by H A CULLEY
‘Either Lismore Island, or even better, Loch Creran.’
Loch Linhe was the long inlet of the sea that ran from O Ban, opposite the south-eastern tip of the Isle of Mull, up to the northern border between Dalriada and the Land of the Picts. Loch Creran was a sheltered offshoot of Loch Linhe. It was an ideal place to embark an army but it had the disadvantage of having a narrow entrance.
‘He’d be a fool to use Loch Creran, where his fleet could be trapped, and why use Lismore Island as a jumping off point? Why not sail straight to Mull? No, my guess is that he’d use Ardmucknish Bay,’ Caomh countered.
‘Well, there is one way to find out,’ their father said with a smile, ‘each of you take a fast birlinn and sail up to O Ban. Brennus will be with Domnall Brecc, at the Pass of Brander but there should be someone left in charge at O Ban, the capital of Lorne. They may know more. Then split up and find Owain’s base. You’re not to fight anyone. Your job is to get back here with the information I need.’ He paused and fixed each of his sons with his piercing blue eyes. ‘And this time work together. Understand? Now go.’
~~~
In fact neither Brennus nor Domnall were still at the Pass of Brander. Once it became clear that their enemies had moved north to go around Ben Cruachan, Brennus had left some of his men to hold the pass, just in case it was a ruse, and moved off with Domnall to follow the very obvious trail left by the enemy army through the wild, desolate country that led northwards to the top of Loch Etive. Apart from a few shepherds, no-one lived there. It was wild moorland interspersed with numerous streams and small rivers and a lot of bogs below the high mountains. It was bordered by Loch Etive in the west and the treacherous wasteland of Rannoch Moor to the east.
‘How does Owain know the way through this wasteland?’ Domnall asked Brennus when they camped for the night.
‘Although this is part of my domain, it’s largely uninhabited. Most of my people who live this far north are in settlements along the sea lochs or in Glen Coe to the north west of us. The Picts tend to leave them alone but, although there are few humans, there are a lot of animals including an abundance of deer, so the Picts hunt here, as do my people. Occasionally they meet and there’s a fight, but it’s a vast wilderness so it doesn’t happen often. Obviously their hunters know the area as well as mine do.’
The next two days were uneventful then the scouts came back to report that the two armies had split, one heading towards Glen Coe and the other towards the headwaters of Loch Etive.
‘It looks as if Owain’s heading down the west bank of Loch Etive and the Picts are heading to Glen Coe and then presumably back into their own territory.’ Domnall said to Brennus after they’d questioned the scouts.
‘Where on earth is Owain going then? He’ll find himself in a peninsular bounded by Loch Linhe and Loch Etive. There are a few fishing settlements on the coast but a few small boats aren’t going to be much good to him.’
‘Well, the good news is that they’ve split their forces. Where are the Picts heading?’
‘I’m not entirely sure. Glen Coe will take them to the shores of Loch Leven, another offshoot of Loch Linhe; presumably they’ll make their way along the shore heading east, back into their own country.’
‘In that case I think we’ll leave them to it and follow Owain’s trail. If we can bring him to battle we could destroy the threat from Strathclyde for a generation.’ Domnall smirked at the prospect and even the dour Brennus smiled briefly.
When they reached Glen Etive the trail they were following turned down the broad valley with its shallow but broad river splashing over rocks. The army crossed it with little difficulty and turned south west along the far bank. However, they hadn’t gone far when two of the scouts came riding back on their surefooted mountain ponies.
‘Cyning, the Strathclyde men have turned north west up a steep valley that leads between those two big mountains.’
He pointed to where two peaks close together disappeared into the clouds.
‘Where on earth are they going?’ Domnall asked, bewildered by the change in direction.
‘It leads to where Lochs Leven and Linhe meet. Perhaps he aims to meet up with the Picts again, but why would they split up if they are going to re-unite?’
Brennus was as puzzled as his overlord.
Just then a third scout came riding up in a hurry.
‘Domnall, the accursed Britons have stopped on top of the saddle between the two mountains. It looks as if they are offering battle.’
Domnall grinned. ‘How foolish of them. Come, Brennus, don’t let’s disappoint them.’ He turned back to the scouts. ‘What’s this valley called?’
‘Glen Mairson, so the guide says.’
~~~
Oswiu took one look at Dùn Breatainn and knew that it was going to be even more difficult to take than Dùn Èideann had been. The circular fortress stood on top of a massive outcrop of rock with the sea lapping at three sides of it. The cliffs were sheer and the waves crashing against the base of them made it an impossible climb. Next to it stood a slightly smaller mound of rock and this too was surmounted by a palisade. The only approach was up a path which rose at over forty five degrees from the beach at the bottom to a gateway which linked the two palisades.
He sailed around to the far side of the fortress but this side consisted of a steep scree slope with another length of palisade linking the two parts of the fortress.
‘I fear we’ve wasted our time,’ he said to his shipmaster.
‘Aye, it looks impregnable right enough.’
Raulf, who was sitting cross-legged nearby trying to scour the rust from his master’s byrnie – a daily task in the corrosive salty air - looked across at the two mounds of rock.
‘There’s a lot of shrubs and small trees in that defile leading up to the gatehouse and it hasn’t rained for some time now.’
The shipmaster was about to cuff the boy for his impudence but Oswiu stopped him.
‘Well done, Raulf. What made you think of that?’
‘I don’t know. It just seemed obvious to me. If you could fire it with the wind in the right direction it might just set the gatehouse alight.’
‘Yes, it might. It’s a pity the wind’s coming from the west though.’
‘At the moment, yes,’ the shipmaster said, ‘but it’s backing a bit. With any luck it’ll soon be coming from the south.’
Oswiu’s eyes lit up and he grinned at Raulf.
‘How do you and the other two rascals fancy a bit of fire raising?’
An hour later they were ready.
‘Now, you know what you have to do?’
‘Yes, lord. Build up a pile of kindling and dry wood, wait until the first rays of sunrise then fire the kindling so that it sets the scrub in the defile alight. Wait until we are sure it’s burning well and then run and take cover well away from the fire.’
‘Good. We’ll be coming ashore as soon as the fire dies down, provided it has set burnt down the gate. If not, I’ll send a currach to collect you. Now, off you go and good luck.’
That night Raulf, Sigbert and Domangart rowed ashore in a small currach. Luck was with them as clouds obscured the moon until they had landed but, shortly afterwards, the sky cleared and moonlight bathed the area in light. They were frightened that they might be seen as they gathered the material to start their fire, but no shouts of alarm came from above, nor was a patrol sent down to investigate – both something that the boy’s over-active imaginations envisaged.
During the night the wind picked up but it didn’t change direction all the way to the south as they’d expected. Consequently the defile was still sheltered from it to some extent.
‘What do we do?’ Sigbert asked anxiously.
‘I think we should concentrate on firing the right hand side of the defile,’ Domangart replied. ‘If you look at the few trees on that side their branches are moving in the wind, although those on the left aren’t.’
‘Yes, you’re right!’ Raulf
said. ‘The wind must be being funnelled up that side somehow.’
The boys took it in turn to keep watch for the dawn but Sigbert was half asleep when the sun’s rays bathed the tops of the hills in yellow light, casting purple shadows down the slopes facing him. He awoke with a start and saw with dismay that the River Clyde to the east was now reflecting the rim of the sun that had appeared above the skyline.
‘Quick, let’s get the fire started,’ he yelled loudly and kicked the other two awake.
‘You bloody idiot! You fell asleep didn’t you?’ Domangart accused him.
‘Never mind that, you’ve got the flint.’
Domangart knelt by the small pile of shavings he’d prepared and struck his flint with the sharp edge of his dagger. After a few attempts a few sparks landed in the shavings and it caught fire. He picked up the small bundle of shavings and pushed it into a larger bundle under a pile of twigs arranged like the roofing timbers of a circular hut. Once that was blazing away the boys piled larger and larger twigs and then pieces of wood onto the fire until it was blazing strongly.
They picked up the torches they’d brought with them, lit them and shoved them into the kindling and small branches they’d positioned at the bottom of the defile just where the undergrowth started.
‘It’s not working,’ Sigbert cried in despair as the shrubs and small trees in the defile showed no sign of catching light from their fire.
At the same time shouts from above let them know that the fire had been seen. It wouldn’t take long for the men in the fortress to run down the path and catch them.
‘Quick, let’s get the currach launched before they catch us,’ Raulf said in a panic, getting up and turning to head for the beach.
‘Wait, it’s catching.’
Domangart was right. A gust of wind had caught the nascent fire and it now burned much more fiercely. Slowly the shrubs caught alight and then the wind strengthened and backed further. They could see the men who were descending the path stop, and then start to run back up the hill as the flames seemed to leap from bush to bush and from tree to tree towards their retreating backs. Soon the whole defile was ablaze. The flames leapt across the path and the greenery on the left started to blaze as well.
The boys retreated from the intensity of the heat and watched from the safety of the small beach as the whole defile turned into a roaring inferno. They were so absorbed by the blazing hillside that they weren’t aware of the men coming ashore until Oswiu clapped Domangart and Raulf around the shoulders.
‘Well done boys. All we’ve got to do now is wait until it burns itself out.’
Sigbert looked up at Oswiu and smiled, then remembered he’d been dozing on watch. However, it didn’t seem to matter now.
It took all morning before the defile cooled off enough for Oswiu to lead his war band up to the blackened remnants of what had once been the gatehouse. He’d left half his birlinns in the river in case someone arrived to investigate. It wasn’t the conflagration itself that could be seen from some way away, it was the plume of smoke that streamed away to the north.
When he arrived at the top of the incline he found that the gates were just a pile of blackened timbers and the palisade had been badly charred for some five metres on each side. A group of soot smeared warriors stood in the gap where the gates had been, yelling defiance and waving spears around but, after a volley of arrows, they ran for cover. By the time that Oswiu and his men reached the entrance he found the blackened figure of the custos waiting to surrender to him.
It turned out that the fortress was only defended by ten elderly men and a dozen boys. The rest of the warriors who normally manned it were away with King Owain in the north. Oswiu took the boys as slaves but left the old men behind. After he had carted everything of value, including two chests of gold, several furs and a small box of jewellery, down to his ships, he set fire to the huts and the king’s hall and left feeling well pleased.
When he later found out that the youngest of his captives – an eleven year old boy called Guret - was King Owain’s only son, he was even more delighted with the day’s work.
~~~
The Britons had arrayed themselves across the saddle between the steep slopes that led to the two summits lost in the cloud. Domnall estimated their numbers at about five hundred whereas he had some seven hundred warriors, most of whom had some form of body protection and were better armed that the Strathclyde Britons. He gazed at them in contempt. Most were armed with spears and daggers and carried an oblong shield with rounded corners. A few had swords and battle axes and there were perhaps a hundred archers equipped with hunting bows.
He sent his own archers forward first and a deadly volley rained down on the capering and jabbering Britons. Their own archers responded but most of the arrows thudded into the Scots’ large round shields. Then the Britons charged.
Domnall had never seen anything like it. They seemed to almost invite death as they cast themselves at the rows of warriors from Dalriada. Many leaped into the air to land a few rows back in the midst of the Scots, jabbing with their spears and slashing with sword, dagger or axe. They were quickly killed, but not before they had wrought havoc in the midst of their enemies. Meanwhile Domnall and Brennus, King of Lorne, were having difficulty in holding back the Britons attacking their front rank. The shield wall held, but the warriors there kept giving fearful glances behind them as another cohort of the enemy leapt over them into the men behind.
Gradually the assault petered out and the Britons withdrew, leaving behind them over a hundred men dead and badly wounded. However, Domnall’s Scots had also suffered significantly and seventy of his men would play no further in the battle. Worse, his men had been unnerved by the ferocity of the attack. Then he heard cries of alarm from behind him.
One of his men pushed his way through the densely packed army to reach his king.
‘The Picts are behind us. What should we do?’
‘It was all a trap,’ Domnall said to Brennus in despair. ‘I’ve been a fool.’
‘No more than me, but I shan’t live to pay the price I fear.’
It was only then that Domnall noticed that Brennus had been struck by an arrow which had gone through a tear in his byrnie. It had a barbed point and he’d foolishly tried to pull it out, now he was striving to hold his guts in place as blood seeped through his hands. A stomach wound was usually fatal and it was a painful way to die. Domnall knew then that his only option was surrender.
~~~
‘You know what I do with Christians don’t you?’ Owain of Strathclyde said leering at Domnall Brecc, who lay before him tied hand and foot. ‘Perhaps you would like to emulate your White Christ and be crucified? I’m told it can take three days to die that way, and you’ll be in agony all the time, especially if I break your knees and elbows.’
Some of Domnall’s men had managed to escape by climbing the mountains surrounding the battlefield but most had died there. Owain had ignored Domnall’s attempt to surrender and had slaughtered some four hundred Scots without mercy. The King of Dalriada had been captured after his gesith had died around him and he’d been felled by a blow to the head with the blunt side of an axe.
Now his head throbbed, blood still seeped from the wound to his head and he felt faint from hunger. He felt certain that his skull would have been crushed had it not been for his helmet. He was saved from further humiliation by the arrival of a mud splattered messenger wearing soot smudged clothes and whose hair was badly singed.
‘Brenin,’ the man gasped. ‘I got here as soon as I could but I had trouble finding you.’
‘What on earth’s happened? You look as if you’ve been in a fire.’
‘I have, Brenin. The accursed Northumbrians have attacked Dùn Breatainn and burnt it to the ground.’
‘What? How? What about my son; is he safe?’
‘They set fire to the defile leading up to the gate and it burnt down. There was nothing we could do when Oswiu of Rheged attacked.’
‘Oswiu took him prisoner, along with the other boys. He let the men go.’
‘Their respite will be short lived when I get back. They will all die for losing me my home and my son.’
‘But Brenin, the custos is my father, spare him I beg you.’
‘He deserves to die the most; be very careful what you say or you will accompany him to the Otherworld.’
‘Yes, Brenin.’
‘Now get out of my sight. No! Wait.’ He kicked the prone King of Dalriada hard in the ribs. ‘Go and find this damned Oswiu and tell him that I’ll trade his friend here for my son. If he’s harmed Guret I’ll break every bone in this wretch’s body before I hand him over. Clear?’
‘Y-yes, Brenin, but where do you want to d-do the exchange,’ he stuttered.
‘Hmm – tell him to meet me off Toward Point in the Firth of Clyde in one week’s time. He’s to bring one birlinn, no more. I’ll come in one birlinn too. Now go.’
~~~
‘If your father has harmed mine in any way I’ll cut off your prick before we hand you back,’ Domangart whispered in the ear of the unfortunate Guret as he sat tied to the base of the mast of Oswiu’s birlinn.
‘If I’m hurt your father will be dead meat,’ the younger boy replied defiantly. ‘In any case you won’t live to see the sunset.’
‘Brave talk.’
‘Do you think my father is going to just sail in, hand over Domnall Brecc, collect me and just sail away? You don’t know him very well, do you?’
‘Why, what’s he got planned?’
‘You’ll find out.’
‘Oh yes, I will.’
Domangart glanced around quickly to make sure no one was watching them before putting his hand under the hem of the younger boy’s tunic. He grabbed his balls and pulled on them hard.
‘Not much to get hold of is there? Now, what has he got planned or I’ll leave you speaking like a girl for the rest of your miserable life.’
