The Swordswoman

by Malcolm Archibald

  'Are they dangerous?'

  'If somebody has paid them to kill us then we are all dead,' Bearnas did not sound scared. 'But if may be only testing us to see who we are.'

  The whistling continued and then stopped. Only the sound of the wind across the raw rocks sounded, and the scream of an eagle high on the peaks.

  'Who are you?' The voice boomed out, seemingly from nowhere. 'What business do you have here?'

  'We are the Cenel Bearnas,' Bearnas answered. The slither as she drew her sword sounded soft and sinister on that scree slope. 'We are crossing this land on a journey to see the king.'

  'Bearnas.' Baetan sounded strained, 'they are all around us.'

  Melcorka looked sideways; at first she could see nothing, and then she realised that some of the stones were not stones; there was movement amidst the scree, there was a man standing there; more than one man.

  They rose from the ground, one by one, until they surrounded the Cenel Bearnas. One minute the ground was empty of people, the next there were fifty men surrounding the small group of islanders. They wore stone coloured shirts or grey chain mail, with faces dyed grey, and while half carried the claymore, the great sword of the Highlands the others had short and powerful bows, with broad headed arrows pointing toward Bearnas and her people.

  'Drop the weapons, or we drop you.' A tall man stepped through the Gregorach ranks. 'I am MacGregor.'

  Melcorka focussed on him; handsome as Satan's promise, the faint smile gave a strength to his neatly-bearded saturnine face that his neck-length hair only enhanced. He was not above middle height and in build was lithe rather than muscular, yet there was a presence in the man that demanded respect.

  'We keep our weapons,' Bearnas said quietly, 'and for ever one of us that you kill, we will kill four of you.'

  There was a taut silence until Bearnas spoke again.

  'Unsheathe,' she ordered quietly, 'MacGregor is not bluffing. We were unfortunate to cross Drum Alban while the Children were here.'

  Melcorka felt the thrill as she drew Defender. The sword seemed lighter in her grasp than it had before and even easier to hold. She stepped forward, until Baetan shook his head.

  'Stand with us, Melcorka. Don't break the circle.' He sounded nervous.

  Bearnas looked around. 'Well MacGregor, you have the next move in this game of steel chess.'

  'Well met, Bearnas,' MacGregor's smile was of pure pleasure. 'Your name is still known across the breadth of Alba. Where are you bound?'

  'Dun Edin,' Bearnas said, 'with a message for the king.'

  'Royal is my race,' MacGregor's smile did not falter as he gave a small signal with his right arm that saw his bowmen lower their weapons. 'We will take you safely across Druim Alba, Bearnas of the Cenel Bearnas.'

  'Mother,' Melcorka asked, 'how does this man know your name?'

  'Do not ask questions, little one,' Granny Rowan said, 'and you will not be told lies.'

  And Melcorka placed her tongue firmly behind her teeth and said no more.

  It was a seven day trek across the granite heartland of Alba, with the shadowy presence of the Gregorach trotting in front and on either flank. Sometimes Melcorka saw them; sometimes they merged with the granite praecipes or slid in and out of the mist that they now claimed as their only home. They communicated in whistles rather than speech and moved without another sound.

  They moved along narrow ridges with the ground following away to unseen depths beneath, and up winding paths that only the deer and the Gregorach knew and where one wrong step would mean a slithering slide down a granite slope. They halted on the crest of a ragged peak on the second night, with the wind dragging rain from the west and the sky to the north tinted a flickering orange.

  Melcorka stood, mesmerised by the vista of peak after peak running in a series of ridges that ran as far as her eye could see. 'There is no end to these mountains,' she said.

  'There is an end,' Bearnas said quietly, 'but rather than looking south and east, Melcorka, look to the clouds in the north and tell me what you see?'

  'An orange sunset,' Melcorka said at once.

  'The sun sets in the west,' Bearnas pointed out, 'what you see is the reflection of fires on the belly of clouds far in the north.'

  'Northmen?'

  'Northmen,' Bearnas said flatly, 'it seems that they are burning their way south through Alba.' She followed the line of the mountains ahead. 'We have to increase our speed or the Northmen will arrive on the heels of our message.' She tapped Defender. 'Keep up your training, Melcorka. We are only at the beginning. The Northmen are doughty fighters and Alba has forgotten the arts of war.'

  'Come on then,' Baetan unsheathed his sword. 'Let's see how you fare without your magic sword.'

  'Leave Defender,' Granny Rowan tossed over her own sword. 'Use mine.'

  Baetan smiled to Melcorka across the blade of his sword. Melcorka tightened her grip on her borrowed sword and smiled back. Both wore a simple leine, the linen shirt common to the land, and knee-length trousers, with feet bare to enable them to grip the damp ground.

  Melcorka crouched, feinted left and winced at the power of Baetan's parry. She tensed her muscles and thrust forward, only for Baetan to step aside. As she overbalanced, Baetan swung the flat of his sword against her shoulders, knocking her on her face.

  The audience groaned, both Cenel Bearnas and Gregorach.

  'Come on Melcorka,' Granny Rowan urged. 'You can do better than that.'

  'Yes come on Melcorka,' Baetan encouraged. 'If I was a Northman you would be dead.'

  Melcorka tried again, feinting to right and left before trying a wide slash at Baetan's legs. He leaped over the sword, delivered a stinging whack with the flat of his blade to Melcorka's backside and laughed when she yelped.

  'Dead again, Melcorka! You'll never defeat me.'

  Melcorka rubbed at herself, glowering at Baetan. 'That was uncalled for,' she said.

  'All's fair in love and war,' Bearnas shouted out. 'Keep going you two! Don't be too kind on her Baetan. The quicker she learns the better her chance of survival.'

  Melcorka sighed and crouched down again, with Baetan grinning at her. It was going to be a long session.

  After a few moments the Gregorach drifted away from what was a very one-sided contest.

  'Keep on,' Bearnas ordered as Melcorka gasped at yet another swipe of Baetan's blade.

  Every night, when the Cenel Bearnas caught up with their sleep and the MacGregors vanished into the dark, Melcorka practised her fighting techniques, with the men and women taking it in turns to teach her their particular skills. She felt herself growing faster, more lithe, more daring with each lesson, although she never once got the better of Baetan. Every night, when the last muscle-tearing session ended, she slept the sleep of the exhausted.

  'Melcorka,' Bearnas pushed her with an unsympathetic foot an hour before dawn on the fifth day. 'Time we were moving.'

  That day brought more finger-wide tracks where they could gaze downward on spiralling eagles. There were more knife edge ridges with granite made slippery by horizontal rain and where the wind threatened to pluck them upwards and toss them down and down and down forever. There was more sliding scree slopes with stones slithering underfoot and the MacGregors dancing ahead, more sure footed than any mountain goat. There were more spectacular views of peaks and ridges and the ice-scoured hollows of corries where the water of mysterious lochans glittered cold and still beneath leaden skies. There were more halts at tall waterfalls that descended down the side of green-mossed cliffs or roared through narrow defiles, where rowan trees overhung deep pools and trout waited for subtle hands and the water was as cold and clear as Arctic ice.

  They halted on the northern slope of a hill with grass that dun coloured sheep had cropped so close it was slippery as glass, and Melcorka pointed to the east, where a conical hill thrust pyramidal sides to a bright star in the sky. That hill seemed to draw her, as if by some magnetic power.

  'What hill is that?'<
br />
  Baetan put a finger over her lips. 'Hush now, and don't point with your finger; use your chin if you must.'

  'Why?'

  'That is Schiehallion, the shee hill, the sacred hill of the Caledonians. It is not a place to point at, or to treat with anything but fear.'

  Melcorka studied the hill; although it was amidst a welter of other hills, it seemed to stand alone, a unique shape among peaks jagged or ice smoothed.

  'Why is it sacred?' Melcorka asked.

  Baetan lowered his voice further. 'It is the home of the Daoine Sidh, the People of Peace.'

  'The fairy folk?'

  Baetan stepped back, his face suddenly pale. 'Don't use their real name,' he said, 'they might hear you.' He looked around as if expecting to see one of the People of Peace emerging from the shadows.

  'Are they so dangerous?' Melcorka asked.

  'They are best avoided,' Baetan said.

  'But who or what are they?'

  'Nobody knows,' Baetan said seriously. 'Some say they are fallen angels come to earth, some say they are from the spiritual realm, while others think they were of the old folk, the people who were here before us and who we replaced. We know they milk the deer and steal our children, we know they live underground or within mountains and we know they have their own music.' He shrugged. 'If we avoid them and guard our babies until they are Christened, then we are safe. If we annoy them by using their real name we are courting danger that steel cannot protect us from.'

  Melcorka listed intently, as she did to all knew knowledge. 'Thank you Baetan.' She motioned toward the hilt of Defender but did not touch it. If Baetan had said that steel would not protect against the People of Peace, then she would not try her sword.

  The slopes of Schiehallion faded slowly into the distance as the Cenel Bearnas plodded on over mountain passes and skirting lochs until they came to a loch so long it could not be by-passed. Melcorka looked left and right but there was no end to the loch; it was a miniature sea, with waves that curled and broke on the shore, and islets half hidden in the distance,

  'There is a small ferry here that will take us two by two,' MacGregor said, 'or we can travel in style.'

  'Travel in style,' Melcorka spoke without thought.

  MacGregor lifted one finger of his left hand and began to whistle, long and low. His people, men and women, joined in one after the other until Melcorka saw the birlinn appear from behind one of the wooded islets.

  It was a long, low craft a bit like Wave Skimmer except for small wooden structures in the bow and stern. She watched as it approached, with the water breaking under its sharp prow and a dozen oars turning the loch to a white froth. A single mast rose from amidships, with a spar running at right angles near the top, fastened to the gunwales by stout lines.

  'She's fast,' Melcorka said.

  'She is the fastest ship in Alba,' MacGregor did not hide his pride, 'and the best adapted for fighting.' He stepped onto a squared rock that thrust two yards into the loch and placed his feet in a perfectly shaped hollow.

  'My ancestors have stood in this spot for centuries,' MacGregor said, 'since long before there were kings of Alba.'

  As the birlinn came closer, MacGregor altered the tone of his whistle and the oars lifted from the water. The birlinn glided close and slid to a perfect halt exactly where MacGregor stood. He stepped over the low freeboard without getting his feet wet.

  Bearnas followed, and her people filed on board. The oarsmen, men and women in grey-blue linen shirts, were as quiet as all the Gregorach.

  'Take us south and east,' MacGregor ordered, and the steersman in the stern sounded the time on a large drum. Only then did Melcorka see the woman who sat in the stern, plucking the strings of a harp as the birlinn slid through the waves. There was one man in each of the wooden structures fore and aft, constantly looking around them.

  'My floating castles,' MacGregor said. 'In battle my men fire arrows and spears down on any enemy.'

  'It is a good idea,' Melcorka said. At a nod from Bearnas she mounted the wooden steps to the forecastle and looked around. The view was better and the wooden deck gave a sound platform for fighting. That was another small lesson in the art of warfare.

  'Sail!' MacGregor shouted.

  There was a rustle of linen and the sail descended from the spar. Melcorka smiled as she saw the insignia of an oak tree and a sword lifting up a crown: Macgregor may be a child of the mist but he was certainly not afraid to announce his presence on this loch.

  With the sail augmenting the power of the oars, the birlinn sped south, surging through the loch with no appreciable effort by the oarsmen. Melcorka saw the mountains slide past, and then they were threading through the scattered islands, each one dense with foliage and one holding a religious settlement from where friendly monks stood beneath a rough cross and waved as they passed.

  'Larboard sides; lift oars; wave back. Starboard side, lift oars: hold.'

  Melcorka could only smile at the ludicrous view of the ship waving to the monks on the island.

  'Row on,' MacGregor ordered and the oars dipped back into the water. They surged on, past the verdant green of the islands to the southern shore of the loch.

  MacGregor pointed east and south, 'down there is the Flanders Moss. Only the Gregorach know the secret paths and tracks through the Moss. Once you are through, you will be on your own.'

  Bearnas nodded. 'Your help will be appreciated, MacGregor.'

  Melcorka had never seen anything like the Flanders Moss. It was mist-sodden bogland that stretched for endless miles, with the River Forth running through the centre in a series of erratic loops and curves that would baffle any intruder save for an expert, and only the MacGregors were experts.

  Once again there was mist, rising from the stagnant pools and drifting along the coils of the river, hovering over the fords and hazing every view so Melcorka was unsure in which direction she faced. She could only follow MacGregor in blind trust.

  'Are there monsters in the mist too?' Melcorka asked Granny Rowan, who smiled.

  'Not that I know of, Melcorka. Only MacGregors.'

  'And here I leave you,' MacGregor picked out a rare patch of dry land as he pointed east. 'This is the plain of Lodainn, with the Scotsea, the Firth of Forth, to the north of it, where the River Forth opens. Travel east and you will find Dun Edin, where the King sits in state.'

  Bearnas held out her hand. 'You are a good man, MacGregor. If ever you need a favour, send word and the Cenel Bearnas will come.'

  MacGregor took her hand. 'If you are anywhere north of the River Forth, Bearnas, look to the mist and there you will find MacGregor.' He dipped into a small pouch at the side of his belt and produced two small whistles of horn. 'This will fetch one of my children, Bearnas. Keep a whistle for yourself, and …' he tossed one over to Melcorka, 'here is one for you, Melcorka, daughter of Bearnas.'

  'Thank you,' Melcorka slipped the small sliver of bone into the pouch at her belt although she doubted she would ever use it.

  Bearnas fingered the broken cross around her neck as the MacGregors melted into the wastes of the Flanders Moss. She watched until they were only a memory, sighed and led the way eastward, through a land of broad fields divided into agricultural strips and with deep chested farmers watching this group of warriors with wary suspicion.

  'How far to Dun Edin?' Bearnas asked at every settlement and village they came to and every time the answer was slightly less than the time before.

  Then one night they camped at the northern flanks of the gentle Pentland Hills, with the wind sweet over the heather and the land to east and west prosperous with fertile farms.

  'Only two sentries tonight,' Bearnas decided, 'and I want us all up before dawn. Tomorrow at this time we will be in the royal castle on its rock, feasting on royal pork and drinking royal mead. There will be royal harpers playing beautiful music and a royal sennachie to regale us with lies about the past.'

  'No more camp fires in the rain, cold windy hills and
sodden wet nights,' Baetan promised, 'we will inform the king about the Norsemen and he will call up the army.' He smiled, 'and then we will see how brave they are.'

  'Sleep now,' Bearnas spoke directly to Melcorka, 'for you meet the king tomorrow.'

  Melcorka felt suddenly nervous. She knew she was only an island girl with no experience of the world or of war. She had nothing to offer the king, nothing to show. She had travelled the breadth of Alba to see a man she had barely thought about in all her years of life. And tomorrow she would meet him face to face, with the king in all his grace and she in only what she stood up in.

  Melcorka took a deep breath and looked at Defender. She also had her sword. She sat up, restless with her thoughts, until Bearnas put a cool hand on her forehead. 'Rest, Melcorka. All will be what it will be, and it will be all the better if you are rested.'

  Melcorka looked into her mother's eyes and smiled. There was never any doubt when Bearnas was there.

  'There it is!' Granny Rowan pointed ahead and all the Cenel Bearnas stopped what they were doing and looked toward the east.

  The rising sun silhouetted Dun Edin, the fort of Edin as it stood on its great rock at the head of a steep ridge. Black against a dawn sky of fading purple, the battlements of the royal dun were stark in their simplicity. The walls followed the line of the volcanic plug, as if the dun was organic, an addition to the living rock on which it stood. Running down the steep ridge from the dun to the lion shaped hill a mile to its west was the town, the largest in all Alba. Despite the hour, smoke already smeared the houses with a friendly blue haze.

  'The good neighbours of Dun Edin like to rise early,' Bearnas said with a smile. 'No slugabeds under the king's watchful eye.'

  Melcorka tightened the buckle that held her sword belt secure, licked the palm of her hand and smeared it over her head so her hair appeared under control, and fought her nerves.