Swordland

by Edward Ruadh Butler

  ‘Bás!’

  Sir Robert FitzStephen shouted the Irish word for death again as he watched the King of the Osraighe flee through the gloom. Beside him Gilbert de Brienne began babbling happily to one of his friends. ‘Quiet,’ FitzStephen hissed, ‘or they will realise that we are not Diarmait’s men. Get back up the mountain,’ he told the youngster. ‘Do it quickly.’ Gilbert moved to speak again but FitzStephen’s growl stopped him and slowly he and his companions began to move back towards Dubh-Tir.

  ‘Sounds like Miles did good work,’ Fionntán said as he appeared beside him.

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ FitzStephen replied. He had despatched his nephew to intercept Diarmait’s traitorous delegation. All those men had to die if the plan was to work. ‘If he hasn’t succeeded,’ he continued, ‘then we might not live to see the morning.’

  Fionntán was quiet for many moments as he considered the Norman’s words, stooping in the darkness to pick up a spear and a piece of antler. ‘It was Meic Giolla Phádraig men at the bottom of the hill,’ he said with venom. ‘I almost killed their king as they fled …’

  ‘It might have been better if you had,’ FitzStephen told him with a half-smile and guided him up the hillside. ‘But the survivors will report back with Diarmait’s answer. My guess is Ruaidhrí will not be amused. Let’s get back amongst the trees.’

  They reached the five torches quickly. A rustle in the forest made the few Normans who had gone down the hillside go quiet and lift their weapons to the ready.

  ‘It is Miles,’ Fionntán said confidently as out of the darkness came twenty milites led by FitzStephen’s nephew.

  ‘You got them all?’ FitzStephen asked.

  ‘We got them all,’ Miles replied and waved forward seven men, each bearing a body on his shoulder.

  FitzStephen pointed down the hill to where the skirmish had taken place. ‘Put the bodies down there and make it look like these men were in a fight with the Osraighe,’ he told Miles’s men as he stabbed out the torches in the deepening snow. ‘Make sure you remove all the arrows from their bodies. Are Máelmáedoc Ua Riagain and Bishop Seosamh amongst the dead?’ he asked his nephew.

  ‘Only the bishop was sent to deliver the message,’ Miles responded, making a cross over his chest and pointing to a body on the shoulder of Meiler FitzHenry.

  ‘So what’s our next move, Robert?’ interrupted Fionntán.

  ‘We wait for Diarmait to conclude that he has once again been betrayed,’ FitzStephen replied. ‘We wait and watch,’ he said, ‘and one way or another we get ready to battle for our lives.’

  Daybreak came in slowly over the southern flatlands of the wintry Uí Ceinnselaig homeland. Hundreds of strips of smoke broke up the grey sky over the forest of Dubh-Tir while out on the windy river valley the Irish army looked up at the smoke and cursed their enemy who had obviously had a more comfortable night than they. Through chattering teeth they cursed the lack of fuel before clustering into whatever hidey-holes they could find to keep out the cruel cold.

  Sir Robert FitzStephen stared out at the High King’s army from the cliffs above the Norman camp. Below him Dubh-Tir stretched away to the west between the two ridges. It had been a restless night for the Norman but it had been worth it. After interrupting the meeting with Mac Giolla Phádraig, more snowfall had provided cover for FitzStephen to lead a small force down through the trees towards the river. Twenty or thirty Irishmen, who had crossed to find fuel for their fires, had died. As their screams had emanated across the water, Ruaidhrí’s army had decided that it was safer to shiver through the night rather than face the precision of the Norman archers on the western bank. But FitzStephen was not done there and he had gone downriver to a ford. Communication lines between the many nations of the vast army opposing him had already started to fail and the Normans had found the crossing unguarded. From there he and Philip de Barri and their troops had crawled northwards until they had found the first line of pickets, who had been quickly and quietly slaughtered, before melting back over the river to safety. They had not lost a single man while behind them the Irish army had been left in uproar as they rallied to meet a night-time foe who had already disappeared. Later in the night Miles Menevensis and Meiler FitzHenry had led more arrow attacks across the river to leave the Irish in turmoil while the Normans had returned to the safety of the forest to sleep through the early hours.

  Already in the half-light of the morning FitzStephen had been busy with last-minute preparations. Small fires had been set alight up and down the length of the woods to hide his army’s deployments and inflate their numbers in the eyes of their enemy. Each commander had been contacted, his part in the plan discussed, and then he had ridden each path through the forest and had it cleared of snowfall. Nothing was to be left to chance.

  ‘Cousin,’ Walter de Ridlesford greeted him, his feet crunching into the snow as he approached. ‘What a lovely morning to be alive.’

  FitzStephen didn’t even notice Walter’s sarcasm. His interest was in the activity down by the river where the High King’s army was stirring. ‘Did you sleep?’

  Ridlesford laughed and shook his head. ‘And let our damn Ostmen allies slip away in the night? Not bloody likely. I heard some screaming during the night. Was there trouble?’

  ‘Diarmait sent Bishop Seosamh to meet with High King Ruaidhrí’s men at the edge of the forest,’ FitzStephen replied.

  Walter de Ridlesford gripped the lance hard so that his knuckles turned white. ‘Are we betrayed?’

  ‘It was a close-run thing,’ he told his cousin, ‘but I have driven a wedge between the conspirators that will suit our purposes. The bishop is dead, but our enemy will take the blame.’

  ‘That must have been why Diarmait was making such a racket earlier this morning,’ Walter replied, trusting that his cousin knew what he was doing.

  ‘I heard,’ FitzStephen replied. ‘I don’t think he will be conspiring with Ruaidhrí any time soon.’

  The two men studied the wintery landscape silently for a number of moments. Their future in Ireland, which had seemed so clear after the conquest of Waesfjord, suddenly seemed strained and dangerous. But it was in neither man’s nature to baulk before a fight, even when faced with such daunting odds. They were both of the brood of Nest, the Helen of Wales, and her descendants were all champions.

  ‘Are the men ready to move out?’ asked FitzStephen.

  ‘They are,’ Walter replied as he stared at the army opposing them. ‘There are a powerful lot of them down there, cousin,’ he said with a hint of concern, ‘so you better have a damn good speech ready to fire up our troops. If not I am going to pull someone out of the line, thump the shit out of him, and threaten to do the same to anyone who doesn’t fight well.’

  FitzStephen laughed heartily. ‘Forget the speeches then; I want to see one of the men beat you to within an inch of your life.’

  Walter roared a raucous bellow of a laugh and slapped his friend on the back, chainmail rasping with recoil from the hearty strike. The two cousins made their way down the hillock towards their camp. The Gaels and Ostmen had already been moved away and hidden in the forest, fully versed as to FitzStephen’s plan.

  ‘I will get the men together,’ Walter said as they approached the camp. The Normans and the small number of Flemings had remained in the camp throughout the night, as much for security as for comfort. A huge impassable swamp lay at the back of the camp, defending their rear while two wooden fences guarded the path up from the forest. Between these were tents and rudimentary houses made of felled wood with foliage roofs. And from one of those buildings came Princess Aoife. FitzStephen watched her as she slinked her way towards him, huddled beneath a fox fur cloak. Beneath it he knew was the supple body that he had dreamed about for so long. She stopped at the bottom of the bank and looked up at him. FitzStephen remembered his obligation and immediately jogged the few paces to join her, sweeping into his most dramatic bow.

  ‘My Lady.’

  ‘I hav
e come to wish you luck in the battle today,’ she told him. ‘Is it not customary that we should embrace?’ She held out her hand.

  ‘Yes,’ he stumbled, ‘but it is not necessary if you do not want to.’

  Aoife laughed sweetly and pulled him close to her. The fox fur pelt was soft against his face as he wrapped his arms around her. A single strand of her hair fell across his eye but all too soon she withdrew, brushing her lips across his cheek.

  ‘Will you fight for me today, Sir Robert?’ she asked. ‘In Bristol, knights offered to fight for me in tourneys. They asked me for my favour, but I was told not to by my father’s wife.’ Her hand disappeared below her cloak returning with a small embroidered piece of linen used to tie her hair back. But today it was wild. She handed it to him. ‘She said it was obscene, but I’d like you to have it if you will fight for me today?’

  FitzStephen dropped his eyes to look at the piece of material. His heart was racing, his mind a blur. ‘I will not fight for you, Lady,’ he said as he stared at Aoife’s gift. Immediately Diarmait’s daughter grimaced at the Norman’s statement but said nothing as he raised his gaze to meet her eyes.

  ‘I will not fight for you,’ he repeated, ‘for I fight for your father and my men. But I will win for you,’ he said with a nervous smile.

  Her steady, suspicious scrutiny made way for a coquettish smirk to break through. ‘Make sure that you do,’ she told him, ‘for I will be greatly indebted to you forever.’ With that she turned and walked away from him. He watched the beauty until she disappeared inside her dwelling just, he supposed, as she knew he would.

  ‘Dammit,’ he muttered. Dazed again by her presence, he walked back up the hillside to where his quickly forming army could see him. The small army of mercenaries, arrayed in colourful surcoats and brash chainmail, looked up at their leader. Some looked bored, annoyed that they had been asked to listen to FitzStephen’s words. More were keen for a bloodcurdling call to arms that would make it known they could win no matter what. The army suddenly found their position in this foreign land unsure and dangerous. Since landing at Banabh they had known nothing except victory but, many wondered, how could they possibly hope to win with such massive odds stacked against them? It seemed like every farm in the land had been emptied to raise the army arrayed against them. What they wanted to see was confidence and fight from their commander. But all FitzStephen could think of was Aoife’s words. In his hand he still held her favour. Did she realise his passion for her? Was she returning his interest? Either way FitzStephen was filled with a sudden surge of joy; he almost shouted out in exultation. Lifting his head he looked at his men with a smile plastered across his face. Now the words came to him!

  ‘Men of Wales; Norman and Fleming, Cymri and Englishman, here we are for a proper fight at last!’ He grinned at his men. Many looked nervous but a good number of them smiled back. They trusted him, despite everything that had befallen in Wales. He had given them a taste of victory and they still believed that he could provide them with more. ‘And a great fight it will have to be – we face a host of the best warriors that Ireland can bring against us.’ Beside him Walter de Ridlesford let out a scandalous snort of laughter which was echoed throughout the army. FitzStephen held up his hands. ‘They are brave, these Irish, but we derive our descent from braver men still, Danes and Norse, and the Cymri of Wales. More importantly, we are also are bred from smarter men, the Franks and Flemings from the kingdoms across the sea. From one we have our native courage and the use of armour. From the other the skills and professionalism bred of many hardships.’ FitzStephen watched as the warriors below him lifted their chins with pride as their various forbearers were mentioned. These were proud men, the cream of the warriors from the Welsh March, descendants of conquerors. ‘We have left behind our native land,’ he continued, ‘not for the sake of pay or plunder, but by the promise of towns and lands to be granted to us and our heirs forever. Be sure that this is a land of promise, but we must also be aware that this is a kingdom of danger too. One of these two armies must die today and yet, if you avoid dishonour, either glory will illuminate your life or the memory of acclaim will follow your death.’ Silence echoed amongst the Norman camp and he let it drag. ‘A horde opposes us,’ he gestured towards the dark wood, ‘they are many, my friends, but we stand as one,’ he shouted the last four words loudly, raising his fists towards the sky. His long banner, held by Walter de Ridlesford, billowed by his head, cracking loudly like a whip. But it went unheard as his shout was taken up, first by his cousins amongst the army, and then by the rest of the warriors.

  ‘One,’ they yelled. ‘We stand as one.’ They raised their weapons, clashed their shields, shook their banners, and those who had horns put them to their lips and blared them loudly.

  Down in the river valley the kings, princes, and chieftains of Ireland heard the echoes of those battle cries and sensed that they were in for a busy day.

  Everything was set for battle.

  Eight thousand men of the kern were sent forward by Ruaidhrí Ua Conchobair to sweep aside all opposition in one fell swoop. The men came from every nation in Ireland and they were led by the great warrior-king Donnchadh Mac Giolla Phádraig. The King of the Osraighe had wanted only his own troops to advance into the woods, led by his Flemish mercenaries, but Ruaidhrí had refused, commanding the foreigners to remain behind. Political was what the High King had called it.

  ‘Frigging stupid is what I call it,’ Donnchadh said out loud as he led his army up the snow-laden hill. ‘Sending frigging farmers to fight when we have Flemings to call upon? Frigging westerners,’ he said and shook his shaggy head, still adorned with his antler helm. Despite his misgivings Mac Giolla Phádraig stomped and at the head of his army. Ahead was a wall of trees but for two flickering blue banners at the extreme northern corner of the forest. Between them was the path. Everything about that route screamed trap, but Mac Giolla Phádraig pushed onwards. To his right, the cliffs of the northern ridge looked down dauntingly, worse perhaps because the King of the Osraighe did not know what to expect in the dark forest ahead.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Cian, the King’s brother, told him confidently, ‘I talked to the Fleming Prendergast last night and he told me what to expect.’

  ‘And what is that, more frigging arrows and horses? Big frigging whoop.’ Cian’s silence told King Donnchadh that had been exactly what Prendergast had told him.

  ‘He said that they will be sly as weasels and capable of absolutely anything,’ Cian confirmed. ‘He said to take nothing for granted.’

  His lack of knowledge about what lay beyond the tree line made Donnchadh Mac Giolla Phádraig nervous. He had led raids on the tribes neighbouring his lands and he had fought in countless battles, but his memory of the Norman cavalry and archers tearing into his countrymen on the borders of the lands of the Osraighe remained with him.

  ‘The trees are bound to make it too hard for them to shoot arrows, accurately at the least,’ he muttered to his brother as they reached the edge of the woods where the foreigners had planted two blue banners with white stars upon them to guard a path into the trees. King Donnchadh made the sign to avert evil and rubbed his finger over the iron guard on his sword. ‘And the terrain will make it impossible for them to fight on horseback,’ he chewed on his lip and shook his head in uncertainty. ‘Those are their main weapons – so why did they choose to make their stand in the trees and nullify them both?’ he asked. ‘It makes no sense.’

  ‘Maybe they are scared. Maybe they are simply trying to hide from us?’ replied Cian.

  ‘They are frigging well up to something,’ the King of the Osraighe replied forcefully. But he knew that he had no choice but to go on. To leave Diarmait and his foreigners skulking in the wood was to invite more attacks on the Osraighe. He had to smash them now while he had the support of Dubhlinn and Connacht at his side. God alone knew when he could count on their help again. Eight thousand was a vast army and surely, he thought, devoid of arrow and horse,
the foreigners could not resist the High King’s army? Taking a deep breath he hefted one of the Norman banners and cast it onto the ground. He then dealt with the other in a similar fashion. The King of the Osraighe then whipped out his member and began pissing on FitzStephen’s star banner at his feet as the kern encouraged him. That done, he raised his voice and turned to address his army.

  ‘In those trees is a bunch of foreigners from across the sea.’ He gestured with his thumb into the thick, dark woods. ‘They want to steal your frigging wives and they want your frigging cattle. They probably want to rape both of them too.’ Shouts and yells of scorn and contempt came back from his army. ‘And with them is the most detestable traitor that has ever lived – Diarmait Mac Murchada!’ The men of the kern began cursing and shouting, booing the hated King of Laighin. ‘Shall we kill them?’ Mac Giolla Phádraig asked them. ‘Shall we drive them back across the sea?’ Most of the men shouted an affirmative and it echoed down the hillside. ‘Will you help me spill foreign blood this morning?’ A resounding yes sounded through the ranks. Even the men who could not hear his voice yelled their agreement, hefting their shields and spears, axes and skenes. ‘Then follow me,’ Mac Giolla Phádraig shouted, but he need not have done so as his inspired men surged past him and into the trees.

  Donnchadh smiled and yelled encouragement as they passed him by. It would be a bloodbath, he decided. The foreigners had made a mistake by hiding in the forest and they would pay for it with their lives. His army were too many! King Donnchadh signalled to his derb-fine to join him. They alone were armed with proper weapons and several even had ancient Ostman helmets to protect their long-haired heads. As a group they advanced into the mesh of gnarled branches and boughs. Soon the whole of Donnchadh’s eight thousand men were enveloped in the forest invisible to the rest of Ruaidhrí’s army in the valley.

  Progress in the tangle of trees and the wet, snowy ground was slow, and the noise of men cursing and fumbling could have raised the dead. The one path which the Normans had cut through the forest quickly became too tight for the eight thousand warriors and many left the road and began forcing their way through the web of twisting vegetation and sodden earth. It took nearly an hour for Donnchadh and his derb-fine to fight his way through a mile of undergrowth, and all of his men were having the same problem as they forged their way westwards. Branches seemed to grow from the very floor and intertwine to form formidable fences. Above them the treetops sagged and bent under the weight of snow and everywhere drips of water splattered the shivering warriors. Axes felled branches rather than enemy soldiers. Swords battered paths through undergrowth rather than past shields.