Brian Boru

by Morgan Llywelyn

  Irish and Viking were mingled in the audience, watching. Among them stood the leading clerics of the area, bishops and abbots from Kells and Clonard, Durrow and Finglas. Brian had given gifts to all their churches.

  An ancient wind sang through the halls of Tara.

  With the rod of polished hazelwood in one hand, and the gold circlet on his brow, Brian stepped on to the Stone of Fal.

  For many years afterward, people would ask each other, ‘Were you on Tara Hill when the Stone of Fal cried aloud for Brian Boru?’

  Even those who had not been there would claim, later, that they had. Even those who had not heard the Stone would try, later, to describe its sound for others. The sound was not to be forgotten. It was a chilling wail that rose like the shriek of a banshee and arched across Ireland like a rainbow, uniting the Hill of Tara with the Grey Crag of Thomond.

  Afterwards, Brian returned to Kincora. It was time to start putting into effect the years of plans he had stored in his head. There were so many things he wanted to do for the land he loved; the land that could not die like a mother, or disappoint like a son, or be carried away like gold.

  Brian built churches and schools and bridges. When men broke the law, he dealt justice with such a firm hand that violence all but disappeared from the land. When tribal quarrels broke out, Brian was tireless in settling them.

  Step by step, day by day, he enforced his will on the people as no High King before him had ever attempted to do.

  And step by step, day by day, a new serenity extended over the island of Ireland.

  Mac Liag wrote with delight of a time when a fair maiden, dressed in all her finery and jewels, could travel the length of the land without meeting theft or insult in any form.

  ‘Let no man forget,’ Brian told the historians and scribes, ‘that I have a strong hand. I am not afraid to give out punishment, as three thousand Danes learned on Singland Hill after the battle of Sulcoit. They used violence against my people and I met them with a greater violence. Let that be a warning.’

  Brian did not want anyone to forget that he could be savage. The war-loving princes of the tribes must know that his strong hand was uppermost.

  Brian was sixty-one years of age when he became High King, but as his giant shadow stretched across the land, people did not think of him as old. He was Ireland’s strength and her pride.

  With peace came growth. More children lived to grow up. Seedlings were planted to replace the timber the Vikings had taken for their ships. Even the weather seemed milder, so that spring lasted for half a year and fine crops were harvested.

  ‘I intend to involve myself in things Malachy never thought about,’ Brian told Murcha. He made a tour of the entire island, talking to its people, examining its coastline, planning how it should be defended if invaders ever came again. These plans he told to Murcha, to remember and use if they should ever be needed. ‘Pass them on to your son,’ Brian said.

  He also visited Armagh, in the north, where he left a gift of twenty ounces of gold on the altar and declared Armagh to be the primary ecclesiastical city in Ireland.

  The bishops were highly pleased. They offered a vellum book for his inscription, to be added to the Annals of Armagh.

  ‘You have won the hearts of the Ulstermen,’ they assured Brian.

  ‘They may speak for God,’ The High King said quietly to Carroll, who was with his party. ‘But I doubt if they speak for all of the O’Neills. Still, it is no small thing to have won the support of the Church in the north. Fetch your inks and quills, Carroll, and let us attend to this page.’

  When the vellum page was returned to the bishops they read, in a beautifully clear and trained hand, the words:

  ‘St Patrick, when going to heaven, decreed that the entire fruit of his labour, as well of baptism and causes as of alms, should be rendered to the apostolic city, which in the Irish tongue is called Ard Macha. Thus I have found it in the records of the Irish. Thus I have written, in the presence of Brian, Emperor of the Irish.’

  Emperor of the Irish. The bishops clustered around to read the words.

  Written by Maelsuthainn mac Carroll, those words on that page survive until this very day, and may be read still in the Book of Armagh.

  Brian made many other journeys. His relentless energy had not deserted him. He accepted the submissions of chieftains who had hardly heard his name before he appeared in their gateways with an army at his back. There was little fighting done, however. Usually the sight of Brian’s strength was enough.

  Peace spread and multiplied. Children slept safe in their beds.

  But there was not much peace at Kincora. Gormla had never forgiven Brian for not taking her to Tara, to share his glory. She had wanted to throw her triumph in Malachy’s face. Her disappointment made her curdle like milk left in the sun.

  When Brian was with her she gave him the sharp edge of her tongue. He was more patient with her than he should be, some said.

  ‘If my wife spoke to me like that I would pluck her like a chicken,’ said Brian’s confessor, who was a gentle priest with a fine Christian spirit and a devoted wife and children. Priests in Rome did not marry, but Irish priests had not accepted that custom. They considered families sacred.

  Brian had laughed at the priest’s words. ‘What Gormla says can’t hurt me. People have said much worse things about me.’

  Murcha pointed out, ‘It isn’t what she says, Father. It’s what she may do. She might try to turn her brother and even her son against you.’

  Murcha did not like young Donncha, son of Brian and Gormla.

  But Brian ignored the warning. Murcha has not liked any of my women, he told himself. I can handle Gormla.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Trouble Brewing

  Brian never lied to himself. Sometimes he had to admit to himself what he would admit to no one else – he was getting old. In wet weather his knees and shoulders ached all the time, and there were mornings when it was very hard indeed to get up and face the day.

  All his life he had thought about so many things, but never about being old. Age had crept up on him while he was busy elsewhere. His body was not the body he knew, but he was trapped in it. Trapped in flesh from which the strength was fading.

  Once he awoke in the middle of the night, shaking as if he had a chill. ‘What’s wrong?’ Gormla asked, but he would not tell her.

  Brian did not want to be old. He remembered when he was young and strong. He remembered when he was a little boy, the youngest of a large family, running and laughing and playing rowdy games from morning till night.

  That was all behind him now. The friends, the fun, the freedom of childhood. Now he was Brian Boru. And in the darkness of the night, even with Gormla beside him, he was alone.

  In the not-too-distant future, he would die. Who would care about and protect the land as he did?

  In the great hall of Kincora, as they sat together over their wine, Brian said to his chief poet, ‘If I asked you to compose a poem about the bravest of my sons, who would you name, Mac Liag?’

  ‘All your sons are brave. But that honour would have to go to the oldest, Prince Murcha.’

  ‘And if I asked you to name the wisest of my sons, who would you name then?’

  Mac Liag considered for a long time before answering. ‘Prince Murcha was the best at his studies.’

  ‘Being clever is not the same as being wise. Soon I must formally announce the name of my Tanist, the man I choose to succeed me. When I am gone, will my kingdom be safe in the hands of Murcha?’

  ‘Ah.’ Mac Liag gazed at the flames. He took longer still before he said, ‘You are a strong man with many years left in you, Brian. By the time you are no longer able to be High King, Murcha will have grown wiser. He will be the best man in the land to follow you. There is much of you in him, more than in any of the others.’

  Brian nodded, satisfied. ‘And Murcha’s son Turlough contains much of his father. We are a dynasty, Mac Liag. Father to son.’
/>
  ‘A dynasty must have a history,’ Brian said the next day to Carroll. ‘I shall send out a summons, asking the historians of all the major tribes to come to me at Cashel. They are to write a new book, giving the history of this land from its earliest times. Attention is to be paid to the noble bloodlines of the Dalcassians – particular attention, Carroll.’

  The book Brian wanted was prepared. Included in it were his ideas of kingship and justice. The best from both the Brehon law and Christian teaching were worked into the text. The book was to be known as the Psalter of Cashel. ‘And,’ Brian announced, ‘it is to include a record of my defeats as well as my victories, so no man can claim this history is false.’

  Taking Carroll aside, he then said to the chief historian, ‘Just be certain the book is worded so the victories far outnumber the defeats. There are ways of making victories seem more glorious than they were, and defeats less shameful.

  ‘And whatever you do, Carroll, give no insult to my enemies. A true king honours a beaten foe.’

  Carroll understood. Brian Boru, who was far from perfect, wanted future generations to think of him as perfect.

  Who could blame him? He was Ireland’s strength and pride.

  When Murcha was named as Brian’s Tanist, Gormla and her son, Donncha, were both angry. Donncha was jealous of his half-brothers. Six of them had actually fought in battles under the leadership of their father. Donncha had yet to fight his first battle.

  ‘It’s not fair to choose Murcha over me without knowing what a warrior I will be,’ he complained to his mother.

  ‘It’s not fair to choose Murcha at all,’ Gormla told Brian. ‘My son contains more royal blood. Murcha’s mother was only the daughter of a tribal king. I am a princess of Leinster.’

  ‘I’ve made my decision,’ Brian replied. ‘I am the High King.’

  ‘High kings can be made and un-made,’ Gormla said under her breath. ‘Haven’t I seen that in my own lifetime?’

  Brian’s eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘What did you say? Are you threatening me?’

  She wanted to defy him. She had never backed down from any man. But there was a force in Brian that made her drop her eyes and say, ‘Of course I’m not threatening you. You are the High King.’

  ‘Remember that. And remember also, when I am gone, Mor’s son Murcha will be High King after me.’

  He strode from the chamber. Gormla stared after him, clenching her fists. How dare he! she thought. How dare he choose that dead woman’s son over mine!

  She stalked through Kincora, complaining about everyone and everything.

  ‘I wish I could put her to work building bridges,’ Brian remarked to Mac Liag. ‘Gormla’s problem is that she has nothing to do.’

  ‘She should have another child to keep her busy.’

  Brian shook his head. ‘Donncha was born when she was past the age of childbearing. Another infant would be a miracle. I don’t perform miracles.’

  Mac Liag laughed. ‘Half of Ireland swears you do. We’ve had ten years of peace.’

  Brian did not join in his friend’s laughter. ‘Last night I heard the banshee cry out from the grey crag. The days of peace may be coming to an end.’

  Mac Liag shuddered.

  To give Gormla something to do, Brian decided to invite her brother Maelmora to visit her at Kincora. It was the season when Leinster always sent its tribute to Brian anyway, so Maelmora might as well bring it.

  ‘I have another reason, of course,’ he said to Murcha.

  ‘Don’t you always?’

  ‘Recently I’ve heard that the King of Leinster is growing restless under my rule. It would be wise to have him see the size of my stronghold, and count the number of warriors I keep here at all times.’

  ‘Three thousand now,’ said Murcha.

  ‘Just so. That should remind the King of Leinster that it is better to obey me than defy me.’

  Brian told Gormla, ‘I have to go to Dublin for a time. I keep hearing rumours of possible trouble, and I want to sit down with Sitric Silkbeard and discuss his loyalty. My daughter Emer tells me he talks too much about the old ways, the days of plundering.

  ‘While I am gone, the Leinstermen will be bringing the cattle tribute to Kincora. I have invited your brother to come with them and keep you company.’

  Gormla scowled. ‘Maelmora, here? You know that we don’t get along well together.’

  ‘Make an effort, Gormla. For my sake.’

  ‘Who will be in charge here while you’re away?’

  ‘Murcha, of course.’

  Gormla’s eyes blazed. ‘Why not me?’

  Brian merely laughed. This made Gormla angrier than ever. She did not go to the gate to see him ride off towards Dublin.

  She was there, however, to greet Maelmora when he arrived. She wanted to begin complaining about Brian right away.

  Maelmora was in no mood to listen. He resented being summoned by the High King, and the journey had not been a pleasant one. Rain and mud had slowed their progress. As a gift for Brian, Maelmora had brought a selection of timber to be used as masts for Brian’s ships. When mud made it difficult for his men to carry the timber, Maelmora had tried to help – and got his clothes torn for his pains.

  To silence the stream of Gormla’s complaints, he took off the tunic he was wearing and tossed it to her.

  ‘Here, mend this. A silver button was torn from it. Sew it back on for me,’ he said when they entered the hall.

  Gormla’s temper exploded. ‘I’m not your servant! Do your own sewing, you weakling!’

  ‘What do you mean, weakling?’

  ‘Only a weakling would have given in to Brian’s demands for such a huge tribute. All those cattle – you should have refused, as I refuse to serve you!’ She turned and threw her brother’s tunic into the nearest fire.

  The smell of burning cloth floated out over Kincora.

  Maelmora turned his back on his sister and stalked in a rage into the courtyard.

  The courtyard beyond the great hall was paved with flagstones, and surrounded by high walls against which fruit trees were trained. Servants hurried to and fro. The sound of a harp came from some inner chamber. Horses neighed in the stables. Beyond the courtyard, Kincora sprawled in every direction, comprising chambers and halls and lodges and workshops. Busy and prosperous.

  The home of the High King.

  Everywhere Maelmora looked, he saw some token of Brian’s success. Jealousy mixed with anger in the King of Leinster. He was a prince of his tribe, however, and he knew better than to insult Brian’s hospitality by leaving on the same day he arrived. So he gritted his teeth and went back into the great hall, determined to put the best face he could on the occasion.

  That night an icy rain fell. To pass the time, Murcha and his cousin Conaing, one of Brian’s nephews, were playing a game of chess in the great hall. To avoid having to talk to his sister, Maelmora strolled over to watch them. At one stage he thought he saw an opening and said to Murcha, ‘Move that piece there.’

  Murcha followed the suggestion. Conaing let out a shout of triumph, made a move of his own, and won the game. Murcha looked up and met Maelmora’s eyes. ‘I seem to remember that you gave Sitric and his Norsemen advice at the battle of Glenn Mauma,’ he said angrily. ‘They lost, too. After this, keep your advice to yourself, Maelmora, since you don’t know how to win.’

  Maelmora was glad of the excuse to lose his own temper. ‘Next time I give your enemies advice, they will win!’

  Murcha leaped to his feet, turning over his stool. ‘In that case you’d better find another yew tree to hide in, Leinsterman.’

  Maelmora ground his teeth in fury. At that moment, Gormla laughed. From the shadows at the far end of the hall she had overheard everything. Her contempt poured down on her brother, more brutal than the rain. ‘You are a cowardly wretch!’ she shouted at Maelmora.

  He ran from the hall.

  When Brian returned from Dublin, Murcha, embarrassed, met him at the main
gate. ‘I let matters get out of hand,’ he admitted.

  ‘What happened?’

  Murcha told Brian in as few words as possible. He finished by saying, ‘We sent a messenger after Maelmora, asking him to come back, but the King of Leinster and his men fell upon the poor man and left him at the side of the road with a broken skull.’

  Peace lay shattered like the chessmen on the flagstones at Kincora.

  Brian blamed Murcha. ‘This is your fault. I thought I could leave you in charge, trusting you to act as I would. Now I see that you’re not ready to take my place.’

  ‘Maelmora lost his temper first. He was spoiling for a fight – so I gave it to him.’

  ‘That’s no excuse. You did not behave with wisdom and dignity as a king must.’

  At Brian’s elbow, Gormla said, ‘Punish Murcha. Replace him with my son as your Tanist.’

  Brian whirled on her. ‘You aren’t without blame in this! Can’t I turn my back on any of you? You knew it was important to keep the loyalty of Leinster, but you did everything you could to anger Maelmora. You are forever stirring up trouble. I can’t afford it any more. Pack your things and follow your brother.’

  She stared at him in disbelief. ‘You’re throwing me out? I’m the mother of your son!’

  ‘I have a number of sons,’ Brian told her, ‘and one woman too many. Go.’

  She dared not argue. In his face she saw something more frightening than anger. She had broken the peace that meant everything to him; he wanted to kill her.

  Gormla ran to her chamber and ordered her attendants to begin packing her belongings.

  Donncha came to her. ‘Where will you go, Mother?’

  She looked at the boy. He was fifteen, and like all of Brian’s sons, large and strong for his age. ‘Where will we go, you mean. I’m not leaving you with Brian, Donncha.’

  The lad raised his chin. ‘I’m a Dalcassian prince. My father is the High King. I’m not going to leave Kincora. He didn’t throw me out. I’m not such a fool as to leave the High King and all he can do for me, to go into exile with you.’