Finan’s men had repaired our shield wall, but the Scots were enraged by their prince’s death. They had retreated beyond the gory line of corpses, but would come again, and Domnall would lead them. He came from my right, shouting at his men to avenge Cellach. He was a tall man, reputed to be a beast in a fight, and he wanted a fight now. He wanted to savage his way through our shield wall and he wanted my death as payment for Cellach, and he leaped the corpses, bellowing rage, and Finan went to meet him.
It was a huge angry Scot with a long-sword fighting a small Irishman armed with a seax, but Finan was the fastest swordsman I had ever seen. The Scots had started forward, but paused to watch Domnall. He was their king’s war-leader, an indomitable man with a reputation, but he was also enraged, and though rage can win battles it can also blind a man. He swung his huge sword at Finan who took a step back, Domnall thrust his shield forward to knock Finan off balance, but Finan sidestepped and whipped his seax forward to pierce the mail just above the wrist of Domnall’s sword arm. He stepped back again as the iron-bound shield came in a massive swing intended to batter Finan to the ground, but the Irishman went to his right with snake speed and the seax swept up to slice into Domnall’s shield arm, and Finan, still moving to his right, now moved into his opponent and rammed the seax through Domnall’s mail, through the leather beneath, and into the ribs beneath the armpit. Domnall staggered back, wounded but not beaten, and the rage had gone to be replaced by a cold determination.
The Scots were chanting at Domnall, urging him on, just as my men were shouting for Finan. Domnall was hurt, but he was a huge man who could absorb a lot of hurt and keep fighting. He had learned of Finan’s speed, but reckoned he could counter it with sheer strength and so he swept the sword again in a blow that would have felled an ox. Finan caught the blow on his shield, and it was strong enough to jar him off balance and Domnall’s shield slammed into the smaller man and Finan was thrown backwards. Domnall followed, but hesitated when Finan recovered fast, and instead the big Scotsman covered himself with his scarred shield and held the sword level, inviting Finan to attack. He wanted to keep the Irishman at sword’s length so the much shorter seax could do no more damage. ‘Come, you bastard,’ he growled, and Finan accepted the invitation, moving to his right, away from Domnall’s sword, but his foot appeared to tread on a wounded man and he staggered. His sword arm flailed and Domnall saw the opening and lunged the sword, but Finan had only pretended to stumble. He pushed himself off with his right foot, moving fast to his left, lowering his shield to deflect the lunge across his body, and the seax sliced with wicked speed to chop into Domnall’s neck. Domnall’s bright helmet had a mail skirt to protect his neck, but the seax drove through it, the blood was sudden, and Finan, teeth-gritted, was sawing the blade back as Domnall fell. And the Scots roared in anger, clambering over the dead and dying to avenge their leader, and Finan dodged back into the shield wall as the enemy came. I shouted our wall forward to meet them where the dead made an obstacle and there was the hard clash of shield on shield. We shoved against the enemy as they pushed against us. The man pressing on my shield was screaming at me, his spittle flying over our shields’ rims. I could smell the ale on his breath, feel the blows on my shield as he tried to thrust a seax into my belly. He managed to use the boss of his shield to lurch mine to the left and I felt his seax slide by my waist, then he gave a choking cry as Vidarr Leifson cut his shoulder with an axe, just as an axe from the Scottish second rank slammed down onto my battered shield. The blow split the iron binding and splintered the willow and I pushed it to the left to open my assailant’s body, and Immar Hergildson, who had been so terrified at dawn, thrust his spear from our second rank and the man went down.
We held them. They had attacked with an extraordinary savagery, but we were defended by the ridge of bodies. It is impossible to hold a shield wall tight when stepping on corpses and wounded men, and Scottish bravery was not enough. Our shield wall was tight, theirs was ragged, and again they retreated, unwilling to die on our blades. Vidarr Leifson hooked Domnall’s corpse with his axe and dragged it with its rich plunder back into our ranks. The Scots jeered, but did not come again.
I left my son in command of the shield wall and went back with Finan. ‘I thought you were too old to fight,’ I growled at him.
‘Domnall was old too. He should have known better.’
‘Did he touch you?’
‘Bruised, nothing more. I’ll live. What happened to your knife?’
I looked down and saw that my small knife had gone. The sheath, that hung from one of my sword belts, had been cut away, presumably by the spitting Scot who had managed one lunge with his seax. He had been left-handed and if his seax had been an inch closer he would have sliced my waist. ‘It wasn’t valuable,’ I said. ‘Only used
