Ruaidhrí blanched, but it was not because of the din emanating from the Norman camp. He had never encountered anything like that which stretched out before him. Deep pits and sharpened wooden stakes split the land and would force his army to divide during an assault on the citadel. The High King of Ireland had seen war of many kinds – barriers guarding a pass or a river crossing, a huge fortified town, warfare on every conceivable terrain – but he had ever seen such a dramatic construction as that which faced him in the depths of Dubh-Tir. Ruaidhrí shivered and not because of the cold. Despite his vast superiority in numbers, he feared defeat. What other surprises did these sly Normans have waiting, the High King wondered?
He did not have to wait long for the answer. Behind him the screaming had already begun.
The screams came not from the dying, but from the wild warriors of the Uí Ceinnselaig who burst from a hidden path to assault the flank of the High King’s army. The nervous Ostmen of Dubhlinn had flooded into the wide bight behind the men of Connacht and had formed up to await instructions at the point furthest away from the Norman fortifications. They had suffered at the hands of the enemy already that day and were not willing to put themselves in danger so soon after their mauling. As they had formed up they paid little heed to the small gap in the trees in the western corner of the clearing.
‘Normans.’ Konungr Hasculv Mac Torcaill of Dyflin had laughed in derision as he and his army had taken up position in the bight. ‘They care more about their pretty dresses than their weapons,’ he told his jarls as they stared at the defences which heaved with colourful banners and garish surcoats. The whole forest seemed to reverberate with noise.
‘That’s it,’ he shouted in his enemies’ direction, ‘keep singing, you bloody minstrels! We shall see what song you sing when my axe is at your neck.’ As he cocked his head back to laugh, Domhnall Caomhánach launched the attack on the rear of the Ostman army.
The Uí Ceinnselaig had come silently through the heavy ferns and gorse, hidden from their enemy by the bombastic display from the Normans. Then they had risen from the seemingly impenetrable depths of foliage, covered in moss and mud and had attacked suddenly and ferociously. Five hundred men from the Uí Ceinnselaig slashed sadistically through the enemy like a monster from the darkest depths of Dubh-Tir, their feral screams sounding just a split second before the first sword-strokes fell on Ostman necks.
‘Vestmen,’ Hasculv shouted and began issuing orders to the men nearest to him. Warriors were already down and more were dying as the lightning attack continued to send the Ostmen reeling backwards into the middle of the clearing. ‘Get to my standard,’ Hasculv shouted and pointed to his black banner bearing the ring of Thorir which stood behind him. ‘Form shield wall,’ he cried. It would act as a rallying point for his army who ran this way and that in utter chaos. Within seconds Hasculv had locked shields with his subjects and ordered the advance towards the enemy who had attacked them. Usually it took warriors many minutes to work up the courage to advance in a shield wall, but here the enemy were a rabble of disordered kern; easy pickings for the determined Ostmen. The men from Dubhlinn advanced without hesitation, chanting their war songs so that they were in step and encouraging each other to perform great deeds in battle. Ahead the Irish attack had stalled as the Ostmen outside the shield wall regrouped and fought back. The shield wall poured forward inexorably and Hasculv’s men shouted warning to their folk to get out of the way lest they be trampled. Soon the Uí Ceinnselaig would feel Dubhlinn’s vengeance, and anyone caught between the shield wall and their target would be in peril. But suddenly, before their eyes, the Vestmen began melting back into the western folds of the forest, leaving countless eviscerated bodies behind them. Many of the Gaels took the small path but most simply poured through the trees, splashing through bog and reed, leaping light-footed, laughing and whooping over snowy fern and frozen briar.
‘No,’ Hasculv screamed in frustration and took off after his enemy in a fit of rage, breaking the stability of the shield wall. But his people were with him. Unlike the Uí Ceinnselaig, the men of Dubhlinn were encumbered by shields, helmets, and heavy chainmail, and this made progress slow as they splashed through the muddy, wet ground and stopped to disentangle themselves from the thick undergrowth. The Ostmen needed blood to sate their anger but the narrow path would allow only one at a time and either side of the track was impassable to the armoured men. They were cold, tired, and frustrated but mostly they were angry that they had been humbled by the tiny army of Norman newcomers and their ragtag band of Gaels and Waesfjord Norse.
The Uí Ceinnselaig tribesmen easily stayed ahead of Dubhlinn vengeance, always just out of their grasp as they ran bare-chested through the forested path where drops of melting snow splashed on sagging ferns and dripped onto Ostman steel.
Hasculv snarled as he followed, his circular shield wrapped on his back and his axe in hand. It could not have been more than a few hundred yards before the path, which curled southwards towards the mountains, opened up again into another clearing under the cliffs. To their left, the ranks of hewn trees ran back towards the western wall of the Norman encampment and Hasculv watched as his prey, the kern of the Uí Ceinnselaig, scampered towards its safety.
The konungr cursed and ground his teeth in fury at their escape. Yet he had the presence of mind to halt his men for fear of an attack by cavalry if he led his men into the open ground before the wall. Again Hasculv was struck by the eerie atmosphere in the areas cleared by the Normans. Small fires burned there, distributed amongst the felled trees, and partially blocked Hasculv’s view away to the east. As his men jostled impatiently behind him, Hasculv hesitated and lifted his helmeted head to smell the small breeze. His nostrils burned in the cold air but he sniffed again attempting to get sense of horsemen hidden upwind. The Norman esquires had laid a huge pile of horse dung about twenty paces from where Hasculv stood and he could not identify any sign of the big beasts over its stench, never mind see over it. The small fires also disrupted his sense of smell, however, when he arched his head around the trees he could see right to the timber walls of the fort to his left and, through the strips of smoke, almost for a mile in the other direction. No cavalry was in view and he allowed himself a moment to relax.
Ingjald laid a hand on his back. ‘Where are the horsemen?’
‘Probably getting ready to attack Ruaidhrí back in the bight,’ Hasculv replied, prodding his thumb back over his shoulder. Even so, the konungr was cautious as he led his men out into the open. He quickly ordered a shield wall to be formed, three ranks thick and stretching across the wide clearing from the cliffs to the forest. ‘Rear rank turn around and watch our backs,’ he called. ‘Ingjald is in charge. The rest of you, come with me to assault the Norman position.’ Before he turned to join the attack Hasculv had one final look down the clearing away from the wall. He again sniffed the air for the distinctive smell of horseflesh but he could identify none over the strong reek of the dung pile. The long strip of empty countryside could not hide any cavalry, he decided. His Ostmen needed no order from the konungr and advanced as one with a roar, beating their steel weapons on the iron bosses of their shields, and chanting death threats towards their enemy as they stomped through the snow. The wooden stockade which faced them was stoutly built and was protected on one flank by high ground, but there was a small gap which Hasculv had spotted between the two defensive walls, a gap through which the Uí Ceinnselaig taoiseach, who had attacked him, had led his men. Behind the wall, the Norse had fallen back to let the Gaels through and were now struggling to reorder their shield wall to meet the rapidly approaching threat from Hasculv’s men. The Konungr of Dyflin knew that his men would never have a better chance of taking the fortified encampment and shouted his men forward.
‘Kill them, murder them, and maim them!’ Hasculv shouted, and his men reacted to his calls, breaking into a small jog while keeping their shields locked together. The distance between the three lines of men stretched as the br
aver men, who had automatically taken up a place in the front rank, ran towards the gap. The second and third groups were not so keen to begin the slaughter and they did not commit themselves so easily, hoping that the front rank would deal with the Waesfjord Norse and that they would not have to risk their lives. Konungr Hasculv Mac Torcaill was amongst the brave men in the front rank, pounding the handle of his battle-axe on his circular shield. He summoned up the battle rage as he stomped forward extolling the names of his forefathers and cursing the enemy.
‘Oskilgetinn,’ he hissed through gnashing teeth. ‘Gamla lombungr, sugandi toti tik madr.’ His eyes fixed on where the men of Waesfjord still struggled to reform their defensive line. A big bald Norman stood bareheaded in the middle of the line with a pale blue surcoat emblazoned with a silver beast of some kind. He shouted at the Norse and gesticulated wildly to get them into order. A Norman to kill, Hasculv thought with a smile and deliberately aimed at the man. He would prove that the foreigners were not unbeatable. He would take out their leader, whoever he was, himself.
Suddenly two men on Hasculv’s left stumbled and fell on their faces. Another man on the Konungr of Dyflin’s right cried out as he too collapsed into the snow with but a shout. Up and down the line more men ruined the structure of the shield wall by falling to their faces.
‘Shields up,’ Hasculv screamed. ‘Close the gaps.’ He assumed that some of the dreaded Fleming archers had shot from a place unseen. Gaps had appeared in their formation and if that was not remedied before they locked arms with the Normans they would be easy prey for the enemy. The whole shield wall stopped and raised their arms above their heads, anticipating further attack. But none came; there were no tell-tale thuds as arrows pierced flesh or rebounded off armour and wooden shields, no whistles were heard as the arrows scorched through the sky. Hasculv could hear armoured feet coming towards them and he lowered his shield so that he could see. Before him, the Waesfjord Norse had come out of their fortress and were standing just twenty paces away from his shield wall hurling insults at the men of Dubhlinn. He gritted his teeth as he perceived that they were no longer in disorder but had expertly formed their shield wall ready to meet the attack. Why they had left the safety of the stockade, Hasculv could not tell. Seconds later he saw it: the ground between him and his enemy was peppered with pits in every direction, pits that could break a man’s ankle if he stepped in the wrong place. Snowfall had aided the deception by partially hiding the deep rents in the ground. It had been these which had caused his men to fall, these which were destroying his shield wall.
‘Halt!’ Hasculv shouted, holding his battleaxe in the air.
Around him, his men shuffled nervously looking for direction from their konungr. But Hasculv dithered, wondering if he should advance or retreat.
Sir Robert FitzStephen did not hesitate.
‘Forward!’ he shouted from the front of his cavalry as he led them from their hiding place in a wide tunnel dug deep into the floor of the forest. The manure pile and fires had hidden the smell of the animals from Hasculv, while recent snowfall had concealed the men’s footprints. A blizzard fell from the cloaked shoulders of the charging Normans as their horses leapt from their hiding place in line behind the great knight, his shield slung across his back. FitzStephen gripped his crossbow as he kicked Sleipnir’s sides and urged him on towards the shields of the Dubhlinn men. All his warriors were similarly armed and with them were those hobiler-archers who had not left with Maurice de Prendergast. Together they trotted forward, more men joining their long line of horseback archers as they advanced towards the rear shield wall of Hasculv’s army. They did not stop to unleash their aerial assault but rode on together.
‘Prepare,’ FitzStephen shouted, dropping his reins and urging Sleipnir on with a squeeze of his knees. He then snorted in a lungful of air and held his breath as he aimed the weapon at the enemy. ‘Loose,’ he bellowed and squeezed the trigger. All around him he heard the snap of bowstrings and the whistle of arrows as his men shot. Within a minute another wave was in the air and a third was being notched ready to kill. And the Normans kept their horses going forward so that every shower of crossbow bolts fell harder than the one previous. No army in the world could stand under the death cascade, and the Ostmen were already edging backwards.
‘Loose,’ FitzStephen shouted again as the Ostmen defending Hasculv’s back broke and ran for their lives.
‘You men,’ he pointed at twelve horsemen, ‘follow William the Welshman and keep those men running.’ His younger brother smiled from ear to ear at being given the responsibility of harrying the retreating Ostmen. With a nod, William dropped his crossbow to the snowy floor and drew his sword. He clipped his heels to his courser’s sides as he led his small conrois towards the mass of men who fought each other to get the quickest way off the battlefield and into the safety of the woods. The Normans hooted and whooped as if they were herding sheep and thundered around the periphery of the retreating men, shooting arrows or picking off stragglers with spear and sword.
‘The rest of you will follow me. Hobiler-archers, stay with Miles Menevensis,’ FitzStephen shouted, trusting his nephew to know what to do, ‘Milites, get ready to earn your pay. Spear formation!’ A number of esquires ran between the snorting horses, handing out lances and taking crossbows from their masters before disappearing back to a safe distance.
Ahead, through the narrow eyelets of his war helm, FitzStephen viewed the two lines of Dubhlinn men. The first was struggling across the uneven land to take on Walter de Ridlesford and his Waesfjord Norse, while the second shielded themselves from Miles’ measly arrow shower in the tight corridor between the trees and the cliffs.
FitzStephen clipped his heels to Sleipnir’s sides and trotted forward towards the extreme left-hand side of the Dubhlinn shield wall. His milites fell in behind him in a single line. There were still fifty paces between them when he urged his courser into a canter, and there were just twenty when he kicked Sleipnir into a gallop, driving his spear into the throat of the first warrior before pulling his courser away and assaulting another part of the line. His men whooped like madmen as they neared the point of impact, loving the excitement of a well-executed assault. Each strafed along the front of the shield wall behind their captain, stabbing and striking down on the faces of the immobile enemy, huddled behind their shields. The cavalry were the hammer and the men of Waesfjord the anvil, and between them the Dubhlinn army was dying.
FitzStephen took an axe-blow plum on his shield as he wheeled away and pointed Philip de Barri to circle around and lead the conrois in another pass along the shield wall. ‘Keep your horse moving,’ he shouted at his nephew. He pulled away from the fighting and raised his helm and watched as, in the distance, the nimble Uí Ceinnselaig flooded across the land perforated with pits to bravely engage the other line of Dubhlinn warriors. The ragged mass of screaming demons was a fearful thing to behold, but they were no match for the Ostmen led by Hasculv Mac Torcaill, who withstood the impact and fought back with equal fury.
FitzStephen dropped his helm and returned to the fight, a death-masked horseman wrapped in shining steel from the worst nightmares of those who stood in his way. His steaming breath shot from the mouth-holes in his helm to add to the effect as he drew his heavy sword. His first strike opened an isolated Ostman’s stomach. Perhaps it was FitzStephen’s reappearance or perhaps it was just coincidence, but Hasculv’s men chose that precise moment to break and run. They were the warriors who had stepped back from leading the assault on the Norman fortification and most were young or increasingly old, the weak and the fearful. They ran for their lives, across the clearing towards the shallow path back through the forest.
‘Back,’ FitzStephen shouted, and urged his courser to turn and trot away towards a small bluff under the cliffs. He did not want his men to drown in the midst of the stream of warriors. ‘Watch out, William,’ he called to his brother who waved a response and copied his brother’s movement, taking his small band of
horsemen out of the way of the retreating Ostmen.
Philip de Barri was the first horseman to reach FitzStephen’s side. Out of breath, he was covered in blood and bearing a huge grin across his face.
‘Brilliant, isn’t it,’ he stated. Within a minute the rest of the cavalry had joined the duo on the slopes of the southern ridge. They all panted silently watching the two Ostmen shield walls flee the battlefield. But there was still an enemy left to fight. FitzStephen’s lance was broken beyond use, but he spotted a battle-axe buried in the ground and stooped to pull it from the frozen turf. He was shocked at the weight and lack of balance of the large weapon and he grunted as he hefted it onto his shoulder and righted himself in his saddle. Sleipnir stamped his feet impatiently as his rider watched the remaining Ostmen.
Their konungr, Hasculv, obviously knew that the Normans were coming and had sent some of his best warriors to meet their charge, but the men from Dubhlinn were still facing a prolonged attack by the Uí Ceinnselaig and could only permit a small contingent to face the horsemen. The Ostmen had seen the tactics of the Normans earlier in the day and had watched as they slowly advanced before quickening their charge at the last moment.
‘Wait for them to slow,’ Jarl Ingjald shouted, turning his back on the slow Norman advance to order his troops, ignoring two of his men who lifted their arms and pointed over their leader’s shoulder in warning.
One horseman led the charge. FitzStephen’s blue surcoat billowed from his sides as he commanded Sleipnir forwarded at a gallop. He crossed his chest, cast his eyes to the sky, and breathed in a massive lungful of cold air, planting his heels into Sleipnir’s sides with a yell.
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