The Fire in the Oaks: A Novel of St Patrick's Confession

by James Corkern

  ​Striking down two more opponents in as many seconds, Loegaire looks across the battlelines of his enemy, Crimthann son of Ennai. All through the field, the Leinstermen are beginning to break and run, though none as swiftly as Crimthann’s chariot. Loegaire bellows his curses after his fleeing adversary and with his retinue breaks his way through the collapsing Leinster line.

  ​When he realizes his pursuit is in vain, he stops, grabbing his standard from the standard bearer and waving it triumphantly over the field of victory. His men who were at the rear of the assault cheer, while those at the front pursue the routed enemy as best they can. After the cheering subsides and the looting begins, he gives his captains orders for camp deployment where his foe had been, eager to leave behind the stench of the rotting slain.

  ​Congratulations on your victory, Coipre says, keeping his immaculate robes from touching the bodies through which he navigates.

  ​The bulk of their force has eluded me, Loegaire says, his breathing returning to normal.

  ​For the time being, my king. They cannot hope to evade you forever.

  ​The scouts will give us their position soon enough. Whether they tire of running or Crimthann is forced to face me to save face, we will catch them.

  ​Indeed.

  ​Loegaire kneels in the grass outside of the battle and wipes his arms along the blades, leaving red streaks through the bent stalks. Coirpre stands watching him. Loegaire sighs.

  ​I assume you have some thoughts.

  ​My king?

  ​You are hovering over me like a crow over carrion. Speak if you will speak.

  ​Your enemies have nowhere left to go but north. It is the only chance they have of solidifying their position.

  ​What is your point?

  ​If they continue in that direction, and they must lest we destroy them, they will eventually arrive at the Liphe. It will take them time to cross.

  ​You suggest catching them before they reach the Liphe.

  ​Either that, my king, or before they may reform on the other side. With enough haste we might catch them with the river at their backs.

  ​Loegaire sits with his arms resting on his knees, watching elements of his army at their work building his camp or dealing with the dead.

  ​I approve, Coirpre. We will rest here for the night to regain our strength, but in the morning we may begin our pursuit.

  ​That night, Coirpre leads the victorious army in a ritual giving thanks to their gods. Those too wounded to be given or sold as slaves are offered up as sacrifices, and the hastily-left provisions of the vanquished enemy provide a feast for the weary men.

  ​The bodies of the dead are burned in a massive pyre, though these bodies are disposed of without ritual. They are naked, any of their possessions that survived the fight having already been divided between the victors, and once the fire begins in earnest they are abandoned. Only two men watch over the fire, looking for signs it will endanger the camp, and they turn away from the running flesh and do their best to ignore the stink of hair and charring meat. The smoke carries on into the sky. The edges of tents shine out in the flickering light. It is morning, when the men in the camp set to their ordered advance, when the two finally leave the flameless ruin. When the army leaves in midmorning, it is too much fanfare to spur the tired men on their quick march, and the smoldering heap is all that remains in the midst of a field of trampled grass.

  ​Dairine is covered in sweat and dirt. Her hands bleed from a dozen cuts and yet she plunges them, raw and protesting, again into the pile of rocks as she and the others work to complete their task. With Seosamh directing the workers, they make good progress, and the pile of stones rises in the entranceway to their settlement like a misshapen pyramid. There is only enough room to fit a person’s head through on the side facing within the walls when a cry rises from the top of the wall.

  ​They’re coming, one of the sentries shouts to the workers.

  ​That’ll have to be enough, then, Seosamh says, already heading toward one of the ladders to scale the wall. We will have to do our best to repel them and leave the rest to God.

  ​Dairine nods and heads toward her own position, telling those with her to go to where they have been assigned. She climbs the ladder quickly and gazes over the wall into the mass of enemies beyond.

  ​Their labor has turned the felled trees into ladders and rams, crude in their construction but functional. They gather in columns designed to carry the large ladders to the walls. The bearded brute who leads them gives the order and they begin their slow march.

  ​They’re taking their time, Mella says.

  ​Why shouldn’t they? Dairine asks. They don’t want to tire themselves before the fighting begins. Before the massacre.

  ​She looks down the wall. All of those within have gathered to do their part in fighting for their lives. Their weapons are crude; farm implements, rocks too small to be used for construction, torches and pots of boiling water, but nothing but improvised weaponry.

  ​The marching men sing bawdy songs and taunt the defenders from without. A few of the less patient throw stones at the foe, but they are still too far and the rocks impact the ground harmlessly. The more level-headed among the defenders call for order, knowing too well the scarcity of weaponry. Bringing up the center of the invader’s line is a massive battering-ram. Dairine has never seen its like before and prays for the stone barricade to hold.

  ​Though the raiders take their time, it isn’t long before they are at the walls. More carefully thrown stones rain down on them, but the losses are too few. Though several are downed by a crushed skull or broken limb, it does nothing to prevent the ladders from rising toward the walls.

  ​As the first of the men begin to climb the ladders, the scalding water is released from its containers, sending the frontmost to crash into the ground screaming. One man, shielded from the brunt of the water by the man in front of him, nonetheless is caught on the hand by some of the liquid and frantically lets go, only in mid-drop realizing his mistake.

  ​On Seosamh’s end of the wall, the defenders manage to push one of the ladders far enough for the weight of the invaders to work against them, sending the still-climbing warriors falling to their deaths.

  ​Despite these setbacks, the attackers are able to place several of their men on top the wall, and the true fighting begins. It is only their inability to attack en masse that prevents a slaughter. As it is, those who reach the top of the wall are able to strike down several of the defenders before being pushed over to the ground or brought down with frantic thrusts from trident-like forks and sweeps from scythes.

  ​It is during this desperate melee that the battering ram reaches the gate, its carriers using their momentum to drive it into the door. The first impact splinters the wood, but the door holds. The second breaks the door in half. The men drop the ram and take out of their weapons to begin hacking away at the ruin of the entranceway.

  ​Dairine, spared the direct combat of other sections of the wall, looks to Seosamh, who with a few companions uses the interior ladder to reach the ground. Once there, they place waiting torches inside the settlement’s fire, running with the torches back to the gate.

  ​The heavy smoke overflowing from the gate lets Dairine know that the wood and other flammable materials they stacked between the door and the wall has ignited. She is not sure what the damage to the structure will be in the end, but it will be worth it if it spares their lives.

  ​One of the fearsome warriors bears down on her, taking her attention from the entrance, and she is almost cut down. She manages to avoid the heavy swing, but only just, and such is the fury of the blow that it sends her attacker falling to his death.

  ​She sees further down the wall several of the warriors have managed to gain a foothold. Behind them, more are climbing the ladder. Dairine runs toward the section of the wall, picking up one of the forks that now litter the walkway.

  ​Gaining momentum, she angles h
erself toward the man directly in front of her. There is a gap in the desperate defenders who try their best to keep the invaders at bay, and she strikes him directly in the chest with the trident. The prongs sink into his chest and her inertia sends him over the wall, where he lands on two more of his companions.

  ​Her weapon having fallen with her felled opponent, she kicks as hard as she can into the face of the next man to scale the wall, breaking his nose and sending the ladder with him in his grip. The other two men are brought down by the combined efforts of the defenders.

  ​Look, one of the men says, they are retreating.

  ​Dairine looks down, her arms and legs aching, and sees the truth of it. The invaders are pulling back from their assault, taking the ladders with them where they are able and leaving the others lest they take more blows from the thrown stones.

  ​We’ve won, a woman says.

  ​We haven’t, Dairine says. Look at them. They are pulling back because we weren’t as easy as they thought we would be. If they’ve attacked anywhere else nearby they must have had quite a time of it indeed. They’re just trying to figure out another way in. Or they’ll starve us out.

  ​She looks around them. A few dozen bodies litter the wall or the ground below. The smoke continues to billow from where they set fire to the door, the battering ram having caught due to its proximity. Dairine suddenly feels a weakness through her, and her mouth feels as though it has never tasted water. She fights the urge to sit where she is and rest.

  ​Come, she says. We will need to see to the others.

  ​In the end, the assault is costlier than the defenders would have liked. The gateway is ruined, and despite the fire some of the fiercest fighting took place there. Seosamh is among the dead. Some of the community set themselves to preparing the bodies for burial, while the others plan for the next assault. Not a one of them is without a wound, dampened with sweat and exuding the smell of exertion.

  ​What will we do? Laoise asks, her eyes as though she has just woken.

  ​There is nothing we can do, Dairine says, addressing the group.

  ​Do you think they will attack again? one asks.

  ​I think so.

  ​Will they come again like they have?

  ​I don’t know, she says. They could, though the fact that they withdrew makes me think that they may not try again in that way. Or they may wait for us to weaken and try again. I can’t know their mind.

  ​We could try to send for help, another says, an edge of desperation to her voice.

  ​How? They have us surrounded now. Anyone we sent would be killed. Even if we could send someone, there isn’t any way out of the walls now. We’ve seen to that ourselves. Now we’ll either be rescued or we’ll die, whether by their hand or by starvation.

  ​Cries of despair flow through the group.

  ​Why do you cry like that? Dairine asks. Why have we chosen to live in this place? Didn’t we choose to live apart, to set our lives aside for God? If we are to die here than it’s His will and we will die as His followers. If we are to be rescued, it is also His will, and we must prepare ourselves to weather the storm until we may be delivered.

  ​Dairine is right, Mella says. We must have faith. No one may pass through these lands without our people hearing of it, and they must send help. It will arrive soon enough, you’ll see. We must trust in God. And we must trust in Padraig. He would not abandon us here.

  ​But how long will it take? Brigid asks. How long before he will come?

  ​We can’t know, Dairine says. We don’t know when he will receive word of what has happened here or how far away he is. But he will come, you can be sure of it. And if he comes, he will bring Dichu with him, and all those sworn to him.

  ​Nineteen

  ​This is it? Padraig asks Dichu, looking out over the river.

  ​It is, Dichu says. This is where we will have to fight.

  ​Do we know where Loegaire is?

  ​We don’t. We will send scouts, though, south of the river so we can know of his approach. He may send his own, though. We will have to take that risk.

  ​If he scouts us, won’t it ruin your plan?

  ​It shouldn’t. From what we know of Loegaire, he won’t shrink away from a fight. It might not be the surprise we’re hoping for, and he’ll have more time to prepare for us, but I don’t believe he’ll try to avoid us or seek another route to the north. He’ll fight here.

  ​In the distance, four riders appear. Their horses look exhausted. At first, Padraig and Dichu keep out of sight of the men, but when they realize the men appear to be fleeing from something, they rise and hail them. The rider in front spots them and shouts to his companions. With some difficulty, the horses cross the river, their tired muscles fighting against the current.

  ​Who are you? the lead rider asks once they reach the two men. He shivers with the water rolling from him.

  ​I am Dichu, and this is Padraig.

  ​You are far from the north.

  ​How do you know we are from the north?

  ​Your speech is not the same as ours. It would be good to remember as you travel.

  ​And who are you?

  ​I am Crimthann mac Ennai, named after the great fox.

  ​Why does the king of Leinster run so fast?

  ​Crimthann narrows his eyes at Dichu. Why do you ask so many questions?

  ​Might it be that Loegaire, who would be high king, is behind you?

  ​Crimthann draws his weapon, his fellow riders following suit.

  ​I think it’s time to identify yourselves, northmen, for there is no love of spies in Leinster.

  ​I have said, I am Dichu.

  ​And I am Padraig, he says, stepping between the two men. We are not here as spies, nor, he says looking at Dichu, to challenge your authority here. We have brought our own men to face Loegaire, who is a blight upon the land.

  ​Crimthann’s eyes widen.

  ​Are you that Padraig, then? The Christian? Your people have come even this far south and your name is famous across the land.

  ​He puts his weapon away.

  ​You should have spoken sooner, for we need all the friends we can find against this pretender. Why, though, would you come here to fight our fight?

  ​It is our fight as well, Padraig says. I have, for the love of my God, provoked Loegaire into enmity, and we have rushed here to meet him. We know that he will destroy us as soon as he destroys you.

  ​He hasn’t the power to destroy Leinster, Crimthann says, his voice cold.

  ​Then why do you run?

  ​There was an engagement, Crimthann says. It did not end well for my men. We’ve been riding north to find better ground to fight.

  ​Where is your army?

  ​Crimthann pauses a moment, and looks at the ground.

  ​A half day behind, perhaps.

  ​Do you know how far Loegaire is behind them?

  ​Another day, we hope. He knows if we are destroyed there will be no others to oppose him.

  ​We have time then to combine our efforts, Dichu says.

  ​You lay no claim to this land? Crimthann asks.

  ​We do not, Dichu says. We are here only because we know that we too will be destroyed. If Loegaire is defeated, we will return home to our own people.

  ​Padraig looks sidelong at Dichu. He avoids the look.

  ​So be it. Take me to your camp and we will discuss what is to be done.

  ​The camp is not far from the Liphe and before long Dichu has his war council, Padraig included, present with Crimthann and his advisors.

  ​Our plan before your arrival, Dichu says, was to harass Loegaire as he tries to cross the Liphe. Our force being what it is, we thought it to be our only option against him.

  ​A bold plan, Crimthann says, but I do not think it would work. You underestimate his men.

  ​It is the best we can do.

  ​We now have two armies where before we were alone. There is
more we can do with this.

  ​What would you have us do, then?

  ​I think that we should pursue your original plan.

  ​The one you said wouldn’t work?

  ​We pursue your original plan but incorporate my own army. You can take positions across the river, here and here, he says, pointing. Remember, Loegaire’s scouts will not be far ahead of the main force, but he will send them. He will suspect a trap of some sort. What he will not expect is your army where he means to find mine.

  ​Do you think he will attack us?

  ​I don’t. He will have marched his men a long way, quickly, to defeat what is left of my army. He won’t expect a fresh force, even if it wouldn’t be a match for him normally. He is bold in his strategy, but not imprudent. He will most likely decide to camp and allow his men to rest. Though he doesn’t know, he will expect what we know to be true- that if left your own devices, you will not attack him before he tries to cross the river. So he will feel safe.

  ​So what will we do?

  ​We will do the opposite of what he expects. Given the lay of the land here, he will want to rest where he can post sentries, but be relatively safe from the attack he doesn’t anticipate. If I were him, I would choose the space between these two hills. Once he appears to be comfortable, you will attack across the river. This will give our side two advantages.

  ​The river is meant to slow his own army, Padraig says. If we attack we’ll be at even more of a disadvantage.

  ​As a force, you will be. As a combined effort, we will achieve victory. As I said, this will provide us with two advantages. The first is that Loegaire will be surprised, for he will not have anticipated your attack. This means that, though the river will slow you and he will have time to prepare, he will not have time to prepare on his terms. He will not be fighting as well as he could be, even if he will still appear to have the advantage.

  ​What is the other?

  ​He will see a quick chance of victory and face you aggressively. What this means is that my force, which I propose to place in these woods here, will be able to attack him on his flank. Our forces combined will even have a slightly numerical superiority. With his disorganized assault at the seemingly-easy fight on the river banks, he will be exposed to my counterattack.