Celtic Blood Read online

  Celtic

  Blood

  James John Loftus

  Copyright © 2010 James John Loftus

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1461188792

  ISBN-13: 9781461188797

  I dedicate this book to my wife Janice without her unfailing help this book would never have been written. I would also like to acknowledge the fine editorial efforts of Michelle Sandelier and Tim Scurr. Ross Wilson, thanks for the friendship and writing mentorship. And last, but not least, the noble Mackay clan for inspiring this Celtic Blood.

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgments

  1 Sole Survivor

  2 The Mourning

  3 Mary’s Woe

  4 Across the Mountains

  5 North To South

  6 MacTaggart’s Church

  7 The Witch Queen

  8 To The Forest

  9 Morgund meets Alexander

  10 To Succumb To Love When Love It Isn’t

  CELTIC BLOOD

  I felt the wind and heard the rain, I felt an ancient hand. The spirit of my ancestor drove the pen which touched the page and enabled me to visualize that which had occurred. He called out to me from the past with the voice of long ago.

  SOLE SURVIVOR

  WITH AN UNQUENCHABLE thirst the ship drank in the ocean. White tops came crashing over the sides forcing every man to go down on all fours to avoid being cast overboard. Woven trimmings trembled under avalanches of water. The wind was bludgeoning. Most of the men huddled together for warmth and protection under the covered stern of the ship. Seward, thirteen, although none would call him so young by his look, held a rail with an iron grip. Tasting the sea-blown water on his lips, Seward felt exhilarated by the turbulence of nature, and was afraid.

  On the railhead, droplets of moisture were held captive by the wind. Watching the drops of water bend out of shape and realign, Seward felt amazed at how these tiny drops could endure, telling himself if they could, so could he. The ocean surged and the ship heaved. Looking beyond the bulging water spheres to the pattern of the woodwork lost in the fine wood-grain was Seward. Abrupt movement. The deck, once beneath his feet became a cliff, behind and above him … nothing was beneath his feet, and he was falling into space. He hit the water. Above his head the ship. A moment ago he had been on the deck. In another ship not far from him, men were bailing out water. That ship came close and almost touched him. It swept past in a blur, curled up in a wave. Then whipped upward again he slid across the wooden hull looking for a place to hold. Then, with another sudden jolt, the deck broke and screaming men tumbled to water. Seward was certain this was the last journey he would make, bar the one unto God should fate be so kind.

  Carried by confused ocean currents out away from both ships. A lead weight of water poured on him, like a blow. A mass of liquid crashed into his side. Like his legs were meant to touch the ocean floor, a hundred feet below, he was sucked down. He thought he had died for he saw and heard nothing, and felt, nothing. Seeing his hands through the water Seward realized that life was still his, though the rain still fell, and the dark sea still held him captive. A wave rearing up and up and up came crashing down, sending him into depths cold enough to take his life. He held his breath deep underwater. Suddenly he saw white as he surfaced to the sinister sound of hissing surf. A piece of the mast came rushing past him. Grabbing at it, his outstretched fingers met water and nothing else. Friends and comfort were lost to him now he thought. Without the ship, what could he do, drown? No! Fight on, he told himself as his limbs fastened to the uppermost level of the sea and he swam.

  Gulping air while rising high, so very high, and seeing far in each direction, he saw coast and rocks and what he realized could be life if he made it to the shore. A dark mass arose, tossed him forward. Much closer to the shore, a wave rolled him along. Stumbling onto a beach Seward, from his new perspective, heard nothing but a strange internal ear sound. These strange silent waves. When some water escaped his ear, the waves were alive, pounding, booming. The very next instant, it seemed, an owl hooted on the branch of a small tree. The moon was high much time had passed. He had fallen asleep, he realised. He sat alone gazing at the ocean pondering what to do for a considerable time.

  A hill overlooking the coast would be the best place to find survivors. He set off. Finding a fresh water rivulet, he cupped his hands and drank, ascending the hill thereafter. When his physical powers deserted him all he could do was lodge himself behind some bushes out of the wind resting trying to regain some strength listening to the sound of sea and surf. He almost slept until something caught his eye. Mounted armed men, and screaming men, below. Horsemen rode out onto the dunes with swords drawn. Two men, survivors from the shipwreck, his friends, were running. Soon horses meshed with the men afoot. The bodies of the Danes were then cut down in pools of red as flashing blades struck right and left.

  He could not stand by and let his friends perish without his aid. Seward made a nervous quick grab. He held a sword from a rider’s sheath. He ran down toward the fight. A horseman came in pursuit. Seward turned in time to see, but not to avoid a blow to his head. The sword dislodged from his grasp it lay at the hooves of this horseman, too far to reach. Seward realized he could not regain the sword; any attempt to do so, would fail. He stayed where he was. From the ground, Seward looked at a solid, sunburned fellow, good-looking, if watery eyed - a man uneasy within his skin. Seward was waiting for the death stab from the man who towered above him. The horseman threw himself off his horse and took the sword which he passed to his comrade. He mounted. The man pointed at him and laughed, spun his horse and with the speed and coordination of a life long rider and warrior stretched out his hand and lifted Seward up behind him. Kenneth’s horse now had two riders, Kenneth and Seward.

  In a strange way Kenneth, Earl of Ross, felt more pity for the boy than his companions did. With weighty concerns he was apt to pity another. The land he called his own was beset by enemies. These very murdering men on the beach amongst them. Kenneth and his party departing, Seward turned in the saddle and attempted to see if any of his shipmates survived. The unforgiving sea was all that he saw.

  A long ride amongst bare hills, was followed by travelling through dense woods. They came out into an open valley of scattered pine and oak scrub. A flat-topped hill with a wooden fort stood in the distance. They rode toward it. Entering its courtyard, surrounded by a crowd, he fell from his horse. If they would kill him, so be it, he thought. “I am not going to sit back and let these folk laugh at me.”

  He stood and addressed them in his own tongue, “I am a seafarer, not a knight. I wonder what skills you have.” He looked at blank faces. “I am far from home in an unkind land.” Their amused faces perplexed him.

  “Not a brain to rub together amongst all of you.” He looked away. He should strike someone. He learned long ago the weakest dog gets kicked the most and he was not a weak dog.

  Someone noticed Seward’s combative attitude with distinct interest. An instinctive fighter who would fight his way out of any corner, handy for trouble to come. Kenneth realized it. “The boy needs feeding and clothing supposed Christian people.” Kenneth said, searching and finding the quality he was looking for. She seemed kindly disposed. “You there,” he said to her.

  “Aye, my Lord.”

  “Help him.”

  Her compassionate arms assisted Seward to his feet. He cautioned himself to be brave, not to shame himself. Growing up with stories of heroes he would put up as good a showing as any of them, he told himself. By not succumbing to despair, Seward caused immense interest but provoked no sympathy. The crowd moved closer and immediately commenced chattering.

  This foreign singsong language was unknown to him. He stared at them a
nd they stared at him, studying him closely. A mere boy yet, but the curve of his biceps showed that potentially he would be brutally strong. Yet somehow, his smoothness of face was angelic. His eyes of palest blue had the light of intelligence behind them. His hair as pale as angel’s wings, hair to win the heart of the most fair of maids.

  “What a sight he is, poor, young man. He’s bonny though,” the woman hastened to add as if he had heard and understood their tongue. Foreigners weren’t always ignorant, so she’d heard, and didn’t want the shame of an uncivil reception to fall upon them.

  “This boy the men have caught is solid,” was observed and spoken by another.

  Many comments passed around, “He has good looks.”

  “Aye, and a hard look.”

  “We will clean him and feed him and make him our poppet to spoil on treats.”

  Aye, I’d spoil him,” harped a cold-eyed crone.

  “Aye, I know what sort of spoiling you’d give him,” replied her friend while others laughed, though Kenneth was not much amused and the woman felt abashed at his stern look.

  Then someone said. “You’ll be alright son - don’t be alarmed. We’ll feed you and see to your health.” Seward looked closer into blue eyes that shone in a ruddy face, eyes that were warm and wise.

  A little girl determined to have her say pushed through. “You poor, miserable boy.” Her tone hard was uncaring. She stared at him unflinchingly. The cruel words hung in the air. He knew they were cruel by the looks returned from those around him. Give him a big long stick and he’d show the cruelty. The thought made him smile.

  Seward felt a finger prod him. It was the girl. “What happened lost boy?” The language was foreign and meant nothing to him, yet the intent he knew. To her he poked his tongue out. A look of surprise flickered across the girl’s face and she laughed.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder. Then taken indoors by a kindly man and placed next to a warm fire. Someone put a rich broth before him. Looking into the fire, the ordinariness of it allowed the memory of sea and blood to fade. As they still spoke to him, as their voices began to take shape, he was excited.

  These people spoke Scandinavian, outlandishly accented, but it was understandable. Was the place so far north that Norse was spoken? He asked someone

  “It is a trading language.” The one who had taken him indoors told him.

  “Where am I?”

  “In Scotland.”

  “I never thought to come here.”

  “But but you’re her-here n-now.” A bearded man got out despite his impediment. The stammerer’s looks and personality matched his speech. Jigging about, clapping his hands, as the Scots laughed at him. Indeed he was a sight.

  These were sturdy folk for the most part dark haired, however, the firelight caught various contrasting shades of red hair and the odd dull blond, none with his striking white hair. To the Scots he looked strange for such blondness in one his age was unknown. He was fascinating. He looked at a slight black-eyed man who spoke, and answered the question:

  “Where are you from?”

  “Denmark.”

  “Where is that?”

  “Across the sea … it is a part of Scandinavia, the place of the Vikings. Over the sea to the east.”

  The man nodded. “Are you a raider?”

  “No, just a fisherman.”

  “There is no such thing as just a fisherman.” Replied another fellow, at which laughter ensued.

  “He is a great one for fishing. A serious fisherman. Eat, boy, eat.” The man who took him indoors said.

  “Thank you.”

  After the second helping more questions eschewed, “Tell us what happened? How did you come here?”

  “By ship.”

  “We know that, but what was your design?”

  Then a series of questions, too fast to reply to, until. “Obviously you have suffered troubles.” At that, everyone looked expectant awaiting his answer. He wanted to explain, but needed a moment’s pause to collect his thoughts.

  “Let him eat, there is plenty of time for all that,” said the wise fisherman on his behalf.

  Seward smiled. Sitting, surrounded by kindly expressions; whispers circulated the room. He guessed on what, on the Norse and what they knew of them, how they looked. As his own people would, if the situation was reversed. They would have commented on the Celts facial features. The pixyish upturned noses and ruddy cheeks would have drawn comment.

  The young girl he had poked his tongue out to, was smiling. She appeared playful now, not spiteful. Fair haired, dark-eyed, good-looking, terribly appealing, in a little girl kind of way. She would make a good companion to play a child’s game with. On closer inspection, seemingly in need of a protector, she seemed the runt of the pack. It was not what she wanted him to think. She had bumps under her gown that he’d notice soon enough if she slipped it off, she thought. Watching him, she knew what he thought of her, she was a perceptive girl and he wasn’t hard to read. Reaching out to him with her eyes, pleading with him to notice her as a man would a grown woman, and to smile at her with more than friendly favour, to notice those bumps she was so proud of. She did gain his attention but not in the way she wanted, he gave her a look a brother might pass to his sister. That wouldn’t do. She was a posey. A pretty girl, as pretty as any here. He looked back at her, noticing there was nothing childlike like about her eyes. He turned away.

  A number of the smaller children, who began to touch him, withdrew their hands with squeals of delight. Seward felt a link of good fellowship with these strangers. He knew their hearts were kind. At the very least, his body didn’t lie on the beach, face down, or condemned to the tides where it would be torn apart by the fish and sea. For a moment he imagined his eyes on the ocean floor, meat for a crab. There was a sense of unreality about this. He was tempted to touch someone to verify their existence. He had drunk the mead they pushed on him and shouldn’t have for it lessened his mental balance.

  Deciding, he must brighten up and be good company, satisfy their curiosity, and not disappoint them in his exoticism. He entertained them, and now sought to do so even more. On impulse, he caught the children’s eyes and smiled in an insane disquieting way and jumped out of his chair and pulled a contorted face that would scare the devil himself.

  The children disappeared out the door, terrified. He felt ashamed for real fear he had seen in them when he had expected laugher. His unusual behaviour was attributed to his foreignness, or a bump on the head. The Scots, seeking to avoid a repetition, explained that women and children seldom ventured far. Never had they met a true Viking. Scandinavians lived in parts of northern Scotland. Settled farmer folk however who had been in Scotland for hundreds of years, far removed from the fierce raiders who descended on the coasts. As a son of Denmark some of the children were genuinely scared of him. Hereafter, he must be much more gentle in his actions.

  Youngsters peered around the corner at Seward who motioned them up to him. They edged forward warily. This was a truce but not peace as yet, he realised upon seeing their temper. Intent upon rectifying this, he began to tell of the storm and the shipwreck. A natural storyteller, Seward thrilled his audience. The wind, the rain, the cold, booming surf filled the room. The previously uncertain children crept closer and he caught smiles passing between them. Bold young fellows demanded what Seward knew of the serpents that were known to inhabit deeper oceans. Thus he began a tale regarding them, and of his ship being menaced.

  “When we were attacked we took to the beasts, riding on their backs and inflicting grievous wounds upon them. Some of us died when the serpents dived below the water. We fought long and hard. I never thought we’d get past them. I don’t know how we did.”

  The tale, moved his audience. Seward paused, dramatically, “I must wet my lips before I end this story.”

  “No Seward, no,” protested some youngsters. “Tell us more. You must tell us what happened. Please Seward.” One pleaded, “Don’t delay in the telling.”
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  He relented. “It ended thus, when one of the creatures gulped us down and swam off, the better for having eaten us.”

  Laughter. Seward noticed him then. The boy had sad lonely eyes. What a bedraggled figure the child was, disappointed as were all but at least they laughed, he thought. An unhappy child, this Morgund MacAedh, Kenneth’s son. Seward felt he must get to know him, as this was the son of the man who had saved his life.

  A man approached Seward and bent over and whispered confidentially as if saying something important which didn’t include the others, a simple straight forward wit, he’d elaborate later to make himself important to his listeners. Secret information worked well in enhancing his status. “Seward, you are called to attend upon the Lord Kenneth.”

  Once, in changed clothing, Seward was hurriedly conveyed to a central hall where Kenneth was seated on a raised dais. Seward examined Kenneth. He was dark haired, blue eyed, broad-shouldered, with a stern leader’s manner. Yet, it was not convincing. Kenneth was nervous. The kind of man who expected someone to sneak up and stab him in the back and end his days.

  Kenneth forced a smile and said, “I am conversant with your tongue, Norseman.” Kenneth then smiled at Seward, “I am part Norse myself or at least my kinsmen are, so I am not averse towards you,” he said.

  “Thank you for your kindness,” Seward replied.

  Kenneth continued. “I am the self-styled Lord of Ross. Why I am self-styled can wait for another occasion. It is a long tale full of woe. Too long to tell here. So Seward, tell me how you came to be shipwrecked on the coast of Scotland?”

  The crowd remained very still as Seward took his mind back. “Our ship was lashed by savage storms. We lost control as we were taken close to your coast. We were wrecked. Many of us drowned. For the others, you know what happened to them on the beach.”

  “Thank you, Seward. I am sorry for your shipmates. I will explain. Until recently Norway dominated northern Scotland. Many Scots including my forebears took the side of the Norseman. Now William, the Lion, the king, has improved his control of northern parts. Unfortunately your complement of fishermen came ashore at Buelly. There is a strong royal castle there. The castellan is a brutal man with no love for Scandinavians. He probably deemed it good sport to hunt them. Seward, I am aggrieved for you.”