Celtic Blood

by James John Loftus

  Morgund said. “Enough. It is best we address the issue of our escape and later about joyous news. We need to be away. We will talk more later, about the child.”

  Seward was unresponsive, as if he had slipped back into his haze. He was staring at them both.

  “Seward, we need to be away urgently.”

  “It is best that we go,” Seward finally replied, having regained his voice. It was not, however as it once was, one shock too many, this day. Seward’s confusion eventually lessened. Seward thought about the morning. The beat fell different, the Grand Witch didn’t hold the stick, that felt good. Whilst waiting to put their plan into action Seward pulled Morgund aside. A sudden realisation springing to mind. “Should we die in Scotland there will be no one to protect Mirium and the babe. Your grandfather had his eyes taken out by a King much kinder than Alexander. What might Alexander do? She cannot come to Scotland.”

  “Mirium has my promise, Seward.”

  From Seward. “If ever you set foot back in Scotland, from that moment you will be hunted until death. Can you think of your safety and hers so little, and think, not to protect a babe. To return to Scotland a dead man walking.”

  “Cannot we take to the heather and hide? If all goes wrong,” Morgund replied.

  “Morgund, think of what you say. You know that would not work.”

  Finally, Mirium spoke. “Morgund, stay, here in England, when our babe grows enough to make for itself, then take to Scotland.”

  “I have been too long away neglecting my responsibilities. My mother could be in danger and might need me. My clansman must know they have a chief. Alexander. I am ready to cross swords with him and have payment for the wrongs he has done to me. I will go as soon as I can. I will test his mettle. When it is safe, I will return for thee.”

  “And what will I do?” Mirium asked. “Wait? Look into the fire wondering if you will come, or I am abandoned, or widowed?”

  Morgund didn’t reply, silence engulfed them a long uncomfortable silence.

  Mirium finally said. “Who would I stay with?”

  “I have friends who would take thee in. When it is safe I would return and have thee with me.”

  So it was decided that Mirium would stay in England until it was safe for her and the baby to come to Scotland. Mirium resigned herself to her predicament much reduced in happiness, realising where she stood in his priorities. Her attempt to meet his eyes and resume the discussion met with nothing, he looked away. His mind was elsewhere, he regarded the matter as over and decided.

  Mirium walked the forest path. It led north, and was the route to avoid the major highways where word of their passing could reach any pursuers. Mirium well sick of looking for comfort from Morgund, knew he regarded her as a liability. A pregnant girl she thought herself a liability, not wanted by anyone. The tiring day came to a close. She looked towards Morgund seeking to draw some comfort. He gazed beyond her intent on the greenery. If Morgund didn’t want her he would not have her. Halting to attend to a call of nature, she traipsed off into the green-woods.

  Whist Morgund and Seward waited, she pushed further in. Mirium did not become frightened until darkness began to settle over the woods. In the fading light, the trees began to take on unfamiliar and menacing shapes. There was movement in the shadows. She felt hunted. In a panic, she ran. A sudden wind blew, shaking water from the branches drenching her. Wet tendrils clawed, discomfortingly. Low-hanging branches barred her path, and rain-sodden leaves trailed wetly across her cheek. She could hear sounds behind her and kept quickening her pace, until she tripped over the exposed roots of a massive oak and sprawled headlong into the dark. She lay very still, but heard the unsteady echoes of her own breathing and brambles and broken branches stirring in the wind.

  “In the forest you may find yourself lost without a companion.” It was her mother’s warning from long ago.

  Her mother had once warned her thus as a child to prevent her wandering far from her, amongst the woods to get lost. A mother’s love was the only true love. A man’s love was selfish, it could not last. Her mother had said that to, as in so much else, the wisdom of her mother prevailed.

  A great lot of good Mirium had done herself, she thought. Withal, she would have to wait here till morning to try and find a way out. Life seemed so hard and unfair. She had been a pretty child once. Now, she lay destitute, and unloved on the forest floor. In an agony of discomfort wet-through, tortured with unpleasant thoughts. Closing her eyes shivering from the cold, she heard … “Mirium where art thou? Mirium?”

  It was Morgund’s voice, and further away Seward sang out, calling out, “Mirium? Mirium?”

  “Morgund, I am here. Here!” She kept calling to him drawing him closer until he found her. She shook. She was soaked and cold, lacking the fortitude of spirit to continue alone having spent many hours laying on the wet ground and being rained on.

  “What happened?” Morgund said breaking through the undergrowth.

  She lied. “I must of walked too far within the forest. I thought I’d easily find my way back and become lost.”

  Morgund sounded angry. “We have been searching for hours.”

  “Are you very angry with me?” she asked challengingly.

  Morgund hugged her. “Of course not.”

  He gave her his arm and led her away. She knew little of what happened after that, only that she was sheltered and before a fire, and very soon asleep. It was well into the morning before they again walked the road. Being unaccustomed to the heavy exertion, Mirium’s body grew sore quickly.

  The young man sat high in the saddle, imagining what a fine figure he struck. Handsome, tall, and lithe was Edward of Linwood. A fortunate life he could call his, born; into gentility, not too rich nor too poor. His family were known in his shire as notables. He rode without a care, having never suffered a serious misfortune, nor did he ever expect to meet with one. At a turn in the road he saw three figures, rustics who must make way for him. His servant Giles would give them short shift and bid them stand aside. He cast his eyes to Giles, with a commanding air. Giles knew what was required.

  The rain was lessening as they continued on the road. Morgund and Seward both eyed Edward as a cat may a bird with a broken wing. Not only was the man, of evident, if not extravagant wealth, but his physique and demeanour identified him as one utterly alien to ways of the blade. The both bore the merriment of character and lack of articulation Morgund and Seward associated with complete stupidity. By providence or mere luck, proceeding towards them was an opportunity far too good to miss. The pair adopted the station of beggars, their hands open, outstretched and imploring.

  “Sir, I beg you to stop, we seek charity. Two starving men and a girl who is also so,” Seward said.

  The young horseman rode up to the two. “Be off with you ruffians,” Edward said.

  Seward grasped his reins. As he did, his voice became threatening. “Dismount, we do not seek to injure you, but we need your horse, so get off.”

  “How dare you!” Unaccustomed to being touched by one of the peasant class, he was in shocked that one would dare to touch him.

  Resisting, suddenly he found himself unhorsed, relieved of his purse and as an added injury, roughly pushed into the mud on the side of the road. The dandy, disorientated and fearful and equally, unused to being covered in mud, attempted to come to terms with his situation. His servant, Giles, likewise grounded. Now saddled, Morgund and Mirium, turned to wave before disappearing behind a turn in the road.

  Edward and Giles, in somewhat elevated spirits from their earlier sampling of wines, took a somewhat pragmatic approach to their situation and began their long, if not unenjoyable ramble back home. Edward of Linwood was not a particularly dynamic, intelligent or energetic man. His hereditary title and estate allowed him to live comfortably enough, but the meeting he had in the woods with Seward, Morgund and Mirium marked by far his most exiting adventure, to date. Their lives had been at stake, undoubtedly. An hour later, Ed
ward walking easily moments before, coming to the gate to his manor began staggering. He had to be stood upright by men in the yard. The incident on the road to London grew with each telling.

  Edward embellished the story of arriving home in his mud-spattered attire, throwing off the men who held him up, and bravely making the doorway, alone. He failed to mention not drawing his purely dagger when accosted. Firstly, straight after the incident he had given obliging thanks to God above that he still drew breath. But in safer surrounds the unarmed assailants and a girl metamophed into a dozen armed and dangerous assailants who fought Giles and Edward, until they were overwhelmed by sheer numbers. No one who knew either, Edward or Giles, believed them.

  Mounted, with Seward leading, and Mirium clinging to Morgund, had made good time, pushing themselves far north. That night a small wood sheltered them. Fish caught from a stream cooked on the open fire, sated them. They laughed heartily, recounting their robbery on the road, of the dandy and his shocked man servant.

  The third day found them too weary to travel. They spent the day in a field. Tall grass and flowers seemed to drink in the spring sunshine. That day brought the most peaceful sleep Morgund recalled since leaving Scotland. He slept well, knowing he was heading home. After so long, his mother, he would see her once more. The day next they spent some of Linwood’s money in a small town, helping themselves to fresh bread and cheese. Mirium, made herself pleasant. Morgund and Seward did their best to entertain her, and succeeded.

  Later in the day Morgund grew silent. Mirium considered him. Weariness crinkled his brow. Morgund must be very tired for he, more than any of them received dire treatment from the Grand Witch. Then there was the question of the future. His intention to leave her with strangers was an ungallant act, unworthy of him. He was better than that, and he would see that for himself.

  To Morgund, each league brought him nearer to his reckoning with Alexander. Mirium would be safe. He would return for her. She must wait for him. All his training was leading to this moment. Alexander would find payment for his actions. Nothing else mattered. Nothing. To take up the leadership of clan MacAedh … That was the station he was born for. Mirium must see that. An abandoned barn sheltered them for the night. In the morning they were away again. A forest skirted their horizon, ahead.

  “Is that where we are going?’ Mirium demanded, the forest looming closer.

  “There? Yes,” Morgund replied earnestly.

  They travelled to a isolated section of the dense woodland, its forest paths, hillocks and streams familiar to Morgund. It was the woodland estate where Cristo and his family had sheltered Morgund for a season of recuperation. After an hour picking their way through the trees, two men, Cristo and Morgund, met again. They shared a heartfelt embrace. Cristo, however, was somewhat solemn in his disposition. Cristo told Morgund disappointedly, Edith, had become somewhat wanton in her attitude since Morgund had left. In her caprices Edith would steal away to town alone and spend time with whomsoever took her fancy. Edith found it both exhilarating and soul destroying in equal measure. The years had been unkind to Cristo, and he had aged beyond what Morgund expected. The greatest cause was the taxing circumstances of his daughter, and the realization he could not control her. Also, the tragic lose of his son, murdered by nobles in the forest, as had happened to his late wife which had done much to disturb him.

  Perhaps Edith would not have been beset by waywardness had she married Morgund. If married to him she would have been with someone who had conquered her inner being, both spiritually and physically. What existed between them in a sense was gone forever, never to be recovered yet in another sense it was as strong as ever. Close proximity renewed the attraction. Morgund felt it. Mirium saw it in his eyes. And, Edith definitely felt the power of their mutual attraction.

  That revivified fascination was with him every moment. The fact remained that Mirium also had his heart, which made him introspective. The situation was unfortunate for all. Mirium asked him about Edith. He reflected of their time together, and seeing the look on his face, she did not ask again. Edith fought animosity towards Mirium as did Mirium her own. They were in each other’s presence daily, toiling together, giving them no release from the stifling anxiety. Edith was quietly supportive of Mirium and helped her, but she was torn, her compassion made her want to help Mirium yet whenever she thought of Morgund her heart raced, it antagonised Mirium beyond measure. Mirium noticed every little look Edith gave Morgund, and he her.

  This atmosphere brought about in Mirium a progressive fall. She could not withdraw from the vacuum of the depression she found herself drawn into. Things went on like this until the first thaw when Seward and Morgund set out for Scotland. Morgund was too young to understand. He thought she was using feminine guile to prevent his departure, by appearing so despondent to guilt him into not leaving, or was in sorrow at the thought of it, which was partly the cause, a matter he could do nothing about.

  The night before he left he told her. “I have to go, to restore my fortune. I cannot be dishonourable and skulk in England.”

  He sounded very young saying that. The recollection of his words would bring a smile to her lips in years to come, but as much as she loved that image, she would expend much effort trying to forget it, for immediately after the smile came the moment when she remembered her subsequent actions. But presently, Mirium acknowledged that he had to be true to his conscience, though it didn’t lessen her hurt. Her eyes, as he rode away very grey and desolate.

  MORGUND MEETS ALEXANDER

  THE RENEWAL OF spring fell across the land. The freshly fallen rain giving a vibrancy and glistening sheen to all that lay beneath the clouds. The air was refreshed too. The hands of grace were outstretched, and resting upon open places the new season’s glorious bounty. The two riders on horseback approached a fork in the road where the northward path bisected.

  “We shall take the low road Morgund,” Seward declared.

  Morgund scoffed aloud. “I’m taking to the high road Seward.”

  Morgund took off with a dash. Seward, realising belatedly he was being challenged to a race, dug his spurs in. In places the two roads nearly overlapped. Morgund’s elevated trail leading him slightly above Seward. Seward’s horse was much faster. He expected to surpass Morgund easily. The two paths came very close together as Morgund and Seward sped on. What was the fool doing now, Seward thought. Distracting him? Balancing in his saddle, Morgund leaned forward, then climbed up on the horse’s back. Pushing himself off, Morgund sailed through the air and hit Seward squarely, dislodging him from his saddle. Together they tumbled, joyously rolling over the earth. At this moment they both felt completely free. The ground, softened by the rain, had been warmed by the sun’s rays to a comfortable soft rest. They sat near a stream that twinkled enticingly.

  The water came from the hills nearby, caressed by boulders on the way down. It sang happily, and by the action of plants and the movement of rocks, the water was purified. They could taste the clarity and purity of the water, the crystal stream cleansed their palates.

  “At least you didn’t beat me Seward.”

  “I still might,” Seward replied, as he had his hand closed into a fist in feigned threat.

  “I fell. It was an accident and you just happened to be in my way. Sorry.” Morgund couldn’t subdue a smile.

  “It was quite a feat, catching me like that.”

  “Aye Seward, you are the biggest fish I have caught.”

  “You told me it was an accident.”

  “It was,” Morgund argued proudly.

  “Morgund.”

  Morgund protested, “It was, I.” He was at a loss for words, “I, umh, I, umh.” He laughed.

  Together they fought their way up the hill. The ascent was tougher going than first impressions allowed. Nature’s harmony and serenity however, calmed them. They talked easily, enjoying themselves. Later that day they crossed into Scotland and their jovial spirits were almost immediately quelled. Trials of stren
gth ahead lay, Morgund and Seward hoped they were ready for them.

  Upon crossing into Scotland a dismal rain set in. Irritated and growing colder and wetter by degrees. Seward remarked upon the rain in the negative. It rained, every second or two, Seward felt cold. “It’s raining,” he said. “Again!”

  “Yes,” Morgund replied. “You have said that, already, often.”

  Morgund gazed heavenward. The falling rain grew heavier, the dark, rolling clouds unburdening themselves upon the earth. The sky, Morgund noticed, seemed to have a life all its own. Morgund continued to stare at the clouds, and wondered perplexedly wether his introspection drew apparitions forth from the sky or if the firmament above was haunted by giants and spectres which sprang there by God’s will. To the north, a great bearded face, whose contenance divided slightly before dissolving. A group of boys racing. The fleecy blankets parted for a moment, the lighter patch of sky formed the perfect outline of an axe. In time a dark woman with long hair in a drifting halo around her head took flight on great feathered wings. Morgund, in his daydreaming, thought of the effigies that graced the prows of ships, of whispering giants conspiring, of princess and godesess. The growing intensity of the rain eventually rendered the sky a uniform black, with an occasional lightness where thunder light up. He felt chilled and shivered. With no shelter nearby he and Seward pulled up their hoods.

  “It is supposed to be spring, Seward,” Morgund muttered gloomily.

  “In Scotland the word means little.”

  To Seward it seemed as if this weather had taken issue against him personally, and he’d like to settle it somehow. Yet with nothing to do but gaze at the sky. The rain slowed. The light improved, and the clouds parted in the western sky. The blue, a blessed relief. Morgund looking up, saw nothing interceding between them and the far up stratosphere. Then the clouds rolled in again. The wet being overtaken by sun and the sun by rain. The clouds looked wispy at present as if they would flee, but he were not taken in by appearances. For he knew to keep his eyes closed for a short time and open them again all would change.