Brian Boru (3 page)

In time he became as obedient as he had to be, but they never made him cry. Brian had done his crying at Beal Boru.

When his lessons began he found unexpected pleasure in them. If the weather was fine, classes were taught outside in the courtyards and on the lawns. Most of the students were young men intended for the Church, but some, like Brian, were merely the sons of various noble clans who had been sent to the monks for polishing. From time to time a few well-born girls joined their number to learn to read and write. Under the old Brehon law education was not denied to women who wanted it.

But the Brehon law itself was not taught at Clonmacnois. As Brother Tomas explained when Brian asked him about it, ‘The Brehon law is pagan and we are Christian. But we do not openly oppose it, because the people would resist. It is not easy to change a person’s beliefs and traditions, Brian, so we have learned to tolerate them, letting the Brehon law exist side-by-side with Christian teaching. Tolerance is a virtue.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Brian, ‘but I could never tolerate the foreigners!’

‘The young Dalcassian is as prickly as a gorse bush,’

Brother Tomas told the abbot.

To his surprise, Brian discovered that he enjoyed studying. His hungry mind gobbled up information and asked for more. He liked music and mathematics, he was good at languages, but history was best of all. History was filled with war stories, and by studying them he learned how great victories had been won in the past, by heroes far beyond Ireland. Men with names like Alexander and Alfred and Charlemagne. Great warriors all.

By studying how they won, I will learn how the Vikings could be beaten, Brian thought to himself. And when he was pouring over his lessons he did not feel so alone.

But he was still only ten years old, and far from home. At night as he lay on his narrow bed in the cold stone dormitory, he hugged himself for comfort and wondered if Aval could still see him. He felt as if he had been torn loose from everything he loved.

At first some of the other students teased him, because he was the youngest pupil in the school. Scholars came from all over Europe to study at Clonmacnois, and a Briton called Alcuin told Brian, ‘You spend too much time at your lessons. You will grow soft and fat and become a round-shouldered scribe with weak eyes.’

‘Do you think so?’ Brian asked calmly. He was half afraid of Alcuin, who was larger and older, but he would not let the fear show. Fear was like crying – no one must see. Setting aside his wax tablet and pointed stylus, he fell upon Alcuin with doubled fists.

Brian was winning when the monks finally pulled them apart.

The abbot was not pleased. ‘How are we to cure you of this fighting?’ he asked, almost in despair.

‘I am a warrior,’ Brian said stubbornly.

‘You are still a child!’

That night the rope lashed Brian’s back, but he did not cry out. The next day, Alcuin came to him and offered to be friends.

One by one, the other students became his friends too. They liked and admired Brian, who appeared both cheerful and fearless. They could not see how he felt inside and he kept it to himself. It was wonderful to be part of a group again, to have companions who laughed and joked with him – and looked up to him.

For, to the great surprise of the abbot, in time Brian proved to be the best scholar at Clonmacnois.

But sometimes he wandered away from his friends and walked alone beside the Shannon, his eyes following the water as if it were a road leading south to Beal Boru.

‘I will go back, ‘he promised himself, ‘and use what I have learned here to build the strongest fortress in Ireland and be revenged on the foreigners!’

Action was one answer to pain and grief. Learning was another. Learning opened up the world to Brian, and when the bell sounded he left the river and returned to the classroom to study the career of Charlemagne of France, who had dreamed great dreams and made them come true.

There was always more to learn. When one of the monks from Clonmacnois travelled south to the monastic school
of Inisfallen, amid the lakes of Killarney, Brian travelled with him to study in the scriptorium there.

The monks were sad because so many of their books had been destroyed or stolen by raiders. ‘They are sometimes sold on the Continent for a high price,’ they told Brian.

‘If you know where they are, why don’t you go and get them back?’

‘Ah, Brian, life is not that easy!’

‘Why not?’ he wanted to know. But they could not tell him. No one could tell him why good people were slain, why treasures were stolen, why children had to grow up motherless. But he knew such things were wrong.

He knew they could be changed. Anything could be changed. Brian had seen change greater than he had ever imagined when Beal Boru was destroyed.

He felt something growing in him like a hard core. If no one else will make things right, I shall, he thought. He could not accept the world as it was.

Yet sometimes, alone in the night, he still felt like a small child, helpless and afraid. He did not tell anyone this. No one would care, he thought. Mahon had walked away and left him in the ruins of Beal Boru.

I have only myself, he thought. I must make that be enough.

But he had friends, too. Others wanted to be with him, because he was so good at everything he did. Brian was quick and clever and big for his age, and as the seasons passed he demanded more and more of himself. He had the woodcarver at the abbey make weapons for him out of wood, so he could practise with them since the monks forbade real ones. He worked just as hard at his lessons, and when his eyes burned and his head ached he did not let himself stop. I am studying how to win, he thought,
reading of Charlemagne and Caesar.

When the wind howled up the Shannon, he missed Aval on her crag. Under the stern gaze of the monks he prayed to God and Christ and the gentle Virgin in chapel with the other students. But when he was alone, dreaming by the river at the end of day, he thought of the shee. He thought of an older Ireland and tried to imagine what it had been like before the foreigners came.

Brother Tomas understood. ‘Ancient Ireland? I shall teach you how to see it, Brian. Look in these books you study, with their illuminations. In their brilliant colours and free-flowing designs you can see our land as it was. You will see the land of saints and scholars, where an artist could paint with gold or make silver chalices and book boxes without having to fear they would be destroyed by heathen foreigners.’

‘Can Ireland be like that again?’ Brian asked, his eyes glowing.

Brother Tomas shook his head sadly. ‘Ah, lad, times have changed. Times have changed.’

But they can change again, thought Brian stubbornly.

From other students at Clonmacnois Brian heard a different version of history. Some of them belonged to Irish clans who had done their share of robbing monasteries, just like the Vikings, and boasted of what they had taken.

Brian was angry. ‘We can’t be thieves and robbers just because the foreigners are. We have to be better than they are.’

When Brian talked about being better, the other boys listened. They admired him because he really was the best of them, at both games and studies. They wanted to be like him, so they began following the lead he set.

The more Brian learned the more he wanted to know.
He worked until he could play the harp as well as any harper, or recite the poems about ancient heroes as well as a bard. He even persuaded the carpenters and stonemasons who repaired the walls and buildings of Clonmacnois to teach him their skills.

‘I want to know how to build the strongest, safest fortress in Ireland someday,’ he explained.

He was still very young, but when they looked into his eyes they did not laugh at him. They gave him tools and showed him how to use them, and he learned very fast.

Brian always seemed to be in a hurry. He had more energy than he could spend, and no day was long enough for all he wanted to do. But because he played as hard as he worked he was well loved at Clonmacnois. The monks soon learned they could usually find him at the centre of a cluster of laughing friends.

They also learned, as his parents had known, that when there was mischief brewing Brian was usually to blame. Yet he would always admit it with a cheerful grin, and take his punishment without complaining. And he never did any real damage.

Brian had seen enough destruction at Beal Boru to last a lifetime.

But there was always news of more destruction and loss, it seemed. The fighting never stopped in Ireland. When Brian was beginning his second year of studies, word arrived that Kennedy of the Dalcassians, his father, had been killed in a battle against Callahan of the Owenacht clan, who was both King of Munster and a friend to the Danes of Limerick.

The abbot sent Brother Tomas to tell Brian. The monk found the boy where he often was in the late afternoons, on the footworn oval beyond the monastery where the
students raced each other. Brian had just outrun a longlegged youth from Lough Ree and was grinning with victory, but his smile faded when he saw the expression on Brother Tomas’s face.

He knew. Even before the monk opened his mouth, Brian knew something awful had happened. A great cold stone seemed to settle in the pit of his stomach.

‘It’s your father, I’m afraid,’ Brother Tomas said as gently as he could.

Brian tried to brace himself. ‘Is he ill? Injured?’

Instead of answering, the monk shook his head and dropped his eyes, unable to say the words.

Brian said them instead. ‘My father is dead.’

‘He is.’

Dead, Brian thought. My father. While I have been running and laughing, my father has been lying dead.

He felt as if a half forgotten nightmare had just come back to swallow him. He heard himself say, ‘How did it happen?’

Remembering that Brian was still a young boy, Brother Tomas did not tell him many of the details. But Brian heard enough. When the monk finished by saying, ‘It is the will of God,’ the boy replied angrily, ‘It was the will of the man whose sword killed him!’

He would not forget Callahan of Munster, friend of the Danes. Friend of the Vikings and no better than they were.

I will be better than all of them, he promised himself. I will defeat every one of them and make them pay.

Then he whirled around and ran off before Brother Tomas could stop him. He ran to the edge of the river and crouched down among the reeds, so no one would see him cry.

Schooling ended in his sixteenth year, when a messenger sent by his brother Mahon arrived at Clonmacnois. ‘Brian mac Kennedy is old enough to take up weapons,’ the messenger said, ‘and is needed to fight with his tribe against its enemies.’

The abbot protested. ‘The lad has a fine mind, too good to be split open with an axe.’ But in the end he had to let Brian go.

On the day before he was to leave, Brian suddenly felt unsure. Through all the years of his growing up he had dreamed of going to fight the foreigners. While other students looked first in one direction and then another, he had kept his eyes fixed on one goal. Since the day he sat on the ground beside his dead mother, he had been preparing himself to be a warrior and make certain such a thing could never happen to any other child.

It had been an exciting dream. But now the time had really come, and his mouth was dry with fear. I’m not ready, he thought. Let it happen tomorrow instead, I’m not ready yet!

In his dreams and plans he had always won, but Brian knew that the world beyond the walls of Clonmacnois was a dangerous place where dreams did not always come true. He was big for his age and strong, with a quick mind, but that might not be enough.

Beyond the walls death was waiting for him. He could smell it on the wind. He could almost hear the banshee cry.

More than anything else, he wanted to crawl into his bed and pull the covers over his head … and have Bebinn tuck him in.

But he was sixteen years old and childhood was over. There was no going back. He doubled his fists so no one would see that his hands were shaking, and went to say
goodbye to his friends.

Mahon, who now led the Dalcassians, was camped near Killmallock. He had sent a small party of armed warriors to escort Brian to him, for no traveller was safe alone.

One of the escort was a man called Nessa, who was skilled in the use of the sling. ‘Will you teach me to use the sling?’ Brian asked as they made their way south.

‘The sling is not a noble weapon,’ Nessa told him. ‘You will use a sword and spear.’

‘But I want to learn to use every sort of weapon, Nessa. A sword is no good at a distance.’

‘Spears are for distance.’ ‘They are. But when you have thrown all your spears, what do you do then? With a sling, you can always pick up more stones and re-arm yourself.’

‘Princes have never fought with slings,’ Nessa said firmly.

Brian scowled. ‘“Never”’ is not a good enough reason.’

The slinger gave him a surprised look. ‘Next you will be telling me you want to use an axe like the Vikings.’

‘I do want to learn to use the axe, it’s a splendid weapon.’

‘The Gael do not use foreign axes!’ Nessa was shocked.

‘Then they should. Use the weapons the winners use. Doesn’t that make sense?’

Before Nessa could think of an answer, they saw the leather tents of Mahon’s camp in the distance. They were nearing Killmallock. Brian’s heart began to pound. At last, he thought, his real life was about to begin. He felt a pang of fear and uncertainty, but before it could weaken him he made himself run forward eagerly, calling
Mahon’s name. Nessa had to hurry after him to tell the sentries to let him through.

Once Brian joined Mahon’s army of Dalcassians, there was no more time for doubts. Learning to be a warrior was very hard work and kept him busy from sunrise to sunset. The other warriors were not gentle with him. He was Mahon’s brother, but he must prove his own manhood. They laughed at his lack of a beard. They made fun of the softness of his hands. When one of them caught him alone, they beat him.

Brian did not complain to his brother. He had learned the hard lesson that pain is endured alone. He simply worked harder to be stronger and better at fighting. Then, one by one, he attacked the men who had bullied him and beat them badly.

In time even the grizzled old warriors who had fought with Kennedy were watching him with a respectful light in their eyes. ‘The young Lion of Thomond,’ they called him behind his back.

‘He has no fear in him,’ they said.

When he learned of this he whispered the name to himself in the night, as he lay rolled in his cloak, sleeping on the ground among the other warriors. ‘Lion of Thomond,’ Brian’s lips shaped the words proudly. They made him forget his aches and bruises.

He had learned to act brave no matter how he felt inside. As time passed, be began to believe it himself. If you ran forward eagerly and shouted and yelled when you were afraid, the fear went away … most of the time.

In the Year of Our Lord 955, Donal, son of Murtach, had become High King of Ireland, the
Árd Rí
, king of the provincial kings. Donal was not fond of fighting. He found it easier to let the foreigners have their way, and so local chieftains were left to defend themselves.

Mahon struggled to protect the land of Thomond from the Danes of Limerick, but it was not easy. The river was under the control of the Vikings for most of its length, and the longships pillaged almost at will. In addition, the Irish west of the Shannon had to pay crushing taxes.

Resisting the Vikings was expensive. Men must be supplied with weapons and food, and the Vikings were impoverishing the countryside. In desperation, Mahon at last plundered Clonmacnois for Church treasures that could be sold to pay for swords and spears and horses.

Brian was so angry over this that the two brothers had a terrible argument. ‘No matter what happens, we must not steal from our own people!’ Brian yelled at Mahon in the command tent.

Mahon sighed wearily. The years of war were showing on him. He was still a young man but he looked old. His broad shoulders had begun to droop and there was a frost of white in his coppery hair. ‘You don’t understand, Brian. This is war, us against them. We have to use every resource.’

‘And that means robbing the monasteries?’

‘If we must.’

‘NO!’ Brian shouted, slamming his fist against his open palm.

This was one of many arguments between the two. Brian had studied the campaigns of the great military leaders of the past, and when he compared these to the way Mahon and the Dalcassians waged war he thought he saw many mistakes. He could not resist pointing these out to his brother, who did not thank him for it.

‘It was a mistake to educate you,’ Mahon growled. ‘Now you think you know more than anyone else.’

‘I don’t think that. But I do know that history is full of valuable lessons and we don’t seem to be learning them.’

‘History is ashes,’ said Mahon scornfully. ‘I understand the situation today. I know how to fight here and now.’

‘If you did,’ Brian pointed out, ‘you would be winning. But you’re not winning. The Danes are stronger than ever. They take the cattle from our fields, they burn our homesteads for pleasure, they do to others what they did to us at Beal Boru and you aren’t stopping them.’

Mahon’s face turned red. ‘Get out of my tent.’

Someday Brian would look back on these as the skirmish years, years of running, bent over, through the heather, either to or from a battle that was rarely won. The Dalcassians grew thin and hard but the Danes were harder, and their axes sang. Step by step, Mahon surrendered the land of Thomond his ancestors had won on the battlefield.

Deep in his heart Mahon began to think Callahan and Donal were right. It was impossible to defeat the Vikings. Let them take what they wanted. Perhaps it would be better to accept it, to bow the head and look away when the Dane passed by, in the hope that he would leave you in peace.