Winter Serpent

by Davis, Maggie;

  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-

  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 di
d 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.