“Nay. Ye go on, then. We shall be perfectly alright.”
“Sleep well, my Lady. And ye, Norah.” Seonaid dipped her head to mother and daughter, stepping aside to let them pass in the confined stairwell. Once they disappeared ‘round the corner, she continued her descent, her mind on the trencher of mutton pottage Cook promised to put aside for her.
The fortress which clan Gallach held as its seat was not large, only two storeys high. But it was in the modern style, and so was a source of pride. The first floor was comprised almost entirely of the hall, where the clan servants slept around the fire each night. A main corridor snaked away from the hall and past the stairs to the keep, leading to a series of work and store rooms at the rear of the fortress, settled partly below ground-level. There were not many; the laundry, the kitchens and the alehouse were each their own separate outbuildings adjacent the main structure.
The second floor, the keep, offered only three rooms: the bedchamber of the chief and his wife who, of necessity, shared it with Madeg and Friseal; a smaller bedchamber which Norah shared with Roisin, and the family’s common room which connected the two. Garrett had long ago taken his place with the rest of the unwed warriors in the barracks, another of the stone outbuildings that surrounded the fortress.
At one time, many hundreds of years ago, the clan lived in a traditional broch. But it had fallen into disrepair like most brochs scattered across the islands had. The structure’s thick stone walls were almost completely hidden from view, strangled by the dense flora which crept up its crumbling bones. Some days, when the mist surrounding Fara dissipated, one could see the face of it gazing down from the cliff’s edge on the southern side of the island. Apart from such a rare glimpse though, no one ever visited the broch anymore.
No one except Norah, that was. For her the broch was irresistible, exerted on her some sort of invisible pull which she could not ignore. It held a connection to her soul, that decaying shell of a dwelling. She could no more reject its necessity to her than she could air or water.
She had never been able to explain why. Only that it was so, and that it was unalterable.
Once she’d helped her mother reach the second floor safely, Norah climbed onto the bench which sat beneath the narrow, square window of the common room. Pulling her knees to her chin, she moved aside the woven wool curtain and peered out into the still, thick night. The cool spring air bit at her cheeks and misted her breath as it left her lips. She was grateful for the roaring fire which the servants had prepared for them in anticipation of their arrival. Its heat warmed the half of her that faced in towards the room.
The water was visible from her vantage; the waves slapped the rocky shore in gentle rhythm. Their song was lulling. Spell-binding.
The sea. It was another thing to which Norah felt inexplicably connected. But unlike the broch, whose connection was benign, wholesome in a way, the sea frightened her. For all her life she’d been terrified of the sea, had refused to ever set foot in a boat and had never learned to swim, a thing unheard of among the people of the islands.
Yet she could not stay away from it. She’d pass long, lonely hours staring out into its blue-green depths, entranced. Resisting the pull that called her into its fold, enticed her to slip beneath the foam.
The sea terrified her because it called her to her death. And she terrified herself because there was a part of her, primal in its strength, that wished to submit to its watery spell.
A product of the constant telling and retelling of the legend, her mother insisted. To pacify her, Norah conceded. Outwardly, at least ...
“Norah.”
“Mmm?” she murmured, still gazing out over the dark and misty landscape.
“Ye’re doing it again.”
Norah turned her chin, eyeing her mother with chagrin. “I’m sorry, Mama.” Iseabal’s face was deeply shadowed by the scant light of the dying fire, but she could see the disappointment written there.
Norah’s eyes darted to the flames as they swayed and skittered over the log, the fire now in the autumn of its time. But wait—had the fire truly burned that low so quickly? It had been strong and crisp when she’d reached the top of the stairs only moments ago.
It had seemed only moments ago ... how long had she been staring out the window?
“I dinna want ye to be sorry, girl. I want ye to stop speaking in that strange tongue of yers. It’s not natural, to be blubbering such nonsense.”
“I canna help it,” Norah answered, her cheeks flaming pink. “I dinna ken when I’m doing it.”
“I want to believe ye, Norah. But the older ye get, the harder I find it.”
There was nothing Norah could say, so she returned to her contemplation of the night sky. The waves continued to beckon her, continued to assert their power upon her soul. Angry with them and with herself, she pressed her lips shut.
She had not lied: she could not help that she spoke a language she didn’t know. How could she when she wasn’t aware she was doing it?
These lapses of consciousness, in which large chunks of times seemed to disappear, had plagued Norah the whole of her life. She would sit on the beach for no more than a minute or two, and in that time the sun would race across the sky. She would slip away to the broch in the morning, for only an hour, just to escape the children, and minutes later she would return, in the dark, to find that she’d missed the evening meal.
Norah was not like the others; she was a strange girl. Everywhere she went she was followed by covert, sideways glances and whispers hidden behind hands. The islanders thought that her episodes were a sign of madness. They would never say so to their chief, but they said it to each other. And word got around, found its way back to her through the loose tongues of the children she so loved.
She could not tell them, but she wished her clansmen were right, that she was indeed mad.
It frightened her to think that she might not be.
Two
The birlinn slipped gracefully over the water; its smooth oak hull, more steeply pitched than those of the Norse longships, sliced the gently rolling surface in its passage. But for the rhythmic plishing sound of the oars there was no noise to disturb the still night air. The sky, washed a brilliant silver hue by the moonlight as it reflected off the gossamer veil of mist, made the ten men below look like corpses, hollow-cheeked and pale-skinned.
Perhaps that was what they were: corpses—or soon would be, at least.
Rysa Beag lay a short distance to the north of Fara, and was always visible from its shores. Even when the mists were at their thickest, the shape of the island rising in the distance could still be traced from edge to edge, a dark mass shimmering behind milky fog.
As the vessel slid ever closer to the harbour on the other side of the channel, the strange lilt of the Norse tongue wafted across the water. It was a harsh tongue, the cadence halting and precise. But within its strong inflections there was a melody if one took the time to listen. Unique and beautiful.
Of course, the melody of the Viking language was the last thing on the minds of the men en route that night.
“Vestu heil ok sael!” called a deep male voice in a mocking tone. A hulking black mass, looming at the edge of the wooden dock, raised its arm to accompany the traditional Norse greeting.
The birlinn drifted into the false harbour, carved into the pebbled shore and fortified by shallow walls of stone and timber. When it was close enough to the floating wooden planks of the dock, several large Vikings, their forms partially obscured by the strange, silver darkness, stepped from the shadows and tossed thick ropes at the craft. Behind them, another row of men stood with their weapons drawn and aimed to protect their comrades.
“Do any of ye speak the Gaelic tongue?” said Fearchar to the men on the dock as he stood from his bench in the hull. He held his hands in the air, palms open, to show that he was not armed.
A round of taunting laughter met his query.
“Of course,” chuckled one man. “When o
ne conquers a people, one tends to learn its language, ja?” His heavily accented statement was followed by another round of guffaws.
Fearchar glanced sideways at his own men, who fidgeted uncomfortably in the boat. Refusing to be intimidated, he continued, “I have come to speak with Einarr Alfradsson. He has summoned me for—”
“Ja, we know,” drawled another man. “You have come to beg mercy. Well, what are you waiting for? You won’t have your chance to grovel if you don’t leave your little boat.”
One by one the Gallach clansmen filed out of the birlinn, hesitantly accepting the outstretched hands of their adversaries. The Norsemen pulled their visitors onto the dock, leering at each one as they did.
When the boat was emptied, one of the Norse sentries gestured for Fearchar to follow, and directed the men away from the dock towards a rocky slope leading inland.
The brush covering the island was dense, Rysa Beag having been previously uninhabited. But a path had been cleared through it since the island’s settlement, making the journey relatively easy. A low, orange glow seeped through the uncleared foliage as they neared the camp, and the thick, acrid smell of smoke assailed the nostrils of the Fara men. No one spoke; each man was preoccupied with the prospect of his own death at the end of the short journey.
Soon, the intense brush gave way to a clearing, in the midst of which was situated the Vikings’ makeshift camp. A cluster of hide tents circled a central bonfire which the heathens were gathered around. Some sat on boulders and felled timbers, some directly on the trampled grass. They talked amongst themselves in their Norse language with its odd cadence, largely ignoring the newcomers.
At the head of the circle, opposite the path from which the Fara men had emerged, was a man seated on a short stump of log that had been cut with a ledge to make a seat. His golden hair shimmered in the firelight, and the long, low shadows made his bare, muscular arms appear even more menacing. The harsh lines of his face were not softened by the darkness of the night, nor did his cold eyes lose any of their steely edge.
This was the great Einarr Alfradsson. The men of Fara would have known it by the look of him alone, even had he not raided their land. He was a man much talked of amongst the people of the isles.
“Ah, Fearchar I presume?” he called in Gaelic, a jovial smile on his granite face. He stood, as did several of his men surrounding him.
Fearchar stepped a pace forward. “I am.”
“Ja, I remember your face,” Einarr nodded, amused. “Chief of Clan Gallach. Well then, I beg you sit with me. You need not stand as though you are ... what is your word ... inferior? Low of birth?”
Fearchar glanced behind him. Inclining his head that his men should obey, he lowered himself onto a vacant timber across the fire from Einarr. Iobhar and Garrett sat on either side of him, filling the remaining space on the log; the seven clansmen behind seated themselves around their chief on the trampled grass.
“There now,” said Einarr, seating himself once more. “Is this not nice? It is not as grand as what you must be accustomed to, I think, but still comfortable, no?”
“Aye, ‘tis,” Fearchar allowed. “Though we are no’ grand on Fara.”
“You’re even less so now,” quipped one of the Vikings in Norse. To illustrate, he held up a pendant of gold and amber which had been taken in the raid. A round of cruel laughter followed his comment. The Fara men glanced questioningly amongst themselves, suspecting, but not quite understanding, the meaning of the jest.
“So, Fearchar,” Einarr continued once the laughter had died down. Stumbling over the pronunciation of the name, he added, “Am I saying that right?”
Fearchar shrugged his shoulders dismissively. “It is fine.”
“No,” Einarr pressed, “please tell me. I would like to know the proper way. We are neighbours, after all.”
“My father’s name is Feh-ruh-ker,” said Garrett, his voice thick with contempt.
Einarr regarded the young lad through narrowed eyes, scanning him from head to toe. A muscle twitched dangerously in his jaw; the Norsemen around him murmured to each other, glancing at Garrett speculatively.
“Hold yer tongue, lad,” Iobhar snarled, loud enough that the Norse leader could hear.
“A brave boy,” Einarr declared, rubbing his golden-stubbled chin. “Now let me teach you how to say a word of ours: heimskr. Do you know what it means? It means dumb. Foolish. Lacking of wit. For it is certainly foolish of you to bait the man who not two days before this bested your people. Perhaps you did not learn the lesson my men taught your island. There it is: you are quite heimskr.”
“Sir Einarr, please,” Fearchar implored. “My son isna hot tempered by nature. He has learned well the lesson we of Fara have all learned at yer hands. He is deeply hurt by it, as we all are, but he is young, and doesna ken how to handle his grief.” When Einarr said nothing, he added, “We’ve no wish to fight ye, nor have we strength, for yer forces are fiercer than ours. We are beaten and we ken it.”
The amused grin returned to Einarr’s lips, though his eyes remained narrowed. “Then perhaps you would tell me why you have come, if not to avenge your dead.”
This was it, Fearchar’s one chance. It was what the people of Fara had been hoping for, why the men had made the journey to Rysa Beag. The chief was being handed the opportunity to negotiate the clan’s surrender without confrontation, without a fight. The Gallach clansmen stiffened almost imperceptibly as they waited to see if their leader would succeed.
“I wish peace between our two islands,” Fearchar stated with all the poise and grace his chiefdom proffered him. “I seek an ally, a protector. Yer men are not the only Viking raiders to sail these waters; I am afraid of the others, afraid of what more raids will do to my people and my lands.”
The men around Einarr laughed in astonishment. Einarr himself tipped his mighty head back and roared appreciatively.
“Chief Feh-ruh-ker,” he mocked, slapping his muscled thigh for emphasis. “What reason could you possible give that would make me want to be protector to a destroyed, powerless clan?”
“Destroyed we may be, but powerless we are no’,” Fearchar countered proudly. “Neither are we uninformed of the strife which rages beyond our waters.”
The chief paused when the smile abruptly left Einarr’s face.
“Go on, old man,” the Norseman invited at length, his steely tone warning Fearchar to tread carefully.
“I ken of the conflict yer king, Harald Fairhair of Norway, is stirring in yer lands—”
“Fairhair is not our king,” barked one of the Norse around the fire. The man stood, brandishing his weapon threateningly, as a number of his comrades grunted their agreement.
Einarr raised his hand to the man, silencing him. With great reluctance, the disgruntled Viking lowered his weapon.
“Forgive me. I meant nothing by the remark,” Fearchar offered. “Ye dinna deny yer opposition to Harald Fairhair. Am I to assume, then, that ye settle these islands like so many others to mount yer attacks on Harald in Norway?”
Einarr regarded his adversary, raking him up and down. His chiselled face radiated his displeasure, but there was a glint of respect for the Celtic chief in the Norseman’s eye.
Fearchar was right: Einarr and his men were like many other Vikings—they settled in the islands off the Scottish coast, pillaging and raiding the villages of their riches to fund their attacks on their own homeland. They fought against Harald Fairhair, self-proclaimed king of Norway, fought against Fairhair’s brutal campaigns of conquest across the sea.
“As I said, we are no’ powerless,” Fearchar continued when it was clear Einarr was listening with renewed interest. “We are a connected clan; we’ve the allegiance of the Grants and, by way of that clan, the Abernethys. And the Campbells of Cowal, too, for my own wife is a Campbell by birth.”
“Do you mean to frighten me?” Einarr questioned evenly.
“I dinna,” Fearchar assured him. “I wish to entice ye. Spare u
s yer raids and yer violence, I beg ye. Be our protector, and teach my men the Viking way of the sword. In return, ye have the allegiance of some well protected, well armed Scottish clans, should ye have a need of them in yer campaigns against Harald Fairhair.”
For once, the Vikings around the fire were silent. They looked to one another, impressed with the chief’s cunning and tact. Einarr would be a fool to reject him, for allegiance with the clans of the Scottish mainland would be of great benefit indeed if ever a full war broke out against Fairhair.
Einarr, though, was reticent. “Your offer is tempting, I must admit. But how do I know you will keep your word?”
“My father is a man of honour,” Garrett challenged before Fearchar could speak.
“Did I no’ tell ye to shut yer mouth,” Iobhar growled, grabbing the back of Garrett’s shirt and giving him a rough shake. Garrett reddened beneath his uncle’s chastening, and shrugged his beefy hand off of his collar.
“Be that as it may,” Einarr acknowledged to Garrett, “even men of honour break their word if they have no choice. I must know what assurances your chief offers of this alliance if the time comes that I should need it.”
Fearchar’s eyes were fixed on the Norseman as he struggled with his answer. He had an assurance to offer, had prepared one before they’d left Fara, for he had expected such an assurance might be demanded. He had only hoped, though, that it would not come to this.
The chief breathed deeply, the weight of the clan’s safety lying heavily on his shoulders, smothering the part of him that was husband and father.
He had no choice; Norah would have to understand ...
“I offer ye marriage, a bond of blood to tie together our forces. Should ye wed a Gallach lass, we will be forced to honour our alliance wi’ ye, and so will those clans that are allied wi’ us.”
“Marriage,” Einarr scoffed. “I have not given the matter serious thought, for my bed is made warm whenever I have a need. But I admit, you intrigue me, Chief Fearchar. Which maid have you in mind?”
Legend of the Mist Page 2