Chapter Fifty-nine
WHEN HE TOOK HER BACK TO KINCORA WITH HIM SHE ASKED NO questions. She was content to sit behind him with her arms wrapped around his waist and her cheek resting against the rough wool of his brat. From time to time she hummed. Her voice did not seem to enter his ears, but rather to inhabit them, as if it had always been part of him.
Upon reaching Kincora he took her at once to the king’s chamber. His, now. His by right. “We will rest here for a few days,” he told her, assuming she understood they would go on to Cashel afterward.
He was King of Munster; he belonged to his people. Cera was just for himself.
The first problem arose when he mentioned his plans to Senan, expecting congratulations for a mistake rectified.
Instead the new Abbot of Kill Dalua was dismayed. “You can’t install a pagan woman at Cashel! I did not approve of the way the matter was handled, but I agree with the premise behind it. Thanks in large part to Cathal Mac Maine, there is now a strong movement to stamp out the old heathen ways in Ireland. For the King of Munster to make a favorite of a druid woman would be an open defiance of the Church.
“Bring her to me, Donough, that we may begin her conversion at once!”
But Cera had no intention of being converted. “I cannot change my spirit,” she told Donough, “any more than you can grow a new hand. Does my spirit displease you so?”
“Everything about you pleases me,” he replied truthfully. “Change nothing for me.”
Once that decision was made, however, he must be circumspect about their relationship. He decided to take her to Cashel secretly and find her some unobtrusive place to live close to the Rock, yet away from the eyes of the Church.
When he told Cera his intentions she balked again. “I don’t want to be hidden away like someone you’re ashamed of! I want to live with you. I need to see your face beside me in the first light of morning and fall asleep in your arms at night.”
“I have a wife,” Donough tried to explain.
“Set her aside if you prefer me. Surely you would not insult her pride by keeping her in such a position. Apply to the brehons for a divorce and …”
“I cannot, Cera. You don’t understand. I need her, or rather I need her connections. My position is tenuous at best and depends on other people’s perceptions of my strength. If I end my relationship with King Canute, I may destroy forever my chance of becoming Ard Ri.”
Her eyes locked with his. “You want to be Ard Ri?”
“My whole life has been directed toward that purpose.”
“Do you want to be Ard Ri?” she repeated.
How clear her dark eyes were! How deeply they looked into his soul!
“I don’t know,” he said miserably.
He lay with her in the king’s chamber at Kincora and wondered if his father had ever brought his druid to this room; this bed. Were their spirits watching from the shadows?
Then Cera’s hands moved on his body and her mouth set fire to his flesh, and he forgot about his ghosts.
While she sat astride him, riding him, he gazed up in admiration at the underside of her breasts. Their lush ripeness was not obvious when she was clothed. Now they bounced with her movements. Cupping them in his palms, he bounced them higher and she laughed.
Cera’s laughter rippled through her interior muscles. They clenched his penis rhythmically, provoking an orgasm so intense it hurt. Yet within moments he felt himself stiffening again, demanding more.
There was no limit to Cera’s joyful giving.
She let him take her to Cashel with a shawl over her head to keep her face in shadow. She let him provide her with a hidden house—of warm timber, not cold stone like the structures atop the Rock—and there she waited each day for him to come to her.
For Donough she sacrificed her pride.
But in spite of her best efforts, she could not hide the pain it cost her. Sometimes in an unguarded moment he glimpsed anguish in her eyes and knew the depth of her love for him.
Donough vowed to himself that her sacrifice would not be in vain. He redoubled his efforts to put himself in a position where he might eventually make a successful claim on the high kingship.
Having proven himself as a warrior, he began endowing churches and monasteries. At the same time and with total ruthlessness he cleared Munster of the majority of its outlaws and made the roads reasonably safe.
Sometimes he felt he was fighting shadows. The deep forces of disintegration at work in Ireland could not be held back by any man.
Maeve came from her valley to inform Donough she had sent her oldest son to be fostered by Diarmait Mac Mael-nambo, Prince of Leinster. “Turlough needs a noble father,” she explained.
“I would gladly foster him. My brother’s child …”
“Unthinkable. Even if I were willing, Turlough would never agree; he still holds you responsible for Teigue’s death. No, it is better he grow to manhood as far from you as possible. Seeing you only keeps his anger alive.
“Besides,” she added with a political shrewdness he had not expected of her, “someday he may have need of a strong alliance with Leinster.”
He knew then that Maeve meant to see her son rule as King of Munster. Immediately Donough began grooming his own son Murchad to be a warrior prince; a king.
A year after Sitric Silkbeard returned from a protracted pilgrimage to Rome where he had been surprised to meet not a few fellow Vikings, Brother Declan’s apprentice made his first entry in the Annals of Kill Dalua.
“The Age of Christ, 1030. Gormlaith, Princess of Leinster, mother of Sitric, King of Dublin, and of Donough, King of Munster, died. It was this Gormlaith who took three leaps which a woman shall never take again: To Dublin with Olaf, to Tara with Malachi, and to Kincora with Brian Boru.”
Donough wept for her in private, and only Cera knew.
“If I ever have a daughter I shall name her Gormlaith,” he vowed. But Cera did not dare give him children, though she ached to do so. A child would reveal their secret past any keeping; he would not be able to hide his joy and his pride.
With the passage of time their desire grew instead of diminishing. Coupling was richer, deeper, more inventive. Donough teased, “Surely such passion can’t be natural!”
Soberly, Cera responded, “I would not employ druid sorcery for this. The only magic is in ourselves.”
“Ourselves?”
Her grave expression softened into a smile. “Both of us. The magic is in both of us,” she told him.
The following autumn an urgent message arrived from Alba.
“In spite of my efforts to conciliate him,” Malcolm wrote, “Canute, King of England, has attacked Alba. He is marching north with a large army including a contingent of Danes recruited from Dublin. Therefore I call upon you to send me as many warriors as you can to hold Alba for my nephew Duncan.”
The request rocked Donough. Assembling his wisest counselors, he explained the situation. “If I go to Malcolm’s aid I find myself opposing Canute, thus making an enemy of the King of England. My wife is related to Canute,” he added unnecessarily
The chief brehon of Munster pointed out, “And your sister is wife to Malcolm. Which tie is stronger?”
There was too much advice altogether. Everyone had an opinion; none of them seemed to have an answer. At last Donough sent them all away.
Late in the day he found himself alone, leaning his elbows on the stone wall which encircled the top of the Rock of Cashel. A shorter man would have had to rest his chin on the same surface. Beyond lay Munster, glimmering in watery twilight.
Compromise. He considered his options. Not possible in this situation.
Avoidance. Pretend I never received Malcolm’s letter. But avoidance is the coward’s way and in the end it would cost me both of them, Malcolm and Canute.
Gazing fixedly into the night, Donough sought to think like his father.
Which is the more dangerous enemy? Canute, obviously. He has a larger army an
d more allies. If I am ever to gain Tara, it is Canute who can give me the advantage I need. Makolm is an old man, a spent force. Canute is one of the Land Leapers. The future is with him.
In the same circumstances, Malcolm the savage pragmatist would probably do what Donough was about to do. But knowing that did not make him feel any better. He went to Cera and drank far too much ale.
The next day he wrote a long letter not to Malcolm, but to Blanaid, apologizing for his inability to send warriors “at this time.” He related details of the various wars he was fighting and the number of men he could summon to his banner, giving an impression of a man already committed to the fullest, which was not untrue. Concluding with fond words for his sister, he sent the letter by swiftest messenger and waited.
No response came.
Donough never heard from his sister again.
Only later did it occur to him that siding with Malcolm would have freed him of the necessity of maintaining a marriage with Driella. But his decision was vindicated when Malcolm accepted Canute as overlord.
Donough had chosen the winning side, a decision he earnestly sought to square with his conscience.
In his battles both external and internal, Cera was his sanctuary. In the autumn of 1034 he went straight to her after learning the King of the Scots and the Picts had been murdered at Glamis. As Malcolm had desired, the throne of Alba passed to Duncan. And as was normal with kingship, the succession was soon bitterly contested by Mac Beth of Moray.
“Fortunately, that is one conflict which does not concern me,” Donough declared with some relief.
Then he resolutely put the matter out of his mind. When he was sitting in Cera’s small house, with his long legs stretched out and her light weight in his lap, he could forget there were such things as dynastic struggles. He could forget … for a time.
But even the King of England was subject to the vagaries of fortune. In 1035 Canute himself died unexpectedly, causing a scramble for power. The next fifteen years was a period of ineffectual kings and political turmoil until at last Edward, known as the Confessor, ascended the throne—and had Earl Godwine and his family expelled. They were accused of plotting the new king’s overthrow.
Donough read the earl’s subsequent letter aloud to Cera.
“My trusted son-in-law,
“For the sake of your wife his sister, I beg you give refuge to my son Harold. My family has been broken up and dispersed and our dangers multiply. I do not fear for myself, for I am an old man and have not long to live, but Harold’s future is yet to come. Shelter him, I beg you, and give him what support you can, for the sake of your wife my daughter.
“Your servant, Godwine, formerly Earl of Wessex and Kent.”
“What do you think?” Donough asked when he finished.
Cera gave him a searching look. “I think you have always regretted refusing Malcolm,” she replied.
A letter sped to Godwine, assuring him his son Harold would be welcome at Cashel.
Meanwhile the condition of Ireland sank into both a moral and a physical depression. Battles broke out continually. There seemed to be a hunger among men to rend and tear. No place was safe from plunder. While Donough marched east to retaliate against an attack by the Leinstermen, a warrior band from Connacht seized their opportunity and sacked the great monastic school of Clonmacnois.
At the same time the land was beset by natural calamities. Rain fell incessantly. Rivers flooded, cattle drowned, the earth oozed moisture like blood until crops rotted in the fields.
Although the Irish traditionally blamed bad kings for bad weather, the priests began saying it was God’s punishment on the people for their wickedness.
Cera was amused by such claims. “Your Christ-men simply don’t know how to placate their god,” she told Donough.
“I suppose you could do better?”
She twinkled up at him. “I might.”
But it was still raining when a weary and sodden Harold Godwinesson arrived at Cashel late in the summer of 1050. The young man was a strapping blond with the muscular grace of a warrior. Donough could see little resemblance between Harold and Driella, but nevertheless she fell upon her brother with glad cries and a babble of Saxon.
Donough thought with a pang of Blanaid, lost to him.
He did what he could to make the exiled Godwinesson comfortable while apologizing for the miserable weather. Harold was not interested in Irish misfortunes, however. In spite of exhaustion that left dark rings under his eyes, he stayed up most of the first night complaining about the injustice that had been done his family, who were now scattered from Flanders to Ireland. He was very bitter.
“They call old Edward a saintly man,” he snarled. “I have another name for him.”
Once Harold had rested from his journey his natural optimism began to emerge, however. He spoke of fulfilling his father’s dream and replacing Edward the Confessor with a more virile king—himself. Soon he was brimming with the future.
I used to be like that, recalled Donough. Hot and eager, ready for anything. In youth we are immortal, and it is always summer.
He found himself caught up in Harold’s enthusiasm and moved by the younger man’s desire to fulfill Earl Godwine’s dream.
Soon Donough was agreeing to supply him with warriors and arrange with the Norse of Waterford for ships to carry him and his men to the Isle of Wight, where his younger brothers were in hiding. With such reinforcements Harold could plan a return to England and a campaign to gain the throne.
Harold Godwinesson, King of England, Donough whispered to himself. Indebted to me.
Suddenly it all opened up again. Standing in the smoky great hall of Cashel, he envisioned himself under the clean, windswept sky at Tara, stepping onto the Stone of Fal.
That night in the privacy of his chamber he took out the highly polished metal mirror which had belonged to his mother. Upon her death her Scottish attendant had sent it to him; he kept it with his father’s harp and sword.
For a long time he stared into the mirror’s surface.
The face he saw reflected might almost have been that of Brian Boru. Seamed by a hard life and the passage of half a century, it was stem, grave. Commanding.
Ard Ri.
Audacity in war and competence in administration are not enough, the face in the mirror told him.
Donough nodded. By now he knew how to play the game.
He sent for the chief brehon and a scribe and worked late into the night. When he was so tired his brain felt like mud, he rode alone down the steep incline from Cashel, trusting his horse to know where to go. The animal followed a familiar pathway to a small house submerged in dense woods some distance from the Rock.
The woman who lived there had chosen a site where any view of Cashel was blocked. She could not bear to see where Donough lived with another woman.
Without ever being told when he would come, Cera knew the moment his horse set foot on the sloping road. She opened the door and stood waiting, framed by the firelight behind her.
Once he had thought she could not possibly comprehend his life. Now he lay in her arms and told her his secret thoughts, his most private plans, and she listened and understood.
When he rode away in the morning she stood in the doorway, following him with her eyes.
Requesting the chieftains and senior clergy of Munster to meet with him, Donough displayed for them a new aspect of his kingliness—an extensive knowledge of the usages of law.
In the Annals of Kill Dalua, Declan’s successor wrote:
“The Year of Christ, 1051. At a convening of the wisest men in Munster, Donough Mac Brian presented and enacted new laws and restraints upon every form of injustice. In consequence, God has favored Ireland with a return to clement weather.”
In the weeks that followed, old friends commended Donough and old enemies grudgingly paid him tribute.
“You time has come,” his allies insisted. “There has been no true Ard Ri since Malachi Mor, and the Iri
sh are reduced to a pack of quarreling hounds. Assert your right to your father’s high kingship. We will support you; all Munster will support you.”
“I need more than Munster,” Donough told them. “I have to have allies in the other provinces as well. Princes who recognize that their interests lie with mine; powerful clergy who can influence the people …”
“The Church will support you,” he was assured.
Donough paid a visit to the Abbot of Kill Dalua. But when Senan asked him outright, “Is that druid still with you?” he would not lie.
“She is.”
“Send her from you, Donough. You are far from being a young man and she is no longer a young woman; surely the fires have burned out. Only if you send her away can the Church give you the support you seek. But with Rome behind you, you may yet be Ard Ri of Ireland.”
Chapter Sixty
SENAN SPOKE THE TRUTH. DONOUGH WAS NOT A YOUNG MAN, AND there was more than a little gray in Cera’s hair.
At Cashel whole days passed when Donough never saw Driella at all. She might be sewing in the grianan with her women, or kneeling in the chapel at her devotions. Then he would glimpse a fat, pleasant-faced woman pacing contentedly beside Geoffrey, who had gone quite bald. They were fond of strolling across the lawn together, talking in their common language that neither had ever forgotten.
When Donough nodded to Driella her answering smile was polite. They had discharged their duties to one another and both understood nothing more was required.
Driella had made a life for herself that suited her. She was luckier than most.
Donough wished her well.
Senan was expecting an answer about Cera, but he could not give him the answer he wanted. “Surely the fires have burned out,” Senan had said.
How little he knew.
I am a fly trapped in amber.
And still the seasons passed.
Pride of Lions Page 36