Lion of Ireland (45 page)

“Of course we have, my lord! Even to suggest such things is blasphemy!”

“Is it?” Brian asked. His face was haggard, his eyes were glowing coals sunk deep in their sockets. “Or is the blasphemy the fact that we have become less godlike and more mortal?

“I’ve tried to find comfort in the Church’s teachings, Padraic, for I am a Christian and I believe in the way of the Lord. But it seems that I believe in something more, as well, and I no longer assume that one is the negation of the other. I suspect the forbidden religions had part of a secret we have lost, and as long as we refuse to admit its existence we are like blind men, shut off forever from the reality of our world.

“Like the Druids of old, I do not want to believe in death. But ah, Padraic! I find I no longer believe in life, either!”

Malachi felt as nervous as a young lad about to meet his sweetheart in some hidden glade. He walked with a firm step but a thumping heart to Gormlaith’s chamber. At his heels a page trotted, carrying a whole basketful of jewelry, and as Malachi neared her door he took a quick mental inventory of his offerings.

Too small, too common! Beside her brilliant eyes and flaming hair they would pale into nothingness. She would laugh at his gifts and throw them in his face. But it was too late to exchange them, for her maidservant stood at the entrance, smiling and bowing them into the room.

“Malachi Mor, Ard Ri of all Ireland, king of all the kings!” the page announced in a squeaky treble.

Gormlaith reclined on a padded bench, her body propped against velvet cushions and swathed in glossy furs. But nothing could hide the beauty of the woman. Looking at her, Malachi realized that her pose was carefully arranged for maximum impact, a studied selection of line and curve and texture intended to nail his .attention and simmer his blood. But he did not resent it could you resent a woman who was, so totally, woman?

“Malachi,” she said in her husky voice, extending one jewelled hand to him. Gormlaith did not rise, even for the High King It was a statement of her own power.

He took the box of jewelry from its bearer and dismissed the boy with a curt nod. The maidservant melted away as well, bowing low as she backed from the chamber, and Malachi waited through an eternity until they were gone. Then he strode to the bench in one great step and reached for the woman who lay there, smiling lazily up at him.

How fragrant her flesh was! How cleverly constructed this sown, that somehow fell apart at the throat as soon as his fingers touched it and let her heavy breasts spring free! There were words he had meant to say, rehearsed speeches to impress her, but she offered herself to him so totally and with such a lack of restraint that any formalities seemed ludicrous. There was nothing to do but touch, taste, feel, rub, thrust .

. .

Gormlaith squirmed away from him and sat up. She smiled at his hoarse breathing. The Ard Ri was not a handsome man, unfortunately, but he was a beautifully lustful one! The hot light in his eyes warmed her from her erect nipples to the aching valley between her thighs, and the smile she gave him in return withheld nothing.

Nevertheless, she planted one square white hand against his heaving chest and stiffened her arm between them. “You’ve waited so long, my lord—surely you can control yourself for a few moments more?”

He read her right. This was a lady who demanded the loss of all control; a dangerous thing in a woman, but what a joy it would be to surrender to it!

“Gormlaith!” he cried, grabbing for her.

The warmth was gone from her voice in the blinking of an eye a cold emerald eye, that stared at him imperiously as if he were some impudent baggage boy taking liberties with the nobleman’s wife. “Wait, I said!” Gormlaith demanded. She Put all the power at her command in her voice, making it ice, making it iron, lashing him with it, and watching intently to judge the courage of his response. Olaf Cuaran, that crumbing old man, would have backed away and stood blinking at her like some great fish out of water.

Malachi did not back away, nor did he blink. He held himself absolutely still, trying to measure her as she measured him. He was aware of the erection thrusting against his tunic, a foolish lance forward-tilted for an engagement that might never take place. He would hate her if she looked down at it, but she did not.

Their locked eyes held. “Why wait, lady?” he said at last, controlling his breathing with difficulty. If she would deny him, he would deny her. Malachi had played games before.

“Why not? Isn’t fruit sweeter if you have to climb a tall tree to pick it?”

She was teasing him then, cat-and-mouse. But I am no mouse, lady, he thought, and no man enjoys this game. He made his voice as cold as her own. “Sometimes the fruit isn’t worth the climb, Gormlaith.”

Her eyes sparkled. “How can you know unless you taste it? Unless you hold it in your mouth . . . and run your tongue over it ... and let its juices slide down your throat ... ?”

Malachi balled his fists, the nails biting into his palms, but his voice was level and calm. “It seems you mean to deny me a taste, Gormlaith—is that correct? Have you chosen to remember that you are a widow, still in mourning?”

She stuck out her pointed red tongue at him. “Ha! You think I mourn a slack-loined old man who ran off and left me to face the conqueror alone?” Her voice caressed the word conqueror, and in spite of himself Malachi looked again at her naked breasts, and the sheen of sweat glossing them.

She watched the direction of his eyes. “They would taste salty now; it’s very warm in here,” she told him.

Her voice was a golden purr.

Something twitched in his jaw, a tiny muscle into which he poured all the concentrated tension of his body. “You invited me here, lady. Your messenger brought word that you were ready to discuss my proposal of marriage, and I came in good faith. Your welcome certainly gave me no reason to suspect that you intended to reject me! But now you tell me to wait, as you have told me to wait again and again these past weeks.

“I’m tired of waiting, Gormlaith, and there are other matters that demand my attention. Either your brother has sent his permission for the marriage or not; I must know today.”

“Oh, now, Malachi, don’t be angry! I was merely having a little fun with you, didn’t you know that? A little harmless amusement to add spice to our relationship.” She drew her gown closed demurely, looking up at him through her long lashes, and patted the seat beside her. “Come and sit with me and say you forgive me. I have good news.”

He sat down too eagerly, and knew at once it was a mistake when he saw the minute flicker of contempt in her eyes, but it could not be undone. Every gesture, every syllable must be weighed with this woman!

Perhaps that was what made her so exciting; surely old Olaf had been as helpless to deal with her as a baby with a lion. But he knew he could handle her.

“News from Leinster?” he asked.

“Yes, my brother Maelmordha has consented to the match, in return for your support of him in his struggle for supremacy over the entire province, and five thousand men to stand with him if he is invaded.”

“Invaded? By whom?”

Gormlaith shrugged, and her breasts pulled free of their flimsy covering once more. “Every prince has enemies, and my brother has more than most, I fear. That’s why he has to be so careful with his . . .

assets.”

“It’s a strange way of bargaining for a bride—dealing with the lady herself,” Malachi commented. “It’s rather like making your arrangements with the horse instead of the horse dealer.”

Gormlaith laid her hand on his thigh and the fingers began a slow walk upward, pushing the edge of his tunic ahead of them. “You’ll be getting a hotblooded mare, my lord,” she smiled at him, “sound of wind and limb and with all her teeth intact.” The flaming hair whipped past his face and dropped to his lap, and he felt her mouth on the inner surface of his thigh, her teeth nibbling.

I am making a terrible mistake, Malachi thought. He closed his eyes. I don’t care.

A small brown woman came to the gates of Kincora, accompanied by a tall maiden well-concealed in a hooded cloak. “We have heard that the king is far gone in grief,” the brown woman began to explain to the guard. “I am a skilled herbalist, and I have some preparations . . .”

“Is this a fosterling, or one of the line of Cennedi?” the guard interrupted her, stepping forward abruptly and trying to peer into the tall girl’s face.

“What do you mean? This is my daughter!” Fiona exclaimed, putting herself squarely between them.

“All right, all right, but you’re bringing her to Kincora to live, aren’t you?”

Fiona bristled. “And why should I?” “Why, we have had a standing order from the king that we are to take in all the blood descendants of Cennedi; he wants to see that they are properly educated and provided for. His older brothers had sired a sizable brood among them before they died, and most of them have come to Kincora since it was completed. Lachtna’s son Celechair is here right now—the abbot of Terryglass, he is now. And this girl has a look about her . . .”

Fiona dodged in front of him, determined to block his view. With one hand behind her back she motioned the girl away. “Well, she’s not anyone but my own child, and no one else has any claim on her!

She and I go our own way and trouble no one; it’s just that I am . . . obligated ... to try to aid the king when he needs me, in what ways I can, and .. .”

“The king isn’t seeing anyone,” the guard said firmly. “And if he were, it wouldn’t be some faded woods-woman. If you want to leave the lass here, though, I’ll look after her myself, and . . .”

“You misunderstand me,” Fiona said in a harsh voice. She

grabbed the girl’s wrist, and the two started back down the road together, leaving the guard staring after them.

When she reached the sheltering woods, Fiona stopped to look back. The stone and timber walls rose in symmetrical beauty, a stout defense against sword and spear. But there were other dangers that could cut a man down and destroy him.

She narrowed her eyes and focused on Kincora. There it was; a faint shimmer of tension, white-gray, the aura emanating from the place where Brian was. The halo of grief; leaden, depressing.

With one hand she reached up slowly and felt her cheek and the skin of her face . . . “some faded woods-woman” . . . Her fingertips touched the rayed wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, then drew forward a long strand of hair so that she could see it clearly. The rich brown was frosted with white.

“Do men only grow,” she said, more to herself than the waiting girl, “while women grow old?”

There was a rumble of thunder over the mountains. Her daughter began to walk again, hurrying deeper into the woods, and Fiona followed her as the first raindrops spattered on the friendly leaves.

Runners came up from the south, breathless with the excitement of bad news. “Gillapatrick of Ossory has invaded Munster, raided the cattle herds near the border, and stolen everything of value that he could carry!”

Kincora was ablaze with activity. Certainly Brian would immediately launch an attack of reprisal; volunteers came scurrying up the roads with packs on their backs, anxious to be able to tell their kinfolk, “We marched with Brian Boru!”

Only Brian remained uninterested. He discussed counter-measures with his officers in a desultory fashion, half listening, his gaze elsewhere. The kingdom he had fought to win was invaded, raped, and he could not make himself care. He saw the bafflement in their faces as they tried unsuccessfully to enmesh him in their plans.

“My lord, of course you must lead us!” Leti argued. “It’s

unthinkable that you stay at Kincora while your army attacks Leinster!”

“You can do it without me. I trained you, all of you; you

know what to do.”

“But it wouldn’t be the same!”

“Why not?” Brian’s voice was thin. “What difference is one man, more or less?”

“I don’t believe I’m hearing this,” Cahal whispered to Ulan Finn.

“God help us!” came the reply.

But Brian was no longer attempting to carry on dialogues with God. The Ear into which he had poured his pleadings had been deaf, no prayer was answered, no help given. Deirdre lay in her tomb. Mahon . . .

He spent most of his time outside the compound. All of his love and creativity had gone into the design of Kincora, and the sight of it had become excruciatingly painful. The only thing that hurt more was the thought of leaving it. Every torchholder and candle niche was a dig in the gut; the sweeping views from the galleries, the wealth of carved stone and polished yew, even the light and the spaciousness were a constant reproof, a reminder of the long final darkness.

They did not know how much I loved them. I could have spent more time with Deirdre; I could have tried harder to understand.

Did Mahon know? He thought I was his enemy. I thought he was a fool. We should ... I should have ...

If...

When he thought of the familiar, loved face, he could only picture the darkness of the grave. The unacceptable wall, the final separation. He strove within himself to force his way through that dark veil that separated the living from the not-living, and daily he grew more comfortable with his growing isolation.

There was one way of dealing with pain that he had never before explored. Surrender . . .

He stood on his hilltop, eyes caressing the reedy silver loops of the Shannon, and said the word to himself. The once unacceptable word: geilleadh—surrender. Open to it, fight no more. Give yourself completely to the melancholy and let it carry you away, into that dream world beyond. Surrender. Give up.

The pearled air of Ireland moved about him, mist-soft, comforting. The piping sweetness of a waterbird’s cry came up to him from the river. The greens of the landscape flowed into his eyes, into his brain, into his soul. Grasping trees, springing grass, strong tenacious curl of ivy, life going on forever, like the river.

Going on without him.

He was peripherally conscious of the community of Kincora at a distance; felt without thinking the pressure of its responsibilities. Family, children, foster children, cousins, friends, councilors, ollamhs, clergy, officers, artisans, musicians, Brehons, warriors, servants. Each of them requiring some part of his energy, none of them able to help him.