Pride of Lions

by Morgan Llywelyn

  After a fortnight Godwine departed with the air of a man who has got all he came for, and the King of Alba and his retinue set out for Glamis.

  The pile of dark stone looked more forbidding than ever as they approached it through a driving rain. Gormlaith, wrapped in leather cloaks and seated upon a sure-footed pony, stared at the Alban stronghold as if she had never seen it before, then gazed wildly around and called out, “Where is this? Where are we?”

  Donough left Malcolm and went to ride beside her, talking gently to her in a voice she did not seem to hear. But by the time they were inside she seemed herself again.

  Within the stem walls there were fires blazing cheerfully, and the air rang with the squeals of children. The two little boys, Thorfinn and Duncan, were racing through the castle, playing at war. The King of Alba had no sooner entered his hall than they caromed into him, glanced off, laughed, and ran on without so much as a backward glance.

  Malcolm smiled indulgently. “Have you sons?” he asked Donough as Blanaid came forward to greet them.

  “Not yet. My wife died before any children were born to us.”

  Malcolm turned and met Gormlaith’s eyes. Intercepting the look that passed between them, Donough recognized conspiracy.

  That same night Donough repeated the question Gormlaith had bade him ask Malcolm. He even used the same wording she had used, a fact not lost on the king.

  “Arranged?” Malcolm repeated. “Who said I ‘arranged’ to become king?”

  “My mother.”

  “Ah.” For a moment the Scot’s face looked more somber than usual. “She was referring to … to pillow talk, I believe. One should be careful what one says in the dark to a woman.”

  “I suspect my mother has a gift for working secrets out of men.”

  “Your mother has many gifts. In a way I shall be sorry to see her leave; some of her ideas have been … very valuable. I shall answer your question as a favor to her.” With his eyes, Malcolm summoned a servant, who hastily refilled his and Donough’s cups. Then the king led the way to his private chamber.

  It was Donough’s first visit to the chamber. He was careful not to let his eyes linger on the bed.

  Seating himself on a bench beside a low table that held a richly ornamented silver casket, Malcolm took a deep drink from his cup, then began. “Before me, Kenneth the Second considered himself King of the Scots and the Picts. Like myself, he was descended from Kenneth Mac Alpin. As is sometimes the case in Ireland, I believe, kings in Alba are chosen from alternate branches of the royal house, but my predecessor came from a secondary branch and was not entitled to the kingship. Not by my reckoning.

  “Besides, he was a bad king, weak in battle and vacillating in judgment.”

  Malcolm paused and drew a deep breath, flaring his nostrils. “So I killed him.”

  “You …”

  “Killed him. An ancient and honorable way of proving oneself the better man.”

  “Is it? Ancient, indeed, but honorable? My father did not kill Malachi Mor, he proved himself the better man without bloodshed.”

  “And overthrew the concept of alternate succession for the high kingship; yes, I know. It is dangerous, young Donough, this breaking with tradition. Listen to a man who has had considerable experience. The old ways are best; simple and straightforward.

  “Your father changed dungs too much too fast in Ireland. Now he is gone, the old verities are swept away, and there has not been time for a new tradition to grow strong roots. Malachi Mor can neither replace Brian Boru, nor restore the system that was destroyed.

  “So I do not advocate your father’s methods. If he had killed Malachi, you would not have him standing between you and the high kingship.”

  “You are a Christian king …”

  “I am, I endow churches and monasteries.”

  “ … yet you advocate murdering your rivals?” Donough finished.

  “Murder is the wrong term. I advocate political assassination when necessary, for the, ah, greater good.”

  “And does it not weigh heavily on your conscience?”

  Malcolm did not blink. “No. A king cannot afford a conscience. There are other things he requires, however. Your mother and I have discussed this and she made an excellent suggestion.”

  “Any suggestion of hers would be suspect. My mother is no longer sane.” Saying the words hurt, but honesty impelled Donough to say them.

  Malcolm’s mouth twisted. “Who is sane? She is still clever. She put forward a proposal on your behalf which will be advantageous to all of us.”

  “My mother has no authority to make proposals on my behalf,” said Donough heatedly.

  “Don’t get prickly with me, lad. Just listen. This may be the last thing your poor mother ever asks of you.”

  Chapter Forty-five

  We returned to Ireland in an Orkney longship arranged by Malcolm. With us we carried numerous gifts he had given me, the plans and dreams the visit had instilled in me, and a strong silent Scot whose sole function was to take care of my mother.

  By the time we left Alba it was obvious to everyone that the Princess of Leinster was mad.

  She who had not spoken the name of Brian Boru for years had begun talking to him constantly. Sometimes she was looking at Malcolm as she spoke; sometimes at me. But she was talking only to Brian. She would no longer respond to anyone else.

  The spring winds were kind to us; the Viking ship with its shallow draught flew like a bird over the waves.

  Sitting in its waist, I passed the time by endeavoring to play my father′s harp. Cumara taught me what he had learned from Mac Liag. I could see why Cumara had never followed his father as a bard, however. He did not have an instinctive understanding of the music inherent in words or in an instrument He knew which strings to pluck in what order, but he could not make the harp sing.

  After a bit of instruction, my fingers sought the strings with a will of their own, and the sounds I summoned, if not always accurate, were at least musical.

  The damp sea air was bad for the harp, and her voice was soon tarnished. Yet she answered my touch as if she knew me, and I rejoiced in her company.

  One evening the dark caught us before we had found a suitable harborage, and the ship glided on for a time, propelled by her sail. A silence descended; the hardbitten men of Orkney rested on their oars and listened to me play. The air was unseasonably warm, and soft. A rising moon shone silver.

  In memory I can still see that pale face, wreathed in shreds of cloud.

  In memory I can still see my mother come swaying toward me, with her keeper following to see she did not hurt herself. She made her way the length of the ship to kneel at my feet and rest her head against my knee.

  “Play,” she said softly. “Play the music you composed for me, my Brian.”

  Chapter Forty-six

  NEVER BEFORE HAD CERA CELEBRATED THE RITES OF SPRING WITH such happy abandon. She danced, she hummed, she glowed.

  “Donough will return to us with the leaves,” she explained to her father.

  “To us? You mean, to you.”

  “Perhaps I do.”

  The blind man put his hand on his daughter’s arm. “Don’t start living in the future until it arrives, pet. Prince Donough may indeed return to Ireland soon—or he may not, there is no predicting the movements of princes. But either way, he will have things on his mind that have nothing to do with you. Do not expect him to come running to you the day he sets foot on the shore.”

  Living with druids had amplified Padraic’s senses. He could not see Cera, but he could feel waves of heat radiating from her spirit. “Listen to me,” he said emphatically. “Be patient, bide your time. What is for you will …”

  “ … not pass by me, I know, you’ve told me that for as long as I can remember. But how can I sit with my hands folded and do nothing? Life is to be lived; you’ve told me that, too!”

  She pulled away from her father and ran from the cabin.

  Beyond th
e oak woods that embraced their home, the land rose into a succession of rocky hills. A swift-flowing stream ran through these hills on its way to the Fergus, watering the roots of numerous rowan trees. On summer nights white moths collected amid the rowan. In the autumn, Cera’s sister brewed a refreshing beverage from fermented rowan berries. But in early spring the power of the rowan was most potent, shimmering almost visibly through the silver-gray bark.

  This was the tree Cera now sought, the fabled tree of speed and protection, the tree of summoning and welcoming. When she found a specimen whose branches extended eastward like outreaching arms, she knelt at its base and made a small offering. Then she set to work.

  Aboard the Orkney longship, Donough put aside his harp to gaze out across the greenish-blue water. He avoided looking at Gormlaith. To calm her last night the captain of the longship had donated his own measure of ale, and the big Scot held her down while Donough forced her to drink all of it. Today she was bleary-eyed and nauseous, but at least she was quiet. Huddled in a blanket, she sat inert and unaware.

  “I shall have to take her to Dublin, to Sitric,” Donough told Fergal. “Advise our captain accordingly. I cannot keep her with me under the circumstances, her presence would be crippling.”

  Once he made this decision, all his plans became more substantial. Making arrangements for Gormlaith was now the first step in a careful campaign. Donough expected Sitric to complain mightily, but at the end of the day he would not throw Gormlaith out into the road.

  As he watched the sea slipping past the prow, in his mind Donough was already taking the next step. Upon returning to Thomond he would rally as many followers as he could, then request a convening of the brehons at Cashel. He would …

  A shiver ran across his shoulders. It was cold on the sea but he wore a heavy fur mantle, the gift of Malcolm. He should not have felt the …

  There it was again. With the shiver came a longing so painful it was like a fist to the belly. “Cera!” Donough heard himself call out.

  “What?” Fergal glanced toward him. “Did you say something to me?”

  “I … ah, I did not. I was just thinking aloud, I suppose.”

  His cousin squinted at him. “Are you all right, Donough? You’ve gone very pale.”

  “I’m fine. Just eager to be home again, to make things happen.”

  Fergal grinned. “You will make things happen; there’s no doubt of it. Just don’t forget your old friends.”

  A shadow crossed Donough’s face. For just one moment he smelled green grass, flowers blooming, felt Cera in his arms. “I never forget,” he said.

  The pain in his voice puzzled his cousin.

  Donough sat very still, waiting.

  The feeling, when it came again, was almost overpowering. It was all he could do to keep from leaping from the ship and swimming frantically toward Ireland.

  “Hurry!” he shouted to the captain. “Can you not go any faster?”

  The Orkneyman was losing patience with his passengers. That business with the woman last night was bad enough; he resented having a landman criticize the way he sailed. “You’ll get there when you get there,” he responded in a surly tone, “and not a moment sooner.”

  When they caught their first glimpse of the Irish coastline, Donough thought his heart would leap from his breast. But there were practical considerations to distract him. The decision to put ashore at Dublin added to their sailing time, and also meant they would receive an uncertain welcome.

  “I have done some trading with the Dublin Danes,” the Orkney captain said, “but if the Irish hold the city now, they might meet my crew with spears.”

  “If the Irish hold Dublin you’ll be safe, because you’re in the employ of an Irish prince,” Donough assured him. Privately he wondered, however, just what the situation might be in Dublin. Was it possible Malachi could have seized the city?

  They beached the longship at the mouth of the Liffey, where the Vikings had built wooden wharves to facilitate the loading and unloading of cargo. Even before they went ashore it was obvious that the city was still under Viking control, although an occasional, unmistakably Gaelic face appeared in the crowds thronging the quayside.

  As the stench of the city enfolded him, Donough felt his sense of Cera receding. She was a creature of meadow and mountain; her voice was lost in the clamor of Dublin.

  “Keep a firm hold on my mother,” he advised the big Scot as, surrounded by his men, he set out for Sitric’s stronghold.

  Sitric was far from pleased to see his half-brother—or their mother. When the sentries announced Donough’s arrival, the Dane left them waiting at the gates for a long time before they were finally ushered into the hall.

  “What do you want here?” was Sitric Silkbeard’s greeting.

  Armed warriors ringed the room. Although they were indoors, at Sitric’s command they had donned their Viking helmets, conical metal caps with nose protectors and eye-slits that gave them a uniquely sinister appearance.

  Donough was not intimidated; he understood the game. “Put down your weapons at the door,” he said loudly to his men. “We won’t need them here.”

  Then he met Sitric’s eyes. “Will we.” It was not a question.

  The Viking hesitated. “No,” he said at last. “Put down your spears,” he ordered his guards. “Now, Donough. What’s this about?”

  “I have to leave Gormlaith with you, as I cannot keep her any longer.”

  Sitric scowled. “Not even for half the year?”

  “Not even for a day, not now. I shall be traveling light and fast, as I have much to do. She will be better off here.”

  Sitric looked past Donough to the silent woman who stood wrapped in a mantle, her head hanging apathetically. He noted the Scot who kept a firm grip on her shoulder. “Is this what you want, Mother?” he inquired.

  Gormlaith did not respond. She did not even lift her head.

  Sitric strode toward her and bent slightly to get a good look at her downturned face. What he saw horrified him. Her eyes were perfectly blank and a thin drool of spittle ran down her chin.

  “What have you done to her?” he demanded of Donough.

  “Nothing. I took her to Alba with me because she insisted on going, and while we were there she began to see things. Hear things. Talk to thin air. She was not injured in any way, she just …” He lifted his hands palm upward in a gesture of helplessness.

  “Just went mad,” Sitric finished for him.

  “Indeed. I regret it bitterly, but it was nothing anyone did to her. She was still sane, at least part of the time, until we left Alba. Sane enough to extract promises from me,” he added under his breath. “But once we were on the open sea she became as she is now. I don’t think there’s any way back for her.”

  When Sitric put a tentative hand on Gormlaith’s shoulder she gave no sign of recognition. Only the big Scot responded, watching the Viking warily.

  Sitric turned back to Donough. “I think we had better talk,” he said.

  A chamber was found for Gormlaith. Emer refused to have anything to do with her, so her Scottish attendant bathed her, fed her, put her into bed. Meanwhile Donough’s men circulated uneasily among the Vikings in the stronghold, and Donough and Sitric talked.

  Food and drink were provided: roast meat, dried fruit, horns of Danish ale. But neither man had much appetite—except for the ale.

  They were natural enemies with nothing in common but the womb that bore them. Yet the tragedy of Gormlaith was enough to allow them to speak to one another with tense civility.

  “Under Brehon Law,” Donough told Sitric, “her kindred must care for her. But in truth she has few kindred left alive, only yourself and myself. And I don’t suppose you recognize Brehon Law anyway.”

  “I do not. The same custom pertains among the Vikings, however. We would not put a madwoman out in the snow—at least, not so long as we had enough food for her without starving ourselves.”

  “And do you?”

&
nbsp; “Things have not gone well since Clontarf,” admitted Sitric, “but I can fill another mouth. I’m still king of the Dublin Danes, and as you no doubt saw down at the quay, trade continues. Trade always continues, no matter who’s in power,” he added.

  Donough cocked his head for a moment, then smiled and said, “It’s a trade I have to offer you.”

  “You brought me riches from Alba?”

  “In a manner of speaking. In Alba I acquired some powerful allies, not the least of them being King Malcolm. I now have more supporters across the sea than Malachi Mor could ever call upon. What does that suggest to you, Sitric?”

  The Dane folded his arms across his chest. “Go on, I’m listening.”

  “I can make life very hard for you, or not, as I see fit.”

  “Malachi’s been making life hard enough for me. He and his followers attack my people on any pretext. He’s worse than a rash of nettles. That old man’s trying to bash his way back into a kingly reputation.”

  “There are better ways to win a kingly reputation, Sitric.”

  “Are you suggesting a truce between us if I’m willing to take Gormlaith off your hands permanently?”

  Donough cocked his head again. “Is a truce possible between us, after Clontarf?”

  “Malachi would say no.”

  “I’m not asking Malachi. I’m asking my brother.”

  Sitric took a long pull of ale from his drinking horn. “Half-brother,” he corrected. “That makes a difference. Your father was a Gael, mine a Dane. Born enemies, some might say.”

  “That doesn’t mean we can’t come to an accommodation now. The world has moved on. Ireland has moved on.”

  “You may think so, but some things don’t change,” Sitric replied. “My wife hates Gormlaith as water hates fire.”

  “Emer and I are blood kin too. If I could persuade her to accept the arrangement, what then?”

  Sitric dug into his beard, scratching with blackened fingernails. “Old enmities go deep. You don’t like me, I don’t like you. And Clontarf is an open wound.”