We will now turn to the Orkneys and see what was happening there. It is Yule or Christmas, and at Earl Sigurd the Stout’s Court a splendid feast is in progress. The long hall is filled with guests, seated between double rows of pillars, and on the hearth in the centre of the hall the Yule-log is blazing. King Sitric Silken-beard, but newly arrived from Ireland, is placed in the high seat in the centre of the tables, with Earl Sigurd and Earl Gille on either hand. The guests are ranged round the hall in the order of their rank, and behind the earls, on the raised daïs, the minstrels are placed. Just at the moment a man named Gunnar, Lambi’s son, is relating to the assembled company the terrible story of the burning of Nial and his family in Iceland, which had only just taken place.31

Gunnar himself had had a hand in the dastardly deed, and to save himself he was giving a garbled version of the tale. Every now and again he lied outright. Now it so happened that while he was talking two other Icelanders, close friends of the house of Nial, came up to the door, and they stood outside and listened, arrested by the false story which Gunnar was relating to the earl. They had lately landed from Iceland, and the truth was well known to them. One of the two was Kari, who had escaped from the burning, and he could not stand this, and with swift vengeance, and a wild snatch of song upon his lips, he rushed into the hall, his drawn sword in his hand. In a moment the head of Gunnar was severed from his body, and it spun off on the board before the King and earls, who were befouled with the spouting blood. The earl exclaimed in his anger, “Seize Kari and kill him”; but never a man moved to put forth his hand. “Kari hath done only what it was right to do,” they all exclaimed, and they made a way for Kari, so that he walked out, without hue or cry after him. “This is a bold fellow,” cried King Sitric, “who dealt his stroke so stoutly and never thought of it twice!” And in spite of his anger Earl Sigurd was forced to exclaim: “There is no man like Kari for dash and daring!”

Then King Sitric Silken-beard bestirred himself to egg on the earl to go to war with him against King Brian, but at first the earl refused, for all his host were against it, and liked not to go to war with so good a king. In the end, however, Sitric promised him his mother Gormliath’s hand and the kingdom of Ireland if they slew Brian, and then Sigurd gave him his word to go. It was settled between them that the earl should bring his host to Dublin by Palm Sunday, and on this Sitric fared back to Ireland, and told Gormliath what luck he had had. She showed herself well pleased, but she said that they must gather a greater force still. Sitric asked where this was to be found, and she said that she had heard tidings that two viking fleets were lying off the Isle of Man, thirty ships in each fleet, with two captains of such hardihood that nothing could withstand them. “The name of one,” said she, “is Ospac, and the other’s name is Brodir. Haste thee to find them, and spare nothing to get them into thy quarrel, whatever price they ask.” So Sitric set forth again, but the price that Brodir asked was the kingdom of Ireland and the hand of the fair Gormliath. Sitric was much perplexed, but in the end he promised, for he thought that if they gained the victory Earl Sigurd and the vikings could fight it out between them, and if they were conquered no harm was done. So he ended by promising all that they wished, only he stipulated that they should keep the matter so secret that it would never come to Earl Sigurd’s ears. They too were to arrive in Dublin before Palm Sunday, and Sitric left well satisfied, and fared home to tell his mother.

But hardly had he gone than a fierce quarrel broke out between the brothers. It would seem that the conference had been between Sitric and Brodir only, and that Ospac had not been informed of the pact until after Sitric had left. Then he roundly said that he would not go. Nothing would induce him to fight against so good a king as Brian. Rather would he become a Christian and join his forces to those of the Irish King. Ospac, though he was a heathen, is said to have been the wisest of all men; but Brodir bears an ugly character. He had been a Christian, and had been consecrated a deacon, but he had thrown off his faith “and become God’s dastard,” as the saga says, “and now worshipped pagan fiends and was of all men most skilled in sorcery.” He wore a magic coat of mail, on which no steel would bite. He was tall and strong and his hair was black. He wore his locks so long that he tucked them into his belt. Fearful dreams beset him from night to night. A great din passed over his ship, causing all to spring up and hastily put on their clothes. A shower of blood poured over them, so that, although they covered themselves with their shields, many were scalded, and on every ship one man died. They were so disturbed at night that they had to sleep during the day. The second night swords leapt out of their sheaths, and swords and axes flew about in the air and fought of themselves, wounding many. They had to shelter themselves, but the weapons pressed so hard that out of every ship one man died. The third night ravens flew at them, with claws and beaks hard as of iron, and again in every ship a man died. The next morning Brodir pushed off in his boat to seek Ospac to tell him what he had seen, and ask him the meaning of the portents. Ospac feared to tell his brother what these things boded, and though Brodir promised that no harm should follow, he put off telling him until nightfall, for he knew that Brodir never slew a man by night. Then he said: “Whereas blood rained on you, many men’s blood shall be shed, yours and others; but when ye heard a great din, then ye must have been shown the crack of doom, and ye shall all die speedily. When weapons fought against you, they must forbode a battle; but when ravens overpowered you, that marks the evil spirit in whom ye put your faith, and who will drag you all down to the pains of hell.” Brodir was so wroth that he could answer never a word, but he moored his vessels across the sound that night, so that he could bear down and slay Ospac’s men next morning. But Ospac saw through the plan, and while Brodir’s men were sleeping he slipped away quietly in the darkness, having cut the cables of Brodir’s line, and he sailed round the south of Ireland, and so up the Shannon to Kincora. Here he told all that he knew to King Brian, giving him warning; and he was baptized at Kincora, and became Brian’s ally, joining his forces with those of the King.

All being prepared, King Brian marched on Dublin, setting fire on his way to all the country round, so that the Norsemen when they arrived saw the land as one sheet of flame. The battle was fought on the north side of the River Liffey, where the land falls low toward the sea at Clontarf, up to the wooded country on the heights behind which Phœnix Park now extends. Here, with the wood behind them called Tomar’s Wood, were the lines of the Irish forces, facing the bay where the Norsemen brought in their ships. On the south side of the river was the fort of the Norsemen, where Dublin Castle now stands, and from its walls King Sitric and his mother Gormliath watched the fight. Besides these two, another spectator followed the course of the battle. This was Sitric’s wife, who was Brian’s daughter, married to the chief of her country’s foes. Though she stood by her husband’s side, her heart was with the men of Munster, and with her father and brothers who led their hosts. In the beginning of the day it seemed to the men of Dublin who were watching from the battlements that the swords of the enemy were mowing down Brian’s troops, even as the ripe corn in a field might fall if two or three battalions were reaping it at once. “Well do the Norsemen reap the field,” said Sitric. “It will be at the end of the day, that we shall see if that be so,” said the wife of Sitric, Brian’s daughter.

All day long, from sunrise till evening, the battle was fought. At full tide in the morning the foreigners beached their boats, but when the tide returned at night, they were being everywhere routed before the Irish, who rushed down upon them from the upland, pushing them farther and farther backward toward the sea. Then, as they turned to fly, hoping to regain their vessels, they saw that the rising tide had lifted the boats from their resting-places and carried them out to sea, so that they were there caught between their enemies on the land and the sea behind, with no place of safety to turn to. An awful rout was made of them, and the sounds of their shouting and war-whoops and cries of despair were heard by the watchers of the fort. Then Brian’s daughter turned to her husband. “It appears to me,” she said, “that, like gad-flies in the heat, or like a herd of cows seeking the water, the foreigners return to the sea, their natural inheritance. I wonder are they cattle, driven by the heat? But if they are they tarry not to be milked.” The answer of her husband was a brutal blow upon the mouth. Close to the weir of Clontarf, where the River Tolka seeks the sea, Turlough, the young grandson of Brian, pursued a Norseman across the stream. But the rising tide flung him against the weir, and he was caught on a post, and so was drowned, with his hand grasping the hair of the Norseman who fell under him.

The day on which the battle was fought was Good Friday, 1014. King Brian himself was too aged to go into battle; besides, it was against his will to fight on a fast-day; so his bodyguard made a fastness round him with their linked shields upon a little height, and from the time of the beginning of the combat he knelt upon a cushion, with his psalter open before him, and began to read the psalms and to pray aloud. There was with him a young lad, an attendant, who watched the course of the fighting from the height, and from time to time he told his master what was going forward. After the King had said fifty psalms and prayed awhile he asked his attendant how the battle went.

“Intermingled together and closely fighting are the battalions, each of them within the grasp of the other,” said the boy; “and not louder would be the sound of blows of wood-cutters on Tomar’s Wood if seven battalions together were cutting it down, than are the resounding blows that fall from the swords on both sides upon bones and skulls.” The King said: “Do you see the standard of Morrogh, my son?” “It is standing,” said the lad, “and the banners of Munster close about it; but many heads are falling round it, the heads of our own clan and the heads of foreigners also.” “That is good news,” said the King. Then the lad readjusted the cushion under Brian, and the King prayed again and sang another fifty psalms; and all the time the fighting was going on below. “What is the condition of the battalions,” Brian asked again, “and where is Morrogh’s standard?” The lad said that there was not a man on earth who could distinguish friend from foe, so covered were they all with gore and wounds; but as for the standard of Munster it was still standing, but it had passed away to the westward. Then the King said: “The men of Ireland will do well so long as that standard stands.”

So the lad adjusted the cushion again and the King prayed and sang fifty psalms more; and now the evening was drawing on. Brian asked the attendant again, in what condition the forces were. The lad replied: “It seems to me as though Tomar’s Wood were all on fire, and that all the young shoots and undergrowth had been cut away, leaving only the great oaks standing; so are the armies on either side; for their men are fallen thick, and only the leaders and gallant heroes remain alive. For they are ground about like the grindings of a mill turning the wrong way. Yet it seems to me that the foreigners are defeated, though the standard of Morrogh is fallen.” “Alas! alas! for that news,” said Brian. “The honour and valour of Erin fell when that standard fell, and the honour of Erin is now fallen indeed; and what avails it to me to obtain the sovereignty of the world if Morrogh and the chiefs of Munster are slain?” “If thou wouldst take my advice,” said the lad, “thou wouldst mount thy horse and take refuge in the camp, where every one who escapes alive out of this battle will rally round us; for it seems to me that the foreigners are afraid of retreating to the sea, and we know not at any moment who may find us here.” “Indeed, my boy,” said Brian, “flight becomes us not; and well I know that I shall not leave this place alive. For Evill, the fairy maid who guards our clan, appeared to me last night and told me that I should be killed this day. Wherefore take my steed and escape, and arrange for my seemly burial, and for my gifts to the Church, for I will remain where I am until my fate overtakes me.”

While he was saying these words a party of the Northmen approached with Brodir at their head. “There are people coming toward us up the hill,” said the boy, “and all our bodyguard are fled.” “What like are they?” inquired the King. “A blue, stark-naked people they seem to me,” was the reply. “Alas!” said Brian, “they must be foreigners in armour: for the Northmen fight not like our people in their tunics, but with blue armour on their bodies; and no good will come to us if it is they indeed.” Then the old man arose and pushed aside the cushion and unsheathed his sword. But Brodir marked him not, and would have passed, had not one of his followers, who had been in Brian’s service, recognized the King. “The King,” he cried, “this is the King!” “No, no,” said Brodir, “this old man is a priest.” “By no means so,” replied the man; “this is the great king, Brian.” Then Brodir turned, and swung his gleaming battle-axe above his head, and smote the King: but ere he did so Brian had made a stroke at him, and wounded him in the knee, so that they fell together; but Brian, the King, was dead. The lad Teigue had thrown his arm across the King to shield him, but the arm was taken off at the stump with the same blow that slew the King. Then Brodir stood up and with a loud voice exclaimed: “Now may man tell his fellow-man that Brodir hath felled King Brian.” But not long was his triumph: for Ospac his brother and some of the Munstermen came up, and they took Brodir alive, and put him to a cruel death there upon the spot.

Two incidents must still be told. The first concerns the raven banner that Earl Sigurd carried to the fight. It was made in raven-shape, and when the wind blew out the folds it was as though a raven spread its wings for flight.32 The banner, which was wrought with fine needlework of marvellous skill, had been made for Sigurd by his mother, a princess of Irish birth, whose father was Karval, Prince of Dublin. So clever was she that she had a reputation for witchcraft, for men thought her knowledge was greater than that of a woman. She was a person of spirit and mettle; for once when her young son, Sigurd, asked her advice as to whether he should go out to fight with a Scotch earl, whose followers were seven times greater in number than his own, she scornfully bade him go. “Had I known that thou hadst a desire to live for ever,” she had said, “I should have kept thee safely rolled up in my wool-bag. Fate rules life, but not where a man stands at the helm; and better it is to die with honour than to live with shame. Take thou this banner which I have made for thee with all my cunning; I ween it will bring victory to those before whom it is borne, but death to him who carries it.” This was true; wherever the raven banner went victory followed after it, and men were slain before it, but he who was standard-bearer always met his death. Thus the banner came to have an evil fame, and it was not easy to find a man to carry it into battle.

In the battle of Clontarf the banner was borne aloft before the earl, but one of the bearers after another had fallen. Then Earl Sigurd called on Thorstein, son of Hall o’ the Side, to bear the flag, and Thorstein was about to lift it when a man called out: “Do not bear the banner; for all those who do so come by their death. Through it three of my sons have been slain.” “Hrafn the Red,” called out the earl, “bear thou the banner.” “Bear thine own crow thyself,” answered Hrafn. Then the earl said: “’Tis fittest that the beggar should bear his own bag, indeed”; and with that he took down the banner from its staff, and hid it under his cloak. Only a short time after that, the earl fell, pierced through by a spear.

The other incident also concerns Thorstein, the brave young Icelander who had accompanied Sigurd to Ireland. He was only twenty years of age, and as fearless as he was brave. When flight broke out through all the host of the foreigners, Thorstein, with a few others, took their stand by the side of Tomar’s Wood, refusing to fly. At last, seeing that hope was past, all turned to follow with the rout save Thorstein only. He stood still to tie his shoe-string. An Irish leader, coming up at the moment, asked him why he had not run with the others. “Because I am an Icelander,” said Thorstein, “and were I to run ever so fast I could not get home to-night.” The Irish leader was so struck by the young warrior’s coolness and courage that he set him at liberty. Thorstein remained for some time in the household of the Irish King, when all his fellows returned home, and he was well beloved in Ireland.

All through the North flew the tidings of Brian’s battle, and the Norsemen felt that it was one of the most severe checks sustained by them in Western Europe. On the evening of the battle a strange portent happened in Caithness. A Norseman was walking out late at night alone. He saw before him a bower, which he had never seen before, and twelve women riding, two and two, toward it. They passed into the bower and disappeared from sight. Curious to know what had become of the women, he went up to the bower, and looked in through a narrow slit that served for a window. Horrible was the sight he saw. The women were seated in the bower, weaving at a loom. But when he looked he saw that skulls of men served as the weights, and that the web and weft were the entrails of dead men. The loom was made of spears, and swords were the shuttles, and as the weird women wove, blood dripped from the loom upon the floor. They sang this song as the shuttles sped, softly as though they keened the slain:—

The “Darradar-Liod”, or “Lay of the Darts.”

Then they plucked down the woof and tore it asunder, but each held fast to what she had in her hand. And the watcher knew that these were the Valkyrie women, who weave the threads of life and of death. He fled from the place, terrified, and spread the tidings of the slaughter; but the Valkyrie maidens mounted their steeds and rode, six to the north and six to the south; and the bower disappeared and was no more seen.