But as Donough and his party entered the first stand of trees between themselves and Glamis, the Dane impulsively cupped his mouth with his hands and bellowed, “Remember what I said!”
Chapter Thirty-nine
THE COMPOSURE FOR WHICH BLANAID WAS FAMOUS DESERTED HER entirely.
She had been delighted to learn that her brother was actually in Alba. With Malcolm—as so often—away from Glamis, holding court at Scone, it fell to his wife to organize an escort to bring the guests to the castle. While she waited she busied herself with ordering a feast and overseeing the airing of a chamber suitable for a prince.
When Donough’s party arrived, Blanaid was waiting for them at the entrance to the great hall. Her face was wreathed in smiles as she held out both her hands to her brother, recognizing him at once by his likeness to Brian Boru. He towered a head taller than the men around him.
“I apologize for not having an attendant waiting for you,” Blanaid said to the person who pushed forward to stand beside him. “I did not know my brother was bringing a woman with him.”
“Not just a woman,” came the swift reply. “I am his mother.”
Blanaid was taken aback. “Gormlaith of Leinster?”
“Of course,” snapped the other woman. “How many mothers has he?” She strode imperiously past Blanaid and surveyed the hall through narrowed eyes. “So this is Glamis. Well, I must say, it looks no better from inside than from out. What a dark, dismal place. You have no windows!”
Blanaid made a swift recovery. “Glamis,” she said coldly, “has been a noble stronghold for generations and is now the primary residence of the King of the Scots and the Picts. May I remind you that you are a guest here, and as such you have no right to insult …”
Gormlaith chuckled. “Och, may I remind you I’m no guest here. You never invited me. I just came.”
Blanaid turned toward Donough. In the moment before her eyes met his she could have sworn he was grinning, but when she looked at him full face he was suitably sober. “The Princess Gormlaith is a law unto herself,” he told his sister.
Blanaid was trembling. Her face felt bloodless. “My … our father is dead because of her. How dare you bring her here!”
This time Gormlaith laughed outright, a rich, throaty sound as disconcerting as it was unexpected. “He couldn’t have stopped me. And your father is not dead because of me. He’s dead because your daughter’s husband Sigurd, among others, tried to wrest control of Ireland from him.”
“The ‘others’ you mention include your own son Sitric and your brother Maelmordha!” Blanaid retorted furiously.
“They’re all dead now,” the other replied, unruffled, “except my son Sitric, and he doesn’t amount to much if the truth be known. This one here is twice the man, that’s why I thought it was time you two should meet.”
“You thought …”
“Of course. Donough was not going to come, but I insisted. And a long journey it has been, I must say. Days at sea in an open boat, nights sleeping on cold ground—and I hate the cold! Surely you intend to offer us some heated water for bathing our faces and feet, and then a hot meal?” Gormlaith fixed Blanaid with wide-eyed, ingenuous gaze. “I have it on good authority that no one will cross the sea in winter, so we shall be with you for months and months.”
No member of Malcolm’s court had ever seen his Irish wife nonplussed—until she faced the Princess of Leinster. While she recovered, Blanaid fell back on the immutable tradition of Gaelic hospitality which was the same in Alba as in Ireland. Guests, even if they were mortal enemies, were entitled to the best a household had to offer.
Malcolm would not forgive her if she did less.
But the emotions surging through her were hard to control.
Seeing Donough was almost like seeing a youthful version of her father. She wanted to throw her arms around him, draw him down beside her and talk about Ireland and Kincora, invoke the song of the cuckoo and the screech of the corncrake, the taste of buttermilk, the baying of a red-eared hound. She wanted him to take her home again with his words and memories.
Instead he had brought Gormlaith.
In the king’s absence, Blanaid presided over the banquet in the hall. “Make certain only the best of everything is served,” she instructed Malcolm’s steward, “and seat my brother’s mother with us, as you would any visiting noble. Just put her as far from me as possible. You understand?”
She spoke coldly, precisely, her spine rigid with indignation. Malcolm when he returned would find no fault with her hospitality in his name. Pride would carry her through.
The banquet was served in the hall, with the guests seated on benches drawn up to a massive single slab of oak, and the rest of Malcolm’s court eating from small trestle tables. As at Kincora, great hounds roamed through the room, devouring the gnawed bones that were tossed onto the straw-strewn floor. But Glamis was darker than Kincora. It was built entirely of stone, and interior illumination was provided exclusively by torches soaked in pine pitch then mounted in iron holders on the walls. They cast a flickering, baleful glow. The air smelled resinous.
Gormlaith remarked irritably, “There’s no grianan in this wretched place. How do women survive here without a sunny-room?”
Fergal Mac Anluan took note of the fact that the shields hung on the walls, painted in unfamiliar designs and color combinations, were badly dented. “I think survival does not come easy here for anyone,” he said.
The meal was a nightmare for Blanaid. She could not eat, could only jab at her food with the point of her scian dubh. But Gormlaith ate enough for two, devouring roast venison and eel boiled in milk with an enthusiasm that belied her years.
“I thought old people lost their appetites,” Blanaid murmured under her breath.
Seated at her right hand, Donough overheard. “As far as I know, my mother has lost none of her appetites,” he told his sister. “I’m sorry about this. I can see it is hard for you. But she is my responsibility; I could not just go away and leave her.”
“Could Sitric Silkbeard not have taken her in?” Blanaid inquired, the name bitter in her mouth.
Donough lowered his eyes. “Sitric doesn’t want her. Or rather, his wife Emer doesn’t want her. Gormlaith does live part of each year with them, but it invariably degenerates into war. And with Maelmordha dead she has no other close living kin except myself.”
“Tell me of Emer,” Blanaid said brightly, to change the subject.
But Donough could tell her little about their mutual half-sister. Emer, like Blanaid, lived a life apart from his, a life shaped by her marriage.
“She is as much a Viking now, I suppose, as I am Scots,” Blanaid remarked, fingers plucking absentmindedly at the plaid shawl around her shoulders.
Brian’s blood flows in surprising directions, mused Donough. By the light of smoking torches in iron sconces affixed to the walls, he covertly studied Blanaid’s features, trying to find something familiar in her face. But she was a stranger to him. I would not know her if I met her on the road. How odd.
Then Gormlaith’s laugh rang out in response to something one of the men said. Blanaid lifted her chin and squared her shoulders as if for battle, and in that proud, defiant gesture Donough found his sister.
“Why are you smiling?” she asked him.
“Because I remember our father carrying himself just so, the last time I saw him.”
Catching Donough’s hand, Blanaid gave it an impulsive squeeze.
That night a Scottish piper played in the hall at Glamis, and a troupe of jugglers put on a performance marred by missed catches. “They are tenants of my husband,” Blanaid explained to Donough. “In Alba the king has the right to food-rent, and also to ‘conveth,’ to demand a night’s entertainment from those who occupy his land.”
“Is entertaining the king not an honor to be sought?” Donough wondered. His thoughts strayed to the harp in its leather bag with his other belongings.
“By some. We have our bards
. But others”—Blanaid nodded toward the forlorn jugglers—“perform because they must. Otherwise they would be dispossessed.”
“Does the land not belong to the tribe itself then, as in Ireland?”
“Alba is different, my brother. Here, a man claims as his own all the land he can conquer. The Brehon Law that still pertains in Ireland has been subsumed into other laws, other customs, in Alba. But the king is not a despot. Malcolm rules justly; he has a council of priests and mormaers to whom he must answer.”
“Mormaers?”
“Somewhat like tribal tanists, men of royal blood who might conceivably have a claim on the throne. One such was Donall, the Great Steward of Mar, whom Malcolm sent to fight on the side of Brian Boru at Clontarf.”
A movement at the end of the table alerted Donough to the fact that his mother had leaned forward and was listening avidly to this conversation. “How clever of Malcolm!” Gormlaith cried. “Imagine being represented by both Sigurd of Orkney and the Steward of Mar. I admire a man who fights on both sides at the same time. He cannot lose.”
Donough shot his mother a warning glare, but she ignored him.
As the torches began to burn out and courtiers were nodding over their cups of ale, the blast of a horn reverberated outside like a shriek of doom. There were immediate sounds of uproar in the courtyard, and through the open doors of the hall Donough heard a hoarse male voice shouting invective.
“My husband,” Blanaid remarked calmly, “seems to have returned early.”
Soon Malcolm strode into the hall, bringing with him the smell of sweat and horse dung and fresh night air. “Where’s Brian Boru’s son?” he demanded to know.
Before Blanaid could answer, Donough was on his feet. He lifted his chin and squared his shoulders as if for battle.
Then he deliberately kicked over the bench on which he had been sitting.
“I am Donough of Thomond,” he said.
They talked late into the night. Or rather, Donough talked and Malcolm listened. The King of Alba wanted to hear all his guest could tell him of the battle of Clontarf and the ensuing political situation in Ireland. Donough gave him as many facts as he could, aware that from time to time Malcolm nodded as if comparing his words with those of other informants.
This would be a dangerous man to lie to, warned the voice in his head.
At last Malcolm sat back and thoughtfully fingered the massive silver cup from which he drank his ale. “Now tell me about yourself,” he commanded. “You come from a race of warriors; what sort of fighter are you?”
Donough had never heard the question put quite so bluntly. “I am adept with sword or axe, and I can hurl a spear for at least a …”
“That isn’t what I mean. Do you fight because you must, or do you enjoy it?”
Donough paused to consider. “I enjoy winning.”
“Ah.” Malcolm’s dark eyes glowed. “Which do you feel more strongly? The desire to win—or the fear of losing?”
Again Donough paused. Then he chose the heroic answer, thinking it was expected. “The desire to win, of course. I have no fears.”
Malcolm laughed. “By the holy rood, lad, you have a lot to learn! When the day arrives—and it will—that you feel a healthy jolt of pure terror, come to me and I may have some use for you in my army. A fighting man needs to know fear and how to get beyond it, or he’s no use.”
“I have no interest in fighting in Alba. There are wars enough in Ireland to keep me occupied.”
“And what do you hope to get out of them, those Irish wars? From what I understand, you have no kingship and no power. Do you not covet your brother’s Munster?”
Do not answer. That is not a question to be answered publicly or to this man.
“I want only what I deserve,” Donough said carefully.
Malcolm leaned forward. “And your inheritance, did you not deserve that? Ah, don’t look so surprised. We know many things here. For example, I know that you were hard-done-by, Donough, and you have every reason to be resentful.”
“I’m not resentful.”
“Nor afraid. You are a wonder, a creature with no human feelings at all,” Malcolm said sarcastically. Then his tone changed. “But we might make a man of you yet. You will stop with us for the winter and perhaps we may be of benefit to one another.
“Your father was an ally of mine, though we never met in person. I admired him, and he entrusted me with his daughter. For that I owed him.”
Donough suddenly felt uncomfortable. “Do you resent my bringing Gormlaith with me? Blanaid does, she already made that plain. Like many people, she holds my mother guilty, at least in part, for my father’s death.”
Malcolm gave a negligible wave of his hand. “No woman is capable of bringing down a giant. The Princess of Leinster was part of the bait, but the battle would have been fought with or without her. Ireland is a rich prize and your father had made too many enemies.
“It was just unfortunate that one of them was your mother.” Malcolm added, light rekindling in his eyes. “Perhaps a different man would have been more able for her.”
A thin gray light was seeping into the hall when at last Donough was able to leave Malcolm and seek his bed. Blanaid had given him a chamber little bigger than a closet, but the best guest accommodation the castle had to offer. He must share it with his noble cousin Fergal, however. Ronan and the other men were already asleep on the floor of the hall, and Gormlaith had been ushered to some closet of her own, arranged at the last minute at her vehement insistence.
Weary beyond weariness, Donough tumbled onto the feather-filled pallet where Fergal already lay snoring. But when he closed his eyes they would not stay closed.
He nudged Fergal. “Do you want to hear something surprising?”
“Yes,” muttered the other. “I want to hear that you’ll let me sleep.”
“The King of Alba is interested in Gormlaith.”
With a strangled snort, Fergel came fully awake. “What do you mean?”
“I mean he asked me all sorts of questions about her, personal questions. And the look on his face …”
“But she’s an old woman.” Fergal would have been shocked—had it been anyone other than Gormlaith.
“Malcolm’s older than she is. Besides, did you notice her after he joined us in the hall? It might have been a trick of the torchlight, but I could have sworn she seemed prettier somehow.”
“There are certain men, apparently,” Fergal observed, “to whom your mother responds no matter what her age.”
“And I’m telling you, Malcolm responds to her.”
Fergal considered this in silence for a time, then said, “Well, I shouldn’t think he would do anything about it. Don’t take offense, but everyone knows what Gormlaith is—even if she is your mother.”
Donough took no offense. Yet he could not help wondering before he finally fell asleep how many more surprises Alba would have in store for him.
From the moment Malcolm had learned her identity, Gormlaith had been aware of his eyes on her. Aside for a perfunctory greeting he did not speak to her while they were in the hall, but when an attendant led her from the room on her way to her chamber, he had nodded to her.
Gormlaith needed no one to interpret the nod.
Before collapsing on her pallet she opened some of the baggage she had brought and took out a carved wooden casket, heavily ornamented with silver and gems like a gospel shrine. By the light of a Norse sealoil lamp she raised the lid, peered in, and smiled.
Malcolm spent the following day in consultation with his council. When the sun began to set he was just heading for the hall when he encountered Gormlaith in a passageway.
She had slept most of the day. Upon arising, she sent for heated water into which she poured perfumed oil, then bathed her face, her body, her hair, refusing the help of an attendant. She had passed the stage where she was willing for any other woman to see her naked.
From an assortment of pots and jars she scooped var
ious unguents which she applied assiduously. She stared critically into her mirror, wiped off some and reapplied others. Crushed ruam in beeswax was used to trace the rim of her ears, giving them a youthful flush; then she, with a bemused expression, cleaned her stained fingertips on the aureole of her nipples, rouging them too. Finally she poured a little more of the perfumed oil into the palm of her hand and rubbed it between her legs, at the tops of her thighs, where the curls were still red and springy.
She recalled with a stab of pain the very last time she had so decorated herself. For him …
But that was long ago. And very far away.
Gormlaith tried on half a dozen gowns before selecting one of sheerest linen, through which the shape of her breasts and belly was clearly visible. Satisfied with the effect, she combed her hair with a willow-wood comb and arranged its faded silk into elaborate swirls around her head and shoulders. Then she stood in the center of the small chamber, closed her eyes, and ran her hands slowly down over her body.
When Malcolm met her in the passageway, for a moment he did not recognize her. Last night it had been her notoriety that engaged his interest; her physical self, gaunt and aged and travel-worn, held no appeal.
But the Gormlaith he found himself facing now was transformed. Tall, glowing, she sauntered confidently toward him with a youthful sway of hips that distracted his eye from the lines on her face. In truth those lines seemed much less deep than he had first thought. She looked no older than his wife.
“Has my son given you the presents he brought? The cloaks?” she inquired.
“He did, last night in the hall after you had retired. A princely gift; I was grateful.”
“I also have a gift for you,” said Gormlaith. Her voice dropped into a lower register; husky, intimate. “But I would rather not present it in public, in the hall. When you see what it is, you will understand.”
Malcolm drew a deep breath.
He knew exactly what this woman was—or thought he did. She radiated danger as a bar of copper left long in the sunshine radiated heat. But for a mature man like himself, who had seen and done much and knew how to handle himself in any situation, surely there was nothing to fear. He loved his wife as much as he was capable of loving anyone; he was not emotionally vulnerable to Gormlaith.
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