Celtic Blood
Page 24
“I am Morgund MacAedh, son of the murdered Kenneth MacAedh, Earl of Ross,” he stated matter-of-factly, pride and sadness combining to swell in his breast.
The old man and guards bowed their heads submissively. “Come forth.” The gatekeeper outstretched a hand taking Morgund’s hand in his.
Morgund, entered and waited in the central hall. The sun shone in through high apertures. A single lit brazier cast its warm glow upon tapestry and stone. The place was very quiet and Morgund was reluctant to create any noise. It felt empty, and still. There came the sound of walking from behind a door. Steps seemed to have a sense of urgency about them. The door opened, and Morgund gasped aloud in thanksgiving and wonder.
“Mother.” He muttered, through the sound was barely audible, as if lodged in his chest. Again he spoke, this time with the eagerness of a child. “Mother!”
It was indeed Mary who rushed towards Morgund her finery and trappings of nobility all but forgotten. She came with her arms outstretched, embracing the son she had long thought dead. “Morgund, oh Morgund,” Mary repeated time and again, hugging him kissing him and hugging him. She wept and laughed in equal measure.
After a long time she held her boy at arm’s length. “Let me look at you.” Her mouth caught in the flux between a smile and sorrow. The child, who she had last set eyes upon in his thirteenth year, was now a man. A very handsome man.
Where he had once been a small, timid child, his shoulders and arms now bore the girth of one familiar with the sword. He had grown in height so much. Morgund was no longer her sweet boy. His jaw had certainly lost that fineness and delicacy of youth, yet his brow was uncreased with worry. The silken face of her child had been cast away, to be replaced by the current likeness that looked to be roughly hewn from the granite that made the mountains of the earth.
Morgund, too, used the opportunity to gaze upon her. She had certainly aged, though he thought time had been gentle on her. The wrinkles at the corners of her eyes emphasizing her smile, and the graying of her hair akin to spun silver. She was still an attractive woman, even in her greater age and with her childbearing years now behind her. There was, however seriousness and gravity about her that had embedded itself into her features. Morgund, now looking upon her, saw it for what it was, the burden and sustained grief at having lost both a husband and son. At least his presence could alleviate some of her sorrow.
“We have no oil for lamps, I must take myself to get some,” Mary said.
“No stay mother. The fire will be enough.”
It became darker and the fire seemed to glow brighter and the light tantalizingly caught her auburn hair, which was strikingly harsh now, her hair blazed along like a displaced ember flickering as deep as any particle inside it, her hair entwined with the living heat, until she moved away.
‘You have your father’s eyes, my son,” Then braking her gaze by falling into Morgund’s arms again.
“I love you, mother,” Morgund stammered, his voice becoming thick again.
“And I you, Morgund,” she replied her voice muffled by his chest. He held her in silence for a long time, until eventually she added, “I have the handsomest son in the world.”
She smiled and felt more genuinely happy, than she had for so long, perhaps ever. It came to mind that Kenneth stole her heart, with his eyes, as Morgund would of any girl who looked into his. She looked at him with a look of love, and said. “I am never letting you go, again, ever.”
Together, they walked to a large aperture overlooking the loch. The breeze from the north blew Mary’s hair. She clutched Morgund’s arm as they gazed at the majestic scene of the countryside before them.
Putting her hand down on his, she said, “We are a clan of two.”
With that they returned their eyes to the horizon, to the setting sun, and to the promise of history yet unwritten. The two became twenty, two hundred, three hundred, a thousand, a million. Alexander was defeated in that Morgund survived and founded a great family, the Mackays.
Fearchar MacTaggart prostrated himself on the dusty floor of the church, yet unfinished, the walls almost fully erect but the firmament above serving as the building’s roof. The floor was cobbled in neatly hewn stone, the space before him recently upset. He had lost his second son to illness and his body had been laid to rest beneath the dressed stones this very day. MacTaggart wept openly, his fingers clawing impotently with grief upon stone. The injustice tore at his heart; would not the Lord protect his family for building of a church? Had he not put his wrongs behind him? He refused to accept this could be a judgment upon him for his part in the deposure of Kenneth MacAedh,
Though he had assumed control of MacAedh lands, he lamented that the land may be cursed by the blood of the unjustly spilled. Yet in time his eldest son would fall to the blade of Morgund MacAedh himself. The bloody feud would continue, with MacTaggart’s third and youngest son William growing into a hardy warrior, who would himself war against Morgund’s progeny. The first MacTaggart Earl of Ross, was Fearcher, his grandson would die at Bannockburn, beside the descendants of the Morgund, fighting for Scotland’s hero king, Robert the Bruce.
Fearcher felt the hand of the priest upon his back. “The rain,” he quoted, “falls upon the just and the unjust alike. As does the sun.”
As the sun that cast long shadows over MacTaggart’s prone form it filled the narrow windows of William Comyn’s apartments as he argued bitterly with Alan Durward, the Earl of Athol. Both these men had encountered Morgund during his time in Edinburgh. Now that news of the MacAedh’s survival reached them, and from no other than Alexander himself, William plagued the Earl of Athol’s ears with profanity and ill oaths.
William Comyn’s descendants would stumble, and be transformed from one of the pre-eminent Norman families during Alexander’s reign to being a scattered remnant struggling for survival after contesting Robert the Bruce for the Scottish crown.
Durward sat, grinning. A Celt was not so easily put down as Alexander and Buchan had found out. He was sick of Buchan and hastened his departure. His concern was cementing of his family’s position, by the marriage of his daughter to MacDuff, the Earl of Fife. It would fall to the MacDuff line to crown the kings of Scotland, yet Alan Durward’s own grandson would refuse to crown Robert the Bruce and forfeit the titular role. He would serve as the last MacDuff Earl.
Edith, the wayward daughter of Cristo, brought another pail of water into the house. The last rays of the setting sun were filtering through the forest trees before the gloom of night shrouded all. She set the water down and sponged Mirium’s sweat-soaked brow with a cloth. Mirium screamed, the childbirth entering it’s third hour. After a great deal more exertion and the fall of night, the child was born, and Mirium held the struggling, purple babe exhaustedly.
“It is a boy, healthy and strong, dear Mirium,” Edith told the almost, child-mother.
Mirium nodded, fatigued. “And what shall you call him?”
“As we spoke of, William.”
Mirium smiled, pondering the child and his future. In time the names MacAedh and MacWilliam would be used in close connection, sometimes even interchangeably, especially during the uprisings that would transpire only short years ahead. Although the exact nature of the relationship would become forever lost to history, the boy child bore an uncanny resemblance to his father, a trait that would continue to bless and curse the line for centuries.
Seward watched the same sun near the horizon and a girl as she spoke to her companions. Occasionally she would glance his way, and the dimming light failed to disguise her blushing. He admired her physical beauty long before he realized fully why he did; the hair so light brown to be almost blonde, her eyes clear and blue and a constellation of freckles across the cheeks and bridge of the nose reminded him heartily of his lost homeland, Scandinavia. Seward could not help but feel a natural attraction towards her.
He asked one of the villagers still fussing over him who the girl was, to be informed she was visiting fro
m one of the nearby hamlets. As he paced towards her, he noticed she blushed again. “My name is Seward,” he introduced himself.
“As mine is Colcha,” she replied sweetly.
Seward would marry this girl. Unfortunately, in horrific circumstances she would die and the child she bore Seward would lay dead, slain along with her. Seward would have a descendant who he never met. The Gunns established a long and prestigious history. It is believed that a member of clan Gunn was with Henry Sinclair, Earl of Orkney, whom some believe travelled to the New World in 1398 traveling to Greenland, Nova Scotia and New England.
In northern Scotland, the sun cast its rays upon the loch, upon two figures on castle battlements. Morgund’s mother retired indoors, leaving her son to reflect alone. Morgund’s eyes wandered the darkened sky, illuminated by the crescent moon and the myriad stars. He pondered his years of adversity and what the future held in store for him. Seward, Mirium, Edith, Cristo, his parents, MacCainstacairt and Alexander. They all played significant parts in his life, as actors upon a stage, for better or worse. Morgund would never face Alexander in battle, despite his wrath and desire for revenge.
Morgund’s revenge would take at once a more subtle and more profound form; the establishment of a great family that would out survive the reign of any one man. In the decades and centuries to come, the name MacAedh would become MacKay, and those bearing it almost beyond counting. Whether Morgund himself considered such potentialities, he fought hard for his name displaying pride in being a MacAedh.
This night, he contemplated instead upon the hills, rivers and mountains that made up his land. He recalled the friends he loved and foes he hated. He considered all he had lost, and all he had gained. And knew he had been above all, very lucky to survive.
And lastly if you are a MacKay you have a small sample of Morgund’s blood in yours, noble blood it is, and it is … Celtic Blood …
THE END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
The Author has held a life long interest in Scottish history, and history in general. After reading the novels of he Scottish author Nigel Tranter he was inspired to attempt his hand at a Scottish historical novel. He has co-written a feature film. He lives in Brisbane, Queensland, Australia and is married with two children.