Lion of Ireland (52 page)

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, feeling 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 long 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.

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 have 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!”

There seemed no limit to the food, a point not lost on the princes of Connacht, where times and cattle were lean. The roast ox and mutton customarily eaten in the wintertime were augmented by quantities of summer food, fowl and fish and cheese of every description, and such delicacies as salmon with woodruff and platters of scallops and periwinkles. Bowls of stirabout and clotted cream were set on every table, and the fragrance of bacon and sausage fought for supremacy with the sweet opulence of mead and the heady tang of beer. A year’s storage in the cool souterrains beneath Kincora were’ served in a month’s time, till bellies swelled and men looked at one another goggle-eyed.

Into such a scene came the new seanchai of the Dal Cais, a man chosen after long deliberation to replace old Aed. A distinguished ollamh of poets, he bore the proud name of Liag MacLiag, in honor of his father who had been a great poet before him. His appearance fitted his calling. Fine-featured, with a high forehead and a mane of fair hair, he paced solemnly along in Brian’s cortege, admiring everything with the dreamy detachment of a maker of songs. MacLiag was very much aware that, as a poet, his honor-price was the equal of a king’s, and he bowed to no man save Brian Boru.

Brian had welcomed MacLiag with a magnificent speech in the banquet hall, in which he called attention to the fact that MacLiag had once been court poet to Teigue O Kelly of Connacht.

“We are fortunate that the flower of Irish art and wisdom comes such distances to bloom at Kincora,”

Brian said. “My own secretary Carroll, who has been invaluable to me as an instructor and counselor, comes to us originally from a kingdom not known for its friendship with the Dalcassians But all men are welcome here”—he looked meaningfully at the Connachtmen—“and all who give me their allegiance are richly rewarded.”

On a fair bright day when the sun shone unclouded from its rise to its setting, and the grass was untouched by so much as a sparkle of frost, Brian escorted his guests to the gates of the fortress to view the in gathering of a vast tribute of cows from Leinster. MacLiag quickly composed a poem of praise, and at its close Brian turned to.the poet and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Well said, MacLiag! But wealth in cattle is nothing compared to the wealth of a poet’s talent. In possessing the bard MacLiag, Kincora already has treasure enough—we need no more. All the cattle you see there are yours, poet.”