Forged in Blood

by Ken Hagan

  His son shrugged his shoulders at this statement of the obvious. ‘Does anything else matter?’

  ‘Fair enough — as far as it goes!’ replied the father. ‘But I have to consider what will happen afterwards. Others besides us are involved. What of our friends up north? Tioc at the tide-head has been a peaceable neighbour for years. He has done great service for the cattle trade. Without him our treasury would be short of silver. What of King Dunchad and the men of Osri?’

  Lodin made a wave of his hand towards Deasún, and added, ‘Not to mention our kin and allies here among the Erse clans in the south?’

  ‘Whatever you decide, Lord Lodin,’ said Deasún. ‘My people will pledge our support. Only bear this in mind: Once Glun’s warriors are off the ships and on dry land, no one can say where or how it will end.’

  Clithna’s eyes flared in anger. ‘Come off the fence, husband. My brother’s plan is clear and bold, and foolhardy too. Granted! But will you put your weight behind him or not?’

  ‘Haven’t I just said,’ returned Deasún mildly, ‘that I will trust your father’s decision?’

  ‘For once at least,’ muttered Clithna, ‘Know your own mind!’

  ‘I assure you that I do,’ replied Deasún with a smile. ‘But my will in this instance is secondary to your father’s. I will serve, we will follow, as he sees fit. Have we found his counsel wanting before?’

  Clithna was too enraged — or too cramped by colic in her belly — to give an answer. She grasped her midriff, made a whisper of explanation to her mother, and left the hall.

  With the tension broken and her husband Lodin distracted, Aghamora seized the chance to butt in. ‘Hakon, you stand by in silence. Will you not speak up, man? Surely you see the sense of it. We can do no better service to King Dunchad or Tioc Cahaun than keep the wolves from their backs. If we tempt Iron-knee ashore at Criadain strand, and defeat him, those shits from Linn-dubh will turn tail. They won’t have enough men or ships to make it upriver.’

  ‘Your son’s plan for the fire-ships could work,’ replied Hakon. ‘But estuary tides can throw some strange drifts — and towing seven ships ablaze was always going to be a tricky business. But the farther into the estuary you go, the greater the risk. Once Jötunn and your son move beyond the bluffs and sail through the neck of the estuary they will be at the mercy of tide, wind and flame. If the fire-ships run off-course, or run aground, the whole game is lost.’

  ‘Lord Lodin,’ said Thrandt. ‘Forgive me, but isn’t it too great a risk to take fire-ships beyond the bluffs? My wife and sons will be on board stoking the fires. What if your son’s plan doesn’t work?’

  ‘I will make it work,’ said Ingvar, glaring at Hakon and Thrandt. He switched boldly to his father. ‘I promise you! We can end it there and then. If Glun is overwhelmed at Criadain strand, it will be all over for him. He will be forced to return to Linn-dubh.’

  ‘As easy as that?’ returned Lodin. ‘Is that the way of a cur? No, I tell you. A dog licks his wounds. His shaggy arse will itch and burn till he can bite back at us. Glun is Amlav’s blood, after all. He won’t rest till he repays us a hundred fold!’

  Jötunn Ormson had first caught the eye of Lady Aghamora, seeking her approval to join the debate. He ventured cautiously. ‘Will my foster-father allow me a word or two?’

  With a nod Lodin gave him leave.

  ‘What Ingvar has told you about the numbers,’ said Jötunn, ‘we know it for certain to be true.’

  Lodin asked. ‘How can you trust spies? It could all be an invention on Glun’s part to entice us into battle.’

  ‘We have had three reports,’ replied Jötunn. ‘And all tell the same story. You can trust horse traders from Brythuniog: these men are as good as their word, I would stake my life on it. Amlavson has sailed from Linn-dubh with fourteen long-ships — barely eight-hundred men. We are nigh to mid-summer, the harrier season half-way through. Had Glun been able to raise more men and ships at this stage from Linn-dubh, you can be certain that he would have done — and he would have put to sea sooner than this! He would be here by now.’

  Deasún asked cautiously. ‘Why has there been so little interest in Glun’s campaign?’

  ‘Well, Jötunn, why is that?’ said Lodin, ‘Spit it out.’

  ‘There is one simple answer,’ rejoined his foster-son. ‘A hefty war-chest has been promised over the water at Jorvik, a summer-long campaign against Saxon-lands to the south. It seems that no one is bothered to voyage to Erinland, while they have rich pickings under their feet.’

  ‘Iron-knee is a shrewd fox,’ Hakon urged suddenly. ‘Do not misjudge him, Ingvar. He has a devil at his heels — a devil called Raffson.’

  ‘Don’t keep on about Iron-knee!’ Ingvar was scathing in uttering Glun’s name. ‘I am sick of hearing how much he is to be feared! Listen, Father! This is how short-handed the man is. He has had to break his journey. He has put into Arnkels-cove — Arnkels-cove of all places! Last thing we heard, his fleet was still there. He has been beached for a week, while he struggles to drum up more ships.’

  Thrandt suggested, ‘Perhaps he’s waiting for last-ditch news from Jorvik? For more ships to come from the Saxon lands?’ The shipwright spoke sense, but no one took heed of him.

  ‘It is now or never, Father,’ said Ingvar, cutting off Thrandt’s words. ‘Give me the go-ahead!’

  ‘Arnkels-cove is Glun’s last chance to pick up men and ships,’ added Jötunn Ormson. ‘He won’t show his face at Vaes-fiord. He knows better than to try his luck with my father.’

  Lodin stroked his beard. ‘The enmity between your father Orm and his cousin Amlav goes back a long time. Did he or I ever tell you, Jötunn, how it happened? It was some nonsense over a sister’s bride-price, a stupid dispute over nothing — it wasn’t as if a shipload of horses was at stake!’

  From Jötunn’s smile it was evident he had heard Lodin’s story a hundred times before.

  Lady Aghamora pressed again. ‘How much more do you need to know, husband? If Glun comes at us with only eight hundred warriors, our strength will be enough to guarantee victory. Counting the Erse alone, we have five times Glun’s number massed at Criadain strand. I have seen them for myself.’

  Deasún was more cautious of the figure. ‘I’d hazard a guess at not more than twenty hundreds,’ said her son-in-law, ‘women included and, for the most part, armed with stave and camán.’

  ‘But, Father,’ said Ingvar quickly, ‘You have six hundred warriors you could send to Criadain strand — your men from the fort, all armed and bucklered. And don’t forget my paid men from Vaes-fiord.’

  Hearing this, Lodin became impatient of his son. ‘You expect me to release men from guard duty at the treasury! And from wall-watch day and night at the fort? And toll-watch at beaching grounds on the river? How can I send every man of mine to Criadain strand?’

  ‘No, of course not, Father,’ returned Ingvar hastily. ‘But for a start, don’t waste a hundred men by despatching warriors to Inis-tioc! Why send your men north? They won’t be needed!’

  Chapter 45

  Shaynat has asked for a spare ship’s rope — two if I can spare them. Upstream from reed-ford, there is a sharp, narrow bend, where an-Uir flows past the river-isle on both sides. The water at the bend can be up to nine ells deep — impossible to cross there even by punt or curach as the current is too strong. And yet Beyveen’s mother has a plan to build a crossing there: a pontoon stretching from isle to water-meadows, a walking platform made from fish-traps laid end to end, a bridge of sorts to span the river.

  Traps for river-fish are bigger than the lobster cages, which coastal fishermen plant on the seabed. They are made, not of net and twine, but of tender willow-shoots that are woven into cages. The green willow-sprouts root into muddy banks, against which the traps are moored. Once cut free from their roots and moorings, a fish-trap floats to the surface of the river, a soggy cage of sedge and reeds.

  These ‘floaters’ — as Beyveen calls them —
are to be strung across the river at the bend upstream from reed-ford. Under Shaynat’s guidance, the women of the Rath will rope the fish-traps together, like huge beads on a necklace, using two coils of spare rigging borrowed from the Meuris. By this method Shaynat plans to walk across a river nine ells deep.

  *

  Fjak puffs and grumbles. He and Hrut set down another dripping fish-trap on the bank. ‘A lot of work, this! He mutters under his breath. ‘Why does she need a stepping-bridge here? What’s wrong with crossing at the ford?’

  Shaynat has overheard him. ‘That’s for me to know,’ she replies, ‘and for you to discover.’

  Fjak pretends not to hear. ‘Hola, Pigtail,’ says he to Baldr, ‘Are you lubbers taking a dip?’

  Baldr and Kru have stripped to serk and breeches. Baldr, strong swimmer that he is, has agreed to swim across and secure each rope in turn to a river-oak on the far bank. Kru will wade out as far as he can with a coil to keep the weight of rope from dragging Baldr under the water.

  ‘I will dive in farther up, Skip,’ says Baldr to me. ‘That will allow for the current pulling me downriver.’ He signs to Kru. The two shipmates each sling a coil on the shoulder and jog to the tip of the isle — about thirty paces away. Leasha, Beyveen and the isle women have gone with them. They will start to spool the ropes through the ‘floaters’.

  *

  Women from the Rath have been lining up fish-traps on the bank, setting to one side those that have rotted and cannot be used. Shaynat has said that the traps must be able to carry a woman’s weight. One of the women asks, ‘Will the ropes stretch all the way across the river?’

  ‘We will find out soon enough, Widow Derdriu,’ replies Shaynat. She winks at me. ‘It had better work! There’s no other crossing near reed-ford narrower than this!’

  *

  Tioc Cahaun — seen for the first time since yesterday evening — comes down the slope from the empty horse paddocks and joins us at reed-ford. A scabbarded sword is girded at his waist, a buckler slung on his back. Beyveen’s father is naked above the waist, revealing his flesh — darkened during summer harvests on the meadows — and a hairy chest frizzled grey with age. He has a well-worn warrior-skirt of deer-skin hitched above his scrawny knees. He ignores Gil-Phatric’s greeting, marches past us at the ford, and goes upstream to inspect the pontoon of fish-traps laid across the river.

  The floating platform is held in place by our spare ship’s ropes tied on the slack. A swift current pushes against the ropes. The fish-traps have sunk a little in the water. They float just below the surface. The river flows through the hollow cages of willow, as it does over a weir, frothing up bubbles across the pontoon, and making brown-white eddies downstream. The current at mid-river pulls the platform into a curved shape, which makes it look like a giant woman’s necklace floating on the water.

  Older boys and girls from the Rath chase across the platform to and fro. They tip-toe ankle-deep, finding a foothold on the floating cages. From the shore they look as if they are magically walking on water. This daredevil prancing over water nine ells deep excites much envy amongst the younger children. They would join their brothers and sisters at play, were they not denied by their mothers, who bar their way across. The little ones content themselves with scrambling into the shallows and hurling pebbles from the shore.

  ‘Water-walkers!’ they cry. ‘We will soon make you sink! See if we don’t!’

  *

  On the river-bank, close to the pontoon, three stout women are boiling pine-tar in a caldron over a fire, their round matronly faces red from heat of fire and caldron, and from the now scorching morning sun. The women plunge besoms of birch into the smoking mixture. The besom-heads of brushwood are wrapped with sheep’s fleece to form a mop-head. The bristle-heads, sticky and sodden with tar, are stacked head to head, in fours and sixes — mop-head upward — huge dipped torch-wads ready to be lit.

  Women are relieved to see Tioc girded for battle. They surround him and, all chattering at once, they point proudly to the pontoon and to their older children running safely over it. Having returned to the ford, the chieftain addresses me, not his wife or Gil-Phatric.

  ‘Thralson, will you hurry down to Cluddy and take a message to Hakon?’

  ‘As you wish, Tioc Cahaun. What am I to say?’

  Tioc looks at his wife before replying. ‘Tell Hakon that the leet-gates have been opened upstream. On no account must he or his warriors stray into the water-meadows. When you have told Hakon, he will understand at once and he will know to keep to higher ground. By mid-day the river-flood will make the meadows nigh impassable. I don’t want him losing hundreds of men bogged down on a badly chosen battle-field.’

  Now would be the time to come clean. Tioc must be told of our true numbers. We will not have hundreds of men in the field at Cloddy. I bite my lip. The moment passes.

  A smile from Shaynat to her husband. ‘You approve of the flooding?’

  Tioc smiles benignly in return. ‘When you left the clachan before dawn, without the hawk and taking the girls with you, I knew at once where you were going.’

  *

  ‘No word yet from the wilderlings,’ says Tioc. ‘Time is short, Mac Dunchad. We must light the battle-beacon on Slieve Bhraan. Wilderlings won’t come unless they are summoned.’

  ‘Rest easy, Tioc Cahaun,’ returns Gil-Phatric. He offers a robed arm to Leasha to help her hop off a stepping stone from the ford. ‘They will come. They gave their word to my father — the wilderlings won’t refuse a King of Osri.’

  Leasha looks proudly at her future husband.

  Tioc asks. ‘But what if your father has second thoughts? What if, instead of sending them to us, he calls them to his assistance in the plain? You can’t deny it. It will have crossed his mind to muster the wilderlings against Amlav. More power to his sword-arm, it will be there, but not here. The Tuathal has no qualms about changing his plans, no matter who suffers — I know to my cost!’

  ‘Our God is with us,’ replies Gil-Phatric. ‘With or without wilderlings, battle-beacons or not, we are in God’s hands. In the sight of St Bhraan’s cross, God will bring us victory!’

  *

  Before leaving for Cluddy to deliver Tioc’s message, I assemble the crew of the Meuris. We hunker down in the shade, squatting under a river-oak a short distance from the ford. It is hot and humid under the ancient tree, and we are plagued with midges dancing in the dung-cloyed air, but I don’t want us to be overheard. At the stepping-stones, Tioc and Gil-Phatric are arguing over how many men should be spared to defend shad-ford on the other side of the isle, in case an attack should come from that quarter.

  ‘Listen, lads!’ I cast a glance at the river. ‘Once I deliver Tioc’s message to Hakon, I won’t hang about. I will be back here on the isle as soon as I can.’

  ‘Of course you will, Skip,’ says Baldr in puzzlement. ‘Why would we think different?’

  ‘You must all be aware. I have made a tryst to stand at the ford with the people of the Rath. The vow is mine and not yours — none of you are bound by my decision.’

  ‘Fair enough, Skip,’ says Dantzk. ‘But we are with you, and the Meuris, we will stick together, eh lads? ’

  A ‘yeah-yeah’ from the others to back him up. They men wait apprehensively. Baldr signs for Kru. Our mute shipmate touches the iron head of his bright new axe — a long-shafted battle-axe like mine. The smith at Vadrar-fiord charged him twice what I had paid.

  ‘You have a choice, shipmates.’ I speak quietly. I don’t want my voice to betray a tremor catching my throat. ‘Any man who wants to can come with me now to Cluddy, and remain there, to fight alongside Hakon and the others.’

  Young Hrut asks. ‘What are you saying, Skip? You are not asking us to run away from here?’

  ‘No, Thrandtson, far from it,’ I reply. ‘But this is your chance — a chance for all the ship’s crew. No skin off my nose. If you’d rather be at Cluddy, now is the time to make the move. You might feel safer, and m
ore comfortable, fighting from Cluddy woodlands with your father and Hakon — and with old Bergthor than here with me alongside the Erse.’

  ‘I’d rather stay with the ship,’ says Hrut boldly. ‘With you, Skip, and with the rest of the crew.’

  ‘Don’t be hasty,’ I return. ‘We are woefully short of men to defend the settlement. The truth is: the chieftain’s gillies went out west early. They were expected back, but are not here yet. And the herders — the young unmarried men, who yesterday drove out his livestock and horses — haven’t returned to their clachans. Tioc was counting on them. Now all he has are women and children, and older men like himself.’

  Fjak swats midges from his face. ‘Those young shits — to think that we played quoits with them! How can they can run off? Abandon homes and families? Are we to spill blood for their sake?’

  ‘In a way,’ says Halp, ‘I don’t blame them. I bet the lads from the Rath will have gone north. Promise of spoils. Simple as that! They will have followed their big Erse chieftain into the plain.’

  Baldr signs for Kru.

  Dantzk stands to speak; bumps his head on an oak branch and hunkers down again.

  ‘Spit it out, old friend,’ says Halp. ‘What were you wanting to say?’

  ‘I thought,’ says Dantzk, ‘that the fire-ships at Vadrar-fiord were meant to save the day.’

  ‘That’s the plan,’ says Baldr.

  ‘Yeah,’ says Dantzk, ‘Lodin’s son is going to tow them into the neck of the estuary. That will stop the men of Linn-dubh in their tracks.’ And then he adds, almost wistfully. ‘I have seen it all before: we will end up sitting here at the ford, out on a limb with no smell of blood, no arm-rings or ingots to strip from the dead, and with feck-all to do except battle these fecking midges.’