Swordland

by Edward Ruadh Butler

  Behind the warrior, Gilbert de Brienne coughed.

  ‘Err, Sir Robert,’ he said gingerly, ‘that was the signal. Three blasts.’

  FitzStephen paid no heed to the young man. Gilbert was just nineteen but was still the next most senior officer of the fifty-strong mixture of Irish and Norman troops. The knight had led them across the Forthairt hills above Waesfjord in the darkness of the night before, a journey which had taken many hours of effort to get to Selskar. Each man had held the cloak of the warrior ahead of him and had bound their spear tips so as the reflected light of the full moon did not betray their battle plan to the vigilant Ostmen in the city below. Just three hours before, as the first rays of the new day had broken through the gloom, the Norman force had dumped their gear at the back of the Selskar Rock. There they had tried to sleep and waited for the signal to attack the longfort. Hidden from the Ostmen, FitzStephen had stopped the men from lighting any fires and he alone seemed to be unaffected by the cold under the cloudless morning sky. Everyone else had shivered beneath cloaks, quilted gambeson, and leather armour.

  Still staring at the vast walls of Waesfjord, FitzStephen felt nervous; he told himself that it was because he was bereft of his armour and surcoat for almost the first time since he had landed in Ireland, but he knew that was not the reason. It was pressure for it was here in the north that his real attack would land. To aid the deception, Fionntán Ua Donnchaidh, as tall if not as broad as the Norman, had dressed in FitzStephen’s armour and surcoat and had led the army to before the main wall of the longfort. The Irishman had been embarrassed at the gaudy robes and uncomfortable in the heavy armour and helmet but he had acquiesced. Instead of armour, FitzStephen wore a simple leather jerkin over his gambeson jacket. Dropping onto his belly he crawled forward to the lip of the hill where, chin resting on his flat palms, he continued to study the defences.

  ‘Why are we waiting, Sir Robert?’ Gilbert de Brienne asked. He had crawled after him and again began whispering to him from close to his heels. ‘The plan was to attack on the three trumpet blasts.’

  FitzStephen ignored his subaltern. ‘When the time comes, we hit the Ostmen where it hurts them worst: their purses,’ he said.

  ‘Of course,’ Gilbert replied.

  The plan was a good one but still the knight’s nerves would not go away. He knew the fear was born of his failure in Ceredigion but even this realisation could not shake his hesitation. With effort he put the memories to the back of his mind and continued to watch the walls for weakness. He believed that it was this attack which would be the most important. As such it was better to let the unimaginative Fleming, Prendergast, attract the brunt of the defenders to the south of the town and give his plan a better chance of success. Thus, FitzStephen had ignored the triple trumpet call from the front of the longfort which called him to war. Minutes later he was able to see some Ostman warriors on the northern wall turn away and begin running through the town streets towards the south where Prendergast’s attack was taking place. FitzStephen could even see that some men from the long western wall, which faced the main portion of the Norman army, were climbing down from the allure and were joining the exodus of warriors moving towards the new southern threat. He grinned and rolled onto his back on the grass which covered Selskar. Gilbert de Brienne was again whispering advice.

  ‘Shut up and listen,’ FitzStephen said brusquely as he brushed the thick grass out of his eyes. ‘There are only fifty Ostmen on the wall now. We go fast and we go low around the side of the rock beside the estuary. We do not stop until we are in the town. Understood?’

  Gilbert nodded and FitzStephen rolled back onto his stomach to look at the fortress-town. Speed was everything now. He knew that his attackers would be spotted from the wall even though the burnt out ruins of the Irish marketplace would provide significant cover. The plan to capture Waesfjord appealed to FitzStephen, combating the straightforward defensive strength of the Ostmen with a wily attack strategy which would confuse the enemy and force them to spread their troops too thinly across their walls.

  ‘Light the fires,’ FitzStephen told Gilbert de Brienne. The Norman youth crawled low and scrambled down to where the rest of the men waited unseen behind the rock. FitzStephen gave him a two-minute head start before following down the side of the hill, loose earth tumbling down to mark his approach. The Normans nodded proudly as he walked amongst them while the Uí Ceinnselaig looked on critically at the warrior who, despite proving a success at Dun Cormaic, was still a stranger.

  ‘They know the plan?’ he asked of Brienne who nodded back. A fire was gathering ferocity at his side. FitzStephen pointed at the blaze. ‘Take a brand, light it, and then run like you have never run before,’ he told them in French. ‘Don’t stop until you get to the wall.’

  His Normans grinned and nodded their assent as FitzStephen slung his sword over his shoulder. He then stooped to pick up his short axe and took a flaming brand from Gilbert de Brienne. ‘You come last, keep them moving onwards. Do not stop for the wounded,’ he said it loud enough for all to hear. ‘Now, follow me.’ He broke into a jog towards the brown lapping water of the shore, following the slope of the hill, filled with leafy weeds and sparse grassy clumps. Behind him the thud of feet trailed his own as he rounded the outcropping. On the shoreline FitzStephen picked up the road which led through the burnt Irishtown to St Ivar’s Gate. He increased his pace and urged his men onwards, crouched over with his eyes on the corner of the wall. It was fully six hundred feet from Selskar to the walls of Waesfjord but he had already scouted the area through the smoking ruins just before the dawn, to clear any debris from his intended path.

  FitzStephen doubted if the Ostmen would expect any force to come from the north without being seen well in advance. He chanced another look up at the walls but the rising sun was pouring over the longfort directly into his eyes, hiding everything from him. Shadows moved there but he could not identify what it meant. It was too late to stop the attack anyway and all that was left for him to do was to pick up the pace and trust that Prendergast’s attack and Fionntán’s display had shrunk the defenders on the wall ahead to a minimum.

  Behind him the men ran between the drifting silhouettes from the wrecked buildings. Smouldering fires in the husk of Irishtown still sent small strips of smoke towards the sky and perhaps this was the reason that the Ostmen of Waesfjord did not see the fifty-strong force carrying fiery brands towards their walls. They were just two hundred feet from the walls and still no one challenged their progress. FitzStephen could not believe that his force had remained undiscovered this far and as he pumped his legs he waved some of the younger, faster men forward and pointed them towards their target. He had to capitalise on the Ostmen’s inaction. The younger men, Diarmait’s tribesmen mostly, sprinted ahead with a whoop as FitzStephen slowed to a fast trot.

  ‘Go, go, go,’ he said in French.

  Finally, from above, the shout came from the Ostmen that their northern extreme was under attack. Arrows started falling amongst the attackers shot by archers on the walls with bows more used to hunting birds and small game than in war. Three men fell to those weapons as the ever-more-stretched group of warriors under FitzStephen burst from between the timber and stone skeleton of Irishtown and into the former marketplace before the walls of Waesfjord.

  Gilbert de Brienne, who had been at the back of the group, now pulled up beside his commander and gave him a grin which FitzStephen ignored. Ahead of them the first of their troops vaulted the small bank filled with spiky weeds and landed on the mud and shingle beach. It was all happening so fast that the defenders, who had prepared themselves to meet another escalade against their walls, could only watch, heavy boulders and timbers above their heads, as the lightly armed men arced away from their position towards the harbour, where wall and water met. It was only when they splashed into the muddy shallows that they understood the Norman plan and the shouts of warning began.

  The attackers’ progress seemed to stop as they hi
t the shore of Lough Garman. More than one stumbled and went under the water, extinguishing their brands, but more of the attackers slowly waded out beyond the wall, up to their chests in the freezing water. FitzStephen was the last man into the bay. He had been correct about the tide, it was about to turn but right now it was low enough for his men to fight through weed and sludge and get into the longfort. A spear from the palisade above splashed into the water beside him, but FitzStephen was more concerned by the excrement which floated around than the weaponry; the Ostmen obviously emptied their soil into the flooded ditch at the foot of their walls which then slowly made its way into the lough. He tried not to think about it further and waded onwards. Ahead he could already see the ships in the harbour – ten unmanned longships tethered to the wide curving arc of massive wooden trunks driven deep into the bay floor.

  ‘Leave the ships,’ FitzStephen shouted in French. There were no guards and the young Irishmen, who did not understand his native tongue, could wreak havoc on the vessels while the Normans and Flemings formed up inside the town wall.

  ‘Follow me. Shield wall,’ he shouted, again in French, as he pushed between the wooden trunks. Mussel shells clung to the wood beneath the surface and sliced at FitzStephen’s leg bindings, leaving small cuts up and down his limbs. An arrow thudded into the standing timber beside his head and remained there quivering. Another pumped into the stomach of a Norman warrior whose spear got struck as he pushed between the posts.

  ‘Come on,’ FitzStephen shouted, ‘form wall.’

  Just three Ostmen were on the beach, older men who were untangling fishing nets beside two short boats. Two of the men scrambled away as FitzStephen appeared but the oldest lifted a boat hook and charged at the man of Ceredigion. He splashed out of the shallow water to meet him, side-stepping at the last moment, letting the shaft of the weapon fall past him before smashing his short axe into the back of the old fisherman’s head. Blood spilled up his arm as the Norman dislodged the weapon from the man’s skull. To his right, more armoured Ostmen tumbled down the steep glacis to meet the threat of the man coming out of the depths of the lough like the ghost of Garman Garbh.

  Gilbert de Brienne was the next man through the posts behind his leader. ‘Beware right,’ he shouted to those following. Soon there were ten, twelve, twenty men facing a handful of townspeople who rushed down the muddy bank towards them. They were bloodily despatched in just a few minutes of vicious hand-to-hand fighting. The Normans had their foothold in Waesfjord, but it was tenuous.

  FitzStephen left Gilbert to organise the forces into a shield wall as he quickly surveyed the scene inside the town. There was a small stretch of open, muddy beach between the waterfront and the first houses which stretched away to the south. He ignored that direction and looked to his right where the wall stretched away from Lough Garman, curling inland and southwards. He could see the backs of the Ostmen still gathered around the barbican above St Ivar’s Gate preparing for a frontal assault. Above him there were still Ostmen on the north wall looking down on the invaders and awaiting orders. FitzStephen smiled; indecision, as he knew well himself, was a dangerous adversary.

  ‘Archers,’ the Norman shouted as yet more men poured between the stakes, ‘clear that wall.’ He pointed up to the top of the embankment. ‘And for St Maurice’s sake, kill that bloody bowman,’ he said calmly as another arrow streaked by him, burying itself in the mud to his left. Immediately six bowmen notched arrows on bowstrings and began shooting at the Ostmen on the wall, forcing them away from the sea and behind their circular shields. FitzStephen knew that he had to get control of the allure or they would be able to outflank the Normans and destroy them.

  ‘You,’ he said to two of the archers, ‘climb that bank and make sure they don’t get around us.’ He had only allowed six archers to accompany him in his attack but they would be enough. The Norse bowman was already down, an arrow in his armpit as he reached for his arrow bag. More Ostmen were falling with the feathered shafts protruding from their chests while injured men crawled back along the allure towards shelter. Ten yards of the wall was already clear and the two archers who he had selected were already on their hands and knees climbing up the embankment towards the palisade where they could hold back the Ostmen from a safe distance.

  Suddenly FitzStephen noticed thin pumping smoke drifting over his head and turned back towards the sea front. The Irish had done their job and four longboats were in flames on the water. Diarmait’s Gaels came through the smoke, grins plastered across their sooty faces and wet from head to toe from their efforts. FitzStephen nodded at them as they ran by towards the rest of the men gathering at a small garden wall parallel to the water line, twenty yards up the muddy beach. He stared momentarily at the smoke which he knew would draw a frenzied Ostman counterattack onto his shield wall. Two Normans crashed through a longhouse door at the end of the garden wall, skewering a woman who attacked them with a skillet. A flurry of screaming children burst from the door at the other end and into the town beyond.

  ‘Gilbert,’ FitzStephen shouted back on the beach. ‘Get these up on our flank,’ he kicked the side of one of two short wooden boats, probably used by the Ostmen for fishing in the River Sláine. ‘And set those houses on fire,’ he indicated to the knot of houses across the small road from the garden. He wanted the Ostmen to come at his men through the garden and the fire would force them to do just that rather than have to circle around the blaze. If they did the boats could be used to impair their attack on FitzStephen’s bridgehead within Waesfjord.

  Torches flew through the air on Gilbert de Brienne’s order and landed on the thatched roofs, made of barley straw attached to a layer of turves on a mesh of wattle. Soon they, like the longships in the harbour, were on fire, blocking the road and defending the Norman left flank. The wind was whipping off the bay now, driving the fire towards the rest of the town and beyond the cracking thatch FitzStephen could hear the inhabitants’ terror at the sudden discovery of the fire and the Norman intrusion into their town. He fancied that he could almost hear the stomp of feet and the shout of angry voices as a large number of men ran towards the Norman position along gravel, timber, and stone streets covered in wattle mats. They came to save their beloved ships and their town.

  ‘They are coming,’ FitzStephen shouted, ‘be ready.’ He walked up towards the garden fence where Gilbert de Brienne had organised his men to oppose the expected attack. The fence would act as a barrier between the Normans and the Ostmen’s attack, disrupting the enemy’s shield wall and protecting the Normans. Or so FitzStephen hoped. Beyond the smoke, he could see the Ostmen were gathering, their colourfully painted shields locked below bearded faces crowned in steel. Swords, spears, and axes waved at the Normans while Norse insults hissed through teeth bared in anger.

  ‘Gilbert, take five men and watch our flank.’ He received a look of pure dismay as Gilbert de Brienne held his eye for several seconds before reluctantly calling five of his friends out of the line and stomping off to his new post. FitzStephen smiled, respecting the young man’s desire to fight the Ostmen rather than guard the flank, but he needed a man he could trust if they came from further down the beach and Gilbert had performed well during the initial attack. He would not let him down.

  A crunch and a cheer sounded from the other end of the garden. He watched the Ostmen push over the fence at the far end of the garden without a moment’s hesitation. These men did not need any added encouragement to press the attack; their home had been successfully invaded, their fortress threatened with being overrun, and their families killed. The Ostmen came forward at a march, urging their brothers to great deeds in the face of the cursed Normans. He turned his back on Gilbert’s small group and took his place in the centre of the defensive wall to face the hundred or so warriors who threatened his small force.

  ‘Do your families proud,’ one man shouted in the Norse midst. ‘Kill them all in St Ivar’s name.’

  ‘Let them get entangled in the fence and then k
nock them back,’ FitzStephen shouted, louder than any other voice on the battlefield. He watched the swirling colours on circular shields advance on the Norman-Irish position and he felt his heart race in anticipation of the fight ahead. This was the sight that had terrified Europe for three hundred years – the attack of the Ostmen. He breathed harshly through his nose, ignoring the acrid smoke. Then suddenly, without any prompting, he was calm.

  The Norse shield wall was just thirty men wide because that was all the small garden could contain while the fire roared on the Ostmen’s right. But three ranks more of warriors filled the space behind and followed the shield wall forward, which would add their weight to the impact with the very lightweight Norman line.

  ‘They don’t even have shields or armour,’ one Ostman shouted gleefully as he crushed herbs and vegetables below his feet as the townsfolk advanced towards their enemy.

  Above, the succinct twang of the Norman bows began from the palisade as the six archers were trying to take out as many warriors as possible before the impact with FitzStephen’s small force. The shields caught many of the arrows but some shafts found gaps and at close range crashed through the mail shirts to mangle the flesh of the Ostmen. Then the archers began shooting desperately at the unprotected legs of the Waesfjord warriors and FitzStephen watched as more than one collapsed with an arrow piercing his knee. The archers then began shooting indiscriminately into the mass of men, not even bothering to aim, just concentrating on notching arrow after arrow and pulling the bowstring to its greatest extent. The distance was such that the devastating missiles even powered through the wood shields and into forearms, faces, and chests.

  ‘Steady,’ FitzStephen shouted, his breath short as he waited for the heavily armed enemy to strike his lightly armed raiders. The Ostmen sped up over the last few steps and their shield wall rammed into the fence. However, rather than coming up against another shield wall that would meet their charge in the crunch of the frontline, they stumbled, tripping over the flimsy fence with their comrades pushing on their backs. Two ranks of men went down on their faces or hands. Those who stayed on their feet fell forward and found themselves perilously out of the line and alone.