For it was in view of eradicating this most serious remaining threat to his kingship that Kenneth had consumed little of the stout which for three hours he had been encouraging down the throats of the rest of the assembly.
“My friend and cousin, earl of Ardanaiseig,” now called out MacAlpin, “please rise and toast with me the kingdom of Alba.”
The surprised earl eyed the King from across the ground where he sat. Slowly he rose and lifted his cup, then took a great swallow of the dark brew within it.
“You are a man of prowess with the blade,” the King went on in jocular tone. “Let us demonstrate to our good brothers of Pictland what allies they now have against any who might oppose them.”
The earl stood, cup in hand, bewildered at what his fool of a cousin might intend.
“Draw your sword, man,” said MacAlpin in a clear voice of command.
Slowly the earl set down his cup and complied with the King’s request.
The next instant MacAlpin’s sword was likewise aloft. He began to approach his cousin.
“Lift your weapon, Ardanaiseig,” commanded MacAlpin, “and defend yourself. Let us, I say, demonstrate our skill to our Pict brethren. We have feasted. The hour for entertainment is at hand!”
He pointed the tip of his own sword menacingly at the earl, smiling widely as if in fun. But his eyes glowed with the fire of evil intent. The earl saw the look, recognized his peril, and finally lifted his own weapon. It clanked against MacAlpin’s as it knocked the blade aside. None mistook the sound.
Only now did the assembly realize the seriousness of the King’s sport. The game did not last long. The earl, though a fair swordsman, was far too near being drunk to swing the heavy blade effectively.
Blood gushed first from his left shoulder. A glancing blow off the neck followed, which drew more red but still did not endanger his life. The earl was about to throw his weapon to the ground and beg for mercy, but did not have the chance. With a mighty thrust, MacAlpin’s blade shot straight through his belly, the tip emerging three inches out his back.
With gruesome display, MacAlpin held the body upright for a moment. Then he yanked his blade swiftly out. The former earl of Ardanaiseig slumped limply to the dirt in a pool of his own warm blood.
There was not a man among them who had not killed, who had not seen the blood of kinsmen shed in battle. Yet shocked gasps now spread throughout the company, for the King’s brutality had come under cloak of friendship and shared blood.
Argyll, it seemed, bred treachery. And such betrayal under the guise of kinship would come from its regions again.
Behind him, Ardanaiseig’s brother leapt to his feet with an outraged cry. His sword was already in his hand, and he flew upon the King.
But MacAlpin’s temperance kept him light on his feet. He also knew precisely where each of his seven rivals were seated, and had been shrewdly watching them all afternoon, paying special heed to their consumption of ale. Thus he knew from which directions the attacks were likely to come.
He spun quickly, met the charge, and seconds later the two brothers lay dead beside one another on the ground.
A third was already on his feet—the earl of Clanbreck, brother-in-law to Ardanaiseig’s brother.
This battle was waged more evenly and went on several minutes. As the others watched in silence, several clutched the hilts of their own swords and considered rising to join against the King.
None succumbed to the temptation. The clanking and slashing and footwork of the King and the earl sent dust flying from under their feet. The fire in their eyes left no doubt that theirs was a battle only death would resolve.
Suddenly a great blow fell from MacAlpin’s blade onto the arm of the earl. A cry of anguish echoed from Clanbreck’s mouth as his sword clattered to the ground. The arm had nearly been severed, and blood spewed from it in a torrent.
Aghast at the sight of his own life pouring out of him onto the grass, the earl of Clanbreck staggered backward, then collapsed. MacAlpin was upon him in a second. He placed a great booted foot on the dying man’s chest, while the tip of his blade tickled the skin of his neck.
“So, you would challenge my right of kingship?” said MacAlpin angrily. “You and your two brothers would be King in my place!”
“No . . . no, my lord,” murmured Clanbreck.
“Even now you lie! Do you deny that you three had plotted my death?”
“Please, my lord . . . I beg of you—”
“You beg for my mercy—yet you would kill me if you could. Do homage, Earl—make submission to your King. Perhaps I shall let you live.”
Realizing he was dying, a spirit of defiance rose up in the prostrate earl.
“You . . . you misbegot,” he sneered with what choking voice he still could manage. “I will not submit . . . rather I spit on your—”
Whatever final words he had intended were drowned in a faint gurgling sound, as MacAlpin pinned his neck to the ground with a cruel thrust of his razor-sharp blade.
No others jumped up to challenge the son of Alpin, though the day’s murder was far from complete. What had begun as a festive celebration ended in slaughter. At day’s end, the bodies of seven earls of Dalriada—each a potential rival for the throne MacAlpin had seized—were dragged outside Scone for burial. Thus was put to rest any further disputation of the joint kingship which had been created.
But MacAlpin was not entirely at peace on the night of his victorious slaughter. There was still the matter of the missing grandson of Eoganan’s aunt to resolve. He had eliminated threats from the Dalriadic side. But he must prevent any future Pict uprising behind one who claimed descent from the old King.
It would not do to have a potential pretender with a valid claim to his throne lurking about, one who might come forward at any moment.
He would continue making inquiries.
Sixteen
King Kenneth MacAlpin had no need to be anxious. Dallais, son of Donnchadh, had no interest in presenting himself as King.
In the days following his flight from the battle between the Pict army and Viking horde, Dallais’s sole purpose had been to bring his young cousin back to health.
He carried Breathran to the wood know as Dorchadas. The warmth of summer would be with them for another month or two. But he knew winter would come quickly, and thus he immediately undertook to fashion a shelter to keep them dry throughout its coldest months. This for a time, would be their new home. Here they would be safe.
If the weather became too harsh, the snows too heavy, they could return to the stone buildings of Steenbuaic, though Dallais hated the thought of doing so. Already he had removed from the settlement what they would need to live—tools, supplies, peats, wood, buckets, line, spears, fishing and hunting implements, weapons, blankets, skins, carts, utensils, bowls, and what dried food remained.
He had also buried the members of their two families. On his second visit to the village, he had discovered his father’s corpse, thankfully in one piece, and committed it to the earth with great reverence and many tears. But he could not bury all of Steenbuaic and had no choice but to leave many to the elements.
He hoped, therefore, that he and Breathran would not have to return to Steenbuaic. And he had good reason to believe they would not have to. He knew how to live from the land. They would have fire. Their hut of stone and turf would soon be finished, and the forest itself was lush with vegetation to provide them with food and fuel. In the future, if the Vikings did not remain nearby, the surrounding fertile valley might allow them to grow a few crops. For the time being, though, he sought the forest for the cover and protection it afforded.
It was a wondrous place, this new home of theirs. No paths wound through the solemn splendor and tangled undergrowth of the magnificent wood. Not many men had set foot on the soft mosses which carpeted the forest floor, nor had many eyes beheld the seemingly infinite array of flora which flourished in its depths. Oaks and sycamores and giant beeches appeared to have b
een growing already for centuries. In truth, Dorchadas was but a distant extension of the ancient primeval forest, formerly known as Muigh-bhlaraidh Ecgfrith, which had once covered huge expanses of the region. In it grew also thousands of seedlings that would provide future generations with wondrous sights when time came for their discovery. Ferns, rotting logs from past ages, and a multitude of variable shrubbery grew in and around the trunks of the giants.
There were not yet many flowers here, though in time, Dallais and Breathran would bring many bright-colored species to the sunlit glades that opened up unexpectedly within the forest. For now, they walked among a thousand shades of lush green. It seemed as though the Creator, finding himself with a bit of paint remaining after stretching the first rainbow across the sky, mostly from the middle of the bow, had paused from His work, then given His brush a few vigorous shakes. Down into the valley of the Linn had tumbled ten million droplets of colorful, growth-producing energy, there to sprout into a living rainbow of green.
The seasons to come would bring other colors as well. During the autumn months, the Dorchadas would explode in a resplendent profusion of reds and golds and yellows and browns—the same warm hues brought by the spectacular summer sunsets. In August the blooming heather would add blues and purples to the celebration, as would the rhododendrons in spring, providing reds and whites as well. Then indeed would the rainbow of promise be complete!
In the meantime, the green of life and growth surrounded them and helped them heal and grow. Returning from the horrible task of burying his father, Dallais received a sign that all would indeed be well.
He had walked slowly and silently all the way from the ruined village, ever watchful for signs of lingering Norsemen. As he descended the ridge toward the forest in which he had already begun their new home, Dallais suddenly froze in place, breathless before a stunning sight—no rainbow on this day, yet for him imparting the same message: an enormous, many-tipped stag of the most pale velvety gray coat imaginable.
He might have called it white had he not known that the white stag was but a thing of ancient legend.
The wondrous beast stood gazing at him unmoving, unafraid, as if attempting to convey a message which, because of his animal nature, could be accomplished only through his eyes. The distance between them was wide, yet Dallais could see life in the creature’s eyes . . . and knew he had likewise been seen.
He glanced back toward the village of his former home, pausing as if between the dead past and the unknown future, then looked again to the valley before him and the green and beckoning woods.
Already the stag had turned and was walking slowly into the forest. The majesty of its movement beckoned Dallais to follow, urging him to look back no more upon the destruction, but rather to leave yesterday forever behind. Never again, the silvery beast seemed to say—as the bow had said to Noah—would such devastation be visited upon the seed of the Wanderer.
Dallais broke into a run. A few minutes later he entered the wood at the same spot where the stag had disappeared, pausing only long enough to glance about for sign of the hoof, for the ground beneath his foot was soft. He found no print, however, and though he searched the rest of the day and most of the next, he could discover no further sign of it.
That the stag had entered Dorchadas there could be no doubt, though never again did Dallais observe sign of its presence. From that day forward, a peacefulness descended upon both human dwellers of the forest. It enveloped them whenever, after being away, they entered again under the leafy canopy. Dallais attributed the sense of peace to the stag’s presence, which both of them could feel within the enclosure of the wood.
Within two weeks his young cousin began to regain her strength, and she began helping Dallais ready their shelter for the approach of winter. The spirit of the loner had always resided latent in her young breast. And now indeed did the two find each within the other the kindred spirit most needed at such a time of loss.
Their mourning gradually turned to a sense of adventure. They were young and resilient of body and soul. The two youths came to relish their shared life, working hard but laughing as they sweated and hauled and lifted and planted and cut. Were they not alive—and was not life a precious thing? What could they do but rejoice in it?
Thus did summer give way to autumn, which at length yielded to winter.
Dallais and Breathran, comrades in the shared struggle against the elements, survived in the mysterious forest called Dorchadas and grew to love their new home almost as much as they grew to love one another.
The Norsemen who had put in at the Linn were gone before the first snows fell.
Thus the smoke that drifted up from the wood-and-turf hut through the tops of the trees in the forest of Dorchadas was seen by no other living human.
Seventeen
Three more years went by.
The two increased in vigor of limb and mind and purpose, waxing older, larger, and wiser during the years they remained in the forest in the valley near where they were born.
As Dallais grew, he conquered his hatred toward the enemy of his people, and transformed it into love—for land and animals and the forest, and later for the mountains—and into the care he showed for Breathran. And yet he continually sought the open spaces, shying away from his race. A spirit of the nomad entered into him at sight of what cruelty man was capable of toward his fellow man. Never again would he and his young cousin seek the companionship of their kind.
In time the forest could no longer contain the rising spirit of adventure and exploration blossoming within the young man and woman. Nor, as long as they remained in the valley of the Linn, could they erase the gnawing reminder of what had happened such a short distance away.
By the time MacAlpin was feasting with his new subjects and slaying his potential rivals, Dallais and Breathran had taken to journeying together far from their forest home, exploring great distances to north and west, yet still for some years returning to the valley of the Linn for the cold months of winter.
Dallais was now in his mid-twenties and master of mountains and forests. He knew at sight every animal of the Highlands, large and small. Roe came and nibbled berries from his palm. Squirrels and other creatures scampered unafraid where Breathran sang beside sparkling mountain burns, even approaching and occasionally allowing her to stroke their soft furry coats. Birds fluttered down to perch upon her shoulder, as if drawn by her soothing voice and eager to blend their own chirping happy melodies with hers.
Dallais came to know where was food and water, where shelter could be found. The girl Breathran was approaching her own maturity, and never more devoted friend, servant, and companion did man have. She knew he had saved her life. She also knew he was a great man, a man of the earth—powerful and swift, knowing and considerate, brave and wise—a true King among mortals . . . and she loved him.
One day Dallais came upon Breathran while she was softly singing a haunting melody, apparently to a small flock of sparrows pecking about and feeding near her.
“What is that you are singing?” he asked.
“Just a little song from when I was young,” she answered, “telling the birds to come sit in the nest of my lap.”
“And do they?”
“Not always, but sometimes.”
From that day on, the heart of the young man began to see his cousin differently than he had before, and he loved her as she loved him.
The Highlands were Eden to these two, and they explored their world as if not merely their own settlement but their entire race had been destroyed—as if all the earth had been given to them anew, that they might rediscover all its wonders.
During these years of their innocent solitude together, never did Dallais touch Breathran wrongly or with thought to gratify himself. He would not be like other men of his time. He had witnessed man’s evil. He had seen how easily man could take life and destroy innocence. He was determined instead to give life and preserve innocence. His hand reached to her only as tha
t of a compassionate brother. When she was older, perhaps, when she was ready, he would love her more completely. Then, gently and tenderly, he would make her his wife.
Dallais had heard the name of the Scots King Alpin, and he knew something of the exploits and prowess of his son. He knew also well enough the significance of the silver chain he still wore around his neck, and that he might himself fight to lead the kingdom.
But Dallais had set himself upon a different path than Kenneth, son of Alpin. The son of Donnchadh would rule over that which had been given as man’s dominion, but not over his fellows. He would tend the raven’s broken wing and share the warmth of his winter’s fire with squirrel and rabbit and fox who might venture near. He did not encourage such friendship with the wolf, bear, or wild boar, but neither did he fear them. Even such beasts as these seemed to know of his authority in their realms, and they never threatened his family or camp.
But Dallais, son of Donnchadh, would not rule man. He would leave earthly kingships to his many-times distant cousin who now sat upon the sacred Stone at Scone. Dallais would wear the regal necklace, reminding himself of his father’s words the last day they had been together. He would remember the legacy that had been passed down to him. That right of sovereignty which flowed in his veins he would exercise over himself first, then over his family, and lastly over the land upon which they set their feet.
Thus the man who would be known to posterity as the King of Alba—the first King of a united Scotland—never wore the silver chain of monarchy that had been passed from the old Pict King into the hands of the holy man, nor even did he know of its existence.
Neither would MacAlpin ever gaze into the eyes of the stately white stag whose visits since antiquity had signaled peace and brotherhood among the peoples of the north. For the stag’s eyes were not for his kind, but for stature in another kingdom altogether.
An Ancient Strife Page 28
