“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.”
The hall was silent. The heads turned to Doireann; under the spell of Flann’s story they were wide-eyed, and she could not read what was in them.
She stood up, scraping the bench backward in her haste, and went to Flann and took the harp from his hand. It was a bold thing to do, for only Conor could invite the singers, but she held the instrument without apologies or remarks.
“Now you shall hear my tale,” she said evenly. “When Nechtan of the Picts came to parley with the Northmen by the sea he was not driven by love of me but by his own greed and ambition. This destroyed him only. After the Northmen had departed, the Pictish chieftains began to quarrel among themselves there on the beach. They saw that their king had been betrayed and tricked by the foe and so they fled to their villages saying they must protect their own tribes rather than the fort at Inverness. Then the King of the Picts was frenzied at their desertion and set off with much confusion with those that were left, to make his way back to his castle. The serving woman who had come with me abandoned my child in the sand dunes and fled, and only his weeping told me where to find him. Of them all, it was my bound man from my father’s hall who stayed to find me and guide me. To him I owe my life many times over, and not least that day, for we went swiftly through the tidelands and into the forest to hide. We traveled far from the coast, fearing what was there, and then we came upon the old road which leads westward into the mountains and saw a man sitting beneath the cross of St. Kevin.
“It was then that we knew Inverness was destroyed. It was Flann the Culdee who said the Northmen attacked in blind frenzy, hacking at the stones of the walls when they could not find flesh for their battle-axes. How every stick that could be moved was moved, everything that could be burned was burned, and everything of value carried off. Now, brave men of the macDubh-Shithe, this is how it will be when the Northmen come again in their dragon boats. Shall there be murder and burning embers in the land of the Scots, or war songs which will rise over them and our triumph?”
There was a little restless sigh which ran around the tables. The macPhee’s sons looked about them uneasily.
“Shall it be the women of the Gaels who are killed, and their children, or shall the Scots drive back these north pirates into the sea and smash their ships? Are the war songs dead? Shall we not sing: ‘Amhacainn cheann, nan cursan strann, ard Leumnach, righ n’an sleagh!’”
Someone shouted out encouragement. It was an old battle song and there was not a man present who had not often heard it.
“‘Lamh threin ‘sguch cas.’” Here a voice joined hers and was lost in the shouting which followed.
Like the destroying thunder
Be thy stroke, o hero!
Thy forward eye the flaming bolt,
Like the firm rock thy unwavering heart; As the flame of night be thy sword!
Uplift thy shield of the hue of blood
And you shall see that death shall be real. Offspring of chiefs,
Snorting steed rider,
Cut down our foes to the earth!
The men were stamping their feet on the packed earth. Someone tuned a bagpipe to the uproar.
Conor’s eyes were gleaming and he came to Doireann and put a kiss on her forehead.
“Nighean! You are a true daughter of the Gael,�
� he shouted, “and a woman such as is sung of in the old songs!”
He was saying more, but she could not hear over the noise and did not care. She nodded to the bard and looked down at Flann who had his head in his hands. He seemed stunned by the excitement her words had generated. For a moment she thought that he was ill.
The clansmen were kicking back the rushes, and several of those who could not wait for the dust to settle were already hopping up and down to the music. It was a violation of hospitality to draw weapons within the house, yet a few men had knives in their hands and were waving them in time to the stamping.
The macPhee watched her clansmen silently, tapping her fingers on the table before her. She frowned.
Comac Neish rose and leaned across the table.
“Chieftainess,” he shouted, “come and dance the wild dance!”
Delight broke into her face and impulsively she seized his hand, mounted the bench and then the table, treading among the bowls and platters, and jumped off the far side into his arms. Her sons applauded this. “Let us do this also,” Liamh said to Doireann. He followed his mother’s example, jumping on the table and walking the length of it to come to her. His brother shouted raucous remarks after him.
Doireann tried to hang back but Liamh dragged her to the center of the floor. She was immediately snatched from his arms and whirled away to join the line of the women. It was a strange ruddy-faced man who picked her up next and swung her about. The odor of sheep was strong in her nostrils.
She laughed uncertainly. It was all she could do to keep pace with the swift-moving women now gliding forward, their arms linked, toward the leaping, twirling men.
Liamh seized her. She stumbled. No, it was not Liamh; it was his brother Niall Roy. They looked so much alike with their bright hair and wide grins. She was pulled away again. Comac Neish passed her, holding the tall chieftainess. The screams of her excited laughter could be heard over the shouts and the pipes and the stamping.
Doireann knew she must get out. She did not know what she was doing. The dancers jerked and pulled at her to keep her out of their way. It was too fast, too wild, and she had had enough of it. She was thrown into the arms of a burly man and he held her. Niall Roy’s arm came between them. The burly man cast him off, but Niall Roy followed and hit the man a blow on the shoulder which sent him reeling.
“Come away,” Niall Roy bellowed at her.
He grabbed her arm and held it. She tried to break his grip, crying out, but no one paid them any notice. The men and women around her were close-packed, eyes gleaming, mouths open, jigging up and down as they watched the dancers.
Niall Roy wrapped both arms about her tightly. “Come away,” he repeated.
She kicked out at him.
“Go away or I will call your mother,” she said, but she laughed.
This seemed to make him angry. He lifted her and carried her outside the building.
The darkness was not quiet. There were several struggling shapes nearby in the night and much giggling. Niall Roy staggered to the railing of the hogpen and dropped her. The hogs lurched up, grunting.
“Och!” he exclaimed, wiping his face with the corner of his plaid. “This is hot work, the dancing and carrying you about. I think you are heavier than you look.”
“Well, at least you will not have to carry me back,” she told him, turning to go. But he caught at her skirt.
“You do not have to run away. Stay here for a moment and breathe the cool night air, for Liamh is most likely searching among the dancers for you now, and you do not want to return until you have gotten your wind.”
She stood quietly. It was true enough, she was panting as hard as he.
He fumbled for her hand, not letting go of her skirt. She pulled away from him slightly, wishing that he had not brought her outside in the darkness. Niall Roy pressed closer, and his hand on her skirt had seized her leg above the knee. He pulled her against the railing of the hogpen and held her there.
“Hold still,” he told her, “for I am only wanting to kiss you.”
She put her hand on his chest and pushed, but he would not be shoved. “Why do you hit me?” he asked crossly. “You have had many men. Surely
I would be no worse than the rest and there might be some pleasure in it that
I could offer you that they have not.”
She was speechless. He took her silence as encouragement. “I am not as young as I look,” he said, suddenly awkward.
“Oh, Jesus in heaven!” he burst out angrily. “Who could look at you and not want you? And am I not a better man than Liamh?”
“You!” she choked. She struggled with him. “You idiot! You freckle-faced child, you… you… farmer!”
“Don’t call me that… those,” he shouted. “Let her be,” a soft voice said.
They both jumped, but Niall Roy tightened his hold on her.
“Get away from me, Comac Neish,” the young man cried. “Do I interrupt your love-making?”
“Is this love-making?” the other said, viewing their struggles. “Take care, now!” Niall Roy cried. He held the girl with one hand and drew his knife out of his belt.
The Irishman held up his hand, and the dim light gleamed on metal. “Here is my knife also,” he said quietly.
Niall Roy flung Doireann from him.
“I will not quarrel with the great Comac over a woman,” he cried, “but, you cannot draw your knife against me without blood-letting!”
Comac Neish looked a little regretful.
“Come, Niall Roy, I will not challenge you. If you do not care for the woman let her be.”
“You are welcome to her,” Niall Roy said, snarling. “But you have drawn your knife and you must have given thought to what must follow.”
Comac threw the knife into the dirt.
“So be it,” he said amiably. “I will settle the quarrel by wrestling with you.” “Not so!” the other cried and sprang at him.
Comac caught him and held him, and the younger man strained against him, cursing. Doireann leaned against the hogpen in silence. There was no way that she could part them and it might be the Irishman could subdue the younger man before there was any outcry. She looked at the two men locked together. The son of the macPhee was angry and desperate, for his pride was at stake. The Irishman held him and countered his blows carefully, seeking less to defend himself than to keep the other from being hurt. It was not an easy thing, for Niall Roy flailed wildly.
The couples about them began to stir, and she heard a man’s exclamation. Someone whooped a hunting call and it was answered from within the house. Light poured from the doorway as torches were brought and figures came into the yard.
Comac Neish and the young man fell against the boards of the hogpen and the animals scurried about, squealing. Liamh and Flann ran toward the fighters and Liamh hit the Irish warrior with his fist.
His brother turned on him angrily.
“Do you think I need you?” Niall Roy cried. He punched his brother in the chest and Liamh groaned. He sprang on him, and they fell into the dirt. They rolled over and over, shouting.
Comac Neish wiped his face, for it was bleeding, and smiled. But Flann looked angry.
The tall figure of the macPhee came to the lighted door and looked out into the yard.
“God in heaven!” she screamed. “Get off the ground before you ruin your clothes!”
Two of the men from the hall pulled at the chieftainess’s sons and succeeded in separating them. They were covered with dust and manure.
The macPhee was staring not at her sons but at Comac’s bleeding face. “Three at one time and all fighting over your?” she shouted. “Hounds
of heaven, Doireann nighean Muireach, you must leave me some ablebodied men in the clan!” She turned to her oldest son. “Who put that lump on your head?”
“Be still, Mother,” he snarled.
“What is this?” She raised her hand as if to hit him. “Are you showing me your teeth, now, pu
ppy?”
He grabbed her hand.
“Do not shout at me, old woman!” he cried wildly.
They stood staring at each other, their red hair disheveled, their eyes starting from their heads.
“Oh, woe!” the chieftainess wailed suddenly. She shook her hand free of his and put it to her eyes. Niall Roy turned and stalked past her.
“Did you see him?” she exclaimed. She turned to Comac Neish. “For a moment I thought it was Congal More, the macPhee himself! Such a turn it gave me!”
Comac laughed.
“Ah, but it was the macPhee,” he teased her. “It was the new chief, though, not the old. Look again and see if this is not so.”
“Now may I be forever damned if that be true!” Moire shouted angrily and swept after her son.
A figure came out of the dark to Doireann.
“Madam,” the serving girl said, “your child is awake and Una asks if you can feed him now.”
“I am coming,” Doireann told her. She passed Flann and started to speak, but he turned his head away from her.
17
In the morning of their departure the macPhee came to the women’s hall accompanied by serving women with torches, and stood by Doireann’s bed.
“Come, Doireann nighean Muireach, wake up. The men are having their porridge in the hall this moment.”
Doireann opened her eyes and saw the tall woman with her hair flaming in the light.
“What is it?” she said, staring about her.
“Nothing. Only I myself have come to attend you so that you will know I
bear you no ill will.”
She waved the women away. She was carrying a large wicker basket by its handle, and put it on the bed and opened it.
“These are my presents to you so that you may leave my hall better attired than when you came to it.” She dismissed Doireann’s protests with an airy wave of the hand. She drew out a green gown embroidered in gold thread and shook it out. For a moment the chieftainess stared at it.
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