Celtic Blood

by James John Loftus

  Seward snarled at the injustice, and Morgund knowing his companions mind had a like disdain. The two of them had suffered and been dealt many injustices of their own, far too many to simply witness another being tormented and to not intervene. Without a spoken word, the pair decided the prisoner must be released, and that his captors had a grave case to answer. They rode down the hill towards the shameful sight.

  Pulling their horses to a stop, Seward and Morgund, watching. The captors sneered indignantly at them willing them to react, confidant, amused at their anger. Morgund’s eyes were snakelike, deadly passionate. It was a foolish man indeed who took him lightly as these men now did. Outnumbering them, the soldiers expected Seward and Morgund to be apprehensive. But they weren’t, they ached, yearned to attack. Seeing this, one of the keepers advanced on his prisoner with a hot stick pointing it out obviously intent on burning him. Looking across at Morgund and Seward daring them to action. Morgund advanced. He would not permit this to go on. Coming close to the held man one of the soldiers moved to intercept Morgund.

  “This concerns you not.” The swordsman who blocked Morgund’s path stated matter-of-factly.

  There was the shrill noise of a blade drawn quickly and expertly from a scabbard, and a keen flash of steel. Morgund swung the blade with force and precision, and the man toppled over to his side in a kind of weak, ineffectual cascade. A fount of crimson erupted three feet from the man’s truncated neck, the head attached by only the scarcest of sinew and skin and staring backwards at his companions with a quizzical, stunned expression. It was several seconds before the remaining partly members realized what had just transpired and stirred to adopt any semblance of defense. Morgund, too, was shocked. Those seconds seemed like days, and he felt the blood rush through his dilated arteries, felt his heart pump blood to his muscles and his hands tighten on the hilt of his sword. He let the rush fill his mind; whereas it would befuddle the minds of most he would use it to his advantage. A final, glittering spurt of blood came from the twitching body on the ground, awash with gore, the growing stain forming a slick on Morgund’s boots.

  “We are tenants of Cospatrick, the Earl of Dunbar,” Thomas, the leader of the men declared. Seeing the unconcerned expression, Thomas, added, “The great Earl no less. The great friend of the king. His Grace’s Chancellor.”

  This leader of the guards, taking his role seriously, expected this to resonate significantly. It would come out, that Thomas was not a man to trifle with, as the agent of Cospatrick, he was dangerous. Confronting Thomas was a stupid move which the intruder would realize before too long. Coming between Morgund and the prisoner, Thomas.

  But the intruder had taken leave of his senses and was hot in anger. Cospatrick’s servant saw a smile. Seeing how the man looked he was bereft on how to proceed.

  Morgund was mildly amused at the man’s attempt to use Cospatrick as a shield. The fellow, persistent if nothing else, said, “Stop, in Cospatrick’s name!” Distressed that his plea did not have the desired effect cried out, “Fellows tell him what is at stake here.” Ordinarily Thomas treated his men with contempt, and they would have loved to see nothing better, than his head beside the other one on the ground.

  “Don’t become confused,” Morgund told him. “Numbers will not serve you. Leave the prisoner to me.”

  Still Cospatrick’s nagging servant, Thomas remained defiant, “Let us do our duty.”

  Morgund felt the urge to burst into action and almost struck the man down then and there. He made the effort to restrain himself. “If you desist from getting in my way, and obstructing my purpose of freeing this fellow you shall live if not, you will die, make your own decision.”

  Thomas must stay in possession of the prisoner to keep his fee, he could not afford to lose his fee, or Cospatrick might even kill him. Knowing the man’s famous temper that was certainly more than a possibility. The second thought made his face redden Desperate, he said. “This man is a felon. If you go now, we will accept my friend’s unfortunate death as an argument gone wrong.” Trying to ingratiate himself still further, he went on, “You will not then face justice.”

  “As you should for treating him so,” Morgund reproached Thomas. He would not accept further balking.

  The futility of Thomas’s appeal was evident in Morgund’s expression. Thomas held up a hand, his own countenance betraying a combination of frustration, fear and resignation. Seward stepped forward, blade unsheathed, and deftly cut the prisoner’s bounds. The man’s shoulders slumped exhaustedly, but despite his condition he armed himself with the fallen man’s blade. Equally thankful and weary, he took his place by Morgund and Seward’s side. The revelation of liberty and personal desire for revenge, granted him a combative spirit.

  “He will go with us,” Morgund stated. “And we shall take your horses so you cannot follow.”

  It was done. Cospatrick’s men did not accost. They accepted that the situation was beyond rectifying and were engrossed in seeking a plausible explanation to pass on.

  Morgund, Seward and their newfound friend rode. Their companion introduced himself. “Paten.”

  “Seward.”

  “Morgund.”

  “So what did you do to incur the wrath of Earl Cospatrick?” Seward asked.

  “Disturbed the king’s peace, or really Cospatrick’s peace, for to do one is to do the other.”

  His story unfolded. As an orphan he was taken into the household of a noble. This nobleman’s daughter kidnapped by Cospatrick whilst still only a small girl to be forcibly married to Waldeve, one of Cospatrick’s sons, who then held her estate. When her aged father died, Cospatrick, would be entitled to all. Though, of an ancient Celtic family, Cospatrick was as shameless as any Norman in seeking self-aggrandizement.

  Unfortunately for Cospatrick she died without issue, meaning the old man could will it to another. The nobleman decided to give it to a distant cousin, but only by virtue of the king’s authority, for the cousin was distant enough that the law dictated the king rule on it. The king could take it as his own for the discretion was his. Cospatrick paid the king to ensure he would be the beneficiary. Not useful to Cospatrick thereafter the old man was abused in his own house. Waldeve, had mistreated the daughter. He mistreated her father. Cospatrick himself didn’t, he was ruthless but not sadistic. Cospatrick’s son would have murdered the old man if not for his fathers wishes. Paten took exception to Waldeve and told him so, whereupon he was soundly thrashed. After this Paten caused trouble everywhere he went until he was waylaid, his captors informing him he was to be taken to Dunbar castle to be hanged.

  “Do you regret your actions? You can’t go home now.” Morgund queried.

  “I have no home.”

  “What of the old man?” Seward asked.

  “I can’t help him.” Paten replied.

  The day next, the best four mounts were kept, the rest sold cheaply to a trader who asked no questions.

  GORMLAITH WALKED IN her fathers garden, filled with the most pleasant roses. Her companion sought her attention and quite possibly a smile or a pleasant word. Thinking to impress her John MacGauchie told her a long rambling tale, one he thought in part humurous, about his family’s origin. In ancient times a battle had occurred near here. The Norseman besieging their citadel looked likely to overrun it. The anxious MacGauchies called all the young men from nearby who marched with their farm implements, their women with makeshift banners coming up behind them. Farther away, the closer men called out threats. These factors, giving the appearance of a major army, this generated enough confusion in the Norse ranks that they retreated.

  “It is a fascinating story to someone who has some interest in it.” Gormlaith sighed. “Unfortunately I am not interested in your supposedly elevated origins. Are not those armed with pots and pans better of as cooks? If thee had a coat of arms no doubt a pot would be proudly displayed.”

  He was offended but kept his temper. “A title won … but MacBeth persecuted them and most of my family
fled to France, and those, that retuned, the Hays, are now nobles leaving us in their wake. Lords of Hay.”

  Gormlaith did not reply, but something about her gait through the garden suggested impatience. Similarly, John MacGauchie fell silent. Though he regarded himself, and informed those who would listen, that he was brave, eager to prove his mettle in the field of war, he bore every physical trait indicative of the opposite. MacGauchie was a short man, somewhat squat and rotund of aspect. His face, replete with an inelegant line of receding hair, doubled chin and somewhat low-set eyes, giving him the appearance of mild cretinism. Coupled with his rather flaccid persona, for he was a man docile in both his speech and ways, despite his claims of bravado, MacGauchie held little attraction for the village maids His chances of obtaining a mate were remote. This was true even of Gormlaith; though one of the more attractive girls in the village, she had become insular to others and cold to male admirers since Seward had left years ago.

  John MacGauchie’s tireless devotion reminded her of a dog. Even though he bored her, his family had some riches, so she tolerated his company, even to the extent of letting him put his arm through hers when it pleased her. She talked to him on those days amicably, but she wasn’t in such a mood now.

  What passed between them on those infrequent occasions was not exactly romance but he was there to listen to her and she needed someone to speak to. Gormlaith suddenly received the vivid impression of herself and MacGauchie joined in marriage. Perhaps she had displaced her longing for Seward, for his return was an impossibility, onto John. Perhaps that MacGauchie wealth, modest as it was, helped to lubricate her mind to the thought. It was only upon reflection of this that she realized the buzzing in her ear was John speaking to her again.

  “You are too beautiful, too desirable …”

  “What, what is that you say?” She asked.

  John was slightly taken aback, for Gormlaith did not look pleased. A trace of mockery seemed to enter her eyes, though he stumbled forth in his soliloquy. “You are a sweet, pleasant thing of beauty. Like these roses.”

  “Very poetic,” she replied. “You yourself have the figure of a God.” He hated the look she gave. She laughed at him. She was cruel. She thought him a buffoon and wasn’t bothering to hide it.

  He looked defeated. “I accept your derision. I deserve it.”

  At last she thought of a way to be rescued from him. “Can you make a poem?” she asked.

  “Of course my love,” he replied. She had but jested earlier, and had recovered from her evil mood. The shock of her teasing was gone, it must be borne, he thought, for it was playful fun she had at his expense no harm meant by it.

  She picked a rose, then scratched him with its thorns, “Make a poem of that,” she said. She looked at him with hatred. “You go home now.” As he walked away, she called out in a barking way. “You seductive bastard. Go and seduce some sheep.”

  He suffered a paralysis of will. ‘Seductive bastard.’ How could she call him, that, and do everything to him that she had this day. He arrived home and never remembered afterward how. She was cruel beyond bearing.

  Not deterred, the next day and the day after that he went to her door with some trifle. A peculiar warmth grew ever more, until he seemed not so much a fool or a bald stout man, she saw the good in him and realized how much better he was than her, and how she must mend her ways and respect him, for he deserved that. She had been immature on the day of the rose. Although he might not pick up sarcasm and low jokes, he was not stupid. Somehow he was too pure to understand the low depravity of the jackals that each and all societies have amongst them, and whose traits, at times, were, her’s. Her family did everything in their power to get him to take her. They liked him, they wanted her to wed and they knew better than she did what an appropriate match it was.

  Gormlaith learned to curb the worst of her ways, she watched others and took notice of their actions and felt inspired to be pleasant, really wanted to change, but it was in her nature to be as she was. However, when she jibed him, his calmness of expression didn’t stoke the fire of her spite or appear worthwhile cause; he brought her temper down, and it had to be thus for he couldn’t understand nor adapt to her ways. John smiled at her tantrums, for it was the surest way to resolve them and make a smile appear on her face.

  John MacGauchie offered to take her as wife, to which Gormlaith complied with fervor, she wasn’t getting any younger. There existed no a long line of suitors, though often she said half the village men were in love with her. Didn’t her looks compare with the loveliest maidens? She was pretty, but it was her uncouth mouth that turned heads away. Seward would be a good match. Gormlaith, looking across the heather imagined Seward and Morgund riding over the hills. They were a way off yet, but she felt they would return. But then she felt they would never return, neither of them had been heard from for many years.

  COMING TO A sizeable town, the last before entering the highlands, provisions were obtained. Doubting if coins would prove useful to them where they were going, Morgund suggested a night on the ale. Paten and Seward thought it rash to enter a public house, but Morgund disagreed. He strove to convince the others arguing strongly that where last they encountered difficulties was far to the south, plausibly explaining that it would not have been told so as to travel. Moreover, it had been years since Morgund had been in Scotland, so it was unlikely that he be recognized. Seward had misgivings but agreed. Paten declined, he would care for the horses and the camp equipment. The ale house was a wattle hut, food and drink and smoke within. The darkness inside helped to hide Morgund’s identity.

  Morgund tasted much drink whilst Seward kept his head low in a corner of the ale house attempting to appear inconspicuous.

  Morgund moved unsteadily to his companion to ask in a somewhat slurred voice why he was acting so aloof.

  “Seeking to avoid notice Seward?”

  Seward’s curt reply, followed by an impatient glance even the gloom failed to disguise.

  “Of course,” Morgund replied, “Man, do you know what you look like? You’re near seven feet tall, built like a ox and have snow white hair. And you think you won’t draw notice? You draw more attention by trying to hide yourself under the table. If I brought a pig into the bar and it ordered a drink and it had an argument with the taverner on the price of the ale, I think it be commented on less.” Morgund swaying, drawing an audience, acted up to them. “And if that pig played the pipes at the bar it would be less of note.”

  “Yes Morgund, thank you. You’ve drawn even more notice to us by going on so.”

  “Seward, hide under that table. If nothing else, it will shield my eyes from your wickedly ugly head.” Morgund was greatly amused at his own wit.

  Seward’s reply in similar vein. “Oh, Morgund, you jolly soul, shovel some pie into your mouth. Watching you talk and eat it is like watching a boar at swill, but not quite for that is by far a more pleasant sight.”

  “It is well you’ve chosen to liken me to a boar, for I am that.” Morgund alluded to his blood containing the ancient royalty. It was the ancient Scottish symbol of kingship.

  But Seward prevented him from adopting a serious melancholy at the misfortunes of his clan. He interrupted him, “My wits addle me. Is not furtiveness our goal?”

  “It might be yours. I am royal and hide from no man.”

  “Boar’s innards for sense, you mean.” Seward said and regretted it instantly for Morgund was loud again and more people were looking their way. Seward thought to break this flow of conversation with a jest, “Morgund the darkness provides a good cloak to hide your evil head.”

  “The lack of an appealing visage you accuse me of. Look at you. Probably better not, if you’ve a weak stomach that is.” This was applauded by his listeners.

  “Morgund you are too clever for me.” Seward said, hoping to quieten him.

  “Aye, that I am Seward and twice the swordsman.”

  Seward had reached the limit of his tolerance at Morgund�
��s drunken nonsense. “Think yourself a future king of Scots! Morgund, you’re not fit to be! Without me to guide you you’d be some poor slave trapped in Southern England. It took me to rescue you. If not for me you’d be sitting somewhere in England book reading.” Seward looked disgusted. “You’re incapable of governing yourself let alone anyone else.”

  Morgund sat down. “You low-down wretch!” After a while he looked at Seward and said, “Dog.”

  “Dog.” Seward repeated. “It took a while to take it in, then replied, “You are the dog. Be careful, or I’ll turn you into a dog. It is no empty boast. The witch queen herself initiated me into the magic arts.”

  “That evil bitch I suffered greatly at her hand, do not remind me of her, I take the harm she has done me to the grave,” Morgund said.

  “It was a fog on my mind, to speak thus,” Seward said.

  Morgund misheard him, thought himself called a dog again. “Be careful I will cut your head off and feed it to dogs. Do you think I will not?” Morgund said.

  “Probably not,” Seward said, meaning that Morgund wouldn’t have the heart to.

  “Probably not,” Morgund replied, “But then again … I might.”

  Seward was angry. “Well, I’ll say it again then.” Thinking to repeat the dog insult but then changed his mind. “No, I will not call you a dog, you’re a worm and not a dog, a dog is loyal at least, you’re overly arrogant, with nothing to recommend you.”

  “Nothing?” Morgund asked.

  “Nothing!” Seward replied angrily.

  “There must be something …” Morgund asked.

  “Perhaps but do not ask me of it now,” Seward said.

  “You yourself have many qualities that I aspire to. Honour friendship and great manliness,” Morgund said.

  “Thank you.”

  Smiling at Seward Morgund said. “Friends.” When Seward didn’t respond, Morgund smiled and then said again, “Friend, may I buy you a drink?” Morgund asked. He was sick of fighting with Seward.