Brian Boru

by Morgan Llywelyn

As he rode through the gates, Brian curled his nostrils. Dublin smelled terrible. Because of its marshy location, the town had very poor drainage. Brian thought with longing of the sweet, clean wind blowing off Lough Derg.

  He and his men had to dismount as soon as they were inside the gates. The town was cramped and crowded, with countless narrow lanes a man must travel on foot. These lanes were lined with stalls where merchants sold their goods. Post-and-wattle fences jealously divided tiny plots of property. Dirty, half-naked children peered from every doorway, reminding Brian that the Norse did not share the Irish custom of bathing. Dublin rang with noise, like the roar of the sea but more harsh, man-made.

  And from every quarter came the clink of metal coins.

  Brian said over his shoulder to Carroll, ‘Sitric Silkbeard intends to have coins struck here with his own image on them. The Irish way of using cattle or corn as a medium of exchange is not good enough for him, it seems. He wants clanking money such as they use on the Continent.’

  Carroll, who was struggling to keep up with Brian as they pushed through the constant crowd, said, ‘Coins are a good idea. They are more easily carried and exchanged than cattle.’

  ‘And more easily stolen,’ Brian pointed out.

  They approached the hall of the Norse king. It was built in the shape of an overturned Viking longship, with a keel for a rooftree and Viking battle standards on poles outside the doorways. ‘Have them taken down,’ Brian ordered.

  He had to duck his head to pass beneath the lintel of the main doorway. The Norse were tall, but Brian was taller.

  Sitric came forward to greet the King of Munster. He had not dressed as a Norse warrior for the occasion, with a bronze helmet and a coat of chain mail. Instead he wore a simple Irish tunic and carried no weapons. He met Brian with a smile and an open hand.

  Brian gave back a smile of exactly the same width and warmth, but no more. Sitric was not armed, but his warriors stood all around the walls, and they were armed. I must be very careful here, Brian reminded himself.

  Then he saw something that made him forget about being careful.

  A woman was standing just beyond Sitric Silkbeard. She was no young girl, but a grown woman, with wise eyes and a proud posture. Her hair was so red its blaze warmed the hall.

  Gormla had dressed in her best robes for this occasion. She had been twice a queen. Queen of Dublin as the wife of Olaf Cuaran, and queen again as the wife of the High King of the Irish.

  Now she was looking at a man who appeared more kingly than any she had ever seen.

  Brian Boru wore a crimson cloak edged with wolf fur, and gold gleamed around his neck and arms and wrists. His huge sword rode at his side in its scabbard. A shortsword with naked blade was thrust through his belt, and he had left the bloodstains on it for all to see. He stalked into the Viking hall like a giant cat, and Gormla drew in her breath sharply.

  Sitric had seen the King of Munster before, on the battlefield at Glenn Mauma. Brian had frightened Sitric badly then, so badly he left the battle and fled back to Dublin. Seeing Brian up close now, Sitric had a desire to flee again. He remembered all too clearly his last sight of Brian Boru, standing amid a heap of Viking corpses and swinging a bloody axe as if he would never tire.

  Sitric made himself stand his ground, however. At least Brian was smiling. Then he realised Brian was not smiling at him any more, but at someone who stood at Sitric’s shoulder.

  ‘So this is the Lion of Thomond!’ Gormla said in her most charming voice.

  Brian Boru spent a seven-night as Sitric’s guest in Dublin. Waiting for him, his warriors talked among themselves, wondering what was happening inside the Viking hall.

  ‘King Brian is making the foreigners crawl to him and lick his feet,’ one Dalcassian claimed.

  ‘Not a bit of it,’ said another. ‘He’s demanding more plunder for us. If any of Sitric’s men refuse, he is clubbing them to the earth with his fists.’

  A third man said, ‘Ah, there’s no one on the ridge of the world to equal him!’

  When at last Brian appeared and said he was ready to return to Munster, he had no more plunder with him. Nor had he clubbed anyone to the earth. His days had been spent talking with Sitric Silkbeard and the Viking princes about trade, and the goods they would be sending to Munster in the future, to the overlord, Brian Boru.

  His evenings were spent with the Princess Gormla.

  On the journey back to Munster, Brian’s men noticed that he was quieter than usual. He had a faraway look in his eyes and did not always hear what was said to him. ‘The king is tired,’ they told one another. ‘He had to match the Vikings drink for drink in their hall, and argue with Sitric night and day.’

  Brian said nothing.

  When he reached Kincora, Ducholi was not waiting to greet him. ‘She had a bitter argument with Prince Murcha and has gone home to her father in Connacht,’ her attendants told Brian.

  Once he would have sent for her, or gone himself to bring her back. But he did neither. ‘She has never been really happy here,’ he said. ‘Munster ways are not like Connacht ways, and my children did not make Ducholi welcome. I am grateful to her for the help and support she gave me while she was at Kincora, and I hope she will be happier back in Connacht.’

  Brian’s court buzzed with talk. People were surprised by Brian’s reaction. He did not even seem to be angry at Murcha for driving Ducholi away.

  ‘But then,’ as Carroll said to Mac Liag the bard, ‘Brian Boru is a man full of surprises. Sometimes I myself find him hard to understand.’

  Brian continued to puzzle his followers. Messengers were sent back and forth between Kincora and Dublin – messengers sworn to secrecy. Everyone had a guess, no one knew for certain. ‘The king is buying Viking boats to use on the Shannon,’ someone suggested.

  Then Brian left Kincora for Cashel, from which kingly announcements were always made.

  At the Fort of the Swords, Malachy could hardly believe his ears when the news reached him. ‘Say that again. Slowly!’ he ordered the messenger. As he listened, he began to laugh. He laughed so hard he gave himself hiccoughs and had to drink a great deal of wine.

  When the High King recovered, he told his companions, ‘Brian Boru has overstepped himself at last!’

  He ordered a feast to be prepared in honour of the announced marriage of the King of Munster. The High King’s confessor was shocked. ‘How can King Brian marry the Princess Gormla? Does he not already have a wife?’

  ‘He does,’ said Malachy. ‘She is Ducholi, the daughter of the King of Connacht. They have had children together, but she has left his roof and now sleeps under her father’s roof again. According to the ancient Irish law, this means the marriage is over.’

  ‘Not according to Christian law,’ said the priest sternly.

  Malachy was a tolerant man. ‘The two exist side by side in this land,’ he said. ‘Each law serves us well in its turn. The Irish law allowed me to set aside Gormla, and that was a good thing for me altogether. And a bad thing for Brian Boru!’ he added. He began to laugh again so hard the priest feared for Malachy’s health.

  ‘She will destroy him,’ the High King kept saying. ‘Gormla will destroy Brian without my having to lift a finger! She will turn his beard grey and have him talking to himself before the year is out.’

  Malachy had not been so cheerful for years.

  The priests of Munster, including Brian’s brother, the abbot Marcan, did not openly criticise this new marriage. Brian had been very generous to the Church. He had rebuilt many churches and abbeys and endowed more. No man could claim Brian Boru did not serve God well.

  Nor did any one speak openly about the traditional offerings he still took to the spirit who watched from the grey crag.

  Even Murcha did not complain about Brian’s marrying Gormla. He said to his wife, ‘I expected my father to blame me for Ducholi’s desertion. He has not done so, and now I know why. He is always making plans in his head, and this Gormla is part of his
latest plan. Marrying her will give him an alliance with Leinster, as well as with Dublin. This is just another move in the game he plays, I see it now. It does not mean he loves the woman. He loved only my mother,’ Murcha insisted. He had convinced himself of this now. As a result, he found it easier to be with Brian, and so in time he came to Kincora, met the newest wife, and was even pleasant to her.

  Gormla liked Kincora. From the beginning, however, she had suggestions for making it better. ‘You should have fourteen doorways in your feasting hall, like the feasting hall at Tara,’ she told Brian.

  ‘What makes you think I want to copy Tara?’

  Gormla laughed. ‘Ah, Brian, I know you better than you know yourself. We are very much alike. I don’t think you want to copy Tara. I think you want Tara.’

  He did not argue with her.

  Gormla was a very different sort of woman from Brian’s other wives, gentle Mor and merry Achra and elegant Ducholi. Gormla had a restless mind that was always planning and scheming.

  Like Brian’s own.

  At first Brian enjoyed her. But as the days passed and she continued to make suggestions that were sounding more and more like demands, he began to ignore her.

  ‘Gormla has a great opinion of herself,’ he told Mac Liag. ‘She thinks every idea she has is a pearl. But she is already with child, I am happy to say. That will fill her thoughts soon enough and she will stop hanging over my shoulder.’

  Mac Liag, who had been watching the Leinsterwoman, was not certain even motherhood would change her as Brian expected.

  Even when she was large with child Gormla always managed to be on hand when a messenger arrived with news from the world beyond Kincora. She had very definite ideas about how Brian should enlarge his rule, and she did not hesitate to tell him. Continually.

  ‘My son Sitric is unmarried,’ she said. ‘And you have a daughter just reaching the age for marriage. Such a tie would bind Sitric and his Norsemen more surely to you.’

  For once, Brian agreed with Gormla’s suggestion. He asked his daughter Emer to come to him in a small private chamber where they could talk. Emer was a daughter of his second wife, Achra, and was a girl of spirit and laughter. Of all his daughters, she was the one closest to her father.

  Brian patted the bench beside him, inviting Emer to sit on the carved oak seat with its down-filled cushion. At first he spoke of homely things – ‘How is your embroidery? Do you like the caged larks I gave you?’

  Then he slowly brought the talk around to the subject at hand.

  ‘When Vikings have visited me here at Kincora, you have admired them,’ he reminded Emer.

  ‘Many of them are good to look upon,’ the girl replied.

  ‘Have you thought of marrying one?’

  Emer blushed.

  ‘If a daughter of mine were married to a Viking,’ Brian went on, ‘it would show everyone that I mean to bring Irish and foreigner together as one people.’

  ‘Is there one particular Viking you have in mind?’ Emer wanted to know.

  ‘Sitric, King of Dublin, is young and strong, a man-sized man who owns many ships.’

  ‘Gormla’s son?’

  ‘The same.’

  Emer considered this. ‘Would it please you, father, if I married Sitric?’

  Brian smiled fondly at his favourite daughter. ‘It would please me if you want to marry him after you’ve met him. I would never ask otherwise.’

  Emer blushed again. In a low voice, she said, ‘Then invite him to Kincora, Father.’

  Gormla was delighted. ‘What a good team we make!’ she told Brian. ‘Admit it, you would not have thought of such a thing without me. But it is good for all concerned.’

  Brian had to agree. The next day he said to Mac Liag, ‘I was clever to marry a clever woman.’

  Emer waited eagerly for Sitric Silkbeard. She was prepared to accept him even before she saw him. In asking her to consider the match, Brian had been asking for Emer’s help. She loved her father with all her heart. What other maiden had such a father? She had never been able to do anything to help him, he was always so busy, striding here, galloping there, meeting with his princes, issuing orders. He was like a comet flashing by.

  Now at last he needed her.

  And fortunately, Sitric when he arrived was indeed good to look upon.

  When the proposed marriage was announced, Murcha came at the gallop. ‘This is another mistake,’ he said to Brian. ‘We recently fought Sitric. Why marry your daughter to him? He is your enemy.’

  ‘That’s the very point, Murcha. I am trying to change things so he won’t always be my enemy. Emer will bear his children and turn foreigners into Irishmen.’

  Aware of Brian’s political moves, Malachy began to feel the hot breath of the King of Munster on his own neck. He had no doubt that Brian would challenge him for the high kingship soon. So he summoned all his allies to a great meeting at Tara.

  Malachy was disappointed at how few men came. Most of them were Meathmen. The northern O’Neills sent a token party only. According to tradition, when Malachy was no longer High King his place would be taken by one of the northern O’Neills. They were merely waiting for him to die.

  Waiting for Brian Boru to kill me, Malachy thought bitterly. But the O’Neills will never let him seize the high kingship. Never!

  Then Brian Boru marched an enormous army out of Munster, northward. In advance of this movement,

  Brian’s new son-in-law, Sitric Silkbeard, had made a raid by river and sea into Ulster with Brian’s lion banners fluttering from the prows of his ships.

  The message was not wasted on the O’Neill princes in the north. The King of Munster was now allied with Dublin. That meant he had the strength of the Norsemen behind him. He also had the support of Connacht still, and he had demanded and received warriors from Maelmora of Leinster.

  As Brian told his historian, Carroll, ‘When the time comes for me to challenge Malachy for the high kingship, I must know if his O’Neill kinsmen will support him.’

  ‘Are you prepared to fight the princes of Ulster?’

  ‘I hope I won’t have to,’ Brian replied. ‘If I have planned wisely, and the size of my army makes them timid, I may win without shedding a drop of blood.’

  ‘This is a strange sort of warfare altogether!’ Carroll said.

  Brian laughed. ‘Many of the things I do seem strange to other people.’

  ‘That’s because you think in new ways,’ the historian told him.

  ‘I wish my son Murcha understood that.’

  ‘Ah, Brian, I think he does. He just won’t admit it. He’s as proud as you are.’

  Brian’s army flowed across the land. Considering that their leader wanted to avoid bloodshed, they were heavily armed indeed. In addition to the usual foot warriors, Brian had a cavalry comprising both Irish riders and Norsemen from Dublin, mounted on sturdy ponies.

  The army advanced on Ulster. People all along the way came out of their forts and farms to see them pass. Points of light glittered on the polished weapons and in the eyes of the warriors. There was no singing along the way. These men were veterans of battle and the singing had gone out of them.

  Meanwhile, Malachy was sending frantic messages to his northern kinsmen, asking their support against Brian. But as Brian moved deeper into Ulster, the princes of the north observed the size of his army and delayed sending a reply of any sort to Malachy.

  Brian marched on. He never attacked, he never declared war on any person. He merely marched, and his army followed.

  The princes of Ulster stayed quiet behind barred doors. Not one of them could command as many warriors as Brian Boru.

  At last one, the Prince Hugh, felt he must face the Dalcassian. According to tradition, Hugh should follow Malachy as High King.

  Gathering his followers and the warriors sworn to him, Hugh went to meet Brian at Dundalk. With him were a number of the Ulster princes. There was the usual argument among them as to who should formally greet the K
ing of Munster.

  Brian’s army waited like a dark mantle spread across the land. Finally Hugh himself came forward, fully armed and looking tense.

  When they met, Brian said, ‘I call the blessings of God upon the tribe O’Neill.’

  Hugh was caught unprepared. ‘You are not here to attack?’

  ‘Attack?’ Brian asked as if he did not know the meaning of the word. He seemed unaware of the huge army at his back, though Hugh kept looking at it.

  ‘You invade Ulster with an army,’ Hugh accused.

  Now Brian glanced around, then looked back at Hugh and grinned. ‘You mean my followers? They are merely good people who have made this journey with me because they want to see more of the land than just Munster. We have not harmed a person we met along our way.’

  Hugh was not reassured. ‘The High King sends word to us that you are threatening him.’

  Brian grinned even more. ‘You just said I brought an army to Ulster. So how can I be threatening Meath? I assure you I don’t have two armies. The men you see with me are all I have.’

  The men with him were quite enough, Hugh thought.

  Hugh was not a reckless man. Nor was he a young one. If there was going to be a struggle for the high kingship, he decided he was too old to get involved. The one time he had visited Tara he had thought the place shabby and in need of much repair. No High King had made it his residence for a very long time. Now it was used only for ceremonial occasions, as Brian used Cashel. Tara’s timbered halls were rotting, and a constant wind blew across the green ridge and through holes in its roofs. A wind like a banshee’s cry.

  ‘If you intend no harm you’re welcome,’ Hugh said to Brian.

  ‘I intend the opposite of harm. I want to right a wrong. I understand that some raiders from Dublin, flying my standard, recently pillaged your lands?’

  ‘They did.’

  ‘Then rather than taking cattle, women and hostages from you, will you allow me to offer you a gift to make up for what was taken?’ As he spoke, Brian gave a signal and some of his men trotted forward, carrying great chests filled with treasure. They set these at the feet of the astonished Hugh.