Pride of Lions Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  FOREWORD

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Chapter Sixty

  ROME, 1064

  Also by

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  A PARTIAL BIBLIOGRAPHY

  Copyright Page

  For Michael

  FOREWORD

  by the Rt. Hon. Conor O’Brien, the Lord Inchiquin

  In Pride of Lions Morgan Llywelyn has again produced a brilliant novel that is both fascinating from the historical perspective and eminently readable. By following the destinies of the surviving children of Brian Boru, particularly his troubled and troublesome son Donough, she has created a worthy sequel to her most highly praised novel, Lion of Ireland. Her Celtic gift with words and an extraordinary ability to bring the past to life are hallmarks of her literary excellence.

  Morgan Llywelyn’s uncanny knack of sweeping the reader back through the centuries comes from a deep, almost intuitive understanding of other eras. As a writer, she is always searching for the human reality behind both history and folklore. Thus the few fictitious characters she introduces in her books are absolutely true to their time. In Pride of Lions they play vivid supporting roles to the many historic characters, illuminating the society in which they lived.

  The famous family descended from Brian Boru, the greatest of Ireland’s High Kings, has played a major part in the history of these islands over the centuries. The dynastic marriages arranged for his children have had long-lasting repercussions. Brian himself certainly came closer to unifying Ireland than anyone up to the present time. His son Donough is much less famous, but presents a fascinating character study. Upon him fell the obligation of trying to live up to an almost superhuman father. He undertook the task with passion, as he lived all his life, but fate was to take a hand in shaping both his future and that of Ireland.

  One wonders how different Irish history might have been if Donough had achieved his ambitions.

  In Pride of Lions we have the rare opportunity to see what happens after an earth-shattering event: how people get on with their lives, what adjustments they must make, and what choices. Donough is a thought-provoking hero. Looking back across nine hundred years, the reader must judge for himself if he would have made the same choices. There is a fine irony—and the Irish have always appreciated irony—in the fact that for all his efforts to emulate his father, Donough took with him to Rome the physical symbols of his father’s kingship. Brian Boru’s crown and sceptre have never to this day come back to Ireland.

  Factually, Donough’s story as told in Pride of Lions is accurate. As a direct descendant of Brian Boru and Chief of the Name, I believe we O’Briens are lucky indeed to have Morgan Llywelyn as our modern-day Bard, telling the story of our race with such eloquence and passion.

  The O’Brien,

  Prince of Thomond,

  18th Baron Inchiquin

  County Clare, Ireland

  June 1995

  Chapter One

  THE TALL BOY ON THE GRAY HORSE CAST AN APPREHENSIVE LOOK at the sky.

  He could hear his men behind him grumbling as they rode. They resented his command of their company, considering it an undeserved appointment forced upon them by his father. Still more they resented being sent south for skirmish duty while Brian Boru was assembling the main army at Dublin for the battle to determine the future of Ireland.

  Young Donough was as frustrated as his men, though in his case it was compounded by a growing sense of foreboding. The sky to the north, in the direction of Dublin, was filled with black clouds that had been boiling in eerie configurations since first light. It was now late in the day on Good Friday in the Year of Our Lord 1014, and the clouds looked more ominous than ever.

  Donough tried to reassure himself. My father would never initiate battle on a Holy Day, he thought. But what if his enemies forced a confrontation? Pagan Northmen have no respect for the Christian calendar.

  Watching the demoniac sky, Donough was increasingly certain that Brian Boru had already faced his enemies on the field of battle. The writhing clouds were witness.

  He turned his horse’s head toward Dublin and lashed its flanks with his horse-goad.

  Chapter Two

  AS DARKNESS FELL, MEMBERS OF BRIAN BORU’S COMBINED FORCES began trying to identify their dead. The gruesome task was accomplished with little conversation. Most were too shocked to speak. They were seasoned warriors accustomed to the aftermath of battle, but none of them had seen thousands of corpses piled five and six deep until today.

  Twilight was splintered by the shrieks and curses of the wounded, the prayers and moans of the dying.

  Many of the Irish chieftains who had brought their personal armies to join the High King against the invaders had been killed in the battle. Their surviving followers wandered, dazed and leaderless, through the gloom. Malachi Mor began gathering up these strays and adding them to his own Meathmen.

  Malachi had no idea where Brian Boru was. He had not seen the Ard Ri, the High King of Ireland, as he had held his Meathmen apart from the conflict until its outcome was certain. Only then had he led his army down from the high ground to fight beside Brian’s other allies.

  Now he was gathering for himself the remnants of a massive assemblage, warriors who had been willing to follow Brian Boru’s banner wherever it led, even to death.

  The irony was not lost on Malachi.

  Litter bearers approached from the direction of the weir at Clontarf, carrying a body. A scrap torn from a saffron linen tunic covered its face. Malachi signaled the bearers to halt. Recognizing the man who had been Ard Ri before Brian Boru, they obeyed.

  Malachi flicked the covering aside. The sightless eyes of a fifteen-year-old boy stared past him toward a canceled future.

  “That’s Prince Murrough’s son,” one of the bearers said. “The Ard R
i’s first grandson.” The man’s voice was thick in his throat. “We found him floating facedown in the weir with his fingers still tangled in the hair of the last Viking he killed.”

  Malachi ran his fingers through his own thin gray hair. He found himself recalling that Brian Boru’s mane retained a faint gleam of red-gold in spite of the passage of time, and appeared as thick as it had ever been. Such comparisons tormented Malachi, but he could not prevent them, any more than one could prevent one’s tongue from tormenting a sore tooth.

  Brian is a decade older than me, Malachi thought. He’s seventy-three this month. Can it be possible? Where have the years gone? And both of us still fighting.

  He shook his head ruefully, dragging his thoughts back to this time and place. He covered the dead boy’s face and asked one of the bearers, “Where’s Prince Murrough?”

  “They’re bringing him now,” volunteered a Dalcassian warrior, limping past them in the twilight.

  Murrough’s litter bearers were Dalcassian heroes famed for their strength, yet they were tottering like old men as they approached. Both they and the litter were bathed in blood.

  Malachi stepped forward to intercept them. “What happened to him?” he asked, staring down. The face of the corpse was uncovered, but masses of clotted gore obscured the features.

  “That blood’s not from his wounds,” a bearer said. “We carried him here through Tomar’s Wood, where the worst of the axe fighting was. Blood’s still dripping from the branches of the trees.”

  In spite of himself, Malachi shuddered.

  With the hem of his own tunic he wiped the blood from the dead man’s eye sockets. The lids, he was thankful to find, were closed. The face which he had so often seen contorted with anger was peaceful now, all quarrels forgotten.

  Including ours, Malachi told Murrough silently. Forgotten and forgiven .

  He laid the palm of his hand on the bloody forehead in benediction, then motioned the bearers to move on. The depth of his grief surprised him. He and Brian Boru’s eldest son had never liked one another.

  The collecting of the dead continued. It would go on for days.

  The night smelled of death and excrement.

  Somewhere down near the bay someone was chanting wildly. “Boru! Boru! Boru!”

  Chapter Three

  THE GRAY HORSE HAD BEEN BRED FOR ENDURANCE ON THE LIMESTONE-RICH plains of Kildare, but it was tired now. Men and horses alike were tired, yet Donough drove them on. “The Ard Ri needs me,” he insisted.

  As usual, Ronan, his second in command and the senior member of the company, contradicted him. “The Ard Ri does not need you. I myself heard him say he does not expect us to join him until after Easter. Those were his precise orders.”

  Ignoring Ronan, Donough pushed on. Saturday evening found his band in the Wicklow mountains, the men wearied to the point of revolt. When they paused to water their horses at an icy stream, Ronan tried again. “You have to have some consideration for your men,” he told Donough. “You’re being reckless, forcing such a pace when there is no need for it. I must protest, Donnchad.”

  The youngster’s gray eyes flashed. “I told you before. Call me Donough from now on.” He pronounced the name Donno in his Munster accent. He despised the name Donnchad, which his mother had given him, and with which she prefaced her constant criticisms of him. He considered himself a man now, entitled to a new name to reflect his new status. Had not Brian Mac Cennedi become Brian Boru?

  “Och, I forgot,” Ronan replied with a shrug, as if it did not matter. “But listen to the voice of experience, lad. What you’re doing is dangerous. Weary horses are likely to stumble and break their legs or our necks. It could happen to you as easily as to one of us, and then there would be trouble. We have orders to …”

  “To what?” snapped Donough, instantly suspicious. “You have orders to what?”

  “To keep you safe,” Ronan admitted. “That’s why the Ard Ri assigned us to come south with you while the rest of them went to Dublin.”

  “I thought so!” Donough exploded. “And I tell you, no one is needed to keep me safe. I can take care of myself! Am I not the same age my father was when he began fighting the Vikings? And am I not in command of this company? We’re riding on to Dublin now, Ronan, and if that means we keep going throughout the night, so be it!”

  Below a flowing russet moustache, Ronan thrust forward a clean-shaven jaw. “If the Ard Ri were here right now,” he said, “he would tear strips off you. He’s famous for taking care of his warriors.”

  Donough felt a momentary empathy with his oldest half-brother. Murrough frequently complained of having Brian Boru held up to him, an unattainable standard of perfection. The burden of such a father weighed heavily on his sons, particularly the eldest.

  Donough, the youngest, tried to imagine what his father would do in the same situation. Compromise, he decided. Compromise was one of the Ard Ri’s most effective weapons, a lesson Murrough had never learned. But Donough would learn. He idolized Brian. It was his ambition to be just like him.

  “I’ll strike a bargain with you, Ronan,” he offered. “You and the others ride on with me now until the wind changes. Whenever that happens, we will set up camp and have a rest before we go any farther.”

  Ronan looked dubious. “What if the wind doesn’t change?”

  “Surely it will, it’s been shifting almost constantly for days. You yourself said you had never known it to be so unpredictable. Have we an agreement?”

  The veteran hesitated, to make it look as if he had a choice. “We do,” he said at last.

  They mounted and rode on in gathering darkness, a weary band in saffron-dyed tunics and woolen mantles, bare-legged, cold, hungry.

  One of the warriors remarked, low-voiced, to Ronan, “You were afraid he’d go off without us and report us as deserters to his father.”

  “I’m not afraid of Brian Boru,” came the swift reply. “I tell you something for nothing—that lad’s mother is the one to be feared.”

  At the mention of Gormlaith a ripple of coarse laughter ran though the company. “If we let her baby ride off by himself and anything happened to him,” Ronan elaborated, “she would put a fearful curse on the lot of us.”

  “That Gormlaith is a curse all by herself,” another man said.

  No one disagreed.

  The night was bitterly black; the wind was icy. Neither moon nor stars lit the way. The sky was opaque with cloud.

  Sooner than he would have liked, Donough felt the wind shift, swinging around to blow straight out of the north. It had gained him a little more time, at least, and for that he was thankful. He signaled a halt and his men were sliding off their horses almost before he gave the order.

  They made camp in the lee of a massive stony outcropping that shielded them from the worst of the wind. With flints, one of the warriors struck sparks and made a fire of dry gorse and winter-killed bracken. They were too tired to forage, so contented themselves with eating bread and stringy dried venison from their supplies, then settled down to sleep.

  But Donough could not rest. He wandered around the perimeter of the campsite, listening to the snores of his men and the chewing of the hobbled horses as they grazed on mountain grass. The bitter wind tugged at the edges of the brat he wore, the heavy knee-length mantle fastened at the shoulder with a massive bronze brooch.

  Although he was angry with his father for putting him in what he considered to be a humiliating position, denied a part in the real fighting, most of his anger was reserved for his mother. If it were not for Gormlaith there would be no invasion to threaten an aging High King who should have been allowed to live out his remaining years in peace.

  Donough wanted to share those years with Brian Boru. He had not been allowed much time with his father while Brian and Gormlaith were married, for she had deliberately contrived to keep her son away from his sire so she could demand Brian’s attention for herself. But when at last the Ard Ri divorced Gormlaith under Breho
n Law and sent her from Kincora, he had kept Donough with him.

  The youngster had taken this as a sign of special affection, and began imagining himself someday supplanting Murrough as Brian’s favorite, the son being groomed to succeed his father.

  But now Murrough, who had spent his life trying to step out of Brian’s shadow and be his own man, was with the Ard Ri at Dublin, while Donough was being held at arm’s length. To keep him safe.

  He ground his teeth in the darkness.

  With no one watching, Donough did not have to keep up the façade of maturity he assumed by daylight. He could be what he was, a sixteen-year-old boy … well, to be honest, sixteen in two months … in unfamiliar country in the middle of the night, assailed by the fears that worry most youngsters at some time.

  What would I do, he asked himself, if anything happened to my father?

  The mere idea made his stomach churn.

  Without Brian behind him, Donough was nothing more than Gormlaith’s son; the son of the Princess of Leinster, the most hated woman in Ireland.

  Surely, he thought, concentrating with desperate intensity, God will not let anyone barm the Ard Ri!

  He pictured his father as he had last seen him at Kincora—tall, regal, looking far younger than his years.

  But old nevertheless. Brian had been old for all of Donough’s lifetime.

  The boy recalled his father’s voice, that deep, slow voice which dropped each word as if it were a jewel, compelling people to listen. Donough had strained his throat trying to force his own voice into a lower register, and when someone eventually commented that he was beginning to sound like the Ard Ri he had glowed like a beeswax candle.

  He knew he looked somewhat like Brian. In his mother’s many mirrors he had studied his face, searching out similarities. He had the same broad brow and long, straight nose. To his regret he had also inherited his mother’s curving mouth, but as soon as he could grow the drooping moustache of a warrior he would hide that flaw. Unfortunately he lacked Brian’s famous red-gold mane, for his own hair was an auburn so dark it looked almost black unless he stood in the sunlight. But at least he was tall. Someday he might be as tall as the Lion of Ireland. Someday …