Page 63 of Bound By Honor
Though the Bann would supply water to drink and fish, if they had time to catch any, with the famine still raging across the land, they could not be assured food would be available. The unrelenting rain that had begun the year before continued so that crops were ruined and all of the country was suffering. Áine and the chiefs’ wives did what they could but often it was not enough.
With a heavy heart, she walked back to the castle, sadness and worry weighing her down like a heavy cloak. In the midst of war and concern for those she loved, there would be no celebration of the Lord’s birth, only prayers for her father and his men. And, to add to her sorrow, Finn was dying.
Creeve on the River Bann, Tirowen, Ulster, January 1295
THE SKY POURED rain and the air off the sea had been chilling as Angus’ galleys left the coast and entered the waters of the wide River Bann. Miles later, nearing Creeve, the rain tapered off, leaving drops falling from the trees.
Angus’ crews pulled the galleys onto the soggy grass at the edge of the river. As they trudged up the banks, trying not to slide in the mud, they heard the moans of the wounded.
Strewn across a grassy field were scores of bodies. Groans emanated from the few who yet lived.
Rob came to stand by his side, shaking his head as he stared at the grisly scene of blood-soaked bodies covering the wet grass. “Some think it a favored position to arrive late to battle. I say not, especially when ’tis an ally you come to rescue.”
“Aye,” said Angus. “By the look of this, Domnall struck unexpectedly. Some fought without mail, as if unprepared.” Angus made it a habit never to take off his mail when anticipating war.
“Had we but arrived earlier…” Rob’s voice trailed off.
Angus ordered his men to search for the living and call the physicians to them. Spotting a helmet several feet away bearing a silver crown, Angus walked toward the fallen king. The body had been pierced through many times, more like an execution than the death of one killed in battle.
He crouched next to the body. “This must be Brian O’Neill.” In death, the king looked younger than his thirty years, his face unlined, his brown eyes fixed open in a glazed stare. Angus crossed himself and closed the king’s eyes. “May God rest his soul.” Standing, he said to Rob, “Slain by the same Domnall O’Neill who killed his uncle Niall Culanach.”
Angus had expected a pitched battle in which he and his men would fight for Tirowen’s rightful king. He had not expected to find the battle over and the king lying dead in his blood surrounded by the bodies of his men. A terrible end to the hope of a young life.
“He should have a king’s burial,” said Rob.
Angus nodded. “’Tis the least we can do.”
Duncan and John came striding across the grass. “Those left alive,” began Duncan, “say that Domnall talked of going to Coleraine to celebrate his victory.”
Angus gazed off in the direction of the town across the wide river. “How many men does he have?”
“A few hundred,” said John.
Angus sighed. “What of the villagers?” Creeve was not a large settlement but Angus could see cottages in the distance nestled among the trees. Yet he’d seen no peasants since they had arrived.
“Fled,” said Duncan. “Most likely hiding their women, waiting until Domnall and his bloodthirsty lot depart.”
“At least Domnall has not torched the town,” offered Rob.
Angus inclined his head to his friend. “It would be most foolish to do so if he plans to reign in Tirowen. My thought is to let Domnall and his men drink their fill in the taverns of Coleraine while we tend the wounded and bury the dead. Then, as night descends and they are swaying on their feet, we will surround the town and see what we can. What say you?”
Rob scanned the battlefield and let out a sigh. “We came to fight. It hardly seems right to turn and go when the villains who did this are still close by. Yes, let us do as you suggest.”
“Very well,” Angus said to his companions, “Duncan, ask some of the galloglass to stand guard while we see to the wounded and the dead.”
Duncan dipped his head and turned to go. Angus thanked God his cousin was a stalwart soul, one he could count on.
The physicians were busy attending the injured. Those who had survived the battle now sported white bandages and were being led to the nearest cottages to recover.
It took a few hours for the burials to be accomplished. Angus joined in the gruesome task, knowing it was his Christian duty to honor the dead. The threatening rain had yet to resume.
When the dead had been laid to rest and Brian O’Neill’s body had been wrapped in a linen cloth for later burial, Angus encouraged his men to eat but he forbade cooking fires so as not to announce their presence to the enemy.
He was standing with Rob and Duncan, chewing on a stale crust of bread when he heard hoofbeats. Casting the crust aside, with his hand on the hilt of his sword, he looked up to see a large contingent of armed men riding in from the north, their helmets and mail visible in the waning light.
John came running up, his face smudged with dirt. “’Tis Lord Cumee!”
Angus strode to meet Cumee O’Cahan, sitting astride a handsome black courser. He had never seen the Irish lord arrayed in mail and weapons, prepared for battle. ’Twas a formidable sight.
