An Ancient Strife

by Michael Phillips

  Seventeen

  As he drove south out of the central Grampian Highlands, Andrew Trentham’s heart was heavier than he ever remembered.

  He had been what is commonly called misunderstood hundreds of times. In politics, that went with the territory.

  But never had there been anything like what he had just been through. It was more than merely being called a traitor and liar. He had grown to love these people. He had also grown to love their land, its heritage, and the legacy of its history.

  But in their eyes he was a liar and a traitor. Just like Campbell of Glenlyon, he had partaken of their hospitality while deceiving them. He would never betray them, of course, but they had no way of knowing that.

  How could they possibly see what was in his heart—when everything they had heard about him seemed to say the opposite?

  He had tried harder than many of his colleagues to keep from becoming cynical about the press. Incidents like this made it difficult. The story he had seen the night of the ceilidh, which he assumed to be the cause of Laird Gordon’s intense reaction against him, had misrepresented both his position and his motives.

  For the moment he saw no way to rectify what had happened. Anything he might say could not help now but sound hollow in their ears. And judging from the heated and unequivocal responses of Ginny and her father, trying to explain further by telephone would be useless. He would call or write later, after they had a chance to cool down.

  Andrew sighed, drawing in yet another deep breath. He would just have to hope that time did indeed possess the capacity to heal this particular wound.

  Until then . . . there was still a great deal of Scotland yet for him to see. He would try somehow to make sense of what had happened. It was time now to continue on with what had brought him north in the first place. Perhaps it would all fall into place as he learned more of Ginny’s land and people.

  He was driving through some truly remarkable scenery southward through Glenshee toward Kirkmichael. As he forced himself to take it in, gradually he found himself reflecting once again on the Caledonian saga that stretched so majestically through the centuries.

  He had to laugh—Ginny’s father had been so animated when talking about independence! No wonder the English always found Highlanders difficult to deal with!

  Andrew thought about the tale the laird had told last evening about the era when—by violence and bloodshed—Scotland had been compelled into nationhood. A kingdom won by the sword had been the laird’s words.

  And Andrew was not far, he suddenly realized, from the traditional seat of that ancient kingship. He would stop and visit it.

  Less than an hour later Andrew Trentham entered the town of Scone just north of Perth where the ancient Stone of Destiny had received its name. Here had the Stone rested for more than four hundred years before being taken south by King Edward I—and long before recent events had brought it back into the limelight.

  This was where the kingdom of Scotland, as Ginny’s father said, had begun—far back in the ninth century, when the land had been occupied by warring Celtic peoples.

  Andrew recalled his drive along the north Buchan coast of a week or more ago. It was from across those waters—from Scandinavia to the northeast—that the invading evil had come which sparked the events that eventually led to Caledonia’s nationhood.

  Over the sea had sailed Vikings—the seafaring pirates of whom an ancient Irish historian said: “Neither honor nor mercy for right of sanctuary, nor protection for Church, nor veneration for God or man was felt by this furious, ferocious, pagan, ruthless people.”

  For good reason had church litany in the ninth and tenth centuries along the coastal regions of Britain included the prayer: A furore Normannorum libera nos, Domine. Deliver us, O Lord, from the fury of the Norsemen.

  The Danes and Norwegians had accomplished what the might of imperial Rome had been unable to. They had subdued a Celtic race and helped bring an end to the kingdom of the Picts that had dominated northern Caledonia for nearly a thousand years.

  In the process, they made it possible for the people of Caledonia to become, for the first time in history, a sovereign nation.

  1. Pronounce pee-broke.

  2. Pronounced Kay-lee.

  5

  Forging of a Kingdom

  AD 843

  One

  805

  Two cousins were born to Caledonia in the early years of the ninth century—in the royal lines of two Celtic peoples who made northern Britain their home.

  The boys would never meet, and their diverse natures would take them on different paths. One would become a man of peace, the other a man of war. One would give Caledonia its future name. The other would give the land its spirit.

  Their destinies would approach at a critical moment in the founding of Caledonia’s nationhood but then ultimately diverge. One would be known as a mighty ruler and the father of a nation; the other would be forgotten to history. Whether true greatness would be thus determined by the annals men later wrote of this land, only eternity would determine.

  The infant born in the south, in the kingdom of Dalriada, was named Kenneth, or “handsome,” by his mother. Her husband was Alpin, King of the Scots.

  The infant of the north, born fifteen years later in the small Pict village of Steenbuaic, was given the name of Dallais, or “wise.” The boy’s father was Donnchadh, of ancient Caledonian descent—a seventh great-grandson to the sister of Columba’s Pictish convert Fineach macAedh—and bard to his people. His mother, Ghleanna, was first cousin to Eoganan, King of the Picts at Fortriu.

  Both boys grew strong, became men, and awaited their mutual destinies.

  That they were distant cousins would not be sufficient to insure peace for their two Celtic peoples. For Dalriada was expanding and beginning to look hungrily at the territories of its neighbors. And at the same time, a new menace was fast approaching—a terrifying wave about to break over all of Caledonia.

  Two

  833

  A girl was also born in Steenbuaic, six years after the bard’s son, to the sister of the Pict King. Seonaid named her daughter Breathran.

  As the girl grew, the mother wondered if something might be wrong with her daughter, for she was slow to speak, and even at the age of five or six she opened her mouth but rarely. Yet her eyes sparkled with intelligence and animation and a lively interest in all about her, and she loved animals with an unusual tenderness and sense of identification.

  One day the mother came upon seven-year-old Breathran some distance from the village, on the plateau between Steenbuaic and the sea. As she approached, Seonaid heard her daughter’s voice. She slowed her step and listened. The girl was speaking words such as her mother had never heard from her lips—and in a voice utterly different from anything she had heard before—a soft, soothing voice as if talking to one much younger.

  As she watched and listened from behind, Seonaid suddenly realized that Breathran was speaking to a tiny bird that had alighted several feet away, trying to coax it toward her. Then Breathran began softly to mix melody with her words, and even her own mother found herself mesmerized by the sound.

  Air feasgar ciùin Céitein’s me teurnadh an tsléibhe.

  Hug óro is eutrom mo cheum air làr.

  Tha ghrian anns na speuran a’ dèarrsadh gu ceutach.

  Is eunlaidh nan geugan a’ seinn an dàn.

  Th’n tallt ruith do’n abhainn le caithream ’s le ceòl,

  Na craobhan fo’n duilleach ’s na lusan ’nan glòir.

  Na beanntan ’s na gleanntan ’nam maise ro òirdheirc.

  Is thall air a’ chòmhnard tha òigh mo ghràidh.

  The stars are burning cheerily, cheerily.

  Ho-ro, little one, turn you to me.

  The sea mew is moaning drearily, drearily.

  Ho-ro, little one, turn you to me.

  Cold is the storm wind that ruffles your breast,

  But warm is the downy plume here in my nest.
r />   Cold blows the storm there, soft falls the snow.

  Then ho-ro, little one, come you to me.

  Whatever the villagers might think, it was obvious the girl lacked for nothing in the way of expressiveness, but only reserved the deepest expressions of her heart for the animals she loved.

  The bird fluttered and bounded a step or two toward her. Breathran continued softly to croon the strange melody, moving not a muscle, not flinching a finger. How long she had sat here waiting, her mother had no idea.

  Seonaid now took a step toward her. A thin twig snapped beneath her foot. The bird flew into the sky and away.

  Breathran stopped her melody, turned, saw her mother, and her innocent face lit into a smile.

  “Did you see the little bird, Mother?” she said.

  “Yes I did, Breathran dear,” answered Seonaid.

  “It almost came to my hand—did you see?”

  “I am sorry I disturbed it.”

  “It will come again, Mother. I like the birds. I think they like to hear me sing. That little one was nervous. But I will see him again.”

  She rose, and they returned to the village together.

  Three

  839

  Two children playing some years later on a high rocky promontory jutting into the sea first spotted the sleek vessel plowing through the blue-gray water several hundred yards offshore.

  Excitedly they clambered down and scampered across the narrow expanse of sand onto the mainland, then up the steep bank and across the heath plateau toward the slope of Nochd Brae, or the “bare hill,” at the base of which their settlement of stone and earthen houses was situated.

  As they ran toward the settlement, they passed a thirteen-year-old girl sitting quietly on the ground inspecting a tiny patch of heather blossoms, wondering how they gathered their color from out of the earth. The two boys ran past, taking no notice of her. Breathran rose and ran after them for a while.

  It took the boys twenty minutes to reach the village from the coast. Before their shouts had died in the wind, one of the stout young Pict men of Steenbuaic had scrambled atop the highest of the granite stones from which the settlement took its name. He peered northward with a hand shielding his forehead from the sun. But the sea was some three miles distant, and he could see nothing.

  He climbed down, joined his comrades who were already gathering what weapons they could carry, and ran toward the sea.

  On the way they passed the King’s niece walking back toward them. Confused first by the shouts of the two boys running by and now by the commotion involving what seemed to be every man left in Steenbuaic, she paused and watched as they flew past her.

  Now came her cousin, a great strong lad in her eyes. He slowed when he saw her and saw that her eyes were filled with confusion.

  “Aod and Cein saw strange boats, Breathran,” he explained. “We are going to see if there are more.”

  “But why, Dallais?”

  “We must know if they are friends or enemies.”

  “An enemy?”

  “I will explain it to you another time, young cousin,” laughed Dallais. “I must go.”

  He turned and sprinted to catch up with the others.

  It was a long distance to the sea for men lugging spears and swords. To save their village from the sea intruders, the men of Steenbuaic would run five times as far. By the time they reached the bluff above the great northern waters, however, not a sign of the boat was to be seen.

  From what the youngsters said, they could not tell much. But from the shape, length, single square sail, and high-curving prow the boys described, the men of the village surmised it had been a Norse craft.

  They stood at the edge of the hill overlooking the sea—Pict husbands, fathers, and warriors—and held serious counsel together. They had to know if the Norse ship had ventured here alone or in number, and whether it would continue following the coastline or put in at the nearby River Linn. Finally they decided to send their fastest runner, nineteen-year-old Dallais, along the shore to the river’s mouth. At the same time they would post young Obtreidh to watch from here for other ships that might follow.

  This being decided, those who remained hoisted their weapons once more, adding those of the runner, and began the hurried return to the settlement to make what preparations were possible should either of the two carry back grim news. With injunctions of haste from the others, Dallais set off westward at a brisk run. Within moments his cousin Obtreidh was left alone on the bluff, peering into the distance, ready to begin his sprint back to the settlement should his eyes descry a gathering of ships approaching.

  They would also have to send a messenger to the battlefront, where most of their able warriors were engaged in war against Alpin of the Scots. Their King, Eoganan, must know that a new enemy approached from the north.

  Four

  This day of danger was not unexpected.

  The first explorations by Danes and Norwegians from across the two hundred miles of sea in the previous century had been relatively peaceful. But with the perfection of a new type of vessel—long and slender, heavy of keel, utilizing both oars and sail, fast and maneuverable for stealth or battle or flight, strong enough for ocean sailing yet with shallow draft equally able to navigate shallow inland waterways—these initial traders were followed by dangerous men bent on plunder and conquest. Foreboding tidings had been spreading through Pictland for three or four years—black tales of a marauding and wicked people from across the sea landing in increasing numbers on the shores of every coast, rowing up the rivers, killing and ravaging throughout the land.

  Now the year was 839, and never had the clans of the Picts found themselves in greater peril—not only from the Norsemen across the sea, but also from the Scots of Dalriada to the south, who were taking more of their land every year.

  The village of Steenbuaic was typical of Pict settlements of the ninth century, facing dangers from all sides. But it was uncommon in that among its number dwelt two close female relations to the King—both his younger sister, Seonaid, and his first cousin, Ghleanna. And because of Pict matrilinear tradition, under certain circumstances both women might play intrinsic roles in the succession of the kingship after Eoganan.

  Steady encroachment from the strengthening race of Scots from the southwest had pushed the descendents of the Caledonii toward the northern and western extremities of the land they had completely dominated four centuries earlier. Pictland, as it was now called, had shrunk to less than half its former size. The Picts and the Scots were in truth not distinctive races. Both came from nearly pure Celtic stock. But for millennia the waters of the North Channel had separated Eire and the Scots from Caledonia and the Picts. With the waters now easily navigable, the reuniting of their common roots was not a peaceful one.

  Five

  In those days, peoples were in flux throughout Europe.

  By the eighth century, the Angles and Britons from the south had penetrated northward to share the land north of England with the Picts and the Scots. None of the four tribal groups yet possessed superiority. Ultimately nationhood would form out of the struggle of these diverse peoples for dominance. But supremacy could only be won by the shedding of all their blood.

  The religion called Christianity, brought to the region by Columba and his followers, continued to strengthen its own forms within a framework of tribal paganism and steadily took on greater aspects of the Catholicism of Rome.

  These religious developments did little, however, to obviate the tribal barbarism of the times. Notwithstanding the so-called spiritual inclinations of their leaders, kingdoms were won by the sword, not the cross. These were dark days upon the earth. Savagery among men was everywhere, and the heavens wept for what man did to man.

  Throughout the sixth century, the various Celtic groups maintained a kind of standoff in numbers and strength. Early in the seventh, however, the Scots extended their reach far into the north, while in the southeast the Angles pushed across the Forth
and the Tay. The Pict kingdom shrank rapidly on both sides. The Scots ruled from Dunadd, while the Pict kingdom was centered in Fortriu, near Scone. But Dalriada was on the rise, and Pictland on the wane.

  Through intermarriage between the two Celtic bloodlines, gradually the distinction between Pict and Scot blurred as the strains intermingled. Nowhere was this fusing more visible yet confusing as in the connected bloodlines of the two royal houses. This coalescing of Pict and Scot blood was hugely complicated by the fact that Scottish succession was determined by an essentially patrilinear system called tanistry,1 while Pict succession was traced through the mother’s line. This latter arrangement produced conflict and open warfare between rival brothers and cousins because eligibility was open to the vagaries of interpretation. The Pict system also encouraged outsiders with Pict mothers to lay claim to the Pict throne.

  The inherent weakness of the Pict system inevitably led to constant disputation and infighting. The Scots system, on the other hand, tended toward stability and strength. It was only a matter of time before the stronger would come to dominate the weaker. By the ninth century, Pict matrilinear succession was breaking down under Scots influence.

  Steadily the power of the Scots grew, while that of the Picts declined. When in the ninth century the Picts found themselves confronting a new foe from the sea, they no longer possessed the might to triumph over strong enemies on two fronts at once.

  Six

  For the moment, however, the young Scot named Kenneth, called the “hardy one,” had little concern for either the Scottish or the Pictish succession, much less for the menace to the north. He knew only that his arm ached, that sweat was pouring from his chest and forehead, and that a young Pict warrior was descending upon him with a bloodcurdling scream and an upraised sword.

  The sword in his own hand sounded with a dull clank against his foe’s weapon, jarring his heavy wrist. Recovering quickly, he lurched to the left, deftly dodging another slashing blow, and the next instant, while his opponent was off balance, hurled the whole of his might into a forward thrust.