Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [171]
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 by nightfall. If Brian Boru was defeated, then marriage to Harold would be foolish. But if he won, that would leave one day before