The konungr grimaced. ‘Then why don’t you go and check on your ships, harbour-master,’ Ragnall told him, waving a hand in the direction of the door, leaving Jarl Sigtrygg in no doubt that he was to exit the hovel. He turned his back on his son and began conversing with the two Gaelic chieftains. ‘And Sigtrygg,’ Ragnall added as the jarl forced his way past the three bodyguards, ‘send in my slave with some food. There’s a good lad.’
Furious, Jarl Sigtrygg stormed from the room. His anger raged as he walked away, the laughter of the three kings following in his wake. He ground his teeth as he thought of ever more fanciful and violent ways to kill his father. Dun Conán was now filled with Ragnall’s army and little fires sent lines of smoke towards the darkening sky as the army set camp between the coast and the forests of Siol Bhroin. Below the army, on the beach, twenty longships and their crews milled around, distributing food, testing weapons and readying armour for battle. The stench of so many humans in such a confined area annoyed the jarl’s nostrils and he turned away from his countrymen and their allies, heading south towards the river which guarded the settlement’s back. There, he had beached River-Wolf, and he would find his crew and his few meagre takings from Dun Conán.
The thought of being left behind to guard the ships disgusted him. He had a higher calling at Dun Domhnall and nothing could stop him from seeking vengeance on the man who had insulted him in the Cluainmín slave market; the fat fool who had spoken lies against him at Trygve’s Þing. The blood-feud could not be set aside, could not be forgotten, not by a man such as he. A warrior was nothing without reputation and Jarl Sigtrygg would not let Raymond de Carew’s slurs affect his standing amongst his people.
‘Amlaith!’ he shouted for his ship-master as he neared his beautiful, sleek ship. The experienced sailor appeared from beneath her old sail which was strung from the rail to make a rudimentary shelter.
‘My jarl?’ the seafarer asked as he struggled out from beneath the sail, a mug of cloudy beer in his hand.
‘We are leaving on the next tide. Get everything ready.’
‘The next tide?’ Amlaith asked. ‘But it is almost nightfall.’
‘We are leaving,’ Jarl Sigtrygg insisted.
‘What about the battle?’
Jarl Sigtrygg spat on the beach in answer. ‘Get us ready to sail – do it quietly and quickly,’ he asserted, turning away from Amlaith to look up at the army, perched above the dunes. Ragnall was the only man who Jarl Sigtrygg feared, and he could feel the apprehension seep into his chest again. He swallowed it down like a shard of tough meat. Ragnall could find another man to look after his fleet while he went to war.
For his son was a jarl, not a harbour-master.
Sigtrygg was a Vikingr.
Chapter Eleven
With one charge they killed twelve men. Asclettin FitzEustace led them, his huge frame terrifying as the Normans burst around the shoulder of the wooded hillock to fall upon the few Gaels who had already alighted upon the riverbank. They were only ten in number, but the line of horsemen was unstoppable as they followed Asclettin into the brawl. His billowing crimson and gold surcoat snapped like a whip as he carved his way through the small company, stabbing left and right with a heavy lance. At his back came squat Thurstin Hore, punching downwards with his spear, and following him was steady Bertram d’Alton, Denis d’Auton with his famously long reach, and the rest of the conrois. Raymond came last, standing tall in his stirrups, to pierce the shoulder of his target.
Those Gaels still in the midst of the river, or those on the far bank, could only watch impotently as the whooping Normans flashed past, all colour and size and steel, and disappeared into the blinding morning sun. One man quickly stooped into the water and found a smooth rock, but by the time he had armed his sling the foreigners had vanished into the foliage with only the thunder of their horses and the peal of victorious acclaim remaining to mock them. First blood had been drawn by the invaders.
‘What are you waiting for?’ King Máel Sechlainn shouted at the men in the stream. ‘Get moving forward and find out if there are more of them out there! Slingers,’ he then demanded of another group, ‘get ready to batter them if they come back.’ Behind him, his whole army had stalled and he knew from experience that those in the rear would have no idea of what was happening at the front of the column. If they tarried for too long the kern would sit down, fall asleep or begin eating, and it would be hours before the army would be on the move again.
‘Get bloody moving, you lot,’ he ordered again with a finger settled on the scouts in the water.
The infantry swapped nervous glances at their king’s command, but edged forward again as they stole uneasy glances at the riverbank and raised their javelins above their shoulders. The re-emergence of drumming horse hooves and breaking foliage stopped the men dead in their tracks.
‘They are coming back,’ one exclaimed and began backtracking into the deepest part of the stream where he fell over, losing his grip on his wicker and hide shield as he plunged into the knee-high water. As the sound from the horsemen grew louder, more warriors began to flee back to the safety of the shore and into the line of slingers, disrupting them as they swung their weapons around their heads.
The ten Normans did not press home another attack. Instead they trotted past in formation, their banners unfurled and whipping like fishes’ tails above their grey armour and bright surcoats. They merely looked down on the enemy with a haughty disregard as they passed by.
‘Get throwing!’ Máel Sechlainn shouted at his slingers, but their bombardment started only as the last man disappeared out of range and the thump of rocks striking sodden earth proved to be a meek echo underneath the rumble of the warhorses’ hooves.
It wasn’t his army that was supposed to be under attack, Máel Sechlainn thought grimly. He was supposed to be facing a beaten enemy, puny in number and hidden behind little more than a turf and timber wall. What the foreigners’ commander believed he could achieve by sending so few men against them, he did not know. All his enemy had accomplished was to delay their inevitable defeat. He turned to look at the vast army behind him. Some at the front had kept their feet and weapons ready, but most, further back from the small action, had sat down to talk and rest as he had feared. His army had stopped and he knew that behind them so would the forces of the Uí Drona and the Ostmen of Veðrarfjord.
‘What now?’ Máel Sechlainn’s tánaiste demanded as he joined his king at the riverbank. ‘The tide will turn soon and this stream will be impassable. We need to get across this one and the one after that as soon as possible.’
Máel Sechlainn had little love for his late cousin’s son, Toirdelbach, but the younger man had been able to raise a band of warriors almost as big as his own and so had the right to air his opinions.
‘What do you suggest?’ Máel Sechlainn asked of the taoiseach from the high hills above his own tribal territory.
‘Send two hundred across as one,’ Toirdelbach advised, ‘and then get the slingers and javelin men in the water. If the foreigners come back they’ll be ready for them.’
Máel Sechlainn nodded in agreement. ‘You can lead them,’ he told Toirdelbach, ‘since you obviously know what to do.’ He couldn’t keep his voice free of derision, but his tánaiste seemed not to notice as he began issuing orders to the army and then plunged into the small stream with his warriors at his back. Máel Sechlainn held his breath as Toirdelbach began climbing the bank on the far side. He was sure that the horsemen would again appear to press home their advantage, and he urged them to come for ten horsemen could not defeat a force of two hundred! That, he was sure, was impossible.
Fifty slingers, up to their waists in water, formed the path between which the detachment of spearmen forded the river and they began to slowly swing their weapons around in an arc as Toirdelbach and his derb-fine prowled around on the riverbank. The slingers were ready to unleash a barrage of fist-sized rocks should the enemy reappear. However, there was no pulse o
f hooves and soon all two hundred of Toirdelbach’s force was on the bank, their javelins poised to strike and their shields held high.
‘It is all clear,’ Toirdelbach soon shouted back across the stream to his cousin. ‘The foreigners have gone. You can bring the rest across.’
Máel Sechlainn frowned as he wrapped his colourful cloak around his arm and stepped off the bank and into the stream. The water reached to his knees to soak his long mustard shirt and he grimaced at the cold. He wondered why the foreigners had given up so easily. With a hundred warriors he might have held the ford for many days against almost any foe. Máel Sechlainn wanted to believe that it was rank amateurism of his enemy, but something told him that he should be careful to not underestimate the foreigners from across the sea.
‘Get the army moving again,’ King Máel Sechlainn instructed his derb-fine who, as was their station, were at his heels. As they disappeared to affect his orders, their king began wading towards the opposite bank, the cold sandy water splashing up to his middle. Toirdelbach was waiting for him at the riverbank but offered no assistance to help his king from the stream.
‘Which way did they go?’ the king demanded of his tánaiste.
‘South,’ the younger man stated, flapping a hand towards where the sun hung high in the sky.
‘Then that is our way too.’
‘I thought you said we would be fighting Danes!’ Asclettin called to his captain as the Norman conrois trotted southwards through the trees. It was hot and underneath their chainmail all the men felt beads of sweat flow beneath their gambesons, trickling down their spines even after a short period of fighting. ‘Not that I’m complaining. These Irish are easier to kill than Ostmen.’
Raymond did not share in Asclettin’s mirth. Instead he laid his hand on Dreigiau’s sweaty shoulder and patted him fondly. The courser was aware of every shift of his rider’s weight and his ears buzzed with activity as Raymond whispered his appreciation for the animal’s work that day. He snorted excitedly. After his conrois had attacked the enemy, Raymond had led them down the length of the river as it cut a deep, winding rent inland across the Siol Bhroin peninsula. It was only then, as he had counted the warriors in the enemy column on the opposite bank that he had understood the predicament in which his small army found themselves. He had tallied at least two thousand in the enemy host, but he knew that they could easily have the same again hidden from his eyes. Sir Hervey had been correct. Thousands opposed them.
The Norman captain leant forward and, with a click of the tongue, urged Dreigiau into another canter. He was mindful of the conrois mirroring his movement as he led the way to the next stream which blocked the enemy’s path south to Dun Domhnall. The trees, bluebells and nettles were a blur, not because of the speed at which Raymond passed, but due to the thoughts that swept through his head and dulled his mind to his surroundings. His army was outnumbered by at least twenty to one! The enormity of that figure took some time to settle in Raymond’s mind. Only at his most pessimistic had he ever believed that he would face such a force, and already he wondered if he could possibly defend Dun Domhnall against them. His mind pictured the horde of savage, half-naked Irish climbing the fort’s walls, an Ostman shieldwall coming up behind, and Alice of Abergavenny with tears upon her face.
It was little over a mile to the next creek and his conrois covered the distance in minutes, emerging from the wood with the sound of the sea to their left. The little village had been deserted since Borard and Dafydd FitzHywel had raided it for cattle a few days after his army’s arrival in Ireland. The Normans and Welshmen had killed only those who had put up a fight, but the locals had decided to take their remaining possessions and head north to another settlement further up the coast. Raymond had left a small force of ten archers to take up residence in the abandoned homestead and guard the crossing. The Welshmen had started to build a small palisade around the biggest house, knocking down the others for timber, but it was as yet incomplete and in truth was little more than protection against the wolves which roamed the peninsula by night. As they rode downhill towards the nameless creek, Raymond and his conrois were greeted by Fionntán and the archers’ commander.
‘Captain,’ Caradog hailed him as he drew near. The tall archer had his bow strung and a knapsack at his hip containing everything he owned. Raymond guessed that all the men on the picquet line were ready to retreat at the first provocation.
‘What news?’ Fionntán asked without offering a welcome.
Raymond leapt down from Dreigiau’s back. ‘We gave them a bloody nose at the crossing, but at best we only slowed them down.’
‘And what else did you think you would accomplish?’ he asked with an air of annoyance. ‘So how many do they have?’
‘At least two thousand, probably twice that,’ Raymond admitted. ‘From what I saw, they were mostly Gael, but I saw a large body of armoured Ostmen in the column across the river.’
Caradog clenched his jaw determinedly. ‘They’ll be here soon?’
‘By midday, if not before.’ His hand still on Dreigiau’s bridle, Raymond switched his gaze towards the wide creek, a good bow shot in breadth, which streaked between the village and Dun Domhnall which was a mile distant and hidden behind a low ridge. He had to shield his eyes from the sun, but the causeway of blackened wooden trunks was clearly visible now as it had been when Raymond and his conrois had crossed a little after sunrise that morning. The ancient laneway of logs was sturdy enough in the squelching mud, and allowed two men abreast to cross the creek when the tide was at its lowest.
‘How long until high tide?’ the captain asked.
Fionntán looked at the height of the sun and then at the concourse where muddy puddles peppered the creek either side of the wooden causeway. ‘Six hours,’ he answered with certainty.
‘It will be impassable then,’ Caradog, who had been stationed at the village for many days, confirmed.
‘Here at least it will be,’ Fionntán corrected. ‘But it narrows to barely a stream two miles behind that hill.’ His hand fluttered towards the west where an assembly of seagulls silently spun in the air above a group of trees, taller than those around them.
Raymond nodded his head. ‘So the question remains: do we hold our ground and hope that Dun Domhnall’s walls will keep them back, or do we evacuate across the bay in Waverider?’
Caradog looked at his feet rather than answer while Fionntán shrugged. ‘We can fight them here or we will face them there at Banabh. It makes little difference …’
A warning shout from the other side of the village made all three men turn and interrupted Fionntán’s considerations. Up the road an archer appeared and gesticulated wildly towards the woods to the north. The man was too distance for his words to reach the trio, but all three understood his meaning for, over the brow of the knoll, the rumble of cow-skin drums overcame the call of gulls.
The enemy were almost upon them.
‘Get across the causeway,’ Raymond ordered, ‘and get ready to defend the crossing.’
Alice of Abergavenny stood on the stone battlements of the ancient Celtic fort and listened as the noise of livestock arose in the north. Below her the animals in the Normans’ cattle pens stirred and twitched and moaned as they heard the distant baying of their kind in the distance. Their calls peppered the constant din of war drums and horns as the enemy approached the Norman bridgehead.
She had been awoken before dawn by the sound of horsemen leaving the fort and had made it up onto the higher ground above the beach in time to see Raymond leading his small conrois out of Dun Domhnall and northwards. Their torches had produced only enough light for her to identify their bearers. It was from the north that Sir Hervey had reported seeing the army of Ostmen, though Alice could not imagine what Raymond thought ten could do against an army as large as that which Hervey had testified was approaching. She prayed that nothing had befallen her protector and hugged her shoulders against the morning breeze which gusted and hauled at her clot
hes from the south-west.
‘Sister,’ Geoffrey greeted her nervously as he clambered onto the allure. ‘William de Vale told me that there are ten thousand warriors coming for us.’ He giggled nervously. ‘That can’t be true. Can it? If it was, Raymond would get everyone back in Waverider and take us back to Wales.’ He flapped at hand at the ship which had returned from Banabh an hour before and had again been beached below the cliffs. ‘Wouldn’t he, Alice? Of course he would,’ he replied to his own question, even if his answer lacked conviction. Alice said nothing as she watched the horizon and listened to the sounds of their approaching drums.
‘He must think that he can negotiate with them,’ chanced Geoffrey.
Alice shook her head slowly. ‘I don’t know what he plans to do. I’m simply glad he didn’t take you with him today.’
‘I’m his esquire,’ Geoffrey told her gruffly. ‘I should be at his side when he goes into battle. Did you ask him to leave me behind?’
‘Of course not,’ Alice snapped. ‘Of course not,’ she repeated in a friendlier tone. ‘He left before I had risen and I had not spoken to him since Sir Hervey brought news of the enemy. He was too busy with preparations.’
Geoffrey grunted disbelievingly. ‘Well, he won’t leave me behind again.’
She shook her head at his obstinacy and worried for her brother’s safety. Geoffrey did not seem to care about his claim to Abergavenny any longer – it had been some time since he had even mentioned the Welsh castle, or his enmity towards those who had taken their inheritance. He had replaced it with talk of horses and swords, armour and lances, Raymond, castles and battle splendour. Her brother did not seem to understand that by allying himself to Raymond he was not fighting for his own benefit, but for Strongbow’s cause, and that none of his efforts on that earl’s behalf would garner any influence with King Henry. Strongbow was out of favour with the king and Raymond was little better than a brigand, which meant that Alice was as far from getting back her home as ever. Despite her renewed friendship towards Raymond, she cursed the luck that had led to Prince Harry abandoning her, the unfairness of the world, and her brother for not sharing her vision to take back Abergavenny.
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