The chopping of the trees and the starting of fires was not by far the most foolish misdeed that the followers of Ealar and Elspet did that night. Ere long they began an old farmer’s song, one that Kenna had heard the shepherds and farmers and fishermen, all sing as they toiled. It was about old Cormac, and how he came to leave his father’s work as a shepherd in favour of heroism.
Of his falling in love with a great lady who was niece to Causantín II, and of how he sought to woo her with a great variety of gifts with increasingly foolish displays of his love, with the fugitives singing as they cooked the little meat and vegetables they had brought with them, in large pots they hung over the flames.
They mixed some water from a fresh spring some of the men-folk had found in their exploration of the nearby area. Most of the fires were started near to the larger oaks that stood protectively over the rest of the forest, with the yokels counting upon them to shield them also from the impending storm.
The song began softly, but as they sang more people joined in, singing of the great folk-hero who had saved Caledonia from darkness and evil, and Giric the Usurper. Though this song had little to do with that particular event and was said to sing to a period in time that predated the wicked man’s overthrow.
The fact that the song was not entirely faithful, in some of the details, with Cormac having come of age later, shortly after Causantín and his elder cousin, Domnall’s return from exile not a particular concern for those who sung this song.
Not entirely aware of this detail at that moment, Kenna with her back against a nearby grey oak, isolated from the rest of the encampment, preferring her own company to that of the rest of them.
Unable to believe the folly of her fellows, she shivered having declined the warmth of a fire, and the company of even Helga, out of resentment for the lass’ sister who stung, clung to her husband who reassured her quietly several trees away.
Many in the forest were not discernable or within sight of one another, due to the lack of clearings with much of the underbrush, flora and trees persistently hiding them from one another.
The song echoed all throughout the corner of the forest nearest to the road, bouncing it seemed from oak to oak, as though the great grey trees were singing to one another. The quiet wind and loud drops of rain did little to discourage the song or to hide it. With the fires waxing, waning only to be fed more firewood, as the stars hid themselves from those who dotted the land and forests.
“In the King’s great-tower,
Morven did flower,
To all men near and far,
She shone bright as a star,
Distant as a star she was,
Lofty and arrogant she was,
Lo! She swore to remain alone,
This left the old king aghast,
Days he ruminated,
Ere-long his spirit was elucidated,
With a bold scheme,
‘She must be wed,’
In the King’s great-tower,
Morven did flower,
To all men near and far,
She shone bright as a star,
But her father found her grim,
Thus he called for all men who be dim,
To come hither to make her laugh,
Jack thought to saw himself in half,
Jack was brought to grief,
Then came Tadg with pants made of leaves,
He was told promptly to leave,
Morven was by now red as a beet,
Thence came Cormac the Warrior,
He was a much greater oaf than warrior,
He fell over the wall’s barrier,
And was chewed up by her terrier,
He plied his troth to her,
To fetch a Unicorn for her,
This she disbelieved,
With a hey and a ho, he left her,
Fortnight later he returned,
His belt nice and horned,
Face red as the Unicorn’s glare,
For this he was deeply shamed,
Poor maid she never had a chance,
Thus she did dance,
With a great snigger that made her dance,
Her father now grew grim and said; ‘not a chance’
In the King’s great-tower,
Morven did flower,
To all men near and far,
She shone bright as a star.”
The song had other parts, but the seamstress cared little for listening further to them. Preferring to eat the stew that Eillidh, the youngest of Ainsley’s daughters brought her slowly, before she threw aside the now empty bowl it had been put in.
Certain she might not live to see the dawn; Kenna closed her eyes to go to sleep. Praying as she did that when death came, it would be swift and take place during her sleep. She likewise prayed that Ida, the Salmon and their kinsmen would survive where she had not, and that they would give up the stragglers for dead.
The bark against her back was almost warm, she thought as she drifted off to sleep. The cool breeze served to balance out her over-heated cheeks and was certainly nowhere near as icy as the droplets that began to fall from the heavens.
That night she did not dream of water; or of the heat of the flames of the temple of Fufluns in Glasvhail, but rather more strangely, of a long road and a lone figure departing on horse-back. His hunched back the last she had seen, of the man she had adored and had the utmost faith in despite the mercilessness and brutality of his sort of work…
*****
When next Kenna woke, it was to the screams of a great many people as a part of her remained for a few seconds trapped in the past, trailing down the road after her father. Groggy at the first, she soon came to full alertness if reluctantly so. The fires had long gone out; so that the moonlight was the only source of light available to those in the forest.
Not that this was a very great help to them, with the only comfort being that the rain had since some time ago ceased. Curled up as she was against between the trunk of the tree behind her and one of its large roots, with her fur-cloak thrown about her shoulders, Kenna was hardly visible to those passing by where she had lain down to sleep.
The screams of the villagers as they raced along, northwards or deeper into the forest, pursued by a multitude of men wielding swords, hatchets and strangest of all to the minds of those fleeing; nets. The vast majority of whom, seemed more concerned with the capture of those they came across, than the outright slaughter of them.
As they raced along, there were orders barked from further past the encampment of peasants, a great leonine bellow, “Do not slaughter them, remember thy orders men! We are to detain, for they are to be made an example of by laird Badrách!”
Forgetting herself just as the rest of those around her did, Kenna lost herself then to the same fear that drove all those around her half-mad with mortal-terror. The sound of the dying screams of a handful of men and women, and the sight of naked steel wielded by muscled and armoured men only added to the fear that possessed her then.
She might well have been safer there. Hidden in the darkness, from the sight of all who crossed by her, racing after fleeing peasants or fleeing away from armoured butchers.
Any rational person would have done well to do this. The trouble for Kenna lay in that within her, just as there is within us all, which includes you and I there exists an animal-side. One that when greeted by the sight of naked steel or iron, either resorts to bestial rage or the same terror that comes upon the deer or hare at the sight of an encroaching wolf.
Reason was impossible, as was proper sight as she put the great protective oak behind her, leaping over one of the large roots to her left. Realizing only when she had done so that she had until then been entirely unseen by the armoured men.
The darkness of twilight in turn hid them, from her eyes so that all she thought was that they had to be led by Badrách’s herald, Craig. How he had rounded dozens of men to strike the encampment so soon, was a mystery to Kenna who forgot this logistical problem in a matter of seconds.
Racing whither into the woods, after, alongside and behind others who fled in full terror of those in the middle of raiding their camp. The dark figures that moved after the peasants, did so with greater grace, speed and skill, as though they were wolves hunting clumsy ducks who had been startled before they could properly take flight.
Racing past a dozen trees ere she took any true notice of the trees that appeared almost to race past her. Their long alder branches reaching out for her, so that she had to throw up her hands to keep them from tangling with her hair, poke at her eyes and scratch at the white flesh of her face.
The birch, cedar and oak arms were hardly any kinder, tangling themselves a little in the cloth of her dress’s sleeves, or in the cloak she had worn below her fur one, tearing at it and the loose brooch she had pinned it together with.
Losing the brooch hardly affected her, not when the raising of her arms to fend off the attack by the trees and their probing branches slowing her, all she could think about. Hardly slowing her pace though, she threw herself forward with renewed fury. Heart in her throat at the thought of a steel sword or axe finding their way to her.
Her heart thundered as might a great she-bear when greeted by the sight of any who might foolishly dare to threaten her young. The pain that came from within her breast appeared in that instant in time, no less great than that inflicted upon her by the many branches that tore at her arms, hair and face.
Or that she suffered the nigh on half score times she fell over due to the high-roots of the divers trees that surrounded her. Such was the intensity of the drum that hammered at her rib-cage that Kenna felt her vision further blinded by blurry tears of pain.
Racing past and ahead of her, were several dark figures not that this mattered to her irrational mind, the trees that separated her from them appeared dark as those hunting her. Her despair worsening with the notion that all that awaited her were more oaks, more alders and ash-trees and her desperate bid to avoid their arms and leaping over their over-large roots that sought seemingly to trip her.
The darkness of the night began to worsen, she saw though she paid this little mind, as she tore her way through the forest, in her fear forgetting as she did all sense of north, south, east or west. The clouds overhead gathering once more together, to shed their great quantity of rain-water that further muddied the ground upon which prey and predator struggled against.
This hardly seemed important for a few minutes, to Kenna who soon found her left boot caught in some mud near to a pine-tree. Startled, she near fell forward with a large cedar to her right and a bush of flora behind and before her, she was thus entrapped on all sides by trees and greenery.
This darkened prison of nature’s design and the muddied trap that she had trod into was one she did not truly think much upon for a few seconds. Only her trapped foot worried her, as those who had trailed behind her lay forgotten in the shadows of the forest and the trees she had just pushed herself past in her blind panic and need to escape her pursuers.
Kenna did not notice them until she had extracted at last her left foot, and felt a pair of hands reach out to grab her.
Stricken at the thought of one of those dark menacing predators having caught up with her, she wondered but for a brief heartbeat whether it was one of them or one of her fellow villagers. She had not long to wonder, as she was grabbed and thrown bodily aside.
Tossed to the right, Kenna struck the great oak with such force that her head bounced off of its trunk before she crashed to the ground at its ‘feet’. Ears ringing and stars in her eyes with the muddied darkness below catching her.
She was unconscious before she had so much as struck the ground, her mortal terror forgotten as comforting darkness welcomed her back into its waiting embrace.
All that rang in her ears ere she was knocked unconscious was the old song her father had once sung to her, ere he was going to battle and that her mother had also tended to sing at his every departure. It was a song she had not heard in years, for she had forsaken the singing of it after Murchadh had vanished, and yet she could still recognise every syllable and verse.
All save the latter half of the song, which she had once known in girlhood but had forgotten over the years. That first verse though resounded in her ears, and was as a warm if menacing companion that came from seemingly nowhere.
The fact that the last sound she was to hear was not to be the ringing of her stricken ears, but that song, brought forth a smile to her lips. It was fitting, she felt for her last descent into darkness to involve the same song she had heard just before she was abandoned as a child.
“Hush, tush and do keep sleeping,
Dreams guarded by bucklers ever glimmering,
Thanks to blue steel glinting,
Our clan-banners shall always as the peaks be looming
High above the great mountain peaks,
The wind icy and cold shrieks,
As doves might the soaring eagles
Seek them highly whitened peaks,
To the green fields the sheep graze,
Lands that gleam bay to bay,
That the harvest never betrays,
Where the suns’ always shine rays,
Emerald-hills betwixt field and hill,
By the Firth that batters the cliff,
Sgain shines atop its emerald-hill,
Exerting its kingly-will,
Hush, tush and do keep sleeping,
Dreams guarded by bucklers ever glimmering,
Thanks to blue steel glinting,
Our clan-banners shall always as the peaks be looming
To the west-bays in the islands,
Calling to the midlands as sirens,
Glittering as the Highlands,
Hereby the sea, suns rest on the horizons,
By the Wend that nourishes lambs and wolves,
Where strength still endures,
Mighty as those of yore-years Elves,
We clash by the shore as in the woods,
Hush, tush and do keep sleeping,
Dreams guarded by bucklers ever glimmering,
Thanks to blue steel glinting,
Our clan-banners shall always as the peaks be looming.”
A groan escaped Kenna’s lips some time later. Her ears still rang, her head throbbed all the more and her stomach churned so that though her eyes could nary see the light cast by the suns properly.
She turned to her side a little to lose the supper she had eaten the night before. For some uncounted period of time, Kenna lay there, emptying the contents of her stomach against the nearby oak, crying in pain as she did so.
Kenna’s vision still did not clear up, for a few minutes as she continued to vomit. Her stomach and legs tingled with the pain of this horrible experience, though this was as naught compared to the pain in her skull. Especially, where she had struck the tree, the right-side of her head, throbbed and screeched it seemed to her.
Lifting a hand to rub at the wound only worsened the sensation of pain that bit into her. Hissing Kenna took her time to regain her feet. Reaching out to the tree to lean upon it, as she struggled up with a hiss of pure agony, she felt her every muscle aching and her every limb crying out at her with every movement she undertook.
Heart hammering at her ribs once more, though with far less force than it had exerted previously. Kenna did not know how long she stood there, leaning against the tree, panting for breath and waiting for her skull and heart to stop throbbing.
Time stretched endlessly, and the world could well have ended for all she cared. All that mattered was cooling the great tearing pain in her head, as she uttered prayer after prayer to her chief deities of Khnum and Scota. The notion that her survival was miraculous was rather difficult to stomach, given the pain she was in.
Gingerly at first, there came a time when Kenna felt prepared to walk once more, cursing herself for having in her terror forgotten her walking-stick she almost moved to go back for it. Only to then realize with a start that she did not know where it could possibly be.
Lost in the woods was something that Kenna had only heard tales about, never truly experienced herself. Therefore to come to the realisation that she did not know where she was, or what to do when in this predicament terrified her almost as much as the one that she had found herself in a short-time ago.
Those who had hounded her the previous night were forgotten; the seamstress travelled the forest head throbbing with the force of a battering ram against castle-gates. Fearful and confused she moved through the woods in the same direction that she had run the prior night, unable to think of going in any other direction.
Her dedication to that route if in a slightly slower manner from then, made her feel old. Her bonnet had long since fallen, as had her cloaks so that she was left in her sleeve-torn brown dress which was the same one she had worn upon her previous journey north.
Her pack had been sent north with the Salmon, for she had believed she would not survive. The one hundred silver thistle-coins were their last hope and she had no wish that they be lost. A part of her wondered as she brushed past tree branches, through the bushes of the forest if this was not a foolish mistake.
Wandering through the forest for hours, filled her not only with misery and pain, but also with memories of scolding Cormac for having wished to explore the Dyrkwoods as a child. He had been gripped by a maddening sense of curiosity about it, after he heard it was inhabited by fey, and she had told him if he got lost, he would never again be found.
Circling about a collection of trees Kenna had the impression that she was making no great progress. That she had simply been walking for hours past immense trees, past pines that poked and prodded at her, as they had during the chase by Badrách’s men. Full of despair, the seamstress also felt tired of fighting her way through the hazy-pain of her head-ache.
Fighting herself an immense ash-tree, one with a trunk thrice the size of its neighbours. The branches of this mighty ash appeared to dip wearily with age along with the summit of the large tree. Of incomparable size and age, this great tree had seen ages Kenna could not possibly imagine, not that she thought much upon the history that this ash may have seen. This tree born possibly a millennia ago, near to the age of the Princeps of Roma.
This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
The great ancient city that had dominated South-Agenor along with a portion of North-Agenor had seen the rise of the Pechs. Of this accomplishment few trees could still boast, for not even the great oak of Ciaran had seen so much of Caledonia’s history. The rise of Achaius, his heirs claiming of the throne that rival royal clans had sought to deny them, and unifying the two great nations of the north; that of the Pechs and of Ríocht-Riada.
All that Kenna saw at that moment was an unrivalled tree. It appeared prepared to teeter over just as she felt at that moment. By the gods, she thought to herself at that moment, mayhap she could lay there by this tree and they could teeter over into darkness as one.
At that moment she felt about as old as the ash, and that if the end were to come for her, given the pain and misery she was in, along with the coldness that still permeated her bones and flesh after the rainfall the previous night, it would be a welcome thing.
It was as she sat there, the suns high in the sky and her headache receding little by little as she rested her feet that the song from the previous night came to her.
“Hush, tush and do keep sleeping,
Dreams guarded by bucklers ever glimmering,
Thanks to blue steel glinting,
Our clan-banners shall always as the peaks be looming
High above the great mountain peaks,
The wind icy and cold shrieks,
As doves might the soaring eagles
Seek them highly whitened peaks,
To the green fields the sheep graze,
Lands that gleam bay to bay,
That the harvest never betrays,
Where the suns’ always shine rays,
Emerald-hills betwixt field and hill,
By the Firth that batters the cliff,
Sgain shines atop its emerald-hill,
Exerting its kingly-will,
Hush, tush and do keep sleeping,
Dreams guarded by bucklers ever glimmering,
Thanks to blue steel glinting,
Our clan-banners shall always as the peaks be looming
To the west-bays in the islands,
Calling to the midlands as sirens,
Glittering as the Highlands,
Hereby the sea, suns rest on the horizons,
By the Wend that nourishes lambs and wolves,
Where strength still endures,
Mighty as those of yore-years Elves,
We clash by the shore as in the woods,
Hush, tush and do keep sleeping,
Dreams guarded by bucklers ever glimmering,
Thanks to blue steel glinting,
Our clan-banners shall always as the peaks be looming.”
It was a song that she knew better than her own name, though the second verse still escaped her. Mayhap, in death she would request her mother to sing that part to her. The thought of dying was not all that frightening though she would have preferred it had she had the chance to see her son one last time.
This brought to mind the song of the second Cormac, which she had sung countless times during the time she had carried Cormac within her. The hero the inspiration for the naming of her beloved if simple-minded son, she imagined countless parents had dubbed their sons by the hero’s name.
Though I have only seen a handful of Cormacs in my time, especially since Siomon and Mael-Martin are now more popular amongst people. She thought to herself gazing up at the heavens, recalling how Daegan would sing of the Thistle-King.
Typically of his love-story, though at that moment Kenna thought back not to that great High-King’s encounter with Marthe, the princess of Gallia but to his going into castle Geamdubh. This against the counsel of his wife, of many of his followers, for they knew that doom would find him within that keep.
The song came to her rather vividly though it had been years since she had last heard it.
“O Siomon was a good king,
Between his blood most sovereign and valour
Quo the minstrels, of him they still sing,
The rightful High-King of fair Caledonia,
King of all from yon Highlands,
He oft-rode out as King of yon Lowlands,
To those west-islands,
Thereon he was known as High-King of all lands,
Thus, on Yule lighted low on yon hills,
And he was aware of Bhalkelds’ kills,
As the weeping widow did many a-tomb fills,
Voice thick with grief she trills,
‘What tidings, what tidings, poor waif, he says,
‘What tidings of sorrow hast thou to tell me?’
‘What tidings, what tidings, poor waif, he says,
‘What tidings can ye tell in this east country,
‘As a storm did the foul laird sweep
O’er those lands near to thy east-keep,
As a wolf through a herd of sheep,
Did he send the women of the east to weep,’
Said she, shoulders a-quiver by yon hill,
There is hundred Bhalkeldmen that wish to kill
And they are seeking for ye good King of this hill,
Spake she, her voice shrill,
O Siomon was a good king,
Between his blood most sovereign and valour
Quo the minstrels, of him they still sing,
The rightful High-King of fair Caledonia,
He returned home for Yule,
Long did he hitherto rule,
Queen Lily bedecked with many a-jewel,
She addressed him obstinate as a mule,
‘What tidings, what tidings, she says,
‘What tidings of sorrow hast thou to tell me?’
‘What tidings, what tidings, she says,
‘What tidings can ye tell of the east country?
Against her pleas Siomon went whither,
To meet with Bhalkeld in his house thither,
By the sea the Thistle-King dressed in silver
Bhalkeld o’er to him did slither,
‘Come here, come here, now good Siomon,
This is the day that die man,’
Uttered Bhalkeld the black-hearted man,
Wherefore he knifed Siomon,
The King’s goodwife had an auld guard-man,
By good Siomon he stiffly stood,
They two fought a hundred men,
‘Till the whole of the palace was dyed in blood,
The King was to be hung high,
Upon the gates of Bhalkeld the sly,
Marthe good-Queen did cry,
As did the whole of the Caledonii.”
The song came to an end; it was one that she had heard as a little lass, sung to her by master Eachann, now that she thought of it. It had been part of a ballad he had claimed, the ballad was called the ‘Fall of Kings’ and had verses regarding the death of all those High-Kings that had come before Mael-Martin II. A king whom had songs of his own, though none of them were at all sorrowful for him, but full of sorrowing for his subjects and victims, for he was the most violent of the MacCináed monarchs who had reigned since the death of Cináed.
Maybe, Kenna mused with her eyes closed to the sunny, clear heavens she would sing that song with her last breath. If her parched throat did not give out, ere that time came.
Her eyes closed, to the warm breeze that flowed through the forest. Hardly pondering about the attackers that had broken up the camp, or the fact that she had not seen anyone in all the hours she had been awake for.
The reason why, did not appear at all relevant to her, nor did she try to summon up the energy to do much more than pray for those captured. She imagined that Badrách hardly had any good intentions in mind for those he had seized.
It was as she drifted away, her head no longer throbbing and the warmth of the suns warming the forest that she heard every sound it seemed. From that of the birds that flew or roosted overhead, in the branches of the local pines, the high-oaks and the great ash she rested beneath. To the sound of the wind as it traversed the north-woods, to the rustle of each bush and branch as they drifted and rubbed together in the wind.
These sounds were opposed by the sudden sound of a great many voices, the crunch of dozens of feet upon tree-branches and dogs barking madly as though possessed. The great bellow of these sounds filled the whole of the forest, not that Kenna paid much heed to them then.
She had failed her people, had gotten lost in the woods and knew down to her bones that those in command of those dogs, had to be those Badrách had sent after her and her people.
*****
Little did Kenna know that those sounds came not from south of her. For she had unwittingly been traveling north, the correct direction if north was indeed where she sought to head to. Nor was she aware that the source of the sounds that stemmed from the north had taken to the woods since two days ago.And had nary taken notice of those refugees pouring out from what they termed the ‘south-woods’ with their cattle.
What these men desired was neither the slaughter of innocence, nor the capture of it but rather to hunt wild deer, bears or any other animals they should encounter. The hunt you see was the greatest of their chief’s pleasures. For though, áed the Hatchet was laird, he had left much of his authority since he had received the news of the death of his son in the hands, of Fingall’s elder brothers Baltair and Tormod.
Both of whom were brilliant, great men in their own manner. The eldest of the two was ever present at his father’s side at all times, save when he was off to enforce the man’s authority over manor-chiefs and those clans who throve in his domains. It was Tormod though, who saw to the hunt and to the enforcement of the tithes and taxes, he who though responsible by nature had taken to the woods in search of meat.
This was the man, who came upon Kenna accompanied by his houndsmen, hunters, falconers and grooms upon the hunt. The hounds had been let loose with Tormod having ridden ahead with but a handful of men.
Passing by the great ash, which they were familiar with due to having crossed it countless times since many of them were young, when on the hunt, they were thus unprepared to find a peasant thereby its base.
The dogs raced along with them, some ahead with the canines barking, howling and growling at the miserable seamstress, who returned to her song determined to perish with a modicum of joy. Though what joy anyone could have derived from so morbid a song, as the fall of the Thistle was a mystery to those who had discovered her.
Opening her eyes to find herself surrounded by not only dogs, but bewildered hunters who gazed at her with open bewilderment, unaware how frightful she appeared to them. Her head caked in blood, brambles and branches caught up in her hair, dress torn and face scratched by the branches, mud covered so that she might well have been to their minds a corpse from some long-distant age.
Staring at her they could no more reach for the swords at their sides, than they could lift the mountains of the north from their roots.
Many were the men who turned to their liege’s son, yet he sat upon his mount, frozen with anxiousness and incomprehension as the song abated.
Her half-closed eyes set themselves upon them, so that Kenna could see who it was that had discovered her, and who now menaced her. The dogs barking and growling in her ears all four of whom were of mixed breeds, one with golden fur and a long strip of white along its throat and belly. The second canine was dark in colour, majestic in size, a doberman it was a gift to áed many a-years ago, from one of the many lairds from the Misty-Isle.
Third amongst the dog-pack was one canine with dark fur also, though it had a touch of wolf in it with its fur flared in a manner akin to that breed of canines, and because of a grey stripe along its paws and chest. The last of this small pack (present at hand, but there were more elsewhere), was a grey beast almost half the size of Kenna herself, with white paws and an all-grey chest with some black flecks in the fur with vivid blue eyes. Eyes that pleased Kenna to look upon, if only because those eyes reminded her so very much of her late husband Murchadh and her son, Cormac, so that she almost smiled at the hunting dog.
The men, whom Kenna had discounted with her flat gaze studied her with far greater interest than she them. Though she did discern in the tallest of those men, a trace of the Northmen in his physique which was muscular and magnificent in a way similar to that of her late husband’s father, Waltigon.
Blonde though he was, Tormod had vivid dark eyes a match for her own, though his had lighter flecks in them, his hair was curly and his beard thick if short. He kept his hair short out of a desire to keep it from being swept up, what was more was that his dress in contrast to many of his rank was deliberately humble.
He favoured rough wool to fine silk and velvet, his sword-scabbard was used almost as much as his bear-skin boots and green tunic was. He wore no jewellery, beyond a single armband clasped about his thick left arm, one which had intricately curved markings carved into it, those of érian and Caled stock. It was gold-wrought and must have cost a fortune, Kenna determined without too great interest.
The rest of those around the wealthy warrior, were dressed as simply as him, though each had dark or brown hair, some wore theirs longer, others less so. Each was bearded, with some possessing little grey in their manes where the noble had a bit, for his face was a little wrinkled with age.
He was but a little older than Kenna herself, and though she did not know it, he was hardly a pious man though he certainly had a taste for some scholarly pursuits. Namely old songs and lore fascinated him, namely of the family his own clan had long served for nigh on two centuries.
“Who are you, hag to sing of the death of kings? Especially the finest of all the successors of Causantín II?” The horseman asked of her, his voice rough and deep as the depths of a mine, though his accent southron in its roughness, in comparison to her mixed one.
Kenna eyes upon the barking blue-eyed dog, sighed in defeat, weary and exasperated at his insult against her. “I am no hag, but Kenna seamstress of Glasvhail.”
“Glasvhail that explains it my laird,” One man complained with a grimace on his dark-bearded face, which contrasted quite a bit with the fairness of his skin.
“Are you familiar with that village Allan?” The laird’s son asked of his groom who informed him now, with the noble as startled as Kenna herself was, for she had not expected to hear one of these men speak knowingly of her home.
“It appears that there have been fugitives from further south, found drifting from the forest earlier this morn’ just before ye awoke, from your tent, my laird Tormod.” The groom explained with a shrug of his own large muscular shoulders, adding hastily at the sight of the disapproval on the noble’s face. “Many poured out from the forest, whereupon they left to join those cattle-herders near the Thistle-road.”
“Lady Kenna, what is the reason for your flight north?” Tormod queried of her, his tone harsh suspicious of her.
Aware that her next words could cost her, her life Kenna thought with some difficulty. For one thing she had no idea that this Tormod was, had no notion of where she was.
Though the reference to the Thistle-road alerted her to the fact that some of those who had escaped through the forest had made it north of the woods, this fact filled her with relief. Relief at the fact that some of those she had left the road with, still lived she went to thank the laird for receiving them for she was conscious of the difference in rank between them.
She was interrupted by one of the dogs baring its fangs when she sat up, mistrustful of her. Growling at her, it made to bite at her which made Kenna stiffen with nervousness, glancing at last away from the blue-eyed chief canine to the nobleman once more.
With a sigh, the nobleman whistled sharply between one of his fingers and thumb. With one last growl and bark from the Doberman, and the grey husky both of whom this done hurried over, past their master. Their eyes remaining fixed on the widow who followed the animals with wary eyes.
“I come seeking shelter as the rest of my kith do, from the tyrant Badrách; we are traveling north to seek the King’s justice against him.” Kenna said with far more defiance than she had intended, her words astonishing each one of them.
They remained quiet for some time, ere next Tormod spoke. This he did only after he broke out into a long laugh. Chortling he drew a sharp ‘what?’ from the peasant woman, and a few curious glances from his hunting companions. The dogs for their own part whined a little, wagging their long tails at him; they were familiar with the sound of his rich laughter. Once he had ceased laughing, tall Tormod addressed Kenna, with naught but mockery. “If you could see how ridiculous and utterly wretched you appeared at this very moment, you would not speak so grandly, o lady-seamstress of Glasvhail.”
The ribaldry in his tone and laughter that remained in his eyes even after he had spoken might well have pleased and lightened the hearts of men. But for Kenna, who was over-conscious of her appearance and disliked to be mocked in any way, it filled her with shame and indignant rage. It was not as though, she had wished to appear so pathetic and dirtied.
He had asked for her to tell him why she was in the north-woods, and she had answered truthfully. Cheeks almost as crimson as Daegan’s long tresses, her eyes black with wroth, Kenna snapped at him with all the fury that had once so exasperated and wearied her son. “Is that any way to speak to a lady, my laird? Especially one who requires aid? I am a supplicant who intends to head whither to your liege’s court and ye would mock me? Were we in Gallia, I would be taken at once before him, to present my case with dignity.”
“But we are not in Gallia, but Caledonia,” one of the men corrected in the same sharp tone that the seamstress had used, “Bear that in mind, remember thy place peasant-woman.”
Kenna her head spinning and aching once more, weary and having no further desire for the company of these rude nobles sagged her head against the cool bark of the ash-wood tree, she sat with her back against.
Her indignation remained alive under the surface; the difficulty lay in that she could not bring herself to disagree with them any further. They had declared their intent to treat her as an inferior, and she had done her best to explain to them the manifold sorrows that had enveloped her people.
“I have no further desire to argue, and have no interest in disturbing your hunt; therefore do please leave me in peace my laird and I shall in time depart from this place once I am able.” Kenna replied wearily, sagging against the ash that she had come to regard as nigh on her guardian.
Though she did not expect any true kindness, from the laird Tormod he nonetheless if inadvertently so, had some within him. Though it was not to be expressed as such, his chief-most desire though was not to aid her in escaping the woods she had felt trapped in, since the prior day. But rather to rid himself of a far greater problem, as he saw it, “Allan take this woman out of the forest, and guide her from there to her people.”
“What? But why?”
“I have need of a messenger to deliver to them my desire for them to return from whence they came.” Ordered Tormod, the second son of the Hatchet-laird, his tone impatient as he shuffled upon his great steed. “I would have this Rothien problem cleared from my father’s lands, ere he is informed of this disaster.”
The knowledge that he had no intention of showing any true mercy to her people, but to have them return south to Badrách’s lands were a slap to Kenna’s face. Never before had she ever borne witness, to such callousness, for that was what it appeared to be to her numbed mind.
She could not for the life of her, comprehend how the man, could order nigh on a hundred people all but executed regardless of their desire to head north to plead with the King. It was not as though the people of Glasvhail had any desire to remain within the lands of Nordleia for longer than necessary.
Her shock though, soon turned as it had at their insults against her, to indignation whereupon she stood to her full height (which was not all that impressive), and glaring defiantly at Tormod challenged him directly. This was a very foolish thing to do, and though she did not know it, it earned her the immediate disdain of those around the laird’s son.
Many of whom, would later report to the Hatchet and his heir, Baltair of the poor-comportment of what they chose to refer to rather basely as the ‘hag of Glasvhail’. The moniker was one that the seamstress when she later heard this title was to feel more than a little displeased by it.
“What?” Kenna objected at once, stunned to hear him decide to push the people of Glasvhail back south. “Were we to return south, it would surely be the death of us, laird, have mercy!”
At this word she reached out to grab at the bridle of his horse an act that disgusted the men all around Tormod. Many of them might well have interfered had it not been for the man himself. He was at his core not a bad man, to the contrary his was a gentler nature than most could have known.
And though he felt pity for Kenna well up within his heart, he could no more show this sentiment to her than he could demonstrate any mercy for her people. “We are but humble folk, and have no intention to remain within your lands; you know this therefore why eject us south, when you could have us sent away to the north.”
The answer she received was an icy one, “Because fair lady of Glasvhail, it is nary my choice to make. My father rules in Nordleia, and my brother has taken a number of his men north in that same direction to hold court in the village of Auldthorpe. If either was to see your people cross through our lands, they and Badrách would regard it as a sign of weakness.”
There was naught else that could be said, and though Allan the groom took her up onto his horse, Kenna could nary bring herself to look once more upon the countenance of Tormod. Such was the anger that burnt within her; she turned her gaze away from, pleased when Allan the groom turned his horse away also.
Her legs to the right-side of the charger, with her arms about the young man’s waist, Kenna felt a searing fear then of this powerful beast beneath her. It had happened before that she felt this irrevocable fear towards these animals, but that was when she was little more than a lass.
Her father had chuckled at the sight of her shrinking away from it at the time; he had stolen the horse from some Norwendian cattle-herders and had offered to let her ride upon one of the horses. The one he had selected had appeared ill-tempered and smelt badly and had snorted at her, in a surly manner.
If he was at all aware of her fear, from how tightly the seamstress clung to him, the youth did not show it or remark upon it. Rather, his horse reared back much to her fright and the amusement of those they left behind, who sniggered loudly. This made her fulminate all the more, and vow that if she were to survive the next few hours, she would see to never selling them a single bolt of cloth.
On foot the journey between the south of this branch of the north-woods and those lands of áed could take up to two days. Even a small sliver of the journey could take some time, as Kenna had learnt that very morn’. The voyage she undertook then a-horse, took less than an hour, wherefore she was introduced in passing to the hunting lodges that had hurriedly been arranged for Tormod and those favourites of his.
More than thirty pavilions arrayed those fields nearest to the immense north-woods; they were of all colours from brightest blue, to red, to sun-like yellow, to green, to a great many others. The only colour not visible was purple for that was a colour reserved for only royalty. These pavilions were larger than Kenna’s very home, and could have housed a large family of four. Though if that family were to trod inside, they would have rapidly discovered that though large with each of these great pavilions little more than over-sized tents.
The largest of them all, was that of Tormod, never a man to forget his own rank, as was the case of all men within his clan. It was deepest green, and had flying overhead of the pavilion the great banner of the clan of áed; the crossed crimson doubled-headed axes of the laird, upon a dark green banner.
This standard had served for decades, to induce fear throughout the whole of the realm, towards the clan which had for years borne the title of ‘High-King’s Steward’. Recently relinquished by virtue only, of áed’s sense of obligation towards said High-King, for it was his view that he could no more fulfill his duties since the passing of Fingall. Such was the fear that gripped his heart; he had refused to let his other sons attend his duties, preferring to suffer some small amount of loss of dignity than the loss, of his children.
Not wholly cognizant of all this, Kenna could only marvel at the great pavilions and the exercise of wealth she could only imagine. Hers was a lowly rank, with but a lowly amount of riches in comparison to that on display thereon the hills that dotted and overlooked the low-valley forest that lay behind her.
There was to her utter amazement, even a special if hurriedly put together stable of sorts for the horses, a rapidly fenced in area where they could race about and yet could no more escape from, than fish could from the sea.
Where this fenced in area put together to the left side of the great series of hills, which stretched for leagues west and north, of the north-woods. There was near to it the four wooden kennels, where the laird’s hounds were to be herded ere and after the hunt (they were at present empty).
Each of the tents were kept a score meters away from one another, and could as all know, hurriedly be torn down. This great sea of colours that in some cases contrasted, in others blended well with the vast emerald fields that had well-shorn grass likely the handiwork of the great herds of sheep owned by those subjects of áed the laird.
Riding some distance from the semi-circular village of temporary homes for those of the household of Nordleia attached and sworn to the service of Tormod. The groomsman was to assist the seamstress near to the road that lay to the east of this ‘village’.
Directing her further east, to where those survivors of Glasvhail had been herded to the right of the Thistle-road, Allan did not remain overlong at her side. Preferring to depart at once, after he reminded her of his liege’s words, he left her to make her way thither to the other encampment.
*****
Those from the village of Glasvhail had been given a single night’s solace, as she discovered shortly after she was welcomed back amidst their ranks. It took her two hours to reach them, thereupon the hill east of the main road of Caledonia. They had taken shelter near to the woods, using some of the trees as a kind of cover ere they took to the hill where they were approached by some of Tormod’s men.
Not wishing to cause trouble, they had lied to the laird claiming that they had sought but fresh land north of the north-woods to cater to their cattle. This being a fairly regular occurrence, Tormod had shown little interest in giving them much more than a warning. It was his attendants upon discovering refugees fleeing north, from the woods that were informed of the truth and decided to escort all of them to the encampment already in place to the east.
“They then ordered us, to await the end of the laird’s son Tormod’s hunt,” Ida informed her with little cheer in her voice. It had been a fairly cheerless night for those who had forged ahead of the principal band of travelers also.
The first to welcome Kenna back amongst the villagers, it was not long before the rest of those at hand raced over to welcome her. The relief upon the faces of the Salmon, Mairead, Freygil, their kinsmen along with the daughters of Ainsley and Conn; Doada, Eillidh and Helga was a balm for Kenna’s pained heart.
What was not a balm was the sight of all the tear-stained faces, those who remained unaccounted for and the knowledge that near to twenty had likely been slain. As if to add to the sorrows of the fugitives not only had Ealar the fisherman and Elspet the widow survived, along with another twenty-five of their followers.
Surrounded by a great many of them, Kenna soon discovered that the eighty or so people, who had fled Glasvhail, there had to be little more than half present therewith her. The most distraught of whom, was Doada.
“You must help us Kenna!” She cried out, throwing herself against the older woman.
Unaccustomed to seeing the strongest of the daughters of Ainsley and Conn present with her, in such a state the seamstress though her legs shook and she continued to feel as though she had been battered by a collection of war-hammers assented at once. “But of course lass, what is the matter?”
“It is those men whom Badrách sent after us,” Doada announced from farther to the rear of the troupe of villagers. Stepping forth with a pleased expression upon her face, “They have sent a messenger requesting that we submit to them, if we should ever wish to see our loved ones again, or if we wish to bury the dead.”
“Who are they?” Kenna asked wearily, of the young lass and those around her.
“They are the Gormcruach,” Salmon explained with a heavy sigh that appeared almost torn from his lips. The name he uttered was a name that was ultimately unknown to Kenna. “They are a large company that apparently Badrách already had in his employ, having recently arrived from the western frontier of his lands, called forth according by the company’s own herald admission to manage the laird’s problem; namely us.”
Kenna could feel her stomach sink to the bottom of her feet, what sank her heart sink also, was the village council that followed. Gathering together upon the hill that they were permitted to keep to, with the great fortress town of Nordleia little more than a dot on the horizon far to the east, the villagers, bickered and argued at some length over what was to be done.
Some such as Elspet claimed they should give into every demand that they might receive, from the warriors in the service of Badrách. Others such as Ida refused to give in, and were of a mind to mistrust everything that the mercenaries declared.
“We shan’t leave our loved ones in the hands of these blue-steeled mercenaries,” Elspet stated aggressively once again she had an instinct for how the majority of those present therewith her felt. Cunning and cruel, she made reference to the fact that Gormcruach signified in the old Caled tongue ‘blue-steel’. “I suggest we send a herald of our own, deep into the woods to meet with them, and attempt to negotiate for our loved ones.”
“Exactly, and as they told us they would remain encamped upon the road, until we have submitted, this matter should soon be dealt with.” Ealar added, so swiftly that Kenna had the vague suspicion that he and Elspet had practiced those exact arguments between themselves.
Her suspicions were all but confirmed after she asked the question, “How are we supposed to negotiate or reason with mercenaries? And who could we send to talk reason into them?”
“Well, we had hoped that you might volunteer, for such a duty Kenna,” Elspet proposed in her most honeyed tones. Though some appeared inherently suspicious of her also, there were those who nodded their heads. Much as Kenna might well have liked to counter in that instant, by refusing she was soon outsmarted by the other woman.
“For what reason, do you suggest we send Kenna? Is it to be rid of her?” Salmon challenged, in one last desperate attempt to thwart the evident scheme of the other woman.
“By no means, rather I had thought that as the one responsible for having saved us from the fire, for having warned of the dangers of staying in the forest, the only person we can all rely upon and rest easy with the knowledge that she will succeed is Kenna herself.” The wood-cutter’s widow replied, only to add when she saw the fisherman open his mouth to argue back. “After all, it is the head of the village council that the mercenaries wish to speak to, and who else merits the position than Kenna herself?”
It was on the tip of Kenna’s tongue to refuse, her mind going blank as her newfound rival’s scheme unfolded before her. She had no wish to attempt to negotiate for the liberation of her friends or their dead. Not because she did not believe in such a cause, but rather due to her own innate fear and certainty that those captured had already been slain.
Kenna may well have refused this great ‘honour’, were it not for her setting eyes upon Helga and Doada’s pleading looks. They had escaped only thanks to Ainsley as she had learnt in the hours prior to the village meeting, throwing herself between the mercenaries and her daughters. Eillidh, Doada’s beloved husband had sought to make a fight of it, and had been thrown to the ground and seized.
Thus, the tragedy that had struck the daughters of Conn was twofold, and they sorrowed for their lost loved ones. Naively believing that only Kenna could rescue the aforementioned loved ones, blinded by their reverence for her they begged her to aid them with their eyes.
Resigned, Kenna agreed with a nod. She had never longed to be the head of the village, had known it to be typically a male honour, and though the position was to be temporary in this case, it still felt hollow to her. The hollowness stemmed from her being subject to the whims of those who believed her to by then be a near demi-goddess, who alone could rescue their people from the Gormcruach.
To those around her, it was the first step towards setting all aright. To Kenna, it felt as though she had just taken her first step into her own grave.
