The freezing rain made the trees shine crystalline in the bright light of the full moon. It was a scene of rare beauty, which belied the bloodshed that would come in the morning. Thin branches hung heavy with ice from thick trunks encased in frozen armour. You could hear the hearts of trees cracking under the weight of the frost, which accumulated without any measure of mercy. Limbs split, splintered and snapped. A century-old oak groaned under the weight of winter, rumbled and clapped like thunder, then faltered and fell with a deafening boom.
The thin coat of ice on the ground was brittle and broke under Murtagh's feet as he stood there, gazing upon his too-small army. Only two years before, he had ruled the Emerald Isle as High King without opposition. Now, only a loyal few stood with him atop the hill of Leiter-Luin. He wondered how he would be remembered by history, how the bards would tell the story of his kingship. Would he be revered for his achievements or reviled for his final acts?
Over and over, he revisited the events that had led to his downfall. Admittedly, what he had done was horrendous – he had blinded his cousin, Eochy of Ulaid, whom he had promised to treat rightly as an honoured hostage, and he had killed his cousin's retinue. But could he have done otherwise under the circumstances? Eochy had insulted Murtagh in his own court. He had threatened – promised, in fact – that the peace that had been brokered by the two-faced Bishop Amlaim would be short-lived, and that Murtagh's rule would soon be over. Eochy's words alone could have been merely a warning and given Murtach pause. But then, there was Archbishop Gelasius' suspicion that Eochy had turned to dark powers to secure his ascension.
Afterward, Murtagh's cowardly brother Nial turned from him, along with the opportunistic upstart Aed O'Neill. Without their support, Murtagh's hold on his northern lands became tenuous at best, and consequently, his claim to the High King's crown was soon contested. Murtagh had vowed that the traitors would pay for their betrayal, but he doubted he would have the opportunity to make good on his oath.
The enemy at the foot of Leiter-Luin outnumbered his army tenfold. Murtagh had hoped to find respite in these lands of King Donchad of Airgialla, who had long been his staunchest ally. However, Donchad had taken Murtagh's treatment of Eochy as a personal affront. The warriors of Airgialla had turned and joined with Murtagh's nemeses, the warriors of Breifne and Connaught. Now, waiting below with sharp spears for morning to come, they would likely prove his downfall.
What a waste, Murtagh thought, scanning his encampment. These young men were here at the behest of their elders who were sitting safely by their hearths – here to stand with an old man who had few years left to live and, truth be told, had lost the will to fight. These green warriors would gain nothing from this battle, neither fame nor fortune, win or lose. Most would die on the morrow. Their death would bring honour to their respective clans, but what use is honour to a dead man?
He reminded himself that he was fighting for the sake of his young sons, his only living heirs. By now, they would be in Armagh, where Archbishop Gelasius had promised to keep them safe. The priest was a good man – one of only two he could have entrusted with the care of his boys.
The other was King Dermot MacMurrough, who could have made a difference in the battle to come had he not been occupied dealing with a timely rebellion in his lands of Leinster. MacMurrough was a powerful warrior, an excellent strategist, a shrewd statesman, and a most loyal ally. His very presence on the battlefield would have made some reconsider their allegiances. But their enemies, led by King Roderic O'Connor of Connaught, had carefully coordinated their attacks, fomenting unrest in the South while campaigning in the North.
Murtagh sighed and carefully stepped forward on the thin ice. He greeted young men who huddled around covered campfires, which offered little respite from the cold. He offered kind words of encouragement and spoke about how they would soon be hailed as heroes. But, in their hearts, they all knew the battle was far from won. They couldn't see the enemy camp through the curtain-like sleet, but they knew they were outnumbered.
After days of hard march, they were worn and tired. Another sleepless night would sway the advantage squarely on the side of their attackers. Murtagh saw fear in the eyes of his soldiers. Like trapped animals, they had some instinct that the morning would likely be their last. Some might have thought to flee, but the camp was surrounded. And even if they could somehow make it across enemy lines, none in Ireland would grant them hospitality, knowing they fled from the Battle of Leiter-Luin.
Never had Murtagh Mac Lochlain, the Red Hand of Tyrone, felt so old and tired. His bones ached. His breath was short. His stomach was fragile and had years ago condemned him to a diet of boiled roots and honeyed water. Time had worn him down as it does all men, without pause or pity. It was worse in the morning when he sometimes had barely the strength to rise. Yet, he bore the weight of the crown with grim stoicism.
He had been High King for twenty years. For twenty years, he had fought to keep the peace. He had schemed, maneuvered, warred, allied with enemies, and turned against friends. He had sacrificed everything in the name of the so-called greater good. And now, he feared that it had all been for naught. He had hoped to forge a lasting peace but had achieved only short-lived truces after winning too many bloody battles.
“Christ be with me,” Muirchertach prayed under his breath. His thick wool cloak was wet, heavy, and cold. Despite the weather, he would have preferred to stay here among his men, but it was time to head back to the warmth of his pavilion, where bickering lords discussed pointless battle plans.
"Mead," Murtagh ordered as he stepped inside. A slave took his cloak, and another handed him a golden cup. There was fresh wheat bread and sweet milk curdles on the side table, and a savoury beef stew with celery, garlic, carrots, and onions simmering in the cauldron. The High King was not blind to the inequity that fed the lords so well and the common soldiers so poorly, but it was the way of things. Such luxuries gave young warriors something for which to strive, and old heroes some sense of importance. They were hallmarks of bravery and nobility and set the few above the masses.
There were sixteen noblemen assembled around the table. Lord MacGillamartain and the Chiefs of Hadhmaill and Gillian were old friends — battle-tested and true. But the others were fresh-faced and inexperienced. They spoke with bravado but lacked conviction. They had never faced such odds and could not guess at the bloody mess that awaited them at dawn.
Some argued that they should attempt a sortie before dawn to breach the enemy lines and allow the High King to escape. A sound plan, in theory, but in reality, it was sure to fail as they were grossly outnumbered and had too few horses. And the older men who had long fought at Murtagh's side knew that he would never flee from a fight.
Murtagh sipped his mead to steady his nerves. He was in his sixties, older than most old men. He had envisioned his death for years, prepared for it, and prayed for it even when his ailments became too painful to bear. And still, now, he desperately wanted to live.
"What do you think?" MacGillamartain asked, interrupting Murtagh's reverie. The grizzled warriors both knew that the purpose of the discussion was merely to assuage the younger men's anxieties. To win the day, morale would need to be high against all odds, and some measure of showmanship was a small price to pay for spirit and faith.
"We have the high ground, and they'll be trudging through ice and mud to reach us. Our enemies will be worn before the battle even begins," he reassured his men with false confidence. "We're outnumbered, so let them surround us. They'll thin their lines, and we'll stand as one – and fight twice as hard."
"The battle plan is sound, so cast aside your doubts," he urged them. The king's assurance somewhat allayed the noblemen's worries. However, he knew better than to pretend the battle was won already.
"Many of us will fall," he admitted, a sad note in his voice. "Men will die. Friends. Kinsmen. Fathers and sons. But they will not have died in vain. They will have stood proudly against the treachery and tyranny of Connaught, the crimes of Breifne, and the disloyalty of Airghialla!"
"I see in your eyes the same fear that would take the heart of me," he said, paused, then continued more forcefully, "A day may come when our courage fails, but it will not be on the morrow. We are outnumbered, it is true. But we are not outmatched – not so long as God is with us!"
The three elders – veterans who knew the importance of a good speech on the eve of battle – raised their cups and led the cheer, "Lámh-derg abú! The Red Hand to victory!"
"Now, go be with your men, put your minds to prayers, and get some rest," he dismissed the assembly. This night would likely be his last, and Murtagh wanted peace, which only solitude could grant. Truly, he has glad they were here at his side, but he couldn't stand their company anymore.
The nobles left his pavilion, leaving their High King to his brooding. Assuming his end to be nigh, Murtagh's thoughts turned to the future with, unbeknownst to him, near-premonitory accuracy. He imagined his Northern lands divided between his brother Nial and the O'Neil, and his sons dispossessed. There were many who would support his progeny's claim but too few to stand against the greedy and opportunistic traitors who had turned against him. The boys would need to be strong to survive and hopefully someday avenge their father's death.
His mind wandered South to Munster, a land divided by the centuries-old feud between the McCarthy and O'Brian. The old clans had friends and relatives throughout the isle, and Murtagh knew there would be no peace in Ireland until that bloody conflict came to an end, which seemed neither soon nor likely.
He saw King Roderick O'Connor of Connaught crowned High King in the Spring at the Hill of Tara, with the Kings of Breifne, Airghialla, Ulaid, and Meath at his side. Shamefully, Murtagh feared that O'Connor might succeed where he had failed and rally all the lords of Ireland to a single cause.
He imagined Leinster burning and Dermot MacMurrough standing alone. None would come to the aid of the lord who had for a decade stood at Murtagh's side as his most trusted ally and advisor. And King Tiernan O'Rourke, the ruler of Breifne who had more reason than any other man to hate the King of Leinster, would not rest until Dermot and his entire family were dead. How would the ever-clever Dermot find victory in the face of such adversity?
Murtagh's mind's eye flew across the Irish Sea to England, where King Henry II had come to a tentative agreement with the Welsh. It was safe to assume that the English monarch would now turn his attention to the Emerald Isle. Since the Pope had granted the English crown the right to invade and forcibly reform Ireland ten years before, Murtagh had known that the question was not whether but when English warriors would arrive.
Murtagh travelled to the court of the pious King Louis VII and to Paris, where the foundations of Notre Dame Cathedral were being laid. While France enjoyed a veritable renaissance, the French king's power was threatened by his most powerful vassal, who also happened to be his rival, Henry II, King of England. Years ago, Henry II had married the fair Eleanor of Aquitaine, once Louis VII's wife; he now had claims to Normandy, Aquitaine, Anjou, and Maine.
Further South, Pope Alexandre III's claim to the realm of God was opposed by the Antipope Paschal III who was allied with the Holy Roman Emperor, Frederick I. The conflict weakened the Vatican's power, but its influence was still felt in the hallowed halls of the Church of Ireland, which was torn by reformists vying for power against clergymen who desperately hung to their ecclesiastic dynasties. There seemed to be no reconciliation possible between the factions.
Murtagh sighed. These visions of the future did little to improve his mood or distract him from his lot. Sitting alone in a king's golden luxury, he longed for a simpler life – a common's man's concerns and responsibilities. He knew farmers and cattle herders worked hard from sunrise to sunset, but they did not contend with bloody battles, treacherous villains, and the fate of an entire nation.
Only sleep allowed respite from it all, albeit momentarily as Murtagh tended to awaken before daylight. The old man kneeled for prayers, which offered little comfort as he was quite certain that God had never, and would not tonight, hear his pleas. He was not a devout man, nor was he a good man. He knew Heaven was no place for kings, despite all the assurances of mendicant priests.
Murtagh prayed before laying himself to sleep perhaps for the last time. He found some peace in his dreams, which transported him to happier days spent with his boys on the beaches of Culdaff.
The air was crisp, and the sky was clear as the sun rose over the frozen forest. Above, carrion crows flew high. Even the chaplains, whose faith repulsed pagan superstitions, interpreted the birds as a bad omen. It had been seven hundred years since the passing of Saint-Patrick, yet the old beliefs remained. The Irish still stayed clear of fairy forts, still saluted solitary magpies, and still told the ancient tales of the Tuatha de Danann. The writings of priests and bards had not entirely replaced ancient oral traditions, and the elders told the same old tales as always, at night by the fire.
The devout men of the cloth burned incense in chain cencers to purify the faithful and prepare them for the afterlife, but many still believed the sweet-smelling smoke would ward against evil spirits who could ruin battle plans and pollute brave hearts with fear and doubt. This dichotomy of faith – and the Vatican's ridiculous notions about celibacy – was at the heart of the tensions between the Church of Ireland and the Pope in Rome, Murtagh mused.
Murtagh's nose was itchy as it often was before battles. It was a strange but oddly comforting tic as it carried the memory of countless victories. His nose had itched when he defeated Roderick O'Connor in Meath almost fifteen years ago. It had itched at the Battle of Fordruim and during his campaigns in Connaught and Breifne. And it had itched when, ten years ago, he had bested Dermot MacMurrough, now his ally. It had itched time and time again when all seemed lost, yet against all the odds, here he stood.
Staring at the enemy camp below, Murtagh's faint hope struggled against fear and dread. He worried that he stood with the dead atop Leiter-Luin, that their defeat was a foregone conclusion. Morale was low. His men were cold, tired, and, worse of all, hungry. The morning's watery porridge and rationed dried meat had not satiated their hankering and would certainly be too light a fare to fuel sharp wits and strong arms for the day to come. Pale-faced and haggard, the younger warriors lacked the steely resolve of men committed to victory at all costs. And the veterans, who stood in the front lines staring grimly into the woods, knew too well what was coming.
Murtagh's joints ached, and, despite his thick wool cloak and the fire that had burned through the night in his pavilion, he felt frozen to the bone. His boiled leather armour seemed heavier than usual, and, for a moment, he doubted he would have the strength to throw darts, let alone wield a sword and shield.
He reminded himself that these were not thoughts befitting a king, let alone the High King of Ireland. He cursed his momentary weakness and promised himself he would fight as he always had, with faith and abandon. In spite of his age, he remained a force to be reckoned with – an old wolf with sharp fangs. And there was still hope. There was always hope. God would decide his fate, for better or worse.
"I arise today through the strength of Heaven," a priest incanted the ancient prayer of Saint-Patrick. "Light of the sun, splendour of fire, speed of lightning, swiftness of the wind, depth of the sea, stability of the earth, firmness of the rock."
The prayer bolstered Murtagh's spirit and imbued him with renewed strength and resolve. He looked up and implored God to grant him one more victory – one last victory.
A horn blew in the distance, then another, and another answered its call. A chorus of indistinct battle cries, along with beating drums, announced the onward march of the enemy. The Battle of Leiter-Luin had begun.
Murtagh's men stood steadfast as planned. They had no choice. They were surrounded, and there was nowhere to run, so they all stared at the forest, waiting. They had hoped the morning would never come, yet now, as time slowed excruciatingly, they were impatient for the battle to begin. With every passing second, doubt ate at their entrails, and fear set their hearts beating fast before even the battle had begun. The young men who had never faced battle could not fathom the bloody brutality of the melee, which would soil even the grandest victories.
MacGillamartain arrived at the High King's side with grim determination. His leather armour and fine jewelled sword indicated his wealth and status, as most warriors wore no more than a simple tunic, and some had donned only a loincloth despite the cold.
"The steep side of the hill is too muddy to climb," the grizzled bear of a man spoke bluntly. "We should thin our flank."
Murtagh nodded, and the order was given. Quickly, the warriors who stood near the muddy slope moved to reinforce the position atop the gentler side of the hill where most of the enemies would amass. Murtagh knew the first wave would consist of young men fit for slaughter. There would be no veterans, let alone chiefs or kings, among them to take advantage of the thinned flank.
He was right. In the horde of warriors climbing the hill, there was not a single warrior of note. As he predicted, the inexperienced warriors amassed where the slope was gentle and his line strong. Still, they knew not to engage too quickly and cast their darts from a distance, goading Murtagh's men into a premature attack.
"Shields! Hold the line!" Murtagh commanded, and his order was echoed through the ranks. His warriors, led by veterans who obeyed strict discipline, stood strong behind their shield wall. They met the enemy volleys with determination, then waited for the inevitable charge.
The charge came with roaring battle cries and the deafening clash of swords on shields. Shouts and screams followed as blades drew blood. Warriors faced each other in a deadly dance, and one by one, Murtagh's enemies fell. Sons, brothers, and young fathers who had hoped to one day take their newborn babe in their arms all faltered in the face of Murtagh's men. All those who could have been – might have been – were cut down along with the fools who barely understood their lot at the ripe age of sixteen.
The metallic odour of blood, along with the stink of shit, assaulted the nose. The mud was red with blood and slippery. Murtagh saw a boy who had the strength barely to carry his shield slip, fall, and disappear, screaming under the feet of the melee. Murtagh lamented that the boy never had a chance, but only for a mere second as he saw the second wave rising to replace the first.
"Throw!" he bellowed above the clamour, and the men on the second line cast their darts, striking true again and again while the enemy struggled up the slippery slope. Hundreds fell, unable to defend themselves while climbing. The din almost died when victors and losers realized the battle was well in the High King's favour. Convinced that the day would be theirs, Murtagh's men cut down the usurpers with renewed vigour.
The second wave hit hard. These were battle-tested warriors who continued to fight like animals despite their losses. They were outnumbered, but they knew a third wave would come soon. They knew – as did Murtagh – that the first waves were meant only to soften the shield wall and convey a false sense of hope.
Wave after wave crashed into Murtagh's diminishing army, and hope faded with every man of Murtagh's who fell. Each of his brave warriors took three foes down with him, but they were outnumbered, ten to one. Hadhmaill and Gillian fell on his flanks, allowing his enemies to land on the plateau atop the hill.
Within two hours, Murtagh had lost half his force. An hour later, he fought for his life atop a mountain of bodies. His friends, his kinsmen, those loyal to him, and the boys who had little say in the matter all had fallen, all equal in the end. MacGillamartain lay with his eyes wide open in the red mud, holding his entrails. They had sacrificed themselves for a reason that made little sense now: they had sacrificed themselves for honour, of all things – not love, not hate, not the lives of their families, but merely the honour of an old king whose death was inevitable.
Murtagh knew he was the biggest fool among them – the madman who had led them to this bloodbath, the coward who took a thousand with him rather than face death alone. He hated himself for it and took no small comfort in the knowledge that soon, none of any of this would matter.
Murtagh cut down a young man who never should have embarked on this nonsensical adventure, then cursed the Heavens as he sliced another man's arm clean off. Finally, panting, covered with blood, he saw the end: King Roderic O'Connor of Connaught had reached the top of Leitr-Luin, along with his lackey, King Tiernan O'Rourke of Breifne.
Roderick O'Connor was a thin, wiry man with wispy grey hair and a large hooked nose. His thin smile concealed a ruthless ambition he had catered to with bloody constancy for as long as Murtagh could remember. To claim the crown of Connaught, Roderick had organized rebellions against his father, turned against his clansmen, and maimed or killed most of his twenty-two brothers. He had sacrificed his soul for power. And now, he had set his mind on becoming High King.
Standing behind O'Connor, Tiernan O'Rourke was a giant of a man. Balding, portly, and red-faced from the hike up the hill, he seemed softened by the luxuries of kingship, yet he remained no less dangerous. He had ruled Breifne for over thirty years and was known to be brutal on the battlefield and unscrupulous in his stately affairs. He had more enemies than friends, and his few allies could rely on his loyalty only so long as it suited his profit.
"It is a good day to die, MacLochlain!" Tiernan boomed, his common platitude pointing to the simplicity of his spirit. Allies and enemies halted their fighting, realizing that the end was neigh and that a turning point in history was unfolding.
Murtagh barely acknowledged the brutish Tiernan and turned to face Roderick, who walked forward, stepping away from the masses to face the High King alone. Under normal circumstances, Murtagh would have easily bested the smaller man, but he was winded and bloodied, his sword arm ached, and he knew the battle was lost. He would die, one way or another.
"Get it over with," he challenged, hoping to avoid long-winded soliloquies. Stepping over the bodies of men, many of whom he knew, he lowered his sword, closed the distance between them, and came to tower over Roderick. "Let those of my men who still stand live, and my life is yours."
"Your life is mine already," Roderick laughed, unintimidated. "But I am not heartless and respect your men's courage. If you kneel before me, I will grant them their lives."
Roderick took a step back to give the High King the stage. Murtagh's men watched silently, torn between praying for their lives and wishing their king to retain some measure of honour. Looking at the few of his men that remained atop Leitr-Luin, Murtagh was tempted. It would be a small thing for him to kneel, a harmless little thing that would change nothing in the story of his life. Yet, would he be remembered as a coward who had been cowed in the end?
Roderick saw the High King hesitate and smiled. He knew the dilemma Murtagh now faced, and seeing the man torn between saving lives and saving face was a rare pleasure. The High King seemed unable to decide, so Roderick eased his enemy's burden. His thin-lipped smile turning to a cruel grin, he raised his hand, then brought it down. On cue, his men began to cut down Murtagh's men, who raised their shields in vain. They were outnumbered and outmatched by Connaught's elite.
"No!" Murtagh roared, red with rage, as he raised his sword to fell the despicable creature before him. But Roderick was ready. Like a snake striking with deadly speed, he conjured a thin blade, which caught the light briefly before disappearing into Murtagh's chin, just below the mandible. It was a killing blow, well-timed and perfectly executed. Roderick withdrew the blade and happily watched as Murtagh choked on his own blood.
Murtagh's hands grasped the wound as he fell to the ground. It took mere seconds for darkness to come. His dreams took him elsewhere, to Armagh where he imagined his sons safe and sound, to Leinster to bid goodbye to his old friend Dermot, and lastly to the Heavens where he would know eternal peace.
