“The king will ask if we showed them mercy …” one of the officers remarked to Brian.
“I will show them mercy,” came the thin lipped reply. “I will let them all die on the sword, so they can go to their pagan heaven.”
The bright day turned gray and a roil of clouds moved in from the west. A Northman, looking up as the swords closed in on him, thought he saw the Valkyries waiting in the sky on their rearing warhorses, their breastplates gleaming, their spears raised in a victory salute. Then the red pain tore through him, and he crumpled forward.
When it was over and the human wreckage lay quiet on Singland hill, Brian looked toward Limerick once more. A few wisps of greasy smoke still coiled toward the lowering sky.
The young spear carrier Leti had sent to him had taken his place at the shoulder of Brian’s house. A rawboned lad with a deeply freckled face and a permanently quizzical expression, he bowed low in awed salute as the Dalcassian hero strode toward him.
“You are Padraic?” Brian asked.
“I am, my lord. And I am deeply honored …”
“Yes, thank you,” Brian interrupted briskly. “If you are to serve me there are times I will need you to be my aide, as well as my spearman, and this is one of those times. We will be pulling out in a few minutes, but first I have something to show you, something secret for your eyes only. Come with me, Padraic …”
In the gentle folds of the land south of the Tipperary road a small cottage nestled, half-buried by a luxuriance of vine and flower. Connlaoch the Weaver had been working his garden patch, but the threat of rain had driven him indoors to sit beneath his thatched roof and rub his arthritic knees. Aoife fed him a hot broth made of grain, and bread slathered with butter freshly brought up from safekeeping in the nearby bog. But the lure of the hearth did not hold Aoife as it did her husband; she went several times to stand in the doorway, looking through the misted afternoon toward the distant road.
“There’s a great lot o’ men along over there,” she remarked after a time.
Connlaoch ladled another big helping of broth into his wooden bowl. “Aye,” he said indifferently. “Belike it’s the king’s army, come back from Limerick.”
“Was there a battle?” she asked over her shoulder, her eyes on the distant, antlike figures.
“Now, how would I be knowing that, woman? First they passed here, going up toward the Shannon, while you were at Market Day. That was … yesterday. Or the day before. Now they are passing again, going the other way, so I would guess there was a battle and it’s over. I would say there was a battle. But I don’t know there was a battle. Are you after wanting me, with my bad knees, to go running out and ask them?”
Aoife was red of face and brawny of arm, exactly like her husband, and they each had a sprinkling of snow in hair as russet as a fox’s pelt. But the love of combat had not dimmed in either heart; they fought constantly and with joy, and celebrated their victories on the piled blankets of their bed.
“Hist, go along with you, you old fool!” Aoife chided him now. “Market Day was three days ago, you blathering idiot! I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve a man who can’t keep track of the days.”
Connlaoch mopped his bowl with his bread and grumbled aloud, “’Tis a sin and a shame when a good man has to serve himself while his lazy woman lollygags in doorways and insults him.” Small figures detached themselves from the parade on the distant road and came across the fields toward the weaver’s cottage. A lean, homely youth with a long spear strapped to his back walked beside an oxcart driven by a grizzled veteran and piled high with furs and cloth. As they approached, Aoife widened her eyes and took an involuntary step backward, signing the Cross on her jutting bosom. “Saints preserve us, husband!” she exclaimed. “They’re bringing us treasure!”
The cart creaked to a halt in front of the cottage and the young man came to the door, knuckling his forelock respectfully. “The king’s greeting to you, my lady,” he said, and Aoife wrinkled up her nose at him and struggled to keep from laughing outright.
“What does he mean, ‘my lady’?” Connlaoch inquired as he came to glower over her shoulder.
“I don’t know I’m sure, but if you’ll pin your lip we may find out!” she hissed at him. “You—young man—what do you mean, bringing me the king’s greetings? By my faith, I’ve never laid eyes on the man—Mahon, isn’t it?—or he on me.”
“I’m only following orders, my lady,” Padraic told her. “I have been sent to seek out families who have no children at home and would be willing to take one or more in fosterage.”
Connlaoch thought the time had definitely come for him to take an active part in the conversation. “Fosterage, is it?” He moved his wife aside and filled the doorway with his broad body, facing the stranger at close range. The young man smelled of smoke and sweat; his clothes gave off a bitter pungency that even a cottager could notice. “So the king is sending out children to be raised, is he?” Connlaoch asked him. “Are they his own sons, or the sons of a great chieftain? What compensation would we be given under the Law? We cannot take children in fosterage for affection’s sake only, for my wife and I are no kin of Cashel.”
Padraic had begun to detect an unquenchable twinkle in the blue eyes Connlaoch tried to disguise beneath his scowl. Perhaps his mission was going to be successful after all, and Prince Brian would be willing to take him as a permanent aide!
“Ah, I am sorry to say, these babes are no royal sucklings; I cannot tell you their parentage. But they have … er … recently come under the protection of a most important man, and a good fee will come with them to reward you for their care. My master wants to be assured that they will be raised properly, as decent Christians, and that they will have the protection of a loving family.”
At the finish of his recital Padraic shot a look over the man’s shoulder at his wife, and saw her face aglow. “Babies!” she exclaimed.
“Yes, well, they are very young.”
“And how many of them are there?”
“Now, Aoife!” Connlaoch interposed. “We haven’t agreed on this business; don’t be pushing me into the pond until I’ve felt the water.”
“Nonsense! There are babies to be loved, aren’t there? I heard the man. And haven’t we had an empty house and two heavy hearts all these years for the lack of little ones?” She pushed past her husband and thrust her face at Padriac’s. “How many did you say there are?”
Padriac turned to the cart and began lifting the piled furs. Aoife was at his elbow, breathing hard and making little clucking noises. He moved a last covering of slightly scorched wool and there, nestled in blankets at the bottom of the cart and effectively concealed from prying eyes were three small children: two toddlers and a sleeping infant.
Silver haired. Square of skull and jaw.
“Those are Norsemen!” Connlaoch exclaimed, shocked.
Padraic looked over his shoulder with wide-eyed innocence. “I really wouldn’t know, sir. I only know that they are wards of my master, who is a great prince, and he is willing to exchange the entire contents of this cart for their care, plus sending the yearly fee, of course.”
Connlaoch eyed the cart. The furs and woven goods upon it were a greater treasure than he had seen in his lifetime. But it was too easy come by; if this lad’s master would part with it so easily, he would part with more.
“And what about the cart, itself?” Connlaoch asked.
Padraic hesitated. “Bargain!” Brian had warned him. “Make them think they’re getting the better of the deal!”
“I … ah … I suppose the cart could go, too,” he said at last, sounding dubious and rolling his eyes as if he feared his master’s displeasure.
Connlaoch tried to wink at his wife, who had snatched up the smallest child and was rocking back and forth with it in her arms, crooning to it and ignoring her husband.
“And the ox?” Connlaoch pressed.
“Oh, well, I really don’t know about the ox …”
> “And the ox,” Connlaoch stated firmly. “There are three of them, after all, and they will take a sight of feeding, and before you know it they shall have to have cloaks and sandals and one thing or another. I suppose the Law is very clear as to the requirements for children of their station?”
“The Law is explicit in all cases of fosterage,” Padraic assured him. “They must be well fed and dressed and properly educated, of course. A Brehon will see that you are informed as to the exact requirements. You will take all three?”
“All three!” Aoife announced unequivocally, examining the two in the cart. “And your master can rest easy, we will raise them as proper Irish Christians.” The children, whatever their blood, were bright and healthy; the baby girl would bring a good bride-price and the two boys could grow to learn the weaver’s trade and be a great comfort to their foster parents in their old age. She could hardly believe her good fortune.
The transaction was completed to everyone’s satisfaction. Connlaoch maintained his gruff facade until his wife thrust the baby girl in his arms and the tiny mite opened her eyes and cooed up at him; then his face dissolved in a helpless grin that warmed Padraic to his toes.
The erstwhile spear carrier reported to Brian as soon as he rejoined the line of march.
“You are certain they will take good care of them?” Brian demanded to know.
“Oh, yes, my lord! They know of a woman nearby who is a wet nurse, and they have a fine snug cottage and a garden patch as well. If you could have seen the way their eyes lit up when they held the babies! It was as if the merciful Christ Himself had guided me to a couple perfectly designed to care for the Northman’s orphans.”
“I wish I’d had the time and the opportunity to save more of them,” Brian said softly. “But remember—you are sworn to tell no one of this, only the lawyers who administer the rules of fosterage are to know of it, and they must not know of my connection. Leti swore to me that you were trustworthy.”
“Yes, my lord!”
“And it will be your special responsibility, Padriac, to check up each year yourself, and see that everything is being done as it should. Never leave anything to chance; that’s a basic rule of mine. I want to know for certain that they receive a total of three cows for each of the boys, and six for the girl, as the Law says girls require more care. And everything without my name’s being mentioned—can you do that, lad?”
Padriac’s eyes glowed with pride. “That I can, my lord!” he assured Brian.
“Very well then, it is agreed. I’ve already paid the cart driver enough to send him back to the Slieve Aughty mountains a happy man; he will tell no one that I rescued Norse babies. Nor will you.”
“But my lord, such an act of kindness does you credit.”
Brian’s face was momentarily contorted by a huge, crack-jaw yawn. “Padraic,” he said when it was satisfyingly concluded, “I make hard decisions and I lead men to their deaths in battle. To follow me without question they need to believe that the iron in me goes straight through, that I am invulnerable, immune to human weakness—and sentiment. They need to feel that I am an extension of their own desires, and it was not their desire to save the Northman’s spawn from Limerick.”
They went forward in a companionable silence, the spear carrier walking proudly at the horse’s shoulder, Brian sitting as straight as always. After some distance he spoke once more, so low that the youth had to press against his knee in order to hear him. “Of course,” he murmured, not looking at Padraic but keeping his eyes fixed on the road ahead, “there might come a time when I would have no objection to your telling about this. Do you understand?”
Padraic, who did not, smiled and nodded.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The people of Munster met their returning heroes with showers of blossoms and thrown kisses. It seemed that the news of every detail of the battle at Sulcoit had been carried to Cashel by runners, and amply embroidered en route. The king had fought like an emperor, the people were telling one another, and his brother like an avenging archangel.
As the first company of soldiers came up the road from the causeway of the Suir crowds met them, singing. Old women called blessings upon them and children ran forward, giggling and daring one another to snatch hairs from the tails of the officers’ horses. Brian’s mount, who had had enough of warfare for a while, laid back his ears and kicked petulantly whenever anyone came too close to his hindquarters, and so was able to make his way in relative peace.
Brian’s thoughts ran ahead to Deirdre, waiting somewhere within the stone walls of the hallowed fortress. Deirdre. She moved before his eyes in a hundred remembered poses. Lovely and shy as a wood violet, her delicacy like a breath of air from some hidden waterfall amid cool ferns. A luminous princess from his boyhood’s tales of champions and their maidens.
And then he saw her with the cloud in her eyes, and the barely perceptible shuddering that marked the onset of an attack. He remembered her in a blue-lit chamber on a rainy day, her robe the soft gray of a dove’s breast, her head drooping, her black curls without luster, the low mournful sound of her helpless weeping going on and on.
He saw her kneeling on the bed, the depression replaced by hysteria, her face engorged with rage, her mouth stretched into an ugly square as she screamed at him.
If only there were someplace else to go; some way to alter the direction of time so that he would be back on the plain at Sulcoit, with the chanting at his back and his destiny coming to him in one transcendent hour!
His horse, eager for its pen and fodder, lengthened its stride so that Padraic was forced to run to keep up. Faces beaming with happy smiles lined the roadway on both sides, and joyous voices called out to him.
“Welcome, Prince Brian!”
“There he is, the hero of Sulcoit. Wave to him now!”
“Brian Boru!” someone shouted. “Boru! Boru!” And the glow returned for a golden moment to light the last few steps of his way.
The gates of Cashel swung open. Brian entered with his captains and the chieftains of Munster who had won their own glory at Sulcoit, and as he looked up he saw that the banner of the three lions hung equally with, not below, the king’s banner at the portal.
Fithir met them with outstretched hands and a ready explanation for Mahon’s obvious absence. “The king hastened home as soon as the battle ended,” she said smoothly, “so that he might begin the prayers of thanksgiving immediately. He is in the chapel with his brother Marcan at this very moment. He will be so glad to hear you have arrived safely!”
Brian searched her face for some clue. Her expression was so carefully bland it was obvious she was hiding something, and he felt the finger of dread trace down his spine.
He made himself ask: “Deirdre?”
Fithir’s face relaxed into a radiant smile. “Oh, my lord, God has been good to us indeed. Your wife was delivered of a healthy son yestereven, and since that time her mind has been as clear as a young girl’s!”
Brian stared at her. “Are you certain?”
“The physician says that childbirth has calmed her almost miraculously. Whereas sometimes it brings a deep melancholy on a woman, in her case it appears to have worked a sort of cure. She is still nervous, you understand, and shy as a coney, but she seems more like herself than she has in months. When you are cleaned and rested, I will take you to see her.”
“And what of the king?” Brian asked, feeling a drumbeat starting deep within him. A son … a son …
The skin of Fithir’s face tightened on its bones and she hesitated. That was it, then. Brian took a half step toward her, to encourage her with his size and proximity, and to his astonishment she melted bonelessly into his arms and began crying.
“Oh, Brian, he has seen no one but Marcan and the other priests until this very last hour, when he sent for the barber!”
“The barber?” Brian asked, baffled.
Fithir’s sobs redoubled. “He asked to have his hair cut in a tonsure! Like a monk
!” she wailed.
Mahon had returned to Cashel sick at heart. Refusing to see anyone or discuss the battle, he went directly to his private chamber and barred the door. A crowd of courtiers piled up in his wake, each clamoring for an audience, but the door remained resolutely shut.
Marcan, who had been waiting at Cashel to discuss his possible appointment to the hierarchy of the Church with his brother the king, at last succeeded in talking his way past the guard and knocked on Mahon’s door, calling his name in a loud voice.
He was granted a grudging admission. Mahon sat in a lampless darkness, his chin sunk upon his chest; he did not look at his priestly brother. “What do you want?” he asked Marcan in a hollow voice.
“To remind you of God’s mercy,” Marcan replied smoothly, realizing that the king was in no frame of mind to discuss bishoprics and abbacies. “Whatever burden you bear, dear brother, I assure you that God will lift it from your shoulders if you will only ask Him.”
Mahon groaned. “I have looked into Hell! I have seen the ultimate ugliness of men’s souls. I watched while our own tribesmen turned into beasts like the Northmen … and the responsibility was mine; they murdered babies in my name!”
“Christ look down upon us!” Marcan breathed. He hurried across the room and flung himself on his knees beside his brother. “My lord king, my dear brother, God in His wisdom has surely sent me to you in this moment of your distress. Lean on me and let me help you, and together we will ask God to bring you peace, and comfort for your over-burdened soul.” Marcan’s features arranged themselves into a beatific smile.
After several hours he emerged from the chamber and ordered a page to summon the king’s confessor. To him Marcan related in triumphant voice, “I have been blessed by God! I am being allowed to bring the wandering soul of the king to the ultimate realization of God’s plan. He will give up the love of luxury and the sinful trappings of temporal power and be God’s man from henceforth, like the great priest-kings of old. Come with us to the chapel, that we may pray.”
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