“My father’s old dog can run faster than you Morgund,” yelled Simon.
“The race isn’t over yet. If you could run as fast as you talk, you’d already have won,” Morgund shouted back.
They tired, and the talking slowed.
“Nearly finished,” thought Morgund, nearing the finishing line.
John won. The air was muggy and hot, and the sound of their breath heavy to their ears as it started raining, fine refreshing rain. The cool mist felt good. This green wonderland would become a cauldron. Walking with hands on hips, trying to regain his breath, it was Morgund who alerted them. “What was that? Listen.”
The rain was heavier now, it was difficult to hear over it. Trying to listen above the sound of pounding hearts and the rain, none spoke. Soft ground and their talking had failed to warn them of approaching horsemen.
“There.” Morgund pointed. “Horsemen! Run.”
Riders broke through the undergrowth at a gallop. Morgund knew the consequences if caught. Being in largely open country the chance of escape was slight. John could not bear the thought of running. He was armed, so he would fight. He turned. Morgund could not believe his eyes. John must be sacrificing himself, for them, slowing down the mounted men so his two companions could escape. After another few steps, he turned also, determined to convince John to run with him. John was taking an erect stance. “Come on you bastards, I’ll kill you.”
This was madness, surely he was aware he had no chance. Running towards John, Morgund saw John take a swing at a swordsman, then saw an enemy bending a bow, firing. And too quickly, the arrow came, hitting the mark, piercing John’s neck. John, gurgling, grasping the arrow.
A frothy red muck was gushing out from his open mouth. John sunk to his knees, his face deathly pale. He spoke between gasping bloody breaths. “May God forgive me for my arrogance,” he said and died.
Morgund, surrounded held his sword ready prepared to sell his life dearly, he thought to perhaps get in one strike before it ended. However, it was very disheartening to see what had just happened to John.
“Not him … hold.” A richly dressed man addressed his archer who had Morgund in his sights.
He spoke to Morgund. “There is nothing more you can do. He is dead, drop your sword and you may live. If you attempt anything foolish one of my archers will kill you.” Morgund dropped his sword.
“What about the other one, the one who ran away?” asked a young nobleman.
“Forget him. This is Morgund MacAedh, a rival for Alexander’s throne. King John will be pleased. Bring him a horse,” he said to a man at arms. “He is noble.”
One of the men at arms dismounted and offered Morgund his horse. The man at arms walked beside him. Suddenly Morgund’s life had taken another unexpected turn.
The richly dressed man rode at Morgund’s side. “Morgund I saw you at Runnymead, do you not remember me?”
“No.”
“I am Sir Clifford Montgomery, I am a loyal subject of King John. One of the few remaining. King John has spies everywhere. He knows Alexander tried to kill you. That man is no friend to my king, do not mistake he will hold you dear Morgund. With you he can topple that foxy swine Alexander. King John will put you in his place. Of unlucky a fold I am told you are, but some luck abounds for me to find you here in so vast and unexpected a place.”
“You know much of Scottish matters. Were you looking for me?”
The man smiled at Morgund. “No. But lucky in finding you sweet boy … amongst us you will be royally treated as befits one of your position.”
“What is expected of me?”
“Never mind all that, all will be explained. I’m sorry about your friend. I had no choice, he would have killed one of us.”
In the dim grey light of the little glade, Morgund remembered the glint in John’s eye. He closed his for a moment remembering, prickly, brave, bustling, John, Morgund should of fled, it would’ve been the wisest move. He should have taken more notice of the change in John.
Montgomery spoke, “The farmer doesn’t leave the crop in the field to rot.” Morgund looked confused. “Some men learn the way of the sword and have courage, but alone it is nothing. One must choose the right companions. If one is permitted to. A man can befriend kings.”
Morgund should have listened more for he would grow to react to what was brought rather than bring on what was best.
IN CANTERBURY THEY found the king and learned that civil war had begun. It was brought about when king John fell out with many of his nobles to the point where the only solution as they saw it was in overthrowing him. Alexander was involved with the rebel forces. Morgund as the only Scotsman in the hall was singled out by King John who spoke to him. “There is a Scotsman amongst us, what say he?”
“Only this Sire, that as a king he is unworthy.”
“What am I to do? Tell me that.”
John beckoned Morgund forward and indicated he lower himself. Bent low, Morgund received a fatherly pat on his shoulder.
“I will tell you.” John said, to Morgund quietly, to him alone. “He will die.” Then the king stood. His voice boomed. “That so unworthy a head should wear a crown is wrong. He shall wear that crown.”
John pointed at Morgund. His eyes bored into Morgund searching him closely. The eyes were small, sharp, glistening with intellect but became filling with wash. He turned to the assembly. “I shall have his head.”
Momentarily unsure whether he referred to Alexander or Morgund, they didn’t know what to think, for king John was still pointing at Morgund, until responding to their uncertainty, he said, “Alexander will die.”
The audience rose, applauding. King John continued. “Alexander’s head I shall hold in my hand.”
The words were spoken with compelling venom. The king shook uncontrollably as his emotions overcame him and his hot tears burned, this ungovernable temper taking him unawares. A strained gasp he let out, of utter pain. Tears erupting. These seizures happened often, struck without warning. With difficulty he sought to suppress them and go on with important matters. But Alexander would not go from his mind, bringing on tortured torment, freezing out all other thought. He lapsed into stillness. Finally he walked off, shoulders slumped, appearing white and sick.
His mind had degenerated into a disordered mess and he needed time to dispel his mind-demons. Morgund saw John for what he was. A dangerous man. To be angered beyond sanity was frightening in any man, and particularly in a king. Later Morgund asked someone what he made of it, and received the common sense reply. “A Plantagenet can be whatever he is. We onlookers must not see, or worse still speak, of that Morgund could cause us harm.” A measured look brought home the danger. Morgund remembered those chilly eyes, and immediately felt intimidated. Morgund wanted very little to do with King John, and thankfully wasn’t to see him often.
King John resolving to invade Scotland intended to use Morgund as his puppet. Supporting Morgund’s claim to the Scots throne would enable those Scots opposed to Alexander to rally to Morgund, once Alexander had fallen, Morgund himself would fall. But until he invaded he had no use for him.
Morgund who must be kept in readiness, was assigned a keeper, a man to be responsible for his safety. Richard Talbot, a swordsman, a flatterer, a schemer, ruthlessly ambitious, engaging when the need arose, he cultivated Morgund’s friendship, and caused no disharmony to occur between them. Before they had parted King John had given Morgund a sword, finely inlaid, carved with Damascene carving, the blade of the finest Toledo steel.
Morgund missed Cristo, Simon, and Edith. They were his surrogate family and his sweetheart even if she disputed that, he thought with an odd smile. He knew he would have gotten her back. He knew how she really felt about him. But another thought he had, of his mother, he could not bear her absence. It was his responsibility to protect her to see to her well being. He wanted to ensure nothing untoward affected her and how could he do that away from her … unable to do anything.
Morgu
nd passed time with monks in Canterbury learning how to read and write, all the while being jokingly chided by Talbot for seeking to engage in these unmanly pursuits. Scribes were thought of as being beneath the knightly class. Knights were at the apex of mediaeval society. Scholarly monks made up the second class. The third class, traders were thought of as nothing more than up-jumped peasants, yet, they were not permanently placed, for sometimes wealthy merchants changed position, a grateful monarch might ennoble a merchant, or, as sometimes happened, they married into the nobility - the English De La Pole family became Earls of Sussex after starting out as money lenders.
Morgund thought all knowledge was worthwhile and learned all he could from whomever he could and his development in arts undesired in one of his class developed at pace as did his swordsmanship. Talbot knew that one day Morgund would be an extremely proficient fighting man, which pleased him, for it was his responsibility to train Morgund - he would gain credit for it.
The kitchen was Morgund’s favourite place where he had warm food and relaxed company to pass the time with. Seward told him that the heavier stronger man possesses the edge in combat, so Morgund consumed much, gorging himself when he could. Thereby he who had been small for his age grew thick limbed. This was not a disagreeable life but he was missing his friends and his homeland ever more as time passed. The itch to return was beginning to become unbearable. If he knew what was to occur in Scotland he’d have had no peace of mind at all. Alexander had returned to Scotland ill humoured. He had heard of Morgund’s whereabouts and that King John was his protector. He summoned MacCainstacairt.
“Yes, my Lord,” MacCainstacairt said, on bended knee before him. “I want that nest of vipers done over with, those who are supportive of Morgund MacAedh.”
“Tell me what you want and it shall be done Sire.”
“Burn them.” A king planning to kill his subjects is not a pleasant sight. Not that MacCainstacairt was a man to speak for his heart was black also. Many were his misdeeds, yet he thought that he’s not seen a more evil look.
“But I will need men to add to my own, and arms Sire.”
“Certainly you shall have them,” Alexander replied.
The men lent to MacCainstacairt were accompanied by a lesser known supporter of Alexander’s, only a minor castle knight, nonetheless competent, Sir Bernard Renshaw. This servant, Renshaw, was a relative to the Comyns. His task overseeing of the king’s men to ensure they were used wisely by MacCainstacairt. Allow MacCainstacairt his way but to keep him within guidelines set by me, the king had said. The matter would be dealt with suitably as Alexander wanted it dealt with, Renshaw would see to that. Renshaw was in addition given licence that if any conflict arose with MacCainstacairt to overrule him but if no such an act occurred, MacCainstacairt was to believe his was the leadership.
Therefore Alexander could blame him for it all. The plan was for his soldiers to be arrayed as highlanders so it would seem an instance of highland affray. Alexander imagined the heady feeling of importance, MacCainstacairt would feel at leading such an important mission. His Celtic vanity was his weakness and laughable, he was in fact so typical of his race. Massacre seemed imminent. It was not to be. On the way some of MacCainstacairt’s men rather than disguising their intentions, made them clear, whether out of pity or stupidity, none discovered. Warned in the village, chaos ensued. A few, ignoring the warning, suspending their belief were viciously set upon, others who were more astute, and in the majority, made it away clear.
Far away to the south, Morgund meanwhile toiled unsparingly in fields of summer straw giving his body nourishment through fierce labour. By this activity he grew. The following spring when Morgund sought out Talbot in the ale house he found Seward waiting for him.
Gripping hands firmly, they smiled at each other as true comrades. Seward saw that Morgund had grown, and told him so. Morgund was pleased to hear him say so. Then his own story. William had returned to Scotland shortly after leaving the castle, but Seward refused to go, deciding not to leave England until he had found Morgund. Not knowing where to look, he had cast a leaf in stillness. A slight breeze blew giving him a direction, a completely wrong direction as it happened. They laughed at that. He had finally heard a rumour that a young Scotsman was a ward of the king in a southern town. He knew southern England well, now having laboured from town to town looking for Morgund. Whilst this was going on, Richard Talbot eyed Seward suspiciously.
Seward could make Morgund difficult to control, even persuade him to leave Canterbury. Better to make the newcomer gone. But how? This was awkward.
Talbot questioned himself, looking for an answer, and thought. It was best, surely to pick a fight and kill him. In no other way could he ensure he was not thwarted in any purpose opposed to his own. Talbot remembered Morgund commenting on Seward’s prowess as a fighter. This did not concern him, Richard Talbot was one of the premier swordsman in England. Surely he could easily dispose of a semi-barbarous Scot.
“Seward, I hear you are something of a swordsman.”
Seward did not like the look on Talbot’s face when he said it.
Morgund interjected, “Seward is the very best.”
“Best where?” Talbot snickered at Seward, curious to see how he’d respond.
“Best anywhere.” Morgund replied.
Talbot’s eyes never left Seward’s as he said, “Is that so Seward?”
Not liking the man, deliberately casual, Seward said, “It is not some small skill I possess.”
“You are high handed man Seward.”
“I merely make a statement of fact. You asked me a question and I answered it. If answering a question here is highhanded, forgive me, but we have simple ways in Scotland.”
“I like you not, Scotsman.”
“Despondency does cast over me at that.”
Talbot raised his voice, “Have you cut down English women and children on our borders? Perhaps this is where you’ve gained this great skill you say you have.”
Talbot was insufferably arrogant. A crowd gathered, smelling blood. “Do not let fear make a captive of your tongue, Seward.” Talbot sneered.
“Is this Englishman your friend Morgund?” Seward had a worried cast to his eyes.
“He is friendly towards me, but no, the only true friends I have are MacRuari, MacSwain and yourself.” MacRuari was a friend he had left behind in Ross. “He wants a fight Seward. Give him one.”
Talbot was blustering again his insults crassly provocative. After addressing the tavern crowd he turned to Seward. Seeing a lengthy tirade of loud speak coming, Seward caused its halt, or more correctly, averted it, with a look of the direst menace. “Enough Talbot, or I will split your sickening tongue.”
And by then a sword Seward held. Talbot drew his own and the lamplight reflected off the blade. “Outside, where innocents will not be harmed,” Talbot said.
Seward nodded. Quickly, warily, as Morgund watched his back, Seward dodged through the crowd to torch lit grounds. He waited as time rolled sluggishly by. “What is Talbot doing? Finishing a jug of ale?”
The man was making a fool of him. Morgund watched, concerned for Seward. Morgund knew Seward couldn’t ignore such insults. How could he lie down and ignore Talbot but Talbot was much renowned. Perhaps it would have been better to fight inside where confusion and obstacles might have allowed Seward a better chance to overcome Talbot. Seward’s own advice on facing a superior foe.
As if hearing his thoughts Seward said, “I could not fight inside amongst innocents, we might have cut somebody who has no part in our contest.”
Talbot burst through the door suddenly cutting the air in a figure of eight missed Seward’s nose by a mere hairs width and nearly caught his head again moments later. Caught unawares Seward nearly died there and then. It was instinct and training which allowed him to survive. He had the relaxation and trained reflexes to maximize his defence. Having ducked the whirling metal he came up with his own. Taken to his hilt was Talbot. Seward�
�s sword was blocked in his chest, stuck, like pinning soft cheese the blade wobbling slightly. Standing on Talbot’s chest to withdraw his sword, an escape of air occurred and bright red blood spilled shockingly disturbed from its common paths. Seward and Morgund didn’t tarry long, they rode away quickly. A slight breeze chilled them.
“Life so stable, was a dream, as easily disposed of, as a candle blown,” Seward said.
“That was neatly done,” Morgund replied.
“He brought about his own death,” Seward sounded defensive.
“Yes, of course.” And Morgund continued on, in case Seward felt unjust in the taking of a life; Morgund knew Seward would never do so lightly. “He did, cause his own death.”
“Of course he did. He had no cause to be so. It is good it was done to me, another’s recourse could only be to die on defending.”
Morgund remained silent. From the distant inn he heard a dogs barking. A mournful fading yelp. At least Talbot was mourned, by one, at least, occurred to him. Eventually it was drowned out by movement as they rode off. They stopped to rest and eat, then pressed on.
The next day they made camp, intending to seek fresh meat, on foot, which would allow the horses a rest. That night, with the fire going warmly, Morgund looked up into vast space filled with swirls of cosmic light.
Morgund risked a sentence, for Seward’s close brush with death had disturbed him, had made him silent and morose. “This outdoor life is good. Townsfolk never realise it.”
“Do you really believe so Morgund?”
The facile way Seward said this required a like response. “No, not all the time, only when I’m bored and stuck for something to say.” Morgund ventured his opinion again. “But seriously Seward, it is good, until the rain washes you.”
Seward disagreed. “There’s ever something, constantly, wasps, or bugs, and rain and cold, it’s never good. Better a warm bed.”
Celtic Blood Page 13
