Faster than thought, Brian moved. Suddenly the point of a shortsword was pressing into Donal’s throat. ‘Do not threaten me, Leinster,’ Brian said in a cold and deadly voice. ‘Do not ever, ever, threaten me.’
Donal did not say another word until the army of Munster had disappeared over the horizon. Then he told his court he had been prevented from speaking by a sore throat. Most of them seemed to believe him. He was relieved that the girl called Gormla, daughter of one of his princely cousins, was not there, however. She had sharp eyes and would have seen through the lie, and laughed at him. Gormla had only contempt for any sort of weakness. But fortunately she had recently been married to Olaf Cuaran, the aging Norse King of Dublin.
Donal secretly felt sorry for any man married to the wild, wilful, beautiful Gormla.
CHAPTER NINE
Tribal Warfare
With every season that passed, Brian’s goals were expanding. The action of the Waterford Danes in causing a rebellion on the part of the Deise made him more convinced than ever that the power of the foreigners, whether Danish or Norse, must be broken forever in Ireland.
When he was a little boy, Brian had imagined driving all the Vikings into the sea at sword’s point. He was older now, and had travelled enough to realise that there were too many Vikings in Ireland to drive all of them into the sea. They must be handled in other ways.
What lessons could be learned from the past? How had great leaders in other lands coped with invasion and settlement by foreigners?
His precious books were always close to his hand, and whenever he had the time, Brian studied them. He said to his sons Conor and Flan the words he would have liked to say to Murcha. ‘Education is priceless. Never stop studying. Books give us access to the finest minds, even those of men long dead.’
Brian began sending messengers abroad to buy back the books that had been looted from Ireland’s monastic schools and sold to scholars in Europe by Viking traders. Some of the tribute sent by the King of Leinster was used for this purpose.
Some of it was also sent to Murcha, who had at last settled in a small fort of his own a day’s ride from Cashel. Murcha did not acknowledge the gift. But he did not send it back, either. Like his father, Murcha was a practical man.
Brian was happy enough with Achra, when he had time to be with her. Achra had very little interest in affairs of kingship. Her world was bound by the child growing inside her and such homely joys as the smell of baking bread and the warmth of a fire. She did not really like Cashel. The cluster of stone buildings jammed together atop the famous Rock seemed cold to her, and harsh. The wind was always blowing at Cashel. There were no trees, no flowers. None of the softness of Meath.
She tried to say these things to Brian but his mind was elsewhere. ‘I’ve been studying the annals of the Saxons in England,’ he told her, ‘to learn how they made one strong kingdom out of many quarrelsome groups and tribes. Half a century before I was born, a king called Alfred began uniting the tribes of the south under his rule. This pattern has been continued, passed from father to son. The Saxons have created a dynasty bred and trained to rule. Under this dynasty, the Saxons have learned to work together and have made their land prosperous.
‘The Danes have begun attacking them, but it seems to me that as long as the Saxons continue to stand together, and have wise warlords to lead them, they can resist.
‘I want a similar strength for our land, Achra. I made certain that Murcha received the same education I had, one that would prepare him to rule. Kingship in Ireland has always gone to the strongest, or the one with the most followers, but that isn’t good enough. It should follow one dynasty trained for it. One lasting, kingly line. As things are now, the land is divided into many tribal kingdoms and five provinces, and every kingship is fought over again and again. This robs us of our strength and this is what made it easy for the Vikings to overrun us. I want to be certain that such a thing does not happen again. One strong man should rule the entire island, with the support of all its princes.’
Brian’s eyes flamed with passion. His voice throbbed with strength. Achra clapped her hands and gazed admiringly at her magnificent husband – but she really did not understand him.
Others understood his vision, though. Some were excited by it. Some laughed at it. Some feared it.
In spite of his growing reputation, the princes of the province of Ulster did not yet consider Brian Boru a danger to their own power. For many generations, the high kingship of Ireland – which meant the right to claim tribute from the five provincial kings – had been held in turn by the two senior branches of the O’Neills. The northern O’Neills, whose royal stronghold was at Aileach, did not feel threatened by the rise of some southern warlord from an obscure tribe. Brian had not yet invaded their lands or interfered with their trade.
The southern branch of the O’Neills in Meath were more concerned, however. Munster was too close for comfort, and Brian’s marriage to Achra was seen as an attempt to extend his influence.
In the Year of Our Lord 979 the High King, the Árd Rí of Ireland, King of the Kings, died. His replacement was chosen from the ranks of the O’Neill princes in Meath.
His name was Malachy ‘the Great’. Malachy had hardly become High King when Olaf Cuaran, the Norse King of Dublin, led an army of plundering Vikings into Meath. Malachy met and defeated them at Tara, which was the ancient ceremonial site of high kingship. Humiliated by this defeat, Olaf Cuaran converted to Christianity, went on an extended pilgrimage to Iona, and died there. He left a young widow, Gormla, the Princess of Leinster.
Following his victory over Olaf Cuaran, Malachy laid siege to Dublin. The Norse trading town was well protected with a stout timber palisade and an army of Viking defenders. But the new High King was eager to make a name for himself. After three days of fierce fighting, he broke down the gates and captured the town.
There he found Donal, King of Leinster. In his bitterness against Brian Boru, Donal had gone to the Norse of Dublin to seek an alliance against Munster. He was the guest of Olaf’s son, Sitric Silkbeard, the new King of Dublin.
‘I submit to you,’ Sitric told Malachy, surrendering his sword. ‘And I promise to pay you a huge tribute in gold and cloth and timber if you allow me to retain the kingship of Dublin.’
Malachy agreed. Sitric promptly ordered a feast served in honour of the High King.
One of those attending the feast was Gormla of Leinster, widow of Olaf Cuaran.
Malachy had never seen such a woman. Gormla was as tall as a man, with huge green eyes and hair like flame that fell past her knees. When she met his glance she did not blush and look away. She stared back at him.
‘Who is that?’ Malachy asked Sitric.
Sitric was called Silkbeard because he was still so young his beard was thin and fine. With boyish pride he told Malachy, ‘That’s my mother. She was a child when she married Olaf Cuaran.’
‘She’s not a child now,’ Malachy replied, filling his eyes with Gormla.
When he had a chance to speak to her, Malachy was surprised by Gormla’s keen interest in politics. She knew a great deal about tribal warfare, and about what was happening in the Irish territories beyond the walls of Dublin.
‘The shifts of power are like a chess game, Malachy,’ she said. ‘I like to play chess myself.’
Turning the full force of her green eyes on the High King, she went on. ‘Brian Boru of Munster recently humiliated my kinsman, Donal of Leinster. It would make me happy to see the Munsterman paid back in kind. As High King, perhaps you should make some sort of gesture to demonstrate your authority. He is said to be very ambitious and it would not do to have provincial kings think themselves stronger than the High King.’
‘I shall do what I can to make the Princess of Leinster happy,’ Malachy replied.
Gormla chuckled.
She thought it a great pity that women could no longer rule their tribes in Ireland. A thousand years earlier, the bards said, Connacht had been
controlled by the great Queen Maeve, who started a mighty war.
A war with real men fighting on both sides was much more exciting than chess, Gormla thought. She looked forward to seeing Malachy fight Brian Boru.
At Cashel, Achra had just given birth to a son. He was to be called Teige. Murcha did not attend his half-brother’s christening.
While the king’s household was celebrating the birth they learned of a shocking deed. Malachy, the new High King, had led an army of warriors from Meath into Thomond and cut down the sacred oak at Magh Adhair. Generations of Dalcassian princes had become kings of the tribe beneath that oak.
Brian was outraged. ‘What have I done to the High King that gives him cause to insult me and my tribe in this way?’
A new historian had just come to Cashel, a man of the important tribe of Carroll. To this Carroll, Brian said, ‘Malachy is unfit to be High King. He acts unjustly, attacking without cause. Even worse, he has profaned a site sacred to our tribe.’
Carroll was a round-faced man with the piercing blue eyes common to his branch of the tribe in Kerry. It would be his business to observe Brian’s deeds and write them down for future generations, so he was interested in the twists and turns of Brian’s mind. ‘Will you seek revenge?’ he asked.
‘I don’t believe in revenge,’ Brian replied. ‘It is not Christian.’
Then he winked. And Carroll was not sure just what Brian Boru believed.
First Brian sent his boats up and down the Shannon, packed with armed warriors. The Irish were accustomed to seeing Vikings on the river, but not men of their own race. The lesson was not lost on them. Brian was asserting his power. The leaders of tribes from both banks of the Shannon hurried to send tributes to Brian and dispatched warriors to join his army.
When he had enough men, Brian marched into Meath and laid waste to a large area. His banner with its crimson lions was planted defiantly deep in Malachy’s home territory.
In his stronghold at the Fort of the Swords, Malachy was taken aback. He had not expected such a bold response. The High King had only meant to make a gesture, not an enemy. But he was in no position to reply in kind, for he had a new war on his hands. Young Sitric Silkbeard had joined forces with the King of Leinster and the two were attacking Meath on the east.
When Malachy destroyed the Dalcassian’s sacred tree at Magh Adhair, he had pleased Gormla, but he had not impressed Donal of Leinster. To him, the gesture seemed an empty threat. The King of Leinster was convinced that the Vikings were the greatest power in Ireland, and that his prosperity depended on alliance with them.
Malachy marched into Leinster to meet Donal and Sitric. A savage battle took place. At last Malachy won, but he did not follow up his victory by destroying Sitric. The young man was allowed, for the sake of his mother Gormla, to return safely to Dublin. There he waited, bitter and brooding, for a better opportunity.
Within a short time Donal of Leinster was slain in a petty dispute with another Irish tribe.
The next important King of Leinster was to be Maelmora, a brother to the princess Gormla.
Gormla persuaded Malachy to support her brother’s bid for the provincial kingship. For a while, Gormla could persuade Malachy to do almost anything. She had arranged to be present at almost every feast and fair the High King attended, and soon he was thinking about her all the time. He told his followers, ‘If I marry Olaf Cuaran’s widow, I will gain two alliances – one with Sitric Silkbeard and the Norsemen of Dublin, and one with the kingly line of Leinster.’
So Malachy asked Gormla to marry him, and to no one’s surprise she accepted. She was bored with being a widow. Being the wife of a king, particularly the High King, should be much more exciting.
But Malachy was not a good judge of character. In spite of his mother’s marriage, Sitric had no desire to make peace with Malachy again. He resented being defeated by Malachy. Besides, there was still plunder to be taken in Meath.
As for Maelmora of Leinster, his only interest was in promoting his own career. He would give his loyalty wherever he thought it would do him the most good.
Meanwhile, Malachy kept hearing more and more about the increasing strength of Brian Boru. Bards visiting the Fort of the Swords sang songs praising the Lion of Thomond. Sometimes they even played airs on the harp which, they said, had been composed by Brian.
Gormla looked at her second husband through narrowed eyes. ‘Can you compose music for the harp?’ she wanted to know.
‘Of course not. I’m a warrior, a king.’
‘So is Brian Boru,’ Gormla commented. She closed her eyes and listened with increasing interest to the harp music. The King of Munster must be an interesting man, she began thinking. It had not taken her long to grow bored with Malachy.
Gormla told her husband, ‘I hear that Brian Boru is building a new stronghold for himself at a place called Kincora, the Head of the Weir, near where he was born. It is said to be a fortress that will put your fort to shame.’
Malachy snorted. ‘A palace in a wilderness. Ruled over by an upstart savage.’
‘Savages do not read and write Latin and Greek,’ Gormla pointed out. ‘They say this Brian Boru does both. And excels at chess,’ she added dreamily.
Malachy lost his temper. ‘Enough! I do not want to hear the Dalcassian’s name spoken in my house again!’
But Gormla was not good at taking orders. She avidly collected every scrap of information about the activities of the King of Munster.
She learned that Brian was not a king who lingered comfortably in his hall, feasting and drinking, as Malachy liked best to do. Brian went out among his people, listened to their complaints, tried to solve their problems. Kings were usually jealous of their position. But Brian Boru would sit crosslegged on the dirt floor of the meanest hut to discuss a barren ewe with a herder, or an outbreak of disease among her children with the herder’s wife.
He would then send a new ewe from his own flock, and his own physician to heal the children.
Brian Boru was uniting his people through their admiration rather than their fear.
Malachy did not inspire such devotion, Gormla observed. He was a fine warrior, but compared to the King of Munster he seemed a very ordinary man.
Brian’s wife Achra bore him two sons, then died in childbirth as a daughter was born. When she learned of this, Gormla remarked to one of her attendants, ‘Brian Boru will be High King one day. He will need another wife then, to give him the benefit of her advice and comfort and to share in his glory. I would make a good wife for him, would I not?’
The attendant was shocked. ‘You’re already married!’
‘And Malachy is the High King. For now. But things change. Under the old Brehon law, for example, a husband or wife can be set aside.’
‘The Church does not believe in divorce,’ her attendant pointed out.
‘Perhaps not, but the priests overlook many of the things kingly families do. The Church depends on the kings for support and protection.’
The attendant said, ‘No woman would divorce a High King!’
‘Perhaps not. But the High King might divorce a woman who no longer pleased him,’ Gormla replied, smiling a secret smile.
Before she could develop her plans, however, Brian married again.
Aside from Murcha, no one was surprised when he took a daughter of King Conor of Connacht as his third wife. Munster and Connacht had fought many battles, but now Connacht would be bound to Brian through ties of marriage. Brian did not take his new wife, Ducholi, to live at Cashel. Instead they made their home at Kincora, on the west bank of the Shannon, in the heart of Thomond.
Brian had fortified Beal Boru to serve as its northern rampart, built additional walls extending southward for two miles, and erected a magnificent new hall on the high ground. From this vantage point he could view with satisfaction the fleet of three hundred boats he had assembled on the Shannon.
Once Kincora was completed, Brian visited the Rock of Cashel only for cerem
onial occasions. Afterwards he hurried eagerly back to his home on the Shannon, beneath the watchful eye of Aval on her grey crag.
Ducholi was a slender, graceful woman, with a taste for luxury. She had not been long at Kincora before she began using part of the tribute sent to the King of Munster to add the gleam of gold to her new home. She ordered fine cups and bowls made by the craftsmen of Thomond, and no gown that she wore was worth less than six cows.
Brian was quietly pleased by the changes Ducholi made, turning a fortress into a palace. He told his personal bard, Mac Liag, ‘I wish my mother had lived to see this place. She had a hard life and died a hard death.’
Brian kept his voice steady as he spoke, but Mac Liag had a keen ear. He heard the grief buried in the words.
‘After my mother’s death,’ Brian went on, ‘I promised myself I would do what I could to see that such things did not happen again.’
Mac Liag said, ‘You have succeeded. No Viking would dare attack any part of the Shannon now.’
Brian sighed. ‘That isn’t enough.’
Mac Liag had a home by the shores of Lough Derg, just north of Beal Boru. Daily he walked to Brian’s hall to share the king’s cup, his joys and his sorrows. The two men became the best of friends. Brian did not want to talk about war and warfare all the time, and Mac Liag was an educated man who could discuss many subjects with him. Sometimes the two sat deep in conversation in the hall until dawn.
Brian confided to Mac Liag, ‘The defeat that hurts me most is the loss of my son, Murcha.’
‘You’ve healed so many other quarrels. Can’t you heal this one?’
‘I’ve tried,’ Brian said. ‘And to Murcha’s credit, he behaves towards me as a loyal prince to his king. But he allows nothing personal between us. When we meet, he treats me as a stranger.’
‘Why?’
The fire was burning low in the huge stone firepit in the centre of the hall. Brian’s hounds dozed beside the hearth, twitching in their sleep. His servants lay under tables or in corners, sleeping as soundly as the dogs. Only Brian and Mac Liag were still awake.
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