At Ratherwood...
A force
of O'Donnell's men formed a turtle defense. The outermost men in the formation
held shields before, behind or on their sides, and those within this shell held
shields above their own and the outermost men's heads. Confronting Ruallauh and his brothers was a
solid mass of shields, thick wood with iron bosses and a plenitude of clan symbols.
Ruallauh
went to meet his two brothers in front of their forces. "They are pretty
well safe from my archers for the nonce," the eldest brother observed.
Ioruert
strained to see the opposing forces. "Before they got behind their shields
I made out foot soldiers with about half axes and shields and half bows and
swords and shields. I may be mistaken but I thought there were more than I can
see now. Those men a-horse may be a communications line. Or they may be
planning a separate wave of attack. They're Irish so they will dismount to
fight. But why spread out like that?" He wrinkled his brow.
"Well,
at least we have equal benefit with him with this open terrain. Ioruert, take
the fields with your mounted troops. That way you can match any influx of the
same. He must have more horsemen than that.
Cingen, take the side by the river, but stay this side of bowshot from the
fortress. I will put my archers behind a shield-wall right here in the middle.
Make sure your runners stay safe so we can communicate."
"We
will need to hold this position, Ruallauh. We can't risk being backed into
bowshot," Cingen cautioned.
His
older brother nodded grimly. "We have to do this. The king needs his
forces to take the fortress. Once that is done, I warrant these mercenaries
will give up the fight." He sighed. "How I wish Rory was here. He
would know the Irishman's tactics." He made the sign of the cross.
Ioruert
saluted his two brothers. "God be with us."
MacDhui
returned to his commander, seeing he was making small gestures with his hands
as he considered his attack options. The Scot looked back at the enemy, seeing
the formations that came together on the center, left and right. He waited.
O'Donnell
began to think aloud, making the meaning of the gestures clear. "I could
send the turtle straight and fast for the fortress, beat off the king and join
with Malcolm's forces in the stronghold. Or I could entice them into the
village or the woods by the river. Whatever I do, we will keep these farmers
busy while the king's men attack the fort and fail."
"My
lord?" MacDhui inserted. O'Donnell turned to look at him. "What if
Malcolm is losing?"
O'Donnell
barked a derisive laugh. "If he is losing, what are we doing here? Nay, I
know Malcolm. He would not let victory come to the king so easily. But you are
right to pose the possibility. Scratch the first plan. No sense getting
ourselves locked up in the fortress if it is about to fall."
"We
seem to be equal in force, my lord, but we are all trained mercenaries,"
MacDhui began.
"And
they are all farmers barely able to wield a pitchfork, no less a sword. If we
can draw them into attacking us, we will have few losses and many kills."
O'Donnell looked at his companion and grinned. He struck him hard on the
shoulder and said, "That is what we shall do. Give the orders."
While
his own forces held tight to their positions, Ruallauh watched MacDhui ride to
the other parts of the force, first to the commander of the turtle which formed
directly in front of his archers. The Scot rode to the first of the line of
horsemen spread out across from Ioruert's own cavalry and took position as the
new leader. He called back orders to the captains of the shields and archers.
The
turtle began to move as slowly as its namesake towards Ruallauh's position. He
rode around to the back of his archers, dismounted, giving his horse's reins to
a soldier, bent and strung his bow and pulled a few arrows from their quiver.
He went to the fore of his archers and stuck the arrows in the ground. He notched the last to his bowstring, ready
to loose at the foe. As he anticipated, from out of the turtle's shell popped
up the Irish archers here and there to take aim at his own shield-wall. As he
commanded, his bowmen targeted only those archers. Shots fired at the shell of
shields were shots with no effect.
However, eliminating the threat of one bow after another, he hoped the
dead bodies would cause the turtle to trip and create openings for his own
marksmen. In the rain, some men slipped and some fell. For his men this was no
more than an inconvenience. The mass of men in the turtle were not that
flexible, and fallen men were trampled and tripping their fellows.
Though
Ioruert's horsemen harried the flank of the turtle, they could not risk the
arrows that could take down their mounts and imperil themselves, so they could
do little to stop it advancing. The turtle came slowly but inexorably. It could
not be easily halted. In time, Ruallauh's men would have to retreat or engage.
For now, the choice was the former. They moved as slowly as the turtle, keeping
some distance between them. Ruallauh, glancing behind him, knew he could not
stay with this strategy forever. He was relieved when a runner was at his side
telling him that Cingen's men saw the king's second wave pour into the fortress
and no more of Malcolm's defense on the remaining outer stockade.
From
his own vantage point the king saw how slowly the mercenary forces moved and
concluded that O'Donnell was hedging his wager by keeping out of the fortress.
With a whoop of triumph, he ordered the last wave of reserves into the
stronghold, himself at their head. The brothers would hold O'Donnell. At worst
when the fortress fell, O'Donnell would act to save his own sorry arse and
flee.
"Why
don't they fight?" O'Donnell snarled to himself and urged the turtle
onward. He eyed the battlements of the fortress, and he saw it. There were no
archers on top. The king's allies could back away until they fell into the
pitfalls, but there was almost no chance they would be attacked from behind. He
glanced around quickly for MacDhui, but that man was engaged on the flank of
the turtle and did not see his look. O'Donnell gritted his teeth. He almost
regretted the strategy he set in motion, the creeping pace going straight to
his nerves. At least once the enemy's back was to the fortress wall and they
could back no further, he would have full advantage. They might attack, but it
would be too late.
Ruallauh's
men were all but stumbling backwards into the pits. Here to the left of where
the earlier force attacked the pitfalls were still treacherous, hidden by brush
and full of pointed stakes. O'Donnell heard screams as men in the back ranks
slipped on the muddy ground and fell into the traps.
When
the garrison of Malcolm's stolen fortress finished off the last of the king's
soldiers they could stop from fleeing, they turned to congratulate themselves.
The word went around that O'Donnell's forces had arrived and were engaging the
king's army from behind. Men who had all but taken the first step to desert the
garrison sighed inwardly and were glad they resisted the impulse. The day would
be Malcolm's and the reward would be generous.
A shout
and a sound of many men's voices conjoined in a chant of "Lawrence!
Lawrence!" startled them out of their relief. Individual shouts of "Críslicland!" and "Affynshire!" confused them. Were
the two not at war? Anyone glancing through the area of the palisade's breach
saw a mass of men in a deep shield-wall. The lines of the king's men were
augmented many times over. They came towards the garrison quickly, like an
undulating wave about to crash down onto them. The defenders' officers tried to
shout them into formation, but the chaos overwhelmed them. The loud chant, the
stomping feet in the rain and mud, and the sheer numbers advancing against them
were too much to face.
Those
men who did not turn and flee at once tried to meet the onslaught and were cut
down and trampled. The wave of shields, spears and swords crashed into the
inner wall, the sheer weight and inertia making the old wall shudder. Some of
the men atop it lost balance and fell, some inside the wall and some outside.
The former lived only minutes longer than the latter. Axes, the specially
outfitted spears, shields, and lines and lines of men hacked at the inner wall,
tearing out timbers, slicing through hemp, while archers picked off those who
stayed to defend the failing wall. All at once, a whole section of the old
inner wall swayed and buckled, sending the few defenders left to meet their
fellows' fates.
With a
shout of triumph the king's soldiers climbed up and over what was left of the
wall. The sounds of battle within resounded everywhere.
--
Still
engaged outside the walls, O'Donnell heard a shout from inside the fortress, a
shout that was picked up by dozens of voices. "The king is victorious!
Malcolm is taken!" The cheer from within the walls was echoed by
Ruallauh's men.
Grimly
O'Donnell raised his hand and gave the order to start backing away. MacDhui was
right to be cautious. Where they were, they could at least pull back and make
their escape. All the cheer the battle gave him drained away like wine from a
smashed pitcher. A spark of anger at Malcolm for this entire mess flashed in
his eyes.
Trained
fighting men all, the men in the turtle formation backed away in an orderly
manner. Still armored in their shield shell, they were safe. Ruallauh saw his chance, as did his brother
Ioruert, and the signal to attack and surround the turtle with the younger
brother's force of horsemen was exchanged. Ioruert had not heard the shout from
within the stockade, but he did not need to. Nothing less would have changed
the onward push of the Irishmen.
The
horsemen sped to the turtle, surrounding it in minutes. As far from the woods
and the village as they were, Ioruert knew that any hidden force there would be
unable to save the men in the armored formation.
As
helmeted heads popped up from the turtle and saw the trap, the protected force
disintegrated. The turtle's shell became fragmented forces, every man for
himself. With little chance of even surviving, no reward, even if there would
be one, was worth the risk. O'Donnell from behind and MacDhui from one side
watched with horror as their forces were surrounded and cut down by the
horsemen, the men at arms from the river's direction, and Ruallauh's own
shield-wall advancing quickly to prevent any regrouping.
His
sword already in his hand, O'Donnell screamed his frustration and anger,
"God damn you sons of whores, get back to your units!" He engaged the
first horseman who came at him, deftly parrying a blow from the man's axe and
returning a deadly sword thrust to his back as the Irishman spun around. Men on
foot came at him, and those he did not ward off or kill were dispatched by his
own men. He saw a commander on horseback galloping straight at him. It must be
one of the brothers, one of the cousins of the queen. He smiled triumphantly.
If he could capture him and get away with him, the queen would pay generously
to have his life spared. If he killed the man, at least he would have sated his
desire for blood.
Ioruert
saw the tall, broad-shouldered man on his magnificent horse, the signature
drooping red moustache identifying him as the co-conspirator with Malcolm, Finn
O'Donnell. He raised his sword and rushed the man. "This is for Rory, you bastard!"
Ioruert screamed.
The two
came together with a loud crash, horses reeling from the impact, but the able
horsemen stayed securely mounted. Ioruert got in a thrust that earned him only
one as hard in return. The two circled and struck again. Ioruert managed to
draw blood from a blow to O'Donnell's right forearm. O'Donnell looked at the
spreading crimson on his cut leather sleeve and grinned. He lifted his sword in
the hand of that same arm and struck Ioruert so hard that it threw the younger
man and unhorsed him. O'Donnell directed his mount straight at the fallen man,
trampling him. He leaned down with his sword to dispatch him.
Ruallauh
heard his brother's scream as he fell and as the horse put its hoof on his leg
and broke the bone. He saw O'Donnell leaning to finish off Ioruert. He notched
an arrow and let it fly so fast that it was almost in flight before he could
form a concrete thought.
The
arrow caught O'Donnell under his shoulder blade, the point coming out in front
under his heart as he leaned down with his sword. He fell. His fall pushed the arrow even farther.
MacDhui's
own heart stopped as he saw the man fall. With a cry, he jumped from his horse
and ran to where the two men lay on the ground. Seeing O'Donnell was mortally
wounded, he cried again and came down on the prone Ioruert with his sword, cutting
into the man's thick leather armor with the sheer force of his anguish. He spun
back to kneel at O'Donnell's side as he heard Ioruert gasp out his last breath.
He took O'Donnell's shoulders and held the man to his own breast. "Finn,
Finn, nay!" he sobbed.
Ruallauh
made his way through the chaos of the slaughter of O'Donnell's remaining men.
He found MacDhui kneeling and rocking the Irishman in his arms. He heard the
Scot's cry when O'Donnell coughed blood and went completely limp, dead.
Ruallauh, seeing his brother's corpse, roared his own fury. He drew his sword.
MacDhui spun to face him but it was too late. His body fell across his dead
lover's.
(And later…)
Three
days later, their grotesque corpses were added to the ripening bodies of their
allies. The two kings decided that the entire rebel dead would be thrown into
the pits and covered over. Malcolm and his commanders were tossed in with no
ceremony along with the mercenaries who fought alongside them.
O'Donnell
and MacDhui were tossed in together. The inner wall of the pit caved in as they
landed, side by side. The force of the moving earth shifted MacDhui's body so
that before he was covered by shovelfuls of the loose dirt, he turned onto his side,
his head resting on O'Donnell's shoulder. No one noticed.
Lawrence
dusted off his hands. "Let the
ancient dead disturb their rest with all the horror they can muster."
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