“Annh,” grunted the driver. “I don’t read, myself. Bondservants aren’t entitled to an education like you lot. You nobles. But I have other skills. Did I ever tell you about the time I beat my cousin at arm wrestling? Four times running?”
Carroll sighed. “Please do,” he murmured patiently.
But before the driver could launch into this new tale, a column of dark smoke on the horizon drew his attention.
“Outlaws burning some homestead,” he said, pointing. “It’s a disgrace. I am an honest man, and while there are days I feel hard done by, I would never …”
I have seen Ireland at her zenith, Carroll thought sadly. Now I am witness to her decline.
But at least there is Donough.
Like a traveler at sea, Carroll found himself pinning his hopes on a star.
When he found Donough he was shocked, though he tried to hide his reaction. Instead of the merry, arrogant youth he remembered, Carroll saw a man who wore his tragedies in his eyes.
The hand was the least of it. “Have a look,” Donough offered casually. “It’s healed remarkably well, they tell me.”
Carroll glanced, then quickly looked away. He had seen too many battle injuries; he did not want to see any more. “I had no idea you’d lost an arm.”
“I haven’t lost my arm. Look again. Only part of my hand is gone. I can do everything I used to do, I’m not crippled,” Donough said as if daring the historian to contradict him.
Carroll turned to see his baggage being carried into the hall by his bondservant. “Be careful!” he called sharply. “My writing desk is in there, and my quills.”
Donough raised an eyebrow. “All that baggage for a portable desk and some quills?”
“I have a few other things. You know. Clothes. Books. Mementos. One accumulates a certain amount of property over the years.”
“From the looks of it you’ve brought most of your property with you.”
Carroll lowered his eyes. “I have, actually.”
“You intend a long stay?”
“If you have no objections. I would prefer to spend my remaining days with you than with …”
“With my brother? But surely Teigue can make you more comfortable than I can.” As he spoke, Donough was gesturing to his men to bring a basin of heated water.
Carroll replied, “At Kincora, perhaps. But he does not live at Kincora these days. Cashel seems to please him better, being less Brian Boru’s place and more his own. Our Teigue has become quite fond of the perquisites of being King of Munster. Ah, that’s nice,” the historian added as a steaming basin was offered for bathing his hands and feet.
While these ablutions took place, Donough steeled himself to ask, “Who occupies Kincora now?”
“The king keeps a garrison there so it does not stand empty.”
The tall young man with eyes like winter lakes said softly, bitterly, “Teigue could have offered it to me.”
Carroll did not reply. He devoted himself to removing the dust of the road.
Donough made the historian welcome and ordered a separate chamber built for him on the east side of the stronghold, where the morning sun would awaken him. “You and I seem destined to take care of old men,” he remarked to Cumara.
“At least we don’t have Gormlaith.”
One of Donough’s increasingly rare smiles flickered across his face. “Strangely enough, I almost miss her.”
“And your father?”
Donough looked at some point over Cumara’s shoulder. “I used to think he was with me … most of the time. Though not the way my mother seems to.”
“It’s not uncommon. After Mac Liag died I had a sense of his presence for months. I take it you no longer sense Brian Boru beside you, though?”
The skin around Donough’s eyes tightened with pain. “No,” he said.
A messenger arrived from Malachi, who was currently holding court at Tara. Was Prince Donough prepared to send some of his warriors to the Ard Ri’s service?
Donough gave a cynical laugh. “The tide of battle must have turned against him again. But I’ll go myself. It will amuse me to show him I’m not the cripple he no doubt imagines.”
“Can you wield a sword?” Carroll wanted to know.
“Come out on the grass and I’ll show you.”
The historian was impressed. Donough brandished the weapon as if he were naturally left-handed.
“It is a pity,” said Carroll, “that you don’t have your father’s sword, since you wear his ring and play his harp.”
“I thought he was supposed to have been entombed with his sword,” Donough replied. Suddenly he was tense. Something he heard in Carroll’s voice alerted him.
“Supposed to have been. Yes. You put it very well. I myself saw it laid upon his body. But the vault was not sealed for several days, and during that time …”
“Someone took the sword,” Donough concluded. He did not sound particularly surprised.
“Indeed. Once no man in Ireland would have desecrated a grave, but times are changing. Changing very fast.”
“What happened to the sword?”
“The warrior who took it—and I shan’t tell you his name, it is of no importance—was a Dalcassian. He took the sword because he loved Brian, I think. It went back to Thomond with him, but in time his conscience got the better of him and he presented it to the King of Munster.”
Donough’s features hardened into a rigid mask. “Teigue has my father’s sword?”
“Yes and no. He thought it would be, ah, presumptuous of him to display the sword of the Ard Ri, and quite honestly I think he’s afraid the Owenachts might try to steal it. So he had his servants secretly bury Brian’s sword.
“At Cashel.”
Chapter Fifty-one
LIFE WAS INCREASINGLY HECTIC FOR MALCOLM OF ALBA. HE HAD begun delegating some authority to the mormaers to collect tributes and be responsible for the execution of the king’s law. But it was not easy for him to relinquish power, even to those he trusted. He spent much of his time traveling from one region to another to assure himself the king’s word remained absolute in Alba.
Another of Malcolm’s worries was the lack of a son. As the years passed, he had become obsessed with securing for his grandson, Duncan, the throne he must someday vacate. Mindful of the disaster whereby the Battle of Clontarf had destroyed Brian Boru’s plans for an inherited and stable monarchy, he had even discussed the situation with Gormlaith during her visit. Talking together long into the night, they had agreed on the most pragmatic course of action.
In 1020, Malcolm put their plan into effect. Having slain Kenneth the Second to gain the kingship, he now had the grandson of his predecessor killed. By this deed he satisfied himself there were no stronger claimants for the throne than young Duncan. He was unfortunately unaware that the murder victim left a daughter, Gruoch, who was betrothed to a young Scot called Mac Beth, Mormaer of Moray, a man also of royal descent.
With the murder of Kenneth’s grandson, Malcolm’s hands felt no more bloody than they had before. “Kingship,” as he had remarked to Gormlaith, “is only for the able.”
Although he doubted she any longer had the mental capacity to understand, early in the year 1020 he sent Gormlaith a letter. In it he wrote, “Our mutual plan for Duncan’s benefit is accomplished. Now I am prepared to turn my energies toward your son, as we agreed.”
Malcolm had been following Donough’s career with interest, welcoming every bit of news from Ireland. “Duncan will not have an easy time when he is king,” he told Blanaid. “I mean for him to have all the allies I can arrange, as I foresee the day he might need to call upon an army of the Irish Gael to keep his place on the king-seat. Therefore I want to be sure your brother is indebted to me.”
Blanaid had had her fill of kingly manipulations. Gormlaith had inserted a wedge between herself and Malcolm and she was no longer sympathetic to his political machinations. Nor did she like the idea of having her brother used. She told Mal
colm so in no uncertain terms, surprising him.
“What has become of my compliant wife?” he asked, meaning to tease her.
Blanaid’s expression hardened. “She’s Irish,” was the reply, “and not as compliant as you think!”
Thereafter Malcolm did not confide in her listening ear. When he sent two more letters, first one to Earl Godwine and, sometime later, one to Donough Mac Brian, he neglected to tell his wife.
Malcolm’s letter reached Donough at Tara, where he had gone to join Malachi.
Once known as Tara of the Kings, the ancient royal seat had begun to show signs of dilapidation. The palisaded complex of timber forts and chambers sprawling along the green ridge was badly in need of limewash and rethatching. Preferring Kincora, Brian Boru had never made Tara his principal residence. Malachi Mor now followed his example.
This was Donough’s first visit to the fabled hill, and he was disappointed.
He had brought his personal army with him, regaling them along the way with tales from his father’s time. “When Brian stood upon the Stone of Fal it cried aloud for him as the true Ard Ri!” he repeated in ringing tones.
But when he saw the Stone of Fal, supposed parent to the Stone of Scone, he found it hard to imagine the scene that had taken place there only eighteen years earlier. Weeds were growing up around the roughly formed gray pillarstone that lay on its side atop the Mound of the Hostages. Bird droppings like white lichens disfigured its surface.
Even the great banqueting hall and the House of the King looked shabby. A few sodden banners hung beside the fourteen doorways of the hall, and there was a fire on the hearth in the royal residence, but all Tara bore an air of dejection.
Malachi seemed cheerful, however, though it was a forced jollity born of growing desperation. “You are a hundred times welcome,” cried the old High King as he hurried forward to greet Donough with outstretched hands. Then Malachi’s eyes dropped. “I … ah … I heard you were injured, but …”
“But nothing. I’ll fight any champion you care to name.”
“Of course, of course.” Smiling broadly, Malachi looked past Donough to the large company of able-bodied men he had brought. “We are glad to have all of you,” he said. “There is rebellion in the west and the Connachtmen have plundered Clonmacnois. I have summoned additional warriors from both Leinster and Ulster but they have not yet arrived.” The smile faded from his face as he spoke, revealing a troubled man approaching the end of his reign.
When I step upon the Stone of Fal it will cry aloud for me, Donough told himself. And there will be no weeds around it, either.
While the Ard Ri waited for more warriors to arrive, Malcolm’s letter was brought to Donough by a messenger from Dublin. “The arrangements have been undertaken and completed,” the king had written. “This day I have heard from the Earl Godwine that he accepts your proposal for his daughter Driella. She will be sent to you in Ireland as soon as she is of an age to consummate the marriage, and you will thus be related to the most powerful families in England.
“Remember who made this possible.
“Malcolm the Second, King of the Scots and the Picts.”
Donough put the letter down and stared thoughtfully into space. For a man who had just learned he was betrothed, his expression was bleak.
He did not mention the contents of the letter to Fergal and Cumara until Malachi’s combined army was marching toward Connacht. Then he remarked offhandedly, “In a year or two I shall have a new wife.”
His two friends turned on their horses to stare at him. “A wife?” Fergal asked in surprise. “You’re a deep one; you never mentioned this before. What cattle lord is being enriched with your bride-gifts this time?”
Donough’s eyes twinkled. “No cattle lord, but Godwine, Earl of Wessex and Kent.”
Their gape-mouthed astonishment provoked the first laughter he had enjoyed in a long time.
Fergal was the first to recover. “Why in God’s name would you marry a square-headed Saxon?”
“Her mother is a Dane, actually. And her uncle is married to a sister of Canute, King of England.”
For once even Fergal was speechless. It remained for Cumara to ask, “How did all this come about?”
“Through Malcolm. And my mother. It is something she wanted very much, and I … I saw no reason why not. While I was still at Kill Dalua I sent a letter to Malcolm to make the arrangements.”
Edging his horse closer to Donough’s, Cumara studied his face. “You don’t seem very happy about this.”
“Happiness is a tale told to children. I am making a most advantageous marriage. No other prince in Ireland will have such a connection. My sister is married to the King of Alba, and I shall be …”
“Ard Ri,” concluded Fergal.
Cumara shook his head. “Even with the support of the King of England, that won’t be easy. The brehons will argue you’re blemished, and a blemished man cannot be king.”
Donough replied scornfully, “That grass won’t feed cattle any more. While I was recovering at Kill Dalua I read some of the Senchus Mor, the books containing Brehon Law. Kings had to be whole so they could be warriors, but I’m as good a warrior as any man in this company and I mean to prove it to the satisfaction of the brehons and anyone else. My father overthrew outdated traditions and so shall I.”
They rode on into the west, following the banner of Malachi Mor. In his mind’s eye, however, Donough was seeing his own banner at the head of the army.
Later the annalists would write: “An army was led by Malachi Mor and Donough Mac Brian to the Shannon, and there a great battle was fought. The forces of the Ard Ri were triumphant, and he was given the hostages of Connacht.”
The warriors who actually took part in the battle would remember it in much more colorful terms. Even with one hand, Donough fought like a man possessed. His left arm rose and fell, rose and fell, until the sword that had gleamed in the autumn sunshine was coated with blood. When a concerted rush by several Connachtmen succeeded in tearing his shield away from his right arm, the knife strapped to his wrist fatally skewered his nearest opponent. The others were so surprised they lost the all-important rhythm of the battle and Donough’s men quickly overpowered them.
Below his helmet, Donough’s face was radiant with victory. “Boru!” he screamed. “Boru!”
The sound of that cry froze the remaining Connachtmen in their tracks. The High King’s army poured over them like a wave.
That night in the leather tent his men had erected for him beside Malachi’s command tent, Donough tried to imagine his father beside him. “I fought well today,” he whispered. “You would have been proud of me.”
The night was very still. No voice answered him.
The Connacht campaign was a great success, but that same autumn Kildare was burnt and pillaged, the monasteries at Glendalough and at Swords were plundered, the bell of Saint Patrick was stolen and Armagh itself was burnt, with only the library being saved.
Malachi hurried north and east, south and west, putting out small fires while larger ones flamed up behind him. Only the onset of winter saved the old High King from a total collapse due to exhaustion. “Malachi is a spent force,” Donough said privately to Fergal. “It’s just a matter of time now, and while we wait for the inevitable I can be strengthening my base of support.”
The combined army disbanded. Its members went home to their various tribelands for the winter, aware that a new battle season surely awaited them the following year.
But something more awaited Donough. He had no sooner returned to his stronghold in Ely territory than another message reached him. Driella, daughter of the Earl of Wessex and Kent, would arrive in the spring.
A tall man with troubled gray eyes stood in the doorway of a timber hall, gazing out at a somber sky.
A wife. Another wife, a woman I’ve never seen. A woman who probably doesn’t even speak Irish. How am I to talk with her? Will she know any Latin? What sort of education do Saxo
n women have?
But Driella was of noble blood, surely she would be educated as such women were in Ireland.
What will we talk about? Have we anything in common? She will be barely grown, her experiences surely limited. Perhaps all we will have in common are our bodies.
Bodies. A strange woman in his bed.
Heat throbbed in him, but it was a heat oddly disassociated from his mind.
Since his injury he had bedded no woman. Believing that Cera shunned him because of his mutilation made him wary. He did not want to subject himself to female pity.
Driella might pity him, but he resolved not to let it bother him if she did. She would be his connection to that great world that glimmered beyond the Irish horizon.
As he thought of marriage a figure took shape in his mind. But it was not the figure of a Saxon woman.
Staring down from his hilltop and across the plains of Tipperary, named after a holy well, Donough spent an imagined lifetime in the company of a slender Irish woman with huge, dark eyes.
They laughed a lot and he played the harp for her.
Blackbirds circled in the wintry sky, cawing derisively. Summoning him back to reality.
He went back into his hall and slammed the door.
Chapter Fifty-two
DUBLIN IN THE LATE SPRING TEEMED WITH ACTIVITY. SEAGOING VESSELS of every description sailed into the mouth of the Liffey to jostle one another for space at quayside. Traders from throughout western Europe unloaded merchandise, haggled, gesticulated, argued, and finally reloaded their ships with the wealth of Ireland. No one cared about the origins of the man he did business with, so long as a profit was made.
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