Lion of Ireland (15 page)

“And the worst of those is fool, because you have no taste even in women. Every time I need you you’re off somewhere with that brown wren you married, when any man with half a ball left to him could see that her little sister is the real prize. Why, if I were just a couple of years younger . . .” “A couple of generations younger,” said Donogh under his breath.

“What! What’s that!”

Silence. Donogh kept his face turned down and stared at his father’s brocaded coverlet. A pair of gilded kidskin slippers ‘peeped out from beneath its hem; a gilt basin of scented water stood beside the bed, and new candles of beeswax scented with cinnamon dispensed their richness into the atmosphere, masking the fetid odors of age and illness. The wealth of Munster was displayed openly here, though the rest of the old . fortress which served as a palace was meanly furnished. Callachan had long preached that ostentation invited envy and attack.

The old king passed his tongue over his dry lips and made himself rise on one elbow, so that he could get a good look at Donogh’s face. “Or have you already tried with the little Deirdre and been turned down, is that it?” he guessed shrewdly. Donogh’s ears pinkened again and Callachan sank back on his linen sheets, pleased with himself.

“Well then, lad, I have good news for you, though the sweet Virgin Herself knows you’re not worth it. I can promise you the day will come when you are king of Munster in my place, and then the maiden may be more amenable to your wooing, eh? It has been my experience that ladies do not nay-say a king, no matter what shy and delicate airs they put on for lesser men.”

“It seems unlikely that I will ever rule Munster, my lord,” Donogh replied, anxious to steer his father’s thoughts from the subject of Deirdre. “Even when you are no longer here, we still have the Dal Cais claim to consider. They tried to usurp the kingship when you were young and vigorous, and when you are gone Mahon will no doubt press his suit very strongly. If he wins enough support he will make it, I fear, and the Law will uphold him.”

Callachan grinned. “I knew you were a fool; you’re wrong

about everything, as usual. In the first place, judging.by Mahon’s past efforts at winning support he’s as incompetent as you are. Even the members of his own tribe who live in south Munster have been reluctant to join him. All the result of my own foresight, of course.

“By dealing with the Danes and Norsemen over the years, I’ve improved our commercial position so that every man in my province can be certain of two sets of clothes and a decent bride-gift, so that his sons may have the wives of their choice. If they make good choices, that is,” he added maliciously.

“All Mahon has been offering is the chance to fight and die for some vague future promise of better times.

No sensible man will turn down gold now for an offer like that. As long as my people are profiting from the arrangements I make with the Northmen, they’re not going to take up the sword against the very men responsible for their prosperity.

“I grant you, there are still raids and troubles; it is the Northman’s nature and part of the price we must pay, I suppose. Munstermen are killed from time to time, but only a few of the entire population, so they hardly count. Most people are satisfied with things as they are and will be content to continue supporting my policies.

“The proof of that is the good news I wanted to tell you while you were dallying with your woman.”

“Her name is Fithir,” Donogh interrupted. Callachan ignored him. “With your woman,” he repeated, contempt flattening his tone. “Runners have brought word that Mahon’s Dalcassians are leaving south Munster and going back across the Shannon to stay.”

Donogh lifted his head and met his father’s gaze, wide-eyed. “The devil they are!”

“The devil they are. Got tired of living on grubs and stringy hares and stealing from their own monasteries to buy weapons, I suppose. At least Mahon knows when he’s beaten, although I must say it took him long enough to figure it out. In spite of all that fighting, he never gained any more supremacy over Ivar than he did over me.”

“But will he be back?”

“I doubt it. Unlike some I could name, the man’s not a

total fool. He has had the fight worn out of him, and when I die, which is likely to be soon no matter how you try to flatter me out of it, he still won’t be up to a strength to threaten my successor. His long struggle with the Northmen has taken care of that for us. If I do not get me a son in the next few weeks, which seems doubtful—unless you send the little Deirdre to me, perhaps—anyway, I suppose you will be my only heir. If you don’t make a total mess of everything, you can anticipate the kingship with some degree of security.

“As soon as I feel a little stronger I will send for the tribal council and have them declare you successor to the kingship of Munster. They have no one better to propose, unfortunately.” He paused, listening to the gurgle in his chest. “Not that I expect any appreciation from you!” he added sharply. Donogh went straight to the ladies’ wing of the palace, anxious to share his news with Fithir. She was in the grianan, the sunny-room, chatting with her sister while maids dyed their fingernails crimson and dressed their hair.

Both women looked up as he entered, and he saw them for a moment in the light of his father’s contempt. Fithir was like a nesting wren, plump and soft, her hair an unremarkable light brown, her features melting into one another so that you were only aware of her gentle smile.

Deirdre might have been the fruit of an entirely different pairing. At fifteen she was as slender as her sister was plump, with the willowy lines of the fine-boned who will always be delicate. Her raven-black hair was a glossy tumble of curls that resisted the maid’s efforts to tame it; her skin was so white that the slightest activity brought a glowing flame to her translucent cheeks. Her eyes were magic. When she raised them to Donogh’s he had to look away, baffled with longing and lust, awed by the power of a beauty so radiant it unmanned him. From the first day Fithir had brought her sister to Cashel he had desired and feared the girl, painfully aware that if he ever got the chance to bed her he might prove as impotent as a child.

He went to his wife and bowed before her, grateful for the undemanding warmth in her eyes. “My lady, there is great

news,” he began. “The Dalcassians have given up their long harassment and gone home to Thomond. The king thinks they will make no further claim to Munster, and plans to have me named his heir to the High Seat.”

In spite of his best intentions he could not help stealing a glance at Deirdre, but she seemed unaffected by the news. Kingships did not impress Deirdre. Raised in a noble household, she took title and rank for granted, part of the trappings men enjoyed that had nothing to do with her inner life. She smiled coolly at Donogh by way of congratulation and returned her attention to the harper sitting by the window.

At her request he was singing the funeral song sung by the legendary Deirdre of the Sorrows, as she bared her breast and tore her hair over the grave of the gallant sons of Uisneach: “The lions of the hill are gone And I am left alone—alone—Dig the grave both wide and deep For I am sick, and fain would sleep.

“The falcons of the wood are flown, And I am left alone—alone—Dig the grave both deep and wide And let us slumber side by side.

“The dragons of the rock are sleeping, Sleep that wakes not for our weeping, Dig the grave and make it ready, Lay me on my true love’s body!”

The living Deirdre had forgotten Donogh already and given herself over to the voluptuous rapture of melancholy. One crystal tear shimmered in her violet eye, then made a silver track down the pure curve of her cheek. Donogh watched until it dropped onto the slight swell of her breast and then bit his lip and turned away.

The harp sighed to silence in the perfumed room.

Mahon returned to Boruma. All along the final homeward march, men broke away from the main body and headed toward their own tuaths and farmland, calling ribald farewells to one another and making promises to meet in the spring, after calving time.

A taller, rangier Brian rode beside his brother, his handsome face set in bitter lines. Five long, generally unproductive years of skirmish warfare had turned the golden youth into an iron man.

“This isn’t necessary,” he fumed to Nessa when they camped for the night on the bank of the Shannon.

“We still have men enough to fight. If we were to attack a large encampment of the Northmen, perhaps that trading post where we were last harvest time, we could get their weapons and take some hostages to exchange for ...”

“Don’t complain to me; I am in perfect agreement with you. But the king your brother is tired of war, and the command is his. Perhaps in the spring he will feel different.”

“Perhaps in the spring it will be too late,” Brian replied, picking up a twig from the ground and snapping it between his fingers. He continued to break it into smaller and smaller pieces, his big hands working nervously, their gestures jerky in the light of the campfire. “Soon there will be no real Irish left, just Norse-Irish mongrels and fat traders and treacherous Leinstermen and Danes.

“I had such plans, Nessa! I’ve studied the campaigns of the great generals—Alexander against Darius, for example” (Nessa nodded and tried to look as if he knew what Brian was talking about), “and I know ways that a small number of men can be used to advantage against a numerically superior force. I have so many ideas! But my brother refuses to listen to me. He only understands warfare as he has always fought it, and he has come to believe we stand no real chance against the foreigners with all their chain mail and weapons.” “It takes a lot of courage to try something new when you’re in a very shaky position,” Ardan said, as he came to join them. He stretched his hands to the fire and began rubbing them together. “That wind from the river is cold. At home there’s still a bit of summer left, I expect.”

“You could have gone home,” Nessa reminded him.

“And so could you. But we’ve been part of this for so long, it’s hard to imagine another life. There will always be fighting, and kings and chieftains will always need good men, so we might as well stay where they can find us when they’re ready. With a hotblood like this one, here,” he said, nodding at Brian, “we can be sure there will be enough action sooner or later to keep us busy.”

As the men ate their evening meal, Brian noticed a flurry of activity at the king’s tent. As usual, Mahon did not summon him to take part, but at one point the king came out and stood silhouetted in torchlight, looking in his direction. Brian set his bowl aside and stood up. “Something’s happening,” he told the others. “Put this back in the pot for me and keep it warm.”

He strode across the open space, answering the greetings of the men as he passed them, with an increasing feeling of anxiety. A lump of dread formed in his stomach like undigested cold grease. He reached the entrance of the tent just in time to hear his brother say, “It’s the wisest move for us, Olan; but it will not sit well with my brother.”

Brian pushed through the tent flap. “What won’t sit well with me?”

The tent was crowded with senior officers, their faces shuttering closed as he entered. The tent was crowded, as well, with the sour smells of weariness and defeat, a depressing effluvium that made Brian shudder. The lump in his stomach grew heavier.

Mahon’s face was deeply lined, and there were threads of white in his hair, flecks of snow on brown leaves, the gold all faded away. “The scouts have reported a Norse raiding party coming upriver,” he said.

“Well, that’s a good opportunity for us! We can waylay them and burn their boats; I can station Ardan and his slingers just above the bend in the river ...”

Mahon raised his hand to halt the flow of words. “No,

Brian, I don’t want to do that. I plan to cross the river at daybreak, safely, and I don’t want the Northmen to have any idea that we’re here. I was just issuing an order to have the campfires extinguished so there’s no chance of seeing them from the river.”

“You’re right!” Brian snapped. “That sits very poorly with me indeed. I -don’t like slinking home with my tail between my legs, and I don’t like hiding in the darkness when we could have a good fight and hurt the foreigners.”

“Only hurt them, not defeat them totally. That’s the point, don’t you see? We can kill some Norsemen and burn some boats, but there will be more men and more boats, and more after that. There’s no end to it, and no end to our losses. I have a responsibility to all the people of the Dal Cais, to the wives and children of these men waiting at home for them, and to the other tribes of Thomond who look to us for leadership, life must go on, crops must be planted and cattle tended. We have spent ourselves enough in warfare.”

Brian clenched his knotted fists against his sides. This was old man’s talk, and he hated it. But he must try to argue from a point Mahon would recognize and respect. “The Northmen will come and burn those crops you talk of planting, and kill the cattle; what will you say to the wives and children then?” “I am going to try to prevent that from happening, Brian,” Mahon told him, his voice deep and his words slowly spaced. Olan stiffened as he spoke and moved closer to his king, almost as if he expected to have to ward off some blow. Brian’s mouth had suddenly gone dry.

“How?” he asked. But he already knew the answer. He would have given anything not to hear it.

“When we have reached Thomond safely I will send word to Ivar of Limerick that I wish to discuss a truce, on behalf

of all my people.”

Brian heard Olan’s swiftly indrawn breath and realized that his own hand had come up, involuntarily, and the old soldier had stepped between the two brothers with a drawn sword.

“That won’t be necessary, Olan,” Mahon said in a sharp voice. Brian did not move, did not speak, just stood there

with clenched fists and felt the tremors run along his thighs. Olan looked from one to the other and then stepped back slowly, still holding his sword at the ready.

“No, it won’t be needed,” Brian was at last able to say, hearing his voice as if from a great distance. “I won’t disgrace myself by hitting a coward.” There were shocked murmurs from the officers but he ignored them, saying to Mahon in that same distant tone, “I suppose there’s no chance you’ll reconsider?”