Pride of Lions (47 page)

he snarled. "I have another name for him."

Once Harold had rested from his journey his natural optimism began to emerge, however.

He spoke of fulfilling his father's dream and replacing Edward the Confessor with a more virile king--himself. Soon he was brimming with the future.

I used to be like that, recalled Donough.

Hot and eager, ready for anything. In youth we are immortal, and it is always summer.

He found himself caught up in Harold's enthusiasm and moved by the younger man's desire to fulfill Earl Godwine's dream.

Soon Donough was agreeing to supply him with warriors and arrange with the Norse of Waterford for ships to carry him and his men to the Isle of Wight, where his younger brothers were in hiding. With such reinforcements Harold could plan a return to England and a campaign to gain the throne.

Harold Godwinesson, King of England, Donough whispered to himself. Indebted to me.

Suddenly it all opened up again. Standing in the smoky great hall of Cashel, he envisioned himself under the clean, windswept sky at Tara, stepping onto the Stone of Fal.

That night in the privacy of his chamber he took out the highly polished metal mirror which had belonged to his mother. Upon her death her Scottish attendant had sent it to him; he kept it with his father's harp and sword.

For a long time he stared into the mirror's surface.

The face he saw reflected might almost have been that of Brian Boru. Seamed by a hard life and the passage of half a century, it was stern, grave. Commanding.

Ard Ri.

Audacity in war and competence in administration are not enough, the face in the mirror told him.

Donough nodded. By now he knew how to play the game.

He sent for the chief brehon and a scribe and worked late into the night. When he was so tired his brain felt like mud, he rode alone down the steep incline from Cashel, trusting his horse to know where to go. The animal followed a familiar pathway to a small house submerged in dense woods some distance from the Rock.

The woman who lived there had chosen a site where any view of Cashel was blocked. She could not bear to see where Donough lived with another woman.

Without ever being told when he would come, Cera knew the moment his horse set foot on the sloping road. She opened the door and stood waiting, framed by the firelight behind her.

Once he had thought she could not possibly comprehend his life. Now he lay in her arms and told her his secret thoughts, his most private plans, and she listened and understood.

When he rode away in the morning she stood in the doorway, following him with her eyes.

Requesting the chieftains and senior clergy of Munster to meet with him, Donough displayed for them a new aspect of his kingliness--an extensive knowledge of the usages of law.

In the Annals of Kill Dalua,

Declan's successor wrote:

"The Year of Christ, 1051. At a convening of the wisest men in Munster, Donough Mac Brian presented and enacted new laws and restraints upon every form of injustice. In consequence, God has favored Ireland with a return to clement weather."

In the weeks that followed, old friends commended Donough and old enemies grudgingly paid him tribute.

"You time has come," his allies insisted. "There has been no true Ard Ri since Malachi Mor, and the Irish are reduced to a pack of quarreling hounds. Assert your right to your father's high kingship. We will support you; all Munster will support you."

"I need more than Munster," Donough told them. "I have to have allies in the other provinces as well. Princes who recognize that their interests lie with mine; powerful clergy who can influence the people ..."

"The Church will support you," he was assured.

Donough paid a visit to the Abbot of Kill Dalua. But when Senan asked him outright, "Is that druid still with you?" he would not lie.

"She is."

"Send her from you, Donough. You are far from being a young man and she is no longer a young woman; surely the fires have burned out. Only if you send her away can the Church give you the support you seek. But with Rome behind you, you may yet be Ard Ri of Ireland."

Senan spoke the truth. Donough was not a young man, and there was more than a little gray in Cera's hair.

At Cashel whole days passed when Donough never saw Driella at all. She might be sewing in the grianan with her women, or kneeling in the chapel at her devotions. Then he would glimpse a fat, pleasant-faced woman pacing contentedly beside Geoffrey, who had gone quite bald.

They were fond of strolling across the lawn together, talking in their common language that neither had ever forgotten.

When Donough nodded to Driella her answering smile was polite. They had discharged their duties to one another and both understood nothing more was required.

Driella had made a life for herself that suited her. She was luckier than most.

Donough wished her well.

Senan was expecting an answer about Cera, but he could not give him the answer he wanted.

"Surely the fires have burned out," Senan had said.

How little he knew.

I am a fly trapped in amber.

And still the seasons passed.

Murchad had grown into a sturdy, belligerent young man. Not as tall as Donough, he was nicknamed "Murchad of the Short Shield." He spoke confidently of the day he would follow his father as King of Munster.

In Leinster, Diarmait Mac Mael-nambo succeeded to the kingship. Within weeks of his inauguration Donough discovered he had an aggressive new rival. Diarmait's foster-son, Turlough Mac Teigue, took to the battlefield with him. They attacked Waterford, then together laid successful siege to Dublin.

Diarmait proclaimed himself King of Dublin and the Foreigners, exiling the sons of Sitric Silkbeard, who had died while on pilgrimage.

Diarmait and Turlough Mac Teigue made a formidable team.

Donough's followers clamored for him to strike them down before they became any stronger.

"Diarmait means to gain a foothold in Munster," they warned, "by having young Turlough replace you as king here."

"Turlough has adherents in Munster already,"

Donough confided to Cera. "All of the Dalcassians do not support me; there is a faction which has never ceased to believe I murdered my brother. In a confrontation they would side with my nephew."

Under his feet he felt the shifts of power.

In England, Harold Godwine was maneuvering himself into position to replace the aged Edward the Confessor on the throne.

In Normandy, William, the bastard Duke, was considering a claim of his own to the kingship of England.

In Ireland, Leinster challenged Munster on one battlefield after another. Connacht and Ulster warred perpetually; occasionally Connacht sided with Leinster against Munster. In the absence of a strong High King to serve as a unifying force, Ireland's provincial kings savaged their neighbors.

"Assert your right to be Ard Ri, Father,"

demanded Murchad of the Short Shield. "I will then rule here at Cashel."

"Give up your druid," demanded the Church,

"and Tara will be yours. With the support of Rome the Dalcassians will be forced to unify behind you."

He was a man; there were decisions he must make alone. Even Cera--particularly Cera

--could not help him.

One chance, one chance, thundered like a drumbeat through him. One final glorious chance to win it all!

He was old, but not too old to fight. The years of life left to him could be made splendid with the realization of a dream. Donough had only to stretch out his hand.

Now, while there was still time.

Alone in his chamber at Cashel, he took up Gormlaith's mirror once more and gazed soberly at the face that looked back at him.

This time he was sure whose face it was.

*

No warrior escort accompanied the King of Munster. He was dressed in a simple tunic and a plain woolen brat. His face was serene, that of a man who had come to terms with himself at last.

After making him welcome with mead, the monks sent for their abbot. Senan expressed great pleasure at the visit. "Have you finally come to bring me good news?" he asked hopefully.

"I have come to make a confession and an announcement."

"A confession?" Frowning, Senan tented his fingers. Was Donough going to admit to his brother's assassination after all? What should be the Church's response?

"From the day I learned that Cathal Mac Maine had kept Cera from me," said Donough, "I hated your predecessor and everything he stood for. In my heart I ceased to reverence his Church."

Senan was deeply shocked. "You've taken too many blows to the head over the years, you don't know what you're saying. I warn you, you put your mortal soul in danger!"

"I know exactly what I'm saying. I have done my duty--by Munster, my tribe, my family--even by the Church. I felt a hypocrite every time I laid a gift on the altar. Is that what Christ wanted of us? That we should become masters of hypocrisy?" Donough gave his head a small, sad shake.

"Now I am done with duty," he continued.

"Before I die I shall seek absolution of my sins for the sake of my children. But before I die I intend to live, Senan. Live fully, without compromise."

"What are you talking about? Does this mean you agree to do everything necessary to achieve ..."

"I have done everything necessary. I have already told Driella good-bye; this is my farewell to you.

If Murchad wants to rule at Cashel he can fight for the right as kings have fought before. I leave it to him. Cera is waiting for me at Kincora."

The color drained from the abbot's face. "I don't understand."

"We're going away, Senan, to a quiet lakeshore where a man and woman can live in peace with whatever gods they worship. There we shall lie naked in the grass and celebrate together."

"You're talking blasphemy!"

Donough merely smiled. His gray eyes were full of light.

Holding his proud head high, he left Kill Dalua for the last time. As he passed between the gates their shadow fell briefly across his face, but then he stepped into the sun. He moved with an easy grace, like someone who had all the time in the world.

ROME, 1064

And so I walked away. Or rather, I rode away, with Cera behind me on the horse and the west wind in our faces. My father's ring was on my left hand; his harp was slung from the pommel of my saddle.

In my pack were the crown and sceptre that had been his as King of Munster.

His sword I left at Kincora.

Because it was Beltane we paused long enough to climb Crag Liath and leave an offering there, and I held my woman in my arms and gazed out across Munster. Lough Derg with the sun shining on the water gazed back at us like the blue eye of God.

Kincora lay below us. Never really mine.

We made a home for ourselves beside a quiet lake, a place inviolate, where I played the harp for her and no one spoke of war or kings. I grew a dense gray beard in which she plaited daisies.

We were not alone.

Sometimes I felt them watching us, that other king and his druid. My eyes would seek Cera's and she would nod, smiling.

I did not envy Brian his life, but I knew he envied mine.

When the time came and Cera went ahead of me into the Otherworld, I set out for Rome. I still knew how to play the game. By asking and receiving absolution from the Pope himself I hoped to expunge the stain clinging to my name. My descendants must not bear the burden of fratricide.

It was my last duty and one cannot totally escape one's duties.

I laid gifts upon the Pope's altar, various royal regalia I no longer wanted.

What need has a man for gold when he has stood with his arm around his woman and watched the western sun gild an entire sea?

The Church proclaimed my soul clean.

What had not been done was thus undone, an irony I appreciated.

I have grown too weak to return to Ireland, so I have given instructions that my remaining possessions also pass to the Pope upon my death.

They are final payment for his generosity. At the end of my life, the Church has not been unkind.

My only regret is that I shall not die at home and be put to rest beneath a tree with my Cera.

But she is with me, always.

And I ... I am the son of Brian

Boru.

I am the happiest man alive.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

The history detailed in Pride of

Lions is taken without revision from the chronicles of the time. The dynastic marriages by which the blood of Brian Boru entered the royal families of Scotland and England are documented, as are the events described.

In the years following 1014, Ireland went mad. With Brian's death the country quite literally lost its head, and the chaos that followed left Ireland vulnerable to any determined invader.

Malachi Mor was the last undisputed Ard Ri. Others would subsequently lay claim to the title, including Turlough Mac Teigue, who preferred to be known as Turlough O Brian.

But he and five successors were at best "kings in opposition," never supported by more than a fraction of the people.

When the Normans invaded in 1170 the high kingship was soon permanently vacated, and the pattern of attempted conquest that would dominate the next eight hundred years of Irish history began.

Donough is buried in Rome; the reader may visit his tomb. Brian Boru's ring eventually made its way back to Ireland and, together with his sword, remained in the possession of the O'Brien family until the present century.

As for the harp, a subsequent Pope presented it to King Henry II of England--the monarch under whom the Normans first invaded Ireland.

Donough would have appreciated the irony.

The druid Cera is fictional, but she and her lineage have roots in folkloric history. The Dalcassians of Munster have long believed in the existence of the guardian spirit called Aibhlinn, who dwells on Crag Liath.