“Why should we always have to take presents to the Ard Ri?” he snarled at his steward. “Why doesn’t he give them to us?”
The steward, well aware of the many gifts Maelmordha had carted home from Kincora in the past, rolled his eyes and shrugged.
“A man ought to be able to go for a pleasant little trip across the countryside to visit his sister, without impoverishing himself to please her husband,” he growled to his wife. She, who was thinking how nice it would be if he took his increasingly black mood elsewhere, made a noncommittal answer and a hasty exit.
The forests of Figili had yielded a splendid crop of timber that year, including three tall and perfect pines that seemed made to be the masts of ships. Maelmordha, who built no ships, had had them set aside for trade with the Dubliners, but now his eye fell on them and he determined to take them to Kincora as a present for Brian. “They’re no use to me, anyway,” he said with satisfaction.
The trees were too long to be carried on carts, and so a company of men was assembled to hoist them onto their shoulders and move them in that way across the heart of Ireland. It meant the journey would be slowed to their pace, but Maelmordha found a small pleasure in imagining what an impressive picture they would make upon their arrival—the great long trees, the sweating Leinstermen struggling beneath them. Surely the Ard Ri would be moved to give some particularly sumptuous gift in return!
The trip proved long and tiresome, and Maelmordha fretted at being forced to creep along at the speed of the tree-carriers. He galloped his horse up and down the line of his entourage, cursing under his breath. “It’s Gormlaith’s fault that I got involved in this ridiculous escapade,” he grumbled to one of the chieftains accompanying him. “She’s forever complaining of Boru’s mistreatment of her. If I didn’t have such a good heart, I wouldn’t waste my time going clear across Ireland to bring a little comfort to the woman—she never does anything for me.”
The road narrowed to a thin trail, winding through a bog whose treacherous ooze was notorious for the lives it had claimed. As the log-carriers reached the tightest part of the path, an argument broke out among them as to who should take the lead.
“Another delay!” Maelmordha fumed. “Before God, you all do this on purpose to frustrate me!” He swung from his horse to the road and stalked over to the leader of the company. “Here, I’ll put my shoulder to that log, and then there can be no question about who goes first!” He grabbed the man by the arm and jerked him roughly out of the way, setting his own shoulder beneath the coarse bark of the unpeeled log.
Maelmordha was wearing a gold-bordered silk tunic Brian had sent to him, a tunic further enriched with elaborate silver buttons. As he stomped along the path, swearing and shouting at the other members of the party, one of the buttons was torn loose by the tree bark. A page retrieved it and returned it to his king when they reached the far side of the bog.
Maelmordha stared down gloomily at the little silver disc. “Boru can afford silver buttons,” he remarked. “And I, the king of Leinster, have to carry trees through bogs!”
The delegation from Leinster arrived at Kincora after a difficult river crossing, in which two of the log-carriers slipped on the new Killaloe bridge and one man was crushed. Maelmordha sent his page to the palace gates to have the herald announce him, only to have the boy return with the news that Brian had gone to Cashel.
A sulky Gormlaith greeted him. Even at a distance she could see that her brother was in one of his evil tempers, and it seemed unfair to her that she should be left alone at Kincora to deal with it while Brian was in the south, collecting concubines and calling it statecraft. As servants hurried to prepare guest chambers for the king of Leinster and his party, Maelmordha and his sister faced one another with flaring nostrils in Brian’s banquet hall.
“I risked my life coming here to bring the Ard Ri some unusually fine masts for his ships,” Maelmordha complained, “and then he isn’t even here to see them arrive.”
Gowned in a robe of blue velvet, with chains of gold links crossed between her breasts, Gormlaith sank onto a cushioned bench close to the hearth and gave her brother a heavy-lidded look of contempt. “Why did you bother? Why come creeping across the land like some whipped cur to offer the Ard Ri your pitiful little gifts?”
“You wrote that you were unhappy and I wanted to comfort you,” he answered, trying briefly to control his choking distemper. Getting into a quarrel with Gormlaith could profit him nothing and only make him feel worse.
“Ha!” she sneered. “You forget, brother, how well I know you. I’ve written you many times of my problems and you never lifted a hand to help me. No, you’re here now because you got bored at Naas, or you need the Ard Ri to do something for you, or for some other selfish reason. You cannot fool a woman sprung from the same womb you were, Maelmordha.”
“You sound even more bitter than you did the last time I was here,” he told her.
“I have my reasons.” She turned away from him to gaze into the fire.
“Well, here, this will give you something to do to take your mind off your troubles.” He fumbled with the belt at his waist and pulled his damaged tunic free, lifting it over his head while Gormlaith turned back to watch him. The mat of hair on his chest was gray and coarse, and the rank smell that came from him to her flinching nostrils was of a sour body and a more sour disposition.
He tossed the tunic into her lap. “Since you reminded me that you’re my sister, sew this button back on for me before Boru returns and sees that his gift was damaged. You might as well be of some use.”
Gormlaith grabbed the soft fabric and leaped to her feet, glaring at him. “You dog! You lickspittle weasel! You come here knowing full well that I never do sewing, and yet you throw your filthy clothes at me—at me, your queen!—and demand that I work for you!” She whirled and tossed the tunic into the flames. It flared brightly into a shimmer of red and gold and a stink of burning cloth.
“There, sew it yourself, underling!” she snapped at him. “If I’m fit to wait on others so are you, Maelmordha; you’re little more than a servant to Brian anyway, sending him the spoils of Leinster, handing him a submission he would never have gained from our father or our father’s father. Shame on your beard, you so-called king!”
He stiffened in rage as she offered him the ultimate insult. Under the law, a woman could be set aside for calling shame on her husband’s beard, but there was no such redress for a sister’s venomous tongue. He stared at her in speechless fury while the rest of his silver buttons melted in the flames.
Gormlaith saw that she had stung him deeply; and pressed her attack with pleasure. “You are a nonentity to the Ard Ri, Maelmordha. He has no respect for you at all, didn’t you know that? He never has had, since he defeated you at Glenmama. He thinks so little of you that he feels free to ignore me, knowing that I may be offered any insult and you will do nothing about it. My own brother won’t defend me because he is a craven coward, dust beneath Boru’s feet!”
He would have struck her as he had on more than one occasion in their childhood, but the hall was full of her servants and Brian’s warriors. And all of them were laughing at him. Blind with anger, he bolted for the door to seek his own chambers. He felt a dizzying desire to howl and smash faces, curbed only by his equally strong instinct for self-preservation.
He passed a miserable night in the guest house, mauling his servants and drinking copious quantities of Brian’s ale. Sometime during the night he heard sounds which might have been the Ard Ri returning, but he did not venture out to see. He stayed in self-imposed isolation and nursed his grudges.
In the morning, hunger drove him to the banquet hall. Brian had indeed returned, but had not yet come to the hall. However, there was a bustle of activity, as usual. An impatient Gormlaith was awaiting her husband. Tables had been set up and a number of the nobles were playing chess, while others stood around watching them and making wagers.
Nearest the door were Conaing and Mur
rough, deeply involved in a game that might have been a life or death struggle. Maelmordha paused beside them, his attention momentarily drawn by the possibility of a gambit he had had some success with himself. He leaned over the chessboard, studying it intently, but neither man appeared to take any notice of him. He cleared his throat and Conaing flicked one glance at him, a glance that seemed brimming with contempt.
The smoldering within Maelmordha flickered into flame once more. Moving around to Murrough’s side of the table, he leaned over the shoulder of Brian’s son and whispered in his ear, “I promise you, if you move your bishop there, in two moves you will have the game.”
Murrough was tired. He had ridden through most of the night to see his father on a matter of some urgency, a rare disease that had broken out among the wild pigs and seemed to be infecting the domestic livestock in his tuath as well. The disembodied voice from behind suggested a move he had overlooked, and he followed it by making a confident swoop across the board with his bishop.
Gormlaith, noticing her brother with the group at the chessboard, sauntered across the room to watch.
Conaing hid a smile of victory in his beard and countered Murrough’s play with an innocuous-seeming move by one of his pawns.
Within two more plays he declared checkmate.
Gormlaith laughed.
Murrough scowled with annoyance, then suddenly realized the identity of the advisor who had misled him. He turned around to glare at Maelmordha. “Who are you to presume to instruct me in strategy, Leinster?” he asked in a voice sharpened by fatigue. “I seem to remember your giving bad advice to the Norsemen at Glenmama, too! Your judgment is always terrible, isn’t it?”
Gormlaith looked from Murrough to her brother. “Are you going to let him criticize you like that publicly?” she demanded. “Have you no pride at all, Maelmordha?” Her tone was contemptuous.
Maelmordha felt hot blood flood across his cheeks, staining them with the color of war. “Next time I will give the Northmen better advice and they will cut Boru down!” he cried. “He is not invincible; he is an old man and his enemies are anxious to sing at his wake!”
Murrough was on his feet in the blink of an eye. His hand was on the hilt of his knife. “You better find another yew tree to hide in, you coward!” he hissed. They leaned toward each other, the air between them tingling for the first blow.
“Please, my lords,” Conaing cried, stepping between them. “You are in the king’s house!”
“There will be another time, then,” Maelmordha promised, reluctantly turning away as he became aware of Brian’s men crowding around them.
“Whenever you say!” Murrough called to his back. “Soon!”
Maelmordha went to his chamber and ordered his servants to repack the garments they had just finished unpacking. “You won’t wait to see the Ard Ri?” they asked in surprise.
“We’re going back to Naas. Now!”
“But …”
“I have been insulted! Insulted in the High King’s palace, by members of his own family. So much for Boru’s precious hospitality! He is my mortal enemy as I always knew he was, and I will not spend another moment within his walls!”
When Brian came to the banquet hall to greet his guests he found the room a-buzz with news of their sudden departure. A hundred matters waited for his consideration, not the least of them being this new problem of Murrough’s, but if the king of Leinster was upset it must be dealt with immediately. Like his sister, Maelmordha soured as easily as milk in the sun.
“How long ago did he leave?” Brian asked. In the morning light the deep lines were clearly visible above his eyes, and two broad wings of white lay across his once-bright hair.
He was told, “Maelmordha and his party went out through the gates just a short time ago, they may not even have crossed the river yet.”
Brian sat for a moment in deep thought. Scores of faces pressed around him, each intent with business to be discussed, and directly before him stood his eldest son, fidgeting, already working up an anger if he thought himself slighted.
“I cannot go after him right now,” Brian said with regret. “But I’ll send someone … you, Corc, you have a smooth tongue and a soothing disposition. Take the fastest horse here and ride after the king of Leinster immediately. Apologize to him for whatever has gone wrong—be sure to put all the blame on us and none on him—and urge him to return so that we can settle the problem amicably. Meanwhile, I’ll try to find out what happened to upset him.”
A sharp gallop brought Corc up with Maelmordha’s retinue not far beyond the bridge. The disgruntled king had had yet another tribulation; his horse had stumbled and lamed itself, and progress had halted while Maelmordha took a mount from one of his courtiers. He had just decided that there was not a horse fit to ride in the entire party when Corc caught up with them, and Maelmordha greeted him with a face like a thundercloud. Naturally, Brian’s man rode a superb horse!
“What do you want now, Dalcassian!” he roared. “Has your master thought of some new insult to heap on my head, and sent you with it at the gallop, lest I get home without hearing it?”
Corc slid from his horse and approached the king on foot, mindful of Brian’s admonition to be as diplomatic as possible. “My lord,” he began carefully, “the Ard Ri only wishes to inquire after your comfort, and urge you to return to his hospitality …”
Before he could finish, Maelmordha exploded with a violent oath and a mighty swing of the heavy yew horse-rod he carried. It hit the unprepared Corc full on the temple, making a dismal wet thwack. Corc dropped to the ground without a sound. Blood ran from his ears and nose, forming red rivulets in the cart tracks of the road.
Breathing heavily, Maelmordha stared at the fallen man. He reached out with his foot and poked at Corc. It was like kicking a sack of grain.
“I think you have killed him, my lord,” someone said.
Maelmordha looked around at them. “It was provoked! I thought the fool meant to attack me!” No one said anything.
Maelmordha kicked once more at Corc’s lifeless body, then signaled two of his servants. “Carry this wreckage to the foot of the bridge and leave it there. We will waste no further courtesies on Brian Boru!”
It would be Core, Brian thought, looking down at the still body. His mind played tricks, interposing a hundred memories of Corc, alive and merry, between himself and the shattered ruin just laid before him.
“He was found at the Killaloe Bridge, my lord,” someone said. “Maelmordha …” The sentence was left unfinished, the one name hanging in the air.
Gormlaith was standing a short distance away, staring at the body with horror. When her brother was mentioned she raised her head and looked at Brian. The gray eyes that met hers were eyes a hundred men had seen as their last vision on earth, before the slashing sword; they were not eyes she knew.
“You said there was a little argument,” he accused. “You said it didn’t amount to anything.”
“There are always arguments … I never thought he would do this …”
“There are always arguments where you are, Gormlaith,” Brian said, his voice a spear of cold iron hurled directly at her. “I want you out of Kincora, woman. Forever.”
“You blame me?” she asked, frozen with shock.
“I want you out of Kincora,” he repeated in the same deadly voice. “Your murderous brother did this thing, but I know where the provocation lay. The best work I can do is cut you out of my world as I would cut an arrow out of my flesh.”
“It’s my world, too!” she protested.
“Not anymore. Pack your things and go, Gormlaith,” he ordered, staring beyond her. “You are my wife no longer.”
She was trembling from head to foot, but she would not allow herself to cry. She never allowed herself to be seen crying. Feeling sick, she walked slowly toward him, one painful step at a time, willing him to look at her.
He waited impassively until she stood right in front of him, her breath st
irring the ends of his beard. Her green eyes were the color of Ireland, and there were dreams and laughter in them that belonged to some distant past. He wondered, with a vast indifference, if she would yell or cry or fall at his feet. It would be easy to turn away from her if she did any of those things.
Behind him, Corc lay dead. With an intuitive ache in his bones, Brian knew that peace itself lay dead beneath the bloodstained wool.
“You would divorce me, Brian?” she asked. Her voice was deep and tightly controlled. “I thought you said you were through with acts of vengeance. Now you want to set me aside, and you absolve yourself of guilt by making it a retaliation for something my brother has done?
“That is beneath you, Boru! I suppose you will also send warriors after him to cut him down before he can leave Munster?”
She knows the words to wound, he thought. She knows too much; she burns too hot. She is an example of all that unbridled passion that would destroy my Ireland.
God help me, I still want her.
He closed his eyes briefly while he reinforced the inner walls that held pain at bay. He heard muttering in the hall, voices urging him to follow Gormlaith’s suggestion and send soldiers to drag Maelmordha back and punish him for his crimes.
How easily the pot boils over, he thought. And Gormlaith can never resist stirring it.
He opened his eyes. “No! As long as Maelmordha is still in Munster he is my guest, and I will not abuse the laws of hospitality. When I apply to Maelmordha for satisfaction, it will be at the door of his own house.”
Lion of Ireland Page 55