Lion of Ireland (75 page)

Brian saw the upraised menace of the heavy weapon and rose without hesitation to face the Northman.

The old feeling came to him for one last time; the quiet total coldness, the emotionless intense quality which was die courage that must armor a man in the face of death.

Death in battle. Not an old man’s withering away, not the degradation of failing faculties, but a hero’s death after all. His lips formed the words of thanksgiving. He stepped sideways to win time to draw his own sword. Brodir moved with him, a shadow, darkening, his hoarse breathing filling the tent.

Death in battle. Would Christ claim him, afterward—the gentle, compassionate Jesus with loving arms outstretched, welcoming the weary warrior home? Would he face the awesome Jehovah of the Old Testament, the records of his sins spread out for judgment, the brimming hellfire waiting? Would the Valkyries come to him, galloping through the clouds, their hair streaming behind them, their faces inhumanly beautiful—like Gormlaith? Or would he simply slip through the warp and woof of time and be in that other place, the next stage of existence promised by the Old Religion?

Would there be darkness?

Nothing?

Brodir was circling, moving closer, trying to get room to swing his weapon beneath the low ceiling of the tent. He tripped over a bench and cursed vehemently but came on again, ignoring his barked shins as he sought to close with Brian.

Brian had his sword out now, the weight of it surprising to his weary arm. He shifted his grip slightly on the hilt and feinted at Brodir, testing his own speed.

Slow—too slow! Brodir saw it too, and made a sound like growling laughter. He dodged easily and drove in again, kicking the prayer stool out of his way. The lamp fell to the floor but continued to burn, its small flame guttering in the oil cup and casting grotesque shadows on the walls.

Brodir’s ax slashed the air, his full weight behind the swing, and Brian turned in to him as he came, bringing his sword downward with all the strength he possessed. The blade sliced into the Norseman’s leg, destroying the knee and then faltering, its force spent. With a last effort Brian jerked it free and chopped the stroke, severing muscle and artery.

Brodir gave a terrible cry as he fell, fountains of his blood spraying them born. Even as he pitched forward he waved his ax in a great flailing circle, seeking Brian, and the falling blade struck the High King’s skull one savage, ringing blow.

The two dying men lay side by side, their blood mingling on the packed earth. Brodir shuddered violently and went limp. A grainy darkness swirled around Brian, but it was not the solid black of nothingness that he had dreaded. Something lived and moved within it. Someone . . .

He tried to raise his head. He thought that he lifted his hand and wiped the blood from his eyes, as he strained to make out the scene that was gradually becoming clearer. The life was running out of him but it was running toward something, and suddenly he was eager to go.

From where he lay he could see the wall of the tent dissolving into a golden mist and fading away. It was replaced by a rolling grassland between lifting hills, and a road that wound down to the river. The familiar, beloved Shannon.

In the far, far distance Mahon paused at last and looked back. He saw the copper-haired little boy waving frantically to him, and beckoned him to come.

Kincora

Oh, where, Kincora! is Brian the Great? And where is the beauty that once was thine? Oh, where are the princes and nobles that sate At the feast in thy halls, and drank the red wine?

Where, oh, Kincora?

Oh, where, Kincora! are thy valorous lords?

Oh, whither, thou Hospitable! are they gone?

Oh, where are the Dalcassians of the Golden Swords?

And where are the warriors Brian led on?

Where, oh, Kincora?

And where is Murrough, the descendant of kings—The defeater of a hundred—the daringly brave—Who set but slight store by jewels and rings—Who swam down the torrent and laughed at its wave?

Where, oh, Kincora?

And where is Donogh, King Brian’s worthy son? And where is Conaing, the Beautiful Chief? And Kian, and Core? Alas! they are gone—They have left me this night alone with my grief, Left me, Kincora!

And where are the chiefs with whom Brian went forth, The ne’er vanquished sons of Erin the Brave, The great King of Onaght, renowned for his worth, And the hosts of Baskinn, from the western wave?

Where, oh, Kincora?

Oh, where is Duvlann of the swift-footed Steeds? And where is dan, who was son of Molloy? And where is King Lonergan, the fame of whose deeds In the red battlefield no time can destroy?

Where, oh, Kincora?

And where is that youth of majestic height, The faith-keeping Prince of the Scots?--Even he, As wide as his fame was, as great as his might, Was tributary, oh, Kincora, to thee!

Thee, oh, Kincora!

They are gone, those heroes of royal birth, Who plundered no churches, and broke no trust, ‘Tis weary for me to be living on earth While they, oh, Kincora, lie low in the dust!

Low, oh, Kincora!

Oh, never again will Princes appear, To rival the Dalcassians of Cleaving Swords! I can never dream of meeting afar or anear, In the east or the west, such heroes and lords!

Never, Kincora!

Oh, dear are the images my memory calls up Of Brian Boru!--how he would never miss To give me at the banquet the first bright cup! Ah, why did he heap on me honor like this?

Why, oh, Kincora?

I am MacLiag, and my home is on the lake; Thither often, to that place whose beauty is fled Came Brian to ask me, and I went for his sake. Oh, my grief! that I should live, and Brian be dead!

Dead, oh, Kincora?

Attributed to MacLiag (c. 1015) Translated from the Irish by James Clarence Mangan (1803-49

Brian Mac Cennedi was born in 941 in Thomond, that part of northern Munster now known as County Clare. His spectacular career has inflamed poets and scholars ever since. There are no adequate textbooks on early Irish history, so the desire to examine Brian’s controversial rise to power and the motivations behind it involved making use of a multitude of sources, many of them contradictory. I have chosen from them those accounts which seemed most logical in the light of all proven evidence, both historical and archaeological.

One such valuable source of information was the work of the renowned Gaelic scholar P. W. Joyce, whose books, particularly A History of Gaelic Ireland from the Earliest Times to 160S (Dublin: The Educational Company of Ireland, Ltd., 1924), are among the most thorough in the field, and retain much of the flavor of the bardic tradition.

The War of the Gaedhil and the Gaitt, or the Invasion of Ireland by the Danes and Other Norsemen, edited by James H. Todd (London: Rolls Series, 1867), gives much testimony on the Irish-Scandinavian conflict, as it is a translation from very early writings, although there are some who think it shows a partisan bias toward Brian Boru.

More recent studies of the period, such as Ireland Before the Normans, by Donncha O Corrain, No. 2 in the Gill History of Ireland series (New York: Irish Book Center, 1972), will help to clarify for the interested reader the very complicated dynastic struggles of the many Irish kingdoms in the ninth and tenth centuries, which I have somewhat compressed here.

There is no one truth in history, and no absolute viewpoint. To see Brian as the Norse saw him I read such books as Njal’s Saga, translated by Magnus Magnusson and Herman Palsson (New York: Penguin Books, Inc., 1960), Peter Brent’s The Vi-fang Saga (New York; G.P. Putnam’s Sons, 1975), and many others.

An additional rich source for material proved to be Irish literature, where much of Brian’s history is enshrined. A considerable amount of ancient poetry still exists, both in the original Gaelic and in translation, and I have included a small selection of the latter in this book. For those who would like to read further I recommend the works of Myles Dillon and Padraic Colum.

With the help of these sources and countless others, all deeply appreciated, it was possible to construct a mosaic from a jumble of brilliantly colored fragments. It was Ireland’s tragedy that Brian did not leave a living heir of his quality to make his dream for her a permanent reality, but that does not alter the fact that he lived one of the world’s great success stories, nor does it diminish the grandeur of his achievement.

After Clontarf, the bodies of Brian Bora and Murrough were buried with great ceremony at Armagh.

Malachi resumed the High Kingship, which he held for another eight years, dying in 1022. Brian’s surviving sons, Teigue and Donnchad, contested for the kingship of Munster, and in 1023 Donnchad had his brother assassinated. But Teigue’s own son Turlough O Brian was Ard Ri of Ireland until 1086, and the blood of Brian Boru continued to flow through the veins of High Kings and kings of Munster until the course of Irish history was altered forever by the Anglo-Norman invasion.

Padraic and Fiona are invented characters. I have arbitrarily chosen the name of Deirdre for Brian’s first wife, as existing records are vague on this, but all other major and most minor characters are taken directly from Irish and Norse history. All I have done is summon them to us through the mists of time.

The figure of Boru bestrides the Irish past like Colossus, a reminder of the possibilities in mankind.

Giants walked the earth in those days. I would like to believe that they still do.