Another weapon of awesome power was the mace. This consisted of a solid iron ball, usually spiked, to which a chain was attached. The other end of the chain was fastened to a sturdy wooden handle. One swing of the mace could send it crashing through a wall. The mace was heavy and awkward; most warriors preferred the axe. However the basic Irish axe, which had been in use since the Bronze Age, was being superseded by the end of the tenth century. Under Brian Boru the Gael were learning to use the terrifying Lochlann axe made famous by the Vikings. There was only one way to use the Viking battle axe. It had to be held in both hands and swung from the shoulder with a man’s full weight behind it. But when it struck, it killed.
The sword was the more versatile weapon. It might be used right-handed or left, or tossed from one hand to the other. Depending on the shape, it could slice, slash or thrust. In the case of the long sword, the enemy could be hit with the flat of the blade and knocked off balance or even stunned. Some warriors boasted that they kept their swords sharp enough to shave off a man’s beard.
A very different weapon with an ancient provenance was the sling, the early Irish version of artillery. This consisted of a flexible pole with a leather sling affixed to one end. A heavy stone placed in the sling was propelled with great force by a skilful whipping motion of the pole. In the right hands, the pole-sling was deadly, even at a distance – weapons experts have speculated that this was what David employed against Goliath.
The shields carried by Brian’s army were circular in shape, made of stout Irish oak cross-braced and edged with iron. They were covered with leather dyed in brilliant colours, and bossed with bronze which had been plated in gleaming brass. These were not full length, whole-body shields, but carried on the arm to allow the warrior maximum agility.
The Gael did not wear armour in battle. At most, warriors protected their upper torsos with coats of specially toughened leather. By the end of the tenth century a few may have possessed metal corselets in imitation of the Northmen, but there is no record of any of the Irish troops wearing armour at Clontarf. The often cited ‘portrait’ of Brian Boru, which was first published in 1726 by Bazaleal Creake and used in Geoffrey Keating’s General History of Ireland, shows him wearing a spiky crown and solid body armour like one of King Arthur’s knights in a Hollywood movie. This image is not only an anachronism but a total fantasy.
Gaelic warriors either wore their hair long, or elaborately braided. If it was long, they might wear close-fitting leather helmets to keep the hair out of their eyes when they fought, but leather was no protection against a sword or an axe. For that they must trust in God and their own skill.
Estimates have wildly exaggerated the number of warriors who fought at the Battle of Clontarf, but it is safe to say there were probably at least seven to eight thousand on each side. As was customary at the time, Brian organised his combined forces into three large catha – battalions or divisions – which were then subdivided into companies of a hundred warriors each. The highest-ranking kings commanded the battalions; lesser nobles were in charge of the companies. Leaders were appointed for every band of nine warriors, so that each group would be like a little tribe.
Officers of every rank were expected to fight side by side with their men. In the heat of battle even kings received no special consideration.
Ignoring his age, his weariness, and the ache in his joints, Brian was out amongst the warriors every day, in all weathers. His sons worried about him. They noticed what he refused to admit: that it was difficult for him. But these were his men and he must do everything possible to prepare them. As always, up until the last moment Brian worried that he might have forgotten something vital. Then there was no time left. It looked like there would be enough men – there must be enough; he did not know how large the enemy force would be but this must be enough!
Brian had been waiting, undoubtedly anxious, for news of Malachy Mór’s intentions. He must have been very relieved when Malachy and his personal army arrived at Kincora. A celebratory feast was cut short to allow for a night’s sleep, and on the following morning the combined armies of the two kings got underway. The annalists report it was the feast day of St Patrick.
As they set out for their rendezvous with fate, the Gael were attired in the bright colours beloved of their race. The more colours, the higher the wearer’s status. The Book of Rights describes the costume of the noble class: ‘… cloaks of white, red, blue, green, deep purple, variegated, plaid of lasting colour, cloaks of strength, fair cloaks with borders not crooked, cloaks with golden borders and ring-clasps, others bordered with white, and napped cloaks trimmed with purple.’
Princes and chieftains also wore ‘white, glossy shirts and colourful, well-adjusted, enfolding tunics over comfortable long vests’. These garments were made of the finest silk and linen. Trimmings of woven gold were not uncommon. Some also had helmets described as ‘golden’ – perhaps brass plates affixed to leather and set with precious stones. A man of high rank might wear a heavy gold torc around his neck, not only testifying to his wealth but also useful for absorbing an unexpected blow. His long cloak was made of densely woven, brilliantly dyed wool, lined with fur or with silk purchased from Norse traders. The massive brooch that fastened the cloak was precisely arranged with the sharp point sticking up at an angle, ready to stab the hand of an unsuspecting assailant who reached over his shoulder.
Gaelic warriors below the chieftainly class were clothed in tunics of saffron-dyed wool, belted at the waist with leather or horsehair. An undyed linen undergarment was considered a necessity. The womenfolk sewed coloured fringe on the hems of the tunics, but once the march was underway the more experienced fighting men ripped it off. In close combat the fringe could be clutched by an opponent and used to hold the wearer long enough for the killing blow. Young Gaelic men, who were vain about their legs, went to war barelegged, wearing a short, snugly fitted jacket and a ‘battle apron’ which extended only to mid-thigh. This garment, often made of plaid, was the forerunner to the kilt of the Scottish highlands.
Older men preferred full-length woollen trews, narrow at the calves and with a strap over the instep to hold them in place, or snugly woven hose crossbound with leather thongs. Their shoes were made of robust rawhide. They too possessed cloaks, although these were usually made of leather. Several layers of greased deerskin would keep a man dry in the rain and serve him for a bed at night.
Every company had its place in the line of march, shoulder to shoulder as Brian wanted, his loyal tribes together with their allies. The battle they faced would not be the Irish against the Vikings, as it is usually and simplistically described. It was not even pagan against Christian. It would be Irish and Viking against Viking and Irish. Inside their skins the various races of mankind are much alike, and in 1014 there was little to choose between one group of combatants or the other. What would make the difference, what always makes the difference, was the quality of their leaders.
On a brisk March morning Brian Boru’s army crossed the Shannon at the ford below Kincora and headed northeast. Murrough, now forty-three years of age, rode beside his father at the head of the Dalcassians. But all eyes were fixed on the Árd Rí. A tall old man sitting straight as a pine tree on the back of a prancing horse, with no fear in his eyes or his heart. His great sword was at his hip. That was what the men needed to see: Brian Boru able and ready for battle.
Murrough had been thoroughly briefed in Brian’s battle plans. So had his brothers, Conor and Flann. Even if one of them fell, the others knew their father’s mind and would see that the other officers adhered to the strategy he had so carefully worked out. It was crucial to ensure that the battle had a definite shape and a pre-ordained conclusion. The discipline Brian had worked so hard to instil in his army was about to be tested as never before.
There were chieftains and warriors Brian could not control, and he knew it. In the fever of battle everything could go terribly wrong.
Throughout the march Brian held open a
place of honour in the front rank for the former high king, and had an exceptionally fine horse waiting for him. But Malachy did not take it. He rode on his own horse in the very midst of his warriors, with an attendant leading his spare mount, an unbroken stallion from Meath. The army from Meath was supported by a large force from Waterford, Hiberno-Norse warriors loyal to Brian.
The middle ranks of the marchers were occupied by warriors from Tipperary and the midlands, some Leinstermen who had decided to stand with Brian after all, kings from Oriel and Fermanagh, Ospak and his men, and southern Gaelic tribes such as the Decies. A contingent of the Hiberno-Norse from Limerick was followed by a troop of sturdy warriors from Connacht. The current king of Connacht, a son of Cathal Ua Connor, had for his own reasons declined to join Brian. But other Connachtmen did. Brian entrusted them with guarding the rear – a position of the greatest danger which offered a splendid opportunity for valour.
Murrough was bringing his own son, Turlough, to take part in the first great battle of his life. Turlough was only fifteen, but that was the age for taking up arms – in the eleventh century a boy was considered a man at fifteen. Another who was almost but not quite fifteen was Donough, Brian’s son by Gormlaith. The boy was eager to fight but Brian was not willing to see him on the battlefield yet. Instead, he put Donough in charge of a cavalry troop assigned to forage for provisions to re-supply the main army. The boy chafed at the assignment; he resented being kept away from the excitement, the thrilling glory he imagined. By the time he finally reached Clontarf he would be thirsting for blood.
In the years following the Battle of Clontarf, men from every Gaelic clan in Ireland would claim to have fought with Brian Boru. Not all of them did. Some never received the summons. Others promised to come, then failed to do so. There were those who simply could not see anything in it for themselves and forgot the whole idea. But enough of the Gael assembled to take part in the march from Kincora to Clontarf – and earn themselves a place in history.
Once they crossed the Shannon and entered Leinster, Brian’s army was in enemy territory. No matter how they approached Dublin, they would have to go through Leinster. Dublin was, in effect, a kingdom within a kingdom, surrounded on three sides by Leinster. On the fourth side was the sea.
Brian Boru was giving a lot of thought to the sea.
The battle to come was on the minds of other men as well. Brian’s royal son-in-law, King Malcolm of Scotland, was fully occupied defending the Scottish borders against both Northmen and Saxons, but when he learned of the upcoming invasion he had despatched a company of highlanders to go to Brian’s aid. These were led by Donald, Great Steward of Marr, chieftain of a branch of the Owenacht tribe that had settled in Scotland, and Murray, the Great Steward of Lennox. They would reach the northeast coast of Ireland in time to march south and meet Brian Boru’s forces during Holy Week. These welcome reinforcements would have given Brian some comfort had he known about them in advance, but he probably did not. He had to rely on what he had, including the battalion that had accompanied Malachy Mór to Kincora.
A millennium later it is impossible to know just what Brian felt about the former high king, the man he had displaced. They had been enemies and they had been allies, but in Brian’s mind there must have been a question about Malachy. He was seven years younger than Brian and he had more time left to him. If Brian died in the battle to come it would be to Malachy’s advantage. He probably would be asked to resume his high kingship. Malachy was a Christian and not a bad man; Brian did not believe the Meathman wished him ill. Yet who could say what he might do when opportunity beckoned? Brian Boru had never hesitated to make the most of his own opportunities.
The army’s route took it more than halfway across Ireland, climbing hills, fording streams, skirting treacherous bogs and pushing through dense forests that would have been impassable but for the roads that had been cut by Brian Boru. To follow the line of march today one would pass near the towns of Nenagh, Roscrea, Portlaoise, Kildare, and Naas before reaching the western outskirts of Dublin. By automobile on the motorway it is a pleasant drive of some three hours, allowing a brief stop for lunch. For thousands of foot soldiers carrying their battle gear, living off the land as much as they could and coping with mud and uncertain weather, it could take several days.
During the course of the march the officers met every night to discuss the matters uppermost in their minds, which ranged from provisions to armaments to the physical condition of the troops. Malachy Mór always appeared for these conferences, but made few contributions. The man with a reputation for conviviality had little to say. When the Árd Rí tried to find subjects for conversation that would draw him out, the former high king seemed disinterested.
Whatever thoughts were on his mind, Malachy did not share them with Brian Boru.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE DRAGONS ARE
COMING
True to his word, Sigurd the Stout recruited a number of Viking princes to join his invasion fleet. The Western Isles contributed a great number of warriors, as did Scandinavian colonies elsewhere. The Viking network was not cohesive but it was expansive, stretching from Iceland to the fringes of Russia. It also was, for its time, highly mobile. The longships which left the sheltered harbour at Scapa Flow sailed to almost every shore known to be occupied by Northmen, Vikings who would be eager to plunder Ireland.
Viking ships were a miracle of maritime design. The best were clinker-built of weathered oak planks, affixed with large iron nails and caulked with wool or animal hair and pitch. The vessels were wide through the body but swooped upwards at prow and stern to form an elegant curve. The deck was constructed of pine for lighter weight, fitted with rowing benches on either side and a gangway down the middle. Rollers to be used in beaching were stowed lengthwise under the seats. The warriors, who doubled as oarsmen, slept on their benches. All toilet facilities were over the side.
The bottom was flat amidships, where a tiny cabin offered what little protection was available from wind and wave. A leather cover could be pulled over the occupants, who would have been only the ranking officers or perhaps fragile cargo. Below the waterline the construction was strong yet flexible, in order to give with the force of the waves. A stepped mast held a large, square sail sewn of heavy linen, which could be raised or lowered by means of a tackle on the forestay. The deep keel was some twenty centimetres thick, broad in the centre but gradually diminishing towards the sternpost. This not only maintained stability in rough water but also permitted the use of the sail on open sea, greatly increasing range and speed.
The nearest equivalent may have belonged to the ancient Phoenicians. The remains of a Phoenician ship with what appears to be a seagoing keel were discovered off the Azores in the twentieth century. The Romans, for all their ingenuity, had nothing so clever; even their fabled triremes, with three rows of oars, were coaster boats.
For all its technical excellence, the Viking ship was most famous for the dragonheaded prow. This was the terrifying object the Christian monks first saw emerging from the sea mist. Not every seagoing vessel boasted such an emblem; it was reserved for the ‘Dragon’ class warships, which also had the dragon’s tail on the stern. But most Viking vessels were ornamented in some fashion. Like the Gael, even the lowest Northman had an innate love of beauty.
While he waited impatiently in his stronghold in the Orkneys, Sigurd the Stout was not thinking of beauty – or if he was, it was the beauty of the treasure he hoped to take from Ireland. He did not have long to wait; boats soon began arriving. The fierce fighting men of the Shetlands and the Hebrides were the first to join the Orkney-men, but within days contingents appeared from what is modern-day Cornwall, Flanders and parts of England. Men whose names were famous in the northern lands flocked to the Orkneys to take part in what promised to be a great adventure. Among them were several chieftains from the Hebrides, who were friends and allies of Sigurd’s: an intrepid explorer called Hrafn the Red, who claimed to have travelled ‘to
the ends of the earth’, and recently had converted to Christianity; the wealthy Erling of Straumey, who was eager to supply additional weaponry for the undertaking; and Thorstein, son of Hall of the Side. Some years earlier Thorstein had come to the Orkneys from Iceland with his friend Flosi, who was now a trusted retainer of Earl Sigurd. Every person who entered Sigurd’s hall was met by Flosi first.
The women did their part. To them fell the task of sharpening the weapons and rubbing the chainmail armour with fat until every link glistened. Sigurd’s elderly mother presented her favourite son with a new banner which she had sewn herself, a bright yellow flag featuring a black raven, the favourite symbol of Wotan, god of war. When the wind blew it looked as if the raven on the banner was flapping its wings. ‘You will be safe under those wings,’ the old woman promised Sigurd.
At about the same time, a supernatural vision of Earl Sigurd with blood on his face appeared to the inhabitants of the Orkneys. A man who knew him well saw him approaching on a horse and hurried forward to offer aid, thinking the earl was injured – before he could speak the figure vanished into thin air. A similar vision was reported by crofters and goatherds and an old woman spreading her washing on the ground to dry.
Prophesiers as far away as Iceland rolled the bones and reported that an horrific battle soon to be fought would destroy ‘all the brave men of the North’. But the dark omens which had not been enough to dissuade Brodir did not deter Sigurd either. He trusted in his mother’s promise.
While he waited for the day chosen to embark, the earl strolled down to the harbour many times to admire his assembled fleet. His personal ship, the flag ship that would carry his banner, was the most prepossessing of all. The fabric of the single sail which now lay folded in the stern was boldly striped in purple and yellow. The gunwales were painted in discordant shades that would appear garish to the modern eye, while the sides of the vessel were ornamented with carved wooden images of cavorting dolphins and leaping stags. The most thrilling figure of all was the immense dragon head on the prow. It was painted in brilliant crimson and gold, complete with cruel fangs and flaring nostrils. Although its jet black eyes were made of polished stones, they seemed alive with an insane fury.
1014: Brian Boru & the Battle for Ireland Page 9