The Swordswoman Collection

Chapter 11

"Wake!" Melcorka kicked her heels against the door of the chamber in which the refugees slept. The noise echoed around the crowded room. "Wake up!"

They stirred slowly, men and women, with two of the three children waking and the third snuffling as she ignored the peremptory order from this strange woman with the long sword and haunted eyes.

"What time is this to waken us?"

"Who in God"s name are you?"

"My name is Melcorka the Swordswoman." Melcorka ignored their protests. "The Norsemen have defeated us. They have slaughtered our army, captured our king, r***d our women, tortured our warriors, taken our people into s*****y and ravaged and occupied our land. And all we have done is run for sanctuary."

They looked at her through old, defeated, hopeless eyes.

"It is time to strike back!"

Baetan pulled himself upright. "You are only a youth," he said, "untried in war and with no experience of life. Who are you to tell us what to do?" He looked around the room, gathering support. "You are only a young woman. Alba needs a man with skill in arms and experience of warfare to lead."

"A man such as you?" Melcorka injected a sneer into her voice. "A man well versed in defeat? A man who survives when all others in his village die, and a warrior who panics when he sees a Norse dragon ship?" She shook her head. "No, Baetan. Alba does not need you to lead any fight back."

Baetan grabbed the hilt of his sword. "A man the Norse could not kill. A man who has fought them before, by the skill of his arm and not some magic weapon."

Melcorka slid her hand around Defender, until Bradan touched her arm.

"This is not a good idea," Bradan said. "Surely it would be better to combine against the common foe rather than fight amongst ourselves?"

Melcorka took a deep breath. "You are right. We have lost too many good warriors to start killing each other. We must decide on a strategy."

"What is all the noise?" Two of the Constable"s guards barged in, glaring suspiciously around the room. "What"s happening in here?"

"We are having a discussion," Bradan told them mildly. "We are working out we should do next."

"Does the Constable know of this discussion?" the older of the guards asked.

"He does not," Melcorka told him.

"The Constable likes to be informed of everything that happens in his castle," the guard said.

"If you wish to advise him," Bradan said, "we will wait until he comes before we continue."

They sat on a stone shelf that ran around the entire upper room of the castle, with Campbell the Constable on a carved wooden armchair, listening as Melcorka took the floor.

"The Norse have sacked the royal dun and the capital. They have soundly defeated us in battle," she said. "We now have to make a choice. We can spend the remainder of our lives hiding from them, fugitives in our own land. We can flee and be exiles in the land of another. We can surrender and become slaves. Or we can fight."

Melcorka felt the despair inside the room deepen as the refugees either refused to meet her gaze, or looked around at their lack of numbers.

"They captured the royal dun and defeated our army in a matter of hours," one long-faced man said. "What can we do? I say we should leave Alba and seek sanctuary elsewhere. Go south to the Saxons or west to Erin perhaps, or Cymru."

"Wherever we go, the Norse can also go," a woman said. She held her child to her breast. "I say we surrender to them. They have won the war. Surely they will be merciful in the peace? It is better that my children should live as slaves than the Norse should kill them."

"The Norse will not be merciful," Baetan said quietly.

"How do you know?" The woman asked. "They have no reason to kill us. We are defeated."

"They killed my household," Baetan said. "All of them. I have nobody left. They tore babies from the breasts of their mothers, threw them in the air and impaled them on the points of their spears. They butchered the men and r***d the women, whatever their age, from toddling children to wrinkled oldsters. Surrender is not an option."

"Then we fight," Melcorka said. "We gather all those warriors who have survived, and we fight."

"Here we are," a red-haired man of about thirty said. The scar across his face was recent and weeping. "We are all the warriors who have survived – enough to fill a small boat." He grinned. "The Norse must be pissing themselves in fear."

"There will be others," Melcorka said. "The Norse cannot have killed everybody. There will be farmers and fishermen, woodsmen and hunters." She stopped as ideas flowed to her. "There are the MacGregors."

"The Children of the Mist?" the mother said. "I"d rather trust the Norse."

"We can ask the Lord of the Isles for help," Melcorka said. "He has ships and men."

Baetan shook his head. "He will not help. He has more kin with the Norse than he has with Alba."

"The Alba royal family were kin to the Norse," Melcorka pointed out. "That did not save them."

"Now that Alba has fallen," the red-haired man said, "the Lordship of the Isles is vulnerable. The Norse will base their ships all along the western coast of Alba. They will raid at will."

"They are not as foolish as that," Baetan said. "They will no more pick a quarrel with the Isles than Alba would. The Lordship has a powerful fleet, and their gallowglasses are battle-tried in Erin"s wars. They will not fall as easily as Alba has."

"Leave the Isles out of it for now," Bradan advised. "Others may help."

"Who?" the woman asked. "The Saxons of the south? Give them an excuse, and they will take the kingdom and say they are doing you a favour. They are not to be trusted. Cymru is too busy watching its eastern border with the Saxons and its western coast for Erin raids, and Erin is always fighting itself. We are alone, just this little handful of us."

Melcorka lifted her voice. "There is Fidach," she said. The silence that followed was as much of shock as of surprise.

"Ask the Picts?" Baetan said. "As well ask the Devil to don a halo and write the Bible!" He looked around the gathering for support. "The Picts were our blood enemies for centuries before the Norse arrived."

"When did we last fight them?" Melcorka asked. "When did anybody last fight the people of Fidach? Not in my lifetime."

There was a long silence before the Constable spoke. "The Picts are not people to fight without due cause and much thought," he said. "Only the Picts could repel the legions of Rome, and only here did the Romans build a great wall of stone to keep them out. Even the Norse leave Fidach alone."

"They will be good allies to have," Melcorka said.

"It would be a dangerous job, an emissary to Fidach," Baetan was sober. "Nobody has ever been in their lands and returned. I heard that they collect heads and eat their enemies."

"I have been in Fidach," Bradan said, "and I returned without being eaten."

"Ha!" the Constable smacked a meaty hand on his thigh. "Everybody likes Bradan the Wanderer! Why did they let you live, Bradan?"

"Because of this." Bradan held up his staff. "A man with a stick is no threat to anybody. If I had led in an army, the wind would be whistling through my bones even as we speak, but I travelled in peace and parted in peace."

"If you had led in an army, your bones would be in a soup pot by now!" the Constable roared, and laughed at his joke.

They all started when a hard fist hammered at the door. The Constable stood up as a sentry entered.

"Sir!" Ignoring everybody else in the room, the sentry addressed the Constable. "There is an armed party approaching the river."

"How many?"

"Over twenty men, sir, all mounted." The sentry stood at attention as he spoke.

"Oh, dear God," the woman wailed. "The Norsemen have found us!"

"Silence!" The Constable said. "Are they Norse, sentry?"

"I cannot tell, sir. They do not ride like fugitives."

The Constable grinned. "Well, Melcorka, it seems that you may have your wish to fight the Norse." He stood up. "Call out the guard!"

"I am coming, too!" Melcorka touched the hilt of Defender. "I have people to avenge."

"Come and welcome, as long as you do not get in the way of my men." The Constable was bellowing for his chain mail before he descended the stairs to the ground.

"Take care," Melcorka,"Bradan said. "Watch your back."

"I will watch all around," Melcorka promised.

"Do not watch only the Norse," Bradan said. "I think there is a threat much closer to home." His glance toward Baetan was significant as he repeated, "Watch your back."

The Constable led twenty men to the river, all with full chain mail, close-fitting pot-helmet, spear and bow. They marched in step, obeyed his orders without question and joined the two men already in prepared positions overlooking the crossing point.

The warriors on the opposite side congregated in a clump, some on horseback, others standing, holding their reins.

"These are Norse horses," the Constable said quietly. "Make ready, bowmen." He raised his voice. "Strangers! Announce yourselves!"

One dark-haired man walked his horse three steps in front of the others. "I am Douglas of Douglasdale," he shouted. "And these men are survivors from the battle of Lodainn Plain." Despite the raw wound on his forehead and the dried blood on his face, he stood erect and proud.

"You are riding Norse horses," the Constable said.

"Many of us are also carrying Norse arms," Douglas said. "The old owners no longer have any use for them."

Melcorka narrowed her eyes. "I have seen that man before," she said softly.

"What do you want in my castle?" the Constable asked.

"I heard you were organising resistance here," Douglas said at once.

Melcorka nodded. "I believe him," she said. "I saw him at the battle in Lodainn Plain. He wore ancient mail and carried a sword that would be old-fashioned fifty years ago."

"Did he fight?"

"He fought," Melcorka confirmed.

"Extend the bridge," the Constable ordered. "Stand down, lads."

Melcorka watched as the two sentinels pushed aside a log and hauled on a rope. She did not see the mechanism that worked the long plank bridge that slowly thrust over the river to the far bank.

"You did not extend that bridge for us," Melcorka observed.

"You did not need it," one sentinel said.

Despite the narrowness of the plank and the terrifying fall beneath, Douglas did not waver as he mounted and led his men across. He dismounted at the castle side of the bank and checked each of his men, one by one.

"Who is organising the resistance?" he asked the Constable. "The Norse killed all the champions at Lodainn Plain, and the king is blinded and a prisoner."

"I am," Melcorka said. "I am Melcorka the Swordswoman of the Cenel Bearnas."

"How many warriors do you have?" Douglas asked directly.

"I have no warriors. The Norse killed all my people."

"I have twenty-two," Douglas said, "all of them Borderers from the southern marches. I have hard-riding men of Liddesdale, Teviotdale, Annandale and the Ettrick Forest… Those of us that survived."

"You are all a-horse," Melcorka observed.

"We are horsemen," Douglas said. "We had to fight on foot in Lodainn." He shrugged. "You saw the results."

"I saw you fight," Melcorka confirmed.

Douglas gave a strangely boyish grin. "I had to borrow weapons. The day before we marched to join the army, some reivers stole all my gear." His laugh was welcome in that place of gloom. "I will recover them after we defeat the Norse."

"Do you think we can defeat them?" Melcorka asked. "Not many dare to think that."

Douglas eyed her. "What is there that a bold man cannot dare?"

Melcorka already liked this man. "So there is hope," she said.

Douglas grinned. "There is more than hope," he said. "There is the certainty of victory. All we have to do is work out the details."