Brotherhood of the Gemstone: Chapter VI: A Failed Marriage - The Most Scottish Lord of the Rings Imaginable
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The road out of the Feywoods as they now knew them to be truly called, was a long one that stretched on for leagues without any seeming end, or so thought Indulf. Neglected as all roads in Caledonia had become, since the reign of Siomon, who had endeavoured to ensure that though the roads were not as impressive as Romalian ones, they were still functional. Or so Wulfnoth told them, as they walked along the road leaving the forest behind them, a touch of admiration in his voice as he spoke of the greatest of the MacCináed kings.
“There was a time, before the great wars that splintered our nation for nigh on a century when all of Caledonia was rich, was green and when the whole of the realm was united.” He had recounted to them with considerable cheer.
Cormac appeared fascinated, whereas Daegan took visible pride in this knowledge as though it were her own accomplishment rather than that of one of their ancestors’ kings. Trygve for his own part was sceptical.
Indulf did not doubt the accomplishment, what he did doubt was how golden the age might well have been. Indulf was of the view that the deed ought to be credited to the people, to the Caleds rather than that of the High-King, if only because the effort had necessitated thousands of labourers.
“Are you not a Brittian? Why take pride in the accomplishments of those who were your foes?” Indulf asked after a few minutes of gathering his courage.
“For centuries Norlion was caught between the fangs of the lion and the leopard,” Informed the cleric with a small if sad smile, “Some are more Caled than Brittian, and others more Brittian than Caled. My mother came from Norlion, though my father was a Jorvik-man, a carpenter of some renowned if I may say so. I had four elder brothers, and so was given over to the monastery, it was there that the abbot who was a Caled by the name of Lachlan. It was he who taught me much, of the ways of the Caleds and of we Brittians, and who imparted to me a desire to see the lands of those born in the lands of Caledonia.”
“This Lachlan sounds like a lovely man,” Daegan said with unusual femininity, a white-toothed smile on her lips.
Walking a short distance behind her and Cormac, who trailed to either side of the cleric, Indulf was not blind to the manner in which Cormac reddened at the sight of her smile.
Bemused, if he had had half as much boldness as his brother, he might well have let slip a teasing comment at Cormac’s expense.
“He indeed was, he has long since passed away,” Wulfnoth murmured sorrowfully, “He was as a father to me and passed to the same sweating plague that took away my two brothers and my parents. ‘Twas a sad year, though I take relief in the knowledge that they are with the Saviour in the realm of light of holy Orcus.”
“Likely growing fat now, so that he is not so lovely now,” Trygve said irreverently.
Cormac stifled a snort, and Daegan frowned with displeasure. She was never one to take matters of religion lightly. Indulf’s own feelings were somewhere between the blonder lad and the scarlet-haired lass, as he felt a small amount of disapproval tinged with wry amusement erupt within him.
Inga might well have snickered and chortled at Trygve’s jest, for all her faith she could be every bit as irreverent as the fisherman was.
The memory of the woman who ought to have been his wife, filled him with such grief that he had to repress the tears that came unbidden to his eyes. This had become such a regular occurrence that the son of Freygil had become accustomed to either wiping his eyes or forcing himself to snort and not think about his loss.
What he was also accustomed to, was a deep well of anger that at times tinted his vision with red and black at the thought of the phantom-riders. Such was the force of this desire for justice for the murder of his beloved that he oft trembled and shook. He would give anything to punish those monsters, for taking away the only person he had ever loved, so passionately.
Where once upon a time Indulf had prayed solely to Khnum and Turan, the former to aid with his needlework and to the latter for a happy marriage to Inga, and for her continued good-health, he now prayed to Ziu the war-god for courage and revenge.
*****
Two days after they had left the forest, it entered into Cormac’s spirit to ask in his eternally inquisitive manner (which both Inga and Indulf had always admired so), “Wulfnoth do you know of any songs, about our good High-King; he who first laid down this long road?”
“Aye I do, though my voice is nary so beautiful as those of others I have heard,” The cleric admitted in a rather sheepish voice.
“Bah, say the words and I shall sing them,” Daegan offered confident in her undeniably lovely voice.
“Very well,” Conceded the druid rather reluctantly.
“Twenty-three High-Kings hath ruled in Sgain’s wide keeps,
Each lived through sad-tales, for each fell to another’s hands,
Save for two they were men of advanced years yet youths in spirit,
Six were depos’d, Eight sword’d in the fields,
Eight more haunt’d by ghosts they hath slain,
All murder’d for the Thistle-Crown,
First came sword-bearing Causantín,
As a comet was pious Causantín,
Seven sons did he begat,
Bright was his sword, blue as the sea,
Seven times did he war in the south,
Upon Dún Brunde’s vast plains he left three of his suns,
Máel-Martin followed, wholly unlike the Wise,
None did wonder at him,
North he ventur’d to war, Lo! His light did thus dim,
Domnall III arose as a flame in westerly Luthain,
His brother Ringean Longstride arose,
Terror wert all fill’d by, and upon terror he throve,
As a flame the wolf-moon laird tore the Caleds apart,
Silver-steel upraised the three princes hew’d his wicked heart!
Twelve blood-moons more arrived hither,
They then left as the usurper and his slayers did,
Chief of the thrice men Achaius II with the heavy lid,
The heir of Máel-Martin did soon fall,
Next crowned was Duibh MacRingean of three score victories,
Unfilial the third-born of the Black-Mane hew’d in the Elvish halls,
Thirdly did the second of Ringean’s sons he of many miseries,
Domnall IV sweet-mien’d arose in fury,
Wintry snows dyed red pour’d upon all lands,
Silver-steel rain’d down west to east across all clans,
The third of Domnall III’s slayers swept the throne in glory,
Ketil Tyrant-Slayer arrayed in silver was thus crown’d,
Steel-girded, strong of arm as the oak that did so defy him,
Four-fold sons did he slay and two did unbound,
Dour Pàdraig grew weary of the good king’s smile,
Sword’d in Domnall’s halls thus he lay in his bile,
Of Pàdraig, from victory to defeat he did so choose,
And with it a son and crown did he lose,
Achaius III MacKetil king most foul,
Ere his fall from the northern haunted spire howl’d,
Baltair his brother hither came next his psalms well-sung,
fell from pious lips as leaves from ash-wood,
Strawthern hewed him, and the book to which he clung,
From high-Sgain arose Amlaib the Fat,
Lover of minstrels and bards, ne’er shy of combat,
Meret he did love, and her ballads he always sung,
His brother did hath him undone,
Amlaib three-Queen did run from glade to glade,
Ruddy cheeked he swore to never fade,
Envious Cináed II storm’d the sobbing man’s palace,
Many had been the balls that the queens enjoy’d,
Nary a one tittered then,
All did so dye his cloth scarlet,
Revelry return’d accompanied by three score famines,
Misty Highland peaks to Lowland lands wert filled with groans,
By Eirrik’s Highland-spire did he expire,
Blood-soaked and proudly did all sing by Dúntyre,
Bold-hearts and nodding Thistles wave o’er bloody corpses,
Deep-eyed in gore is the green Thistle rooted,
Triumphant in battle was Siomon the Bold,
Hark down through the glen,
There amidst hills gleaming bright as gold,
King of high endeavour,
King of shining rivers,
King of all hearts forever,
Alas drooping Thistles and lilies wave o’er his bloody tomb!
Away, away whither goes the Caleds again,
Shivering is the sea of steel in the field of swans,
For once more Máel-Martin sits the throne.”