Once again, Brian did the unexpected. While Maelmora was struggling to find a solution to his problem, a messenger brought a graciously worded request from Kincora. Would it be possible for the king of Leinster to supply the Árd Rí with three tall masts for his fleet on the Shannon? The Árd Rí would be most grateful. The implication was obvious. By gifting Brian Boru with three of the mightiest oaks in Leinster, Maelmora might hope to escape further punishment.
The astonished Maelmora hastened to comply. His fort was thrown into chaos as he called for his finest apparel and jewels, collected whatever baubles he could find to offer as further diplomatic gifts, and sent gangs of foresters to locate and cut down the tallest oaks in the province. He also demanded a company of strong men from the three foremost Leinster clans. Each clan would be responsible for carrying one mast to Kincora. Maelmora’s own clan, of course, would carry the largest. The entire procession would make a fine display.
Crowds gathered outside Naas to watch the king and his party set out. It was a festive occasion. Women waved, children cheered, and barking dogs got in the way. The journey took almost a week, with Maelmora demanding his men trot at top speed every step of the way. By the time they reached the east bank of the Shannon everyone was tired and out of sorts. Maelmora, however, insisted he felt as strong as ever. Before they stepped onto the bridge which Brian had built to span the river above the ford, Maelmora ostentatiously put his own shoulder to the largest mast. The rough timber tore a heavy silver ornament from his tunic, a royal gift from Brian Boru in an earlier time.
Maelmora tucked the ornament into the gilded bag of personal valuables that he carried around his waist, and completed his journey.
At Kincora the king of Leinster was greeted by Brian himself with elaborate courtesy. There was the customary exchange of gifts. Maelmora’s entourage was directed to their quarters while the two kings shared goblets of red wine and chewed on honeycomb in the great hall. They discussed the weather, the condition of the roads, the length and weight of the timber masts. No mention was made of the Boru Tribute. Nor of Gormlaith, who did not appear at the welcoming ceremony. Brian assured Maelmora that his sister would be joining them for a celebratory banquet that evening. Meanwhile Maelmora was to enjoy all the hospitality the palace could offer, which was considerable. Brian had ordered an exceptionally lavish display put on for the king of Leinster.
Brian’s generosity to a defeated foe was legendary. Acting through Murrough, Brian had punished enough of Leinster to satisfy himself. He then had forced its king to an act of submission, and was now willing to forgive if not forget, provided Maelmora behaved himself in future. Turning enemies into friends, or at least allies, was one of Brian’s many tactics. It could be of advantage to both sides.
What followed became part of Irish folklore. The incident, which has several versions, may or may not have happened at all, but given the natures of the people involved there may well be a germ of truth in the story.
Maelmora was basically a simple man who did not recognise the occasion for what it was. He was still spoiling for a fight. With set face and gritted teeth he endured the formalities being pressed upon him. He may even have thought Brian was mocking him. He dared not attack the Árd Rí in his own stronghold, with armed guards at every doorway, but there was someone on whom Maelmorda could vent his simmering anger. As soon as Gormlaith appeared, her brother took the silver ornament from his bag and handed it to her, demanding that she sew it back on. Like a servant. She who had married three kings!
Eyes flashing, hair tossing, face white with fury, Gormlaith hurled the ornament into the fire. She roundly cursed her brother, condemning him for having accepted Brian’s ‘bribe’ in the first place. She assailed the king of Leinster with the most cruel insults from their shared childhood, and even called him the high king’s lap dog.
Brian was dismayed. His attempt to establish amity with the king of Leinster was being torn to shreds. Over the years the Árd Rí had learned to control his temper, but this time Gormlaith had gone too far. With a grim face, Brian led her from the great hall to the privacy of their own chambers. There, following what must have been a protracted and monumental quarrel, he told Gormlaith he was going to set her aside.
For a woman of her temperament the insult was beyond bearing. Gormlaith demanded the best horse in the king’s stable – as a noblewoman she was entitled to ride – and prepared to depart that same afternoon for Dublin. Sitric Silkbeard would give his mother the respect she deserved!
Gormlaith and the attendants who accompanied her on her journey would be following a road made safe for female travellers by Brian Boru.
In the clear light of a new morning Brian might have regretted his decision to divorce her. He, who could take the long view and foresee consequences, might even have sent for Gormlaith to come back to him. But there was no time. Before the day was over something far worse had happened.
While Gormlaith and Brian were preoccupied with their quarrel, Murrough had returned to Kincora sooner than expected. He and Maelmora were badly startled to encounter one another in the hall. With an effort at princely dignity, the two men managed to limit their reactions to a curt nod and an icy stare. Murrough went to the apartments set aside for him, washed himself and put on fresh clothing. He then returned to the great hall and engaged Conaing, Brian’s nephew, in a game of chess. Although it was a ploy to pass the time until Brian joined them, both men took the match seriously. Chess was always taken seriously. Spectators gathered to watch the match.
Although it was not yet midday the great hall of Kincora was brilliantly lit, ablaze with firelight as well as the flickering flames of hundreds of beeswax candles. Brian liked to keep the shadows at a distance. Scented rushes were piled calf-deep on the flagged floor, adding their perfume to the fragrance of pine cones burning on the hearth. Scores of the high king’s guests, numerous courtiers and members of his own extended family eddied about the hall, talking, laughing, exchanging the gossip of the day. Anticipating the banquet to come. At one end of the long room a harper played softly, with his eyes closed and his head bent over his instrument. Kincora was dreaming, waiting for Brian Boru to bring it awake.
With a heavy silver cup in his hand, Maelmora sauntered over to join the spectators around the chess table. The king of Leinster drained his cup and set it down, then leaned against the nearest carved and painted oak pillar and folded his arms across his chest. A sneer of contempt was hidden by his beard. After a few minutes he called attention to a possible move Murrough had overlooked. Brian’s son heard the remark but was not aware who had spoken. He took Maelmora’s suggestion. At his opponent’s very next move, Murrough realised the move had cost him the game. Whirling around on his stool, he saw the king of Leinster grinning at him.
‘That was the sort of advice you gave the Danes at Glenmama!’ Murrough burst out.
Maelmora replied with equal rancour. ‘The next time I give them advice they won’t be defeated.’
Both men were on their feet now, fists clenched. Murrough shouted at the Leinsterman, ‘Then, you coward, you had best tell them to have a yew tree ready for you to hide in!’
Or so the story goes. Now, no Irishman called another a coward with impunity. Knowing he dare not kill Murrough where he stood, the enraged king of Leinster stormed out of the hall. He and his followers left Kincora without waiting to bid Brian farewell. In a short time they were on their way to Naas.
When the Árd Rí returned to the great hall his people crowded around him, elbowing one another aside in their eagerness to relate the dramatic incident. From the moment he glimpsed Murrough’s face, however, Brian knew all he needed to know. He ordered a messenger to hurry after the king of Leinster and invite him – with profuse apologies – to return to Kincora, so that matters between the two kings could be peacefully resolved.
Maelmora was in no mood to be pacified. When Brian’s messenger caught up with the Leinstermen, Maelmora himself beat the hapless man to dea
th with a horse-rod made of yew wood and left him on the side of the road with his brains spilling out of his skull. By the time his body was found it was too late for anyone to stop what had been put in motion.
Maelmora summoned the heads of the Leinster tribes to an assembly at Naas. There he described how he and the entire province had been mistreated by the so-called high king. The usurper from Thomond must be destroyed! Nothing else would satisfy the honour of Leinster.
Even in the grip of rage, Maelmora knew he could not defeat Brian Boru without help. He sent envoys to seek aid from every king and chieftain in the land, promising battlefield glory. Success attracts begrudgers and Brian’s success was almost incomprehensible to less gifted men; although his firm allies remained loyal to him, petty kings whose allegiance to the Árd Rí was less than certain began to waiver. Wondering if there was something in this for them.
But when Maelmora’s request reached the princes of the Uí Néill, Malachy Mór actually refused to side with the king of Leinster against the man who had taken his throne.
In Dublin, Gormlaith ranted about the abuse she had suffered at Brian’s hands. Sitric Silkbeard repudiated his father-in-law and revoked any submission to him. The Danes of Dublin were told to prepare for battle, one more time. Sitric was still young, but he was no fool. Like Maelmora he was aware that Brian Boru would be hard to defeat if he was fully roused. This time they must hand the old man a defeat from which he could never recover. Without Brian Boru, Ireland would be ripe for conquest. The potential for plunder would be immense. What an opportunity it would be for the right men! Sitric became very busy indeed.
Bad news travels faster than good news. Throughout the five provinces it soon became known that a revolt against Brian Boru was in the making.
Usually so decisive, Brian had yet to act. The abrupt unravelling of the plans he had implemented over so many years seems to have unsettled the ageing high king. His sons stepped into the breach. Murrough, in particular, was very busy from 1010 to 1012, perhaps to help put the death of his brother, Domnall, out of his mind. Again and again he led the Dalcassians and their allies against dissident chieftains. Once one was put down, another sprang up. Rogue bands infiltrated Louth and even royal Meath, fomenting rebellion. Murrough complained to his father, ‘They are not content to be content!’
Maelmora asked the king of Aileach, a prince of the Uí Néill and thus one of Malachy’s own kinsmen, to attack Meath and intimidate Malachy’s followers to such an extent that Brian Boru would get no help from that province. An expeditionary force composed of warriors from what is now Cavan, Leitrim and Longford marched on Malachy’s fortress, Dun na Sciath. The invaders put the fort to the torch and ravaged the surrounding territory. One of Malachy’s sons was slain as he fought to defend his clan’s hereditary stronghold.
In an attempt to show himself as Brian’s staunch ally – and thus discourage Aileach from making any further attacks on him – Malachy led an army to battle the combined forces of Sitric and his uncle Maelmora outside of Dublin. He paid a high price for this political move. Malachy’s troops were soundly defeated and another of his sons was killed in the fighting.
A deeply disheartened Malachy Mór finally appealed to Brian Boru for help. It must have been hard for the former high king to swallow his pride, but Brian rewarded him with an instant and positive response. The Árd Rí’s army, reinforced by a contingent from Connacht and another from the Northmen of Waterford, marched into Leinster, burned Naas and thoroughly routed Maelmora’s men. Brian himself stayed in the province for three months while his combined army plundered southern Leinster. The victors then marched on to Dublin and blockaded the city for another three months.
But the tactics of siege and blockade were not strong points with the Gael. They were too eager for action, too ready to fight. Plus the weather was against them. The ground froze and the game fled; the farmers in the area were hostile and determined to hang onto whatever resources they had. It became increasingly difficult for the army to live off the land. As Christmas approached, their supplies dwindled until Brian had to face the possibility of a mutiny in the New Year. Reluctantly, he gave the order to return to Kincora. There he could rest and gather his energies, and prepare for the future. After an indecisive campaign he badly needed a brilliant success to maintain his supremacy. He was no longer a young man. He knew that one more battle would probably be his last.
Just one more great victory to cement all he had accomplished.
Then he could live out his days beside the Shannon, below Craglea, in the palace he loved, where every room, every passageway and outbuilding was of his own design. He could see it so clearly. He would gather his entire family around him. Murrough and Flann and Conor and Tadhg and their wives and children, nieces and nephews and cousins. All together under one broad roof. His clan. They would eat at his table and sit by his fire, safe in the knowledge that their future was as secure as Brian Boru could make it.
Sitric Silkbeard, many years younger than Brian and born with a belligerent disposition, wanted a great victory too. Brian’s ignominious retreat to Kincora – that was how Sitric saw it – told him the old man was used up and ready for the killing stroke. To destroy the Irish Árd Rí would enhance Sitric’s reputation beyond anything his ancestors had done. Of almost equal importance, it would please his mother, possibly even put a stop to her increasingly hysterical tirades.
Gormlaith seemed intent on making her son’s homelife a hell on earth. Night and day she spewed out her hatred for the man who had been the third king to reject her. The third king who did not want her! To Gormlaith, Brian must have represented all the cruelty and injustice in the world.
Sitric’s mother’s loathing for Brian Boru was counterbalanced by his wife’s oft-expressed admiration for her father, that same Brian Boru. Marrying Sitric had not made Emer a Viking woman; she would remain Brian’s daughter and a proud Dalcassian all her life. She boasted of her lineage at every opportunity and denigrated Gormlaith’s Leinster blood. The two women were frequently at one another’s throats while Sitric was caught in the middle. A king should not have to live like that! Brian Boru must finally cease to be a blight on Sitric’s life.
Sitric Silkbeard found a way.
CHAPTER SIX
THE NORTHERN CONSPIRACY
In the dead of winter, when Scapa Flow was like a sheet of beaten lead and his men were yawning with boredom, the earl of Orkney was pleasantly surprised to receive a royal deputation from Ireland. Three longships flying Danish banners arrived with the setting sun over their shoulders. The commander of the little fleet was no less than Sitric Silkbeard. Beneath a heavy cloak he was dressed in his most impressive royal regalia. Around his neck was a massive gold collar. His brown hair was divided into neat plaits, as was his beard. Before setting foot on land he fixed a gold circlet securely on his brow.
Sigurd the Stout hastened to give the king of Dublin a royal welcome. Sheep and goats who had been quietly grazing on the sparse grass were snatched up, their throats cut, and their bodies skewered over open firepits while they were still twitching. The earl’s servitors scoured the settlement that had grown up around his stronghold, demanding the best food and drink for his visitors. Small stone ovens were emptied of cooling bread while the women of the house wailed at their loss and complained that their children would be left starving. Nets full of freshly caught fish were seized from angry fishermen at water’s edge and carried on the run to the earl’s kitchens.
While slaves showed Sitric and his party to the thatched guesting house and urged them to rest themselves after their journey, frantic activity was taking place elsewhere. Large vats of beer and ale were being dragged into Sigurd’s great hall, which resembled the overturned body of a massive boat. When the vats were opened their yeasty fragrance filled the room.
That evening an extravagant feast was served by torchlight. Shadows danced beneath the curved ceiling. In honour of his guests Sigurd even allowed his womenfolk to
attend, though of course they did not eat with the men. The party lasted late into the night and well into the next day. When little was left but gnawed bones and breadcrumbs – and drunken men sprawling on the floor of the hall – Sigurd settled himself to hear what his guest had to say. He expected the ruler of Dublin had come in person to offer him a new and beneficial trade proposal.
Instead, Sitric said he was organising a rebellion in cooperation with his uncle, the king of Leinster. Their purpose was to overthrow the Irish high king, Brian Boru. For this bold move, Sitric was recruiting allies amongst the Vikings of the northern isles.
Now Sigurd really was surprised. Even in the Orkneys, Brian’s name and career were familiar. Norse longships carried information across the sea much more quickly than news of events could travel over land. Brian Boru had long been a hero figure to the Scandinavians, who celebrated an exceptional warrior no matter what his race. As late as the thirteenth century the prolific Icelandic writer, Snorre Sturlasson, would refer to Clontarf simply as ‘the Brian battle’, indicating that Brian Boru was still so well known that no further explanation was necessary.
Sigurd the Stout knew that Ireland was politically fragmented and socially unstable. He also believed the Gael suffered from a sort of madness that made them willing to fight to the death in order to hold onto treacherous bogs and impenetrable forests. For these reasons, any attempt to conquer the entire island would involve battling one disparate tribe after another, year after year, until the invader’s men were used up and the prize was as distant as ever, which was why no northern warlord had tried it in the past. Yet under the Dalcassian Árd Rí, there was said to be unity between some of the most bellicose chieftains. There were also rumours of new roads being cut through forests and bogs being drained to create arable farmland.
Ireland had begun to look like a land worth conquering.
1014: Brian Boru & the Battle for Ireland Page 7