Donnalch had slowed the group to a walk. “Ride by me, Lena,” he said. I moved up beside him. The plateau we rode on was gravel and scrubby heath, the ground firm. The fog had lifted, revealing a cloudless blue sky. We rode a while without speaking. I had the impression Donnalch was gathering his thoughts.
I decided to break the silence. “Tell me more about the battle at the river,” I said, “if you would, Teannasach.”
“It was the last battle between Linrathe and the Marai,” he said, “fought in the autumn, after a summer of war. The Marai had been raiding since the spring, all along the coast and up the rivers. The Teannasach at the time, Neilan, had divided his men, sending some to the coast and some to defend the lands and people along the rivers. But most Linrathe's men were at the coast.” His voice took on a rhythm, a thread of formality. I recognized the cadence of a tale told to instruct.
“Word came that the Marai were up the Tabha,” Donnalch continued. “The summer had been wet, wetter than normal, and so the boats of the Marai could be rowed up the river much further than usual, nearly to this spot. They found naught but sheep; the shepherd lads or lasses had fled at the sight of the boats. But one of those lads at least was fleet of foot, and so word reached his torp quickly, and from there a man and horse rode out across the hills, to find Neilan's army at the coast.”
Gregor and Ardan had moved closer, Gregor's leg nearly brushing mine as he rode beside me. They would know this tale well, but I guessed they had not heard their Teannasach tell it; this would be a memory to tell their grandchildren, some day.
“That army marched and ran and climbed, across the mountains and the bogs, and came to the Tabha in two days, under cover of night. They hid in those hills.” The Teannasach pointed, up to the hills to our left. “As the sun rose they saw the Marai on this plain below them. The weather had cleared, and the sun shone, and not knowing their enemy were in the hills, the Marai were at ease, eating and drinking, sleeping, playing games, in the sun on both sides of the Tabha.
“Neilan said to his men: a quarter of you stay here, in the hills; come only if the battle goes not our way. Then he signalled to the rest, and down they ran out of the hills, swords out, shouting, to take the Marai by surprise. For some time, it looked as if Neilan would take the day: they drove the Marai back across the Tabha, killing many, for they had been without their helms and shields, most able to put hands only to their axes and swords as the men of Linrathe raced down upon them.”
Donnalch paused, clearing his throat. We had slowed to an amble. He glanced at us, and went on.
“But Halvar, the leader of the Marai, rallied his men and took them up the beginning of the hills, so that Neilan’s men must come at them uphill. True and valiant as the men of Linrathe were, they had run for two days through deep bog and steep mountains to reach the battle, and exhaustion began to take them. The hidden men, seeing this, made their charge, and they were fresh and rested, and again the day looked to be Linrathe's.
“The Marai boats were moored some miles downstream, where the river became to steep to row up. Halvar had left men with the boats, and by some means the news of the battle had reached them.” A wry smile crossed Donnalch's face; his eyes were distant. He can see this battle in his mind, I realized, here on the land where it took place.
“So again, just when the battle had turned to Linrathe, Marai reinforcements arrived, and these with armour and shields. In the end, the battle was not ours, but neither was it theirs. The men fought on and on, into the afternoon. Halvar died, an arrow piercing his throat, and his place was taken by his son-in-law Orri.
“But as the men fought the skies dimmed, the weather itself matching the darkness of that fight. Huge clouds rose over Beinn Seánfhear, and lightening flashed. The rain in the mountains must have been ferocious, for the river rose in spate, and water rushed down the hillside, breaking the Tabha's banks and flooding the plain. Men from both sides fell; many drowned. Marai clung to Linrathan; men who had been fighting to the death only a moment before helped each other to higher land. It is said that it was Neilan himself who led Orri to safety, at least,” he added, with a glance to Dagney, “by our bards.” He shrugged. “It may have been so. For Orri agreed to a peace, standing on a hillock with Neilan by his side, and by the time the waters had receded both sides had agreed on the Sterre as the boundary between Linrathe and Sorham, and Orri and Neilan took what remained of their armies away.”
He was done. No-one spoke. I looked around me, at the plain and the mountains, and thought about what had happened here, the blood and bones lying beneath the soil. Behind me, I heard the strings of Dagney's ladhar being plucked. I turned in my saddle. She was tuning the instrument, her horse led by one of the men to free her hands. Satisfied with the tuning, she began to sing.
The purple heath, the yellow broom,
Made glad the eye as out we rode,
To meet and fight at river's edge,
To hold our lands against the foe.
A river gleaming on the hill.
From down the ben the river splashed,
The Tabha bright in morning sun.
The Marai north and Linrathe south,
To fight until the day was done.
A river gleaming on the hill.
A man’s voice, rough but true, joined Dagney's on the chorus.
A sword was raised, the arrows flew
Across the burn as thick as rain.
Below the hill, where field is flat,
The air was rent with cries of pain.
A shining river dulled by blood.
The battle raged, the sun rose high,
Knee-deep in water men fought on.
The Marai boats moored down the stream,
Linrathe's best men up on the ben.
A shining river dulled by blood.
By now all the men were singing the refrain. I stayed silent, listening.
When bodies thick served as a bridge
And neither side could take the day,
The hidden men came forth to fight
Among the fallen where they lay.
A river red and thick with blood.
As evening fell and still they fought,
Both sides with numbers grievous few,
A shout came from the river's flow:
“Enough!” the cry, a voice none knew.
A river red and thick with blood.
Swords fell from hands; men stood as stone
As from the river words poured forth:
“I say enough. Go from this place,
And live in peace, both south and north.”
An angry river flowing red.
“For red my waters flow today,
And silver only should they be.
Bury your dead here on my banks,
Forget not what you heard from me.”
An angry river flowing red.
“For peace I want and peace I'll have
Or watch my waters rise and flow
To drown this land and all within,
Both north and south, both high and low.”
A peace enforced by river's god.
Both sides obeyed, the cairns were raised
Against the raven, kite and crow.
The Tabha's peace has long remained,
No man would dare not keep it so.
A peace enforced by river's god.
A river gleaming on the hill.
A shining river dulled by blood.
An angry river flowing red.
A peace enforced by river's god.
No man would dare not keep it so.
The notes of the ladhar died away. The call of a curlew drifted over the moor, over our small and silent band, over the burial mounds I could now see on either side of the path, mournful, ancient, eternal.
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