Pride of Lions

PRIDE OF LIONS

by Morgan Llywelyn

For special distribution as authorized by Act of Congress under Public Law 89-522, and with the permission of the copyright holder.

Copyright 1996 by

Morgan Llywelyn

All rights reserved.

The long-awaited sequel to Lion of Ireland

Lion of Ireland was the breathtaking chronicle of Brian Boru, the Great King who led the bickering chiefs of Ireland to unity under his reign. He overthrew traditions, reformed society, and became the Irish Charlemagne.

The Ireland of 1014 was a dream Brian Boru had dreamed and brought inffbeing.

Now, with all the fire and brilliance for which her writing is known, Morgan Llywelyn takes us there, to the battlefield where Brian died. His fifteen-year-old son, Donough, is determined to make the High Kingship of Ireland his own, but he must contend with his own mother, Gormlaith, a voluptuous and treacherous woman whose lust for life and for power remains undiminished by age.

"I know he's too young, but he's all we have left," says the cunning diplomat Fergal, and thus the boy takes his first command, on the bloody ground of Clontarf. From there he must move to establish his right to rule in Kincora and to make the kings of Ireland accept him as their High King.

Yet Donough is torn--torn by his hatred for his mother and by his all-consuming passion for the beautiful pagan girl Cera, who remains beyond his reach, for the High King must have a Christian consort. ...

Pride of Lions is a novel of

dreams and bloodshed, passion and treachery, that makes eleventh-century Ireland and its lusty people utterly real.

MORGAN LLYWELYN is the author of

Lion of Ireland and other novels.

She lives in Ireland.

Praise for

MORGAN LLYWELYN

"One of my all-time favorite authors."

--Jude Deveraux

"The best there is in the field of historical fiction."

--Jennifer Wilde

"She writes about ancient Ireland as if she just had breakfast there."

--Parke Godwin

By Morgan Llywelyn from

Tom Doherty Associates

Bard

Brian Boru

The Elementals

Finn Mac Cool

Lion of Ireland

For Michael

The Dynasty of the

Dalcassians

'The print form has been changed to the following form in braille:

Patriarch

Child

Cormac Cas 3rd C. A.d.

Turlough

Flannan, Abbot of Kill Dalua

Lorcan

Cennedi do. 951 more. Bebinn of Connacht Brian Boru

'The print form has been changed to the following form in braille:

Brian Boru

Wife

Child

Grandchild

Great-Grandchild

Great-Great-Grandchild'

Brian Boru 941-1014

(1) more. "Deirdre"

Murrough 970-1014 more. Fidelma

Turlough 999-1014

Flann 972-1014

Conor 975-1014

Sabia more. Cian of Desmond

Emer more. Sitric of Dublin

Blanaid * more. Malcolm of Scotland Domnall 980-1012 (norse foster

son, also known as Donough)

Teigue 985-1023 more. Maeve

Turlough do. 1089 (ancestor of

Marshal MacMahon of France)

(2) more. Gormlaith, 998

Donough 999-1064 (1) more. Neassa (2) more. Driella (daughter of Earl Godwine of Wessex)

Murchad do. 1068

Lorcan do. 1078

Conor

Cennedi

Donalbane

* The second daughter of Blanaid and Malcolm, Doada, was the mother of Macbeth. Through Blanaid the blood of Brian Boru entered the family of Scotland and thence England.

FOREWORD

by the Rt. Hon. Conor O'Brien,

the Lord Inchiquin

In Pride of Lions Morgan

Llywelyn has again produced a brilliant novel that is both fascinating from the historical perspective and eminently readable. By following the destinies of the surviving children of Brian Boru, particularly his troubled and troublesome son Donough, she has created a worthy sequel to her most highly praised novel, Lion of Ireland.

Her Celtic gift with words and an extraordinary ability to bring the past to life are hallmarks of her literary excellence.

Morgan Llywelyn's uncanny knack of sweeping the reader back through the centuries comes from a deep, almost intuitive understanding of other eras.

As a writer, she is always searching for the human reality behind both history and folklore. Thus the few fictitious characters she introduces in her books are absolutely true to their time. In Pride of Lions they play vivid supporting roles to the many historic characters, illuminating the society in which they lived.

The famous family descended from Brian Boru, the greatest of Ireland's High Kings, has played a major part in the history of these islands over the centuries. The dynastic marriages arranged for his children have had long-lasting repercussions. Brian himself certainly came closer to unifying Ireland than anyone up to the present time. His son Donough is much less famous, but presents a fascinating character study.

Upon him fell the obligation of trying to live up to an almost superhuman father. He undertook the task with passion, as he lived all his life, but fate was to take a hand in shaping both his future and that of Ireland.

One wonders how different Irish history might have been if Donough had achieved his ambitions.

In Pride of Lions we have the rare opportunity to see what happens after an earth-shattering event: how people get on with their lives, what adjustments they must make, and what choices. Donough is a thought-provoking hero.

Looking back across nine hundred years, the reader must judge for himself if he would have made the same choices. There is a fine irony--and the Irish have always appreciated irony--

in the fact that for all his efforts to emulate his father, Donough took with him to Rome the physical symbols of his father's kingship. Brian Boru's crown and sceptre have never to this day come back to Ireland.

Factually, Donough's story as told in Pride of Lions is accurate. As a

direct descendant of Brian Boru and Chief of the Name, I believe we O'Briens are lucky indeed to have Morgan Llywelyn as our modern-day Bard, telling the story of our race with such eloquence and passion.

The O'Brien,

Prince of Thomond,

18th Baron Inchiquin

County Clare, Ireland

June 1995

PRIDE OF LIONS

ROME, 1064

The road to Rome is very long, they say. My way has been longer and harder than most. I came here an old man, knowing I may never live to see Ireland again.

I came here because I must; because it was expected of me. The final pilgrimage to ask for remission of sin.

Have my sins been so great that I must cross the sea and use the last of my strength to seek forgiveness? There are many who would say so.

In youth, my sin was pride. We were proud, the cubs of the Lion. Passion and ambition were bred into us and we attacked life with a hunger that was hard to satisfy. I wanted everything my father had; everything he had been. At the time I thought I wanted them for myself.

Then I thought I wanted them because my achievements would make him proud of me, although he was dead.

He was not dead to me. He stood behind me, rode beside me, saw the world through my eyes and I tried my best to shape it to suit his vision.

His desire.

As I grew older I learned the meaning of desire. Firstly I desired the most magnificent palace in Ireland and would have done anything--literally anything--to make it mine.

Kincora! It rises in my memory as splendid as ever it stood, with gray stone walls defying time itself and the summer sun turning the thatched roofs to gold.

I desired the power that had been my father's. With such power I thought I could have everything I wanted, and to that end I sought the kingship that had been his life's work. Placing myself in the gap of danger I swung the sword that had been his and took the blows. Took the wounds, bled the blood, paid a terrible price.

I desired women; the rampant pleasure, the boiling-blood madness, the explosion which shakes the pillars of the soul and assuages grief and pain.

Then I desired one very special woman and secretly hated the Church that stood between us.

Such a long life ... two wives, children sired, enemies made by my pride and because of my desire. And so much lost!

Kincora is not mine. The kingship I coveted was never mine either. Though I was called a king I did not bear the title my father bore.

What little power I achieved was whittled away by conspiring enemies and well-meaning friends.

Wealth is lost, honor lost, I am an exile in an unfamiliar land.

I came to beg forgiveness for fratricide.

That sin more than any other drove me to seek mercy from Rome, not for myself but for my posterity.

I would not have my children think I died with such a stain on my soul, so I have made this very public gesture. One last duty fulfilled.

If you meet me on the road to Bolsano, where the Pope has granted me a few acres bordering on the lake, you will see, and perhaps pity, an old man with snowy hair and stooped shoulders.

Once those shoulders were broad and I thought them capable of bearing any burden. Once I thought I would be young and strong forever, immortal as my father had become immortal, with a shining future before me.

I was wrong; wrong about everything.

And I am the happiest man alive.

From

The Annals of the Kingdom of Ireland by the Four Masters

'Gaelic translation for the following quotation has been omitted from the braille.'

"The Age of Christ, 1014.

... at Clontarf, on the Friday before Easter precisely. In this battle were slain Brian, son of Kennedy, monarch of Ireland, who was the Augustus of all the West of Europe. ..."

The tall boy on the gray horse cast an apprehensive look at the sky.

He could hear his men behind him grumbling as they rode. They resented his command of their company, considering it an undeserved appointment forced upon them by his father. Still more they resented being sent south for skirmish duty while Brian Boru was assembling the main army at Dublin for the battle to determine the future of Ireland.

Young Donough was as frustrated as his men, though in his case it was compounded by a growing sense of foreboding. The sky to the north, in the direction of Dublin, was filled with black clouds that had been boiling in eerie configurations since first light.

It was now late in the day on Good Friday in the Year of Our Lord 1014, and the clouds looked more ominous than ever.

Donough tried to reassure himself. My father would never initiate battle on a Holy Day, he thought. But what if his enemies forced a confrontation? Pagan Northmen have no respect for the Christian calendar.

Watching the demoniac sky, Donough was increasingly certain that Brian Boru had already faced his enemies on the field of battle. The writhing clouds were witness.

He turned his horse's head toward Dublin and lashed its flanks with his horse-goad.

As darkness fell, members of Brian Boru's combined forces began trying to identify their dead. The gruesome task was accomplished with little conversation. Most were too shocked to speak. They were seasoned warriors accustomed to the aftermath of battle, but none of them had seen thousands of corpses piled five and six deep until today.

Twilight was splintered by the shrieks and curses of the wounded, the prayers and moans of the dying.

Many of the Irish chieftains who had brought their personal armies to join the High King against the invaders had been killed in the battle. Their surviving followers wandered, dazed and leaderless, through the gloom. Malachi Mor began gathering up these strays and adding them to his own Meathmen.

Malachi had no idea where Brian Boru was. He had not seen the Ard Ri, the High King of Ireland, as he had held his Meathmen apart from the conflict until its outcome was certain. Only then had he led his army down from the high ground to fight beside Brian's other allies.

Now he was gathering for himself the remnants of a massive assemblage, warriors who had been willing to follow Brian Boru's banner wherever it led, even to death.

The irony was not lost on Malachi.

Litter bearers approached from the direction of the weir at Clontarf, carrying a body. A scrap torn from a saffron linen tunic covered its face. Malachi signaled the bearers to halt. Recognizing the man who had been Ard Ri before Brian Boru, they obeyed.

Malachi flicked the covering aside. The sightless eyes of a fifteen-year-old boy stared past him toward a canceled future.

"That's Prince Murrough's son," one of the bearers said. "The Ard Ri's first grandson." The man's voice was thick in his throat. "We found him floating facedown in the weir with his fingers still tangled in the hair of the last Viking he killed."

Malachi ran his fingers through his own thin gray hair. He found himself recalling that Brian Boru's mane retained a faint gleam of red-gold in spite of the passage of time, and appeared as thick as it had ever been. Such comparisons tormented Malachi, but he could not prevent them, any more than one could prevent one's tongue from tormenting a sore tooth.