They were discussing the morrow’s festivities. “The boy will be pleased with the banquet planned in his honor, I think,” Brian told Padraic. “My brother the king intends to be back from Bruree, where he has gone to hold out the hand of friendship to Donovan of Hy Carbery. Bishop Marcan will be celebrating Mass, and that wild boar I speared in Graedhe’s Woods is turning on the spit this very hour. We shall have a feast suitable for the son of a king!”
“The son of the real king of Munster,” Padraic said, almost under his breath.
“Hush,” Brian reprimanded him sternly. “I won’t have you saying such things, even in private.”
“In all but name …”
“Enough!” Brian’s voice cut him off sharply. “The son of the king will be Mahon’s first-born in marriage, if he has one. I believe that a strong dynasty passed from father to son would be the best way of insuring stability for us. As for myself, I have no kingship to offer my heirs, so I must give them something else; something of more value, perhaps.”
“What could that be, my lord?”
Brian’s eyes stared forward, through Time. “A legend,” he said. “I want to know, before I die, that when I am gone the harpers in the halls will still sing of me. That is a thing I can assure within my lifetime, so that my children will remember me, not only as their sire, but as a force that shaped the world they will inherit, a source of pride to be handed down to their children’s children.”
“You are already a legend among your men, my lord,” Padraic assured him.
“Thank you for that, my friend. I work at it, as well you know; you’ve seen my hands shake when I make speeches, and you know that I deliberately conceal them, so they do not spoil the image. The books I study, the lessons I set myself to learn—they are all part of something I am building piece by piece. Each bit of it must fit perfectly with the others.”
“How can you know when it does?” Padraic asked.
“In the same way a singer knows he has sung the right note, or a harper knows to touch the strings that create a chord that feeds his soul. I know, that’s all.
“The time will come when it will all be put to use, Padraic. I don’t know when or how, but everything I have made of myself will be of value someday.”
Padraic’s eyes shone. “You believe in destiny, my lord?”
Brian’s answer was firm. “I believe in myself. I was given a good mind and a strong body, which gifts obligate me to use them to the best of my ability. I was given a hunger for power, which some men might call evil, but I believe that it can be a force for great good. The only alternative to educated power is brute force, mindless, inhuman, a rolling stone that crushes everything in its path. That is infinitely more immoral than ability used wisely, Padraic.
“I cannot deny my ambition—not to myself, nor to you. The addiction to power is the end result of a long series of small seductions. It begins as a reaction to some real or imagined injustice, as a grain of sand irritates an oyster into producing a pearl, layer by layer. The layers men build are of strength, influence, the ability to get things done.
“All the power I possess or can gain will be used to win something more than a mere kingship, Padraic; something I can hand down to my sons with great pride.”
They were nearing the Rock. The road broadened and was harder, beaten down by many feet, rutted by carts and the wheels of an occasional chariot. Soft gray stone, moss frosted, edged up through the thin crust of the soil like bare knees pushing through worn trews. A skittering of midges thickened the air.
A speck was racing down the road toward them, pursued by a cloud of dust. As it drew near it resolved itself into a man on horseback, hair streaming, eyes wild. He sawed on the rein and set his mount on its haunches directly under the nose of Brian’s own animal.
“My lord! Fearsome news!”
In reflex, Brian’s hand dropped to his sword hilt.
“Tell me,” he commanded.
“The king has been taken captive, my lord! It is a piece of the most dreadful treachery!”
Beneath the bronze of his wind-burned skin, the blood fled from Brian’s face. “How do you know this?”
“Some of those who went with him to Bruree escaped and have just returned to Cashel, my lord, in dreadful condition. They fled for their lives across Munster and arrived but an hour ago. They say that instead of receiving King Mahon as an honored guest in his home, that whoreson Donovan laid hands upon him as soon as he arrived and bound him with ropes and chain. He’s being delivered like butcher’s meat, handed over to Molloy of Desmond and his foreign allies!”
A dreadful moan was wrung from Brian. “I warned him! God, I … he wouldn’t listen! He was so certain … he said Christ was with him in all things … he said he had to settle the differences between Cashel and the southern tribes himself … Mahon! Oh, Mahon! Your Christian duty, you called it …”
He turned to Padraic and flung his hands wide. “I tried to keep him from going to Donovan and asking for one of his sons to raise at Cashel. You heard me, Padraic! I told him it was a mistake. Didn’t I? Didn’t I?”
Padraic felt as if he had just been told that the sun would not rise in the morning. “Yes, my lord,” he said faintly. King Mahon …? It seemed impossible.
“Why wouldn’t he listen to me?” Brian went on, rocking back and froth on his horse in the excess of his emotion. “I understood Desmond and Hy Carbery better than he did. Those are proud men, with long memories, and they bear grudges. Mahon forgives … forgave … I knew they had not.” He doubled one impotent fist and pounded it against the rock-hard muscle of his thigh. “I should have stopped him,” he groaned, losing himself for a moment in the meaningless rhythm of the beating hand. “I should have stopped him … stopped him …”
“What’s this?” The officers were crowding around now, scenting bad news. “The king is taken?”
“What of the safeguards he was given from the bishop and clergy of Cork?” someone asked. “He put much trust in them.”
The messenger shook his head. “Donovan laughed at them.”
“Bishop Marcan will be angered to hear that!” cried Kian, running up in time for the worst of the news. “And what of the holy symbol the king had pinned to his breast? I saw it myself, the gold reliquary with a gold cross upon it, and a fragment of the gospel of Saint Finnbarr inside.”
“I know not,” was the reply.
“All that gold—Donovan probably stole it,” a voice growled. “That shortbeard bastard! That clay-coated sea slug!”
“Calling him names won’t hurt him, not at this distance,” Brian growled, recovering himself a little. “Let’s get on to Cashel and determine what’s to be done.”
They were met by uproar. Fithir, with queenly calm, had taken charge of the household, but the hall and yards were a-swirl with nobles and warriors, weeping servants and scurrying priests. Olan, pensioned off in the time of peace, came thundering in with his sword in his hand and the scars on his old face livid with rage.
“How could you let this happen?” he roared at Brian as soon as he saw him.
Brian did not take time to answer. There was blame enough to go round, and the coldness in his breast told him that he would absorb it all himself when he had the leisure to reflect. But for now there were orders to be given, organization to be wrought out of chaos, and the entire community looked to him.
He convened the council of state and heard the pitiful tale once more, this time from those of Mahon’s retinue who had been allowed to escape. Only the king’s hide was of value to Donovan.
“I fear they will kill him, my lord!” Mahon’s steward exclaimed.
“Don’t say that; we must not even think it. Grief and fear will weaken us and given them the advantage, and this situation must be handled quickly, with all our cleverness.” The steward stood before the council table, tears rolling down his cheeks. He had been but a man’s length from Mahon when the traitors seized him. Brian fought to get his attention. �
��Tell me … tell me! … are you certain they are taking him to the prince of Desmond?”
“We believe so, my lord,” the man sobbed.
“And are the Northmen involved? Look up and answer me; you can cry later. Are the Northmen involved in this thing?”
The steward made a valiant effort to control himself. “They are tied into it, that much seems clear. Even before we reached Donovan’s stronghold at Bruree we had news of the presence of Ivar’s men in the neighborhood. Some of the nobles wanted to turn back, but the king wouldn’t listen.”
Brian turned to the councilors. “I have feared this ever since Ivar came back from Wales. He has sulked too long at a distance, brewing up his mischief, and I told my brother more than once that a placid surface does not mean there are no treacherous currents beneath. We have done all we could to intimidate them with our arms and our power, but Molloy has never lost his hunger for Cashel nor the Northmen their taste for revenge. The question is, now that they have acted, how can we thwart their intent?”
“We must send the army in full might to Desmond!” Kernac thundered, banging his walking stick on the floor. The one-legged veteran had a seat of honor on the council, and though it took two men to lift him he was still considered a warrior.
“There is not time to reach Molloy before Mahon is taken to him,” Brian said. “These men tell us he was gone from Bruree in chains on the night of his capture. He is Molloy’s by now.”
Olan’s voice was sepulchral. “Unless they have taken him north, to give him directly into Ivar’s hands. The cowards may prefer to have Ivar do their murdering for them.”
Kernac shook his head. “Molloy must hate Mahon very much by now. I doubt he would let Ivar have the satisfaction of killing him. Either way, the king is a dead man.”
The men gathered in the council chamber argued far into the night, seeking hope and finding none, snatching up plans and discarding them. But the urgency was gone; they all knew they were howling into the wind. Mahon’s fate was in God’s hands.
As Brian at last stumbled from the chamber, gritty-eyed and longing for a few hours of oblivion before he assembled the army for the inevitable march, he was waylaid in the passage on the way to his chamber.
“Father?”
He peered down at the sturdy boy standing in front of him. His own face, with Deirdre’s coloring, looked back at him. “You should be abed, Murrough! Where is your nurse, or your mother?”
“Oh, they think I’m asleep! I tiptoed! But I couldn’t stay in bed, not after I heard about the king. Will they kill him?”
The simple childish question demanded equal candor. “Yes,” said Brian, feeling strangely that he was condemning his brother to death by admitting it.
Murrough looked up—far up—at the awesome figure towering above him. To have such a man for a father was the source of much pride, and no little boasting to the sons of the other nobles, but in truth he was shy in Brian’s presence and half afraid. The great prince was always so busy, so preoccupied. A boy’s foolishness was an embarrassment compared to his father’s seriousness, and it was rare that Murrough got up enough nerve to demand attention.
Tonight was an exceptional time.
“If he dies, will you be king?” Murrough asked.
Brian groaned inwardly. There was no way to answer that. He looked down at the earnest young face, then slowly lowered his weary body to crouch beside his son on the cold stone floor.
Seen that way Brian became more human, and Murrough ventured a shy smile. “I mean, I’d be very sorry to see the king dead, for he has always been kind to me. I’ll sing at his wake if I am permitted, and I’ll take part in the funeral games and win a race in his honor.” He tried very hard to pitch his voice lower and sound mature, and he stood with his legs braced apart and his back very straight. His eyes were shining. “But I will be proud of you, my lord, if you are made king,” he added. “You’d be the best king ever!”
Then he stared in dismay at the effect of his words.
Brian’s face darkened in the torchlight, then crumpled like a linen napkin. His shoulders heaved. A sound came from him, a wordless noise, a cry of suffering such as Murrough had never heard his father utter. Brian stood up and wrapped the boy in his arms, pulling Murrough tight against his chest, so that the boy felt his father’s tremendous strength and wondered how he knew just how hard to squeeze without causing pain.
Brian’s voice rumbled around him, “My son, my son. Some day there will be genuine peace in Ireland, and then we’ll have time to spend together and get to know one another. I promise it.”
He released the child reluctantly, his arms still tingling with the feel of his son, and the love that must be put aside for more pressing matters choked in his throat. He could not let go and indulge himself in feeling; there might be no way to get back.
He gave the lad an abrupt pat on the rump and pushed him down the passageway. “Get back to your warm bed, Murrough,” he ordered, “and leave me to the task at hand.”
“You’re going to rescue the king?” asked the eager voice.
Brian could not answer.
He went to his chamber and looked longingly at the bed. Then with a deep sigh he summoned a page and sent for his maps of the land of Desmond. He dashed cold water on his face and knuckled his reddened eyes, then sat down with the charts spread before him and began calculating distances and times.
Beyond Cashel, the sky turned ashen with the false promise of dawn.
Wearied beyond weariness, Brian at last slumped back on his seat, his right arm lying across the table, his left arm falling of its own weight to dangle beside him. A measure of time passed. Something brushed against those inert fingers. A whisper of fur touched his skin and was gone, only to return with a gentle, insistent push against his idle hand.
Behind his closed eyes Brian could envision one of the cats pacing back and forth in a small figure eight, pleading silently for his attention. He stretched out his hand and the cat filled it, setting up a happy humming. Idly, he stroked the narrow back, feeling it hump up to accept his caress and lift its tail to stop the gesture so that he might begin again.
His fingers explored the fragile skull, seeking out those places beneath the chin and at the base of the ears where a skillful rubbing could send a cat into raptures.
Beautiful silk and sinew creature, made by its Creator to be uniquely graceful. Gentle, savage, vulnerable, yet willing to offer a moment’s trust. Without ever looking down he found himself smiling, and the cat knew it and responded, expanding the volume of its purring until the vibrations were carried up Brian’s arm and throughout his being.
Somehow, magically, the pall of weariness lifted from him and was gone.
Time spiraled inward on itself and the night receded. The cat flowed through his hands like water and disappeared from the room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The road was not even a good cart track, merely a narrow serpentine of a path worn by cattle in search of water. It wound through the heather and climbed toward a tumble of mountains. Peering ahead through the morning mist, Mahon recognized the approach to the pass of Barnaderg. “We are near Ballyorgan?” he asked the man leading his horse.
The guard turned toward him, his dark face sullen under a thatch of tangled hair. “Aye,” he said, and spat. He gave the leadrope a rough jerk and the horse broke into a jolting trot.
Mahon’s wrists were bound behind his back with rope that sawed endlessly at the skin, but at least the heavy chains had been removed so that he could ride. He was in the center of a hollow square of armed men; not a guard of honor but of menace. Donovan had stood at the gates of Bruree to see them off, a satisfied smirk on his face, and had even raised his hand in a mock salute when Mahon was led past him. “Fare you well, king!” he had taunted.
“You have broken the sacred obligation of hospitality,” Mahon replied in a voice rimed with frost. “You are unfit to speak to me!”
“Praise God, I shall
never have to again,” Donovan told him.
They moved into the narrow pass of Barnaderg, and the stony path was hard on the horses. The guards pulled Mahon from his mount and ordered him to walk. The trail was full of rocks and several times he stumbled, falling once to his knees.
The captain ordered the binding removed from his hands then. “After all,” he laughed, “this is a gift from Donovan to Molloy of Desmond, and we want to be certain it is delivered in good condition!” Hostile laughter rippled through the ranks of armed men. Mahon held his head high and tried not to hear.
He had known since they left Bruree that he was being sent to Prince Molloy, but no one would tell him why. It was best to hope that he would be held for ransom, humiliated perhaps, pressured to give up the kingship of Munster. If only they knew, he thought, how gladly I would relinquish it! It can be taken from me by the merest twist of the wrist—but not from my brother. They will have to deal with him, and that is a very different matter. They may not realize how different.
The thought of Brian started his heart thudding with hope. Surely by now word of his capture had reached Cashel; many of his party had been allowed to flee the scene. Brian would come to get him, all flags flying! His eyes brightened with the thought of the impending rescue, but then he felt his soul counting the number who would die in the battle.
More blood on my head. There must be some way to prevent it.
“Please, listen to me for a moment!” he called to the captain.
The man checked his stride and sauntered towards him. “What is it?” His voice was flat, without respect.
“Do you know … what is planned for me?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t really care. You stole Cashel from its rightful heirs, and it’s up to them to decide what’s to be done with you. I only have orders to turn you over to the prince of Desmond in good condition.”
They filed through the pass in silence. In the distance they could see men coming up to meet them, and as they drew nearer Mahon’s guard commented, “It appears you are to be treated better than you deserve. There is the escort sent from Molloy, and I can make out priests among them, so you’ll be handled fairly.”
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