Celtic Blood

by James John Loftus

  If an answer came it might arrest this. But there was no answer. Morgund had told her he was coming back, so why hadn’t she waited. Asking herself continuously why she committed this sin eventually she came to an answer of sorts. She had wanted Morgund so much, she told herself, that in her depression and confusion she had made Simon his proxy.

  It didn’t make sense to a stable mind but she was far from that. Death, she thought, might be the answer, and by her own hand. Such an ultimate sanction would suffice but the same debilitating depression that gave her that thought precluded any action.

  Preoccupied with her suffering, the days stretched on timelessly. Would she ever have this baby? The waiting seemed eternal. Mirium held her belly. It was Morgund’s firstborn child, and because of it she loved it greatly, often patting where she thought the babies head would be within her stomach. Mirium’s was overtaken by a deep lasting sorrow, for she realized the enormity of her mistake and knew now there was no way of correcting it, or ending her life. For the baby, she must live for the baby’s sake.

  “What shall we call him?” Edith had asked.

  “I want him to be proud of his Scots heritage, and to have a suitable Scots name, but not a name Morgund might choose for his heir. Never shall the boy be that. Morgund will have other children. He must have other children, and must find happiness with a truer soul than mine.”

  “William?” Edith asked holding Mirium’s hand. “Is that not a royal Scot’s name?”

  “That is what we shall call him,” Mirium said. “It is a name that will not mark him, from his fellows, for the name William is common in England.”

  “Be strong then. For William’s sake,” Edith urged.

  “As much as I can.”

  Mirium, exhausted by guilt, slumped back on her cot. After some time her panicked voice filled the room. “What if Morgund bears another son, and also calls him William?”

  Edith calmed her, and cooled the fatigued girl’s head with a dampened cloth. “Fear not, dear Mirium. William it shall be. Should there be more sons we must trust to fate he shall be named other. Or, indeed, a daughter you might have.”

  Mirium smiled, imagining hugging little William to her breast. When she did, a glimmer of light entered her heart. Cheerfulness existed, she realized with wonder. Saying then. “He will be such a dear little man and so perfect. William will be mine to love, and be loved by.”

  Simon entered and he held her hand. She didn’t blame him for coercing her. Whilst not holding any deep affection for him, she realized that without a man her baby and herself would most likely die. Simon would cast her out and Cristo wasn’t strong enough to prevent it. She wouldn’t be able face Morgund now, the pain of betraying him was too severe. Morgund was her past. The future was her concern, William. Therefore, Simon must be a part of her future, to.

  THE SUMMER HAVING passed in fruitless searching for the MacAedh. Unremarkable adventures. Occasionally evading the allies of Alexander. As northern Scotland became colder, Seward, Morgund and Paten built a shelter on a riverbank underneath tall trees, finding protection there from the wind and rain. Wood was cut and stacked neatly.

  Of meat, they had ample, a supply they had stacked in advance for winter. The forest was silent and empty now. At the end of the month driving snow piled in, forcing them to dig out. Days rolled on, the winter long and hard, showing no signs of slowing soon. In time, however, the freezing grip passed and days became longer. Rivers broke their banks. They waited for still further warmer weather to arrive. When the anticipated change came, having discussed much what to do, the decision was made that they would thread their way through a series of boggy and rock strewn valleys, unwelcoming country but where they were unlikely to be intercepted.

  The refuge of clan MacAedh remained undiscovered. Despite continual setbacks and disappointments the partly kept searching, questioning whomever they could without arousing undue suspicion, and scouring the horizon for any sign of smoke which may betray an establishment. In early April they approached a pleasant wood, mountains rising above in the distance. Within an hour of entering the wood it had become dense nightmare and the going slow. The wood encompassed them on all sides save to the east, where an ice-cloaked mountain was visible. They set themselves to continue north, despite the near impenetrable forest.

  Hour after sweating hour, cutting their way through the dense growth, the lead man hacking away with his blade whilst the other two followed in his narrow path. All alternating, in taking the lead. When possible they would crawl forward, threading through the woods, if only to avoid the laborious process of cutting through.

  Eventually the trees thinned. After some continued journeying the trio encountered two men dressed in furs and rough homespun, who bore no surnames nor belonged to any clan. They were solitary men, and there were others alike them in these wild parts. They told of the remnants of the clan MacAedh, dispossessed and fugitive, half a day north.

  Shortly after parting from the two, armed horsemen rode ahead of them, Normans, the banner, De Moravia, the Lord of Murray, aloft and resplendent waving in the crisp air. In times passed the Normans rarely if ever frequented so far north. The outcasts hid as best they could amongst the trees of a small grove, uncertain as to whether they were seen.

  Fearful approaching a large loch with open spaces around it. In this severe aspect certainly they could be seen from afar. Horseman could ride them down. They needed to go quickly across this open country to escape detection, but had travelled many miles without sufficient rest, they stumbled like drunks.

  “Now I am a deer chased, and it feels not good,” Morgund said.

  “This is the life you have chosen Morgund,” Seward replied exhaustedly.

  Far out into the open space, horsemen circled out in front of them. Apparently they had been seen. Carefully moving low to the ground, they sank down, covered by the grass, almost completely hidden. Laying still, swords held tightly, they listened with racing hearts to the sounds of an approach. All was silent … bar the sounds of nature, then alarmingly they identified the sounds of men.

  The sounds of the men dimmed. For hours they waited. To expose themselves on foot against a mounted foe was to forfeit their lives. Upon the coming of long shadows, Morgund and his companions crept out. None were near them. They pressed on. That night they spent on high ground. The next day they crossed a river and continued north, reasonably certain they had lost any pursuit. Leisurely following the waterways towards the coast, they smelt salt air and heard the sound of breakers.

  The sea suddenly appeared before their eyes. White rippling tops, expanding, incoming, curling, ever growing, until; crashing, pounding, arcing downwards, rolling-white surging. Great waves rising and breaking far out on black spires of rock jutting out of the sea. The crashing waves filled the air, and Morgund found himself entranced by the sound and spectacle. The greenery reached almost to the ocean itself, for only a thin line of grey-black sand and pebbles demarked the coast. The place lured him to sacrifice himself to the sovereign sea. He stood on the narrow beach for some time, gazing out upon the expanse. He removed his boots and felt the stones and grit between his toes. The occasional wave spilt over his feet, the icy coldness both thrilling and a balm to the blister and sores. He stood alone on the shore, all the anxiety and distress of friends lost tearing his heart asunder. Tears rolled unbidden down his cheeks and he collapsed to his knees praying for a successful conclusion to his quest.

  “No disrespect intended to you son, but are you staying here? I chose to make this my place for solitude.”

  “What?” Morgund, opened his eyes to a hermit with extremely long hair, his beard, matted and unkempt, which had obviously not been cleaned or trimmed lately.

  Morgund tried to digest the meaning. “Where are you from?” Morgund asked.

  “Not far, further along the coast.”

  “I think, I know you, before that?”

  “Away south in Ross.”

  “Then I have foun
d my home.”

  “Aye.” The man eyed Morgund warily. “Have ye?”

  A realization dawned upon the hermit that this might be Morgund MacAedh. He discounted it quickly, however for this one was not possessed of nervousness or timidity, but instead he bore the trappings of an accomplished warrior. Rumours had reached the clan, and even if told by enemies had an effect. They encouraged people to form a poor opinion of Morgund. Then there were the memories of Morgund MacAedh, of old, a quiet boy not seen as having any marked potential. As a boy small and inconsequential. Unlike so many of the MacAedh’s who were large, soldierly and proud. However, in adulthood he was fated to be a greater man than those who carried his name before him, a prophet named Duibne who visited them had said He assured Morgund’s mother the two would meet again.

  The hermit remained unsure of the young man’s identity, the rarement of his garment marked him as one of the privileged, and when given enough time looking at it his face it was strikingly similar to Morgund’s as he’d known it – yet, so much time had passed. When the young stranger spoke again the old man was certain.

  “I have found my home. I am Morgund MacAedh, Kenneth’s son.”

  Tears trickled down the hermit’s face as he placed a hand on Morgund’s shoulder. “I am your servant, boy, and you are right. This is home.”

  “Adhering to the MacAedhs has brought you only misery and death, and the clan will blame me for causing it.”

  “Morgund fear not.” A look of total compassion was on the face of the old man. Morgund, taken aback by the hermit’s mercy and sincerity, began to stutter out a series of sounds that his emotion-choked throat failed to articulate into words.

  The hermit smiled and interrupted. “… They will be glad to see you son, they will not blame you”

  “But why?” Morgund begged. The gravity of the persecution endured by his clan because of his own unwelcomed survival was personified in the derelict old man before him. “After all you people have suffered, why?

  “You are one of our own. Our memories run deep, and in our hearts we must honor thee. As a descendant of kings can we do less?”

  “If the villagers were not connected to me, they’d still have homes in Ross. Those that are no more would be alive.”

  “Have no fear. Such will never extinguish our love for you. Alexander is to blame, as are the evil men who advise him, the likes of MacCainstacairt. Not you, who lost his father. Only friends await you here.” Morgund looked doubtfully at the man. Not fully trusting the reassuring cast to his features. “You will see for yourself, son.”

  The hermit led the way to the village. A short walk brought them to it. The place was little more than a huddle of a dozen round houses, with wattle walls and thatched roofs. Racks of fish and strips of venison were smoking. The faces of village seemed blank, downcast and unimpressed by Morgund. This seemed hardly the welcomed home coming any of them expected. Morgund was disappointed to learn this was all of clan MacAedh, no other larger settlement existed.

  “Morgund,” Seward told his friend, “This reminds me of the day I arrived in your village.” Seward winked at Morgund. “It is all yours.”

  Morgund felt a strangely dulled sense of relief, for few were the faces he recognized, and then only faintly. He, who should have been the leader of these people, was an outcast, an outcast and a stranger.

  The bedraggled hermit called out giving himself the air of importance. “Does any amongst us know who this is?”

  The people gathered around, summoned by the hermit. They looked at Morgund with more interest. Morgund was now a large man, well built, built for war, with a hardness of feature which was totally alien to him as they had know him. He was not like his father. He was a fighter.

  “He has the MacAedh nose,” Morgund heard a woman call out. “Aye, he most certainly has the MacAedh nose.”

  Another added, “He is a big lad. He must eat better than me. Where did you find him?”

  Another had another thought and spoke. “He is related to Mary MacAedh beyond doubt. There is something so alike between him and Mary, in the eyes, not the color, the shape.”

  A woman stepped forward, her hair grey and face crossed with age. Despite this, Morgund detected a certain familiarity in her features. By the woman’s expression, Morgund could see that she recognized him. “I know this boy,” she said. “My, how you have grown, Morgund.”

  There was a general murmur of engagement from the assembled clansman. Sienna, Malcolm’s wife embraced Morgund, her arms not long enough to encircle him, fully. “Morgund,” she wailed, tears flowing freely. “Morgund MacAedh! I never thought to see you again. It is so very good to do so, my dear Morgund.” She lifted her smiling, tearstained face from his breast. “Who would have thought it?”

  “”MacAedh!” exclaimed another. “I thought the boy was dead!”

  “Release me, woman,” Morgund commanded, the tears welling in his own eyes. “Or I shall die of shame.”

  Others crowded around, the full import of a surviving MacAedh in their midst slowly dawning on people who had surrendered all hope a decade and more ago, that he lived. He felt women clasp their hands upon his arms in thanksgiving, and reassurance, on the shoulders, men nudged and slapped him with goodwill.

  “Tell me Sienna,” he begged. “What news is there of mother?”

  “Worry not, son. She is well, but away. Come, we must feed you, and you must tell us your story.”

  The clansmen included Seward and Paten in the welcoming celebration. Sienna wept openly as she embraced Seward, kissing him many times upon brow and cheek in the manner of a mother.

  “How did you find us, so dispossessed and abandoned as we are?” Malcom demand. Seward seeing Malcolm embraced him like a son.

  Morgund, with Seward at his side, recalled his orating in the alehouse, with his ability to rouse a crowd. He recounted their tales, including only the most heroic and noble deeds. The narrative of Paten’s escape he recounted in vivid detail before presenting Paten as living evidence of their exploits. “The pipes led us home.” Morgund continued with passionate vigor. “They led us here, in our hearts we heard them. Ten armies could of stood in our way and not stopped us.”

  “Aye,” Seward agreed. “It’s true! We felt it in our breasts, and with that sound as our guide nothing could halt us from coming home.”

  As if on cue, the first discordant notes of the bagpipes began. The people parted to reveal the player, the unkempt hermit from the beach, who had hastily retrieved his instrument. His fingers played expertly over the pipes and his chest heaved to keep the bag inflated.

  “Piper thou is more than I took thee for.” The piper nodded in acknowledgement of the compliment. Tonight,” Morgund proclaimed. “Tonight is for rejoicing. Piper, cheer us!”

  “A wonderful instrument,” Seward said. “So good to hear it once more.”

  “That is more than a fact, Seward. I am Morgund MacAedh who half of Scotland and England tried to kill and could not.” Thereupon Morgund showed his perfect teeth.

  The fact that this was Morgund MacAedh amazed them. He’d been gone so long and had changed so much. No MacAedh held a title for many years yet these people thought him still noble. His breeding made for respect. He looked a worthy successor to the ancient kings.

  “To you all and to Scotland,” Morgund shouted out.

  As they listened to the piper, they understood how it gave the determination to overcome obstacles, to conquer perils. The piper, igniting spontaneous gaiety and dancing. Girls enticed partners. The younger ones demonstrating skilful steps in teams and as individuals. A woman possessing a singular vocal talent began to sing.

  Morgund found the tune somewhat mournful, despite the uplifting words. The entire village stopped to listen, and the anthem of love and the pipes chorused into the surrounding countryside.

  When the initial energy of the celebration began to wane, men talked. First, tales of bravery and heroism. But as the fires burned low into the night, a
nd the alcohol began to take its effect, Morgund detected a shift in attitude. The tales of bravado were replaced by lamentations of hardship and loss, of abandonment and alienation. Morgund observed the furtive, confidential looks some of the men exchanged, an indication of caution and fear. He understood that the people were torn between two opposing forces, joy at the discovery of a successor to the MacAedh line but apprehension that because Morgund survived they could once more be subject to oppression.

  Many believed that if they stood with Morgund against Alexander they would suffer again. Although they called him my Lord, he wasn’t fooled by such a title. He was however, very determined to lead them.

  Morgund spoke. “Alexander has caused, so much of ill, but he can and must be stopped. The disfunctioning state of the realm is to our benefit. Alexander’s unpopularity is the key. Strike hard and many will join in.”

  It appeared to Morgund he may well have been suggesting to them jumping from a cliff onto rocks for all the eagerness they showed.

  The next day Morgund organized a party to travel southwest to meet his mother. Accompanied by those versed in the stealthy ways to their destination, avoiding clans that supported the crown, and others who were noted attackers of any interlopers. An uneventful journey through the hills finally complete, at a large castle situated in a loch with a narrow causeway leading to it. One of Morgund’s escort called out and was acknowledged by a hearty reply. The outer drawbridge was hastily lowered onto the stone platform that jutted out into the loch. The drawbridge once lowered, linked to the gatehouse, and on into the castle bailey. The iron-bared portcullis was raised and after Morgund’s party drew forth inside, the portcullis slid into place behind them.

  An old gatekeeper asked of Morgund. “Be thou Lady Mary’s long lost son?”

  “Has thou heard?”

  “The word is out. Art thou, the MacAedh?”