Lion of Ireland (72 page)

The wind turned to favor him, and Ospak set sail for Ireland.

Ospak sailed around Ireland and up the Shannon, arriving at the gates of Kincora weary and frightened but still with a whole skin; a refugee begging sanctuary. Brian immediately granted him an audience in the privacy of the council chamber, and heard in detail the whole story of the alliance being formed against him.

“When I knew that my brother meant to kill me, I made a prayer to God---your God,” Ospak told Brian. “I promised Him that if He would get me safely to Ireland, I would be His man and yours, Boru, for the rest of my life. I don’t know what forces are arrayed against my brother, but the power was given me to read their message clear enough, and I have come to stand with you, if you will have me.”

“A rain of blood, an attack of ravens, a wind that turns—the Druids of the Old Religion claimed the ability to control such things,” Brian mused. “I knew one, once . ..” He said sharply to Ospak, “These signs and portents—are they all true? It really happened as you say?”

“My brother swore it did, and he has no imagination, so I must believe him.”

Brian closed his eyes in gratitude. “Perhaps it is a sign, after all. I thank you for bringing it to me, Ospak, and if you are sincere in your desire to become a Christian, I will arrange for you to be baptized.”

Ospak bowed low before him. “I prefer the religion of life to the religion of death, my lord,” he replied.

“I never heard a better reason for converting,” Brian told him. “Red Thor and the death he carries in his bloody hands will have no further claim on you, Ospak; you’re in Ireland now, and I give you my word as Ard Ri that no man will harm you here because of your faith.”

Ospak looked up the long distance to the Ard Ri’s face. It was not a young face; it was scored by the years and etched

with strain, but it was magnificent, and the gray eyes were still full of life. “Thank you, my lord,” Ospak said.

Brian’s enemies multiplied. Anlaf of Denmark, who had tired of hearing of the successes of Svein Forkbeard among the Saxons, decided to pledge a large force of his own men to the invasion of Ireland, captained by a bank of outlaws who had already ravaged half the rivermouths of western Europe. Norse auxiliaries also set sail for Dublin from the Scot Land, the Shetland Islands, and the Hebrides.

While Sitric and his envoys were gathering allies abroad, Maelmordha had been preparing for the onrushing conflict in his own way. He had collected the forces of Leinster and arranged them in three great battalions within and around the walls of Dublin. Sitric’s kinsman Dubhgall would command the Dublin Norse, and hope ran high that Flahertagh would be sending an army of the Cenel Eogain. But the other Hy Neill princes seemed determined to remain neutral; an anxious Maelmordha stationed watchers along the shore to bring the first news of allied ships arriving.

As Dublin Bay began to fill with the wooden warboats of the Northmen, Maelmordha proudly took his sister to the harbor to view them. “Today we hold Dublin, Gormlaith,” he told her. “By Easter we will hold all of Ireland.”

“Not you and I, Maelmordha,” she reminded him. “At best we will have a joint tenancy with the Northmen.”

“Aaah, that’s how it has always been. A small matter—we can live with it. What difference can a few foreigners really make, in exchange for freeing Leinster of the tyranny of Boru!”

Young Donnchad was wildly eager to fight. Every day he rode his fine Kildare horse to the army encampment to drill with sword and spear, and he remarked loudly in the hall that he was both taller and broader than his nephew Turlough mac Murrough, who was considered old enough at fifteen to march with the army of. the Ard Ri.

Brian took him aside to speak to him privately. It was useless to discuss important matters with Donnchad publicly, for his reactions were always guided by his desire to make an impression on whoever was watching. Without an audience the boy was more docile.

“You understand,” Brian began, “that when we march we will be going into life-or-death combat against your own half-brother and your uncle, as well as many of your kinsmen? We will be attacking Leinster and Dublin, Donnchad; your mother has allied herself with them and is my enemy now.”

Donnchad shook his head. “I don’t care who the opposition is! I just want to wield a sword and carry a shield in your service. I am almost a man, my lord, and strong enough to be a warrior no matter what my years. My uncle Murrough fought with you against King Mahon’s murderers when he was younger than II”

“That’s an unfortunate example to prove your point, Donnchad,” Brian told him. “Murrough’s part of the conflict was undertaken by him in direct disregard of my orders, which is one reason why boys should never be taken to battles. Discipline is the first requisite for a soldier, and without that you are a danger to yourself and others, no matter how large and strong you are.”

“I understand discipline, father,” Donnchad argued. “Ask

any of your officers who have had me in training, they will tell you. I was born to be a warrior, it fills all my dreams, and I have polished my skills until I’m the equal of any other good soldier and better than most. Let me fight, my lord; let me prove myself Brian Boru’s son!”

There was a slight softening in Brian’s expression and Donnchad was quick to see it. He grabbed his father’s hand, putting all the strength of his young grip on display. “Let me prove how loyal a son you have in me!” he pleaded again.

As well try to stop the Me from running out, Brian thought. “Very well, I’ll give you a warrior’s mission, Donnchad. But I won’t take you to kill your kinsmen in Dublin; I won’t have that on my conscience, whether it would bother yours or not.

“We have a garrison at Waterford, and I’m concerned that the Northmen may attack us all along the coast. I mean to send an army through Leinster to the southern ports, and that will be your assignment.

You will go with a picked company of horsemen, as befits your birth, but I insist that you take some veteran officers with you and heed their advice. Yours will be the rank, but theirs will be the knowledge, and until you have acquired plenty of field experience you will be an observer, do you understand that?”

“But Turlough . . .”

“Turlough is some months older than you. And he knows better than to argue with his commander.”

Donnchad clenched his jaw and stood very straight. “Yes, sir,” he said.

Brian tried not to smile. “When the coast is secure, you may join us in Dublin; the matter will be resolved by then.”

The time had come. The armies were gathered and the final preparations made. Marching with the army of Munster would be the warriors and princes of Connacht and Oriel, as well as Ospak’s sturdy band of Northmen. With the exception of the northern Hy Neill and the Leinstermen, all Ireland was represented in the army of Brian Boru—a unity that had never been seen before.

An unexpected ally, and a man who excited much admiration

in his own right, was Domhnall, the Great Steward of Mar in the land of the Scots. He and his kinsman, the Great Steward of Lennox, had brought two companies of fierce fighting men in plaid across the Irish Sea to stand with Brian in what they perceived to be a last defense against the increasing aggression of the kingdoms of Lochlann. The Saxon lands were lost to Svein Forkbeard and were now ruled since Svein’s death in February by his son Knut. Malcolm of Scot Land himself had looked toward Lochlann, toward the cold cradle that rocked the viking warriors, and he was determined to fight the threat of the Northmen wherever he could before his own land was torn between the ambitions of the Danes and the Norsemen.

It was Domhnall who asked Brian, “Where will we be joined by the king of Meath?”

Brian pointed to the maps spread before them in his command tent. “Malachi will march from here with all his men and will join with us here, I think, close to Kilmainham. Together we will ravage all the Norse holdings to the very walls of Dublin, and then enter the city.”

“You are confident of victory?” the powerful young Scot asked.

“I’m always confident of victory. Otherwise, I don’t fight.” They left Kincora on the day of the good Saint Patrick and arrived at Kilmainham on Spy Wednesday. There they met the army of Meath, a sturdy Malachi Mor at its head, and their combined forces left a fiery trail around Baldoyle and Malahide that could be seen from the watchtowers on the palisaded walls of Dublin.

At the night camp, the two kings met in Brian’s tent to discuss the final assault. Murrough sat beside his father, with his own young son leaning against his shoulder, wearing a heavy sword at his slender hip.

Malachi began by mentioning a thorn that had appeared in -his rose. “This Northman, this Ospak who marches with you, Boru—I don’t like the idea of him.”

“He came to me of his own accord, risking his life and the lives of his men, and he brought my fleet ten ships and a full complement of good warriors. I need him, Malachi, and his allegiance has been an encouragement to us all.”

Malachi shook his head. “All Northmen are treacherous; he could be a spy, he could even be an assassin sent to knife your back when he’s won your confidence.”

“You and I both have Northmen in our armies, Malachi,” Brian reminded him. “It would be easier if this were a matter of Christian against pagan, Irish against Lochlannach, but it isn’t that simple and hasn’t been so for many years. Power and politics and trade have chosen one side or the other, and now each man fights to suit his own conscience. I won’t throw good Norsemen out of my army and I won’t ask you to dispense with that company of Danes in yours. I trust Ospak, and he has already been an invaluable help to me.”

Malachi looked dubious. “How?”

“He told me of an attack suffered by his brother Brodir at the Isle of Man, an assault by some kind of supernatural forces in which many of Brodir’s men were wounded and a number were killed—the whole lot was severely demoralized. They sailed for our shores soon after Ospak did, in an effort to outrun the demons that pursued them.”

“So? What’s that supposed to mean? Supernatural portents occur, we’ve all heard of them, and their interpretation is best left to the priests.”

“Ah, but they can be used, Malachi, don’t you see that? I can’t explain what happened, but I see a way to profit from it. If the superstitions of the Northmen can be made to work against them and weaken their confidence I intend to do so, for that is an enormous army arrayed against us, and if they triumph Ireland as we know her will be destroyed.”

Malachi frowned. “You intend to use . .. superstition? Godlessness?”

Brian’s voice was patient. “As I said, I cannot explain what happened on the Isle of Man, and it is too much to hope that Brodir’s invisible foe has crossed the Irish Sea and will attack the Northmen again in Dublin Bay. But I believe in leaving nothing to chance.

“My son Flann, who has a taste for necromancy in him,

has located a pit of clay containing some particles of a silvery dust that sparkles like the sheddings of stars. One company of men, under his command, will smear their bodies with this mud and appear in the early dawn, close to the enemy lines, led by torchbearers whose fire makes the substance glitter.”

Malachi’s eyes widened. “I remember now . . . the Shining

Mist of ...”

“The Tuatha de Danann, that dazzled and terrified its enemies!” Turlough’s excited voice finished for him.

“But that’s only a legend, mythology!” “That’s your label for it,” Brian replied. “You call it myth and discount it; there are those who would call the Biblical miracles myth and deny them credence. But I believe it’s,actual history, distorted by centuries of retelling. People are afraid of things they cannot understand, so they call them myth or miracle and feel safer because they have put such incidents into categories which may be disbelieved.

“The legend of the Tuatha de Danann is actually a memory from our distant past, Malachi; they were not ephemeral beings but real people, and their magic was based on a science we have forgotten, brought here from a civilization no man remembers. I can’t recreate the science, but I can use the idea.”

“I don’t like the sound of this, Bora . . .” “Then you will like it even less when I tell you another of my plans.” Brian smiled. “Many of the Northmen claim to have embraced Christianity, but that’s a thin skin over the pagan past, and they have a lingering terror of their savage gods. I have arranged for them to see their own Odin, fierce and bloodthirsty, riding his gray horse at the edge of the sea and crying in woe for the doom about to befall his warriors.” Malachi got to his feet. “This is madness, Boru! You think you can defeat the Northmen with a bag of tricks?”

“I intend to defeat them any way I can,” Brian said simply,

“I’m not used to fighting like that!” Malachi protested.

Murrough had been wearing a deepening scowl as the conversation progressed, and now he could restrain himself no

longer. “My father and I have disagreed about many things,”

he broke in, “and I have rebelled against his ideas just as you “do now. It hurts to admit it, but I’ve usually been wrong and time has proved him right. I will trust him now. And I strongly urge you to do the same, Malachi Mor, for he is a winner and accustomed to victory, whereas you are merely his tributary and a man with a history of losing.”

Brian had thrown his son a surprised and grateful glance, but he quickly saw that the defense had done more harm than good. Malachi’s eyes were snapping with anger. “I did not come to your tent to be insulted, my lord,” he said frostily. “I hear there has been overmuch of that, from certain irresponsible people”—he glared directly at Murrough—“and I demand an apology.”

Brian rose, too, and held out his hand. “Don’t act hastily, Malachi. This is no time for us to take offense with one another.”

Malachi looked at Brian, the towering height slightly lessened by the years, the copper hair turned to silver by time’s alchemy. He is old, Malachi thought. And I am only eight years younger than he. All my life, it seems, I have been standing in this man’s shadow, patiently handing over to him everything that should have been mine. Just once before I die I will be free of him!