THE POWER AND THE GLORY

by H A CULLEY

  Glen Muich ran between two brooding ranges of mountains: Lochnagar to the west and Fashielach to the east. At the end of it lay a loch three miles long. On a day like today it lay blue and inviting under the bright sun; normally its grey hue reflected that of the cloud laden sky above. It was a good strategic place to hold because, from there, there was a long glen that ran south all the way to the coastal plain – an easy invasion route.

  ‘If they set up their base on the side of the loch - north or south it doesn’t matter – they would be left with only three escape routes,’ Morleo mused as Vara and his other senior warriors listened intently. ‘If they camp on the north side of the loch, they can’t very well go west either unless they want to end up in a treacherous bog. So we need some men on the slopes of Lochnagar to stop them escaping that way, and then use main body as a blocking force on the route they came along.’

  ‘What happens if they camp on the south side of the loch?’ someone asked.

  ‘Well, then we have a greater problem because then they can go east, south over the hills or back the way they came and we don’t have enough men to block everywhere. However, the north bank is a better place to camp so just pray that their leader does the obvious.’

  When the invaders emerged from Glen Muick the warriors headed along the northern shore of the loch and Morleo breathed a sigh of relief. He waited with a dozen men in the trees near the northern end of the loch until the families had passed and then his archers started to pick off the rearguard whilst he led the rest in a charge at the boys leading the packhorses.

  His men had clear instructions to knock the boy handlers out or otherwise disable them. He wanted them alive if possible; selling them in the slave markets of Northumbria or Mercia would give him the funds to recruit more warriors.

  The archers brought down four of the six members of the rear guard and the rest of his men were waiting further up Glen Muick to dispose of the other two as they fled. Only one of the five boys was killed and the other handlers were rendered unconscious. The operation had been a complete success and the timing couldn’t have been better. It was all over in seven minutes and, by the time that the main body realised what was happening, dusk was beginning to fall.

  Only one of Morleo’s men had been injured and he’d only suffered a minor flesh wound to his leg. It wouldn’t stop him riding. The boys they’d captured ranged in age from twelve to fifteen and would fetch a good price. For now they were shackled together and three men were left to guard them.

  That night Morleo led his men on foot from their base beside a small lochan two miles north west of Loch Muick to attack the enemy camp. It was easy to find their way in the dark as all they had to do was follow the burn that led from the lochan into the main loch and then move along the shoreline to the camp.

  To his ears the sound of feet on grass or slithering over slippery stones by the water’s edge sounded unnaturally loud but the flap of owls’ wings and of other nocturnal birds seeking a meal was louder. The new moon and the stars gave just enough light to illuminate the path. It had been a fine day and now it was a clear night. It wouldn’t last, Morleo thought gloomily. In his experience rain was more usual than sun in these mountains.

  Morleo halted and waited with the bulk of his men two hundred yards from the camp whilst his scouts went forward to deal with the sentries. That done, he sent some of his men to cut off anyone fleeing back into Glen Muick then led the rest forward.

  The only sounds in the camp were snoring and the occasional moan of pleasure as a few couples had sex, oblivious to the others around them. Without the packhorses everyone had been forced to sleep in the open.

  Each of Morleo’s forty men picked a sleeping warrior and then, when he gave the signal, they started to slit their throats. It was unfortunate that the second man that Morleo went towards was one of those busy pleasuring a woman. The man wasn’t aware that anything was amiss but his partner saw Morleo looming out of the darkness with a seax in his hand and she screamed. The man rolled off her and with, with surprising alacrity considering what he’d been doing a moment before, he came to his feet, oblivious of his naked state, and picked up his axe.

  The scream had woken all those except a few who were too drunk to be roused. Soon Morleo’s men found themselves in a desperate hand-to-hand fight. This wasn’t how he’d planned it and he only had himself to blame. He just hadn’t been quick enough to silence the pair. The warrior confronting him swung his axe at his head but he easily ducked out of its way. As he straightened up, he thrust the blade of his seax into the man’s bare belly.

  He pulled it clear with a grunt and looked for another adversary, but he’d foolishly forgotten about the woman lying at his feet. She had found a dagger from somewhere and now plunged it into his thigh. He managed to slash down and partially sever her head from her neck, but then his leg gave way under him and he fell to the ground. His head hit something hard and he lost consciousness.

  When Morleo came to he found a worried Vara bending over him.

  ‘Thank the good Lord for that. I was beginning to think that you’d left us for good and I’d have to start taking decisions, not my strong point.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘To you? Well, you took a nasty blow to the head and you’ve lost quite a lot of blood from that wound in your thigh. It’s been washed clean and stitched up whilst you were unconcious so, although you won’t be able to walk on it for a while, it should heal alright.’

  ‘I meant did we kill the men and stop the women escaping?’

  ‘Difficult to say as it’s only just getting light but most of the women and children are distraught, which must be a good sign. We killed all the warriors who fought us, but we lost three men with a few more wounded, but not too badly. They should recover in time. The rest we rounded up and tied their hands and feet together. The group you sent up the glen returned a little while ago to say that ten had tried to escape that way during the night and had been killed or captured.’

  Morleo nodded and then, with Vara’s help, managed to get to his feet, holding his left foot clear of the ground so that he didn’t put any pressure on his injured leg. One of the older boys handed him a tree branch which he’d fashioned into a crude crutch and, after tucking it under his armpit to support his weight, he nodded his thanks and then scanned the slopes of Lochnagar. As the sun rose it illuminated the summit with its halo of cloud. It promised to be another fine day. He felt a moderate breeze on his cheek, though he scarcely noticed it over the pain in his throbbing head. Slowly the blanket of light worked its way down the mountainside like a tide of ants on the march. When it reached the halfway point he spotted movement.

  There were four separate peaks in all and they stood between two thousand eight hundred feet and three thousand eight hundred feet tall. It would take the fugitives some time to reach one the shallow saddles that linked the summits and, even after they’d made it to the far side of the line of hills, the River Dee lay miles away over difficult terrain. He picked out his four best runners.

  ‘Go after them. I saw two, but check thoroughly in case there are more. Don’t bother to bring them back, kill them and leave them to feed the crows.’

  When he questioned the women captives later he was told that two of the girls were missing, sisters of thirteen and fourteen. They buried the warriors they’d killed in a common grave well away from the lochside where no one was ever likely to find them. Just as they’d finished the men he’d sent after the runaways came back.

  ‘We only found the two girls. We left the bodies behind as you instructed but we brought back their heads.’

  The man held up his grisly trophies, grinning like a madman. Morleo shuddered in revulsion but he forced himself to thank the men for their efforts. They had no doubt raped the girls before killing them and the thought made him feel sick. However, that aside, they’d done what he’d ordered and a good leader knew what conduct to punish and what to ignore.

  The next day t
hey set off with their captives on the long march down Glen Clova back to Dùn Dè. The weather had finally broken and fine drizzle managed to permeate their clothing, however tightly they wrapped their lanolin impregnated cloaks around them. Every step of the way Morleo was in pain. He might be riding but the pony jarred his leg all the time on the uneven path. Not for the first time he wondered what the hell he was doing there. He was no longer sure that recovering Ardewr was as important to him as it had once been.

  ~~~

  Rægenhere read his brother’s letter with dismay. He and Wilfrid might have had the same mother and father but they were nothing like each other. He was devout and tried to live a good life whereas the only vice the Bishop of Northumbria wasn’t rumoured to indulge in was fornication.

  One might have thought that, having achieved his ambition of becoming bishop of his native land, his brother would be satisfied. However, he was now scheming to replace Oswiu on the throne with Alchfrith when the former died; an event that he didn’t think would be long delayed now.

  He wanted Rægenhere to act as an intermediary between himself and the exiled former King of Deira. As he was Alchfrith’s chaplain, Wilfrid seemed to think that Rægenhere was in a perfect position to represent him as communication between him and his only living relative shouldn’t arouse any suspicions. Rægenhere wasn’t so sure. They had never been close - in fact they loathed each other – and Ecgfrith would be a fool if he wasn’t suspicious of correspondence going to and fro between the bishop and the continent, and Ecgfrith was anything but a fool.

  He watched the smoke curl up from the bronze dish as the parchment burned to a cinder. As it turned to ashes he wondered if he’d done the right thing. If Wilfrid wrote directly to Alchfrith when he didn’t get a reply from his brother he wasn’t sure how he was going to explain why he didn’t pass on the letter. In the end he decided to tell Alchfrith the contents and say that he’d destroyed the letter to save it falling into the wrong hands.

  Alchfrith listened to what his chaplain had to say intently. Rægenhere could picture him piecing together the bits of information he’d just given him with what he already knew, like a girl trying to repair a broken pitcher. This Pict, Bruide, had evidently kicked over a hornets’ nest and no-one seemed to know what to do about him. Morleo had taken refuge with Oswiu’s eorl in Prydenn and now Bruide was demanding that he hand him over for slaughtering the men of one of his villages and selling the women and children into slavery.

  Of course, the eorl had refused and denied any knowledge of the group in question. Bruide couldn’t produce any evidence, apart from the fact that they were apparently missing. How he knew that Morleo was involved was a bit of a mystery, unless he had spy amongst Morleo’s men of course.

  ‘Your brother seems to be suggesting that I employ an assassin to kill Ecgfrith whilst he is still in the north. Ælfwine is far too young to be considered a threat so that would make me the only possible heir.’

  ‘Apart from Aldfrith, of course.’

  ‘Aldfrith? But he’s a bastard and a monk. In any case he must be ancient.’

  ‘He’s a scholar but not a monk; he never took his vows. I believe that he’s in his mid-thirties now.’

  ‘Really? Well, he’s still not a contender.’

  ‘You wouldn’t really consider committing the sin of fratricide, would you?’

  ‘It was your God-fearing brother that suggested it.’

  ‘Not quite. Even he isn’t that wicked. What he said in his letter was that if Ecgfrith should meet with an accident, then your chances of succeeding Oswiu would improve immeasurably.’

  ‘It sounds like a pretty clear suggestion to me.’

  Rægenhere wished his brother had never put pen to paper now. What was he thinking of? If that letter had fallen into the wrong hands Oswiu would execute Wilfrid, whether or not he’d been consecrated by the Pope.

  ‘I’ve done what Bishop Wilfrid asked. May I retire, lord?’

  ‘Yes, yes. I suppose so. I was hoping we could discuss our options, but I suppose a sanctimonious priest wouldn’t want to sully his hands. It would be more useful if Wilfrid was my chaplain. Well, what are you waiting for? Get out.’

  Rægenhere didn’t sleep well that night. He couldn’t stop worrying that Alchfrith would do something stupid like actually sending someone to kill Ecgfrith. He tried to convince himself that Alchfrith would drop the idea once he’d thought it through. He’d have been even more worried had he known that, far from abandoning the idea, that was exactly what he was planning.

  ~~~

  The sleet swept across the dark, grey waters of the firth. Ecgfrith saw nothing in front of him except for the white curtain that stung his face, but the helmsman seemed to know where he was going. January 669 had been unusually mild but February had swept in like a vengeful demon. Ecgfrith thought that perhaps he should have waited before moving from Dùn Èideann to Dùn Dè in Prydenn but he wanted to take Bruide by surprise. If these miserable conditions were the price he had to pay, so be it.

  The temperature dropped as the sleet changed to snow. At first the flakes melted as they struck the wet deck, but then, as the surface cooled, the snow started to settle. The rowers cursed as they struggled to propel the birlinn against the steadily increasing wind. Everyone would be glad when they turned out of the Firth of Forth and started to head north. Then the easterly wind would allow them to hoist the sail.

  Slowly the snow petered out and Ecgfrith looked astern to make sure that the rest of the fleet followed in his wake. He could only see the next two ships, which carried Beornheth and his gesith. Previously he’d been the Ealdorman Dùn Barra but had now become the Eorl of Lothian following his childless predecessor’s death. The rest of the fleet transported Ecgfrith’s warband and that of Lothian, the English name which had now replaced the British one of Goddodin. It wasn’t a large force – merely two hundred men at the moment – but the addition of the warband of Prydenn and Morleo’s men should double the size of the army for the invasion of Ardewr.

  During the autumn messengers had worn a path between Dùn Èideann and Abernethy. Drest wasn’t willing to confront Bruide but he had at least agreed not to interfere if Ecgfrith aided Morleo in the recovery of his kingdom.

  The black clouds scudding across the sky gradually lightened in colour until, just as they entered the Firth of Tay, a window of light blue appeared. By the time that they had beached the ships ready to disembark the sun had put in an appearance. It did little to warm anyone but it did cheer them up.

  Two days later they set out in bright sunshine. The column of marching men, baggage carts and horsemen snaked back down Glen Clova for half a mile. As they reached the small loch under the brooding mountain called Lochnagar the sun vanished and a cold wind sprang up which chilled the bones of everyone from king to servant boy alike. By the time that they entered Glen Muick it had started to hail. The small lumps of ice stung bare flesh and the warriors used their shields to protect their heads.

  The ponies and horses started to get skittish and, just when Ecgfrith thought that he’d have to call a halt, the hail stopped as suddenly as it had started. In the aftermath of the hail rattling as it hit any hard surface the glen now sounded eerily quiet. Only the distant bleating of sheep far away up the hillside broke the silence. By dusk they’d reached the river and camped on the Prydenn side. Tomorrow they’d cross into Ardewr.

  Some of Morleo’s men had watched the flanks and scouted ahead of the main body but no one had thought to watch the rear. As the tents were erected and fires were lit in the twilight two men sat on their horses and watched from the flanks of Creag na Gall, the mountain to the north west of the army.

  ~~~

  That night the two men crept down on foot towards the camp. A bitter wind swept along the glen in which the dark oily river ran and the black clouds obscured the moon. As they made their way along the valley floor their shoes caused the grass to rustle slightly but the sound was hidden by the wind. An owl
hunted its nightly meal some distance away and small animals scurried out of the way of the two men.

  They paused once they neared the camp and waited patiently for the sentries to reveal their positions. Unlike novices, these warriors knew better than to move about, giving their positions away. They sat or stood still facing away from the campfires so as to preserve their night vision. The two assassins, for that was what they were, knew that they faced a difficult task. Getting inside the camp’s perimeter would not be easy. Then they had a stroke of luck. The watch changed and two of the new sentries obviously lacked the experience of their older fellows.

  They chose the one who changed his position regularly, rubbing his cold hands together and huddling into his cloak when he stopped. He kept looking in towards the campfires that were slowly dying down to glowing embers, evidently wishing he was near one instead of freezing to death. That ruined his night vision and so he was oblivious of the two men as they crept towards him.

  Suddenly he heard a twig snap somewhere out in the inky blackness that surrounded the camp. He looked nervously towards the place where the sound had come from and the second assassin took advantage of the distraction created by his companion to cross the final five yards. As he came up behind the young sentry one of his hands clamped itself across his mouth whilst the other drew a seax across his throat. Satisfied that the lad was dead, his killer lowered him silently to the ground.

  Once inside the camp the two men walked boldly through it as if they had every right to be there. No one challenged them, indeed the only person they saw was an elderly man on his way to relieve his bladder. They ignored each other.

  However, when they neared Ecgfrith’s tent, distinguished from the rest by its size and the banner of Deira – a blue spread-eagle on a yellow background - flying outside it, they halted and melted into the shadows. There were two guards outside the entrance and another patrolling around the back. The obvious target was the man at the rear and they used the same diversionary tactic with him, this time throwing a pebble off to his right.