Winter Serpent (29 page)

Dawn was breaking when she felt Barra’s hand on her shoulder.

“There is someone near,” he whispered. “I hear the lowing of cattle and children’s voices.”

Flann was crouched against the dawn sky. Doireann made out a path below them as wide as a wagon road and heard the sound of hooves on it and the voices Barra had mentioned.

She rubbed her face, trying to rouse herself. She had dreamed a terrible dream while she slept. She had wandered with the child upon an endless plain and there was no road to follow or tree or hut to offer shelter. It was an empty, terrible place with only tall, wind-swept grass as high as her waist, and no shelter, no bush, no living thing as far as the eye could see. The child wailed and she wept with him in her searing loneness. It was so real that she still felt her anguish. She shuddered.

The cheerful voices on the road were speaking Gaelic, and they could see a cloud of dust raised by the cattle.

“Do not make a sound,” Barra warned her.

A cowherd came in sight using a spear as a staff. Behind him was a herd of a dozen cows kept in line by two children with willow switches. Some distance behind the children was a group of men on foot with hunting spears and bows slung on their backs. Barra strained to see this last group and frowned.

But Flann suddenly stood up and hailed them.

The cowherd stopped and lifted his spear, ready for attack. The cattle overran him and began to scatter along the roadside. The children ran after them, shouting.

“We are peaceful travelers,” Flann shouted.

The cowherd saw the woman and her child and lowered his weapon slightly. “A good day to you then,” he said cautiously.

“And to you,” Flann responded, “and the peace of God be on you and yours. Whose cattle are these, and what chieftain holds this land?”

The hunters had come up and were peering at the figure of Flann above them.

“This is the land of the macDubh-Shithe,” the herder said, “and the cattle are the property of the clans. The chief is the macPhee. What are you doing here?” “We crossed the loch in the night and seek haven in the land of the Scots.”

“What is your name?” one of the hunters called. “Flann the Culdee.”

“Not so,” another voice said, “for, dressed as you are, I would call you instead Flann of Eire, of the Ui Cinnsealaigh.”

“Who is that?” Flann asked quickly, squinting at them.

“Remember the dun fort in Cumhainn? We are the Ard-Ri’s men, Angus Og, Eoghan macRonan, the two brothers macIlreach and Uisedean, and Diarmidh the Lean. We are Alpin’s warriors and this is our chief, the famed Comac Neish.”

“Comac!” Flann scrambled down into the roadway and they greeted him, laughing and slapping him on the back.

“As you can see,” the cowherd interrupted, “I am taking the cattle to the day’s pasturage and the macPhee the chief, will be angry if I do not go onward. But the Ard-Ri’s men will take you to the house of the macPhee where there is hospitality for all.”

He did not linger, trotting after the children, calling to them. “Who are these others with you?” Comac Neish, asked Flann. Flann waved for them to come down.

“It has been a dangerous journey,” he said in a low voice. “In a moment your eyes will see why.”

The Ard-Ri’s men stared at the approaching figures of Doireann and Barra, carrying the child. Comac Neish took his bow from his back and handed it to one of the curadhs.

The girl looked up at him as he extended his hand, startled and confused to see the bright blaze of his eyes in a brown face, the dark curling hair, the white teeth. His cloak was dusty but still-scarlet silk, and he had a goldhinged collar about his neck which glinted in the morning sunlight. The
glare, the bright colors, his bold, rough face overwhelmed her. It was like looking into a roaring, leaping fire and feeling that you must shut your eyes. “We have waited many days on this side of Loch Ness,” Comac Neish was saying, “not knowing what fortune would bring us. But Alpin wished us to find you and we are sworn to his command. He has made many plans for your
return to Coire Cheathaich.”

“Your words hearten us,” she murmured. “We have come a long way and it has not been easy.” She blinked at him. “If Alpin seeks justice in Cumhainn it is my right to be heard at the trials. I give him my gratitude for what he has done. Will this macPhee, the chieftain of the macDubh-Shithe, offer us hospitality?”

“That is true. The house is not far from this place. Can you walk a little? It is sorry I am that we have no horses, but we thought to do a day’s hunting, and mounts are not needed in these mountains.”

“I can walk,” she answered.

16

The hall of the macPhee was large and well-fortified, for these were border lands close to the Picts. The unscarred fields about it were a testimony to the strength of the chieftain. All was neat and well-kept, though seared by the drought. The gates were open and the

warriors led the party through.

A tall redheaded woman was in the yard. She was barefoot and a child with the same flaming red hair clung to her skirts. She turned and frowned at the sight of the curadhs.

“Was the hunting so good that you returned within the hour?” she cried in a piercing voice. Then she saw Doireann and the Culdee and looked amazed.

“You do not need to tell me what has happened,” she shouted.

She came to them in a long-strided walk and took Doireann’s hand.

“It is the daughter of Muireach macDumhnull, is it not? Ah, the tales the bards tell of you! So you are not a myth then, but real! Well, you are welcome in my hall, and all that is in it is yours. Flann, son of Conn of the Ui Cinnsealaigh! It is good to see one of the Clanna Rury in this wild place.”

Her eyes swept him.

“Have you renounced your vows? I thought you were a Culdee monk. You do not remember me, but my father the bishop of Druiminn knew you well when you were at Kells.”

Her gaze passed on to the Pict with the child in his arms.

“We have been hard-pressed by this accursed drought and the raids of the Picts from across the loch, but the best that is to be had will be spread for you. And we will be the first to hear the gossip you will tell us, and the full story of your adventures.”

“My greetings, noblewoman,” Flann was finally able to say. “I remember your father the bishop of Druiminn well, the fine and honorable man that he is. We place ourselves under your protection.”

“As well you might, as well you might,” she agreed. “You look terrible.” Doireann could barely understand what was happening. From the way

Flann addressed her, she gathered this tall woman with the loud voice was the chieftainess, the macPhee. She stared at the redheaded child, a boy of perhaps seven years. The woman noticed it.

“This is my son Cumhal, the youngest of my seven sons. You will meet them all. They are consumed with admiration for the woman who has set the highlands in an uproar from sea to sea. You must tell me how you have such power over men, for I have searched for a husband since the death of the macPhee without success.”

“I cannot believe this,” Flann said quickly. “The love of beauty has died among the Scots if they dare overlook you. It must be that the chieftainess is hard to please and daunts the bravest by her virtues.”

Doireann stared at him openmouthed. The redheaded woman eyed him shrewdly, then poked him in the chest with her finger and burst out laughing. “Oh, the Irish tongue!” she cried. “It is dulled by nothing on this earth.

Call me beautiful again, for I love the sound of it.”

“Alas, I fear flattery does not deceive the macPhee even if there is truth in it,” Flann offered.

“You are a coward and dare nothing!” the woman shrieked. She poked him again and they laughed.

Would they stand there forever laughing and gabbling like idiots? Doireann raged. Her knees were buckling under her with fatigue.

Two more redheads joined them, young men in plaids.

“Here are my eldest,” the woman said. “Niall Roy and Liamh. They seem struck dumb. A miracle it is, for their tongues usually flap without ceasing.”

“No miracle,” one of them said, grinning. “The chieftainess always outshouts us.”

“If we are dumb it is because of beauty such as this,” the other said, staring forthrightly at Doireann.

“Come with us,” Liamh said, taking her arm. “Our voices shall not be drowned out then, but we shall have opportunity to bring you ale and tell you your eyes are like battle flags and your body more beautiful than any Irish queen’s and that we are willing to die for you.”

“Stop, you fools,” their mother cried. “Where are you taking her?” “Away from Comac Neish who stands glowering,” they answered.

“Bring her back,” the chieftainess shouted. “Can’t you see she is dying of weariness? You are all mad.”

She went to Doireann and put her arm about her.

“I will take you to the women’s hall where you will bathe and be rested. We will talk then.” She crooked her finger imperiously at Barra. “Give me the child.”

She took Ian into her arms and gave him a searching look.

“This one does not look like a Pict nor yet a Scot, does he? Come, I know you are tired.”

Still speechless, Doireann followed her across the yard.

The women’s hall was empty. A freckle-faced serving girl came in answer to the tall woman’s shout and fetched a basin of hot water and combs. The chieftainess gave the baby to her and she carried him out.

Doireann undid her hair and the beads and tassels with it. She put the hot water to her face at once and it revived her.

“Forgive me, Chieftainess,” she managed to say. “I could not speak before, but Meant no discourtesy. This kindness was too much.”

“Certainly, certainly,” the woman agreed. She put her hand on the girl’s forehead. “I see that you are tired. But you do not have fever. I suspected it, seeing your eyes so bright and that you are so thin. The child is still nursing, is he? All your strength has gone into him.”

“He will need me,” Doireann said suddenly. “I must feed him before I rest.” “Be easy,” the woman told her. “I have sent him to Una, for she has a child
his age and milk enough for two. Leave him with her for a while or you will have the milk fever such as I had with my third, and be very sick.”

“Where is he?” Doireann cried. “He needs me!”

“Oh, be still,” the other told her impatiently. “After Una has fed him she will put him down with the other children in the spinning room. It is time he put the earth under his legs. I suspect that you have carried him about all the time, is it not so? Would you have his legs wither away?”

Doireann sank down on the bed, exhausted.

“My name is Moire,” the woman said. She took the comb and loosened the girl’s hair. “I know why you fear for him, but there is no need for you to be anxious here. No harm will come to him, I promise you. If you keep him with you
now you will have little rest. And, by the look of you, there is little in you to nourish him. The men would not think of this. They assume that you can walk and sleep in the heat and the dust and feel nothing. I will not betray you.”

Doireann could not protest.

“Will you let me comb your hair now? It will be my pleasure.”

She talked on, the comb between her teeth, as she unwound the braids. “Outlandish, this,” she muttered. “Pictish style, heh? I dislike the Picts and

all they do. They have been the curse of my life with their raiding and murdering.” She cocked her head. “I had thought you would be younger. I was very young when I bore my first child. Fourteen summers I was when the macPhee took me from my father’s house. The next year I was still so small and narrow that I screamed and rolled for three days before I could bring forth my son. He nearly tore me to pieces and the midwives hung over me croaking that I would surely die. I bore the others easily enough. Well, most of them. But you were a grown woman when you had your child and perhaps that is why you did not perish in the hands of Calum macDumhnull.”

Doireann started. The woman looked at her sharply.

“Oh, we have heard. Conor himself, the bard of the macPhees, brought the tale from the conclave of the singers at Ainmire. You shall meet him later. A fine old man, a bard in the old style of the druids, who keeps the history and teaches the boys and does my visiting in the clans for me.” She dug about under the bed and brought forth a box. “So Calum macDumhnull is red-headed too, eh? It is the mark of the devil.”

She handed Doireann a short arasaid and a silver belt. “This should fit you.” Her eyes missed no detail as Doireann discarded the Pictish dress and
slipped into the other.

“Well, the child has not marked you,” Moire commented. “I can see the stories are true enough. The Gael cannot resist a beautiful woman, especially when both love and disaster follow her. Calum macDumhnull is a fool. He and his brother, the Red Foxes they are called, are accused of betraying their blood oaths to their kin and being traitors to the king. It is said they plotted with the Northmen until Alpin sent Comac Neish to find them out. And the Viking chief! I have heard he is mad with love for you and has been in a great frenzy since you were taken from him. Did you know his warriors fell upon Lewis in the dead of winter, out of a storm of all the mad things, and took the grain and the stores and killed the women and the children? This athach, this giant, cried that he would deal with the Scots as they had dealt with his wife and child!”