Pride of Lions

by Morgan Llywelyn

  Murchad had grown into a sturdy, belligerent young man. Not as tall as Donough, he was nicknamed “Murchad of the Short Shield.” He spoke confidently of the day he would follow his father as King of Munster.

  In Leinster, Diarmait Mac Mael-nambo succeeded to the kingship. Within weeks of his inauguration Donough discovered he had an aggressive new rival. Diarmait’s foster-son, Turlough Mac Teigue, took to the battlefield with him. They attacked Waterford, then together laid successful siege to Dublin.

  Diarmait proclaimed himself King of Dublin and the Foreigners, exiling the sons of Sitric Silkbeard, who had died while on pilgrimage.

  Diarmait and Turlough Mac Teigue made a formidable team.

  Donough’s followers clamored for him to strike them down before they became any stronger. “Diarmait means to gain a foothold in Munster,” they warned, “by having young Turlough replace you as king here.”

  “Turlough has adherents in Munster already,” Donough confided to Cera. “All of the Dalcassians do not support me; there is a faction which has never ceased to believe I murdered my brother. In a confrontation they would side with my nephew.”

  Under his feet he felt the shifts of power.

  In England, Harold Godwine was maneuvering himself into position to replace the aged Edward the Confessor on the throne.

  In Normandy, William, the bastard Duke, was considering a claim of his own to the kingship of England.

  In Ireland, Leinster challenged Munster on one battlefield after another. Connacht and Ulster warred perpetually; occasionally Connacht sided with Leinster against Munster. In the absence of a strong High King to serve as a unifying force, Ireland’s provincial kings savaged their neighbors.

  “Assert your right to be Ard Ri, Father,” demanded Murchad of the Short Shield. “I will then rule here at Cashel.”

  “Give up your druid,” demanded the Church, “and Tara will be yours. With the support of Rome the Dalcassians will be forced to unify behind you.”

  He was a man; there were decisions he must make alone. Even Cera—particularly Cera—could not help him.

  One chance, one chance, thundered like a drumbeat through him. One final glorious chance to win it all!

  He was old, but not too old to fight. The years of life left to him could be made splendid with the realization of a dream. Donough had only to stretch out his hand.

  Now, while there was still time.

  Alone in his chamber at Cashel, he took up Gormlaith’s mirror once more and gazed soberly at the face that looked back at him.

  This time he was sure whose face it was.

  On a brisk spring day Donough set out for Kill Dalua. As he neared the monastery he paused to admire a row of slender birch trees crowning a nearby hill like unlit candles, waiting for the flame of the sun.

  No warrior escort accompanied the King of Munster. He was dressed in a simple tunic and a plain woolen brat. His face was serene, that of a man who had come to terms with himself at last.

  After making him welcome with mead, the monks sent for their abbot. Senan expressed great pleasure at the visit. “Have you finally come to bring me good news?” he asked hopefully.

  “I have come to make a confession and an announcement.”

  “A confession?” Frowning, Senan tented his fingers. Was Donough going to admit to his brother’s assassination after all? What should be the Church’s response?

  “From the day I learned that Cathal Mac Maine had kept Cera from me,” said Donough, “I hated your predecessor and everything he stood for. In my heart I ceased to reverence his Church.”

  Senan was deeply shocked. “You’ve taken too many blows to the head over the years, you don’t know what you’re saying. I warn you, you put your mortal soul in danger!”

  “I know exactly what I’m saying. I have done my duty—by Munster, my tribe, my family—even by the Church. I felt a hypocrite every time I laid a gift on the altar. Is that what Christ wanted of us? That we should become masters of hypocrisy?” Donough gave his head a small, sad shake.

  “Now I am done with duty,” he continued. “Before I die I shall seek absolution of my sins for the sake of my children. But before I die I intend to live, Senan. Live fully, without compromise.”

  “What are you talking about? Does this mean you agree to do everything necessary to achieve …”

  “I have done everything necessary. I have already told Driella good-bye; this is my farewell to you. If Murchad wants to rule at Cashel he can fight for the right as kings have fought before. I leave it to him. Cera is waiting for me at Kincora.”

  The color drained from the abbot’s face. “I don’t understand.”

  “We’re going away, Senan, to a quiet lakeshore where a man and woman can live in peace with whatever gods they worship. There we shall lie naked in the grass and celebrate together.”

  “You’re talking blasphemy!”

  Donough merely smiled. His gray eyes were full of light.

  Holding his proud head high, he left Kill Dalua for the last time. As he passed between the gates their shadow fell briefly across his face, but then he stepped into the sun. He moved with an easy grace, like someone who had all the time in the world.

  From

  The Annals of the Kingdom of Ireland

  by the Four Masters

  VOLUME II

  Translation:

  “The Age of Christ, 1014.

  … at Clontarf, on the Friday before Easter precisely. In this battle were slain Brian, son of Kennedy, monarch of Ireland, who was the Augustus of all the West of Europe … .”

  ROME, 1064

  The road to Rome is very long, they say. My way has been longer and harder than most I came here an old man, knowing I may never live to see Ireland again.

  I came here because I must; because it was expected of me. The final pilgrimage to ask for remission of sin.

  Have my sins been so great that I must cross the sea and use the last of my strength to seek forgiveness? There are many who would say so.

  In youth, my sin was pride. We were proud, the cubs of the Lion. Passion and ambition were bred into us and we attacked life with a hunger that was hard to satisfy. I wanted everything my father had; everything he had been. At the time I thought I wanted them for myself.

  Then I thought I wanted them because my achievements would make him proud of me, although he was dead.

  He was not dead to me. He stood behind me, rode beside me, saw the world through my eyes and I tried my best to shape it to suit his vision.

  His desire.

  As I grew older I learned the meaning of desire. Firstly I desired the most magnificent palace in Ireland and would have done anything— literally anything—to make it mine. Kincora! It rises in my memory as splendid as ever it stood, with gray stone walls defying time itself and the summer sun turning the thatched roofs to gold.

  I desired the power that had been my father’s. With such power I thought I could have everything I wanted, and to that end I sought the kingship that had been his life’s work. Placing myself in the gap of danger I swung the sword that had been his and took the blows. Took the wounds, bled the blood, paid a terrible price.

  I desired women; the rampant pleasure, the boiling-blood madness, the explosion which shakes the pillars of the soul and assuages grief and pain. Then I desired one very special woman and secretly hated the Church that stood between us.

  Such a long life … two wives, children sired, enemies made by my pride and because of my desire. And so much lost!

  Kincora is not mine. The kingship I coveted was never mine either. Though I was called a king I did not bear the title my father bore. What little power I achieved was whittled away by conspiring enemies and well-meaning friends.

  Wealth is lost, honor lost, I am an exile in an unfamiliar land.

  I came to beg forgiveness for fratricide. That sin more than any other drove me to seek mercy from Rome, not for myself but for my posterity. I would not have my children th
ink I died with such a stain on my soul, so I have made this very public gesture. One last duty fulfilled.

  If you meet me on the road to Bolsano, where the Pope has granted me a few acres bordering on the lake, you will see, and perhaps pity, an old man with snowy hair and stooped shoulders. Once those shoulders were broad and I thought them capable of bearing any burden. Once I thought I would be young and strong forever, immortal as my father had become immortal, with a shining future before me.

  I was wrong; wrong about everything.

  And I am the happiest man alive.

  And so I walked away. Or rather, I rode away, with Cera behind me on the horse and the west wind in our faces. My father’s ring was on my left hand; his harp was slung from the pommel of my saddle.

  In my pack were the crown and sceptre that had been his as King of Munster.

  His sword I left at Kincora.

  Because it was Beltane we paused long enough to climb Crag Liath and leave an offering there, and I held my woman in my arms and gazed out across Munster. Lough Derg with the sun shining on the water gazed back at us like the blue eye of God.

  Kincora lay below us. Never really mine.

  We made a home for ourselves beside a quiet lake, a place inviolate, where I played the harp for her and no one spoke of war or kings. I grew a dense gray beard in which she plaited daisies.

  We were not alone.

  Sometimes I felt them watching us, that other king and his druid. My eyes would seek Cera’s and she would nod, smiling.

  I did not envy Brian his life, but I knew he envied mine.

  When the time came and Cera went ahead of me into the Otherworld, I set out for Rome. I still knew how to play the game. By asking and receiving absolution from the Pope himself I hoped to expunge the stain clinging to my name. My descendants must not bear the burden of fratricide.

  It was my last duty and one cannot totally escape one’s duties.

  I laid gifts upon the Pope’s altar, various royal regalia I no longer wanted. What need has a man for gold when he has stood with his arm around his woman and watched the western sun gild an entire sea?

  The Church proclaimed my soul clean.

  What had not been done was thus undone, an irony I appreciated.

  I have grown too weak to return to Ireland, so I have given instructions that my remaining possessions also pass to the Pope upon my death. They are final payment for his generosity. At the end of my life, the Church has not been unkind.

  My only regret is that I shall not die at home and be put to rest beneath a tree with my Cera.

  But she is with me, always.

  And I … I am the son of Brian Boru.

  I am the happiest man alive.

  The Dynasty

  of the

  Dalcassians

  By Morgan Llywelyn from Tom Doherty Associates

  Bard

  Brian Boru

  The Elementals

  Finn Mac Cool

  Lion of Ireland

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  THE HISTORY DETAILED IN PRIDE OF LIONS IS TAKEN WITHOUT REVISION from the chronicles of the time. The dynastic marriages by which the blood of Brian Boru entered the royal families of Scotland and England are documented, as are the events described.

  In the years following 1014, Ireland went mad. With Brian’s death the country quite literally lost its head, and the chaos that followed left Ireland vulnerable to any determined invader.

  Malachi Mor was the last undisputed Ard Ri. Others would subsequently lay claim to the title, including Turlough Mac Teigue, who preferred to be known as Turlough O Brian. But he and five successors were at best “kings in opposition,” never supported by more than a fraction of the people.

  When the Normans invaded in 1170 the high kingship was soon permanently vacated, and the pattern of attempted conquest that would dominate the next eight hundred years of Irish history began.

  Donough is buried in Rome; the reader may visit his tomb. Brian Boru’s ring eventually made its way back to Ireland and, together with his sword, remained in the possession of the O’Brien family until the present century. As for the harp, a subsequent Pope presented it to King Henry II of England—the monarch under whom the Normans first invaded Ireland.

  Donough would have appreciated the irony.

  The druid Cera is fictional, but she and her lineage have roots in folkloric history. The Dalcassians of Munster have long believed in the existence of the guardian spirit called Aibhlinn, who dwells on Crag Liath.

  Although Donalbane disappeared from history, Donough’s other children accounted for a number of progeny, as did the children of his brother Teigue. Through them the O’Brien dynasty continues to the present day.

  The past belongs to those who shaped it; the future is ours to make.

  A PARTIAL BIBLIOGRAPHY

  Adamson, Ian. The Cruthin. Northern Ireland: Pretani Press, 1986.

  Burke, Rev. Francis, trans. Loch Ce and Its Annals, Dublin: Hodges, Figgis & Co., 1895.

  Byrne, Francis John. Irish Kings and High-Kings. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1973.

  D’Alton, Rev. E. A. History of Ireland, Half-Volume I to the Year 1210. Dublin and Belfast: Gresham Publishing Co., n.d.

  Ellis, Peter Beresford. Macbeth, High King of Scotland. Belfast: The Blackstaff Press, 1990.

  Flood, J. M. The Northmen in Ireland, Dublin: Brown & Nolan Ltd., n.d.

  Frost, James. The History and Topography of the County of Clare. Dublin: Mercier Press, 1978.

  Gleeson, Rev. John. History of the Ely O’Carroll Territory. Kilkenny: Roberts Books Ltd., 1982.

  Jones, Gwyn. A History of the Vikings. London: Oxford University Press, 1968.

  Joyce, Patrick Weston. History of Gaelic Ireland. Dublin: The Educational Company of Ireland, 1924.

  Joyce, Patrick Weston. Social History of Ancient Ireland, A, Vols. I and II. Dublin: The Educational Company of Ireland, 1913.

  Kenney, James F. Sources of Early History of Ireland, Volume 1. New York: Columbia University Press, 1929.

  Mac Airt, Sean, ed. and trans. The Annals of Inisfallen. Dublin: Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies, 1977.

  Mackie, J. D.A History of Scotland. Middlesex, Eng.: Penquin Books, 1964.

  Minahane, John. The Christian Druids. Dublin: Sanas Press, 1993.

  Murphy, Rev. Dennis, trans. The Annals of Clonmacnoise, to 1408. Dublin: Dublin University Press, 1896.

  Newman, Roger Chatterton. Brian Boru, King of Ireland. Dublin: Anvil Books, Ltd., 1983.

  O Corrain, Donncha. Ireland Before the Normans, The Gill History of Ireland Series. Dublin: Gill & Macmillan, 1972.

  O’Donoghue, John. Historical Memoir of the O’Briens. Dublin: Hodges, Smith, & Co., 1860.

  O’Donovan, John, ed. and trans. Annals of the Kingdom of Ireland—By the Four Masters. Dublin: De Burca Rare Books reprint, 1990.

  O Dwyer, Peter. Celi De; Spiritual Reform in Ireland. Dublin: Editions Tailliura, 1981.

  Ritchie, Graham, and Anna Ritchie. Scotland; Archaeology and Early History. London: Thames & Hudson Ltd., 1981.

  Stenton, Sir Frank. Anglo-Saxon England. London: Oxford University Press, 1971.

  Stokes, Whitley, trans. The Annals of Tigernach, Volume 2. Wales: Llanerch Publishers, 1993.

  Ua Clerigh, Arthur. The History of Ireland to the Coming of Henry II. London: T. Fisher Unwin, n.d.

  White, P. History of Clare and the Dalcassian Clans. Dublin: M. H. Gill & Son, 1893.

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

  PRIDE OF LIONS

  Copyright © 1996 by Morgan Llywelyn

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  Design by Bonni Leon

  Map by Ellisa Mitchell

  eISBN 9781429983501

  First eBook Edition : March 2011

  A Forge Book

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