Kenneth, son of Alpin, became a mighty ruler, the self-proclaimed King of all the Scots and Picts.
But Dallais, son of Donnchadh, became a mighty man of the kind who possesses the world’s true riches and thus who inherits the earth.
And the Highlands were his home.
Eighteen
843–858
Dallais and Breathran returned less and less to Dorchadas as the years passed.
In time, all northern Caledonia became their home. They lived from the land. The land was good to them, because they cared for it.
King Kenneth MacAlpin, in the meantime, established the center of his kingdom at Scone, and spent the years between 843 and 850 crushing occasional Pict resistance to his leadership, then leading raiding bands north and south to pillage and increase his wealth. By the year 850, the united kingdom of Alba was secure north of the wide mouth of the Great River.
A man concerned that his kingdom be bolstered by the tradition of the church, King Kenneth brought many Columban relics from Iona to the monastery of Dunkeld on the River Tay north of Scone. There the King established the religious center for his kingdom.
Among the items brought from Iona was the Brecbennoch Reliquary, which was said to contain some of St. Columba’s bones. Legends persisted that there had been another reliquary as well, one that had disappeared long ago. But it was never unearthed in Kenneth’s time.
When Kenneth MacAlpin died in 858, he was buried on Iona as Ard-righ Albainn, Supreme King of Alba. His brother succeeded him, then his son, then a second son.
Nineteen
Dallais and Breathran had three sons and two daughters.
They taught them all in the ways of peace and harmony with the land, and to reverence, fear, and worship the Creator of the heavens and the earth, as had been passed down to them. Every living creature of the Highlands, except those who kept away, knew this gentle man and woman as friend. They did not kill except to draw fish from the lochs to eat, which practice their two older sons learned with masterful cunning before they were ten.
Nor would their descendents forget this legacy. While their cousins to the south waged war to conquer, the progeny of Dallais and Breathran roved the wild spaces of the land of Caledonia in joyous freedom. Truly they possessed it, for they had no desire to own.
Never, however, did Dallais return to exhume the box laid to rest by his father under the high granite sentinels on the plateau west of the valley of the Linn. There would it remain, awaiting discovery by some distant future generation.
In time, the sons and daughters of Dallais and Breathran grew and took to themselves wives and husbands. They were fruitful and multiplied, and their progeny inhabited the north country.
Dallais was revered by wife and sons and daughters, and in time by all who followed them. His descendents spread out and filled the land. As his hair grew white and his eyes glowed with the fire of his wandering forebears, future youngsters of his brood came to call him not King, but chief.
Thus did Dallais and Breathran, as their sons and grandsons after them, spawn new clans out of the devastation that had come to the settlement of Steenbuaic, preserving the purity of their shared Celtic bloodline for all time to come.
Twenty
888
Never again did Dallais set eyes upon the white stag, though its message of hope deepened within him as the years went by. Then, during his sixty-eighth year, a peculiar sensation came over him that the stag was beckoning. He set out two days later with his three sons, grown now, and his seven grandsons—though he knew not where.
It was summer and warm. They wandered into regions far to the north, regions the white-haired Highland chieftain had never visited. Yet even from a great distance, the moment he saw the three great stones on the slope of the hillside, they seemed familiar. They reminded him of those at his home of Steenbuaic.
The pilgrims set off across the flat valley before them, then up the rise toward the great stone sentinels. Immediately, as they drew closer Dallais knew they represented a monument of some kind, from an ancient time. A great silence descended over the band of eleven men as each set to examining the carved markings upon the stones, a few of which they could decipher, but most of which were strange to their eyes.
Feelings indescribable filled the breast of the son of Donnchadh as he laid his hands upon the ancient surfaces. Something was here—he knew it, he could sense it. He had been led to this place.
Wandering about, he discovered first one, then a second oblong mound of stones set some distance from the two pillars and horizontal slab. He knew them instantly as graves.
A great wave of antiquity came over him. A feeling, somehow, of recognition. He could not explain why, but somehow he knew he belonged to this place.
They remained several days, piecing together fragments of the story which had been carved in the stones centuries before so that they would know what breed of man had conquered Caledonia. They discovered the ruins of an old hill-fort. Norsemen had apparently been here too, for destruction was evident. The sons and grandsons of Dallais left every stone as it was.
When at length they made ready to return to their families, Dallais gathered his sons and grandsons around him. It was his wish, he said, to be buried in this place, beside what could only be the resting places of ancient kinsmen, possibly kings or chiefs. Solemnly they nodded in assent. None protested the impracticality of such a request. They too sensed somehow that it was right.
As the small band descended the hill known to their ancestors as Beinn Donuill, stopping often to look behind, from across a great distance beside the waters of Aethbran nan Bronait, two gleaming eyes of a huge, pale, and much antlered creature gazed upon them.
After several minutes, his work completed, he turned, sprang across the narrow river in a single majestic bound, and disappeared in the direction of Muigh-bhlaraidh Ecgfrith.
Twenty-One
909
Many years passed.
Dallais grew old. His hair was now white as the winter’s snows, for he was almost ninety. By then indeed the inhabitants of Scone had heard legends of a mysterious old man who roamed the Highlands, whose voice the animals knew and even understood, whose wife was nearly as old as he, though more beautiful than any goddess, who sang sweetly over the hills while birds and rabbits flew and scampered to her feet, and whose grandchildren and great-grandchildren populated the mountainous regions with clans innumerable and prolific settlements in every valley and strath where man might survive.
Some believed the tales. Others said they were mere fancy.
None knew, however, that the new Highland wanderer, with hair as white as the snowcapped hills and with a Highland Eve for a wife, wore around his neck the ancient royal chain that might have given him a claim to the throne of their land.
Twenty-Two
The house of Alpin continued for two centuries to fill its throne with descendents of the man who, by the might of the sword, had unified the kingdoms of Picts and Scots. By such constant bloodshed did fourteen kings come and go, and murder became the normal mode of succession to the sacred seat of Scone. Over time, the kingdom of Alba became known as Scotia, then finally, by the tenth century, as Scotland.
MacAlpin’s Scots at last conquered and gave their name to the land of Caledonia.
But in the Highlands, the pure spirit of the Celt lived on. The descendents of the Wanderer and Cruithne, now also the sons of Donnchadh, Dallais, and Breathran, would come to be known by many, many names . . . and would keep the legends of their fathers alive.
1. From tanaiste rig—”second to the king”—in which an heir chosen during the king’s lifetime then succeeded to the throne upon the king’s death. It was not strictly a father-to-son arrangement because it could move laterally as well as generationally forward, with brothers and cousins coming in for their share. It was patrilinear, however, in that it followed the male side of the genealogical chart.
6
Sleuthing on
the Web
One
As he motored southward from Scone through Edinburgh, and then through Scotland’s southern uplands back toward his home in northern England, Andrew’s thoughts drifted back from the ninth century to the present.
The incident at the Gordon castle still stung. Along with the mortification he felt over his own deceptiveness, he could not prevent a mounting annoyance at the press.
That was the frustration of public life—nothing was ever your own. Privacy was nonexistent, and worse, the journalists so often seemed to misrepresent the facts.
He had been lucky enough to enjoy his morning walks in London without intrusion. But it would hardly surprise him to learn that some enthusiastic reporter had been dogging his steps all summer. He half expected to open a paper a few days from now to find a slanted account of his Scottish sojourn in one of the rags.
The more he thought about it, in fact, the more annoyed he became. He had thought he was accustomed to press intrusion, able to take them in stride, but now they had managed to sabotage something he really cared about!
Paddy Rawlings came into his mind. Well, she was different, he thought. She was one journalist he could trust.
Then he found himself thinking once more of Ginny Gordon, of her jaunty carriage, her crown of fiery russet hair, her intriguing mixture of naive innocence and earthy professionalism. And, as he had witnessed all too recently, her passion for truth.
Well, so much for the truth! he thought wryly. Now he might never be able to set things right with her. And knowing that the fault had been entirely his only worsened his mood.
Andrew had calmed a little by the time he entered the long drive into the Derwenthwaite estate three hours later. He saw an unfamiliar auto parked near the door. He pulled in beside it, got out, and entered the house.
Voices were coming through the open door of the large sitting room adjacent to the foyer. One of them he recognized as his mother’s. He approached and walked in.
“Andrew!” she said in surprised greeting as well as astonishment to see the four-week beard on his face.
A woman was sitting with her, cup of tea in hand, her back to the door. The visitor stood and turned as Andrew strode forward to hug his mother where she sat.
He stopped in his tracks the instant he saw the face.
“Paddy!” he exclaimed, half in question, half in disbelief. “What . . . what are you doing here?”
“Patricia and I were just . . . enjoying tea and . . . conversation together,” said Lady Trentham slowly.
Andrew hardly heard the words. A sudden sense of betrayal filled him, fueled by his musings on the road. The next words out of his mouth were unplanned and he would long regret them. But they were gone before he could retrieve them.
“I thought you were different, Paddy,” he said indignantly. “I trusted you—and now you come here, to my home, behind my back . . . to get something on me.”
“Please, Andrew,” said Paddy in an almost pleading tone. “It’s not that at all. I didn’t mean—”
“Just what did you mean, Paddy?” interrupted Andrew.
“If you’ll just let me explain.”
“Explain what?” he shot back. “That you spotted a story while I was gone? Have you been talking to Dugald MacKinnon too?”
“Andrew . . . please. Of course not. I thought we settled all that a long time ago. I told you I would never print anything without your permission.”
“Well, you can forget about any further interviews with me. The book on this particular member of Parliament is hereby closed.”
He spun around and stormed from the house the way he had come. Allowing the door to thud shut behind him, he strode rapidly through the garden and toward the open heathland that rose toward Bewaldeth Crag.
Two
It did not take Andrew long to cool off and to realize that whatever Paddy’s reason for being here, he had been a complete chump to take out his frustrations on her. He hadn’t allowed Paddy any more chance to explain her motives than Ginny and her father had given him.
What was he thinking? Paddy was not the enemy. She was his friend. He could trust her, just as he had been thinking a few hours earlier.
He turned and went back to the house, entering through the back door.
He walked straight to the sitting room. There stood his mother, her back to him, staring out one of the large windows. She was alone.
“Where’s Miss Rawlings?” asked Andrew sheepishly, not relishing having to apologize in front of his mother.
“Where do you think she is . . . after the fool you . . . made of yourself?” she replied slowly, not turning to face him. “She is gone.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know—probably . . . to London. She was in tears.”
Andrew drew in a deep breath and slowly exhaled. He turned and left the house once again.
When he returned an hour later, he found his father and mother seated in the dining room for tea. He entered, walked forward, and sat down to join them.
“Hullo, Dad,” said Andrew, shaking his father’s hand. He then turned to his mother.
“I’m sorry, Mum,” he said, pouring himself a cup of tea. “You’re right, I did make a fool of myself.” He buttered a slice of wheat bread. “I’m sorry you had to see it.”
“What’s the trouble, Andrew?” asked his father seriously.
“I suppose I was on edge,” Andrew replied. “I had an unpleasant experience in Scotland that had to do, at least partially, with the press. It was really eating at me on the way back, and then when I saw Paddy—well, it just all came back. What was she doing here anyway?”
“She said she had new information about the case,” answered Mr. Trentham.
“The case,” repeated Andrew. “Do you know what she meant?”
“No, I assumed you would. But when she learned that you were gone, she asked your mum if she could do an interview with her.”
“I am so sorry, Mum,” said Andrew again. “Looks as if I spoiled things for you. I’ll talk to Paddy and try to set something up.”
“Talk to her . . . how?” said Mr. Trentham.
“Hmm . . . you’re right. And you have no idea where she’s staying?”
“We would have invited her to stay here again, but . . .”
“Yeah, right, Dad—if I hadn’t opened my big mouth. No doubt she’s on her way back to the city. I probably ought to go down for a few days anyway, check in at the office, catch up on correspondence and calls. It will be a chance to forget what made me snap at Paddy.”
“Pretty fair growth of beard there, son,” said Mr. Trentham, trying to lighten the heavy mood that had marred Andrew’s homecoming. “You plan to keep it?”
“I don’t know, Dad,” laughed Andrew. “I was just trying to disguise my appearance while traveling. What do you think—should I take it with me to London?”
Three
Paddy Rawlings sat at her desk in the large noisy newsroom.
She had been back on the job in London several days, doing her best to put what happened in Cumbria behind her. When she did think of it, mingled feelings of humiliation and confusion filled her. Here she had thought that she and Andrew—
A low hubbub caught her ear from the other side of the open room.
The imposing figure of a man strode across the floor, leaving in his wake low murmurs and staring eyes from the newsroom staff. He was well dressed in an expensive suit, clean-shaven, and carried nothing in his hands. His walk was purposeful, and he comported himself with obvious poise and breeding.
Paddy’s eyes took but a second to focus. Her face immediately reddened.
It was Andrew Trentham!
She turned and bent her head low to her desk, hoping to prevent his seeing her, not sure if she could face him again.
Andrew did not see her. He walked straight to the office of Edward Pilkington. As the Honorable Gentleman paused to knock on the open door, the sound of conversation between Pilki
ngton and Kirk Luddington immediately ceased.
“Mr. Trentham,” said the news chief, rising and extending his hand, “it is an honor to see you. I am Edward Pilkington.”
“I am pleased to meet you,” replied Andrew, shaking the other man’s hand. He turned to the reporter and gave him his hand as well. “Luddington,” he said.
“Please, have a seat,” said Pilkington a little too enthusiastically. “What can we do for you?”
“I’ll only be a minute,” said Andrew, remaining on his feet. “Could you direct me to where I might find Patricia Rawlings?”
“Uh . . . Ms. Rawlings is one of our junior staff members,” began Pilkington. “Whatever your business, I am certain either I or Mr. Luddington here—”
“My business is with Ms. Rawlings alone,” interrupted Andrew crisply. “I’m afraid neither of you would be able to help me.”
“She is also—” put in Luddington, in a voice pretending to be helpful but with an unmistakable air of condescension.
Here he lowered his voice.
“—an American,” he added. “Her knowledge of British politics is, shall we say, limited. If you—”
“I am quite aware of that fact, Luddington,” interrupted Andrew again. “Now please, Mr. Pilkington, I must insist that you direct me to the young lady.”
The veteran newsman pointed beyond his office door and toward the other side of the room, where Paddy sat listening to every word.
Andrew turned and walked straight toward her, unaware that both Pilkington and Luddington had risen from their chairs and now followed, and that a small cluster of six or eight others throughout the room likewise inched forward from their positions.
Unable to make a dash for it, Paddy rose and awaited the arrival of the MP and the gathering entourage behind him.
Andrew walked straight to the front of her desk, then stopped and looked her straight in the eye.
“Paddy,” he said. “I am sorrier than I can say for how I behaved the other day. My words were utterly uncalled for—and untrue, besides. I was very rude, and I am extremely sorry. I beg your forgiveness.”
An Ancient Strife Page 29
