1014: Brian Boru & the Battle for Ireland (11 page)

The earl was beginning to be concerned. So many warriors were following the raven flag and expecting a share in the reward: would there be enough to
satisfy
them all? Would there even be a battle? Brian Boru was surely an old man by now. When he saw the size of
the force arrayed against him, would he run and take his army with him? If that happened, would Sigurd’s
followers
turn against him in frustration? They were expecting a glorious battle. All their pent-up aggression would seek an outlet. Men disappointed in their expectations had destroyed their leaders before.

The dragonships passed Skye, Islay, approached the Mull of Kintyre. The keenest noses among them began to catch hints of some verdant fragrance. Green and
growing
things: grass and tree and flower. It was better than the most exotic perfume to men who had been so long at sea. Salt pustules on their exposed skin, salt caked in their heavy beards, unremitting cold and shrieking wind and a running sea and then … there was Ireland! Over there, on your right, do you see? Strong green shoulders breaking through the mist? A great cheer went up.

The voyage was not over yet. Before they reached Dublin they made landfall on the Isle of Man. The island was in the middle of the Irish Sea, almost equidistant from the Mountains of Mourne in Ireland and western Northumbria in Britain, and the ideal place to make any last-minute repairs to the ships and take fresh water aboard.

When Brodir’s men saw the great fleet approaching in the distance they ran to tell him the news. Soon twenty
longships were gliding out from their harbour. Standing in the prow of the lead vessel with its own dragon head, Brodir shouted a hoarse greeting to Sigurd the Stout.

Sigurd was not surprised to see him. He had never doubted that Brodir would join him. But his was a tainted pleasure. He had all the allies he needed already; twenty more ships full of warriors would only dilute his share of the plunder. And Brodir, whom he knew of old, would demand a share the equal of the earl’s. Sigurd shrugged; he would deal with that problem when the time came. Perhaps a knife in the old pirate’s ribs when no-one was looking. Who would notice one more dead man on a battlefield?

Sigurd pasted a welcoming grin on his face and shouted a return greeting to Brodir. ‘Lie alongside,’ he cried, ‘and we’ll feast tonight!’

CHAPTER NINE

T
HE
W
EEK
B
EFORE

E
arl Sigurd and the invasion fleet sailed into Dublin Bay on Palm Sunday, as agreed. The bay slowly turned black with ships. The king of Dublin and his entourage went down to the shore to observe their arrival. It was the first time Sitric Silkbeard had seen the full might of the Western Isles and their allies, and he was awestruck. He returned to his palace to tell Gormlaith that Brian Boru was as good as dead. Then he ordered a great banquet to be prepared for the
Scandinavian
leaders.

Sitric prudently asked his mother to stay in her quarters during the feast. He feared that Gormlaith’s appearance would provoke an exchange between the earl and the pirate that would damage his own credibility. ‘Viking
men do not eat with their women,’ he told her, ‘and we must not offer them insult.’ Gormlaith herself may have felt insulted by this remark, but she agreed to her son’s request. It was important that all went well.

Satisfied that she would not cause any trouble on this particular occasion, Sitric busied himself overseeing final preparations. His stronghold must be at least as impressive as that belonging to the earl of Orkney.

In 1014 Dublin in its entirety was south of the Liffey. A timber bridge near present-day Bridgefoot Street connected the city on the southern bank of the river with the open fields on the northern side. The bridge, which later came to be known as Dubhgall’s Bridge, consisted of a gangway supported by rows of wooden piles sunk deep in the marshy ooze between the tidal waters of the bay and the Black Pool. When the tide came in, the bridge was submerged.

The king’s palace stood approximately where Dublin Castle stands now. Sedimentary evidence suggests that areas such as today’s Merrion Square were often
underwater
as a result of tidal flooding, and to avoid this problem royal residences had been built and re-built on the high ground first claimed by Ivarr the Boneless. By the eleventh century the palace comprised a large
cluster
of timber and wicker rectangles roofed with thatch.
Following the custom of the time, the banqueting hall was unattached to any of the other buildings. Like the kitchens and the ovens it was kept separate for fear of fire.

In preparation for his guests Sitric Silkbeard had ordered his servants to drape the walls of the banqueting hall with swathes of eastern silk. They had piled every available surface with items of gold and silver to attest to the wealth at his command. Here he waited anxiously, nervously, for the arrival of his guests.

The invasion fleet passed between the tiny island known as Ireland’s Eye and the grassy isthmus of Sutton, then circled around Howth Head to the landward side. Hundreds of Viking vessels were drawn up onto the shores around Dublin Bay. The largest dragonships were at Howth, but others made landfall at Sutton, around the mouth of the Liffey, and as far south as Sandymount.

When all was in readiness, Sigurd and the northern chiefs sailed from Howth to Dublin Harbour. They took the precaution of bringing armed bodyguards with them. By 1014 some Vikings had adopted the habit of
bathing
, but those in the invasion force had not washed their bodies for weeks: their odour came ahead of them on the wind from the sea.

The king of Dublin welcomed them to his palace
with a full range of Danish formalities. He was relieved to see that Brodir and Earl Sigurd apparently were on friendly terms. Sigurd introduced Amlaff, the son of the king of Lochlann, by saying, ‘This man brings two thousand Danmarkians with him. They are hard
warriors
like Brodir here; they have no reverence for God or for man, for Church or for sanctuary.’ Amlaff
fingered
the cross he wore on a thong around his neck, and smiled. Coldly.

Sitric gave only casual mention to the absent
Maelmora
. He told the earl, ‘The king of Leinster is in the south, collecting an army which will join us here shortly. Of course my Danes are quite capable of
persecuting
the battle on their own – with your assistance, of course,’ he added with an unctuous smile. Things were going better than he had hoped. Still no sign of his mother, fortunately. Sitric began to look forward to the evening ahead.

After a massive meal of roast meat and shellfish was devoured and the rush-covered floor of the banqueting hall was littered with scraps – eagerly snatched by the omnipresent Irish wolfhounds – the men settled down to discuss the upcoming battle. Sigurd said to his host, ‘Brian Boru is not as good as you think he is. Even if he does stand to fight, which I doubt once he sees how great
our numbers are, the battle will not last until midday. Your doddering old high king will be dead long before that, I assure you. Then we can all come back here and enjoy another feast.’

Brodir waited until the drinking horns had been drained several times before entering the conversation. The grim Dane did not often speak, but when he did he commanded attention. He announced that he had called upon his knowledge of the dark arts to obtain a
prediction
for the future. ‘If we take to the battlefield on Good Friday the Irish king will die, but if we fight on any other day our men will surely be slain.’

‘Then Good Friday it shall be!’ cried Sitric Silkbeard. He shook his drinking horn in the air for emphasis, sloshing Danish beer over the men nearest to him.

It was a long, wet night. Maelmora of Leinster arrived the next day.

Brian Boru had his share of enemies, perhaps more than most. He was never a man to do things by half measures. The warriors following Maelmora’s banner belonged to tribes that had been forced against their will to submit to Brian’s authority. Their grudges against him dated back to his earliest days as king of Munster. The present counties of Waterford, Wexford, Carlow,
Wicklow
and Kildare would be well represented amongst the
rebels. With them were those Norsemen who had not already given their allegiance to Brian.

While Maelmora was gathering his auxiliaries in the southeast he may have wished that Brian Boru had extended his road-building fervour to that remote corner of Leinster. But no; preferential treatment was given to Munster. Preferential treatment was always given to Munster. Maelmora had ground his teeth and dreamed of the day he would even the score.

The expanse from Clonmel to Waterford and then to Dublin had not been easy travelling. The rivers were deep and fast-running, the foothills were smothered beneath dense forest, and the heights were covered with broken granite or blanket bog. Wexford was a wild and dangerous place away from the coast. It was known to be the haunt of wolves and evil spirits. In Wicklow there was hardly any human settlement in the upper reaches of the hill country, although local tribes lived well on the revenue they creamed from St Kevin’s monastery at Glendalough.

Along the way Maelmora had added a new chieftain to his army: Domnall mac Ferghaile, king of the
Fortuatha
, Gaelic tribes who had intermarried with the Norse. When they reached Dublin some of Maelmora’s followers fell to plundering the rich districts surrounding the city.
Maelmora assigned Domnall and his personal warriors to guard the strip of tidal mud in front of the city’s palisades. Here the defensive bank had been extended by a
mortared
wall nine feet high and four and a half feet thick, and buttressed by offset stones.

Maelmora thought any further precautions would not be necessary for long. He agreed with the earl of Orkney that the battle itself would not last half a day. Battles never did. After the initial headlong assault the outcome was obvious within a few hours.

The king of Leinster allowed the rest of his army to settle down for the night, camping along the shores of the bay. They spread out across the sands, much as the foreign battle force was doing. Perhaps there was some discussion between them; perhaps the two contingents kept themselves apart out of pride. They would get to know each other well enough when the battle began.

With the day for battle agreed, Earl Sigurd retired to the Hill of Howth to wait with his fleet. To his mind the rounded summit rising from the sea was a more regal setting than Sitric’s damp and mildewed palace beside the Liffey. The entire sweep of Dublin Bay could be viewed from the summit of Howth. What better
command
position before the battle began? When the
fighting
started the earl would be in the thick of it, of course.
The first man off the first dragonship.

Brodir had the same idea, but he kept it to himself.

Both the earl and Brodir – separately – had suggested to Sitric Silkbeard that they would like to meet
Gormlaith
in person sometime before the battle, but Sitric had managed to outmanoeuvre them. That was one mistake he was determined not to make.

Brian Boru did not intend to make any mistakes either. In his mind he kept going over and over the area around Dublin. Visualising it from different viewpoints. The size and strength of the enemy was an unknown quantity and would be so until the end; but he knew the land and the foreigners did not – the invasion force would be seeing it for the first time. Sitric and Maelmora were familiar with the environs of Dublin, but Brian was confident they had never actually studied it.

Few men studied the topography of a possible
battlefield
the way he did. Since his days as an outlaw in Clare he knew the land was the one ally he could always rely on.

The northern reaches of Dublin Bay, from the
estuary
of the Tolka extending toward the hill of Howth, consisted of crescent-shaped sands and short-lived
sandbars
. From the bay the land rose in a long, gradual slope towards Magh Dumha, translated as ‘The Mound on the
Plain’ – an area now called Phibsborough. A man might not realise there was a slope at all unless he walked it.

The Tolka ran northeast of Magh Dumha. Embedded in a green valley, it appeared to be a pleasant little river. In size the Tolka was no competition for its neighbour, the Liffey, but it was deep in places, with dark pools where wily brown trout hid. Eels and lampreys, which live in both fresh and saltwater, could be trapped at the weirs. A person viewing the Tolka today would find only a narrow brown thread of muddy water tamed by cement walls to facilitate the engineering required for a modern seaport. But it was not always so.

As Brian and his army approached Dublin the weather was a constant topic of conversation. Spring in Ireland was uncertain. Frost was frequent until the month of May; ice was less so, but even snow was
possible
. There would always be the rain, everything from a fine mist to a pelting downpour, saturating man and land alike and making mud the only certainty. The army had encountered plenty of that along the way. The
warriors
were tired; the Árd Rí had been pushing them hard. He could not be certain when the foreign
invaders
would arrive, although he had no doubt that Sitric and Maelmora knew.

Brian was planning his own welcome for the Vikings.
Long before his army reached Dublin he ordered his mounted warriors to ride north and despoil Fingal. Everything that would burn was to be put to the torch: a blazing pyre to warn the invaders what was waiting for them. He gave no order as to the disposition of the inhabitants. His men knew what he wanted: no living Norseman of fighting age left to join the enemy.

At last the Irish army came to a series of low hills that rolled across the land like the waves of the sea. Every hill had a long incline that set fire to the muscles in tired legs. Just one more step. And one more. Just one more hill …

When they could see the walls of the city up ahead, Brian ordered the combined armies to prepare to camp for the night. The location he selected was part of a large area known as Kilmainham, named in honour of Saint Maighnenn, who had been both bishop and abbot there early in the seventh century. Originally
Kilmainham
occupied both sides of the Liffey, including the present-day Phoenix Park. The ground was somewhat elevated, with wooded bluffs above the tide line. In 1014 a small stone church built by the saint himself was still standing on a height overlooking the Liffey.