Today the decks of these trade ships would also be packed with paying passengers eager to rush ashore, an assortment of wives, lovers, and, primarily, whores. There was much profit to be made from war. Jordan suspected—hoped even, he admitted to himself—that Najia would be among the passengers, though he had ordered her to wait in Milford Haven.
The English camp was rapidly sprawling outside the walls of Waterford as Jordan rode up. Local cattle had been commandeered and butchered, chunks of the meat boiling in bags made of their own hide, hung over campfires on tripods of freshly cut poles. The smell reminded Jordan that he had not yet had breakfast. Outside the city gates, Nottingham was conferring with Kellach and a group of young knights, second sons of English high nobles, first sons of low nobles, all seeking the king’s favor and perhaps estates of their own in the soon-to-be-conquered country. Meanwhile their fathers rested inside the city walls, the earls of Rutland, Huntingdon, and Gloucester; the knights Despenser, Percy, Scrope, and Beaumont.
“There you are, Marshal,” called Nottingham. “Come join us.”
Jordan dismounted, handed his reins to a squire, and joined the group.
“King Kellach’s allies say the Irish high king, along with the Morrígna’s consort, has withdrawn to muster their army. The king of Leinster remains behind with a small army of Celts and some number of Sidhe, apparently in an attempt to hold us here as long as possible. He’s moving his forces to the north.”
“And not far to the north,” said Jordan.
“You have been scouting as well,” said Kellach. “That is brave, or perhaps foolhardy. Until all of the Sidhe have been brought under my control, perhaps you should leave that to my followers.”
“I prefer to see for myself,” Jordan snapped back.
“Do we know where the Sidhe high king is?” asked Nottingham.
All eyes looked at Kellach. He hesitated and then said, “My allies are not certain, but he does not seem to have withdrawn.”
“Well, we had better go stir them up before they’ve a chance to establish defensive positions,” Nottingham said. “The pikemen will remain behind to fortify and protect the camp. We’ll take six companies of mounted archers. Rutland and Huntingdon, you each take a company shallow east and deep east for a quarter of a mile, then loop north. Gloucester and Scrope, the same move to the west. I’ll take two companies of Cheshire archers straight north. When you hear my horn, converge on the sound. Soon we’ll find out how well Richard’s strategy works in battle.
“Kellach, your . . . what do I call them, your men?” asked Nottingham.
“I will deploy my followers. Do not concern yourself with them. They will be where they need to be.”
“Well, yes, I’ll leave that to you, then. We move out in half an hour.”
“I’ll ride with you,” said Jordan to Nottingham.
“Most welcome,” he replied. “Though I wish you had brought some of the VRS League with you.”
“Our agreement with Kellach forbids it.”
“Still,” whispered Nottingham. He looked around, but Kellach had already disappeared. “He makes me nervous.”
Cries flowed around the camp as men were organized. Archers led horses from the holding pens into their section of camp. The horses pranced, hopped, and pawed the ground nervously, as if testing its soundness after the unpredictable decks of the ships. Jordan watched as an archer sought to calm the horse he had selected, stroking its face and whispering in its ear. The horse’s wide eyes began to soften, its hooves steady. The man strapped on the saddle. His wool tunic, green on the right side and white on the left, distinguished his status as a Cheshire archer. As with all the army, on his left chest was sewn the badge of King Richard II, featuring a white stag reclining on grass. This archer’s badge was fringed with blue, indicating his rank as captain. The tunic hung almost to his knees over his brown hose and leather boots. A simple wool cap, fastened under his chin, kept his hair bound and his ears warm.
He wore no armor, only a linen gambeson, a jacket densely padded with cotton and wool weft, under his tunic. On his hip hung a buckler, a round shield merely eight inches across, and a short eighteen-inch sword. His entire livery, as with all the mounted archers, had been set in close consultation with Richard himself to facilitate rapid mounting and dismounting, a key element in Richard’s strategy.
Dressed lightly, Richard’s longbowmen relied on mobility for their defense. They could slip off their horses, fire several times with great accuracy at an enemy over two hundred yards away, remount, and be on the move before the Irish bows came within range. At least that is how it worked in their drills. For enemies at a shorter range, or to volley into a group, they could fire from a stationary horse, or even while galloping if required.
Finished securing his saddle, the archer strapped a bracer onto his left forearm to protect it from the snap of the bowstring and to keep his sleeve from interfering with the arrow. He secured a quiver of twenty-four arrows behind his saddle. Another quiver was attached to his back with a double cross-wrapped leather belt about his upper waist. The quiver was a band of sheepskin, wool nap facing in, covering a third of the shaft between point and feather. In battle he would grasp the point and pull the arrow down and out, let it slip through his hand to the feathers, then notch it to the bowstring and fire. After half the arrows were gone, he would tighten the leather belt to keep the quiver secure.
Expecting the Irish to be close at hand, he took the precaution of unwrapping the covering of his bow and handing the linen to his squire. Placing one end against the inside of his foot, he leaned on the other end, grasped the loop on the hemp string that hung about the bow’s midsection, and slid it up to the horn notch. Holding the ready bow in his left hand, he mounted his horse, took the reins in his right hand, and swung around to muster his men.
Jordan mounted his horse. Knights began to ride out with companies of archers followed by squires. Jordan could tell the financial standing of each knight by the amount of newly developed plate armor he wore. Nottingham rode up covered head to toe in plate, his visor up. His large warhorse was itself draped in mail. Noticing Jordan in his simple mail vest, he said, “Is that all you’re going to wear?”
Jordan thought about the set of new plates waiting in his tent. “I believe it will be most important to remain nimble today,” he replied. In this land he did not want to cover himself with metal and would have discarded even the mail, but he could not afford to be thought completely mad. He directed his horse into a walk north.
“Your choice, of course, Marshal,” said Nottingham, riding beside him as two companies of archers fell in behind.
Nottingham urged his horse into a trot, and Jordan followed suit as they headed deep into the woods he had explored earlier that morning. This time the beat of all those English hooves seemed to be trampling down the Ardor.
Out of the corner of his eye, Jordan caught a glimpse of giant birds to his right; however, when he turned to look, it was Kellach and his new Skeaghshee entourage flitting from tree to tree. On the ground beneath them, lumbering Grogoch gave Jordan a strong impression of boulders rolling along. They carried large hammers, and Dryads rode on the backs of several. He was surprised they could keep up. He spotted a group of Wichtlein loping along like small trolls but with long, skinny legs, their weapon of choice appearing to be the javelin.
He was checking to see if other Sidhe were joining the procession when a vibration swept through the air. Leaves were torn off the trees and flew sideways into Jordan’s face. Grogoch sat heavily on the ground while the Dryads scurried down to squat behind them, jabbering to one another in nervous, crackling voices. Wichtlein formed into a knot, javelins pointing forward.
The forest in front of them seemed to compress and flatten as if it had become a painting with no perspective. For a moment Jordan thought he saw an edge begin to curl and believed he could see bright light begin to slip around; he held his breath as his pulse quickened. The flat world was rent
down the center, trees thrust to each side.
Kellach screamed as if it were his own skin tearing. Regaining his composure, he whispered an enchantment into his hand, then hurled it into the widening gap.
The tearing sound stilled. The trees no longer moved, having stacked themselves around a large grassy meadow, about three hundred yards square, the land rising gently to the back in full perspective. In the center waited the Irish.
About a thousand mounted Celts, Jordan estimated, brandishing their swords, bows, and spears. Standing in front of them were half as many Gallowglass in a two-deep line, their long-handled axes relaxed on shoulders, large oval shields not yet formed into a wall, their horses gathered behind the Irish forces. There were also Sidhe moving about, maybe two hundred or more. It was hard to tell with them.
Nottingham began shouting orders. One company of archers dismounted and hurried into a line three deep; the other company remained mounted and split to each side of the line. The clatter of arrows being pulled from quivers and fitted to bows was overwhelmed by Nottingham’s lieutenant sounding a horn, calling for reinforcements.
Murchada, king of Leinster, and Fearghal, Sidhe high king, strode forward through the Gallowglass line. Murchada stopped while Fearghal continued toward the English.
“Kill him,” Nottingham ordered the captain of the dismounted company of archers. The captain leaned into his longbow, swept it up, took careful aim, and let the arrow loose. All eyes watched as its shallow arc turned down toward the walking Fearghal. The arrow continued down, getting smaller with the distance, long after, Jordan realized, it should have struck Fearghal, or at least the ground. Soon it was lost to sight.
Nottingham wheeled his horse to directly address the line of archers. Pointing at Fearghal, he shouted, “Kill him!” A volley of arrows, too thick to count, sailed forth and met the same fate.
Stopping fifty yards from the English line, Fearghal spoke, and his voice sounded as if he were standing next to them. “Welcome home, Kellach, though you seem to have forgotten that you were banished from the mainland, forgotten that the Adhene rule the Middle Kingdom and that I am their high king.”
“You are no high king,” spat back Kellach. “Not anymore.”
Fearghal held up his stump of a wrist. “Yes, there may now have to be a new election. However, the Middle Kingdom clans have gifted me with the opportunity to first take a replacement hand. From you.”
Kellach walked a few steps in front of the English line, made a point of looking over the Irish and Sidhe forces, and laughed. “I have many times your number. I will take your other hand, then your life, and then all Sidhe will follow me. The Skeaghshee will rule the Middle Kingdom, and I will be their high king.”
The trees that encompassed the meadow leaned in, appearing to Jordan to be about to rush into the center, then leaned back, swayed, and stilled in a swarm of falling leaves.
Kellach reached toward the ground. A thick tree root wriggled up to the surface. He pulled it free, deftly molded it into a javelin as if he were working with clay, and hurled it at Fearghal. Just before reaching its mark, the javelin flashed into a cloud of ash that drifted to the ground around Fearghal.
From his belt Fearghal pulled a small ax that grew into a battle-ax as he raised it above his head and threw it at Kellach. Kellach spoke the name of the ax, “Dilgendfir,” reached toward it, and drew a symbol in the air, his fingers leaving a short trail of green light. The ax flew straight at Kellach, rotating head over tail, once, twice, then seemed to rotate into itself and vanish.
An unnatural stillness settled on the meadow. Fearghal and Kellach stared at each other. Horses got nervous legs. Men pulled on their collars, suddenly warm as the air between the two Sidhe radiated heat. Fearghal strained under some unseen load. Sweat dripped off Kellach’s face. Jordan closed his eyes, and a vision sprang into his consciousness of two beings spitting lightning at each other, the space between them full of thunder, flash, and smoke, but without effect.
Nottingham leaned forward in his saddle and asked Jordan, “What’s going on?”
Jordan pulled his gaze back into the physical world. “It’s a faerie standoff,” he replied as he swung out of his saddle to the ground. He walked toward Kellach.
Nottingham, weighed down by his armor, eased from his horse with help from his squire and hurried to catch up.
Kellach broke first and turned to face them. Jordan saw Fearghal stumble out in the meadow, then catch himself.
“What now?” Nottingham asked.
“I haven’t eaten today, so I propose lunch,” offered Jordan.
“Now you and your men go kill the Celts,” Kellach snarled. “I cannot do all the work for you.”
“If our arrows will not reach them, what hope have we?” Nottingham asked, reassessing their adversary. “We may overpower this lot, but what do we do when they assemble their main army? If you cannot help us, as you said you could, you’ll not get your throne.”
Kellach glared at him. “Fearghal may still have enough power to protect himself, but he cannot protect all those Celts, I guarantee that. My followers and I will neutralize whatever enchantments his lackeys throw up.” Pointing at Nottingham, he added, “Then I will see if the English are as good as they think they are at killing Celts face-to-face.”
“Hmmm. Are you sure your Skeaghshee can handle their enchantments?” Nottingham asked. “It didn’t look like it.”
A cry rose from the Irish forces, followed by the clatter of Gallowglass shields forming into a wall. Jordan glimpsed English moving in the trees to the right of the meadow. Two hundred Celtic cavalry broke from their formation and charged at the new arrivals. Fearghal and Murchada rushed back toward the Irish lines.
“It’s time to find out,” said Nottingham. He lumbered back to his horse, shouting orders to his captains. Archers snapped to the ready position, while squires scurried to stand behind their lines, arms full of quivers.
“The rest of the Irish cavalry will soon break for the woods,” called Kellach, “where they will try to flank your men and force them into close combat with the Gallowglass.”
“That’s not going to work,” said Jordan, mostly to himself. Standing his ground in front of the lines of English archers, he felt more than saw Kellach’s Sidhe followers fanning out into the trees.
The initial Celtic charge had almost made it to the right tree line when the first volley of English arrows streaked from the shadows, felling a quarter of the horses and tumbling their riders to the earth. Jordan was surprised by how quickly the next volley followed, striking before the fallen riders could pick themselves up or even raise their shields to protect themselves. A third volley felled more men and horses, who were trying to maneuver around those already flailing on the ground. In the span of thirty seconds, more than half the Irish charge was down when the rest reached the trees.
Bellowing out clan war cries, the main Irish formation thinned as lines of Celtic cavalry, this time joined by Sidhe cavalry, streamed toward the left and right tree lines. The Gallowglass shield wall began to slowly advance down the center.
Companies of English archers, called by Nottingham’s horn, established formations along the meadow edges. Volleys of arrows leaped from their lines. Second volleys took flight before the first volley arced down toward the charging Irish. Only this time the Irish Sidhe were prepared, and large groups of arrows stopped short and tumbled out of the sky as if they had struck something immovable in the air. Other arrows flamed into ashes; some sprouted wings and soared off harmlessly. Less than a third of the first and second volleys completed their flight. Shouts from the charging Irish rose to a roar, voices that began to be cut off as half of the third volley reached its mark. Jordan could sense the Skeaghshee counter-enchantments growing.
Arrows sailed over Jordan’s head and crashed like iron rain against the Gallowglass shield wall. Holes appeared in the barricade as arrows found small gaps and Gallowglass fell, only to quickly close as the wound
ed were dragged to the back and replaced. The Gallowglass halted their slow advance and tightened their shield wall.
Jordan knew that when the Archangel Azâzêl came to earth, he had taught men to work iron into weapons, thereby imbuing a desire for violence into the metal itself. With enchantments flying in both directions—to both destroy and protect the English arrows—the iron arrowheads exerted their innate will and tipped the scales in favor of bloodshed. It would take enchantments more powerful than anyone here could wield to overcome the will of so much iron, to stop this many arrows, Jordan thought.
Almost all the English arrows were now penetrating what was left of the Irish Sidhe enchantments, turning back the cavalry charges. Struggling to deal with the dead and dying underhoof, the remaining cavalry were pressed into clusters on the left and right by the constant volleys. But with the English now in range of the Irish bows, the Irish cavalry began to let fly deadly volleys of their own. The Irish formed teams of three, an archer and two shield holders.
Nottingham ordered his longbowmen to turn from the Gallowglass line and direct their fire at the Irish archers’ horses. The Irish could not protect themselves and their horses at the same time. Injured horsed panicked, slamming into one another and breaking the Irish formations. Horses and their riders fell onto those already down who were trying to draw their bows or retrieve their shields.
Behind Jordan the triple line of English longbowmen were steady in their work and eerily quiet except for the count of the captain pacing his men at four arrows per minute. Frequently the cry of “Quiver!” would send a squire weaving through the lines to deliver more arrows. They were careful not to interfere with any bowman’s shot, as that would result in having an ear sliced off as punishment.
Soon the quantity of dead warriors on the ground, flailing horses, and blood-generated mud made any Irish offensive formation impossible. A horn sounded from the left, then the right, two short notes followed by a long one, and those still able to ride or run broke for the Gallowglass line. The retreat left a trail of dead and injured as arrows continued to find flesh. The Gallowglass shield wall curved back around the few cavalry that reached them, and the combined force began to withdraw.
The Last Days of Magic: A Novel Page 27
