Ailein

Ailein

Terence Woolley

Published by Terence Woolley Publications

Text copyright 2012 Terence Woolley

All Rights Reserved

Contents

Chapter 1: Kenneth

Chapter 2: The King’s Nephew

Chapter 3: Eskburn

Chapter 4: The Uplands

Chapter 5: Aengus at Doume

Chapter 6: The Alliance

Chapter 7: The Greedy Boy

Chapter 8: The Invasion of Doume

Chapter 9: The Siege

Chapter 10: Evasion

Chapter 11: Neath

Chapter 12: At Duns Castle

Chapter 13: The Parting

Chapter 14: The Return to Doume

Chapter 15: Duncan

Chapter 16: Old and New Sores

Chapter 17: New Alliances

Chapter 18: Caillen’s Revenge

Chapter 19: The invasion of Clieffe

Chapter 20: Kidnap

Chapter 21: The Battle for Clieffe

Chapter 22: Calm After the Storm

Chapter 23: The Coronation of Fergus

Chapter 24: Padruig’s Scheme

Chapter 25: Conspiracy

Chapter 26: Treachery

Chapter 27: At Langy Castle

Chapter 28: Flight

Chapter 29: The Quest

Chapter 30: The Final Encounter

Chapter 31: The Settlement

Chapter 1: Kenneth

In the sweltering heat of a midsummer day, the sun beat down upon a band of emaciated, stooping peasants as they edged their way through tall, yellowing grass in a wide meadow. At their head, a few paces apart, bronzed, moist torsos gleaming, a line of men rhythmically swished sickles at a funereal pace. Behind, flimsily clad women and children raked or carried the mown straw into loose swaths to dry in the sun. The heat was exacting, the work ponderous; some of the elderly broke away from time to time to draw breath.

Suddenly, a young woman, her thin linen shift glistening with sweat and clinging to her shoulders, let fall the load she carried and bent forward with a gasp. Children at her side halted and stared in dumb dismay while an older woman hastened to her side and led her to a place where she could couch in stubble. Here, gazed at by two small, anxious faces, mother ministered daughter until haymaking in the meadow was interrupted by the echoing wail of a newborn babe.

To those who heard it, the piercing cry might have seemed one of despair for having been drawn into a world of unrelenting hardship and sorrow, but it rang across the shimmering fields as a resounding assertion of new life.

Joy was muted. The father looked anxiously at the old woman for sign that his wife was safe and would soon be strong enough to resume her labours while the other men turned placidly and recommenced swishing; it was, after all, another mouth to feed. The women eyed the bawling babe with wistful expression, the children with wonder. There was a general dour resignation that, as for most of its siblings, its time would be brief.

But if these people had anything meaningful in this world, it was love for their family and fortitude. The mother was adamant and, harnessed to her breast while she toiled in the fields over the remaining summer days, her baby defied expectations and gained weight.

Their home was a small cluster of makeshift mud, stick and straw huts, proof against rain but easily wrecked by violent storms, fabricated above the flood margin of a stream in a remote valley.

As the sky dimmed on an autumn evening, while piling on sticks to enliven a fire in the centre of their hut, the father surveyed his wife cradling her baby in the warming, golden glow of the flames and said, He seems to be doing well. Perhaps it’s time we gave him a name.

His name is Kenneth, she answered softly.

It was the name of her father who had been stoned to death begging in a village two winters before. So it is, replied her husband with a bittersweet smile.

From their harvest of nuts that year, the young mother planted an acorn above the margin of the stream close to where they lived and rendered a prayer to her gods; if an oak grew strong, the boy would flourish.

Huddled in their hovel as winter set in, the family fed upon what they had stored and scraps the men could forage in fields and forests or beg in distant villages. This, the first for the child, was particularly harsh, but the mother held her baby close, wrapping his small body in the folds of her tattered clothes and feeding him morsels from her own meagre ration, and it survived. When her mother, who six months earlier had coaxed the babe into the world, perished in the biting cold, she lamented her loss with bitter tears but was consoled by a belief that a departing spirit passes to new life. And when the winds blew warmer and daylight hours lengthened, she was heartened to see a shoot spring from the soil where she had sown an acorn.

Apart from edible leaves, roots, nuts and berries and small animals, birds, and fish caught in crude traps, they lived mainly by scavenging. Happening upon a dead deer on the heath before crows and wolves had ripped it to shreds was seen as a gift from heaven. Sometimes there was enough; at other times they went hungry. Spring, summer, and autumn months were punishing; the dead season, when all was gloom and the naked branches of the sapling oak by the stream bowed under the weight of frost and snow, was hardly bearable.

But Kenneth gained strength with the passing years and by the time he reached manhood was a mainstay of his faltering parents. Following the family custom, he married a cousin and no doubt would have had children and become a patriarch in his turn had it not been for an incident that took place nineteen summers after his birth.

While haymaking after a short dry spell in an otherwise damp and dismal year, the family group were distracted by an ominous tread, and before the old had time to warn the young to run away, they found themselves surrounded by a company of armed men.

Drop what you hold in your hands, bawled a rough, imposing figure who seemed to be their leader.

Dreading what was to follow, they had no option but to comply and let their sickles fall.

The man who had spoken walked about examining them contemptuously. Whenever he came to a young man, he pushed him hard in the chest to see how he well he withstood the thrust. At the end, he pointed to Kenneth, a young uncle, and three older cousins, and said, You’re coming with us. From now on, you’re fighting for the Lord of Scope.

The rest could only look on in consternation as their loved ones were forlornly trudged away.

Having marched for an hour, they came to a place where more soldiers guarded a larger gathering of peasants and from here were herded from village to village, their numbers swelling at each place. Finally they were traipsed across moorland for several days until they reached a valley teeming with men arrayed for battle.

Take one of these, said a soldier, handing out battered pikes, some little more than a wooden pole with a jagged end, and get ready to fight.

Who? asked Kenneth.

Heathens from the north, answered the soldier hurriedly.

Hardly had he been handed a pike than there was a deafening roar and a mass of wild, whooping savages tore into the valley, cleaving with sword and axe.

Kenneth’s first sensation was stark terror, but witnessing his uncle and cousins brutally hacked down and trampled under foot, this was soon overtaken by an instinct for self-preservation. He was strong and agile. Observing and mimicking the thrusts and parries of those about him, he survived the chaos until spreading darkness brought an end to his ordeal.

Then, shivering under a starry sky, surrounded by exhausted, blood-soaked companions, grieving for his loss of his kin, and listening to the cries and groans of the dying, he gnawed raw meat and drank from a cask of ale that was handed around and wondered what he had to do to stay alive. The idea of disappearing into the night was appealing, but he had no idea where he was or what he would encounter and had been told he would lose his head if caught trying to run away. The issue was settled when he was startled by a burst of wild howling.

Sitting, facing him, a heavy-set, gruff-looking soldier smiled at his agitation and said, I take it this is your first time.

Reflected in the moonlight, the soldier’s face carried battle scars and, unlike the new conscripts, he was clothed in animal skins to protect him from wind and rain and endowed with a hefty sword and shield.

Don’t worry about the beasts of the night, he said, it’s the dead and not the living they’re interested in; they’re happy with the carrion that’s been kindly left them on the battlefield. Wolf meat isn’t tasty, no better than this dog meat we’re fed upon, but if they come any closer, they might find themselves being eaten rather than doing the eating.

In spite of his plight, Kenneth sensed an intended kindness and smiled to thank his unexpected friend for taking trouble to try to put him at his ease.

Stay close tomorrow, laddie, advised the soldier, and find yourself a sword and shield from the fallen as soon as you can.

In light drizzle early next morning, the ragtag army of which Kenneth was a part shuffled to the top of a hill from where they looked down upon an unruly, blood-craving foe. While those about him fervently rattled sword or pike against shield and jeered and shouted to raise their spirits and daunt their enemy, he gazed around the heaving mass. Prominent in the centre were three men arrayed in steel helmets and mesh tunics. Most others were dressed in flimsy linen blouse and breeches and were soaked to the skin like himself. From place to place were clusters of men who wore buckskin jerkins and woven skirts with leather belts. Clenching weighty swords and shouldering shields sporting a depiction of a rampaging boar, these were the regular soldiers. Amongst such a group, Kenneth recognised the warrior who had spoken to him the night before. Like his comrades, he stared intently at their enemy as if preparing for a bloody encounter, knowing not all would return. Unnoticed, Kenneth sidled up and stood behind him.

A horn blasted over the cacophony of jeering and most hurled themselves forward and hurtled pell-mell down the hill, screaming with swords and axes aloft and pikes to the fore. A few less anxious to throw themselves into the fray lingered behind the headlong rush, but the soldiers Kenneth followed advanced side by side at a steady pace, offering support to each other. They met their enemy with a clash of steel, like stags locking horns. When one fell, others were quick to close the line.

Kenneth shadowed them, thrusting his pike between them whenever there was an opening, until the soldier who had befriended him crashed to the ground. Before the others had time to adjust, he sprang forward, picked up his sword and shield and took his place. Fearlessly hacking and parrying, he held his position until, in mid-afternoon, bogged down in a mire of mud, blood and gore, the enemy gave way and ran off in disarray.

Drawing breath, an old campaigner by Kenneth’s side said, That’s it for Crannog and a good few more. We fought alongside each other for many a year. But once your time’s up, it’s all over. It comes to us all sooner or later. You did well though to take up his sword when you did. I believe it saved my life more than once today.

From that moment, Kenneth was adopted by his chosen band of warriors as a kind of mascot. He ran chores, fetched and carried, delivered messages, furbished swords, polished shields and in return bivouacked amongst them, shared their provisions, joined their exercises, and took his place amongst their ranks in combat. His instincts served him well. He was bright, strong, courageous, and quick to learn.

In spring came news of an invasion of a warlike nation to the west. Unlike plundering tribesmen in the north, the leaders of these fearsome people were intent upon conquest. Fringe territories of the Lords of Clieffe and Doume were first overrun but no place was safe and terror and panic soon spread to all quarters. Being the only Lord with soldiers in the field and in readiness to fight, the Lord of Scope, who had ambitions to be one day nominated Overlord King by his peers, marched his soldiers west to halt the progress of the invaders until extra forces could be drafted to drive them back into the sea.

In an ensuing battle, when most of his comrades had fallen and the Lord of Scope was dragged from his horse and battered to death, all would have been lost had not Kenneth seized the Lord’s banner, rallied his compatriots, and turned what would have been a massacre in flight into an unexpected victory. Their commanders killed, his fellow soldiers, euphoric at their reversal of fortune, raised him above their shoulders and cheered for him to take on the mantle of leader. There seeming to be no one else willing to take over the responsibility, he acquiesced to their insistent clamour.

He applied what he had learned to stay alive on a larger scale and by a series of unexpected manoeuvres, false retreats and surprise rallies rid the country of the invaders. Overnight, he had a formidable reputation, burnished by the telling. There were claims he had special gifts. Soldiers held him in reverential regard. Barely an adult, he was acclaimed commander of the army of Scope.

Autumn in the air and fighting at an end, soldiers drifted away to help with the harvest. Kenneth was as eager as any to return to his family and was about to do so when he was interrupted by an escort of mounted soldiers carrying a summons for him to attend the great warlords then assembled at Clieffe castle. Disappointed at the delay to his return home, he could see no way to refuse such a command.

It was his first time on horseback and his escort were unlike the soldiers he was used to. These had been rough and ready men, stoic and determined, fully expecting to die or see friends slaughtered in battle; more concerned about the cut and balance of their sword and the resilience of their shield than with their outward appearance which, like his own, was shabby and unkempt. His escort, by comparison, wore shiny leather tunics and skirts of finely woven plaid, with wide, metal-studded, leather belts, from which hung gleaming, untarnished swords. Entering the plain of Clieffe perched precariously astride a dapple-grey mare amidst these haughty men and seeing distant walls and towers of a castle beyond his imagining, he felt as if he was being swept along by a dream.

Before reaching the castle, they forded a shallow river beyond which a slope leading to gatehouse towers was packed with a mass of excited people who slowly made way to allow them to pass. Then, forcing a passage through cluttered gates, they were greeted by more jostling crowds, waving and cheering madly on either side of a narrow thoroughfare that stretched to a large, square, stone building.

As they pressed through the throng, Kenneth realised that he was the centre of the rapture; some even ventured their necks merely to touch his feet.

At the stone building, the crowds were held back by a line of guards and they entered a clear space where an aristocrat arraigned in furs and glittering jewellery unlike anything Kenneth had seen before waited to welcome him. Following the example of his escort, he dismounted and as soon as his feet touched ground stable boys ran forward and whisked away his horse.

The richly attired man eyed him questioningly from head to foot and said with a slight frown, So you’re the one who chased away our enemies.

Overwhelmed by the hysteria of the crowds, the opulence of the man who spoke to him, and the solemn magnificence of the stone building, Kenneth nodded uncertainly.

I’m Dunmor, the Lord of this castle declared the resplendent man, follow me and I’ll introduce you to my guests who are clamouring to meet you.

They passed between heavy timber doors, through a servant lined reception hall, and into a banquet chamber packed with people eager to acquaint themselves with the hero who had risen from nowhere to save them from ruin.

They were disappointed. Having visualised an imposing, masterful individual, they were presented with a shabbily dressed, unassuming, young man, who seemed dumbstruck by his surroundings and anxious to return to pastoral squalor. Nevertheless, it in no way diminished the wild celebrations to commemorate his miraculous achievements.

While the threat of annihilation hung over their heads, quarrels between the Lords had been set aside. Most had closeted themselves within their castle walls, tremulously waiting to withstand a siege from whichever direction it might come. Now, fear of extinction lifted, they were emboldened once again and it would be only a matter of time before ancient rivalries and clashes would resume. It may be that the Lord of Clieffe, who held the smallest and most central territory, was made nervous by this prospect or it may have been at the instigation of his advisors, but, while the Lords were conveniently gathered in celebration at his castle, he convened a council to moot a proposition.

Among those that attended to hear what he had to say were the Lords of Bergowrie, Doume and Invermuir and a pugnacious boy, bedecked in gaudy jewellery and served by two grey-haired councillors who he occasionally quizzed and listened to with disdainful countenance. This was Torin, the newly enthroned Lord of Scope.

Each family group sat in separate enclaves around the banqueting table, now appropriated as a table of state. The Lords and their sons were distinguished by fine raiments, gold and silver chains, and jewelled rings and clasps; their grim-visaged advisors, steeped in the heritage rights of their dynasty and terms of past treaties, wore bland, coarsely-woven, dun-coloured robes.

Dunmor rose from his high-backed chair, waited for the hubbub to quieten, and declared with solemn dignity, We have overthrown our enemies and have much indeed to be thankful for.

There was a general and profound nodding of heads.

Unfortunately, he continued, casting pitying eyes upon the pugnacious boy, not without loss of some of our worthiest champions. It is a great sadness that Athdar of Scope is not with us today to celebrate our deliverance. His great sacrifice will not be forgotten.

There was a low murmur of approval and sympathy for the infant Lord of Scope who seemed unmoved by this brief eulogy to his recently slaughtered father.

The boy staring vacuously, the speaker proceeded, But we are surrounded by hostile enemies and have no idea how long peace will last. It may be, the reputation of our new found general will be enough to deter aggression, but, for that, it needs to be widely known that he is poised and ready to crush any who would dare to raise a hand against us.

He paused to measure the effect of his statement upon his audience. Meeting only blank looks, he continued, The young man has had remarkable, some say miraculous, success. But he’s young and naïve and has no idea of the fundamentals of life. He has it in his mind that he wants to return to his family. It would be madness for us to allow this to happen. He has proved beyond all measure how valuable he can be to us. Surely we should take full advantage of his extraordinary abilities.

Again he paused and scoured the faces around the table. Apart from the Lord of Invermuir, who was showing signs of impatience, all remained expressionless.

I suggest, he said, having arrived at the nub of his proposition, that to spread fear into the hearts of those who would seek to do us harm, we proclaim that we have invested our victorious champion with the title of King.

There was a moment of stunned silence, shattered by the Lord of Invermuir slamming his fist onto the table and growling ferociously, This is preposterous. Since my forefathers chased heathens off these lands there’s never been a single instant we’ve failed to defend our own. I’ll not be first of my illustrious line to rely upon another to protect what I have and I’ll bow my head to no King. I certainly don’t need help from a peasant youth, or anybody else for that matter.

That wasn’t quite the case in the recent wars, suggested Dunmor pointedly, please allow me to explain more clearly what I have in mind. The young man has gained a formidable reputation as a warrior. The sole purpose of naming him King will be to strike terror into the hearts of our enemies. But it will be an empty title. We’ll dress and equip him for the part, but he’ll have no power beyond what we concede. He’ll fight our battles and possibly arbitrate a few petty grievances and for this we’ll pay a levy to furnish him with a modest court. I myself am willing to offer my estate at Langy for his accommodation.

The Lord of Invermuir had heard enough. Rising angrily from his seat he declared furiously, I’ve absolutely no interest in paying anybody for something I’m quite capable of doing myself, and stormed out of the hall, his three burly sons scampering after his heals.

Torin turned to one of his advisors with an expression that suggested he felt he was being cheated of something without knowing exactly what it was and was minded to follow the example of the Lord of Invermuir. He whispered peevishly, What does all this mean?

The advisor leaned towards him and explained in muffled tones, The Lord of Clieffe is proposing we employ the young man who has defeated our enemies to protect us in the future. He will have the title of King but it will be only for show and will mean nothing. He will remain a servant to yourself and the other Lords.

His doubtful expression softening, the baffled child quizzed, What’s all this about arbitrating?

He will adjudicate over minor differences between the Lords, the advisor replied, it’s to avoid Lords waging war with each other every time there’s a small disagreement.

The boy pondered a little and asked, This peasant comes from my territory doesn’t he?

He does, answered the advisor.

His people are my subjects? mused the young master.

The advisor nodding, a complacent smile stole over the pugnacious boy’s face and he said no more.

The disturbance caused by the abrupt departure of the party from Invermuir having subsiding, Dunmor looked at the faces surrounding him and enquired, So what is our decision?

If this young man is given command of our armies, enquired the Lord of Bergowrie, somewhat perplexed, what is to stop him turning on us? I certainly would.

But you can see what he’s like, replied Dunmor, nothing more than a rustic peasant. Once a peasant, always a peasant. He’s never owned anything and has no ambition or imagination. He’ll do his duty and serve his betters as he’s shown how well he can. We hold the purse strings and wield the power. That’s not going to change. Our soldiers will owe allegiance to their paymasters. While ignorant in every other respect, by some freak of nature, this young man is an inspired general. We would be foolish not to exploit his genius. What could be better than have someone wage war on our behalf? And if he ever gets carried away and oversteps the mark, we all know a thousand ways to rid ourselves of a troublesome servant.

Buoyed by the successes of the hero of the moment, they were in euphoric mood. Placid by nature and eager to return to the sanctum of his castle, the Lord of Doume was happy to pay a fee to secure his borders. The fledgling Lord of Scope, not entirely sure what it was all about but believing in his puerile way that, coming from his own territory, he would have special leverage over the new King, offered no objection. The Lord of Bergowrie would agree with any arrangement that might put a check upon the bellicose behaviour of his neighbouring Scope family. Invermuir excepted, the decision was unanimous.

Kenneth was summoned before the Council of Lords and told what was expected of him.

He was flabbergasted. He had an aptitude for fighting but, beyond that, no knowledge whatever of what he was called upon to do and was certain that his wife and aging parents, who had seen nothing of him for almost two years, must be in need of him.

You’ll be seated at Langy castle, said Dunmor, mildly amused at the young man’s confusion, It’s compact and a little isolated but will be more than sufficient for your needs. We’ll make sure that you have good advisors to guide you.

His mop of red hair coiling haphazardly about his shoulders, wearing clothes for the most part acquired from fallen comrades, and desperate to breathe fresh, open, country air and regain peace of mind after years of bloody turmoil, the more Kenneth heard, the more he was appalled.

There has to be someone better qualified for this than me, he pleaded, someone who knows what he’s doing. I know nothing about it and my family will struggle without me.

Vexed by this lack of enthusiasm for his magnanimous proposal, Dunmor stiffened and declared, It’s for your Lords to judge who’s best suited to our purpose, and we have decided upon you. The best way you can serve your family is to make sure they live in peace. They’ll understand your duty to your superiors overrides other considerations and will expect you to do as we require. They will be proud that you’ve been chosen for such a prestigious task.

Kenneth looked uneasily at those seated around the table. Richly adorned Lord and grey advisor alike glared back at him with stern expression. Amongst them, a scowling boy wedged between two sombre mentors was particularly unsettling. He felt more intimidated than when facing a horde of savages.

Then again, droned the Lord of Clieffe, you’ll no doubt have a few spare coins from time to time to send to your family and friends to relieve their poverty. I’m sure that would be far more valuable than anything you might add to their comfort by toiling shoulder to shoulder with them in a field.

Had it been possible to escape the tyranny of these all-consuming magnates, this argument would have ensnared him. Nurtured to honour and protect his family, how could he deny them a better future? With a sense of foreboding, he accepted the royal sceptre, woefully sorry that not all had shared the uncompromising perspective of the Lord of Invermuir.

Dunmor congratulated himself. Not only had he brought about an arrangement that would protect his borders from foreign invaders and belligerent neighbours with no danger to himself, but he had been canny enough to offer Langy as a residence for his titular King; outwardly an altruistic gesture for the benefit of all, the property would be upgraded at shared expense and would one day revert to his possession.

Langy was located in a remote valley on the north-western edge of Clieffe territory, about three days horse ride across uninhabited moorland from Clieffe castle. Beyond was an expanse of intractable mountains. At the time it was offered to accommodate Kenneth and his court, it was little more than a run-down country lodge, occasionally visited by the Clieffe family as a base for game hunting. The main residence, which had started as a square wooden hall, had been added to and encased in stone to better weather the icy winter blast and was now a small keep on two levels. Close by were dilapidated sheds and barns, the whole being enclosed by two parallel, rickety, spike-topped, palisade fences, separated by a shallow ditch that clogged with water in wet seasons.

Kenneth arrived amidst a chaos of building work. Foremen and tradesmen argued over plans; carts laden with stone blocks and timber beams and planks crossed paths in all directions; labourers, chipped, chiselled, hammered, sawed, heaved, and sweated; the air was laden with dust. Bewildered and made giddy by the confusion, wherever he sought refuge he was besieged by complaining workmen and contending advisors. Desperate to escape, the only pretext that presented itself was a tour of the army.

A ten-day ride brought him to the western frontier where the remnants of his army were still encamped. He had looked forward to a welcoming reception and pleasant stay with old comrades but the atmosphere was bleak.

Why are there so few soldiers and why are they so glum? he asked a campaigning friend.

Because nobody’s been paid, replied the veteran gloomily, and we can’t live off fresh air. Most have drifted away. The ones that are left have nowhere to go.

Almost too embarrassed to delve further, Kenneth enquired, Does anybody know why you’ve not been paid?

Because the Lords don’t feel threatened any more, answered the veteran; soldiers have to be dying in battle before Lords are willing to pay.

Kenneth had no authority and was powerless to help. Within a month, he dejectedly arrived back at Langy castle.

The work was now complete. New cooks were installed with sparkling pots and utensils in an extended kitchen and clean-liveried servants hastened about their duties. A community of merchants, traders, craftsmen, and serfs had set up shelters and workshops in the space between the castle gates and the keep and a number of young sons of Lords had taken up residence to keep watch over him.

Titled and dressed like a King, he was no more than a bondservant to capricious Lords. He had no friends or allies; his advisors administered his finances and the workings of his court; his every move was watched and probably reported back to his masters. Enmeshed in a web from which he could see no way of escape, he wearied of it all.

From time to time he was called to deal with encroaching tribesmen from the north or sheep rustlers in the south. It was a respite from the bickering factions in the castle but a prelude to recurring nightmare. He stood with an army on a hill. Higher above him, Lords glared with distorted faces, pointing at an enemy below. He led a charge and hacked his way downward through a forest of savages. Hurtling ever faster, pivoting to the right and left to avoid sword and spear thrusts, he left his soldiers behind. There seemed no end to it until everything melted away and a chasm opened in front of him. He plunged headlong into an abyss and woke in a sweat.

Returning from a gruelling expedition to repel pirates who had been pillaging villages on the eastern coast, an ingratiating advisor suggested to him, Why not send for your wife?

Isolated and friendless as he was, he longed for the intimacy of his wife. But he could foresee how her simple peasant ways would be derided and how she would be humiliated beyond endurance by his sophisticated courtly retinue. While he was condemned to live detached from those he loved and amongst people he could only despise, he would not suffer his wife to share the same unhappy fate. He enquired, Is there a way I can send a gift?

There are couriers, answered the advisor.

He was sometimes handed coins to pay for incidental expenses. Promising himself that he would visit his home one day, he sent a purse containing a few coins to his wife and another to his parents, whom he could not help but think would be in dire need.

Time passed and, continually harassed by officious advisors, supplicants and plaintiffs with insistent claims upon his every hour, there was never opportunity to honour his promise to himself to visit his home. News came that his father died, proud of his son to his last breath. A short time later, like tidings of his mother.

Years of estrangement turned to decades. His shock of coiling red hair whitened and fell lank about his arching shoulders; his handsome face grew careworn. But though his strength declined, he continued to uphold the peace of the people he protected. The population flourished and he became affectionately known as Good King Kenneth.

But these reverential feelings of the common people towards their King were not shared by all. Living in luscious splendour, their coffers swollen from taxes imposed upon growing trade, the Lords had more reason than anyone to be content, but it is not in the nature of such men to count their blessings; they must always hanker after more. New faces now glowered down from the high thrones of the great houses. Memories of upheavals and the horror of unfettered barbarians in their midst were forgotten.

Torin of Scope was now a thickset, bellicose, middle-aged bully, avoided wherever possible by those he lived with. He was exasperated to have so little sway over Kenneth’s judgements and begrudged the levy paid for his upkeep. What does he do to justify it? he would rant at the family table, He’s too old to be feared any more. Why feed oats to a horse that can no longer pull a cart? Who’s to say we can’t quite easily fend for ourselves without him?

Dughlas, the Lord of Bergowrie, on the other hand, was convinced his troublesome neighbour from Scope had too great a sway over the King’s decisions. Sitting with his son and daughter at the family table of an evening he would grumble, Why should I pay someone who’s working against me? What do I get out of it? It’s not as if money is easy to come by.

At Cliffe, Braedan, the recently crowned Lord, challenged the wisdom of his father in handing over Langy castle and complained bitterly to his wife, I don’t understand what possessed the old man to come up with this notion of installing a sham King at Langy and depriving us of a good hunting lodge? It’s better equipped than here and far too valuable to have been given over. Who knows how long it will be before we get it back?

There were also mutterings, probably emanating from great hall of Scope, that the King was not bold enough; that forces that could repel foreign plunderers were surely powerful enough to plunder foreigners in turn to the benefit of all; that the common wealth was retarded by the King’s want of ambition and energy; that he was an obstacle to progress. These murmurs, buzzing from court to court, reached the keen ears of Aengus, the son of Kenneth’s elder sister.

Chapter 2: The King’s Nephew

Kenneth saw no value in entangling them and sought to shield his family from the shallow and insidious machinations of his court. Whenever there was an opportunity, he sent a small purse of coin to alleviate their poverty but never referred to them with those about him and, beyond the compass of the small village where they now lived, the marriages of his nieces and nephews went unobserved. But, despite his best attempts, in the tenth year of his kingship, by some mysterious means, although many cynically ascribed it to the young man’s own agencies, his nephew Aengus’s coming of age became known and a topic of speculation at court.

His growth stunted and his face pockmarked by a childhood disease, even in his prime Aengus was not a handsome man and, coming from the same peasant kinship, had no more hereditary prominence than his uncle. Nevertheless, when it became known that Kenneth had a nephew of marriageable age, Lords who were fortunate enough to have an eligible daughter or sister were keen to obtain for themselves and deny to their rivals the patronage and prestige attached to aligning their house with the King. Arguments for the qualities and accomplishments of various damsels were pressed until, finally relenting, Kenneth invited his nephew to visit his court, if he so wished, and choose from one of the fair ladies being offered.

Without troubling himself to see any of the contestants and to the chagrin of the mighty Lords of Scope and Bergowrie, Aengus chose Caitrin of Doume. A plain-looking, diffident lady, three inches taller and five years older than her suitor, it was conjectured among sceptical courtiers that she had been chosen because, while the Lord of Scope was still in his teens and the Lords of Bergowrie and Clieffe had sturdy sons to inherit their fortune, Caitrin being an only offspring of an aging and enfeebled Lord, the title would soon pass to her husband.

The couple were married at Doume castle and lived seemingly contented lives under the patronage of the benign Lord until his peaceful demise two years later. Then, on a dreary winter’s morn, dejectedly trudging behind her husband as he strode proudly into the banqueting hall, on returning from her father’s internment in the bleak and musty family vault, Caitrin was stopped at the door by attendants and told that new apartments were arranged for her. She was conducted to a dingy cell in a draughty, little frequented corner in the highest tier of the castle. Here, shivering through the winter, stifled in the summer, barely fed and watered, she was forgotten, faded, and, while her husband feasted nightly only a short distance away, died of neglect. When told of her death, Aengus gave instructions she should be quietly installed next to her father and sent news to the King that he had tragically lost and was in deep mourning for his irreplaceable partner in life.

While owing everything he possessed to Kenneth, Aengus was not troubled by feelings of gratitude or a sense of obligation. He despised and was impatient with the complacency and moderation his uncle afforded his subjects and contemptuous of his popularity amongst commoners. To Aengus, the authority of a King should be absolute and unquestioned. Any King worth his salt should do as he pleased without concern for others; everyone else should jump to it and do as they were told without a murmur. He saw his uncle as a toothless lion and begrudged him the levy he now had to pay for the upkeep of his court. In this, the mutterings of the Lords resonated with his innermost thoughts. Added to which, he saw himself as the natural heir to the King. It had never been spoken (possibly not even thought of by any but Aengus), but if some calamity should cut short the life of his silver-haired uncle, it was clear to him that, being the King’s nephew and closest surviving relative, he should be next in line to inherit the title. The prospect gnawed at him. It unsettled his appetite. He repeatedly resorted to Camran, his soothsayer.

Camran had an ancient, meagre appearance. He was not of the formidable cult that ominously stalked the land in dark robes and performed ritualistic rites under moonlight at midnight and at break of dawn on midsummer and midwinter’s day, but he purported to be steeped in black mysteries of the occult and magic. Wherever he went, he trailed a scrawny, underfed, young apprentice with him. When called for, he shuffled obsequiously before his Lord with pensive expression and angled his head as if to listen attentively.

Ensconced on a cushioned throne mounted on a dais, beside a blazing fire, Aengus demanded, Camran, I need to know for certain, if some accident should befall my uncle, if, by some terrible twist of fate, he should be killed, who will be the next King?

The same question had been asked many times and the soothsayer knew the answer he was called to give. Facing Aengus, his slight, bent figure jerked at various angles several times, after which, he spun in a circle three times, as well as his stiff joints and dizziness would allow, and, with a clatter, dashed seven small stone tablets onto the paved floor. Then, falling onto his knees he waved an osseous hand in a slow stirring motion above his head, as if warding off interference, and intently scrutinized how the stones had fallen; all the time keeping a stealthy eye upon his Lord. Finally, he signalled his puny apprentice to help him recover to his feet and, when propped up, drew him close and whispered into his ear, Slaughter a goat and bring the entrails.

The youth scampered off leaving his master studiously meditating the juxtaposition of the tablets on the floor and reappeared a few minutes later carefully clasping a bowl in the outstretched palms of both hands. Camran took the bowl and, mysteriously conjuring a wand from within the folds of his flowing robe, slowly and solemnly probed the ghastly contents, always furtively looking askance at the expression on his Lord’s face. Finally, with extended arm and stiffened forefinger, he pointed to the tablets on the floor, to the entrails in the bowl, to the heavens above and slowly deliberated his prophecy, All signs point to A E N G U S. When the King dies, Aengus will possess the royal sceptre.

While not sharing the same unwavering faith in the mumbo-jumbo antics of the aging seer as his predecessor, of whom he was a relic, it was nevertheless gratifying to Aengus to have his innermost yearnings reinforced in this way. He smiled complacently and handed over a silver piece, which Camran grasped eagerly before scuttling away, closely followed by his scrawny helpmate.

The summer had been a trying one for Kenneth. Early on there were complaints about cattle rustling in the south and, thankful for a diversion from the exigencies of court, he mustered a company of soldiers and marched to the region where the raids were taking place. The raiders were difficult to trap, but, he eventually caught up with them in a valley and a bloody encounter ensued in which there was a great deal of slaughter. At the end, looking upon the raiders and many of his own men strewn across a blood soaked meadow, he sank down, exhausted.

Perhaps we’re getting a little old for this, suggested a weathered companion who had shared many bruising campaigns.

The day’s drawing close, replied Kenneth wearily, when I will have done all that I can do.

There’s no reason why you should say so, replied the soldier, sensing an uncharacteristic despondency and trying to uplift his spirits, you have many years ahead of you.

There are already rumours that the Lords are discontented, answered Kenneth, sombrely, no doubt I will be dispensed with once they decide I’m expendable.

Appalled to hear the King to whom so much was owed disposed of like a lame donkey, the soldier put in energetically, Why not use your power to dispense with them first? If it was thought you were threatened, the whole country would rise to smite the miserable curs.

I doubt if everybody thinks the same way as you, replied Kenneth, smiling at the vehemence of his old comrade, but even if they did, it would bring upon the people the pain and misery I’ve spent my life protecting them from. I have no power and neither have all the people combined to challenge those who own the wealth. Anyone lifting a single finger against the Lords would be cut down in an instant.

Put it to the test, persisted the soldier eagerly, keen not to concede his point without an argument.

Even if I succeeded in ousting the Lords as you suggest, what would replace them? questioned Kenneth. There might be chaos for years to come.

But you could install your own Lords, insisted the soldier, honest, loyal men who would care for their countrymen and respect their King.

His faith in human nature tarnished by years of countless petty court intrigues, Kenneth smiled at his open-hearted companion and said, What do you see here?

They surveyed the scene of carnage.

Soldiers turning over the dead to see what can be taken, answered the bluff soldier, It’s their right of battle; the dead won’t complain; if they hadn’t been killed, they’d be doing the same thing.

And it’s their instinct, returned Kenneth. Men are first and foremost loyal to themselves and driven by their own needs. They act according to self interest and if that conflicts with others’ there’s a tussle and the strongest or the one with most guile wins. The Lords are their paymasters. Would they bite the hand that feeds them?

Not all men are like that, retorted the soldier, offended to be classed with those who look only to their own advantage.

That’s true, Duncan, answered Kenneth, wistfully, but there are not many of your stamp.

Back at Langy, as he listened to a tirade of demands awaiting his urgent attention, one of his advisors mentioned, almost as an aside, By the way, we received news that your wife died with the passing of winter.

After this, he heard very little of what was said. His mind drifted back to the days of his childhood and youth before he had been wrested away from his home; days spent in hunger and toil but where all shared the same hardships and cared for one another. Since then, the decades seemed a blur; day after day of pressing matters that, looking back, were as nothing. More than thirty years had passed in which days, weeks, and months merged in his memory. Along the way he had been told that his parents had died, and now, his wife. He had sent small gifts but beyond that had played no part in their lives. Nevertheless, the gifts had been a link to his past and now there was no longer reason to send them. He was overpowered by a sense of emptiness; deprived of so much that could never be recaptured.

Careworn and in reflective mood, he received an unexpected invitation from his nephew Aengus to visit Doume castle, with promises of feasting, jousting, and hunting. He could hardly remember what his kinsman looked like, having seen him but once and then only fleetingly when he came to court for a short stay more than twenty years before. The promised entertainments were of little interest, but his sister’s son was now probably his closest living relative and he determined to see one of his family before it was too late.

It was his routine to start each morning with a meeting at which he was beset by plaintiffs and bickering advisors. At this council, a day after receiving the invitation from his nephew, he proclaimed, I have decided to take time out to visit my nephew at Doume.

His advisors were astounded, aggrieved to release him from their grasp even for an instant. You have pressing demands, one argued vehemently, do you think you can spare the time?

I expect to be away for about twelve days, he informed them, ignoring the question.

This is a particularly hazardous time for such a journey, suggested a senior advisor.

Kenneth gazed at him placidly without speaking.

There are rumours, the advisor continued, of a plot to oust you. Won’t your absence encourage those who would remove you to make their move?

I only wish some generous Lord had ousted me thirty years ago, mused Kenneth, I might have been free to go home and live in peace. Now I’m an old man whose bones ache in the chill north wind. If the Lords wish to relieve me of my burden, let them do it, I won’t be ungrateful. As far as I know, Aengus is my only living relative. I would like to see a member of my family before I die. I wouldn’t have thought that was too much for a King to ask. The Lords will have their way whatever I do. I see no reason to deny myself this visit for fear of what they might do in my absence.

But, insisted the advisor, will you not be putting yourself in mortal danger, by crossing open country at such a time?

I thank you for your concern, replied Kenneth gently, sensing his advisor’s apprehension for him was genuine, but I’m almost beyond danger’s reach. However it comes, my death can’t be far away.

What of the royal sceptre? asked another.

You’re more concerned about the safety of the sceptre than the carrier? answered Kenneth pensively. If I’m killed, whoever kills me is more than welcome to it; much good may it do them.

But what of your duties? pleaded yet another.

They will be handled by yourselves, replied Kenneth resolutely, as they invariably are when I’m called away to fight.

A streak of crimson light pierced the eastern sky at dawn the next morning as Kenneth and a small contingent of guards and attendants cantered out of the gates of Langy. Crossing the moors, carpeted by scarlet and pink flowering heather, they camped overnight and after three days descended into the plain of Cliffe where they lodged for a night at the castle. From here they travelled across Clieffe and Doume territories, resting at customary staging points, and, on the fifth day, rounded a range of hills that led into the plain of Doume.

It was a wide valley through the centre of which a river flowed from uplands in the west through widening flatlands to a distant eastern sea. On either side of the river, gentle slopes of verdant pasture rose for about a mile to the edge of dense woodland known as the forests of Doume. These encompassed miles of impenetrable tracts of bush, hazardous, sharp inclines, and hidden gullies. They were shrouded in mystery and fearful legend of terrifying creatures that snatch and devour any who cross into their domain. Stories abounded of intrepid adventurers who boldly ventured into the interior, never to be seen again. Shepherds on the slopes of the plain spoke of unearthly howls issuing from hidden recesses on moonless nights. Only the fringe areas were sometimes visited during daylight hours in search of game or to collect wood.

Coming from the east, the party’s attention was drawn to an ominous, dark edifice that overshadowed a bend in the river towards the hazy, mauve western hills. In front of it, a fence-encircled settlement nestled at the side of the river. As they drew closer and it became more distinct, the edifice took the form of an imposing, grey castle raised on a mound which had an even ascent at the nearest point but ended in a sheer precipice in the direction from which the river flowed. Around the upper contours of the mound was a curtain wall about twenty feet high, dissected in places by watchtowers. Beyond this protruded the turrets of a stone keep. The whole had a cheerless, menacing aspect.

By mid-afternoon, the castle loomed ahead and above them and the hills behind seemed further away than they had appeared from a distance. They passed the settlement, where people gathered to watch their passage from the opposite riverbank, and ambled to a place below the castle.

The air rang out to the harsh sound of blaring horns and, crossing the river, shallow at the end of summer, they slowly ascended a slope leading to the gatehouse.

Guards bearing the colours of Doume lined both sides of a timber drawbridge that crossed a ditch gouged out at the base of the mound. Clattering across the bridge, they rumbled through a gloomy corridor between two gatehouse towers and emerged into brightness where they were met by a boisterous crowd. The ground continued to rise for about a hundred paces to a dour, square stone keep with narrow windows at three levels and corner turrets. They edged their way through the excited throng along a thoroughfare, on either side of which was a shambles of wooden dwellings, barracks, workshops, stores, and stables, stalling half way to negotiate a circular well, then slowly advancing again towards a party of dignitaries ranged in front of the timber doors of the keep. Slightly in front and most elaborately arrayed and bedecked with jewels was a portly figure. While not recognising him, Kenneth presumed this to be his nephew.

As the party dismounted and stable boys ran up to take charge of their horses, the richly clad, short, corpulent man waved them away impatiently to speed things up.

There was sudden squawking and Kenneth lifted his face to see a flurry of fluttering black shapes as a flock of crows rose from nests hidden in an ivy-clad turret and wheeled and cawed in the air above his head. When he looked down again, he was face to face with his nephew.

Welcome uncle. You see how our common folk love you, he said, pointing to the euphoric crowd with a grimace like smile.

Tired after the journey, Kenneth nodded in acknowledgement of the greeting. His nephew was not as he had expected. He could detect no trace of a family resemblance in his bloated, pockmarked, ruddy face and his smile had something of a sinister, leering aspect. A little disconcerted, he diverted his gaze to examine the others in the welcoming party. They seemed an unlikely assortment. On one side of his nephew, with sickly smiles, stood a plump young man arm in arm with an even plumper young woman. At their side was a stooping, meagre old man that Kenneth surmised must be an important court adviser and a scrawny youth. On the other side were three well-proportioned, expressionless knights he took to be garrison commanders, although none were strikingly attired and only the youngest had an air of authority.

His nephew interrupted his thoughts, saying with a forced smile, "I trust you will have a