That would not be his doom, Raymond promised. Events had conspired to give him a chance to prove himself at the edge of the world and he would not allow the moment to pass him by. He would not fail his men or Strongbow.
Raymond took a deep breath and plunged the end of the torch into the heart of the brazier. The flames took a few seconds to catch hold in the greased wool wrapped around its tip, but the pungent smell soon hit him and he pulled the torch from the wood fire. He invited the seven pages to light their brands while he turned and looked towards the far side of the bailey. There, Walter de Bloet readied the thirty horsemen. He raised his arm to signal to Walter, waiting for his waved reply before he dropped his arm.
‘Get in position, boys,’ Raymond told the pages and watched as they scampered off around the cattle pen towards the barbican, armed with nothing other than burning brands.
Raymond de Carew turned his eyes towards the sky. ‘St Maurice, if you are up there and are listening, now would be a good time to send us your aid.’ With that he turned and launched his flaming torch onto the reed-thatched roof of his own marshalsea.
Ragnall Mac Giolla Mhuire watched from afar as his army pressed home their charge. How many had fallen or how close the enemy were to succumbing, he could not tell. He was not unduly worried, however. Hundreds of his warriors stood outside the walls of the fort. Each pushed for his opportunity to prove himself in battle. Each wanted to claim the life of one of the foreigners who dared threaten the sovereignty of Veðrarfjord and her allies. Each wanted victory. The noise was colossal, the heat from the early evening sun immense. Yet his army still attacked, cramming into the alley between the twin fortifications.
‘My folk will camp inside the fort tonight. Your people can stay outside the walls,’ Ragnall told old Donnchadh Ua Riagháin. There was no elevated spot on the isthmus from which he could watch the battle unfold so Ragnall, Donnchadh and their followers had taken up a spot behind their attacking armies. They could not see what was happening within the walls, but none doubted that victory was close at hand.
‘My people will go back across the river to tend to our beasts after the battle is over,’ the King of the Uí Drona replied. ‘There’ll be too many ghosts wandering on this bank looking to plague the living with their woes.’
Donnchadh’s Brehon nodded at his king’s good sense. ‘But no spirit can cross water.’
‘St Moling will protect us,’ a priest amongst the Uí Riagháin entourage confirmed.
The konungr considered it good sense and felt glad that he had brought his own bishop with him from Veðrarfjord to keep Normans’ spectres at bay through the night. ‘And the dead?’ he asked.
‘The fallen will keep until morning,’ replied King Donnchadh.
‘Your people must be ready to travel upriver early tomorrow afternoon. Trygve will try to negotiate and I’ll give him one night to see what he offers. If it is not enough to change my mind we’ll tear down Cluainmín’s walls as we have these.’ Ragnall flapped a hand dismissively at Dun Domhnall. ‘Then it is on to Waesfjord.’
‘And at that time my folk can return home?’
Ragnall paused. That was the deal that he had struck with Donnchadh and the Uí Drona, but he hesitated now. Having almost a thousand spears at his command made him a serious power in the region and, given that he had ten high ranking Uí Riagháin hostages held behind Veðrarfjord’s walls, he saw no immediate reason to commit to releasing Donnchadh’s people from his service.
‘The Uí Braonáin are as restless as ever on our borders. Not to mention Diarmait Mac Murchada’s folk and his foreign mercenaries – they could pass through our lands at any time. My warriors are needed to defend our homes,’ warned Donnchadh.
‘Most of your herds are here,’ Ragnall countered, ‘and if my sources are correct the Uí Braonáin king is with the Meic Giolla Phádraig far to the north, trying to enforce their authority over the Uí Mordha of Loígis.’ He turned and raised an eyebrow. ‘If your enemies attack, it will be when you have brought in the harvest, as well you know. If you want my ships to come to your aid then, you might want to think about how long you choose to remain in the south. Gufraid!’ the konungr suddenly called, denying Donnchadh the opportunity to respond. The contemptuous act was not missed by the King of the Uí Drona and grumbles of discontent soon surfaced amongst his derb-fine who collected at his back.
‘Ragnall?’ the konungr’s cousin, Jarl Gufraid, asked as he stepped forward from the senior men of Veðrarfjord who gathered, like the Gaelic chieftains, at their leader’s rear.
‘I can see smoke coming from the fort.’
‘You think the Déisi are trying to burn down the foreigners’ gates?’ asked Jarl Gufraid.
Ragnall screwed up his eyes. ‘The smoke looks white.’
‘Like burning straw?’
The konungr nodded. ‘Follow me,’ he commanded and began walking away from the outer gate so that he could see what was happening beyond the defences. Though the Uí Drona did not follow, fifty men – the great and the good of Veðrarfjord – trailed behind their king as he walked eastwards towards the beach.
‘Our army must have broken through the inner gates and set the houses alight,’ Gufraid stated. He had to shout so loud was the clamour that rang from the opposing armies between the walls. ‘The fight is over.’
Ragnall scowled at Gufraid’s optimism and kept walking, his eyes locked on the archers hanging from the Norman barbican above the inner gates. Smoke poured over them as they concentrated all their efforts on sending wave upon wave of arrows down upon his warriors, unseen behind the outer defences. Ragnall contemplated that the foreigners’ actions could indeed be those of desperate men, battling hard to prevent catastrophe, and that the gates had indeed been forced as Gufraid believed.
‘If we are victorious why has there been no shout of acclaim?’ he asked, though no one could hear him. The konungr had been in many battles and on each occasion the moment of an enemy’s collapse was marked by a cry of adulation from their victorious foe. He had heard none issue from between the wooden walls. As Ragnall turned to dispute his cousin’s assertion, a new sound added to the deafening uproar: the wail of cattle calls and the thunder of hooves. The konungr’s face twisted into a sneer of pain as the overpowering noise beset his ears.
‘What is happening?’ he called as he bowed his head. No one answered for none could hear his words. One of Gufraid’s men dropped his spear in order to cover his ears from the booming sound. The jarl shouted inaudibly at him, pointing over his konungr’s shoulder in the direction of the Norman stronghold. Ragnall looked back at the barbican and could see through the smoke that the archers had stopped shooting their arrows and were clinging to the timber posts as if the earth shook beneath them. The same effect could be seen to traverse along the long wall of Dun Domhnall as, one after another, the foreign warriors’ swordplay was forgotten and they dropped their weapons to grab hold of the wall to steady their stance. More than one, Ragnall could see, fell from his station while timbers on the outside wall strained and collapsed outwards onto the grassland. Fine dust pumped and tumbled from the trembling ramparts. Screams of terror sounded. Shrieks were abruptly silenced.
Ragnall had been expecting a cry of victorious acclaim; the signal that the fragile fort was about to fall, but now he could sense an unseen menace. He could feel its approach. He could see its effect. His gnarled fingers were sweaty as they gripped the hilt of the short sword at his belt. Most of those crowded outside the walls were unaware that anything had changed and continued to surge towards the bottleneck at the outer gates, Gael and Ostman urging each other on to deeds ever greater, the bravest warriors from their three peoples, united only by their enmity with the foreigners and the precarious alliances between their masters. They were the first to perish.
Ragnall Mac Giolla Mhuire, Konungr of Veðrarfjord, had seen power in his long life. He had seen mountains of fire on Iceland that suddenly exploded from the sea with such ferocity
that the waves turned to steam before them. He had observed feeding whales slam onto the surface of the ocean to scatter waves as tall as a man. Yet nothing prepared him for the impact of the stampeding herd of cattle as it burst from the outer gates of Dun Domhnall and collided with his army.
The terrified cows wailed and moaned as they charged, led onwards by a brown bull as large as Donn Cúailnge himself. He was like a great ship blasting through icy waves, his shoulders lifting high as he struck men with his great shaggy head. And behind him came fifty more beasts who wished only to escape the flames which reached high above the barbican on the inner wall. The cattle barely broke stride as they pummelled men beneath their hooves. The air trembled with their strained wails. The atmosphere stank of panic and smoke.
Ragnall, Donnchadh and their followers looked on appalled as the cattle tore a ragged gap ten paces wide through the middle of their army to leave a bloody trail of broken bodies behind them. Nothing could stand in their way. None could survive as the crazed animals carved a gory swathe through the packed ranks of men. It was not only those caught in their path that suffered; the force of the stampede sent men tumbling onto their backs though they stood twenty feet away from the herd’s course. Those men in turn knocked down their neighbours. The slap of flesh and bone upon skin, hoof and sinew, and the screams of pain from both man and beast rocked the headland. Ragnall watched helplessly as men were tossed headlong into the air only to fall amongst the brown mass of stampeding animals. One Gael attempted to spear a cow in the flank. His weapon snapped in two and another horned animal gored his bare chest. He too disappeared beneath the wave.
And on the cattle’s heels came the Norman horsemen, hollering and shouting as they emerged from the darkness and smoke emanating from between the walls of Dun Domhnall. Some had fiery brands in their hands and they launched them at the backs of the petrified animals so that they could draw their weapons. Everyone had heard tales of the Wild Hunt, the phantasmal, savage pack of riders, who haunted the countryside at the Devil’s beckoning. And, for a moment, as he watched the horsemen cut through his army, Ragnall could believe the stories. The foreigners seemed to float above the ground as they passed through the ranks of infantry, stabbing this way and that, taller by half than any other on the battlefield. It was as if man and beast were one, and they howled like animals too, devilish, dark and delighting in the death that they brought down upon the packed ranks.
They drove the cattle on, poking at them with spears and scaring them with fire before turning away in packs of five to attack their dazed enemy on different parts of the battlefield. The thirty horsemen were outnumbered by hundreds to one but already Ragnall could see scores of his warriors on the periphery were fleeing from the Norman counter. Like foxes in a chicken coop, the foreigners seemed to revel in the kill, and their demonic cries seemed to infect his army with terror. More and more men turned to flee and, as the herd of cattle finally forced their way free of the crowds and continue to run northwards, Ragnall watched as his whole army began a stampede of their own. They were running for their lives. The hunters were amongst them. The scent of blood was on the wind and they were running.
It was as if a spear thrust had been driven through the heart of his army. For the first time in a long time, Ragnall felt fear. A king who went to war and returned without victory did not remain king for long, he knew. He had taken hundreds of the finest men of Veðrarfjord into battle and who knew how many still lived? He took a step backwards and collided with Jarl Gufraid. The konungr had no words for his kinsman, no strategy to turn the defeat into triumph. He needed time to think.
Raymond de Carew gave him none.
‘Loose,’ the Norman captain shouted at Caradog’s company of archers as they emerged from the outer gates behind the cattle and horsemen. At his side the Welshman spanned their yew bows and drove ten shafts into the group of Gaels closest to them. The men were twenty paces away and their arrows easily punched through shields and toughened leather armour.
‘Nock,’ Raymond called to the archers, watching as they prepared more arrows. However, the survivors of their first flight were already bolting and Walter de Bloet had spotted them. He called to his detachment of esquires and led the horsemen amongst the Gael as they sprinted away from the battlefield. The boys whooped and chivvied with spearpoints as they ran amok amid the enemy. Their aim was not to kill, but to disperse. They had to take advantage of the disorder. Satisfied that the group of Gaels would not return, Raymond instead scanned the landscape for other clusters of enemy.
‘There!’ he shouted and pointed at a group of Ostmen loitering to the right of their position, below the outer barbican. He waited for the archers to adjust their aim and span their bowstrings again. Their arms trembled. ‘Loose!’ he ordered and watched as the black blur of ash shafts scythed across the green grass backdrop towards their target. The impact of the arrows was no less impressive than that of the cattle for, though only a few men had tumbled to the ground, their effect was to set the hundred-strong company of Ragnall’s men running for their lives, Christian de Moleyns’ detachment on their tails.
‘We’re down to our last few arrows,’ Caradog shouted in the captain’s direction as he set another to his bowstring.
Raymond signalled that he understood and indicated towards another group of Gaels – whether Déisi or Uí Drona he could not tell – who had sought shelter on the edge of the cliff face to the west. Leaving Caradog to take charge, Raymond turned and disappeared into the fetid darkness between the ramparts.
‘Loose!’ he heard the Welshman call.
The scene between the walls was one of utter devastation. Raymond had to force down rising bile as he carefully picked a path between the torn timbers and broken bodies. The crush of men between the walls had been such that none could have survived the charge of cattle. Splintered weapons lay everywhere. Broken bones jagged from beneath beaten flesh. Pummelling hooves left great welts and bruising on dead men’s ribcages while limbs were contorted in ways that appalled Raymond. The stench was almighty, though masked somewhat by thick smoke from the burning marshalsea which drifted this way and that, speared by shafts of fading sunlight which had found gaps in the tumbledown rampart. Although the noise of the battle was still evident, it was the roar of the distant inferno that was loudest between the walls. He came across the carcass of a cow which, having tripped during the stampede, had been crushed by those coming behind her. Flies already swarmed around her lifeless face and those of men trapped beneath her.
‘Boys?’ Raymond coughed as he called into the smoky recesses. He could discern no answer but as he moved further down the path he saw them. With their tiny frames and colourful clothing, the pages looked like angelic spirits come to claim the souls of the brave men who had died beneath the stampeding hooves. The pages moved quickly through the smoke, disappearing from view here and there as the billowing fog wrapped around them, only to reappear like spectres a few seconds later. Each had wrapped cloth around their faces to protect them from the smoke and the stink as they went about their duties.
Having set fire to the marshalsea, he and the pages had directed the stampeding herd of cattle out through the gates. It had been a close-run thing, but the boys had proven their mettle by standing firm with nothing more than lighted brands in hand to scare the animals towards the gates rather than allow them to disperse into the bailey. In the confusion he had lost two cows over the side of the cliffs, but that was a price Raymond was willing to pay in order to clear the way for Walter de Bloet and his mounted milites and esquires to launch their attack.
‘Boys!’ the captain called again before wrapping the inside of his elbow around his mouth. With his other arm he waved for them to attend to him. The pages, compliant as ever, jogged the short distance to join him. The three youngest were the last to arrive. They had armfuls of undamaged arrows which had been retrieved from the killing zone between the walls. The four other boys had small knives in their hands and were red
to their elbows. It had been their task to cut the arrow shafts free from wherever they could find them, whether timber or men’s flesh.
‘Take the arrows to Caradog at the gate,’ Raymond told the pages, ‘then I need you to come back to search for more.’ The three youngest boys nodded and ran off towards the outer gates before disappearing into the bank of smoke with their precious cargo. Raymond handed his flask of water to the remaining pages and told them to finish it all. Theirs had been a nasty duty, but it was nothing in comparison to the task given to Fulk, the butcher’s apprentice from Westminster. He approached more sedately, a spear held in both hands. The captain noted blood on the spearpoint and Fulk’s white face.
‘It was a mercy,’ he told his servant. ‘It was no different to putting a dying animal out of its misery.’ He knew it was not true, but he hoped that his words comforted Fulk. ‘How many men did you…?’
‘Four men.’ Fulk’s lip trembled as he spoke and Raymond squeezed the boy’s shoulder to comfort him.
‘Well done,’ he told him. ‘There will be an extra tot of wine for you this evening. Make sure the pages keep at their task – we will need all the arrows we can find – then run and tell Master Borard that his men must repair any damage to the inner gates as best they can.’ He waved a hand towards the top of the rampart above him where, he supposed, Borard and his men had collapsed to tend to their wounds and to recover from exploits. He coughed again as the acrid smoke stung his throat. ‘That is,’ he wheezed and pointed to the orange haze at the far end of the battlements, ‘if the fire has subsided enough.’
‘You think that the enemy will return?’
‘I want to be prepared,’ he replied and slapped Fulk on his shoulder once before turning and making his way back down the passageway towards the outer gate. It took him some minutes to reach the barbican, coughing and spluttering the whole way.
Lord of the Sea Castle Page 41