He sought to clear his mind, but the battle’s hardship was far too much. It was as if he was dreaming, a prolonged nightmare of insanity, with murder, and bloody wounds, crisis upon crisis, men slaughtering each other like beasts from the bowels of hell. So much hinged on luck. It was hard to tell friend from foe and it was certain many died at the erring hands of comrades.
Thinking all this whilst his feet still moved taking him across a muddy patch of ground. Then he saw the clarion flash of naked steel thrusting out towards him. Too late to deflect it, a burning pain entered which replaced all other sensation. A knight entered the fray, mace in hand, struck down hard. This blow saved Morgund’s life hitting the soldier who was about to kill him. Somehow Morgund managed to come to his feet, but he was splattered with blood and trembling, staggering.
He saw open fields, close. A series of measured steps, in a topsy-turvy world, the ground and as sky one. Despite the ground moving his feet stuck to it. Intending to live, but why? The question was beyond him. He sought an answer and sought and sought, though as much as he struggled to find a solution no answer that made sense came to him. Suddenly not too far away a wonderful thin strange light came from the sky like a descending silk ribbon. It’s strange beauty held him fascinated. The light moved off. A call came from far away; his mother’s voice, and the soft light threading down were one. If he could grab this light he’d reach her. The light, catch the light, so simple, but it was just beyond his reach. Leading him on to safety, was his mother’s voice, and her loving simple heart. So he walked, and saw a vision of two outstretched hands as she called him on … and music, the quality of the melody, exceptional.
He had a sore ear which muffled it but it came from that direction with thunder and fighting. “Follow the song.” He heard her say. He must get there one way or another and far away from the battle, to life and to the song … and then someone else was near. Cold grey eyes, an enemy, of evil rankness.
But the eyes weren’t real they were a memory. Or were they? If the man before was real he was dead. He had nothing left to defend himself with. The sword he held, he couldn’t raise. A vile mess was at his feet of his making, he wiped his chin, saw men, walking on him, felt their feet, heard trumpets, saw banners, heard the maggots feasting on him.
The man standing before him was gone. Had he ever existed? He sought to focus on his mother, who was drifting away. There was soft light. The soft light, he must get near it again. That was where his mother was. She defied earthly laws. She stood aloft, in the distance, high. In intimate contact with God she drifted above the earth’s surface. Was she beckoning him to follow? If only he could follow her to heaven. Once he caught up with her he would ask about this state of grace. Losing all touch with reality he rose into the air and rain and electricity. As he floated skyward … the battlefield far below, he realized he had died. The bad luck or bad judgement he had seen befall others, had become his own. He looked at his dead body far below. Now ascending to heaven where was his mother? He had expected her to be here, might not his dear father be here, to greet him. Sucking in an enormous breath, he was back on the field of battle and still upright and alive, a wonder to him.
For a few moments he didn’t know where he was until slowly taking in that he was on the battlefield. The sky was brilliantly captivating and he saw the clouds racing orange hued from the sun set. Those few mercenaries still in the fight sought not to impede him seeking only to disengage and flee. Morgund just wanted to find safety. He took his tired feet, and made them move. One of the enemy finally decided to prevent Morgund’s escape. Whilst Morgund was unable to act the man blocked his path, blessing his luck for finding a defenceless foe, Morgund saw.
Morgund tried to reason with the man. “Cannot we go in peace?”
The soldier ignored Morgund. His sword would speak for him.
Staggering forward, it took all Morgund’s strength to lift his sword. Meanwhile the man in front of him brought his own sharp edge speeding downward. Morgund deflected it. Collapsing underneath a second down-strike. Was beneath the ‘corpse maker’, as the attacker liked to name his favourite killing stroke. Morgund’s assailant brought his sword up preparing to bring it down. Morgund lay helpless on the ground awaiting the next blow. A sword struck deep between his assailant’s ribs. And, once again, Morgund was surprised that he still lived. He rolled out from near his now dead opponent and arose, again his feet took him forth. He was not alone, someone was beside him badgering him onward. A nuisance really, the man was. Morgund wished the man would take himself off.
Morgund’s throat burned, he was sick, semi conscious. From the vile taste he knew he had vomited recently. The man who had saved his life lifted him up and took him to a stream. There, they quenched an immeasurable thirst. Morgund lay on his back. How he came to be here, he couldn’t recall. He was as hot as molten lead, and thought, there was something he must remember, but what? In the sky he saw a single rain drop as time stood still. His mother had been up there in the sky looking down at him? A blessed feeling. She was still somewhere and loved him.
He tasted blood. Where did it come from? An opponent had fallen on him, it came from him, he realised, when his enemy had died and spattered him. Perhaps not. Many shared in the battle and it could have come from one or more of them, blood drifted down from his head, he felt the pain of a wound that grazed his ribs, another wound and another mystery, he searched his memory for this moment which escaped him.
A sour taste, in his mouth, that arose from the depths of his gut, he swallowed it. Blood trickled down the back of his throat. His nose was bloodied. A metallic reek encased his nostrils - blood.
The rebel soldier who stood above him, spoke, “I can’t lift you again. Get up or I will leave you. You don’t want to get caught out here in the open. We must go to that hill, amongst the trees, over there.” With his last strength, Morgund regained his feet.
Amongst the trees, protected from bleak heavy rain and fog, Morgund watched in fascination the leaves and branches forming the canopy that sheltered him from the rain, stored tiny points of wetness. Droplets of water rolled, collected and fell, big fat forest leaves glistened like diamonds. The beauty and peacefulness a balm to his turmoil. An occasional sprinkling of rain struck his face, slid along it, and moved down. Above, many of the droplets held by leaves and branches elongated, threatened to fall but held firm. Seeing loveliness, so contrary to the quagmire of destruction, he thought, benign and blameless these lovely spheres that clung to the trees. Here was God, he thought. A robin called, the battle slipped away and he felt the forests closeness. Aching muscles and wounds felt painful. He shivered.
The other man produced food and they ate. He couldn’t remember where the other man had come from but if he was an enemy, he would be dead by now. Neither had the energy to speak, nor dared to, for they might return to the subject of the hell they’d escaped. Parched throats required further quenching so they returned to the stream where a group of rebel soldiers came upon them.
“The battle awaits you. Good men are dying whilst you are at rest.”
A speaker was in Morgund’s face, menacing him, posturing with his sword, drawing close to him. Cuffing him. Morgund who didn’t have the strength to resist, turned away. Here was a man who didn’t know pity and Morgund felt totally powerless in his presence. He had been extended a permit to admonish, was suited to it, revelled in it.
Morgund wore a coat, stained red with the blood and valour. Clearly he did not deserve this, in his weakened state, Morgund was easily set upon. It strengthened the cowardly accuser’s worth to smash down another, for he was a plunderer of good men’s strength.
To survive and be struck down by one of his own seemed a sad irony to Morgund. Nothing could save him, he saw. Then his guardian intervened to save his life again. “Hold, Harold, hold. It is a bad thing you do here, ill conceived. He fought well, is wounded and exhausted he could not stand, let alone fight.”
“What of yourself Edwin?�
� These two obviously knew each other.
“I’ll go with you to fight now.”
Edwin disappeared with them. Not wishing to risk another such episode, Morgund returned soon after to the tempest. He saw a patch of light being smothered on the horizon, it was a mirror of himself, he thought.
The battle moved away, the threat diminishing with it. Men fought further away on the hills. Morgund battled to stay warm, felt overly ill. Sitting down he inspected his arms and armour then saw that his helmet was heavily dented. This he felt sure had contributed to his loss of surety. Alternately he felt cold then hot and could barely walk.
Seward found him semiconscious and babbling incoherently. “A knight, hacking heads like wheat, he threw heads at me, he threw heads at me.” Morgund thought he was dying but said. “Glad I am, to have been able to endure the difficulties associated with the battle.”
Later he managed some ordered thoughts. “You’re a good friend Seward. I can trust you. Did we win?”
“Yes, we did.”
“How did it happen, and where did you find me?”
“I searched the battle field and luckily you were afoot and drawing attention to yourself by speaking senselessly.”
Morgund laughed and Seward found that Morgund had retained his calm. Seward admired him for it, and took some credit for showing Morgund the face to put forth. A broken bone when mended is said to be stronger. When he thought of that, he thought of Morgund.
“The battle, how was it won?”
“Through luck and the courage of good men.”
“And where was Seward and what happened to you?”
“I was part of a solid mass, he said. “After the battle began I couldn’t say who was beside me. The fleeting combats scarcely lasted a moment but took all my commitment. I was surprised how much stronger I was than others. I easily bested any who clashed with me. Yet I remained workmanlike, and careful, in case my superiority made me careless. The closest call I received was when a pikeman behind me tripped and nearly thrust me through.”
Seward then took Morgund into a cold stream, and cleansed his wounds. He found them both, shelter, built a fire, and wrapped Morgund in a thick blanket. Sleep descended like a hammer on them, swift and sure. The next day Morgund felt a great deal better, enormously sore but whole in mind and body. He was elated that he was in fact, still alive and relatively intact. As the story unfolded of their different experiences, Seward’s face reddened on hearing of what Morgund had suffered at the hands of Harold.
“This Harold I will track down. We shall see how hard he is.”
“What?” asked Morgund.
“I am going to find Harold.”
With that Seward was off. He walked far but eventually he found the man he was looking for. One particular Harold fitted the description. Seward approached him.
Coming closer, he knew he had found the right man. Small piggish eyes darted out of his hate-filled face, as Morgund described. “Did you threaten a young man whilst he was wounded, and surrounding him with your fellows?”
Harold thought himself safe and risked an aggressive comment. “Yes I did and I enjoyed it. Depart Scotsman, whilst you can.”
“No, I am not finished with you yet,” Seward replied. The breeze cast Seward’s hair askew, making him look wilder.
Harold, tried to intimidate Seward, “Go, before I send you to hell, where I should have sent your boyfriend.”
He was an angry man who needed to be taught a lesson. He was intemperate of others, so therefore others must be intemperate of him and pay him in the same coin. Seward was just the right man to do so. Harold didn’t see the smile that his comment made for he had turned towards his slovenly laughing soldiers, laughing with them. Obviously he was performing for them.
“Allow me to test a theory I have,” Seward said. “I believe intimidators are also cowards. Are you a coward? Let me test you with my sword. Will you fight me?” Seward’s eyes were hard and cold and his hand rested on his blade.
Harold’s self confidence took flight. This blonde giant was outnumbered many times over but still was spoiling for a fight. Harold’s voice became sulky, taking on something of a whining tone. Seward thought he was like a little boy, a spoilt evil little boy, the kind who enjoyed being cruel, who liked taking the wings off insects. “I am Harold De Taunton, trusted servant of Sir Richard Cressingham. He would hold it a grave matter indeed, if any harm were to come to me.”
“He is no fighter like yourself. It would be murder.”
A nearby priest hurried over to the confrontation, and placed a restraining hand on Seward’s shoulder. “The Lord looks graciously on those of us with a gentle spirit. Spare him.”
The priest was distraught at the prospect of violence. Seward held his blade, but not his tongue. “You are a worthless wretch De Taunton. A pathetic scoundrel, a coward, and such cowardice is unfit for a man.”
Turning his back, Seward heard the priest call after him, “Thank you, in God’s name. May God bless you.”
When Seward left the ruffian’s eyes filled with hate again. No lesson had he learned. More men would come to suffer at Harold’s hands and it would have been good if Seward had killed this brutal fellow who spent his life destroying the lives of others.
Upon his return, Morgund favoured Seward with a warm smile.
“Did you kill him?”
“You know I did not. I couldn’t kill him in cold blood. That De Taunton was too cowardly to face me.
“What happened?”
“He warned me of his protection, when that didn’t work he nearly cried.”
“Was he very badly frightened?”
“He was, yes. He is a terrible craven.”
“That he is.”
“I learnt something today …” Seward paused, reflecting. “Something a priest told me. God looks kindly on those of us with a gentle soul.”
“That is true.” Morgund replied uncertainly. Those words, coming from the mouth of an experienced killer the likes of Seward, confronted him strongly. Involuntarily, Morgund said, “Seward, his face haunts me still.”
Seward knew of what deathly face he spoke, for a little earlier, he heard Morgund on about him, to himself, mumbling about the man he had watched slowly die.
“In battle, men fight or die, don’t blame yourself. You chose to live, the only choice. Let us go and help the wounded. Action is the best antidote for troubles of the mind.”
Morgund felt a queer sense of rebellion against Seward’s prompting. After all, he was the last surviving MacAedh Earl of Ross, whereas Seward only a shipwrecked serf. By what right had Seward the killer to tell him to tend to the sick like some old hospice nun. He would not relinquish it so easily. “A knight rode on horseback he cut down panic stricken men like a wolf amongst sheep. That way of fighting is good, is useful for our purpose.”
“What purpose?” Seward asked, sensing the shift in his friend’s behaviour.
“To rouse the highlands, to meet King Alexander in battle and defeat him.”
“A fatal curse that has greatly reduced your family. The MacAedhs have been fighting it for a hundred years without success. Hide away in the mountains. He’ll forget you, Morgund.”
“But I’ll not forget him.”
“Morgund, you’re probably the last MacAedh alive. Stay alive and carry on your family name.”
“I am descended of kings, I shall not hide. Besides, they have done too much to me for me to forget. He contemplated uneasily and Seward could see him grinding his teeth. “I can’t let things be.”
Seward walked off with more ill humour than was common with him, fearful lest his quest to keep Morgund alive should fail. Morgund caught up to him and stopped him.
“You have committed a gross act of impertinence to a future King of Scots,” Morgund said.
“You will never win!” Seward shouted.
“No, he will lose. He will lose,” Morgund’s voice was rising. “Alexander is wise in the ways of stealth
but not the ways of battle.”
Seward scoffed. “How can you be sure?”
Morgund in his zeal ignored Seward’s words. “Alexander killed my father. His great grandfather captured mine, put his eyes out and killed him. There must be an end to it, one of us must die so the other can live. Whilst I live, I risk any future he has. He killed my father. III be avenged.”
“Or dead. He is King he commands all Scotland and he fight you, a man with one retainer.”
“He fights me, a son of a noble house who is the right claimant to the throne, and you must support me. If you don’t, you are a not the friend I took you for.”
Morgund’s look changed then and he caught Seward’s wrist. Held it tightly. For a moment Seward doubted Morgund’s sanity.
Tears filled Morgund’s eyes and Seward finally knew, why Morgund was taking this course. His shoulders heaved. “He killed my father Seward! He killed my father.”
THE WITCH QUEEN
THE DAYS FOLLOWING the battle ushered in October. The injured either healed slowly or died, the bodies of the fallen were looted and buried or burned. Biting Autumn gales from the mountains brought not only a fiercely penetrating cold sleet but discordance among the assemblage. A messenger, half dead with cold, arrived in the central hall of Rochester castle to bring news on bended knee. His words were few, but portentous. “The rumours of an army are true. Already they advance upon the castle.”
Within a day a great trebuchet was casting massive stones at the towering fortress walls. All those within the castle knew, should only one small section of wall come down the king’s men, vastly outnumbering them would pour in. The only relent to the devastating fusillade was for the enemy to launch the occasional corpse at the besieged defenders. With a grinding inevitability the great wall finally buckled and collapsed in an avalanche of stone and wood. A brief futile attempt at containment was overcome. All was lost. Greatly disheartened the rebels resited, but to no effect. Seward and Morgund joined the unrelenting confusion.
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