Authors: Maggie; Davis
dom of the Angles. Some of them now are at Inverness; you have seen them. In the attack Upon Lindesfarne the churches there were burned, the cloisters, the schools, the storehouses. All who lived there, the monks, bishops, the students of the schools, they have been tortured and murdered. The dead are numbered in the hundreds, perhaps the thousands. Lindesfarne… it was founded by the Culdees, you know, and then after the Synod of Whitby the Saxon Church took it. Lindesfarne and York, the two great centers of God’s word among the Saxons! Now Lindesfarne is no more, destroyed by the pagan.”
“How far is this island from Inverness?” she cried. “Can the Northmen come here to attack us also?”
Flann turned from her.
“More ships were seen upon the sea than have ever been seen before— since the coming of Hengist and Horsa, since the coming of the old Romans. They saw the sails of the Viking host spread out upon the sea like a flock of demon birds.”
“Are the Northmen going to invade us?” He seemed not to hear her.
“Why have they come upon us?” he muttered. “Why do they come now like a plague to vent their fury on Britain? Because they have great hatred for Christians. It is said the gold lust drives them forth, but this is only part of it. It is the beginning of the great travail as St. Bercan prophesied:
Six gentiles shall come over the great sea;
They shall confound the men of Erinn and Britain.
Of them shall be a pagan in every church;
Of them there shall be a king over Britain and Eire.
Many years shall they be strong in their power
In the High Sovereignty of Erinn.
Over every church the pagan shall sit,
And their fort shall be called Dublin.
“What are you saying?” she cried at him.
“Nothing. A prophecy from the time of St. Columba. It speaks the truth, for it tells of these Northmen from over the sea.”
“It is all foolishness,” she told him. “I do not believe a word of what you have said. You will see. All the ships of the Northmen could not bring enough
men to defeat the Scots or the Picts. The Saxons and the Angles, perhaps, but not the people of North Britain. Besides, the Roman Pope will not like to see his Holy Island destroyed. He will send Charlemagne to protect it!”
To her astonishment, he laughed.
“Only a woman could think of such a thing! Charlemagne does not do the Pope’s bidding. Besides, his armies are spread against the Moors in Spain and the Lombards in Italy, and he struggles to subdue the old Saxons in the Frankish forests. His woes are many, but Lindesfarne is not one of them.”
She shook her head. “Nevertheless, the Northmen will not come to Inverness. They cannot. They attacked this island only because there were monks on it, not warriors.”
“I would never tell you that the Northmen will not attack Inverness,” he said soberly. “When the wind blows from the north who can keep it out? Bolt the door, stuff the cracks, it still whines between the boards of the wall. So will it be with the Northmen. Those who would flee them and their attacks may seek safety inland, but it is my thought that when the raiders have sacked the islands and the coasts they will penetrate the land.”
She was struck by a memory.
“Yes, you speak the truth. The Vikings in Cumhainn boasted that in
Ireland they went up the rivers to find villages.”
“Just so. Now listen to me. The Angles have a song they sing; very old it is. They call it Beowulf. You have heard it sung in Nechtan’s hall since the coming of the Northumbrian thanes.”
She could only stare at him.
“In this song,” Flann went on quietly, “the Northumbrians tell of their kinship with the old tribes of Teutons, the Skoldunga kings of Scandia. There is much common knowledge between these old tribes, and those who live in Britain have not forgotten it. Many of the Saxons and the Angles claim they can tell the Northmen by their shield markings. In this way they have the advantage of the Celts and the Picts and the Welsh, who see them all as wild men, savages. All the Saxons, Jutes, and Angles speak familiarly of Godred, the king of the Danes, and how he has boasted he will lay Britain waste. And some even know the mysterious Norse who tame the sea with strange cunning. When Lindesfarne was plundered there were men from Bebbanburg, across the channel, who read the sail markings and the shields. They call out many names from those among the raiders, and one of them is Snorri Olavson of the Inglinga. Four of the ships were his. And then they speak of Snorri’s cousin the giant berserkr, the Scarred One, who is the hero of a band of wild warriors.”
“So this is what you have come to tell me,” she whispered. “The Norse Jarl still lives.”
“No one knows this piece of news except the Northumbrians at Inverness, and I do not think it interests them. No one would think to link you with a name, a Northman’s name. But even so, those of the Viking who have been recognized will be much hated and hunted. In Birka I heard of the berserkir and thought such things were but Norse myths. But these men exist. Even among their own people they are regarded with fear and awe, and are usually avoided like the demons of hell.”
“Do not tell me how he is hated and feared!” she cried. “I know him. He says that nothing can harm him, and it must be a true thing. How else could he have survived that night in Cumhainn, set upon the sea as they were in burning ships, in the winter storm?”
“Shhh,” he warned her. “Put these things from your mind. What happened in Cumhainn cannot be changed, but what may happen here is now important. This night Nechtan, King of the Picts, will take his meal in his Great Hall. It will be full of Northumbrians drinking and grieving for their country’s honor. What sort of face will you put on before them? Will you betray your secret? What sort of face will you put on before the Picts, your kinsmen, who have also seen the burning of their villages this year by the Viking longships?” “Why should I fear to face them?” she demanded. “They seek revenge against the Northmen and I seek it also. If I have any secrets it is not my love
for the Norse Jarl nor any of his deeds.” He looked at her sadly.
“Yet when you came to this place you did not claim revenge for what happened in Cumhainn. True, it would have borne little fruit, but the claim would have been a formal acknowledgment of what was done. Instead, you have kept to yourself, and the Old Cruithne has been silent. There has been no vow-taking or petition for vengeance. I asked you once why you had been brought here, and you gave me several answers. Have you found the true one?”
She was silent.
“Your face tells me that you know. You have a strong claim upon the King of the Picts through your mother’s blood. You told me that the line of kinship is reckoned through the females, the mother or the sister. Have you found out that Nechtan will have no issue except this one son of his, this Prince Brude, for all that he has tried hard enough with many women? Nechtan shed much blood to seize the throne of the Picts and it is a bitter thing for him to find his line thwarted. The succession must pass through the female side of his blood and so any child you bear will be the rightful heir. The throne will go to him. No, not the Viking’s child. The tribes will not tolerate this. But consider if cousin married cousin, how strong their child’s claim would be! No jealous or intriguing chieftain could set aside the heir of such a union, short of murder.”
“You are wrong, wrong,” she whispered.
“It is an evil thing,” he told her, “and I have prayed that it is not so. But it is true. I have made certain of it.”
“Then I must leave Inverness and find a place of safety, a place of peace for myself and my child. What I thought I had found here is now gone.”
“Peace for you?” His face was weary and old-looking. “There is no peace for the curse of beauty. There is no peace for the child, no safety, under the stain of his birth. Only God knows what is to become of you, and it is certain I am that He pities you.”
11
In the mornings the Great Hall was used by the Saxon fathers as a court school; at night it was a barracks where the warriors and chieftains lay down on the benches to sleep. Between these times the King of the Picts dispensed justice from his gilded chair, flanked by the Saxon clerks. At dusk, Lugh the steward came in to see that the trestle tables were set up for
the evening meal.
The chieftains and other high-ranking Picts began to assemble in the Great Hall at nightfall, passing under the banners of the doorway to take their seats according to kinship groups. They sat under their shields hung in the rafters over the tables, so that all could see the marking and know the bloods of the tribes represented by their presence. Outside the building there were always large crowds of common folk and slaves, whose rank did not entitle them to seats within.
Doireann was among the last to arrive, for she had lingered over her dress and appearance, acting on Flann’s warning to put on a good face before the assembly. She had put on the silken gown given to her by the Old Cruithne and had allowed Elda to twist her hair into a long plait in the Pictish style, braiding in a length of glass beads. For the first time she outlined her eyes in
charcoal and stained her fingernails in the manner of the Pictish noble-women. No one could challenge her right to be called the King’s niece by her outward appearance.
She went to her place at the high table and quickly took her seat there. A silken canopy hung directly over the king’s gilded chair, and on either side of it were places reserved for the most noble of the kingdom and honored guests. A few seats away sat Prince Brude and, after him, Wilfrid, the bishop of Inverness, then Doireann Muireach. On the king’s immediate right was Edbert, the Northumbrian, emissary of Aethelred Moll, king of the Angles. Across the high table with their backs to the assembly, but facing their liege, were the impassive faces of the seven chieftains of the seven districts of the north.
Two tables of the king’s Irish and Welsh mercenaries flanked the high table protectively, according to custom, for it was not unknown for even a king to be attacked in his own hall. Below these were placed the tables of the chiefs of the interior villages of the Picts who ranked lower than the Council of Seven. These benches were often filled with the squat and warlike figures of chieftainesses, more formidable-looking than the males. Monks, women, and common freemen sat progressively farther from the gilded chair.
It was easy to see the gloom upon the company this night. The Saxon fathers had been at chapel with their prayers for the victims of Lindesfarne until shortly before entering the hall. Many of them had attended the very schools which were now said to be destroyed. In his seat at the side of the King of the Picts, Edbert was morose and silent, biding his time until he should be allowed to speak of the catastrophe which had befallen his country.
The first meat was eaten glumly. There could be no talk until Nechtan gave the signal that his hunger was partly satisfied. Because of the bad news from Lindesfarne, the harpers were silent, and there was only fitful coughing from the diners, broken by the bleat of Nechtan’s pet goat tied to the table leg.
Finally the King of the Picts leaned back in his chair and belched. The
Council of Seven looked at him expectantly.
“Now there is a sadness among us gathered in this hall,” the Old Cruithne remarked, “and we are joined in the grief of our guests.”
Edbert took the signal to rise. His mouth under the blond mustaches was set and grim.
“There is grief indeed for all of us, oh Nechtan, both Angle and Pict.” His voice boomed out easily over the close-packed crowd. “Great anguish spreads itself over the lands of Britain both north and south. This day not only the men of Northumbria will grieve, but also the Franks and other tribes of the continent despair, and the Holy Father in Rome weeps great tears of anguish.
Christ in Heaven sternly bows his head, this great thane over us all, before the wrath of the All-Father, the One God.”
With ceremony Edbert named one by one the countries whose anger would be stirred by the Northmen’s attack on Lindesfarne. Doireann took the opportunity to clean her plate, for she was hungry, and watched the faces of the Council Of Seven staring up into the tall Northumbrians face. Their round eyes glistened but told nothing.
“Our dishonor is great,” Edbert was saying, “and I see that the ‘far-famed tribes of the Picts of the north are not unaffected, for their anger is apparent. It is a true thing that all men who call themselves Christian are greatly wounded in their name pride, and yet this is as nothing compared to the dishonor of the One God and Christ His Son who now seek to be avenged. The debt is great.”
The seven chieftains were silent, but the Northumbrian warriors grunted their approval from their table. The bishop of Inverness was looking at his Saxon monks somewhat anxiously.
Edbert warmed to his subject, recalling the names of the saints who had founded Lindesfarne, both the Irish and Scot Culdees and the Saxons who had followed them. He named the sacred tombs of St. Oswald, St. Wilfrid, and St. Cuthbert which were on the holy island and counted the missionaries who had gone forth from this seat of learning and piety to found monasteries among the Franks and the Lombards. What Iona is to the Scots and the Irish, what Rome is to the world, he told them, so is Lindesfarne to the Angles and Saxons.