The Banners of Alba
by Jen Black

Chapter One

Kilda dragged the heavy door shut, turned and tripped over the baggage roll at her feet. The slap of her soles on the stones echoed around the dark, shadowy yard. She groped for the baggage roll and glanced fearfully around just as a dark shape surged towards her out of the predawn greyness. She lurched back against the solid oak door with a hiss of pure fright.

“Good, you’re here.”

It was only a whisper and she could hardly see him; but she recognized Finlay’s voice. Weak with relief, she sagged against the door. He scooped up the baggage roll and propelled her through the dark yard into the misty grey meadows where two horses grazed peacefully. He tied the roll behind the saddle, and elbowed the grey’s nose aside when it nibbled his sleeve. It was lighter here than in the enclosed yard, and Kilda stood and stared at the dim planes and shadows of his face.

“Where’s Gille?”

Kilda started. She had forgotten her husband. “In bed; he’s still asleep.” She hugged herself and pushed her cold hands into her armpits. “He was drunk last night.”

Finlay had alarmed his cousin Gille yesterday evening, and wasn’t surprised that he had taken more ale than was wise. He fastened the last buckle. “It’s time we left,” he said, smiled briefly and offered his cupped hands for her foot. Already dawn was a glimmer of light on the eastern horizon and he could see the deep bank of white mist in the hollow of the river valley. When she didn’t move, he glanced up. “Come, mount the horse.”

After so many weeks of unhappiness, he seemed unmoved by her nearness. Kilda moved forward and Finlay straightened abruptly as she spilled into his arms. “White Christ!” he said. “Let’s get away, before someone sees us. We can stop later.”

Kilda pressed against him, laughing a little as her lips met the warm flesh of his throat and reached up to lock her fingers at the back of his neck. “I love you so much!”

He glanced down. “You’ve never said that before.”

“I didn’t know before. Now I do. You do love me still, don’t you?”

“I always have.” He glanced around, but Kilda hauled his head down again.

“Then it doesn’t matter? Your feelings haven’t changed?” Her finger traced the taut inward curve of his cheek down to his mouth. “I was forced to marry Gille, but it’s you I love.” Her hand slid down, inside the open throat of his undershirt where his skin was hot.

His hands tightened at her waist, and his head dipped. She stood on tiptoe to meet his lips just as the horse snorted and whipped the reins out of Finlay’s hand.

The chime and hiss of metal surrounded them and dark shapes loomed through the pearly greyness. Finlay recognized the tall figure with the pale hair, and pushed the girl behind him. “It’s Moddan,” Kilda said, and dug her nails into Finlay’s arm.

“You do not have permission to leave, Finlay mac Ruaidhri.” Moddan’s voice brimmed with satisfaction.

Finlay looked down his nose at the shadowy figures grouped around him. “I need no permission from you.”

“But you need permission of the King, and you do not have it. I have orders to take you back.”

“A friend wouldn’t stop me.”

“Friends? When were you and I ever friends?”

“We shared the same war band, the same practice yard, the same family. It counts for nothing?”

Moddan’s pale head wagged from side to side. “I’m following the King’s orders, Finlay.” A snort of amusement travelled the few paces between them. “And had you been a friend of several years standing—and you most certainly are not—I would still follow the King’s orders.”

“How very loyal of you.”

Kilda heard the sneer in Finlay’s voice, imagined Moddan’s answering scowl and darted between them with arms outstretched in an attempt to keep the peace. “Please don’t stop us. Say you never saw us! The King will be so angry, and he’ll punish Dav—”

“Don’t beg. He’ll enjoy that.” Finlay’s fingers dug into Kilda’s shoulder, and his warm breath brushed her cheek as he glared at Moddan over her head. “You’ve always been a jealous little swine dogging my footsteps.”

Moddan’s sword left its scabbard with a whine of steel that made Kilda’s teeth ache.

“Watch your mouth!” Moddan’s sword flashed in the faint light. “The King said nothing about treating you kindly. Move back towards the gate.”

Finlay shook his head. Moddan’s sword blade rose, gleaming, and levelled against Finlay’s heart.

“No! Don’t hurt him!” Kilda flung herself at Moddan’s sword arm, and pushed the blade to one side. Finlay’s hard shoulder rammed into Moddan’s exposed flank and knocked him off balance. Kilda sat down in a tumble of skirts and stared open mouthed as Finlay stamped his boot across Moddan’s throat and twisted the sword from his lax hand before she could draw breath to scream.

A rumble of aggression and a ripple of movement halted when Finlay lifted the sword and leaned forward, for Moddan’s choked gasps sounded clearly in the sudden silence. “Move back.”

The men eyed the threatening blade, and withdrew. Finlay glanced at Kilda, and jerked his black head in the direction of the horses.

The heavy brooding silence of the hills settled around them, and tendrils of mist stole past on the chill, slow moving air. Moddan stirred, snarled and glared at the taut figure above him. “I’ll owe you for this, Finlay.”

Finlay’s eyes flickered down and then swiftly back to the ring of men. “Don’t take it to heart. I don’t bear you any grudges,” he said lightly. “If the King hadn’t sent you, he’d have sent someone else. What made him suspect I was planning to leave?”

“Intelligence. You’ll never be a match for the King.”

“It doesn’t bear thinking about.” A hank of black hair swung over his brow as he looked briefly down at his captive. His smile widened and became an insult. “You’re his watchdog; he might throw you a bone one day, but I doubt it.”

Moddan reared up off the grass but stopped on an indrawn hiss of air when the cold blade bit at his throat. “Where will you go?”

“Let me guess!” Amusement laced Finlay’s voice. “You want to send the war band after me!”

“You’ll run like a whipped dog to England, and you’ll drag your cousin’s new wife with you. King Canute might not like that. His pious Bishops won’t, I can tell you that.”

“But better than staying here where friends stab each other in the back at the bidding of a King long past his prime.” Finlay contemplated the man at his feet. “You don’t care where I go, surely. Come with me, and start afresh, if you wish.” Kilda rode up behind him. “Or, if you prefer, think of me as one less in the derbfine. Doesn’t that raise your hopes?” Finlay swung round, grabbed the reins of the second horse and vaulted into the saddle.

Moddan snorted and rolled to his feet as the chestnut moved smartly forward. “I’d have the same problem with the Prince that you do.”

Finlay’s laughter echoed back over the meadow. Kilda screeched and kicked out at the dark, bearded figure lunging towards her. She missed, overbalanced and almost fell off as her horse shot forward.

Finlay wheeled his own animal. With Moddan’s sword in his fist, he drove straight at the girl and her attacker. The man leapt aside to avoid a collision, but used his knife and Kilda’s horse dropped its hindquarters, lifted its head and squealed.

Moddan stepped in close and yanked Kilda clear of the saddle. The horse plunged off, snorting. Moddan knotted his fist into the girl’s hair and dragged her, moaning, to her knees. He held her cheek hard against his thigh and smirked. “You may ride off, cousin; but the lady stays.”

Finlay sat motionless astride his powerful chestnut. The soft dawn light found his frowning brow and jaw, and the shadows around his eyes. “The derbfine will be one less with your going,” Moddan said softly. His fingers tightened and forced Kilda’s head back. At her cry of pain he glanced down, noted and lingered on the soft swell of flesh between the gaping edges of her thick tunic.

Finlay’s chestnut sprang forward under the spur and the guards ducked and scattered to avoid the heavy blade he hurled in their direction. The big horse knocked Moddan aside and Finlay’s boot caught him a glancing blow in passing.

Finlay pulled up the excited horse and leaned far out of the saddle, and extended his hand to the startled girl. “Put your foot on mine and mount!” He strained to hold the animal still as Kilda scampered forward, and jumped. It was clumsily done, but she was light boned and Finlay’s strong hand hoisted her onto the chestnut’s warm, slippery haunches. She clamped her arms around his waist, jammed her cheek against his back and shut her eyes.

Moddan staggered a pace or two, recovered and lunged for the chestnut’s head. The horse squealed, pivoted on its powerful haunches and then surged forward, dragging Moddan in its wake. Finlay continued to urge it on but other men leapt forward, and their added weight forced the animal to a shuddering halt.

Rough hands pulled Kilda to the ground. Moddan stepped back, chest heaving. He licked briefly at the dark thread of blood at the side of his mouth and flicked the silver hair out of his eyes. “Get off that horse.”

Finlay raised his sword and glared at Moddan; then in a swirl of anger and frustration he hurled the heavy blade into the turf at Moddan’s feet. It landed point down, and vibrated gently in the soft silver light spilling over the shoulder of the hill. Finlay dismounted and walked into the fort without a backward glance.

* * *

The interview with the King was brutal and short. Accusation and counter accusation escalated until the King lost his temper, struck out at his nephew and a thin, bright beading of blood sprang along Finlay’s cheekbone where the heavy gold ring snagged his flesh. Breathing light and fast, Finlay touched his throbbing face, glanced once at the blood on his fingers and took a step towards his uncle. Immediately the guards closed around him; he was beaten back and thrown into the dark prison cell to await Council’s deliberation on his punishment.

It was Finlay’s good fortune that, two days later, a small company of horsemen swept in through the north gate of Inverness, reined to a stylish halt and demanded to see the King of Alba. They were large men with an abundance of both hair and metalwork about their person and they brought word from the King’s nephew, Thorfinn Sigurdarson, Lord of Orkney, Caithness and Sutherland. Rumor ran through the fort, for Thorfinn of Orkney was an important man in northern waters.

King Malcolm prevaricated, and then granted an audience. The meeting took place, as was only proper, in the Council chamber late in the afternoon. Curiosity ensured that most Council members were present, and tucked in amongst them was Ross of Dundearn, a solid, thickset man of middle years whose face spoke of easy laughter, a clear conscience and an outdoor life. As Finlay’s uncle by marriage, he felt that a delegation from Thorfinn of Orkney at this precise time in Finlay’s unfortunate affairs merited his attention.

Throughout the obligatory speeches of welcome and acceptance, Ross stared at Erik, the spokesman of the northern delegation. Tall and massively built, with orange-gold hair framing dense blue eyes, he was both confident and persuasive; his ringing baritone spoke of a lasting peace between Thorfinn the Mighty and Malcolm, King of Alba. Nephew Thorfinn, added Erik, smiling, proposed a peace treaty for all the Northern lands.

Ross was intrigued. King Malcolm promised to examine all proposals in a spirit of remembered friendship and affection for nephew Thorfinn. Erik swung a massive arm, servants delivered gifts to the King’s feet and as Malcolm’s greedy eyes scanned the jewelled chests, barrels of wine and bolts of expensive silks, Erik’s twitching moustaches hid a smile; he went on to hint that a token of much greater value would be forthcoming at the conclusion of a peaceful settlement.

Ross noted the winning flash of teeth, watched Erik inflate his massive chest, and waited.

“Settlement is within easy grasp, my Lord King,” Erik said smoothly. “All that is required is for Alba to pay Lord Thorfinn the proper monies and service due to the Overlord of Orkney and Northern Alba.”

Ross glanced once at the King, bit the inside of his lip and then studied the rushes at his feet. There was a lengthy silence.

* * *

That same evening, Prince Duncan sat at dusty table in an unused room, sent for Hareth mac Enna and fiddled with the warm tallow pooling around the candle base until a sound just outside the door made him spin round on his stool.

Hareth mac Enna ducked under the lintel. His light, smoky eyes ran briefly over the room and took in the collection of dented battle gear and broken harness heaped about the walls, and came to rest, with deference, on the dark, formally dressed figure of the Prince, who gestured Hareth to the wooden stool on the other side of the table.

The Prince poured wine and handed it across. “It is good wine,” he said. “I think you will like it.”

Hareth nodded, his expression wary; the Prince would have summoned him so late to this forsaken corner for more than a discussion about wine. He saw that the Prince was nervous, for he set his goblet down so abruptly that wine slopped onto the table. “You have heard of the demand from Thorfinn?” Hareth nodded. “But do you know that the King proposes to send Finlay north to talk with him?”

Hareth’s brows lifted. “No, Sir.”

The candle flame warmed the Prince’s white skin, crisped the dark hair and beard and lit his dense blue eyes as he jerked to his feet and paced away from the table. “This meeting is informal and private, mac Enna. You may speak freely. Do you see Finlay persuading Thorfinn to withdraw this demand?”

“Only if he takes the tribute with him.”

“Thorfinn and he share a mother. They are half-brothers and good friends, once. Will that count for nothing?”

Hareth shrugged. “It was a boyhood friendship. Who knows if it will continue?”

Duncan’s robe flared about his knees as he turned and met Hareth’s flat, impersonal stare. “You wish for wealth and power, do you not?”

“As do we all.” Hareth’s voice held a note of derision as well as a hint of Ireland in his vowels.

The Prince hesitated, removed a ring from his finger, walked forward and placed it on the table. “I can give you this token as a promise of riches, once I am King.”

It lay on the scarred wood between them. Reluctantly Hareth lifted it, still warm from the Prince’s hand and stared for some time at the twisting golden serpents clutching a dark green stone between them before his grey eyes lifted to the Prince. “What must I do for this token?”

The Prince paced the small room, his boots dragging through the old, brittle rushes. “An act of loyalty.” His tone deepened. “Not to the King, but to me. To me!” He turned and faced Hareth squarely across the small chamber. “The King must never know of this meeting.”

A line appeared between Hareth’s brows, and he shifted uneasily on his stool to keep track of the Prince, who prowled about the small room. “What is this act of loyalty?”

Indistinct words drifted back over the Prince’s shoulder.

Hareth’s gaze widened on the candle, and for a moment he forgot to breathe. He swivelled rapidly, but could see only the back of the Prince’s head. “You want Finlay dead?”

No sound came from the shadows.

“I don’t understand. Finlay is no danger to you when you have the strength of your grandfather behind you. And it would be a crying shame to kill the man.” Hareth’s fist closed about the ring. “No one works harder for this country than Finlay.”

The Prince swung round. “He is well liked, and respected. He is clever, and capable of ruling. What, do you think, is the people’s opinion of me?”

Hareth opened his fist, looked down at the ring and rolled it back and forth across his calloused palm.

The Prince strode back to the table, gripped it with both hands and glared across it. His periwinkle blue eyes, so like those of his grandfather, dominated his face. “Well?”

Hareth sat back. “You are not disliked, sir,” he said evenly. He glanced down. The surface of the wine shivered in the goblets and the Prince’s knuckles were white where they gripped the table edge. Hareth looked up, light glancing off his chestnut hair, and smiled. “The people hardly know you; they know Finlay better. Both of you are respected, and both capable of ruling. And you have all the power of your grandfather behind you. Finlay—”

Duncan’s hands sprang off the table. “And once grandfather is dead? What if Council selects Finlay?”

Hareth placed the ring delicately beside the wine jug. “Does your grandfather approve this plan?”

The Prince’s gaze flickered to Hareth and away again. “If Finlay were dead, I should no longer need my grandfather.”

The room was so quiet that Hareth fancied he could hear the candle burn. “You plan to do away with them both?”

The eyes of the two men met, and locked. A muscle twitched briefly in the Prince’s cheek. “It is a consideration,” he said briefly. “But first—Finlay. Are you with me?”

“The man is my friend,” Hareth said slowly. “My friend since boyhood. We went through boy’s training together and our first battle together. What makes you think that I would kill him for you?”

“Instinct, perhaps? I have seen you look at him sometimes in a way that makes me wonder about your feelings for him.” He leaned forward. “I need you, Hareth. I need a man who thinks before he swings a sword.”

“Moddan swings an excellent sword.”

“Moddan’s methods are too…direct.”

“But effective. Kilda’s brother could testify to that, I imagine.”

“You guessed?” Duncan sipped from his wine cup. “I told grandfather that people would think his death suspicious. He could have stopped his sister’s marriage, so it had to be done. But I want Finlay’s death to look like an accident, and Moddan doesn’t have the brains for that.”

So they had killed Kilda’s brother already, Hareth thought, and married the girl off so Finlay’s claim to the crown would not be doubled by marrying her. He let his breath go in a long sigh. “You have the right of it,” he said ruefully. “There is some dislike of Finlay in me.”

The Prince sat at the table, blue eyes bright and eager. “There is no going back on this.”

Hareth rated his chances of refusing and walking away unscathed as being rather low. The guards would not be far from the door. “I will do what I can,” he said.

The Prince smiled. “It should prove easy to contrive an accident on the journey to Thorfinn’s camp. Or indeed, in the camp.”

Hareth shook his head. “I warn you, I value the man, and it will not be easy.”

“Every man has his price, they say.” Duncan radiated happiness as he picked up his wine and poured it down his throat like water.