Elizabeth McBride (2 page)

The Irish Coast, 795 A.D.

Is this what death is like? Gormach mac Nechtan wondered to himself. He peered into the vapor, thick as guilt,
that was creeping toward him up the beach. The air was so
cold it threatened to still his heart.

There was no sign of the man he was waiting for. But
then, the Irish mist revealed nothing until it chose.

Gormach shifted restlessly on the boulder. Waiting was
difficult. It gave him too much time to think.

What would the legacy of this day be? In years to come,
when he was deep in his grave and the harpers sang of his
deeds, would he be blessed or would he be cursed for what
he was about to do?

The sea whispered at his feet, but he could not understand its answer.

Ah! Footsteps. Gormach's sharp warrior's ears heard the
soft scraping in the sand. One man. Good. The Irish king
was keeping his side of the bargain.

He had agreed to meet the Irish king alone and was well
aware that he was risking his life to do so. But if he had
brought his men with him, no matter how peaceful the
cause, blood would have been spilled. Hatred between the
Picts and the Irish was as ancient as fire, and as consuming.

Gormach stood, and slipped his sword from its sheath.
Best to be ready for trickery.

He listened hard for any sound that might come from
the hulking cliff on his right-the pad of a stealthy foot, a
treacherous breath-but he heard nothing there.

The sea throbbed steadily on his left. The crunch of oncoming footsteps grew louder.

Inexplicably, Gormach thought of his wife, she who had
died long ago. Her image rose from a secret spot in his
heart: her tall and slender body, her fair hair, the intelligent
face that he admired more than he had ever let her know.
What would have been her opinion of this? She was the
royal one. Would she have resisted longer? Fought harder?
Gormach didn't think so. His wife had been practical, even
in her youth.

And then the man appeared out of the mist, like a ghost
from the Otherworld, with a brown woolen cloak pulled up
over his head. He stopped two paces from Gormach.

I could kill him with one thrust, Gormach mused, staring
into the man's pale eyes.

They stood in silence until the Irishman spoke. "I am
Colman mac Morgand, King of Ardara in the province of
Ulster." His voice was low and measured and thickly accented.

Gormach nodded once. No need to introduce himself.
Lone Picts did not appear on the north coast of Ireland very
often.

The Irishman squinted. His blue eyes were as sharp as
flintstone. "Your son will marry my daughter?"

Gormach nodded again.

"Do you wish to see her?"

Gormach thought on that a moment. He was curious. But
he cast the impulse aside. What would it matter if the lass
was comely or ugly?

KNNay.

Colman pursed his lips. His cheeks were hollow, and
deep grooves ran from his nose to his chin. A weak chin,
Gormach thought, and a thin, cruel mouth.

"You have the payment?" Colman asked.

Gormach slipped the knot on the small leather sack tied
to his belt. He handed the sack to Colman. "The remainder
will be sent the day after the marriage."

Colman cradled the sack in his palm, assessing its
weight. "You swear to this marriage?"

Gormach gritted his teeth. "I, Gormach mac Nechtan
mac Aed, chief of Strath Erne in the land of the Picts,
whose son is the grandson of Oengus, do swear to this
marriage."

He could not resist mentioning Oengus. The man had
slaughtered the Irish on their own land.

Colman's eyes flashed briefly before his lips flattened
into a rigid smile. "And our clans shall be friends?"

"So the Danes will think."

The smile disappeared. A slight glow of satisfaction
warmed Gormach's belly. He was not so old that he had
forgotten how to make men wary.

"I will send her within the fortnight." Abruptly, Colman
turned and strode away, his footsteps grinding the sand.

Gormach kept his eyes on the Irishman until he was
swallowed up by the mist. Even then, he stared into the
shrouded distance as a hardening drizzle coated his face.
Gormach pulled air deeply into his lungs before letting it
shudder out. He was tired, he realized, and very wet and
cold. He longed for his own mountains.

My God in heaven, he prayed, give us strength.

His heart heavy in his chest, he trudged to his curach
and pushed off into the sea.

Mhoire lifted her face to the wind. God's breath. She
closed her eyes and let the cool air stream against her skin.
The wind was full of power. It pressed hard against her
eyelids and flattened her hair against her cheek. Perhaps, if
she could sit still for just a moment, it would smooth out
the thumping of her heart and the fluttering in her stomach.

"Lady." An impatient voice broke her reverie. Nay, she
could not remain long on this mountaintop. She must move
forward. She must gather her courage and start a new life.

She glanced at the man sitting on the stallion beside her.
His face was unreadable, just as it had been for the last
three days, ever since he and his men had met her and
Grainne on the beach when they stepped from her father's
curach. But Mhoire didn't need an expression to know what
the man was thinking. He despised her. They all did. Every
one of these half-dozen Picts who rode in near-silence, bristling with weapons.

She lifted her hand to the soft leather pouch that hung
below her breast and fingered the objects she carried there.
Then she squeezed her mare's flanks and rode slowly forward.

This island of the Picts, the Britons, and the Scots was
close to the island of Ireland, just a few hours in the curach
across the channel, and yet it looked so different. The first
day, the men had rowed them up the most enormous loch
Mhoire had ever seen. And then they had come upon these mountains-the great spine that separated the western coast
from the land of the Picts. Here clouds bunched against the
peaks in rolling masses, and slender rivulets of water
poured down the steep crags like shards of shining metal.

They rode across a plateau covered with dark green
heather until they came upon one of the huge standing
stones that Mhoire knew were scattered all across Pictland.
The stone slab was as tall as she was, twice as thick as a
man's arm, and densely carved. The Irish called the Picts
Cruithne-people of the designs-and now Mhoire understood why. She picked out images of a boar, a falcon, a
half-moon, and a lightning rod. The designs, she knew,
recorded marriage treaties and described the lineage of the
clan that lived in the area. They gave a warning, too: This
clan was as strong as a boar, as swift to kill as a falcon, as
intelligent as the moon, and as deadly as lightning.

Soon the plateau fell away, and a broad glen lay open
before them. Orderly fields and pastures spread from one
side to the other. Horses grazed on tender, yellow-green
grasses, and long strips of newly dug black earth gleamed
with fertility.

Suddenly, laughter erupted. For the first time since
Mhoire had come under their guard, the men were relaxed
on their horses, and their faces were animated.

This must be their home.

She squared her shoulders and sat as tall as she could on
her horse. She prayed. Mother of God. Mother of God.
Mother of God.

The hillfort rose from the floor of the glen. It looked like
the forts of Ireland-a knobby hill wrapped with a series
of fortifications. Mhoire knew that inside the outer stone
wall would be an inner courtyard holding a main gathering
hall and smaller buildings made of turf and stone. Circling
the top was a second line of defense with three warriors
stationed as sentries. These Picts are careful, Mhoire
thought to herself. But then, everyone was these days.

They passed thatch-roofed cottages outside the fort and rode through the gate. Inside, the clan was gathered to witness her arrival, and a sea of distrustful eyes fastened on her
small person. A low babble rose from the assembly like the
rustling of leaves on a stormy day. Children held tightly to
their mothers' skirts.

She slipped to the ground and smoothed the folds of her
tunic. She wore a plain woolen garment, which she had
dyed a soft rose color with lichen. A plain leather belt circled her waist. Mhoire had chosen the garment to travel in
because it was practical-warm and sturdy. But now she
wished she had on something that more suited the daughter
of a provincial king.

A calloused hand slipped into the crook of her arm.
Grainne. Mhoire turned and smiled weakly, taking comfort
in her friend's lean, familiar face and steady gaze.

"Do you see him?" Grainne whispered.

"Who?"

"The Pict who wants to marry you. Do you see him?"

Tentatively, Mhoire scanned the crowd, hoping one face
would somehow distinguish itself.

`Nay...

"There!" Grainne squeezed Mhoire's arm.

The crowd was moving to left and right, like a stream
of water flowing to each side of a rock. A man emerged.

Mhoire's blood froze.

He was old-at least as old as her father, with gray hair
that hung to his chin like an animal's pelt. Tall and broad,
he looked as unyielding as a rock. He wore a long ceremonial tunic of fine gray wool, and a thick, golden tore
circled his neck. On the left side of his face a jagged scar
ran from his forehead to his chin.

Mhoire met his eyes. They were unyielding as well, and
as cold as the North Sea. Surely, she told herself, her father
had not betrothed her to this one.

The crowd hushed.

Perhaps they were waiting for her to bow her head and
bend her knee, Mhoire thought. She remained standing.

The man gave her a long, considering look. "You'll be wanting a meal, lass," he stated finally. As the crowd
watched silently, she followed him into the gathering hall.

She sat with Grainne and the gray-haired man at one end
of a long wooden table that was heaped with platters. The
men who had brought them here were seated at the other
end of the table, where they were tearing into the food.
Straw covered the dirt floor, and a small fire burned in the
center of the room. Weapons hung from pegs on the
walls-row upon row of leather shields, iron spears, and
throwing axes. They caught the flickering light of the
flames, and seemed to dance like living things.

Mhoire wanted to run, but she knew that was the coward's way out. Ever since she was a girl, she had been told
the stories of the Morrigan, the women warriors of Ireland
who could slay men and beasts with their magic weapons.
They would not run. Nay, they would overwhelm every
man in this room. Inwardly, Mhoire sighed. She didn't have
magic weapons, not even her own bow-it was somewhere
with her baggage. But she could at least contain her fear.

She slipped her eating dagger from the leather sheath on
her belt and picked at a piece of turnip in the wooden
trencher that had been set before her.

"What is your name, lass?" the gray-haired man asked,
as he stabbed a piece of venison with his dagger.

"I am Mhoire. Mhoire ni Colman."

He nodded as he bit into the venison. With cautious
glances, Mhoire studied his face. His features were wellproportioned and strong, his nose long and straight, his
forehead high, and his eyes deeply set under wiry dark gray
brows. But the scar that ran down the left side of his face
ruined him. From the looks of it, his cheek had nearly been
cleaved open. Like most women of responsibility, Mhoire
had often stitched wounds, and she could see that no one
had stitched this one. It had healed itself on its own as best
it could, into an ugly, irregular, white ridge of flesh.

Suddenly he looked up. In his eyes she saw a sadness so deep it pricked her heart. But in a blink it was gone, and
his eyes dulled to an unreadable gray.

He leaned back in his chair.

"My son may change his attitude about marriage once
he sees you."

"Your son?"

"Drosten. The man you are to marry."

She breathed a silent prayer of relief. "Your son is Drosten? Then you are..

One side of his mouth tugged upward. "Did you think
you were to marry me, lass?"

She smiled wanly. "You must be Gormach."

"Aye. You have heard of me."

"I have heard much of you." Ruthless, was the word the
harpers used when they sang of Gormach mac Nechtan.

"Drosten is away. Killing a few Britons." Gormach
picked up his goblet and took a prolonged swallow of ale.

"So the wedding will be some time from now?"

Gormach shrugged. "Tomorrow. Perhaps the next day.
As soon as Drosten returns."

Mhoire felt the color drain from her face. "So soon?"

"As soon as possible. No sense in delaying, lass."

Mhoire laid her dagger next to the trencher and gripped
her hands in her lap. The noise of the men eating and talking at the other end of the table hammered in her ears.