‘On, Dreigiau,’ he exclaimed and squeezed the courser with his knees. Together, man and horse forced their way further into the crowd of Ostmen and Raymond tossed the lance into the air and caught it so that he could use it overarm against the swarming mass of men. As he took an axe blow plum on his shield-boss, Raymond was dimly aware of his conrois fighting valiantly in a tight knot between the open gates. It was in that direction that he urged Dreigiau, rocking his midriff and squeezing his thighs to keep the tough little animal moving forward.
‘Dreigiau, onwards!’
They were still twenty paces from where the packed ranks met when a rancorous bellow made Raymond turn in time to see the Ostmen ranks peel aside like the Red Sea did before Moses, and allow a tall warrior to run at him. His hair was wild and long like his beard and he wielded his huge sword double-handed, ready to chop at the Norman. Raymond ignored his first impulse, to drop his reins and raise his shield, and instead threw his weight down upon his left stirrup, leaning as far as he could out of his saddle to stab at the maddened warrior before he could strike. The captain gasped in relief as the effort hit home, piercing the Ostman’s leather jerkin above his heart and stopping him in his tracks. His respite was all too short as, due to the sudden shift of his rider’s weight, Dreigiau lurched to his left, scattering enemy warriors from his path. Raymond’s stomach muscles screamed in agony as he attempted to right himself without hauling on his reins, but he was only halfway back into the saddle when he felt hands grab him by the left shoulder and began hauling him towards the ground again.
There was little enough hope of reaching his conrois as it was, Raymond knew, but to leave the saddle would mean certain death and so he stabbed his lance into the soil and used it like a crutch to steady himself in his seat. Then, using the spearpoint planted in the soil as a pivot, he punched his assailant in the face with his fist still wrapped around the pine spear shaft. His enemy gasped and slumped against his shoulder, so close that he could feel the hot breath upon his cheek, the reek of salted fish and beer, and Raymond partially recoiled from the stench as he fought against the man’s lessening grip and righted himself in the saddle.
‘On, Dreigiau,’ he shouted again at his tired and frightened courser who stamped his hooves and butted his head forward in answer to his command. Sweat poured from Raymond’s brow and stung his eyes as he gasped down lungfuls of bitter air. Men scattered and fell before him as he forced his way through, stabbing right and left, but he could already see that he was too late for, even though he was almost upon them, he could only watch as the small Norman shieldwall began retreating beneath the barbican and then, moments later, broke under pressure and fled. The Ostmen’s cry of victory boomed and echoed around the wooden enclosure as they swarmed forward to take their prize.
Raymond responded with his own roar of venomous ire, his voice puncturing their triumphant tumult as his charge had their lines. He knew that unless his men were given an opportunity to reform they would be slaughtered and he lunged left and right with his spear with greater resolve than before. Men tumbled aside rather than face him, but he barely noticed as he settled into the killer’s rhythm – stab, withdraw, kick on, stab, withdraw, kick on.
‘Montjoie!’ he called again as he urged Dreigiau to turn sharply, using the courser’s weight to knock two men from their feet as man and horse whirled in the press of men. And suddenly he was aware that there was breathing space between the gates, but Raymond could not take advantage of it as his horse, now thoroughly confused, exhausted and terrified, started to skip and bolt. White froth collected at the edges of Dreigiau’s mouth and his eyes shone with fear.
‘Easy,’ Raymond appealed, but nothing he could say would calm the courser and, as he began to rear, the Norman captain was thrown clear of the saddle. His last sight, as he tumbled backwards towards the broken gates of Dun Domhnall, was of Dreigiau standing on his back legs as if he was battling the horde of Veðrarfjord like one of the boxers that had so impressed him at the spring fair in Germany two years before.
Then, all of a sudden, everything went deathly dark as Raymond impacted with the torn earth.
Ragnall Mac Giolla Mhuire, Konungr of Veðrarfjord, was a patient man, but that forbearance was being sorely tested. He had once negotiated for two weeks with Toirdelbhach Ua Briain, and his bevy of monks, to increase by a hundred the number of cattle that the King of Tuadhmumhain offered to secure Ragnall’s vassalage. Offers, threats and bargaining by the Uí Briain had been met by his stubborn silence and in the end Ragnall had received what he considered a fair proposal for an alliance between their two kingdoms. A summer later he had bartered for almost a month to exact ten more slaves, as well as much-sought bird skins and cow hides, as tuarastal from the Meic Cartaigh of Deasmumhain. In return Ragnall had cast off the rule of the Uí Briain, and his fleet had gone to war against their erstwhile allies. The memory of that campaign, only twenty years before, went some way to soothing his frustrations. He remembered the hundred and ten sleek longships cruising west in the bright summer sunshine, their sails fat-bellied as a pregnant sow, and the sons of his city ready for war. His pride at the memory dragged a long snort of air into his lungs, and it was only the sullen lowing of a cow which interrupted his recollections and set his teeth to clenching in anger once again. Rapidly that whine was taken up by more and more of the dour animals, and the din increased as the slave-drivers and their masters added the crack of whips and coarse commands. Then the stink of the cattle assaulted Ragnall’s senses and the Konungr of Veðrarfjord cursed irately as his frustrations with his allies finally got the better of him.
It had been a week of slow progress since departing Veðrarfjord, first eastwards along the banks of the River Siúire in the company of Máel Sechlainn Ua Fhaolain’s people, and then north, following the Bearú to the crossing at the monastery of St Abbán where they had met with the Uí Drona. Many years had passed since Ragnall had last marched to war alongside the Gael, and he had forgotten how astonishingly slow they could be for, though it was only an army that the konungr had demanded from his Uí Drona and Déisi vassals, what had come to his aid was a civilisation on the move. It seemed to Ragnall that the lands of the two tribes must have been emptied for with the two thousand spearmen came women, children, clerics, slaves, hostages and foster children, poets, brehons, craftsmen, and others of every rank and custom possible. Each had a cart bearing his family’s property and each had his herd of cattle. The Gael did not deal and trade in coin like the men of Veðrarfjord, they transacted in livestock. Of a more difficult form of movable wealth, the konungr could not think! Thousands of heifers followed the army, forced onwards by a mass of slaves and stockmen armed with whips. And it was not only the chiefs and their sons who brought their herds, it was their wives – multiple wives in many cases – and his warriors too, and of course each herd had to be kept separate even from those owned by members of the same extended family. The animals were everywhere and with each step the stink and noise seemed to intensify, hour after hour, day and night. The Gaels fought over fodder and pastures, they fought over access to water. They argued about trade, methods of making butter and oatcakes, and who had the best bull. They disputed in what order they should cross streams and to which saints and spirits to make offerings to keep them safe when doing so. In fact the only thing that united the tribesmen was that all wished for a quick resolution to the campaign so that they could make ready for the harvest, quickly approaching. Nevertheless, cousins, nephews, brothers and uncles, stared balefully at each other, fingering spear shafts and speaking in suspicious tones. Old quarrels started in their great-grandfathers’ time soon spilled over into violence as they marched and two days before Ragnall had watched as two rival sects of the Uí Fhaolain had fought a vicious, impromptu battle as they had stopped for the night. It was only the intercession of a gaggle of churchmen under the Bishop of Laighin that had stopped the fight before a death occurred. It transpired that thirty years before the two combatan
ts’ chiefs had fought each other for rights over a summer pasture in the high hills to the west. It was a common enough tale for amongst the Gael any man, though he had only a single warrior to stand alongside him and a herd of ten cattle, though he was a king and every other a rival. That the two kings, Donnchadh Ua Riagháin and Máel Sechlainn Ua Fhaolain, had managed to get their respective armies this far, intact and ready to fight despite the enmity within their ranks thoroughly impressed Ragnall of Veðrarfjord.
His own army, by comparison, had been easily raised, for the threat to their city was real and nearby. Ragnall’s father had been only a boy when the men of Laighin had last attacked and burnt Veðrarfjord to the ground. It had been before his forefathers had accepted the light of Christ into their hearts, yet the townsfolk still talked of the death and destruction of the outlying farms, the disease and famine which had followed. It was as if the attack had happened in their own lifetimes and as a consequence his jarls had been quick to raise warrior bands of freemen and to offer ships to transport them across the bay. The Ostmen did not have their families amongst their ranks, and nor were they beleaguered by the petty differences which dogged the Gael. They were not slowed by cattle.
Now that Dun Domhnall was in sight, Ragnall at least knew that his frustrations with his allies would soon be over. He would destroy the foreigners’ little fort and then move against Cluainmín and impose his rule over Trygve’s people and his precious silver mine. Then, it would be on to Waesfjord and the skeleton garrison holding FitzStephen’s castle. Two more weeks, he mused, and the threat of the invaders would be gone for ever. However, it was not in Ragnall’s nature to look too far ahead and he refused to allow his focus to wander from the business at hand. Before him the breeze repeatedly forced the long grass downwards as if the land was bowing in submission to the Konungr of Veðrarfjord and he took that to be a favourable portent. Ragnall added a prayer to St Olav to guide his hand before turning his eyes back on Dun Domhnall. From half a mile away the foreigners’ fort looked insignificant and fragile, as if a stiff breeze off the ocean could knock down the timber walls and so allow his army to swarm all over the headland.
‘Are the Uí Drona in position yet?’ he asked one of the jarls who stood alongside awaiting the order to attack. Like Ragnall’s son, he was named Sigtrygg though he was of Norse stock and old in years. He had been nicknamed Sigtrygg Fionn in his youth due to his shock of blond hair which had hung long and loose across his mailed back. Now it was grey and lank, but the nickname remained.
‘Not yet,’ the old jarl replied. Sigtrygg Fionn stared southwards, his right hand across his brow to shield his eyes from the afternoon sun. ‘My warriors are ready, as are Jarl Amlaith and Jarl Gufraid’s men.’
Ragnall scowled and ignored his words. Instead he watched the plume of smoke as it pumped skywards from the beach hidden below the headland. ‘My son’s work, I suppose?’
Sigtrygg Fionn nodded and shifted uneasily. ‘He sailed right up to the beach and burned their ship.’ Although the jarl had not intended it, his konungr heard a reproof in Sigtrygg Fionn’s statement.
‘He is a stupid boy, and anyone who thought to attack them from the sea is as stupid as he,’ Ragnall replied. ‘But our enemy has proven himself to be even stupider again, for they allowed him to get off that beach.’ His eyes narrowed as he imagined what had occurred while his army had made their way across the causeway to the north; his son beaching his vessel and setting fire to that of the Normans; warriors leaping from the shallows to chase those stupid enough to have found themselves outside the fortifications. That the Norman commander had not sent his warriors to stop Jarl Sigtrygg climbing up from the beach was bad enough, but to have opened the gates to allow those attacking to gain a foothold, stunned Ragnall. Yet it was the only explanation that he could envisage for his son’s success.
He remembered the plump youngster who had met him on the causeway and had claimed to be the leader of the foreigners; a mere boy named Raymond who had been easily outmanoeuvred and overawed. Ragnall decided that his opponent had probably grown up in a noble household, the type which his spies described as being common in the English lands – a pampered, soft boy, who had been promoted too early to command and thought of war as a game to be enjoyed as entertainment. Somehow, the konungr felt insulted that this was the captain that the Earl Strongbow had sent to prepare the way for his conquest of Veðrarfjord.
I shall make the boy pay for that slur, he thought.
His eyes settled on the gates of the fort where the battle was taking place. Axe blades flashed through the swirling dust and smoke from the burning ship, while cries of pain, anger and triumph reached even to the eight hundred warriors perched on the crest behind Ragnall and Sigtrygg Fionn. As he watched he saw a single Norman horseman barrel into the midst of the packed ranks of Ostmen, his crimson and gold surcoat and strangely shaped shield bright amongst the dull coloured leather, chainmail and wool coverings of his enemy.
‘Brave lad,’ Ragnall murmured as he recognised Raymond de Carew. Perhaps he had misjudged the Norman, he considered.
Beside him, Sigtrygg Fionn rocked his weight from one foot to the next impatiently. ‘We shouldn’t wait for the Gael,’ he told his konungr. ‘We should help your boy now. If we commit our eight hundred, it would be over in minutes.’
‘Why did no-one tell me that there were two sets of fortifications?’ Ragnall asked rather than acknowledge Sigtrygg Fionn’s words.
‘You have eight hundred of Veðrarfjord’s bravest sons at your side,’ Sigtrygg Fionn hissed irritably. ‘What would it matter if they have three walls, twice as high? The foreigners have shown that they are incapable of holding them against proper fighting men.’
Glowering at his jarl’s impertinence, Ragnall spat on the grass at his feet. It was clear – despite his attempts to change the subject – the fort was indeed ready to fall, as Sigtrygg Fionn said, for no fort could hold once the outer gates had been breached. Still Ragnall hesitated. It wasn’t that he was afraid of defeat or even death. He feared his son.
Many in his army would, like Fionn, think that his son’s actions were heroic rather than foolhardy. For if the foreigners did capitulate, it would only be Jarl Sigtrygg’s daring attack from the sea that would be remembered by his warriors. The recollections of poets and minstrels rarely hung on the folly of an enemy who had allowed the hero to capture their gates. They never noted a commander’s good fortune. They would speak only of the audacious acts of the young prince who had ignored his father’s hesitancy and captured the enemy fortress.
Old, they would say of Ragnall, old, dithering and fallible.
Whether or not his son had the brains or ambition to take advantage of such a state of affairs and depose his father hardly mattered; the Konungr of Veðrarfjord knew from experience what happened to a ruler who was shown to be weak. His own family, the Meic Giolla Mhuire, had seized control of Veðrarfjord in such circumstances. Ragnall, for one, had learned the lesson that he could never allow a rival to rise to challenge his rule, no matter how seemingly insignificant and closely related.
His eyes settled on the walls of the Norman fort, shrouded partially in smoke and dust, where his son battled, not only for victory over the foreigners but potentially for his father’s throne as well. Ragnall knew that if he sent his army forward to help his son, that victory would be assured. However, if he did nothing then Jarl Sigtrygg might yet be forced to retreat and Ragnall could send his eight hundred men forward and claim the triumph for his own. If, on the other hand, Jarl Sigtrygg emerged victorious with only his crew at his side, it would cost many crewmen’s lives. Son or no, a weakened rival to his crown could then be easily toppled before he could regain his strength. After all, the memory of a dead man’s glory would be no threat to the konungr.
‘Ragnall?’ Sigtrygg Fionn appealed again. ‘We should commit to the attack now.’ His voice was slurred and the smell of ale was strong from his breath.
The Konungr of V
eðrarfjord stole another look at the battle before the gates of Dun Domhnall and shook his head. ‘We wait for the Uí Drona.’ Though the jarl said nothing, he could sense Fionn’s impatience and suspicion. ‘The boy has to prove himself sometime,’ Ragnall said offhandedly. ‘It was his choice to sail ahead of us, against my orders. If he succeeds in taking the walls then the fort will fall and we will have accomplished what we came to do. If not then, as you say, we have eight hundred other warriors and two thousand Gael to throw against them. The fort will fall one way or another.’
‘Jarl Sigtrygg could die!’
‘I have other sons to replace him.’ And neither is as troublesome as Sigtrygg, he thought, picturing his two teenage sons, safe behind the walls of Veðrarfjord with his most recent wife. There was too much of Sigtrygg’s mother in his eldest son, of that Ragnall had decided many years before. She had come to his bed as part of a long-abandoned pact with her father, the King of the Uí Chinnéide, and she had proven to be as pig-ignorant and uncontrollable as her father’s people. She had eventually succumbed to sickness when Jarl Sigtrygg was on the verge of manhood, though Ragnall had not mourned her loss for long. Although big and strong for his age, the konungr had found her son, Sigtrygg, to be as dumb as an ox with a temper to match, and so he had given him to one of his lesser jarls to foster, and told him to make a sailor of him. He had hoped that the sea would douse his son’s fiery temper, but when he had returned to his father’s hall that spring, ten years after he had been sent away, Jarl Sigtrygg had proven to be the same hot-headed bully the had been in his youth.
The boy had, however, grown into a giant of a man and even on a ship with a crew of hardy men he had been accepted as their captain. Initially his father had been impressed by the man that Jarl Sigtrygg had become, and thought that the boy could yet be turned into something of use. Then the pig-eyed youth had begun making demands of the konungr. First, he had demanded food, wine, and lodgings. Then, when he had grown tired of those, he had demanded recognition as Ragnall’s eldest son. He had demanded responsibility and land. He had not demanded a wife, but that was what his father had given him; an old widow with a voice that could’ve cut a silver coin in two as well as any axe. She also brought slaves and a farm, half a day’s walk from Veðrarfjord, and the title of jarl to their marriage bed, and for a while Sigtrygg had seemed happy with the wealth derived from his new manor. But all too soon rumours of raiding and pillaging of trading vessels began to abound. Ragnall had tried to quash those tales, to blame it on their enemy in Cluainmín. However, when traders had started to avoid Veðrarfjord and take their wares to safer ports such as Corcach, Waesfjord and Dubhlinn, Ragnall had known that he had to act lest the merchants of the city turn against him. Jarl Sigtrygg had been hauled before an assembly of the people in Ragnall’s feasting hall to face charges. Exile and confiscation of his lands was the consensus from the freemen who spoke against Jarl Sigtrygg, and it would’ve been the death of him, Ragnall had known, even as he had pronounced the verdict, for none of his crew should’ve followed his son into penury and the wandering life of an outcast. What misguided impulse had caused Ragnall to offer twenty pounds of silver to save his son from that sentence? He still did not know! Yet the merchants of Veðrarfjord had accepted the offer as fair compensation for their losses that summer, and Jarl Sigtrygg had been released. His son had not even thanked him for saving his life. Rather he had stomped off, gathered his crew, and disappeared into the west for three months.
Lord of the Sea Castle Page 34