Authors: Maggie; Davis
He stopped and cleared his throat.
“Now, let me tell you how this dreadful thing has occurred,” he said more quietly, “and how the news has been brought to us in Inverness.” The listeners brightened and settled themselves.
“I tell you that Lindesfarne is set upon the sea in shallow waters but a few leagues from the mainland,” he began, “and ringed about by treacherous sand fiats and shoals. These barriers have made it safe from any evil plunderers until this time, until the coming of the Viking. Now these Northmen are the dread masters of the sea, these pirates who come raiding in ships of shallow draught, using magical ways of measuring the sea bottom with string and weights, cool sailors full of loathsome cunning. It is said they approached the harbor at Lindesfarne in the night, and in the dawn ascended the hill to the monastery where they fell upon the helpless monks and students, the beardless youths and cloistered bishops! With battle-axes and ring mail, and goblin skulls upon their heads, they attacked the holy men, calling upon their demon gods to witness the destruction of the Christians, and their eyes bulged from their heads in the berserkr rage, their mouths frothed with blood hunger.”
The Great Hall was still as he paused.
“It is certain that the All-Father, the One God, drew the clouds of heaven over His face to hide the sight of the slaughter of His priests as they tumbled from the churches, their arms held up in supplication! Now have the Danes and the Norse forever damned themselves without hope of salvation in their affront to God! For they laid about them in unchallenged triumph, cutting down the defenseless men of Lindesfarne, severing the limbs of helpless children for sport, relieving themselves upon the altars to profane them, smashing the holy objects which they could not carry away.
“Weep, proud men of Britain,” Edbert shouted, “for what has happened to the holy island of our church, for the helplessness of the men of Bebbanburg who watched from the coast, cut off by the tide!”
Doireann shivered. She was not the only one affected by Edbert’s speech. Llewellyn ap Gwilym, the chieftain of the Cymry mercenaries, rose from his seat and put his hand to his sword in a formal gesture of anger. Muffled howls broke from the Northumbrian party. Only the Picts were silent.
Wilfrid the Saxon rose to speak. The bishop was a thin, sallow man with a quiet voice, precise in his movements. The authority in his voice quieted the budding disorder.
“God visits His will upon men in mysterious ways,” he said quietly. “We who have sought Christ among the nations of the west now lie under the Viking onslaught. These pagan raiders seek to return the world to heathen darkness, but the martyrdom of God’s priests on Lindesfarne has laid our task before us. All the world must follow the Kingdom of Christ. The message is clear to us. God will not have us living on this earth both pagan and Christian. The Northmen who come with blood and fire must be met by the men of Britain who are strong in the holy church of St. Peter and St. Paul, bound together to bring love and God’s word—yes, even to those who would attack us. But in this mortal struggle no Christian king should intrigue against his brother Christian king. All should be of one purpose and faith in order to subdue and enlighten the heathen. God offers love, not vengeance. God offers light, not darkness.”
Rude stamping from the Northumbrian
seats interrupted Wilfrid’s earnest voice.
“No martyrdom for the Angles!” they shouted. “Swords, not crosses, will greet the Northmen!”
“If you would be strong, be strong in Christ,” Wilfrid maintained, frowning. “Do you speak for your Pictish flock?” a drunken voice shouted.
Wilfrid was taken aback.
“Yes, I speak for the Picts. They are Christian men.”
The King of the Picts waved a hand at his bishop. His tattooed face was drawn up in a grimace of displeasure; he restlessly fingered the gem-studded necklace of iron disks at his throat.
“The Pict fears no man,” Nechtan announced. “He has seen these Northmen on his coasts and has felt the taste of their swords. But the vengeance of the Pict is inescapable. Naturally, all Picts grieve at the loss of so many priests on the holy island, especially as there are few enough to minister to us as it is. And the Picts also deplore the fact that the men of Bebbanburg in Northumbria were close enough to the attack but were not able to help their monks. However, these things do happen. It is a warning to the Cruithne to be vigilant.”
“The men of Northumbria do not lack courage,” Edbert said stiffly, “nor is it their intention to ask help.”
“Offa’s men do not fear to cross swords with the Sea Danes,” a Mercian cried. There were cheers from the Saxons.
“Crafty Picts, do not hold back!” To Wilfrid’s horror this voice came from among the hooded monks.
Nechtan looked about him and snorted.
“And when the Northumbrians have defended us from the wild
Northmen, who then will protect us from the Northumbrians?” he asked.
The hus-carls of Edbert’s party shook their fists at him.
“The Picts welcome true alliance with any Christian people in Britain,” the king continued, “but there are none so weak-spirited in this land that they will throw themselves into the arms of others to escape the Northmen. The Vikings are a strong band of raiders, but they can be overcome.”
“Someone has ill-advised you, Nechtan of the Picts,” Edbert shouted. “These are not brave words, but the words of a woman!”
Nechtan’s eyes closed until they were slits of black. He turned slowly then, to the spot at the end of the table where his niece shrank down on her seat on the bench, her face white and anxious, an appeal in her eyes.
“Speak softly in the king’s house!” Prince Brude exclaimed. The rebuke was wasted on Edbert. The latter smote the table in a frenzy, heedless of diplomacy. “Let no man hint that the Angles are not able to meet the Northmen and
best them in battle,” he roared.
“That was not implied,” Wilfrid soothed.
“We have great respect for the men of Aethelred Moll,” Brude offered. His father leaned back in his chair and observed the Council of Seven silently. The Pictish chieftains had continued their meal, undisturbed by the shouting, their faces impassive.
“Let no one misunderstand my words,” Edbert said somewhat more calmly. “We who are here, famed warriors and thanes of Northumbria, do not ask aid
against the Northmen. I spoke of the sack of Lindesfarne only to tell of a great tragedy which strikes at all of us who call ourselves Christian, and to warn of the common danger. Yet there is also this to be considered. While we do not ask for help, neither will the Angles, nor the Saxons and Jutes, look with favor on any nation which seeks to take the middle way against the foe. If any think to deal with the Northmen for their own gain, to pay gold or make secret treaty with them, or their women, against attack… it is best that such a matter be laid before us now.”
“I do not understand you,” Nechtan said flatly. The seven chieftains stopped chewing. The hall was still enough to hear the rustle and craning from the benches in the back.
“Let me assure…” Wilfrid began, but the king stopped him.
“One might ask himself,” Edbert went on softly, “is it pride which would hold back the hand of the mighty Picts from the common foe? Or some flaw which prevents proper Christian outrage at the tragedy of the holy island? Or is it that some crafty voice has been at work among good men to urge secret treaty at the expense of the rest of Britain?”
A young thane from the Northumbrian benches stood up, weaving slightly. “What man would offer God’s holy island to keep his own coasts safe?” The Angles rose and stumbled forth with drawn swords.
“Keep your seats!” Edbert shouted to his men.
“In God’s name,” Wilfrid implored them. The hooded brothers rose at his words and began rather reluctantly to herd the thanes back to their benches.
“What is this disturbance in my hall?” Nechtan shouted. He pointed his finger at the milling warriors. “What is the purpose of this? Do the Angles wish to fight the Picts as well as the Northmen by running about thus with drawn swords?”
“My warriors have been drinking deeply,” Edbert muttered.
“Drinking?” Nechtan sank once again into his seat and smiled sourly. “Yes, and talking also. Has this been just an ill-mannered and drunken wind or do you have more to say that I would better understand?”
“Nechtan of the Picts,” Edbert said soberly, “I heed your warning; now heed mine. If a woman with a Norseman’s child at her breast should whisper in my ear, and if my allies should suffer loss through her schemes, I should well ponder the consequences.”
“Ah, so that is the tune,” Nechtan said. He looked down the table at his niece, her head seemingly about to disappear under the board. “Stand up,” he said sharply.
Doireann rose. All eyes were fixed on her, and she could feel Barra hovering anxiously behind.
“This must be the woman of whom you speak, the one ‘who has my ear.’ She should be no stranger to you. As my kinswoman she has filled the cup of honor for you many times at this board. As my sister’s daughter she has great esteem among the Cruithne, for according to our custom her blood is more royal than my son’s, the line being reckoned through the women. Such children as she will bear will one day sit upon this throne. Her father was a Scot of noble blood, claiming Alpin, King of the Dalriads, as his cousin. Now is this truly the woman of the Norse, the one who advises me so ill?”
Edbert turned to face the girl and saw, her to be astonishingly pretty, very young and very white-faced.
“I have heard that she has a child by a Norse chieftain,” the Northumbrian answered stiffly, “and that it lives and thrives in your fortress. I have also heard that this Thorsten Ljot, the berserkr, this sea rover and priest-killer, claims that she is his legal wife. He caused much bloodshed in Lore when she was stolen from him by the Scots. Even the slave who keeps your stables, oh King, and the man who brings your meat, know the gossip that the Viking has offered gold for her return, swearing vengeance on the Scots who abused her and separated her from him. Perhaps this Northman is glad that she has at last come to a place of safety among her Pictish kin. Perhaps in some friendly place he can arrange a parley and bargain for her with promises of freedom from attack.”
“Of what do you accuse this woman?” Wilfrid cried. “Is she a spy and schemer for the Northmen or a pawn to be redeemed for gold and protection?” “I accuse no one,” Edbert answered. “But since she is in Nechtan’s house let
him speak for her.”
“No.” Wilfrid made a gesture of restraint. “Let there be no challenges. I will answer, for she is under the law of the Church as well as the King, being a woman of Christian family. This woman was given to the Northmen unwillingly through the perfidy of her foster brother the chieftain in Cumhainn in Lorne. The child she bore was the fruit of agony and violence. Her kinsman, Nechtan, King of the Picts, heard of her plight through the Picts still in Cumhainn, and arranged with them to have her brought to Inverness. Her lot has been one of sorrow and misfortune, brought upon her by the deeds of others. She is innocent of any intrigue. The child is with her now because I have interceded with the King of the Picts, asking that so long as it is nursed by its mother it should not be sent away. The child’s father is indeed one of the Northmen, but the child shall be raised as a Christian among Christian people.”
A voice was unexpectedly heard from the table of lesser Pictish chiefs. “The Northman favored her,” a chieftainess offered, “for she is in better
health than most of their captives.”
“Perhaps the Picts have not thought to send the child to his father pickled in a barrel of brine,” Edbert snorted.
“I was only told that the child was a bastard,” Nechtan said, “and as bastards do not name their fathers I did not seek to find him out.”
A titter of laughter ran through the hall.
“You have trouble in your house,” one of the seven chieftains said suddenly to the king. “Will a fair-haired child sit upon the Cruithne’s chair?”
“You will ever have trouble when this woman dwells with you,” a voice said in Gaelic. It was one of the Irish mercenaries, his hand raised prophetically. “She is one of the fatal ones, and her beauty is a curse, like that of Deirdre of old.”
“Christian men,” Wilfrid cried, “this is a Christian woman. Are we like the
Northmen that we vent our wrath upon the innocent and her child?”
“She is not without protectors,” Llewellyn ap Gwilym called. He rose and put his hand on his sword. The Cymry glared at the men of Eire.
Nechtan looked across the table at the faces of the seven chieftains. He raised his eyebrows.
“She is my blood kin,” he told them. They nodded.
He looked once more at his niece and fingered the iron disks of his necklace. There was a furrow on the blue marks of his forehead as he considered the situation and weighed it.
“Since there is no peace in my hall while you are in it,” the king said to his niece, “you must leave it.”
He made a gesture with his thumb, and his son, Prince Brude, sprang up from his seat at the high table. He escorted Doireann to the door where a few of the Northumbrian thanes still roamed about.
Llewellyn ap Gwilym came up to them, sword in hand, but Brude stopped him.
“The law says no man draws weapons in the king’s house,” he told him. “Do you think she will suffer harm with me?”