Winter Serpent (24 page)

The Welshman muttered something.

“Shut your mouths!” the King of the Picts shouted at them. “Do as you are bidden.”

The two men bristled for a moment, the girl between them, and it was Llewellyn ap Gwilym who retreated a step. The drama was greeted by a roar of laughter.

“Hoo,” the old chieftainess screeched. “Nechtan will overwhelm the

Viking by producing an army of bastards!”

“No!” the King raged as his niece was led from the hall. “The next one will be accounted no bastard, I swear it!”

Brude accompanied Doireann to the foot of the steps which led to the tower room. She thought he would leave her there. Instead, he followed after her. He reached over her shoulder to push open the door to the apartment and they went in. At the sight of them, Elda did not wait to be bidden; she got up from her stool and left in haste. Doireann was startled. She felt the presence of some conspiracy, some knowledge that was common even to the servants and of which she was ignorant.

The child was asleep on the bed, and a breeze from the open door stirred over him. The room was empty and peaceful after the shouting and turmoil of the great hall. Nechtan’s son leaned against the wall and picked at his teeth absently.

“My father is very angry with you,” he commented.

She watched him warily. She had exchanged but few words with this little warrior and had not really seen him clearly until this moment. He was a typical Pict, snub features and encircling blue tattoo about his mouth. More lines of tattooing on his forehead told that he was of the ruling clan. He now had a certain confidence about him that she had not noticed before.

“Nechtan will protect you,” he was saying, “but there are always the seven chieftains to consider. Remember, it has not been many years since my father conquered Talorcan his cousin and set himself upon the throne, so he needs the good will of the many districts to keep him safe. He would not go against their wills, but he also needs an heir to follow him who will put down all the claimants who wish also to be king of the Picts. It is a great sorrow to him that the law will not allow me to succeed him.”

“And no sorrow to you?” she asked. He shrugged.

“It is not for my good but for the good of the Picts that such things are arranged. You saw these Angles and how they watch for signs of weakness among us so that they may seize our lands. You have lived among the Scots and perhaps know their king’s ambitions to have a kingdom which stretches from east to west. They are all about us, these enemies, and also within us, for there are many even of the Council of Seven who in daylight swear their loyal oaths and at night dream of how they will set their own children upon the king’s chair. My father must have a strong heir to continue the blood of kings. It is unfortunate for him that you have so many foes and so many entanglements to bring with you. He fears your past.”

“I thought he cared for my honor and safety!” she cried. “Yet he did not open his mouth to defend me this night.”

“He has risked much so that you may give him what he wants. You heard the talk against you in the hall. Spy, they called you, and schemer. The Council of Seven fears you will put the Northman’s child upon the throne.”

“Nechtan risks nothing,” she spat at him. “He observes his duties to his kin while furthering his own plans.”

He looked puzzled.

“Is this not a clever thing? Now, I have begotten children by other women, and you have given proof that you are fertile, so things will no doubt work out as they should. My father prefers the old custom in this instance, because he gambles so much. That is, when my child grows in your belly then I will marry you.”

“You and your father are mad! The Saxon bishop will not allow such a heathen arrangement.” She put her hands over her face suddenly. “I am not a beast, that you can breed me for your own gain! Leave me alone. Do not touch me!” He came close and stood slipping his bracelet up and down on his wrist as
he watched her.

“You are no virgin, so why are you so fearful? I will not hurt you. I take pride that you are so beautiful and other men see you and sweat with their longing. I will be greatly envied and I do not deny you anything which you might want. You have now a few fine things such as jewelry and gowns which my father has given you. But I will give you even more.”

“I wish only one thing,” she told him, “and that I have now. My child.” He shrugged.

“I have nothing to do with this. He is a great danger to my father’s plans. But perhaps I will help you to send him safely away.”

“You will give nothing, get nothing!” she cried. She raised her hand to strike him and he caught it.

“It is reckless of you to be so stubborn,” he warned her. “The child means nothing. Some morning you will wake to find him gone from your arms.”

She saw that he was right. She was shaken by the realization, by her entrapment in their schemes.

“If the Old Cruithne is to get his heir he should give something also in return,” she said quietly. “There are some things I could do to thwart him that women know of.”

He laughed aloud.

“Such craft,” he told her. “You are truly Nechtan’s niece now, by the look on your face. Do not bargain with me. Bargain with him when you carry his grandson.”

“For the child?”

“I do not care.” He put his arm against the wall, imprisoning her. “Now you are looking at me carefully, eh? For the first time seeing what a woman sees when she looks at a man. Perhaps you will notice what I have already found to be true: that because we are cousins there is a strange likeness. As in a pool of water, it wavers, but there is something of us in each other. Is it not so?”

His face was close to hers, his breath on her lips. “I don’t know,” she whispered.

“Well,” he said, seizing her, “the Old Cruithne has waited long enough.” She twisted away from his hands. The gown tore. He suddenly held a long
strip of cloth in his hands.

“I shall get you a new gown,” he said, grinning.

“Not now,” she cried, squirming along the wall. “You lied when you said you would not hurt me!”

“I am not hurting you,” he protested. “Why are you trembling so?”

He paused to pull off his shirt. His chest and arms were covered with more blue tattoos.

“Look,” he said proudly. He caught her hand and held it to his upper arm. It was full-muscled and hard as a rock. “There is no bow made that I cannot bend,” he boasted, “nor spear that I cannot cast. I will not turn away from a fight to keep you. I like you very much. My skin itches for the feel of your body. Now what is there for you to fear?”

“You fool!”

The cry reached the child on the bed. The man froze. They waited for the child’s whimper, but none came.

“Wait,” she pleaded, holding him from her. “Anything, anything, but do not wake the child.”

She tore at the gown and it fell at her feet. She stood stiffly, waiting for him to seize her again. She shut her eyes.

She heard the wheeze of his laughter.

“No,” he told her. He pinched her thigh. “It is always cold in the north and the Pict soon learns to burn his hands at the fire rather than freeze them in the ice. Do not attempt to deceive me like this. Would a man have to beat you before you would warm to him?”

“That is not necessary,” she said hastily. He grabbed at the long plait of hair, bringing her face back so that he could look into it.

He pinched her thigh again.

“So now let us be friends, cousin,” he said, grinning.

12

T
he two churchmen stared at each other gloomily. Wilfrid wiped his brow with a small piece of linen cloth and sighed. It was sultry and breathless in the room, and no breeze came from Loch Inver to relieve them. The barley on the hillsides below the fortress was turn-

ing yellow with the heat and lack of rain, and Wilfrid had spent the morning in the fields with the Picts, soothing their fears concerning the drought and attempting to restore their faith in God’s ability to send much-needed rain. It had been a trying business, for the people easily deserted their faith in times of stress to turn to the old gods. Wilfrid’s throat was sore and parched with the many words he had spoken to them. He was tired. It was to be, in all, he thought, studying the girl and then the Culdee, a very difficult day.

“I could not condone it under any circumstances,” he said to Flann. “No matter how Nechtan may evade the issue, adultery is still, in the eyes of God, a grievous sin. I know that it is an old custom, among the Picts for the couple to marry after the woman has conceived, but this is an evil, pagan business, and the church overlooks it only because of the scarcity of priests available for proper churching. And then only in remote districts. But to stand by and allow this to be practiced in high places! It cannot be done. I have done
penance for my helplessness, my failure before God. It is part of my shame that I have not moved Nechtan or made any impression upon him.”

“Do not take the blame on yourself,” Flann said with sympathy. “One makes these compromises and only God can be the final judge.”

“Yes,” Doireann added, “do not be downcast. I know you are my good friend but this is not a thing for which you can hold yourself responsible. I have no complaints, although I will soon have to strike the little Pict if he does not cease to pinch me. What a habit!”

The men looked uncomfortable.

“Your travail is not the only thing,” Wilfrid said. “There is the child. You are both in mortal danger. The old man’s mind is a capricious thing and he is ever alert for some scheme to further his fortunes. It is a most wicked situation.”

“Glad I am,” Flann told her, “that you have at last agreed to have the child baptized in the Holy Church. As a child of Christ he will be under the church’s protection, and this will keep him from all but the most desperate of schemes.”

“There are no words that can persuade you to take this sacrament for yourself?” Wilfrid asked.

She laughed.

“I do not think God would have me in His church now. Have you not heard the gossip that I have a curse on me? It is a fine tale, how I caused much trouble in Cumhainn and then in Inverness, as I was the cause of Edbert’s leaving the fort angry and convinced of the Picts’ treachery.”

“This is not true,” Flann said. “You have great beauty of face and body and this is one of the three things all men covet. These three things are the true curses: fame, gold, a beautiful woman. Men do not blame themselves for their passions. They blame the object, as they have begun to do with you in Inverness.”

“I am afraid you are quite notorious,” Wilfrid said earnestly. “A beautiful woman, like gold, is scarce, and yet there is always the pervading interest and desire. Travelers from the highlands say that the Scots still ask if you have lost your beauty now that you have borne a child, or if you are marked by your sorrows. Fanciful tales are fashioned by the song makers to tell of your adventures.”

“This is none of my doing,” she protested.

“I account you innocent of your woes,” Wilfrid assured her, but Flann was silent.

They went secretly to the chapel to baptize the child. It was most important to the two men that consecrated ground be used for the ceremony. The heathen state of the father and the uncertainty of the child’s future made every detail of the sacrament significant.

The windowless, cramped little room of the castle, which had been built as a chapel long ago by the deposed Culdees, was forbidding to Doireann. The place was held in continual gloom; only the wick of an oil lamp on the rough stone altar gave enough light to see by, and this cast fearsome shadows over the ancient pictures which had been scratched and stained on the walls. On one side the stiffened, lifeless figure of Christ with elongated hands and head hung on the cross. The large eyes of His face stared toward the far wall where the Virgin held an emaciated Child on her lap, her long hands covering its body, her bony knees thrust up through the folds of her gown. Time had dimmed the colors; the figures had a wraithlike look, only the eyes, long and oval and filled with pain, still kept their tints. Doireann was caught by their peculiar stare which seemed to follow her.

The familiar shapes of Wilfrid the Saxon and Flann in his brown robe before the altar did little to reassure her. It was so dark and so close that only Barra’s black eyes gleaming in the light of the oil lamp and the baby’s whimpering were things of the living world.

As Wilfrid and Flann recited their Latin words in low tones, it seemed to Doireann that the God of the dark chapel stared at her with the look of the eyes on the wall; that He hung suspended in the dark air above them, merciless and overpowering.

This God in the dark room was the God of the grave, damp and full of terror. He would find out her struggling and her pretenses, and his vengeance would be swift. A God of wrath, this dark God, and she had brought her child to Him, the child who was the offspring of the enemy of this God. Her child who was the son of one of the priest-killers of Lindesfarne.

“What is the child’s name?” Wilfrid was asking her, but she was so strangled by her own fears that she could not speak.

“Ian,” Flann offered, nodding to Wilfrid.