Swordland

by Edward Ruadh Butler

  Donnchadh yelled in pain as a branch swept back and struck him, leaving a red mark across his face. He snarled at his mother’s sister’s great-nephew and stooped to pick up his sword from a soggy pile of moss where it had fallen from his grasp. Brambles tore at his sleeve. The King of the Osraighe was just thinking that he should stop the attack and go back to the river to admit his failure to Ruaidhrí when he spotted hundreds of his men crouching in the shadows ahead.

  ‘What’s going on,’ he snarled and tripped on a wet root protruding from the ground. ‘Why have they frigging stopped?’

  Donnchadh, followed by the Mac Giolla Phádraig derb-fine, walked forward to where a group of men skulked in the shadows of the undergrowth. In front of them was a vast open space, otherworldly and out of place in comparison to the suffocating forest through which the army had just passed. Thousands of newly hewn tree stumps jutted out of the snowy ground.

  The Normans had been busy, Donnchadh thought, and had cut down a vast swathe of the forest, carting off the timber, to where he could not tell. It was eerie amongst the otherwise heavily forested Dubh-Tir and the effect was increased by the lowered tones of his warriors who stared out at several hundred yards of open ground where wraith-like mist clung close to the cold, uneven floor.

  ‘What are they up to?’ asked the suspicious King of the Osraighe, but before he or his derb-fine could assess the danger his warriors began edging out of the forest and into the cleared land. ‘What are they doing? Call them frigging back,’ he snarled at his brother. ‘Get them back!’ Donnchadh Mac Giolla Phádraig turned on his derb-fine. ‘Get them out of that clearing now,’ he shouted, pushing his way to the edge of the trees. ‘Come back!’ he yelled at the kern ahead of him, waving his arms. The warrior-farmers either could not understand him or refused to believe that there was any reason to be scared. After a few seconds of shouting King Donnchadh conceded that his army would not obey him, and instead looked up and down the length of the bight in the forest, waiting for the appearance of horsemen who he believed would, at any second, tear his army apart. He held his breath in expectation of disaster. All his men were in the open but still no-one attacked. Within a few seconds his apprehension began to fade and he took a few steps to join his men, hesitantly and still eying the land to his left and right.

  ‘Perhaps we surprised them?’ Cian shrugged as he read the question which plagued his brother. Donnchadh grimaced, still nervously looking over both shoulders, as he led his derb-fine further into the hewn forest.

  ‘Come on then,’ the King said. ‘It’ll be impossible to stop them now anyway.’ He set a quick pace, crunching through the snow, still expecting the sudden thump of horses’ hooves to herald an attack. He knew that he had to get back in control of his men who, now that they had found easier terrain, had begun to move in a southerly direction rather than push back amongst the trees on the far side of the clearing.

  ‘Why are they bunching up?’ Donnchadh asked one of his derb-fine who simply shrugged in reply. Indeed rather than continue westwards as he had ordered, his army were slowing up and clustering into one group ahead of him. Minutes later he discovered why – they had blundered to the edge of a massive swamp, hidden amongst the trees and blocking their way further into the forest. Trapped between the cliffs to the north and the swamp ahead, they were forced southwards through the cleared forest.

  ‘This is frigging ridiculous,’ Donnchadh cursed. ‘We need to turn them around …’

  ‘Uh-oh,’ interrupted Cian who stared ahead, shielding his eyes from the weak low sun.

  ‘What?’ his brother asked angrily.

  ‘There’s some sort of fortification to the south,’ he replied with an outstretched arm pointing in that direction. ‘It doesn’t seem to be manned. Why would they leave it without defenders? Do you think they have fled?’

  The King of the Osraighe grimaced as he sank up to his knees in marsh. ‘I don’t know,’ he said as he pulled his soaking leg from the deep dark puddle. ‘None of this makes any sense and I don’t like it. Call them back. We are getting out of here,’ he told his derb-fine, but they ignored him, staring open-mouthed towards the northern cliff tops instead. Splashes sounded around Donnchadh Mac Giolla Phádraig and he looked up at the approaching grey clouds.

  ‘More damn sleet,’ the King of the Osraighe declared. Or perhaps hail by the heavy sound of the drops falling on the soggy ground, he thought as he covered his eyes to stare into the bright grey sky.

  ‘Donnchadh,’ one of his derb-fine shouted, animated and desperate. ‘Get under cover!’

  The King turned to look at the man, but his kinsman had fallen to the ground and had begun screaming. Blood was on the snow and hissing filled the air. Donnchadh Mac Giolla Phádraig turned and looked towards the northern ridge and immediately broke into a run for it was not hailstones that were falling from the sky but arrows. The Normans had known they were coming and the kern was trapped in the open.

  ‘Loose,’ Richard de la Roche shouted up on the cliffs. The bowmen released and quickly drew more arrows from the arrow bags at their right thighs. Notching the projectiles, they dragged the massive weapons back to their chins, raising the stave towards the sky while simultaneously noting the range and movement of their targets. Quivering arms and fingers held the weapons still as they waited for the order to release from Richard de la Roche. None of the archers really had to aim; the Gaels were so dense in the open ground below that the Normans and Flemings would struggle to miss. Alongside the archers, crossbowmen worked more diligently, finding targets as they presented themselves rather than adding to the arrow cloud that descended upon the kern.

  Robert FitzStephen had ridden up to the cliffside to watch the ambush, but trusted his captains, Roche and Miles Menevensis, to destroy the High King’s army. Watching the chaos happening below, he nodded appreciatively at their work. The Irish warriors were already fleeing back towards the trees to the south and east, defeated without even being able to fight back. Hungry, cold, and frustrated, the unarmoured men died in droves or fled hurriedly out of range. The archers cheered as Richard de la Roche shouted at them to cease loosing their arrows.

  ‘Well done,’ FitzStephen shouted from Sleipnir’s back. He was delighted with his archers’ work; eight thousand of Ruaidhrí’s army were dead or had fled the field in disorder. He hoped that the damage inflicted upon the kern was such that the High King would fear to send any more troops into the trees, but he doubted it. A real king did not raise an army as large as Ruaidhrí had and then flee from four hundred men, not unless he wanted to be a laughing stock and lose the respect of his subjects. From his left, a rider approached, punching through the pine needles from the ridge to the east, hauling his small horse’s head around the harsh barked trees at top speed. It was his brother, William the Welshman, pale faced and breathing hard, and he reined in beside him.

  ‘Robert,’ William said as he gasped in air, ‘the kern are not reforming, but are fleeing back towards the river.’

  FitzStephen offered his brother a skin of water and the younger man gratefully accepted the offer. William had been one of two younger men who FitzStephen had sent to the extreme ends of the two rocky ridges at the edge of the forest. Their responsibility was to watch for enemy movements and report back to their commander with information about where the next attack would land. If William’s shattered appearance was anything to go by, the High King’s army were coming again – and in force. William would not have left his position to alert him for any other reason.

  ‘What approaches us and where?’ asked FitzStephen.

  ‘Ostmen of Dubhlinn, brother,’ William said, ‘a half mile to the south. They entered the forest just after the kern.’

  FitzStephen frowned at the information. There were no paths through that part of the forest and it would take some time for the Ostmen to carve a way through. He closed his eyes and pictured where the next attack would fall. ‘They will probably come across Walter de Ridlesford and the m
en of Waesfjord,’ he told William who nodded in agreement. ‘Go ahead of me and make contact with Walter,’ he told his sweaty brother, ‘and tell him what you saw. Tell him to keep to the plan. I will follow you soon.’

  William nodded and drained the last remnants from the skin. Swiping a sleeve across his wet face, he took off at a trot through the snow-laden trees, urging his mount onwards as he disappeared down the steep mountain path.

  Miles Menevensis appeared at FitzStephen’s side, perhaps sensing the approaching danger from William the Welshman’s manner. ‘Robert?’ he asked.

  ‘It looks like Hasculv of Dubhlinn is headed for Walter’s position,’ FitzStephen told him. ‘I suspect your archers will be needed there.’

  Miles nodded. ‘It will take time to get there,’ he said and pointed towards the forest below, ‘and we will have to retrieve our arrows and bolts if we are to be of any benefit.’

  ‘It will take time for Hasculv to force his way through the forest.’

  Miles chewed on his lower lip. ‘Is this their full attack?’

  ‘Not yet, I think,’ he told his nephew as he blew hot breath onto his cold hands, ‘but there will be so many Ostmen arrayed against us that it will seem like every bastion of hell has been emptied of them.’

  ‘God help us then,’ the bishop’s son replied.

  FitzStephen did not answer, instead urging Sleipnir to turn and head westwards along the ridge away from the river. It was tough terrain but wild goats had walked the landscape for many years and had carved out a small track which, after several hundred yards along the cliff face, wound its way down the mountainside. The track was just wide enough for a horse or for two men walking side by side. However, when the pathway reached the forest floor it kept going westwards so FitzStephen had cut another narrow and secret path through the forest to allow his allies quick and easy movement through the vast expanse of trees that was Dubh-Tir. In a matter of minutes he had covered over a mile, whereas the enemy, bumbling through the dense forest, would be exhausted by the time they crossed swords with Diarmait’s forces. FitzStephen urged his horse to a faster pace, turning east at another junction in the path. The trees narrowed so that they scratched his shoulders on both sides. At one stage he had to stop because the shield strapped to his back got tangled in a particularly wiry branch. It was only after fifteen minutes’ riding that he finally pushed into a wide bight in the forest where four wooden shelters, complete with stone fires, protected almost ninety Norman cavalrymen, esquires, and milites, and their horses. Several other paths led away from the bight so that the Normans could combat any incursion into Dubh-Tir quickly. In contrast, FitzStephen reckoned that it would take Ruaidhrí’s men several hours to hack their way into the part of the forest inhabited by his army.

  ‘Sir Robert, sir,’ Philip de Barri stood and waved at his cousin from outside one of the shelters. FitzStephen returned the small gesture. Others nodded their heads or lifted their chins to greet their commander.

  FitzStephen jumped down from his courser and greeted his troops. ‘Keep your seats,’ he added quickly as they stood to receive him.

  ‘I hope you haven’t come to tell us that you have a job for us?’ asked old Hugh de Caunteton. It had begun snowing again and all his warriors looked reluctant to leave the comfort of their firesides for the cold and wet of the forest.

  Grinning, FitzStephen quickly described Richard de la Roche’s easy victory of the Irish kern as he crouched by the fire warming his hands and pulling his cloak close around his shoulders. ‘We horsemen have not had a great deal to do in Ireland as yet,’ he told his men, ‘but I think that by nightfall our conrois will have tested our spears and driven our enemy from this place. Swordwork will keep us warm in any event,’ he joked and his men murmured their agreement and started milling around, issuing orders, arming themselves, or seeing to their coursers’ needs.

  FitzStephen smiled proudly as he left them to their preparations. He prayed that his tactics would not let them down. Doubt still assaulted him, but he could think of no other way to prepare his army and so he leapt back into the saddle and trotted out of the bight into more land cleared of trees. Following the curve of the forest northwards, he found the thousand-strong army of Waesfjord Norse gathering behind the fortifications. FitzStephen slowed his horse to a walk as he passed the ranks of bearded warriors from his newly conquered lands far to the south. He nodded to some and grinned at others but few returned the gestures. None of them wanted to be in Dubh-Tir with the Normans, living in mud huts in the depths of winter. They wished to be safe behind the walls of Waesfjord, enjoying the warmth from their own hearths with good food in their bellies and their wives by their sides.

  FitzStephen found Walter de Ridlesford below the rampart shouting expletives at one Ostman warrior, for what he could not tell and, seemingly, nor could the recipient of his cousin’s rancour. FitzStephen had created a long wall from the trees and debris which his army had cleared elsewhere in the forest. To the north the five foot-high rampart was defended by bog while the land to its front fell downhill to a small stream. More hewn tree stumps meant that when the exhausted Ostmen of Dubhlinn finally exited the forest they would be faced by intimidating defences manned by a thousand Waesfjord axemen.

  Walter de Ridlesford stopped his rant when he saw FitzStephen approach, simultaneously waving the Ostman warrior off to join his compatriots. ‘I caught him lying on his arse in the forest,’ Walter told his cousin. ‘These Ostmen aren’t bad lads, they are just bloody lazy.’

  ‘Have you ever seen two sets of these Northmen fight a battle?’ FitzStephen asked Walter who shook his head slowly, as if he had never considered it. ‘There is nothing lazy about it, believe me: it will be battle-axe against battle-axe. They form a shield wall and cut lumps out of each other until the weaker one breaks,’ he continued. ‘Even the winner is ruined by the end of one their fights.’

  ‘I have held ramparts against worse than them,’ Walter said with an indignant growl.

  ‘In any event, keep your big, bald head safe. Hold them here,’ he stressed, ‘and let my cavalry do their job.’

  Walter nodded. ‘As long as they don’t have their longships with them we won’t be outflanked,’ he joked and jerked a thumb towards the deep swamp to the north.

  ‘I had better go.’ FitzStephen leant down and shook his cousin’s hand. ‘We are relying on you, Walter,’ he told him as he swept Sleipnir around and trotted him down the ranks of armoured men.

  ‘Proud men of Waesfjord,’ he shouted in French, certain that most would have some grasp of the foreign language, ‘today we have a great opportunity to dent the arrogant, proud, and haughty noses of the men of Dubhlinn.’ Some men pricked up their ears at the statement. FitzStephen knew that the two Ostman towns were trading rivals. In most affairs the more northern of the two longforts was by far more successful. This inferiority had bred a keen dislike of Dubhlinn in the Waesfjord Norse. In the distance drums sounded and more than one warrior’s eyes flicked towards the noise emanating through the snowflake-burdened forest. ‘We have a chance to send these Danes back to their homes with the knowledge that the men of Waesfjord will no longer roll over in the face of their arrogance,’ Robert FitzStephen continued. ‘We can show them that the men of Waesfjord are hardier, steadier, and tougher than any man of Dubhlinn, and that any one of our warriors can bring down five of theirs’.’ He had not thought that they would cheer, and they did not disappoint, but the Waesfjord Norse did look more motivated to fight as they stood huddling in their cloaks against the cold.

  FitzStephen continued his course down the long line of warriors and cantered the last twenty yards back towards the cavalry in the large bight.

  The trap was set for Hasculv Mac Torcaill and it was almost time for the men of Dubhlinn to spring it.

  ‘Hold,’ FitzStephen shouted down the line of horsemen. The great beasts were excited, sensing that they were going to be permitted to run and to fight. Like their riders they were e
nergized by the thought of battle. They were ready for action and confident, but still FitzStephen held them back. ‘Steady!’

  ‘Hold,’ his lieutenants echoed his command.

  ‘Remember what you have been taught and keep your discipline,’ FitzStephen told the milites. He had lifted his masked helm away from his face so that they could hear him. ‘If they come, you keep your horses moving and do not get drawn into a fair fight, we kill then retreat. Understood?’ He knew that if his men concentrated on the straightforward tasks of battle they would be victorious – stab, defend, keep your horse shifting, withdraw, attack – it was simple but effective unless the men began to be distracted by thoughts of glory, riches, and personal triumph. Beneath him his bay, Sleipnir, strained against the grip of his legs.

  ‘Why don’t they attack?’ Philip de Barri asked. ‘Look at them sitting over there,’ he complained, pointing his lance at the edge of the forest.

  If anything the snow was getting heavier, but through it FitzStephen could see the Konungr of Dubhlinn, Hasculv Mac Torcaill, gesticulating wildly at the fortifications. Up and down the line of trees, bearded men, some with armour but all clothed against the winter cold, peered out and awaited their king’s decision.

  ‘Why don’t they attack?’ Philip moaned again.