“I gave it up to someone else when I joined you,” Mac Liag’s son replied. “There’s Kincora, of course.”
“Not yet. Not until I walk through those gates with the full approval of the law.”
“What about Kill Dalua?” suggested Fergal. “The physician of the Dal Cais can take a look at that arm, though in truth there seems little for him to do. And the good brothers can care for you until you recover.”
Donough started trying to rewrap the arm, but he was too clumsy. A solicitous Cumara took over the task.
Looking the other way, Donough said, “Kill Dalua would not be my first choice, but I suppose it’s the best under the circumstances. And I won’t need a litter. If you will lead my horse, Fergal, I can ride.”
The rebuilt monastery at Kill Dalua was Cathal Mac Maine’s pride and joy. The abbot went on a tour of inspection almost daily, feasting his eyes on sturdy oak gates and freshly quarried stone walls. If the new structure looked more like a fortress than a monastery, the resemblance was intentional.
Cathal now thought of Kill Dalua as a Christian stronghold against the pagan forces arrayed against him.
When the injured Dalcassian prince was brought to him to recover from his injury, Cathal welcomed him effusively. The abbot’s disenchantment with Teigue continued, and having Donough under his influence for a time was a heaven-sent opportunity.
“You will be the first guest in our new guesting house,” a beaming Cathal informed Donough. “Anything you require, you have only to ask for. We are now brewing some very fine mead from our own honey and apples, and I shall see that a jug is kept by your bedside to ease your pain.”
Cathal was too friendly, instinct warned Donough. But he was wounded and weary and it was enough to lie beneath a linen sheet, listening dreamily to the angelic voices of the brothers as they changed their offices.
The abbot assigned several monks to tend to his needs. Foremost among them was a young local man called Brother Senan, who had a round Thomond face and a great gap between his front teeth, about which he was inclined to make jokes.
Under Brother Senan’s watchful eye Donough slept, ate, slept again. The arm healed with astonishing rapidity. Sometimes, as he lay on his bed gazing out the window at the sky beyond, he thought of Cera.
She could feel him; much closer now. At least he was still alive. But she could feel a darkness, too, like a bruise in fruit. An injury. In spite of all her efforts he was damaged, and the knowledge tormented her.
She spent more and more time away from the cabin among the oaks. She could not bear to be under a roof or within the embrace of four walls.
She did not confide in Padraic. A change had taken place within her; she wanted to confide her inmost thoughts only to Donough. Everything of value in herself was his now.
Her longing reached out to him.
As his health improved Donough began to read voraciously, demanding books be brought to him from the abbot’s library. His mind was as restless as his body was lacking in vigor. He resented the periodic exhaustion that still incapacitated him, although Ferchar, chief physician of the Dal Cais, assured him it was normal for someone who had suffered such an injury. “Just rest and give yourself time,” he counseled.
But it was hard to rest, hard to feel life going on without him.
Donough spoke to Brother Senan. “The abbot said I could have anything I wanted, so I need you to do something for me.”
“Of course,” the monk agreed as he put a fresh sheet of linen on Donough’s mattress. Smoothing the fabric over the bag of feathers he felt a momentary envy, but he quickly extinguished it and thanked God instead that he was allowed to sleep on a plank.
Donough was saying, “I want to send word to Cera Ni Padraic that I am injured and would like to see her. She’s the daughter of my father’s spear carrier; she lives near Ennis.”
Brother Senan flashed a pleasant, gap-toothed grin. “If she sees my smile first, she may forget all about you,” he warned.
“I’m willing to take that chance,” replied Donough, grinning back at him.
When Senan dutifully reported the request to the abbot, he was startled by Cathal’s response. “Forget we ever had this conversation.”
“Forget? But Prince Donough wants …”
“He doesn’t know what’s good for him. A woman like that has no business coming within a day’s journey of Prince Donough, and I mean to protect him from her.”
“But what shall I tell him?”
“Don’t tell him anything. Let him assume the message has been sent—and ignored.”
Senan was a scrupulously honest man and any deception troubled him, but he was obedient.
While Donough waited for Cera to come to him, he began working to restore his strength. Every day he pushed himself harder, ignoring the order to rest. It was bad enough that Cera would find him maimed; he did not want her to see him weak as well.
He was a warrior. He could not think of himself as anything other than a warrior. And a warrior must fight, so he had to relearn the use of weapons. Cumara had gone with Fergal to the latter’s home during Donough’s recuperation, so Brother Senan was pressed into service. The bemused monk became a training partner, helping Donough adjust to using his sword left-handed.
The weapon was made for a right-handed man, however. The hilt was awkward in his left hand, the balance of the blade was wrong. “I’ll need a new sword,” Donough told Senan. “Send word to Odar the smith, at Kincora. Have him come to me and we shall discuss its forging.”
Odar soon arrived and a long afternoon was spent in discussion of hilt shape and blade balance. The forge at Kincora was heated white-hot; a new weapon was manufactured. The final result, when Odar delivered it to Kill Dalua, was handsome and well balanced, but Donough could not help thinking how little it resembled the sword of Brian Boru.
“With the sword in my left hand I have to carry the shield on my right arm,” he said to Senan, “which may be of advantage. When my hand is hidden behind the shield, no opponent can tell I’m injured. And listen here to me, Senan: Why not bind a knife to my right wrist, with the blade like an extension of my thumb? That way if I lose the shield I’ll still have a weapon in either hand.”
“Except you don’t have two hands.”
“I shall make a hand and a half enough,” Donough replied.
As he gained in strength, he undertook daily practice sessions in the orchard beyond the refectory. Brother Bressal complained that it disturbed his bees and would lower honey production, but the other monks made a point of visiting the orchard as often as they could, for the pleasure of watching. They were sworn to God, but they were born of a warrior race.
To a man, they admired Donough. He never spoke of his mutilation and made no excuses for it. Nor did he try to conceal it, except when carrying the shield. The rest of the time he displayed his damaged arm as freely as the other, and soon no one took any notice of it.
When the sunlight took on the golden slant of autumn and harvested apples piled high in baskets, Donough began to wonder when Cera would arrive.
She had waited as long as she could, but at last she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, kissed her father good-bye, and set off eastward, feet white and bare beneath the hem of her red skirt. Cera trusted her intuition to lead her to Donough as surely as instinct brought mated birds back to last summer’s nest.
She could feel him. Three days’ determined walking should take her to him.
When she appeared outside the gates of Kill Dalua she found them closed. But a bronze bell had been set up in a niche, and she rang this energetically.
A small panel set flush in the left-hand gate slid open with a squeal of wood, and a tonsured head peered out.
“I want to see Prince Donough Mac Brian,” Cera announced.
The monk regarded her owlishly. “Your name?”
When she told him, he slid the panel shut.
Cera waited with the taste of anticipation tingling li
ke mint on her tongue. At last she rang the bell again.
A different monk looked out at her and she repeated her request. This time she was told, “The abbot has been informed.”
“I am not here to see the abbot, but Prince Donough. I am … a friend of his, and I want to know if he’s all right.”
“Please wait.” Once more the panel closed.
The third time the panel opened, it was Cathal Mac Maine himself who gazed out at her. She recognized him immediately and braced herself for another unpleasant confrontation, but instead he arranged his features in an expression of polite regret.
“You have come to visit Prince Donough, I believe?”
“I have.”
“Then I am sorry to have to tell you he will not see you.”
Cera stared at the abbot. “But I’ve come a long way …”
“Then I am doubly sorry.”
Her small chin lifted stubbornly. “Let him tell me himself that he does not want to see me.”
Cathal smiled. “He cannot do that without seeing you, and he refuses. There is nothing I can do. He is our guest; we cannot ignore his wishes in the matter.”
“But he’s been hurt!”
The abbot looked surprised, but quickly recovered. “How did you … indeed, he was injured in a battle, but he is almost well now. You need not concern yourself about him.”
She was sure he was lying. Faced with his unyielding determination, the closed gates, the high stone wall, she was effectively blocked, however. She could not simply push her way in.
But when Cathal said, “I am sorry,” a third time, he sounded so sincere her conviction was shaken. She was not born to noble rank, her woman’s heart reminded her. Perhaps she was only a pleasant interlude in the life of a prince, and Donough really did not want to see her again. Perhaps when he sailed away to Alba he had forgotten all about her. She had no proof otherwise.
Reading self-doubt in her eyes, Cathal saw his victory.
He could afford to be generous now, if only for the sake of keeping the enemy off-guard. It was not hypocrisy, merely clever strategy. Anything was permissable for the greater good of the Church.
“Wait there and I will have one of the brothers bring you a small cask of mead to take home with you,” he said.
Chapter Forty-nine
As the days passed with no word of Cera, I began to feel anxious. It had been necessary to establish an alliance with Malachi as soon as I returned to Ireland, but I had meant to go to her straight from Ui Caisin territory. There were things I needed to say to her, and explanations to be made in a way she would understand.
Instead I had been injured.
It was Cathal himself who informed me she was not coming to me. “We sent a request as you asked, but she has refused. There is nothing more we can do, Prince Donough.”
“Why did she refuse?”
Cathal gave an noncommittal shrug. “I cannot explain the ways of women. I can only assume, in the light of your mutilation …” He paused meaningfully.
I stared down at my hand. “She was told of this?”
“Of your injury, of course.”
When he had gone, I sat for a long time just looking at my hand—or what was left of my hand. The pain I felt was much greater than it had been on the day the axe cut through me.
Chapter Fifty
IN HIM WAS AN ANGER THAT SIMMERED AND SEETHED. AT TIMES IT LAY almost quiescent, no more than a dull heat beneath the surface of his soul. Then it would erupt for no reason he could consciously identify, lashing out with a white-hot fury that scorched himself as much as those around him.
When Ferchar told him the hand had healed as much as it ever would, Donough left Kill Dalua. He summoned Fergal and Cumara to accompany him and crossed the Shannon into Ely territory. Like the Dal Cais and the Owenachts, the Ely had extensive tribal landholdings in Munster. Their territory ran from the east bank of the Shannon north to Meath and south as far as Cashel. Eight powerful clans comprised the tribe, whose tribal king was tributary to the King of Munster.
Donough and his companions set up camp near the fort of a cattle lord called Lethgen, who promptly came out with a pair of spear carriers to question their intentions.
When Donough identified himself Lethgen was visibly impressed. “A kinsman of mine was historian to your father,” he boasted. “Maelsuthainn O Carroll of the line of King Cearbhaill, the greatest of the chieftains of Ely.”
“He is a very good friend of mine,” Donough asserted. “As a child at Kincora I sat on his knee while he taught me my letters. We Dalcassians have always referred to him simply as Carroll, however; he prefers it.”
Satisfied that Donough did indeed know his kinsman, Lethgen beamed. “I am certain he would expect me to give you the utmost hospitality,” said the cattle lord, a bandy-legged, barrel-chested man with ruddy cheeks and the roseate nose of a confirmed ale-lover. “What may I offer you?”
“Land.”
Lethgen was taken aback. His smile slipped. “What?”
“I need a holding, some land.”
“As a prince of the Dal Cais, surely you have holdings in Thomond.”
“I want to build a stronghold somewhere else,” Donough replied, “and gather an army.”
Lethgen was thinking fast. Here was another of the line O Brian, obviously extending his grasp. It would be wise to accommodate him. “This army of yours—it would protect your holding? And support your allies?”
“Indeed.”
“Now that I think of it, Prince Donough, there is a hilltop not far from here with a grand view of the countryside; no one could sneak up on you at all. I have plenty of grassland, I could certainly grant you a holding as a kindness to my kinsman.”
Donough smiled. “You are the soul of generosity,” he assured the lord of Ely.
Learning his whereabouts, Dalcassians came to him: the loyal, the disaffected, the bored. From them he assembled a personal army, and from Ely timber he built a new fort with no old memories to taint the walls.
And no women, not even bondservants. In the beginning Donough’s fort was an exclusively male stronghold where he sought to reproduce the masculine atmosphere of the Kincora he remembered.
Countless warriors had postured and swaggered through his father’s hall, boasting of everything from their battle skills to the size of their genitals. As a child, Donough had hung on their every word. He had regarded them as demi-gods in a pantheon whose chief deity was Brian Boru.
Now similar men gathered under his banner in Ely and pledged their allegiance to him.
On the day each new man joined him, Donough held out his right arm in a way that forced them to observe the damage. “This is a battle wound,” he said, “gained in honorable combat. I am not ashamed of it. Look your fill now. Then we can talk of things that matter.”
Wounds more disfiguring than his were common in a warrior society, but never exhibited so blatantly. By calling attention to the mutilation, in a curious way he diminished its power. His men soon ignored it, which was his purpose.
He demanded to be treated as a whole man.
“I have lost enough,” he told Cumara one night as they sat late beside the fire, “and I don’t intend to lose any more.” As he spoke he withdrew the harp from its bag beside his bench. He did not ask Cumara to help him. “The time has come to teach myself to play this with my left hand,” he said.
Cumara looked dubious. “We can find a harper for you if you want music, it would be easier.”
“I don’t need anything to be made easier.”
Donough rested the ruin of his right hand on the forepillar of the harp, holding the beautiful instrument in place with a purple-scarred stump ending in a single thumb like a hook. A webwork of exceptional musculature developed by wielding the sword remained at the base of the thumb. As the wound healed it had tried to contract and stiffen, but he fought back, manipulating the thumb, forcing the joints to flex and stay functional.
With grim dete
rmination he had taught himself to do many things using his maimed right hand, things that Cumara would have thought impossible. He would undoubtedly teach himself to play the harp with his left.
Donough’s hall was silent except for the crackling of the fire. The first notes he evoked from the harp strings sounded tortured.
But he persevered.
Several warriors passing the hall overheard the attempt at music but did not realize who was responsible. There was a bark of derisive laughter.
Donough carefully laid the harp aside, then rose to his full height and hurled himself through the open doorway. In two strides he reached the surprised warriors. Seizing the nearest man by the shoulder in a punishing grip, he doubled his right arm and slammed it into his hapless victim’s windpipe.
The warrior sagged in Donough’s grasp. He gasped and made gurgling noises. His companions tried to intercede, but Donough gave them such a ferocious glare they fell back. With an oath he flung the laugher away from him, then ran after him and punched him in the face two or three times with his left fist.
When the man was lying inert and unconscious Donough turned without a word and stalked back into the hall. He picked up the harp and resumed practice as if nothing had happened.
After that no one laughed at his playing.
Learning that Donough had built himself a fort in Ely territory, Carroll decided to visit that branch of his clan which dwelt east of the Shannon.
He had grown too old and too stout for traveling by foot, so he made his journey in a wicker cart driven by a pungent bondservant. The man was disinclined to bathe but loved to talk, and his only topic was himself. He had an endless supply of pointless personal anecdotes. Occasionally Carroll interjected polite murmurs, but as they jolted along the rutted trackways the historian’s thoughts wandered.
During a rare silence on the part of his driver he remarked, “As a scholar I have been singularly blessed. I was thinking about that just now, counting my blessings if you will. I have witnessed momentous events and been the confidante of kings. Words I have written will be carried to lands I shall never see, and speak, long after I am dead, to people as yet unborn.”
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