Seward considered these words. As he did Kenneth stood and addressed the assembled Scots. “You have all heard him. I say we help this lad by accepting him as one of our own. Malcolm The Black we know you have a fine house. Have you room for Seward?”
“Yes.” Malcolm responded. “We will take him in. I have heard the boy has the gift for story telling. What a great thing that will be on cold winter’s nights. Often we sit around our fire with nothing to say.” Malcolm, to reassure Seward, winked at him.
Kenneth warm in reply, “I can always depend on you Malcolm.” He then looked at the others, the inference being that with them it might be otherwise. Kenneth spoke to Seward. “You will be content amongst us then. Never fear, lad. Some happiness you will have, I will see to it.”
Kenneth was a good but overly trusting man who failed to understand what motivated men. Some close to him meant him ill, and stood near waiting for their moment. Seward himself sensed ill intent and that all was not right here. He turned his eyes from the predators. Kenneth stepped forward and squeezed Seward’s shoulder. “You have courage. It is a great base upon which to build. Good luck, Seward.”
Seward having heard tales of knightly conduct, knelt and immediately bowed low. “Thank you my, Lord,” he said.
“Seward, one day I will seek to return you to your homeland. But it may take time.”
“Aye, my Lord.”
“Good, Seward. You will be well cared for here.”
“I will make myself useful to you and I will never forget the great kindness you have done me, my Lord.”
The crowd murmured. Seward had acted nobly. Some thought back to another Seward, he of Northumberland, who came from Birnam Wood to Dunsinane with Malcolm Canmore a hundred and fifty years before. MacBeth was slain and thereby Canmore, was made King. It was a good and lucky name for Scotland, many thought.
Later in the night, a man with wild and curly, fair, unkempt hair, attacking a plate with abandon. Sitting beside him, his companion, who was much younger, sixteen, no more. They sat in a corner lit only by a flickering fire, whose light coloured the fair man’s hair yellow and boy’s dark hair, gold-red, black. It painted their faces with long sinister shadows. The blond man burped loudly in Seward’s ear and said, “Greetings.”
“Greetings,” Seward replied.
The blond man said, “Your friend Kenneth is dead already and he doesn’t know it.”
Seward replied, “He looks well enough to me.”
“Too good for some of us …”
“Some people are never loyal.” His mother’s words came to mind. They would have earned her wrath if she came striding in, and they would have stayed their tongues then. He turned to more agreeable company. Almost immediately a scuffle erupted between the man and his young companion and they were evicted. “They could pass for Norseman,” he said to someone who laughed.
He thought of their reference to Kenneth and what it implied. This place was dangerous and Kenneth, the man responsible for saving his life was the centre of it. Kenneth was surrounded by evil, Seward could almost see the noose tightening around Kenneth’s neck. He needed a distraction and looking for it outside, walked to where young lads were wrestling. Upon asking to join in they told him, “You know us not. We understand one another. With us there is no chance of ill intent. Wait till you know us better.”
He returned to the four walls with a hollow feeling of despair. When faced with great danger the act of surviving provides initial relief, however the mind eventually becomes negative gnawed away from inside. That was learned. Realising it would take a considerable time to cast aside his uneasy feelings, he sought distraction by concentrating on those about him. Whilst speaking to them he enjoyed the conversations yet continued to grow ever more weary.
Noticing this, the girl, the tongue poker, Suana watched him admiringly. She wanted to find him a pillow and direct him to a place to rest. She would have talked to him but was lost for words. What could she say? Across the hall, another girl watched him just as intently as she did, Gormlaith. Suana made sure Gormlaith didn’t notice her watching Seward - it would cause a fuss.
Gormlaith was a spiteful girl who would not accept any competition. As Suana watched Seward, his head sank forward on a bench. His hosts noticed this and presently a girl of eleven or twelve appeared. Seward had noticed her watching him for some time. She curtsied, and took hold of his hand. “I am Malcolm’s daughter, my name is Gormlaith. We are going home now Seward. Bid farewell to your friends.” Gormlaith hummed like a bee. “You will like us. Mother sings and father is kind.” There was a moment’s pause. “Did I tell you we have a hound?” Wistfully, “Our dear hound. Father likes you, he has heard of your stories.” Her voice came from far away and it barely penetrated the haze of his exhaustion.
Inside a dwelling he was directed to some bedding, and falling headlong into it, a moment later, he slept. Much later he awakened. Recalling the day’s events and the disturbing unreality of it all. His head throbbed. The sway of the ship he felt beneath his feet, tasted salt water. The wind hit his face. He attempted to regain his bearings. Looking around the sparse room he saw a fire blazing in one corner. A sequence of recent events flashed through his mind; Kenneth, his kindness, a woman who had helped him in the courtyard, and a disturbing vision of the massacre.
A glistening of sweat appeared on his brow, “Kenneth is dead already.” What did that mean? A dog stared into the flames, such a comforting domestic scene that it calmed him. His breathing steadied. He eased himself down and closed his eyes once more. With morning a fair woman. Perhaps in her forties, old seeming to Seward. That she had been a beauty was plain, but something had aged her, some sorrow. Bending over him and adjusting his bedding, they studied each other, he looked at her through squinted eyes. Blue, kind eyes he thought she had.
Gormlaith was at the door and the woman spoke to her. “We will not disturb him, Gormlaith. Bring in a pail of water so he can wash. Look at him curled up like a hedgehog in the burrow.”
“Sleep peacefully, young hedgehog,” Gormlaith said, giggling as she closed the door.
Sleep did not return. After wetting his face, he left the room. His steps took him to the others. Malcolm sat in a chair near the fire. The same hound was by his side, the one that had kept him company the night before, still mesmerised by the flames. Mother and daughter prepared food at a long table.
“Good morning Seward,” chorused mother and daughter together.
“Good morning,” replied Seward.
He saw he was in a fine house with a high ceiling, well built and well kept. A second table to which Malcolm motioned Seward to be seated. In the middle of it was a large cooked fish that smelt delicious.
“A treat boy, to welcome you,” Malcolm said.
Seward, looking at smiling faces, felt a sense of belonging. He thought this was strange, but it did not make him feel uneasy. A curl of his lips grew into a small grin, which he tried to fight, not wanting to appear too overjoyed, in case they thought him overly emotional. But his teeth wouldn’t be contained, they sprouted like mushrooms after a storm. Gormlaith and her mother Sienna, smiled back as broadly, a warm glow shining in both their eyes. “What a handsome boy he is,” they thought.
Sometime later Seward asked Malcolm about the danger to Kenneth. Malcolm told him it was a complex situation and better to be well practised with sword and not let it be known he was all for Kenneth. Lest the day come when he could pay a high price for that. A day would come when loyal friends would be needed. Such was the case that those who cherished him must bide their time and let those who would harm him place the words in their mouths that would condemn them.
THE MOURNING
THE PASSAGE OF time had turned Seward into a powerful youth. At seventeen, Seward had thrived on climbing the steep highlands and wading through freezing semi-arctic, waters. The highlands was the perfect environment to toughen body and mind. A society, directed towards producing warriors, rewarding valour
and prowess at arms, therefore, holding Seward in high esteem. Bent down, drinking from a stream whirling between rocks, hereabouts, trees, large and stately, right down to the waters edge. After standing Seward looked like he had things of great importance to decide. Which, in fact, he did. With his fate for good or ill, linked to Scotland, he would travel to Denmark to let his parents know he was alive and well, but not until he turned eighteen. Then, at least, he would be able to protect himself, according to Sienna, Malcolm’s wife, who had become like a mother to him. After reassuring his family, he would return to Scotland to serve Kenneth. Kenneth needed stout retainers. His ancestors paid dearly for pressing a rival claim to the throne. Now, Kenneth held his Earldom by default. The king’s power did not extend to the MacAedh northern homeland. A temporary state of affairs that the King of Scots, King William, would soon rectify. Only by giving loyal service to the current dynasty could Kenneth’s line be made secure. The MacAedh must submit to the king.
In Scotland there was a new power to be reckoned with a power that could thrust itself into the highlands. The Norman conquerors of England had revolutionized weaponry and tactics in the medieval world. Heavily armored, mounted on giant horses, superbly trained and disciplined. Since their appearance in the Brittish Isles they had vanquished all opponents including the Scots. King David the First of Scotland grew to manhood amongst them as a hostage in England in the 1120’s. The Normans impressed King David. Returning to Scotland, several Normans came with him. That was many generations ago. In the reign of Scotland’s current king, any who opposed royal authority had the Normans to face, not a prospect to be taken lightly, and Kenneth’s kinsman Donald Ban talked loudly against the king, their patron, making things even more dangerous for the MacAedhs. All the highlanders knew the Normans were superb knights and acquisitive. War was coming. Most dreaded it, some like Seward looked forward to it, knowing, destiny would be written, furthermore, that God did not give great physical gifts without reason.
After receiving training in the art of war it was apparent that Seward possessed a gift for weaponry. The originality of his mind was suited to solving problems associated with the use of arms. He came up with theories, by implementing some, whilst discarding others, he improved all aspects of his swordsmanship. Seward was the tallest man in the village and still growing, a statement expressed often and with awe by a people not noted for their height. He thrived on practicing his martial skills till every sinew burned. Other noted swordsmen held him in high regard, none held any degree of certainty that they could beat him.
That is, all but Dolfin, famed for his skill, who Kenneth held in high esteem. Dolfin thought any talk of Seward’s supremacy premature. Seward, a hulking giant, and slow, who was inexperienced in actual combat. Although he showed promise, it would be a few years yet until he was a threat to the very best, such as Dolfin knew himself to be.
Seward stood tall and strong awaiting tidings from a messenger who had ridden all night with an urgent royal missive for Kenneth. A council was to be held in Edinburgh and as the Earl Of Ross, Kenneth was invited. He had never contested William’s rule. He thought perhaps the MacAedh past was forgiven. It seemed logical. Should this bring him close to the crown, his Earldom could be made valid. His cousin, the king, to whom he had made no warlike gesture towards, must need him to stabilise the north. To make this council he must depart as soon as possible and with a light escort. Must, risk crossing the lands of a warlike neighbour. He instantly made his decision and chose twenty of his best men to ride with him.
As they were preparing to depart Kenneth’s wife ran forward, and clung to his robes. Mary thought she would never see Kenneth again. Clasping him as if to never let him go. She thought her heart would rip in two. He looked calm. She thought he looked too calm, like a man who did not respect the dangers, not like a man with his life at stake. “Don’t go, Lord. At least wait until a strong force can be assembled to protect you.”
Staring at her, Kenneth thought her worried face would darken his journey and weigh heavily on his mind. He looked away. Dolfin, a friend, came near, comforting her. Kenneth addressed him, “My lady, gentle though she is, is headstrong.” He gave her a warning glance to say no more.
She ignored him. “What of time? Surely your safety can be worth an hour.”
“Time enough, there is not, Mary. I will fare well. See to thyself and our son for I must away.”
“I fear thou will be dead by tomorrow.” But words could not be given to such thoughts. “God willing, we will triumph, and be saved hereon,” she said.
“I will return anon. God willing,” he replied.
“God willing.” Thereafter she relapsed into moody silence. A single tear set course down her cheek. Seeing it, Kenneth turned away. It was an omen almost too dire to ignore. Perhaps, he was going into the jaws of death.
Never before had Mary felt tragedy to be so close, that she could feel it, close and palpable. Looking out at Kenneth as he turned to wave, she thought he looked happier than he had a right to. Looking, as if he was on a great adventure, and not with his life at stake, and not with the odds stacked heavily against him. Then he was out through the gate into the night.
Further on he rode, harness jingling, silhouetted against a bright moonlit sky. The route was little known. Kenneth believed they should meet no others, yet having voiced his plans to a number of his closest supporters, Kenneth felt that perhaps one too many knew his intention. It was bleak, the deep feeling of uneasiness and foreboding. His wife’s words still dark in his mind. He tried to clear his cloud of fear and dread. He felt he had forgotten something important and must remember it.
He recalled the words of one his trusted supporters. “Stay in the highlands where the Normans cannot fight. The conditions do not suit them here.” Thurloc had said.
Dolfin, vehement in denial. “They will come here as everywhere else before. You must go and make things right with the king.”
Thurloc was equally passionate, “No, I say treachery is afoot, Kenneth, and doubt not, is close at hand.”
With that, Dolfin’s eyes had lingered on Kenneth. Kenneth saw those eyes again, upon reflection felt sick to the pit of his stomach at what those eyes told him. He remembered that when he said, “I am going regardless of any doubts.” Dolfin had smiled. Attempting to analyse that smile. No reassurance was gained therein.
He recalled Thurloc warning him. “Kenneth, he is more than glad to see you go, yet absents himself, suffering an illness too extreme to sit a horse … he looks well enough to me.”
Kenneth put these thoughts away for they gravely affected his confidence. Returning to the present, urging his horse up a steep slope. Atop this slope, whispers floated in the night air. He heard, “A traitor does dwell in your midst, a sore carbuncle that festers in your breast, a traitor.”
Kenneth suffered a sense of bereavement at his own death. His wife’s response to his leaving was too vivid. His lifetime was nearly finished he felt. He could not escape the vision of Mary crying at his departure. Kenneth wore the pallor of all his misgivings and his face was a death mask.
Looking over his shoulder to get warning of an action toward him, the more he looked behind the greater it did vanquish comfortable spirits in him. Kenneth was sweating. His horse, good beast, obedient to his urging and took him higher up in the mountains. With a rainy mist descending, the pace slowed. The riders closing up into tighter formation. Ahead, a bridge spanning two sheer cliffs. This route made for a fast journey, but it was also an ideal place for an ambush. Kenneth warned his men.
For an attack to succeed here it would take careful planning. If such did occur, it could mean only one thing, the king was involved in a conspiracy. For Kenneth’s presence here, where he was most vulnerable, was directed by the king’s writ. It all seemed too contrived, a more careful methodical mind worked here than the king’s for the king was not known for his subtlety. It was not too late to turn back. Continue or turn back, Kenneth could not decide, wh
ilst all the time closing on the bridge. The best way to negotiate an obstacle is quickly. Kenneth recalled the military maxim. Nearly upon the bridge, Kenneth called his men together. “We will ride at the gallop tight packed across the span.”
Before Kenneth finished issuing his instructions, mounted riders descended from above. There was only time for men to exchange worried glances before the attackers were amongst them. It was hopeless. No time to organise a defence. Seeing a prospect of escape, a few retreated up a rocky slope, on foot. The rocks hindering the enemy horses from overtaking them and for a time, it seemed some might escape.
In deathly silence, hidden by the thick mist, the survivors made their way. Suddenly the enemy burst through the gloom. A man wore an axe in his face and another had crimson across his belly. Sword points flashed. William MacRuari, a young member of Kenneth’s escort, caught a blur of movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned quickly, and ducked just low enough. Horsemen galloped past. He saw a break in their ranks and ran towards the bridge. The clear space that drew him suddenly disappeared. Now surrounded by jostling riders forcing him closer to the cliffs edge, William ducked to avoid an axe, stumbled, felt nothing beneath his feet, he was over the edge, and plunging downward.
Below, the water of a stream rapidly heading up to meet him. Colliding with something. A small tree which grew from the cliff wall and that saved his life. He used it, lifting himself onto a narrow shelf. Checking himself for any injuries, he found none. There were sounds from above, horns were blowing and men shouting to one another, the sounds of battle won, a battle, over. Another realisation, he was trapped half way up a mountain.
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