If we got through the gates, we would be within bowshot of the walls as we made our way down the slope to the bridge over the river, the Bann. It ran along the eastern wall through the open meadow, which stretched to the forests that encircled the town. Its sturdy wooden bridge carried the road the hour’s ride to Glascarrig, the port on the east coast that served Ferns. O’Rourke’s men would be on that road by now, so we would turn south and ride hard for Bannow Bay. The king’s roads radiated in all directions from Ferns, cut through the impenetrable forests from the ancient seat of royal and spiritual power of Ireland. I only hoped they had not reached the road south.
My father didn’t hesitate. Whipping his crazed horse onwards toward the gate, he rode hard, hooves pounding on the dry earth. Abandoning the gate, the warriors turned to face his charge, gathering in the gap to prevent any escape. There was no time to ready their weapons as the maddened animal surged forwards, a snorting, sweating mass of muscle and flesh bearing down on them, unstoppable. His momentum scattered them like straw in the wind.
Through the dull light and thickening smoke, I saw Conor grasping the horse’s mane before he tumbled backwards and slipped from the withers to the ground. Through the gate my father wheeled his horse. Seeing O’Rourke’s men recover themselves, he seemed to hesitate. Our eyes met momentarily.
Another pause.
Then he turned his horse and sped into the darkness towards St Kieran and the waiting boat.
A few men on the palisade wall loosed a flurry of arrows pointlessly in his wake. A huge, heavily bearded man standing in the gate barked at them to stop wasting their arrows—my father was well gone. He carried a large double-bladed battleaxe of the Norse kind. The weight alone was enough to split the strongest helmet, but he carried it lightly in one hand, the weapon dangling loosely by his side. It had seen much use that day. Removing his helmet, he stood over Conor, who sat at his feet, dazed from the fall. Slowly coming to his senses, Conor rubbed the smoke from his eyes with the backs of his hands, as all small children do. Then he lifted his gaze to take in the bulk of the enormous man who towered above him. He watched, transfixed, as the man sneered and hefted the battleaxe above his head.
Time slowed. I remember the paralysing shock; my father had left his son there. Panic, revulsion, my stomach heaving bile, filling my mouth, a dry acidic bile. The flames raged about us, reflected by the sharpened metal of the battleaxe, which was poised to deliver a death blow to Conor. The gripping tightness in my chest allowed no breath. A moment more and Conor would die in the gates of Ferns.
I let loose a howl from the core of my being—a sole plea to the mother Goddess to aid the child—and I dug my heels hard into my mare. She sprung forwards, almost unseating my mother, but she gripped tight enough, her head buried in my back. It was a desperate move, but I was beyond sense now. I pulled Fáinleog from her scabbard and hoped the long practice days in sword skill with Donal would pay and guide my hand. I needed it now.
My shout seemed to distract the axeman, giving me a few precious moments to cover the ground across the courtyard to the gate. The men on the wall remained occupied with the fading silhouette of my father. The axeman paused for an instant and looked at me, a woman…two women…with a short sword on a palfrey mare. He grinned.
The arrow hit his left shoulder. The chainmail slowed the speed and the padded jerkin he wore underneath took the force from it. It had barely reached his flesh. It was more the shock of it that gave me what I needed to reach him before he could release the swing of his axe on Conor. Guiding my mare with my thighs and calves was as instinctive as breathing. I had learned to ride bareback, in the Irish style, from early childhood. I gripped Fáinleog’s hilt with both hands, holding the blade high. Two strides out I swung the mare with a squeeze of my thighs and a press of my right leg to pass behind the axeman for fear of trammelling Conor. The look of surprise on the axeman’s face was his last. I was well practiced and knew to keep the blade level and connect with the neck as close to the hilt as possible—the forte, the strongest part of the blade. My speed did the rest. There was a splash of blood, and I felt its warmth on my hand; his head rolled. I heard his axe clatter to the ground behind me. He was the first man I had killed. The first of many, I am not proud to say.
Before I had time to gather myself, I heard Donal call, ‘Keep riding, Aoife,’ as he galloped through the gate after me, bow in one hand. Without breaking stride, I saw him lean from his saddle to snatch Conor from the ground. Securing him across his horse’s neck, he turned and loosed an arrow at the men on the palisade. Then we sped from the gate into the safety of the darkness beyond the orange glow, which was spreading far from the burning town. Pounding over the bridge, we wheeled the horses south up the slope towards the welcoming blackness of the forest.
The fire threw a broad sweeping light across the meadows around the town and gathered pace. Reaching the cover of the forest, we paused to gather whatever remaining household guards had escaped. It would be safer to ride in strength, as O’Rourke’s men could already be on the road ahead of us. As the last of the men galloped in, Donal checked their numbers and, sending scouts ahead, set a troop to guard our rear as we prepared to move south.
He drew level with me, throwing his bow across his shoulder. ‘Nice sword-work, Aoife! I see you were paying attention some of the time.’ He grinned but I could see the strain on his face, lit by the shifting orange glow where we stood at the edge of the forest.
‘The arrow, it was you?’ I asked, keeping my mare in hand. Her blood was up. She was spooked by the flickering shadows thrown from the fire.
‘Yes…although it was meant for his neck, the bastard. You did the rest.’ He paused, pushing his long hair from his sweating brow. He turned to look at the fire. ‘I saw what happened. Gods, he’s some bastard!’ There was a twist of despair in his face, or perhaps it was a quiet rage that had his hand shaking as he spoke.
‘How could he?’ I asked.
Ignoring my question, Donal shook his head. We sat, mesmerised by the inferno. The tinder-dry thatch of the parched buildings seemed to bristle, then burst, sending columns of sparks skyward to merge into a narrowing, twisting heavenly spiral, reaching far into the darkness to the very gods themselves. I would not easily forget the grief of witnessing the destruction of Ferns that night. The seat of our power, the place of our youth, the centre of our kingdom—little would survive this.
‘Look, Aoife, now’s not the time,’ he said, turning to me, his horse pawing impatiently at the mud. ‘We got everyone out. This fire will sow confusion and give us a bit of time…but not for long. So let’s get to your boat and get the hell out of here.’
Turning our backs on our home, we kicked our heels and rode hard after my father, south for St Kieran in Bannow Bay.
Chapter TwoTHE FLIGHT FROM ST KIERAN
Bannow Bay, Wexford
August 1166
Asteady south-westerly wind swept across the bay as we rode cautiously down the gentle slope of a narrow tree-lined lane which led to the coast road and the deep-water quay of St Kieran. The horses dropped their heads, exhausted from the long ride through the night. The steam rising from their sweating bodies embraced us, merging into a ghostly pallor in the grey light of the early dawn. The quay where I had arranged to meet the boat that would take us to Bristol was an hour’s ride from the village that bridged the Corock River. The narrow, boarded walkway by the riverbank there could not water the larger seagoing vessels that plied the coast and trading routes to Britain.
To my relief, the scouts had returned with the welcome news that the boat was waiting for us. Through the trees I could see the torches on the wooden quay from where the brownish, bulky silhouette of the twin-masted boat emerged, skeletal-like, from the mist.
O’Rourke’s men were not here. They would be watching the docks at Waterford and Wexford for certain. Amlaib, the old Norse shipmaster who owned the deep-bellied trading barque that would carry us to Bristol, had suggested the small fishing village on the river Corock, knowing it would likely miss the attention of our pursuers. He made frequent use of the quay, which had the water depth to accommodate the draft of his boat, when he wished to evade the attention of ever-watchful eyes at the ports. He was an experienced Norse navigator who knew the south Irish coast as smugglers must.
‘The tide is ebbing, but it’ll turn soon. You must hurry!’ Amlaib shouted as we dismounted and made our way along the creaking boards over the swirling sea beneath. He would use the strong tidal current of the wide bay to help his crew row the boat swiftly from the lee of the land into the wind. When the tide turned, it would be hard to get out of the bay with that westerly wind against us, as it could drive the boat onto the shore if it rose high enough. With O’Rourke’s men certain to make their presence felt soon enough, we had to catch this tide. However, if we could get through the channel between the far headland and Bannow Island to its west, it would be harder for any boat to follow, Amlaib explained, as it would be fighting both tide and wind. The depth in the tidal channel would quickly lessen, forcing any pursuing craft to skirt to the west of the island.
As Amlaib continued ushering everyone aboard, O’Rourke’s two scouts were spotted cresting the low hill above the quay. The horsemen were lightly armed, as scouts were for swift travel. Staying on the hilltop, they waved and shouted frantically, clearly summoning to their comrades that we were found.
‘Set the horses loose and get everyone on board now,’ Donal shouted to his men in the rising panic on the quay. ‘They won’t be far behind. Leave everything, get on board!’ Our men chased the loose horses onto the road up the hill, hoping to delay any attack. They then formed a shield wall at the lip of the quay while the last of us clambered onto the boat.
I hurried my mother and Conor down the gangplank and pushed through the mass of men towards the stern of the boat. I caught sight of my father at the bow shouting at the crew to cut loose as men scrambled aboard.
There was panic now as a large troop of riders crested the hill and rode hard towards the quay, their spears held skywards as they pushed through the loose horses. Momentarily delayed, we got everyone aboard and Donal ordered the retreat of the last guardsmen from the quay. They scrambled aboard as my father screamed at the crew to cut the guy ropes holding us to the quay.
‘Lord King! If you please. My crew will take their orders from me while aboard my ship. Stand down!’ Amlaib shouted angrily through the noise. Standing at the prow with his sword in hand, my father seethed, not accustomed to the tone of the grizzled seaman. For once, he held his tongue; in seafaring matters, a captain’s word trumps that of a king.
‘Get the last of them aboard,’ Amlaib’s voice boomed, practised at besting the roar of the sea and wind. ‘Pull the gangplank! Hold the lines. Loose the bow. Steady!’
The bow of the boat swung into the bay. ‘Oars! Ready; loose the stern. Heave!’ The boat shot forward into the kindly current, causing the less seaworthy amongst us to steady ourselves. I saw the pursuing horsemen reach the shore by the quayside; abandoning their mounts they crowded onto the quay. Some threw spears, but the boat was quickly beyond them. Several men with bows aimed them skywards and strained the bowstrings, readying to let loose a volley of arrows.
‘Shields!’ Donal shouted, and the men scrambled. ‘Get down here,’ he ordered, and the rest of us jumped down amongst the benches where the sailors manning the oars sat. He had the men cover the belly of the boat with their shields in a protective wall above us. Through a gap, I could see Amlaib standing impassively on the stern deck, holding the massive oak tiller. He concentrated on the bay ahead, following the narrow, hidden channel to the headland and safety. Only the gods knew how—only the gods and Amlaib.
‘Amlaib, get down!’ I screamed as the arrows slammed into the shields above us.
‘Really, m’lady. And how would you suppose we get this barque from here into that sea if I rest my arse down there with you?’ He leant into the tiller, guiding the boat through unseen sandbanks. If the boat grounded, low tide would leave us at O’Rourke’s mercy. ‘Heave, lads. Heave!’ And soon the powerful strokes and ebbing waters carried the boat safely out of bowshot from the shore.
The boat moved swiftly in the current now, propelled forwards by the sweating oarsmen, murmuring a low chant that guided their rhythm. As more pursuing riders arrived, they moved along the shore, keeping pace. Donal’s men shouted insults in response to their taunts, but their arrows splashed harmlessly in the swirling green waters. I recognised some of these riders, kinsmen of the families that sought our destruction.
I remember my mother, shivering and weeping silently as I held her tightly, comforting her with the knowledge that all her children were safe. I wrapped her in a heavy cloak against the chill of the wind that lifted the waves under the bow. The barque rose and then plunged shudderingly, sending a salty spray carried by the strong wind lashing into our faces. The gulls gathered in our wake, screaming their indignant protest, expectant of an easy meal from the fishing boats of the bay. Nature dances on, the Goddess, I thought, oblivious of our plight, or worse, regarding it as of no consequence.
‘Bring them to me, Aoife,’ my mother said.
