The Scottish Selkie

by Cornelia Amiri (Celtic Romance Queen)

  Malcolm paused. “What say you?”

  “It is time to take my place as King of the Picts. As I dreamed, I will form a united kingdom of Picts and Scots. I shall call it Alba.” Kenneth said each word with full conviction.

  “Hence, I regret I will not be here to see you crowned.” Abruptly, a hard pain pierced Malcolm's heart. He knew the words he just uttered were untrue. The pain was a warning, he had lost his most precious possession.

  Malcolm lifted his head and peered into Kenneth's eyes. The cold orbs staring back at him made Malcolm want to punch out Kenneth's green eyes.

  “You ... you stole my sealskin.”

  “I need you. I cannot win against the Picts. I cannot be king unless you fight at my side.”

  Malcolm turned to see Donald, Kenneth's brother, coming up behind him. His gaze fell to the overturned rock. A hole lay where his pelt had been.

  “You lay in stealth and watched where I hid my skin.” Malcolm's voice was heavy, harsh, without mercy. “Where is it Donald?”

  “I cannot tell you.” Donald cast his eyes downward.

  A fire burned in Malcolm's head. He drew back his arm and rammed his fist into Donald's chest knocking him to the sand. Malcolm swung at Kenneth with one fist, then the other. “Where's my skin? Did you have your man take it to the castle?”

  Between grunts, Kenneth uttered, “It is safe. But Dalriada is not. We need to unite the Picts and the Scots. Our fathers died for freedom.”

  Malcolm swung again. “I want to return to the sea, where I belong.”

  Kenneth threw a counterpunch and Malcolm stumbled backwards, giving his cousin time to speak.

  “No. You want a free Dalriada more than you want to return to your selkie life. Listen to me, Malcolm. Avenge your father. You are a Scot first, a selkie second. Well you know it.”

  Kenneth's words pierced Malcolm. It made him even madder he couldn't deny the truth of them. He threw another punch, but this time a sharp pain shot up his hand. He let out a hard grunt.

  “You broke your hand, did you not?” Kenneth asked.

  “On your jaw,” Malcolm retorted through gritted teeth.

  “You held your fist wrong.” Kenneth cupped Malcolm's hand in his.

  “Yes, it has been a while since I had a fist.”

  “It is true.” Kenneth rubbed the back of his cousin's hand. “Does it pain you?”

  “No,” Malcolm lied.

  “Good.” Kenneth rubbed his jaw. “Let us go to the bonfire and celebrate. I need ale.” Kenneth looked down at the large lump in the sand. “Donald arise, we are going to the bon fire. Our cousin is coming with us.”

  Malcolm shook his fingers, trying to shake off the pain. But it would be harder to shake the image in his mind of his sire's eyes staring at him from a severed head stuck on a pike and posted on the wall of Scone. Yes, his cousin knew him well. The need to avenge his father was stronger than the calling of the wild sea.

  Malcolm heard a female voice call to him. It was Bethoc. What was Bethoc doing in his dream? She hadn't been there that night. Malcolm woke up with a start.

  Chapter Eleven

  Bethoc sat up on her blanket as Malcolm yelled out in his sleep. He jerked awake.

  Leaning over him, she asked, “Another nightmare? What upsets you so?”

  Malcolm shook his head. “Naught but a dream. A memory really, nothing more.”

  A surge of anger shot through Bethoc at the pain reflected in his eyes.

  “I tire of secrets. You must speak to me of these dreams.”

  “Not now, Bethoc. There is no time. Dawn’s light shines and everyone is breaking camp. We must hasten.”

  He pushed himself to a standing position and reached his hand down to her. She wrapped her fingers around his and he pulled her up.

  “If we need to head out now then so be it but you will tell me what these dreams are about, if not now then tomorrow night or I will not travel on with you.”

  “You are too headstrong for your own good, princess.” He rubbed his head. “If I must, then yes. I will tell you tonight.”

  He led her to her mount and wrapping his warm hands about her waist, Malcolm and lifted her onto the saddle. He pointed to the priest climbing into a wooden wagon.

  “Ride at his side. You shall be safe with him. And tonight I have much to tell you at last.”

  He nodded to her as she spurred her horse toward Father Degnan. Bethoc kept her mount to the side of the wagon as the priest drove out of the camp.

  As she kept her horse to a cantor, she glanced at Malcolm, Bethoc admired the way he held his head high as he rode. He had such a noble bearing. What was the man hiding? Bethoc rubbed her forehead as if she could bring the answer forth, but she couldn't. He had thought to satisfy her curiosity by promising to reveal his secret this eve, but it didn’t matter to her, for one she did not trust him to tell her and second she couldn’t wait, not even for tonight.

  She glanced at Father Degnan as he sung old Scottish song while she rode at the side of his wagon. The melody was soothing, but lively. Suddenly, Bethoc realized he could tell her what happened to Malcolm when he supposedly drowned. As the priest, he would know and even better he was bound to the truth, he couldn’t lie.

  But before she could ask Father Degnan about her husband’s secret, she spotted men approaching, about ten, at a fast gallop, heading straight for the wagon.

  Her mouth fell open and she wrenched out a blood-curdling Pictish war cry.

  ****

  A blur of mounted Norsemen, in bright red, blue, green, and orange tunics with braies, burst across the ground, toward the wagon, faster than the slash of a whip.

  “The hellions must be mad,” Malcolm bit out with disgust. A thick-chested, orange and green clad youth, charging toward Malcolm, suddenly toppled off his horse.

  It is good they are young and drunk, they will be easy to kill. Roused by Bethoc's voltaic bray of a Pict warrior's cry, Malcolm unleashed his sword which was thirsty for blood.

  Brandishing the long blade high, as if stirring the air, Malcolm snapped the leather reins, and his horse's powerful muscles bunched and flexed beneath him as the steed charged.

  Thorseth's horse kicked up dirt as he headed straight for Malcolm. Though the shortest and youngest of the twelve Viking's, he wielded the deadly broad axe as well as any man.

  Before they collided, the two men jerked their steeds to a halt. Both Viking and Scot looked each other in the eye. Though he was young, Thorseth's arms bulged with muscles, plainly from lifting that heavy axe. Stringy yellow hair framed his pale eyes, which gleamed with the zeal of battle lust.

  Malcolm knew even if he couldn't out-weapon the eager lad, he would out-smart the youth. With whetted blade, Malcolm thrashed the wickedly, keen edged head of Thorseth's battle-axe. Thorseth swung and Malcolm countered. Each man struck again, to try and bite their blade into the other’s flesh. If not for his selkie strength, Malcolm would never have been able to fend off an axe with only a sword.

  Though he strained every tendon in his body, Malcolm relaxed his facial features into a look of boredom, fooling Thorseth into thinking Malcolm didn't have to work a single muscle to hold him back. This caused the Viking to hesitate before he swung the axe. Malcolm had time to leap off his horse before the blade cleaved him in two. Landing on his feet, Malcolm lifted his sword and with a fast thrust he sliced Thorseth's neck. Blood trickled down the Norseman's orange tunic.

  With one dead, Malcolm vaulted on his horse and wheeled around to face his next foe. A man in a yellow tunic with thick white-blonde hair charged. He had a crazed look in his eye. Malcolm knew it well. The Norseman was caught up in blood lust.

  Malcolm charged his horse forward. The youth brandished his Viking sword high. Malcolm did the same with his Celtic blade. As closed in on each other they swung their weapons. With fast, unyielding blows, hard iron struck and sparked.

  Malcolm's fingers squeezed the hilt and he lunged at the warrior's belly. The Viking t
urned his horse in time, so the blade merely scraped his side. Blood trickled. The Norseman took his hilt in both hands and slammed the blade down. But Malcolm's horse stepped back. The Viking's horse stepped in. Malcolm and the Dane swung. The air rung with the clang of iron as blades clashed. Setting his eyes and his mind on the Viking, Malcolm thrust his blade with full force. The whetted point pierced the Viking's chest. Blood cascaded down the Norseman's limp body as he toppled from the saddle and fell hard to the ground.

  Malcolm sucked in air, trying to catch his breath. While he had battled that Viking, other Norse raiders, worked up into a fever of killing, surrounded him, Bethoc, and the wagon.

  “Donald, to me,” Malcolm yelled. “We are surrounded.” There are too many. Donald, someone come. “Bethoc, are you all right?”

  “Yes,” she yelled back in a steady voice.

  Father Degnan stood on the wooden seat and waved his fisted hands at the heathens. “Cursed Norsemen, what do you want?”

  “We come for the Jewel of Destiny,” a tow-headed youth bellowed as he turned his horse sharply out of Malcolm's reach and rushed the wagon.

  “We have no jewel,” Father Degnan shouted. “It is a relic we carry, you heathen.” The priest bent down and picked up a cudgel, kept on the wagon floor.

  When the Viking reached the wagon, Father Degnan lifted the wooden club and swung it hard. Bones cracked. The Norseman's upper body swayed in the saddle, then fell with a thud.

  A shriek brought Malcolm's head around to gaze at Bethoc. Her white stallion reared as she furiously swung and lunged at two attackers. As she thrust at one Viking, Malcolm yelled out to warn her the other Dane had moved his horse aside her.

  Holding an axe, the second Viking sneaked up beside Bethoc, and with one flick of his wrist, he swung. The blade tore into her chest. She went limp. The horrific thud of her body hitting the dirt resounded like an echo in Malcolm's head. Bethoc emitted an audible gurgle as she lay in a scarlet puddle.

  He let out a thunderous roar like that of a wounded bullseal. In a rage, Malcolm dug his heels into his horse's flanks and bolted toward Bethoc's attacker. All the Vikings wheeled their steeds to the left. Malcolm glanced in that direction. Kenneth's’ troops, fifty or more, were closing in at a

  hammering, dirt-flying gallop.

  The Viking who struck down Bethoc bellowed in guttural Danish, “Ware! Ware! Ware!”

  Goading their steeds into a gallop, the Vikings bolted as if their horse's tail were on fire. With the Vikings on the run, Malcolm leapt off his horse and ran to Bethoc who lay motionless in the dirt.

  Donald rode up and jerked his horse to an abrupt halt. His steed reared up on his legs, but Donald quickly brought him under control. As second in command, Donald yelled out to Kenneth's soldiers, “Halt. Do not give chase. There may be others waiting to attack us. Stay here and defend our

  people.”

  Kenneth galloped up to them, wheeled his horse beside Donald's, and commanded, “Malcolm, laid Bethoc in the bed of the wagon. Donald, guard the other side of the wagon. Make haste.” Furry at the attack shown in Kenneth's tone and expression. “Fergus!”

  The older man and his daughter ran to Kenneth. “Here my king.”

  “Fergus, take father Degnan's place on the wagon seat. Riona lass, you help Father Degnan in the wagon. You need to help him care for Lady Bethoc.”

  Malcolm laid his ear on Bethoc's face. He could hear a faint, shallow wheeze. She breathed! He gently lifted her. The smell of her thick, raw blood, running down his arms, from the wound in her back made Malcolm's stomach roil in agony.

  Clutching Bethoc to his chest, Malcolm tilted his head back and let out a horrible lamented cry. It sounded like the wail of the wind on the fateful day he drowned.

  “The wagon,” Father Degnan ordered. “Malcolm, place her in the wagon where we can heal her.”

  Malcolm shuddered like a bare chested man, without a tunic, in an ice storm as he picked up Bethoc's still body and carried her to the wagon. With utmost care, he laid her down in the wagon bed, and swept the hair away from her face. The sacred Stone of Destiny lay at her side.

  Malcolm couldn't speak. He just stared at her delicate face and her chestnut hair. “Bethoc, Bethoc,” he cried out in a tear choked voice. “My Bethoc. Do not leave me.”

  “Malcolm, Malcolm, she yet lives,” Riona called out to him. “Forsooth. We shall heal her.”

  “Malcolm, we must move on. Can you mount your horse?” Donald queried.

  “Yes, but I will not leave her. I ride at her side.”

  “Ave, but mount forthwith,” Donald said in a curt tone.

  “We need move out, lest the Vikings attack once more.”

  “Yes.” Malcolm leapt on his horse, and rode to the other side of the wagon.

  Father Degnan pulled Bethoc onto her stomach. Malcolm could not lift his gaze from her. He kept his horse at a trotting pace, matching the speed of the wagon.

  Riona ripped the tunic-dress off Bethoc's back. Blood was everywhere.

  “How does she fare?” Malcolm’s voice trembled as he yelled, mounted on his horse.

  “I know not. Let me tend her,” Riona shouted back as she opened Father Degnan's healing chest, and handed a vial of red powder to the priest.

  Father Degnan dusted it over the bloody wound. Riona pulled out a bundle of swaddling and wound it tightly across Bethoc's back, to stop the bleeding.

  “Father is it a bad gash?” Riona asked softly.

  “Yes. It is deep.” The priest took out a vial of mashed yarrow. “This will help the pain and fever.” He dipped his finger in it, and then shoved it in her mouth. Turning his head to Riona, he said, “It is in God's hands, lass. You must pray for Lady Bethoc.”

  “What have they done to her?” Malcolm asked out loud. He felt like this wasn't really happening.

  “She will heal,” Donald called out to him. “The priest will cure her.”

  Malcolm felt numb until he took one look at the huge gash. Anger rocked his insides. He lashed out at Donald, “You lie. I have seen too many wounds in too many battles. No. You cannot let her die.”

  “You need to believe,” Donald said in a soft, faint tone.

  “In false hopes?” Malcolm vented his anger on Donald.

  “There is a chance,” Donald argued from the other side of the wagon.

  With a violent jerk, Malcolm pulled his horse's reins. The steed lifted his front legs and let out a loud, angry neigh. “Halt,” Malcolm yelled. “Donald, hand me my skin. Forthwith.” I must save her.

  Kenneth rode up to the wagon, having been close enough to hear what was happening. “Malcolm.” Kenneth flashed him an are-you-mad look. “You cannot mean this.”

  Malcolm pressed his knees against the jumpy horse and rode to Kenneth's side. “Give me my skin.” He emphasized each word, with the tone of a hiss.

  Kenneth gazed intently into Malcolm's dark eyes. “You cannot leave her now.” His tone held an edge of pleading. “I shall give you your skin, but wait until she heals. I know you love the lass.”

  “I need leave now, Kenneth.”

  “Wait. Give her a chance to bid you farewell.” Kenneth held his hand to his chest in a beseeching gesture.

  Malcolm reached out, grabbed Kenneth's shoulders and yanked him off his horse. He swung the king onto his lap, so Kenneth's feet dangled down the horse's side. Kenneth tried to get free, but Malcolm's grip was too strong. Malcolm drew his sword with his other hand and held the blade across.

  Kenneth's throat. Malcolm glared at Donald.

  “I'll kill him if you don't give me my skin. Now.”

  “Malcolm, what is wrong with you. It is your cousin. You do not know what you are doing. Let Kenneth go,” Donald entreated.

  “My skin, Donald. Now,” Malcolm snarled.

  “Yes.” Donald nodded, then wheeled his horse around and galloped toward the front of the troops, to a wagon full of Kenneth's possessions.

  Donald reined his horse in, dismou
nted, and climbed into the wagon. Once he found the right chest, he unlatched it, and knocked everything out until he felt the false bottom. Hastily, Donald flipped open the hidden compartment and found it empty. But he pulled open a niche underneath. The hiding place. He yanked out the precious brown selkie hide. Gently, he picked it up and clutched it to his chest. Then he rode like the wind to Malcolm.

  Malcolm couldn't believe what he had done, but it was the only way. He couldn't let Bethoc die. He would never hurt Kenneth, but he had to stage this attack to get his skin. He had no time to spare. Bethoc was so pale and still. She had lost so much blood. No priest or healer could save her. He was her only chance. Malcolm had to get to the sea at once.

  As Donald charged forward on his snorting horse, Malcolm saw, he could even sense, the seal hide pressed to his cousin's chest.

  “Here,” Malcolm called out as he swung the blade away from Kenneth's throat and caught the skin with his other hand. He released Kenneth, who dropped to the ground.

  Kenneth clutched his throat and stood up. He looked Malcolm in the eye. “Do not do this. Do not leave this way.”

  “I must. I wish you well cousin, I do. But I cannot stay a moment longer.”

  Kenneth reached his arm toward Malcolm. “You will regret leaving Bethoc like this. I know you love her.”

  “Yes. That I do.”

  “I know it hurts to see her wounded, but she will heal. Stay. For Bethoc's sake,” Donald pleaded.

  Malcolm clutched the skin tightly against his chest, and wheeled his horse in the direction of the shore.

  “Cousin, you are not the man I thought you were,” Kenneth thundered.

  Malcolm drove his horse at a hard gallop toward the rocky seacoast.

  Chapter Twelve

  Salt scented wind whipped through Malcolm's hair as he goaded the horse onward. As much a beast as his steed, Malcolm snapped out an angry bark and pulled his horse to a halt. He leapt off his saddle and his two feet hit the rock-covered sand with a hard thump.

  Malcolm stared at the crashing white-capped waves of the sea, but only saw the image in his mind, an orange-red and sun-yellow crustacean whose smooth bottom was covered with a medicinal herb. An algae called Seafire.