Swordland

by Edward Ruadh Butler

  ‘Take them,’ FitzStephen screamed and his men went forward with spears and swords stabbing at the stricken Ostmen. The mail shirts would not stop a strong stroke from a spear and FitzStephen’s troops snarled with glee as they killed the first rank of the Ostmen. Brave men fell in the opening scuffle. As the first two ranks struggled to survive, the next rank tried to step forward and engage but the men before them hindered their axes and the only bite came from the Normans and Irish who brought death to the trading outpost.

  FitzStephen’s first strike of his short axe cleaved into a bearded warrior’s spine, spilling blood and a yellow liquid onto the inside of the man’s shield. He had abandoned his torch long before and had drawn a mace from his belt. He now used the weapon to deflect strikes while using the hand axe to grind up their bodies. He backhanded another Ostman who had struggled to his knees and cleaved off his jaw bone which was left grizzly hanging by bearded flesh and sinew.

  He began keening: ‘St Maurice!’

  Up and down the line the Ostmen struggled to get over their dead comrades and use their weight and numbers to kill the Norman-Irish, but they were climbing over slick bodies and into a thick smoke which plumed off the burning ships in the harbour. Against all the odds, FitzStephen’s raiders were winning, but then suddenly it all changed. Over the angry shouts and screams, burning timbers and clash of steel on steel, he heard a new sound – a sharp intake of dread and panic, and it came from the left hand side of his battle line close to the burning buildings. FitzStephen, in the middle of the shield wall, was pulling his short axe from the face of an enemy teenager when he felt the men to his immediate left bump into him sharply. It took him a few seconds to appreciate what had happened but when he did he realised that he and his force were in very grave danger indeed.

  FitzStephen swung on his heels and ran towards his left flank, which was under attack by twenty bearded and snarling Ostmen. Four of his men were already down and another five were fighting the enemy who came at them from three sides. He assessed his position and knew that his left flank were dead men.

  ‘Retreat to the harbour,’ he shouted, abandoning those men embroiled in the losing fight on the left. ‘Retreat,’ he added in Irish learned from Fionntán. There was no point trying to fight now. His flank would fail at any second but they could not disengage the fighting unless the rout was to take the whole of the incursion force.

  Why had Gilbert de Brienne not warned him that the Ostmen had gone around the burning buildings, FitzStephen wondered angrily? He looked at the flank where he had posted the young man. One of the two boats he had assigned to the area for use as a crude wall was gone, as was his young lieutenant. FitzStephen searched through the smoke and caught a glimpse of six milites in the fishing boat pulling their way out towards a merchant vessel in the bay.

  ‘Bloody pirates,’ he spat in their direction. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he shouted to his remaining warriors inside Waesfjord. It was now a footrace between the Normans and the vengeful Ostmen. FitzStephen stuffed his mace into his belt and launched himself into the smoke.

  Confusion was king inside Waesfjord. That much FitzStephen could tell as he watched another trebuchet shot soar above his head and smash into the torn walls. Warriors from above St Peter’s Gate continued to flee from their positions to reinforce their compatriots facing attack on their longfort from the north and south. But little did the Ostmen realise that the attacks on the extremes of the city had already been forced to retreat.

  ‘Get the men ready,’ he said calmly to William the Welshman. FitzStephen had never led an attack on a fortress so big, but his plan was working. Coldness descended on him before battle when other men were overcome with fear or fury. It was difficult for him to describe but somehow stillness took him, allowing him to transcend the natural passions that took most men when faced with the danger of battle. Where others lost sight of the greater battle, FitzStephen found a cold, hard, and murderous intent flowed through his veins. It gave him the added advantage of a clear head to command his men.

  Another of Meiler’s projectiles crashed into the wooden barbican with horrific force, spilling shards of timber and tearing several heavy wooden stakes from their place before the gates. Just minutes later another stone struck the earthen bank, throwing a vast wave of dry soil out towards the Norman army. FitzStephen nodded again, believing that the defenders would be suitably confused so that his main assault could begin.

  Now wrapped in his armour and splendid in his surcoat, he lifted his spear and looked eastwards where Richard de la Roche had moved his archers to the flank of the army on a rocky terrace. The Fleming responded with a wave in the air and began shouting at his troops. The archers, a hundred feet from the walls of Waesfjord, notched their first arrows and dug in their heels into the soft, wet mud. As one they drew back their bows and held the enormous weight with quivering arms. Richard de la Roche raised his sword arm and slashed it down in the direction of St Peter’s Gate.

  ‘Loose,’ he shouted. Two hundred arrows soared like a swarm of stinging wasps against the clouds. Before they had even landed another two hundred were whistling their way towards the gates and the archers were notching a third arrow on their bowstrings. As they did this, the first arrows clattered against the wooden barricade. But many also found the gaps between the defences and caused carnage beneath the shields held high by the Ostmen. Arrows struck into crouched thighs and feet, shoulders and chests. They punched through the weak points in the circular shields and scored across the left arms which held them aloft. They ricocheted and rebounded off iron and steel, slashing across faces and hands.

  Again Meiler’s trebuchet smashed a heavy stone into the base of the barbican, shaking the whole structure and sending spouts of dust high into the air. Arrows kept falling and blood could even be seen seeping between the gaps in the wooden barbican and down the front of gates. The Ostmen inside had no way to stop the bombardment on their walls and those outside the target area continued to shout and scream defiance at the Norman army as their fellows on the barbican were dying in a rain of death from Richard de la Roche’s bows. In the first few minutes nearly ten thousand arrows had landed on the small wooden structure which was bereft of cover thanks to Meiler’s earlier sharpshooting. However, he had yet to bring down the main gate. Defended by many pointed wooden stakes dug into the mud, Meiler had been unable to get a direct hit. The problem was compounded by the earth and shale glacis, twice as tall as a man, sloping away from the gate on either side which served to defend the entrance from Meiler’s position. He was obviously angry at his failure to bring down the gate and he shouted directions in ever more stretched tones at his men. Miniscule changes in his aim improved the next trebuchet shot but again it failed to break down the gate and allow FitzStephen to send forward his warriors. Presently, Meiler came trotting across to his commander who stood in the middle of the battle line parallel to the long walls of Waesfjord watching the aerial offensive.

  ‘Uncle,’ Meiler greeted his commander cordially. ‘I can’t bring down that gate from where we are now,’ he said indicating back towards his men who continued to reload the weapon. ‘We have done all the damage we can from there.’

  FitzStephen nodded and looked around for a good place to move the trebuchet. A sudden crash of wood on wood, followed by the whip of rope, made both men turn. As if to mock Meiler, a piece of masonry from the weapon slung low on a direct course for the gate. It was an impossible shot but it buckled the gate upon impact, peeling the wooden doors back on its hinges in a splintering cacophony. The defiant shouts and songs of the Ostmen faded immediately. A wound more savage than that which had seen their ships fired had struck their town; they were speechless. Slowly, the Norman and Flemish warriors began to cheer the success. Meiler was the only one who did not cheer the achievement but puffed up his chest and stomped off to deride the Uí Ceinnselaig trebuchet operators for shooting without his command.

  ‘I turn my back for one bloody minute …�
� he began as he approached the whooping Gaels.

  FitzStephen smiled and hefted his spear. It was time for the Normans to seize Waesfjord. Scaling ladders had already been dispersed amongst the men as Richard de la Roche’s kept up their arrow storm. But FitzStephen did not order the attack. Instead he turned to Diarmait Mac Murchada. The king had realised that even his vast experiences had not prepared him for planning an attack on the settlement. FitzStephen empathised with his feeling of helplessness but there was one honour that could still be Diarmait’s.

  ‘Would you like to the order the attack?’ the Norman asked the King of Laighin.

  Diarmait smiled and stepped out in front of the army, his arms in the air. His army cheered him and he encouraged them until they quieted down. He drew his short sword. Diarmait’s facial expression changed suddenly from smiling to fury as he uttered a single word.

  ‘Attack!’

  His sword swept down as if he could cleave Waesfjord in two and his army, led by Sir Robert FitzStephen, swept forward.

  Diarmait’s army fought long and they fought hard and many men made their names for the bravery which they showed in the fight by the gates of Waesfjord. Some lived and some went to their deaths, but the army of Mac Murchada and FitzStephen was still repulsed. The Ostmen of Waesfjord had battled with a fanatical zeal to defend their homes, families, and livelihood from the invaders and eventually, despite the bravery of many men, FitzStephen was forced to concede that he could not break into the town.

  ‘Not today anyway,’ he whispered, gritting his teeth as he pulled back from the charnel house that was the remains of the gate. Blood flooded footprints in the mud as he stepped backwards from the bodies that crowded the gate. He noticed that the Fleming who had stood at his side as they assaulted the gate was dead; an abandoned spear impaled in his chest and still held him on his feet. A battle axe was buried in his brains.

  ‘Slowly,’ FitzStephen shouted to his retreating men, his voice carrying over even the jeers of the Ostmen on the wall. Beside him an Irishman screamed defiance at the longfort in his own language. Blood covered his face and bare torso.

  ‘We’ll be back tomorrow, you bastards!’

  Surveying the damage FitzStephen could see only about ten Norman and Irish dead. If his army had suffered then the Ostmen must have lost ten times that number, he thought. He had killed three men outright in the muddy maul that had been the battle by the gates, but not even he could force his way into the longfort. He could not force victory. Pain issued from his back and he blanched as his mailed handed scored across a painful bruise forming close to his spine. He remembered sweeping his shield onto his back so that he could use both sword and mace after losing his spear. It had not been more than a second later that he had felt a bolt smash into the wooden planks, knocking him forwards into the mud. Sweeping his shield onto his left arm FitzStephen saw a bolt standing in the middle of his silver star.

  ‘That was lucky,’ William the Welshman said as he examined the protruding shaft.

  ‘An inch deeper and it would have killed me.’ FitzStephen shook his head as if trying not to consider that piece of fortune. ‘It came from behind me.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ his brother asked, eyes wrinkled in concentration. ‘Someone tried to kill you? Who have you been annoying now?’

  ‘A good question,’ FitzStephen said, pulling the bolt from his shield. ‘It must have been shot from distance,’ he said, ‘or I would be dead in the mud.’ He pushed his forefinger into the hole in the shield. It disappeared up to the first joint. He cast his eyes over his army who were gathering back at the trebuchet throwing scorn, rather than projectiles, at the walls of Waesfjord.

  ‘Surely not one of Miles’s men,’ he deemed.

  ‘One of the Flemings?’ William considered. ‘They are still sore about you bringing them back from Cluainmín.’

  ‘Keep your eyes open, and your mouth closed,’ FitzStephen said, pointing the crossbow bolt at his brother’s chest.

  Richard de la Roche shook his head as he advanced towards the sons of Stephen. ‘These Ostmen are stubborn. What more can we do?’ he asked. The archers, like Meiler’s men, had stopped loosing arrows. The sun was setting behind them over the Forthairt hills, shading the fortress and the defenders in shadows, providing cover from the sharp-eyed attackers.

  FitzStephen greeted Richard gruffly. ‘We can do it all again tomorrow. They cannot keep this up,’ he answered. He turned to look back at the town walls which had resisted him, cracked a smile and slapped Roche on the back. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said. Turning to William he said, ‘Get the tents unfurled and get some pickets out there. Make sure the trebuchet is defended in case they sortie out.’ William nodded curtly and wandered off to carry out his brother’s orders.

  ‘Uh oh,’ Roche said, ‘here’s trouble.’ Beyond the Fleming, Diarmait Mac Murchada approached the two men with Hervey de Montmorency at his side.

  ‘You survived then?’ asked Hervey.

  FitzStephen nodded, noticing that the Frenchman had a crossbow slung across his back. ‘You didn’t get involved, I see,’ the captain replied. ‘Perhaps you had some other job to keep you busy?’ he asked as he innocently examined the crossbow bolt which had almost killed him. If Sir Hervey recognised what FitzStephen was insinuating, he did not react to it.

  ‘What a day,’ Diarmait said jovially, seemingly unaffected by the horror which lay within sight and unaware of the enmity between his two allies. The King stepped over a Norman who had been dragged back for treatment but had died before receiving any care. He handed FitzStephen a wooden mug filled with water. ‘So what now, north to Fearna?’ he asked. ‘Toirdelbach Mac Diarmait of Cualann needs to be taught a lesson in loyalty. And he is not the only one.’

  FitzStephen and Roche swapped disbelieving glances.

  ‘You want us to abandon the siege?’ asked the Norman commander.

  ‘You have lost,’ Sir Hervey stepped in front of King Diarmait. ‘Waesfjord is as strong as ever.’

  FitzStephen ignored Hervey. If he did not claim this prize he could not reward his troops and he would be forced to return to England where King Henry would surely hang him for his disobedience. His future was entirely dependent on capturing the longfort of Waesfjord.

  ‘What else can we do?’ Diarmait questioned the two foreign warriors. ‘The Ostmen have resisted everything you have thrown against them. Have we not lost enough men on their walls?’

  ‘No,’ FitzStephen said stubbornly, ‘we will attack again at first light. And I will beat them.’

  The King’s eyes flashed as the Norman again argued against his orders, but as usual the anger subsided quickly and he let his warlord defend his position. Hervey whispered in his ear and pointed a gnarly finger at FitzStephen’s chest.

  ‘Waesfjord is like a wounded boar with his back to a great oak,’ FitzStephen interrupted Hervey’s intrigues. ‘One well-placed strike and they will be finished,’ he explained. ‘I have burnt their ships and there is nowhere for them to flee. We have breached their walls twice already. When Ireland hears that we have captured this impregnable fortress they will fear even our approach,’ he said. ‘Even Dubhlinn will surrender before our might.’

  The name of Diarmait’s most hated enemy stopped the King in his tracks and he shook his head as if to clear his mind of his quest for vengeance.

  ‘We should leave, Lord King,’ urged Hervey, sending a toothy and triumphant grin towards FitzStephen. ‘We should send a letter to my nephew, the earl, encouraging him to come to Ireland immediately. He will take this miniscule town himself.’ Hervey had taken Diarmait by the shoulders and tried to gently steer him away from FitzStephen and Richard as if the frontiersmen were a danger to the King’s wellbeing.

  ‘We aren’t going anywhere, Diarmait,’ FitzStephen said bluntly. ‘Waesfjord is ready to fall. All we need to do is extend our hands and take it. My men are staying here.’

  Hervey laughed haughtily.

  ‘I agree with you, Si
r Robert,’ said Diarmait finally, stopping Montmorency’s cackle in an instant. ‘We cannot leave them at our backs.’

  FitzStephen grinned from ear to ear as Diarmait continued, holding up his hands. ‘And I have not been totally honest with you, Sir Robert,’ he said. ‘I did not believe that you and your men could take the longfort and so, before I met you in Banabh, I made my own arrangements to make sure that the fortress falls.’

  ‘An agent?’ FitzStephen asked.

  ‘An eminent friend,’ the King of Laighin said. ‘He will open their gates for us after we give him the signal – a Mass before their walls.’

  ‘A Mass?’ questioned FitzStephen. ‘He has a taste for the theatrics. Who is this warrior?’ He did not know how he felt about the King of Laighin keeping secrets from him. It made him feel uneasy.

  Diarmait simply smiled. ‘A friend,’ he repeated. ‘As to how he will open their gates,’ he continued, ‘well, that is the easy part.’

  Inside Waesfjord was carnage. Wounded and dying men lay everywhere and screams pulverised the stockade. Blood puddled and flowed away from the red-splashed gates, soaking and staining everything in its path. The air inside the fortress was thick with steam, which mingled with smoke from the burning fleet in the harbour.

  A dying Ostmen warrior, not yet out of his teens, reached towards Bishop Oisin Ua Bruaideodha and begged for help, grabbing hold of the folds of his clerical robes. The man of the Osraighe could only blink at the boy, whose intestines were folded neatly on his lap, and pull his robe out of his grasp with a snap. He signalled to one of the priests from his entourage to attend to the young warrior and quickly made the shape of the cross in front of the boy who rewarded him with a grisly smile. Bishop Oisin scampered away, gathering his pace to catch up with his travelling companion.