Lion of Ireland (16 page)

“No,” Mahon replied firmly, though his eyes were dark with regret. “It is my decision to make; I can no longer throw men’s lives away on a lost cause. I have a responsibility to all those whose lives are pledged to me to do what is right.”

“But it’s not a lost cause,” Brian burst out, “not unless you give up! We have had some splendid victories over the years, and there can be more ...”

“We have had some victories, yes,” Mahon agreed heavily, “but there have been more defeats, and we never got close to unseating Callachan or to driving out the Northmen, either. The endless war has sapped the enthusiasm from my men, and with each month that passes we lose more than we are able to recruit, as well you must see. Victory is not possible under such circumstances, only meaningless sacrifice, and I have decided to put an end to it. I will not argue this with you!”

Brian could control himself no longer. “You can’t do this, Mahon; how can you make peace with the Northmen who killed Mother and Conn and Muiredach and Fiacaid ...”

Mahon held up his hand for silence, his face gathered into the stem lines of authority. “That’s enough!

Need I remind you, I am your commanding officer, your superior?”

“Not my superior, you’re not!’ Brian shot back. “You’re betraying us all, and when you do this thing all the blood we have spilled will be spent for nothing. I don’t want to be part of your army! I don’t even want to be part of your family anymore!” His eyes blazed and his voice shook with the intensity of his emotion, and Mahon’s officers backed away from him as from a white-hot flame when he shoved through them and strode from the tent.

In his absence, they looked at one another with lifted brows. Only Mahon stood with his head down, staring at the packed earth, his jaw set in stubborn strength but his eyes grieving.

Shaking as in a fever, Brian raged through the camp. Men were throwing dirt on the fires. He could not bring himself to face Nessa and Ardan and tell them of the truce—not yet. They had both had men of their commands die in their arms; they had both lost loved ones to the Northmen.

He ground his teeth and paced about, trying to wear out the fury in him, but it was impossible. At last he went as far as the edge of the river and stood there, hidden among the willow clumps, waiting in agony while the Norse boats swept by.

He gazed after them for a long time. Then he wrapped himself in his bratt and sat down on the muddy ground, feeling a black pleasure in the cold of it that seeped through his clothing and chilled his backside.

It fitted his mood.

Peace. Peace! A truce was a Norse joke, a ploy to lull the Dalcassians into putting aside their weapons so it could all begin again; women raped, children murdered, homes put to the torch while the terrified inhabitants ran shrieking into the night, to be met by savage grins and bloody axes. The awful red night of the Northmen.

Mahon. Gallant golden Mahon, of all people, planned to bend his knee to the murderers from Limerick.

Bebinn in a welter of blood, her clothes ripped away, her naked thighs gleaming white in the lurid firelight.

Fiacaid, with the stories spilling out of his skull. Merciful God! He crouched on the ground, summoning the memories back to fuel his anger. From such memories there was no peace; there could be no peace.

The weapons might be laid aside, but the rivers of blood still ran scarlet through the mind.

The long years of warfare had done something to Mahon;

looking at him from his cold vantage point by the river, Brian did not see the Mahon he had idolized in childhood. Today’s Mahon was a tired, worn man, no longer the warrior king but a conciliator willing to entrust the future of the tribe to the meaningless promises of lawless barbarians. And there was no way to stop him.

There was one way.

It darted before his eyes, quick as a roe deer, and was gone again. But he had glimpsed the size and shape of it and recoiled in horror. It was fever madness!

... Not madness?

Mahon, in his stubbornness and his bad judgment, had become a danger to his own people. And who was more important, one man or the tribe?

The night was cold, but a fine dew of sweat made Brian’s forehead feel greasy. He buried his hot face in his hands, pressing his fingers against his closed eyes to distort the hideous images he saw there.

Behind his eyelids was a flood of green light, patterned with geometric interlacings of yellow. They shifted and changed shape, dissolving into one another until the whole pattern was altered. He tried desperately to concentrate on it, to put all other thoughts out of his mind.

Someone must stop Mahon. Mahon the traitor. He has betrayed the Dal Cais, he has betrayed our father, he has betrayed me.

He groaned and opened his tortured eyes. The green and yellow remained for a time, imprinted on blackness; but then they faded, and he stood. He walked in a daze back to camp, threading his way by instinct among the gray shapes of the sleeping men rolled in their cloaks on the ground.

He came to an open space, the little distance of respect that separated the king’s tent from his troops.

Respect.

The guard lay snoring on the ground in forbidden sleep. Within the tent little Tireechan, Mahon’s body servant, was also asleep, stretched across the entrance. Brian stepped over him delicately, like a cat crossing water, but the boy did not Mahon lay on his back, his quiet form dimly lit by one small candle still guttering in its pool of fat at the foot of his pallet. Brian stood over him and noticed, with a shock of disgust, that Mahon had folded a blanket and stuffed it with sweet grass to make a pillow for his head. Like a woman. How can he be a great warrior when he must pillow his head on softness? Weak, weak! He will lead us into disgrace and give us over to slaughter with his truce!

Against Brian’s hip lay the weight of his knife in its sheath. He imagined the downward plunge, the force of his arm behind it, the tough resistance, and then the yielding of the reluctant flesh. He could almost hear the grunt of air forced from his victim’s lungs as the keen blade tore through his unprotected chest. The edge of the knife scraping against a rib, then sinking down, hungry, probing for the heart. The tall body convulsing, the eyes opening in disbelief, the arms flailing in a futile defense.

In one moment it would be over. Mahon’s legs would kick out and then draw up in the final spasm; his head would turn to the side and vomit his life’s blood on that womanly cushion.

If he were quick enough there would be little sound. The

servant might wake, of course, but he could be dispatched

easily. The blade of the knife could be wiped on Mahon’s

own blanket and slipped back into its sheath, and then he

would be treading his way—carefully, carefully!--back to his own sleeping place. At dawn the slain king’s body would be discovered and a great cry raised, but who would point the finger of accusation at Prince Brian? The love the brothers bore one another was well known.

It would be assumed that some Northman had sneaked unobserved through the sentries’ ring and committed the deed. The Dal Cais would rise in fury to make war again, driving the foreigners from their land forever with the heat of their anger at the death of a beloved chief, and it would be Brian himself who would lead them.

He stood with the knife in. his hand, breathing quick, shallow breaths and peering into the future with dazzled eyes.

Who could resist such a vision? It was a calling, almost a command. He would bring salvation to his people and give them the leadership they deserved. Let the old legends give way to new ones, so that the bards might compose fresh songs of glory, and the proud past of Ireland would become but a prelude to her magnificent future!

One stroke, one blow—the muscles of his back tensed themselves for it. He took a deep breath and held it, to steady his hand. But even as his fingers shifted their grip on the handle of his knife, his eyes betrayed him and took one last look at the king’s sleeping face.

It was all there, in that fine, guileless mouth and the eyes still rayed by laugh wrinkles. The dark of night could not keep Brian from seeing every detail of that face he knew better than his own. Those lips had kissed his baby hurts, when his mother would have left him to cry it out. Those eyes had laughed with him over little private jokes, and watched closely every day of his life to see that no harm came to him.

It was not the diminished king, the failed leader, who lay there, but his own dear brother Mahon whose defenseless breast was inches away from the tip of an unsheathed knife.

Pain lanced him; it was like being struck” by lightning. The core of him burned and shriveled with it, and he twisted away, unable to bear the sight of his brother or even his habitation within his own skin. He felt his soul being torn apart; half of it crouched over Mahon, slavering like some murderous beast, and the other half strained to tear itself free from his very body and escape into some other—innocent—world, where such a deed was unimaginable.

He stumbled over Tirechan and heard the boy mumble some sleepy question, but he did not answer. He fled from the tent, hurling the knife away in the darkness, but his brain did not register the act; it sat numb with shock inside his skull, its constant calculations momentarily stilled.

He reached his sleeping place with no knowledge of how he got there. As he knelt down he was surprised to find his clothing soaked to his thighs. He had not come straight from Mahon, then? He had been wandering in the night, stumbling through some marsh or bog, unaware?

Brian squatted on his heels, listening to his own ragged breathing and feeling the nervous flutter of his hands as they dangled between his thighs. He felt that he had come on a very long journey, a journey so arduous that the memory of it was unbearable, and he ached with exhaustion. It was only with the greatest effort that he could recall those minutes spent in Mahon’s tent. He stared at the mental picture in wonder. God forgive me, I must have been mad, he thought. But I could have done it. I very nearly did.

Dazed and slightly nauseated, he tumbled onto the ground and closed his eyes, shutting out the night, which was already brightening into dawn.

He lay there until he could stand it no longer, and the sounds of the camp told him that the men were waking up and beginning their final day in south Munster. He pulled himself wearily to his feet and went to find Nessa.

The swordsman was already up, his gear neatly packed and strapped to his back, a half-eaten piece of dried meat in his hand as he stood talking with another captain. Brian took him by the elbow, letting his grip convey its own urgency, and pulled him away.

“Nessa, will you come with me?”

“To Boruma? Of course, I already said I ...”

“No, not to Boruma. I’m going up to the hills someplace,

I don’t know where yet. Anywhere, just so it’s far away from my brother.”

Nessa opened his fingers and let the piece of meat drop unnoticed to the ground. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m leaving, leaving the army and Mahon. He intends to make a truce with the Northmen after all we’ve been through; just to throw everything away!”

Nessa watched him in astonishment. Mahon’s action was not necessarily a surprise, considering the way the campaign had been going, but Brian’s reaction to it was unnerving. His eyes were terrible to see, and an intense anguish radiated from him.

Nessa caught his arm and felt through the sleeve the powerful muscles rigid with tension. “It’s all right, my lord, everything will be all right,” he said gently, as he would soothe an overwrought horse, but Brian threw off his hand impatiently. “It will never be all right! It’s the end of everything we fought for and believed in; it means admitting we are beaten, letting the invaders and their treasonous allies have our land. Do you think I can tolerate that?

“I tell you, I cannot! I will go into the wild country and the wastelands and live on roots and berries if I must, but I’ll never submit and I’ll never accept Mahon’s truce. I’ll keep on fighting the invaders as long as there is breath in my body. Now, are you with me?”

“I ... well, yes . . . yes, of course I am. I don’t believe in trying to have a truce with the bloody bastards; it will never really succeed. Just tell me; are you certain you want to do this?”

Brian drew a deep breath and let his eyes close for a moment. He felt a wave of relief at hearing Nessa’s words. If just one man believed in him, he could do it. If one man’s eyes were on him he could be brave and defiant. It was very hard to be brave when you were all alone in the winter of your soul.

“Yes,” he said, “I’m very certain. Are there any others who might come with us?”

Nessa glanced around at the shifting pattern of men. “Some, I think. Ardan’s slingers will go wherever he goes, and he will feel about a truce the same way we do. One of Conn Finn’s captains has a grievance against his senior officer and might be persuaded to bring his men to us. We can count on a few others, some who would always rather be fighters than farmers. Like me. That’s the advantage of having no home to go to; you can go wherever you like, free and easy.”

“Ardan tried once to tell me how important it is to travel light.”

“Aye, he’s right about that. We’ll travel light enough if we’re going to hide out in the hills and live like outlaws. Do you think we can do enough damage to the Northmen to

make it worthwhile?”

Brian’s lips were a thin line. “We’ll do damage,” he promised grimly. “But first we have to get out of here, and I want to take my horse with me and as many others as possible. Mahon would never let me have them if I asked him. From now on he will call me a deserter, though I don’t care what he thinks of me, not anymore. Nothing matters any longer but the refusal to be beaten. Let him go and seek his impossible peace, and we will be the army, Nessa, you and I together, and as many others as will follow us. We will be the “ true defenders of this land and we will avenge her rape by the foreigners!”

His face was incandescent, transfigured by passion. Nessa stared at him with awe. He is a fanatic, or even a madman, Nessa thought, but he makes it sound glorious! Listening to him reminds me of what it was like to be young, when everything was felt to the bursting point. I didn’t know until this moment that I had last that, but now, seeing it reflected in his face, I hunger for it again.