The king of the tribe Múscraige was a happy man. His tuath was prosperous and his compound sheltered a large healthy family. The fields of his land grew good grain, heavy-headed and golden in the sun; his cattle were fat and his wife was docile. Even the bishop at Cashel told him he was a man blessed by God.
Then the Meathmen came, marching in quick columns across the land, taking advantage of Brian’s absence to drive into his heartland. The armies of Munster were fighting on Connacht, and there was no sizable garrison close at hand when Malachi Mor fell on the king of Múscraige. Only his own warriors were available to fight the hopeless battle, and when the sun set the happy king was dead and his docile wife was a banshee shrieking in the night with grief.
Brian returned to Kincora, victorious in the most recent encounter with Conor’s army, and was told the news of the Ard Ri’s attack. He listened to the story intently, his gray eyes glittering with anger. “Malachi will not face me directly, man to man, but comes sneaking into my kingdom in my absence to cut my people down, like a wolf separating one sheep at a time from the flock. Does he mean to exterminate us tribe by tribe?”
Someone suggested, “This raid is very like our own raid last month on the Caille Follamain. Malachi killed more men, but otherwise his expedition might have been modeled on ours.”
Brian arched one eyebrow. “I’ve noticed something about the Ard Ri. He does not act; he reacts. It is not a quality to be prized in a leader, I think, this habit of always taking the second step. He appears to deal with each situation as it occurs on its own terms and in its own context; he fights a hundred little battles and overlooks the war.”
He turned to look directly at Carroll, holding the historian’s gaze for a meaningful moment, then spoke to the entire hall in ringing tones. “Ireland would be better served by a different High King.”
Carroll understood, but duty forced him to say the words anyway. “Malachi Mor is the ranking member of the tribe Hy Neill, my lord. The Ard Ri is always Hy Neill.”
Watching the king, they all knew what was coming. It filled the room with them, tightening their throats and racing their hearts. Even Padraic lost his customary half-smile as he leaned forward, elbows on knees, to wait tensely for the words Brian was bound to say.
“The Ard Ri has always been Hy Neill, traditionally,” Brian said softly, with that deadly softness of a stalking cat. “Has been. But no more. A ruler must be the man best suited to rule, not a man determined by tradition. If Ireland is to take her rightful place in the world, she must do so with her strong hand uppermost.”
He stood in front of his High Seat, slowly raising his right hand in front of him, so that they could all see the size of it. The strength of it. He lifted it like a banner, and their eyes watched it ascend. “The days of the Hy Neill are over,” said Brian Boru.
“He has gone mad with ambition!”
“He has promised new glory to Ireland.”
“He will get us all killed!”
“He will bring back the Golden Age.”
“He’s a monster!”
“He’s a saint!”
“It’s about time,” said Murrough.
There was no disguising the intent of Munster now. Armies in Romanstyle columns drilled on the plains of Tipperary and along the coast of Bantry Bay. As if overnight, an enormous organization sprang into being, capable of feeding men and supplies in great numbers into Brian’s military base on the Shannon. Like the Northmen, he used the river as a highway, and by following its watercourses he was able to reach long fingers of attack into Connacht and Meath. From the Suir he sent a wall of men marching eastward to Leinster, his determination written on their faces, his battle cry on their lips.
The struggle for the control of Ireland was joined.
Malachi was no longer able to view it as part of the old familiar pattern of king against king, tribe against tribe. Brian marched through Ireland making speeches, repairing schools and monasteries, appointing new bishops, firmly enmeshing himself in the hierarchy of the Church while attracting a new generation of hot-eyed young soldiers to the glories of the battlefield. He fought continually, and there were some defeats but many more victories. He flung his grandeur ahead of him like a challenge. He told his followers they could win, and they believed him.
He was a frightening man.
“What does it mean?” Malachi asked his advisors again and again. “Why should this king of Munster lead a revolt against the established order? It all began as a misunderstanding, an argument between tribes … it should never have come to this!”
“Boru is an outlaw,” they told him. “He used his military skill to put his brother on the High Seat of Munster, and then stole that kingship for himself from its rightful heirs. He is a man of great fighting ability and no principles.”
Malachi turned to them with imploringly outstretched hands. “What am I to do? There are rumors that he is winning my people away from me. His red banner with its three lions has been found hanging from trees and poles in my own Meath, and the countryfolk refuse to cut it down.”
“He must be destroyed!” they shouted at him in unison, all those old men, past their fighting days, who would stay behind while Malachi fought the battles.
“I agree, he must be stopped,” Malachi said, “but how can I give it my full attention when Sigurd and his Norsemen wait in the Orkneys to attack us once more and there is always the possibility of an uprising in Dublin? The king of Munster has somehow amassed a very large army, and persuaded even his traditional enemies to stand with him; what can I bring to bear against that?”
They offered him advice—every man had some—and he patiently listened to each in turn, hoping that one suggestion would strike fire in his own mind. None did.
Malachi Mor lingered at Tara, forcing his council and under-kings to remain in session with him, considering his problem. The loveliest of Ireland’s hills was no longer beautiful to him; it had become a prize that could be wrested from him, a position he would have to defend with his blood.
“I’m not afraid to fight this Brian Boru,” he told Kelly. “I’ve never been afraid of any man on the field of battle. But first I must be certain that whatever policy I follow is the right one. I must get down on my knees and pray to Jesus Christ to protect me from rash impulses, because every time I give in to one connected with this Boru I get in greater difficulties.”
He stared gloomily into space. “Damn Gormlaith,” he said.
“Eh?”
“It was my ill-considered marriage to her that caused all this. She was the one who turned the king of Munster against me, with her shrewish scheme for insulting his tribe. That was the beginning of the feud between us. And now I know she whispers in her brother’s ear, alienating Leinster from me as well. They will accept Boru and repudiate me.”
“Perhaps, if you restored her as your queen … ?”
Malachi stiffened in alarm. “Oh, no! Even if I could guarantee the devotion of Leinster for a thousand years, I would not sit at a table with Gormlaith again.” He dropped his voice and glanced around to be sure that none but his nephew heard him. “I tell you, that woman unmanned me! It’s true—me! Nothing I ever did was enough for her, and at last I couldn’t do anything at all. You think I could take her back? I’d rather go into a monastery, like Olaf Cuaran!”
Malachi paced and worried, and Brian’s influence spread. In desperation, the Ard Ri applied to the kings of Connacht to enter into a military alliance with him against Munster, but Conor, over-king of the province, expressed grave reservations.
“I am not anxious to have the Ard Ri bringing troops into my land,” he told Malachi’s emissaries. “Armies of alliance become armies of occupation all too easily.”
Malachi took the rebuff with a sinking heart and planned new overtures. At his request, the king of Maine, largest of the subkingdoms of Connacht, rode onto the land of the Conors with a deputation of the most powerful nobles in Meath, while Malachi waited at Tara, feel
ing himself squeezed in a relentlessly closing vise.
Taking full advantage of the situation, the Northmen in Dublin encouraged their jarls to throw off the appearance of subjection to the Irish Ard Ri and once more sailed dragonships into the Liffey and the Boyne, laden with pirated goods and still wearing the fearsome wooden heads that stated their intent to kill and plunder. Sitric Olafson remained snug within the walls of the Norse fortress and made no effort to interfere on behalf of the Ard Ri. Malachi began a desperate battle on two fronts, pitting his strength against the foreigners on the east coast of Ireland and the emerging titan from the south.
Brian’s ships advanced farther and farther northward, moving up the Lough Ree once more, every dip of the oars edging them closer to the northern kingdoms. Men at Sligo began to speak of Brian Boru, and ambassadors were sent southward at the gallop from Oriel and Ulidia to ask the Ard Ri’s intentions.
It was a bad time for Malachi.
The tongue of the king of Maine did not prove to be golden, but combined with the fear of the Munstermen it was sufficient to win a conditional military alliance between Connacht and Meath. “We have word from the south that Leinster has capitulated totally, and Brian Boru rules all of southern Ireland from the Dingle peninsula to the Wicklow mountains.” The Meathmen urged Conor, “Join with us, or Connacht and Meath will fall together as he marches to take Ulster as well!”
Conor, suspicious of all this vast shifting of armed men and alliances, gave his tentative agreement, but he slept with a sword by his bed and ordered a new fortress built for himself, with sturdier walls.
The weather turned cloudy, then chill, then unremittingly hostile with the onset of a vicious winter, and men began to think longingly of their hearths. Brian ordered the fleet back to the safety of Lough Derg and had the boats hauled up onto the shore for repairing during the winter months. Nature’s peace was imposed, briefly, on the ambitions of men.
But the struggle for power went on in the palaces and fortresses of the land. Armies from Meath and Connacht established winter camps within hailing distance of one another, trying simultaneously to stand guard against a possible winter invasion from the south and to watch each other for some sign of treachery. It was a fragile bond that united them, and Malachi and Conor both knew it to be temporary at best. The two provinces had enjoyed too many years of warfare with each other to be fast friends now.
It was a chieftain of Connacht who suggested building a massive stone fortification across a narrow stretch of the Shannon, to block Brian’s ships when they came north in the spring. It was a chieftain of Meath who hurried to Malachi to suggest that the plan was merely a disguised opportunity for establishing a large causeway to carry invading Connachtmen into Meath itself.
Malachi listened to both equally convincing arguments and scratched his head.
The bed was cold at night. Perhaps the blankets were too thin for the severity of the winter. Brian lay awake and stared into the darkness, wondering why he did not sleep.
Sometimes, there were women—a beautiful hostage bargaining for special privileges, or a noble lady whose eyes had made extravagant promises across the banquet hall. But there was a sameness about each encounter that depressed him.
“You are lovely,” he would say, paying in the simplest coin.
“And you, my lord!” At least that was true; he knew it by the way their eyes widened when he removed his clothes. The broad chest with its mat of golden hair, the rippling muscles and bulging thews relatively untouched by the years, the lean flat belly and firm legs were best appreciated by a woman lying waiting on the bed.
But when the woman’s body opened to receive him it was always the same. The hot pleasure was not quite hot enough, or intense enough; the climax came a little too quickly, and left a residue of unrelieved hunger behind. Or the woman felt fragile beneath him, and he throttled his passion and held his great strength under rigid control, so that what satisfaction he got was like meat without salt. It was never quite the right woman, and his mind knew it. It went galloping off without him, plotting campaigns and writing speeches, to be called back for a reluctant moment when the pressure burst and the hot rich flow demanded mindless participation, but then his thoughts were gone again, drifting off to other places where the woman—whoever she was—could not follow.
And when she tried to cling to him Brian felt a certain uneasiness, often amounting to distaste, and inevitably drew away. No woman was invited to his bed twice.
The time came when Carroll asked him the question all Kincora had been wondering. “Will you take another wife, my lord?”
Brian was slow to answer. “I had a wife, once. When we were married, I thought she was all I ever desired in a woman.” His fingers plucked idly at a holly bush that had grown tall since the first stone was laid at Kincora. “But perhaps I asked too much. Neither of us was what the other needed. I would not care to be hurt again like that.
“I’ve never found a lady who contained all that I want in a woman, or wanted all that I contain. No one to match me stride for stride, and understand what goes on in my mind and heart. I suppose I thought I could find someone who would be able to understand my dreams and listen to my plans, as Fithir used to listen to my brother Mahon. Some lovely woman who would laugh with me and yell with me and not flinch if I forgot and roared at her … and yes, by God, carry a sword and fight at my side if it came to that. And still be female, and soft in her secret places, and sit beside me in the autumn while I played my harp for her, or she read poetry to me.”
He gave a mirthless little laugh. “Some dreams are impossible, Carroll. I’ve made so many of mine come true, I suppose it is inevitable that there must be one which is denied me.”
“You are still in your prime, my lord,” Carroll replied. “There are years ahead of you …”
“Are there?” Brian asked.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Brian held court at Kincora, the Christmas court of holiness and revelry. It was to be the grandest scene of pomp and power ever held in southern Ireland, and invitations to attend were carried by runner and rider to every noble of importance throughout the kingdom Boru held.
And to some who lived beyond it. To their astonishment, the kings of the southern tribes of Connacht found themselves giving hospitality to couriers from Munster, who came bearing gifts of peace and an invitation to celebrate Christ’s Mass at Kincora.
Brian had explained it to Padraic, and tried to explain it to Murrough.
“You’ll see—at least some of the princes of Connacht will respond to my invitation. Curiosity will bring them, or fear, or the desire to have alliances partially established with me in the eventuality that Malachi fails them.
“I’ve been scrupulous about building an unblemished reputation for exceptional hospitality, so that any man who is a guest beneath my rooftree can be assured of the utmost courtesy. No man can accuse me of the smallest degree of mistreatment here; no guest needs to enter my gates carrying a sword, and everyone knows it.”
“These are men we have fought, my lord!” Murrough argued. “They should have the edge of the sword, not a fat goose.”
“There is more than one way to win a victory, Murrough. Carroll could tell you of times when battles were won, when no man felt dishonored and no blood was spilled. If you would only listen to him …”
“Trickery and guile,” Murrough said angrily. “If you meet men on the battlefield you solve everything at once, cleanly. All of this subtle playing of games accomplishes nothing! The Connachtmen, if they come, will have full bellies at our expense and a good look at our defenses, and what will you have gotten in return?”
Brian grinned, almost like a small boy for one brief moment. “Why, I’ll have the pleasure of sitting on my High Seat and watching them try to figure me out!”
They came to Thomond, the hardy, thin-lipped princes of Connacht, in their chariots or on horseback, surrounded by spear carriers, restless of eye and nervous of hand. They
came to see and assess the strength of the king of Munster, and they stayed to wonder.
And to laugh, and sing, and dance.
Christmas at Kincora.
Brian greeted each of his guest with open-handed cordiality, appearing oblivious of their suspicious faces and armed escorts. Carroll entered each name on the list he was compiling for the king. (“Any man who comes will be brave, Carroll, and dangerous. It’s good to have a record of such men.”)
Lavish guest houses had been built for the visiting nobles, and the royalty of Connacht could not fail to notice that theirs were as sumptuous as those furnished the princes of Munster—or more so.
The whole of the tenth month was given over to holy celebration and feasting in the palace on the Shannon. The bishop of Munster presided over the religious ceremonies, and the numerous abbots and bishops who owed their appointments to Brian were conspicuous by their presence, and lavish in their praise of the king.
“No man in Ireland has worked so hard to build and strengthen the Church since blessed Saint Patrick himself!”
“King Brian is a man of great piety, as his works demonstrate. How fortunate we are to live beneath his protection and see him march in the name of Christ against the heathen!”
Guaire of Aidne whispered behind his hand to Ruanaid of Delbna, “Wasn’t there some scandal a time back about this Brian Boru and the monasteries?”
Ruanaid shrugged. “I seem to remember hearing of it, but apparently all is forgiven now. It was something about manuscripts, some rare books that he spirited out of the country … I forget how it went. But you always hear tales.”
Guaire nodded. “That’s a fact. I had heard, before I came down here, that we would be met by an army and all taken hostage; then I heard from another source that we were to be murdered before the first night was over. Instead we are treated like members of the king’s own tribe, and I’ve never been better fed in my … damn it, man, get your knife out of that pork! I had it first!”
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