Winter Serpent (36 page)

Doireann, riding in the midst of the curadhs in the macPhee’s black dress and the Pictish jewels, could feel the disapproving eyes of the women and hear the sealike murmur of their whispers.

The Coire looked foreign to her. It was difficult to remember it as it had been, for the place was overflowing with clansmen and horses and dogs, and wicker shelters to house the chiefs. The High King, she supposed, would be accommodated within the hall itself, sleeping in the best bed and being offered the choicest food. In the fields about them the common tribesmen had their tents and fires. Those that clustered on the roadside were strangers and gave her no greeting.

The work of the harvest appeared at a standstill. The grain fields were deserted and a few children took careless charge of the animals. But there were four slaughter pens in the stockade and along the fence the carcasses of animals were hung in great numbers.

Doireann frowned when she saw them. Calum’s lavish hospitality would beggar them. It was not a good year, and the winter could only bring disaster.

The crowd was thickest before the gates. There she saw the hated figure of Calum macDumhnull in a green tunic, a feathered cap set on his red hair. The burly Donn, his brother, was at his shoulder. To one side stood the grizzled Macoul, the high chief over the Lorne district and therefore over Loch Cumhainn.

Comac was in the lead and he reined in his horse. Calum stepped forward and took off his hat, holding it at his chest.

“I see you, Doireann nighean Muireach of the macDumhnulls,” he cried. “My house is your house and may you be welcome here. My eyes have not rested on such beauty since you left us.”

“Greetings, Calum macDumhnull,” she responded coldly. “Your house is indeed my house. And I see you have changed little since I left this place.”

Calum drew his mouth up in the familiar half-smile.

“This is indeed the day the sun has blessed,” he continued. “Dismount and partake of the hospitality of the house.”

She saw over his head the tall figure of a man wearing the green-and-yellow tartan of Skye. He stood with his arms folded on his chest and his face bore the stamp of authority. This was the chief of the macDumhnulls of the islands, and a most powerful personage. Comac Neish was not the only one who had thought to gather his kinsmen of influence.

Calum had caught sight of Barra holding the child, and his face lost its smirk. “Come into the hall,” he snapped. “It is hot in the sun, and the Ard-Ri has
waited long for the sight of you.”

19

Sine, Calum’s wife, was dead. When Doireann entered the hall of the Coire, Una the milkmaid greeted her with this news, dropping the pans upon the hearth with a clatter and running to her to whisper in her ear. Doireann was astonished at the warmth of Una’s welcome, for
the crowds outside had been unfriendly enough. But then Sorcha, the old woman who tended the children, ran to her in tears and pulled at her arm until she turned about and embraced her. Sorcha took Ian in her arms and the serving women hurried Doireann to the sleeping quarters where they whispered fiercely to her, all speaking at once so that she could not make out half of what they said.

Sine was dead, they repeated over and over as though this was the only important news since her departure. It was a most dreadful end even for the feckless wife of the chieftain. After Doireann nighean Muireach had left the house the chieftain had acted as though he loathed the sight of his wife, and the poor Sine had wandered about not knowing why she had displeased that strange man, Calum macDumhnull. She would not lift her hand to anything and the women had been overcome by the work and the lack of order in the household. Then Sine became ill and her hands and feet swelled mysteriously
and her face puffed up like a bladder and she was afraid to let Calum see her. She went to live in a little room over the byre and they brought her food, but it was the sad truth that none of them liked her well enough to tend her and she was soon in a most foul condition. Yet she kept repeating that in a little while she would be well again and would put on her fine clothes and return to the hall. Only they must not, she had cautioned, worry the chieftain with accounts of her illness. One morning the women found her dead, curled in a knot against the cold.

Doireann could not escape Sine’s story. Wherever she went among the people of the Coire they mentioned Sine. It seemed that Sine rose from every hiding place, was on everyone’s lips. There was nothing accusing in it, but rather it was a portentous, subtle thing they seemed to say which would eventually have a profound influence on her. Whatever message was concealed in Sine’s fate, it escaped Doireann. There was hardly time to think of anything, for from the moment she entered the hall there was more than enough work for her to do. She was pushed into the vacancy Sine left in the household by willing hands. The byrewomen brought their complaints of the cows, the serving women their problems with the food, and even the Picts asked her advice concerning the work outside in the crowded yard.

Sorcha had naturally assumed that she would care for Ian and had taken him off to be with the children, but Doireann sent Barra after her to stay with the child. She was not deceived by the easy way she had fallen into a position of responsibility in the Coire, nor would she put much trust in seeming friends until they were proven.

The key to their hopes was Alpin, the Ard-Ri. She had met the High King, a man of medium stature and long brown hair which fell about his shoulders, and he had not been cordial, but then he had not been cold, either. She remembered this was said to be Alpin’s way. He cannily avoided a show of partiality in all his dealings, and was known to swing first one way and then another to the confusion of his enemies. Of course, she told herself, one could not expect very much on first meeting in a crowded hall where others stood about and listened. In time, he had said, he would send for her and she would know his plans. For the present it was enough that she was here and ready for what might happen.

On the third day following Doireann’s arrival at Coire Cheathaich, the brehons, the judges, announced that the hearings would begin on the following dawn. The news was greeted by the tribes with leisurely good humor. The guests were in no hurry; there was nothing to do at home except listen to the complaints of the herders and count the drought-ravaged cattle and worry over the coming winter.

Of them all, Calum could least afford to support such an army of guests for long. There was barely enough to feed the clansmen in the Coire for the rest of the summer, and Doireann was aghast at the numbers of animals being slaughtered and the stores of grain being used for the feasting. There would be nothing for the wintertime unless Calum hoped to steal back from his guests later what he was so lavishly providing now.

The affairs of the Coire could not be escaped, for out of necessity Doireann’s feet began to trace many a familiar path between the cooking house and the hall. In the beginning, observing the congregation of chiefs by the fire, she felt that perhaps she would withdraw to be waited upon also. But then as the servants and Picts came to her waiting to be commanded, she saw that Alpin and the judges watched her with interest, and she came to the conclusion that in this way she could demonstrate her ability and the truth of her claims. She could save formality for the evening meal at the high table. As she worked, the clansmen were drawing close to her, themselves impressed by the easy way she had assumed her rightful place.

Alone, Doireann had gone to the byre room where Sine had spent her last days, and taken down the wooden cups and bowls which had been left there. They were badly needed in the overcrowded household where everything was in short supply. Doireann herself washed them and scoured them with sand to show the others that no stigma of Sine’s death was on them. Yet as she stared down at the utensils the familiar words came to her again. Sine was dead.

Yes, Sine was dead, and since Calum macDumhnull now had no wife and Doireann nighean Muireach was so eligible, so desirable even, was this not a fortunate thing? She wondered with a shock if the brehons or the Ard-Ri had heard the whispers and had found the meaning in them. Did they think it fortunate, too? Did the judges consider this solution an easy one, and would they abandon their fat fees and Alpin’s ambitions in favor of it? What of Comac Neish’s hopes to be chieftain in the Coire?

And what of herself, she thought angrily. Even if Sine was dead she would have to be desperate indeed to contemplate taking Calum macDumhnull to bed and setting him up as the stepfather of her child. So they were all eager to use her and had thought that she would accept such a thing! Perhaps Alpin’s silence meant that he had been waiting, knowing she would sift the gossip and find its meaning. Was he, too, eager to rush to her side and whisper, Sine is dead?

Oh Flann, she cried silently, I wish you were here to stand with me. I need your faith and your strength as never before!

The thought was a bitter one; she remembered the words he had spoken to her in Glen Laghan. It seemed that everything she touched shattered, and
it might be she had come far and struggled much only to destroy herself and her child.

At this moment Comac Neish and Angus Og came into the hall with some other men. Comac saw her and went to her, his face discreet before the stares of the guests.

“Sine is dead,” Doireann said flatly.

Comac threw back his head and laughed heartily.

“So she is! And Calum macDumhnull needs a wife,” he said. She was relieved.

“Then you have heard this.”

“Who has not? The clansmen of the Coire would like nothing better than to wed you to the macDumhnull. They do not like Calum overmuch but they are afraid of Alpin. When you are Calum’s wife he will spend his days in bed waiting for you to join him there and the crofters may attend their affairs without interference, and Doireann nighean Muireach will reign over the Coire like the macPhee of the macDubh-Shithe. God, what a plot this is! It is the sort of thing that smiths and plowmen think of.”

“Yes,” she agreed, reassured by his confident good humor.

“Have you been fretting about this? Lay aside your worry. Diarmidh brings my cousins the princes of Ulaidh from Ireland with him on the next tide. When they spread their gifts in this hall and dazzle the eyes of the Scots with their splendor, then the strength of opinion will be with us. The brehon judges have a sharp eye for a claimant’s friends and allies. You will have me by your side; my warriors, Alpin himself, and the princes of Ulaidh of Eire. They cannot beat us.”

“Then you have seen Alpin and he has pledged me his aid!” Comac did not look at her.

“I have seen the Ard-Ri, it is true,” he acknowledged. “But he does not commit himself easily, as you know.”

“Then why did he bring me here? Is he undetermined what he will do?” “Shhh,” he warned her, glancing at the others by the fire.

“If you had a claim of your own, Comac,” she said softly, “and lands and clansmen to follow you, I would forget all this and go away with you gladly.”

He smiled, but not with humor.

“I will have these things,” he answered, “when you are restored to what is rightfully due you.”

It was the custom to hold assemblies on a hillside so that all could have a view of the proceedings. The bowl-shaped pasture near the stockade of the Coire had been used for such gatherings long before the coming of the Christian priests. It was said that once there had been stone altars for the
druids to catch the rays of the sun, but these had been smashed, the white boulders which littered the field the only remnants of the pagan ceremonies. The tribesmen used the stones for seats. Benches were brought for the brehons and a stool for the Ard-Ri. The High King’s warriors and Comac Neish stood behind him. The rest of the spectators dispersed over the gentle slopes of the hillside in their kinship groups, the chieftains seated at the fore.

The two macDumhnulls of Cumhainn, Calum and his brother Donn, sat with their powerful relative, the chieftain of Skye, and the sign of their sept or clan rose above them. It was a tall sapling stripped clean of its bark, with a crosspiece from which hung foxtails, pennants, and copper disks. A few paces removed from them sat Doireann nighean Muireach in stiff-backed solitude, of the same clanship but opposing them. Prominently behind her were the two men from the household of the bishop of Druiminn, the father of Moire the macPhee. The chieftainess had sent a message to her father asking him to lend his support to Doireann, and this gesture, all unexpected, had left Doireann to ponder the ways of the redheaded woman. There were a few freemen of Muireach’s day attached to her group, all of them with claims and unresolved grievances of their own. Una and some of the byrewomen sat with them. It was a small group in all, and not impressive.

Doireann sat uneasily through the morning’s affairs and kept her eyes on the ground before her. The speeches were lengthy and mostly concerned with declamations of the kinspeople present and the recognition of the petty kings and chieftains assembled. There was no real reference to the business at hand, and those who felt like speaking did so. There was even a long eulogy of Muireach macDumhnull, Doireann’s father, as the past chieftain of the Coire, delivered at great length by Donn macDumhnull.

Doireann took some food from the noon meal in her hands and went to the sleeping cubicles. She was tired and did not wish to sit in the hall with Alpin and the chiefs. Barra sprang up at the sight of her.