“It is a tenet of the Christ-faith,” replied his oldest brother, “that they must extend it to everyone.”
“Why?”
“They think only they know the truth.”
Onchu barked a laugh. “But there are as many truths as there are people! As soon insist we all have the same shape of teeth.”
A mist descended, damp and clinging. Cera licked her lips to taste the moisture clinging to them. Sweet; so sweet.
Water in all its forms was holy.
The quartet emerged from a clump of trees to find themselves facing the bare gray rock for which the crag was named. As if at a signal, the mist lifted. When they turned around Thomond lay spread out below them. “I can see Kincora!” Cera cried with delight. “Och, Torccan; are you sure we cannot go there?”
“Father told us to stay out of trouble, especially since you are with us. It would have been better, little sister, if you had stayed at home with him.”
“Failenn’s at home with him,” Cera replied with a toss of her head. “Besides, I insisted.”
Daman chuckled again. “And we all know how stubborn you are.”
“What if I am? Life is stubborn.” She took a few steps down the slope and gazed toward the sprawling fortress below. Was he there? Would he feel her on the height above him?
But when she searched with her mind and spirit, she could feel no trace of Donough Mac Brian.
Her shoulders drooped.
Torccan said briskly, “Come now, Cera, we have things to do.”
With a sigh, she turned and made her way back up to her brothers. From a pack on Torccan’s back Onchu took a parcel neatly wrapped in deerskin. The others crowded close, each placing a hand on the parcel so that together they laid their offering before the stone.
Then they stood for a time in silence; Being With.
At last Daman said, “If we can’t go to Kincora, how can we take part in the rebuilding as Father wanted?”
Cera smiled. “I know the answer to that question. We shall send strength to the builders.”
Torccan nodded his approval.
“Will we do a pattern?” Onchu asked his sister.
“A wheel of strength,” she affirmed. “Sunwise round.” She reached for Daman’s hand and took a step forward, bare foot against bare earth. Torccan and Onchu fell in behind them. With unselfconscious grace, Padraic’s children began a druid dance. The rhythm they would follow was as old as time, and deep in their bones.
They sprang lightly off the ground, landing on the toes of their feet. The earth cushioned them. In perfect harmony they raised their right feet and placed them to the second beat of the silent music within them, then followed this step with a lightning-swift placement of the left foot. Right and left again for seven beats, ending with the left foot as they were turning to the right; sunwise.
Then one, two, three, backwards and forwards, flying feet, bodies as light as air, leaping, sidestepping, weaving through an ancient pattern.
When one full wheel was completed and before they began the next, Cera lifted her voice in song.
Below in Kincora, the men laboring to rebuild the damaged fort heard the larks of summer singing, though the day was chill with autumn. They redoubled their efforts, feeling more energetic, as if new life flowed through their veins.
The leader of the construction crew had just received a tongue lashing from the Abbot of Kill Dalua and was in no good mood, but even he relaxed and began to hum under his breath as he worked, forgetting the recent unpleasantness.
On his way back to the monastery, Cathal heard a sound which seemed to emanate from the dome of the sky. He paused, turned around, looked up. Saw nothing. But a chill ran up his spine and he began to trot, pounding the end of his walking stick into the ground with every step he took.
The sound followed him. He thought it a shriek, a moan, a demon’s voice. By the time he reached the sanctuary of Kill Dalua he was red-faced and sweating.
“The ban shee!” he cried to an alarmed Brother Declan. “I heard the ban shee, and I am Dal Cais!”
Chapter Thirty-eight
IN THE AUTUMN OF 1017, DONOUGH’S HIRED LONGSHIP HAD FOLLOWED the Irish coast as far north as Rathlin Island, where they took aboard additional supplies, then struck out across open water. Upon reaching Islay, they had turned north again, hugging the deeply indented coastline and putting ashore at night to make camp.
In spite of Ragnald’s frequent exhortations to Odin, the wind had been against them. Most of the time the ship relied on oar power rather than its one square sail. Beneath darkly overcast skies, daylight hours were defined by the relentless rhythm of the oars.
Donough’s plan had been to circle northern Alba and come down the eastern shore almost to the Firth of Tay, which would put them near Glamis. A sea voyage had seemed preferable to a long and dangerous overland trek in unknown territory.
In actuality sea travel could be more hazardous than traversing the land, as the ship’s owner reminded his passengers once their fare was paid and they were underway. “Raiders abound in these waters,” said Ragnald, an axe-faced Dane with dark gold hair and a thrusting, predatory nose. “Not me, you understand,” he added quickly. “I don’t go Viking, I’m just a hard-working trader.” His weatherbeaten face shone with unconvincing sincerity. “But as we round the northern coast of Alba we’ll pass very close to the Orkneys, and no matter what the season, the Orkneymen take to the sea like sharks in search of prey.”
“My son is well able for them,” Gormlaith assured him. But Donough spent considerable time clutching the gunwale, scanning the horizon and speculating on just how one fought off Vikings at sea.
As the weather worsened he, like the rest of his party, had another reason for clinging to the gunwales. Their stomachs rolled and lurched like the waves beneath the boat. Even Ronan turned a peculiar shade of green.
Only Gormlaith did not surrender to her stomach. With a mighty effort of will, she stood erect in the dragon-headed prow with her face to the gale as if she was enjoying every moment. Her unbound hair whipped behind her like a banner. When nausea overcame her she simply leaned forward and pretended to be examining some object of intense interest in the waves.
“I love storms!” she proclaimed.
“That woman is a storm,” Fergal muttered as he sat slouched in the bottom of the boat, hugging his stomach and tasting bile.
At the helm, Ragnald silently concurred. They had been underway less than a day when he realized his female passenger was none other than the infamous Kormlada. Old she might be, but it was said no female in Ireland was more skillful in pleasuring a man’s private parts.
The very first night they camped ashore he had sidled up to Gormlaith as she sat amid a small collection of bags and boxes she insisted on unloading and keeping with her at all times. Her eyes had been fixed on the campfire, but she cut them in his direction.
“My women call me Ragnald Long-Knife. Can you guess why?” he inquired.
Recognizing the smug innuendo she had heard in a thousand other male voices, Gormlaith yawned with boredom. “No,” she said tersely. She turned away from him and resumed gazing at the fire.
Ragnald had not expected a rebuff. Surely such an old woman should be grateful for the attentions of a virile and vigorous Dane to heat the blood in her veins. He tried again. “We have a long journey ahead of us and the farther north we go, the colder the nights will be.”
“Good. I like the cold.”
“I have warm furs for my bed.”
“Enjoy them. Fur makes me sneeze,” she lied.
“Then perhaps we would be more comfortable in your bed?”
Gormlaith swung around and this time looked squarely at the man. Her eyes glowed like coals in their deep hollows. “You aren’t going to be in my bed.”
Something flashed in the firelight. To Ragnald’s astonishment Gormlaith produced a knife out of nowhere; not the little household knife Viking women wore along with their shears and ke
ys, but a serious dagger, honed sharp. In one lithe motion she was on her feet, holding its point to his groin.
“This is my long knife,” she said in a conversational tone which was all the more deadly for its lack of emotion. “I am quite capable of using it to amputate yours.”
Ragnald did not doubt she meant every word.
Nonplussed, he returned to his men and spent that night, and every night after, safely embedded among the Danish crew.
The Irish chuckled about the incident but kept their mirth to themselves. It would be unwise to offend men on whom their lives depended.
Gormlaith had no such inhibitions. Whenever Ragnald came too close to her, she openly sneered at him.
“The man’s a sea raider for all he claims otherwise,” Ronan advised Donough. “Can’t you get your mother to be nice to him? He could slit our throats and toss us overboard any time he likes.”
Donough gave Ronan a sardonic glance. “What makes you think I can get my mother to do anything?”
Gormlaith had nothing but contempt for Ragnald and his kind. She was weary to the soul of the mindless lust of men who neither knew nor cared about the person inside her head. Furthermore the Danes stank, having rubbed themselves copiously with rancid grease to keep out the cold. They could neither read nor write; she could not carry on an intelligent conversation with any of them about subjects that interested her. And as she told Donough, “I’ve seen much bigger ships than this in the harbor at Dublin. Your Ragnald is no wealthy merchant; he’s a common pirate and not a very successful one at that, to judge by his ship and crew. You could have hired him for a great deal less.”
“They cost so much,” Donough informed his mother, “because I had to bribe them to transport a red-haired woman. Without you I could have saved half the fare.”
Gormlaith shrugged one shoulder. “I’m worth it,” was all she said.
From the first day it loomed out of the mist, she thought the west coast of Alba very beautiful. Deeply cut inlets and innumerable small islands provided excellent hiding places for sea raiders, but the overall effect was one of rugged grandeur.
Past Cape Wrath, bouldered headlands soared up from the sea like mythical beasts with gleaming shoulders. They lacked the softening luxuriance of verdure, but Gormlaith liked them the better for it. Taking an engraved mirror from her chest of belongings, she gazed into its polished surface.
The softness is gone from my face too, she thought. Worn away by the storms of my life. Now the bones show, and they also have a rugged grandeur.
Putting the mirror away, she returned to her favorite position in the prow of the longship. This time she did not look ahead, however, but back; back toward the oarsmen laboring on their benches.
I am old, thought Gormlaith, as men reckon old. I should be wrapped in blankets and crouching by a smoky fire, gumming my food. Instead I ride behind the dragon and Vikings—Vikings!—are taking me to Alba, a land even Brian Boru never saw.
She threw wide her arms and laughed.
Although the northern coastline appeared desolate at a casual glance, numerous small settlements were snugged behind the headlands. Coast-dwellers always anticipated trouble, and did not wait to learn if strangers were travelers or raiders. Whenever the longship drew close to shore, it met a rain of spears and shouted imprecations.
“Can they not tell us from Orkneymen?” Fergal asked Ragnald.
“They don’t care. Anyone in a longship is a menace as far as these people are concerned.”
Fortunately the Dane knew the area well enough to locate safe sites ashore for night camps, but nevertheless both he and Donough posted sentries.
Near Arbroath, they dragged their ship ashore and made a final night camp. Beyond a meadow of bracken, stands of pine and larch cut off their view inland. No sooner had they built a fire than a herd of excessively shaggy cattle with impossibly long horns materialized like ghosts at the edge of the meadow and stared curiously at the strangers. “I’ve not seen their like in the five provinces,” Ronan murmured in wonder. But when he tried to get close for a better view they stampeded.
The others laughed. “I hope you have better luck with Alban women,” jeered Fergal.
When Donough announced they would set out for Glamis at sunrise, his mother scowled. “Nonsense. You are a prince of Ireland, you cannot appear like a beggar at Malcolm’s gates. It’s a good thing I came with you to instruct you in proper behavior.
“We wait right here and send a messenger to Glamis with a formal announcement of your arrival, and request for a royal escort. We don’t put one foot in front of the other until they come for us.”
“But we’re perfectly able to …”
Gormlaith’s scowl deepened. “You are perfectly able to look like a total fool who knows nothing. Listen to me.”
Fergal sided with Gormlaith. “The woman knows more about royal courts than any of us, yourself included,” he said. “I would listen to her if I were you. You don’t want to be left-footed here.”
At Donough’s request, Ragnald dispatched four of his men to Glamis to inform Malcolm of his guests’ arrival.
Then they waited.
“We should have gone, Donough,” fumed Ronan. “Myself and Fergal.”
“Do you know the way to Glamis?”
“I do not, but I doubt if those Danes do either.”
Donough smiled. “I’m sure they do. Ragnald knows Alba far too well; I would say his ship has sailed these waters many times before, and not on innocent trading ventures.”
“If that is so, will the Scots let his men get anywhere near Glamis?”
“They carry a formal message from a prince of Ireland, written in his own hand,” Gormlaith interjected. “No matter what the circumstances, only a sentry who did not value his head would refuse to take them to his king. A messenger must be as sacrosanct as a bard or nothing could be accomplished.”
While they waited for word from Malcolm, Donough tried to keep his mind occupied by envisioning the future. If Malcolm likes me, if I can form some sort of alliance with him—then how do I use it? To challenge Teigue for Munster?
Or to challenge Malachi Mor?
Donough ambled down to the edge of the dark water that had carried him this far, and stood gazing not outward, but inward, troubled by the amorphous quality of his ambition. I should have a more exact idea of what I mean to do. Life is short, any warrior knows that much.
I want … but what do I want?
What did my father want when be was young?
Peace, surely. Ireland in his youth was ravaged by warfare, Gael and Viking at each other’s throats. Brian won his battles and lived long enough to know he’d won them. But things are more complicated now. Clontarf forced the Northmen to abandon their dream of ruling Ireland, yet peace has slipped away from us again. We are plagued by struggles for power among the princes of the various provinces, while tribes and even clans fight among themselves. Then there are the outlaws …
The Ard Ri is supposed to solve all these problems; to settle quarrels and make judgments and rule the island in the pattern my father established. If Malachi Mor fails to do so, the next High King must. The Irish grew accustomed to stability under Brian Boru, that’s why there is so much upheaval now. They want the old days back.
As Ard Ri, I will be expected to restore them.
To devote my life …
Donough gazed unseeing at the dark water.
It was not too late. He might still say to his mother, “This is a mistake, I want to go back to Ireland and … and …”
He could not think of what else he might do. Princes followed the path their fathers trod; it was ever so. How could it be otherwise?
Unwilling to be alone with his thoughts any longer, Donough returned to camp. His men were sitting around the fire, telling tales of war. Gormlaith occasionally joined in, taking evident relish in describing battles fought and men killed for her sake.
Donough stood outside the ring of firelight,
listening. His brooding gaze wandered over the familiar faces in the gilding light. How simple things were—for them.
War and war and war, a voice said clearly. Startled, he whirled around. But there was no one there.
Yet the voice went on. Kill or be killed, and where’s the glory in it? When a sword runs through you, your bowels open and you die in your own stink.
“Is that you?” Donough whispered, shocked. “Father?”
No one answered.
In due course an escort from Glamis arrived: a company of men in heavy woolen tunics, with gaudy plaids slung over their shoulders. Their features were similar to the Irish and they spoke, roughly, the same tongue, but their accents were so thick Donough could scarcely understand them.
They brought sturdy Pictish ponies onto which they loaded the travelers’ baggage. There was no cart for Gormlaith, but their leader explained that no one had mentioned a female being with the party. “Besides,” he added, “what kind of woman are ye that your legs don’t work?”
Crimson flamed in Gormlaith’s cheeks. Without a word, she strode out ahead of them, determined to walk them all into the ground before they reached Glamis.
Ragnald and his men were busily preparing the longship for the return voyage to Ireland. “Real winter is a snowflake away,” the Dane told Donough. “No one sails these seas then. You are here until spring; I trust you know that?”
“We know.”
“You are here no matter what happens. Do you understand me?”
“Are you giving me a warning?”
“I’m just saying that you cannot leave Alba until the seaways open again. And take it from one who knows—these people, for all they look like you, are not Irish. They have been here too long, they sing different songs now. Don’t trust them.”
Donough laughed. “This, coming from a Viking!”
Ragnald shrugged. Having delivered his passengers, he had no further interest in their fate.
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