In the Annals of Ulster you may read the tale of Cath Chluain Tarbh, when Máel Sechnaill and Brian Boru rode together to the conquest of Dublintown and fought on those royal banks Sigtrygg Silkbeard, King of Dublin, Sigurd the Stout, Earl of Orkney, and the fleet their ally Brodir brought from the Isle of Mann.
From the walls of Dublin Lady Sláine ingen Briain watched the battle. Her sympathies had worn too thin over the years of conflict to be strong on either side and it was little she cared, at this distance of time, for the fulfillment of her father’s ambition or even the extension of his old age. Nor had she any concern for her husband’s life, for Sigtrygg paced the wall beside her all day, wisely living to fight another day.
Thus from dawn to dusk, a grim smile on her face, she tracked the swaying armies as they grappled each other on the moss. When, at length, twilight fell and she knew that the omens had come true and Brian was victorious at the cost of his life, she could still laugh at the flight of the Vikings as they splashed into the receding tide, desperate to reach their ships. “The foreigners have gotten their inheritance!” she sneered. “I wonder, is it warm that they are? But they tarry not to be milked, whatever.”
On both sides nigh all the leaders lay slain upon the field. Brian Boru, killed in his tent as he prayed for victory, had been avenged by Ulf the Quarrelsome who found Brodir with Brian’s blood still warm on his sword. Sigurd the Stout died at the hands of Murchad mac Briain, but that heir apparent to the High Kingship of Ireland had not survived the fight either. Máel Sechnaill mac Domnaill alone stood whole and hearty as he led the last charge. Water, churned by a thousand boots, swirled between foemen as the Viking longships drifted away from the shore before the straining flight of their owners.
Foremost in the Irish charge, fifteen-year-old Toirdelbach mac Murchada Ua Briain screamed the O’Brian warcry—lamh-laidir abu! From her post on the walls Lady Sláine caught the glint of his helmet—vain boy, he decorated it with tufts of reddish fur—and recognized her nephew. Fearless he threw himself into the waves; spun around, flung, he emerged again clutching at a Viking warrior who was scrambling over his ship’s side. She strained her eyes as Toir wrestled, striking the Viking’s jerkin with his dagger what time the warrior swung his fists wildly at him. Another wave roared; she lost him in the mist, and when it settled, the boy was gone.
But his helmet rolled in on the morrow’s tide, and amid the aftermath Lady Sláine paused long enough to send it to her niece. —Lamh-laidir abu!
Continue reading “The Helmet”
Geneva D 