Dark Pool
A Sequel to Banners of Alba
by Jen Black

 Chapter 1

Eba ignored her mother’s careful training, pressed her cheek against the rough oak grain of the door and was just in time to catch her brother’s aggrieved voice.

“Oh, he’ll make his name, alright. A handsome young devil who’ll get all his own way now he’s got the crown of Alba and the strong arm of Thorfinn of Orkney behind him.”

“There’s more to him than that, and you know it!” That was Leod’s voice, with its usual blend of laughter and logic.

“He’d better not shove his nose where it’s not wanted,” her brother growled.

Eba glanced over her shoulder; even if she behaved like an eavesdropper she didn’t want to gain a reputation as one. Sunlight streamed in through the big open doors of the empty hearth-hall, and the serving women laughed and gossiped outside in the yard.

“Perhaps he won’t.” Eba pressed her ear back to the door when Leod spoke again. “But families up and down the loch will run out of grain soon. We cannot support his visit.”

Eba recoiled and glared at the door. She had been told nothing of a king’s visit.

Someone’s fist, probably her brother’s, thumped the table. It was certainly Domnall who said, “We don’t need him here.”

“But you may as well accept it, Domnall. He has said he will visit every main hall this season.” Leod hesitated, and then added, “You know he’s going to come eventually.”

An older, deeper voice joined the argument. “We’ll not have a scrap of food in a week or two and it’s our families will suffer. You’re our thane, and should speak with the King on our behalf. He’ll come, and he’ll bring grain from Caithness. He’s a fair man. You’ve but to ask.”

Eba bit her lip as other voices clamored to be heard, for she knew her brother’s views on thanes who begged grain from the King. Domnall hated to admit any kind of failure, least of all to the new King. In a sudden lull, a quiet voice spoke up. “We should take some cattle one dark night, from up near the Moray lands.”

Domnall’s “Yes!” clashed with Leod’s “No!” and then everyone shouted at once, and stools scraped on the planked floor. Eba retreated, turned and ran across the hall to the ale barrel in the shadowy corner. She lifted the lid as much by feel as by sight, dipped several wooden beakers, dumped them onto a battered tray and stared at them without seeing them.

Raiding livestock was not uncommon in Alba when times were hard, but it was against the law, and punishable by death. Eba took a deep, unsteady breath, and carried the heavy tray back across the hall. She juggled with the door latch and the tray, shoved the door open with her hip and bustled in.

The uproar ceased and the hot reek of fish oil from the fat bellied lamp hit the back of her throat. Her brother jerked round, frowning. Stocky, belligerent and volatile, he seized a beaker of ale from her tray. Eba stared round the ring of angry faces, and her smile faded. No one would meet her eye. She looked again at Leod, who glanced up, blew out his cheeks and winked from behind her brother’s back.

Restored by the warmth in Leod’s dark eyes, Eba dumped the tray on the table and turned to her brother. “I have brought ale for you and your friends before your throats run dry with all this talk.” She smiled, handed out beakers and received brief, awkward nods in return. They were men she had known all her life, who worked the land up and down the loch and out beyond Ardelve but she saw they were not going to let her listen, let alone join in their talk. She looked at Leod, a question in her raised brows.

He shook his head. Eba sighed, abandoned the tray with a clatter and exaggerated the sway of her hips just in case they ignored her altogether as she returned to the door. A soft, high-pitched whistle appreciated her progress, a stool squealed across the floor and she swung round, a relieved smile on her face. For the length of a heartbeat, she thought she might be allowed to stay.

“Go on, out you go!” It was her brother, his shaggy fawn curls bouncing on his brow, who grinned, slapped her rump and rattled the door shut behind her.

“Ohhh!” Eba groaned in vexation, spun round and strode by the empty sleeping alcoves and the long fire pit. At the open doors she hesitated, ignored the servants chattering in the yard and turned towards the open meadows. A group of lambs clustered round the gate sprang apart at the violence of her approach. Jaunty catkin tails bouncing, each lamb fled to the comfort of its mother, and then peered at the intruder from the safety of the ewe’s solid bulk.

Eba reached the burn, flopped down on a favorite shelf of rock with her long skirts bunched beneath her and poked a tentative toe into the strong brown current. The water was still shockingly cold, for the mountains behind Bundalloch still held snow in shadowed nooks and crannies. She gritted her teeth, watched her toes turn white in the water and thought about the proposed cattle raid. In all likelihood she would wake one night to find her brother dead somewhere out on the hill and her home in flames around her ears.

A little while later a shadow stretched across the rock and blocked out the sun’s warmth. Eba guessed who it would be. She tucked her wet feet beneath her long grey skirts and turned to enjoy the admiration in Leod’s brown eyes.

“So this is where you hide.” Leod was Domnall’s closest friend, and ten years older than Eba; he had been married once already. Folk said his wife had had fair hair and blue eyes, too.

“I come here when I want some peace and quiet.” She squinted up at him. “Domnall wants to go raiding?”

“Yes.” He sank to his haunches at her side.

“When?”

The smile faded from his lean, sun browned face and his long lashed dark eyes visited her eyes and mouth in turn. “You know I can’t tell you. Domnall would never forgive me. You needn’t worry; we’ll be gone only a day or two at the most.”

“We are not so short of food we must steal,” Eba said grumpily. “The Moray men will raid us in their turn, and we’ll be worse off in the end.”

“Your brother feels his responsibility. Families up and down the glen look to him.”

Eba leaned back and placed one palm flat on the grass behind her, aware that the action displayed the curve of her body and her long gold plait pooled on the stone. Leod’s lids flickered and he glanced across the loch. The cool breeze ruffled the short dark hair on his brow.

Eba squinted against the sun and gazed over the meadows surrounding the hearth-hall. She knew only too well the crop of lambs had been small this year, for she had tried and failed to revive some of the cold, wet bodies by the hearth fire. Now the men said the spring-sown seed had rotted in the ground, and she knew how little grain remained in the store pits from the last harvest. “Couldn’t we buy grain somewhere?”

“Two problems,” Leod said. “Lack of silver and a seaworthy boat.”

“Mend the boat, then!” She shook her head in exasperation. “Why does Domnall dislike the new King of Alba so?”

Leod’s mouth turned down. “Because he’s so much younger, I think.”

“He doesn’t sound the kind of man to let raids go unpunished.”

“I tried to persuade Domnall against it.”

“Moray belongs to the King, doesn’t it?”

“No, Hareth mac Enna has it now,” Leod said. “He married the widowed Lady of Moray last year just after the crowning.”

“You and Domnall could both be hurt in a raid.” Eba turned sorrowful blue eyes towards Leod.

“Ha!” Leod wasn’t fooled by her doleful expression. “You don’t care if I get hurt or not, so stop trying to make me think you do.”

“But I do care!” She stared up at him, but he turned away from her. As usual, he wasn’t taking her seriously. “What would I do if Domnall were hurt, or killed? There are no uncles or aunts to speak for me. I might become a ward of the court and have to serve some fat lordling’s wife for my keep, or marry some old man with sons already grown.”

“Someone would look after you,” Leod said comfortably.

He knew what she feared. Eba sat up swiftly, and brought her hands together in her lap “Oh, someone would, no doubt.”

She watched him pluck a blade of grass and bite down on it. She knew that if Domnall died violently in some skirmish, Leod would very likely be dead alongside him. Eba chose to disregard that, dipped her chin and glanced at him sideways beneath her lashes. “But it might not be the person I would want. It might even be someone I hated.”

“Eba, stop fluttering your eyelashes at me. It’s your brother you must speak to, not me. Ask him for a husband to take care of you. You’re old enough to marry now.”

“Do you think so?” Eba began to smile. “I turned fourteen last week. Will he give me a list of potential suitors, do you think? I could rate them in order of preference.” Her eyes sparkled and her smile grew. “I might even find your name on it, Leod.”

The grass stalk jerked upwards, but he refused to look at her.

She placed her palm delicately on the smooth, warm skin of his arm. “Would I find it there, Leod?”

He spat the grass blade at her, grinned and rose to his full height in one easy movement. Without another word, he turned to cross the meadow in a swift, loping stride.

***

Reports of cattle raids in Moray reached the Mormaer a week or so later, and Hareth mac Enna, unused to a Mormaer’s duties and responsibilities, took the problem to the King.

A vigorous, active man with chestnut hair and light eyes, Hareth found it difficult to remember his boyhood companion was now the King of Alba and should be addressed with some formality, but supposed he would grow used to it in time. Since the interview was in the King’s private room, Hareth spoke as he always had. “So, what do you think? Should I go over there? Beat some sense into them?”

Finlay of Alba sat on a rough wooden stool. Taller, darker and altogether more handsome than Hareth, he gripped a strip of leather between his teeth, used his thumbs to press two pieces of leather to the hilt of the sword braced between his knees and continued to apply pressure. He spat the spare strip onto his arm and looked up. “It’s what I would have done, when I was Mormaer.”

Finlay mac Ruaidhri, King of Alba, was in his mid twenties. His glossy black hair curled over the collar of his sleeveless brown tunic, and the width of his shoulders and solidity of his arms suggested he was more accustomed to a soldier’s life than making decisions about lawbreaking vassals. He examined the sword and applied more glue from the pot at his feet. “Did the messenger say who they were?”

“They came from the west and took the cattle west. It’s probably Domnall of Kintail, though they can’t be sure. What do you want me to do when I get there?”

Finlay twirled the sword in his strong, capable hands to check the glue was taking hold, and the silver tracery on his leather wrist guards twinkled faintly in the firelight. “If you can catch him at it, I would be delighted.” He looked up, and smiled. “If not, find the beasts. Moray men used to mark their cattle, so if you know the markings, you can prove who owns them. We’ll just visit Kintail a little earlier than planned. I’ll take the Shadow Wolf and meet you in Bundalloch.”

***

Eba watched Domnall’s familiar sturdy figure stride into his hearth-hall after several days in the saddle and guessed the thought of a hot meal would be uppermost in his mind. She saw him frown at Bundalloch men who should have been out at work in the fields and barns, and the frown deepened when he registered strangers in the hall. He wiped a dirty palm down his tunic, continued forward and then saw his own chair was already occupied. Her brother came to an abrupt halt and stared at the dark haired, well-dressed occupant.

“Your Grace!”

Eba’s hands gripped together beneath her breast. She had done her best when the women had run into the dairy with word of the attractive man who had stalked onto the Bundalloch jetty and despatched his huge Viking longship off-shore somewhere to wait for him. She had met him on his way to the hall. The gold circlet binding his brow, his dark good looks, his self-confidence and the size of his entourage had unnerved her, but she had stuttered a welcome.

Her pride had come to the rescue. Her gown might be plain and her hair unadorned, but she was the lady of Bundalloch and knew her duties. She hung on his every word when he dispersed his men around Bundalloch, smiled at her and headed straight for the hearth-hall. She thought him the handsomest man she had ever seen.

Now she stood at his side as he relaxed in the thane of Bundalloch’s chair. The white linen and gold stuff at his neck enhanced his clear profile, and the rich fabrics, clean leather boots and the elegant fur-lined cloak flung over the back of the chair contrasted sharply with her brother’s dishevelled and mud-spattered appearance.

Domnall seemed quite bereft of speech and simply stared at the King. Then he collected himself, took a quick breath, bent his head and forced out a sentence of stilted politeness. “I trust my sister has offered food and drink, Your Grace?”

The King’s dark brooding gaze flicked over Domnall. “You were absent when we arrived.” His brows lifted. “Away on business, we were told.”

Eba willed her brother to relax and make sensible answers, but Domnall stood stiff as a board, his fists clenched hard against his thighs. His men, their expressions guarded and wary, filtered into place behind him.

A servant approached and, with the greatest respect, offered a wooden goblet of wine to the King. Domnall’s sharp aquamarine gaze swung to her at once, his displeasure clear, and Eba knew what had angered him. A wooden cup! Perhaps her instructions had not been as clear as they should have been, but she had assumed the servant would offer the silver goblet to the King.

To her relief, the King did not seem to mind. He waved the man away and stared at Domnall. “Business to do with cattle, I believe?”

“The beasts wander too far. We must bring them back.”

The hall doors burst open and admitted a flood of sunlight and a vibrant young man with chestnut hair, glowing eyes and a bright smile. He strode across the rough earthen floor and his men filed through the doorway behind him. “You’ve been raiding, Domnall,” the young man called out cheerfully. “We’ve seen the beasts. We watched you at work.”

The King showed no surprise, but raised his brows and waited for Domnall’s answer to the charge. Eba saw color rise and deepen across her brother’s face.

“We’ve been working with the beasts for the last couple of days,” Domnall said. “It’s hard work, mac Enna.” He glanced around, impatient for ale, and looked relieved as a servant hurried over with several frothing wooden beakers on a tray.

Hareth mac Enna, according to Leod, was Mormaer of Moray and the King’s oldest friend. Eba watched him exchange triumphant glances with the King, and her heart sank. They knew her brother had been raiding cattle.

Mac Enna calmly intercepted the servant and, with a hand on the man’s shoulder, steered him to the men behind him, leaving Domnall thirsty in his own hall. Eba guessed it had been deliberately done, for the light eyes turned mockingly to her brother. “They’re not your beasts. They come from the western edge of Moray. We’ve checked the markings.”

The servants were listening open-mouthed, and her brother was still waiting for ale. Eba caught a servant’s eye. The man started guiltily, grabbed a full tray and hurried forward. Domnall snatched a beaker before it too vanished into other fists, raised it to his mouth and took a huge gulp. “They’re our beasts, mac Enna.”

Eba stared in fascination as the two young men faced each other. They had obviously met before. Domnall wiped his moustache with the back of one hand, and his shaggy brown curls trembled over his nose with the violence of the gesture. He glanced from mac Enna to the King and back again.

The King, however, seemed content to observe. Hareth mac Enna shook his head. “We’ve had men watching the hill passes for days and we can tell to a head how many beasts you’ve stolen.”

“You can count them all you like,” Domnall growled, “but they’re mine! Every man here will agree with me!”

The line of Bundalloch men surged forward, a snarl rising in their throats, eager to support their lord and their livelihood. Eba’s hand flew to her mouth. Hareth’s men closed the main door, and stood in front of it. Women caught hold of their children and backed away into the dim recesses of the hall, for their men were hill farmers, well muscled through a lifetime of hard work, and not of a disposition to take insults lightly.

Eba checked over her shoulder. The half concealed exit used by servants and children had been overlooked. She caught her brother’s eye and indicated the door with a jerk of her head. His bright, angry gaze roamed past her, and lingered at the rear of the hall.

“And every man with me over the last few days will swear we watched you steal them!” Mac Enna’s grin widened. “We have a copy of the marks the Moray farmers use.” He pulled a scrap of fine leather from his belt-purse, dangled it at arm’s length and let it unroll so Domnall could see the dark squiggles and circles burned into the leather. “All we have to do is check this against the exhausted beasts you left in the Glennan valley and we’ll know for certain that you have stolen their cattle, and left one of their men dead.”

The King of Alba straightened at the last half dozen words, and Eba saw her brother scowl. Her heart sank. If a man had died, it was worse than she had feared. Domnall spun on his heel, raced to the rear of the hall and vanished through the overlooked door. The men of Bundalloch met the king’s men chest to chest in a growling roar of aggression.

Eba yelped as a strong hand grasped her elbow. The King yanked her to his side but his attention was on the mêlée in front of him. “Stay there!”

She bit her lip. The King, of course, had the forty men from his longship, every one of them fit, fresh and eager for action. The encounter was short and sharp, but Eba took comfort from the fact no one was killed, and above all, no one had attempted to chase her brother.

Finlay mac Ruairidh, King of Alba, detached his impersonal grip on her arm and rose to his feet. Hareth mac Enna stood at the King’s side, waiting. Eba saw his men quieten immediately and even the Bundalloch men fell silent. Eba gazed up at the lean planes and curves of the King’s face.

“Your lord has raided cattle from Moray, which cannot be tolerated.”

Eba shivered at the rich, resonant sound of his voice, and told herself she was glad her brother was free out on the hill somewhere. The folk in the cotts and cabins would feed him till he could come home.

“A Moray man died in the raid. For this, your lord will be fined, and must return the animals to their rightful owners.” The King surveyed each dirty, unkempt Bundalloch face in turn. “Some of you will help, and in doing so will avoid fines yourselves.”

“Listen to me, and listen well, for thievery will not be tolerated under my rule. There are fish in the sea and deer on the hills and birds in the air. Grain will be delivered to you from my stores, if and when you need it. No man need starve, for the sake of a little effort.”

He looked at the sullen, battered faces around him. “If an offence of this kind happens again, whatever the provocation, the penalty will be death.” The even, level tone did not change, but no man there doubted he meant what he said. Eba had a sudden intimation that Domnall may have escaped, but all was definitely not well. Her knees trembled unseen beneath her long skirts.

“Domnall of Bundalloch should come to us at Inverness and pay his fine within the month of June. To ensure he regards us well in this, we shall take the Lady Eba as our hostage against his good behavior and swift appearance.”

Eba gasped aloud. A wave of color burst into her face, and she felt hot and dizzy. The King turned, saw her alarm and smiled. Eba snapped her mouth shut and stared at him.

“That’s hardly fair on the lady.”

It was Leod’s voice. Gratitude filled her but she could not tear her gaze away from the King who sought and found the speaker in the dense pack in the hall. “Life is never fair,” he said simply.

He turned back to Eba, surveyed her from the crown of her golden head to her workaday shoes and faced the crowd once more.

“The lady’s brother was less than fair with the folk of Moray.” The gold at his brow gleamed in the torchlight. “When the Lord Domnall pays his dues, the lady goes free. Make sure he receives word soon.”