Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [173]
“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