Pride of Lions (5 page)

Cian said, with a chill in his voice, "I am married to the Ard Ri's daughter. They should accept my command."

"You're an Owenacht, not a Dalcassian,"

Fergal pointed out. "They would never follow you; it's Donough they'll accept. And who knows? He may prove to be as much of a man as his father was at the same age."

"From your mouth to God's ear!" Ronan interjected.

With an effort, Donough broke his silence.

"Did you say "Sitric's defeat"? I thought he won."

Cian snorted. "Sitric win? Not likely! The battle was hard fought and there were times it might have gone either way, I admit. Many of our leaders were slain, chieftains and princes dying left, right, and center. But all the leaders of the invading force were killed, every last man of them. At the end of the day their army was shattered like ice on a pond."

Fergal said, "The Ard Ri had so arranged his battle lines that his enemies were trapped no matter which way they went. When the foreigners tried to escape to the ships that had brought them, the tide had turned. The ships were far out in the bay beyond their reach. Hundreds of them drowned in the sea and we killed hundreds more on the beaches, not to mention the slaughter that took place clear across Fingal.

A few may have found safety inside the walls of Dublin, but when the battle was over, only a handful of the invaders was left alive. The Ard Ri gave the Vikings the worst defeat they've ever suffered," he added with ringing pride. "It was a great victory for him."

"Victory?" said Donough, unable to comprehend. "But he's dead."

"He is dead. But he died triumphant.

What more could a warrior want?"

The words hung on the air, defining Brian's ultimate achievement. In silence, they considered it.

At last Donough spoke again. "What about Sitric? You said all the enemy leaders were killed."

"Not Sitric," Cian told him in contemptuous tones. "He never came out of the city. He's still in there--with your mother."

"And Maelmordha, my mother's brother?"

"The treacherous Prince of Leinster led Sitric's Vikings against Brian Boru and got killed for his pains," Fergal said smugly.

"I know. I killed him. He died squealing like the vermin he was."

"My father?" Donough made himself ask. "How did my father die?"

"At the end of the day he was in his tent, praying.

Prince Murrough had talked him out of taking part in the fighting by convincing him, not that he was too old, but that he was too valuable to risk. We were relieved, we thought he was safe. If the day went against us we would need him more than ever.

"A bodyguard was with him, of course, but late in the fighting he sent them away. Then a Viking called Brodir, the last surviving leader of the invasion force, was running for his life through the woods when he came upon the Ard Ri's tent. He attacked the old man he found inside and cleaved his skull with an axe."

Donough flinched. His face was the color of buttermilk.

"But Brian had kept his sword with him,"

Fergal continued. "Even as he was struck he sliced through Brodir's leg. It was a mighty blow, the blow of a young man. Brodir bled to death beside the Ard Ri. We found their bodies almost touching.

"The next day--yesterday--some prisoners that were brought to us tried to claim that Brodir survived.

They were saying the Irish had caught him later and tortured him to death, but that was a lie they were hoping to spread. The Irish never resort to torture; the Vikings do it all the time. Those of us who had seen the two bodies in Brian's tent knew the truth."

Donough clung to what seemed to him to be the most important fact. "My father died fighting."

"He died winning," Fergal stressed.

Though his knees threatened to buckle under him, Donough struggled to his feet. "Have someone bring my horse. I must go to him. I must go to Swords."

"You aren't going anywhere just yet," Ronan said sternly. He put one big hand on Donough's breastbone and pushed him back down into a sitting position.

"We need you here now," Cian explained, and Fergal added, "This is where your father would want you to be, taking care of his Dalcassians for him.

We need his son to take up where he left off."

"Then get Flann. Or Conor."

"They both died in the battle. And Teigue was left behind to guard Kincora, you will recall.

Of all the sons, only you are alive and here."

Donough felt a great weight about to descend on him. He opened his eyes very wide, looking more than ever like a frightened boy. "But ..."

"You've been crowing about being ready for command,"

Ronan said mercilessly. "Now's your chance to prove it. Take command of the Dalcassians.

Or are you not able for it? Are you all mouth and no muscle?"

Donough squirmed inwardly, forced to confront a truth about himself. He saw now that he had merely been playing; playing at being a warrior. He could pretend to command a small company of cavalry because the grownups, Ronan and the other veterans assigned to him, were there to keep him from getting into too much trouble. They were a net held beneath him while he tried his wings.

But suddenly everything had changed. He was being asked to take charge of the Dalcassians, the personal army that had served his father so devotedly and which comprised the largest part of the army of the province of Munster.

It was a massive responsibility with no one to protect him from the consequences of his mistakes.

The mantle he had childishly coveted was his without warning or preparation. The only man who could have prepared him had trained Murrough instead, and now they were both dead.

Donough began shivering again,

uncontrollably. I don't want this!

Make it not be happening!

But it was happening. The other men were looking at him, waiting.

Waiting for Donough, through some miracle, to replace Brian Boru.

The corpse of the Ard Ri was borne aloft on nine shields lashed together, as was necessary to carry one who had been, in life, the tallest man in Ireland.

The procession carrying him to the monastery at Swords trudged to the solemn beat of the bodhran and the wild wail of the war pipe. "Brian Boru's March," someone said, giving name to the dirge.

Defying the gloom of a rainy evening, men carried torches to form a moving rectangle of light around the body. Icy drizzle made the torches sputter.

Brian Boru was wrapped in a crimson mantle and draped with his banner of three lions, modeled after the stylized Celtic lions in the Book of Kells. The priests had wanted to put his crucifix in his hands; his warriors had argued for his sword. In the end they compromised and gave him both.

Malachi Mor walked at the front of the procession with a deliberate space kept between himself and Brian's personal entourage. He could feel their resentment. From time to time he glanced covertly around to reassure himself that his Meathmen were within hailing distance.

The bulk of the procession was made up of warriors, but a number of priests accompanied them. The men of God kept their eyes averted from the horrific guard of honor that surrounded the body on its bier.

About this, Brian's warriors had been unwilling to compromise.

In a Celtic tradition much older than Christianity, the heads of the heroes who had given their lives fighting for Brian had been arranged on his bier so they encircled his corpse, glassy eyes staring outward, vigilant in death.

Conaing. Duvlann. Niall of clan

Cuinn, captain of the High King's bodyguard.

Mothla of Oriel. Scandal Mac Cathal.

Donall, a prince of the Scots, whose cousin Malcolm was married to one of Brian's daughters. Princes of Connacht and of Munster.

Flann Mac Brian.

Conor Mac Brian.

The intact body believed to be that of Murrough Mac Brian was carried separately, a few paces behind the Ard Ri. The plump little man walking beside it would have preferred walking beside Brian, but the warriors had elbowed him out of the way. Brian was theirs now, their fallen chieftain, and they had no patience with a mere historian.

Carroll did not take offense. He

was accustomed to the warrior mentality.

From his vantage point to the rear he was busily committing every detail of the procession to memory, to be scribed in his leisure as Brian would have wanted.

Laiten, who had been Brian's personal attendant, dropped out of the procession for a moment to relieve himself. Taking advantage of the opportunity, Carroll waited and fell into step beside him. "I've been wanting to speak to you," the historian explained.

Laiten was short and slender, with dark wiry hair and a narrow face aged by grief. Little more than a lad, in recent days he had seen more of death than most men would ever know. "What do you want of me?" he asked. His voice was husky with weeping.

"Just conversation. We got such a late start that we won't reach Swords until after dark.

Talk will shorten the journey."

Laiten was not deceived. Carroll's plump cheeks and pouched eyes gave an impression of guilelessness, but as everyone knew he had been the Ard Ri's confidant, learning the arts of manipulation from a master.

"I have nothing to talk about," the young man said shortly.

"Oh surely you must! You were in the eye of the storm. You could tell me so much from your own point of view about what happened on Friday. Who was where, that sort of thing. You don't know what a help it would be to me."

"You mean to write it down, I suppose?"

"One of the porters has my little folding writing desk and my parchments and inks. I can write tonight at Swords if the good brothers are not too mean with their candles."

"If you need more light ask Malachi for a lamp," Laiten said. "I should think he'll do all he can for us now."

Carroll's amiable expression faded.

"Malachi didn't do much for us on Friday though, did he? He stood off until he was certain the battle was won before he came swooping in to claim a share of the glory."

"I don't think that's entirely fair."

"Are you taking his side, Laiten?"

"How dare you say that! Everyone knows I was devoted to the Ard Ri."

"Yet you left him defenseless."

"The Ard Ri was never in his life defenseless, even at the end of it. Besides, he sent us all away. As captain of his bodyguard, Niall tried to argue with him, but no one ever won an argument with Brian Boru. He insisted we join in the final fighting. Said we deserved a share of the victory. Obeying that order cost Niall his life, as things turned out. He was almost the last man to die ... except for the Ard Ri himself."

"Exactly when did Brian send you away, Laiten?"

"After I reported to him that Prince Murrough had fallen."

"And were you not concerned, knowing he must be in despair over his son's death? How could you leave him?"

"I told you, he ordered it. Could you have refused a direct order from the Ard Ri? I could not. Besides, he didn't seem to be despairing. He was surprisingly calm. Almost ... at peace." Laiten's voice dropped, became a whisper. "Looking back, Carroll, I think he knew what was going to happen to him.

Knew, and welcomed it."

"How could he possibly have known Brodir would stumble across his tent by accident and kill him?"

Laiten hesitated. "He was warned."

The historian stopped walking. "By whom?"

The two men stood facing each other as the last of the cort@ege moved past them. Laiten did not want to speak, but Carroll's attentive gaze drew the words out of him. "On the night before the battle a woman came to the Ard Ri's tent."

Carroll's eyebrows shot up. "What woman?"

"I never actually saw her. I had been in the tent, adjusting the cushion on his prayer stool and lighting the lamp for him on his map table. The commander said he wanted to be alone, so I went outside and took my place by the tent flap as usual. Then suddenly I saw a woman's shadow as she passed between the wall of the tent and the lamp."

"Are you sure it was a woman?"

Laiten was indignant. "I know the hills and valleys of a woman's form! And it was a woman's voice I heard, but ... strange, whispery as leaves. The very sound of it made my belly go cold. Even remembering ... I don't want to talk about this."

"You must," Carroll persisted gently. "I'm sure he would want you to tell me. He wanted everything chronicled you know; that was his way. So tell me, Laiten--did you get a look at her when she left?"

"That's the strangest part. I never moved away from the tent flap, not for one moment. But after a while the Ard Ri called for me and I went into him ... and he was alone."

"What do you mean he was alone?"

"I mean no one was with him. No woman, no living being." A recollective shiver ran through Laiten's body. "Yet I had been just outside the entire time and I swear she never left."

Carroll's eyebrows tried to crawl into his receding hairline. "Did you ask Brian about her?"

"I did ask him. He smiled and said,

"My guardian spirit." Then he turned away and I was afraid to question him further, Carroll.

You know how he was about people ... prying.

"But I swear to you on my mother's grave that I overheard the woman tell the Ard Ri he would die the next day. When the battle was over. It would be the price of his victory, she said.

"So I don't think our leaving him made any difference. I am convinced he sent us away so we would not try to save him."

The evening seemed very dark.

The drizzle turned into a relentless bitter downpour. The drums beat, the pipes wailed.

Torchlight flickered and flared.

On overlapping shields the corpse lay, hands folded over crucifix and sword. Around it twelve decapitated heads glared balefully outward, daring anyone or anything to interfere.

Donough spent the remainder of Easter Sunday in the Dalcassian camp. His band of horsemen mingled with the remnants of Brian's army and listened enviously to their descriptions of the battle. In a matter of days such stories would begin to assume mythic proportions, but now, recounted by weary men whose clothes still stank of the blood they had shed, the events of Good Friday were repeated in the crude terms of the foot warrior, embellished only with profanity.