Epilogue

Tallow lamps burned behind shuttered windows as Ragnall and his followers marched up the timbered High Street in Veðrarfjord. Their clattering feet startled dozing pigs and geese hidden in the allotments along the thoroughfare. Their noise brought townsfolk to the doors of their thatched homes to investigate who was about the streets when the city was asleep. Despite the darkness, the stone palisade topped with timber posts was outlined black against the night sky. The summer sun had given way to mist which partially hid the stars from the konungr’s sight, but the moon’s haze was brighter still and it lit up the heavens over the River Siúire. Ragnall’s hall, and the great tower which his namesake had built five generations before, stood proud and dark against the glowering mist, and it was in that direction that the konungr led his company.

‘Where the hell is everyone?’ Sigtrygg Fionn asked as he shivered into the neck his heavy cloak.

Ragnall growled rather than answer. It had been four days since his army had fled from the field at Dun Domhnall, four days of humiliating retreat. Few of the men who had stayed with Ragnall had slept or eaten in that time and tempers had long since become frayed. After the cattle stampede had torn apart his army, the konungr and his jarls had tried to rally their men, for they had known that even a few hundred warriors could still have turned the day in their favour. But every time they had marshalled a small body of warriors, the Norman horsemen had come speeding through the smoke to break-up their formation and send them running.

In the end Ragnall had led a group of sixty westwards to escape the rout. The Normans had not tracked them, but screams in the distant east had told the konungr that some, whether Ostman or Gael, had been caught by the vicious foreigners. The greatest danger, as they had turned north towards Dun Conán, had come not from the enemy but from their erstwhile allies. Twice, as they forced their way through the forests of Siol Bhroin, Ragnall had been attacked by some of the more rebellious sects of the Uí Drona. On both occasions he had been lucky to escape. Like wolves, the Gael had come in snarling packs that first night, testing the edges of the Ostman lines and picking off any man who fell behind. They had not been able to pause, to rest, or build a fire that first night, but had pushed onwards. The first sign that they were in real danger had come at sunrise the day after the battle. It had been a red sky that dawn, and that had always been the herald of ill fortune. Ragnall had feared the worst, but they had covered the last mile or so in daylight and it was only upon arrival at Dun Conán that he discovered their true predicament. Few ships remained on the beach, and those that did were burning. Everywhere bodies, both Gael and Ostman, marked zones where impromptu battles had been fought between vying companies of men in the darkness of the night. Defeat had brought about disputes. Fear had led to looting. To the victors had gone a ship and the safety of the river. With no other means of escape, Ragnall had led his men northward, back along the route that he had followed just days before beside the Déisi and the Ui Drona and their vast, lumbering column of camp followers. The sight of the well-trodden paths through the forest had reminded him just how large his army had been and the magnitude of the disaster that had befallen them.

They had finally made it back to Veðrarfjord that evening, the fourth since their defeat. There were now just fifteen men at Ragnall’s back, the rest having died by the banks of the Bearú or gone with Jarl Gufraid to his manor upriver.

Ragnall needed news. He desired it more than food or rest. He had to know what had become of his army, and how many had returned to Veðrarfjord. He had to know how many ships had survived the brawls at Dun Conán, and what the jarls were saying of his defeat. Ragnall needed information if he was to re-establish his authority over the city in the wake of the rout at Dun Domhnall.

The konungr stole a glance of one of the men who had come to the door of his longhouse to check on his animals. His face was shrouded by the light emanating from a fire within, but Ragnall could see recognition and anger emblazoned upon his brow. Perhaps he was a father who had lost a son to the foreigners’ blades? He supposed that few of the townsfolk would’ve escaped loss, close or distant, because of their defeat and he promised that the invaders would pay.

‘At least there is no sign of the Englishmen,’ Sigtrygg Fionn spoke at his shoulder. ‘I half expected them to follow up their victory by crossing the river to besiege the city.’

Ragnall ignored the comment. To have scolded the jarl for his stupidity was to remind all his followers that their konungr had lost to little more than a handful of enemies. It would’ve served no purpose other than to have embarrassed both ruler and subject, and Ragnall knew that he would require all the help he could if he was to keep his position. To his right the high roof of St Olav’s Church soared against the dark sky and Ragnall crossed his chest and prayed to his city’s saintly protector to grant him grace over the coming days and weeks.

His hall was the biggest in the city. Built upon a small hillock, it had once been defended only by the confluence of the Siúire and the vast impassable marsh which it fed. However, the great wealth of Veðrarfjord, as well as the enmity of the local Gaelic lords, had permitted the erection of a wall, three times as tall as a man, around the city. Ragnall’s hall, the hall of the konungr, had been enclosed on two sides by the meeting of the east and north walls. At the building’s back stood the mighty tower which shared his name.

The konungr was pleased to see smoke and firelight seeping from behind the closed window shutters and he swore that he could identify the hint of cooked meat on the evening air as he advanced on the twisted fence which defended the southern approach to his home. Weariness threatened to overcome him so close was he to his destination. He could not wait to look upon his wife’s face, to see his young sons Ragnall Óg and Óttar.

He increased his pace as he climbed the path towards the stone entrance to his hall, some of his troubles departing as he thought of his warm bed, good food and drink. He could positively feel the heat stored in the thatched roof and wooden walls as he listened to the voices within. A smile spilled across Ragnall Mac Giolla Mhuire’s crooked face as he reached out to push open the heavily decorated doors. He was momentarily dazzled by the brightness and smoke inside the large room, and had to shield his eyes from their effects.

He immediately knew that something was wrong in Veðrarfjord for the noise in the hall suddenly abated as he and his men entered. As Ragnall’s eyes drew accustomed to the firelight he lowered his hand to find that every eye in the hall had turned to look at him. Few had welcoming looks upon their faces.

‘Ragnall,’ Jarl Sigtrygg’s voice boomed around the hall and the konungr’s eyes were drawn to the dais where his giant of a son climbed to his feet. ‘It is good of you to join us finally. There have been some changes in your absence.’ His voice positively flowed with menace.

Ragnall felt hands closing around his left arm and he turned to find it locked in the grip of Máel Sechlainn Ua Fhaolain, King of the Déisi. There was no friendship in the Gael’s eyes as he raised a savage sword to touch the konungr’s chin. A scuffle had broken out behind him and Ragnall craned his neck to see that his few remaining followers had been surrounded by more of the Uí Fhaoláin, their spears pressed to his warriors’ chests.

‘What do you think that you are doing, boy?’ Ragnall raged in his son’s direction. ‘What right have you to do this to me in my own hall?’

But Jarl Sigtrygg did not answer. Instead he looked to his left and nodded once. Ragnall twisted away from Máel Sechlainn’s clasp in time to watch as his friend Sigtrygg Fionn was cut down by two Gaels and a man from Jarl Sigtrygg’s own crew. The old man had not had time to even draw his sword before he was felled.

‘Is Gufraid amongst their number?’ Jarl Sigtrygg called from the dais. Receiving no answer, the jarl cast his eyes over his father’s remaining men as he strode down the hall, to make sure that his rival was indeed absent. ‘No matter, I have made hostage of his sons and he will support me or they will die.’

‘You have no right to do this,’ Ragnall hissed at Jarl Sigtrygg and struggled against Máel Sechlainn’s hold. He saw a look pass over his son’s face and for a moment Ragnall thought that he too would follow his friend to heaven. Instead Jarl Sigtrygg leaned towards his father and spoke softly in his ear.

‘Silver buys friends as quickly as defeat loses them,’ he told his father. ‘I rule in Veðrarfjord now and when I save this city from the foreigners I will be konungr.’ Jarl Sigtrygg was smiling slyly behind his red beard when he stepped away from Ragnall. ‘Take him to the tower,’ he told Máel Sechlainn. ‘Put him with his wife and sons. Then come back to my hall, for we have plans to make if we are to save the city.’ Around him men shouted and raised their spears and axes in defiance. ‘We must prepare for war on the streets of Veðrarfjord,’ Jarl Sigtrygg yelled. ‘We must prepare for the coming of Strongbow.’