Lion of Ireland (63 page)

It was agreed that Sitric was once more restored to his full authority as the Norse king of the territory of Dublin, stretching from above Howth to Arklow. Trade could be resumed, so long as it included no acts of piracy against the Irish, and Sitric would owe his ultimate allegiance to Brian.

Brian spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. It was important to avoid humiliating a defeated adversary, when one wished him to be an adversary no longer. He spoke to Sitric as he would to another king of his own stature, and Sitric was aware of the courtesy and the effort it betokened.

As the first cold wind of the evening slipped, wraithlike, into the tent, swirling about men’s feet and wavering the lamplight, Brian decided the time had come.

He set down his half-empty cup and pushed away a soggy trencher of bread, stained with gravy. “There is one other matter, Sitric, that I would discuss with you before our negotiations are concluded and we feel safe to turn our backs on one another.”

Aha, Sitric thought. There is a sting in the hornet’s tail after all. Mow is the time when he grinds my face in the mud, reminding me of who won and who lost; but you will not make me eat clay, Boru!

“I will put it baldly,” Brian said. “This morning I hinted around the edges, but that is undignified treatment for a noble idea. Sitric, I want to end the division of Ireland.”

Sitric set down his own drinking horn abruptly, sloshing it. “You what?”

“All these kingdoms—Munster, Leinster, Dublin, Waterford—all these manmade boundaries that separate good folk and turn them into enemies; I want the borders negated. I want us to be, simply, all one people. The people of Ireland.”

“You are making some joke I do not understand,” Sitric said, frowning.

Brian’s face was sober. “I assure you, I am not.”

“Such a thing has never been done!”

“That’s what Malachi Mor said when I spoke of this to him. ‘It has never been, therefore it can never be.’ I do not find that a sufficient argument against anything.”

“But I am a Norseman! We are all Norsemen here!”

“Unless I have been misinformed, your mother is Irish, is she not?”,

“Yes, but ...”

“And you,” Brian turned from left to right, addressing the Norse guards, who lined the tent, looking at the food on the table with hungry eyes, “you have, many of you, Irish blood in your veins, or Irish girls in your beds and Irish children in your cribs?”

One by one, reluctantly, they nodded. There was no man present without one of those qualifications.

Satisfied, Brian allowed himself a slight smile. “Then we are already kin. A large tribe has greater wealth and strength than a small tribe, don’t you agree?” He looked around again, and they found themselves nodding once more.

He really means it! Sitric thought, watching him. The man is serious about making all Ireland one kingdom, and including the Northmen! as he stared at “Brian “he was aware of the gold thread that glittered in the silk of Brian’s tunic, and the richness of the fur that lined the cloaks of his princes. Sitric remembered the fine horses they all rode, the awesome strength they displayed in battle, the fine layer of glossy fat that was overlaying the men of Munster and their cattle alike.

A large tube is wealthier and stronger than a small one.

He leaned one elbow on the table and peered into Brian’s face. “What of the half-breeds, the Norse-Irish? Many of them are outlaws now.”

“You are one yourself, Sitric,” Brian said, “but I am not abusing you, am I? In my kingdom, you have as much right under the law as any other man.”

They gazed at each other across the table. Bjarni broke the silence by stepping forward from the place where he had stood as guard behind Sitric. “How can we be certain of your word, Boru? Treaties are made to be broken, as every man knows.”

“What assurances would you accept?” Sitric turned his drinking horn around and around in his hands, looking down into it as if he could see visions there. “Is it true you mean to challenge Malachi Mor for the High Kingship?” he asked bluntly. Sitting on Brian’s left, Murrough drew in his breath sharply, but Brian’s strong hand reached under the table and clasped his son’s wrist.

“How would you feel about it if I did?” Brian asked coolly. “I think my mother would be delighted,”

Sitric could not help responding with a smile. “Her grudge against the Ard Ri is as big as Tara hill.” His smile faded slightly, to be replaced by a squint of speculation. “Boru, you spoke of assurances . . .”

“Yes?”

“And you want us to establish bonds of amity?” “I do.”

Sitric’s nose and brow were shining with oil in the lamplight and a thin film of perspiration was forming on his scalp. “To forge bonds between tribes, nothing is more effective than the marriage rite that joins bloodlines, is that not true?” he asked Brian. “I hear you have an unwed daughter, Boru; a maiden of some beauty, I understand?”

Brian struggled to keep his face expressionless. You are asking a lot of me, God, he commented to the unseen Presence. “Yes, the princess Emer.”

“Then this is my suggestion. If you would see the Dublin Norse truly joined with the people of your Irish tribes, one great entity with you as patriarch, then give me your daughter to be my wife.” Before Brian could answer—he had only time to tighten his clamp on Murrough’s wrist—Sitric continued, “In exchange, I will pledge you the filial obedience a man may expect from his daughter’s husband.

“And furthermore, to make the bond unbreakable, I will give you something of equal value in return. As I said, Malachi Mor is my mother’s enemy, having insulted her to an unforgivable degree. You can erase that insult and make us truly kinsmen by making the Princess Gormlaith wife of Brian Boru.”

Brian prided himself on his ability to make decisions. His was not the way of Malachi Mor, asking the opinions of everyone around him and then vacillating among them. It was said of him with admiration that Brian Boru always took the full responsibility, for good or ill, and that was a reputation he cherished.

It sat hard on him now.

Every noble in his party would have a strong point of view to express, if asked. Beside him, Murrough was a-quiver with his; it came in waves from his indignant body. But this was the time of the cool head, and such an offer, distasteful though it might be, came as an unexpected gift. From God?

“My Emer is very lovely,” Brian said carefully. “All the princes of the kingdom have sought her hand.”

“But they are already your tributaries,” Sitric pointed out. “You have their allegiance now, and if you give her to one you might anger another who would nurse his resentment and strike back at your later. Give her to an outsider, and no Irish prince can say you showed preferential treatment to his rival.”

Brian looked at Sitric with new respect. “You have a cunning mind for a Norseman, Silkbeard.”

Sitric smiled. “A half-breed.”

“Ah, yes. Gormlaith of Leinster. You think you are offering me an equal treasure—my beautiful young maiden in exchange for an old woman already discarded by two husbands?”

Sitric scowled. “My mother is an extraordinary woman, Boru.”

Careful, feathers were getting ruffled. “The most beautiful woman in Ireland in her time; yes, I have heard that. But of course that was years ago, Sitric. What has she to bring to a marriage now that would make her a fair equivalent of my daughter?” He was aware that even as he spoke, Donogh was turning a dark red and grinding his teeth audibly. All the songs that Donogh had sung of late had been about Emer.

Sparring for time, Brian tried to recall if he had seen Emer show any sign of returning the young man’s affection.

“I can promise you a woman you could not equal in all of Europe!” Sitric said heatedly.

, “Well ... in that case, the matter is worth . . . consideration.” Who was the lad Emer had given a flower to as they were leaving Kincora? Was it Donogh? “But I must have some time for deliberation, Sitric; you understand. This is too serious a negotiation for a quick decision.”

Somewhat mollified, Sitric nodded agreement and the conversation turned to other topics. But no one had his mind on the new subject. Both Murrough and Donogh began ordering prodigious quantities of ale, and their agitation was echoed by the other Irish nobles at the table. The evening was losing its bloom.

A blond young man appeared at the entrance to the tent, dressed in the simple tunic of a minor page.

“There is an entertainment outside for the guests, my lord,” he addressed Sitric, “if they would like to see it.”

Sitric was surprised. His plans had not included such an event, but given the current atmosphere in the tent it was a welcome distraction—no doubt an inspiration of his steward’s. “Certainly, certainly!” he exclaimed, rubbing his hands together and rising hastily. “My lords, will you join me?”

They stepped into the cool night. Cool, but not dark, for a circle of flambeaux had been arranged in front of the tent. At one side a harper waited, caressing his instrument so that it sang with the wind. When the men emerged from Sitric’s tent he sounded a deeper note, a passionate, throbbing chord that repeated itself like the beating of some great heart.

A woman moved into the circle of light.

She did not walk, she swayed, she lilted between the torches and undulated over the grass. She was a tall column of green, like Irish moss, with a shawl of silk covering her hair and obscuring her face. As the music moved into an ancient ballad she moved with it, her feet following the elaborate patterns of the Celtic dance, her body rippling like the sea beneath an emerald surface.

The dance was a story of courtship and kidnaping, intended for group dancing, but the lithe woman somehow succeeded in bringing the tale to vivid life all by herself. She flirted, she shrank away modestly, she appeared to swoon and then recovered to dance with wild abandon as a duet of pipers joined the harper, filling the air with skirls of joyous melody.

She whirled and leaped with unfailing grace, managing to include in her portrait both the feminine charm of the girl in the story and the youthful audacity of her hotblooded lover. And as she danced she raised her arms and unfastened the white shawl, letting it spin out gracefully around her, its ends floating dangerously near the torch flame before it drifted to the earth. Without missing a step, the dancer raised her arms again to the mass of auburn hair piled and twisted atop her head, and in rhythm with the music she drew out the combs which held it and threw them aside, one by one.

The hair cascaded down her back. Down and down, to her waist, to her knees, tumbling in glossy waves until the ends of it curled about the bare ankles that flashed beneath the green velvet she wore. It was magnificent hair, burning like coals in the light of the flambeaux, and it drew a sigh of admiration from her audience.

‘ She kept on dancing, now quickly, throwing herself into the fire of the music; now slowly, with a languorous passion that promised inevitable surrender. There was not a man standing at the edge of the circle who did not feel his heart thudding heavily in his chest and his loins heating as he watched her.

Her hands fluttered like white birds to her throat and released the ties of her cloak, letting it drift downward to form a green pool at her feet. She was dressed only in the thinnest of silk shifts, every line of her curving, vibrant body plainly visible through the soft fabric. But if she felt the cold of the night air she gave no sign; a delicate sheen of perspiration from her dancing made her ivory skin glow. The watching men were not cold.

A warrior stepped forward with two naked swords. Bowing to the dancer, he knelt on the earth and laid the blades, crossed, before her. She tossed her head and the rhythm of the dance altered as her feet followed the song of the swords, leaping high from one small segment of defined space to another, dancing a measure in each right angle and then going to the next, her bare feet skimming over the blades.

The men were clapping in time to the music now, their eyes sparkling and hot.

The timeless tale rose to its climax, the low notes thudding with the tramping of the warriors’ feet as the maiden’s tribe came to her rescue; the high notes sweet with anguish as the lovers were torn apart. The dancer swayed, moaned, reached out in an ecstasy of longing directly in front of the transfixed Brian Boru. Her wide green eyes met his and locked with them, drawing him into the vortex of her own passion. Brian stood captive, oblivious of everything but the total concentration of life she embodied.

Looking into her face he saw Ireland itself.

The music sank to its tragic conclusion and the dancer sank with it, going to her knees in one fluid movement, her head sinking onto her heaving breast, her flaming hair flowing over her in a sheltering veil.

She knelt there at Brian’s feet while the storm of applause broke over her, and then slowly she raised her head and looked up at him, the green gaze meeting his once more, the same thrill running through them both.

Sitric’s amused voice came to Brian’s ears from very far away, “My lord,” he said, “allow me to present my mother, the princess Gormlaith of Leinster.”

*

He took the strong, capable hand that was not dwarfed in his, and she sprang lightly to her feet, standing proudly before him, her eyes even with his lips. Taller than a man, tall as a spear, was Gormlaith. And beautiful.

“You were here all the time,” he said to her, and saw in her eyes that she understood.

“Yes, my lord. And so were you.”

“Yes.”

They stood facing one another, carrying on their cryptic conversation as if they were alone in the world.

Suddenly Brian laughed, the bubbling laughter of a merry boy. “You are the worn-out old woman who is mother to Sitric Silkbeard!”

Gormlaith’s laugh was a match for his. “I am that! And you are the king of Leth Mogh, the one who eats babies and tamed a pookah.”

Chuckling, he bowed to her. “I am the very one.” Brian’s men were crowding around them, gaping at Gormlaith and trying to understand what was happening. Even Sitric was puzzled by Brian’s reaction.