Brian Boru (12 page)

Brian never lied to himself. Sometimes he had to admit to himself what he would admit to no one else – he was getting old. In wet weather his knees and shoulders ached all the time, and there were mornings when it was very hard indeed to get up and face the day.

All his life he had thought about so many things, but never about being old. Age had crept up on him while he was busy elsewhere. His body was not the body he knew, but he was trapped in it. Trapped in flesh from
which the strength was fading.

Once he awoke in the middle of the night, shaking as if he had a chill. ‘What’s wrong?’ Gormla asked, but he would not tell her.

Brian did not want to be old. He remembered when he was young and strong. He remembered when he was a little boy, the youngest of a large family, running and laughing and playing rowdy games from morning till night.

That was all behind him now. The friends, the fun, the freedom of childhood. Now he was Brian Boru. And in the darkness of the night, even with Gormla beside him, he was alone.

In the not-too-distant future, he would die. Who would care about and protect the land as he did?

In the great hall of Kincora, as they sat together over their wine, Brian said to his chief poet, ‘If I asked you to compose a poem about the bravest of my sons, who would you name, Mac Liag?’

‘All your sons are brave. But that honour would have to go to the oldest, Prince Murcha.’

‘And if I asked you to name the wisest of my sons, who would you name then?’

Mac Liag considered for a long time before answering. ‘Prince Murcha was the best at his studies.’

‘Being clever is not the same as being wise. Soon I must formally announce the name of my Tanist, the man I choose to succeed me. When I am gone, will my kingdom be safe in the hands of Murcha?’

‘Ah.’ Mac Liag gazed at the flames. He took longer still before he said, ‘You are a strong man with many years left in you, Brian. By the time you are no longer able to be High King, Murcha will have grown wiser. He will be the best man in the land to follow you. There is
much of you in him, more than in any of the others.’

Brian nodded, satisfied. ‘And Murcha’s son Turlough contains much of his father. We are a dynasty, Mac Liag. Father to son.’

‘A dynasty must have a history,’ Brian said the next day to Carroll. ‘I shall send out a summons, asking the historians of all the major tribes to come to me at Cashel. They are to write a new book, giving the history of this land from its earliest times. Attention is to be paid to the noble bloodlines of the Dalcassians – particular attention, Carroll.’

The book Brian wanted was prepared. Included in it were his ideas of kingship and justice. The best from both the Brehon law and Christian teaching were worked into the text. The book was to be known as the Psalter of Cashel. ‘And,’ Brian announced, ‘it is to include a record of my defeats as well as my victories, so no man can claim this history is false.’

Taking Carroll aside, he then said to the chief historian, ‘Just be certain the book is worded so the victories far outnumber the defeats. There are ways of making victories seem more glorious than they were, and defeats less shameful.

‘And whatever you do, Carroll, give no insult to my enemies. A true king honours a beaten foe.’

Carroll understood. Brian Boru, who was far from perfect, wanted future generations to think of him as perfect.

Who could blame him? He was Ireland’s strength and pride.

When Murcha was named as Brian’s Tanist, Gormla and her son, Donncha, were both angry. Donncha was jealous of his half-brothers. Six of them had actually fought in battles under the leadership of their father.
Donncha had yet to fight his first battle.

‘It’s not fair to choose Murcha over me without knowing what a warrior I will be,’ he complained to his mother.

‘It’s not fair to choose Murcha at all,’ Gormla told Brian. ‘My son contains more royal blood. Murcha’s mother was only the daughter of a tribal king. I am a princess of Leinster.’

‘I’ve made my decision,’ Brian replied. ‘I am the High King.’

‘High kings can be made and un-made,’ Gormla said under her breath. ‘Haven’t I seen that in my own lifetime?’

Brian’s eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘What did you say? Are you threatening me?’

She wanted to defy him. She had never backed down from any man. But there was a force in Brian that made her drop her eyes and say, ‘Of course I’m not threatening you. You are the High King.’

‘Remember that. And remember also, when I am gone, Mor’s son Murcha will be High King after me.’

He strode from the chamber. Gormla stared after him, clenching her fists. How dare he! she thought. How dare he choose that dead woman’s son over mine!

She stalked through Kincora, complaining about everyone and everything.

‘I wish I could put her to work building bridges,’ Brian remarked to Mac Liag. ‘Gormla’s problem is that she has nothing to do.’

‘She should have another child to keep her busy.’

Brian shook his head. ‘Donncha was born when she was past the age of childbearing. Another infant would be a miracle. I don’t perform miracles.’

Mac Liag laughed. ‘Half of Ireland swears you do.
We’ve had ten years of peace.’

Brian did not join in his friend’s laughter. ‘Last night I heard the banshee cry out from the grey crag. The days of peace may be coming to an end.’

Mac Liag shuddered.

To give Gormla something to do, Brian decided to invite her brother Maelmora to visit her at Kincora. It was the season when Leinster always sent its tribute to Brian anyway, so Maelmora might as well bring it.

‘I have another reason, of course,’ he said to Murcha.

‘Don’t you always?’

‘Recently I’ve heard that the King of Leinster is growing restless under my rule. It would be wise to have him see the size of my stronghold, and count the number of warriors I keep here at all times.’

‘Three thousand now,’ said Murcha.

‘Just so. That should remind the King of Leinster that it is better to obey me than defy me.’

Brian told Gormla, ‘I have to go to Dublin for a time. I keep hearing rumours of possible trouble, and I want to sit down with Sitric Silkbeard and discuss his loyalty. My daughter Emer tells me he talks too much about the old ways, the days of plundering.

‘While I am gone, the Leinstermen will be bringing the cattle tribute to Kincora. I have invited your brother to come with them and keep you company.’

Gormla scowled. ‘Maelmora, here? You know that we don’t get along well together.’

‘Make an effort, Gormla. For my sake.’

‘Who will be in charge here while you’re away?’

‘Murcha, of course.’

Gormla’s eyes blazed. ‘Why not me?’

Brian merely laughed. This made Gormla angrier than ever. She did not go to the gate to see him ride off
towards Dublin.

She was there, however, to greet Maelmora when he arrived. She wanted to begin complaining about Brian right away.

Maelmora was in no mood to listen. He resented being summoned by the High King, and the journey had not been a pleasant one. Rain and mud had slowed their progress. As a gift for Brian, Maelmora had brought a selection of timber to be used as masts for Brian’s ships. When mud made it difficult for his men to carry the timber, Maelmora had tried to help – and got his clothes torn for his pains.

To silence the stream of Gormla’s complaints, he took off the tunic he was wearing and tossed it to her.

‘Here, mend this. A silver button was torn from it. Sew it back on for me,’ he said when they entered the hall.

Gormla’s temper exploded. ‘I’m not your servant! Do your own sewing, you weakling!’

‘What do you mean, weakling?’

‘Only a weakling would have given in to Brian’s demands for such a huge tribute. All those cattle – you should have refused, as I refuse to serve you!’ She turned and threw her brother’s tunic into the nearest fire.

The smell of burning cloth floated out over Kincora.

Maelmora turned his back on his sister and stalked in a rage into the courtyard.

The courtyard beyond the great hall was paved with flagstones, and surrounded by high walls against which fruit trees were trained. Servants hurried to and fro. The sound of a harp came from some inner chamber. Horses neighed in the stables. Beyond the courtyard, Kincora sprawled in every direction, comprising chambers and halls and lodges and workshops. Busy and prosperous.

The home of the High King.

Everywhere Maelmora looked, he saw some token of Brian’s success. Jealousy mixed with anger in the King of Leinster. He was a prince of his tribe, however, and he knew better than to insult Brian’s hospitality by leaving on the same day he arrived. So he gritted his teeth and went back into the great hall, determined to put the best face he could on the occasion.

That night an icy rain fell. To pass the time, Murcha and his cousin Conaing, one of Brian’s nephews, were playing a game of chess in the great hall. To avoid having to talk to his sister, Maelmora strolled over to watch them. At one stage he thought he saw an opening and said to Murcha, ‘Move that piece there.’

Murcha followed the suggestion. Conaing let out a shout of triumph, made a move of his own, and won the game. Murcha looked up and met Maelmora’s eyes. ‘I seem to remember that you gave Sitric and his Norsemen advice at the battle of Glenn Mauma,’ he said angrily. ‘They lost, too. After this, keep your advice to yourself, Maelmora, since you don’t know how to win.’

Maelmora was glad of the excuse to lose his own temper. ‘Next time I give your enemies advice, they will win!’

Murcha leaped to his feet, turning over his stool. ‘In that case you’d better find another yew tree to hide in, Leinsterman.’

Maelmora ground his teeth in fury. At that moment, Gormla laughed. From the shadows at the far end of the hall she had overheard everything. Her contempt poured down on her brother, more brutal than the rain. ‘You are a cowardly wretch!’ she shouted at Maelmora.

He ran from the hall.

When Brian returned from Dublin, Murcha,
embarrassed, met him at the main gate. ‘I let matters get out of hand,’ he admitted.

‘What happened?’

Murcha told Brian in as few words as possible. He finished by saying, ‘We sent a messenger after Maelmora, asking him to come back, but the King of Leinster and his men fell upon the poor man and left him at the side of the road with a broken skull.’

Peace lay shattered like the chessmen on the flagstones at Kincora.

Brian blamed Murcha. ‘This is your fault. I thought I could leave you in charge, trusting you to act as I would. Now I see that you’re not ready to take my place.’

‘Maelmora lost his temper first. He was spoiling for a fight – so I gave it to him.’

‘That’s no excuse. You did not behave with wisdom and dignity as a king must.’

At Brian’s elbow, Gormla said, ‘Punish Murcha. Replace him with my son as your Tanist.’

Brian whirled on her. ‘You aren’t without blame in this! Can’t I turn my back on any of you? You knew it was important to keep the loyalty of Leinster, but you did everything you could to anger Maelmora. You are forever stirring up trouble. I can’t afford it any more. Pack your things and follow your brother.’

She stared at him in disbelief. ‘You’re throwing me out? I’m the mother of your son!’

‘I have a number of sons,’ Brian told her, ‘and one woman too many. Go.’

She dared not argue. In his face she saw something more frightening than anger. She had broken the peace that meant everything to him; he wanted to kill her.

Gormla ran to her chamber and ordered her attendants to begin packing her belongings.

Donncha came to her. ‘Where will you go, Mother?’

She looked at the boy. He was fifteen, and like all of Brian’s sons, large and strong for his age. ‘Where will we go, you mean. I’m not leaving you with Brian, Donncha.’

The lad raised his chin. ‘I’m a Dalcassian prince. My father is the High King. I’m not going to leave Kincora. He didn’t throw me out. I’m not such a fool as to leave the High King and all he can do for me, to go into exile with you.’

Gormla had taught her son well. She had taught him to be as selfish as she was.

Upon reaching his stronghold in Leinster, Maelmora sat down to nurse his grudge. The more he thought about it, the more he decided Brian had deliberately insulted him. The High King had left Kincora so as not to be there when Maelmora arrived. And he had surely meant for the Prince Murcha to taunt their guest.

‘Brian likes to belittle other people,’ Maelmora told his Leinstermen. ‘I have endured it long enough. I am a King of Leinster. He is only an upstart Dalcassian who seized a crown through brute force.’

When Gormla arrived in Maelmora’s hall, she was even angrier at Brian. Maelmora forgot his own quarrels with his sister. They had a larger, common enemy now. They set about planning to get even.

Maelmora enlisted the aid of Sitric Silkbeard. Sitric replied that he was willing to take up arms once more
against Brian Boru – provided Maelmora would promise him half the spoils of Munster if they won.

‘I always knew I could count on my son,’ Gormla said smugly.

Maelmora asked, ‘What about your other son, Donncha? Why didn’t you bring him with you?’

Gormla pretended not to hear. She could not bring herself to say that Donncha had deserted her for Brian Boru.

With Gormla gone, Brian should have been able to enjoy a little peace at Kincora, and the company of his children and grandchildren. But he could not. Rumours were soon reaching him about a possible rising by Leinster and Dublin.

One more time, thought Brian wearily. Is there no end to it?

Leaving Kincora, he made his way up the densely forested slope beyond the outermost walls, climbing ever higher, drawing the sweet air deep into his lungs. Even when the trees blocked his vision, he could still feel the grey crag ahead, waiting for him. In his bones, he felt it.

At last he broke from cover to find himself standing hip deep in heather and bracken, brittle with winter. The ruins of his grandfather’s fort lay before him, and above them, Aval’s rock. With an effort, he climbed up to it.

Once he could have made the entire climb at a trot without breathing hard. Now his legs were trembling.

I am old, Brian thought. And now I am going to have to fight again after all, or see this land go back to the way it was before. Petty kings squabbling for petty power, tearing each other apart with no sense of the greater good.

Blood and fire, and children crying for their mothers.

Brian stood on the grey crag and looked out across his
kingdom. The day was very cold. Once he would not have noticed. Now he shivered, in spite of his great shaggy cloak.

From where he stood he could see the sites of many of his battles. ‘There we were terribly beaten,’ he said. ‘And there we won. In that place a handful of us turned back an army of Ivar’s Danes. And on that mountain is buried a company of Leinstermen who defied me …’

He turned slowly, feasting his eyes on hills and meadows, mountains and lake. There was a burning lump in his throat as if he was going to cry, but it had been many years since Brian cried.

The wind blew softly around him, lifting a lock of his silvered hair.

‘All that fighting, Aval,’ Brian murmured to the guardian spirit of the crag. ‘Yet Ireland is as beautiful as ever. So sweet, so fair …’

The lump in his throat was choking him.

‘Ahhh, God!’ cried Brian Boru, raising his arms pleadingly to the great blue vault of the sky.

Much later, in the twilight, he picked his way carefully down the slope, and ordered the gates of Kincora barred behind him.
Sitric Silkbeard travelled from Dublin to Naas to meet with Maelmora. Gormla insisted on taking part in the meeting. ‘Take me back to Dublin with you when you go,’ she told her son. ‘I don’t wish to stay with Maelmora any longer. He sits around talking about attacking Brian, but he won’t do it. He is a coward who will not avenge the wrong done me by the High King.’

Brian was the second High King to divorce Gormla. Her rage knew no limits.

Sitric told her, ‘Listen to me, Mother. You shall be avenged. Maelmora and I are going to attack Brian Boru,
but we have to wait until we have gathered enough allies. Neither of us wants to be involved in a disaster.’

‘Brian could die of old age before you do anything!’

‘He won’t,’ Sitric assured her. ‘It is said he can still cut down an opponent in single combat.’

‘If I had a sword I would cut him down myself,’ Gormla replied.

She was not a young woman, but the heat of her anger set fire to a beauty not yet faded. Looking at her, Sitric had an idea.

‘I’ll take you back to Dublin with me,’ he said. ‘But you must remember something. My wife is a daughter of Brian Boru, and the two of you under the one roof will not be easy. I will need your help for a plan I have in mind, but in the meantime, I don’t want you making trouble for me in my own hall.’

‘Me? Make trouble?’ Gormla laid one hand on her bosom. ‘I assure you, I know how to behave. I am a queen!’

Sitric and Maelmora exchanged looks. ‘I give you credit for being a brave man,’ the Leinsterman told the Norseman. ‘I would not care to be under the same roof with my sister and Brian’s daughter.’

The two men talked together far into the night. Sitric explained his plan for acquiring allies. To this, Gormla listened with interest, her eyes shining. ‘And remember,’ Sitric added, ‘in return for my support I demand half the spoils of Munster. And also, freedom to plunder the entire east coast of Ireland.’

This new demand caused Maelmora to scowl. ‘You ask a lot, Norseman.’

‘You’ve just heard my plan for getting us the warriors we need to stand against the might of Brian Boru. And my mother has agreed to it. Take it or leave it,
Maelmora.’

Maelmora considered. The idea of defeating – and killing – his Munster rival was irresistible. ‘With Brian dead, this island will be yours and mine to plunder,’ he said to Sitric Silkbeard.

The agreement was sealed.

Sitric took Gormla back to Dublin with him, and began at once sending messages throughout the Norse trading network.

While they waited for replies, they combined their armies. During the fighting season of the Year of Our Lord 1013, they attacked. Their target was not the High King at Kincora, who was too strong for the number of men they had, but Malachy, in Meath. Malachy’s Meathmen were soon hard-pressed by the warriors of Leinster and Dublin. Malachy sent a plea for help to the High King.

When he received this message, Brian knew the time had come.

At the High King’s summons, his allies gathered. They included not only many Irish princes, but also Danes from Limerick. ‘Look at my army, Carroll,’ Brian said to his historian. ‘Once I thought the Irish would drive out the Northmen. Now it will be the Irish and Danes fighting the Irish and Norse. Things are never as simple as we would like them to be.’

‘They are not,’ Carroll agreed. ‘Only victory is simple. Everyone understands winning.’

‘Then pray God we win,’ said Brian Boru.

He put Murcha in charge of a large force. Murcha’s son Turlough was with him, and eager to fight. ‘All the glory of battle takes place before the fighting,’ Brian warned him. ‘You will not find it so pleasant when men are trying to kill you.’

But he knew he could not discourage Turlough. The lad was only fifteen, but there was a light in his eyes which Brian knew.

‘I’ve been teaching my son as you taught me,’ Murcha told his father. ‘He will follow me, as I follow you. Your kingdom will be safe with us.’

Brian was too deeply moved to answer.

Gormla’s son, Donncha, also demanded a company of warriors to lead. He had just reached swordbearing age, he reminded Brian, and he was keen to see action. But he had had little training for battle. Brian decided to hold him back, to give him some task that would not bring him into the front lines.

As Brian explained to Murcha, ‘If Donncha has his mother’s uncertain temper, he will want seasoning before I use him in an attack.’

Murcha was pleased that Brian had no such reservations about Turlough.

The High King marched east. The summer was spent putting down a number of small tribes that were loyal to Maelmora. Then Brian marched on to Dublin to face Sitric Silkbeard.

Brian’s advance had drawn Sitric’s warriors away from Meath, but they left Malachy’s army so badly mauled it was not much help to the High King. Without them, Brian laid siege to Dublin. His daughter and Gormla watched from the walls, each thinking her own thoughts.

Sitric had his stronghold well fortified, however, and in the end Brian withdrew the siege. The weather had turned against him; it was time for the warriors to go home, to rest and repair their weapons.

There would be another fighting season next year.

‘By next year,’ Brian said to Murcha, ‘Malachy should
have rebuilt his army, and will be able to join us.’

As soon as the siege was lifted, Sitric Silkbeard left Dublin on a fast boat. The sea that autumn was wild and rough but Sitric had Viking blood. He stood in the prow, just behind the dragon head, and laughed at the salt spray.

Sitric was welcomed like a blood brother into the Viking hall of Sigurd the Stout, Earl of Orkney. Like many of the Norsemen who lived beyond the shores of Ireland, Sigurd had watched with interest Brian Boru’s rise to power. He had seen the Dalcassian turn a tangle of warring tribes into one people, wealthy and well armed, and perhaps too strong to be plundered by Vikings any longer. Sigurd had not approved of this turn of events. Ireland had long been a rich source of gold and slaves and timber, a source he was sorry to lose.

Now Sitric Silkbeard was offering him a chance to help destroy Brian. But Sigurd of Orkney was no fool. He had heard enough stories about Brian Boru to make him cautious.

It had taken something unusual to tempt him. His reply to Sitric’s message had been an invitation to Orkney to discuss the matter further.

As they sat together in the hall, drinking from huge horns filled with Danish beer, Sigurd said, ‘Tell me again what special prize you offer me, in return for my support.’

‘I offer you the most beautiful woman who ever combed her hair.’

‘That is what you said in your message. But I wanted to see you, man to man, before I agreed. You would not lie to me? You can actually give me such a woman?’

‘I can,’ Sitric assured him. ‘She is my mother, the Princess Gormla.’

Sigurd of Orkney licked his lips. He was a massive mountain of flesh – like some big hog waiting to be roasted, Sitric thought with distaste. But he commanded many Viking warriors.

‘I’ve heard of this woman,’ Sigurd said. ‘The Norse saga-singers praise her beauty.’

‘She was once wife to Olaf Cuaran, the Norse King of Dublin. My father,’ Sitric added. ‘And now I am willing to see her married to you, if you will help me destroy the Irish High King.’

Sigurd licked his thick lips again. ‘A woman like that makes a man famous. I would not mind having her. But when we win, I also demand the plunder of the north half of Ireland!’

‘Done,’ agreed Sitric Silkbeard.

With the Vikings of Orkney as allies, the army of Sitric and Maelmora would be much stronger. But Sitric, too, had become a cautious man when it came to Brian Boru. He wanted to be sure of even more warriors before he faced the High King across a battlefield.

Using Gormla as bait had worked well with Sigurd of Orkney, so her son planned to use her again. When he left Orkney he set sail for the Isle of Man. There he met two brothers, Ospak and Brodir, who ruled that island. These Viking brothers had thirty ships between them and a mighty reputation for savagery.

When Sitric’s boat put into harbour on the Isle of Man, a seaman told the King of Dublin a strange story. ‘Brodir was raised as a Christian,’ the man claimed, ‘but he has converted to paganism. His soul is twice blackened.’

‘Brodir sounds like the very man I need,’ said Sitric Silkbeard.

By the time he at last returned to Dublin, Sitric was able to report to Gormla, and to Maelmora, that they
now had enough powerful allies to destroy Brian. ‘At my summons, I can bring a thousand Viking ships to Dublin, packed with warriors howling for Brian’s blood. Perhaps there is no man in Ireland who can defeat the High King, but I have found men elsewhere who are eager to do so.’

In private, Gormla asked her son, ‘Did you promise me to Sigurd?’

‘I did.’

‘And this Brodir … did you also promise me to him?’

‘I did. He said he would not join us unless I gave him whatever I gave Sigurd. But the fighting will be savage. With any luck, both men will be killed and neither will claim you.’

‘I just want to be certain Brian Boru is killed,’ said Gormla. She could not bear it that a man so splendid – a man she had once desired above any other – had rejected her.

In Munster there was great surprise when a dragonship flying a foreign flag sailed up the Shannon. For many years, Brian had kept the river free of Viking warcraft. When the vessel was beached below Kincora, Brian went to meet it, with a party of Dalcassian warriors.

The man in command of the boat announced himself as Ospak, of the Isle of Man. ‘I have come this long way to warn you,’ he told Brian. ‘My brother Brodir plans to make war on you. I said nothing when he turned his back on Christianity, but I cannot go along with him now. I know you for a good king, Brian Boru. You have treated even your enemies fairly. I tell you this: my brother schemes with the rulers of Dublin and Leinster to kill you. He has been promised your former wife as a prize of war.’

For a moment, Brian almost laughed. ‘He would be
getting what he deserves,’ he started to say – then he remembered Gormla as she had been when he first saw her, as beautiful as Ireland. He bit back the words.

Brian made Ospak welcome in the feasting hall at Kincora. There he heard the details of the plot against him.

‘Sigurd of Orkney is sending ships and men,’ Ospak told Brian. ‘And there are others interested as well. Amlaff of Denmark plans to claim a share of the spoils in return for giving Sitric warriors. Norsemen are also coming from Scotland, the Shetland Islands, and the Hebrides.’