From his vantage point on a rise by a small stretch of woodland, Constantin gazed, seething with resentment, over the battlefield. The disgruntlement prominent among the many emotions he experienced before a battle, he reduced to two words: Olaf Gofraidsson. The King of Dublin had taken command of operations consigning Constantin’s Scottas to the flank of the battlefield by these woods. The opportunity to set an ambush in the trees appealed to the aged king, but he found the brash, overbearing nature of his ally hard to swallow.
His armour weighed on his bowed shoulders, forced forward by the weight of the shield strapped to his back. Heavy, padded, leather gloves, designed to protect his hands from sharp blades in a battle he presumed he would not fight, made them sweat. His sons were he
