Brian Boru (9 page)

When spring came, Malachy was reported to be somewhere north of Clonmacnois, collecting tributes. Brian and Murcha, with an army of Munstermen, set out to find him. As they rode side by side, Murcha kept glancing at Brian out of the corner of his eye. How could anyone live up to such a father?

Brian sat tall and easy on his horse. The animal was a spirited bay stallion with prancing gaits and a tossing head, but Brian handled him with no difficulty. In the Irish fashion he used a single rein attached to a leather headcollar, and carried a horsegoad in one hand to urge his mount forward.

Brian, Murcha observed, rode as if he had been born on a horse. His own horse gave a sudden start, nearly throwing him on the ground. Brian looked over and grinned.

He is laughing at me, Murcha thought bitterly. He never did think I could ride, though he taught me.

They rode on in silence.

Malachy was astonished to learn that an army was approaching from the south. No scouts had warned him of Brian’s advance until the Munstermen were almost upon him. This could only mean that Brian Boru had somehow brought many warriors a long distance without being betrayed by the tribes whose land they crossed. The High King did not like to think that another
king commanded such loyalty.

Hastily gathering his own warriors, Malachy marched to intercept Brian on the shores of Lough Ree.

To Malachy’s surprise, the King of Munster arrived under a flag of truce. A messenger sent from Brian to the High King’s tent announced, ‘Brian Boru requests hospitality from Malachy.’

Such a request must be honoured, always. Besides, Malachy was eager to meet Brian face to face. He wanted to see if the fabled Lion of Thomond lived up to his legend.

When Brian arrived at his tent Malachy realised the legends were true. The Dalcassian was a giant. The very way he carried himself marked him as a king, and the scars on his face and arms marked him as a warrior.

In spite of himself, Malachy was impressed. He ordered his servants to bring warm water, according to custom, so his guest could bathe his face and feet. Then he showed Brian to a stool inside his leather tent.

Malachy began by asking, ‘Why have you come here?’ He was very suspicious.

Brian smiled as if they were old friends. ‘To offer you an opportunity, of course.’

‘What?’

‘The army of Munster plans to challenge the alliance between Dublin and Leinster. It is a threat to our own tribes in the east. I have come to invite you to join with us and share in the spoils.’

Malachy was too startled to answer at once.

Fighting the Danes in the hills of Clare, Brian had long ago learned the value of surprise. While the High King was trying to collect his thoughts, Brian went on, ‘Of course if you and your warriors don’t want to join us, we shall fight on our own. We have more than enough men
to win a victory without you.’ He stood up as if he was going to leave.

Forcing himself to think fast, Malachy realised this must mean that Brian had a huge army indeed. Larger than he had ever realised. An army large enough to challenge the High King himself, perhaps. An army large enough to claim the high kingship and all the tributes that involved.

Yet instead Brian was offering Malachy this one chance to be his ally.

Without thinking any further, Malachy said hastily, ‘Of course we shall stand with you! I have been planning to do the same thing myself. Sit down again and take wine with me, and let’s discuss combining our forces.’

While the two kings were inside the tent, a company of Brian’s Munstermen waited outside. Malachy’s Meathmen eyed them curiously. One, they noted, a tall, dark-haired man, was dressed as a prince and wore a gold torc around his neck.

Murcha had placed himself nearest the opening of the tent, so he would be the first to see his father’s face when Brian came out.

Brian caught his son’s eye and gave a wink, so quick no one else noticed it.

As they returned to the army of Munster, Murcha asked his father, ‘Do we have enough men to defeat Leinster and Dublin?’

‘We do now,’ said Brian Boru.

Murcha never knew how to feel about his father. Sometimes he hated him. Sometimes he loved him.

In this moment of success, Brian Boru looked almost like a boy again, with sparkling eyes and a smile splitting his red-gold beard.

Malachy had been rushed into making a promise
without time for thought, which was just what Brian had intended. Only afterwards did the High King realise that the King of Munster meant to give the orders to their combined armies himself. Worse still, Malachy discovered that both sets of warriors were willing to follow him without question. They considered it an honour to follow the standard of the Lion of Thomond.

Brian had stolen the High King’s authority through the force of his personality and his fame.

In the Year of Our Lord 999, Sitric and Maelmora were openly plundering the lands west of Dublin. Brian marched his army out of Munster to challenge them, as if he meant to lay siege to Dublin. Malachy brought his own army out of Meath and the two joined forces in the hills beyond the Viking town.

When the High King arrived he learned that Brian had never intended to lay siege to Dublin. Instead, he planned to lure the enemy into a clever trap at a place called Glenn Mauma, where the shape of the land gave his army an advantage. The site was easy to defend, a valley rising at one end towards the slopes of Saggart.

Unknowingly, Sitric and Maelmora led their army into this trap. A savage battle followed. By the end of the bloodstained day, more than four thousand of the Dubliners and their Leinster allies lay dead.

Fleeing for his life, Maelmora hid himself in the branches of a yew tree. There he was found at the sunset hour by some of Murcha’s men. Brian’s son personally dragged the King of Leinster out of the tree, with grim satisfaction.

Murcha took Maelmora to the command tent. ‘I bring you this one alive, father,’ he said. ‘I haven’t killed him as I did Molloy of Desmond. He is yours to kill.’

Brian looked at the King of Leinster. Maelmora was a
wiry, agile man, with eyes like two chips of flint. He spat at Brian in defiance, but Brian could smell the fear on him.

Together with Malachy, the leaders of the winning side were crowding around the command tent. Everyone wanted to see Maelmora pay the price. Sitric had successfully escaped to Dublin, so the King of Leinster must bear the full weight of punishment.

Slowly, Brian sheathed his sword. ‘I’m not going to kill Maelmora,’ he announced. ‘He is a prince of the Gael. He is one of us.’

A gasp of shock rippled through the crowd. Malachy’s face turned red. ‘You’re making a terrible mistake! Why else did we fight? Had you met this man on the field of battle you would have struck him down. I myself saw you kill at least a dozen in single combat.’

‘I did,’ Brian agreed gravely. ‘But now the fighting is over. So let us be done with it.’

The day had been long and the fighting had been fierce. Brian had himself killed more than any other warrior at Glenn Mauma. His shoulders ached from swinging the axe. Hot pains shot up his wrists from using his huge two-handed sword, larger and heavier than any other man could manage.

Looking at Maelmora, Brian thought to himself: All that butchery has led to this. One frightened man shivering with fear in the twilight, while other men watch with blood-lust in their eyes.

‘I give you your life,’ he said to Maelmora, who was at first too dazed to understand.

‘You fool!’ Murcha burst out. ‘Do you think Maelmora will thank you for sparing him? He will have nothing but contempt for you, and kill you when he gets a chance!’

Malachy agreed. ‘I was married to Maelmora’s sister. I
know from experience, they are cubs from a savage litter. Kill this man while you can, Brian, or you must forever guard your back against him. You can’t trust a Leinsterman.’

‘We have to trust,’ Brian said simply. ‘And it might as well begin here. Don’t mistake compassion for weakness, however. A truly strong man doesn’t kill an opponent when he has him helpless.’

‘This isn’t your decision to make!’ Malachy cried. ‘I am the High King, remember!’

Brian held out his sword to Malachy. ‘Then kill him yourself. Kill him here and now, in front of all these men, while he kneels on the ground in terror, beaten and helpless. Show us how strong you are, Malachy. Show these men that no mercy can be expected from you as High King.’

Malachy was a strong man, but he did not dare try to use Brian’s huge sword. He stood, uncertain what to do, while Brian turned on his heel and went into the command tent.

Malachy looked at Murcha. ‘How can I argue with him?’

‘I’ve tried all my life to argue with him,’ Murcha replied. ‘And never won.’

‘But I am High King!’ Malachy protested again.

The other men merely looked at him. The real power had gone with Brian Boru into the tent, and they knew it.

Crouching on the earth, Maelmora knew it too.

Sitric stayed in Dublin only long enough to collect his valuables. Rightly guessing that Malachy and Brian would now loot and burnt the town, he fled northward seeking safety.

The thousands of warriors who had followed Brian and Malachy expected the reward of plunder for their
efforts, and they were not disappointed. The loot Brian had once found in Limerick did not compare with the treasure stored in Dublin. The Vikings had a vast trade network; not all of the wealth in Sitric’s storehouses had been stolen from the Irish.

Malachy claimed, ‘I am High King, so my men should have the larger portion.’

‘Your men fought no harder than mine,’ Brian reminded him.

Malachy decided the time had come to assert himself.

‘I claim my share, and also the tribute you owe me as King of Munster. A large portion of your spoils must go to your High King.’

In his deep, slow voice, Brian said, ‘I don’t consider you my High King, Malachy. You are not superior to me. And you have done no more than any of my men who fought and risked their lives. I shall not give the plunder they earned to you.’

‘You must!’ cried Malachy. ‘If you refuse, I shall attack you with the armies of Ulster and Leinster and Connacht and …’

Brian smiled. ‘The princes of northern Ulster would not come this far unless there was something in it for them. Will you give them your plunder? And you know the Leinstermen would not stand with you, not after this. As for Connacht, I am married to the king’s daughter; he would not send you warriors to use against me. You cannot threaten me, Malachy. I am stronger than you.’

How did this happen? Malachy was asking himself. He had a dreadful idea. ‘Do you desire to be High King yourself, Brian Boru? Is that what this is really about? Do you mean to try to seize Tara?’

Brian opened his eyes very wide, as if such a thought had never been in his head. ‘Why would I seize Tara? I
have the kingly seat at Cashel and my own fine home at Kincora. I shall be going there tomorrow. I am tired of war. I want to see my family, and fish at the weir, and take my hounds hunting.’

And so he did.

As part of his share of the plunder of Dublin, Brian took Viking weapons and armour home to his sons and gold jewellery home to his daughters. He offered Murcha the pick of the loot, but his oldest son was angry again and the gesture did not win him over.

‘You should have killed Maelmora,’ he said bitterly.

‘Perhaps. But that was for me to decide, not you. And you should not have called me a fool in front of others, Murcha,’ Brian replied. He was tired of holding his temper with his son.

‘I think you are a fool if you believe you can let that man live and not expect him to put a knife in your back some day.’

‘Listen to me, Murcha.’ Brian resolved to try one more time. ‘Leinster and Munster have been enemies for as long as the bards can remember. I want to end the battles between our two provinces if I can.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I don’t like to see Irish men killing Irish men.’

‘But they always have done, father.’

‘That is not a good enough reason!’

Brian despaired of making Murcha understand. No one could see the vision he saw, of a land where men worked together instead of tearing each other apart. It could be done, he knew. Other lands had ended their tribal warfare and become stronger as a result. Once even Rome had been only a savage collection of quarrelsome tribes. Under strong leadership, however, Rome had become an empire.

An empire.

Sometimes Brian climbed alone to the windy heights of the grey crag, and whispered the word to Aval.

‘Empire.’

When Brian left Dublin, Malachy also went home, back to Meath. He gave a great feast and invited all his tribal kings to help him celebrate the victory. While they still sat at the feasting board, word came that Brian had sent messengers to Sitric Silkbeard. Sitric was hiding in Ulster, but somehow Brian had learned where he was. He had demanded that Sitric give to him the formal surrender of Dublin.

‘I should have been the one to make that demand!’ cried the High King. But the truth is, he had not thought of it.

His alarm increased when he learned that Sitric had returned to Dublin. Brian allowed him to do so on condition that Sitric accept the King of Munster as overlord of the town.

Sitric was no fool. Dublin was the hub of a large and profitable trade network he did not want to lose. He saw that if he meant to regain his position there, he must make peace with the king of Munster. In the complicated tangle of Irish kings and princes, Brian Boru was the strongest.

Sitric did not return alone to Dublin. He had his
trusted Viking bodyguards with him, and he was met outside the gates by his mother, Gormla.

‘My brother Maelmora is like a beaten hound,’ Gormla told Sitric. ‘He slouches around his stronghold snarling, and whining about Brian Boru. I cannot stand him any longer. You must take me in.’

Sitric gave his mother a long, thoughtful look. She was still beautiful. The years seemed to have little power over her. Her face was strong and proud, and time had not tarnished the glory of her red hair.

She might be useful, Sitric thought.

Aloud he said, ‘Of course you are welcome, Mother. Come with me and make Dublin your home.’

Gormla hesitated. ‘Is this the same son who insisted I live with Maelmora after that wretched Malachy set me aside?’

‘I never insisted, Mother. I only suggested. You always said I was a coarse Viking like my father, so I thought you would be more comfortable in your brother’s Gaelic household.’

‘Your father was never so careful of my feelings,’ said Gormla. ‘Olaf Cuaran treated me like one of his servants. He was always accusing me of plotting against him, as I recall.’

‘And were you?’

‘Of course not!’ Gormla said. But there was a twinkle in her eye. ‘Ah, perhaps I was. Just a little. But we women are such weak, helpless creatures, we have to better our positions in any way we can.’

Sitric snorted. ‘I know you, Mother. No less weak and helpless creature ever walked the earth. I suspect you caused as much trouble to the High King as you did to my father, and Malachy had to divorce you to save himself from your scheming.’

Gormla shrugged. ‘I wanted him to give me my freedom, if truth be told. I was tired of him. There are better fish in the lake than Malachy.’

‘Have you someone in mind?’

Gormla smiled and lowered her eyelids, so he could not read her eyes. ‘Perhaps I have, Sitric. Perhaps I have. I’ve been thinking …’

‘I suspect you and I have been thinking the same thing,’ said Sitric Silkbeard.

A messenger brought Brian Boru an invitation to visit Sitric in Dublin. ‘Sitric wants to formally present you with the title of overlord of the town,’ the messenger said.

Brian and Murcha quarrelled over it. ‘You’ll be walking into a trap,’ Murcha warned. ‘As soon as you enter the gates, Sitric will have you killed.’

‘I take a lot of killing,’ Brian replied. ‘If I refuse to go, my enemies will think I am afraid. The last thing I want is for anyone to think I am fearful.’

‘Aren’t you ever afraid like mortal men?’ Murcha burst out.

Brian did not answer.

After Murcha had left Kincora in a temper, Brian thought to himself, I wish I could tell my son that I am afraid, that all men are afraid. That the only weapon we have against our fear is a brave face.

But Murcha is my son. I do not want him to think that I am ever afraid of anything.

Surrounded by a Dalcassian bodyguard, and followed by hundreds of mounted Munstermen and spear carriers on foot, Brian rode east to Dublin. Passing through Leinster he was not challenged. Maelmora stayed behind the walls of his stronghold.

The historian, Carroll, went with Brian on this
journey. ‘Write of it, Carroll,’ Brian told him. ‘Let my name be in the books. I want to be remembered when I am gone.’

‘When your soul has gone to heavenly glory,’ said Carroll, who was a pious man.

Brian gave him a sharp look. ‘Do you think my soul will go to heaven? There is so much blood on my hands.’

Carroll was surprised to discover that the great King of Munster was worried about the future of his soul.

The party approached Dublin. Years of warfare had done their damage. Brian and his men passed many a burned, deserted homestead, and many a field crying out with neglect. The Norse of Dublin had raided their Irish neighbours for women and cattle. Both were now rare in the area. Fertile land lay fallow. What a waste, thought Brian. That earth could be supporting Irish and Norse both.

Closer to Dublin they began seeing more people; the town was so crowded they overflowed the walls. The wattle-and-daub huts of the poor straggled out across the countryside. Wealthier classes, traders and craftsmen, lived inside the timber palisade.

As he rode through the gates, Brian curled his nostrils. Dublin smelled terrible. Because of its marshy location, the town had very poor drainage. Brian thought with longing of the sweet, clean wind blowing off Lough Derg.

He and his men had to dismount as soon as they were inside the gates. The town was cramped and crowded, with countless narrow lanes a man must travel on foot. These lanes were lined with stalls where merchants sold their goods. Post-and-wattle fences jealously divided tiny plots of property. Dirty, half-naked children peered from every doorway, reminding Brian that the Norse did
not share the Irish custom of bathing. Dublin rang with noise, like the roar of the sea but more harsh, man-made.

And from every quarter came the clink of metal coins.

Brian said over his shoulder to Carroll, ‘Sitric Silkbeard intends to have coins struck here with his own image on them. The Irish way of using cattle or corn as a medium of exchange is not good enough for him, it seems. He wants clanking money such as they use on the Continent.’

Carroll, who was struggling to keep up with Brian as they pushed through the constant crowd, said, ‘Coins are a good idea. They are more easily carried and exchanged than cattle.’

‘And more easily stolen,’ Brian pointed out.

They approached the hall of the Norse king. It was built in the shape of an overturned Viking longship, with a keel for a rooftree and Viking battle standards on poles outside the doorways. ‘Have them taken down,’ Brian ordered.

He had to duck his head to pass beneath the lintel of the main doorway. The Norse were tall, but Brian was taller.

Sitric came forward to greet the King of Munster. He had not dressed as a Norse warrior for the occasion, with a bronze helmet and a coat of chain mail. Instead he wore a simple Irish tunic and carried no weapons. He met Brian with a smile and an open hand.

Brian gave back a smile of exactly the same width and warmth, but no more. Sitric was not armed, but his warriors stood all around the walls, and they were armed. I must be very careful here, Brian reminded himself.

Then he saw something that made him forget about being careful.

A woman was standing just beyond Sitric Silkbeard. She was no young girl, but a grown woman, with wise eyes and a proud posture. Her hair was so red its blaze warmed the hall.

Gormla had dressed in her best robes for this occasion. She had been twice a queen. Queen of Dublin as the wife of Olaf Cuaran, and queen again as the wife of the High King of the Irish.

Now she was looking at a man who appeared more kingly than any she had ever seen.

Brian Boru wore a crimson cloak edged with wolf fur, and gold gleamed around his neck and arms and wrists. His huge sword rode at his side in its scabbard. A shortsword with naked blade was thrust through his belt, and he had left the bloodstains on it for all to see. He stalked into the Viking hall like a giant cat, and Gormla drew in her breath sharply.

Sitric had seen the King of Munster before, on the battlefield at Glenn Mauma. Brian had frightened Sitric badly then, so badly he left the battle and fled back to Dublin. Seeing Brian up close now, Sitric had a desire to flee again. He remembered all too clearly his last sight of Brian Boru, standing amid a heap of Viking corpses and swinging a bloody axe as if he would never tire.

Sitric made himself stand his ground, however. At least Brian was smiling. Then he realised Brian was not smiling at him any more, but at someone who stood at Sitric’s shoulder.

‘So this is the Lion of Thomond!’ Gormla said in her most charming voice.

Brian Boru spent a seven-night as Sitric’s guest in Dublin. Waiting for him, his warriors talked among themselves, wondering what was happening inside the Viking hall.

‘King Brian is making the foreigners crawl to him and lick his feet,’ one Dalcassian claimed.

‘Not a bit of it,’ said another. ‘He’s demanding more plunder for us. If any of Sitric’s men refuse, he is clubbing them to the earth with his fists.’

A third man said, ‘Ah, there’s no one on the ridge of the world to equal him!’

When at last Brian appeared and said he was ready to return to Munster, he had no more plunder with him. Nor had he clubbed anyone to the earth. His days had been spent talking with Sitric Silkbeard and the Viking princes about trade, and the goods they would be sending to Munster in the future, to the overlord, Brian Boru.

His evenings were spent with the Princess Gormla.

On the journey back to Munster, Brian’s men noticed that he was quieter than usual. He had a faraway look in his eyes and did not always hear what was said to him. ‘The king is tired,’ they told one another. ‘He had to match the Vikings drink for drink in their hall, and argue with Sitric night and day.’

Brian said nothing.

When he reached Kincora, Ducholi was not waiting to greet him. ‘She had a bitter argument with Prince Murcha and has gone home to her father in Connacht,’ her attendants told Brian.

Once he would have sent for her, or gone himself to bring her back. But he did neither. ‘She has never been really happy here,’ he said. ‘Munster ways are not like Connacht ways, and my children did not make Ducholi welcome. I am grateful to her for the help and support she gave me while she was at Kincora, and I hope she will be happier back in Connacht.’

Brian’s court buzzed with talk. People were surprised
by Brian’s reaction. He did not even seem to be angry at Murcha for driving Ducholi away.

‘But then,’ as Carroll said to Mac Liag the bard, ‘Brian Boru is a man full of surprises. Sometimes I myself find him hard to understand.’

Brian continued to puzzle his followers. Messengers were sent back and forth between Kincora and Dublin – messengers sworn to secrecy. Everyone had a guess, no one knew for certain. ‘The king is buying Viking boats to use on the Shannon,’ someone suggested.

Then Brian left Kincora for Cashel, from which kingly announcements were always made.

At the Fort of the Swords, Malachy could hardly believe his ears when the news reached him. ‘Say that again. Slowly!’ he ordered the messenger. As he listened, he began to laugh. He laughed so hard he gave himself hiccoughs and had to drink a great deal of wine.

When the High King recovered, he told his companions, ‘Brian Boru has overstepped himself at last!’

He ordered a feast to be prepared in honour of the announced marriage of the King of Munster. The High King’s confessor was shocked. ‘How can King Brian marry the Princess Gormla? Does he not already have a wife?’

‘He does,’ said Malachy. ‘She is Ducholi, the daughter of the King of Connacht. They have had children together, but she has left his roof and now sleeps under her father’s roof again. According to the ancient Irish law, this means the marriage is over.’

‘Not according to Christian law,’ said the priest sternly.

Malachy was a tolerant man. ‘The two exist side by side in this land,’ he said. ‘Each law serves us well in its
turn. The Irish law allowed me to set aside Gormla, and that was a good thing for me altogether. And a bad thing for Brian Boru!’ he added. He began to laugh again so hard the priest feared for Malachy’s health.

‘She will destroy him,’ the High King kept saying. ‘Gormla will destroy Brian without my having to lift a finger! She will turn his beard grey and have him talking to himself before the year is out.’