Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [169]
On entering the camp, Morann received his first surprise. For instead of encountering Munster or Connacht men, the first part of the camp he passed through consisted entirely of Viking Norsemen, whose fearsome faces he had never seen before. Seeing one of Brian’s commanders whom he knew, he asked him who they were.
“They are our friends, Morann. Ospak and Wolf the Quarrelsome. Fighting bands, much feared on the seas, they say.” He grinned. “If the Dyflin king can call in friends from across the water, King Brian’s just returning the compliment.” He laughed. “You have to admit, the old man’s lost none of his cunning.”
“They look like pirates,” said Morann.
“Dyflin has their pirates, and we have ours,” the commander replied, with satisfaction. “Whatever it takes to win, Morann: you know Brian. Where’s the King of Tara, by the way?”
“He is coming,” said Morann.
He found King Brian at the centre of the camp, sitting on a silk-covered chair in a large tent. With his white beard and deeply lined face, the ageing king looked a little tired, but his spirit, as ever, was sharp and he was in a good humour. Morann apologised quickly for Harold’s absence. “His horse tripped when we were crossing a stream and he fell. With his crippled leg, you know, I sent him home.” And though King Brian gave him a cynical look, he seemed to have too much else on his mind to pursue the matter further. The first thing he wanted was news of the O’Neill king, and he listened intently as Morann gave him a careful report. At the end, Brian looked thoughtful.
“He will come then. That is clear. He said he could not let me lose. That is interesting. What do you think he means?”
“What he says. No less, and no more. He won’t break his oath, but he will sit out the battle and preserve his own strength while yours is wasted. Only if he thinks you’re in danger of losing will he intervene.”
“I think so, too.” Brian gazed into the distance for a moment. He seemed sad. “My son will command the battle,” he remarked. “I’m too old.” He glanced up at Morann with a flash of shrewd irony. “It is I, however, who will plan the battle.”
Certainly the old king seemed confident. He had already sent a large detachment of his army away to raid parts of Leinster that its king had left unguarded. He chatted briefly about these developments with Morann, then fell silent; and the silversmith was about to take his leave when Brian suddenly reached onto a table beside him and took up a small book.
“Look at this, Morann. Did you ever see anything like it?” And opening its pages he showed the craftsman the astonishing illustrations that the monk of Glendalough had done. “Send in that monk,” he called out, and a few moments later, Morann was pleased to see Osgar. “You know each other. That is good. You shall both stay by my side.” He smiled. “Our friend here wanted to go back to Glendalough but I told him he’s to stay here with me and pray for victory.” Brother Osgar looked rather pale. “Don’t worry,” the king said to him genially, “the fighting won’t reach here.” He glanced at Morann mischievously. “Unless, God forbid, your prayers fail.”
At the end of the following day, they saw the great host of the King of Tara arrive from the north. They pitched camp on the slopes below the Plain of Bird Flocks, some distance away but within sight.
The next morning, the King of Tara arrived with several of his chief men. They went into Brian’s tent and spent some time there, before returning. That afternoon, as Brian was making a tour of the camp, he saw Morann.
“We have had our council of war,” he told him. “Now we have to draw them out to fight