“Seward, you sound old and dull.”
“Not filled with youthful nonsense you mean,” A small smile exited, however, Morgund couldn’t see it.
Obviously Seward had not regained his full measure of happiness, Morgund decided. Looking into the abyss of death was to know what lay beyond, which was nothing, a blank shroud, a doorway into black nothing. Having come so close Morgund knew, and he knew the thought caused anxiety. He believed this was the cause of Seward’s change. Seeing Seward made his heart quicken, then his pulse slowed for he had learned self control. Self control was at the centre of mastering the swordsman’s art and Morgund had learned a measure of it. Morgund was determined to be content with things, life was good, or mostly, it was, at any rate. To enjoy life to the full most, that was his aim. However vain the effort, he thought to himself.
“Still in a bleak mood Seward?” He would prick at him, to allay boredom.
“The hunting is scarce, not even a partridge or a quail and we have no coin for food,” Seward replied, ignoring Morgund’s teasing.
“What are we to do then?” Morgund asked.
“It is dangerous to stay. Both the rebels and king John would hand you over to Alexander if it suited them, or kill you themselves. I have heard John lost his treasure in the sea. He is in dire need of funds. Alexander may have contacted him about you.”
Seward proceeded to tell Morgund that king John had taken his treasury with him. On attempting a crossing of a tidal estuary, had lost it, the advancing tide caught his baggage. A most disagreeable event for this benighted king. John had no luck, and had earned the title ‘Lack land’, lacking sense, lacking friends and lacking funds.
Seward gestured at surrounding fields. “Not even these are tilled, with war sweeping the land. We two must fight to earn enough to live and equip ourselves. The northern rebels are like to win. As common mounted esquires, our identity will not be known and the armies are full of foreigners attempting to earn by the sword, no notice will be taken of us.”
Good coin was being paid for experienced fighting men, it was true. As they sorely needed money, they rode into Durham and signed to fight alongside Sir Walter De Vesky against king John.
BEFORE THIS WEEK was out, many living would be dead. Morgund was about to undergo his greatest test, his first battle and was silently tense. Seward, older, now an experienced fighter, surveyed the men around him with an almost detached sense of serenity He recalled the stories of the gods of war from his native land, of Thor and Odin, and their great deeds of martial valour. Morgund not long turned sixteen years of age, looked to Seward for confidence, and found it within those coldly glittering, killer eyes.
Confusion reigned amongst the rebel forces. Morgund questioned their wisdom in remaining warlike, awaiting the catastrophe that could only occur to an army without morale or readiness.
In time, however, an order of sorts emerged, the natural leaders taking control of number of men at arms and those more inclined to follow instruction were thankful for the opportunity to do so. Finally, a powerful host, numbering in their hundreds and thousands, they marched south. Near Bedford contact was made with the enemy. These contacts involved the scouts only, to discover size and disposition.
However, with an inexorable and fateful slowness, the two main bodies of the two forces drew upon each other. In the growing dark of a clouded afternoon they stood mutually in full view at a distance measured in hundreds of yards. The darkness of night was encroaching quickly, and with neither side seeing advantage in night fighting, an unquiet truce was established. Until the full light of day, it seemed, nought of significance would occur.
The next morning the sun rose through a smoky haze, the colour of blood. “An unkind omen, Seward,” Morgund said, jittery.
Seward looked amused. “As much for them as us.”
Morgund’s hand played upon a magnificent sword given to him by King John. A work of art, in carving and in inlay, perfectly balanced. He had trained hard, parried, blocked and swept up and down until both man and steel had fused together in splendid synergy.
To Morgund, it seemed to have a will of its own, deftly directing his hand, at times an extension of it. He became dynamic and was driven to lightning speed and adeptness, impressing all who saw him.
From his own personal perspective, he felt like a spectator looking down upon himself watching the exploits, not the swordsman. It was some other great being, so skilled. Not until he sheathed his sword and resumed his former station did this feeling cease. He kept to himself, this elevated state of awareness, deeming it an important secret, and, a key to his success. However, paradoxically he also regarded it as an embarrassment, an admission of wrong-headedness, a strangeness.
At an early stage in his swordsmanship Morgund believed his dexterity and deftness with a blade may be particular to his own personal weapon. However, upon switching weapons, he found he remained equally adept. Constant and fatiguing practise had redesigned him elevated him as if he was borne aloft by wings upon his back. He was scarcely the same Morgund MacAedh, son of Kenneth, who had ventured forth so long ago.
He had once been un-noteworthy. Now, he gave off an aura of danger and readiness. Yet his swordsmanship had been learned in a vacuum, his skill with a blade honed in training sessions where the risk of harm was incidental, and the probability of death nigh on impossible. This, however, was to be a trial by battle a baptism of fire where no sage voice would correct him on the proper swing of a blade or reprimand him for undue recklessness. A battle was unpredictable to all but the most learned of generals and even then it was far from a tame beast.
No, on this field his correction would be a bloody wound, his reprimand a stab between the ribs. He looked over the serried ranks around him and spurred his horse to ride beside Seward who was cantering ahead. His contemplations deserted him when he saw the amassed forces of the enemy.
Morgund, holding the high ground, looked down into the massed ranks of the enemy. They were battle hardened mercenaries, pikes thrust forward. Well positioned in neat orderly squares, and awaiting the events of the day, just as Morgund and Seward were themselves. Morgund and Seward, dismounted. The boggy ground unsuitable for large numbers of horsemen meant today they would fight on foot.
Flocks of ravens, known, as the gallows birds, took to the sky, the carrion birds circled high above knowingly. These black winged, harbingers of death had learned that large numbers of men meant fighting, and the opportunity to scavenge flesh once it was done. They wheeled blackly in the sky on unkind wings, their screeching sickening the men below. They followed expecting to feast on the corpses provided. War, the ravens knew it well. Morgund thought they symbolised all the dark foes who dwelled in the minds of men, set forth in a vision of Armageddon. The End Of Days … Now, it would be, the End Of Days for many here. The ravens screeching above them didn’t seem like earthly birds. Nor did these men, these enemies, men, of this earth. Morgund, neither sought their salvation nor condemnation from this other race, the men he would face in battle, were just that: menacing, alien, and apart.
Morgund and Seward pushed their way closer to the front line on foot. There seemed a particular calmness, or at least solemnity, on the part of the enemy forces, much apart from the jostling and sauntering amongst their own. Morgund and Seward wondered alike, would this be another learning opportunity, or would it be their own end, a blood drenched annihilation.
Hushed tones. The noise of the wind. If he shut his eyes he could think himself alone. It was difficult to believe this calm-quiet, would end. Morgund cast his eyes down at his foes. The rising morning sun illuminated a multitude of faces. Pennants waved in the breeze. Obviously a well trained army. One of these very men he gazed at might kill him. They gazed back at his army with neutrality almost boredom.
For the moment it seemed no battle might occur. That they were simply two large assemblies of men warming themselves in the sun, peering at each other. For now, just peering. A very precious now,
the now of peace, so very nearly at an end. Morgund looked at some of the men beside him, many had curiously relaxed expressions. Whether they were acting a part or beyond caring, he couldn’t decide. How must he look to them? He wondered. Like a frightened child, no doubt. He knew well enough by now, to reside within a shell of bravado. Might not some of these very men be thinking of slipping away, but remaining here, because others beside them, did not slink off. They were brave the men who stayed and he was one of them. A sudden terrible thought. Now and forever condemned to the earth many men now within his sight. They knew, as he did that great numbers of their own number presently within sight would be condemned to bleed the earth red.
By virtue of endless effort Morgund was well ready. A litany of priorities went through his mind, the first, that his sword still hung by his side. Morgund felt for it. It was still there. He thought over what Seward had told him. To read men was essential. To read intention, to anticipate correctly, essential.
To affect men’s thinking and overwhelm them before a blow was struck; essential. That particular maxim redundant in this particular contest where nothing was certain except uncertainty itself. For a master swordsman must not merely match his opponent in skill or speed but excel in will. And, last of all, die like a warrior be proud in death and do honour to the heroic tradition set by those who had gone before.
Whilst sparring one may take his time, attempt to wear down his partner in order to exact a coup de grace stroke, a glorious killing strike. Everything he had learned might count for nothing. Upon the battlefield a duel must be quick, decisive. To allay would surely see an enemy chop into an unarmoured back or hack at him from some other angle. A rarity possessed by only the best of men, to exist in a state of nothingness and be emotionless and effortless and fearless, be as one with the sword know another’s thoughts by reading their body, by having the eye and reflexes. To be faceless. To be nothing but the sword. To be a master of the blade one must also be a master of himself.
To grow, a swordsman must fight. Today, Morgund would prove whether swordsmanship counted in a large battle. At least, although, he felt fear, but with it a certain method of thought. He had Seward to thank for that. What a lesson this situation gave him. He was looking through a gateway into another world. It was a rare place to be, offering rare perspective.
A single drumbeat began, like the beating of an immense heart. Looking back, Morgund saw a rebel banner dip. There was a general movement towards the enemy lines, sluggish at first, but with the sense and then with the reality of, a landslide.
Men ran, like waves rushing to shore pitching long, strong. Swords, held high. The drum beat from the hill behind them, drowned out by screaming war cries. Suddenly the waves stopped by a wall of pikes. Within moments Morgund’s shield was reduced to splinters and blood, his or another’s, blinded him. He was badly shaken by the ferocity of the charge and defence, which nothing could have prepared him for.
Morgund was swept along, grasping his sword firmly, lest it become dislodged amidst the crush. He thought he might be wounded, for he felt nauseous and his vision swam with grey stars. Finally his sight cleared. Thick masses of men were coming forward. Pushed back by the enemy, trying to stay afoot was a near impossibility.
Pressure from behind as men surged forth into battle. Morgund almost collapsed, but somehow retained his footing. Charging again, forcing. Falling meant certain death under foot or at the end of a pike. The sheer stress of the situation unhinged minds. Affected men emitted shrieks, or low moaning sobs. Those surrendering to panic lost their lives immediately. Morgund pushed the panic from his mind as the crowds pushed him. To stay upon one’s feet meant to live, at least a while longer. Morgund was among the stalwart.
The relentless crush caused disruption, upon the separate enemy detachments. The first enemy square, followed by another, sagged. The king’s soldiers were tough and determined, however. They key factor affecting the course of the combat that the rebels had numbers against them. They withdrew sluggishly, remaining in their contingents and maintaining their martial discipline slowing the rebel advance.
The bulk of Morgund’s rebels had flattened the first line of defenders. The king’s men were stout and the next line continued to withdraw in good order. To Morgund, it was akin to hacking into an impenetrable forest. After the initial collision no cohesion could be maintained. There was no end to the slaughter, nor low acts. Captured men had their eyes cut out whilst still alive. The young men attracted by trumpet and bright pendant alike came to realise their mistake.
Morgund with no choice nevertheless. To give him the courage to face his enemies, with grudges to repay, Morgund could easily see MacCainstacairt in the men before him. He saw the face of the man he hated which kept his sword arm rising and falling. He felt a severe pain in his head. Had he been hit? His legs were weak. Crouching down, he gained a few minutes of rest but soon thereafter he was one of many who were fighting for space and life. Morgund saw no point in the fierce resistance of his enemies. He could see, as could all, that for them, this day was lost. Yet fight on they did Hired outsiders, the kings mercenaries, knew what that if they were broken into small numbers and spilled into the countryside they would suffer cruelly. Having cut a destructive path through these formerly green and productive lands, defeat would deliver them into the hands of the people they had molested.
The protracted fighting and close quarters combat sapped away the strength of men on both sides. Morgund could feel his strength draining away, as surely as if he was drained of blood. He was jostled remorselessly, battered from side to side.
At one moment he could see the ground, splashed red with blood, littered with the dead and dying, and parts of the dead and those who would die, all being ground under a stampede. To fall was to die, and Morgund almost lost balance when he trampled over something that moved. Then his eyes were skyward as they were dragged thither by raven’s wings.
Those black birds wheeled high above, patiently waiting for dead flesh. His vision was grey again, the pain in his head intense. The smell of blood and sweat was overpowering. The shriek of a man impaled on pikes. By his side, a comrade lost his hand, at the wrist, and held it with his one remaining hand. The man’s sword fell to the ground at his feet, along with the hand. Defenceless, he was cut down. A wave of nausea flooded over Morgund as he breathed in the mingled smells of the flesh torn asunder, life blood flowing freely, the earthen smell of loosened bowels. He vomited violently, coughing and gagging.
Then, from the thick of battle, Morgund was cast into gentler waters, from darkness into light. Men moved alone or in small groups, and he was assured at least of not being trampled. Fatigue settled heavily on him like a lead cloak. Struggling to remain upright, having fought his way through densely packed men, he thought he had survived the worst of the melee.
One of the king’s soldiers raised a shield and Morgund saw a glint of metal in the man’s hand. Morgund’s feet wouldn’t move. Morgund finally lunged out. Cold steel met flesh, and another of the enemy fell. A greater lull developed. He stood in a sea of tranquillity, alone, on an island bare, none close by
He was temporarily reprieved from the frantic haste. Morgund looked down upon a pale, glum, face, its owner, knowing his end was come. The man who had lately been a foe was now just a man succumbing to death. He gasped loudly, his gurgling expiration a fountain of bright red froth. Morgund tried to avert his eyes but fascination pulled his eyes back.
The soldier’s eyes rolled crazily from left to right before his expression settled into a sad, mirthless smile. Was it a glimpse of heaven, or a memory of his mother, that made the smile. The question weighed on Morgund’s mind as the mans lips turned blue. It made him remember the blow which caused this. He had almost forgotten that he had cast this man into death. Looking down, the seed of decay was already on its course, for the blue was not a living shade and the fallen enemy became as grey as the sky. No longer in immediate danger he felt momentary grief. Loud thunder
rumbled overcoming the clatter of war. With a jolt Morgund noticed for the first time the steady rain which had been falling for some time. Then he felt a sudden terrible sadness for the man he had killed, an impulse to fall down and beg forgiveness, which as quickly passed. It was war men died. He noticed all around him men were fighting, bleeding, dying. He remembered then where he was so held his sword tight, and concentrated. His tongue and mouth ached. How long it had been since he’d last drank? He knew not. He went for his hip flask. Unfastening it, a few sips, then quickly put it away.
A knight descended as if from heaven, gleaming sword in hand, reaping heads like a harvester out and gathering, but instead of wheat stalks, heads, he took. He galloped past Morgund, the horse almost crushing him. He swept down with his blade, in an arc, whereby, he caught an arm, sprayed blood onto a number of faces, the surprised looks made the knight laugh. He came straight at Morgund.
Standing in his saddle high with his weapon ready to strike, by staying nimble on his feet Morgund managed to avoid the attack and the knight rode on seeking easier game. The knight had taken a huge risk riding alone, on mud. He must be a valiant man.
The energy to avoid the knight was Morgund’s last. Every step was exhausting from here on and his instinct for survival had become dull. Each step seemed to grind him into the ground. He could eternally, sleep, just sit down and close his eyes and be banished from this cursed field. The maltreatment of battle had him cursed. It was a sobering experience to kill a man, he thought. He looked down at a superficial wound on his arm, already it had stopped bleeding.
Perhaps he had killed many in the burning melee, he had seen the bodies falling, had bypassed them, but he didn’t know positively, perhaps glancing blows he had dealt, or, his sword didn’t land at all, they had slipped, or rather than been killed by others, or were still alive. There was no way to know with certainty; all had transpired in that fearful, blood soaked haste where Morgund could scarcely single out anything. But that poor man he had watched die. That poor last man, had died most assuredly, at Morgund’s hand. Now that the invigorating humours of battle lust were draining away from him, Morgund reflected and mourned.
Celtic Blood Page 14
