Authors: Maggie; Davis
On Good Friday Doireann heard in the tower room the chant of the
Saxon fathers at Mass in the castle chapel, and then, later, the noise of the
feasting and dancing from the hillsides below where the tribes were camped. They were the same songs and dances which accompanied the ancient Beltane worship. Remote from it all on the small porch which opened from the tower, she could see the fires on the ramparts down to the edge of the loch, the wailing chants of the pagan rites which could be heard even in the Christian chapel below.
The bishop of Inverness had gone complaining to Nechtan, the King of the Picts in the east, asking that action be taken against the Picts celebrating the pagan feast, but it was said the king refused to be upset. The bishop, the king said, must not look too closely at the tribes who had come so faithfully to pay their church tithes and honor the Christian Easter. One must learn to be patient and accept their gifts and overlook these other matters. It had been a cruel and desolate winter, and many cattle and children were dead of starvation; those who were left should be given a chance to express their joy in being alive. Of course, it was unfortunate that the Christian Easter and the pagan feast of Beltane came almost at the same time, but perhaps it was a good thing, too, in that it gave the priests the opportunity to work that much harder to stamp out the old ways.
As evidence of good faith the king declared he would do public penance in the fields among his subjects, and his court would set an example by fasting and regular attendance at Mass. Special dispensation was asked for the king’s niece, Doireann nighean Muireach, who was still weak from her journey from Argyll in the land of the Scots.
Doireann was glad to be excused from the fasting and the processions. As Easter Sunday dawned fine and warm she took her child in her arms to the porch where they watched the parade of monks and pilgrims traveling from the foot of the hill by Loch Inver to the castle gates, led by the Saxon fathers and Wilfrid the bishop in mitre and gown. There seemed to be thousands of worshipers, with them the King of the Picts and his warriors, the ladies of the court, chieftains of petty tribes, and finally the common people, free and slave, many penitently barefoot on the half-thawed ground.
The procession wound slowly up the hillside past the monoliths and graves of the old sun-worshipers, past the earthen barriers which surrounded the fort, through the bronze gates into the courtyard where the final Easter Mass was to be sung. As the crowds pressed close in the yard under the porch Doireann could look down and see Flann the Culdee among the Saxon priests, his peculiar Irish tonsure easily distinguishable among the other shaven crowns. Flann had been brought to the fortress in late winter by a band of Picts who had found him wandering in the mountains. His captors had been very proud of themselves, thinking to see him burned, but Wilfrid the Saxon had taken charge of him at once, placing the protection of the
Roman Church over the defiant Irish brother. The Picts were bewildered. True, Flann had violated the ban on Culdees within the Pictish kingdom which now belonged to the Saxon communion, but Wilfrid could not lend himself to any persecution of the errant Irish Church. It was not an easy thing to be generous to Flann. Like most of the Culdees, he was headstrong and violent about the differences of the two churches, and this seemed only to convince the Picts that here was indeed a heretic who needed burning. Even though Flann vehemently denied the Saxon Church had any authority over him, Wilfrid graciously offered a teaching position in the court schools, the only alternative being Nechtan’s prisons.
Flann’s presence had been a constant trial to the Saxon fathers at Inverness. The Culdee was a fine illustrator and had worked on the book of the Gospels at Kells but, instead of using his talents in the Inverness schools, he was often embroiled in some loud and disruptive argument with the Saxons concerning the Culdee Church and its insistence on the rightness of its different dogma and reckoning of holy days. It was the old conflict between the Church of St. Patrick and the Saxon Church of St. Augustine again, as Wilfrid was patiently willing to admit. And enough to shake the self-control of the most earnest and dedicated of the Saxon fathers.
Doireann smiled as she saw Flann now meekly treading with the Easter penitents. She knew the Culdee and liked him. He had come to her room when she was exhausted and ill those first days at Inverness, and he had spoken Gaelic to her, rousing her from her nightmare. The sound of his voice had been warm and gentle, bringing thoughts of the Coire as it had once been and the people who had once lived there. He had spoken softly, recognizing her clan name at once, spending long hours telling her what he knew of her father, the long-dead Muireach, and the descent of her kinsmen in Lorne. After a while she had spoken to him of the treachery of Calum macDumhnull, the child’s birth in the mountains, the flight from death. It would have been hard to hold anything back from this long-faced Irishman with the shaven forehead and glinting brown eyes.
Flann dispersed with the rest at the ending of the Mass in the courtyard. The tribes of Picts would not linger long at the capital. The taxes had been paid, and many would start homeward on Easter Day. There was planting to be done and the weather would wait for no man.
The tower room which had been assigned to Doireann as the high-born kinswoman of the King of the Picts was a pleasant place. It was among the finest apartments in the castle, in spite of its drafts and vermin, for it had the private porch where she could sun the child and take her sewing, watching the activity of the yard as she worked. She had demanded only one thing as
the weather turned warm with summer, and that was for the serving women to wash down the walls with hot water and shake out the bedding and trappings of the room. The Picts thought her mad for her reckless fastidiousness, but they did as she wanted. They had long become accustomed to the dirt and rats which infested the old walls, but Doireann was determined that her child would not be lice-ridden.
Elda, the nurse woman, was especially vexed and complained loudly about the upheaval.
“Never was a woman more foolish about her first-born,” she scolded. “It is scrub this and change that! Others have had a love child or two without acting as though a few fleas would carry him off. Or a few curious glances destroy him.”
Doireann did not bother to answer her. Elda knew why she feared too much display of the child. He was strong and sturdy, and his fair hair and skin singled him out from the dirty Pictish children who played below in the courtyard. When Elda carried him about, curious whispers and stares always followed after them, for there was not one among the Picts who had not heard the gossip which rattled the fortress.
Flann had questioned her on the subject more than once.
“Where was the spot you birthed the child?” he asked her casually.
“I do not know. Somewhere in Argyll. It was not familiar to me.” She looked up at him. “Why do you ask this?”
“I was wondering how the child came to this place.”
“Why, because my uncle sent Barra the Pict and Ildri to rescue me from the hands of Calum macDumhnull,” she said, frowning.
“And the child too, this Northman’s child?” “Yes, the child too!”
“But why was this?”
“Because I am his kinswoman and he has a debt of honor to protect me for the sake of my mother, who was his sister.”
“And he has a debt of honor for the Northman’s child also?” he persisted. “
My
child,” she said.
“Hmm.” He thought a moment. “It occurs to me that you came to this place for a purpose, and the bringing of the child was an error. Or perhaps Barra the Pict did not wish to cross you at such a delicate time. The little man has a sense of pity as well as loyalty.”
“Bringing him was no error,” she answered. “I was asked if I wished to destroy my child and I said no. As a priest you will understand I did not wish to add murder to my sins.”
He did not comment on this but sat tapping his teeth with a fingernail, thinking.
“Yet,” he said finally, “I cannot believe that Nechtan would reach far into the lands of the macDumhnull to intervene in your affairs. Not for honor or Christian charity. No matter what the Saxon bishop of Inverness may think, Nechtan the Pict is not half the Christian ruler he may profess. There is some other reason why you are important to him; of that I am sure. How do the Picts reckon their descent?” he asked abruptly.
She frowned again.
“In the old days, through the mother’s line or that of the aunt or the sister, not in the Celtic fashion, through the males. But the Picts in Argyll have long abandoned this, I think.”
“And in Inverness?”
“I do not know,” she said slowly. “It is not a matter which concerns me. I
have never asked.”
“I think that you should ask now,” Flann said. “But be cautious, most careful. Your position here is not a strong one, and you count few friends in the king’s house. If you trust this Barra, ask him.”
She had not acted on his advice. She did not forget the things he had said to her, but a dread of finding more deceit and intrigue held her back. She found safety in the pleasure of her child, never tiring of holding him and admiring him. He was, as Elda was fond of saying, a remarkably beautiful child and had a sunny disposition which amused and enchanted her. Fat and strong, he held himself straight in her arms; their eyes were alike, looking out on the world expectantly. She called him toonaig, little duck, for he had not yet been baptized and given a Christian name.
When Flann reminded her of the child’s lack of churching she was bitter. “I have seen that God has not given me much thought,” she told him, “and therefore I have not thought much on Him. When I needed His help in Cumhainn He did not give it, so of what benefit would His baptizing be to me or my child? Besides, who would do the baptizing? There are only these Saxon priests in Inverness and I am not a Saxon nor yet a Roman. I would have a proper Culdee, but you are under a ban here and have no authority. Besides, if you continue to provoke the teaching fathers the bishop will be obliged to
return you to Nechtan’s prisons.”
He managed a grim smile for her defiance and said no more on the subject.
After Easter the sun grew hot even in these far northern skies, drawing the green plants from the earth. During the days bands of Picts worked with their hoes in the sloping fields below the fort, and great herds of cattle passed along the shores of Loch Inver going to the mountain pastures. A ship from the kingdom of Aethelred Moll lay at anchor in the harbor, for a delegation of Northumbrians had come in late spring to parley the details of the great
peace. The evenings in the Great Hall had been enlivened with their talk and the entertainment of the bards and singers which had accompanied them. Doireann did not think these Northumbrians as cultured or well-spoken as the Franks from Worms who had wintered at Inverness, however. There was something about the Northumbrian hus-carls and thanes, with their arrogant, set faces and blond beards, which repelled her. She was reminded of the gossip which said that these Angles from Northumbria were close in race and speech to the Northmen.
She kept her dislike to herself. It was a minor flaw in an otherwise pleasant life. She was determined to enjoy the privileges and amusements which the King’s court held for her.
She was lying on the bed nursing the child when Elda called to her. The serving woman was standing on the porch emptying a jug of waste-water into the yard.
“Here comes the Culdee running,” Elda cried. “They are all running, and I see here is Prince Brude calling for his horse so that he may go after his father.” She came inside and put the empty jug on the floor. “Surely there has been another fight again between the Cymry warriors and the Irish fighters from Connaught, and they are tearing apart the barracks. These are wild men, these Welsh and Gaels, with the two bands so jealous of each other you would not think it worth the trouble to keep them at the fort. Still, I suppose the Old Cruithne, the king, must have some mercenaries about him who cannot be corrupted by the chiefs and other intriguers.”
Doireann was absorbed in her child and gestured for the woman to be still. The baby’s eyes were drooping as he nursed and she was intent on putting him to sleep. When awake, he was so restless and active he wearied them all in the cramped quarters. She stroked his fat rump with her free hand to soothe him, but he sensed her intent and squirmed.
She could not help laughing.
“Go to sleep,” she warned him, “or I shall give you to the hogs to eat.”
But Flann had come in and the child twisted about in her arms to see him, his mouth still tugging at her breast.
“How are you this day?” Doireann greeted the monk. “Where is your woman?” he cried.
“She is here.” She was surprised at his tone and manner. She rose on her elbow. “What is the matter?”
“Can you give the child to her? Can you speak with me now?”
“Yes, I can give the child to her, but he will shriek. It will be quieter if I can talk thus while I feed him.” She searched his face. “In God’s name, what is the matter?”
He pulled up a stool by the bed.
“Gently, gently; I did not wish to alarm you. A Frisian trading boat has come to Inverness with bad news. The holy island, Lindesfarne, has been sacked by the dread Fingall, the Northmen.”
“I do not understand you,” she whispered. “This means nothing to me.” “Ah, but it does. The holy island is near the coast of Northumbria, the king-