Brian rubbed the bridge of his nose with weary fingers. ‘I don’t know why, Mac Liag. Perhaps there’s always trouble between fathers and sons. I know Murcha resents my marriages since his mother died. He refuses to understand the reason for them. He refuses to accept my idea of kingship, though I have tried and tried to teach him.’
Mac Liag leaned back on his bench, resting his spine against the stout wooden pillar that helped support the roof. Lacing his fingers across his belly, the bard told Brian, ‘Time is passing, and we’re all getting older. Even Murcha. He also has a wife now, and a child on the way, we hear. So perhaps he would be more willing to listen to you if the two of you would talk together again.’
‘We won’t. He avoids me. And I’m not about to plead, not to my son or any man!’
Mac Liag said nothing more about Murcha, but stared at the fire, thinking.
The next morning he sought out Carroll the historian, whom he found in Brian’s huge new wine cellar, across the river from Kincora. The cellar was necessary to store the immense tribute of wine Brian was demanding from the Danes of Limerick, in return for letting them rebuild their town.
Winter had clamped its cold grip on Thomond. The reed-fringed hem of Lough Derg was spangled in ice. Daily, hunters left Kincora and the surrounding area, where Brian had almost three thousand warriors encamped at all times, to seek game for the approaching Christmas feasting.
Brian’s wife, Ducholi, was spending much time in the kitchens of Kincora, supervising preparations. Women worked red-faced, loading and unloading the round clay ovens. Men worked red to the elbow, cutting up beef and venison. Servants ran back and forth endlessly from kitchen to hall. Built to the king’s own clever design, the kitchens were connected to the feasting hall by two separate passages, so servants could carry food in or empty dishes away without running into one another.
Children were collecting nuts, young girls were hanging swags of evergreen boughs, musicians were tuning harps and burnishing trumpets. In the still of the night they played instruments called musical branches, whose tiny silver bells filled the hall with a sound like icicles breaking.
Everyone was in a fever, preparing for Christmas.
Carroll the historian was busily writing down, on a wax tablet, the measurements of Brian’s new wine cellar, and dreaming of the wine he would drink during the festive season. He did not notice Mac Liag approach until the bard said, ‘You know Murcha, don’t you?’
Startled, Carroll dropped his wax tablet. Mac Liag waited while he picked it up.
‘I do know the Prince Murcha, slightly,’ Carroll said.
‘Do you think he regrets the break with his father?’
‘I’m sure he does,’ the historian said. ‘Murcha is a good man at heart, and he loves his father. He just won’t admit it. It must be very difficult, having Brian Boru for a father. He is a hero to so many, and Murcha has never been comfortable standing in his shadow.’
‘Brian misses his son, Carroll. But he won’t make the first move. He has settled so many disputes for others – do you think you and I might try to help with this one?’
The historian looked doubtful. ‘I suppose we could try,’ he said at last.
Together, they went to Murcha’s fort, to issue an invitation in both their names. ‘As senior prince of the senior line of the Dalcassians, you should be at the king’s table for the Christmas feast,’ Carroll urged.
Murcha started to refuse, but his wife said suddenly, in a wistful voice, ‘Christmas at Kincora! Wouldn’t that be splendid? Ah, my husband – what I would give to see it.’
‘It will be splendid,’ Mac Liag quickly echoed. Murcha shot him a warning look that he ignored. ‘A thousand beeswax candles will burn brighter than the sun. There will be more fat meat than any man can lift on his knife. The abbot Marcan will be coming from the new abbey that Brian built for him, and would surely bless the child in your womb.’
The young woman turned to her husband with such a pleading look Murcha could not refuse. Over her head, he glared at his visitors. ‘You are as full of schemes as my father,’ he said.
Then he smiled a rueful smile. ‘Get your cloak from its peg, wife. It appears we are going to spend Christmas at Kincora.’
CHAPTER TEN
Christmas at Kincora
As Mac Liag had promised, Christmas at Kincora in the Year of Our Lord 994 was indeed a splendid occasion. Ducholi was a daughter of the King of Connacht. She knew that a king must display his wealth to impress his people with his ability to take care of them.
‘The bards praise a king’s hospitality first among his qualities,’ Ducholi kept reminding the servants. ‘My husband’s victories in battle mean that many new tribes now send him tribute. He likes to claim that every back in Munster now wears a new cloak. I should like to be able to claim that, at this feast, we stretched every belly to bursting!’
The servants did their best.
Brian’s cooks prepared a new dish in honour of their king. This Dalcassian stew simmered in huge iron cauldrons until its fragrance made everyone’s mouth water. It contained many of the foods available to noble households in Ireland in that time. Mutton, duck, bacon, venison, sausage, barley, wild onions and root vegetables were cooked together, then flavoured with dried herbs, imported cinnamon, and the dregs of red wine. The Dalcassian recipe would be served for many years after in Thomond, with shellfish and cresses added during the summer, and those who tasted it remembered the name of Brian Boru.
Years later, Prince Cahal of Delvin Mor told his many grandchildren, ‘I was there at Kincora, when we drank from silver cups.’
‘Tell us!’ the children would demand. They never tired of hearing the tale.
Cahal’s eyes would grow misty with remembering. ‘The great feasting hall at Kincora was built of timber, with a roof as high as the treetops. Brian Boru sat on a raised platform facing the main doorway, with his nobles around him according to their rank. Those of us who could command more than a hundred men in time of battle sat closest to the king. Farthest away were cattle lords who only held land to the value of fourteen cumals, which means fourteen servant woman. Such men sat in the shadows and the draughts but they ate as much as the rest of us. And drank more,’ Cahal would add with a laugh.
‘And what did the great king look like?’ the children wanted to know.
‘Ah, Brian was in his prime in those days! There were the first streaks of silver in his coppery hair, but he had the eyes of a boy. Not a boy … an eagle! He was a head taller than the tallest of us, and no man in Munster could match him with sword or axe. His voice was deep and seldom used, for he listened much more than he talked. I used to watch him across the feasting table, and wonder how many thoughts were flashing through his mind at the one time.’
‘Were you his special friend?’
Cahal smiled. ‘Every man thought he was Brian Boru’s special friend. He had that gift. He never betrayed a friendship, or gave any man cause to regret trusting him. Though we came from many tribes, somehow Brian Boru made us all Dalcassians.
‘Another of his gifts was his memory. He knew the Book of Rights, the ancient laws of Ireland, as well as any man living. He could recite the poems containing the law and he knew how to interpret them,’ Cahal added, recalling the many times Brian had interpreted the law to suit his own purpose.
That Christmas at Kincora, Brian had been thankful to see Murcha enter the main gateway with his other guests. He wanted to run up to him and make him welcome, but he held himself back. What if Murcha turned away from his father?
So Brian just smiled and nodded at his oldest son as he did at everyone. But he ordered his steward to give Murcha the seat at his right hand during the feast.
To Brian’s relief, Murcha accepted it.
Both men were wary, careful with each other. They spoke of little things that did not matter. Perhaps it will be all right, Brian thought to himself. Murcha has come to me of his own free will. Perhaps he is ready to liste
n and learn.
After the feast, the musicians played music at the king’s request, while Brian’s shaggy hounds roamed through the feasting hall, nosing among the rushes on the floor for scraps and bones. Then Brian raised his hand to order silence. It was time to address his followers.
‘I am troubled by the actions of the High King Malachy,’ he said. ‘A High King should be the man who is best equipped for the office, a man who desires to improve the lot of his people. The great King Charlemagne of France, whose life I have studied, was such a man.
‘Malachy is not such a man. He is content to enjoy the privileges of his rank and demand submission and tributes. But there is more to kingship than taking tributes.
‘I know more of the law than Malachy does. There is nothing in the law that gives the O’Neill tribe a claim on the high kingship forever. They took it through force of arms, and they can lose it the same way.’ Brian cast a meaningful look around the room, then met and held the eyes of his oldest son.
Murcha slouched low on his bench. Out of the side of his mouth he said to the man sitting on his right, ‘My father is lecturing me again.’
That man was Cahal of Delvin Mor, who replied, ‘You would be wise to listen to him. He is trying to prepare you for kingship.’
‘He wants to be more than King of Munster,’ said Murcha. ‘Listen to him. He plans to be High King.’
‘And why not?’ asked Cahal.
Why not indeed? thought Murcha for the first time, looking at his father with new eyes. Perhaps Brian Boru should become High King. But if he does – what about his son? Will I still, and always, stand in his shadow?
Murcha remained at Kincora for the twelve nights of celebration, and went home full of thoughts. As Mac Liag had told Brian, Murcha was growing older and wiser. He would always have a quick temper, however.
People far beyond Thomond were beginning to ask, ‘Why shouldn’t Brian Boru be High King? He does more for his followers than Malachy does for his.’
Brian was making it obvious that he would not submit to the authority of a High King he did not respect. Munster and Meath clashed again and again in small battles. But Brian was unwilling to declare a total war. He did not want his rivalry with Malachy to ravage the very land he hoped to win. Nor did he want great numbers of his followers killed. He was concerned for the lives of his people, and they knew it.
Even Murcha had to admit to himself that Brian was a superb king.
Malachy was being forced to admit it as well. He forbade his bards to sing of Brian, yet the name was on everyone’s lips.
Gormla said it once too often. Malachy turned on her in a fury in their chamber at the Fort of the Swords.
‘I’m tired of hearing that name! Mention Brian Boru once more, wife, and sleep beneath another roof!’
Gormla gave her husband a scornful look. Malachy, who was several years younger than Brian, was as bald as if he had a monk’s tonsure. His belt was straining against a growing belly. He was not a man to stir the imagination.
Gormla was tired of him.
‘Boru, Boru, Boru!’ she chanted.
A messenger arrived at the gates of Dublin and asked to be taken to King Sitric. He found Sitric in the street of the leatherworkers, ordering new boots for himself.
The messenger told him, ‘Your mother, the Princess Gormla, wishes you to know that the High King has set her aside. She is no longer his wife.’
Sitric raised his sandy-coloured eyebrows. He was very fair, like his Norse father. The Irish called the Norse ‘white foreigners’ and the darker Danes ‘black foreigners’.
‘What?’ asked Sitric, not certain he had heard right. ‘Are you trying to tell me the High King has divorced my mother?’
‘Under the Brehon law, he has. She wants you to take her in and give her a home.’
Sitric forgot about boots. He was young but not stupid. He knew Gormla, in spite of her beauty, was a troublemaker. She had always been a troublemaker. Gormla could not pass a pot without stirring it up.
‘I’m not certain Dublin is the best place for my mother at present,’ Sitric said to the messenger. ‘She might be better advised to take shelter with her brother Maelmora, the King of Leinster. After a l l, she persuaded Malachy to support him for the kingship. Maelmora owes her a favour.’
The messenger was surprised. One did not expect a son to refuse a home to his own mother. But he carried Sitric’s words back to the Fort of the Swords, where Gormla was now living in a small lodge apart from the main buildings. When she heard what Sitric had said, her howls of anger echoed through the fort.
Malachy was away at the time, putting down a revolt by one of the tribal kings. Though Gormla had secretly wanted to be free of him, she publicly pretended to be very angry about the divorce. It was an insult, she told everyone who would listen. She had looked forward to complaining bitterly to her son, Sitric.
Maelmora, her brother, was a different matter. She knew him of old; he had no patience with her and would not be willing to give ear to her moans. They did not get along.
But Sitric sent word to Maelmora that he must, indeed, offer Gormla a home. ‘Do this and you shall have an alliance with me and the Norsemen of Dublin,’ Sitric promised.
Maelmora was new to the kingship of Leinster and eager for powerful alliances, and so he agreed. He sent an escort of warriors to bring his sister home.
‘We shall only keep her here until we find a new husband for her,’ Maelmora promised his wife.
‘See that you do,’ said the wife, pursing her lips. She did not get along with Gormla either.
In the winter of 998, smoke hung without moving in the cold air and snagged like wool in the leafless branches of the trees. Then a cold rain set in, lasting for weeks.
Brian paced the halls of Kincora, thinking. Winter was the time for thinking. The land demanded a rest, and made it all but impossible for men to wage war because of mud and sleet and ice. In winter a warrior stayed home by his fire, repairing his weapons and renewing his courage.
As King of Munster, Brian formally summoned Murcha. In the great hall of Kincora he said to his oldest son, ‘You are a prince of the Dalcassians with more than a hundred warriors sworn to you. I ask you to bring them to me in the springtime.’
‘You’re going to war then?’
‘I am.’
‘Are you going to try to kill the High King?’
‘I am not. I would not have the bards remember me as one who did harm to a High King.’
‘Then who is to receive our spear throws and sword thrusts?’ Murcha wanted to know. ‘Whose blood will we feed to the ravens?’
Brian did not answer at once. Instead, he signalled to a servant to poke up the fire in the central firepit. A bitter wind was howling beyond the walls.
Gazing into the leaping flames, Brian said at last, ‘When I was your age, Murcha, I thought all our problems would be solved if we drove the foreigners into the sea. I was young and things seemed simple. I have lived long and observed much, and now I know better.
‘Many of our problems come from ourselves, not from the foreigners. Besides, there are too many Norse and Danes here now to drive them all out, and they have been here for too long. For generations. They have married Irish women and they have children who were born here and know no other home. I would not drive any child from its home, Murcha. Not ever.
‘Some of the Vikings have even become Christians. They are part of the pattern of this island now. Look at the carving on that leather belt you wear. Those are Viking figures mixed with the Irish knotwork. And tonight in the feasting hall we shall fill our cups with Danish beer.
‘Look hard at the servants who bring it, for some of them contain Viking blood. Yet I trust them with the treasures of Kincora.’
A muscle knotted in Brian’s jaw. The next words were hard for him to say aloud, but he must say them and Murcha must listen and understand.
‘We cannot drive the foreigners out, my son. They are here to sta
y, part of us and part of this land. They must be won to our side as I won the tribes of Munster. They must realise that they are now Irish, too, and learn to love this land as we love her. We must forge one huge tribe out of all these parts, and teach that tribe not to savage itself.’
Murcha was staring at his father. ‘You are mad.’
Ignoring him, Brian said, ‘We cannot win a man like Sitric Silkbeard, however. He is hard and cruel, a Viking to his soul, and the worst sort of Viking. He wants only to seize and smash. And he has an ally of the same nature now, Maelmora of Leinster. They have begun plundering the tribes along the coast and dividing the spoils.’
At last Murcha thought he saw where all this was leading. ‘You’re going to war against Sitric and Maelmora!’
‘I am. But not alone. I want to put together an army large enough to discourage such partnerships of greed now and in the future. And for that I need a new ally.’
‘Murcha,’ said Brian, ‘I want you to go with me to meet the High King, and ask him to join forces with the army of Munster to fight Sitric and Maelmora.’
Murcha fumbled for a bench and sat down. Hard. ‘But I thought Malachy was your enemy!’
‘He isn’t my enemy, Murcha. He is my rival. Don’t be too quick to call anyone an enemy, particularly if he is born in the same land as yourself. There are few enough of us as it is. We cannot afford to be enemies, is that not what I was just saying?
‘The High King and I would be better served by standing together at this time, and I want you with me when I go to convince him. It will be a valuable lesson for you.’
Still sitting on his bench, Murcha twisted his neck to look up, up, up at Brian, towering above him. ‘I cannot believe you want me on such a mission, father. Nothing I’ve ever done has been good enough for you. What if I should say or do the wrong thing this time?’
‘Then we shall both learn a lesson,’ said Brian Boru.
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