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D D McPherson
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PROLOGUE
The kingdom of Dal Riata, 17 April, 630 A.D.
“You cannot hack his arm off. I forbid it!”
The two men who stood beside the canopied bed turned to face the speaker. Dressed in a long, brown woollen cloak with a hooded mantle, the old man was unremarkable, save for his hair. He wore the tonsure of a Christian monk, cut in the Irish style. His hair was shaved off at the front, from ear to ear, but hung long down his back. He held a bunch of dried flowers – St. John’s wort – in his left hand as he raised his right arm to point.
“Conadd Cerr! You are the son of a king. You know better than this!”
The scowling man he had addressed wore a striped cloak of many colours with matching trousers. A purse dangled from his belt, as did a sword scabbard. The sword’s hilt was set round with sea-horse teeth, and the man was gripping it tightly. A very thin plate of silver round his forehead held back his long, braided dark hair. He wore a full beard and moustache, and sported two large, gold earrings.
“Segene.” he said, slowly.
“You’re too late. King Eochaid made us take an oath. We are bound to it. And not even the abbot of Hi can change that!”
The old man advanced carefully and looked down at the dead man on the enclosed bed. His head lay on a deer-hide pillow stuffed with feathers. The curtains were drawn back on copper rods attached to the overhead canopy. The abbot looked again at the dead man’s face. He looked peaceful, content. And deservedly so, thought Segene. The reign of Eochaid Buidhe had seen twenty years of peace. A remarkable achievement for these times! He turned to the others.
Again he pointed, this time at the second man, who was dressed entirely in yellow. Powerful men hardly ever sported one colour, preferring as garish a splash as possible. But the imported silk shirt, gold earrings and burnished gold headband, left no doubt as to his status.
“And you, Domnall Brecc. That’s your father lying there! The king! The Christian king of a Christian kingdom. Who was cradled as a child in the arms of Columcille himself! How can you think of carrying out this pagan act?”
The scowling Conadd Cerr scuffed the rushes that covered the floor. Then he stepped over to a small skin-covered seat and flopped onto it. He rubbed his nose and looked up at the old man.
“You’re too late, Segene. It was the king’s dying wish. We have no choice now.”
The abbot lowered his arm and sighed. It was true. The carrying out of a will was a sacred duty. Segene was indeed too late. As soon as he had learned of king Eochaid Buidhe’s sudden illness, he had taken the ferry from Reilig Odhrain across the Sound of Jura to Fionphort on Mull, and from there made his way to Dunadd. The king, sweating, fevered and delusional, had made those by his bedside swear an oath that when he died they would cut off his right arm, dress it in armour, place his sword in his hand, and plant it in the ground at the border as a warning to any would-be invaders. It was an ancient pagan custom, a reassurance that the dead king was still with them in spirit. The new kingdom of the Scots had been Christian for over fifty years, but the old ways still burned deep. So deep, thought Segene, that even king Eochaid, a devout Christian, had seemingly lapsed at the end.
Segene sighed again and touched his bunch of St. John’s wort. The flower grew in abundance on Hi, the Holy Island, and Columcille, the father of Scottish Christianity, had carried a bunch under his arm. His successors, Baithen and Fergna the White, had not continued this custom. Perhaps they wanted to move out from the giant shadow, but Segene had revived the habit. If it was good enough for the great man, thought Segene, as he turned towards the door. He half raised his hand to the others, paused, then left the room. Outside, the abbot stood at the top of the stairway down to the lower levels and gazed out across the marshland to the east. The smell of cooking was strong – someone was roasting an ox. Then there was the constant burning odour of iron working and the stench of human and animal waste. Segene watched men moving in and out of the buildings of timbered wattle. Many were of high rank: chieftains or sub-kings. Come to elect a new king, mused Segene. A new king with new ideas. Or old ones. Like war. He shook his head as he looked out from the bleak fastness of Dunadd.
From high in the hills between Loch Awe and the Marshy Loch, from the misty waters of Loch Sitheanach – the loch of the fairy mound – came the river Add. Its silver waters slid silently round the black citadel and wandered on to the west. Segene instinctively touched his St. John’s wort. Among the men hustling below were chieftains from Ireland. Like ravens they had gathered, urging war against Maelcaich, king of the Irish Picts. King Eochaid had kept the young dogs on a leash. Now they were loose.
The waters of Marshy Loch exploded as the osprey burst through the surface into the sky. He flapped his mighty wings furiously while adjusting his grip on the struggling salmon. The bird’s talons had spiny-scaled toes, enabling it to maintain a hold on slippery prey. It shook the water from its wings and rose steadily into the blue sky. Swinging round to face the west, the osprey began to power its way through the air.
Its mate was sitting on two eggs in a huge eyrie where the pair had raised two offspring last year, and two the year before that. The same eyrie, in fact, where the female had hatched from an egg. The nest was a prime site, within easy flight of Marshy Loch and all its riches – salmon, trout and pike.
The male made only two trips a day to the eyrie, where he ate half his catch before passing the other half to the female. Once the eggs hatched, however, his work would start in earnest. For now, though, life was good as the mighty white-crested bird soared above dark, brooding Dunadd. Below, the fate of kingdoms was being decided. The bird had more important matters to attend to.