Dublin (53 page)

  But it was a fearsome sight. And most terrifying of all, the Leinster people agreed, were the Vikings from across the seas.

  It was their armour. The Celtic people of the island no longer stripped for battle as their ancestors had done. The Leinstermen who marched out of Dyflin wore long, brightly coloured vests or leather padded tunics over their shirts; some had helmets, most carried the traditional painted shield, strengthened with bosses of iron. But splendid though this battle gear was, it did not compare with that of the Vikings. For the Vikings wore chain mail. Thousands of tiny links of iron or brass, tightly woven and riveted, and worn over a leather undershirt, that stretched to below the waist or even the knee, the chain mail was heavy and slowed the warrior down, but it was very hard to pierce.

  In their use of chain mail, the Vikings were only following a practice that had evolved in the Orient and was now in use across much of Europe. But to the people of the western island it made them look strangely grey, dark, and evil. This was the armour worn by most of the men from the longships.

  It was a huge force that marched out of Dyflin and went across the wooden bridge. Though their armour was different, the weapons carried by Irish Gaedhil and Viking Gaill were not so unlike, for as well as the customary spear and sword, more than a few of the Celtic warriors carried Viking axes.

  There were some archers with quivers of poisoned arrows, and there were several chariots to carry the great men. But the battle would be fought not by manoeuvre but by massed lines in hand-to-hand fighting. Watching them go, Caoilinn did not try to keep count, but it seemed to her that there were well over two thousand men.

  There was still a pale mist on the water as they crossed the bridge and for a little way on the other side it looked as if they were floating, like an army of phantoms, along the opposite bank. To the right, farther off, she detected movements in the camp of Brian Boru; and on the slopes in the distance, she could make out the vague mass of the army of the King of Tara.

  The question now was, what should she do? The way was open before her. After the army had passed through, the town gates had been left open. The bridge was clear.

  On the far bank, the army would soon be two miles away or more and the camp of the O'neill king was at a similar distance. If she chose to do so, she could take the old road to the north and be at Harold's farmstead in less than two hours. Once the battle started, however, who knew what would happen?

  At the least, the way could be barred again. This might be her last chance.

  Should she go? Her son thought so. Did she want to go? Over the last few days she had thought of little else. If she were to leave to marry someone, she certainly didn't know a better man than Harold. She'd make him a good wife, too; and that knowledge was also an attraction. She desired him. It was futile to deny that. Did she love him? When she had seen the smoke and flames from Fingal and thought of the Norseman and his farmstead, she had experienced a pang of fear, and a little wave of tenderness for him, before she had reminded herself that, as he was under the King of Tara's protection, he and his farm were probably safe.

  But now, as she watched the men of Dyflin go out to battle, she decided that whatever her own feelings, and whatever her eldest son might wish, her most important duty must be to secure the best chance of success for her younger children. She must be calculating and, if necessary, cold.

  Today was Good Friday. With luck the battle would be decided I by nightfall. If Brian Boru was defeated, then marriage to Harold would be foolish. But if he won, that would leave one day before Easter in which to go to the Norseman. Harold might be killed, of course. He might also think her timing opportunistic. That couldn't be helped. Easter was Easter. As a mother, there was only one sensible course to follow.

  So it was, a short time later, that the lone figure of Caoilinn on a chestnut mare, followed by her two younger children, rode slowly out of Dyflin and across the wooden bridge. Once across, she followed the track up to a vantage point on some raised ground from which she could watch the outcome of events.

  Depending on how the battle went, she could either go with all haste to the man she loved, or retire discreetly back to Dyflin.

  "Let us pray, children," she said.

  "What for, Mother?" they asked.

  "A clear victory."

I

  They had drawn up the battle in three great lines. In the centre, the front line was made up of the men of Brian's own tribe, led by one of his grandsons; behind them came the Munster host, with the Connacht men in the third line. On the two wings were the Norse contingents of Ospak and Wolf the Quarrelsome. Opposite them, advancing across the Tolka, the Leinster and Dyflin forces were in similar battle lines.

  Morann had never seen anything like it. He was only a few feet away from King Brian. Around the old king, his personal guards had formed a protective enclosure, ready to form their shields, if necessary, into an impenetrable wall. The slight slope gave them a good view of the battle which was to take place below them.

  The lines of troops were packed so thickly and were so deep, it seemed to Morann that you could have driven a chariot over their helmets from one wing to the other.

  Both sides had unfurled their battle banners, dozens of them, which were streaming in the breeze. At the centre of the enemy line, a huge wind sock in the form of a red dragon seemed ready to devour the other banners, while over the centre of Brian's line, a black raven banner flapped as though screeching in fury.

  It was as soon as the enemy had waded across the Tolka stream that the war cries began, starting with bloodcurdling shouts from individual warriors or groups, but then gathering into a single huge roar from one line, only to be echoed by an answering roar from the other. Again the roar came as the two lines advanced, and again. And then, from the Celtic centre came the great opening shower of javelins. A second shower of spears followed the first; and then, with a mighty roar, the two front lines rushed forward and, with a huge bang, crashed together. It was a terrifying sight.

  Morann glanced at the little group in the enclosure.

  The king was sitting on a broad bench covered with furs. His eyes were fixed on the battle ahead, his face so alert that, despite his lines and his white beard, he seemed almost youthful. Beside him, waiting for an order, stood a faithful servant. Behind him, his face now paler than a ghost, was Osgar the monk. Several of the guards also stood ready to carry any messages he might wish to send. He had already sent one or two messages to his son, as to troop dispositions, but now, for the time being, there was nothing to do but watch and wait.

  If Osgar the monk looked frightened, Morann could hardly blame him. Would the enemy break through and sweep towards them? Scar-faced Brodar's fearsome Vikings appeared to be making terrible inroads on one part of the line. But though it seemed to sag, Morann saw the standards from the centre suddenly start to move, creating an internal bulge in the line as they went towards the most hard-pressed point.

  "There goes my son," said Brian with quiet satisfaction. "He can fight with a sword in each hand, you know," he remarked to Morann. "Left or right, he strikes just as well."

  In a little while the advance of Brodar's men seemed to be contained; but it was soon clear that neither side had a definite advantage. Now and then part of a line would give ground, and troops from the line behind would take their place. Individual warriors could be seen, both by their standards and also by the eddies and swirls they produced as they struck down those around them. Where there were Vikings engaged, Morann could see little flashes as the blows struck against the chain mail produced sparks. The battle cries grew fewer as time went on. The sound of the blows made Morann wince. As for Osgar, his eyes had grown wide in a sort of fascinated horror. And perhaps Brian Boru could sense the palpable fear behind his shoulder, for after a while he turned round to the monk and smiled.

  "Sing us a Psalm, Brother Osgar," he said amiably, "since God is on our side." He reached down into a satchel beside him and pulled out a small volume. "You see," he added,

  "I even have your Gospels here. I shall look at them while you sing." And to Morann's amazement and admiration, that was exactly what the old king did, remarking casually to his servant: "Keep an eye on the battle and let me know if anything happens."

  One thing, Morann thought, that should have happened, was that the King of Tara should by now have come to join the fight. But as yet, though he was not far off, he had not moved.

  The silversmith did not say anything on the subject. To look at King Brian, calmly perusing the book, you would never have guessed he even expected him.

  Almost to his own surprise, Morann did not feel much afraid. It was not because he was behind the shield wall with King Brian. For the battle in all its fury was only a few hundred yards away. No, he realised, his calmness was due to something else. It was because he already knew that he was going to die.

  It was past noon when Sigurd saw the movement to his right.

  He had looked hard for Harold, as the two forces approached. Though Harold was a Norseman, Sigurd thought it most likely that, if he were in the battle, he would be with Brian's own tribe or the Munster men. Or alternatively, he might be one of the men guarding the old king in person. He saw no sign of him yet, however, and though he had asked several men in the various detachments to call out if they saw him, he had heard nothing.

  He had killed five men so far and wounded at least a dozen others. He had chosen a steel sword to fight with today. In close fighting, he found it better to stab than try to swing an axe. Though good blades were forged in Dyflin, the Viking armaments were still superior to anything made on the Celtic island, and the blue- bladed, double-edged sword he had acquired in Denmark was a deadly weapon. He had known this would be a hard fight, but it had gone far beyond his expectations and he had pulled back now, to take a short rest.

  By midmorning a sharp, cold breeze had sprung up from the east. In the heat of the battle he had scarcely noticed it, but now it caught him in the face. It was wet, like sea spray-except, he suddenly realised, that it could not be. It was too warm. It was sticky also, getting in his eyes. It tasted salty on his lips. He blinked, frowned, and then cursed.

  It was not from any sea. Each time the warriors in front of him crashed together, each time he heard the huge thud of a blow being landed, the shock of it sent up a little spray of sweat from the combatants. And of blood. And now, like the spume from the sea, it was a mixture of blood and sweat that was being carried back by the wind into his face.

  Brodar had been hard-pressed by Wolf the Quarrelsome and his Norsemen. It seemed he was pulling back from the battle line to regroup. He had about a dozen men with him. Sigurd could see the warlord clearly. Brodar was pausing to rest.

  Or was he? Unseen by their comrades fighting in front of them, the group was starting to move away towards the small wood near the hamlet.

  Sigurd was not a coward; but his reason for being there was straightforward. He couldn't care less whether Munster or Leinster won. He hadn't come here to die but to fight and be paid for it; and Brodar was paying. If the scar-faced warrior was going to shelter in the wood, then so was Sigurd. He started to follow.

  Harold watched carefully. It was midafternoon, and he thought he saw how it would go.

  He had ridden out at dawn and stationed himself at a point from which he could see the King of Tara's camp and the battle down at Clontarf. He was fully armed and he had decided upon a clear plan. If the O'neill army, where his sons were, started to move into battle, he would ride across to join them. And if he saw the army of Brian being routed and Morann in danger, then despite his promise, he would go over and try to rescue his friend.

  All morning he had watched. The King of Tara had not moved. As usual, he thought, his clever friend had foreseen events. Though neither battle line had yet given ground, he could see signs that Brian had the upper hand. He had already seen one of the Viking warlords sneaking away. The ranks of the Leinstermen were thinning, and though both sides were visibly slowing down, Brian still had reserves of fresh troops in the third line. He watched a little longer. The Leinstermen were giving ground.

  It was safe to go home. He turned his horse's head. He had not the least idea that, from a point behind the Leinster line, Caoilinn also was watching to see how the battle went.

  "They're giving ground," murmured

  Morann.

  "It isn't over yet." King Brian's voice was quiet. He had risen and he was standing beside the craftsman now, surveying the battle.

  Breaks in the cloud had allowed slanting rays of afternoon sun to light up patches of ground, and in the yellowish glow, the field before them looked in places almost like charred woodland after a forest fire with clumps of damaged trees still standing amidst the I tangled mess of the fallen. But in the centre, the great mass of the battle was still heaving. There was no question, the advantage was with their side, but the fighting was stiff.

  Catching the sunlight near the centre was a golden banner. This was held by the standard-bearer of Brian's son. Sometimes the banner moved from one part of the fight to another. Though Brian said nothing, Morann knew that his eyes were fixed upon the banner. From time to time he gave a grunt of approval.