Cumara told Fergal, “I’m going to leave here and go back to Thomond. The atmosphere in this place makes me nervous; it’s as if the fire on the hearth is about to explode.”
Fergal said quickly, “Don’t go! You’re a good influence on him. At least he plays the harp occasionally for you, the only time he seems to be in relative good humor.”
“I’m a poet’s son,” Cumara pointed out, “and I have my father’s temperament if not his talent. Discord upsets me. It’s all very well for you; warriors thrive on conflict. But some nights I can’t even eat my meal, my stomach is so roiled. A couple of times recently I’ve vomited blood. I’m going back to Thomond.”
“I thought you gave your house away.”
“I did, but I have friends who will take me in. Friends of my father’s will welcome me in his name.”
“What will Donough do if you go?”
“I worry about that,” Cumara replied.
But he left; an act of self-preservation after a life dedicated to others.
Donough was too proud to ask him the reasons for his leaving, although deep in his heart, he knew.
As Cumara was taking his leave of Carroll, he warned the old man, “Keep an eye on that Saxon priest, will you?”
“What can I do? I’m a guest here, I have no right to interfere.”
Cumara’s naturally lugubrious face lightened briefly. “When did you not interfere, Carroll?”
Donough needed no warning about Geoffrey of the Fens. The man’s presence was a constant irritant, yet he could not send him away. Only Geoffrey could translate what he said to Driella, or she to him, and the young woman seemed unable to learn any language other than Saxon.
At first Donough agreed with Fergal; she was simply stupid. But as time passed he began to suspect she was deliberately refusing to learn so she would have to keep Geoffrey with her.
Yet he never caught them together in any compromising position.
When Carroll remarked on their constant companionship, and Driella’s total dependence on Geoffrey, Donough’s pride made him say in her defense, “I cannot imagine my wife betraying me with a priest or anyone else. She’s nothing like my …”
“Like your mother? No, she is nothing like Gormlaith,” Carroll agreed.
But Driella had other faults, he observed.
A lifetime spent absorbing every tenet of the Church with no sense of discrimination had rubbed away her own personality, leaving her as featureless as an ocean-scoured pebble. She was submissive and selfeffacing to an infuriating degree.
Old as he was, Carroll began speculating about what it was like to bed such a woman.
The first night had been awkward, but no more than Donough expected. Driella was a virgin and there were tears and blood and moans of pain.
Cera had been a virgin, he recalled against his will. And there had been blood, but no tears, only radiant smiles and …
Driella had submitted totally to him in spite of her pain, spreading herself beneath him like a sacrifice. She lay with eyes screwed tight shut and endured him. Had there not been so much pent-up lust in his body, Donough would have got off her and walked away. He felt as if he were pounding himself into a piece of meat.
The next morning he had barely left their bed when Geoffrey came bustling in, all unctuous sympathy, and knelt to pray with the deflowered bride.
“No one sent for you,” Donough had said coldly, but the priest replied, “I’m only here to help. This child needs me now; due to the rigors of the voyage she brought no womenfolk of her own. Surely you have enough delicacy to understand?”
That same day Donough arranged for female bondservants but they proved of little use except for menial tasks. They spoke no Saxon.
Geoffrey seemed to be constantly counseling Driella. When Donough bit back his pride long enough to ask what they were discussing, the priest replied, “I am giving her advice as to her conjugal duties.”
Yet Driella’s response in the marriage bed did not improve. She accepted. She endured. The only emotion she ever displayed was when she shrank from the most inadvertent touch of her husband’s maimed arm.
After each night spent with Donough, in the morning her first act was to pray with Geoffrey.
“We are praying that she will conceive,” Geoffrey said.
Donough discovered a curious thing about himself. Passion was a powerful, a compelling force in him, but he could direct it into other channels such as fighting—so long as there was not a woman to focus his desire.
With the plump young Saxon in his bed, however, he thought constantly of sex. If he did not have intercourse with Driella he lay awake, smelling her skin and hair, intensely aware of her slightest movement, suffering from a painful erection and aching testicles. If he rolled over and entered his wife he found momentary relief, but was plagued afterward by a sense of profound disappointment, almost of disgust with himself.
Marriage, he concluded, was an arrangement like any other political arrangement. Driella provided him with important alliances and he had no reason to doubt she would in time give him sons. Such assets came at a price, but it was a price he must pay.
Compromise, he thought with a sense of irony. The skill Murrough never mastered.
When Driella began to ripen with a child, compromise seemed justified.
The birth of Donough’s first live child, a boy he called Murchad, did not merit an entry in the annals. For that year Brother Declan wrote: “Branagan, a chieftain of Meath, was drowned in Lough Ennell, and Mac Conailligh, chief brehon of Malachi Mor, died, after the plundering of the shrine of Saint Ciaran by the both of them. The King of Leinster gained a victory over Sitric of Dublin at Delgany. Donough Mac Brian mediated between them and brought an end to dreadful slaughter.”
Since abandoning Tara, Malachi had not summoned Donough to his banner. So Donough now sent a full report to the Ard Ri detailing his negotiations between the King of Leinster and the Dublin Danes, demonstrating that he was as skilled at bringing peace as at waging war. The unspoken but implicit addendum was: make me your successor.
Malachi did not respond.
The following summer found him leading an army against Sitric and the Dublin Danes at the Yellow Ford of Athboy, amid a shower of hailstones the size of apples.
Once more Donough Mac Brian had not been summoned.
Only a month later, Declan wrote, “The Age of Christ, 1022. Malachi Mor, High King of Tara, pillar of dignity, died on an island in Lough Ennell in the seventy-third year of his life. He relinquished his soul on the fourth of the Nones of September, after doing penance for his sins and receiving the body and blood of Christ. Masses, hymns, psalms, and canticles were sung throughout Ireland for the repose of his spirit.”
Cathal Mac Maine directed his scribe to add, “Splendid though they were, the obsequies for Malachi Mor were a mere shadow compared to those for Brian Boru.”
The Abbot of Kill Dalua had not attended either funeral, but he had Dalcassian honor to uphold.
Malachi was deeply mourned by his many adherents. Poets lauded his exceptional generosity. Donough confided to Carroll, “I am surprised to find myself genuinely grieved by his death. Malachi has been a part of my life, in one way or another, for as long as I can remember.”
“I too mourn him,” Carroll replied, “though perhaps for different reasons. He was of my generation; if he has walked over the rim of the world, I must shortly follow.”
A fierce light leaped in Donough’s eyes. “Not until you see me inaugurated Ard Ri!”
He thought it would be soon.
He was totally unprepared for the shock that followed.
The news was shouted across the countryside like an announcement of the end of the world. Thunderstruck, Donough saddled his fastest horse and galloped headlong to Kill Dalua to await formal confirmation.
The abbot was as taken aback as himself. “Malachi Mor has robbed the Dal Cais of their entitlement!” he complained.
But his anger
was nothing compared to Donough’s. “That wretched schemer must have made these plans long before he died. When I last saw him—and we shared a cup together—he already knew. He knew and said nothing and smiled at me like a fond uncle, Cathal! And to think I was mourning him! How did he manage to persuade them? Did he offer gold to Lismore to get the abbot to agree?”
Cathal was offended. “Impossible. A man of God?”
“This entire arrangement is impossible!” Donough vehemently protested. “He—they—cannot possibly be High King. How could two men hold one high kinship?”
The question was being repeated throughout Ireland in every noble household.
Assiduously searching Irish law, even the brehons were astonished to find nothing that could prevent the High King from naming dual successors if he chose. Brian Boru had endowed the office with unprecedented powers. In the last official act of his life, Malachi Mor used those powers to the fullest.
Henceforth Ireland was to be governed jointly by Cuan of the line of Lochlan, chief poet of Meath, and Corcran Cleireach, a renowned holy man and anchorite under the supervision of the Abbot of Lismore.
The title Ard Ri, however, was to be held in abeyance.
Tara would remain deserted.
Chapter Fifty-five
THE EXPLOSION CUMARA HAD EXPECTED CAME AT LAST. DONOUGH unleased his rage.
While his mother was alive he would maintain a degree of amity with Sitric, but no one else was safe from his fury. He resurrected old Munster tribal feuds and initiated new ones. He flung himself from one battle into another with an energy that astonished, and eventually exhausted, his followers.
The Dalcassians’ traditional rivals the Owenachts were his principal targets, but he also undertook raids into Ossory and Muskerry, bringing back hostages for whom he demanded a very high ransom.
Teigue was appalled. “I shall be blamed for this,” he complained to his courtiers at Cashel. “The other provincial kings will think I’m encouraging him in preparation for invading their kingdoms.”
“You might do,” suggested a bored warrior hopefully. “You might reach beyond Munster and start laying claim to all of Ireland. There’s plenty would support you.”
“I have everything I want here,” Teigue insisted when he saw the sudden fear in his wife’s eyes.
The seed was planted, however.
In the dark of night he sat in his private chamber at Cashel and stared into the fire in the brazier, thinking of the high kingship. Brian’s high kingship, suspended. Waiting.
Without saying anything to Maeve, he ordered his father’s sword dug up and brought to him.
Donough resented the onset of winter that brought an end to battle season. If there were no wars to fight, he must retire to his stronghold and wait for spring; wait for winter’s mud to solidify enough for marching upon once more.
Wait under the same roof with Driella. And Geoffrey. And his bitterness.
His second child was conceived that winter. Donough announced if it was a boy he would be called Lorcan, meaning ‘fierce.’ “Lorcan was the name of my father’s grandfather,” he explained when Geoffrey protested at such an un-Christian choice. “And what right have you to question the naming of my children?”
Feet wide apart, Geoffrey of the Fens stood his ground. His mouth opened as if he meant to say something—then he took a long look into Donough’s eyes.
The mouth closed. The priest turned away.
Grimly, Donough endured the winter. He knew he was irritable and volatile, but his soul chafed as if he wore a hair shirt. Inactivity maddened him. Once or twice he took out the harp and tuned it, then put it back in its case unplayed.
There was no music inside him to express.
The days were long and the nights were longer. Like a fly trapped in amber, he felt hung up in life.
To pass the time he began inviting Lethgen to his hall. The loquacious cattle lord was content to carry on a conversation with only minimal replies from Donough and pretended to be unaware of his host’s bad moods. Lethgen would have put up with a much worse temper for the sake of such a friendship. Donough would be Ard Ri yet, he had no doubt.
Besides, the Dalcassian was an unstinting host who always kept a vat of ale on hand.
Late one night when everyone else had fallen asleep, Donough and Lethgen were still matching one another cup for cup in drunkenly determined competition. They drank to Donough’s son Murchad and to his unborn child; they drank to Lethgen’s sons and daughters, and to everyone’s cousins, and to Munster and Ireland and all the saints. When they had run out of anything else to toast, Donough said in a blurred voice, “I drink to my father’s sword.”
Lethgen belched. “A fine choice.” He raised his cup. “To Brian in his tomb.”
“The sword isn’t in his tomb.”
“No?” Lethgen put down the cup and peered owlishly at his host. “Where then?”
“My brother got possession of it some way. It’s buried at Cashel.”
“Tha’s no place for a good sword. A sword that knows how to win wars. You should have that sword.”
“I know,” Donough replied morosely. “Teigue won’t use it; he doesn’t deserve it.”
“You should have that sword. You should.”
“I know.”
“Yes indeed. My frien’ Donough should have that sword. I will get that sword for him. I promise.” Lethgen stared into his cup, dismayed to find it was empty again. “I promise,” he repeated.
Donough refilled both their cups. When Lethgen finally tumbled off his bench and lay snoring on the straw that carpeted the floor, his host was still awake.
Anything was better than going to bed. He refilled his cup yet again and, swaying slightly, carried it to the door of the hall.
The stars were far away. His eyes would not focus properly; their individual lights became a shimmering blur. Only the moon was separate and distinct.
“Cera,” Donough whispered.
He never allowed himself to think of her when he was sober.
Lethgen awoke in the cold gray dawn with a ferocious headache. He was halfway home before he recalled snatches of the conversation the night before. But once remembered, he did not forget. He was of the Gael; a promise was sacred.
Spring of the year 1023 came late. Lethgen’s herds had suffered during the hard winter and their numbers were diminished. He hoped for a good breeding season, but his bulls were old and not as vigorous as he would have liked.
Hearing of a remarkable young bull down near Cashel, he set off to attempt some trading. Travel in Ireland was not as safe as it once had been, so Lethgen took with him an armed complement of Ely men.
“Let outlaws beware!” they told one another.
Unfortunately, even after several days’ hard haggling the deal could not be done. The bull’s owner proved intransigent. Lethgen was disappointed, but determined not to go home empty-handed.
Meanwhile Donough was beginning to respond to the change of seasons. The depression of the dark days lifted. He could not endure to be melancholy when the sun was radiant and the very air smelled green, so with an act of will he strove to be more pleasant—even to Geoffrey.
Relief was palpable in the fort.
Fergal also felt the sap rising in his veins. “It’s time I took a wife for myself,” he told Carroll.
“You’ve exhausted the local women?”
Fergal laughed. “Or they have exhausted me. But in truth, I feel a need for sons. I must find a woman suitable to marry a man of my rank. Bedding is one thing, marrying is another. And she should be a Dalcassian. These Ely females are fine and glossy, but they don’t know any of the songs I know.”
The old historian chuckled understandingly. “The sort of woman you want is best sought at Cashel. Where there is a rooster you find chicks; where there are kings you find princesses.”
“If I go to Cashel, Donough will feel betrayed. You know how things are between Teigue and himself.”
�
��Leave Donough to me,” Carroll suggested.
Waiting until just the right moment, he broached the subject to Donough. “You have lost so much of your family, you should try to be on good terms with those who remain.”
The explosion he half-expected did not come. “You think I should patch up my quarrel with Teigue?”
“I do, for many reasons. Not the least of them is the need to find an appropriate wife for our Fergal, and such women are most numerous at the king’s court.”
Though Donough did not smile, the grim line of his mouth softened. “I always did admire a good tactician, Carroll. You’re offering me an excuse to visit my brother without looking as if I’m seeking something for myself.”
Carroll’s expression was one of perfect innocence. “What could you possibly be seeking for yourself?”
Donough took several days to consider. His rage had burnt itself out, and his expanding family reminded him of the importance of the family network. Perhaps the time had come to make amends. Kincora was still not his, but it was no longer as painful. Time and distance helped. He had his own home, his own life, even if they were not what he had dreamed.
“If we go to Cashel will you go with us?” he asked Carroll.
“Och, I’m too old. I’m done with traveling. You don’t need me at your elbow, Donough, to give you words to say. You have the finest mind of all Brian’s sons, and in spite of that hard shell you wear, I know there is a gentle man inside.
“Go to your brother and offer him the hand of friendship. If you are sincere, he will welcome you. Teigue cannot want this barrier between you any more than you do.”
Preparing for the journey, Donough assembled casks of ale, piles of furs, bales of fine leathers to take as gifts to his brother. Once having made the mental commitment he was determined not to let pride stand in his way. He would make all the overtures; Teigue had only to accept.
He began to feel a sense of relief at shrugging off a burden he had carried far too long.
As he did not want Teigue to misunderstand the motives for his visit, he refrained from taking his army with him. Fergal and a score of others would accompany him, armed only with hunting spears and the ubiquitous Celtic short-sword every man carried at his belt.
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