Elizabeth McBride (3 page)

She looked up. Gormach's eyes narrowed. "We cannot
wait. You understand the situation, lass?"

She took a deep breath. "I know you wish an alliance
between the Picts and the Irish." Be calm. Be strong.

"We wish nothing. We need an alliance, and we need it
most with the Scots. If we get the Irish, too, as part of the
bargain, so much the better. But I do not give a pig's fart
about the Irish."

The entire hall went silent, except for the fire, which
sizzled and snapped.

"I am Irish," Mhoire murmured.

"Nay, you are not."

"What do you mean?"

"Your father has given you Dun Darach-your mother's
family land in Dal Riata. That makes you a Scot." Gormach
reached for another slab of venison. "When you marry my
son you will do so as a Scot."

Mhoire didn't understand. She was the daughter of an
Irish king-not a high king but still a man of some stature.
Yet Gormach was more interested in the fact that her
mother had been a Scot. It was true Mhoire was bringing
to the marriage a holding in Dal Riata, but why was that
more important than being an Irish princess?

"You hate the Irish," she stated flatly.

"I don't hate the Irish, lass. But I don't trust them. I don't
trust any people whose sons I have killed on the battlefield-the Irish, the Britons." He swallowed the meat.
"There is only one people that I hate."

"The Danes?"

He nodded.

Why do men fight so much? The enmity between the
Picts and the Britons was legendary. The Britons lived just
to the south of Pictland, and for hundreds of years the two
peoples had fought territorial wars. As for the Danes, they
were everyone's enemy, burning hillforts and fields up and
down the coasts of all the northern seas. But why? Why
does one country invade another? Why not live peacefully in
one's own land?

"So you hate the Danes, and you mistrust everyone else."

"Aye."

"Including my father?"

"In particular, your father."

"Why?"

"Because my wife's father, Oengus, invaded your country and slaughtered your clan, and yet your father is willing
to marry you to my son. Your father does not strike me as
a forgiving man."

That was true enough. Her father did not know the meaning of forgiveness, or any other charitable impulse.

"I do not know my father's motives, but one might guess they are the same as yours. We, too, are troubled by the
Danes and could benefit from having an ally against them."

Gormach grunted and continued eating.

Everyone else returned to their food as well. Mhoire
picked up her dagger and probed a piece of venison. A
serving woman placed a platter of salmon at Mhoire's elbow. Cooked whole, the fish's damp scales glistened, and
their empty black eyes shone.

Mhoire cleared her throat. "I don't understand why you
favor the Scots. They are Irish people."

Gormach peered at her over the salmon. "They were
Irish. But they left Ireland ten generations ago to settle in
Dal Riata. No one considers them Irish now. They are Dal
Riata Scots."

"But you have fought with the Scots, too," she persisted.
"Oengus also invaded Dal Riata and then the Scots rallied
and threw him out, killing many Pictish warriors."

Gormach grabbed his goblet and thumped it on the table.

The salmon bounced. The hall lapsed into silence. From
somewhere under the table, a dog whined.

"What is your point, lass?"

"My point-" she barely managed to keep her voice
steady-"is that since the Dal Riata Scots really are no
different than the Britons or the Irish, you should not be
allying yourself with them. You should be looking for other
solutions to this problem with the Danes."

Gormach's face reddened.

"You could unite your provinces," she continued. "That
would be the sensible thing to do. All the Pictish kings
could fight together. Surely, a united Pictland would overcome any invading force."

Gormach's anger burst. "Are you daft, lass? We are being attacked on all sides-the Britons from the south and
the Danes from the east and the west and the north. We
need land in Dal Riata. We need Dun Darach. We need an
ally on the west coast. We need the hillfort there and strong
defenses."

Mhoire clenched her hands together in her lap. Her nerves were frayed, and the smell of the fish was making
her queasy. "But you have no reason to trust the Scots,
your former enemy, any more than the Irish or the Britons.
This doesn't make sense."

"Lass, we have no need to trust the Scots. Trust plays
no part here. We have you. And once you-a Scot, thanks
to your Scottish mother-marry my son, you will be a Pict.
And Dun Darach, your land, will be ours."

Now. She must speak now. Mhoire took another shaking
breath and looked straight into his hot, hard eyes. "I regret
to tell you that you cannot have me."

Gormach's eyes narrowed. "I do not understand your
meaning."

She broke into a cold sweat. "I mean that your agreement
with my father was a terrible mistake. I have here ..." She
fumbled with the small pouch hanging from her neck. ". . .
I have here the gold you gave my father." With unsteady
fingers, she loosened the drawstring, pulled out a gold medallion, and laid it on the table. It was as large as a child's
palm and heavily engraved.

Gormach stared at it, his face flaming, except for the
scar, which remained a dead-white gash.

"This is yours, is it not? I am returning it to you."

Gormach lifted burning eyes to hers. "Put her under
guard," he said.

Drosten unbelted his scabbard and leaned it against the
wall of the cistern. In one quick move, he pulled his short
tunic over his head and flung it onto the ground. Bending
over, he peeled off his leather boots and kicked them out
of the way.

He was hot and dirty, crusted with bog mud and a fair
amount of his own blood. The blood was from flesh
wounds only, fortunately. He didn't even glance at them,
but thrust his muscled legs over the side of the wooden tub.
With a splash, he sank into the cool waters.

It had been a trying day. First, there had been the hard
ride home. A courier had found him on the southern plains
and announced that his marriage had been arranged and he
was to return immediately to Strath Erne. Dutifully, Drosten had pressed his horse and his men so that he would
arrive when his father expected. Then, the moment he had
gotten through the gates, before he was even off his horse,
he discovered that his bride had refused him. Drosten
closed his eyes and leaned back. He felt a tightening in his
gut whenever he thought of it. Refused him. It reminded
him of the woman who had spurned him years before. Only
this Irishwoman-this Scot, as his father insisted on calling
her-hadn't even laid eyes on him.

Damnation, he had bad luck with women! But this one
wouldn't get away, he knew that. It was unthinkable. Whether she liked it or not-whether he liked it or notthe marriage must take place.

Drosten reached for the straw brush and the slab of lye
soap that sat on the cistern wall. With rough strokes, he
lathered up the brush and began scrubbing his powerful
arms.

He had been fighting the Britons along the border. If you
could call what those cowards did fighting. The Britons had
the courage of children-they attacked in the woods and
scarcely ever came out in the open to stand their ground.
They did, however, occasionally kill a few men. None of
his, though. Drosten prided himself that of all the Picts who
led men into battle, he was the most canny. It was a matter
of keeping your head on your shoulders and not letting your
enemy lure you into the woods where you could be separated and slaughtered one by one. Aye, fighting was simple,
as long as you used your brain.

A lot simpler than dealing with women.

Drosten immersed his arms in the water to rinse off the
soap, and then attacked his neck with the brush.

Why him? Why did he have to marry the woman? His
mother was the daughter of a queen and that put him in
the royal line, making him a candidate for king of one of
the seven Pictish provinces. Of course, there were plenty
of other candidates. His mother's eldest brother-Drosten's
uncle-was king now. And when his uncle died, there were
two of his uncle's brothers to choose from plus the sons of
his mother's two sisters. When the time came, a committee
would choose. It was this ability-indeed, mandate-to
withhold the crown from a weak inheritor and bestow it
upon the ablest royal man that had kept the Picts strong for
generation after generation.

Drosten knew that many considered him to be the best
choice. He was a good leader and the province needed a
leader.

Instead, the clan had told him to do this.

He applied the brush to his chest. The soap ate at the
half-healed cuts and made his skin sting.

Marry this woman with the holding in Dal Riata, his
father and uncles had commanded. Leave Pictland and
everyone you know and go to the fort called Dun Darach.
Create a fighting force out of anyone who was available
and protect the western coast at all costs.

Drosten lathered his big hands and scoured his face, digging with his fingernails to loosen the caked mud.

And, by the way, they said, have plenty of children with
this woman who doesn't even want to get near you.

He spit some soap out of his mouth. This task made
chasing the Britons seem as easy as catching a new-born
kitten. Women! What a bother they were. Drosten rubbed
the soap through his hair. He much preferred the company
of men. But this was his duty, his obligation to his clan.
Never would he have considered refusing to do what his
family asked.

He laid the brush carefully on the edge of the cistern,
took a breath, and plunged completely under the water.

"So what is the plan now?" Grainne asked.

"I'm thinking of one," Mhoire answered. "Just give me
a few more moments."

They were sitting side by side on a small pallet in the
tiny windowless hut in which they had been imprisoned
since the day before. Only once had the door opened to let
in a stooped old crone, wrapped in a plaid shawl, with a
bowl of fresh water in her hands and a loaf of bannoch
under her arm. The woman had given them that hostile,
piercing look that Mhoire was beginning to associate with
all Picts, deposited the food, and left.

A plan. In truth, Mhoire had a plan, though it wasn't
working very well-to claim Dun Darach for herself. No
husband, no marriage, just a quiet life on her mother's land.

"They have this idea that you have to marry one of them.
They're not going to let you back out of it."

"Aye, I know. But there's no logic to it. I'm giving them
back their gold, and they don't like us, no matter what they say. Surely, another woman would do as well, don't you
think?"

Grainne's brows drew together. "They want Dun Darach
very badly. As much as you. And your father promised it.
That's logic enough for them."

Mhoire lowered her head and felt the cold spot in her
stomach spread wider.

Dun Darach-"Fort of the Oaks." To Mhoire's mind,
the words carried the heft and rhythm of poetry. She had
said them to herself so many times, they were like a prayer
that inspired her and comforted her when nothing else
could. Dun Darach. She was sure it must be strong, welcoming, and beautiful beyond all imagining.

The truth was she knew very little about the place. On
this subject, her mother, never very talkative, had been entirely mute. Mhoire knew that Eveline was the daughter of
a Scottish chieftain and had left Dun Darach as a young
woman to marry Colman and live in Ireland. But that was
all.

And then, at the last quarter moon, all opportunity for
learning more disappeared. Her mother took ill after supper,
complaining of a sour stomach. Mhoire brewed comfrey
tea and helped her into bed. Sometime during the night,
Eveline died.

Then yesterweek Colman told Mhoire he had arranged
her marriage and her mother's land was to be her marriage
gift. The Picts are keen for it, he had hissed with a gleam
in his eye. They need an alliance against the Danes. Mhoire
didn't care two twigs what the Picts needed. As soon as
Colman had said the words "Dun Darach," she wanted it.

She had spent the next days preparing. She packed her
bags with seed that she stole from the granary, dried apples,
two loaves of bannoch, a large bag of oats, an iron pot and
trivet, and as many arrows as she had time to make. That
left room for only a few pieces of clothing and some medicinal herbs. She prayed that her father wouldn't look inside her bags. But then, even if he had, she doubted he
would guess what she was plotting. Until that moment, she had never been a rebellious daughter. Just a lonely one,
determined not to live her mother's life.

She was afraid of the Picts, she had to admit that. The
harpers sang of men as big as giants and as tenacious as
Satan himself. The Picts, they said, paralyzed their enemies
with their battle cries. Their weapons grew large in their
hands, and their arrows never missed their targets. And, the
harpers told, if a spear pierced the body of a Pict, it crumbled and turned to dust.