his thoughts running back to the good old days of three years ago. “Now Prince Aed of the Ui Briuin requests the support of the Ard Ri in putting down a revolt among the clans of …”
“What has this to do with me?” Malach
i asked with rising irritation, waving a half-eaten thigh of young pig in the air. “Are these clans rebelling against my authority? Do they refuse to pay their share of the tribute due Tara?”
“They do not, but …”
“But they are Aed’s problem,” Malachi said firmly. He resumed gnawing the sweet roast piglet.
“Soon they will be the problem of all Connacht if the fighting boils over and …”
“Should that happen, then I will deal with it But until that time, return to Aed and tell him he is to sort out his own affairs and leave me to mine.”
When the messenger, obviously disconcerted, had departed, Malachi remarked to Ardgal, “Brian Boru had a peculiar concept of kingship. He tried to control the entire land himself, like a charioteer with a team of hundreds of horses and all the reins in his hands. And where are his grand ideas now? In a tomb at Armagh, moldering.
“As for me, I have no intention of galloping off to Connacht to embroil myself in some local squabble. I shall reign as Ard Ri with all the generosity and justice at my command, but I must save myself for the big battles.”
That there would be more big battles, he had no doubt. He would have liked to be able to say to Ardgal, “I’m getting too old for this,” and enjoy a bit of sympathy. But he could not forget that Brian had been older.
Besides, the way he caught his sons looking at him from time to time made Malachi reluctant to admit the weight of the years. An ambitious son …
Perhaps, he thought, it would be wise to make a few gestures to encourage goodwill. To this end he announced that he would build new churches and repair others which had fallen into decay, and would also endow a school and maintain the students at his own expense.
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