“I proclaim you king of all Leinster, my tributary province,” Brian announced formally and Maelmordha received the long-desired prize from the hands of his erstwhile enemy with very mixed emotions.
Gormlaith, with a full retinue of servants, was installed in a splendid new apartment built for her a short distance from Brian’s private chamber. The inner walls were hung with green velvet and a blanket of white fur covered the bed. Gormlaith looked around her new home with satisfaction. “At last I have what I deserve,” she remarked to her body servant.
The maid, who was of another opinion, made no answer.
Marcan, who had added to his titles that of abbot of the new religious community at Iniscealtra, performed the purification rites before the ceremony, and the bishop of Cashel celebrated Mass. In the banquet hall Brian and Gormlaith stood together to hear the reading of their marriage contract; he, clothed in royal purple and holding the wand of his authority, she, dazzling in cloth-of-gold, a fortune in pearls starring her high-piled hair.
MacLiag exhausted himself creating an epic poem which he recited at the lavish wedding feast, and took to his bed for a fortnight. Maelmordha quarreled with Core, Brian’s head steward Thomaus, King Lonergan and Murrough, who in turn argued with Cian, Duvlann, Leti’s eldest daughter, and the wealthy king of Onaght—who stomped from the hall before the sweetmeats were served. His wife watched him go and sighed, then swiveled around on her bench to resume her conversation with Donogh—a pleasant man of even temper who knew how to talk to a lady.
Murrough’s pregnant wife ate too many scallops and was extravagantly sick. One of the hounds overturned a lamp and the resulting fire smoked a freshly limed wall. Six buckets of water and a barrel of wine were required for its extinguishing—the water going on the blaze and the wine into the fire fighters.
The musicians played until dawn, and the dancers over flowed the banquet hall and swirled through the courtyards in a rainbow of brilliant colors, their laughter a little drunken, their hilarity unrestrained.
Brian waited in his chamber for his bride to be brought to him. He dismissed his body servant and paced restlessly about the room, pausing to pound a cushion into plumpness, smooth the linen sheet on the bed, extinguish a lamp.
He waited.
He combed his beard once more, making sure the track of the comb lay in precise, wavy patterns through the dampened hair.
No one knocked at the door.
He opened it and peered out, startling the guard. “You aren’t needed here tonight; go away!” he ordered the man, who bowed respectfully and marched off.
No one came.
At last, in a cold fury, he wrapped his bratt around him and stalked to Gormlaith’s apartment, flinging the door wide and dismissing her maid with a curt nod.
Gormlaith sat on a fur-cushioned bench, her hair falling about her in a gleaming curtain, a half-drained goblet in her hand. The honeyed scent of mead was on her breath. “What right have you to burst into my chamber!” she exclaimed.
“I sent for you, my lady, a long time hence. May I remind you that I am your king and husband, and this is our wedding night?” To his surprise he found that his hands were shaking and he clenched them into fists, holding them close to his sides.
“I know that, Brian,” she replied coolly. “May I remind you that I am not accustomed to being ‘sent for,’ as you put it? I am no slave to be ordered about! When I am ready to join you, I will; I think it imperative that we establish the grounds for our relationship at the very beginning, to avoid future misunderstandings.” As she spoke she tossed her goblet to the floor, spilling the dregs into the scented rushes freshly spread there. She stood up with deliberate languor and looked haughtily into his eyes.
Suddenly he knew her. Knew her all the way, as a man knows a familiar room. It had long been said of him that he could see into the hearts of men; for the first time in his life that was true of a woman as well.
He saw her as she was and as she might have been, almost a twin to him, his character expressed in the female. But in her case the powerfully driving ambition was thwarted, the tremendous pride rubbed raw, the fine intellect unused, the rich passion prodigally misspent. Somewhere inside her had dwelt a child not unlike his own small self, full of dreams and optimism. Life had soured that aspect of Gormlaith, turning the child into a vicious and destructive imp that would punish the adult world with whatever weapons came to hand.
There was a time when he might have found her, touched hands with her, led her forward with him into the future that was so right for both of them. But they had been miles apart then, unknown to one another and growing in different directions. Whatever she contained of gentleness and poetry had become buried beneath a crust so hard it abraded all who came in contact with her. Her abilities wasted, all gifts save that of her body unwanted, Gormlaith stood before him armed only in her defiance, and Brian understood her completely.
I could have tamed her, he thought. When I was younger, tireless, I would have tamed her and taken joy in doing it. But in all those days I never found the woman on whom I could spend all of myself, just as she obviously never found the man to meet her challenge. There is nothing in her that asks for love in this moment—she only demands to be conquered.
“Yes,” he said aloud to her, his deep voice thunderous in the quiet room, “I think we should establish our relationship, right now. You are a prize of war, Gormlaith. A trophy. Mine, to do with as I will!”
Her face went white with anger. She clamped her full lips into a thin line, a crimson slash between locked jaws. She raised her hands, hooking them into predatory claws that raked the air, the polished nails seeking his face, but he caught them easily and held her at arm’s length.
“You forget yourself, woman,” he told her as she fought with astonishing strength to free herself. “I am the master here!”
He slung her away from him so that she staggered backward until the bed struck the backs of her legs and she fell across it, screaming her rage at him. In one swift movement he divested himself of his tunic and threw his body over hers, pinning her beneath him. It took all the experience of a warrior to hold her there while he ripped her clothing aside, for she fought him as no woman ever had, and when the barriers between their bodies were removed he took her with neither art nor tenderness.
It was like plunging into heated honey.
Once I would have done this night after night, he thought, ramming into her with all his strength. Night after night, like pounding beef with a stone to make it tender. I ached for that, lay awake in agony imagining it. Where were you then, Gormlaith?
Writhing beneath him, fighting, scratching, pummeling his hard back with her fists, Gormlaith realized quite suddenly that she was only acting out a role. I am playing at being Gormlaith as she has always been! she thought, with vast surprise.
Brian’s strength was so far beyond hers that it no longer seemed necessary to challenge it. More than anything else, she found herself wanting to melt into boneless surrender. Through slitted eyes she saw the beads of sweat on his brow and longed to reach up and wipe them away—gently. As the thought came to her, something gathered itself in her body that had never been there before; a heavy, unbearable sweetness, an intense concentration of pleasure almost identical with pain, a maelstrom spiraling downward into a total loss of self she had never imagined and could have never surrendered to until this moment.
She ground her hips together, squeezing him with the female power she had never fully appreciated before, drawing from him the explosion of ecstasy that must be had at all costs. It was impossible that there could be so much, but there was, there was, there was!
They lay on their backs, side by side, their hoarse breathing a perfectly merged duet. Brian felt burned the length of his body by the incredible heat of the woman. The total expenditure of himself left him drained, unable to move, listening with a foggy sense of detachment to the pounding of his own heart.
The pounding was too v
iolent and it lasted too long, and finally he realized it. He began to draw deep, careful breaths, willing the overtaxed machinery of himself to reduce its pace. My God, he thought, uncertain if it were prayer or profanity.
Their shoulders were touching. Gormlaith felt a powerful urge to roll over and snuggle in his arms, a hunger almost as intense as the irresistible sexual hunger so recently satisfied.
Would he hold me? Would he push me away? It was the Gormlaith I have always been that he responded to; what if I were to reveal this new, soft side of myself? Would he welcome it? Or be bored by it?
Behind her closed eyelids she pictured him, taller even than she, stronger, a creature out of legend. He thinks he has found in me a complement to himself, she reasoned carefully, reluctantly. There must have been many gentle women for him, but who else could come close to matching him physically? That must be what he wants from me—a mate for a lion. He would only have contempt for me if he knew about this new aspect of myself that I have just discovered, this tender, submissive Gormlaith who must have hidden inside me all these years without my knowing.
If she were any other woman, I could hold her close now, Brian thought. Now would be the tender time. The body cools too fast, suddenly separated from other hot flesh, and I feel strangely hollow. But if I reach out and put my arms around Gormlaith she might scratch out my eyes; she might do anything.
He shifted slightly and felt the sharp sting where her nails had raked his back and sides.
Yes, better to leave her alone.
I am afraid, Gomlaith thought. I really am afraid. I am no longer in possession of my self! Please, God … I do not want to be vulnerable!
When Brian’s breathing told her he had fallen asleep, she eased her body from the bed and went to get a light for her candle. She set the glowing cylinder of mutton fat on the chest next to the bed and sat down again. Slowly, with infinite care, she drew her feet up and then rearranged her body until she lay stretched beside him. Propped on one elbow, she studied his features in the golden light. There was nothing in that face that disappointed her, not one strong plane or chiseled curve she would have changed.
Boru, she said in her heart. Boru.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
It was Carroll who voiced the question burning every man’s tongue. “My lord, you are undisputed ruler of the greater part of Ireland,” he began one day as the two sat together, going over his records of the preceding year’s events. “Malachi rules only the north portion, and that indifferently. The Norsemen raid at will and he hears of it and sends warriors after the ashes have cooled. The northern tribes fight among themselves as constantly as ever. Travelers say that, compared to the peace and unity of Leth Mogh, Leth Conn is a miserable place.”
Brian finished reading a passage inked on vellum in Carroll’s flawless Latin, nodded approval, and carefully set it aside. He looked up. “So, historian?”
“The time has come … that is, everyone agrees …” He paused, chewing on his underlip. How Gormlaith would laugh if she could hear him edging timidly around the topic. She, who never hesitated to say in a strong voice on every possible occasion, “Brian Boru should be the Ard Ri!”
Brian took pity on him. “It’s all right, Carroll. In fact, I’m ahead of you. The news from Leth Conn is very disturbing to me; there are too many problems there which could erupt like running sores and poison the south.
“Malachi has had ample opportunity to prove himself a true king. The poets have always assured us that in the reign of a good and just prince the land will prosper, the cattle grow fat, and both men and animals be fertile. That situation exists in Leth Mogh, but not in Leth Conn. Irish people in the north are suffering and I can wait no longer.
“Yestereven I ordered officers to review their warriors and weapons supplies and start gathering whatever additional troops they may need, not only from Munster and Ossory but also from south Connacht, Leinster, and Sitric’s kingdom. The Ard Ri sits with his council at Tara, debating over problems he is unable to solve. Prince Donogh is a fine horseman and a cool leader of men who can be trusted not to make a thorny situation worse, so I am putting him in charge of a mixed cavalry to ride on Tara.”
Carroll’s mouth went dry. It had begun. “You won’t lead the first engagement yourself?”
Brian sighed. “No man lives almost sixty years as I have without learning some degree of caution. The time is still not right for me to appear at Malachi’s gates in the forefront of an attacking army. The people would interpret it as me, personally, coming to kill the Ard Ri out of envy and limitless ambition, and that’s not the impression I want them to have of me. I shall send the cavalry as an advance guard to give Malachi the opportunity of making a peaceful abdication. The cavalry is composed primarily of Leinstermen, so they can take the brunt of the blame when the histories are told afterward. I will follow them at a distance with my Munstermen, ready if needed.”
“You will nonetheless be accused of treachery and rebellion, my lord,” Carroll said sadly.
Brian shrugged. “I am not breaking the Brehon Law, nor my oaths of kingship. My allegiance is to Ireland before Malachi. If he is failing her, then I must take her side against him.”
Padraic’s face lit up when he heard the news. “At last!” he breathed, clasping his hands together. “I’d begun to fear it would never happen, that Brian would never openly declare his intentions. Thank you, Carroll, for bringing me this good news!”
“The king was waiting for the right time,” Carroll replied. “There is some inner voice that whispers to him—advance now, wait now—that the rest of us do not hear, Padraic, and he trusts it implicitly.”
Padraic smiled. “I know,” he said.
Gormlaith was ecstatic. “I shall be revenged on Malachi Mor!” she exulted, throwing herself into the king’s arms.
Brian disengaged himself and stepped back from her. “That’s not my intent, Gormlaith. I’ve had more than my share of vengeance, and it makes a thin soup. This is just the next step in my own destiny; it has nothing to do with you.”
The light in her eyes faded. “But you will depose him? You will destroy him?”
“I mean to replace him as ruler of all Ireland, yes. But I will do no personal harm to the man, nor will I allow any of my men to hurt him.”
“You can’t mean that! You have to kill your enemies, Brian, you have to …”
“Malachi Mor is not my enemy,” Brian said firmly. “I don’t intend to kill any man, if I can avoid it.”
She stared at him aghast. “I don’t understand you!”
“It seems to be a common problem,” he said, a little bitterly.
When Malachi had first learned of Brian’s marriage, his courtiers at Dun na Sciath feared for his sanity. He laughed until he was weak and his beard soggy with tears. He ordered fresh kegs of ale opened and a Mass said for the soul of Brian Boru. He walked his fields, shaking his graying head and talking to himself, chuckling, giggling like a green maiden, sometimes sitting down on a bench or a stone and convulsing with helpless laughter, holding his sides and whooping, “Boru and Gormlaith! Gormlaith and Boru!”
It was the high point of a year otherwise going badly.
Malachi convened the High Council at Tara, but none of the provincial kings attended. They all seemed to be too busy with other problems. And then the news came that a large force of horsemen was approaching from the west. With a face black as a thundercloud, Malachi ordered the army of Meath into the field to meet them.
The skirmish was brief and unexpectedly brutal. The cavalry, led by Brian’s foster son Donogh and Cian the Owenacht, was heavily defeated before actually reaching Tara, and Cian sorrowfully brought Donogh back, draped across his horse and covered with a bloody cloak.
“There was nothing to be done for it, my lord,” he told Brian. “The Leinstermen were not as skillful with their horses as they might have been, perhaps, but that didn’t decide the issue. We were simply outnumbered; it was as if the Ard Ri h
ad been waiting for us.”
I called Donogh my son, Brian thought, looking at the still shape beneath the hillocked wool. When he was still a baby I made myself responsible for him all the days of his life, and kept his secret in my heart. And now I have sent him to his death rather than lead the first step of revolution myself.
He turned to look bleakly at the massed ranks of Leth Mogh, waiting for the command to move on Tara. “We will not attack now,” he decided, “because Malachi expects it. We will take Donogh home and bury him as … an Irish prince should be buried, and challenge Malachi another day.”
Warned by the first encounter, Malachi prepared himself for all-out war. “I knew it would come to this,” he told his council. “I knew it the first time I saw Brian Boru. All Ireland is not big enough for the two of us.”
“He is a traitor and a usurper!”
“He is a good king,” Malachi said sadly. “If God is on my side, I suspect he stands equally with Boru. But … we will do what we can. The traditions of centuries must be defended. I will send for aid to my kinsmen in the north kingdoms and we will make a stand here.”
“You won’t go back to Dun na Sciath?” his nephew asked.
“There is no point to it. It’s Tara Boru he wants; he will come here.”
Gormlaith found it hard to believe that she was pregnant. But the evidence was undeniable; even her maid had taken to giving her simpering, sidelong glances, and her breasts were growing heavier daily, the nipples engorged, the aureoles roseate and tender to the touch.
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