“Aye, here we are,” Melcorka said. “Another war.”
“Somebody”s called up the army from the four quarters of Alba,” Bradan said. “This is no mere border raid.”
Melcorka nodded agreement. She saw the rugged horsemen of the border clustered in their family groups, the footmen of the Lowlands with their long spears, the lightly armed caterans and heavy axemen and swordsmen of the Highlands and the dark-headed Picts of the northeast. “Not all four quarters,” Melcorka said. “There are no Hebrideans.”
Leaning on his staff, Bradan ran an experienced eye across the fighting men of Alba. “You're right, Mel. There are no men from the islands.”
Melcorka raised her voice. “Tell me truly, Thomas, why is the army gathering here and where are the men of the islands?”
Thomas stood a little apart, with the breeze failing to ruffle his long cloak. The oystercatchers continued to circle his head. “The enemy is to the south of the kingdom, Melcorka, while the Hebrides no longer form part of the realm of Alba.”
Bradan frowned. “Why is that?”
“Somebody assassinated the Lord of the Isles, and during the confusion over a new Lord, the Norse moved in.”
“The Lord of the Isles was my half-brother,” Melcorka said. “And the queen? Did Queen Maelona have no say in things?”
“Mael Coluim the Second is king now.”
“Mael Coluim the Second?” Melcorka said. “I didn't even know there had been a Mael Coluim the First!”
True Thomas did not answer as Melcorka continued to study the gathering army. Among the grey-bearded veterans and confident champions were many fresh young faces, youths who had never experienced the horror of war, with the usual number of camp followers exploiting the warriors. She found it interesting that, in such a diverse collection, the various groups did not fight one another. The only reason for that, she considered, was a leader with sufficient force of character to bind them all together. Mael Coluim must be a strong king.
“Why have you brought us here?” Bradan asked.
“Watch,” True Thomas said.
“Are we to fight Alba's enemy?” Melcorka struggled to contain her increasing impatience.
“Watch,” True Thomas repeated.
“Over there.” Bradan touched Melcorka's arm. “Something is happening in the west.”
Climbing to the summit of the ridge, between two suspicious sentinels, they watched as another army marched towards them. About half the size of the army of Alba, it was also more homogeneous, consisting of one group of people with similar weapons and clothing. They marched in a compact formation, with horseman guarding the flanks and rear, spearmen in disciplined clumps and stalwart captains leading each formation. Under a broad green banner, three men rode at the head of the army.
“Is that the enemy?” Melcorka asked the nearest sentinel, who shook his head.
“No – where have you been hiding, swordswoman? That is our ally, Owen the Bald, and the army of Strathclyde.”
“They look a handy bunch,” Melcorka said.
“Owen is a good man.” The sentinel eyed Melcorka”s sword without comment.
As the Strathclyde contingent approached, a group of men from the Alban army rode out to meet them, with a tough-looking, clean-shaven man in his thirties at their head.
“There goes the Destroyer.” The sentinel sounded satisfied. “Now things will start to move.”
“The Destroyer?” Melcorka asked.
“The King himself. Mael Coluim.” The sentinel eyed her with growing curiosity. “Who are you? You don't know Strathclyde are our allies and you don't recognise the king; are you Alban? From Fidach perhaps? Or are you a spy for the Northumbrians?” He shifted his stance so that his spear was ready to hand. His companion came closer, frowning.
“We are Alban,” Bradan said, “but we've been out of the country for many years. When we left, Maelona was queen, with Ahern the Pict of Fidach as her consort.”
“These days are long gone.” The sentinel continued to eye them with suspicion. “Mael Coluim is king now, the Norse have returned to the Isles, and the Danes have conquered the Angle lands to the south.” He turned a twisted smile to Melcorka. “Enemies surround us, woman-with-a-sword, with Angles and Danes to the south, Danes over the Eastern sea, and Norse to the north and west. King Mael Coluim is fighting a war on all fronts.” He lowered his spear. “We can thank God for Owen of Strathclyde, a loyal friend when we need one most.”
“Bad days, indeed,” Melcorka looked towards True Thomas. “Is that why you summoned us? Do you think my single sword can turn the tide in this clash of kings?”
“You will find out soon enough,” True Thomas said. “Wait, watch and learn.”
Owen halted the Strathclyde army and dismounted. Straight-backed, he walked, light-footed as a youth, towards the group of Alban horsemen. When he threw back his hooded cloak, the sun gleamed from a shaven head.
“King Owen the Bald of Strathclyde,” Bradan murmured, “and his overlord and High King Mael Coluim the Destroyer. I wonder what our part will be in this drama.”
The two kings embraced, and then the two armies merged, without any of the usual tensions between fighting men, only mutual welcome and a forming of small groups around the campfires. Harpers began to play, sennachies told their stories, bards sang their songs while the ubiquitous women who followed armies flitted from man to man, seeking protection, companionship or money.
“We have an allied army,” Bradan tapped his staff on the land, “yet we do not know our part in this, Melcorka.”
“There is darkness ahead,” Melcorka said. “I can feel it.”
The blast of a horn echoed around the bowl of the hills as Mael Coluim mounted a small knoll. Men of both armies gathered around, waiting to hear what the Destroyer said. Three warriors remained close to the High King, watching everybody. One was slightly above average height, with calm eyes above a neat beard. The second was dressed all in black, with a long black beard and 12 darts in his broad black belt. The third was slender, with laughter in his eyes, twin swords strapped crossways on his back and clothes of the Pictish fashion.
“These will be the king's champions,” Bradan murmured, “the pick of his army.”
Melcorka nodded, taking note of their stance and bearing, wondering if it was her destiny to fight any of these men.
When Mael Coluim lifted his arms, silence descended except for the barking of a single dog. A woman's voice rose in the background, only for her neighbours to shush her into silence.
“Warriors of Alba and Strathclyde!” The king's voice sounded strong. “Today, we march to face the Angles of Northumbria.”
The army cheered, with men brandishing swords and spears in the air. Melcorka raised her eyebrows to Bradan – she had heard such enthusiasm before and had seen the bloodied, broken casualties writhing on the ground in the aftermath of battle.
“For years the Northumbrians have defiled our borders, raided our farms and stolen our livestock and women. Their southern neighbour and overlord, Cnut, the Danish conqueror of the Angles, has threatened to add Alba to his realms. Let us show him our answer. Let us show him the strength of Alba and Strathclyde.”
The men cheered again, with shouts of, “Alba! Alba!” and, “Strathclyde! Strathclyde!”
“The king's fired them up for bloodshed,” Bradan said.
“These Northumbrians are not children to face lightly,” Mael Coluim warned. “They are a savage breed. When I was a youngster, new on the throne, 12 years ago, I led an army against them.” The silence was tense as men nodded at the memory. “They defeated us at the walls of Durham and…” he waited, drawing out the drama, “the Northumbrian women washed the faces and combed the beards and hair of our dead and decorated their walls with their heads.”
A low growl came from the combined army.
“What kind of men would dishonour the dead? These people are not like us!” Mael Coluim said.
“He's raising
the fighting spirit.” Bradan tapped his staff on the ground.
“Alba!” the warriors yelled, lifting spears and swords in the air. “Strathclyde!”
“Wait!” Owen the Bald joined Mael Coluim on the knoll, to further cheers from the allied army. He lifted his hands for silence. “We will not fight under different battlecries. We should have one slogan that unites us as one force under Mael Coluim, my king and the High King of Alba!”
Owen lifted his hand until silence descended. “As from today, our cry will be Aigha Bas – battle and die.”
There was a moment's silence as the men digested the idea, and then: “Aigha Bas!” Men of both armies roared. “Aigha Bas!”
Standing beside the High King, one man stood out among the three champions. Shorter than the man in black, less cheerful than the Pict, he had traces of grey in his neat beard, with a crystal in the pommel of the longsword across his back.
“Who is that?” Melcorka sensed the power of the man.
“That is MacBain, the king's personal champion and bodyguard,” True Thomas said. “He has never been defeated in combat and is the king's right-hand man.”
“I am interested in the sword he carries,” Melcorka said.
“It is not the sword that should interest you,” True Thomas told her. “It is what the pommel contains. You will ask him later.”
“And the other two champions?” Bradan asked. “They look like handy men to have on your side.”
True Thomas indicated the man on MacBain's right, the burly man in his late thirties with a black scowl to match his black hair and beard. Under his black cloak, his chainmail shirt descended to his knees, while he carried a bundle of long throwing darts on the right side of his belt and a short slender sword at his waist.
“That is Black Duncan the Grim,” Thomas said. “He has never been known to smile and has no time for women or any pursuit except fighting and war.”
Melcorka nodded. “Aye, he looks a cheerful fellow. And the other? The light-hearted man?”
“That is Finleac, the Maormor of Fidach,” Thomas said. “As you know, Fidach is a Pictish province and the Maormor, the ruler, is now a sub-king of Alba. Finleac is undoubtedly the fastest-moving warrior in Alba, and perhaps the most cheerful.”
Finleac was lithe, with a pale face that the sun would never tan, and light protection of quilted leather. His two longswords had light wooden handles, and he stared forward through pale eyes, with a small smile playing on bloodless lips.
“There is one more champion of note,” Bradan said. “Who is that one?” He nodded to a warrior who stood on a slight rise above the army. Although two men stood there, only one was worth watching. He was tall and broad, while a deep hood concealed his face, while both the grey circular shield on his left arm and the sword that hung from his waist were of Norse workmanship. The man who stood 10 paces from him was featureless, dressed in grey and with a bag of grey fabric held across his chest. He was instantly forgettable.
“You will find out all you want to know about that man before long,” True Thomas said.
“Who is he?” Melcorka asked.
“He is death on two legs,” True Thomas said, “and who his companion is, I cannot say.”
“Cannot or will not?” Bradan asked.
“Either way, you will have to find out for yourselves.”
Looking directly at the two men on the ridge, Melcorka could sense the darkness emanating from the hooded warrior. “Does he have a name, this mysterious man?”
“I cannot say his given name,” True Thomas said. “He is known as the Buidcear, the Butcher.”
Melcorka felt a thrill run through Defender as if the sword also sensed danger from the Butcher. “Is he with the High King's army?”
“Nobody in the king's army knows who the Butcher is with.” True Thomas sounded troubled. “Or what he is with.”
Melcorka nodded, still aware that Defender was thrumming against her back as if warning her of danger. “I think we shall meet later, that man and I.”
“Aye, maybe,” Bradan said. “At present, Mel, I think it's time to make ourselves known.”
“Wait,” True Thomas said, with a little smile on his face. “Mael Coluim will know you when he needs you.”
“That is the way of kings,” Melcorka said. “Particularly high kings.” She continued to watch the Butcher, knowing that he returned her scrutiny. The Butcher's companion stood silently, but Melcorka could not make him out. He – if it was a he – seemed to be of no character at all, a grey man with no personality. He was there, but not there.
“I do not like that man,” Bradan pressed a thumb against the cross carved on the top of his staff, a sure sign that he was worried.
“Nor do I,” Melcorka agreed.
“You are looking at the warrior,” Bradan said. “I mean the grey creature at his side.”
Melcorka shrugged. “He is a nothing,” she said.
“That is so,” Bradan pressed his thumb down hard on the carved cross. “He is so much a nothing that I cannot describe him, even although I am looking directly at him.”
Melcorka grunted. “That may be so.”
A distant rumble made them both look up. High in the sky, the dying trail of the comet faded away.
“Tomorrow will be a bloody day,” Melcorka said as the thunder sounded an ominous warning of the anger of the gods. When she looked back at the ridge, the Butcher was gone, although the atmosphere of menace remained.
“May God have mercy on us all,” Bradan said, pressing his thumb hard on the carved Celtic cross.
* * *
At the blare of a dozen horns, the army rose, men of Alba and Strathclyde gathering in their separate divisions to march south, with much confusion until captains and clan chiefs sorted them out with loud shouts and a few blows. Mael Coluim sent scouts ahead and, on each flank, hard-riding borderers who knew the terrain, backed by light-footed caterans who quartered the ground, searched for any Northumbrian or Danish spies.
“Forget the thunder; it's going to be a dry day.” Bradan glanced up at the sky, where the comet had left only a faint white smudge against the periwinkle blue. “Best fill our bottles with water before the fighting begins.”
They forded the Tweed without delay, formed up in a long column on the south side of the river and moved on, with Melcorka and Bradan keeping pace 100 yards behind the rearguard. As they marched, the weather altered, as though the tail of the comet had disturbed the Gods.
Bradan glanced upward. “So much for my weather forecast,” he said ruefully. “If they are going to fight,” he said, “they had better get on with it. That sky is threatening a storm.”
Melcorka nodded. “It will be a big one,” she said as a host of geese exploded skyward from a field, circled and headed out to sea, their call a melancholic reminder of the folly of men.
“Look behind us,” Bradan said.
The Butcher was following, keeping clear of the army but always within a quarter of a mile. He rode a garron, the sturdy horse of the Alban hills, with the grey man keeping pace at his side.
“I see him,” Melcorka ducked as a rook skimmed her hair. “That's unusual. Rooks don't attack people.”
“That one did,” Bradan said, “but I think we have more to worry about than a stray bird.”
“Northumbrians!” The cry resounded around the army. “The Northumbrians are ahead!”
All at once, the atmosphere changed as the veteran warriors took charge and the enthusiasm of the untried waned. Boasting of battle around the fireside was far different from facing the reality of Northumbrians with their seax-knives, slave-hunting and savagery.
“Scouts!” Mael Coluim shouted. “Ride ahead, count their numbers, don't get involved.”
Melcorka watched as a troop of border horsemen trotted ahead, with young Martin eager in the middle. “It's nearly dusk,” she said. “There will be no battle today.” She looked over her shoulder. The Butcher was still there, nearly within hailing
distance, with his hood entirely concealing his face and the grey man 10 paces to his right.
By the time the scouts returned, the light was fading, with the sun tinting the sky magenta around bruised clouds. Bradan grunted as thunder again grumbled in the distance, with flashes of lightning highlighting the curves of the distant Cheviot Hills.
“When this storm hits, it'll be ugly.”
“Aye,” Melcorka sat on the trunk of a fallen oak tree, polishing Defender. “It seems to be upsetting the birds too.” She nodded to the clamour of rooks that flew above the Albans, swooping on individuals and small groups of men.
Mael Column listened to the scouts' reports and set the army to camp again, this time with no drinking and with triple sentries.
“Borderers, enliven the night; ride around the Northumbrian camp, shout challenges, keep them awake on the south, east and west sides.” The border horsemen trotted off, while the High King indicated the caterans. “You lads, I want you to concentrate on the north side, kill a few sentries. If you can get into the camp and dispatch some Northumbrians, even better.” He hardened his voice. “Don't get killed. I need you tomorrow.”
The thunder that had grumbled all day continued into the night, with intermittent lightning unsettling the horses. Sentries glanced at the sky, huddled into their cloaks and hoped the enemy had no raiding parties out while they were on duty. Others shivered at the wolves that howled in the distance.
“MacBain!” Melcorka approached the king's bodyguard. “Your name is known.”
“As is yours, Melcorka the Swordswoman,” MacBain met Melcorka with the confidence of a man supremely aware of his abilities. Behind him, Black Duncan did not look up, while Finleac gave a friendly grin and returned his attention to the two young women who were vying for his attention.
“Your sword interests me,” Melcorka said.
“You wish to hold it?” MacBain”s smile revealed unbroken white teeth. “Or is it the crystal in the hilt you want to ask about?”
“Both,” Melcorka said, honestly.
Loki's Sword Page 2
