THE MAD POET
The Mad Poet's
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Happy New Year! Life has been slightly hectic lately... what with switching jobs, starting a degree, and doing a bit of filming for a *ahem* special project (stay tuned, this will be HUGE, probably)... I haven't had much time to work on a proper article. But then again, I have an entire supply of material to fall back on, so why not post some of it? The following is a short story I wrote last year based on the (possibly almost entirely) true events of the battle of Clontarf in 1015. The Irish clans united under the legendary King Brian Boru stood against an alliance of rebel Irish and Danish/Icelandic Viking invaders... and a battle for a free Ireland ensued. The title of story is kind of a huge spoiler, but I couldn't resist. My main sources for this were the Irish and Icelandic accounts of the invasion, contained in the splendid anthology Wars of the Irish Kings by David Willis McCollough (an outstanding writer, not to be confused with the late David McCollough of John Adams fame). Old Norse excerpts were obtained through the ancient tomes of Google. Hope you enjoy! The Death of Brian It was a day such as the land of Erinn had never seen. The clouds roiled like the smoke of a cauldron. Flesh-devouring birds spread dark wings in the sky, screaming their eagerness for a feast. Below, the feast was being laid, with blood-soaked earth for a table and broken shields for trenchers. Latean stood by the king, watching the old man as he knelt in prayer, pouring a river of supplication onto the sheepskin floor of the royal tent. “Pater noster, qui est in caelis,” King Brian whispered. “Sanctificetur nomen tuum.” A war-horn brayed up from the valley where the battle still raged. Its cry echoed in the stone crevasses of every hill, breeding a multitude of upraised voices. From time to time came the ring of steel on steel, and the shout of hard-striving men. Brian Boru spoke aloud. “Latean, go and view the battle, and tell me how our warriors fare. I must pray.” Latean bowed and left the tent at once, taking only his short sword and a staff. A cold wind lashed the king’s banner, spreading out the sigil of a sword lofted before a burning sun. There was a time when the king’s own sword might have parted the clouds that frowned over Erin, but it was too late now. The encampment was deserted by every warrior save the decrepit Brian. Latean, as he himself knew well, was no warrior. Passing beyond the line of trees, Latean came to the crest of the hill from which the valley could be seen. The battle raged below, the raven banners of the foe winging like pale ghosts over the fray. He had seen those banners for the first time two days ago, when the enemy had come. An army of Gael-Gaedhil they were, Danes out of Dublin backed by a host of Orkney-men, Icelanders, and the folk of Mealmordha, King Brian's old rival. They came to seize both land and pelf, came to steal Brian's crown away. Brian brought a host of Dalcassians and Munster-men to meet them on the fields of Clontarf, to punish Mealmordha’s treason and drive the foreigners back into the sea. The armies were pretty evenly matched in numbers, Latean reflected as he watched the turmoil of flying steel. In equipage, however, the difference was clear, for the Danes and their allies had with them shirts of mail and steel helms, and the Irish had only flowing white tunics, with one helm among twenty of them. The Danes released a storm of arrows, which the Irish answered with javelins. Broad-lipped Dane axes met the toothlike Lachlann axes blade to blade, spewing sparks like a forge. King Brian had sent his best into that fight since he himself could not take part. Wolf the Quarrelsome, the king's giant brother, laid waste down there among the Danes with his axe. Still more wonderful were the deeds of Murcadh, who was both champion and trueborn son to the king; it was said he was the last man in Ireland with equal dexterity in both hands, for, despising the shield, he fought with two swords instead. Latean thought he could see him, standing as a white rock amid a dark tide, scattering foes with his whirling blades. The foreigners had a champion or two among them as well. There had been talk of a strange fiend out of Iceland named Brodir, a worker of black arts with streaming black hair. Like an Irishman, he was said to never wear armor, for his craft protected him from arrow and blade. Even the Danes feared him. Beyond, a thin arm of the sea curled inwards, gray and rippling. The ships of the foreigners rode at anchor there, their prows carved with the heads of snarling dragons, their sails like a forest of bloody rags, all white and scarlet. And above, the sky was black with grief, as it had been on that dark Friday a thousand years ago, when the Christ had been crucified. And as it had been then, the air was now filled with the screams of destroying demons and the beannsidhe, the banshees of hell. The shadows of every crevice were haunted by the mountain hags and madmen of the caves, all cackling with glee as they compared the strength of the two forces. Or so the priests had said this morning, before scuttling off to pray at the far edge of the camp. Latean thought he could hear voices on the wind, but was unable to make out the words. Nor could he make out which way the battle went. The fight was a churning morass of flailing weapons and flying flesh; the lines had long since collided, and the banners clashed neck-to-neck. Locks of severed hair, both black and blonde, floated like chaff on the wind. Men were falling, dying. Latean knew what death was. He had seen it in the wide eyes of a cow, bleeding out behind a slaughterhouse. He had heard it in the choking gasps of a thief as he swung from a tree. He had seen it in the face of his father, carried home from a battle with the clansmen of Mealmordha, an arrow in his side. Death was a slow, quiet terror. He had no wish to view it any closer than this. All below was chaos, and the sight of it shook him. He returned to camp. King Brian did not look up when Latean entered the tent. “…Et misericordia tua subsequetur me omnibus diebus vitae meae; et ut inhabitem in domo Domini, in longitudinem dierum.” The king’s calfskin psalter lay on the floor before him, the wrinkled pages bathed in warm candlelight. Brian lovingly caressed the parchment with his fingertips as he ended his prayer. “What news of the battle, friend Latean?” “Neither very good nor bad, your Grace. The lines are clashed, and cannot be distinguished. If a legion of axe-men were cutting down Tomar Forest, they could hardly raise a greater din.” The words sounded strange in his own mouth. He had heard battles described thus by the bards, and it somehow seemed the best way now. “But Lord Murcadh’s banner still stands,” he added, almost as an afterthought. Brian’s gaze fell, but he smiled. “It is well,” he said. “As long as that banner stands, it shall go well with the men of Erin.” Latean stood by as the king prayed once more. Brian’s quiet voice never wavered; a great peace had settled upon him. Latean envied the old man. At the edge of an uncertain battle, alone with a monarch, he felt only a growing fear. After another hour the king ceased his prayer once more. “Latean, go and see now if you can tell how the battle lies.” Brian said another paternoster, his withered palms clasped in fervor. Thoughts of his former battles came to him, memories of blades and arrows in the air, of death averted, of victory achieved. Beyond the open book was his royal sword, gleaming like an untouchable relic. His arms were too feeble to wield it as stoutly as he once had. Even as his mouth uttered the holy words, his mind made its own prayer: You’ve saved me many times, O Lord. Please save us now. Latean returned. “Well?” Latean eyed the floor. “The battle still rages. It is more confused than before. Every man I could see was covered in the grime of war.” He looked up, meeting the old king’s gaze. “A father would not know his own son.” “Murcadh – he still fights?” “Most valiantly, my king. His banner still waves.” King Brian nodded. “As long as that standard holds, it shall go well with the men of Erinn," he said again. Latean knelt beside the king, readjusting the silken cushion beneath him. “I fear what may come of this day, your Majesty.” Brian shook his head. “Ours is to trust, not to fear.” “With respect, my king, why do you pray so fervently, if you trust in victory?” The king shrugged. “To show the Lord that I trust, I suppose." So saying, he returned to his prayers. Latean crouched in the corner, his face buried in his hands. He did not know how long it had been since the battle began; his sense of time was muddied by a sense of coming doom. He thought of his mother and sisters in the royal city, waiting with the other serving-folk of the king’s palace to hear of the battle’s outcome. It made him sick to think of their long-awaited answer coming in the form of Danish arrows. Latean had no stomach for fighting, but a steel-tongued death in battle seemed no worse now than the slow torture of suspense. He wished he could be brave, or at least as serene as the king. Once more the king sent him forth. Latean went, and gazed out upon a twisted sea of struggling bodies. Murcadh, the king’s son, still fought, it seemed, though Latean could catch no true glimpse of him: his banner had passed far into the center of the battle, wagging and flapping like the arm of a drowning man. Latean could not tell how the others fared, but the prince’s men were being hemmed in, overwhelmed, slaughtered. After a time their flag wavered, then fell. Latean’s heart fell with it. He returned. The king, for the first time that day, halted in the middle of a prayer. “What news?” “Murcadh is dead. His banner is fallen.” Brian stared. “My son – dead?” “I fear so, your Majesty.” The king covered his mouth with his hand and turned away. It was some time before he spoke again. When he did, he spoke as a man broken. “The flower of Ireland fell today,” he said. “Never again will there be such a champion. Or such a son.” He prayed again, beginning once more with the Paternoster, but the words came slower this time. Latean crossed himself and watched the clouds beyond the tent flap. “Pater noster… qui in caelis…” Dark tears soiled the page of the psalter. “Sanctificetur… nomen tuum… adveniat regnum tuum…” A shout came up from the field, a shout of thousands giving voice as one. The king lifted his head and opened his eyes. “Thy will be done.” King Brian turned to Latean and nodded. Latean pushed aside the tent flap and ran to see the cause of the commotion. The battle had changed. From his hilltop, Latean saw the crowd breaking up, scattering in all directions. The main body were headed for the water. The limp sails of the Danish ships were now falling and billowing as men loosed them. The white tide of the Dalcassians came driving forward, javelins flying like hornets. The Danes were fleeing! Horns rang across the valley. Men were coming this way. Latean gave them one look and raced back into the cover of the trees. He burst in upon the king, all panting and shouts. “The foreigners are broken! They are put to flight! Even now the Dalcassians are driving them back to their warships.” The king, still on his knees, pressed his hands before him and lifted his gaze heavenward. “Blessed be Jesu,” he breathed. “We may not wish to tarry, my king,” Latean added hastily. “It is not safe yet. Not all the foreigners have fled to the sea.” Brian frowned. “Where are they?” A scream from outside came in answer. One of the monks shouted “Mercy! Mercy!” From the sound he made afterwards, it seemed he had received none. Latean turned and caught a flash of dark steel at the mouth of the tent. He fumbled at the little brass cross at his neck, drawing it to his lips in a desperate farewell kiss as he backed away. “They are here, my King,” he said, his voice scarce louder than a sick man’s whisper. The tent flap was opened. “Pass me my sword, lad,” the king commanded calmly. Latean gave it to him with shaking hands. Terror was racing from gut to gorge, filling his mouth with a bitter bile. His own sword still hung at his side, but when he drew it, his trembling fingers slipped, and he dropped it. The foreigners entered, and more stood in the open space behind, peering in, all stocky and gleaming in their mail shirts and steel helms. Yet the one in the lead wore neither armor nor helmet, but only a blue tunic stained nearly purple with blood. His oily black locks trailed to his thighs, and he wore them tucked through his belt before him. This hair, and the filthy two-edged axe in his hand made him unmistakable: Brodir of Iceland. “Gothi?” asked Brodir. He stared at Brian as if unsure what to make of this old man on his knees holding a sheathed sword. “Nei,” countered one of the men behind him. “Nei gothi. Thessi eir konungrrinn.” This seemed to satisfy the black-haired man. His face twisted into the snarl of a bear. He raised the axe over the old man’s head. Brian Boru, High King of Ireland, drew his sword for the last time. The axe fell. The sword swiped. In one moment, something stirred in Latean. The sight of the old man, on his knees but somehow still standing tall in defiance, awoke in him a nameless urge. He no longer feared steel or blood or darkness or death. Time slowed to a crawl. He saw the blades carving the air. He saw himself lurching forward, his mind consumed by one thought: Protect the King. He passed between the axe and the King, and never knew fear again.
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AuthorThe Mad Poet Himself: History Lover, Medieval Enthusiast, Amateur Poet and Filmmaker, Folk Musician, and Madman Extraordinaire Archives
December 2023
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