The Princes of Ireland

by Edward Rutherfurd

  So it was, a short time later, that the lone figure of Caoilinn on a chestnut mare, followed by her two younger children, rode slowly out of Dyflin and across the wooden bridge. Once across, she followed the track up to a vantage point on some raised ground from which she could watch the outcome of events. Depending on how the battle went, she could either go with all haste to the man she loved, or retire discreetly back to Dyflin.

  “Let us pray, children,” she said.

  “What for, Mother?” they asked.

  “A clear victory.”

  They had drawn up the battle in three great lines. In the centre, the front line was made up of the men of Brian’s own tribe, led by one of his grandsons; behind them came the Munster host, with the Connacht men in the third line. On the two wings were the Norse contingents of Ospak and Wolf the Quarrelsome. Opposite them, advancing across the Tolka, the Leinster and Dyflin forces were in similar battle lines.

  Morann had never seen anything like it. He was only a few feet away from King Brian. Around the old king, his personal guards had formed a protective enclosure, ready to form their shields, if necessary, into an impenetrable wall. The slight slope gave them a good view of the battle which was to take place below them.

  The lines of troops were packed so thickly and were so deep, it seemed to Morann that you could have driven a chariot over their helmets from one wing to the other. Both sides had unfurled their battle banners, dozens of them, which were streaming in the breeze. At the centre of the enemy line, a huge wind sock in the form of a red dragon seemed ready to devour the other banners, while over the centre of Brian’s line, a black raven banner flapped as though screeching in fury.

  It was as soon as the enemy had waded across the Tolka stream that the war cries began, starting with bloodcurdling shouts from individual warriors or groups, but then gathering into a single huge roar from one line, only to be echoed by an answering roar from the other. Again the roar came as the two lines advanced, and again. And then, from the Celtic centre came the great opening shower of javelins. A second shower of spears followed the first; and then, with a mighty roar, the two front lines rushed forward and, with a huge bang, crashed together. It was a terrifying sight.

  Morann glanced at the little group in the enclosure. The king was sitting on a broad bench covered with furs. His eyes were fixed on the battle ahead, his face so alert that, despite his lines and his white beard, he seemed almost youthful. Beside him, waiting for an order, stood a faithful servant. Behind him, his face now paler than a ghost, was Osgar the monk. Several of the guards also stood ready to carry any messages he might wish to send. He had already sent one or two messages to his son, as to troop dispositions, but now, for the time being, there was nothing to do but watch and wait.

  If Osgar the monk looked frightened, Morann could hardly blame him. Would the enemy break through and sweep towards them? Scar-faced Brodar’s fearsome Vikings appeared to be making terrible inroads on one part of the line. But though it seemed to sag, Morann saw the standards from the centre suddenly start to move, creating an internal bulge in the line as they went towards the most hard-pressed point.

  “There goes my son,” said Brian with quiet satisfaction. “He can fight with a sword in each hand, you know,” he remarked to Morann. “Left or right, he strikes just as well.”

  In a little while the advance of Brodar’s men seemed to be contained; but it was soon clear that neither side had a definite advantage. Now and then part of a line would give ground, and troops from the line behind would take their place. Individual warriors could be seen, both by their standards and also by the eddies and swirls they produced as they struck down those around them. Where there were Vikings engaged, Morann could see little flashes as the blows struck against the chain mail produced sparks. The battle cries grew fewer as time went on. The sound of the blows made Morann wince. As for Osgar, his eyes had grown wide in a sort of fascinated horror. And perhaps Brian Boru could sense the palpable fear behind his shoulder, for after a while he turned round to the monk and smiled.

  “Sing us a Psalm, Brother Osgar,” he said amiably, “since God is on our side.” He reached down into a satchel beside him and pulled out a small volume. “You see,” he added, “I even have your Gospels here. I shall look at them while you sing.” And to Morann’s amazement and admiration, that was exactly what the old king did, remarking casually to his servant: “Keep an eye on the battle and let me know if anything happens.”

  One thing, Morann thought, that should have happened, was that the King of Tara should by now have come to join the fight. But as yet, though he was not far off, he had not moved. The silversmith did not say anything on the subject. To look at King Brian, calmly perusing the book, you would never have guessed he even expected him.

  Almost to his own surprise, Morann did not feel much afraid. It was not because he was behind the shield wall with King Brian. For the battle in all its fury was only a few hundred yards away. No, he realised, his calmness was due to something else. It was because he already knew that he was going to die.

  It was past noon when Sigurd saw the movement to his right.

  He had looked hard for Harold, as the two forces approached. Though Harold was a Norseman, Sigurd thought it most likely that, if he were in the battle, he would be with Brian’s own tribe or the Munster men. Or alternatively, he might be one of the men guarding the old king in person. He saw no sign of him yet, however, and though he had asked several men in the various detachments to call out if they saw him, he had heard nothing.

  He had killed five men so far and wounded at least a dozen others. He had chosen a steel sword to fight with today. In close fighting, he found it better to stab than try to swing an axe. Though good blades were forged in Dyflin, the Viking armaments were still superior to anything made on the Celtic island, and the blue-bladed, double-edged sword he had acquired in Denmark was a deadly weapon. He had known this would be a hard fight, but it had gone far beyond his expectations and he had pulled back now, to take a short rest.

  By midmorning a sharp, cold breeze had sprung up from the east. In the heat of the battle he had scarcely noticed it, but now it caught him in the face. It was wet, like sea spray—except, he suddenly realised, that it could not be. It was too warm. It was sticky also, getting in his eyes. It tasted salty on his lips. He blinked, frowned, and then cursed.

  It was not from any sea. Each time the warriors in front of him crashed together, each time he heard the huge thud of a blow being landed, the shock of it sent up a little spray of sweat from the combatants. And of blood. And now, like the spume from the sea, it was a mixture of blood and sweat that was being carried back by the wind into his face.

  Brodar had been hard-pressed by Wolf the Quarrelsome and his Norsemen. It seemed he was pulling back from the battle line to regroup. He had about a dozen men with him. Sigurd could see the warlord clearly. Brodar was pausing to rest.

  Or was he? Unseen by their comrades fighting in front of them, the group was starting to move away towards the small wood near the hamlet.

  Sigurd was not a coward; but his reason for being there was straightforward. He couldn’t care less whether Munster or Leinster won. He hadn’t come here to die but to fight and be paid for it; and Brodar was paying. If the scar-faced warrior was going to shelter in the wood, then so was Sigurd. He started to follow.

  Harold watched carefully. It was midafternoon, and he thought he saw how it would go.

  He had ridden out at dawn and stationed himself at a point from which he could see the King of Tara’s camp and the battle down at Clontarf. He was fully armed and he had decided upon a clear plan. If the O’Neill army, where his sons were, started to move into battle, he would ride across to join them. And if he saw the army of Brian being routed and Morann in danger, then despite his promise, he would go over and try to rescue his friend.

  All morning he had watched. The King of Tara had not moved. As usual, he thought, his clever friend had foreseen e
vents. Though neither battle line had yet given ground, he could see signs that Brian had the upper hand. He had already seen one of the Viking warlords sneaking away. The ranks of the Leinstermen were thinning, and though both sides were visibly slowing down, Brian still had reserves of fresh troops in the third line. He watched a little longer. The Leinstermen were giving ground.

  It was safe to go home. He turned his horse’s head. He had not the least idea that, from a point behind the Leinster line, Caoilinn also was watching to see how the battle went.

  “They’re giving ground,” murmured Morann.

  “It isn’t over yet.” King Brian’s voice was quiet. He had risen and he was standing beside the craftsman now, surveying the battle.

  Breaks in the cloud had allowed slanting rays of afternoon sun to light up patches of ground, and in the yellowish glow, the field before them looked in places almost like charred woodland after a forest fire with clumps of damaged trees still standing amidst the tangled mess of the fallen. But in the centre, the great mass of the battle was still heaving. There was no question, the advantage was with their side, but the fighting was stiff.

  Catching the sunlight near the centre was a golden banner. This was held by the standard-bearer of Brian’s son. Sometimes the banner moved from one part of the fight to another. Though Brian said nothing, Morann knew that his eyes were fixed upon the banner. From time to time he gave a grunt of approval.

  Suddenly there was a mighty surge, as another banner from the other side came towards it. The golden banner, apparently aware of the move, also stirred in that direction. There was a sound of shouting, a small roar as the two banners seemed almost to touch. He heard Brian hiss through his teeth, then there was an intake of breath. A long pause followed, as if the whole battle line was holding its breath. Then came a huge cheer from the other side, followed by a moan from the Munster men. And suddenly, like a firefly that has been extinguished, the golden standard fell and was seen no more.

  Brian Boru said nothing. He stared straight ahead, obviously trying to see what was taking place in the melee. His son’s standard was down and nobody had raised it. That could only mean one thing. He was dead, or mortally wounded. Slowly the old man turned, went back to his former place, and sat down. His head sank forward. Nobody spoke.

  Down in the battle line, however, the death of their leader seemed to have inspired the army with a desire to avenge him. They surged forward. For some little time, the enemy managed to make a last stand, but soon they were falling back, first one section of the line then another, until the whole front broke and fled towards the estuary and the Tolka.

  Brian’s servant and Morann looked at each other. Neither of them liked to interrupt the king at such a moment. But it had to be done.

  “The Leinstermen have broken. They’re running away.”

  Did the old man hear? It was hard to tell. Some of the guards who made up the shield wall were obviously itching to join in the fray, now that the danger to the king was past. After a short pause, Morann decided to speak for them.

  “May some of the guards go down to finish them off?” he enquired. This was acknowledged with a nod. A few moments later, half the guards went quickly down towards the water, the rest remaining at their posts by the king.

  For a little longer, Brian Boru sat silently, his head bowed. If he had just won the greatest victory of his career, he did not seem to care. Suddenly, he looked very old.

  Meanwhile, at the water’s edge some hundreds of yards away, a truly terrible scene was taking place. The Leinstermen and their allies had fled to the water’s edge, but having got there, were trapped with no further escape route. Those running westwards were caught as they tried to wade back across the stream. And in these two places they were slaughtered without mercy. Already the bodies were piling up in the stream and floating out into the estuary.

  King Brian Boru did not watch. His head remained bowed, his shoulders stooped in pain. At last, turning his eyes sadly towards Brother Osgar, he motioned him to his side.

  “Pray with me, monk,” he said quietly. “Let us pray for my poor son.” So Osgar came, and knelt at his side, and they prayed together.

  Not wishing to disturb them, Morann moved to the edge of the enclosure and stepped out. The remaining guards were watching the events down by the water. Strangely, though it was only hundreds of yards away, the massacre seemed distant, almost unreal, while by Brian’s small enclosure there was an eerie quiet.

  So the battle was over, and he was still alive. Morann had to admit that he was surprised. Had his intimation back at the tombs by the Boyne been wrong?

  It was a few moments later that he saw the movement away to his right. No one else had noticed. It came from the small wood which ran down to the hamlet. From the top of it, now, a party of Vikings was emerging. There must have been at least a dozen of them. The people down by the water had their backs to them. They were fully armed, and they were running, rapidly, towards King Brian’s enclosure.

  He let out a shout.

  Caoilinn had seen enough. She could not tell exactly what was happening at the water’s edge, but the outcome of the battle was clear. The Leinster and Dyflin men had lost and Brian’s men were going to massacre them.

  “Come, children,” she said, “it is time to go.”

  “Where to, Mother?” they asked.

  “Fingal.”

  They headed north. At first, she urged her horse into a canter. It would look better, after all, if they could arrive at the farmstead quickly, before news of Leinster’s defeat reached Harold. She could claim that she had set out that morning and been delayed by troops on the road, rather than admit she had waited to see the outcome of the battle. She’d have to instruct the children in their story, too. But then she shook her head and almost laughed at herself. How absurd. What an insult to Harold’s intelligence, demeaning to them both. If they were going to marry, there would have to be more honesty than that.

  So as soon as she was certain they were clear of any danger, she slowed her horse to a walk. She would take her time. She might as well look her best.

  Osgar had already jumped up by the time Morann was back in the enclosure. The guards, caught unawares, were still snatching their shields and weapons. One of them had let Morann have an axe, and the silversmith was placing himself directly in front of the king. Osgar had no weapon. He felt helpless and naked.

  The Vikings were getting near. He could hear their footfalls. He saw the guards tense. There was a loud bang that almost made him jump out of his skin, as a Viking sword struck an upraised shield. Then he saw the Viking helmets—three of them, four, five. They seemed huge, larger than life, looming over the shield wall. Their axes were crashing down. He saw one axe hook itself over the top of a shield, tearing it down while a sword blade stabbed through into the defender’s stomach, causing him to scream and then wilt in a welter of blood. Another guard fell, and another, writhing and biting the grass in his agony. The Vikings were through. Three of them, two with axes, one with a sword, were coming straight towards him. To his horror, he found himself unable to move, as in a dream. He saw Morann bravely raise his axe and swing at a Viking with a scarred face. With a clever stoop, the Viking dodged the blow while his companion, a black-haired, swarthy man, moving so quickly that Osgar hardly saw it happen, plunged a great, blue-bladed sword straight into Morann’s ribs below the heart. Osgar heard the ribs crack and then saw Morann sink down to his knees, while his axe dropped at Osgar’s feet. Efficiently, the dark fellow put one foot on Morann’s shoulder, pulled out his sword, and the silversmith fell forward, facedown onto the ground. Osgar saw his body twitching as the life left him.

  For a moment the Vikings paused. They were looking at Osgar and Brian Boru.

  Osgar had not been watching the king. To his surprise, he realised that Brian was still in the same position, slumped in his seat, where they had been praying together. There was a sword leaning against the back of the seat, but Brian had not
bothered to reach for it. Until this moment, paralysed by fear, Osgar had not moved; but now, faced with death, instead of terror he felt an unexpected anger. He was going to die and no one, not even Brian Boru the warrior king, was going to do anything about it. The axe Morann had dropped was at his feet. Scarcely knowing what he was doing, he snatched it up.

  The shield wall had collapsed. The rest of the Vikings were coming into the enclosure, but evidently the man with the scarred face was the leader, since they all kept behind him. Then the dark man pointed his sword at Brian and spoke.

  “King.”

  The leader looked from Osgar to Brian, then shook his head.

  “No, Sigurd. Priest.”

  “No, Brodar.” Sigurd was grinning as he pointed his sword at Brian’s white beard. “King.”

  And now Brian Boru moved. Quick as a flash, with remarkable agility, he reached back over his head as he sat, grasped the sword behind him; and almost in the same instant it flashed forward, striking Brodar in the leg. As the sword bit, the Viking chief let out a roar and with a mighty swing brought down his axe on the old king’s neck, smashing the collarbone and opening a huge gash. Brian rocked, blood burst from his mouth, his eyes opened very wide, and he keeled over on his side.

  And now Sigurd stepped forward with his broad, two-edged sword. Somewhere behind the swarthy Viking, Osgar heard someone say, “Priest,” but he hardly took it in. As he came towards Osgar, he wore a curious smile. Osgar, clutching his axe across his chest, backed away. Slowly Sigurd brought the blade of his sword up in front of Osgar’s face, showing it to him.

  Osgar shook. He was going to die. Should he accept death like a Christian martyr? Earlier, he had not been able to bring himself to kill. But now? Even if he raised the axe to strike at Sigurd’s head, the swarthy pirate would plunge the fearsome sword through his rib cage before the axe had even started to descend.