The Battle of Slaney Fields

The Witch's Daughter, Chapter 18: Battles that shaped men. And perhaps the start of a new direction for Donegal.

Scudding dark clouds pushed by gusting chill winds from the north-east crested the range of mountains. In their lee a road wound through a wide river valley. From those hasty clouds rain trailed lashes of dull grey-blue that washed an army of men on that road from the head of the column to the tail.

A quilt of green pastures and brown fallow fields spread lush in the verdant curve either side of the column of marching men. Great old oaks bordered the road in places and in this grim winter reached their craggy leafless branches into the sky.

Arran Blaine took off his ill-fitting helm and ran a hand over his face. He grinned at his brother-in-arms, Domnall O’Rourke, and tipped his head back as he drank in the rainwater.

“Slake your thirst now, man! Still a long march before we ford the Slaney and get to fill our water-skins,” Arran said. He spluttered when the storm over filled his mouth. Domnall laughed bitterly.

The closer they got to Dublin, the northern reaches of Leinster, the more danger they were in. No time for jests.

Arran shoved the rangy, sullen man at his right. “Donegal, cheer up man! You’re the actual soldier.”

“Yea. I know what’s ahead my brother,” Domnall replied. He kicked a clod of dirt that lay in his path. The soldiers in front of him scowled and cursed. “If you knew you’d nay be so cheerful.”

“Talk to me, Donegal,” Arran said. He slogged along for a bit, hand resting on his sword hilt. At last he drew it, and sighted along the blade. He gestured to the road, to the other soldiers in the column, then to themselves as he spoke. “We have no choice but to be on this road. You can choose not to be a sour old wretch.”

Domnall gritted his teeth, a muscle working in his jaw. His padded canvas jacket, studded with iron, had no sleeves, only ripped armholes where he’d torn the garment to fit his rangy frame.

“You could not call me that,” he answered.

“Annoys you does it?” Arran answered, a boyish grin on his face, as the rain streamed down it. “Donegal?”

“We are from the same place both of us! But I get stuck with the name!!” Domnall shouted. “You’re the one with the skill to make silver. I’ve nothing to distinguish me but the dead end town I came from. At least you could leave it out.”

He glanced at the other man. The silversmith ignored him, and played with the sword like a toy, a bauble. Arran’s smaller finer hands so expressive when he spoke, unmarked by working in the fields, his jacket failing to hide that his slender muscles were only used to fine work. For Domnall years on a plough as a youth before soldiering gave him coarse hands, ones that gripped strong.

“Seems a true enough workmanship. No idea beyond that!” Arran said, a last gambit to get some friendly words from his countryman. “At least tell me how to hold the damn thing.”

“Tightly,” the taller man said, reaching to close all of Arran’s fingers around the hilt. Begrudging words and a shout from a sergeant riding to the side of the column came at the suggestion of them breaking ranks. The sergeant pulled his sword a short way from his sheath until Domnall gave a placating palm.

“And high,” he said, once the sergeant had taken his attention off them. Domnall’s eyes that had been kind once, misted. His long neck and prominent Adam’s apple showed when he swallowed, as now. “When the blood and sweat flows, hang on to it tightly. Put it high and swing it at anyone who might harm ye.”