“He was your kinsman,” Bridei said, and the words mad uncle were somewhere in his mind. “I’m sorry; that was a choice no man should be asked to make.”
“But my lord king,” Cinioch protested, “what are you saying? That it was Hargest, your own bodyguard, who—”
“Enough for now,” Bridei said. “We’ve a battle to win, and I think I hear Umbrig’s ox-horn trumpets in the midst of it. Drustan, you should take this Gael’s weapons; he has no use for them now. I don’t know if you intend to stay here or fight alongside us, or …” He glanced skyward, but did not put the third option into words. “In any event, you’ll need to be able to defend yourself. I owe you my life. I won’t leave you to be slaughtered by the first group of warriors to find you, be they Gaels or men of Fortriu.”
In silence, Drustan accepted the weapons, setting the sword belt around his waist and shouldering the crossbow. “Thank you,” he said. “I will ride with you. Since it seems my kinsmen have betrayed you twice over, it must fall to me to make amends.”
“You a fighting man?” Cinioch asked him bluntly.
“I can get by,” Drustan told him, taking the reins of Hargest’s horse. The animal was nervous and wild-eyed; Drustan set a hand on its neck and murmured in its ear, words in a language Bridei could not understand. “I will not seek out Gaels to kill, but I can ride by the king’s side and help to protect him.”
“Why would you be wanting to do that when you could just wait it out?” one of the men challenged. “If you’re kin of his,” glaring at the fallen Hargest, “and he’s responsible for this attack on Bridei, you must be crazy to think we’d trust you with the king’s safety.”
“Give us one reason why we should,” put in Cinioch, glowering.
“I have given one already,” Drustan said, mounting the horse in a fluid movement. “I make amends for my kinsmen’s treachery. I will give two more. I am a friend of the king’s chief bodyguard. Since Faolan cannot be here where he most longs to be, I will take his place. And that which I long for most in the world is in King Bridei’s gift. If I harm him, or let him fall foul of Gaelic swords, I lose my moon and stars, my joy and hope of the future. Believe me, I will protect him well.”
They stared at him, for the moment silenced. Then Bridei said, “We must wait to discover what this treasure of yours is; while we debate here, the battle’s being lost and won. Men, where are your horses? Down under the trees? Find them and get back down there. I will trust myself to Drustan’s guardianship. A man who journeys the length of the Great Glen to provide me with a warning can hardly be less than a friend.” He glanced at the red-haired man. “Ready?”
Drustan nodded gravely. “I am, my lord king. Let us ride.”
It came to Bridei, as the two of them emerged from their cover and headed straight for the seething mass of warriors by the stream, that the man by his side might almost be the Flamekeeper himself in human form, so well made and comely was he, so compelling of expression with those piercing eyes and that flow of exuberant fire-bright hair. When Drustan had first appeared, a creature, then a man, Bridei had wondered for an instant if the god of warriors had chosen to answer his cry for help in a particularly personal way. Wherever this man went, folk’s eyes would be drawn to him. If not a druid, what was he? Human, surely, if he was brother to Alpin of Briar Wood. But what ordinary man possesses such a wondrous power of changing? No time to ponder this further now; it was back into the fray, though with some caution. His wounded hand was a liability in battle, the loss of blood from the shallow chest injury likely to weaken him. The enigmatic Drustan was an unknown quantity. From this point on, Bridei knew, his own survival must take precedence over the capacity of the two of them to contribute as fighting men. He must hope this bird-man could provide him with adequate protection.
The tide of the battle had changed again. The highly trained forces of Fokel of Galany and the Caitt chieftain Umbrig had been lying in wait since before the Gaels reached the strath, quietly picking off any Dalriadan scouts who happened to come close to their hideouts in the wooded areas farther along the broad valley. They had chosen their moment well, moving up the riverbanks from either end while the Gaels were engaged in countering Carnach’s advance, and reaching the action just as both Gaels and Priteni were concentrated down by the water, where the staged retreat had drawn the enemy. Umbrig’s men set their massive ox-horns to their lips. Fokel’s warriors let loose a howling, chanting, screaming battle cry that set a chill even in Bridei’s bones, for it was like a message from Black Crow, a call from beyond the grave. Carnach’s forces, who had a moment ago been in full and rapid retreat, ceased their flight, turned, planted their legs and raised their weapons, eyes blazing with a new zeal.
Talorgen rode up to Bridei, his own personal guard at his side. The chieftain of Raven’s Well looked grim; there was blood on his face and on his clothing but he sat tall in the saddle. “Now?” he queried, looking at Bridei, then glancing sideways at Drustan with a little frown.
“Now,” Bridei said, a strange sense of calm coming over him even as the scene before him erupted into a new spectacle of clashing metal and shouting men.
Talorgen’s guard, Sobran, opened a bundle strapped alongside his saddle, deftly removed a roll of white cloth and three short, socketed poles and assembled the banner with an efficiency born of long practice. It was time, at last, for the king of Fortriu to make himself known.
“Raise it up, Sobran,” he told Talorgen’s man. “We’ll all go forward together.” And as the white banner was lifted and the wind from the western isles whipped it out to reveal, in blue, the crescent and broken rod of the royal line and above them the eagle that was Bridei’s chosen token of kingship, a sudden quiet fell over the men who were closest. Then Bridei raised his arm, clenched fist held skyward in honor of the Flamekeeper, and cried out in a great voice that seemed to come from beyond the earthly realm, “Fortriu!” And from a hundred, five hundred, a thousand mouths parched from the long morning’s work, a thousand bodies exhausted from the fierce tests of mortal combat, a thousand minds in which the sights of death and loss and pain would linger for years to come, a cry went up that set terror in the heart of every Gael in that place: “Fortriu! Fortriu!”
The men of Dalriada fought bravely and hard, but they were marked for defeat from that moment. The flame that Bridei had seen in a vision, long ago, still burning in the poor remnants of a defeated Priteni army, now roared and crackled and exploded in these weary men, and he thought he saw the god’s radiance shining from the face of each and every one of them, from battle-hardened chieftain to humblest spear carrier. Each of them was a beloved son of the Flamekeeper, held in his hands, trusted and cherished. It was the lot of some to fall and not to rise again. Others would die of their wounds, for they were far from home. Many would live to ride, victorious, back to their settlements and the welcoming arms of their dear ones.
Talorgen and Bridei rode forward together. Sobran bore the banner. Drustan, somewhat to Bridei’s surprise, was a whirlwind of motion, executing a number of highly efficient, unusual, and deadly moves. As a result, not a single Gael got close enough to challenge the king, although Talorgen had cause to employ his sword more than once before they cut a way through to the river, and did so with the skill and determination one would expect from a seasoned warrior chieftain.
Choices lay before the king of Dalriada, as with all leaders at the point in a conflict where defeat becomes inevitable. Some prefer annihilation on the field, the sacrifice of a whole army of men, to the bitterness of surrender. Some weigh the options carefully, even in the moment or two fate allows for this as their men lie dying around them, and think beyond the time of humiliation to a future in which negotiation, diplomacy, regrouping, and new alliances may yet make victory from defeat. At length Gabhran’s decision was made, and a messenger dispatched to carry it through the turmoil of struggling men and the debris of fallen ones to King Bridei, now waiting coolly under his banner with a gr
oup of mounted warriors around him. The messenger wore a white cloth knotted around his brow, over his leather helm, a sign that he should be allowed to go unmolested. By the time he reached Bridei and gasped out his message a stillness was creeping over the scene of battle, for the sight of the king of Fortriu waiting there, his blue eyes blazing, his gray horse proud and quiet amid the carnage, and the movement of the white-crested messenger, drew the men’s eyes down the stream to a place where another king now waited under the red and gold banner of Dalriada, a look on his face that went beyond exhaustion into dignified resignation. At that, the hundred small battles began to cease; combatants backed off, sheathed swords, lowered spears, not without maintaining a careful eye on their opponents. The Gaels began to drift in the general direction of their original encampment and were halted by an implacable line of Fokel’s men who had come around to block their retreat. They were surrounded. If Gabhran chose to pursue this fight to the death, he’d take every one of them along with him.
There was another figure who drew the eye. As King Bridei rode forward and his escort moved with him, the men of Fortriu stared and blinked and stared again, and more than one of them muttered a childhood prayer, for it seemed just possible that the bright-eyed, flame-haired figure who shadowed the Blade of Fortriu might be none other than their beloved Flamekeeper made flesh, he who had long valued this young king, his devout nature and his commitment to his lands and people. That this exceptionally striking-looking man seemed to have come from nowhere added weight to the theory.
Bridei reached a certain point, dismounted and waited for the Gaelic king to come to him. By his side, Talorgen now held the royal banner, and through the subsiding chaos of the battle rode other leaders, Morleo, Carnach, to join the king’s party.
Gabhran approached on foot, his standard bearer behind him, two chieftains flanking him. There was hardly a need for words. He came within four paces of Bridei, unbuckled his sword belt and laid it, complete with weapons, on the muddy ground. He spoke briefly in Gaelic.
Bridei waited. He understood well enough, but caution had ever made him less than forthcoming about his grasp of this tongue. He regretted, once again, the absence of Faolan.
“You require a translation,” someone said in the tongue of the Priteni. A slight, tonsured figure stepped out from the ranks of the Dalriadan king’s supporters.
“You!” Bridei could not help exclaiming at the sight of Brother Suibne, religious adviser to Drust of Circinn and a man who had played no little part in his own election as king. “You’re everywhere!”
Suibne smiled. “Only God is everywhere,” he said. “My place at the court of Circinn has been taken by another. A powerful wind drew me to the west, harbinger of a great awakening to light, a new dawn of faith. The king wishes to hear your terms for his surrender. He is hoping you may be magnanimous and spare the lives of those of his men still standing.”
“I will not ask how you yourself walked through this battle unscathed,” Bridei told the Christian cleric, “for I know already what your answer will be. Tell King Gabhran I’m prepared to talk. He must order his men to relinquish their arms immediately, to place them on the ground as he has done and to step back. I, in my turn, will give the command that my forces do no more than patrol the perimeter of this area until we reach agreement. Your men may tend their wounded; mine will do likewise. One false move, and we finish this not in peace, but in blood. Be sure Gabhran understands that.”
Suibne relayed this accurately to the Gaelic leader and obtained grudging assent. A series of orders was issued and conveyed to all quarters of the field. One might have expected a certain reluctance to obey. It sits oddly when one has just been locked in a sweaty, bloody duel to the death to see that same opponent unarmed, no more than a couple of arm’s-lengths away, and not to seize the opportunity to finish him off. The battle-cry had not long left their lips; the heat of the god’s inspiration had not yet burned down to ashes in their breasts. As for the Gaels, how could they trust that, once relieved of their weapons, they would not immediately be slain by the victorious Priteni? From an ancient enemy, a promise is hardly to be taken at face value.
This, however, had been only the last battle in a war that had stretched over almost a full turning of the moon. The men of Fortriu had endured a long and grueling march to reach Dalriada. As the warriors of Raven’s Well and Storm Crag, Pitnochie and Thorn Bend, Abertornie and Longwater began to spread out across the gentle slopes of the valley, bending here and there to examine a broken body, crouching to lift a man who still seemed to have some life in him, and as the Gaels, more cautiously, moved to start the same process, it became evident that these armies had had enough. For the Priteni, weariness and anguish were beginning to seep through the elation, for their losses had been substantial; for the Gaels, survival took the place of victory as the outcome most to be wished for. They would tend their fallen and then, gods willing, at last they could go home.
18
BRIDEI HAD THOUGHT, once, that the moment Gabhran knelt to him and surrendered the kingship of Dalriada would be the fulfillment of his dreams. The Gaelic king was in a weak position, with the northern part of his territory already reclaimed for Fortriu and the remnant of his army at risk of wholesale slaughter if he did not agree with Bridei’s terms. As it was, Gabhran was so calm and dignified in defeat that Bridei wondered what the man saw in the future that he could not.
The leaders of the Priteni set out their requirements. Brother Suibne rendered them into Gaelic and delivered Gabhran’s response, while beyond the small pavilion where the chieftains had gathered, in what had formerly been the Gaelic encampment, the dead and dying were tended to and the wounded patched up as well as was possible. Talorgen had brought his household physician; at present, this man was tending to Ged. The news had come to Bridei just before this formal meeting that the chieftain of Abertornie had been sorely wounded on the field, and was not expected to survive. Carnach, too, had an expert in his party, one with skill at bone-setting. In the event, Priteni surgeons worked on Gaelic casualties and the reverse, though not without a certain degree of doubtful muttering from the men.
Bridei secured Gabhran’s agreement to relinquish the title King of Dalriada, and to withdraw with his Uí Néill chieftains back across the sea to his homeland. He must take, also, those of his fighting men whose role in his service was principally as warriors. The elders who controlled the various settlements of Dalriada, the leaders who governed fortress and fishing port must all step down; any dissension and they faced exile or death. The ordinary folk, those called to arms solely for this particular war, might return to their homes and pick up their lives once more, as long as they understood the west would be under the rule of Fortriu from this day on.
Gabhran consulted with his chieftains then, grim-jawed, set his sign to the document Bridei had had prepared some considerable time ago.
“And,” Bridei said, “it goes without saying that the practice of the Christian ritual will cease throughout these territories. Your priests will return to their homeland. The people will not observe the festivals of the new faith, nor join in public prayer to the Christian god. This must be understood.”
Brother Suibne leaned forward and spoke in an undertone to the Gaelic king, and Gabhran responded.
“Ahem,” Suibne cleared his throat. “I know you are well aware of the presence of our holy men in Circinn. The king asks if you also know that the Light Isles provide shelter for a number of Christian clerics, who are treated with tolerance and courtesy by the king there and by his people. King Gabhran seeks assurances that the members of that peaceful community will be neither molested nor driven out. We understand the king of the Light Isles is subject to your overlordship.”
“I have no comment on that matter,” Bridei said. “It falls outside the scope of these negotiations and beyond Gabhran’s authority.”
“Then,” said Suibne, “I will inform you of another complication.” He did not wait to con
sult Gabhran this time, but appeared to offer the information on his own account.
“Go on,” Bridei said.
“What of the western isles?” the Christian asked mildly. “You wish all Gaels in residence there, and there are several hundred spread across a number of small settlements, to quit those shores entirely? Will you set up local leaders there also? Those villages, and the farms and fishing boats that sustain them, are marginal even with the number of folk who dwell there now.”
There was a pause.
“Why do you ask this?” Bridei was cautious; he knew this man from the past. From Suibne, these could not be idle questions.
Suibne exchanged quiet words with Gabhran once more. “A promise was made,” he said, turning back toward Bridei. “It concerned a very small island, barren, windy, of no significance at all. The old name for the place is Ioua.”
“Yew Tree Isle. I know of it.” Bridei’s childhood lessons in geography had been extremely thorough. “A place of great beauty, I was told; wild, light-filled, remote. What promise?”
“My lord king had an approach from a certain man. From an outstanding man, Bridei, a priest whom even you, should you be fortunate enough to meet him face-to-face, would acknowledge as powerful in faith and radiant with grace. His name is Colm; they call him Colmcille, which could be translated as ‘dove of the Church.’” There was a glow on Suibne’s unprepossessing features and a warmth in his tone that Bridei could not fail to notice.
“What promise?” asked Carnach, features set. “Get on with it. You know our opinion of this faith and the damage it has already wrought in Priteni lands. It’s divisive and dangerous.”
“Brother Colm seeks a refuge, a quiet place where he and a small group of brethren may establish a house of prayer, a hermitage, away from certain influences at home. King Gabhran has promised them sanctuary on Ioua. It’s a speck of an isle.”