The Firedrake

by Cecelia Holland

  Laeghaire put on his mail and surcoat in the hut. Hilde sat still on the bed.

  “Be careful.”

  “I will.”

  Shield, lance, sword. He buckled the belt. The tongue slid into the worn hole. It rested around his hips, settling into ruts it had made over years. Ruts in his body. He took his helmet. She charged into his arms. He kissed her. He thought of the Saxon woman. She stood away from him. He turned and went out. He mounted the brown stallion and Rolf took off the twitch. The stallion fought madly. He twisted and kicked and reared. Laeghaire bent out of the saddle and snatched the rope from Rolf. He beat the stallion with it and spurred him. He beat him solidly over the shoulders and barrel. The stallion stood stock-still. His ears lay back against his poll. Laeghaire gave him rein. The horse shook his head and stayed standing. Laeghaire flung back his head and laughed. He tossed away the rope and turned the stallion and galloped down to the marketplace. The street rang with his passage.

  It seemed to move so slowly. The sun came up. The marketplace was clogged with knights and men on foot. They struggled to get into some kind of order. William watched them somberly. He sent men off to direct the masses here and there. There was little noise. Laeghaire saw Tailleford, the jongleur, riding a mule by the well, singing songs.

  Slowly, gathering, straightening out into lines and files. The sun lifted away from the hills. They began to move. Now there was noise. Horses and men marching. They moved out of Hastings. The Saxons who had been there all the time came to stand on the wall and watch the Normans go.

  Tailleford rode in front of the Duke, singing the old song about Roland and the massacre at Roncevalles. He tossed his ax into the air and caught it tumbling down. He sang in a good deep voice, like an Irish ollamh. Laeghaire turned in the saddle to look back. The men behind him were all arrayed in bright colors, all marching to the time of the song, the foot soldiers first on their palfreys, the knights behind them, and the archers all around. Behind everybody else, the camp- followers came, but he did not see them. He saw nothing but the glinting of the armor and the bobbing of helmets.

  They made a long train. He wished he could ride off so that he could see it. Many men, and all of them polished and on their war-horses, all bright in their surcoats, all chanting the refrain to Tailleford’s verses. Beside him rode William, who would be King of England if he had his way. William rode his big gray gelding; he rode head and shoulders above Fitz-Osbern on his right and a head taller than Laeghaire on his left. Laeghaire thought he looked like a prophet from the Bible. He looked at William’s face, half hidden by the helmet. William’s hand on the rein looked strong enough to break Laeghaire’s wrist.

  The brown stallion shook his head. Laeghaire leaned forward and slapped at a late fly, sucking on the stallion’s neck. The land unfolded around them. He wondered if Roland had felt this way, riding to fight the pagans. But Roland had died. Tailleford was singing the death song now. He felt his heart jump, hearing the old song.

  He could hear Tailleford’s voice and the answering voices of the men behind him, and the hoofs of the horses and the feet of the unmounted men, pounding on the land. He looked again at William’s great fist.

  “How many battles have you fought?” William said suddenly.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you ever afraid now?”

  “No.”

  “Do you suppose that Roland was afraid?” Fitz-Osbern said.

  “No.” Laeghaire said. “Roland could hardly have been; he’d told the Emperor that he would prefer to die in the vanguard than live by flight, and anyhow, he had a chance to call up help and he refused.”

  “Would you have sounded that horn?” William said.

  Laeghaire grinned. “Yes, by God. I’m thirsty. Where’s wine?”

  Fitz-Osbern called for one of the squires riding nearby and sent him for wine.

  “It was a betrayal, though,” Fitz-Osbern said. “Not an ordinary case.”

  “It makes no difference. I would have blown that horn until my chest burst.”

  William laughed.

  “There are finer songs in Ireland, though,” Laeghaire said. “None of this mess with honor and to blow a horn or not.”

  “Sing us one.”

  “It’s in Gaelic. You wouldn’t understand it.”

  “What is it about?”

  “Cuchulain, the greatest hero in Ireland, except for Fionn MacCumhail, and I always preferred Cuchulain.”

  “What else?”

  “Cuchulain had curses against him, because he had killed the hound of the smith Culain—that’s how he got his name. He couldn’t eat dog, but he had to accept food when it was offered—”

  “Why?”

  “Because those were the terms.”

  “I like Roland better,” Fitz-Osbern said.

  “What happened to Cuchulain?” William said.

  “He finally had to eat dog because of his curse, and he died in battle. He tied himself to a stone column with his belt so that he would die standing on his feet.”

  “You mean the curse killed him?”

  “The curse, weakened him. He couldn’t pass a fire where food was cooking without eating of it, and three witches cooked dog over a fire by the road he had to pass along, so that he would lose some of his strength.”

  “Sing it in Gaelic, now that we understand,” William said.

  “I would rather listen to Tailleford, my lord.”

  But he sang the song to himself, reciting the Gaelic, and did not listen to Tailleford.

  They came to the place where the Saxons were drawn up, even while Tailleford was singing the last few verses. Tailleford sang of the old, old Emperor lying asleep, and the Normans gathered, facing the Saxons. The Saxons were still moving into place. Tailleford sang of the angel coming to the Emperor in his sleep, and the Saxons raised their shields before them and made that great unbreakable wall, and their standards went up; while the Emperor wept into his long beard and lamented that God had called him out again to fight.

  They were all silent. They stood there, on that hill at the other end of the valley, those Saxons, and Laeghaire saw the housekarls in the middle and the fyrd on either side, ranged on the top of the hill and protected by the ranging of the trees. The standards curled and uncurled above them. Harold’s banner and the Wessex Dragon. Harold’s banner was of gold, and it snapped in the wind. The gray clouds raced above it and the wind rippled through it. He could hardly hear William’s instructions. They were waiting. One of them was waiting for him. One of them was going to kill him. Kill him, Laeghaire, Laeghaire of the Long Road, all to end here, and he felt his heart gather and ice. The field was long and green and brown before them, all the way to the opposite hill and the shield wall. Now the archers jogged up, to take a place off to the left, off on a little bit of a rise. The shield wall was closed and hard, like the back of a turtle. The standard curled and uncurled above it. There was no sun. The sun had gone in. That was what the dream meant, the dream of the wolf and the witch: dying.

  The horns blared. Laeghaire rode by William, down along the field, and the whole heated press of the Normans was all around him. Not one man here speaks my born tongue, not one man here knows my home. He gripped the lance and raised it a little. All my life come to this. Perhaps it’s better. Yes.

  William sent Fitz-Osbern up to call out Harold the Saxon and declaim against him. Fitz-Osbern rode alone over the plain on his gay, draped horse. The sound of the horse came clearly back to him. Laeghaire turned and looked at the banner, borne close by William, the torn blue banner blessed by the Pope. He spat into the dust. His mouth was dry.

  Fitz-Osbern spoke some words, and the Saxon spoke some words. Fitz-Osbern turned and rode back. His horse grew larger and larger, cantering back across the valley. The sound grew bigger. Fitz-Osbern leaned out, saluting William. His horse reached the Norman lines. The horns blasted. They charged.

  The foot soldiers ran in first, with half the archers. The arrows
of the archers dropped harmlessly against the shield wall. The foot soldiers closed the gap rapidly. William held back the knights, watching. Laeghaire trembled all over. The stallion plunged and curved his neck. The foot soldiers seemed puny. Suddenly the defenders on the hill loosed a rain of missiles on them. Many of the foot soldieis fell. Laeghaire swore under his breath. He glanced at William. William stared down at the shield wall. His eyes never blinked. Laeghaire could feel his mind working. The noise from the battle up there was tremendous. William moved his hand and the motion was gigantic.

  The knights galloped down, threading through the retreating foot soldiers. Laeghaire galloped beside William. The stallion was faster than the gray gelding but Laeghaire held him back. They struck the shield wall. It clanged like a sword on a sword. A fence of axes rose before them. Laeghaire hurled his lance and drew his sword. The stallion reared, clawing at the wall. Laeghaire bent down and slashed awkwardly at a helmeted head. The head swung back when he struck it. An ax reached for him. He thrust it away with his sword. He felt a tight binding in his chest. He felt the heat rising in his chest. He shouted and took the sword in both hands and smashed at the housekarl below him. Suddenly the man vanished.

  The rest of the knights were backing away. Laeghaire wrenched the stallion around. From the corner of his eye he saw a Saxon, shield advanced, running in toward his back. He swung around and wheeled the sword backhanded. The blade took the Saxon across the shoulder and toppled him.

  He turned and galloped after the other Normans. He was the last man away from the shield wall. He heard a cheer behind him and swung Ills shield around to cover his back. He saw part of the fyrd break the line and come running after them, cheering and waving their weapons.

  The Normans were all in a wild flight. Laeghaire shouted. He veered the stallion. He saw the gray gelding leap around, and a horn blew. Knights swerved around all over the field. They flew down on the isolated little band of Saxons, cut them apart from the shield wall, and turned in on them. They rushed together and for a moment struck and butchered, and rushed back, cantering off. Behind them Laeghaire saw the tangled, mauled bodies of the little band of Saxons.

  He rode back with William to their hill and watched the Normans slowly regrouping. They sat silent on their horses. The shield wall was unbroken. Their Norman dead lay on the slope, and that little patch of Saxons. The banner flew wildly over the wall. The Saxons cheered again, and Laeghaire called for water and dampened his lips and sat motionless, breathing.

  “Is there a chance that we could encircle them?” Fitz-Osbern said to William.

  “Take us all day to ride around. Lose the advantage.”

  “What advantage?” Fitz-Osbern said, and bit his lip. “They are slaughtering us.”

  “He just reached this place last night. His men are tired. And he hasn’t got all his men here yet. You wait and see.”

  Laeghaire walked the brown stallion back and forth. He passed William and Fitz-Osbern every few moments and heard bits of what they said. He hardly cared. He looked up at that wall and at the dead men and horses on the slope. It seemed straight as a church aisle, straight from him to the men he would kill and who would kill him. For this day he had been born, to sit his saddle on this day and see all the events of his life in the pattern that took him to this straight line that lay between his life and his death.

  The horns blew and they reassembled. The greatest mass of the foot soldiers was on the right flank now. The archers were all up on the end of the hill to the left. William had moved his fingers and everybody had scurried into place.

  The archers cocked their bows and leaned back and aimed and fired, and on the whining of the flying shafts they charged.

  William beside him seemed to brace; they struck the shield wall and the horses smashed against it. The axes and the swords and the Welsh hooks reached for them. The brown stallion stumbled and Laeghaire snatched for the pommel of the saddle. Something crashed against his shield. The stallion struggled up. Laeghaire was half out of the saddle. He lashed out blindly with the shield and felt the edge strike another shield and crush it in. The stallion lunged. Laeghaire was over the cantle of the saddle. He hauled himself back into the seat. He was in the middle of the Saxons. They turned on him like devils. The wall was behind him; he was alone. He lashed out around him. The shield was half wrenched from his arm. He cleaved a Saxon from shoulder to waist and the blood showered over him. A sword crossed his and he whipped it free. He caught an ax blow on the edge of the shield and heard the iron ring. He wheeled the horse and spurred him, dropping the rein. A man leaped for him and caught his wrist. He swept the Saxon away with his sword. The stallion reared and bolted. Laeghaire caught a blow on his right fist and struck back by reflex. The swing struck nothing until the very end and caught bone and flesh. He clubbed down a housekarl with the flat of the sword, and the stallion jumped. Laeghaire caught at the pommel of the saddle and the rein. The stallion galloped down the slope, full speed.

  He rode back to where William sat his horse and talked. It was hot, as if the lowering clouds penned all the heat under them like a forge.

  “I never thought I’d see you back again, Irish,” William said.

  “There was a moment when I wasn’t too sure of it,” Laeghaire said.

  He dismounted and looked at the stallion. William sent someone to call a truce so that they could look for wounded. The stallion was cut over both knees and breathing hard. Laeghaire washed the blood from the horse’s knees. The stallion was covered with blood, but most of it was Saxon.

  Laeghaire took off his glove. His thumb was smashed. A piece of white bone thrust up through the torn skin. The thumb was shapeless.

  He took a piece from his surcoat and wrapped up the thumb. William rode over. “If that’s all you’re wounded, you’ll survive.”

  “I need it to hold my sword.” He put the glove back on and curled his fingers. “Unh. That’s all right.”

  William smiled. “Are you ever afraid, Irish?”

  “Would it make any difference? I think I’m going to get it today.”

  William was silent for a while.

  “It’s as good a place as any to end my life, isn’t it?” Laeghaire said.

  “No,” William said. “It isn’t.”

  Laeghaire looked up at him.

  “Mount up,” William said. He looked angry. He had not been angry all through the battle.

  He mounted. He could see the sun faintly, through the clouds, and the men coming back, with the wounded carried on their saddles. Jehan passed him, borne between two men. They laid him down. His back was smashed. His head turned slowly from side to side. His mouth was so drawn up with pain that it seemed to slit his head in half.

  “Let’s go,” William said. He looked over at the archers, shooting in regular volleys, now that the field was cleared, and the arrows sliding through the sky and down past the wall, past the standard rippling like a snake.

  They rolled in on the shield wall and the whole line hacked and struck at it and at the Saxons behind it. A few Normans broke through and were cut down before they could widen the gap or hold it, and the wall closed up behind them. Laeghaire saw the twisted mouths of the Saxons, saw them swear and wince and scream, and his arm was independent of his body, launching the sword against them. Only the sharp pain in his thumb reminded him that that arm was part of him. He took half a dozen murderous blows on his shield, turning them off, his arm numbed. He felt the stallion shy once at a Welsh hook and come up against William’s horse. They withdrew again in disorder and the fyrd came down after them and desperately the Normans turned and hacked them to pieces, hating them.

  “We won’t break them,” Fitz-Osbern said. “They are like iron.”

  “We’ll break them,” William said.

  Laeghaire raised his head. He took off his helmet. The cool air touched his sweaty hair and he felt better.

  “They’ve lost a lot of men,” William said. “We’ll take them.”


  It was midafternoon now. The sun was gone again. The clouds pressed down on them. The standard of the Saxons waved and fluttered before them. Suddenly it was small, who won or lost here, who lived or died. All the great plans, they sounded good and wise and huge when we talk about, them, Laeghaire thought, they sound like the actions of God, but when I come up to them they are nothing but little men on little horses playing war.

  He looked at William, doubting, and William’s face was calm and steady, the mouth not smiling, not frowning, thinking, the eyes thinking. He never stopped thinking.

  “Mount up. Mount up.”

  His body screamed that he could not mount up again and ride down there. He mounted. They were very much fewer. Jehan was gone; he must have died.

  They rode straight for the wall. The stallion was tired and would not race. The horses labored and the foam splashed over them. Laeghaire knew from the way the horse shifted his weight that they had reached the base of the slope up to the shield wall. They came against the wall and were stopped and they fought across the shields. The swords glittered in the air; the air was lull of iron. The Saxons seemed to lean forward to claw at them, the shield wall folded in on them.

  William’s horse reared straight up and fell. Laeghaire bent the stallion around. The gray was thrashing on the ground. The Saxons broke to surround them. Laeghaire flung out his shield to cover William. He smashed at the grinning, clawing enemy Saxons. He wanted to destroy them all; he wanted to hurt them, to pound them into pulp. He could not see. His eyes were in his sword, and he moved his sword with his whole body. He stood in his stirrups and crushed the Saxons under his sword and ground them down. Their heads cracked under his sword like bugs. The faces split and their grinning mouths grew all around their heads, and their chests fountained blood. The blood sprayed over him and he was covered with it and the horse slipped and stumbled. He flogged them with his sword. William was up behind him. He spurred the stallion away. They retreated wildly, and once again the fyrd charged after them, and once again the Normans wheeled to cut them off and slaughtered them, but the housekarls stayed on their hill and would not come down and be slaughtered too.