1014: Brian Boru & the Battle for Ireland (12 page)

When Murrough’s tent was pitched in a grove of trees on the southern bank of the river, Brian’s son is said to
have remarked on the serenity of the place. Murrough added, ‘I should like to rest here after the battle.’

Malachy Mór and his men did not join Brian’s encampment but made their own arrangements on the north side of the Liffey. Brian took note of this, but did not comment. It was what he would have done if the situations had been reversed. The former high king was still part of the defending force but was demonstrating that he was his own man as well.

Brian’s army quickly set about making camp.
Chopping
wood and gathering deadfall for fires, fetching buckets of water from the river. Joking a little among themselves, to prove they were not as tired as they really were. The rising smoke from their cooking fires guided a party of unexpected allies to them. Just before dusk, and to his delighted surprise, Brian was joined by Donald, Great Steward of Marr, and Murray, Great Steward of Lennox, with two companies of their men. Brian
immediately
ordered food and drink for all, then sat down to hear their story.

Unfortunately the Scots brought bad news. The
foreign
invasion force had already arrived. They were
planning
to march inland on Good Friday, accompanied by Maelmora and the Danes of Dublin. Brian had hoped to wait until after Easter to give his army a chance to rest
before facing combat. Now he learned that time had run out.

The Árd Rí reviewed his troops for the final time on Thursday morning, 22 April. An Irish chronicler described the combined armies as they marched before the high king: ‘The battle phalanx, compact, huge,
disciplined
, moving in silence, mutely, bravely, haughtily,
unitedly
, with one mind. With three score and ten banners over them, of red, and of yellow, and of green, and of all kinds of colours.’ (Upon reviewing his troops in their full military splendour during the American Civil War, the great general Robert E. Lee remarked, ‘It is well that war is so terrible, or we should grow too fond of it.’)

The warrior spirit of the Gael found poetry in war, in the moments of true beauty and transcendent courage which can briefly illuminate the arena of death. The same quality belonged to the Norse who would meet them on the battlefield. Both sides anticipated glory. Throughout human history it has been war, not peace, which seems irresistible to man.

Like all good generals before and after him, Brian Boru restricted the number of people who knew his
precise
battle plans. There was always the possibility of spies divulging critical information to the enemy. Therefore the final meeting of the army’s leaders on the evening
before the battle comprised only the division
commanders
: Brian’s three sons, and Malachy Mór. One high
ranking
officer not invited was Brian’s own son-in-law, Cian. While Brian might have total trust in Cian, that did not extend to the Owenachts and Desmonians he was
leading
. Brian might forgive erstwhile enemies but he did not turn his back to them at a crucial time.

Brian’s sons opened the meeting by urging him to relinquish command of the army in the morning and retire to a safe vantage point. Perhaps this came as a
surprise
to him; perhaps he had been expecting it. He
listened
to their request, objected strenuously, and at last promised he would stay clear of the conflict. ‘Ireland cannot spare you’ was the winning argument, one Brian could not contradict. His head, which contained not only his plans for the battle but also for Ireland’s future, must be protected.

Brian appointed Murrough to lead the combined armies in his stead. It was an unmistakeable declaration of his confidence in his oldest son. Murrough, whom the annals describe as fractious and headstrong, was also rebellious on occasion, as sons often are. If ever there was an opportunity to cement the relationship between the two of them, this was it.

However, Brian’s announcement provoked a
furious
outburst from Malachy Mór. The former high king angrily stalked away from the meeting and did not return that night. Nor, one may assume, did he hear the final outline of Brian’s battle plans. Instead he returned to his own battalion of Meathmen.

If Brian was upset by Malachy’s defection he did not show it. After many years of dealing with the shifting waters of Gaelic politics, he knew that status dictated the arrangement of forces. Accordingly he set them out. Each of the three battalions would be led by the highest
ranking
king. Murrough and the Dalcassians would comprise the front rank of the first battalion, because the Árd Rí’s tribe must be the first to face the enemy. They would be supported by the princes of Munster, including the Owenachts and Desmonians under Cian’s command.

The army would begin the battle with a centre and two wings. The orders would go down from the top through the chain of command, one of Brian’s military innovations. The captains of the individual companies would be expected to enforce discipline, although there must be a degree of flexibility as the battle progressed. Brian believed in flexibility and initiative.

He announced these arrangements with calm
confidence
. The face he showed that evening was the face he had always shown.

When the entire plan was laid out before them, the men whom Brian trusted most must have felt relieved. The Árd Rí on his horse would not lead them into battle but he would still be with them in every way that
mattered
. As always, his would be the will that guided them. The experience, the courage … and the guile.

From Kilmainham, Brian might not have been able to see the Viking fleet in the bay, but now he knew they were there, and in daunting numbers. Afterwards it was claimed that approximately a thousand ships took part in the invasion. Only two years later a similar force of Danes succeeded in overrunning England, which they would control until 1042.

The time had come for another of Brian’s stratagems. In County Clare a wealth of folklore still surrounds Brian Boru. Folklore often embroiders an element of actual history. A story referring to the time of Brian’s
inauguration
as high king is worth repeating here, because it
illustrates
a telling aspect of Brian’s character. The Lia Fáil, or Stone of Destiny, still stands on the Hill of Tara, though today it stands upright. In an earlier age it lay flat on the earth. If a prospective Árd Rí stepped upon the stone and it shrieked aloud, that supposedly proved he was the true claimant to the office. It is said that in 1002 Brian Boru cleverly arranged for the Stone of Destiny to shriek
aloud at just the right time. This mightily impressed the spectators, who declared him Árd Rí by acclamation.

In 1014 the night of 22 April was heavy with
portents
. Ravens screeched in the woodlands. Clouds roiled in a troubled sky. Gael and Viking alike cried out in their sleep, calling upon their God or their gods or their
mothers
. Later some of the Norsemen in Maelmora’s army insisted that their god of war, the grim and implacable Woden, had ridden down the beach towards them in the dusk. He was mounted on a huge grey horse and wore an expression of unbearable grief. The effect this visitant had on the observers was almost paralytic.

There were omens for the Irish as well. One in
particular
stands out. Laiten, Brian’s personal attendant, related that the Árd Rí had an unusual visitor on the eve of battle. Shortly after Laiten lit the king-candle at the entrance to Brian’s tent, the banshee of the
Dalcassians
had appeared. Laiten related that he saw Ayvinn as clearly as if she were human: a pale, wraithlike woman, with long hair and a long face and a voice as soft as mist. What passed between them inside the tent was private and Brian did not share it with his servant. But after she left, the high king told Laiten that he and most of his sons would die on the morrow.

Laiten pleaded with him to refute the prophecy. Brian
only shook his head. He said he was too experienced to let himself be intimidated either by a supernatural
visitant
or by the numbers arrayed against him. The truth was simple: he was here and the enemy was there. The battle would be fought. If God was with them, then his army would win. Brian smiled his old, radiant smile to give the boy confidence. A confidence the Árd Rí may not have felt himself.

Ever since his days as king of Munster, Brian had made it his business to keep informed about events beyond the shores of Ireland. Therefore he knew that only the year before, a Danish king called Swein Forkbeard had sailed to the British mainland at the head of a massive
invasion
fleet. Thanks to their superior weapons his Vikings were defeating the native Britons, as well as the Anglians and Saxons who also were struggling for supremacy. His followers proclaimed Swein Forkbeard as king of a new Danish dominion.

Swein and his eldest son, Canute, planned to rule with an iron hand. The choicest lands were seized and
occupied
by the foreigners. New laws were promulgated. The old ways were swept away. The land which someday would be England, was coming under Danelaw.

Brian could not help comparing his situation with that of the hapless Britons. Sigurd the Stout and his allies had
just brought a massive invasion fleet to Ireland. If the earl chose, he could sweep Maelmora and Sitric Silkbeard aside and make Ireland a Norse dominion.

Would God allow it? The children of Erin, unfree?

Not while I live
.

Brave as he was, Brian Boru must have awaited the dawn with trepidation.

CHAPTER TEN

T
HE
B
ATTLEGROUND

C
lontarf – Cluain Tarbh in Irish – translates to ‘The Meadow of the Bull’. The ancient name probably refers to the lush, watery meadows which lay above what is now Dollymount Strand. An alternative explanation for the name may come from the roar of the tide as it beats against the coastline, bellowing like a bull. The sandbank known as North Bull Island was not there at all in 1014, but there were several other small islands – including one called Clontarf. Placenames in early Ireland were always descriptive.

Although commemorated as ‘the Battle of Clontarf’, it would be more accurate to describe what happened in 1014 as ‘the battle of the fishing-weir on the Tolka.’ The Tolka River, which is approximately thirty
kilometres
in length, rises near Batterstown in County Meath. In 1014 the sea came much farther inland than it does today, and the Tolka, like the Liffey, was tidal.

There were several fishing weirs on the Tolka. The one nearest the mouth of the river was located some distance below what is now the Ballybough Bridge, and opposite the present-day Archbishop’s House on the grounds of Holy Cross College. A thousand years ago the entire area was saturated twice daily by tidal inflow, which left the ground permanently waterlogged and useless for farming. But when the tide was out the weir was a good place for catching eels.

The Tolka discharged onto a broad expanse of sand known as the Furlong of Clontarf, approximately where Fairview Park is now. Clontarf Island, an offshore island formed, like modern Bull Island, by a natural accumulation of sand, was a prominent landmark. It was situated in deep water about 140 metres from the most easterly point of the present East Wall. The main low-tide channel of the Tolka lay between Clontarf Island and the shore.

From the summit of Howth, Sigurd the Stout could gaze with satisfaction on the many ships of his fleet. In the twilight even a sharp-eyed Viking could not make out the topography of the Irish mainland, but what Sigurd
could see was enough to suit his purpose. The invasion force would have no difficulty going ashore in the
morning
; there were plenty of places to land their vessels.

It was all going to be so easy.

They would ride in on the dawn tide and disgorge the warriors fully armed and ready for battle. Judging by how long it took to load the ships, the last men
probably
would be going ashore about the time the battle was over. If the Irish high king was willing to fight at all. Good Friday. Sigurd licked his lips. The devout Gael might still be at their prayers when his men rolled over them like the waves of the sea.

Sigurd was impatient. He was always impatient – for food, for women, for treasure.

A wind was rising, bringing the smell of rain from the west. Stirring the black ashes of Fingal to life once more. There were streaks of crimson and gold in the distance, like brilliant lines etched on charcoal. Devils’ eyes,
winking
and glaring. Sigurd glared back at them. Refusing to be frightened. Just one more day and all the land north of Dublin would be his. His men would extinguish the fires – or throw the Irish onto them.

According to Sitric Silkbeard, Brian’s army was encamped somewhere west of the city. ‘West of the city’ meant nothing to the earl of Orkney. Just empty space.
More land that would soon be his after the obstacle of a feeble old man was eliminated. He could almost feel sorry for Brian Boru, but every man came to his
swan-song
sooner or later. A Christian heaven or an Irish
Valhalla
would be waiting for the Árd Rí.

Gormlaith, the legend, was waiting for the earl of Orkney. With a sigh, Sigurd sought his bed for a few hours’ sleep before the battle began.

In the palace in Dublin, Maelmora and Sitric Silkbeard were discussing the deployment of their troops in the morning. They would keep at it far into the night. Did Gormlaith hear them shouting as they argued?
Knowing
that he personally could stay safe behind the walls of Dublin, did her son insist on being designated as
commander
of the army?

Probably not. Maelmora would not have allowed it. The king of Leinster had many faults, but only once in his life had he been accused of cowardice. In the battle to come he meant to expiate the shame of Glenmama once and for all. When their combined forces marched out in the morning he was determined to lead them to victory.

From this point on it will be less confusing to
designate
the opposing forces as ‘the Irish’ and ‘the foreigners’, which is how it was done by the annalists of the time.
Bear in mind that these labels are woefully inaccurate. The men on both sides who would fight to the death on Good Friday represented almost every country in
Western
Europe. Some would be fighting for home and tribe, others for land and riches, still others simply because they followed a certain banner.

In the end they would be equally dead.

The Irish were up and moving long before dawn. On the previous night Brian had given specific orders which were to be followed before the first foreigners came ashore. His sons and commanders were
obeying
his plan to the letter. Only the Árd Rí himself was exempt from the action. While his warriors moved swiftly, silently, through field and forest to take up their pre-ordained positions, Brian accompanied his personal attendant and his bodyguards to the site he had selected for his tent.

Not a command post, not this time. The command would be Murrough’s, beneath the blue banner of the Dál gCais. Brian would wait in relative obscurity; wait with dry mouth and pounding heart for the first news from the front lines of the battle. Because he was
determined
that the enemy be confined to a specific area north of Dublin and not permitted to infiltrate the
countryside
and collect allies, he had chosen the battleground in
advance, and with his usual care.

Until the introduction of long-range artillery and air power, the physical layout of a battlefield was crucial. The deeds of Good Friday, 1014, would be told and re-told, the carefully memorised names of the heroes endlessly recited, but no chroniclers specified the exact locations of certain episodes. In the beginning it must have been assumed that the listeners were familiar enough with the locale. But sadly, when the last survivor of the battle finally died, his knowledge died with him. Apparently what the combatants knew of the ground on which they fought was never passed on.

As a result there has long been a difference of opinion as to where Brian’s tent was pitched. Half a dozen
locations
have been mooted, just as several possibilities for the main battlefield have been named.

But physical evidence tells the story. In 1014 there were two elevations – two outstanding points of high ground – north of the walled city of Dublin and the River Liffey. One was around present-day Mountjoy Square. The other was a height to the west of this, called Magh Dumha, much of which was covered by a dense forest of ancient oaks, holly and arbutus known as Tomar’s Wood. In modern north Dublin that area comprises part of Phibsborough.

The Magh Dumha location is preferred by those who believe Brian’s tent was placed directly in front of Tomar’s Wood. Before the day was over Tomar’s Wood would become infamous, which may be the reason it was vividly remembered. What happened there would long linger in the mind. However, it may not have involved Brian Boru.

If the Árd Rí’s tent had been set up at Magh Dumha the opaque expanse of Tomar’s Wood would have blocked his line of sight in the direction of his encampment – and a possible retreat. As a wise general, Brian had always kept his retreats open. Tomar’s Wood was also the perfect place for an ambush, making the location far too dangerous for a non-combatant high king.

A thorough topographical examination of the entire area reveals that in 1014 the only unimpeded view in all directions, including the critical Tolka valley, would have been from a plateau directly north of the city and closer to the bay. Since the late eighteenth century that plateau has been crowned by Mountjoy Square.

On the high ground – it must always be the high ground – his men erected the tent of the Árd Rí, a small pavilion of leather and linen, furnished with sparse but kingly appointments. A wealth of cushions for an old man to rest upon, a carved prayer stool for
his devotions. The tent was placed within a stand of saplings, and screens covered with the untanned hide of brindle cows were arranged to provide additional
camouflage
. Brian’s bodyguards were satisfied that the
location
was well concealed while meeting the high king’s requirements. Brian had demanded a vantage point from which he could see the entire field of battle once dawn came. From the shelter of the trees a few steps in any direction would offer an excellent view. The
position
would be far in advance of his lines but Brian had always gone ahead. He saw no reason to break the habit of a lifetime.

We do not know if Laiten lit the king-candle in front of the Árd Rí’s tent, but it is unlikely. The light would have attracted too much attention. Brian probably did have a small bronze lamp which was safe to use inside the tent. A king must never be left in the dark.

As he waited for the dawn, Brian envisioned the day to come. He had made it his business to learn this land; he knew the cattle tracks and boggy pools, knew where vision was hampered by a fold in the earth, where a stony outcropping offered the opportunity for an ambush, where a stretch of open ground made a frontal attack possible, where he … where Murrough … might need to deploy extra troops.

While the last stars faded Brian watched the battle unfold in his mind. Step by step, like a chess game. A bad omen, he warned himself, that image of a chess game. Brian shrugged off the thought. He had lived a long life and used himself totally. There were scars on his body that only his personal servants saw, and scars on his soul that only his God saw.

Brian Boru ordered Laiten to unfold his personal prayer stool and set it up in his tent. As was his lifelong habit, Brian then unsheathed his sword and placed it within easy reach.

The Leinstermen and the Danes of Dublin were in motion too. Scouts reported that some of Brian’s troops had been observed taking up positions to the north. In eager anticipation, several thousand warriors speaking a variety of local dialects crowded around the walls of the city, spreading out along the tidal mud flats, elbowing one another in the dark. The sound of their shuffling feet was like the roar of a storm wind.

Maelmora insisted on marching out of Dublin at the head of both armies, as if they and the city were his own. He was determined to be given credit for the victory to come. Let the northern auxiliaries plug the holes and chase down the deserters. This time the glory would go to Leinster!

Maelmora’s claim of precedence was vigorously rejected by a Danish prince known as Dubhgall, who may have been another son of Olaf Cuaran and thus was a half-brother to Sitric Silkbeard. As the armies began to move the two men struck up a quarrel that would not end that day, not until both were dead.

Sigurd and Brodir, who were more accustomed to fighting from the sea rather than on the land, gave little thought to the physical terrain of the battle, but they fully appreciated the importance of having an overwhelming number of warriors at their disposal. All that mattered was getting in first with the most savage offence. A
terrifying
beginning was what successful warfare required – frighten the other side so badly their senses deserted them and they could not think, only run. Then chase them down, kill them, and claim the spoils.

The Vikings were ready. They bared their teeth at one another, practising their most savage grins.

Meanwhile Brian’s warriors hastened to take up the positions assigned to them. It was not easy in the dark but they had no choice: the Árd Rí’s instructions to his
commanders
had been explicit. Moving as stealthily as
possible
, they had crossed the Liffey at several points during the night, including the old Hurdle Ford. So many
trampling
feet must have totally destroyed the hurdles.