Pride of Lions

by Morgan Llywelyn

  “Something that should be perfectly obvious, even to men. As chief of the Dal Cais, Teigue cannot be forced from Kincora—except by his overlord, the King of Munster.”

  “But Teigue’s going to be King of Munster.”

  Gormlaith’s green eyes widened. “Is he? First he has to be elected, which can’t happen until the chieftains of the tribes convene. We’re in high summer and I know you Munstermen. Everyone is busy with their herds, or tilling the fields. There will be no convening at Cashel until the cattle are brought in after harvest.” Turning toward Donough, she said, “And by then you can have enough supporters to claim the kingship for yourself.”

  He stared at his mother.

  “Close your mouth,” she smilingly advised him. “A gaping mouth is an invitation for a demon to enter.”

  Having planted the seed, she appeared to devote her total concentration to warming herself by the fire.

  King of Munster. Claiming tribute in the form of cattle and produce from every tribal king in the south of Ireland.

  The thought hung on the smoky air and they studied it; all except Gormlaith, who gazed into the flames. As she knew full well, firelight flattered her skin and burnished her faded hair.

  At last Fergal remarked, “Donough would make a better king than Teigue. He has more spirit.”

  From under their eyebrows the assembled men darted glances at one another, each of them considering the advantages to be gained by supporting an ambitious prince on the rise. Their fathers and grandfathers had grown wealthy supporting Brian Boru.

  Conor named the blight on the fruit. “It would undoubtedly cause a major split in the Dal Cais. Teigue may not be the timber kings are made of, but he’s convinced his duty lies in that direction. He won’t surrender kingship easily.”

  “He doesn’t have it, not yet,” Gormlaith reminded them, keeping her eyes on the fire. “If someone else is elected, he would abide by the decision. He is …”—her lip curled—“ … a basically docile man. Anything for a quiet life, that’s Teigue.”

  Now they were all looking at the fire as if it contained an oracle about to tell them the future.

  Before long, Gormlaith felt the atmosphere change. Enthusiasm had the men by the throat. They began talking in rapid, eager voices, making plans.

  Only Donough remained silent.

  But she knew how to reach inside him.

  Turning toward her son, she said softly, “Your father would be so proud of you. There are outlaws on the roads already, did you know that? Just since he died. He devoted himself to making travel safe. But now … I myself was stopped, right here in Thomond.” She neglected to explain that she had stopped of her own volition to interrogate a trader, not surrender her jewels to an outlaw.

  Donough regarded his mother somberly. I wonder if have a choice, he asked himself. Already he could hear the other men beginning to make plans, discussing the numbers of warriors each could rally, the various pressures they could bring to bear on chieftains they knew. The noble network was considerably entangled. There was not a man in the room who was not related by marriage or fosterage, or both, to some powerful Munster clan.

  By the time Gormlaith finally retired to her bed in the grianan, there to rest as smug as a cat in the sun, the next few years of Donough’s life were being mapped out for him.

  Still, she could not be sure of him. He had not leaped at the suggestion as she had hoped; he had sat back, listening to the others as they strove to convince him. He might need more pressure, Gormlaith decided as she pulled her wolf-fur robe up to her chin against the chill of a Burren night.

  Early in the morning she intercepted Neassa as the young woman made her way to the latrine trench. In the most casual of voices, Gormlaith remarked, “This isn’t much of a place, but I know a cashel much finer.”

  Neassa glanced at her suspiciously. “What are you talking about?”

  “The real Cashel, the ancient stronghold of the kings of Munster. You have never seen it, I suppose. But you will when your husband goes there for his inauguration.”

  Neassa forgot the pressure in her bladder. “Inauguration?”

  Gormlaith stifled her contempt. The fool girl could only mimic what others said, she had not a thought of her own. “As King of Munster, of course. Did you not know? Did he not mention it last night on your pillow? We are all encouraging him to make a claim; he’s as entided to be king as his fool brother.”

  Smiling, Gormlaith sauntered off:

  Neassa ran to find Donough.

  Cathal Mac Maine was upset. The four years since he succeeded the late Marcan Mac Cennedi as Abbot of Kill Dalua had been years of ecclesiastical success and personal satisfaction—until Good Friday, 1014. After that, disaster followed disaster. First there was that fight at Kincora, brother against brother and good men dead. Then the summer turned wetter than any in living memory. Cattle stopped giving milk, geese stopped laying eggs, bees sulked in the hives. Chieftains who had made peace with one another were suddenly quarreling again.

  The change of seasons did not improve matters. Autumn was early and bitter, with pellets of ice blowing down from the mountains. Shortly before Christmas had come news of a shocking murder in the great monastic school at Clonmacnois—and now, early in the new year, this.

  “Why am I being punished, Lord?” Cathal demanded of the sullen heavens.

  It was too much.

  “Brother Declan, enter in the annals that Domnall, son of Donohue of Desmond, is undertaking a hosting of his followers for the purpose of sacking and looting Limerick.”

  Declan almost dropped his quill. “Brother Abbot? I thought Domnall fought on King Brian’s side at Clontarf, as did the Vikings of Limerick. Why would he attack his former allies?”

  “This is a deliberate Owenacht provocation to test the new Dalcassian King of Munster.”

  “But surely,” protested the scribe, “Teigue Mac Brian can break the Owenacht’s spear.”

  Cathal scowled. “That’s the problem. He proposes to take no action. ‘Perhaps the plunder of Limerick will satisfy the Owenachts and there will be no further trouble,’ he says.

  “Who knows what may happen next? If he gets away with this, Domnall might pillage Kill Dalua just to heighten the insult. I cannot understand why God is allowing this to happen!” Cathal added in a rising moan.

  Word of an army on the move traveled faster than the shadows of clouds racing before the wind. From smallholding to ring-fort, news was shouted that Owenacht warriors were marching across the countryside toward Limerick.

  And Teigue was gathering no army to stop them.

  Within the stone walls of Corcomrua, Gormlaith blazed with triumph. “I knew that wretched Teigue was inadequate! Now’s your chance,” she told her son. “Seize the kingship of Munster and fight Domnall yourself!”

  It had been a long, hard winter for all of them. Gormlaith and Neassa were like chalk and cheese; any room with both women in it at the same time was soon icy with hostility. Donough had sent an urgent message to Sitric, his half-brother and erstwhile enemy, asking him to supply an escort to take Gormlaith back to Dublin. But no reply came.

  At night, Donough put his arms around Neassa and allowed youthful lust to take its course, but the coupling was curiously unsatisfying. She talked too much, for one thing. Even when he lay atop her she prattled about living in a palace, and blamed him for not having one. “If you were King of Munster … ,” her monologues invariably began.

  Donough closed his ears.

  He knew what was happening. His mother was trying to manipulate him, using his poor silly wife as one of her tools. Rebelling, he put all thought of the kingship from his mind and refused to talk about it with the other men.

  On the day he learned Teigue had been inaugurated King of Munster at Cashel, Donough had thought of mounting his horse and riding off alone in search of Drumcullaun Lough. But fear held him back. He could not say what he was afraid of; perhaps that he would not find the girl in the re
d skirt after all.

  And if he did, what then?

  Time dragged by and the stone walls of Corcomrua seemed to close in. They were getting on one another’s nerves; every day brought a quarrel or a fistfight. Finally Donough offered to take his party and leave; go anywhere, just get out from underfoot. But Conor would not hear of it. “Surely I can offer hospitality to my friends,” he insisted, mentally adding up the favors he would one day be owed. “Once spring returns, you can think of finding a home of your own.”

  Spring seemed a long time away.

  Then the Owenachts set out to plunder Limerick, and once more Gormlaith urged Donough to seize the kingship. For one moment wild excitement thundered through him. She was old, but there was still a power in her when she was excited. She infected him with her dream, so he saw himself wearing the gold circlet on his brow …

  Reality set in. “Even if I was willing to challenge my brother I don’t have enough men,” he told his mother bluntly.

  “But Conor and Fergal and these others …”

  “Not enough.”

  “The Dalcassians would stand with you. You led them before.”

  He shook his head. “They follow Teigue now. As they should,” he added, fighting back his bitterness. They had been, so briefly, his—but he remembered how it felt to have an army at his back.

  Gormlaith had started him thinking, however. That night by the fire he remarked to Conor, “This is not just about looting Limerick. Unless I am very much mistaken, this is the Owenachts wanting to reclaim the kingship of Munster. Before my father, Owenacht and Dalcassian held the kingship alternately, you know. I suspect they want to see if Teigue is strong enough to retain it now. If they decide he is not, an Owenacht prince—probably Cian—will try to overthrow him.”

  “Do you care?”

  Donough considered the question. He was still angry at Teigue, yet …

  When he told Fergal what he intended to do, his cousin was taken aback. “You’re returning to Kincora? After your brother threw you out? Why, in the name of the Sweet Virgin …”

  “He’s my brother,” said Donough.

  When Donough set out for Kincora, Conor of Corcomrua joined him, rallying other warriors from the Burren to accompany them. Conor felt he had by this time a sizable stake in Donough’s future.

  They refused to take Gormlaith, however. She was left with Neassa at Corcomrua “to keep you safe.” No matter how she raged, her son was adamant, although Conor’s own womenfolk were not too happy at the prospect.

  As Donough rode away, the January air smelled crisp and clean, sweeping the smoke of too many late-night fires from his nostrils.

  He did not see the woman who stood in the gateway, watching him go.

  While Donough was on his way to Kincora, Domnall Mac Donohue gradually approached Limerick, the Norse trading town at the mouth of the Shannon. Teigue was making no move to intercept him, so he took his time. His men were marching through rich countryside, and plundering was good. The Owenacht felt no responsibility toward the smaller, weaker tribes of Munster. Brian Boru had been the mortar that held them all together, but he was gone.

  If this raid was successful, Domnall was considering challenging Cian for leadership of their tribe. And that might be just a stepping-stone. Anyone, no matter how obscure, could rise to the highest honors in Ireland—had Brian Boru not proved it?

  No one was more surprised than Teigue when Donough arrived at Kincora with a small army at his back. At first he refused them admittance. But at his wife’s urging, he finally met with Donough in the great hall.

  Donough’s followers were kept outside the stronghold, however, and their weapons taken from them while the two brothers talked. Conor and Fergal and some of the others wandered down to the river to throw stones across the water and wager who could hurl a missile the farthest.

  Teigue faced his younger brother in an atmosphere sparking with tension. The timbers of the hall still seemed to echo with their anger of the preceding summer.

  The older man would not bring himself to apologize for the argument between them, and it never occurred to Donough to apologize. But he did say, “We lost a lot of Dalcassians at Clontarf, and you might not feel you have enough men to confront Domnall. So I brought you as many as I could gather.”

  “You brought warriors for me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Who said I was going to fight Domnall?”

  “You are, aren’t you? This march on Limerick is just the first step in a campaign, anyone can see that. Stop him now, or fight him and Cian and their whole tribe before next winter.”

  Teigue scowled. “Who told you to say this to me? That scheming mother of yours?”

  The skin around Donough’s eyes tightened but he held his temper. “Gormlaith isn’t with me now. I don’t need anyone to do my thinking for me. I’m trying to think like my father—and so should you, if his kingdom means anything to you.”

  “You brought this on us, quarreling with Cian.”

  “It isn’t Cian,” Donough pointed out, “who’s attacking Limerick. You have to stop him.”

  The Abbot of Kill Dalua kept making the same argument. After considerable soul-searching, Teigue had been about to give in when Donough arrived. His unexpected appearance was like an omen. Still, Teigue could not surrender without a struggle—not to Gormlaith’s son.

  “Perhaps I’ll think about it,” he said grudgingly.

  “Think fast. I expect Domnall’s at the gates of Limerick by now.”

  Domnall Mac Donohue was not at the gates of Limerick—not quite. He and his men were still some miles south when they learned an army was rushing toward them from Kincora.

  Domnall was frankly surprised. “I didn’t think he’d fight!” Dispatching runners to collect his scattered, pillaging warriors, he prepared for battle.

  Teigue’s Dalcassians were not scattered. As they had learned to do under the late Ard Ri, they formed into a tight battle formation and marched with grim purpose. Donough rode with the other officers, glancing back from time to time to be certain his personal followers stayed close behind him.

  All his being was concentrated on the battle to come. He no longer thought of his mother, or Neassa—or even the girl in the red skirt. Whatever importance they had in his life would be in abeyance while man met man to fight to the death.

  He felt both weightless and intensely alive.

  Soon he would be in battle. Not simple skirmishing, but war as Brian Boru had known it, roaring overwhelming war, hundreds of men running at one another in white anger, wielding their weapons with singleminded ferocity. War that defined a man, showed him his own strengths and weaknesses, exalted his courage or laid bare his cowardice.

  How could a man know himself until he experienced war?

  All his life, it seemed, Donough had been waiting for this day. It did not matter that he followed Teigue’s banner. What mattered was having the opportunity to prove himself to himself.

  He wondered if he would be sufficiently courageous. Before his very first skirmish he had been nervous and excited but not fearful, because he did not know what to expect. Now he knew. He had seen and heard and smelled death and he knew that most men were afraid, though they did not admit it to one another. Admitting fear weakened a man, somehow.

  Marching to face the Owenacht, Donough knew he was afraid—not so much of death, as of a failure of nerve.

  Or worse—of failing to live up to what he expected of himself.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  DOMNALL MAC DONOHUE VEERED AWAY FROM LIMERICK AND LED HIS warriors along the east bank of the Shannon, looking for a battleground that would give him the advantage. He decided to await Teigue at a rocky ford above a series of falls, a place where men of the Uaithne tribe built small boats for fishing. Coming down the west bank of the Shannon from Kincora, the Dalcassians would have to cross the river to attack. Armies were always vulnerable while fording. A barrage of well-thrown spears could reduce Te
igue’s force by as much as half before they ever gained the riverbank.

  Domnall gave the order to pitch camp. His Owenachts erected barricades of loot covered with leather hides; their recently acquired plunder included everything from chests of clothing and casks of wine to farming tools and sacks of corn. They settled down behind this makeshift stockade in anticipation of their next success.

  They did not have to wait long.

  Brazen trumpet and goatskin-covered bodhran announced the approach of the Dalcassians. As so often that spring the day was cold and wet, with a numbing wind that carried the sound.

  Domnall of Desmond, a tall, dark man with blue eyes as hard as polished stones, surveyed his warriors with approval. Behind their barricades they waited to hurl javelins at the Dalcassians as soon as they reached the midpoint of the river. Those who survived the first onslaught could be expected to form a broad line and charge the Owenacht emplacement, but a second barrage should complete their destruction.

  A broad line no more than two or three men deep had characterized Celtic warfare since the days when the Gauls fought Caesar. Having studied Caesar’s campaign strategies, Brian Boru had attempted to introduce new tactics to his own warriors. Abandoning the frontal assault that risked everything on a wild charge, he had developed more complex and subtle formations, varying them to suit the terrain and situation.

  With his death, however, the warriors of Ireland had quickly reverted to their old familiar battle style. Not enough time had passed to turn Brian’s innovations into tradition. So Domnall was confident that the Dalcassians, like his Owenachts, would fight as their ancestors had fought; as their grandsons would fight.

  Brian Boru was dead and nothing had really changed in Ireland after all, Domnall thought, grinning mirthlessly as the first Dalcassians emerged from the trees on the far side of the river. “Get ready, lads,” he called to his waiting men.