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what?"
    Donough galloped on toward the Ford of the Hurdles, following a trackway of
    hoof-scarred mud. A party was coming up from the river toward him; a funeral party, marching to the beat of a bodhran, the goatskin-covered war drum. There was a guard of honor, fully armed, and solemn-faced bearers who carried two litters.
    The first of these was draped in the personal banner of Murrough Mac Brian.
    Donough drew rein in dismay. "That can't be Murrough!" His darkest imaginings had never included the death of one of his siblings. Men claimed, "The cubs of the Lion are as unkillable as their sire."
    The captain of the honor guard, who wore the distinctive blue and gold of the Dal Cais, signaled the cort@ege to halt. "It is Prince Murrough," he affirmed.
    "Slain in battle by a foreigner called Anrad."
    Donough's mind struggled to catch up with his eyes and ears. How could sturdy, aggressive, contentious Murrough be dead? Dead?
    "Where are you taking him?" he asked numbly.
    "To a place not far from here, called Kilmainham. We camped there before the battle, in some woods above the Liffey. Prince Murrough remarked that Kilmainham had a pleasant aspect, and said he would like to rest there again when the fighting was over. So ..." --the Dalcassian paused, fighting for control--"...
    and so he shall."
    Donough rolled his eyes toward the second litter. "And who is that?"
    "Prince Murrough's son, Turlough. He fought as bravely as his father and they shall sleep together under the same stone."
    "But Turlough's only a boy!" Donough protested as if that could somehow make a difference.
    "He was your age," said the Dalcassian.
    "Old enough to die."
    Donough found himself torn by conflicting emotions.
    First was relief; the ban shee had not wailed for Brian Boru, but for Murrough and Turlough.
    He also felt a guilty pleasure in the realization that Murrough's place as Brian's chosen successor was now vacant.
    But even as the thought crossed Donough's mind it was swept away by genuine grief. Murrough, although separated from him by more than a generation, had been part of the familial network so important to the Gael. And though he had always been antagonistic toward Gormlaith, Murrough had seemed to like her son, to the extent of engaging in good-humored horseplay with the boy when they happened to meet at Kincora.
    Once, a number of years ago, Murrough had even given Donough a whistle carved from the wood of a thorn tree that grew on the slopes of Crag Liath.
    Donough still had that whistle someplace.
    Suddenly he wanted very much to go and find it.
    The beat of the bodhran resumed, setting the cadence of a dirge for the marchers to follow. Honor guard and litter bearers prepared to move off.
    Rousing himself, Donough cried, "But what of my father? Does the Ard Ri not mean to attend his son's burial?"
    The captain of the guard paused long enough to give him a level, measuring look. "The Ard Ri is on his way to Swords," he said in a strange voice as if the words hurt him.
    "The Sword of St. Colmcille? Why would he be going to a monastery now?"
    There was no way, the Dalcassian captain decided, to shield the boy from the blow. Best get it done. Harsh and quick and over. "Brian Boru's corpse has been taken to Colmcille's chapel to wait for the Bishop of Armagh to arrive and escort it north to Ulster for burial. I am sorry, lad. Sorry for us all."
    Donough did not hear the last words.
    He could only hear the ban shee scream on a rising wind.

Chapter Five
    Some battles are destined to be remembered.
    Some are best forgotten.
    It was enough to have survived Clontarf.
    Of the thousands who had fought out of anger or avarice, the majority were dead.
    Courage and cowardice had contested together, often within the same person. Memories would haunt the survivors for the rest of their lives. They had only to murmur, "Clontarf," and it would all come back again: the leap of loyalty, the slash of swords, the hiss of spears, the grunting and screaming