Authors: Morgan Llywelyn
A messenger sent by the Bishop of Cork brought the news: ‘Mahon mac Kennedy was taken prisoner by Donovan of Bruree. Donovan surrendered him to Molloy of Desmond, who claims to be the rightful King of Munster. Mahon was sent to Molloy’s stronghold with an escort of priests. On the way, Molloy’s men attacked them and killed Mahon. The priests with him were, of course, unarmed, and could not protect him. As he was dying, the king flung the holy relic of St Finnbarr into the bushes to keep from staining it with his blood.’
Brian let out a cry of grief and rage. This latest loss was too much to bear. It was made worse, if that were possible, by the fact that Molloy and Donovan were Irish and not Vikings.
‘Our own people,’ Brian said through gritted teeth, ‘killing their king. I’ll make them pay.’
‘I thought you told me vengeance didn’t satisfy you,’ said Marcan the priest.
‘Did I? Then I was wrong. I’m going to take great satisfaction from hunting down Mahon’s killers and killing them!’
Leaving his children, Murcha, Sive, Conor and Flan, in safekeeping at Cashel, Brian went north to the sacred mound of Magh Adhair. There he was inaugurated as Prince of Thomond, the title formerly held by Mahon. Now the Dalcassians were officially his to command, following his banner of the three red lions.
Brian had many cousins who might have tried to claim the title of Prince of Thomond, but none dared oppose him.
At the head of the Dalcassian warriors, Brian planned an attack on Ivar the Dane. ‘When that man returned from Wales my brother should have killed him at once, instead of allowing him to settle on Scattery Island again,’ Brian told his followers. ‘Ivar is our enemy, and I suspect he played some part in the murder of Mahon. When he is dead, Molloy and Donovan will have lost a powerful ally.’
Brian assembled a small fleet of boats in the Shannon as he had always wanted to do. With his Dalcassians manning this seedling navy, he attacked Ivar in his stronghold on Scattery Island. At the end of the day the place was in flames and its inhabitants, including Ivar, were slain.
Next Brian went after Donovan. He found him at Bruree. Also in hiding there was Harald, a son of Ivar of Limerick. This was proof of Brian’s suspicions – the Danes had been heavily involved in the plotting between
Molloy and Donovan. Brian executed both Donovan and Harald son of Ivar, then returned to Cashel to prepare himself to meet Molloy, the Owenacht. When he attacked Molloy, he wanted to have all his weapons sharp and his most trusted warriors around him.
Brian’s son Murcha met him at the gates of Cashel.
‘Is there going to be a big battle and can I take part in it?’ the boy asked eagerly. ‘Look how tall I’ve grown!’
Brian was surprised to realise Murcha was as long as a spear handle. My son is growing up while I’m kept busy elsewhere, he thought resentfully. He said, ‘You aren’t old enough to take up arms, Murcha.’
‘But I am – almost,’ Murcha replied truthfully.
Brian folded his arms and shook his head. He had lost too many people he loved. ‘You are not going to war yet, and that’s final,’ he told his son.
‘But father …’
‘Don’t argue with me,’ Brian said, more sharply than he intended.
Murcha turned away as if he had accepted his father’s decision, but he had not.
Murcha mac Brian was his father’s son. He longed to be a warrior. From the safety of Cashel he had followed the story of Brian’s victories and dreamed of the day when at last he would be allowed to fight with the Dalcassians. He imagined himself riding on a fine horse, as a prince should, following the wind-whipped banner of the three red lions.
When Brian and his warriors left Cashel to seek Molloy of Desmond, Murcha ran beside his father’s horse as far as the first crossroads. His dark hair, so like his mother’s, was glossy in the sunlight. Brian looked down on it with love. He wanted to tousle that hair, the way Mahon used to tousle his hair. A lump rose in his
throat. ‘Take care of yourself, and your sister and brothers,’ he told Murcha. Then he kicked his horse and trotted off to battle.
He did not see Murcha falling back and blending in with the other warriors, following him.
The forces of Brian and Molloy met at a place called Bealach Leachta, an ancient battlefield marked by huge stones from a forgotten time. Each side made camp. ‘This is a good place for the Owenacht to die tomorrow,’ Brian told his warriors. ‘It is better than Molloy deserves, for honourable men’s bones lie in this soil. Can’t you sense them?’
His men shivered in the twilight and looked around them. That night they stayed close to their campfires. But the only spirit that walked the land was that of Brian himself, pacing the borders of the camp and gazing toward the winking red eyes of the Owenacht campfires. ‘By this time tomorrow,’ he promised Mahon, ‘the hand that killed you will be cold.’
The battle the next morning was one of the most savage Brian had ever fought. Gael against Gael, the Dalcassians and the Owenachts tried to destroy each other. Each tribe wanted to be supreme in Munster, with its prince at Cashel ruling the rich province. By the end of the day the meadow was littered with bodies. Neither side was willing to surrender.
Among all those furious fighting men, Brian searched in vain for Molloy. The Prince of Desmond was hiding in a hut beyond the edge of the battlefield. When he caught a glimpse of Brian at the start of the battle, his nerve had broken and he had run away.
Brian’s son Murcha, who was also trying to hide from his father, had seen Molloy break away from the other warriors and run into the bushes. He did not know it was
Molloy, but he followed him. The battle was very loud and very confusing, not quite what he had imagined. Murcha decided it would be easier to fight just one man, at least in his very first combat. If he already had a kill to his credit when Brian found him, perhaps he would be allowed to stay.
Beneath his cloak, Murcha carried a shortsword and had an eager heart.
He followed the other man through a strip of forest, across a stream, and up a slope to a ruined herder’s hut. When the man went inside, Murcha crept closer, sword at the ready.
The nearer he got to the hut, the less sure of himself he felt. This was not the glorious battle he had often dreamed. This was two men alone in a wilderness, and the other was a grown man who would surely kill him.
Just as Murcha was beginning to think about turning back, a twig snapped under his foot. The man came out of the hut. ‘Who’s there?’ he asked in a loud whisper.
Murcha’s mouth was so dry he could not answer. Seeing him, Molloy called, ‘You there! Lad! Come here to me!’
The Owenacht peered toward Murcha, then suddenly recognised him. This was Brian Boru’s son, whom he had seen at Cashel!
A grin split Molloy’s face. ‘You’ll be my hostage!’ he cried, grabbing Murcha.
Meanwhile, halfway through a long day of battle, someone told Brian his son had been seen, trying to hide among the other warriors. At first Brian did not want to believe it.
‘My son had orders to stay at Cashel,’ he insisted. Even as he said the words, however, he knew how much Murcha was like himself at that age. Hungry for
adventure and unwilling to follow orders.
Brian was the commander of the Dalcassians and could not be spared to look for Murcha, so he sent others to search and went back to the fighting. It was hard to do. His mind kept skipping away, thinking about Murcha who looked so like his mother.
Beautiful, beloved, dead Mor.
Several times Brian’s wandering thoughts almost got him killed. Molloy’s men had been ordered to bring down the Prince of Thomond at all costs. As Brian fought with sword and axe he tried not to look at the bodies already lying on the ground, making the grass slippery with blood. He knew one of them might be his oldest son.
Very late in the day, the Dalcassians at last defeated the Owenachts. Molloy’s men had not seen their prince since early morning, and without a leader to inspire them they finally surrendered. One by one, they came forward and laid their weapons at Brian’s feet. He nodded to each. His shoulders ached and burned from using the sword and the axe, but his heart was more sore still. ‘Have you seen my son?’ he asked again and again.
But no one had.
When Brian’s men began recovering bodies from the battlefield, Murcha was not among the dead.
Neither was Molloy, Prince of Desmond.
Although he was bleeding from several wounds, Brian now joined in the search. Darkness was falling when someone saw one figure dragging another out of a strip of woodland. ‘Look!’
Brian looked. Then weary as he was, he began to run.
When Murcha saw his father coming he dropped the legs of the body he was dragging and stood waiting, trying to look humble and proud at the same time. ‘I’ve
killed my first man, father,’ he said.
Brian wanted to grab his son up in a hug and shout with joy because Murcha was still alive. At the same time, he wanted to take off his belt and beat the boy for frightening him so. Then he looked down at the body of the man Murcha had killed.
It was Molloy of Desmond.
For a few moments, Brian was speechless.
His men quickly gathered around. He knew they would forever judge the quality of his leadership by the way he acted now.
Forcing his voice to be calm and controlled, Brian said, ‘I congratulate you on your kill. But I must remind you that you disobeyed my orders in coming here. I cannot allow a man who follows my banner to disobey my orders.’ Brian turned to his old friend Nessa, the slinger. ‘Take this boy prisoner, ‘he said, ‘and tie him securely across the back of my horse. We shall take him back to Cashel with us and imprison him there for a seven-night. On bread and water.’
Murcha could not believe his ears. He had thought his father would laugh and forgive him, and he would be honoured as the hero of the day. After all, he had killed Molloy – though he had not known it was Molloy until he got a good look at the man after striking the fatal blow. A lucky blow, he had to admit to himself.
Now he was being treated like any common warrior who disobeyed orders. As Brian’s men took hold of him and began tying his hands and feet he shouted to his father, ‘I’ll never forget this. Nor forgive you!’
‘My father’s angry because I robbed him of his revenge by killing Molloy myself,’ Murcha complained to Nessa.
‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ Nessa replied. ‘I just
follow orders. There is a lesson for you in that, lad.’
Every step the horse took on the journey back to Cashel jolted the breath out of Murcha, who lay tied belly-down across the animal’s back. Soon the boy hurt all over. His anger with his father increased until he thought of nothing else. He could barely hear what the warriors nearest him were saying.
‘Brian Boru is a hard man but a fair one,’ they were telling one another. ‘He did not even give his son special treatment.’
‘Indeed,’ one remarked, ‘and I respect him for that. I would follow him to the gates of hell, myself.’
‘And I would follow him through them!’ boasted another. Everyone laughed – except Murcha.
They returned in triumph to Cashel – except for Murcha, who was shut away for seven nights and days in a small stone cell with nothing but bread and water to eat and drink.
Now that the Owenacht who had tried to claim the kingship was dead, there was only one man who should follow the slain Mahon as ruler of Munster. Brian’s army would accept no one else, and Brian’s army was the mightiest in the province.
On the first day of the new moon, Brian Boru was inaugurated King of Munster at Cashel of the Kings. He had spent the night in prayer and fasting under the direction of his brother Marcan. At sunrise he walked through a cheering crowd to the very spot where St Patrick had once stood.
There the bard of the Dalcassians recited the names of Brian’s ancestors to the crowd, to prove he came of a royal line. Then the chief judge of the tribe explained the Brehon law concerning the duties of a king to his land and its people. After the ancient Irish law, the
Bishop of Emly blessed Brian in the Christian tradition. The bishop held a gold circlet in one hand, and a white rod of authority in the other.
Brian knelt and laid his sword at the bishop’s feet. In return he was given the rod of authority. Then he bowed his head.
The weight of the gold circlet last worn by Mahon settled upon Brian’s brow.
Raising his head slowly, Brian stood as tall as he could until he could see beyond the crowd, beyond the wall, to the fertile plains and misty mountains of Munster. All that he saw was beautiful. All that he saw was his to defend and cherish.
Brian closed his eyes, holding the moment.
The spot of earth on which he stood had been sacred for many centuries. Long before Christianity came to Ireland, it had belonged to the old gods of the land. There was power in the earth. Standing there, Brian felt the power rise into him. Suddenly he knew he could do more than be King of Munster. He could do whatever he had the ability to dream.
Brian opened his eyes. He looked again towards the blue mountains and thought of the land that lay beyond them.
Not just Munster.
Ireland.
Murcha was not present when his father was crowned
King of Munster. Since being released from his cell he had sulked around the edges of Cashel, avoiding Brian as best he could. He thought he had been very badly treated.
It seemed that all of Munster was singing Brian’s praises, but Murcha felt only resentment. He had wanted Brian to praise
him
. Instead, he had been embarrassed in front of the Dalcassians and punished. Not fair, not fair! he kept saying to himself. He spent his time dreaming up schemes for escaping his father’s control and becoming his own man.
As soon as Brian was King of Munster, he set about repairing the damage done by recent events. As he told his brother Marcan, ‘We must put an end to the warring between the tribes. It weakens us. If we had been able to stand together when the first Vikings came to this island, we could have kept them from ever gaining a foothold here.’
The priest wrinkled his forehead. ‘If you’re thinking of uniting the Irish tribes, Brian, you’re dreaming. It’s never been done. Every tribe, no matter how small, has its own king and goes its own way.’
The word ‘never’ would always be a challenge to Brian Boru. ‘If it has never been done,’ he replied, ‘then perhaps the time has come to do it.’
He began seeking ways to build new alliances. The slain Prince of Desmond had a son, Cian, who was popular in the south. Unlike his father Molloy, Cian had an open, sunny nature and preferred feasting to plotting. Brian’s daughter Sive was too young to marry, but she was not too young to be promised in marriage. She must consent, however, under the old Irish law. So Brian invited Cian to Cashel and encouraged a friendship between the two youngsters. ‘If they marry in time, the
Dalcassians and the Owenachts will be kin,’ Brian explained patiently to Murcha, who did not like Cian. Murcha had decided he did not like anything Brian did.
Young Cian and Brian Boru got along very well together in fact, and this made Murcha more resentful than ever. He did not understand that Brian was trying very hard to heal the quarrel between the two tribes.
Cian did understand this, and was willing. The promise of being able to marry Sive when she was old enough made him even more willing. ‘When Sive and I are married the Owenachts and the Dalcassians will be friends instead of enemies,’ he promised.
Brian grinned and put his arm around the young man. Murcha, watching from a distance, saw this and scowled. ‘Our father prefers Molloy’s son to his own,’ he complained to his brother Flan.
‘He doesn’t!’
‘You don’t understand, Flan,’ Murcha said. ‘You’re just a little boy.’ Murcha wanted to make his younger brother feel the jealousy he himself felt.
The new King of Munster worked hard to knit together the tribes of the province, tribes who had never been friends before. He knew how to win on the battlefield. Now he must learn how to win peace for his land. He visited kings who had long been enemies of the Dalcassians and praised their courage, admired their women, their homes and cattle, left gifts in their lodges. From the tributes paid to the King of Munster he set aside funds for rebuilding churches and abbeys that had been destroyed by the Vikings, or damaged by Irish raiders. This won him the support of the clergy.
Brian was successful in winning friends, but he could not win back the love of his son. When he tried to teach Murcha what he himself had learned through
experience, he found the boy’s mind closed.
‘I can’t talk to him,’ Brian complained to Marcan. ‘Of all my sons, he is the oldest and the one most like me. He is the one I want to have follow me. But he resents everything I do.’
‘You said it yourself, he is most like you. You would never take orders as a lad, Brian, and neither will your son. You were strong willed and rebellious and so is he. Give him time and pray over the problem, that is my advice to you.’
But the trouble between Brian and Murcha flared into a bitter quarrel when the King of Munster announced he meant to marry again.
‘Have you forgotten my mother so soon?’ Murcha shouted at Brian in the great hall at Cashel.
‘I haven’t forgotten Mor at all,’ Brian replied. How could I, he thought to himself, when I see her in this boy’s face?
‘Then how can you marry someone else?’
‘Listen to me,’ said Brian, trying to be patient. ‘I am King of Munster now. It is my duty to make this land prosper. That means I must make it safe from war, because war impoverishes people. So I have chosen Achra of Meath as my wife. Her tribe is connected to the O’Neills, the most powerful tribe in all of Ireland. The High King himself is always chosen from among the O’Neills. Marriage with Achra will give us a small but vital connection to them and allow me to begin extending my influence beyond the borders of Munster.’
‘You’re doing this for the sake of your own ambition!’
‘There is nothing wrong with ambition, Murcha, if it isn’t selfish. I am ambitious, I admit that, but it’s not just for myself. It is also for my people.’
‘I don’t understand you,’ Murcha said.
‘You don’t want to understand me. You don’t listen to anything I say.’
‘And why should I?’ cried Murcha. ‘When did you listen to me, or care how I felt?’
‘That isn’t true,’ Brian started to say, but Murcha had already turned away.
Over his shoulder the young man shouted back at his father, ‘I’m leaving Cashel. I’m old enough to look after myself. I don’t need anything from you, Brian Boru, and I don’t want a new mother!’ He stormed out of the hall.
He did not see the pain in his father’s eyes.
‘Go after him and bring him back,’ Marcan urged.
‘It wouldn’t do any good. He would run away again, and resent me all the more.’ Brian felt as if this latest loss was the worst he had suffered. It hurt so deeply he did not want to talk about it. He clamped his jaw shut and turned his attention to the business of kingship, and the preparations for his marriage to Achra of Meath.
At first Murcha went to the monastic school where he had learned to read and write. The monks made him welcome, but they did not urge him to stay. Brian had recently helped them to built a new chapel and a round tower, and they did not want him to think they were taking Murcha’s side. In time the young man drifted on, seeking a place of his own. A place beyond the reach of Brian Boru.
No sooner had Brian wed plump and cheerful Achra, who had gold in her braids and freckles on her nose, than new trouble broke out. Unlike Mor, who was sweet and shy, Achra had a gift for making Brian laugh and he was enjoying a jest of hers in the great hall at Cashel when a messenger came with the news.
In spite of Brian’s efforts, not all the tribes of Munster had given him their loyalty. The Deise in the southeast
were claiming that the tribute demanded of them was too large. The Danish King of Waterford had learned of this, and with a mixture of threats and promises he set out to make allies of the Deise.
The new alliance between an Irish tribe and a Danish king reached the ears of Donal, the Irish King of Leinster. Leinster and Munster were old enemies. Any weapon that could be used against the strong new King of Munster was welcome news to Donal, who announced he would join with the Deise and the Waterford Danes. Together they would destroy Brian Boru before he gained any more power.
‘Who are these Dalcassians anyway?’ Donal demanded to know. ‘They were an unknown tribe before this Brian Boru. Let them fade back into the mists where they belong!’
Encouraged by such support, the king of the Deise attacked the nearest tribe to his, a tribe loyal to Brian. They sent a cry for help to Cashel. Before the day was over, Brian’s army was gathering around the standard of the three red lions.
‘Must you go away to battle?’ Achra protested. ‘I thought you told me you had made peace in Munster.’
‘Peace is never certain when the Danes are stirring up trouble,’ Brian told her. ‘Left to themselves, the Deise would not have risen against me. But the Waterford Danes have urged them to it and so I must fight them both. And perhaps Leinster as well,’ he added, with a faraway look in his eyes.
Achra was a wise woman. She studied her new husband, then said, ‘I think you want to fight Leinster.’
Brian flashed her a smile. ‘Perhaps. To test my strength.’
‘But for what reason?’
He did not tell her. Murcha had accused him of ambition. Brian had decided it was wisest to keep his ambitions to himself.
That evening, however, he stood once more on the walls of Cashel and looked out over the land. Over Ireland.
At dawn he led his warriors out to meet the enemy.
Cian of Desmond brought the Owenachts to fight with Brian. By a series of forced marches, they came up behind the warriors of the Deise, taking them by surprise and winning a major victory. The Deise, together with allies from among the Waterford Danes, and also some of Donal’s Leinstermen, fell back to Waterford, seeking protection behind its walls. Brian pursued them and wiped out all pockets of resistance. Then he set off northward to deal personally with the King of Leinster.
Donal was horrified by the size of the army that came marching towards his stronghold at Naas. At first he denied knowing of any plot involving the Deise and the Danes of Waterford. Then Brian led forward the prisoners of war, who included a number of Donal’s kinsmen.
With bad grace, Donal was forced to admit, ‘I sent warriors against you, Dalcassian. I believe you have overstepped yourself and thought it was wise to take a bit out of you.’
Brian, who was a head taller than Donal and twenty years younger, smiled. ‘You are not able to take even a nibble out of me. You are choking on the effort. You wanted to see Leinster superior over Munster, but you shall not see that in my lifetime. And to make certain you remember your error, I shall revive the ancient tribute once claimed against your province by mine for the murder of a southern prince. Each year from now on you
are to send to Cashel three hundred horses, three hundred cows, three hundred swords, and three hundred cloaks. You will also acknowledge me as foremost ruler in the south.’
Donal’s lips were thin with anger. ‘You take a lot on yourself. I suppose you demand marriage with one of my daughters as well? That was part of the ancient tribute, was it not – the King of Munster married a princess of Leinster?’
‘I have recently taken a wife,’ Brian replied, ‘and so you are excused from that part of the tribute. For now. As long as my woman remains in good health. But you shall deliver the first of it to me at once, as I mean to share it out among my loyal followers.’
Donal was surprised. ‘You aren’t going to keep it for yourself, then?’
‘I am not,’ said Brian Boru.
Donal had no choice but to agree. His stronghold was surrounded by Brian’s men, who had arrived before he could summon enough defenders to ward them off. Many of Brian’s army rode horses now. The bards claimed the Dalcassian cavalry moved so swiftly the air behind them could not catch up until they halted for the night.
‘We shall begin gathering your tribute tomorrow,’ Donal told Brian in a surly tone. ‘Enjoy it while you can. Our turn will come.’
Faster than thought, Brian moved. Suddenly the point of a shortsword was pressing into Donal’s throat. ‘Do not threaten me, Leinster,’ Brian said in a cold and deadly voice. ‘Do not ever, ever, threaten me.’
Donal did not say another word until the army of Munster had disappeared over the horizon. Then he told his court he had been prevented from speaking by a sore
throat. Most of them seemed to believe him. He was relieved that the girl called Gormla, daughter of one of his princely cousins, was not there, however. She had sharp eyes and would have seen through the lie, and laughed at him. Gormla had only contempt for any sort of weakness. But fortunately she had recently been married to Olaf Cuaran, the aging Norse King of Dublin.
Donal secretly felt sorry for any man married to the wild, wilful, beautiful Gormla.