‘Waesfjord,’ FitzStephen screamed the name of his prize with a bellow full of desperation, ambition, and hope. He did not even have his shield in the correct position. Instead it was strapped across his back. The Norman stood in his stirrups and launched the battle-axe at the Ostmen. The weapon was usually wielded two-handed by a man with his feet firmly planted on the ground, but all of FitzStephen’s strength, his determination to defeat Diarmait’s enemies, and his resolve to secure his lands in the south; his future and the prestige of his name, everything went into the throw.
It was a terrible effort. But it had fate behind it and not a little bit of luck and, as it nose-dived towards the hard ground, it skidded under the line of shields and mangled the unprotected legs of a single enemy warrior. The man went down under the axe blow and in ear-piercing agony grabbed for the support of the man alongside. Both were felled, allowing a gasping FitzStephen to crash through the small gap in the shield wall, even though Sleipnir tried to pull away. Together, man and beast trampled the wounded soldier and his compatriot. Seconds later, the rest of his men, who had fallen into line behind their commander, impacted the shattered remnants of the shield wall. FitzStephen drew his sword and sliced down on an enemy axeman. He kept his horse swirling and suddenly Nicholas de Caunteton, Randolph FitzRalph, and Nigel le Brun were beside him, and the enemy were breaking, running to the east in front of the two barricades which defended the Norman camp.
It was too much for the rest of Hasculv’s men and they also ran for their lives. They couldn’t have remained with the Gaels to their front and the Normans behind and, first in ones and twos, they broke and made their way through the stakes and pits with the devilish Uí Ceinnselaig on their heels. Domhnall Caomhánach’s troops were like wolves with the scent of blood in their nostrils and they flayed any Ostmen that they caught.
Hasculv Mac Torcaill lofted his shield to take a strike from an enemy spear and grabbed the shaft, pulling the man towards him and felling him by butting his helmeted head into the Irishman’s face. His brother Hamund stabbed low into the man’s torso then turned tail and ran. Immediately two more Gaels came at Hasculv and he roared his challenge, throwing one man over his shoulder with his shield arm before ramming his mailed fist into the other warrior’s bearded chin. The man slumped to the ground immediately. The Konungr of Dyflin picked up a fallen spear and looked up for the next man to kill. He snarled from beneath his nasal guard and thumped his shield to his chest. He was ready to die but no one ran at him. In fact the closest enemy was a single horseman in a blue surcoat emblazoned with a silver star whose horse circled in front of the Waesfjord Norse as they marched back behind their defences. It was the Norman, Sir Robert FitzStephen, and he had spotted Hasculv.
‘Fight me,’ FitzStephen shouted at the Konungr of Dyflin, gesticulating with his sword. ‘Come on, fight me.’ His horse was as wild-eyed as its master and skittered around dramatically, head fighting against the bit.
Hasculv watched the Norman for a split second, a malevolent gaze that chilled FitzStephen worse than the winter cold. But the konungr simply spat on the ground and then ran for it through the field of pits and stakes with those that remained of his folk. The majority of his army were not so lucky and FitzStephen watched as the manic Uí Ceinnselaig tore into them from all sides.
‘Leave them to Diarmait’s people,’ he called to his conrois.
Signalled by Miles Menevensis, a number of esquires ran from the fortifications and the conrois dismounted and gave over command of the snorting and sweaty coursers to their apprentices.
‘That was brilliant,’ said Ralph as he grabbed the bridle of his father’s courser.
‘You are right,’ FitzStephen replied stiffly. ‘This is a proud day for our family.’ It seemed to be enough for the boy, who beamed at his father and ran off towards the fortification dragging the sweaty courser behind him like a massive toy.
‘Job done,’ William the Welshman said as he and all of FitzStephen’s warriors joined their leader before the western wall.
‘No,’ FitzStephen replied, ‘not yet.’ He broke into a jog back towards the defences, his men breaking into a run to catch up with him. Sweat ran down from Nigel le Brun’s head over his broken nose and mingled with the blood from a cut across his cheek.
‘Are we beaten?’ Brun shouted at FitzStephen, but received no answer. His captain was running and seemed not to hear. Now that they were clear of the trees and away from the battle in the west, FitzStephen could hear the screams of fear and the shouts of anger, the noise of warfare, wafting across the battlefield from the east. But who was winning? Had the mass of Gaels left in the east finally overcome the few Normans left in defence? He could not tell as he put his head down and ran towards the frontline. FitzStephen dashed between the two fences, sliding in snow and mud, just in time to see one king’s dream die and another’s come alive.
While the Ostmen of Dubhlinn had gone to their doom before the western wall, the allied Irish kingdoms had pushed forward towards the eastern defences. Ruaidhrí had gone into the fight calmly, sensibly sending out scouts to check the land for any hint of cavalry. The High King of Ireland, the most powerful man since Brian Bóruma had ruled Teamhair na Ri, had sent his men forward with all the confidence that he had once again beaten Diarmait Mac Murchada. He had beaten these much-vaunted foreigners and he would rule Ireland without opposition. There would be peace.
‘Loose,’ Richard de la Roche screamed from the high cliffs. The bowmen had waited patiently, hidden in the thick pine trees. Even when it looked like Sir Robert FitzStephen would be overcome by Hasculv of Dubhlinn, they had kept their position. As the first of the High King’s forces had come forward, tentatively to begin with, they had unleashed their bombardment. Arrows, bolts, and spears fell amongst the attackers. Then the tree trunks, stones, and rocks rained down upon the ground before the eastern wall. Only a few of Ruaidhrí’s men had died beneath the cliffs, arrows whistling down from above, projectiles thumping into frozen turf and bodies alike.
FitzStephen and his conrois arrived at the palisade just in time to watch Ruaidhrí’s derb-fine come forward to stop any more men charging into the archers’ range.
‘Come on,’ FitzStephen murmured as the High King dithered. He could see Ruaidhrí Ua Conchobair, surrounded by the kings and princes of Ireland, staring at the cliffs and surveying the killing ground in front of the palisade, trying to find a weakness. FitzStephen turned to the men who gathered behind him: Gaels, Norman, Welsh, Ostman, Englishman, and Fleming. No-one who had survived the battle had done so without an injury. Famous faces were missing from the crowd. Friends and kinsmen had died so that the rest could take the spoils in a fight where life had become the milites’ only reward. That and the hope of a future struggle to maintain their fragile bridgehead in Ireland.
‘Come on,’ FitzStephen muttered again as he turned his back on his troops. He alone welcomed the chance to prove himself. He coveted the glory that would be attached to his name after beating the High King of Ireland. A man was nothing without a proud name and heritage, and in that moment Robert FitzStephen felt the old pride rise in him again. It rose to quash the fear of death.
‘Come on,’ he murmured.
A single mass charge by every man at Ruaidhrí Ua Conchobair’s disposal would surely overwhelm his small garrison, FitzStephen knew. Richard de la Roche’s archers could not stop them all and the warriors behind the barrier were too few to hold them back. With so few warriors left to him, it would be impossible for Maurice FitzGerald to defend Waesfjord and the garrison at the Ferry Carraig would be isolated and surrounded. All it would take for the Normans to be thrown out of Ireland forever was for Ruaidhrí Ua Conchobair to raise his hand, signal his loyal warriors forward, and overrun the defenders. Never again would anyone from the Kingdom of England dare to set foot on Irish soil when the stories of the massacre of FitzStephen’s men reached across the sea.
‘Come on,’ FitzStephen shouted at the enemy. He i
magined Henry FitzEmpress’s bellow of mirth as was told of the death of the rebel knight, the man who had defied his edict.
‘Come and kill us,’ FitzStephen yelled as the sleet began falling again, turning the ground to mud and settling momentarily on the timber framed defences before melting to nothing.
FitzStephen’s fellow invaders knew as well as he that the High King should attack and overwhelm them and so many were behind him were praying, holding the crosses bound at their necks, promising their God many things if He would get them through this day alive. Their enemy was still a mighty host and was being reinforced by the minute by the men from the retreating Ostmen of Dubhlinn. All eyes were on High King Ruaidhrí, who still dawdled over his decision to attack.
‘Have you heard the one about the knight’s daughter from Sweynsey?’ Walter de Ridlesford asked suddenly and loudly at FitzStephen’s side. Nervous, not one of the conrois attempted an answer, but all turned to stare at their compatriot who had obviously lost his nerve. ‘She was so ugly that not even the tide would take her out,’ Walter finished the joke.
For a couple of seconds no-one said anything. Then Robert FitzStephen began laughing. Slowly his laugh was taken up by his friends and then suddenly all the Normans, Welsh, and Flemings were sharing the joke and laughing with them, translating it into the different languages for the benefit of the rest of the army. Even the venerable Hugh de Caunteton, bleeding profusely from where his ear had been hacked off, was amused and recanted an irreverent joke of his own about the slutty English girls of Somerset. It was ludicrous. They stood on the edge of destruction but they were laughing. The amusement spread, firing defiance in the bellies of the small army. And why should they not laugh, thought FitzStephen? It had been a huge gamble for the Normans to stand their ground and take the fight to the High King, and now it seemed that they would lose having exhausted every trick at their disposal.
‘You Normans are out of your minds,’ Diarmait Mac Murchada said grimly as he came and stood beside his chuckling warlord. His family had walked down to the fence with him from their huts and FitzStephen once again locked eyes with Princess Aoife. She refused to drop her gaze and with her eyes seemed to challenge him to once again make something happen to save her father, and her future prospects, from the doom which faced them.
FitzStephen grinned confidently at her. ‘If you leave now you can get through the mountains, cross the River Bearú, and make your way to Domhnall Ua Briain,’ he said to her father.
‘And what then?’ asked Diarmait. ‘You think that my enemies will not find us there as sure as here? No, we will stay here, fight and die amongst the Uí Ceinnselaig in our own land.’ He was resigned to his fate but determined to throw one last punch so that men would remember that he was defiant to the very end. ‘If you live, Sir Robert, may fortune smile on you.’ He drew his sword in preparation for the attack and began kissing each of his wives, children, and grandchildren.
FitzStephen slapped a hand onto Diarmait’s shoulder but could not find anything to say to the man who had promised him redemption and glory in Ireland, the King who had sprung him from the damp cells of Llandovery. The King of Laighin had taken a chance on a poor warrior from Wales and turned him back into the proud warlord that he had been born to become. But there was only one thing left to do in the depths of the forest of Dubh-Tir. They had to die.
Then suddenly from above came a cheer. It hung around the ravine and echoed around the forest. It was followed by a joyful shout from the front.
‘They are retreating!’
It was Meiler FitzHenry, and he hopped on the spot and pointed north to where the army of the High King pulled back from the battlefield. FitzStephen could not believe it. They were leaving without any of their number even laying a hand on the poorly defended barricade, the last refuge of their enemy.
A huge cheer came from the small number of desperate men behind the fortification. More applause came from the archers on the cliffs above them. Even the Ostmen of Waesfjord raised a tired ovation. They were prompted by a victorious snarl from Walter de Ridlesford, who planted a teary bear-hug on one of their number and then bawled his eyes out on the terrified man’s shoulder.
Diarmait Mac Murchada, almost despondent just seconds before, howled in happiness at the sight of the retreat of the High King’s army. ‘So this is where Ireland was won,’ he smiled at the Norman. ‘That is what they will say when the bards sing of this moment, FitzStephen. This is where I won Ireland!’
‘You mean Laighin?’ the knight asked him.
‘Yes,’ Diarmait countered quickly. ‘Of course that’s what I meant. A new power had risen in Laighin.’ He paused, unsure if he should make FitzStephen aware of his ambitions. ‘But think on this, with more men from Wales we can subdue every tuath on the island. I could rule Ireland and you with me,’ Diarmait said breathlessly, his voice fading away. Ten seconds before, the King of Laighin had seen his survival as a success, but now an assault on Teamhair na Ri was unfolding in his mind.
‘To hell with Strongbow,’ Diarmait said suddenly and turned to grip him by his chainmailed shoulders. ‘It is customary for an alliance to be sealed by a marriage, Sir Robert.’ His sharp blue eyes bore into the knight. ‘For a thousand more of your archers and horsemen, I will give you Aoife,’ Diarmait encouraged him with desperation and passion in his eyes. ‘I have seen you staring at her, FitzStephen,’ the King warned. ‘You will take Strongbow’s place and we will unite the five kingdoms of Ireland under my rule. Do you want Dubhlinn? Veðrarfjord? They will be yours, and all you have to do is bring me victory!’
Anyone within earshot of the conversation stared at the two men and awaited FitzStephen’s answer. Would this mean that the Norman knight would be king after Diarmait? That was the offer that the Irishman had made to Strongbow – the same deal which had seen the baleful Sir Hervey de Montmorency join the adventure to Irish shores.
FitzStephen could barely believe his ears, but his first reaction was to look at Aoife. She wanted a powerful husband, a man with aspirations to match her own, and she saw one in FitzStephen. It did not matter that he was a foreigner, he was, it seemed, the future and a way for her to rule Ireland. She smiled at him and it was all that FitzStephen could do not to accept Diarmait’s offer there and then. Images came to him quickly: he saw himself with Aoife on his arm, a crown on his head, and an army of mercenaries who would surely flock to his banner when they heard of his success and the vast kingdom with swordland to be won. He saw himself as ruler of a Norman kingdom to rival Sicily, Antioch, and even Henry’s England. Had the founders of those nations not gambled everything to take those realms? Why should it be any different for FitzStephen?
But then his father’s face came to him. He remembered the lessons, lessons his father had learned the hard way on the Welsh March and had imparted to his son with the threat of violence should he forget them.
‘You win a battle,’ Stephen had told his young son, ‘then you build a castle and impose your will as far as your horses can carry you in a day. Then you fight and build again, and keep doing it as long as you can afford the men to garrison them.’ Never, ever over extend your reach; that was his father’s lesson. Consolidate.
It had taken four hundred Normans to secure the tribal lands of the Uí Ceinnselaig for this fighting season – nothing more had been done, in FitzStephen’s opinion, despite the victory in Dubh-Tir. How many more warriors would it take to conquer Laighin and the other kingdoms of Ireland? Connacht, Aírgialla, Tir Eóghain, Deasmumhain, Mide, Tuadhmumhain, and Ulaidh – there were so many kingdoms with the strength to rival that of Diarmait’s country. It would take a thousand archers and a hundred knights … and then there was Earl Strongbow, his anger at FitzStephen’s usurpation would be terrible and unending. Why else would he have sent an emissary as eminent as Sir Hervey to Ireland in the first place if his intention was not to follow in the near future? He was sure that Sir Hervey had already tried to kill him once, simply because he had
crossed the sea before the earl and showed some promise of success. What would he try if FitzStephen took his master’s intended wife and throne?
‘Well, Sir Robert?’ It was Aoife who had spoken. She was not smiling at him any longer, embarrassed perhaps that FitzStephen had not agreed to the offer immediately.
Consolidate, he thought and pursed his lips.
‘I cannot accept your offer, Lord,’ he turned and addressed Diarmait. He had Waesfjord and two hundred thousand acres and would not risk all that, even for a crown. Not even for that which he wanted most, Aoife. ‘We have won an incredible victory and we have, at the very least, secured the lands of the Uí Ceinnselaig and Waesfjord. But I and my family have given everything we have for that victory. We have fulfilled our pledge to you Diarmait.’ FitzStephen met the King of Laighin’s angry gaze with an innocent stare.
‘You do me great dishonour, Robert FitzStephen,’ Diarmait’s eyes flashed and his long beard quivered. His rage was barely concealed. Beside him Aoife matched his fury.
‘No,’ FitzStephen told his master, ‘I have done you great service – exactly what I promised – but I can risk no more. Go now and talk to Ruaidhrí, be sensible and tell him that you will hold Laighin for him in return for peace and tribute. If he doesn’t like that then tell him that he can come back into Dubh-Tir tomorrow. Tell him that Sir Robert FitzStephen, Lord of Waesfjord, will still be here to oppose him in the name of Diarmait Mac Murchada.’
FitzStephen turned to walk away, stopping momentarily to mumble an apology in Aoife’s direction. She looked so beautiful, wrapped in a massive fur cloak against the cold which brought colour to her cheeks, her long red hair loose and wild across her back, but she would not accept his apologies, her fuming anger fuelled by embarrassment at being refused marriage. He marched on through the sleet ordering six men to follow him to man a picket line far out in the forest. It was hardly needed. He knew that Diarmait and Ruaidhrí would come to an accord and the High King’s invaders would go home.
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