Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [174]
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 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.
Suddenly there was a mighty surge, as another banner from the other side came towards it. The golden banner, apparently aware of the move, also stirred in that direction. There was a sound of shouting, a small roar as the two banners seemed almost to touch. He heard Brian hiss through his teeth, then there was an intake of breath. A long pause followed, as if the whole battle line was holding its breath. Then came a huge cheer from the other side, followed by a moan from the Munster men. And suddenly, like a firefly that has been extinguished, the golden standard fell and was seen no more.
Brian Boru said nothing. He stared straight ahead, obviously trying to see what was taking place in the melee. His son’s standard was down and nobody had raised it. That could only mean one thing. He was dead, or mortally wounded. Slowly the old man turned, went back to his former place, and sat down. His head sank forward. Nobody spoke.
Down in the battle line, however, the death of their leader seemed to have inspired the army with a desire to avenge him. They surged forward. For some little time, the enemy managed to make a last stand, but soon they were falling back, first one section of the line then another, until the whole front broke and fled towards the estuary and the Tolka.
Brian’s servant and Morann looked at each other. Neither of them liked to interrupt the king at such a moment. But it had to be done.
“The Leinstermen have broken. They’re running away.”
Did the old man hear? It was hard to tell. Some of the guards who made up the shield wall were obviously itching to join in the fray, now that the danger to the king was past. After a short pause, Morann decided to speak for them.
“May some of the guards go down to finish them off?” he enquired. This was acknowledged with a nod. A few moments later, half the guards went quickly down towards the water, the rest remaining at their posts by the king.
For a little longer, Brian Boru sat silently, his head bowed. If he had just won the greatest victory of his career, he did not seem to care. Suddenly, he looked very old.