The Swordswoman

by Malcolm Archibald

  As Melcorka watched, the MacGregors set flame to the crosses that she and Bradan had made and raised them high. Suddenly the mist was lit up by a score and more of fiery crosses and then Clan Gregor were gone, running on their mission to raise the men of Alba, to begin the fight back against the Norse invaders, to free their land from the enemy.

  Melcorka watched the glowing crosses run in a long column and then split and split again until rather than a single composite mass of flame, they were a score of pinpricks fast fading into the distance to the south, west and east. And then they were gone and she was alone with Aharn and Bradan in that grey circle of stones, while Broichan and his assistants held their arms to heaven and cast the blanket of mist across the land.

  'We had better get the army ready,' Aharn said quietly. 'It would be a sad thing if the warriors of Alba gathered at Ruthven to find nobody there.'

  Suddenly overwhelmed with the enormity of her responsibility, Melcorka nodded. 'You are right.' She raised her voice. 'Bradan; will you be joining us at Ruthven? I know you are not a fighting man.'

  'Would you want me there?' Bradan glanced at Aharn as he spoke.

  'Of course I want you there, if you wish to come.' Melcorka suddenly dreaded the prospect of leaving Bradan behind. They had shared so much that she could not envisage life without him.

  'Then I shall come,' Bradan said.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Melcorka had never seen an army prepare for war before. She saw the men forming for inspection, with the captains of infantry cavalry inspecting each weapon and each man. She saw the captains of cavalry checking each horse, the farriers examine the spare mounts and the blacksmiths making spare horse shoes, saddlers and lorimers checking the saddles and bridles, reins and stirrups, sergeants checking every spear and sword, every knife and piece of chain armour.

  There were carts of provisions for the men and the horses, carts containing nothing but arrows and spare bows for the archers, wagons on which medical men rode to care for the casualties, three wagon loads of women to care for the needs of the warriors and closed carts, the contents of which Aharn kept to himself.

  'If we need to unveil them, then you shall see what they are,' Aharn said, 'until then, they will remain as they are,' and however hard Melcorka tried, he refused to say any more on the subject.

  At last, after weeks of frantic preparation during which Melcorka fretted and the long days of spring merged with the longer days of summer, the army of Fidach prepared to march.

  'I have given you a thousand men,' Drest told Melcorka, 'with my younger son Aharn in command. I trust you both not to throw my men away. I have retained a further three thousand for the defence of Fidach, and as a reserve in case they are required.'

  They stood in three long columns with the cavalry at the head and on each flank and the patient infantrymen, spearmen and archers, making up the bulk of the numbers. The cavalry carried spears and swords, with every third man sporting a cross-bow across his back. The baggage train followed behind a screen of light horsemen.

  'I've never seen so many men all formed up,' Melcorka said, 'since the Plains of Lodainn.'

  Aharn looked over his men. 'They are good lads,' he said, 'but untried in battle. Let's hope that your fiery crosses raise more warriors of Alba, and then you can persuade the Isles to join us: and they prove trustworthy. The Norse outnumber Fidach and they are veteran killers.'

  Melcorka remembered the ruthless efficiency of the Norse shield wall and nodded. 'They are hard fighters,' she agreed, 'and dangerous men.'

  Melcorka had not expected musicians to march with the army so she looked at Aharn when they bustled up carrying their long carnyx war horns complete with a bronze bull's head that sat on the top, five feet and more above the heads of the army.

  'I've never seen anything like that before,' Melcorka admitted.

  'The sight is nothing; wait until you hear them,' Aharn said. 'Not that I have. I doubt a hundred people in Fidach have hear the carnyx, the bellow of the war-bull; they are only ever used in full battle.'

  Aharn gestured to one of the horse handlers and two spare horses were led up. 'Here we are, Melcorka; a horse for you and one for Bradan. It is not fitting for the joint leaders of the army to walk while others ride.'

  'I am no leader,' Bradan pointed out.

  'If I ride, then you ride at my side,' Melcorka said. Bradan's look of extreme gratitude twisted something within her.

  'Unfurl the banners!' Aharn roared and, with a flapping of linen, two great flags rolled out in the early morning light. One showed the standing bull of Fidach, head down and haunches up as it prepared to charge, and the other was adorned with some of the strange animal images that Melcorka had seen at the stone gateway to the land of the Picts.

  'Wait!' The shout came from behind them. Melcorka looked around in surprise as another group of riders trotted from Am Broch to join them. With Loarn at their head and Lynette, his unsmiling sister at his side, they comprised the hunting party she had seen on the Dava Moor, complete with eagles and servants. 'We are coming with you.'

  'This is war, Loarn, not some game,' Aharn said. 'Get back where you belong.'

  'We are coming,' Loarn said. 'You cannot stop us.' He looked sideways at Melcorka. 'If an island girl from Alba can accompany a Fidach army, then so can a prince and princess of the realm.'

  Melcorka gave her sweetest smile. 'How are you Loarn? Raped any new women recently?'

  'Women are glad to sleep with me,' his answer was sharper than Melcorka had expected, 'wild beasts from savage Alba …' he stopped as Aharn put a hand on the hilt of his sword.

  'Be very careful brother,' he said quietly, 'the kingdom does not need two princes where one will do.'

  Loarn held up his hands. 'All right, Aharn. I meant no offence to your good lady.'

  Aharn leaned closer and lowered his voice. 'If you do mean offence, brother of mine, I will stand aside and let her finish what she started. And if she does not, then I surely will.' He straightened in the saddle. 'Now find a place in our army, keep out of the way and don't cause any trouble.'

  Loarn gave Melcorka a triumphant grin. 'I never do,' he said. Lynette swept her cloak out of the way as she rode past, as if touching Melcorka might contaminate her.

  'I don't want him with us any more than you do,' Aharn said to Melcorka. 'If he bothers you … 'His smile was not full of brotherly love. 'He would not be a good king for Fidach. Drest has chosen me as his successor, as is his right, which leaves Loarn free to hunt and play.'

  'He will not bother me,' Melcorka said. 'Thank you for your concern. You are a good man, Ahern.' She was very well aware that Bradan was shifting uncomfortably in his saddle.

  Aharn lifted his hand. 'March!'

  It felt strange to sit on a powerful horse at the head of so many men, but a good strangeness. Melcorka straightened her back as she looked back over her shoulder at the three columns that marched behind her. The infantry held their spears in their right hands, the archers carried short, T-shaped crossbows or medium length bows across their backs, the spurs and accoutrements of the cavalry jingled as they rode along while the wheels of the carts and wagons creaked and groaned as a newly made and much larger ferry eased them across the river and onto the much rougher road on the Alban side of the river.

  'Here we go,' Aharn said, 'A Fidach army is in Alba for the first time in my generation.' He smiled, 'and we come as friends.'

  Progress was slow. Aharn sent out scouts to look for any Norsemen while the remainder of the army marched at the pace of the wagons, rumbling and jolting over the ever–more atrocious road that wound southward a hundred paces from the winding River Spey.

  At noon, with the bright gateway of Fidach still visible in the rear, Aharn shouted one of his captains to him. 'Brynmor! At this speed we will be last to Ruthven. Take ten men and ride ahead. Tell anybody gathered there that the men of Fidach are on their way.'

  Brynmor was a man of about twenty-two, with an open face a
nd a ready smile. He threw a quick salute and galloped back to his men, called up a section and trotted forward, all pride and glory in his shining mail and prancing mount.

  'I wish we were going with him,' Melcorka said. 'I don't like crawling along at the pace of a one-legged snail.'

  'Snails don't have legs,' Bradan said.

  'That is why my one-legged snail is so slow,' Melcorka told him solemnly. 'He has a leg and does not know what to do with it!'

  'I want to go hunting,' Loarn said.

  'Take Lynette with you,' Aharn sounded off-hand, 'and give the Norse my love. They are bound to be aware of our presence here.'

  Loarn threw him a look of disgust and returned to his place in the centre of the cavalry. He did not go hunting.

  By night fall they were only half way to Ruthven. Aharn pulled them into camp, posted sentries and had riders out on extended patrol to watch for any Norse.

  'Fergus!' Aharn shouted, 'take two men, ride ahead and let Brynmor know what is happening. Don't linger.'

  Fergus gave his ubiquitous grin and dashed ahead, with his escort hard-pushed to keep up with him.

  'That young pup is too hasty,' Aharn said 'He will have to learn to slow down a little.'

  'Not like you oldsters,' Melcorka teased. 'You must be at least a year older.'

  'Age is reckoned in maturity, not in years,' Aharn said solemnly.

  'My apologies, Methuselah,' Melcorka bowed from the saddle. She looked up, frowning. 'Something's wrong; Fergus is returning.' A moment later Fergus and his two riders galloped around a spur of the Monadhliath hills, now in close formation.

  'Did you forget something?' Aharn asked.

  'They're dead,' Fergus reported shortly. 'Brynmor and his men are all dead!' He took a deep breath to compose himself. 'Just half a mile down the road, Aharn. They are lying in a circle as if they tried to defend themselves.'

  'Take charge here,' Aharn ordered, 'I must see for myself.'

  All ten Picts lay facing outward within a circle of their dead horses. All were so punctured with arrows that they looked like hedgehogs.

  'Ambushed, by God,' Aharn said. He inspected each man. 'Slain like dogs.'

  'There is no sign of Norse bodies,' Melcorka said. 'I can't see a single blood trail anywhere. I don't think Brynmor's men hit a single Northman.' Three of the Picts lay on their faces with crossbows held ready 'They tried though.'

  'I agree,' Aharn said. 'They were shot down like sheep.' He looked around. 'See if there are foot prints or hoof marks.'

  Even in the fading light it was not hard to see the disturbed heather where the Norse camp had been and the marks where the men had lain down to wait the Pictish force.

  'That is first blood to the Norse,' Melcorka said quietly.

  'My men will be quiet tonight,' Aharn said, 'and angry.' He scratched his head. 'It seems that the Norse knew Brynmor was coming. How would they have known?'

  'The local people won't have told them,' Bradan said. 'So the Norse must be watching us.'

  'That makes sense,' Melcorka said. 'We are a large force moving slowly. It is not hard to watch us.'

  'Or maybe somebody could have told them,' Bradan said soberly.

  'Not one of my boys,' Aharn defended his men. He surveyed the dead. 'We will bury these lads tomorrow. Tonight we'll get back to the army.'

  It was a sober night in the Fidach camp, with the first war casualties for thirty years. Aharn doubled both the sentries and the mounted patrols while Bradan joined Melcorka at their camp fire.

  'Not a good start to the campaign,' Bradan sucked at the bone of a cold leg of mutton.

  'I don't like to feel responsible for the death of Fidach men,' Melcorka looked around. The night time fires were arranged in neat circles around the horses and wagons. There was a constant murmur of conversation but no singing, no boasting and no laughter. The death of Brynmor and his ten men hung like a pall over them.

  'Get used to the responsibility,' Bradan tapped his staff on the ground. 'Once you marry your sweetheart you will have a whole kingdom to look after, or a queendom if you are in charge,' his smile was more cynical than Melcorka liked.

  Melcorka looked over to Aharn, who was double-checking the sentries on the southern flank of the camp. 'He is a good man,' she said.

  'I don't doubt that,' Bradan did not meet her eyes. 'How do you feel about being a queen?'

  Melcorka sighed. 'I should be pleased,' she said. 'It is a long way from being an island girl.'

  'Should be?' Bradan pounced on her choice of words. 'Does that mean that you are not?' This time Bradan did meet her eyes.

  'It means …' Melcorka shrugged. 'I don't know what it means, or how I feel. I can't visualise me being a queen. On the other side,' she shrugged again, 'one island girl's happiness is a small price to pay for an army to drive the Norse away.'

  'Happiness? How many women would love to be the queen of Fidach and Alba?' Bradan's smile was forced. 'You said yourself that Aharn was a good man.'

  'Aye,' Melcorka said. 'I know what I said, and I meant every word of it.' She sighed; 'there are many other good men who are not princes of Fidach. There are some better men who are not princes of anything, nor have any desire to be. Enough of this!' She stood up. 'I cannot sit here when people are unhappy.' She smiled to him. 'I must look after my responsibilities.'

  Leaving Bradan by the fire, she strode to the centre of the camp, hoisted herself on to the back of a wagon, looked over the camp and raised her voice. 'Men of Fidach! Now we know what sort of enemy we are facing. The Norse know we are coming but,' she raised her voice to a shout, 'they don't know how good we are!'

  There was no response until Aharn pulled himself beside her and shouted: 'and that is damned good!'

  Somebody gave a weak laugh at that, so Melcorka roared:

  'How good are we?'

  'Damned good!' half a dozen men chorused.

  'How good are we?' Melcorka and Aharn asked together.

  This time hundreds of voices answered: 'Damned good!'

  'And what will we do next time we meet the Norse?' Aharn asked. He filled the resulting silence with one word. 'Heads!'

  'Heads!' Freckled Fergus was first to repeat the word. 'Heads!' he drew his sword and thrust it toward the dark sky. 'Heads!'

  The cry went around the camp as spears, swords and bows were brandished skyward. 'Heads; heads; heads!'

  Aharn stepped closer to Melcorka so they were side-by-side. 'Today,' he said, 'the Norse butchered eleven Picts of Fidach. Next time we face them, we will have vengeance. I want ten Norse heads for every Fidach death.' He took hold of Melcorka's right hand in his left and raised both high. 'Heads!'

  'Heads!' the cry came from nearly every man and woman in the camp. 'Heads!'

  Melcorka shouted with the rest, temporarily intoxicated with emotion. Until she looked at Bradan and saw that he, alone in the camp, sat in silence beside his fire, watching as she stood hand in hand with Aharn.

  And only then did Melcorka understand and all her elation drained away. 'Oh dear God in his heaven,' she said as she looked at him. 'Bradan; my poor, lonely Bradan.'

  Chapter Twenty

  They buried the bodies of the Fidach men with all the ceremony they could, with solemn words and anger mingling with the grief in their hearts. And all the time there were sentries glaring into the Dava moor and up toward the Monadhliath mountains, hands edgy on their weapons and hearts hopeful of meeting the Norse. Lynette looked bored while Loarn stifled a yawn and watched a skein of geese flying northwards far overhead.

  Aharn stood over the graves of his men. 'Now we march south,' he said. 'Now we go to the Dun of Ruthven.' He looked around his assembled army. 'Keep alert,' he ordered, 'and if you see anything you are not sure of - anything at all – inform your captain.' He sent twenty horsemen in advance, with a linking force of another twenty so at no time were men isolated from support.

  'Archers, keep your arrows ready. March!'

  There was no laughter to
day; the Fidach army marched in grim silence save for the crunch of feet on the ground, the swish of feet through heather, the slow drum-beat of hooves and the grind and rumble of the cart wheels.

  'Over there!' the call came from the right flank, where the Monadhliath Mountains swooped down toward the flood plain of the Spey. 'I hear something!'

  Melcorka joined Aharn in cantering to the flank. 'Where?' Aharn asked.

  'Beyond the spur of that hill,' Melcorka pointed to a multi-ridged hill that descended at right angles from the main mass. 'I hear it too.'

  'Fergus!' Aharn sounded calm, 'take twenty men and have a look. Report back before you do anything. Don't look for trouble.'

  'I know more about the Norse than you do, Fergus.' Ignoring the anxiety in Bradan's face, Melcorka reined up beside Fergus. 'I'll come along as well. Loosen your weapons, lads.'

  For all his personal impulsiveness, Fergus was a careful commander. He sent two men ahead and kept the remainder together as they trotted around the flank of the hill.

  'I should go with the scouts,' Melcorka said. 'I know how the Norse act.'

  Fergus had not lost his smile. 'They won't do anything without orders. They'll report to me if they see anything.'

  It was not long before the scouts returned, galloping up to Fergus and halting in a display of flailing hooves and excited faces. 'About twenty of them!' they gabbled together, 'coming down the glen in a mob!'

  'It must be a raiding party,' Melcorka decided. 'I'll have a look.' She spurred forward, loosening Defender it her scabbard as she rode. Dismounting before she closed with the enemy, she ran up the side of the glen and slipped behind one of the many glacial boulders to peer toward the approaching noise.

  The description of a mob had been correct. The men approached in a mass, with no cohesion or form. They followed a bald headed, bearded man who carried a cross, while the others held a collection of rustic tools, rakes and shovels, scythes or even simple staffs as they called to each other in loud voices.

  'They are not Norse,' Melcorka reported to Fergus. 'They look like farmers rather than warriors.' She saw him hesitate. 'Aharn ordered you to inform him before you do anything,' she reminded.