Lion of Ireland

by Morgan Llywelyn

  Malachi Mor rode at his side, and people watched with wide eyes as the great kings passed by together. A few rocks were thrown in Oriel, but many roses. In the night Brian and Malachi chatted pleasantly over goblets of mead in a noble’s guest house, discussing the many things they had in common.

  But never Gormlaith.

  The heathered hills and valleys fell behind them, and the vast ecclesiastical community of Armagh lay before them.

  Brian Boru remained a guest of the clergy of Armagh for seven days. The bishop Muirecán consulted his soul and his God at an altar Brian had gifted with twenty ounces of gold, and was at last ready to make a statement.

  “My lord,” he said as he addressed Brian in the presence of the priests and princes assembled for the occasion, “we believe it is the will of God, expressed through Our Lord Jesus Christ and His Holy Mother, that all men should be brothers. It is therefore right and fitting that the entirety of Ireland be united under one Christian ruler, and we will use all our influence to support your authority in the temporal world.”

  Brian bowed formally. His gleaming hair was uncovered, and the robe that sheltered him was cut as simply as a monk’s, though it was of a snowy wool lined with silk no monk should possess. “We are allies before God and man, then,” he replied, “and in accordance with my acknowledged temporal power I, Brian mac Cennedi, Ard Ri of all Ireland, do hereby confirm the ecclesiastical jurisdiction of the bishopric of Armagh, the foremost apostolic city in Ireland, and support its claims to primacy.

  “The struggle is not over yet, my brothers. Much work is still to be done, by both the spiritual and temporal leaders, before our land can truly be described as Christ’s empire. With your help and support I will persevere in this task, to the death if necessary. In your presence this day I will commend my soul to God … and my body, when I am dead, to Armagh.”

  The cheering of the reserved bishops and staid priests carried to the ears of Brian’s guards, encamped outside the gates, and they grinned at one another.

  The book of Armagh was brought to him, its vellum browning with age, that he might officially enter his recognition of the overlordship of the Armagh clergy, and he smiled as he turned the pages of beautifully illuminated script. He saw the tiny horses and lions of pagan Ireland, painted in brilliant inks and edged with gold, their figures entwined with timeless Celtic art to form the letters of the Christian record.

  Maelsuthainn O Carroll stepped forward, lifting his quill as a round-faced young cleric from Portadown brought inkpots and blotting sand. Carroll bent over the opened Book and began, with reverence, to inscribe in his precise Latin the words that would outlive them all.

  “Saint Patrick, when going to heaven, decreed that the entire fruit of his labor, as well of baptism and causes as of alms, should be rendered to the apostolic city, which in the Irish tongue is called Ardmacha. Thus I have found it in the records of the Irish. This I have written; namely, Maelsuthainn, in the presence of Brian, Emperor of the Irish, and what I have written he has decreed for all the kings of Cashel.”

  Carroll stepped back and Brian looked down at the words on the page, the damp ink still glistening with a life of its own.

  Brian, Emperor of the Irish.

  In Brian’s absence Gormlaith paced the courtyards of Kincora, or roamed the flower-starred fields alone, her unbound hair streaming down her back, her head scandalously uncovered, like a maiden’s. When Brian returned she welcomed him with fevered intensity. And when the pressures of kingship called him away from her, as they did constantly, she began to imagine the other women, in other halls, who must be sharing his body.

  Her dreams became cruelly detailed and vividly colored, and she awoke from them sweating. Time passed for her as it did for them all, and when she stared into her mirror she fancied accelerated signs of decay with every dawn. When she looked at Brian he seemed more beautiful than ever to her, and she imagined fair young hands clutching at him wherever he went.

  The sickness festered in her.

  Her abused maid, cheered by the sight of her suffering, began dropping wide-eyed hints about this lady and that princess, always young, always beautiful; women who had found favor in the king’s eyes. With a skill born of equal parts of hatred and envy, she found numerous subtle ways to call Gormlaith’s attention to her age—and Brian’s frequent absences.

  Gormlaith dismissed the girl and took a new one, a frog-faced woman, neither young nor comely, but the damage was done. When next she was with Brian her mouth spewed accusations at him and she was powerless to stop the flow; she watched, trapped behind her eyes, while he drew back farther and farther from her. In her lonely bed she dreamed terrible dreams.

  She sent a hysterical letter to her brother Maelmordha, claiming that Brian had abandoned her to pleasure himself with other women.

  Maelmordha read the letter and laughed. “My sister has finally found a man she cannot control at all, and it’s chewing her up!” In a rare good mood that night, Maelmordha was even kind to his own wife.

  Gormlaith confronted Brian in his chamber. When she first entered he was pleased to see her, but one look at her eyes warned him off. She blazed like a dry log in front of him, her voice shaking as her body trembled with angry passion.

  “You leave me alone in a cold bed, but you find time to go all the way to MacLiag’s hall to play your harp, or hours to spend with your blind friend. At least, that’s what you tell me. But I know the truth! You are fumbling some harlot in dark corners! How dare you set all the evil tongues at Kincora laughing at me! How dare you!”

  He stared at her. “Gormlaith, that simply isn’t true. I don’t have to deny it, it’s pure fantasy, and I resent your accusations.” He thought he understood. It was no doubt another ploy in the elaborate mating games she invented; he was intended to force himself on her now, to prove his lust unused. A battleground, Brian thought ruefully. My marriage bed is nothing more than another battleground, and I must prove myself again and again.

  It grows tiresome.

  She wanted to throw herself in his arms and be comforted, to hear him whisper tender reassurances, to beg his forgiveness and laugh with him about her foolish jealousy. But the thing was a cancer, eating at her, and his denial had not lessened its grip on her. She must not weaken herself with submissive longings! If he was bored now, as his expression indicated, how would he react if she were to turn into a cuddling simpleton?

  She threw back her head so that the long line of her throat was bare to him, down to the cleavage of her heavy breasts. Defiance was a familiar pose, perfectly suited to her enduring beauty. “I know the truth, Boru. You are becoming a senile old man who wants young flesh. Well, I am not senile, nor will I ever be, and there are men by the score who desire me and will fall over their own feet in their eagerness to warm my bed. I have but to beckon, so …” she snapped her fingers and tossed a lock of red hair out of her eyes, “ … and I will never lack for company!”

  She was magnificent. She was the embodiment of challenge and they both knew it. After a lifetime of meeting challenges, Brian was no longer really hungry for another, but was the habit old and deep in his bones.

  “There is only one way to close your mouth, Gormlaith,” he told her. He pulled her body against his and clamped his mouth down on hers.

  As soon as she was asleep, he slipped quietly from the bed and made his way into the peace of the open air. Gormlaith awake in the gray light of early morning, shivering and alone. The bell rang a melancholy note in the distant chapel yard, and the dismal light and damp air told her the rains had begun.

  Carroll sat in Padraic’s cottage that winter, while the soft rains of Thomond soaked into the thatch above them, and told the tale over and over again. Padraic never tired of hearing about the words written in the Book of Armagh.

  “In the spring,” Carroll informed him, “the king will make a royal circuit of all the kingdoms of Ulster, now that the clergy have given him their unqualified support.”


  “Will he be safe?”

  “You’re really getting old, if you’ve taken to asking questions like that!” Carroll teased. “But you’re not the only man on earth who can guard Brian’s back, my friend. We would all die rather than let harm come to him—though in case of danger it is more likely the king would rescue us than the other way around.”

  “It has been so, many times,” Padraic nodded.

  “There’s no need for concern. Word has gone out from Armagh; even the warring princes are not likely to harm him now. So rest easy, Padraic.”

  The royal circuit of the Ard Ri, that next year, included more than warriors. It was the most elaborately equipped journey ever undertaken by a king of Ireland. Even those who were not overawed by the endless ranks of marching Leinstermen and Munstermen, the rows of Dublin Norse in their chain mail, the haughty entourages of the kings of Connacht and Ossory, were impressed by the size of the High King’s retinue and the splendor of its outfittings.

  Malachi did not ride with them. The business of Meath demanded his full attention that spring, and so when Gormlaith demanded to know if her husband was once again leaving her behind—“while you sample all the silken beds in Ulster!”—Brian was able to reply smoothly, “Of course not, Gormlaith. I intend to take you with me.”

  He chuckled at the look of blank astonishment on her face. That night they shared a bed, and their rich laughter—one the echo of the other—floated on the evening breeze.

  “I didn’t think you would ever take me with you,” Gormlaith told him as she lay in the curve of his arm, her hand resting lightly on his bare chest. “I thought …”

  “I know what you thought. Ssshhh.” He stroked her hair.

  “Don’t ever leave me again!”

  “Ah, Gormlaith, sometimes I must. You know that. My kingship is not ceremonial; everywhere I go there is a great deal of work to be done and having you with me would just mean endless hours alone for you, waiting.”

  “I can entertain myself,” she said, and instantly regretted it.

  Brian smiled. “I know. That’s one reason why I don’t take you more often.”

  She started to get angry, but even as the flame leaped within her she forced herself to smile back at him. He really understands, she thought, astonished. “Brian?”

  “Mmmm?”

  “When you’re away from me, you … you do take care of yourself, don’t you? You are … safe, with all your guards and your Dalcassians around you?”

  Brian rolled over in surprise and stared at her. “You worry about me?”

  “Of course! Did you think I did not?”

  “Frankly, I never imagined you being fearful, for yourself or me or anyone else,” he told her.

  She paused before answering. “I never was … before. It is not a feeling I enjoy.”

  Brian’s eyes were smoky. His hand moved on her. “You like this feeling better?” he asked.

  There was no need to answer.

  Murrough, at Brian’s specific and repeated invitation, at last consented to join the tour, though he rode with the warriors rather than the Ard Ri. He saw men bowing to his father, however; saw the respect, even awe, on their faces when they asked the Ard Ri’s opinion in some matter and listened, breath held, to his words. He saw women who had not lost husbands and sons to the Ard Ri’s warriors throw flowers into his path, and gaze after him with love and gratitude.

  “The trouble came on us at Aileach,” Carroll told Padraic afterward. “Until then our journey had been one long triumph, and everyone seemed to welcome Brian and the queen. Ah, you should have seen that one dancing at the folk fairs, Padraic! But when we entered the land of the Cenál Eógain things began to go sour. We were entertained by Flahertagh of the Hy Neill at his stronghold. Not a lovely palace like Kincora, but an immense fort, a huge stone cashel with walls seventeen feet high and seventeen feet thick, perched right on the bare summit of Greenan Mountain. Flahertagh claims that it is as old as Tara, and I was careful to agree with him in his own house, but I think he’s mistaken. Ancient Aileach surely is, but the evidence would indicate …”

  “What about the trouble!” Padraic cried. He was squirming on his stool, twisting his tunic in his distress. “You’re as bad as MacLiag, Carroll; you give me bowl after bowl of soup and never get to the meat.”

  Carroll sighed. “It is simply told, then. The queen took the notion that Brian had been making secret visits to the bedchamber of a princess of Flahertagh’s own household, and she charged him with it publicly, in the banquet hall. Her voice carried all over Aileach.” Carroll winced, remembering. “The king denied it, of course; there was nothing to the accusation and we all knew it, but Gormlaith raved on and on about it until the very air tasted bitter, and we left Aileach sooner than we had planned.”

  “What gives her these notions?” Padraic wondered.

  “Her own reputation, most likely. At any rate, Flahertagh lost his taste for hospitality and we were given no hostages of honor, though we took others farther on in Ulidia. But whatever headway the king had made with the lords of the Hy Neill was severely damaged by Gormlaith’s behavior. Brian was in a cold fury and Gormlaith was in a hot one, and the rest of our journey is too painful to recount.”

  Padraic’s useless eyes were dark hollows in his face. In the dim light of his cottage there was a skull-like quality about his features. “I’ve had a bad feeling about that woman from the very beginning, Carroll,” he said somberly. “From the very beginning.”

  “Aye, I know that, my friend. But still … what a woman she is, Padraic! If only you could see her, you would understand.”

  “Then it’s fortunate I am to be blind,” Padraic answered.

  In the following years there were more royal circuits, though they did not include Gormlaith. Defying Brian and Armagh, Flahertagh attacked the Ulidians and took hostages after a savage battle. When Brian was informed of it he marched north with a large army and met Flahertagh on the battlefield, and this time he did not withdraw. The dead lay in rows on the grass, and Brian crowned his victory by taking the Ulidian hostages away from the king of the Cenél Eógain. The next year he returned with an even larger force, camped threateningly within a half day’s march of Aileach and waited.

  In time, Flahertagh came to him.

  Brian returned to Kincora with his hostages and his full submission.

  Brian returned to Gormlaith and the accusations and quarrels that were seeping into the very stones of Kincora. Mistrust was in the air. Men watched their wives watching the king; old friends and allies began to make less frequent appearances at Brian’s banquet table. Wives watched their men watching Gormlaith, but she had eyes for no one but Brian now. Hungry green eyes that followed his every move; eyes that blazed into battle flame and then were softened by the reconciliations that followed less and less frequently as time passed. Brian was too busy fighting in other ways and on other fronts.

  The day came when the Ard Ri accepted the total submission of the Cenél Conaill, and the clash of sword and battle ax was heard nowhere in Erin.

  A story was told from tuath to tuath, until at last a poet immortalized it in song, about a beautiful young maiden, richly dressed and laden with jewels, who crossed the country alone from Tory in the north to the Wave of Cleena in the south. Without guards and without fear she traveled the length of Brian’s Ireland, and no man molested her.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  An emerald land. Soft rain, white sun on silvery beaches, the booming of the surf pounding implacable cliffs. Cattle fattening in lush meadows, swords and spears rusting in dark corners. There was peace throughout Ireland, except in the marriage of its High King and in the hearts of men.

  The tiny pockets of the Old Religion clutched at the tenuous threads of existence in secret places. In the heart of the forest, woodswomen met to celebrate life and gaze into the clouded future, praying. The little old woman with brown eyes like dark stars turned to the others and shook her head. “A storm is coming,
” whispered Fiona. “We must make ready.”

  In hidden glens, in misty fairylands of fern and moss, growing things pushed upward to the light and found their way blocked by stone. With the stubborn persistence of life, they split the stone.

  Wild geese battled in the shallows, fighting to prove themselves in the sparkling eyes of a watching female who pretended to be busy preening her feathers.

  Children ran and played and quarreled, fought and cried and played again.

  In a sunny courtyard at Kincora, a fat tabby cat lay stretched upon the stones, lazily flicking the tip of her tail as she watched her kittens tumbling over one another. A wee black one spied the slight, rhythmic movement and crouched down, wagging his own small stern to build up momentum. Then he launched himself into the air and fell on his mother’s tail with savage fury, biting and growling, striving to disembowel this delightful new enemy with the absurdly tiny claws of his miniscule back feet.

  In the spring, the wolves came down from the hills and attacked the new lambs.

  Maelmordha felt as tight as twisted hemp. Of late, everything that happened in his life seemed to be a direct assault on his person by some inscrutable Fate. The well at Naas went bad and his family sickened; he developed a painful boil in his armpit and the physician who lanced it opened a vein by mistake; he awakened every morning with a mouth that tasted like an open grave and the expectation that the day would go badly.

  His wife was whey-faced, his children stupid, even the walls of Naas exuded a miasma that added to his depression. Then he thought of his sister, living in luxury at Kincora. Kincora, with sweet water and skilled physicians and seaweed brought all the way from Cape Clear to salt the food. Kincora, with beautiful women and casks full of wine.

  He decided to pay a royal visit to his near-brother, the Ard Ri, and see the lovely ladies Gormlaith mentioned continually in her letters. The prospect of making the journey to Thomond cheered him, but only temporarily. By the next morning his enthusiasm had faded and he lay in bed, staring at the walls and thinking darkly of all the things Brian Boru had that he, Maelmordha, had not. When his body servant came to dress him he cuffed the boy and swore at him, and that morning he stomped about his fortress, overseeing the preparations for a state journey and cursing resentfully at every one of them.