Winter Serpent

by Davis, Maggie;

  “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.

  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 c
an 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.”