Winter Serpent (37 page)

“Princess,” he exclaimed, “I fear your child is ill. See how red his face is, and how hot he is to the touch. He would not eat his food when I brought it to him.”

Ian held out his arms to her and she took him, lifting him in her arms and rocking him to and fro. He was heavy and limp and moved only to cough.

“Fetch me Sorcha the nursemaid,” Doireann ordered. She held the child close and crooned to him until the old woman appeared.

“What is it?” she asked anxiously as the woman examined the child. Sorcha shrugged.

“There are many mysterious complaints which seize children.”

“But look at him! Is he going to be very sick?” A terrible thought struck her. “Someone has done this to him!”

Sorcha clicked her tongue against her teeth.

“He has not been poisoned, if that is what you mean. I see to all the food that passes in this house and there is none that would dare such a thing.”

“But he has never been sick before!”

“Then you have been lucky, for all children have illness at some time or other. I will stay with him the rest of the day and watch over him, for you must return to the brehons’ court. It may be that the fever will go down and he will be well when you return.”

Doireann surrendered Ian reluctantly. The nursewoman laid him in the bed and covered him with a plaid.

“At least he has enough fever to make him drowsy. He will be all right.” “Send for me at once if you need me,” Doireann told her, pausing anxiously in the doorway before she turned away.

In the afternoon it was to be seen that the groups had rearranged themselves. Calum and his brother had been busy, for they, too, had not attended the noon meal in the hall. Now some half-dozen chiefs from the coastal clachans of Lorne sat behind the macDumhnulls and raised their insignia. The new additions made Calum’s representation the largest of any group.

Doireann spoke worriedly to Comac Neish about this.

“If only your kinsmen from Eire were here,” she said. “We need them to stand with us.”

Comac smiled at her, but his words were blunt.

“They should have been at this gathering from the beginning. There must have been some delay at their homeland, for the weather is too calm for any storms to have hindered them on the sea. Be easy; they will come. This talking will go on for days before the pleading begins.”

But he was wrong. In the late afternoon low-flying clouds came in from the west and the air was close and oppressive. There was no real rain but a few large drops fell on the crowds. A murmur rose, drowning out the speaker. The servants went to secure the animals and the gates in the event of a storm. There was much craning of necks and chattering. Macoul, the old chieftain over all of Lorne district, took advantage of the disturbance to come to the place where Doireann was sitting. He addressed her courteously. Over his head she could see men gathering in crowds about the macDumhnulls’ standard.

“The appearance of the rain is a good omen,” the old chieftain said to her. “But it is also true that droughts are broken by violent storms. The clans will now be eager to start homeward, to see to their affairs before the onslaught of heavy weather.”

Behind him the Skye chieftain was addressing a large, number of men, pointing to Calum and his brother.

“It is not my intent to interfere in this quarrel,” the Macoul went on, “and I do not know what alliances you have made with others. But if you have need of it, my hall is your hall, and my hand is yours to help you.”

“My thanks to you, Macoul,” Doireann said hurriedly. “I hear your words with gratitude but it is my mind that I may soon offer you the hospitality of my own hall.”

“What is it?” she whispered fiercely to Comac as the old man moved out of earshot.

“Your foster brother Calum has hastened his maneuverings and has allied himself with many strong chiefs. They no longer have the time to sit and enjoy the affair, withholding their support. If the drought breaks they will be needed in their own houses.”

“Traitors,” she exclaimed. “He has paid them something or promised something!” She would have jumped up, but the Irishman restrained her.

“Be still,” he told her. “Alpin will send for you now, for he must also make his moves hurriedly. Do not do anything which would thwart him.”

There was a knot of chieftains who wished to speak to her at the door to the hall but she swept past them and went straight to the cubicle.

Sorcha was fanning the child with a wooden shingle.

“The fever rages,” the old woman said flatly. “Do not ask me again what it is, for I do not know. I will go now and get myself something to eat.”

Barra stood next to Doireann and gazed down at the child in sympathy. “Poor little one,” he said. “It is strange to see him so still and quiet.”

She sat down beside the child and fanned him, helplessly watching his dry coughing and flushed face. Against this enemy she could not protect him.

Why has this happened to my child, she thought in despair. I have been a good mother. I have boasted that I would not wean him nor let others care for him. It would have been easy many times to do so, but I have kept him always with me. Many times I have been tired with the burden of him, but there has not been resentment in my heart, only love. My son, the only thing which I truly love. Do I destroy him also? Oh God, what is happening to us?

She was forced to go to the evening meal because Comac and Sorcha insisted upon it. There would be many who watched how she conducted herself, they told her, and the next day would be the turning point in her fortunes in the Coire.

She managed to hold herself stiff and disdainful before the crowds in the hall. When the meal was finished and the entertainment beginning, Comac led her away.

“Alpin has sent word that he will see you in a private place. Be proud but not unbending, for the Ard-Ri admires a good face,” he cautioned her.

She stumbled against him as they went through the dark yard to the tent of the Macoul.

“What is Alpin doing with the tuath, the chieftain of Lorne?” she asked. “You will see,” Comac told her. He steadied her with his hand and then
drew her to him. He tried to kiss her.

“In God’s name!” she cried. “Do you bring me here to Alpin or just to tussle in the dark?”

He let her go and stood in silence.

“I did not mean to speak to you so,” she told him hastily. “I am tired to the bone and there is so much on me I am like a brittle stick which must break. I was not made for this intriguing. In my ignorance and trust I had thought that when Alpin brought me here and the brehons heard my tale, justice would be swift. I see now that this is not so. I despair that it will ever be so.”

He put his arm gently about her shoulders and they walked together.

“Be easy in your heart,” he said. “Nothing influences the brehons but a show of strength and power. In the old days there was a death oath of truth which bound them, and they were incorruptible. But this was long ago when the Celts had honor, in the days of the druids. There is little truth or honor to be had now. This is what the Christian priests have done to weaken us. When my kinsmen come from Eire we shall then be the strongest, and the decision shall be for us.”

“But what of Alpin? Will he not take part in this? I am here because of him.” He shook his head warningly, for they were at the Macoul’s tent. He pulled back the flap and she entered. Two of the chieftain’s warriors stood at the back, holding torches aloft to light the interior. The Ard-Ri, Alpin, his long hair falling about his shoulders, was sitting on a stool drinking ale, the
old Macoul beside him holding the flagon.

“Greetings to you, Doireann nighean Muireach of the macDumhnulls of
Cumhainn,” the Macoul said formally, getting up.

“And to you, Macoul, tuath over all the chieftains and tribes of the district of Lorne,” she responded.

Doireann bent herself briefly before the High King.

“May your days be long, Alpin of the Scots, King of Dalriada, chief over all the chiefs both high and low.”

Alpin’s face was thoughtful as he looked at her. She straightened and took his regard with quiet dignity. Alpin was her distant kinsman. This was the first time she had seen him since their brief meeting in the crowded hall, and she remembered the stories of his acquisitive nature, his talent for intrigue, and his ambitions to unite the far north of Britain under one king, himself. She noticed that he did not wear a crown nor even a helmet, seeming to be vain of his abundant hair. But his tartan was as old and well-worn as any of the
curadhs’ and he wore a battered leather tunic. He had a fine brow and the commanding air of one who expects to be obeyed.

Comac brought the point of his sword to his lips in salute and the Ard-Ri nodded to him, his face quizzical.

“I see you, Comac Neish,” the Ard-Ri said. “I have wondered long these past days if you were still my swordsman or if you seek your oath-binding elsewhere. Am I still the giver of gold in this place and the leader of the king’s warriors?”

Comac reddened, but did not answer. It was Doireann who spoke. “Address yourself to me, Alpin,” she said quickly, “Tell me why you have
brought me to the Coire, for I have yet to hear it from your lips. If you wish to rebuke Comac Neish then you may do it some other time, for I have a sick child who needs me.”

The Macoul frowned at this and shook his head at her, but the Ard-Ri was bland.

“Yes, I will speak of these things with you, Doireann nighean Muireach. I acknowledge that your presence here is my doing. Yet, as you know, I have made you no promises. I have returned you to your father’s hall for justice. It was told to me that you have many grievances but are without support in them.” “I have made no petitions to you for justice, Alpin, and if you have come into my affairs of your own accord, then you must stand behind your actions.
You speak of justice. Is it forthcoming?”

“These things are slow,” the Macoul offered. “Slow enough,” she agreed.

The Ard-Ri put down his cup of ale and leaned forward to her. “What do you think I owe you?” he asked.

She stared back at him.

“It is not the owing that should be discussed,” she cried, “but the payment! I have been brought to work your will, have I not?”

“Doireann nighean Muireach,” the Ard-Ri said judiciously, “you may have your claims easily as the brehons see it. They know your story, but they also see that it is the clansmen of the macDumhnulls who must be satisfied, else there would be no peace in Cumhainn. As for my part, I have many interests. I would have a strong and loyal man here for me, and I have long thought I would reward my captain, Comac Neish, with something other than gold. It is obvious from the looks he gives you that he would be eager for some arrangement in Coire Cheathaich.”

The Ard-Ri leaned back and stroked his hair with the palm of his hand, looking thoughtful.

“You may have your land claims and your justice,” he said. “But I did not think you would bring the child of the Northman to Cumhainn.”

Doireann stiffened at once, looking at the faces of the men before her. The mention of the child struck an ominous note.

“We have suffered much at the hands of the Viking,” the Macoul was saying. “You have not been in Dalriada to learn of the raids they carried against Mull and Lewis arid the great havoc they have wrought against the Gael in Eire. In speaking of revenge and justice these things must also be considered, and the hatred which the Scots now have for the Northmen.”

“It is dangerous for those who would bind themselves to the Viking,” Alpin warned.

“But I am not bound to them!” she cried.

“There is a Norse chieftain among them,” Alpin continued, “who claims you are his legal wife, and claims also the child you have with you. He has sent captives to Dunadd with this message.”

“I deny this.” Her voice was becoming shrill. She stopped, and tried to regain some of her steadiness. “I was given unwillingly to this Norseman by my own foster brother and kinsman, Calum macDumhnull, in violation of all the laws of fosterage and his own vows to protect me on the death of my father. Did I bear this Northman a child because I willed it? Yet consider this Calum macDumhnull who should well have earned the hatred of the Scots when he gave the Viking haven in Cumhainn, and who tried to kill me when I bore the Norse chieftain’s offspring!”

Alpin sighed.

“Yes, I know this story,” he said. “You claim you were given to the Northmen unwillingly, yet Calum macDumhnull swears that you once asked him for a husband and that the matter was acted upon with this in mind with proper bride gold being exchanged. He says you were eager enough to leave the Coire and go with the Northmen, and claims he can produce men of this clan who will swear that you went of your own accord. He says they give evidence that you jumped from the boat onto the beach of the Northmen’s camp without a backward look. There was no struggling, no outcry.”

Doireann bit her lips.

“And how does he answer the charge that he gave the Northmen aid and engaged in trading with them for some months?” she wanted to know.

“Calum macDumhnull says that his plan was to delay them until he could gather enough men together to attack them and seize their plunder. And this he did. He also says that he would have brought you back to Coire Cheathaich but that you escaped from him with the aid of Picts sent from Inverness, who killed one of his men.”