Lion of Ireland

by Morgan Llywelyn

  It was inevitable that Brian should notice. He noticed everything. It was frightening to think that this ultimate expression of her vulnerability to him would soon be plain for all to see. I should be proud, she thought. What woman my age may still conceive unless she has borne a litter, one a year, throughout her adult life?

  The most private of smiles curved her lips. Of course, Brian would get me with child. I should have known it, there are enough mac Brians at Kincora to prove his potency. He did not even have to lie with me very often to accomplish it.

  The same thought occurred to Brian. “You carry my child?” was his first question.

  “Of course, my lord!” She flung her heavy hair back and gave him her most savage glare. There was no one to tell him that if he touched her then she would crumble. “I have known no other man here!”

  “I’m pleased to hear that. I know I haven’t given you enough of my time, Gormlaith, but I have little to spare. You are treated with absolute courtesy, however, and I do expect fidelity in return.” They sat together on the edge of her bed, her voluptuous body golden in the candlelight, and he leaned a little closer to her as he spoke. “I’m not as lenient as Malachi Mor,” he said in a voice with a sword’s edge to it.

  She held her breath. He would kill me. He would really kill me if I betrayed him. But how could I betray such a man as this?

  She wanted to nestle into his arms and feel his big hands stroke her hair. She wanted to be gentled, like a kitten or a colt, held close to the warmth of him and sheltered there. It was as if her own body had betrayed her, overwhelming her with these alien feelings. But when she looked at Brian’s face it was not welcoming but closed, and his arms did not open to take her inside. He gave her an absent-minded smile.

  “I’m pleased that you will bear me a child, Gormlaith,” he told her. “If it’s a son I will name him Donnchad, partly in memory of my good friend and son-in-fosterage Donogh.” He sat quietly, looking through her into the future, which had just claimed a new hostage. Another child to love and, perhaps, to lose. I have loved and lost too much, Gormlaith, he said to her in the silence of his heart. You were the woman I should have cherished, but there is not enough left of my strength or my years to divide between you and Ireland—and my first love was Ireland.

  There was something in the emerald depths of her eyes, just for a moment, that looked out at him with a wistful hope like a little girl’s. And something in him answered and yearned toward her. It made them both wary.

  Gormlaith flattened against her pillow of linen and goose-down, watching him, her white teeth set in her full lower lip. He stood up quickly and wrapped his bratt around himself. “I cannot stay with you tonight,” he said brusquely, “I just came to ask after your comfort.”

  She lifted her hands and pushed the blanket all the way down, baring her entire body before his gaze, angry with herself for making the offer but willing to do anything to hold him. Their eyes met again, and Brian’s were briefly naked with regret before he turned away.

  Outside her chamber he let himself lean against the hard, cool wall, waiting until the hammering of his heart slowed and he could trust himself to walk away. She had the ability to ignite a feverish desire, a thing that tormented a man and could not be set aside. But she must be conquered over and over again, night after night, fought into submission with all the weapons at his disposal, and it was too much. There were the Ard Ri’s allies to fight as well, and the years …

  At last he stood straight and walked with a firm tread to his own chamber.

  Alone in her bed, Gormlaith curled into a tight ball and pulled the blanket beneath her chin. The goosedown pillow was wet with tears.

  There was a pattern to Brian’s campaign that might have been reassuring, had the strength behind it not been so awesome. Brian marched large armies to the borders of resistant kingdoms and camped them there, threatening, but unless they were actually attacked no battle was initiated. The clenched fist waited, and in time it unrolled to reveal an open palm, in which the tokens of submission were laid.

  The kingdoms still giving unquestioned allegiance to the Ard Ri shrank until he felt himself alone on the island that was Tara hill.

  Only when resistance could not be broken by intimidation did Brian order the javelins hurled and the stones slung. It was necessary at Athlone, where Malachi and Conor of Connacht put together their last alliance against him, but Brian led the entire army of Leth Mogh into the field and the battle was over almost before it began.

  “With very few lives lost on either side, historian,” Brian emphasized to Carroll. “Be sure you write that plainly.”

  Conor submitted at once and sent hostages to Brian, who accepted them courteously, making a point of not mentioning Conor’s unfortunate defection.

  Malachi withdrew to Tara, to listen for the cold wind which would soon blow across the lake country, whipping the amethyst waters to milk.

  The army of Leth Mogh approached Tara and Malachi ordered out his remaining army, but there was no fighting. Brian sent word to Malachi that he had one month to make a decision: fight, with whatever forces he could bring to the battle, or submit unconditionally.

  Desperate riders raced up the Slighe Midluachra to the kingdoms of Ulster, to beg aid once more of the tribes of the Hy Neill, only to return at the end of the allotted time with exhausted horses and long faces. The princes of the north would not stand with Malachi.

  At the next dawn, Malachi wrapped himself in an inconspicuous country bratt and rode out alone from the royal enclosure, through the main gates and down the road to the west. In the distance he saw the huge encampment of Leth Mogh, spread over the meadows like a dark lake, waiting. By straining his eyes he thought he could make out the royal tent, and he imagined the raging lions on Brian’s flag, rippling in the morning breeze. He sat for a long time, looking, and then he rode slowly back to Tara.

  He signaled his cupbearer to pour him out a hearty measure of mead, and warm it at the hearth. He bade his body servant fetch his most regal cloak and buff the gold hilt of his sword. He took his time dressing, fussing with the combing of his beard and adjusting the heavy gold collar of Tomar to his satisfaction, but when at last there was nothing more to be done he knelt a moment in prayer, then walked with firm step from the House of the Kings.

  Murrough and Flann waited with their father in his tent. Conor mac Brian came running in with Duvlann, their eyes shining and their cheeks stung pink by the wind. “The Ard Ri is coming, my lord!” Duvlann exclaimed, and Conor added, “He is followed by his guard and his nobles, and a retinue of twelve score men!”

  “That seems an excessive number if he means to murder me in my tent,” Brian commented dryly. He went to the flap and looked out across the fields, toward Tara.

  “Malachi’s swordsmen are carrying their weapons in the position of submission, Father,” Conor pointed out from beside him.

  Brian stood very still, watching them come toward him. There was only trampled grass between them, but he seemed to see a winding, difficult road, stretching between unimaginable points. He had been traveling that road a long time. Now Malachi was coming to meet him.

  “Duvlann,” he said in a faraway voice, “I want as many horses brought up here as Malachi has men with him.”

  “You want twelve score of cavalry, my lord?” Duvlann asked.

  “No, just the horses. The best we have. And hurry.”

  Malachi Mor stopped before Brian’s tent and stood waiting. In that moment he appeared more regal than he ever had in his life—or ever would again. Even Brian’s sons bowed their heads in the presence of the Ard Ri. Brian went to meet him and once more they exchanged the kiss of greeting. This time Brian stooped so their eyes were on a level, and Malachi rewarded him with a faint smile.

  “It is over, Boru,” he said in a husky voice. “I will no longer oppose you.”

  “The Hy Neill have ruled at Tara too long, Malachi,” Brian said. “They have allowed Ireland to be a con
stant battleground, with each petty tuath-king the enemy of all the others. It’s a stupid, wasteful way of life.”

  “Strange words from Brian Hundred Killer,” Malachi remarked.

  “It was a lesson learned on the battlefield,” Brian told him. “Perhaps only a soldier can know the true futility of war. But if you will stand behind me, Malachi Mor—you and the other provincial rulers—we will teach that lesson to all of Ireland, and bring her out of the darkness into a new Golden Age.”

  Malachi was thinking hard. “You said, ‘provincial rulers,’” he repeated.

  “Of course. The Ard Ri must be more than the king of all the kings; he must be the king of all the people, and he will have to have the support of those men who are loved and trusted by the peoples of the individual provinces, as you are in Meath. I will do whatever I can to be certain of having your support in the new order.”

  Malachi nodded slowly. “I had to hear it from your own lips, I suppose, before I could fully accept it. You will be the Ard Ri, Boru?”

  Brian raised his chin and looked over Malachi’s head, over the gentle meadows, over the land he loved and had won.

  “I am the Ard Ri,” said Brian Boru.

  As Brian and Malachi spoke together in Brian’s tent, the massed ranks of the Meathmen waited outside, occasionally exchanging glances with the warriors of Leth Mogh. Each side was restrained, as there must be neither cheering nor jeering to dishonor the occasion, but across the lines a man sometimes saw a familiar face and a wink or a wave passed between them.

  The rumbling of the earth signaled the arrival of the horses Brian had sent for, and in a few minutes Duvlann stood at the tent flap. “My lord?”

  Brian nodded and gestured to Malachi to come outside with him. He looked approvingly at the glossy herd, each animal held in place by a capable horseman recruited and trained to his specifications. The horses were wellrubbed and sleek; a noble collection.

  Brian turned to Malachi and spoke formally, raising his voice to be certain that every word carried clearly. “Malachi Mor, I, Brian mac Cennedi, king of Leth Mogh and chief of the tribe Dal Cais, have this day accepted your tokens of complete submission to me. Let it be known throughout Ireland that you have relinquished the High Kingship to my claim, and that you are henceforth my tributary as king of the land of Meath.

  “In recognition of your homage, I give to you a subsidy of two hundred and fifty horses, the best in my possession, to be passed in turn to your personal retinue as symbols of the bond between us.”

  At last, too late, Malachi grasped part of the secret of Brian’s success. The faces turned toward them were all alight with admiration for the splendid gesture. In the ranks, soldiers on both sides were beginning to chant Boru’s name, the familiar chant that had already conquered most of Ireland.

  Well, I can be grand too, Michael thought. Once. There is nothing to lose, anyway.

  “Brian of Boruma, my men and I appreciate your generous token, and ask to be allowed to extend the same generosity in return.” He glanced toward the cluster of his officers and saw them nodding in understanding. Then he looked beyond Brian to the oldest and tallest of the younger Dalcassian princes, Brian’s son Murrough, a man who almost equaled his father in stature and fame as a warrior.

  “On behalf of the people of Meath, I would like to give these splendid horses here assembled as a gesture of friendship to … Murrough mac Brian. And I bow before his sire, the greatest champion in Ireland, the man most worthy to be Ard Ri.”

  The applause for Malachi’s gesture was unanimous and sustained.

  The day was spent in feasting, and by sundown preparations were underway for the breaking of camp next day. Malachi returned to the council chambers of Tara to set in motion the complicated transfer of ritual power from himself to Brian. In the spring there would be an inauguration on the most beautiful hill in Ireland, and a new Ard Ri would mount the Stone of Fal.

  I wonder if it will cry aloud for me? Brian asked himself. He had refused an escort and was walking alone at the edge of a small stand of trees some distance from the main body of his encampment. Wild geese called high in the sky above him, anticipating the sunset as they sliced down through the cool air to a distant lake. Flann and Conaing had both asked to accompany him, and he felt their disappointment when he insisted on taking this walk alone. Only Padraic would have understood.

  He passed into the shelter of the trees and walked through a sunlit rain of golden leaves. The slanting radiance of the dying sun gilded everything.

  This is what it feels like. The dream is reality, the impossible is accomplished. I am the king. I am to be Ard Ri.

  The trees watched him.

  He walked slowly, not seeing, his vision turned inward.

  Savor this moment, Brian, he told himself. Know what it tastes like, how much it weighs, the exact shape of it—do not let it drift away and be gone, unappreciated. For once in your life, take the time.

  My ships are in the Shannon, my warriors cover the plain, and it is all my doing. The peace that exists throughout the south was created first in my own imagination, and then I made it a reality. I, myself. If I had not lived and fought, it would not have been.

  He raised his head and continued to walk, his eyes turned in the direction of the setting sun. Beyond the Shannon, beyond Galway and Connemara, it sank into the Cold Sea in crimson splendor. Dying, it was more beautiful than in its brief day. The clouds that had haunted its pathway from the east were forced to reflect its glory, hurling purple banners across the lurid sky, lining them with the dazzle of gold.

  There was no one to share it with; there was no one who could have shared it. And then he thought of Gormlaith. Not Gormlaith as she was, but some younger, fresher girl who would have ridden beside him on a shaggy pony and swung a sword in his service in some prehistoric dawn.

  As he thought of Gormlaith, the sun sank below the rim of the earth and something dark moved across the land, accompanied by a rising wind. Brian shivered slightly, then began to grin. He knotted his muscles and tightened his skin, daring the chill to seep through to the bones beneath. He lashed out with one foot and kicked a drift of fallen leaves, sending a yellow swirl of them spiraling into the air to be caught by the wind. The leaves executed their own merry dance around him, and he threw his arms wide and laughed aloud.

  “I am the king,” Brian cried into the wind. “I am the king!”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Gormlaith bore Brian a son. The labor was prolonged and difficult; the midwives sent for Cairbre, and Cairbre sent for the priest, but at last Donnchad, entered the world with a scream from his mother and a great outgushing of blood.

  To her own surprise, Gormlaith felt very maternal about the red-faced, squalling baby. She was jealous of the wet-nurse and tried to feed Donnchad herself, only surrendering him when he repeatedly spat out her nipple with a grimace and turned his small face away. “I must be too old to have good milk,” she said regretfully, but as soon as the baby was fed she reached for him once more, insisting on keeping him in the bed with her.

  Brian brought Padraic to visit his new son. Gormlaith shuddered when the blind man entered the room. “What’s he doing here?” she demanded.

  “He’s my friend, Gormlaith, and I want him to see my son.”

  Gormlaith clutched the baby against her breasts. “I want no imperfects handling my child! Besides, how can he see—his eyes are useless!”

  Padraic pulled away as if he would leave, but Brian took him firmly by the arm and guided him to the bed. “Even without eyes Padraic sees clearer than most men,” Brian said, “and I trust him with my child as I have trusted him with my life.” He broke her grip on the baby, and in another moment the belching and bubbling little fellow was in Padraic’s trembling arms.

  “My lord, don’t do this; I’ll drop him!”

  “No you won’t,” Brian said, laughing, “just put your arm under him—so—there, isn’t that better? Feel how strong he is already!
”

  With hesitant fingers Padraic brushed the baby’s face and Donnchad immediately grabbed one of the fingers and began sucking it furiously. Padraic blushed to the roots of his hair. Brian chuckled, and Gormlaith, torn between anger and amusement, found herself laughing too.

  “He’s so little!” Padraic marveled.

  “I’ve thought that with all my children,” Brian agreed, not noticing the way Gormlaith’s eyes flashed jealousy at the mention of his other offspring. “But they do grow into real people in time, with God’s grace,” Brian continued.

  “Please, my lord, take him b-b-back!” Padraic begged. He felt the small burden lifted from his arms and gave a sigh of relief. He felt Gormlaith’s presence very strongly, and her resentment battered him.

  The king was soon called away to other matters. He gave Gormlaith a casual kiss on the cheek before he left, his hand guiding Padraic by the elbow, and he did not see the hungry way her eyes followed him.

  The inauguration was to be held at Tara as soon as all the arrangements could be concluded. Conor of Connacht had become engaged in a struggle for the over-kingship of his province with Ruairc of the Brefni, and the tribes of the kingdoms of Ulster were still independent of Brian’s influence and enjoying their perpetual wars with one another. Brian wanted to be recognized as Ard Ri immediately, so that he would have the authority to intercede in the politics of the north and bring the whole country to a condition of peace.

  When Brian emerged from his final conference with his nobles at Kincora and went to Gormlaith’s chamber, he found the room crowded with chests and bundles. “What is this, my lady?” he asked. “Everything you possess is piled in the middle of the floor.”