When he learned of these undertakings, the Abbot of Killaloe was not impressed. “The attempts of a lesser man to emulate a greater,” he commented with barely concealed contempt.
Cathal Mac Maine then visited his kinsman, Teigue, to urge him to consider putting forth a claim to the high kingship. “Malachi Mor means well and is a pious enough man,” the abbot said, “but he is Ui Neill, and it seems a shame to let the rule of Ireland pass from Dalcassian hands.”
Teigue had been dreading the moment when someone would openly press him to fight for his father’s supreme title. He had his arguments ready.
“Ruling Munster,” he informed Cathal, “is increasingly demanding. So many tribes, so many underkings, the Owenachts always sniffing for a weakness … . I am leaving this very afternoon for Cashel to spend the next month hearing an endless stream of complaints and petitions and trying to sort out various quarrels. Yet you want me to take on more? You said it yourself, Malachi is a pious man. Let him keep the high kingship. How much longer can he live, anyway?”
Returning to Kill Dalua, Cathal instructed Declan the scribe to write in the annals: “The Age of Christ, 1016. The second year of the second reign of Malachi Mor. New churches were built in Meath and Ulster, but none in Munster. Likewise a new fine monastery was endowed, but not in Munster. Teigue, son of Brian, ruled Munster but did not demand the beneficence the province was due.”
As he took Cathal’s dictation, Declan was aware of the abbot’s anger. He was putting it in writing for the world to remember.
All the major monasteries compiled annals, and were in unspoken competition with one another for the most extensive and beautifully illumined. The Annals of Kill Dalua had been considered very fine in Brian Boru’s day, but without the patronage of an Ard Ri behind them, their reputation would fade while the gilding and colored inks were still bright.
Two days later, Cathal was still turning over the problem of Teigue in his mind. On the one hand he wanted the man to be obedient and manageable; on the other hand, it might be better for Kill Dalua if he were of a more aggressive disposition.
As often when he had a problem, Cathal Mac Maine went out into the orchard beyond the refectory to be alone with his thoughts. He strolled among the well-tended apple trees with his hands tucked into the sleeves of his robe and a frown of concentration on his face, sufficient to deter anyone from interrupting him. From time to time he fingered the crucifix he wore. Occasionally he rubbed the bridge of his nose, or scratched his tonsured head.
The morning was still, with only a hint of a breeze. The abbot continued to pace up and down, ignoring the sweet song of a blackbird perched on the stone wall enclosing the orchard. Suddenly Cathal stopped walking; lifted his head; sniffed. Sniffed again.
His eyes opened wide.
Smoke!
In the distance he heard the first shouts and cries echoing across Lough Derg.
Cathal whirled and ran back inside.
In his little house on the lake, Mac Liag was resting from his labors. The detailed account of the life of Brian Boru was all but finished; nothing remained but to reread it, check the text for errors, and arrange for it to be copied out and bound.
“I shall send it to Kells, I think, for copying,” he told Cumara. “The scriptorium there produces the finest handwriting in … What was that? Did you hear something?”
Cumara went to the door and stood listening. When he turned back toward his father, his face was drained of color.
“It sounds like Kincora’s being attacked!”
In Connacht a series of small clan wars had exploded into tribal conflicts, and a chieftain on the edge of Thomond, anxious to enhance his reputation and thus intimidate his rivals, had seized upon the idea of attacking Brian Boru’s old stronghold as one sure way of gaining glory. With Teigue away and the Dalcassians divided as a result of the split between the brothers, the raid was cleverly timed.
It was also well planned. One band of Connachtmen made a wide circle that brought them south of the great fortress, while the main army attacked from the north. Sentries who had lost their vigilance during the long years of peace were routed. Torches were put to the timber palisades, gates were burst open.
Meanwhile a separate company was dispatched to plunder the nearby monastery.
Cathal and his monks resisted, but they were not trained warriors. Out of deference to their calling the Connachtmen did not kill them, merely trussed them up like fowl and left them on the bank of the Shannon to watch helplessly as the roofs of Kill Dalua burned.
But the fires set at the monastery were nothing compared to the damage done to Kincora.
Mac Liag came pelting down the road with the skirts of his robe hiked up around his knees. He had not run in decades, but he ran now. Cumara sprinted beside him, pleading with him to go back, but his words were wasted on the wind.
“Kincora,” Mac Liag panted over and over. “Kincora.”
In his camp beyond Cre’s Wood, Donough was just preparing to move out and resume his journey when he heard the sound of faraway shouting. Almost at once the shout was picked up by a woodcutter nearby and passed along.
“Kincora is attacked!”
Thunderstruck, for a moment Donough could not gather his thoughts. Then he bellowed a hasty succession of orders.
“You have no reason to go back there now,” Gormlaith tried to argue with him. “It’s Teigue’s responsibility. You and I are going to Alba to …”
“You’re staying here! Ronan, you and a dozen men stay with her and take care of her. The rest of you come with me—to Kincora.”
They rode away at a gallop, leaving Gormlaith standing in the road, furious.
When Donough reached the east bank of the Shannon, the sky was stained with greasy smoke from the conflagration across the river. His company galloped headlong through the ford, sending up a spray whose individual droplets reflected the blazing thatch visible above the tops of the palisade. Men and women could be seen running down to the river for endless futile buckets of water, while others streamed away from the fortress, carrying salvaged property beyond the reach of the flames.
“Where’s Teigue?” Donough shouted at the nearest man as he reached the west bank of the river.
The man, carrying a wine cask that had been pressed into service as a water bucket, was covered in soot. There was a smear of blood across his forehead and his eyes seemed unfocussed. “Gone to Cashel,” he managed to say.
“And left Kincora undefended?”
“Och no, there were guards here … but they came so fast … so unexpected …” The dazed man struggled to organize his thoughts.
“Who came?”
“Connachtmen.” The other drew a deep breath, steadied himself, declared vehemently, “This would never have happened if your father were still Ard Ri!”
Donough gave a groan of anguish.
The great gates gaped ajar. From inside came the crash of burning timbers.
Chapter Thirty-four
LEAVING HIS WIFE AND CHILDREN AT CASHEL, TEIGUE SPED TO KINCORA with his steward, Enda, and the historian Carroll. By the time they arrived the last ember had been extinguished, however.
A forlorn spectacle remained.
Most of the wooden parts of the fortress had been destroyed by the fire, including several sections of palisade. Stone walls still stood, but the mortar had been damaged by the heat and many stones were cracked. Extensive repairs would be needed before Kincora was usable again.
Teigue paced through the rubble, pausing from time to time to pick up a bit of debris. “They were very thorough,” he remarked bitterly. “Look at this, Enda.”
“One of the hinges from the watergate,” the steward affirmed, examining the warped and twisted iron.
“Can Odar the smith repair it?”
“If not, he’ll melt it down and reforge the piece. But I’d say it will take some time with the smithy working at white heat before all the metalwork is replaced. And as for the tim
ber …”
Carroll interjected gloomily, “Gone. Gone forever, the timber that rose at Brian’s command.”
Teigue lifted his head. “You sound like Mac Liag. Where is he, by the way?”
Cathal Mac Maine supplied the answer. When the Abbot of Kill Dalua learned of Teigue’s return, he hurried to Kincora from the sanctuary he and his monks had taken on Holy Island in Lough Derg.
Cathal was a coldly angry man. “You left us undefended,” he accused Teigue with no pretense at pleasantries.
“I left an adequate garrison here. They …”
“They were fat and complacent and the Connachtmen swept over them like the tide. At the end of the day they were battered senseless, no more use than a cauldron made of butter. The only real warriors we’ve seen in a fortnight are the ones who came with your brother.”
“My brother? Donough? What was he doing here?” Teigue asked in surprise.
“He came faster than you. And when he saw what had been done to Kill Dalua—and to this place, of course—he set off at once to retaliate.”
“Donough?”
“‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,’” Cathal intoned. “Yet seeking revenge in this instance is a noble act and I do not blame him for it. In this past year alone, the monasteries of Clonmacnois and Clonfert and Kells have all been attacked by looters. Ireland is going mad. Have you not noticed?”
Aware that Carroll was listening to this exchange with interest—and would undoubtedly memorize every word—Teigue retorted with rising anger, “Of course I’ve noticed, but I don’t know what you expect me to do about it. I’m King of Munster and those monasteries are in—”
“Kill Dalua is in Munster,” Cathal interrupted him, “and so is Kincora.”
Teigue’s thoughts returned to Donough. “What I don’t understand is my brother’s plan. Is he attacking the Connachtmen on his own?”
“Not the Connachtmen. He has gone to seek reprisal from Malachi Mor.”
Teigue was dumbfounded. “Malachi Mor? Has Donough lost his mind?”
But a fierce and joyful light had begun to burn in the eyes of Carroll. “Yes!” the historian said under his breath, smacking his fist against his palm. “Yes, Donough!”
Teigue shot him a puzzled glance. “You approve of this? He is usurping the privilege that is mine.”
“You weren’t here,” interjected Cathal Mac Maine.
Teigue fought to keep his temper by trying to change the subject. “Where is Mac Liag?” he inquired. “I expected to find him here composing another lament.”
From somewhere behind them came a great crash as two men with a team of oxen pulled down what remained of a terminally damaged wall. Cathal started at the sound, then gathered himself and replied, “To our deep sorrow, Mac Liag has recited his last lament. When the fire began he came running as if it was his own home burning, but the effort was too much for him. He fell in the road and died, just outside the gates. May God be merciful.”
“Dead?” Teigue could not imagine Mac Liag dead. The man had been a fixture of his world since boyhood.
Cathal nodded. “Though his son was with him, nothing could be done. His heart cracked, they said, as the stones cracked at Kincora.”
There was a pained silence. The men stood in a little cluster in the center of the destroyed fortress, bowing their heads. One must be quiet and reverent in the hours after death, while a soul was standing in front of its Creator for judgment.
At last Carroll said, “Where is Mac Laig’s son now? I would like to talk to him. The last words of the chief poet of Ireland should surely be commemorated.”
“Cumara has gone north,” was the reply. “Gone with Prince Donough in search of reprisal.”
Donough raged up the Shannon as far as Lough Ree and attacked the Stony Island and the Island of the White Cow, where Malachi kept a small garrison and a fleet of boats for river transport. He and his warriors swooped down on the unsuspecting Meathmen, routed them completely, carried the boats away and took a number of hostages. The raid was a spectacular success in which they did not lose a man.
Chapter Thirty-five
Every step of the way, I could feel my father looking over my shoulder. The idea of attacking Malachi’s garrison on Lough Ree had come, I firmly believed, from the unseen spectator who not only guided my actions but had begun controlling my emotions as well.
As I lay wrapped in my cloak the night after our raid on the Island of the White Cow, I felt as if I need only put out my hand to touch an aged giant whose hair was frosted with silver. I was so convinced I whispered, “Are you there?” He did not answer, but an almost tangible sense of his presence reassured me.
He had come to me while I stood amid the appalling destruction at Kincora. Come with his fierce, proud spirit pouring over me, entering me to use as his instrument
Brian would waste no tears weeping over what was done. He would act for the future.
As if I looked through his eyes, watching Ireland from some remote remove, I saw quite clearly the situation that now existed. The center had collapsed. The former Ard Ri had governed through an exercise of intellect and will, foreseeing problems, laying long-range plans that engendered a sense of confidence in the people. Malachi Mor, with all the goodwill in the world, could not fill his place. Malachi saw only what was in front of his nose. He did not act; never had. He only reacted.
The root cause of the destruction surrounding me was not the men of Connacht They were, as was the rest of Ireland, simply responding to changed circumstance.
The real cause was Malachi Mor.
I could not challenge him; not yet I had only a handful of warriors by comparison to the armies he could summon from the kings’ tributary to him. Ulster and Leinster, Munster and Connacht were all obliged to supply warriors to the Ard Ri.
But I could issue a warning. Warn Malachi, then set about putting myself in position to make a formal challenge.
Suddenly I saw it all spread out in front of me like a map on a table.
In that moment all independence of action was taken from me. My father took command. My subsequent actions were dictated by him. I believed it then, and I believe it now.
My cousin Cathal Mac Maine would have said I was possessed, I suppose, and seen it was a device of the Devil.
Mac Liag had once told me my father was haunted by a druid woman. I, in my desire to emulate him, had imagined myself haunted by Padraic’s daughter.
After Kincora burned, I was haunted by something very different
Chapter Thirty-six
GORMLATTH APPROVED.
When Donough returned to the camp near Ros Cre with the Meath warriors he had taken hostage, she would give him no peace until he recounted the event to the smallest detail. Then she gloated, “That’s a fist in the eye for Malachi!”
As Fergal remarked sarcastically to Ronan, “Being a former husband of the Princess Gormlaith is a sure way to earn her undying enmity.”
To Donough’s grateful surprise, he did not have to explain his reasons for the raid on Lough Ennel to his mother. She understood at once with an unfeminine political acumen. “Of course you had to take reprisal against Malachi; he is ultimately responsible for the disintegration of the kingdom. Such a successful raid into his own territory will carry a clear message. From now on he must see to it personally that your interests at least are protected, from Connachtmen or anyone else. Furthermore, you have made it plain that Kincora is one of your interests, thus outshouting your wretched brother.”
At Dun na Sciath, Malachi indeed got the message. He was horrified. “I am no longer a young man,” he protested to his sons. “How am I to cope with another fiery-eyed Dalcassian? Was not one in a lifetime enough?”
His sons were having the same worry. A repetition of their father’s humiliating rivalry with Brian Boru was the last thing they wanted. “If this isn’t an open revolt against your authority,” counseled Ardgal, “don’t blow it up into one. Make an offer for your hostag
es—one large enough to be tempting but not so large as to encourage a repeat of the incident—and when Donough accepts, make peace with him.”
“But why did he do it?” wondered Conor, Malachi’s youngest son.
The High King favored him with a morose stare. “Because he’s a Dalcassian. I suspect this is his way of warning me that he is angry over the destruction of Kincora. The Dal Cais tend to think in twists and spirals, and act accordingly. I like things simple, straightforward. We of clan Colman are not such a devious breed.”
Malachi’s son Ardchu said nothing. But he thought to himself that perhaps being devious paid, if the success of the Dal Cais was any example.
Donough waited in his camp, and as he had expected, within a few days emissaries from Malachi, riding fast horses, arrived to make arrangements for the return of the hostages. They met with him in the privacy of his tent, where they were almost painfully formal. He was glad they had come promptly; feeding the two score warriors he had taken was straining the patience of his own warriors. On them fell the task of hunting and foraging, and the Meathmen were voracious eaters.
Gormlaith continually advised her son on how to treat them while they were in his custody. “Give them the best of everything, so they will have no cause to speak against you when they return to Malachi. Make them think you have unlimited resources at your disposal. That’s what be always did.”
But Donough did not need her advice.
In return for the freedom of the hostages, Malachi’s emissaries brought Donough twelve horses, twelve fur-bordered cloaks, and, last but by no means least, a massive gold ring. Within their hearing Donough pretended to be dissatisfied. “The least he could have done was send us one horse for each man we are holding,” he grumbled.
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