The Last Days of Magic (39 page)

“Horse archers forward!” ordered Nottingham. The mounted archers charged into the meadow. Other commanders followed Nottingham’s lead. Circling the Irish formation, just out of effective range of the Irish bows, the English were able to stop the retreat and rain down more deadly volleys. Horses were brought up for the lines of standing archers behind Jordan. They mounted and galloped past him to join the attack.

Celts and Sidhe abandoned their remaining horses, driving them away with slaps to their rumps, and then joined the Gallowglass in reinforcing the shield wall, now forced into a complete circle. A Celtic horn sounded three melancholy notes, repeated. The four Irish standards that still flew were lowered through the shields and held out parallel to the ground.

“They’ve lowered their standards,” said the captain to Nottingham.

Jordan’s feeling of relief disappeared when Nottingham replied, “Have the men press on, Captain.”

The captain shouted, “Press on!” to his signalman, who gave two short horn blasts, which were quickly repeated around the meadow, eliminating any doubt that might have been in the minds of the English and Irish alike.

Jordan did not want to watch the futile stand of the Irish, but he was unable to make himself look away. Occasionally an arrow would disintegrate into ash, but not enough to make any difference. The Irish formation collapsed in on itself, men—and women, he now saw—staggering backward up the growing pile of their fallen comrades, holding aloft their shields against the deadly rain. Seeing that hope was lost, two dozen mounted one last charge but did not get ten yards.

“Shall I give the order havoc?” asked the captain, inquiring if it was
time to release the men from military control, allowing them to plunder from the fallen and take hostages of the living.

Nottingham surveyed the battlefield. A small group still huddled behind shields, most of them probably wounded. Other wounded crawled along the field or held up their hands in submission. Some called for mercy. Some called to their God or Goddess of choice—Lugh, Dagda, or Danu—to bear them to Tír na nÓg, the After Lands of eternal youth. Most just stared at the English, stoic, resigned.

The captain waited patiently, knowing that to cry havoc before the order was given by the highest commander in the field was punishable by a slow death.

“Yes, havoc,” said Nottingham. “But no hostages, not this early in the campaign, except for the kings. Bring me the kings, if they still live.”

The captain, disappointment on his face, asked, “What of the women? There are women in their forces. Can we take them as hostages?”

Nottingham stood in his stirrups to have a clearer view of the blood-soaked meadow. “The men may do with them what they will, but only out there. Do not bring them into camp. Do not leave them alive. There should be plenty of whores in camp by now.”

“Havoc!” cried the captain, a cry that was picked up and carried with fervor by the victorious soldiers. “No quarter!” added the captain, signaling they could not take hostages for the customary ransom of one-quarter of the captive’s pay, a cry carried across the field with much less enthusiasm.

Nottingham added, “Captain, when all the Irish are dead, have our arrows retrieved and cleaned. I’ll authorize payment of one penny for each two dozen that are still in good condition.”

“Yes, my lord,” replied the captain. “The men will be grateful.”

“Kellach,” Nottingham called, “have your men—or should I say forces—finish off the opposing Sidhe. They may still be a danger to my men.”

Kellach, already fading into the forest, did not answer.

Nottingham turned his horse south and rode back toward Waterford at a trot, his squire and bodyguards following.

Jordan listened to the calls for mercy, the offers of gold, cut short. The battlefield had become a killing field. He had seen mass slaughter before, been part of it, but here it was different. Here the land itself was dying with each fresh flow of blood, the pale red of Sidhe, dark red of Celt and Gallowglass. Ardor was rotting away, and he had made it happen.

Flocks of ravens swooped in, seeking tender morsels to feed on, bits of hacked-off flesh, open chest cavities, eyes—black scavengers who flapped about, calling their irritation as English soldiers claimed corpses for their own. The dead were stripped of torcs, armbands, weapons, armor, boots, and other items of value, items the English would trade among themselves or sell for pennies to the merchants waiting back at camp.

Finally Jordan turned from the carnage, mounted his horse, and nudged it into a slow walk toward Waterford. Everything he had obtained this morning while riding alone—that connection to a potent source of Ardor, feelings of being energized and empowered—had bled away.

22

Waterford, Ireland

The Same Night

R
eturning to the outskirts of Waterford past nightfall, Jordan observed that the English encampment had swelled further, lit up with cooking fires, torches, and moonlight. He rode between the tents, clustered by lordly allegiance around banners bearing coats of arms, and past a drinking canopy set up by some enterprising merchant, its crude tables and benches already packed with noisy victory celebrations. Jordan reached his small circle of tents that bore no insignia, as if they belonged to an unbounded tradesman, and gave his horse to a squire. Squatting close to the fire, he tried to expel the chill that had taken hold of his bones.

“Congratulations,” said his cook, handing Jordan a tankard of dark ale and a steaming plate of boiled beef topped with a hunk of rough bread.

Jordan did not even acknowledge him as he took the food. Chewing a piece of beef, he noticed that his page and the page he had left with Najia in the armada’s Milford Haven embarking port were sitting to the side of Jordan’s tent playing chess, an increasingly popular adaptation of the Persian game
shatranj.
Najia’s fingers eased open the tent flap a few inches. Jordan could just discern her eyes shining in the glow from the fire, and his heart lightened. He placed his plate on the ground, drained his ale, and stepped toward the tent.

“Marshal d’Anglano,” called a young page running toward him.

“What?” Jordan snapped.

“Lord Nottingham commands that you come immediately.”

“Commands?” scoffed Jordan. “I’m the high representative of the
Vatican. I don’t take commands from any other authority.” He continued toward Najia and his tent.

“My deepest apologies, Marshal,” said the page, bowing. “It was my mistake. Lord Nottingham told me to ask you to join him. Please don’t tell him I said it was a command.”

Jordan looked at the frightened boy, not more than twelve years old, and gave him a soft kick in the ass. “There, you’ve been punished. No more will be said. Now, go away. I’ll see Nottingham tomorrow.”

“Excuse me, Marshal, but it’s about a king. We have captured one of their kings,” the page said, shifting from one foot to the other.

“Which one?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know, Marshal.”

Jordan glanced at his tent—the flap was closed, and there was no sign of Najia. He gave a sigh of resignation and motioned the page to lead on.

Nottingham’s ring of red-and-white-striped tents was awash in torchlight. The page led Jordan across the central area to a medium-size tent next to Nottingham’s large personal one. Upon entering, Jordan felt his hope to meet the Sidhe high king vanish when he saw a Celt, who would be King Murchada of Leinster, slumped in a chair.

Murchada’s tunic was ripped open and gathered at his waist, his long black hair matted with blood and mud. A nasty gash in his right shoulder oozed past the rag he pressed against it. He must have torn out an arrow in the heat of battle, thought Jordan. Murchada’s right arm hung at an unnatural angle, indicating that it was fractured in more than one place. The stubs of two broken arrow shafts protruded from his left leg.

“Keep him alive, for a while.” Nottingham gave the order to a man whose green-quartered cap and leather apron identified him as a barber-surgeon.

“I just need to stop the bleeding,” replied the barber, drawing a short iron from a brazier, its tip glowing hot.

“As king, I merit a quick death,” said Murchada with pain, but no fear, in his voice.

There was a commotion outside. Richard strode in, followed by de Vere and Mortimer; the rest of his large retinue gathered about the entrance. “Your Royal Majesty” rolled around the tent as all bowed, except Murchada.

“Really, Nottingham, a barber-surgeon? You must upgrade your servants. Bring in Our surgeon,” ordered Richard.

A man emerged from the crowd at the entrance, his long orange garde-corps distinguishing him as a master from the great medical school of Salerno.

“I want no mercy from you,” spat Murchada.

“And you will receive none,” Richard replied as he stood over Murchada. Richard pulled Murchada’s hand away and studied his wounded shoulder closely. “There will be plenty of time to kill you later, in one fashion or another.”

Murchada gritted his teeth in pain, glaring at Richard.

“But this war will be over soon, and then We will need kings to run this land for Us. Perhaps when you see the outcome, see your fellow kings pledge their allegiance to Us, you will decide the best course of action is to pledge as well. You never know. We will see. Then you will want the use of this arm and that leg.”

Richard turned away and led Nottingham aside. “Describe the battle to Us.”

The surgeon examined Murchada’s wounds and instructed one of his apprentices to boil a pot of elder oil and the other to bring pliers, silk, and a needle. As they left to do his bidding, he called out, “And a vial of opiate.”

Jordan was sure Murchada looked relieved.

A fresh hubbub arose outside, and Jordan followed Richard and Nottingham out. Two horses were being led into the torchlit ring of Nottingham’s tents, the first with the body of a knight draped over
it and the second with the bodies of two archers. Two men followed on foot, their hands bound to a rope trailing from the second horse.

Nottingham approached the dead knight, whose simple armor spoke of his status, and raised his head. Jordan recognized the face as belonging to the young man he had fought alongside in last week’s tavern brawl back at Milford Haven. He was nineteen-year-old John of Exeter, the bastard son of John Holland, Duke of Exeter, and Isabel, wife of the Duke of York.

“Well, York has his revenge,” said Nottingham. “Boil the flesh off and ship his bones back to Exeter for a Christian burial. Add the other two to the pit.” Turning to the captain leading the horses, he asked, “What happened?”

“My lord, a company of Celts surprised us in the east wood. The young lord charged them bravely. Too bravely. He was ahead of the protection of my men and didn’t survive the first exchange. My men were able to kill ten of them and capture these two. Do you wish to question them?”

“There’s no need,” replied Nottingham, drawing his sword and approaching the captives.

“Stay your hand a moment,” ordered Richard. “We are in a new land. There may be new interesting ways for Us to discover.” Turning to his retinue, he called, “Lord Alrik!”

Jordan did not recognize the Viking who stepped forward. Perhaps he was to be yet another replacement Viking king.

“Yes, Your Royal Majesty,” said Alrik with a bow.

“How do your people kill someone when they want to set an example? Something slow, extraordinary, and . . . playful.”

“We would use the rite of the blood eagle, Your Royal Majesty.”

Richard walked up the captive, who was wearing seven colors. “What is your name?”

Straightening up, the captive replied, “I am Lord Reily of Kilkenny, and you must be King Richard.”

“You will refer to Us as Your Royal Majesty King Richard.” There was a moment of strained silence. “Well, never mind that now. Why did you attack your king’s forces and kill the Bastard Exeter?”

“You are not my king. That knight was an invader, and he presented himself for the killing.”

“We became your king the moment We set foot on this island.” He turned to Alrik and said, “Proceed with your blood-eagle rite. We expect to be entertained.”

“Bring me a hammer, chisel, and bowl of salt,” Alrik called. “Strip off their tunics and stake them to the ground facedown.”

The English soldiers, joking and laughing in anticipation of a good show, followed Alrik’s instructions.

. . . . .

Early the next morning, Jordan emerged from sleep knowing that it was not yet dawn even before he opened his eyes, knowing that Najia was no longer pressed warmly against his skin in their small cot. His body was still exhausted, heavy. The screams of the prisoners from the night before had returned in his nightmares, along with the disembodied laugh of Richard. Jordan, when he was a condottiere, had always killed quickly, turning down any job that required a slow death for the victim, as torment reminded him too vividly of his plague-riddled childhood.

Opening his eyes revealed Najia, fully clothed, standing in the light of one lamp she must have lit. Something was wrong. Jordan eased himself into a sitting position.