Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [172]
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.”
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