Winter Serpent (30 page)

Doireann pulled away from the woman, but there was no stopping her.

“I hear this Northman chief is possessed of a demon and even his own war band is afraid of him. They call him The Bear and worship him. And Calum
macDumhnull now, he has driven his brother the captain of the dun half-mad with his constant raging and ranting of his love for you. He says he will kill you now, as none may have you but himself.”

“I will kill him first!” Doireann cried. Moire threw the comb into the basin.

“Yes, that is more like it,” she said quietly. “Now you are not sullen and wireless.” She paused. “I do not envy you. The macPhee was a strong man and many times when I angered him I felt his blows so that the mark was on me for days as a reminder. But he was a bull in bed and kept me full of his sons and docile while he lived. I loved him and he was needful of me in many ways, great and small. I have his sons now, it is true, but it is a cold and lonely bed in which I lie.”

She stood up.

“Sleep. If I have talked of things you would forget, then dismiss it. It is my way. You will see, I am your friend.”

Doireann slept deeply and long. She awoke once with a great fear and felt for the child beside her. Then she remembered that he was in good hands and fell back into sleep again.

It was dark when she finally roused herself. The fire in the women’s hall was lit and the girls were feeding the children. A fat woman brought Ian to her. He had porridge on his mouth and waved a chicken bone happily. The woman would not let her take him, dirty as he was, but sent a younger girl to urge her to dress, as the nobles were already at table.

The young serving maid fussed over Doireann shyly, arranging her hair and bringing carmine to stain her lips. She put the silver circlet on Doireann’s brow. It was heavy, and after a while it would give her a headache, but it set the defiant stamp of her notoriety upon her. She nodded approval to the copper mirror held up to her, and the glittering-eyed woman who nodded back from the polished surface was beautiful indeed, and a stranger.

The serving maid lit her way to the hall of the macPhee with a torch. It was a house in the old style, an enormous round hut with thatched roof supported by an interior circle of posts. The chieftain’s table was put in a circle with the rest of the tables and not elevated on a dais as in the later custom.

It was noisy inside, and dimly lit with earthenware oil lamps. A sea of faces greeted her.

Moire in a green robe and a plaid pinned at the shoulder came to welcome her. The woman of the afternoon, with her bare feet and flowing red hair, was now a noble figure, every inch the proud chieftainess. Her hair matched the copper spears lining the walls, and though she had grown sons
at the table her body was erect and high-bosomed and she commanded all her bold good looks.

She made the formal speech of welcome and then, taking Doireann’s arm, muttered into her ear, telling her the names of the notables present. Doireann caught little of it above the din. Only the old man, the bard Conor, stuck in her mind. His gaze was as unwavering as a lizard’s. Doireann gave him a low bow of respect for his position and age.

She took a seat at the chieftainess’s right hand, and the four oldest sons pressed about her, jostling each other on the bench.

“Whatever my mother has told you of me,” Niall Roy said, “do not believe it. She is an old woman and her tongue rolls on like the rivers of the glen, without sense or forethought.”

His mother heard him.

“I will clap you on your disrespectful head,” she cried amiably. She looked across the table at Comac Neish. “I have not seen my thirty-fifth year, for all I am mother to these big louts.”

The old bard Conor put down his cup of ale.

“The offspring of the macPhee are but moons revolving about the brilliance of the sun,” he remarked sententiously.

Doireann appraised the old man. He looked dangerous. So did the Irish captain beside him, this Comac Neish, the Ard-Ri’s man. But in a different way. The warrior had a wild face, the face of a man who would put himself above the rest with his daring or else die for it.

She deftly removed Niall Roy’s hand from her knee. A woman could easily wonder how it would be to be loved by the Irish captain. She permitted her thoughts to dwell on this for a moment and found herself blushing. She smiled to herself. She guessed that at least it would not be dull.

She looked for Flann and found him at the end of the table, sitting silent and moody.

“Where is Barra, the Pict?” she asked of Liamh. He waved an arm.

“Oh, there are some Picts about in the hall and he is among them. But you need not worry. Here at the high table I will serve you myself.” He jumped up. “What is it you wish? I will bring you Niall Roy’s heart on a platter if you say it!”

She had to laugh.

“Some meat will be enough, and I will take some ale.” “It is done.”

He turned to fetch it but his brother sprang up in front of him. They began to wrestle for the honor of serving her.

“Sit down!” their mother shouted irritably. “Be served like decent people!”

They paid no attention to her. Niall Roy raised his fist and struck his brother a glancing blow on the cheek.

“Be careful there!” Moire shouted. “You are knocking the servants about! Holy Mother Mary, how can I expect to get something to drink with this fighting going on? I notice you are not so anxious to fill your mother’s cup for all that she is sitting with her parched tongue hanging out!”

She glowered at Comac Neish opposite her as though speaking to him. He busied himself with his food. Flann poured some ale from his own cup into hers with a courteous speech. She looked down at it and frowned.

Conor reached across the table and caught Liamh’s tunic. “Sit down, boy,” he thundered, “and obey the macPhee.”

After Liamh had seated himself Conor rose, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and beckoned to a servant. The man brought a gilt harp and reverently laid it on the old bard’s arm. A hush fell.

Conor was gaunt; his white robe hung on him like a shroud, but he wore his wreath of oak leaves imperiously. With a feeling for suspense he allowed the servant to hold a cup of ale to his lips while the others waited.

Doireann bent her head over the joint of meat she held. She had seen these pompous old men before. They were a link with the past when they were one of the high classes of druids and held great power over chieftains and kings. Many were ragged wanderers, now, their positions usurped by monks and clerks. Not many had a position of influence as did this one. But they were still feared, for it was hard to put down the slander and satire they might turn against a person in their songs.

“Now attend me,” the old man cried, and his voice was still resonant and beautiful. “Hear me, ladies and nobles of the land of Alpin, King of Dalriada, clansmen and women of the macPhee, most honored and esteemed chief of the macDubh-Shithe, worthy sons of the illustrious chieftain who was, Congal More of revered memory.”

He ran down the titles and claims of kinship and Doireann paid him scant attention. But when he began on the blood lines of the guests she was surprised at the power of his memory and the thoroughness of his training. He recited her particular descent without falter and some of the ancient names were strange even to her. Then he passed on to Flann the Culdee. She listened curiously. Flann’s blood was indeed noble and his claims to the powerful Clanna Rury of Ireland impressive. But it was sly of the old man to combine the descent of Comac Neish with it, for the latter was also of the Clanna Rury but a discredited princeling.

The bard returned to her kinship and she was jarred by his words. He had launched forth into a highly colored version of her misfortunes in Cumhainn with relish. The faces at the high table were bland, although she thought the Ard-Ri’s curadhs bent sympathetic looks on her.

The old man made a good tale of it, comparing her to many of the fatal women of the Irish sagas. The woman of Cumhainn, he orated, whose beauty wounded all who looked on her. Much bloodshed and frenzy had her lovelines roused in the hearts of men. The contemplation of her beautiful face, her proud mournful eyes, her troublesome lips and soft rounded arms, would bring madness to the mind of the beholder. A crown of rubies was on her brow although her sandals were torn with wandering. In all who saw her was the desire to possess her, although her love was for no man. Would those who fell under her spell find themselves enslaved by her coldness, her fierce mother-love, her heart of stone? Would this make them only prisoners of her beauty, wandering in her train across the empty land and back until their bodies faded and they were young only in legend?

She wished desperately that there were some way to silence him. These bards still had too much power. Too much confidence that they could say what they pleased. The monks were right. She looked at the faces listening and saw Comac Neish with his chin resting in his hand.

“But there are other tales to be told, and other mouths to tell them,” Conor said. “Great events have taken place in the land of the Picts since the sack of Lindesfarne and we have not heard the story. There sits a man, Flann the Culdee, who has seen these very things. I would like to hear him tell of it.”

“Yes,” the macPhee said. “Where is Flann? Let him take the harp.” Flann did not hang back, but his words were heavy.

“I do not have a talent for this,” he told them. “Long hours did the bards labor with me when I was at the schools, but little came of it. Nevertheless, the dread tale which you insist you will hear needs no skill. The sight and sound of what happened at Inverness has lain heavily on my heart to this day, and I would be glad if I could lay down the burden of it.”

Flann’s preamble was short, getting quickly into the story.

“When the warships of the Vikings turned away from the parley with Nechtan of the Picts they made for the waterway to Inverness with a good wind behind them. It was nightfall when they came to the fortress and they set at once upon those who were without the walls and murdered them. The alarm was given and the great gates of Inverness closed, but this did not daunt them. The Northmen assaulted the raths and moats in the dark, and gained entrance to the outer circle, and would have broken into the palace yard had they not been driven back with fire and arrows. Some few of the Northmen were captured there on the earthworks, and the enraged Picts took them for torture. The Vikings were tall, powerful men, but the little Picts overwhelmed them and dragged them to the stakes and tied their hands behind them. The Saxon fathers came down to the Picts then and exhorted them to refrain from torture and hold the men as hostages, but the Picts would not listen. Having
seen the murder of their own people outside the walls, their rage was great and drove them back in spirit to the evil pagan ways. They have always been noted for their ferocity. They told the Saxon fathers that they would vent their anger on the Northmen even though their souls be forever damned. As for the Vikings, they were silent, though they well knew what was to happen to them. They did not flinch. They called to each other and laughed at the fire held to their faces, and laughed again when other men would have screamed in pain. It was an awful sight, both the torturing and the inhuman courage of the Northmen before it. Nothing could force them to cry out in pain, though the sweat ran down their faces and they were white with their agony. I cannot tell you more of this dread contest between the tortured and their captors. The end of it was that those who were not dead were taken to the stakes and their bellies cut open and their entrails tied to the posts. Then the Picts drove them before them with firebrands and spears until the Northmen pulled out their own entrails. From outside the other Northmen shouted encouragement and their vows for revenge to the dying within. It was difficult to tell who were the most frenzied, the Picts inside the fortress or the Viking host on the hillside. Then the singing began from the attackers, mournful, terrible singing for their dead. And with this the Northmen burst into the fort in an irresistible flood and the dawn was red with their fury. The men of the Picts were cut down by the demons and their women and children outraged, and it was hell itself between the wooden walls of the yard. The buildings were fired and a great column of smoke rose so that it could be seen for miles. What the Picts had done to their captives was as nothing in the horror of the sacking of Inverness.”

He paused and wiped his face.

“I had donned armor with the Saxon fathers and I fought on the walls. I jumped down upon the back of a Northman and slew him with my spear. Then someone seized me and put me up into the air to fling me to my death. I went over the outermost barrier and down into the moat where I picked myself up, still clutching my spear but unharmed. Behind me Inverness was burning. I was stunned, and wandered about for some time without knowing where I was. Then I realized that all those within the flames of the fort were dead and so I left the spot. I went through the woods and came upon some fields and walked until I fell. Then I came upon some Picts fleeing from the coast where they said the Northmen were destroying everything and they believed the end of the world had come. So I went with them, still dazed in my mind, and they didn’t suspect I was a Culdee. That was perhaps fortunate, for in their superstition it might have been that they would have killed me.

“When I had gone miles to the westward away from the sea, I returned to my senses and remembered what had occurred and wondered how I had come
so far. I sat down under the ancient cross, carved from stone in the days of the Culdee fathers, the sign of the cross and the wheel. As I sat, I heard voices and beheld a woman mounted on a pony led by a Pict, with a child in her arms. They did not know me, covered with smoke and blood and dressed as a warrior. The woman screamed as I approached them. ‘In the name of God,’ she cried out, and I remembered that it was the first time during that accursed day that I had heard Him invoked. It was Doireann nighean Muireach of the macDumhnull and her child, with Barra the Pict, her bound man. And this is the way it all occurred.”