Swordland

by Edward Ruadh Butler

  ‘Lord King, would you tell us more about Waesfjord? On the way here one of the sailors said it had been cursed by a sorceress.’

  Domhnall and Diarmait swapped a glance over a steaming bird pie. It was the older man who spoke quickly and with humour in his voice, ‘An old storyteller’s tale for the fireside, Sir Richard, nothing more.’ When it looked like Roche would press his interest, Diarmait continued. ‘They do say that it is cursed by a witch who lived out on Carn tSóir Point. You have heard of that malevolent place from your crossing, I believe.’ FitzStephen looked at Fionntán whose eyes darted to meet the Norman’s before returning to his food. ‘The storytellers say that the sorceress was in love with a brave prince from my own people called Garman Garbh, and that she made a spell to ensnare him for herself, killing his true love and their children so that he would live with her forever,’ Diarmait continued. All around the tent were listening in on the King’s story. He cackled briefly. ‘She must have been one ugly, haggard old bitch but she made herself appear beautiful to him and he fell for it. Anyway, either her powers began to wane or she must have begun to truly believe that he loved her, but she let her hold over him diminish.’ He shook his head. ‘Well you can imagine what he thought! He was unaware of the years that had passed between them and as soon as he was able he fled her abode for his home. But when he got there he found that everyone he had ever known was long dead of old age. So he raised an army and marched against his former captor. Understandable really,’ he said as he forced another handful of fish into his mouth. ‘At the same time the sorceress discovered that Garman Garbh had left her home on Carn tSóir. Realising her terrible mistake she flew into a rage and made after him,’ Diarmait continued. ‘She met Garman Garbh’s army at the rock which stands to the north of Waesfjord. Seeing that he had come to kill her she used her powers to destroy the army one by one. Hundreds died and soon it was just the sorceress and Garman Garbh left on the rock, surrounded by the bodies of his army. Weakened due to a hundred cuts, she tried to convince him to return to her bed, to let her enchant him again, but he could see the crone that she was and refused to be a prisoner again. In a terrible rage she cursed him and all the lands around him. Using the last of her powers she picked him up in the air and cast him from the rock towards the bay. But Garman was strong and she was weakened, and he grabbed a hold of the sorceress’ dress, hauling her into the water with him.’ Diarmait shrugged and took a swig from his cup. ‘They died,’ he said and returned to his food.

  After a few seconds a low growl came from the other side of the tent, ‘The bitch sounds like my wife,’ a Norman said. The place erupted with laughter, breaking the tension which had arisen.

  ‘Ever since that time the area around Lough Garman, the bay on which Waesfjord stands and all the way to the sea, is said to have been cursed and haunted by the ghosts of the witch, her lover and his army,’ Diarmait said to Richard de la Roche. ‘But it hasn’t turned out too badly for the Ostmen.’

  ‘Until now,’ FitzStephen whispered.

  Hervey de Montmorency allowed a cough of contempt escape his lungs. ‘And how will you take the longfort, FitzStephen?’ he demanded. ‘How can your horsemen scratch their way into their fortress? It has never fallen to any attacker you know.’

  ‘Not even to me.’ The King of Laighin winced at the memory of his attempt on the Ostman town just eight years before. He had not been able to ‘scratch’ his way into Waesfjord but had sat before its walls until hunger had driven his army back northwards to Fearna. ‘But I am interested to know how you will succeed where I failed,’ he said as he turned his eyes on Robert FitzStephen. ‘Will you make an attempt by sea?’ he asked as Hervey began whispering into his ear again.

  FitzStephen shook his head as he swallowed the dregs of another mug of wine. ‘We have five ships and they will have ten times that number; granted, they are mostly merchantmen now, but they can still carry warriors. We would be surrounded.’ He snapped his fingers to stress the swiftness of their defeat should they try to attack the town that way.

  ‘So by land, then,’ Diarmait said. ‘But how?’

  FitzStephen did not answer for many seconds.

  ‘The same way that Garman Garbh did – by taking the fight to them,’ he told the King.

  Chapter Eight

  Eirik Mac Amlaibh was the chief man of Waesfjord. He held no crown and was of little family, but money was all in the merchant town. Eirik was merely a businessman; a successful one, yes, but a businessman nonetheless. Just a year had passed since he had stood under the linen tent on the muddy quayside before all the people of Waesfjord, man and woman, and had been elected to command by the Thing, the parliament of town burghers. Petty disputes and disagreements, perhaps the odd murder or theft – that was what he had thought he would have to preside over during his period in office. He had thought that it would be easy and that bribes, power, and favour would flow into his coffers and enrich him. But now there was a threat to his city and it made him feel ill at ease.

  Word had reached him of an army arrayed to attack his town. Perhaps army was the wrong word. Rabble was a better description of the force which the Vestmen of Laighin would put against his walls. Disorganised, unruly, and unarmoured, they could stay outside his walls like so many other armies had before them. Waesfjord had never been taken and it would not fall under his command either, he was sure. Eirik sat in his longhouse, the biggest inside the settlement, and tried to ignore the bustle of people who waited outside for their cases to be heard. He yawned and wished that they would all go away so that he could have time to think about his town’s situation. The reports from the traders said that the new men were armoured like all Norse and Danish warriors but with strangely shaped shields, triangular rather than circular. Probably from Cluainmín, he considered. It was not beyond the realm of possibility that the King of Laighin, Diarmait Mac Murchada, had hired some Danish warriors from Hlymrik to fight for him. Who else could they be?

  Of course, Eirik had heard about the exile of Diarmait, but he had not realised that the old fox had returned to his lair in Fearna. Had he known, Eirik would have expected Diarmait to bring his army south and demand that Waesfjord do homage to him, hand over hostages and tribute, or face the possibility of attack. Eirik giggled at that thought; he had been away in the land of the Franks the last time Diarmait Mac Murchada had attempted to capture Waesfjord, but he had heard the stories of his humiliating defeat before the town’s walls and did not doubt that it would be the said outcome should he attempt the same. If anything, Waesfjord was stronger than it had been since Diarmait’s exile, stronger than anything Laighin could throw against her high walls. So why should Eirik do homage to Diarmait? Why should he and his friends stump up silver and cattle and slaves to pay for peace, he wondered. Even with the support of Cluainmín, the Uí Ceinnselaig could never hope to conquer his people!

  Suddenly a new political map emerged in Eirik’s mind with the Irish clans doing homage to the power of Waesfjord rather than the age-old hierarchy of the Ostmen going on bended knee before the Gaelic petty-kings and chieftains. And all it would take, Eirik thought, was to show his bellicose neighbours that the townsfolk were not only the commercial power in the region, but that they had military supremacy too. Battle always brought risk, but to a merchant like Eirik risk was no different to opportunity. He had taken chances before and come away much the better for it, so why not this time?

  At any rate, Eirik was an ambitious man who knew that his town’s control faded just five or six miles in every direction from Waesfjord Bay. This could be a great opportunity to expand their territory at the detriment of Cluainmín and Diarmait Mac Murchada and, at the same time, secure more slaves from amongst the survivors. The men of the town may have put down their piratical ways in the centuries before to become merchants and traders but Eirik knew that it would take little to turn his people from mild-mannered wheeler-dealers into the invincible warriors which their forefathers had been. A scourge was what
the people of Europe had called them, and time had not dulled the battle-axes of the Northmen. Eirik imagined leading a fleet of ships to attack Cluainmín, blood red sails coming out of the morning sun, dragon head snarling at their enemy, and painted shields bumping off the hull in the sea spray. And who would his warriors find there but old men, women, and children as their fathers and brothers bumbled their way across the land towards his town walls.

  No , he thought, to weaken the defence of Waesfjord would be stupid and he immediately chastised himself for letting his imagination run away with him. Reality was all. What did the men of Waesfjord have to fear from a rabble of Vestmen and the small number of warriors that Cluainmín could put into the field? Good sense told him that he should sit behind his timber stockade and wait for the army to waste themselves upon his walls. But this too presented problems. The English wine trader, Hengist, a man of Bristol, had come to him in a panic after hearing the rumours of the approaching army, claiming that he would be leaving the city on the next tide before his business was complete. Eirik had convinced him to remain, but even then Hengist had fled into the bay where his ship now lay under anchor, ready to flee at the slightest provocation. Soon, more traders would hear about the Irish army and threaten to take their wares and money to other ports. Waesfjord, and by extension, Eirik, could stand to lose a fortune.

  What he should do is send out the army and hit the invaders head on as they moved into his territory, he thought. Trade could continue in the town like it had never been threatened and Eirik would be a hero who had saved his people. Sagas would be told about the great warlord who lifted his axe in defence of his city. No longer would he be embarrassed by his father’s humble beginnings – he would be a hero! Eirik tapped his mouth with his forefinger thoughtfully. The opportunities that could come with victory were alluring: they could destroy the growth of a market rival and Waesfjord would inevitably become even wealthier. The Cluainmín men had been minting their own coins too and if Eirik could take possession of that …

  He licked his lips in anticipation of the vast wealth, and stared out of the east-facing door of his longhouse. His gaze swept out over the town which dipped away towards the bay. Many merchantmen were beached or secured to posts sunk in the muddy bay of Lough Garman while small figures flitted between them. Beyond his small garden he recognised the løysing Ivar Arnarsson and his blonde wife argue with a visiting Icelander over some gold trinkets the trader had brought from the city of Jorvik. Elsewhere, more traders displayed their merchandise in front of their houses; bone-workers made combs, whistles, gaming pieces, and needles, leather-workers paraded shoes, scabbards, and satchels. Silversmiths made jewellery of all kinds, blacksmiths made weapons and tools while turners and coopers displayed their wooden wares to the many people who milled through the town.

  Eirik mulled over the military decision that was before him. There was such a great deal at stake and the final decision rested upon his shoulders. He refocused his eyes on the town beyond. The great earth and timber wall, five times as tall as a man, flanked the activity of the town on all sides. How Diarmait Mac Murchada could be so foolish as to try to attack this longfort, Eirik thought. Waesfjord had never fallen, Waesfjord would never fall.

  ‘Oi, Hrolf,’ Eirik called to his man outside the door.

  A bearded face ducked under the mantle. ‘Eirik?’

  The old trader flicked his eyes towards him, ‘Call the Thing together. We must decide if we will go to war.’

  His warrior nodded and disappeared, but Eirik knew it was only a formality to ask the permission of the town assembly. His people would go on the march again, and great songs would be sung of their victory over Diarmait Mac Murchada.

  Five ships burned on FitzStephen’s order. Black smoke plumed high into the air above the trees and announced to anyone within twenty miles that there was mischief abroad in Ireland. However, the destruction of the ships was not for the benefit of the surrounding chieftains or the Ostmen, but for his own army which marched away from the island at Banabh. FitzStephen was telling them that there was no escape from Ireland, nothing but victory would suffice. No more hiding or intrigue. War.

  Over a thousand men were now under FitzStephen’s command. Five hundred were Diarmait’s clansmen, undoubtedly brave but ill-disciplined. Some were noblemen, of a fashion, on horses; however, most were infantry simply armed with slings, javelins, or spears. Diarmait called the infantrymen kern and most had little more than wicker shields and spears. FitzStephen had thought their lack of armour odd, but Diarmait had told him that his people disdained chainmail rather than being unaware of its benefits. Manoeuvrability was everything to the brave men who were under the command of Diarmait’s son, Domhnall Caomhánach. Many in the kern had caked mud into their long hair and dried it onto their foreheads to act in place of helmets. All the men of Wales had laughed at their new allies’ savageness, but Diarmait was immensely proud of his countrymen and so FitzStephen did not partake of the mockery despite thinking that, should he ever need to fight them, the Gaels would be easy prey for his horsemen and archers. Hervey de Montmorency rode with the King, not for the pleasure of Diarmait’s company, who he thought lacking in manners, but, FitzStephen was sure, to whisper in the King’s ear against him.

  Three hundred more of the army were Welsh, Cornish, and Flemish archers and crossbowmen, the greatest marksmen that the frontier had to offer, their skill developed in a century of skirmishes and ambushes between the antagonistic peoples of South Wales. At fifty yards the arrows of the Welshmen could mangle chainmail made by any smith in Europe, but only the crossbow could puncture a well-made shield. Richard de la Roche had tried to stop FitzStephen from employing his natural enemy, the Cymri, but the knight had observed their skill in action first-hand and knew that whatever came against his army in Ireland he would need that talent. Pulled back to the chest and aimed with one eye closed, the yew or ash staves and arrows had cost FitzStephen a fortune, but he knew that it was worth it – each archer could shoot up to twenty arrows a minute at a distance of over a hundred yards. These were the men that could win a simple knight a kingdom, he knew. Commanded by Richard de la Roche, despite his issues with the Welsh, many of the archers also had swords, short axes, and daggers for hand-to-hand fighting and, more likely, murder. At their waist was a quiver of a hundred arrows. Three cartloads more followed the army pulled by stolen Irish cattle. A fourth cart carried scaling ladders and several lengths of heavy timber which FitzStephen had ordered shaped back in Wales. Diarmait had asked the use of the twenty-foot lengths of wood, but FitzStephen had refused to tell him. Some secrets were best kept even from his allies.

  Alongside the Welsh archers were the Flemish crossbowmen led by Miles Menevensis. They could only shoot about half the number of quarrels that an archer could, but it took a lifetime for an archer to learn to use their weapon and any man could be taught to competently use a crossbow. It was widely known that the crossbow was invented by Satan but most of the crossbowmen rubbed manure on the ends of their quarrels so that if they made any contact with their enemy, they would cause a festering of the blood – just to make certain of death in the event that the Devil was busy elsewhere.

  Walter de Ridlesford also commanded two hundred infantrymen who were heavily armed with swords, axes, maces, and spears. Again, some had chainmail but most had just leather jerkins or thick padded linen gambesons to defend them. On their heads were the spangenhelm, the cone-shaped helmets complete with a nasal guard. They looked no different to their Norse or English peers and had the same arms as their contemporaries except for their distinctive leaf-shaped shields. Ninety horsemen were similarly armed to the infantry and were employed as outriders and scouts for the army. Mostly made up of lightly armed esquires and hoblier-archers, they were led by Maurice de Prendergast, who was also FitzStephen’s second-in-command.

  At the heart of FitzStephen’s force was a single conrois of forty heavy cavalrymen. Maces, short-handled axes, and swords hung at thei
r sides and bumped against their horses’ flanks. But the main weapon which each of them carried was the lance. It could be held over arm and used to stab down or throw into a crowd of men. Like FitzStephen, these milites wore fully fifty pounds of armoured hauberk which covered the whole body of the cavalryman. Only his face was left open. Their horses were strong and manoeuvrable but not big so that the men would not be unseated when cutting down on an enemy infantryman. Some, like FitzStephen, had livery of their own or wore their lord’s, but most simply wore their chainmail open in the early summer sun, shining like the scales of fish, and bound at the waist by a heavy buckled belt. They all followed one banner, the silver star on the blue field, which hung from the tip of Sir Robert FitzStephen’s lance.

  The army which left Banabh stretched for a quarter mile from front to back and followed Maurice de Prendergast’s vanguard eastwards, away from the barrelling smoke which clung to the island. Waesfjord was their target, fifteen miles to the north-west over high hills. It had been suggested at the feast that they would go north and follow the bend of the River Corock towards the Norse town, but FitzStephen had refused, realising that the route would take them too close to Cluainmín, upriver from their island camp. As an alternative, Diarmait had suggested that the army hug the coast and attack the town from the south through the land known as Forthairt. FitzStephen had agreed to this course and they had left for their target before dawn. Riding through the flat land beside the sea had caused few problems and FitzStephen was enjoying the journey beside Albrecht Cullen, a warrior in Richard de la Roche’s employ.