'You have turned against your own people,' Melcorka felt the blood dribble from the corner of her mouth.
'The Islesmen are my people,' Baetan slapped her again. 'Make sure this one is secure and keep her away from her sword.' He slapped her a third time. 'It is my sword now.'
'You don't deserve the sword of Calgacus.' Melcorka tried to swallow away the gathering blood in her mouth.
Baetan laughed. 'It is a man's blade, far too powerful for a woman to handle.' He leaned closer. 'Look how easy it was for me to part you from it.'
With Angus holding her tight, Melcorka could not move. Instead she spat a mouthful of blood over Baetan. He recoiled, to slap her backhanded and then with the flat of his palm, again and again until her head swam. She felt her consciousness slip away as she descended into a realm of nightmares.
There was death and mutilation, the final screams of men in agony and a cloud of blood over all. Melcorka felt herself swimming in the river of blood, where People of Peace appeared and vanished at will, fierce Norsemen charged at her with raised axes and smiling, urbane Picts decapitated human bodies and lifted the heads in gruesome triumph. She saw Egil kill her mother again and again, saw him toss her body into the Forth as she reached out, unable to help. Yet there was something else; a question being asked, a pair of caring eyes watching over her as the oystercatcher hovered, and still that question, hammering at her mind.
'Leave me alone,' Melcorka tried to fight off the words, to withdraw into the pain that she understood, to lose herself in the guilt of lost opportunity, but still that question probed at her consciousness.
'Melcorka.' The voice was insistent, disturbing, bringing her out of familiar horror into conscious pain. She tried to ignore it, turning her head away. 'Melcorka.' That name again. Somebody shook her, and then pushed her.
'What is it?' She opened her eyes and tried to move. She could not. She was tied hand and foot. 'Where are we?'
'In one of the cottages in the clachan,' the voice was familiar but in her dazed state she could not identify it.
'Who are you?'
'It's me: Aharn.' He lay close beside her, similarly tied. 'I am sorry, Melcorka. I advised you to give up your sword.'
It was painful to talk. 'I should be apologising. Baetan is no friend of mine and it was he who seems to have persuaded the Isles to side with the Norse.'
'The Isles have always been ready to exploit weaknesses in Alba. Why should they leave Fidach alone?' Aharn tested the cords that held him. 'What is more important, Melcorka, is what happens to us?'
'Slavery or death,' Melcorka said. She strained against the cords. 'These have been tied tight.'
'Maybe we can try to untie each other,' Aharn said.
They struggled to turn until they lay back to back. Melcorka stretched for the knots around Aharn's wrists, with her fingers busy. 'It's no good,' she said. 'They have used tarred rope.'
There was a rustle from above and Aharn looked up.
'Now the rats are gathering to eat us.'
'Maybe they will eat the ropes,' Melcorka said.
'Some rat,' something much heavier than a rat dropped at their side and loomed over them. 'Look at you both, prince and princess of Fidach, walking into such a simple trap. You should be ashamed of yourselves!'
''Bradan?' Melcorka could hardly dare to say his name.
'Now keep still and keep quiet.'
Melcorka felt Bradan's hands on her as he felt for the cords. There was a slight snick of steel, a moment of nervous sawing and her wrists were free. 'Keep quiet!' Bradan warned. 'There are guards outside.' He sliced her ankles free and began work on Aharn.
Melcorka gasped at the pain of returning circulation. She rubbed furiously as Aharn was freed.
'We have to go out through the roof,' Bradan said. 'I'll go first and help you up, Melcorka.'
Using the roof-tree as support, he hauled himself through the hole he had made in the thin layer of heather thatch, lay on top and extended a hand downward. 'Come on Melcorka.'
The night air welcomed her as he pulled her beside him. Their cottage was one of a tightly grouped cluster in the clachan. Smoke from a hundred camp-fires obscured the stars, and the drift of voices combated the sharp sounds of night. Bradan put a finger over his lips and gestured to the three guards who lounged at the entrance of the cottage. One leaned on a long-staffed axe while the others paced back and forth in the bored manner that sentinels had adopted for centuries, and would adopt for centuries to come.
Aharn lifted himself up and rolled onto the thatch. He looked around, pointed to the sentries and drew a finger suggestively across his throat.
Bradan shook his head and held up both hands, displaying ten fingers. He closed his hands and pointed to the dark. Melcorka understood that there were a further ten men only a short distance away.
Touching Melcorka on the shoulder, Bradan crawled over the roof to where a small gap separated this cottage from its neighbour. He stretched over to the next roof, waited for Melcorka and Aharn to join them and moved on to the next cottage in the clachan.
The church sat in the centre, distinguished from the other buildings only by being twice the size and having a roughly carved wooden cross above the door.
'Defender!' Melcorka said. 'I must get my sword back!'
'Baetan has it,' Bradan shook his head in an emphatic negative. 'It's too dangerous.'
'I need Defender!' Melcorka said urgently. 'Without it I cannot fight! I will only be a burden!' She felt Aharn's eyes on her and had to explain. 'It is the sword of Calgacus, blessed by Christ and the People of Peace. I am nothing without it.'
'You are never nothing!' Bradan said but Aharn nodded.
'We need you to lead the Albans,' he said. 'If your power comes from the sword we have to get it back.'
'You will get her killed trying to get a sword!' Bradan hissed. 'It is not worth the risk.' He glared at Aharn, 'that is foolishness.'
'I am a prince of Fidach,' Aharn said.
'Then do not be a foolish prince of Fidach and get Melcorka killed!' Bradan sounded angrier than Melcorka had ever heard him.
'We are royal warriors,' Aharn said. 'We must do all we can for the sake of the realm.'
'You will not risk Melcorka's life for a sword!' Bradan faced Aharn, wanderer against warrior, commoner against prince, man against man.
Melcorka stepped in. 'Unless we keep quiet,' she said, 'there will be no need for dispute for the Islesmen will hear us and kill us all.'
Bradan took a deep breath and stepped back. 'You are right; best leave here quickly.'
'The quicker we have the sword the faster we can leave,' Aharn said and once again the two men faced each other.
'What's all the noise?' One of the sentries was alert. 'Over there: it's the Pict!'
'Run!' Bradan pushed Melcorka in front of him. 'That way!' He turned to face the Islesmen, until Melcorka dragged him away.
'You're no warrior, Bradan! Run!'
Aharn hesitated as all his training prompted him to fight. 'I am no coward to flee,' he said.
'You are a prince of Fidach,' Melcorka reminded. 'Your people need you alive. Imagine the country ruled by Loarn or Lynette?' The thought was so terrible that Aharn shuddered.
They ran. They ran fast and hard and straight into a group of Islesmen.
'Kill the Picts,' a brawny, tangle-haired warrior slid a long dirk from beneath his arm. The others did likewise, grinning as they encircled the fugitives.
'Don't kill them,' one of the guards ordered as he belatedly ran up. 'These are Baetan's prisoners. They are to be handed to the Norse tomorrow.'
The tangle-haired man said something uncomplimentary and very obscene about the Norse and spat on the ground.
'Maybe so,' the guard did not argue, 'but Himself wants them alive.'
'Himself knows nothing about them.' There was dry humour in the voice. Everybody looked round as the sudden flare of a torch illuminated three men standing behind them. The central man
of the group was Donald of the Isles, looking very youthful between two brawny retainers. He looked at Aharn. 'Who are you?'
'I am Aharn of Fidach.' Aharn began.
'Your name is known,' Donald gave a small nod. 'Although your presence was not. Why is a prince of Fidach held here without my knowledge?'
'Baetan's orders, my Lord,' one of the guards said.
'And since when does Baetan give orders in my camp?' Although Donald did not raise his voice, his authority was clear.
'We thought he was acting for you, my lord,' the guard said.
Donald nodded. 'And you? Who are you?' He looked at Bradan.
'I am Bradan the Wanderer,' Bradan looked at Donald, blinked, looked closer and shook his head, as if something puzzled him.
'Your name is also known. You are a man of peace who carries no weapon and spills no blood.' Donald stepped closer. 'A pity that you have got yourself involved in my war.' He turned to Melcorka.
'You are a woman,' he said.
'I know that,' Melcorka was in no mood to pander to anybody, let alone a young lordling that had allied himself with Baetan and the Norse.
Donald's faint smile showed a touch of humanity. 'I am glad to hear it. It is unusual to find a woman among the army, unless you are a camp follower and you do not carry yourself as one of them.'
'I am Melcorka Nic Bearnas of the Cenel Bearnas,' Melcorka said proudly.
'A woman as good as any in the Isles,' Bradan added.
'And a woman who is to be my wife,' Aharn said.
Donald sighed. 'No longer, it seems, if Baetan wishes to hand you both to the Norse.' He leaned closer to Melcorka. 'Have we met before?'
'No, we have not,' Melcorka had to lean back to face him directly.
He frowned. 'I believe we have; your face is very familiar.' His expression altered as he leaned closer. 'Whoever you are, you are a thief!' He pointed to the half cross that hung around her neck. 'You have stolen that from me!'
'Don't be absurd!' Melcorka snapped back. She slapped away his hand as it closed around her cross. 'That belonged to my mother!'
'My lord,' Bradan said respectfully. 'You are still wearing such a cross.' He pointed to a similar pendant that hung from a gold chain around Donald's throat.
Donald looked down and touched his half-cross. 'Mary Mother of God,' he said. He looked again at Melcorka. 'Who did you say gave you that pendant?'
'My mother,' Melcorka said, 'Bearnas of the Cenel Bearnas.'
'My lord!' Baetan had come up. 'This is Aharn of Fidach and some woman … they lead the enemy forces.'
'I am well aware who Aharn is,' Donald did not raise his voice. 'As I am aware you did not inform me of their capture.'
'There was no need to concern you …' Baetan began, until Donald waved him to silence.
'Come with me,' he said to Melcorka. 'You other two …' he looked at his burly escort and said, 'keep them secure and safe. Do not harm them.'
Donald marched into an open space beside a central fire. A number of his chieftains gathered round, watching but saying nothing.
'This half-cross belonged to your mother, you say?' He touched Melcorka's cross.
'It did.' Melcorka agreed.
Donald unhooked his own neck-chain to show his own half cross. 'Look' he pressed both half crosses together. 'They match perfectly.'
'They do,' Melcorka wondered. 'From where did you get that cross?'
'It was my father's.' Donald said quietly. 'Donald of the Isles.'
Melcorka looked at the two halves. There was no doubt: they were a perfect fit. 'What does that mean?'
'Are you aware of the story?' Donald asked and when Melcorka shook her head he elaborated. 'Well listen then, Melcorka, and try to make some sense of this. Back in the bad old days of the last Norse war, my father was fighting to defend the Isles on two fronts. The Norse were attacking from the north and the Albans from the east. It happened that his fleet met a war band from Alba and they fought each other to a standstill. They arranged a truce with the leader of the Albans, who was a wild warrior-woman.
Once they met, they fell in love and rather than fight, they decided it was better to each go their separate ways. Before they parted, they broke a cross in half and each retained one half. They promised never to meet again, as their love would betray their respective countries.' Donald held up the completed cross. 'Your mother must have been that woman.'
'So it would appear,' Melcorka touched the joined cross.
'That would mean that you are my sister, or at least my half sister.' Donald looked at her strangely. 'No wonder you looked familiar. I see your face, or one very like it, every time I shave.'
About to comment that Donald's wispy moustache would not take much shaving, Melcorka decided that diplomacy better than ridicule, even with her newly-discovered brother. Instead she touched him on the arm. 'I have no desire to wage war on my own brother,' she said. 'Kin is everything.'
'Kin is everything,' Donald agreed. 'So now you know that we are kin, if I release you will you call off your army of Alba and Fidach?'
'Call them off?' Melcorka shook her head. 'I don't have the power or the desire. Aharn is the leader of this army and we will strive to defeat the enemy.'
Donald frowned. 'We are kin, Melcorka. You can no longer war on the Isles.'
'I have and never have had, any intention of waging war on the Isles,' Melcorka said seriously. 'The Norse invaded Alba and killed hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people. I want to drive them out and Aharn is helping.'
'The Norse attacked Alba to help the Isles,' Donald said. 'Bjorn of the Norse heard that Alba intended to attack the Isles and he attacked first. He is my second cousin.'
Melcorka frowned. 'If Alba intended to attack the Isles, I knew nothing about it. Who told you that?'
'Baetan said that.'
'I would not trust Baetan if he said that water was wet,' Melcorka said. 'He is a liar.'
Donald looked at the joined cross again. He raised his voice only slightly yet it carried to all who were there. 'Bring my advisers,' he said, 'and bring me MacLeod, MacLean and the chieftains of MacDonald.'
These were the leading men of the Isles, the men who led the most numerous of the clans.
'And then I want Aharn and Bradan,' his voice lowered slightly to a sinister growl. 'And bring me Baetan.'
Chapter Twenty-Nine
'Baetan is nowhere to be found, my lord,' MacLeod was the man in the tight leather jacket. 'He has vanished.'
'Send out your men and find him,' Donald said simply. He faced Aharn, 'Melcorka informs me that your army is not mustered to attack the Isles.'
'Melcorka is correct,' Aharn said.
Donald looked at MacLeod. 'What do you think, MacLeod?'
'I think that if Fidach had intended to attack the Isles, Aharn would have marched west and not south. He would have built a fleet of ships and recruited men from the coastal clans. He did neither. An army marching south cannot threaten a Lordship in the west.'
Donald nodded: 'and you Maclean?'
Maclean was an older man with grey hairs in his down-curving moustache. 'I agree. There is no reason for Fidach to attack the Isles. We share no common border and I do not trust Baetan.'
'Have you not found Baetan yet?' Donald frowned.
'I have sent men for him,' MacLeod said.
'Send more,' Donald ordered. 'Aharn, I apologise to you for the way you have been treated. I have been misled.'
The clatter came from the outskirts of the camp, a brazen batter that had the gathered chiefs reaching for their swords. 'That sounds like trouble,' MacLean said.
'See what is happening, MacLean,' Donald ordered. 'Aharn, I would like to offer you hospitality but this does not seem the best time.'
'Things are a little bit interesting,' Aharn agreed.
'I can assure you, Aharn, that my army will not attack you, unless you attack us.'
'Our only enemy is the Norse,' Aharn said.
'MacLeod: find an
escort to get Aharn back safely to his men.' Donald's casual assumption of authority belied his youth. 'Bradan: I am not sure of your part in all this …'
'I freed Melcorka and Aharn from their confinement,' Bradan said.
'You better join Aharn then,' Donald said. He looked at Melcorka. 'You are my kin, the sister I did not know I had,' he tilted his head to one side in a gesture both appealing and strangely familiar until Melcorka realised that she did the same thing. Despite the obvious strain of leading an army, his smile was warm. 'I don't want to lose you until we get to know each other.' He looked up as the noise in the camp increased. 'However it seems that other matters demand both our attentions.'
'There's an attack on the camp, my lord.' The speaker was a young man with blood streaming from a cut on his forehead. 'MacLean sent me to inform you.'
'Albans! I was wrong!' MacLeod glared at Bradan as if he was personally responsible for the faults of all of Alba.
'Norse, my lord,' the wounded man said. 'Baetan is at their head.'
Melcorka looked at Donald. 'They have attacked when you were relaxed and off guard, as is their way.'
'I must go.' Donald was buckling on his sword belt even as he left the fireside. The remaining chieftains followed him at once.
With three MacLeods as escort, Melcorka and Bradan ran to get back to their camp. They struggled against the tide of Islesmen who were all moving toward the now very audible sound of conflict. 'Wait,' Bradan stopped to retrieve his staff from beneath a gnarled rowan tree. 'My staff and I have been together a very long time,' he explained.
A press of Islesmen crossed their path so they had to wait, with Melcorka tutting with impatience.
'It is what it is,' Bradan leaned on his staff. 'Let time run its own course.'
It was a good ten minutes before the confusion sorted itself out and they could continue. Faint starlight illuminated the ridge as they powered up, with Bradan long striding, yet gasping with effort.
'What do you intend to do, Melcorka?'
'Bring the army and attack,' Melcorka said. 'With the Norse already fighting the Islesmen, we will catch them on the flank.'
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