“BORU! BORU! BORU!”
And the Northmen fell away before them like wheat from the scythe.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Brian’s cavalry galloped diagonally across the rapidly closing space between the two armies, thrusting deep into the Norse left, opening a corridor into the main body of the enemy through which the Irish foot soldiers poured. The front line of javelins came up behind Brian on the run and went with him shoulder to shoulder into the front line of the Northmen, holding a formation almost as tight as the foreigners’ shield wall.
The Northmen, surprised by a type of assault they had never experienced, milled about and were cut down by the cavalry swords and the singing flight of the spears. Brian briefly regretted losing his horse, for on foot it was not possible to sight the Norse leaders who were his principal target. But the charge of the mounted men was a flash of glory quickly past; the weight of the battle lay with the thunderous coming together of the two main bodies, and that was where the most intense fighting took place.
From his position to Brian’s left Mahon noted with relief the successful outcome of the first stage of his brother’s plan. The Norse army, bisected and confused, hit the clench-jawed Irish line and almost immediately fell back. They had no berserkers, nothing with which to match the inspired battle lust of the Celts. Every man the Northmen faced thought himself a hero and invincible for that brief space of time. Ivar’s men had come prepared to take the offensive only; Mahon saw more than one Northman look wildly around, then whirl and begin shoving his way back through his comrades, headed for the rear.
It was then Mahon heard his own voice chanting with the others, “Boru! Boru! Boru!” as his sword sliced halfway through the neck of a silver-thatched Norseman who had somehow lost his helmet. The man fell with a groan strangled by bubbling blood and Mahon stepped over him and went on, still chanting.
Brian was deep in a press of men, a stench of sweat and a creak of leather. The clash of metal on metal left his ears ringing, but there was no need to hear anyway, there was only the senseless shouting and the cries of the dying. The fear was totally gone now, set aside with every other emotion, replaced by the dynamics of battle. Thrust and shock and forward. Dodge and slice and forward. If he was aware of any feeling at all it was a momentary objective appreciation of the neatness with which his body anticipated and sidestepped a crushing blow; the fluid, reflexive response that laid a Northman low and went on in one stride to the next.
He was still in the van, unwounded as if magically protected, but he was not thinking of death. One of the javelin carriers stepped up beside him and put the point of his weapon squarely into a Norse throat, then glanced sideways at Brian out of a sweated, blood-smeared face and grinned. “Boru!” the man yelled at him, and Brian grinned back. Then each turned to meet his next opponent.
King Cahal, proudly afoot and naked save for his saffron tunic and a magnificent yew-wood shield covered with embossed leather, was the first of the dissident leaders to realize that the tide of battle was receding toward Limerick. He paused in astonishment to comment to his nearest captain, “That damned Dalcassian was right; the Northmen are retreating!” Just then a warrior burst out of an alder thicket to his left and directed a mighty ax blow at his shield, splitting it down the center. Cahal flung it away from him and pulled his dagger from his belt as the Norsemen closed with him. He gave one slice with his sword, then ducked under his enemy’s arm to bury the dagger in the man’s belly.
The Norse who had been in the front lines were now struggling toward the rear, breasting a sea of their own comrades. Commands shouted in several languages and dialects added to their confusion; some of them ran into a knot of the Irish-Norse outlaws who slew them as cheerfully as if they had been on opposing sides, instead of all following the standard of Ivar.
At the head of his Desmonians, well insulated by the first line of Norsemen, Molloy had thought to be in a good position. When discussing the battle formation with Harold the night before, he had explained to Ivar’s son, “I would prefer not to be in the forefront of the fighting when the usurper goes down. I want Mahon killed, but not by my sword—you understand?”
Harold looked at him with some amusement. “Irish kill Irish all the time, Desmond, and did so long before my people ever came here. Why should you not be in at the death of the man who took your crown?”
“We are a vengeful people—not unlike yourselves, Northman. If I am nearby when Mahon falls, some of his supporters might seek me out personally later and take his blood-price from my skin. My life is a little too precious to me for that! I intend to live long and well as the king of Munster.
“So I urge you, Harold Ivarsson; see to it that the bogus king falls in the first heat of battle, and then I and my men will support you with a good will until victory is won.”
Harold shrugged. “As you will. But if it were me, I had rather meet my enemy face to face and let him know that mine was the hand that killed him.”
Molloy helped himself to some more of Harold’s ale, wiping his mouth with his forearm when the brew overflowed onto his chin. “You live too simple a life, Northman. Among my race the shifts of power are sudden and frequent; your friend today may be your enemy tomorrow, a king may spring up out of the oystergrass and strip you of all your holdings in the wink of an eye. I am very careful as to which enemies I make; I want no surviving Dalcassian to say he saw me kill his chief.”
At Sulcoit that bright summer morning in the year 968, Molloy found himself relieved of at least one of his worries—no man would say that his had been the hand that slew Mahon. Indeed, no ax or sword touched Mahon at all, and, as the Northmen fell back, the Irish advanced steadily, with unusually light casualties. Harold’s command was routed and heading toward the rear, their barely controlled panic communicating itself to the Desmonians. Even Ivar, who had not taken part in the attack but was stationed on a slight rise to enjoy the spectacle of a major Irish defeat, thought better as to the wisdom of his position and began moving back toward the Limerick road. If his son failed to make a stand and hold the Munstermen, there was nothing between them and Ivar’s city on the Shannon but a small forest and too few miles of open country.
Forward momentum successfully achieved, Brian was able to leave his position briefly, acquire a horse, and get an overall picture of the way the action was going. “If nothing else, my beauty,” he whispered to the rawboned gray stallion he had commandeered, “you’ll let me see with my own eyes instead of trusting the reports of others.”
And it was a sight worth the seeing. The right wing, having broken all the way through the main body of Ivar’s army, had drawn up behind it, effectively blocking retreat. Brian sent word to his two reserve units to move up along both sides and encircle the Northmen. When they realized their situation, Harold and Donovan tried to get as many of their men into the protection of the woods as they could, but the Irish followed them relentlessly and the slaughter began in earnest.
At the southern edge of the wood a company of Norsemen was making a desperate stand against the tightening noose of the Irish. Brian rode toward them, watching over the heads of his Munstermen as the foreigners sought in vain for some way out of the trap.
He saw one burly warrior—much swarthier than the usual Norse, he might have been a Dane—step forward just as the first Irish javelins were hurled. The armored warrior moved into the very path of one, dodged aside with the skill born of long practice, and caught the passing spear with a backhanded movement, then swung his brawny arm in a backward circle so that the spear was brought round again and up. His return cast was right on target and he nailed a hapless Irishman to the earth.
“I can learn to do that,” Brian promised himself as he urged his horse forward and leaned into his sword thrust. He guided the animal with his weight and his legs, pushing through the ranks of men locked in mortal combat until he came to the dark foreigner, who had just bludgeoned a Munsterman to the earth with his interlocked fists.
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Brian loomed above him on the prancing horse and the Dane glanced up; two pairs of gray eyes met. Brian swept his sword up and touched it to his forehead in a gesture of respect and saw the man’s eyes widen with astonishment; then the weapon came down in a powerful arc that cleft the Danish skull in two and dispatched the warrior to Valhalla with one clean blow.
Brian rode up and down the battle line, killing when he had the opportunity, issuing commands, and moving his men about in accordance with the detailed plan unfolding in his head. There were isolated, wonderful moments when he felt that he stood on a mountain top, everything spread out before him and clearly visible, and he could locate each little pocket of resistance, direct each unit of men to the place of greatest need at the perfect time. His absolute confidence communicated itself to his followers, and they obeyed him without question; Olan and Kernac and the other captains accepting his orders willingly now.
As the sun neared its zenith, Ardan the Slinger led his command into a grove of trees in hot pursuit of fleeing backs. The blue-green shade was sudden; the eye did not adjust quickly after the brightness of midday. Ardan smelled the loamy, leaf-molded earth, and a mighty tree trunk reared up directly before him, like some legendary champion making a rear-guard defense to allow his troops to complete their escape.
His vision adapted itself to the diminished light, and he saw the smooth, smoke-gray bark just in front of him, every detail wondrously clear. To his surprise, it was as if he had encountered a human presence there, and he stood before it, hesitant which way to turn.
The Northman came around the other side of the tree and struck him down.
Those men whom Brian had trained to fight with the ax were making great inroads on the Norse army now, swinging their weapons in wild arcs, howling with glee when the blades chopped through the foreign armor. Unlike the Northmen, the Irish held their axes one-handed, the thumb extended along the handle to guide the blow, and this seemed to unnerve their enemy most of all. Frantic, the Northmen plunged against the encircling line and began to break through, streaming back toward Limerick or into the sheltering woods.
Brian galloped beside his men, urging them on though they needed no urging, feeling the ponderous mass of the Norse army disintegrate before the agile attack of the Irish. The sun was in midheaven now and Ivar’s force was in full retreat, sweeping its enraged Irish allies with it. Men lay everywhere on the grass and trampled earth, weltering in their own blood and asking for water or a merciful death from every passer-by.
Brian reined in and turned back to seek out Mahon and issue orders for re-forming the companies, so that the most advantage could be taken of the enemy’s demoralization. He sighted Mahon’s banner, slightly torn, fluttering from a pole thrust into the same rise of ground recently occupied by Ivar and his aides. The earth was red with death and victory. Mahon was sitting on a tall brown horse, leaning over the animal’s neck as he listened to a report from one of his officers. When Brian came up he straightened, eyes alight with satisfaction.
“It is a triumph!” he announced.
Brian surveyed the scene coolly. He saw and noted the faces turned toward him in open admiration; a few hours ago these same chieftains had been hostile, ready to desert the king and his radical brother. Now they were gathered about Mahon’s flag to rejoice in a great victory. They cheered him as he dismounted and walked over to them.
“We cannot be called victorious until Ivar’s back is broken and his fortress burned to the ground,” Brian told them firmly. It was too soon to forgive and forget, too soon to enjoy defeating an enemy who could turn on them at any time and cut them down. “The Northman’s arrogance has betrayed him,” Brian said to the officers, “but he may yet find his pride and stand against us. Don’t waste your breath congratulating yourselves, for this is the time to re-form the army in a tight offensive spearhead and launch it at Limerick.” He addressed Mahon directly: “Brother, if you are still with me, we will be in Ivar’s city tonight picking Norse teeth out of the ashes.”
The naked savagery in Brian’s voice was not lost on Mahon. A team of litter bearers came up just then, carrying Kernac, who lay unconscious, his leg severed below the knee, the shinbone sticking out of the pulped flesh like a splintered reed. Mahon saw Brian’s glance flick to the injured man and then back again with no change in expression.
“We must take time to tend our wounded, Brian,” Mahon said gently, hoping to wipe away the hardened crust forming around his brother. He saw that Brian still vibrated with the tense pitch of battle, an unsated hunger in his eyes; and Mahon felt a sudden strong revulsion against the lust to kill so blatantly expressed. “We have had our victory, Brian,” he reminded the younger man, leaning toward him and stressing his words. “We must care for the injured now, and let our brave warriors rest.”
Brian stared at his brother. “Have you taken a head wound? I hope so, for otherwise the sun has addled your brains! More than one battle has been lost because the victors failed to follow up their advantage, and I can’t allow that to happen here!
“As for the wounded …” he paused and gazed out over the field. “Wounded men take so much time. Someone must bind up their wounds, we need carts or horses to get them back to Cashel … if we had some way they could be treated here by a company of nonwarriors …”
Mahon interrupted him impatiently. “We can take care of them here, now, as we always have. These are our friends and comrades, Brian!”
“And they have taken their injuries in an effort to destroy Ivar,” Brian shot back. “If we let Ivar get away and regroup to fall on us later, their pain will have been wasted. We have had a similar discussion before, brother, and I feel just as strongly about it now. We must finish what we began!”
The Irish chieftains had listened to this exchange without contributing to it, their eyes flicking from one man to the other; but at the end they were nodding in agreement with Brian. Cahal clapped him on the shoulder and announced in a loud voice, “I’m your man, Boru! You lead and my men will follow, and we will pick up our casualties on the way back. Take us to Limerick or hell beyond, if that’s how far you have to go to get to Ivar!”
“Very well,” Mahon said, his somber gaze fixed, not on the jubilant warriors, but on the ranks of dead and dying being collected on the plain before him. “We will go on to Limerick.” Without looking at Brian again, he kicked his horse and rode away.
They rode knee to knee in pursuit of the fleeing Norse, with their army of Munstermen at their backs, singing the songs of victory. Brian felt his brother’s troubled gaze from time to time but he never acknowledged it; he limited his conversation to giving orders, or an occasional comment to the spear carrier who ran beside his horse.
I know what you want to say to me, Mahon, he thought. I can feel your emotions tugging at me. You would condemn me for the very victory I bring you. You want me to take time for pity, and allow myself to be hurt by the sight of the injured and dead. Like Deirdre, you want me to be vulnerable.
But I cannot. I will not. When the wars are over there may be time for friendship and compassion and all those Christian virtues, and then I may be as kindly as any man. But not yet—first, we must win.
He rode above his emotions, carefully protecting the thin skin that separated them from his consciousness, safe only as long as that skin held. It was a dam, and agony was piled up behind it. Brian Boru rode with a closed face, his gray eyes fixed on the road ahead.
The sun burned on their uncovered heads, their bare arms browned and glowed from its warmth. Once, a mass of yellow butterflies came up in a cloud from a dip in the land and danced through the ranks of the marching Irish, fluttering against their faces to be fended away with laughter. “Ivar’s sending spies!” someone shouted, and a wave of guffaws moved across the sea of men.
They did not stop to eat. Those who had food with them gnawed on it as they marched, and bearers ran along the line with waterskins. The evening brought a rising breeze and some of the men
said they could smell the Shannon. In the distance there were clustered pinpoints of light.
Seeing Limerick waiting for them, an unknown quantity, for the second time that day Brian seriously considered the possibility that he might die. In the dark, in the night, in that pagan, alien port. A Northman might strike him down and it would all go black …
Watch out! His mind shield away from the idea like a frightened horse. Such imaginings could drain off that peak of confidence that had carried him, and the army with him, all this long day. But the picture remained there, lying across his thoughts, daring him to look at it closely in the fading light.
Would he go to heaven? Pray perpetually in glory with the saints and the angels? And if he did, how would he keep from being bored? Would God forgive him for being bored in His presence?
Dangerous, blasphemous thoughts for a man who might be on his way to die. If Mahon knew he had such thoughts, his expression would be still more troubled.
The rich smell of marsh and meadowland surrounded them; the meaty scent of horse sweat anchored them in life. I will not die tonight, Brian told himself, and was relieved to find that he believed it. Some other time I can think about dying and the obligations of my immortal soul; I can do penance and all those acts of Christian charity. Some other time, but not right now. Victory may have to serve me as heaven, and I will put off hell until tomorrow.
On the deep level of consciousness he was aware that his mind had carefully skirted specific thoughts of his own mortality, and he was grateful. Visions of the grave, decay, the long darkness …
On the road before them, dimly visible in the twilight, a Norse sword lay abandoned and forgotten. An indented ridge ran the length of the blade, that depression the Northmen called the Blood Channel, and it was stained with something dark. They all looked at it as they passed, stepping around it carefully, but no man bent to pick it up.
Lion of Ireland Page 25