Lion of Ireland

by Morgan Llywelyn

  “There’s no use appealing to him, he won’t help you,” one of the men cackled.

  “I don’t need his help. I can fight my own fights.” Brian tossed the copper hair out of his eyes and jutted his jaw forward, forcing himself to give no visible sign of the pain in his bruised body.

  Mahon turned away.

  But that night, in his tent, he said to Olan, “The boy is making progress; he’s beginning to hold his own.”

  “You think so? Every man in the camp can whip him.”

  “Today, perhaps, but not for much longer. Each beating makes him more angry, and I think he resents it very much that I don’t take his side in front of the others. He will toughen up in a hurry and we’ll have one more good soldier.”

  Olan narrowed his eyes beneath their heavy brows. He had been one of the fighting Dalcassians since Cennedi and his sons came marching from the ruins of Boruma; after Cennedi’s death he had given Mahon his total and unswerving devotion, fighting at his king’s side against both Ivar and King Callachan, even when the tide of battle had gone against them and other—fainter—hearts had pulled out and headed home. It was his proud boast in the camp that Mahon considered him indispensable, and the statement was very nearly true.

  As they shared the evening’s scanty rations, Olan considered the problem of the young princeling. “Is that all you want your Brian to be, a good soldier?” he asked.

  “I would be very happy if he were at least good enough to survive,” Mahon answered. “I trust by now I have learned from the mistakes I made with the others. I treated my brothers as the sons of a king, and there are some who might say I pampered them too much; I never made them tough enough for this hard life.” He stared down into his half-empty cup. “And it is a hard life, Olan, as well you know.

  “But I won’t make that mistake with Brian; he is all that is left to me of my family. He, and Marcan, who has chosen God over Cennedi’s struggle. The best thing I can do for him is to make him hard as iron, hating me if need be, but not squeamish about pain or hard work. I can see that he is armored in a tough hide if nothing else.”

  “You seem dispirited tonight, my lord,” Olan said sympathetically.

  Mahon forced himself to sit straighter and managed a bright smile. “Oh, not really. Things are not going all that badly. Since we first made camp here the Northmen have not bothered us, which is a good sign, and I feel sure that if we continue as we have been we will eventually be able to win the countryfolk over to our side. It’s just a matter of time, Olan; I must not lose heart, and neither must the rest of you.”

  “The desertion rate is very high,” Olan said morosely.

  “Ah, that will improve. I know it will. We’ll continue to follow Cennedi’s plan, harassing the Northmen as we are able, endeavoring to get the support of the local Dal Cais and what Owenachts we can.”

  He frowned at a blister newly broken open on his palm. “My brother has come to join us and brought us two good horses and another strong right arm—that is a good omen, Olan, don’t you think?” He smiled, and forced Olan to smile back at him.

  Brian struggled to learn the lessons of warfare. He ran, he wrestled, he pushed himself past his physical limits again and again, but the others did not befriend him. The more he achieved the more he felt their resentment. They took their cue from Mahon’s seeming abandonment of him and laughed at him around the campfires at night, while he sat alone, his back to them, trying to close his ears and contain his burning temper.

  He could not help overhearing their constant talk of women, of their wives and tumblemaids and fantasies. “Ah, that Megan o’ mine, she’s like Queen Maeve in the old tales. Talks on the pillow all night long, makes my ear sore. But when I can get her to shut her mouth she’s a lot o’ woman, for all that.”

  “I recall a lass up near Edenderry, a round young thing with hair the color of ripe grain. Shaped like this, she was” (Brian could imagine the circles his hands formed in the air), “and a mouth like a berry, only sweeter. Couldn’t deny me anything. I might have wed her, but a soldier’s life … ah, well …”

  “Marry’er anyway! You could be dead tomorrow, and then where’d you be getting sons to mourn you and keep your name alive? For all the trouble of a woman, there’s nothing so fine as being able to just roll over in the night, easy like, and …”

  Brian squirmed on his blanket and thought of Fiona. How could he have just ridden away and left her like that? What would he give, if only she were here with him now! Once his hunger was satisfied, why had it not occurred to him that he would soon be hungry again?

  Lovely Fiona, with her heart-shaped face and her sweet mouth, and that voice like a bird’s singing. Camp was loneliness and hard work and endless waiting and boredom … To think he had left her for that! He called himself names in the night.

  There were other boys in camp near his own age, but they were toughened peasants, suspicious of him and clannish. They made fun of his monastery accent, mimicking him with cruelty and skill.

  “And will you be having a drop of wine, m’lord?”

  “Ach, thank you very much, just don’t be spilling it on my fine tunic.”

  “And why don’t you wear trews to cover your naked legs, m’lord?”

  “Why, because I’m the king’s brother, and I want everyone to be blessed with the vision of my noble, bony knees!”

  They rocked with laughter.

  Reluctantly, Brian went to Mahon about the issue of his clothes.

  “If I am to be in the lowest rank,” he began, letting a tinge of bitterness color his voice, “then should I not be dressed like the rest of them, in trousers and a jacket?”

  Mahon was sitting in front of his tent, maps spread out before him. He looked up impatiently, with difficulty drawing his mind from the tactical problem he was considering. “The men furnish their own clothes, Brian, and because they are not of our class they do not dress as we do. Would you have me get some special garb for you, so that you could pretend to be a peasant? I tell you frankly, I have naught to spend on trifles.”

  “When you sent for Marcan and me you sent good horses with golden bridles; how can it be that you cannot now afford trews and a jacket?”

  “The campaign has gone against us, that’s why. I spent all I possessed to try to wrest the kingship of Munster from Callachan, and it wasn’t enough. Even those of the Dal Cais who live in the south are slow to come to our side. They had rather tend their holdings than drive the foreigners from the land. But I cannot afford to alienate any Munsterman, be he Dal Cais or Owenacht, so I cannot simply go out and take what we need from the countryfolk. Cennedi did that, and it turned them solidly against him and led to his death.”

  “But couldn’t you attack the Norse city, Limerick, and get enough gold and weapons to support your campaign? Surely our fighting men are the equal of the foreigners, if only we attacked them by surprise, perhaps when most of their warriors are away … . If we had spies to watch the city …”

  Mahon raised his hand to stop the flow of youthful enthusiasm. “There will be no attack on Limerick, Brian; we simply don’t have enough strength. The best we can do is raid small concentrations of Northmen, or waylay their overland merchants.”

  “Then how do you expect to win and drive them out? And what are we fighting for, if not the destruction of the Northmen?”

  “Little brother, you have yet to go on your first raid. I suggest you wait to debate policy with me until you have at least had some practical battlefield experience. And as for the trews and jacket, you should be content that you will have clothes without holes to wear when the weather turns chill. Those tartan trousers you covet are all worn through the seat.”

  Two wearers of the tartan trousers, Nessa and Ardan, were men recruited from the southern Dal Cais settlement on the Blackwater. Since Brian’s arrival at camp they had been aware of him, impressed by the fortitude with which he bore his lot.

  Nessa was a master with the sword, Ardan a skilled slin
ger. When Brian’s physical strength reached the necessary level they would be expected to instruct him in the use of their chosen weapons.

  Nessa’s practiced eye took note of the boy’s quick reflexes, and measured the latent strength in his wrists. One day he ambled past the place where Brian had been put to work digging a new slit trench, and paused to watch.

  “They’re going hard on you, aren’t they?”

  Brian looked up at him, sensitive to a trace of pity, but saw none. Just a cool interest that did not threaten to turn into sarcasm.

  “I suppose I have a lot to learn,” he replied carefully, hating the humble words.

  Nessa threw back his head and laughed. “Aye, that you do! More than you can imagine. Unless you are given back your horse, you will have to learn to march like the rest of us, carrying everything you own on your back, and still be able to run and fight. You will learn to do without sleep or food, and to stay warm on the coldest nights because the wink of a fire might bring your enemy down on you.”

  “I can do all those things.”

  “And how would you know, when you’ve never had the doing of them?”

  Brian cast a defiant eye around the camp. “If all these men can, so can I.” His tired body did not agree with him, but he had begun ignoring its complaints in self-defense.

  “Brave words, lad! They may fly back into your face as spit into the wind, but let us hope otherwise. Tell me, isn’t Kernac the Red your superior officer?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he has assigned you duties?”

  “Chores like this, work fit for slaves. But he teaches me nothing of fighting.”

  “Nor will he. Your comrades teach you that, and I know the lessons are not very pleasant. We have no formal school of warfare here; a man must acquire his skills from his fellows.”

  “Then I should be becoming very skillful,” Brian observed through gritted teeth.

  “And so you are—I’ve watched you. The time has come for you to train with the sword and javelin, I think—or the sling, if you have a talent for it.”

  “That’s a peasant’s weapon.”

  “Aye, but a very effective one, more deadly than the weak arrows of the few poor bowmen among us. I have a friend, Ardan, who can put down as many with his sling and stones as I can with my sword. Well, almost.”

  Brian scrambled to his feet and stood in front of Nessa with his head thrown back, his gray eyes alight. “I want to fight with the sword! It was Charlemagne’s weapon, and Alfred’s; I have always known it would be mine.” There was something grandiose and absurd in his youthful posturing, and Nessa was aware that he would laugh if some other lad spoke to him in that way. But a fire burned in this particular boy that kindled something in the older man. You could warm your hands by that fire, or a soul too long chilled with hopelessness and defeat.

  Nessa nodded in reply to some voice within himself. “Come to me at sunrise tomorrow,” he said curtly, “and bring a shield. I will tell Kernac that I have sent for you.”

  It was acceptance at last, almost like an offer of friendship. A rush of warmth welled up in Brian as he watched Nessa walk away from him, acknowledging the respectful greetings of men on either side. You won’t be sorry, Brian said to Nessa’s back. I’ll make you proud of me.

  The instruction with sword and javelin was more grueling than anything that had gone before. “We’re going to tie weights to your arms,” Nessa told him, “so that your muscles will be forced to work harder and grow. And I warn you—you will always be fighting for your life against me. I would be a poor teacher if I let you think battle is ever less than life and death.”

  His words were true. On the day they began with the sword he took a nick out of Brian’s shoulder and did not even stop but continued to press his advantage, driving Brian backward, criticizing him all the while.

  “You let yourself look at my sword, Brian; that was your mistake. You must watch my eyes, always, the eyes. They will tell you my target. If you wait to see what my sword does it will be too late. Get your shield up, fool! I come right through!”

  Nessa’s blade seemed to be everywhere at once, weaving dazzling patterns in the air. A crowd had gathered to watch Brian in his first swordplay. A low hum greeted the drawing of blood, but no one seemed to expect them to quit.

  “Now, when I come close, twist your wrist and go for my armpit, so. That is the advantage of the short sword, you see? Never straight on, though, for the ribs will turn your blade more often than not. Aim for my throat or my belly if I don’t give you an opening to get under my arm.” Nessa danced forward and back, offering easy targets and then flashing away before Brian could complete his strike.

  They circled one another. “Watch my eyes, boy!” he cried again, slamming Brian savagely across the thigh with the flat of his blade.

  Brian carried a swollen, purplish lump on his thigh for a month, but never again forgot to watch his opponent’s eyes.

  There were also lessons with the javelin, whose balance and throwing range varied greatly from weapon to weapon. When he found a shaft that suited him he carved his name deep into the wood and carried it proudly about the camp.

  He had to learn to manipulate the shield, holding the round wooden surface in front of him without spoiling his own effectiveness with weapons. It was heavy, and its weight interfered with the throw of the javelin; it was awkward, and got in the way of his sword.

  “It’s got to become part of you, lad, like a growth on your arm,” Nessa insisted. “You can’t put it down to fight, for you would not live to see your enemy die. Carry it with you to meals, wear it when you’re running or doing chores, learn to piss while you’re holding it in front of your vitals. I don’t ever want to see that shield on the ground!”

  Work was not limited to practice with actual weapons. Nessa gave Brian a blackthorn club and made him beat it against a boulder, jarred to his heels with every shock. He gritted his teeth and kept after it, day after day, as his wrists swelled and his muscles screamed. The time came when his body learned how to absorb the punishment, and he began to feel pain lose its power over him.

  He lay in his blankets at night, aching in every joint, with an exultation slowly rising in him. The pain had become a challenge, and defeating it was its own reward. He could do it; he was doing it. He could run as fast as any man in camp now; he could hold his own in a fight; one by one, he was putting aside the limitations of his body. He felt a purely physical satisfaction that was intoxicating to him, and he gave himself over to it voluptuously, hungering for more.

  “Nessa, I really want to fight now!” he told his instructor with an intensity fostered by impatience. “I hate this waiting around, I seem to spend all my time training for a fight I may never have.”

  At that moment Ardan joined them. The slinger, a slim handsome man whose dark looks were in striking contrast to the ruddy coloring and stocky torso of Nessa, had been growing impatient as well. He longed to try Brian with a sling and stones, and felt a friendly rivalry with Nessa for the tutelage of the promising warrior. But something had just happened that made him forget about instruction and games, and he had hurried to share it.

  “King Mahon has decided that we will take up our weapons and attack a Norse settlement to the south, on the road to Cork!” he exclaimed, his dark face alight with joy. “You will see action at last, my friend!”

  Brian’s heart was suddenly hammering wildly in his chest. He grabbed the slinger by the arm, pinching with hard young fingers whose strength he did not know until he saw Ardan flinch “Oh, Ardan are you sure? Are we really going to attack the Northmen? Am I to go?”

  “That’s what they told me. You’re to be given a new sword, still unblooded—if Nessa can find one for you. And I would be proud to attach a sling to your belt, just in case.”

  “I have my own shield all prepared already!” Brian told them happily. “Wait here, I’ll show you!” He ran to get something hidden beneath his pack and blanket, and return
ed proudly exhibiting a shield of yew wood. It was not new, but he had stained it himself with blackberry dye to form an inaccurate outline of three lions (recognizable only to him), a standard he had chosen after much thought.

  Nessa and Ardan exchanged glances. “He’s ready, all right,” Nessa said, and smiled.

  On a soft morning of gray and mist they started the march southward. At least Brian was mounted once more, and the feel of the mare beneath him elevated his spirits to the last possible notch. Briar Rose caught the infection from him and pranced exuberantly.

  “Keep that mare still, or you don’t deserve to have her!” Olan growled at him. The old campaigner’s florid face was a mask of disapproval. Brian glanced toward Mahon, but the king’s attention was elsewhere. The time had begun that he liked least; the time when a man must work himself into the frame of mind for leading men into battle, and perhaps into death. Mahon’s eyes were remote, and his lips moved in silent prayer.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The land rolled before them, mottled greens and golds. Birds flew up under their feet and game tempted the few bowmen among the Dalcassians. Brian rode, with the other nobles, a few paces behind Mahon, but he was surrounded by a large circle of dead air. Mahon’s captains talked companionably among themselves, and the king and Olan exchanged words occasionally, but no one spoke to Brian at all. An untried youth of noble blood, he was neither soldier nor officer. He was an unknown quantity, even to himself.

  They had begun the march before sunup; they reached the Norse settlement in the afternoon. It seemed to be only a cluster of thatched roofs almost hidden in the folds of the land. It was a rude outpost from which to launch raids on the surrounding countryside; not a community, merely a fortress of sorts, but well-manned. Brian, looking down at it from the vantage point of a rise in the ground, thought it would be a mistake to launch a straightforward attack in daylight in open country. When he tried to say as much to his brother, Mahon turned on him in anger. His eyes were bloodshot and his expression was one Brian had never seen.