Gormla had taught her son well. She had taught him to be as selfish as she was.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Conspiracy
Upon reaching his stronghold in Leinster, Maelmora sat down to nurse his grudge. The more he thought about it, the more he decided Brian had deliberately insulted him. The High King had left Kincora so as not to be there when Maelmora arrived. And he had surely meant for the Prince Murcha to taunt their guest.
‘Brian likes to belittle other people,’ Maelmora told his Leinstermen. ‘I have endured it long enough. I am a King of Leinster. He is only an upstart Dalcassian who seized a crown through brute force.’
When Gormla arrived in Maelmora’s hall, she was even angrier at Brian. Maelmora forgot his own quarrels with his sister. They had a larger, common enemy now. They set about planning to get even.
Maelmora enlisted the aid of Sitric Silkbeard. Sitric replied that he was willing to take up arms once more against Brian Boru – provided Maelmora would promise him half the spoils of Munster if they won.
‘I always knew I could count on my son,’ Gormla said smugly.
Maelmora asked, ‘What about your other son, Donncha? Why didn’t you bring him with you?’
Gormla pretended not to hear. She could not bring herself to say that Donncha had deserted her for Brian Boru.
With Gormla gone, Brian should have been able to enjoy a little peace at Kincora, and the company of his children and grandchildren. But he could not. Rumours were soon reaching him about a possible rising by Leinster and Dublin.
One more time, thought Brian wearily. Is there no end to it?
Leaving Kincora, he made his way up the densely forested slope beyond the outermost walls, climbing ever higher, drawing the sweet air deep into his lungs. Even when the trees blocked his vision, he could still feel the grey crag ahead, waiting for him. In his bones, he felt it.
At last he broke from cover to find himself standing hip deep in heather and bracken, brittle with winter. The ruins of his grandfather’s fort lay before him, and above them, Aval’s rock. With an effort, he climbed up to it.
Once he could have made the entire climb at a trot without breathing hard. Now his legs were trembling.
I am old, Brian thought. And now I am going to have to fight again after all, or see this land go back to the way it was before. Petty kings squabbling for petty power, tearing each other apart with no sense of the greater good.
Blood and fire, and children crying for their mothers.
Brian stood on the grey crag and looked out across his kingdom. The day was very cold. Once he would not have noticed. Now he shivered, in spite of his great shaggy cloak.
From where he stood he could see the sites of many of his battles. ‘There we were terribly beaten,’ he said. ‘And there we won. In that place a handful of us turned back an army of Ivar’s Danes. And on that mountain is buried a company of Leinstermen who defied me …’
He turned slowly, feasting his eyes on hills and meadows, mountains and lake. There was a burning lump in his throat as if he was going to cry, but it had been many years since Brian cried.
The wind blew softly around him, lifting a lock of his silvered hair.
‘All that fighting, Aval,’ Brian murmured to the guardian spirit of the crag. ‘Yet Ireland is as beautiful as ever. So sweet, so fair …’
The lump in his throat was choking him.
‘Ahhh, God!’ cried Brian Boru, raising his arms pleadingly to the great blue vault of the sky.
Much later, in the twilight, he picked his way carefully down the slope, and ordered the gates of Kincora barred behind him.
Sitric Silkbeard travelled from Dublin to Naas to meet with Maelmora. Gormla insisted on taking part in the meeting. ‘Take me back to Dublin with you when you go,’ she told her son. ‘I don’t wish to stay with Maelmora any longer. He sits around talking about attacking Brian, but he won’t do it. He is a coward who will not avenge the wrong done me by the High King.’
Brian was the second High King to divorce Gormla. Her rage knew no limits.
Sitric told her, ‘Listen to me, Mother. You shall be avenged. Maelmora and I are going to attack Brian Boru, but we have to wait until we have gathered enough allies. Neither of us wants to be involved in a disaster.’
‘Brian could die of old age before you do anything!’
‘He won’t,’ Sitric assured her. ‘It is said he can still cut down an opponent in single combat.’
‘If I had a sword I would cut him down myself,’ Gormla replied.
She was not a young woman, but the heat of her anger set fire to a beauty not yet faded. Looking at her, Sitric had an idea.
‘I’ll take you back to Dublin with me,’ he said. ‘But you must remember something. My wife is a daughter of Brian Boru, and the two of you under the one roof will not be easy. I will need your help for a plan I have in mind, but in the meantime, I don’t want you making trouble for me in my own hall.’
‘Me? Make trouble?’ Gormla laid one hand on her bosom. ‘I assure you, I know how to behave. I am a queen!’
Sitric and Maelmora exchanged looks. ‘I give you credit for being a brave man,’ the Leinsterman told the Norseman. ‘I would not care to be under the same roof with my sister and Brian’s daughter.’
The two men talked together far into the night. Sitric explained his plan for acquiring allies. To this, Gormla listened with interest, her eyes shining. ‘And remember,’ Sitric added, ‘in return for my support I demand half the spoils of Munster. And also, freedom to plunder the entire east coast of Ireland.’
This new demand caused Maelmora to scowl. ‘You ask a lot, Norseman.’
‘You’ve just heard my plan for getting us the warriors we need to stand against the might of Brian Boru. And my mother has agreed to it. Take it or leave it, Maelmora.’
Maelmora considered. The idea of defeating – and killing – his Munster rival was irresistible. ‘With Brian dead, this island will be yours and mine to plunder,’ he said to Sitric Silkbeard.
The agreement was sealed.
Sitric took Gormla back to Dublin with him, and began at once sending messages throughout the Norse trading network.
While they waited for replies, they combined their armies. During the fighting season of the Year of Our Lord 1013, they attacked. Their target was not the High King at Kincora, who was too strong for the number of men they had, but Malachy, in Meath. Malachy’s Meathmen were soon hard-pressed by the warriors of Leinster and Dublin. Malachy sent a plea for help to the High King.
When he received this message, Brian knew the time had come.
At the High King’s summons, his allies gathered. They included not only many Irish princes, but also Danes from Limerick. ‘Look at my army, Carroll,’ Brian said to his historian. ‘Once I thought the Irish would drive out the Northmen. Now it will be the Irish and Danes fighting the Irish and Norse. Things are never as simple as we would like them to be.’
‘They are not,’ Carroll agreed. ‘Only victory is simple. Everyone understands winning.’
‘Then pray God we win,’ said Brian Boru.
He put Murcha in charge of a large force. Murcha’s son Turlough was with him, and eager to fight. ‘All the glory of battle takes place before the fighting,’ Brian warned him. ‘You will not find it so pleasant when men are trying to kill you.’
But he knew he could not discourage Turlough. The lad was only fifteen, but there was a light in his eyes which Brian knew.
‘I’ve been teaching my son as you taught me,’ Murcha told his father. ‘He will follow me, as I follow you. Your kingdom will be safe with us.’
Brian was too deeply moved to answer.
Gormla’s son, Donncha, also demanded a company of warriors to lead. He had just reached swordbearing age, he reminded Brian, and he was keen to see action. But he had had little training for battle. Brian decided to hold him back, to give him some task that would not bring him into the front lines.
&
nbsp; As Brian explained to Murcha, ‘If Donncha has his mother’s uncertain temper, he will want seasoning before I use him in an attack.’
Murcha was pleased that Brian had no such reservations about Turlough.
The High King marched east. The summer was spent putting down a number of small tribes that were loyal to Maelmora. Then Brian marched on to Dublin to face Sitric Silkbeard.
Brian’s advance had drawn Sitric’s warriors away from Meath, but they left Malachy’s army so badly mauled it was not much help to the High King. Without them, Brian laid siege to Dublin. His daughter and Gormla watched from the walls, each thinking her own thoughts.
Sitric had his stronghold well fortified, however, and in the end Brian withdrew the siege. The weather had turned against him; it was time for the warriors to go home, to rest and repair their weapons.
There would be another fighting season next year.
‘By next year,’ Brian said to Murcha, ‘Malachy should have rebuilt his army, and will be able to join us.’
As soon as the siege was lifted, Sitric Silkbeard left Dublin on a fast boat. The sea that autumn was wild and rough but Sitric had Viking blood. He stood in the prow, just behind the dragon head, and laughed at the salt spray.
Sitric was welcomed like a blood brother into the Viking hall of Sigurd the Stout, Earl of Orkney. Like many of the Norsemen who lived beyond the shores of Ireland, Sigurd had watched with interest Brian Boru’s rise to power. He had seen the Dalcassian turn a tangle of warring tribes into one people, wealthy and well armed, and perhaps too strong to be plundered by Vikings any longer. Sigurd had not approved of this turn of events. Ireland had long been a rich source of gold and slaves and timber, a source he was sorry to lose.
Now Sitric Silkbeard was offering him a chance to help destroy Brian. But Sigurd of Orkney was no fool. He had heard enough stories about Brian Boru to make him cautious.
It had taken something unusual to tempt him. His reply to Sitric’s message had been an invitation to Orkney to discuss the matter further.
As they sat together in the hall, drinking from huge horns filled with Danish beer, Sigurd said, ‘Tell me again what special prize you offer me, in return for my support.’
‘I offer you the most beautiful woman who ever combed her hair.’
‘That is what you said in your message. But I wanted to see you, man to man, before I agreed. You would not lie to me? You can actually give me such a woman?’
‘I can,’ Sitric assured him. ‘She is my mother, the Princess Gormla.’
Sigurd of Orkney licked his lips. He was a massive mountain of flesh – like some big hog waiting to be roasted, Sitric thought with distaste. But he commanded many Viking warriors.
‘I’ve heard of this woman,’ Sigurd said. ‘The Norse saga-singers praise her beauty.’
‘She was once wife to Olaf Cuaran, the Norse King of Dublin. My father,’ Sitric added. ‘And now I am willing to see her married to you, if you will help me destroy the Irish High King.’
Sigurd licked his thick lips again. ‘A woman like that makes a man famous. I would not mind having her. But when we win, I also demand the plunder of the north half of Ireland!’
‘Done,’ agreed Sitric Silkbeard.
With the Vikings of Orkney as allies, the army of Sitric and Maelmora would be much stronger. But Sitric, too, had become a cautious man when it came to Brian Boru. He wanted to be sure of even more warriors before he faced the High King across a battlefield.
Using Gormla as bait had worked well with Sigurd of Orkney, so her son planned to use her again. When he left Orkney he set sail for the Isle of Man. There he met two brothers, Ospak and Brodir, who ruled that island. These Viking brothers had thirty ships between them and a mighty reputation for savagery.
When Sitric’s boat put into harbour on the Isle of Man, a seaman told the King of Dublin a strange story. ‘Brodir was raised as a Christian,’ the man claimed, ‘but he has converted to paganism. His soul is twice blackened.’
‘Brodir sounds like the very man I need,’ said Sitric Silkbeard.
By the time he at last returned to Dublin, Sitric was able to report to Gormla, and to Maelmora, that they now had enough powerful allies to destroy Brian. ‘At my summons, I can bring a thousand Viking ships to Dublin, packed with warriors howling for Brian’s blood. Perhaps there is no man in Ireland who can defeat the High King, but I have found men elsewhere who are eager to do so.’
In private, Gormla asked her son, ‘Did you promise me to Sigurd?’
‘I did.’
‘And this Brodir … did you also promise me to him?’
‘I did. He said he would not join us unless I gave him whatever I gave Sigurd. But the fighting will be savage. With any luck, both men will be killed and neither will claim you.’
‘I just want to be certain Brian Boru is killed,’ said Gormla. She could not bear it that a man so splendid – a man she had once desired above any other – had rejected her.
In Munster there was great surprise when a dragonship flying a foreign flag sailed up the Shannon. For many years, Brian had kept the river free of Viking warcraft. When the vessel was beached below Kincora, Brian went to meet it, with a party of Dalcassian warriors.
The man in command of the boat announced himself as Ospak, of the Isle of Man. ‘I have come this long way to warn you,’ he told Brian. ‘My brother Brodir plans to make war on you. I said nothing when he turned his back on Christianity, but I cannot go along with him now. I know you for a good king, Brian Boru. You have treated even your enemies fairly. I tell you this: my brother schemes with the rulers of Dublin and Leinster to kill you. He has been promised your former wife as a prize of war.’
For a moment, Brian almost laughed. ‘He would be getting what he deserves,’ he started to say – then he remembered Gormla as she had been when he first saw her, as beautiful as Ireland. He bit back the words.
Brian made Ospak welcome in the feasting hall at Kincora. There he heard the details of the plot against him.
‘Sigurd of Orkney is sending ships and men,’ Ospak told Brian. ‘And there are others interested as well. Amlaff of Denmark plans to claim a share of the spoils in return for giving Sitric warriors. Norsemen are also coming from Scotland, the Shetland Islands, and the Hebrides.’
‘So Sitric and Maelmora think it will take a huge army to kill me?’ said Brian. ‘I am flattered.’
‘Do not jest about your death,’ said Murcha.
Brian turned towards his son. ‘People have been trying to kill me for as long as I can remember. I don’t take that threat seriously anymore. The threat to plunder Ireland, though … I take that very seriously. It shall not happen. Not while my strong hand is uppermost.’ He looked at Murcha, and beyond him, to young Turlough, being trained to follow his father and grandfather. Brian’s voice rang strong in the feasting hall. His face was lined, his hair was grey, but his eyes were clear and hard. All his life was in them. He did not mean to be defeated.
Swiftly he sent messengers of his own, seeking allies. Ospak carried word to Prince Malcolm of Scotland, who had married another of Brian’s daughters. Malcolm promised to send a band of warriors led by the Steward of Mar.
Young Donncha kept pleading to take part in the battle to come. Brian still did not trust him for the front lines. Instead, he said, ‘You may take a picked company of horsemen down towards Waterford. Keep the Vikings in that area distracted, so they do not come up to Dublin.’
‘I want to take part in the real war,’ protested Donncha.
‘It is all war,’ his father told him. ‘You can get killed as easily in one place as in another. Do as I command. That’s the way you can be of the most help to me.’
Donncha obeyed, though not with good grace. ‘You’re favouring Turlough mac Murcha over me,’ he complained.
The winter passed, the fighting season approached. When his army was gathered around Kincora, Brian rode among the men on his favourite grey horse. The warriors wer
e eager to be on the march, but he held them back with the force of his will until he was certain everything was ready. The smallest detail did not escape him. Nothing could be half-done, or half-ready. With a keen eye, he examined the fitness of the men, the sea of spears and pikes they carried, the gleam of sword and shortsword, the deadly edges of the axes.
As always, the warriors were divided by tribes. Each group was clustered around the standard of its leader. Brian rode over to where Carroll the historian was watching. ‘See that, Carroll? One of those standards belongs to the Danes of Limerick. Mark it well.’
When at last Brian was satisfied that the men were ready, he gave the order to march.
He looked back only once. After they had crossed the Shannon, he reined in his horse and turned to gaze for a long time towards Kincora, and the grey crag.
Then he set his face towards Dublin and urged the horse forward.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Preparing for Battle
In the Year of Our Lord 1014, spring came early to Ireland. As Brian led his army through the countryside, grass was greening and lambs bloomed like flowers on the hillsides.
Shortly before Palm Sunday, Sitric’s foreign allies began arriving in Dublin. At first there was only one longship, then two, but they were the advance wave of hundreds. Sitric welcomed them gladly. There was no doubt a great battle would soon take place.
According to the historians who would write of the battle afterwards, the foreigners brought with them as many as one thousand coats of chain mail. So much armour, so many weapons, so many warriors hoping to defeat Brian Boru!
Maelmora reached Dublin at the head of his army of Leinstermen. He told Sitric, ‘Malachy is on the march, but still some distance away. In order to reward his Meathmen, he’s letting them plunder the land north of the Liffey.’
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