Lion of Ireland (46 page)

Behind him, the trees moved, clasping their branches together in the gentle breeze like supplicating hands.

They drew their energy from the earth and poured it into the very air, sending it out, directing it ...

As the small brown woman who stood concealed within the heart of the woods directed them. Her eyes on the tall man barely visible through the screen of leaves, her hands forming the ancient signs, she poured her life and all the life at her command outward, toward the man who carried the future of Ireland on his shoulders.

He stood erect, at last beyond even grief, in a quiet empty place without awareness of God or hope of heaven. Purgatory, he thought idly, not caring. And I am all alone. I have no one but myself.

But myself.

In the silence he heard the blood roaring in his ears. He felt the weight of his body pressing downward through strong-muscled legs and broad-planted feet, into the earth.

I have myself.

He drew one slow, deep breath, careful not to shatter the bubble expanding within his chest. The awareness of life,

insistent, demanding, not to be denied, grew in him and sang in his veins. I am alive.

He looked at the beloved land and it was still there, as it had always been. Just as beautiful, just as enduring. Death was absorbed into it and given back as life. Death had no power over the land.

It has no more power over me than I give it, he thought. I told Padraic I do not want to believe in death, and I have never believed in surrender, so why am I standing here considering those things?

He threw back his head and looked at the endless depths of the blue sky above him, the sun gilding the edges of a little billow of clouds blown gently inland from the sea.

“Do You hear me?” he cried, raising his fists above his head. “I will surrender to no one; I will not let myself be destroyed by shadows in my own mind!”

He hurled his defiance at the empty spaces above him and knew, with absolute certainty, that Something heard . .. and was pleased.

The army of Munster swept across the land, following Brian Boru. The red-and-gold banner of the three raging lions whipped in the wind of their passing. They splashed through streams, singing, and broke through the stands of alder as they would break through the ranks of an enemy. They flowed over the gentle hills, hot with purpose, shouting their war cries, Bora’s men on the move again.

Hearing the thunder of their coming, long-eared coneys hid in their burrows beneath the bracken, and red deer darted into hiding in the oak forests. But there was no hiding place for the men of Ossory, only a hasty retreat to their tenths on the banks of the More river. Brian’s men came after them, pausing for neither rest nor food, eating oat bread and wayside berries as they marched, a forest of spears rising from their shoulders, chanting.

The countryfolk cowered in their cottages of mud and timber and wickerwork, shielded only by a coat of lime wash from the hard eyes of the warrior of Munster. But, as always, there were some who darted out, eager to give news of Gillapatrick for a piece of silver or a fine wool bratt.

Besieged and hard-pressed, the prince of Ossory sent three messengers riding north with a desperate plea to Maelmordha of Leinster, in his stronghold near Naas.

“Tell Maelmordha that we have been attacked without provocation by a gang of bloodthirsty Munstermen,” Gillapatrick instructed them. “Explain about that vile trick when Boru lured my best men into a bog and left them to find their own way out or drown—that will show what kind of a dog he is!

And be certain the prince understands that my people are being gathered and taken to Munster as hostages. Beg him to send me more warriors, and arms!”

As night fell, the messengers led their horses, hoof-wrapped, a safe distance from the ruin of Gillapatrick’s hall, where sporadic fighting was still taking place, then mounted and raced northward.

Morning found them in the foothills of the Wicklow Mountains. They had ridden past deep peat ridges and bogs starred with bog cotton, and sheep grazing on lonely moors had lifted their heads to watch them gallop by in the moonlight. They kicked and switched their horses along winding mountain trails, oblivious to the wild beauty of foaming stream and lacy waterfalls.

Their memories still contained the picture of the Munstermen running up the hill toward Gillapatrick’s stockade, brandishing axes as skillfully as Northmen and screaming threats. When they looked at one another they saw, mirrored in their comrade’s eyes, that last vision of the giant king of Munster on his sweating stallion, a red silk mantle blowing back from his shoulders, his tireless sword arm rising and falling.

They reached Naas at last, exhausted, horse-sore, and Maelmordha ordered boiled eels and red wine for them while he listened to their story. Then he called for fresh horses to be brought them.

“The Cualann road lies a few miles from here, leading straight to Tara. The Ard Ri is my near-brother now, and my problems should be his. You have come such a long way so bravely, I charge you go this little additional distance to Malachi, who has convened his council there. Greet him in my name, and tell him that I request he put a body of men in the field against this Brian Boru, who has criminally invaded Leinster.”

When they had ridden away he returned to his hall and commented to the throng of nobles and hem-hangers who filled it, “I never believe in spending my own men unless it will benefit me directly.

Gillapatrick is the Ard Ri’s subject; let the Ard Ri defend him.”

“You don’t intend to fight Boru?” someone asked.

Maelmordha gnawed his underlip and thought of the tales he had heard in recent years. “Not if I can help it,” he replied. “After all, he hasn’t done anything to me.”

The Ossorymen rode on, following the road blindly and unaware when the aspect of the land changed. It was only when the road itself began to be crowded with carts and horses that they knew they were on the slighe, the main highway for wheeled vehicles. They became part of the general crush of carts and chariots jostling one another for right of way as they approached the official seat of the Ard Ri.

The chariot whirled past them, driven by a young noble in a brilliantly colored and elaborately pleated linen tunic. He reined in his pair of frothing horses to stare at them curiously, then cracked his whip and dashed away, wheeling the horses too sharply, so that the chariot rode up on one wheel and balanced there precariously amid shouts of “Watch out!” and “Look where you’re going, you young fool!”

The slighe flowed into the ramut, the king’s avenue. There was no rock or rut in it where a tired horse might stumble,

for the ramut was kept immaculately clean by the people of the king’s own tribe, using the three ritual cleansings: by brushwood, by water, and by weeds. The road stretched straight before them now, a broad ribbon gently rising to the green and distant ridge, the sacred hill, hub of the Five Roads of Ireland.

Tara.

Timbered halls still stood within the seven duns, the ring-forts built beyond memory’s reach, but their wood was ash gray and fragile with age. Before the Miodhchuarta, the huge royal banqueting hall, the Ard Ri’s flag hung limp in the soft air. Guards wearing swords and holding shields of bronze stood at each of the fourteen doorways of the enormous building, and a constant flow of people moved in and out, talking among themselves or pausing to listen to the various musicians playing throughout the area.

If the Ossorymen had expected to be ushered into the presence of Malachi Mor himself, they were mistaken. They were taken to a separate round chamber, bustling with lawyers and courtiers, but the Ard Ri was not there. In his place, not actually sitting on his High Seat but standing very close to it, rather leaning against it, was a woman. And such a woman!

Gormlaith straightened and lifted her chin, so that she could look down her nose at them. “I’m told you have a message from my brother, Prince Maelmordha of Leinster?”

They exchanged glances. The leader of the trio sputtered through several throat clearings before managing to say, “We were instructed to report directly to the Ard Ri, my lady.”

They were embarrassed. How delicious! Gormlaith flashed her eyes at them. “In my husband’s absence, I rule here! If you have anything worth telling, tell it to me!”

The courtiers in the chamber watched silently. Malachi

had ridden to Ulster to consult with his Hy Neill kinsmen, and they had had ample opportunity to learn not to interfere with Gormlaith in his absence. But when he returned . . .!

Looking around the room at their watchful, amused faces,

the Ossorymen saw no help forthcoming. Reluctantly, they

recited their recent history to Gormlaith.

They were surprised by the quickness of her perception, the probing questions that went right to the mark. “How many fighting men were with the king of Munster? Was the attack genuinely unprovoked, or was there a reason for it you are not telling me? Are the roads muddy between Meath and Kilkenny?

Would it be possible for us to get warriors there in time to do any good?”

As the story unfolded it became obvious there was no immediate remedy to be offered Gillapatrick; Boru and his hostages would be safely home in Munster by now, no doubt encouraged to make further raids on his peaceful and law-abiding neighbors.

“That savage will not despoil lands under the protection of Malachi Mor!” Gormlaith cried, enjoying the sound of her ringing words. “How dare that upstart venture beyond his own borders! Be thankful that you have an Ard Ri who will soon show him his proper place!”

She was working herself into a fine froth. It happened at lease once a day, sometimes more often, and nods and winks were passed around the chamber. Gormlaith in full sail was a sight to see.

The messengers from Ossory were given food and bedding in the hall known as the House of the Hostages, and riders were sped southward to assure Maelmordha of the Ard Ri’s support; a reassurance carefully couched in the most ambiguous of terms. Gormlaith retired to the grianan to reflect on the pleasures of power.

Her maidservant hurried to bring her fruit and a goblet of mead. The girl was the latest in the long succession of women chosen to wait on Gormlaith; a fair young woman from the Hebrides, blessed with silky hair and nimble fingers. Unique among women, Gormlaith could afford to have comely women surround her. When she first came from Malachi’s permanent residence at Dun na Sciath to the convening of court at Tara, she had sought out and befriended the most beautiful among the wives of Malachi’s nobles. She deliberately kept the lady at her side in every light and situation, until it became obvious to all that the young woman’s beauty paled in comparison to Gormlaith’s. The lady herself, horrified at finding herself devalued, sought other companionship, to her husband’s displeasure and Gormlaith’s amusement. But now Gormlaith had only her maids for company.

“The Ard Ri will be surprised when he learns how well I am handling his affairs,” Gormlaith mused as she sipped her mead. “I’m certain he will, my lady,” the servant replied, removing the gilt slippers and gently propping her queen’s feet on a silk cushion. Gormlaith ran her bare heel over the fabric, testing the texture of both, seeking flaws.

“Men have small vision, Ninianne,” she continued, tilting her head so that the girl could begin removing combs from the wealth of her hair. “They only see the immediate problem, whereas women, being so much more involved with the inner workings of life, are able to enjoy a better perspective. We can think in terms other than bed, battle, and belly.

“If I had not taken charge here, some little band of fighting men would have been sent south immediately, to placate my brother and go on chasing after the king of Munster in hope of winning a battle long since lost. Ridiculous. All those little skirmishes that seem to delight men prove nothing; they have no grandeur about them. The outcome is forgotten in a fortnight.”

The last comb removed, Ninianne began patiently untwisting the strands of hair which held Gormlaith’s collection of tiny gold balls. In spite of her most careful efforts, something pulled, and Gormlaith spun around to deliver a backhanded slap that sent the girl reeling. without pausing to acknowledge her act or see its outcome Gormlaith continued talking, leaving the maid to pick herself and her combs from the floor and painfully resume her work.

“What is obviously required here is some grand gesture to show all Ireland that Malachi Mor is its ruler and no man may defy him with impunity. One sweeping blow that will linger in men’s memories. Less fun, perhaps, than a simple battle, but with more lasting effect.

”This Brian Boru must be humiliated in some way; humiliation is the best of punishments for a proud man.

Surely I can think of something appropriate, some crippling insult to be dealt him, so that the plan will already be laid and awaiting only Malachi’s approval. Let me think . . . what would cut the legs from under that Dalcassian?”

Malachi returned to Tara in a fine humor. In spite of recent depredations by Norse pirates based in the Orkneys, the kingdoms in Ulster had sworn to pay a good tribute this year. After the lax years of Donal’s old age, a new and vital spirit occupied Tara; things would be accomplished now—battles won, roads built, trade expanded.

And his new wife was waiting for him, as exciting as the promise of the future itself.

He was pleasantly surprised that Gormlaith was so eager to be with him that she could not wait for him to discuss his trip with the council of state, but insisted on welcoming him immediately in his own bedchamber. Malachi had been entertained lavishly in Oriel and Ulidia, but there was no such woman in all Ulster as Gormlaith.

Gormlaith was equally pleased that he came so readily to her arms and bed. Best to tell him her ideas before those mossy old graybeards in the council chamber had a chance to get at him. While he lay dazed and sweat-drenched on her bosom, she told him of the attack on Gillapatrick. With her hot hands stroking him, cupping him, molding themselves to the shape of his muscles, she urged him to retaliate on Leinster’s behalf.