‘I wouldn’t were I in his position,’ FitzStephen told his kinsman, who looked aghast at his words. The cavalry had taken up position to the right of the rampart as soon as the enemy scouts had appeared at the edge of the forest. A hundred yards of open land lay between them and Hasculv’s army but FitzStephen did not hide, awaiting a moment to ambush. Instead he kept his horsemen circling threateningly in full view of the enemy. Steam rose from the animals’ backs in the frigid conditions and FitzStephen fancied that it must seem to the Ostmen like the Devil’s wild huntsmen had been let loose to threaten their flank.
‘I can’t believe they won’t fight,’ Philip complained as he trotted behind his uncle.
‘Hasculv is no fool,’ FitzStephen told him as he rose and fell in and out of the saddle. Working the horse kept him and his men warm in the ever-worsening weather. ‘If he attacks the wall he leaves his back open to attack by our horsemen. That will force him to bunch up and then he will be helpless to our archers –’
‘But we don’t have any archers here,’ Meiler FitzHenry interrupted from behind Philip.
FitzStephen nodded. ‘And hopefully Hasculv will not discover that fact until it is too late.’
Philip grunted irritably. ‘I still think he should attack.’
But Hasculv did not attack, and nor did he retreat, merely staying in the trees as the swirling snow gathered on the ground.
FitzStephen soon felt confident enough to send half his men back to their camp to refresh their horses and to get some food and warmth into their bodies. Still the Ostmen did not attack. Philip de Barri and Meiler FitzHenry, who had become fast friends since landing in Ireland, passed the time by talking about hawking. Their argument about which was the best sporting bird – Philip’s prized sparrowhawk or Meiler’s father’s gyrfalcon – was taken up by all the remaining members of the conrois and led to a similar discussion about which was the best horse in the ranks of the Norman army. They decided that FitzStephen’s Sleipnir was certainly the quickest, but that Maurice de Prendergast’s Blanchard was unmatched in looks and scope. That neither Prendergast nor his white horse remained in the army was seemingly neither here nor there. FitzStephen had just started to tell his warriors about his favourite courser, Sanglac, when Miles Menevensis and Richard de la Roche finally arrived at the barricade with their troop of archers and crossbowmen, and a full complement of arrows and bolts at their side. FitzStephen, sensing Hasculv’s indecisiveness, ordered them to begin shooting indiscriminately into the trees from behind the barricade. Hasculv’s worst fears had been realised and, ten minutes later, the entire Ostman army melted back through the trees towards the High King’s camp.
‘Track them,’ FitzStephen told Richard de la Roche. ‘They are certain to return.’
Hasculv Mac Torcaill cursed and squirmed as his cousin bound his arm to stop him bleeding to death. A Norman arrow had scored a deep wound in his forearm as he had left the forest.
The Konungr of Dyflin had believed that he had left the enemy behind him at the rampart, but as his army had made their way through the mesh of vegetation and bog, the arrows had fallen again upon his warriors. His axemen had chased off the perpetrators but they had quickly reformed and had dropped another wave of arrows on his rearguard a few minutes later. Each time he had chased them they had darted away from the danger, never staying in the same place for long enough for the Ostmen to adapt and meet them head on.
‘How many did we lose?’
Hasculv’s question was directed at one of his jarls called Ingjald, but the warrior shook his head dimly and looked around at the men still moving back downhill towards the river camp.
‘That bad?’ the Konungr of Dyflin replied and bent down and picked up a handful of snow, sucking the moisture from between his fingers as it melted. He was furious and exhausted. It had taken almost an hour of back-breaking effort to reach the clearing where the Norse rampart had awaited them. Then his army had waited in the snow, unable to do anything until the menace of the archers had forced him to withdraw. The outward journey through the forest had been almost as difficult and he had lost many warriors to the enemy’s bows.
Hasculv cursed again as the bandage was tightened around his injured limb and he pushed the young man away forcefully. ‘Find me some beer,’ he demanded of his cousin.
Horse hooves padded up behind the konungr, but he didn’t even bother turning around to greet High King Ruaidhrí Ua Conchobair.
‘What the hell happened in there?’ the High King demanded of him. ‘You outnumbered them by four to one!’
Hasculv calmly got to his feet and walked over to Ruaidhrí, throwing away the half-melted handful of snow. He suddenly grabbed the High King’s bridle and held it fast, drawing a short sword from his side with his injured arm and placing it under Ruaidhrí’s armpit.
‘Shut your mouth or I will kill you, you goddamn Vestman bastard.’ Hasculv was livid and refused to back down even when Ruaidhrí’s derb-fine closed in with drawn swords and sharp threats. Seeing his konungr in peril, Jarl Ingjald and his warriors quickly hefted their arms and moved to their master’s side.
Hasculv ignored them all, his eyes locked on the High King of Ireland. ‘Fight your own bloody battles, you puppy. I didn’t come here to stand and watch Diarmait make a fool of you. My people are going home.’ With that Hasculv turned towards Ruaidhrí’s six kinsmen and spat at their feet in disdain before walking away.
The High King kicked his horse to cut him off. ‘If you leave now and I lose this campaign, be assured that Diarmait will come for you,’ he warned Hasculv, ‘and if they do I won’t be there to stop the Normans from pulling down your walls and killing every person inside your Godless shanty town.’ Ruaidhrí raised his eyebrows, waiting for Hasculv’s answer, but the Ostman knew as well as Ruaidhrí that Dubhlinn would certainly be on Diarmait’s mind, especially after Robert FitzStephen had shown that a city’s walls were no barrier to his army’s aggression. Diarmait would never forget the violation of his father’s body by Hasculv’s grandfather. That was a hurt that could only be swabbed by the balm of vengeance, and Mac Torcaill knew it.
‘So we go back in there. Everybody at once,’ Hasculv insisted, ‘and we kill these damned foreigners once and for all.’
‘Agreed,’ stated Ruaidhrí.
‘But this time we go straight for their camp up on the southern ridge. No messing about “scouring the woods”,’ Hasculv said, remembering Ruaidhrí’s instructions of the day before. ‘This time we do it my way – a direct assault on the Norman camp. We soak up any damage inflicted by their archers and stay together when threatened by cavalry. If we do that then Diarmait will have no hope of resisting.’
‘Agreed,’ Ruaidhrí nodded his head.
‘And when we capture their fort, I get to kill Robert FitzStephen,’ Hasculv snarled. ‘Is that understood?’
‘Agreed,’ High King Ruaidhrí said with not a little pity for the Norman. ‘Prendergast’s archers will lead.’ He wanted this siege over one way or the other. He had developed a runny nose and his back ached from lying on the freezing ground for too many nights. He was sick of being cold all the time. ‘When we get to their camp, you may lead the attack,’ he told Hasculv. Suddenly motivated, the Konungr of Dyflin began sending orders through his followers who crunched away through the snow.
High King Ruaidhrí looked up at the dark forested walls of Dubh-Tir and feared what would happen if he sent his men back amongst its tight, suffocating environment. Both of his attacks had stumbled into traps laid by Robert FitzStephen. They had faltered and been forced to flee. Ruaidhrí ran his hand through his ever-thinning hair. Worry was his worst enemy and it was affecting him once again. He knew now that he had to be prepared for horsemen and archers in the cleared parts of the forest, and be ready to face fences made from the felled trees. He would lead the army himself and pray that the Fleming’s mercenary archers would be enough to hold back the horsemen.
‘Prendergast has frigging gone.�
� Donnchadh Mac Giolla Phádraig of the Osraighe ran up to Ruaidhrí, muck and snow flying everywhere as he stumbled forward. ‘That frigging Fleming took my frigging money and has gone.’
The High King did not even bother answering and just shook his head disbelievingly. His whole campaign against Diarmait was unwinding before his eyes – the weather had made it uncomfortable, his enemies had proved unresponsive to bribery, and the Normans were prepared to hunt his army like animals through the depths of the forest. And now the Flemings, his best troops, had fled. Ruaidhrí exhaled strongly and looked around at his army, assembling on the riverbank ready to assault the fastness of Dubh-Tir. He felt the anger rise in his chest. He could not lose face or all his cowed enemies would rise in rebellion again. Ruaidhrí made a sign to avert evil in the direction of Dubh-Tir.
‘Get the army ready to assault,’ he told his cousin as he stared at Diarmait’s forest refuge. His army would soak up all the damage that the Normans would inflict, try to limit it if possible, but forge ahead and take the enemy apart piece by piece, swarming over whatever defences they had prepared. He would kill them all.
There was no other outcome that the Ruaidhrí could imagine, for he was the High King of Ireland and Lord of Teamhair na Ri, and he was leading his army towards victory.
The entire army of the High King was coming into Dubh-Tir. Norman scouts spread throughout the forest raced through the trees by secret routes to tell their commander of their approach.
‘Their progress is slow but they are coming straight at our camp,’ Richard de la Roche told his captain as he stitched a small wound on Meiler FitzHenry’s chin. ‘Mixed Ostmen and Gaels from what I saw,’ Roche said and raised his eyebrows in a concerned fashion, ‘thousands of them.’
The highest form of the hunt had eight parts, FitzStephen reminded himself. The great beast that was Ruaidhrí’s army had run out of energy and had turned to face the hunting Normans, he thought. It was time to deliver the killing blow.
‘They will pick up one of the paths which we laid?’
‘On course,’ Richard confirmed. The Normans had cut a maze of paths from the trees of Dubh-Tir. Some of the paths, like those around the swamp, had been designed to allow the archers and cavalry to be used to their best capability while others had been carved to provide rapid response to the High King’s incursions. But most had been felled to allow the enemy to enter the forest into areas that the Normans were prepared to defend.
‘“It is vital that the man who is not strong should be cunning”,’ said FitzStephen to no-one in particular. The battlefield would either be their saviour or their grave, he thought as he turned back towards Richard de la Roche. ‘Take ten archers and pepper them from distance,’ he said. ‘Enrage them, Richard, and lead them onto our spears.’ The Fleming nodded his head and left the tent, wishing that he had as much confidence in the plan as his commander.
FitzStephen sat back on the crudely made bench in the wooden shelter. He still had concerns, mostly regarding Diarmait and his conniving aide Máelmáedoc Ua Riagain, but he knew those problems were outside his control. All he could do was fight and send the enemy back to their homes to tell horrific stories of what happened when you attacked a Norman knight. The board was set, the pieces were moving, and Robert FitzStephen refused to be ejected from Ireland.
Even the dense forest fought against the High King’s army. Straggling vines wound around twisted trees and hedges of weeds to impair the progress of the many nations of Ireland. They forced their way through the undergrowth and banked snow. The Ostmen of Dubhlinn led the way, tearing a path of a sort with their axes while below them the ground was a mixture of frozen earth, which turned many ankles, and squirming, stinking bog which made progress so desperately slow. It took almost an hour to get just a half mile into the forest; thousands of the finest warriors that Ireland had to offer cursed and pushed, slashed and slid into the unknown a yard at a time.
‘Good God,’ Ruaidhrí Ua Conchobair shouted as he slipped, managing to steady himself by clinging to the nearest tree. He tried to walk, but his feet could find no purchase and slipped below him as if he were dancing a jig. The High King cursed and hugged the trunk all the tighter. Suddenly he felt the whole tree shudder violently. A huge crack rang through the forest as a barrage of arrows flew past, striking six men who had been following the High King. Ruaidhrí let go of the trunk and rolled into a puddle as the wounded men stumbled and screamed in pain. The alarm was raised but not before another volley of arrows pumped into his army. Ruaidhrí was soaked and mucky from head to foot. Blinded, he was unaware of the men who streamed past him to fight the enemy hidden in the trees. More screaming indicated that further injury had been caused to his warriors.
‘Stop! Ignore them,’ Ruaidhrí shouted at the men who continued to charge off to engage the enemy. ‘We push on into the forest.’ He wiped the water and muck from his face and watched as, in the distance, colourfully clothed Normans retreated. Ten minutes later screaming at the back of the column told the High King that the Normans had struck again, but he disregarded them and kept the army together, pushing forward towards the Norman bastion. Soon they broke into a large clearing and the men at the vanguard stopped to await Ruaidhrí’s orders, fearful of another ambush.
‘Get moving,’ Tigernán Ua Ruairc shouted, but the army refused to budge, distrustful of their leader’s judgement in light of their earlier attempts to scour the woods of their enemies. In the end, Ruaidhrí ordered several men of his derb-fine forward to scout the way ahead, rather than lead the whole army into danger. They nervously scampered into the clearing, crouching behind snowy tree stumps searching the shadows of the enemy. With his own kinsmen scouting the path, Ruaidhrí led his troops forward.
‘You actually want to follow their path?’ Donnchadh Mac Giolla Phádraig shouted at the High King. ‘What about the cavalry, their archers? It’s obviously a frigging trap!’
Ruaidhrí did not answer immediately. He was getting ever angrier as the day went on. It was already approaching the late afternoon and the winter sun was struggling to pierce the tree line above them. But if they were going to break Diarmait and his Flemings he wanted it to be today. He could not understand how Diarmait could choose to live in such awful conditions rather than live in peace under his rule. He had extended his hand to the King of Laighin only to have it slapped away.
He had been insulted and he could not allow that to stand.
‘It ends today,’ Ruaidhrí told the King of the Osraighe. ‘We scout ahead, we stay together, and we get this over with, fast and hard.’ Donnchadh Mac Giolla Phádraig shook his head but, under pressure from the High King, led his men onto the path ahead. It was at least thirty feet wide but as they slowly crept westwards, the clearing narrowed until it would only allow four men to pass shoulder to shoulder. Progress again became frustratingly slow as a log jam formed as the huge amount of men waited. To the south Ruaidhrí kept his eyes on the forested cliffs which loomed threateningly above his army. Twice he could have sworn he spotted a glint of sunlight on metal and the colourful outline of a Norman surcoat, but as soon as he looked up it was gone. He tried to keep his and his derb-fine’s spirits up but it was difficult as he was so uncomfortable. When the High King addressed a member of the kern he found only terror and tiredness in the man’s eyes, not the spirit to fight. It did not help when the scouts led them down the wrong path. They had come to a junction in the path and Ruaidhrí, unwilling to split his army, chose the wider of the two paths which led south. Ten minutes later it narrowed and soon after that it came to an abrupt end at a flooded bog formed from a stream redirected by a Norman dam. Men looked at their High King and scowled at his stupidity.
‘He does not know what he is doing,’ Donnchadh Mac Giolla Phádraig told Tigernán Ua Ruairc with a shake of his head. ‘He will lead us all to ruin.’
The King of Breifne did not disagree, but he had other objectives in entering Dubh-Tir. ‘Diarmait is close,’ Tigernán said. ‘He can
not be allowed to escape again. So we press on as Ruaidhrí says.’
The light was already failing and the snow beginning to fall as they turned back to take up the other route through Dubh-Tir. They were climbing now, higher and higher into the Black Mountains and the ascent was also taking its toll on the Gaels and Ostmen.
‘Where are they?’ Ruaidhrí asked one of his cousins. ‘Why do they not attack?’ The anticipation of the fight to come was worse than the battle itself. ‘We are almost at their gates!’
‘I don’t know,’ the man answered, ‘but the path is narrowing again.’
In fact the hewn trail had tapered to such a small gap that it seemed inevitable that they had taken another wrong turn, but Ruaidhrí pressed on nonetheless, his army spilling into the forest on either side of the path, and walking into a wide break in the wood. The coniferous trees had been cleared for two hundred feet in every direction by the Normans. In the snow and the still cold air, the bight in the forest looked otherworldly, reminding Ruaidhrí of the stories of the magic and mythical people who had ruled Ireland before the coming of the Gaels. The other folk had dwelt in such places, raised barrows lived and in the midst of moody bogs, and no good had ever come to anyone who had found themselves in their old haunts. Around him, the High King could see men crossing their chests as they too recognised the danger from inhuman mischief.
The scouts were the first men into the wide bight and they sensibly skirted the edge of the forest in both directions to discover any new threat from their crafty enemy. The Normans had turned this part of the Dubh-Tir into cavalry country and the scouts did not want to be caught out in the open if any new ambush was sprung. Eventually they shouted the all clear and the rest of the army slowly pushed through the gap. Ruaidhrí Ua Conchobair was among the first and he moved southwards towards a one hundred feet gap in the trees beyond which, he saw, lay the Norman fortifications huddled between the cliffs. Ruaidhrí gaped as he stared at the defences. Two earthen palisades with yawning entrenchments dug before them, and behind them hid warriors who began yelling insults at the newly arrived enemy in their foreign tongue. They screamed defiance and waved their weapons. Horns blared and rattled in the cold air. A war song began to pick up noise as more and more of the foreigners joined in with its rousing foreign tune.
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