‘Indeed. The survivors from Dun Cormaic and maybe a few more besides, but there is over two thousand feet of wall to defend and they have absolutely no idea from where our attack will come.’ He turned to Diarmait again. ‘So when I say “silly” I mean that they could have brought every Irishman, their friends and neighbours, strapped a spear, blade, or even a stick to their hands and put them on the wall to fight us. Instead they chase them into the hills. Very silly,’ he repeated.
Diarmait nodded, angry at his outburst and at the massacre of his people. ‘Domhnall will round them up and they will fight in the kern.’
FitzStephen nodded and went quiet for many seconds.
‘So how the hell do we get in?’ Walter asked curtly.
FitzStephen did not answer as he studied the land below him which ran downwards in the direction of Waesfjord. The hills sloped slowly down towards the walls of the town through twelve hundred feet of soft marshy ground, sparsely populated by trees, bushes, and smallholdings. It was horrible terrain for cavalry and the lack of cover, after the destruction of the Irishtown, would make his troops nervous. Every town had people capable of using hunting bows and he imagined them on the walls, sniping at his unprotected troops. The height advantage provided by the high wall, in conjunction with the lack of cover for FitzStephen’s men, would give the Ostmen a distinct advantage over his own archers, no matter how much more skilled his men. Two rivers sparkled in the moonlight to the southern end of the walled town. His eye followed them as they streamed under two great wooden barbicans, through the middle of the town and into the bay beyond. It was a weakness, a small one, but a weakness nonetheless.
He estimated that the longfort of Waesfjord was about five hundred yards long and just two hundred feet across. The defenders would be hard pushed to protect it all, especially the main wall which faced westwards. Over the houses in the town, he could see the Norse longboats, differing in size, some with snarling dragon carvings magnificent at the bows. Around twenty were tied to the heavy stakes which followed the bend of the town wall into the bay, acting as a harbour from which the crews could ferry to the mainland. Ten or fifteen more boats were anchored in the bay. He whistled. Archambaud had been right to ignore the possibility of storming the longfort by sea; his small flotilla would quickly have been overcome by the mighty force of ships available to the Norse.
‘Well,’ Diarmait began, ‘any thoughts? What new tricks do you Normans have at your disposal? Can you bring down fire like rain or cause their walls to quake and collapse?’
Walter and FitzStephen looked at each other without saying anything, raising their eyebrows and smiling secretly at Diarmait’s words. They did have a plan which would make the walls ‘quake and collapse’, though they had not told Mac Murchada of it.
‘Can we lure them out?’ Walter asked his cousin who grimaced, twisting a piece of long, coarse grass between his fingers before throwing it away.
‘Lure them out to where? The ground is uneven, there is nowhere to hide – if they are totally insane they may come out by themselves and come far enough away from their walls so that we can ambush them,’ FitzStephen shook his head and grimaced as to the likelihood of that.
‘We could scour their territory,’ Walter said. ‘Kill everybody and burn everything in sight. That might encourage them out for a fight.’
‘No, they will stay behind their walls and hope that we cannot break in.’ Nor, FitzStephen thought, do I want to devastate the land that I hope to rule.
‘They did the same to me,’ Diarmait spoke for the first time about his one and only attempt to subdue the town. ‘They waited behind their walls until we ran out of food. Not one person died on their side.’ He dragged his hands through his mane of hair as he watched the burning embers float away from the blaze. The soaring cinders reflected in the bay like a field of stars. ‘Why do you think they came out and attacked us at Dun Cormaic?’
FitzStephen shook his head rustling the links of his chainmail hood. He had no idea why the Ostmen would have chosen to sortie out of their unassailable longfort. But he knew for certain that they would not make the same mistake again. As he considered the tactics for the fight ahead and where he would attack, he watched the town. The Ostmen, seemingly pleased with their ferocious work in Irishtown, had retreated back through the burning houses and inside their walls. His victory at Dun Cormaic had eased his anxiety about his leadership, but the longfort posed a far more difficult problem for his men. He steeled himself and made his decision. In the light of the burning churches FitzStephen sketched a rudimentary outline of the ramparts on a patch of dry earth.
‘Here’s the plan,’ he told Diarmait and Ridlesford. ‘Three hundred years of independence in Waesfjord is about to come to an abrupt end.’
Before first light the Norman scouts under Maurice de Prendergast descended down the shoulder of the valley alongside the small river to take control of St Michael the Archangel’s Church. The hilly marshland transformed into grassy paths and then into a stony road the closer the horsemen got to the church. They were armed to the teeth, prepared for a hard fight, and in no mood to banter with the lone priest who met them in the road.
‘Any assault on this place is an assault on God himself,’ the bearded priest said in Latin to Prendergast at the head of the horsemen. How the priest had known that the Normans were coming, Maurice could not tell. They carried no brands or torches nor had they encountered any scouts on their way down the mountain. Even the wind was with them, blowing as it was off Lough Garman back towards Banabh. Still, here the priest was, tonsured and standing in the middle of the road in a heavy woollen shift, blocking their passage.
‘Luckily, Father,’ Prendergast replied without giving away his shock at the man’s sudden appearance, ‘we are good Christian men, unlike the Norse, and here only to stable our coursers. I promise that nothing will be stolen, if you promise to assist us,’ he said, waving his grinning men forward around the priest. ‘But if you do not then I am afraid I will not be able to stop my men taking control using force.’ Prendergast gave the priest a grimace which said that he would not enjoy destroying the church but that he would do it nonetheless, say his prayers, and beg forgiveness of the Lord afterwards.
The priest screwed up one eye as he considered the threat, but he was a practical man who had watched four other churches burnt to the ground in the darkness of the night before. He knew that he had to protect St Michael’s and almost immediately he assented to Prendergast’s request and moved out of the horsemen’s way. The Fleming nodded in appreciation and shouted orders to his sergeants. Within minutes they had taken the holy ground around St Michael’s despite the obvious grumblings of the priests therein.
The burning of the suburbs had left a multitude of displaced people searching for shelter during the night, and St Michael’s had provided a haven. The terrified people saw the armed Flemings and again made a move to flee but Prendergast would not allow the men to leave and kept his horsemen circling the church compound, threatening violence on anyone who made a break for it. He also watched the road which wound its way from Waesfjord, and the two roads which stretched away to the south and east.
‘Give them the signal,’ Prendergast told Herluin Synad once the church and the fugitive Irish had been secured. The rest of the army made their way down the hill now that the scouts had achieved their objective. FitzStephen’s main force kept the small river on their left in the unlikely event that the Norse would sortie out to attack their flank, but the five gates of Waesfjord remained firmly shut. Quickly, the Normans took possession of the small church with the tall stone tower beside it. They forced the seven priests into a small anteroom with little delicacy and locked them in. Everyone else was herded outside where the men and older boys were divided from the women and children. Young teenagers cried as spears were thrust into their hands and they were immersed into the ranks of Diarmait’s kern. Unwilling to feed the rest, the Normans pointed down the grassy road to the east and t
old the women and children not to come back. The scouts were required to prod the screaming and crying refugees down the road for half a mile before returning to stable their horses inside the church. Just ten men, injured at Dun Cormaic, would be left to protect those beasts, vital as they were to the conquest of Laighin. With their horses stored safely the army fanned out into the street around St Michael’s and went a little way down the south road until they found a place where they could ford the river. Fifty archers crossed first and then covered the milites and the kern as they splashed through the shallow river. Two draught-horses were the only beasts to be taken on the march and they dragged a device made of thick timbers. It had been assembled by Meiler FitzHenry during the night while a number of Diarmait’s derb-fine had looked on in confusion, wondering what the bucketed instrument, made of thick shaped wood and rope, did.
On the far bank of the river, the commanders marshalled the army into battle order, raising the standards of those knights who carried their own colours. Steel armour and colourful surcoats were dramatic against the dull backdrop of the muddy grass and dark walls of Waesfjord. They then moved forward on the road which ran parallel to the long wall of the fortress-town, passing close to the ruined remnants of St Bride’s Church. Burnt timber and scorched stones were all which remained of the former building and several of the Normans crossed their chests at the unchristian behaviour of the heathen Ostmen. The majority of the army would gladly have cut the throat of the Pope if he thought he could get away with his jewels, but to a man they still believed in the power of the Church and swore vengeance on the despicable Ostmen.
‘Why did God not stop this carnage?’ a superstitious young archer asked his mate.
‘God got chased away from these lands a long time ago, boy,’ replied his commander in a blue surcoat with a silver star without turning around to face the boy.
St Bride’s stood over four hundred feet from the walls of Waesfjord, but every man could see the sullen Norse warriors who stood on the palisade watching the enemy parade their strength in front of their walls. Many showed their scorn by shouting at the army, delivering disdainful hand signals and derisive songs at the Normans while others shook their fists and weapons, urging them to attack their walls so that they could test their blades against Norman steel. The path continued to close on the walls of town as Diarmait’s army approached St Peter’s Church, again slighted by the fire of the Ostmen. The stone tower of the church, once used to store and protect the riches of the parish from raids by Norse or the other tribes, had collapsed during the night due to the overwhelming heat of the fire which had scorched through the church beside it. Surely no good could come from so much carnage against Holy Mother Church?
FitzStephen’s timber device was left behind the lone standing wall of St Peter’s with Meiler FitzHenry and twenty of the kern who began labouring under the Norman’s orders. If the men of Waesfjord could see the work going on under the shadow of the church, they obviously did not understand it as they did nothing to stop the work. Beyond the wrecked church the army continued as the road bent sharply towards the town before it again followed the wall northwards at a distance of two hundred feet. They crossed another stream which barely came over the Normans’ sabatons before the warrior in the blue surcoat with a white star stopped the army and turned them to face the town. Ahead of them was a massive gate made out of heavy wood with a strong barbican above it. Up and down the wall the Ostmen shouted their defiance at the Normans. They knew that their longfort had never fallen to any invader and they were confident. But there was still a small air of doubt; they were facing the Normans, a tricky enemy who every man assumed would have some ruse up their sleeves to throw against their walls. The standoff continued for a long time – the silent Norman army staring balefully at the now frenzied performance of the Ostmen on the walls of Waesfjord. On and on it went for minutes until a trumpet blast sounded suddenly from amongst the attackers and quieted the defiance of the townsfolk.
Máelmáedoc Ua Riagain stepped out of the line and walked forward with Diarmait Mac Murchada towards the walls of Waesfjord. The two men were just a hundred feet from the town now and within bowshot, but neither showed any fear at the danger.
‘Behold, your rightful lord, Diarmait Mac Murchada of the Uí Ceinnselaig, King of Laighin and the Ostmen,’ Máelmáedoc shouted at the vast walls in Irish and then French. Waesfjord was a trader’s town and he knew that most would understand the one or other of the languages. His words were answered with a din of boos and shouts which Máelmáedoc waited to subside before continuing. ‘But he is a good lord and will forgive your disloyalty if you set down your arms, open your gates, and swear fealty to him once again.’ In answer the Ostmen began rhythmically rapping their steel weapons on the timber wall making a huge rumpus which drowned out everything else. Stomp, stomp, stomp went the weapons’ against the wooden walls. It seemed to go on for an eternity, preventing Máelmáedoc from delivering the rest of his terms for their surrender.
‘So be it,’ Máelmáedoc said, but only Diarmait could hear and he turned around and waved his hand in the air, signalling back towards his army. The trumpeter sounded three distinct blasts which punctured the clamour coming from Waesfjord. Inside the walls Eirik and the Ostmen heard the trumpet and prepared themselves for the full-frontal attack. But the Normans simply stared at the walls.
‘Why do they wait?’ Eirik asked Ingólfur, having to shout to make his voice heard. ‘What are they planning?’
‘I do not know,’ Ingólfur replied. ‘Perhaps they are scared?’
Unexpectedly there was a thud of wood whipped against wood from the direction of St Peter’s Church, a brutal whistle, and a huge piece of stone made of carved rock and masonry suddenly smashed into the wall ten paces from the barbican where Eirik stood. Four men were thrown backwards over the parapet, dead on impact, by the projectile thrown by Meiler FitzHenry’s machine – a trebuchet. The stone projectile sent splinters spewing in every direction, slicing into another three men on either side of the impact point. The Ostmen were silenced and Meiler was dancing in excitement at the effect of the trebuchet, its sling arm still swinging from the recoil. Meiler began issuing orders to reload the machine and the Ostmen watched, suddenly frightened, as the men of the kern reloaded the weapon. They pulled on ropes which hauled back the massive arm from vertical to horizontal. At one end of the sling arm was a huge bucket containing stones taken from the ruined church and which acted as a counter-weight. The taut ropes of the trebuchet were held in place by the notched iron cog which stopped the weapon firing prematurely. A single iron bar held the whole mechanism in place when the hauling ropes were removed. Then, under Meiler’s careful direction, the sling bag was positioned directly under the counter-weight while two men manhandled a huge boulder as big as a man’s head into place. The weapon was ready to be unleashed on the Ostman town. It had taken just three minutes to load.
‘Out of the way,’ Meiler shouted, taking a length of rope connected to the triggering pin in his hand. He checked the aim once more before planting his feet alongside the weapon and tugged on the pin. It snapped away with force, releasing the ropes which coiled back under the counter-weight. The main arm whipped upwards, dragging the long sling with it in a wide semi-circle which released the projectile at the very apex. The whole of the machine leapt in the air and thudded to ground as the trebuchet’s sling arm bashed into the timber cross-arm at its front and the counter-weight crashed downwards. Meiler’s second shot was better directed than the first and it smashed into the barbican, ripping off its roof and throwing the debris into the town behind the walls. Two of the beams holding the roof shattered blinding men in a flurry of splinters and sending Eirik to his knees where he screamed like a woman in labour.
‘Ingólfur, Óttar,’ he exclaimed and groaned when he found blood on his hands. ‘Oh, Holy Bride, save me! I am hurt, I am hurt,’ he screeched. ‘Help me!’ His pudgy hands fumbled to find the wound.
‘S
hut up,’ Ingólfur snarled at his chief as he pulled a splinter of wood as big as a dagger from his forearm. ‘We need to bring more men to the main wall,’ Ingólfur said as he threw the wooden shard over the wall at the Normans and grabbed another man by his shoulder. ‘Bring fifty men from the south and north walls,’ he told him, pushing the warrior towards the edge of the ruined barbican. ‘This is where the attack will fall,’ Ingólfur said, nodding his head profusely. It was obvious, he thought. The Normans would not unleash the terror of the trebuchet unless they would follow it up with an assault, he told himself. Around him the shrieks of injured men continued and haunted the minds of the Ostmen on the unaffected parts of the allure. The songs had finished, replaced with the sound of shuffling feet as the living took the place of the dead on the wall. Those who found themselves on the barbican stood in the warm blood of the injured and the dead. Their eyes darted to the trebuchet which was again going through the process to release horror on the walls of Waesfjord.
‘Leave no gaps in the line,’ Óttar Mac Óttar shouted from his place on the barbican. ‘Prepare for their attack,’ he screamed, ‘and protect our homes. Remember that you are men of Waesfjord!’
But what the Ostmen did not know was that everything that they observed, the trebuchet and the vast marshalling of the gaudily-dressed Normans, was a mere display planned to draw their attention towards the main gate. Elsewhere Norman mischief was already afoot and their walls had already been breached.
Chapter Nine
At the northern end of the longfort, a man crouched low and, concealed from the defenders’ sight, stared over the ruined remains of the Irish corn market from the top of the Selskar Rock. Through the heavy gnarled grass of the rocky outcropping, he watched the northern extreme of Waesfjord and counted the men milling around on the palisade.
‘Sixty-three,’ he said with a smile. Far fewer, he thought, than he had dared hope. Three blasts of a trumpet emanated from St Peter’s Gate but the man just grinned and ignored it.
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