by H A CULLEY
It was not something the seven-year old boy had thought much about. At that age he wanted to be safe and comfortable and to be loved. He liked a bit of adventure too and he’d enjoyed travelling the country to Rheged and back again. He did know he wanted to be a warrior when he grew up and he knew that Jarlath was one whereas Oswiu was a king. He supposed that meant he was like his uncle Oswald. He didn’t see much of him though, he was always away.
‘I don’t really know as yet,’ he said after a while. ‘I want to be a warrior when I grow up, not a monk, I do know that.’
‘What about your mother?’
‘Of course I miss her but I’m seven now, I love her but I don’t need her like I did when I was small.’
That make both men smile.
‘Very well,’ Oswiu broke the silence. ‘You asked me who will succeed me as King of Rheged. The honest answer had to be Ehlfrith as he’s the direct descendant of the previous kings. However, I’m prepared to formally acknowledge Aldfrith as my son and make him my heir in all respects, except for Rheged.’
‘In that case I think you should stay with King Oswiu, Aldfrith.’
‘Why?’
‘This is something you’re too young to understand but kings die in battle all the time. Your father is King Oswald’s choice as heir so someday you might be King of Northumbria. He can train you for that, I can’t.’
‘What about my cousin though?’
‘Cousin?
‘Œthelwald. He’s King Oswald’s only son and he’s a warrior now.’
‘As I said, Oswiu is Oswald’s choice as heir to Northumbria, not Œthelwald. Although the Witan elects the king from eligible æthelings, his nomination will hold great sway.’
‘Good! I don’t like Cousin Œthelwald very much.’
‘Nor do we,’ both men said together, then laughed.
~~~
Domnall Brecc had taken Oswiu’s hint and was mustering as many men as he could in order to invade Manau. At first their progress was easy. The Strathclyde Britons fled before him and the native inhabitants welcomed the return of the Dalriadans as most of them were Scots settlers. He deliberately stayed south of the River Forth, which divided Manau from Pictland, until he came to Stirling.
‘Brenin,’ a voice called from behind him as he was thinking of camping for the night. ‘Domnall, stop.’
The breathless rider was one of the rearguard and he’d evidently ridden hard to catch his king up at the head of the army.
‘What is it? Why the urgency?’
‘We’ve been tricked, Brenin. King Owain’s war host is behind us and the Picts are streaming out of Stirling to trap us between the Forth and the Carron.’
Domnall cursed long and hard. He’d brought every warrior who could be spared from Kintyre, Arran, Bute, Cowal, Islay and the Isles. If he lost this battle Dalriada would be anyone’s for the taking. For the moment he wondered whether Oswiu was in on the conspiracy but he couldn’t see what advantage the fall of Dalriada would have for him, or his brother Oswald. Having stronger neighbours on their northern borders hardly helped them. No, Oswiu had been duped as he had.
~~~
Whilst Domnall Brecc was trying to recover Manau, Oswiu was launching an invasion of his own.
‘Why do you put up with these raids from the Isle of Man,’ his wife chided him soon after his return from Yeavering.
Man lay in the middle of the Irish Sea with Strathclyde to the north, Rheged to the east and Ulster to the west. It was inhabited by Scots and had once been part of Dalriada. Now it was ruled over by Penda of Mercia and he’d encouraged the pirates who used it as a base to raid the Rheged coast.
‘For once you have a point. However, before I act I need to know more about the island and, in particular, what numbers of ships and men I’d be facing.’
‘Then, for once, I may be of some use to you, husband.’
She beckoned to an elderly slave woman who shuffled forward and bobbed awkwardly to king and queen in turn.
‘This is Wynda, she was born on Man and grew up there. ’
‘How long ago was that?’ Oswiu scoffed.
‘I don’t suppose that the island has changed much, Brenin, even though I haven’t been there for over thirty years.’
‘Very well. Tell me about it, but briefly.’
‘Most of the isle is quite mountainous and few people live in the interior. The highest mountain is Snaefell in the northern half. Below it the northern tip of the island is relatively flat and this is where most of the cultivated land is. There are three main settlements: Douglas and Ramsey on the east coast, and Peel on the west.’
‘Thank you, Oswiu said, surprised at the conciseness of the old woman’s statement.
‘My pleasure, Brenin,’ she cackled before shuffling off.
‘Now all I have to do is to find out how big these settlements are today and how many warriors there are.’
‘How will you do that?’
‘Send someone up Snaefell to watch and learn. Sigbert and Raulf both have excellent eyesight.’
Both were now warriors and part of Oswiu’s gesith. A small fishing currach landed them on a small sandy beach on the east coast where a stream ran into the sea. According to the old hag the spring that fed it was near the summit of Snaefell so the two scouts made their way up the stream a little way and settled down for the rest of the night.
At dawn they set out to follow it upwards, munching on a piece of hard cheese to assuage their hunger. In addition to their swords they had both brought a hunting bow and a few arrows in the hope that they could kill something to supplement the cheese, dried meat and porridge oats that they had brought with them.
The source of the stream was a few miles up the narrow valley but it was a stiff climb and it took them the best part of three hours. The area was boggy and they had to climb upwards to get around it. From there they could see the largest settlement, Douglas, below them. There was a large hall and thirty or so huts. The bay on which the settlement sat had a few of fishing boats pulled up onto the narrow shingle beach and ten or so more were out at sea, but what interested them were the seven birlinns. They were all small: perhaps ten to fifteen oars a side, but it meant that there were around a hundred and fifty to two hundred men in their crews.
They continued their climb, this time up the bare slope of Snaefell itself until they reached the summit. From there they could just make out the coast lines of Ireland, Strathclyde and Rheged. Peel on the east coast was too far away to make out any details but it appeared to be just a small fishing hamlet. Ramsey was barely four miles away and the details were quite clear in the chilly but fine day in early autumn. The fifteen huts clustered around a hall and the settlement was protected by a palisade with just one gate on the inland side. There was another leading out onto the narrow sandy beach. This beach wasn’t as sheltered as the one at Douglas and there were no birlinns there. Several boats appeared to be fishing to the north of the island and these had presumably come from Ramsey.
As they watched a wide beamed trading vessel appeared from the south heading to pass Man to the west. There was a flurry of activity below in Douglas and they noticed for the first time a plume of smoke from the top of a mountain five miles or so away in the middle of the island. Evidently it was a lookout station. Three of the birlinns were pushed off from the beach, one heading south and two to the north.
The merchantman was about level with the hamlet of Peel when the Mercian birlinn rounded the Calf of Man – the small islet at the southern end of Man. There was only a light breeze and the merchantman was travelling slowly as it had no oars and was solely dependent on the wind. The rowers in the birlinn put their backs into it and were catching their quarry slowly but surely. By the time that the merchantman had reached a spot due west from Snaefell their pursuers were no more than four miles behind them. Then the trading vessel had a stroke of luck. The wind picked up and the merchantman speeded up. Soon it was beginning to pull away slightly from the birli
nn.
The chase continued, however, until the ship being pursued had nearly reached the northern tip of the island. It was then that the other two birlinns appeared heading straight for the unfortunate trading ship. The ship changed course towards the Ulster coast, sailing as close to the wind as it could, but the birlinns turned to intercept her. They had been sailing but now hauled up the sail and started to row. Ten minutes later, the merchantman turned through ninety degrees and ran with the wind almost behind it for the northern tip of Man.
The two birlinns had been wrong footed and were now desperately trying to rig their sails again as the rowers turned her onto the new heading. The merchantman had nearly made it when the wind dropped again. Now she was helpless as the three birlinns closed in on her, each set of rowers trying to be the first to reach her. The outcome wasn’t in doubt.
That afternoon Sigbert and Raulf descended to the beach where they had landed and just after nightfall the currach appeared to take them back to Caer Luel.
~~~
Domnall Brecc knew that his position was serious. However, Strathcarron, through which the River Carron meandered, was bounded by a range of high hills on the north side of the river and he decided to make his stand below one of the tallest near a bend in the Carron. Whilst the Picts remained north of the Forth he might still have a chance.
‘Where is the nearest ford across the River Forth?’
‘Not for some distance upstream, but there is a bridge a few miles from here,’ one of his guides who was born in Manau, replied.
‘Good.’ He turned to his cousin, Dúnchad mac Conaing. ‘Take a hundred men, all I can spare I fear, and hold the bridge - destroy it if you have to - but keep the Picts on the far side of the River Forth. I’ll take the rest of the army and face Owain and his pagan horde.’
Dúnchad nodded. He had taken over as Thegn of Arran and Bute when Oswald had departed for Northumbria seven years previously. As soon as he reached the bridge he realised that it would be difficult to demolish. It had been well built from thick tree trunks that would take time to chop through with axes. He looked towards the advancing Picts and calculated that he had less than twenty minutes before they got there. Then the horsemen galloped ahead of the mass of warriors on foot, trying to get to the bridge before he could damage it.
‘Archers,’ he yelled. ‘Take up position along the banks either side of the bridge and keep the horsemen from interfering. Those with axes chop at the supports this end of the bridge. The rest of you prepare to hold the bridge.’
With that Dúnchad picked up his own axe and started work on one of the supports. Standing thigh deep in water he couldn’t see much but he heard the whirr of arrows followed by the screams of wounded men and the whinnies of dying horses.
Three other men joined him and they got into a rhythm, each chopping in turn as the chips of wood flew thick and fast. Finally he heard the support creak and the four men stepped away from it just as it snapped under the weight of the logs above it which formed the roadway. The near end of the bridge sagged into the water but it was still passable.
Dúnchad clambered back up the bank and looked towards the Picts. There were perhaps seventy horsemen on the far bank of whom half had been unhorsed, killed or incapacitated. However, his archers were running low on arrows and their arms were tiring. A group of eight horsemen had reached the far side of the bridge and charged recklessly across it. Three were hit before they got halfway and, as the rest were about to charge into the warriors massed on the other side, the other support gave way with a loud crack and the horsemen plunged into the fast flowing river.
By now the rest of the Picts were approaching the river bank with their own archers running in front of the rest. Dúnchad decided that there was no point in wasting the lives of his men; it would take the Picts hours to repair the damage enough to cross the river safely.
One or two brave – or foolish – men tried to cross the river but either they couldn’t swim or the current was too strong and they were swept away. The leaders could be seen arguing what to do; presumably some were in favour of repairing the bridge and others on marching further upstream to the next crossing place. Suddenly there was a tearing and grinding sound as the decision was made for them. The water pressure on the part of the structure in the water had swept it away and half of the rest of the bridge was pulled into the water. Dúnchad turned to two of his scouts.
‘Go and find out what’s happening further up the valley.’
As they galloped away he ordered his men to follow them and they set off to retrace their steps. They had crossed the hills between the two rivers via a saddle which was the lowest part of the range of hills but, if he returned that way it would bring him out behind Domnall’s army. Instead he headed west in order to cross via much higher col which he calculated should bring him out either behind the men of Strathclyde or on their left flank. Either way, he should be able to surprise them.
It took his men two hours to reach the saddle, but Dúnchad had ridden ahead to see what was happening. Just as he reached the saddle his scouts re-joined him.
‘As you can see, lord, the king is outnumbered but he is holding his own. The enemy seem loathe to press home an attack though.’
‘No doubt Owain is trying to lose as few men as possible whilst he waits for the damned Picts to join him. Had they been able to cross the Forth, they would have been able to attack Domnall in the rear by now.’
As soon as his men had laboured their way up to join him he led them down the other side aiming at the rear of the left flank of the enemy. At first he kept his banner hidden. For a while Owain might be fooled into thinking it was his allies, though he would realise it wasn’t as they drew closer. Picts fought half naked with painted torsos. Few had much in the way of armour. In contrast many of the men from Arran and Bute owned a leather jerkin or a chainmail byrnie of some sort and most had a helmet. Even the few who didn’t own a helmet were dressed in leggings, a tunic and a sheepskin to give them some protection.
After they had successfully negotiated the first part of the descent, which was littered with boulders, they started to run whilst trying to keep together. It was at that point that someone realised that they weren’t Picts. Dúnchad’s banner man waved it aloft and the men started to cry their leader’s name as they quickened the pace.
Whether their arrival would have turned the tide in their favour was something that would never be known. When they were still three hundred yards away from the enemy a wail went up from the ranks of Dalriada. Domnall Brecc had been killed.
The heart went out of his men and they started to fall back. Then those at the rear started to flee, most heading towards the route through the hills that Dúnchad had originally take to reach the River Forth. A few with less sense fled onto the open plain behind them where they would be trapped at the junction between the Firth of Forth and the place where the River Carron joined the Firth.
Dúnchad watched impotently as Owain’s men pursued the routed Dalriadans. There was no point in trying to attack the enemy now. His duty was clear: to save as many of his own men as he could.
‘What do we do now, lord?’ one of his horsemen asked.
‘We save ourselves. We head northwest back to Dalriada and hope we can get out of Manau before the Picts cut us off.’
Two days later Dúnchad reached Dùn Add and was made high king by Fergus of Islay, the only remaining sub-king. Domangart, as Domnall’s eldest son, might have expected to inherit, but he was an inexperienced youth of seventeen. As some form of consolation Dúnchad made him King of Arran and Bute as his vassal. It was not a wise move. It gave the boy a power base from which to challenge Dúnchad later; a challenge that would be successful.
However, it remained to be seen how much of Dalriada would be left for either of them to rule over after the catastrophe at Strathcarron. Of the hundreds of men that Domnall had led to disaster, barely a hundred and sixty had made it home again. The rest were either dead or enslav
ed.
Oswiu was furious when he’d heard. Evidently the High King of the Picts, Talorc, was a man with no honour and he wondered whether his own nephew, Talorgan, had been aware of the plan. It was possible, of course, that he’d been an innocent dupe. Oswiu hoped so.
That question was answered a little later when he heard that Talorgan had accused Talorc of duplicity and then had to flee for his life into the far north where the high king’s writ didn’t run.
~~~
The report from Sigbert and Raulf about the Isle of Man had given Oswiu an idea. It was now early October but, September having ended cold, wet and windy, the new month had started fine and warm, during the day at least. The clear skies meant that the nights were chilly but what worried Oswiu was the lack of wind. He needed some for his plan to work.
The news of the massacre at Strathcarron had reached him as he prepared to invade Man. At first he thought he’d have to call it off and prepared his defences – both in Rheged and Goddodin -against Owain but then he received news that changed everything. Owain had been wounded in the battle and, although it wasn’t serious, he’d neglected the wound and it had become infected. A month later he died from septicaemia.
The new King of Strathclyde was his fifteen year old son, Guret, the boy who Oswiu had captured at Dùn Breatainn three years previously. He had liked Guret then and knew that the boy wasn’t a fanatical pagan like his father had been. Being so young, he’d be far from secure on his throne and Oswiu decided to try and make him an ally.
However, his priority was the Isle of Man. It would stop the raids on the coast of Rheged and it would deprive Penda of territory. He nearly decided to delay as Rhieinmelth was due to give birth any day now, but it was late in the season for sailing and so in the end he decided to go. He only expected to be away for a few days and his wife probably wouldn’t care less if he was nearby or not when the time came.
