Pride of Lions (43 page)

The seed was planted, however.

In the dark of night he sat in his private chamber at Cashel and stared into the fire in the brazier, thinking of the high kingship. Brian's high kingship, suspended. Waiting.

Without saying anything to Maeve, he ordered his father's sword dug up and brought to him.

Donough resented the onset of winter that brought an end to battle season. If there were no wars to fight, he must retire to his stronghold and wait for spring; wait for winter's mud to solidify enough for marching upon once more.

Wait under the same roof with Driella. And Geoffrey. And his bitterness.

His second child was conceived that winter. Donough announced if it was a boy he would be called Lorcan, meaning "fierce." "Lorcan was the name of my father's grandfather," he explained when Geoffrey protested at such an un-Christian choice. "And what right have you to question the naming of my children?"

Feet wide apart, Geoffrey of the Fens stood his ground. His mouth opened as if he meant to say something--then he took a long look into Donough's eyes.

The mouth closed. The priest turned away.

Grimly, Donough endured the winter. He knew he was irritable and volatile, but his soul chafed as if he wore a hair shirt.

Inactivity maddened him. Once or twice he took out the harp and tuned it, then put it back in its case unplayed.

There was no music inside him to express.

The days were long and the nights were longer. Like a fly trapped in amber, he felt hung up in life.

To pass the time he began inviting Lethgen to his hall. The loquacious cattle lord was content to carry on a conversation with only minimal replies from Donough and pretended to be unaware of his host's bad moods. Lethgen would have put up with a much worse temper for the sake of such a friendship. Donough would be Ard Ri yet, he had no doubt.

Besides, the Dalcassian was an unstinting host who always kept a vat of ale on hand.

Late one night when everyone else had fallen asleep, Donough and Lethgen were still matching one another cup for cup in drunkenly determined competition. They drank to Donough's son Murchad and to his unborn child; they drank to Lethgen's sons and daughters, and to everyone's cousins, and to Munster and Ireland and all the saints. When they had run out of anything else to toast, Donough said in a blurred voice, "I drink to my father's sword."

Lethgen belched. "A fine choice." He raised his cup. "To Brian in his tomb."

"The sword isn't in his tomb."

"No?" Lethgen put down the cup and peered owlishly at his host. "Where then?"

"My brother got possession of it some way.

It's buried at Cashel."

"Tha's no place for a good sword. A sword that knows how to win wars. You should have that sword."

"I know," Donough replied morosely.

"Teigue won't use it; he doesn't deserve it."

"You should have that sword. You should."

"I know."

"Yes indeed. My frien' Donough should have that sword. I will get that sword for him. I promise." Lethgen stared into his cup, dismayed to find it was empty again. "I promise," he repeated.

Donough refilled both their cups. When Lethgen finally tumbled off his bench and lay snoring on the straw that carpeted the floor, his host was still awake.

Anything was better than going to bed. He refilled his cup yet again and, swaying slightly, carried it to the door of the hall.

The stars were far away. His eyes would not focus properly; their individual lights became a shimmering blur. Only the moon was separate and distinct.

"Cera," Donough whispered.

He never allowed himself to think of her when he was sober.

Lethgen awoke in the cold gray dawn with a ferocious headache. He was halfway home before he recalled snatches of the conversation the night before. But once remembered, he did not forget.

He was of the Gael; a promise was sacred.

Spring of the year 1023 came late.

Lethgen's herds had suffered during the hard winter and their numbers were diminished. He hoped for a good breeding season, but his bulls were old and not as vigorous as he would have liked.

Hearing of a remarkable young bull down near Cashel, he set off to attempt some trading.

Travel in Ireland was not as safe as it once had been, so Lethgen took with him an armed complement of Ely men.

"Let outlaws beware!" they told one another.

Unfortunately, even after several days' hard haggling the deal could not be done. The bull's owner proved intransigent. Lethgen was disappointed, but determined not to go home empty-handed.

Meanwhile Donough was beginning to respond to the change of seasons. The depression of the dark days lifted. He could not endure to be melancholy when the sun was radiant and the very air smelled green, so with an act of will he strove to be more pleasant --even to Geoffrey.

Relief was palpable in the fort.

Fergal also felt the sap rising in his veins.

"It's time I took a wife for myself," he told Carroll.

"You've exhausted the local women?"

Fergal laughed. "Or they have exhausted me. But in truth, I feel a need for sons. I must find a woman suitable to marry a man of my rank. Bedding is one thing, marrying is another. And she should be a Dalcassian.

These Ely females are fine and glossy, but they don't know any of the songs I know."

The old historian chuckled understandingly. "The sort of woman you want is best sought at Cashel. Where there is a rooster you find chicks; where there are kings you find princesses."

"If I go to Cashel, Donough will feel betrayed. You know how things are between Teigue and himself."

"Leave Donough to me," Carroll suggested.

Waiting until just the right moment, he broached the subject to Donough. "You have lost so much of your family, you should try to be on good terms with those who remain."

The explosion he half-expected did not come.

"You think I should patch up my quarrel with Teigue?"

"I do, for many reasons. Not the least of them is the need to find an appropriate wife for our Fergal, and such women are most numerous at the king's court."

Though Donough did not smile, the grim line of his mouth softened. "I always did admire a good tactician, Carroll. You're offering me an excuse to visit my brother without looking as if I'm seeking something for myself."

Carroll's expression was one of perfect innocence. "What could you possibly be seeking for yourself?"

Donough took several days to consider. His rage had burnt itself out, and his expanding family reminded him of the importance of the family network.

Perhaps the time had come to make amends. Kincora was still not his, but it was no longer as painful. Time and distance helped. He had his own home, his own life, even if they were not what he had dreamed.

"If we go to Cashel will you go with us?" he asked Carroll.

"Och, I'm too old. I'm done with traveling. You don't need me at your elbow, Donough, to give you words to say. You have the finest mind of all Brian's sons, and in spite of that hard shell you wear, I know there is a gentle man inside.

"Go to your brother and offer him the hand of friendship.

If you are sincere, he will welcome you.

Teigue cannot want this barrier between you any more than you do."

Preparing for the journey, Donough assembled casks of ale, piles of furs, bales of fine leathers to take as gifts to his brother. Once having made the mental commitment he was determined not to let pride stand in his way. He would make all the overtures; Teigue had only to accept.

He began to feel a sense of relief at shrugging off a burden he had carried far too long.

As he did not want Teigue to misunderstand the motives for his visit, he refrained from taking his army with him. Fergal and a score of others would accompany him, armed only with hunting spears and the ubiquitous Celtic short-sword every man carried at his belt.

Fergal questioned the decision. "You're taking a chance, Donough. We've been fighting half the tribes of Munster recently. What if one of them sees this as the perfect opportunity to ambush us?"

"We'll stay in Ely territory all the way to Cashel," Donough assured him. "And if we encounter outlaws, a score of our good men can overwhelm any band of mongrels."

"We can," Fergal agreed, heartened as always by his cousin's confidence.

Donough had a new horse--part of the ransom for the hostages of Ossory--which he meant to ride on the journey. A skittish brown colt with powerful hindquarters, the animal had tried to knock him off by running under a low branch the first time he rode it. The trip to Cashel would be a valuable training exercise because it was long enough to tire the colt and make it tractable.

Donough thought briefly of wearing his helmet, in case the horse tried to bash his head against another branch. Then, mindful of his determination to appear peaceful, he left the helmet behind.

As the party rode south he bantered amiably with his men. Delighted that he was more like his old self, they began to relax. Finally someone asked the question that had long been on everyone's mind: "Will you mount a challenge for the high kingship now?"

Donough shook his head. "Malachi was very clever. He knew I would not attempt to overthrow a poet and a holy man. Both are sacred in Ireland. As long as Cuan and Corcran are able to govern, the authority is theirs."

"But ..."

"No buts. Let it be." Donough rode on in silence for a few heartbeats, then added, "For now."

The men with him exchanged meaningful glances and grinned.

In time Cashel rose before them from the plains of Tipperary. Donough reined in his horse. "King of Munster," he murmured to himself.

Only Fergal heard him. Urging his horse so close that his knee pressed against Donough's, he said, "If you are not going to be Ard Ri for now, why not be King of Munster?"

"If I will not challenge a poet and a holy man, what makes you think I would usurp my brother's title?"

"But do you not have the desire?"

Donough turned on his horse and looked at his cousin squarely. Responding to the shift in weight, the brown colt skittered sideways.

"Desire? Let me tell you about desire.

There are ... things ... I have wanted with such a passion I thought I would be torn apart. I never got any of them. Instead I have substitutes.

Compromises."

"Half of what you have," Fergal told him,

"would make most men very happy."

"Would it?" Donough's voice sounded strangely faraway. "They're welcome to it then. My cattle, my fort, my ..." He paused, then gave a self-mocking laugh, "my wife. Though I suspect someone already has her."

Giving his horse a mighty kick, he rode forward at the gallop, and the company surged after him.

While Donough and his men approached Cashel from the north, Lethgen encamped on the south side of the limestone escarpment. There he made bold plans for theft.

Once deliberate law-breaking would have been unimaginable to him. But times had changed. The Irish had taken to plundering and pillaging with the enthusiasm of Vikings now that the power and majesty of Brian Boru no longer deterred them.

Lethgen's plan involved playing a formal visit to the King of Munster on the pretext of discussing the Munster cattle trade. Being polite to Teigue would be a necessary act of hypocrisy, for he felt Teigue had treated his friend Donough very badly. Lethgen was a man of abrupt emotions. He loved Donough.

He hated Teigue.

While he kept the king occupied, his men circulated among the servants at Cashel asking questions. Lethgen, like Carroll before him, was aware that the lowly often know the most. Once he learned the location of the buried sword, Lethgen thought it should be a simple matter to dig it up by cover of night and carry the prize back to Donough.

But the theft, he discovered, would not be so simple after all. When he met his men back at the camp, the spies reported, "The king keeps the sword with him now."

"Are you certain?"

"Absolutely. We are reliably informed he has secreted the weapon in a chest of clothing in his private chamber."

Lethgen's eyes gleamed. "Isn't that interesting? I do enjoy a challenge."

After fortifying himself with a considerable amount of ale, he paid a second visit to the king's hall. As before, he found the hall crowded with people seeking the king's judgment or support. Lethgen loitered among the crowd. He was not eager to speak with Teigue again, he was waiting for a different opportunity.

The moment came. No one was watching; he darted unnoticed through a doorway and down a passage described to him as leading to Teigue's private chamber.

He narrowly avoided being seen by Maeve, who, with her oldest son Turlough, a boy of some seven years, was just leaving the royal chamber.

Lethgen flattened himself in an angle of the wall until they passed, then advanced on tiptoe into the room. His breathing sounded very loud in his own ears. He was filled with a sense of drunken daring.

A small fire crackled in a bronze brazier, casting enough light to reveal the carved wooden clothing chest at the foot of the king's bed.

Holding his breath for fear the lid would creak, Lethgen opened the chest and began pawing through its contents.

The sword was at the very bottom. He found it by touch rather than sight and with an effort lifted it out.

Firelight gleamed on a weapon too large for any ordinary man to wield. The length of the blade and weight of the hilt astonished Lethgen.

For a moment he could only stare, awed to realize he was holding in his hands--in his own hands!--the sword of Brian Boru.

"What are you doing with that!" cried an angry voice.

Upon reaching Cashel, Donough did not go directly to see Teigue. "I don't want to meet my brother until I've had time to bathe and make myself presentable," he explained to Fergal. "You should do the same, if you mean to make a good impression on the women."

Fergal agreed enthusiastically.

When they identified themselves, they were shown to a large guesting house at the foot of the Rock of Cashel. The top of the escarpment was too small to allow for a full complement of royal buildings.