Historical Fiction (1 Viewer)

[Harrytheheid]

Dalriada was the name given to the Kingdom established by Irish raiders on the British Mainland, roughly between the years 400AD to 800AD. This small enclave in the general area of what is now Argyle, encompasses some of the most beautiful scenery in the northern part of the country, which at this time in its history, was called Alba. The original inhabitants of Alba, known to history as the Picts spent years trying to drive these sea pirates back to Ireland, to no avail. Eventually both sides settled down to an uncomfortable co-existence, occasionally marred by sporadic outbreaks of violence and feud.
The name the Picts bestowed on the inhabitants of Dalriada was: THE SCOTS.

Episode 1.
764AD, The settlement of Fortrenn, principle base of the King of Scots.

“They are here, my Lord King”, shouted the herald into the Great Hall.

Kenneth McAlpin, King of Scots and Dalriada stirred in his seat on the bench at the head of the long table, which stretched almost to the entrance of the Hall.

“Well, go and fetch then in then Rory. And make sure the servants see to providing for their refreshment. They’ll be weary, no doubt”.

As the seneschal rose to obey the Royal command, the doors of the Great Hall crashed back on their hinges, and in strode the band of Picts, their King Brude at the head. Down the length of the Great Hall they came; an imposing sight, all scale mail, and helmets, some wearing sheathed swords on baldrics, some with axes slung over one shoulder, most with secondary arms in the form of dirks hanging in scabbards from leather waist belts. All wore the saffron kilt and plaid, some with bear and wolf skins, worn with a flourish of pride.
On down the hall they strode before halting just short of the bench where Kenneth continued to sit.
For a heartbeat, the visitors and the Scots stared at each other. Shattering the momentary silence, a strident call went up;

“All Hail, Brude, King of Alba”
“All Hail, Brude, King of Alba”
“All Hail, Brude, King of Alba”

In the stillness following this extraordinary demonstration, the voice of the Scot’s King sounded perfectly calm and composed.

“Please King Brude, be seated here beside me – we have much to discuss you and I, for the sake of our people”

With a grunt, the older man dismissed his followers to the left hand side of the Great Hall, where they settled down to the occasional snarl in the direction of the Scots warriors ranged along the opposite side.
Settling his giant frame on the bench, Brude permitted himself a slightly rueful grin and with a barely perceptible wink at the younger man, whispered,

“Boys Kenneth? We have to let them do things their way at times. Besides, we have travelled these past four days from Braemar and their fighting spirit needs release”

“I am glad to see there is still fighting spirit among the Albannach these days my fellow King, and that is why I requested this council be held between us”

“Go on” said Brude, adding in a more sombre manner, “Although I’m certain I know why you asked us to come into your Dalriada”

“King Brude, it is no secret that your Alba is suffering and suffering most hard from the deprivations of the Vikings. For one hundred years now they have been raiding your eastern coastline, now we have word that they are not only raiding, but are actually settling in your northernmost provinces of Caithness and Sutherland. True is this not?”
“In addition, they have recently begun incursions down the western seaboard and now threaten my domains, although so far we are holding them back on a line just north of the Isle of Skye”.

“What you say is true Kenneth. What can be done? There are so many of them, Swedes, Norwegians, Danes, Balts, they are like a plague on our land. What are Christian monarchs such as us to do in the face of such murderous assaults by the pagan?”

“Come Brude, let us walk alone to the Moot Hill where we can discuss in detail a plan I’ve been working on, without fear of being overheard”

Brude hesitated, cast a glance at his followers and haltingly responded,

“Kenneth, I liked your father King Alpin, and you and I have always seen the clearer picture. Our policies are the same – the greater good of our people. Who knows, our Kingdoms may one day merge so that we have a New Caledonia such as it was in the days before the Romans came. But you know as well as I that if I even stumble over a rock on our way to the Moot Hill, then those two packs in this Hall will be at each others throats in an instant”

“Hmmm, yes, I know what you mean. We shall agree then, two of your warriors and two of my warriors shall accompany us – but I must insist they stay out of earshot while we discuss strategy”

“Done”, Brude responded, and they shook warrior fashion, hand on each others forearm.

So it was that the two Kings walked the short distance to the Moot Hill, not really a hill, more like a curious and artificial mound, built up over the centuries around a circle of standing stones. It was the custom for each landholder, when coming to Fortrenn to pledge his allegiance to each new King of Scots, to bring a sackful of earth from his land. He would then stand in the soil of his own land while swearing the oaths of homage. In this manner, a quite modest knoll had emerged over the years in the middle of the much more ancient standing stones – the meaning of which had been lost.

While the bodyguards stopped at the standing stones, the two monarchs climbed the ten feet or so to the top of the Moot Hill.

“So this is where the cock crows in the mornings is it?”

“Yes”, laughed Kenneth, “It is my guess that some of my predecessors vassals mixed the scrapings from their dungheaps, took their oaths quickly, and then escaped as quickly as possible – while the new King had to stay here all day accepting vows. Couldn’t have been pleasant on a hot day”
“Let us get down to business Brude”

While the two men conferred, the bodyguards, their differences forgotten for the moment, huddled together and played “Chuckie Stanes”, a game of chance, for relatively high stakes, that had been imported from the continent by those same long-ago Romans their ancestors had fought at Mons Grampius.

End of Episode 1.

Episode 2. Synopsis.
Kenneth and Brude make common cause against the Vikings after agreeing on strategy.
Princess Beatha of Alba makes her first appearance.
Rory the Seneschal to Kenneth becomes more integral to the action (and ACTION there shall be).

 

[Rob]

Nice one H. Keep em coming!.You obviously have a passion for this and they are very enjoyable.

Rob

 

[Harrytheheid]

Nice one H. Keep em coming!.You obviously have a passion for this and they are very enjoyable.

Rob

Thanks Rob. I'm aware that I need to polish them up a bit more before posting. Need less of he said then someone else said when setting the plot.
Still, glad you're enjoying them.

 

[Harrytheheid]

Episode 2.
765AD, Summer, Western Isles

With a backhand slash Rory disembowelled his attacker. The black plumes of smoke becoming denser and the crackle of the fires sounding above the clamour and screams of men locked in mortal combat.
“Back, back to the galley”, he cried to survivors of the boarding party.
As the Scots warriors began disengaging from their foes and swung themselves back onto their vessel, a bare-headed giant Viking strode forward across the deck of the burning Dragonship. Roaring his challenge in surprisingly good Gaelic he drew his longsword, complementing the blood-stained axe already in his left hand.
“Come Irish dung, fight me like a man”, he taunted.
In an instant, the pommel of a dirk appeared where the Norseman’s left eye used to be. As his opponent crashed to the deck, Rory simply said, “No”, and jumped across the space between the two ships.
“Nice throw cousin, now what about the eight or so who’re left?” this, the galley’s Captain Iain Beg as his ship cast off its grappling irons and stood off.
“Let them roast or drown Iain, same as they’ve roasted and drowned so many of our people for their pleasure. Just so long as they die, I don’t care how”, and turning his back on the doomed Dragonship, poured a pitcher of seawater over his head and down his arms, the pink liquid running into the clear waters off the Isle of Skye.
As the Viking vessel slipped beneath the waves taking its dead and doomed crew with it, the Scot’s galley turned to the north again, the warriors who had been previously fighting for their lives took up the oars to supplement the slight breeze filling out the ships square sail.

Iain Beg and his kin Rory held a commission from their liege lord, Kenneth, King of Scots. They were charged to complete the evacuation of a group of Picts in the Applecross area on the mainland opposite the Isle of Skye. The Norse army, for it was more than just the usual disparate bands of marauders, had cut across the land from their bases in far Caithness, and surprising the defending Picts when they bypassed the brochs and vitrified forts in their path, had kept on relentlessly westwards. Among the galley’s crew, only Rory was aware of the identity of one of the Applecross refugees – an identity the Vikings also apparently knew, which explained their lightning strike across the grain of the land.
Known as “The Greyhounds of the Sea”, the Scot’s galley had been hugging the Skye coastline when a Dragonship, unaware of the Scots galley, had casually sailed out of one of the sea lochs that were strewn around the island. Although taken by surprise, the Vikings were still fearsome warriors, but the Scots outnumbered them – and also had the advantage of firepots. These contained a flammable liquid that burned with incandescent heat even on contact with water.
The result had been a foregone conclusion, though a hard-fought one.
During the short hours of a northern summer night, the Scots vessel slipped across the channel between island and mainland. Then beached, camouflaged with branches cut from the abundant pine trees, guards had been posted and the rescue party set out to complete their mission.

Applecross; One day later.
The men surveyed the scene before them in silence. Where once had been a settled community of 200 Christian souls now was only devastation. Smoke spiralled lazily from the burning huts. Tied to the trees, men had undergone the excruciating death of the Blood-Eagle. Women savagely raped had then been disembowelled and left to die in the dirt. Children had merely had their brains bashed out. Crows and other vermin had gathered for the feast and despite the presence of the recently arrived Scots warriors continued to dart among the bodies tearing at unresisting flesh.
“Well cousin, what now?”
“We carry on eastwards Iain, I see no sign here of the refugees we are seeking. These poor people were simple farmers scratching a living out of the soil”, replied Rory.

“Are you Norse come to gloat over your evil? Or are you the Scots we were promised would come to our aid” came a small voice from behind.
Pivoting, Iain Beg and Rory beheld before them a slender girl of around eighteen years. But a slender girl with authority clearly written in her unafraid stance.
“You would be the Lady Beatha, I would hazard”, jerked the surprised King’s seneschal.
“Princess Beatha to you and yours Sirrah”, her grey eyes flashing. “Now, I command you, have your men assist my people, we have been hiding in the next glen for long enough”.
Hastening to obey and calling out orders for the warriors to follow the willowy figure, busy tossing her dark hair one shoulder to the other, Iain and Rory caught each others eye.
“Helen of Troy?” ventured Iain.
“No cousin, Deidre of the Seven Battles comes closer”.
And with wry shrugs, and no little covert delight, the two men fell in behind the spread out warriors, keeping a wary look out despite the occasional lapse into suppressed amusement.
Catching up with the girl, Rory trying to fall in with her smaller strides ventured,
“How did you know it was us, and not some stray band of Vikings my Lady?”
“We found the village burned two days ago, we have been hidden in the next glen since but posted a lookout on yonder headland. When he saw your galley coming into the beach, he reported the emblem on the sail. Even we Albannach recognize the significance of the Red Hound of Ulster quartered with the Saltire of Saint Andrew. We knew it was the Scots come to take us to Dalriada”, the girl responded, hiding a slight smile.
“Yes”, replied the man, “We still cleave to Ulster even though we have not had much dealings with the Irish these past years, and everyone knows we have used Saint Andrew’s Cross as our battle flag since your people and mine first banded together and defeated the Saxons at Athelstane in Northumbria. That would have been in my great-grandfathers time of course”.
“Of course”, she replied, again with a slight smile, “And, My Lady will suffice. I’m sorry I was on edge earlier and stood on my dignity”.
“Of course Princess”. And they both laughed.

As the band of warriors approached the entrance to the glen, tension arose. The instincts of fighting men on razors edge. Too quiet. The refugees should have been out to greet them.
“My Lady, you stay here with me. Iain, you take two men, scout the high ground. The rest, to cover”, commanded Rory.
A short time later, Iain Beg returned.
“Bad news cousin. Norsemen. They’ve slaughtered the few fighting men who escorted my Lady. Now they’re bent on torture and rapine as usual”.
“How many?”
“We counted twenty-one in all – no sentries. They think themselves safe here in this King Brude’s Alba”.
“Let us teach them the error of their ways then”, rasped Rory. And drawing his claymore from the baldric around his neck barked out the plan of attack.

The Vikings were almost but not quite sated with bloodshed. The refugee’s escort lay all around the clearing in various bundles of death. The old priest had been tied to the tree. The Blood-Eagle was almost finished. Ribs broken at the back with the blunt ends of axes, the chest split and the ribcage spread out like wings so that the lungs and still beating heart were exposed. Soon it would be the women; huddled together in fear and terror at what was happening, unable to tear their eyes away from the terrible, awful, sight. As the chief torturer moved forward to rip the heart away from the priest’s chest cavity, an arrow shaft appeared to grow suddenly from the back of his neck. Three more Norsemen fell to arrows as a roar of triumph went up. Scots warriors appeared through the trees and charged the clearing. The Vikings were no cowards, but had been taken unawares; and with the prospect of the women before them. Five or six fell at the first charge. Their nerve broken the rest turned to flee, only to run into Rory’s clever ambush at the opposite end of the glen. The three survivors laid down their weapons and pleaded for quarter in their harsh Scandinavian tongues. Made to kneel, they were beheaded and after decapitating the dead, the Scots hung the grizzly trophies from spears driven into the dirt.
“What about the escort Rory”, Asked Iain Beg, “Will we bury them?”
“No time Iain”, cut off their heads and stick them on spears as well. Any Vikings coming through this clearing will think we’re a larger force than we actually are and will wait for reinforcements”.

Rory looked across the clearing. Beatha was whispering to the dying priest as he sagged against his bonds. As he approached the tree, the priest in one last supreme effort raised his voice;
“My Lady, I didn’t tell them……didn’t, didn’t, tell them. The Book of Kells is safe……still, still, safe”.
“Come My Lady, there is nothing you can do here now. Let us retrieve The Book and get you to Fortrenn as soon as we can”.
“You know about The Book?”
“Yes, its Columba’s Book of Kells spirited away from Iona during the first Norse invasions. King Kenneth needs that book. It contains a great secret that he believes will win this war against the Pagan”.

Leaving the clearing, the landing party made their way back to the beached galley. Helping King Brude’s daughter and her companions aboard, Rory drew his claymore. Holding it high, the reflections from the setting sun caught against his face.
“We’ll be back”, he whispered.
Unfurling the square sail, Iain Beg guided the vessel clear of the mainland and set his course south; south towards Dalriada, King Kenneth McAlpin and Fortrenn.
The breeze getting up at long last and billowing the sail out to its furthest extent, the vessel like a silent ghost, with the peaks of Skye’s Coolin mountains still visible above the perpetual mist at their base, disappeared into the Hebridean night.


Episode 3. Synopsis.
The Secret in The Book Of Kells.
Viking Invasion of Dalriada.
Beatha and Kenneth.

 

[Harrytheheid]

Phew, just made it there. Had to remove 13 letters before I could post this. Hope you are all enjoying.
How about some other contributions guys?

 

[Eazy]

Aaah the dreaded Blood Eagle where the ribs are cut away from the backbone! I don't think even K&C will be producing that one anytime soon!

 

[Harrytheheid]

Aaah the dreaded Blood Eagle where the ribs are cut away from the backbone! I don't think even K&C will be producing that one anytime soon!

Aye. I was unsure if I ought to describe it, but thought the story might be compromised if I glossed over the savagery. I also made a point of mentioning the heads slung from and stuck on spears by the Scots just to even things up a bit.

Will try and get Episode 3 done tonight. No idea what The Secret of The Book of Kells might be. But it won't be a spell, a magic sword, or anything like that. Don't want to go there.

 

[Rob]

Nice work again Harry,you really have a talent for this!.Its a shame but i think its the three of us for the moement.

Rob

 

[Currahee Chris]

Nice work again Harry,you really have a talent for this!.Its a shame but i think its the three of us for the moement.

Rob

Oh no- I plan on joining the fray soon- Is there a way to attach a WORD document to this though? I would prefer to do my snippets as WORD docs that way I can keep them too.

Yeah- wait a minute- I can attach a WORD doc, ok then, CC will be sending some stories over the coming weeks.

 

[Harrytheheid]

Chris,
I've been doing these as WORD documents, then copying and pasting them in as posts..........and I've just this moment noticed the PAPERCLIP icon..... Will attach these as WORD Documents in future.

Embarassingly Yours Truely
H

 

[Harrytheheid]

Aaaaarrrgh....can't unlock the pop-up blocker on this piece of junk computer I'm having to use. Will just have to copy and paste as usual.

Episode 3.
765AD, Summer; Early Evening; Fortrenn, Principle Base of Kenneth, King of Scots and Dalriada

Kenneth was in deep conversation with his guest, concentrating hard on the complicated calculations and drawings spread before them on the long table within his Great Hall, two of his hard-bitten Battle Chiefs also in attendance. Quietly closing the door to the Hall behind him, a herald hurried towards the two men.
“My Liege, please forgive the interruption to your deliberations, but you should know, Iain Beg’s galley has been observed by scouts of the fleet and even now should be docking in Fortrenn harbour”.
The drawings instantly forgotten, for the moment, both Kenneth and his guest leaped the steps up the staircase to the narrow window set into the Great Hall’s Tower.
“Yes”, exclaimed the King, “I can see Iain Beg from here, and it looks like Rory’s with him, in fact the entire ship’s company seems to be with him?”
A little later the guards allowed the Scots warriors enterance to the Great Hall.
“My Lord, I can report complete success. No fatalities among our people. Och well, a few scratches maybe. One Dragonship that will no longer feed on our people, over fifty of the invaders slain, and here, here is daughter to King Brude, the Princess Beatha of Alba”.
A slim young girl came forward. Strikingly beautiful with long dark hair, and curious grey coloured eyes, she approached the King with supreme self assurance. Kenneth noted with satisfaction, she was carrying a bundle wrapped in a saffron shawl.
“Good day to you Sir King”, her voice low, the Gaelic tongue with just a trace of Albannach accent, “Here is the book my father commanded I bring to you. He sets great faith in the council of last year here in this Fortrenn. I only hope it is worth the sacrifice of my escort and the courage of these brave men behind me, who made it possible for me to be here today”.
Taking the wrapped book from the girl, Kenneth declared the ships crew could have their pick of the twenty-year old “water of life” in their favourite taverns, but to be ready for hard work one week hence. Indicating the girl to sit he beckoned Iain Beg and Rory along with the two Battle Chiefs, Malcolm Ban and Donald Son of Donald, and taking the book out of its protective layer of saffron. Laid it unopened on the long table.
“Why is this Book of Kells so important to our cause My Lord?” asked Rory, “I’ve been trying to discover its secret all the way from the Isle of Skye, but yonder minx refused to tell me. Is it a book of spells? Or maybe it can tell us where to find the magical sword Excalibur of Arturus, which can grant victory to whatever army possesses it. Does it tell where Arturus now sleeps? The legends speak of him returning should the realm of Britain face mortal danger again. Whatever, how can a mere book be so important in ridding us of the Norsemen?”
A low chuckle came from a corner of the hall where Kenneth’s guest had been leaning against the wall.
“Who’s there?” cried Rory, his hand going to the handgrip of his claymore. Show yourself”.
“Rory, peace, of a mercy” said the King humorously, and putting a hand on the young seneschal’s arm, began, “This is my guest……”
“Please My Lord, allow me to explain who and what I am to this young firebrand”, declared the mysterious figure as he stepped out of the gloom and approached the long table. The man appeared to be around 50, thick-set with receding hair cropped close to his skull. A palpable sense of power and danger radiated from him as he sat down with the others.
“The book you see before you was not always called The Book of Kells, it had a different name at one time – and yes, it is a book of magic spells – but not in the way you are thinking”
“Who are you?” cried Rory, “And how dare you laugh at us in the King’s presence?” anger beginning to smoulder behind his blue eyes.
“Oh, I apologise for my omission. My name is Raheidicus and like you I am a native of this land, born in the north-east where the first corner of Alba thrusts into the Norse Sea and the two rivers Don and Dee reach salt water within two miles of each other”
“So I am by birth a Pict, although that was originally a derogatory term applied by the Romans to the people of this land. I myself prefer the term Celt, pronounced with a hard Kay”
“As to what I am, let’s just say I’m a seeker after knowledge. I studied for years at the monk’s college where the river Tay meets salt water. I graduated in physics, mechanics, and most importantly, in the science of numbers, but I always wanted more. So I travelled the known world. I have studied in Italy, Greece, Anatolia, and further, to Syria, Mesopotamia, Persia, and even further east to mythological Cathay which I know neither you nor anyone else in these western lands have ever heard of. All in the pursuit of increasing my knowledge of how the physics of this sad world operate”
“God have mercy, either shut up or get to the point. What’s all this pish got to do with magic books that will supposedly help us defeat the invader?” erupted Rory.
Holding up his hand palm open, Raheidicus continued, “Peace my impetuous friend, I’m getting there in my own way. Now where was I? Yes, after years of travel in the hot and dusty nations of the east, I found myself in the land of the Egyptians, now conquered and ruled by the people who came out of the deserts to the south of the Arabian peninsula. Here I discovered an amazing concept, these people, or Arabs if you like used a number they had borrowed from the Egyptians. It was a number I had never considered before, a number that represented absolutely nothing, in a manner of speaking. It was the number zero”
“A number that means nothing? You speak in riddles Master Raheidicus” said Rory looking around for support – and receiving none.
“Rory, let him finish” advised the King, “Trust me, it shall be worthwhile”
“Yes, the number zero. Suddenly the blinds in my mind fell away. Everything I had learned and pored over for years now made sense. I could see how the ancients built the monuments to their dead which still stand just as in the days of Caesar, Mark Anthony, and Cleopatra and beyond back in the mists of antiquity. I discovered that the ancients had entered all their knowledge into a book, a magical book if you like – a book of numbers. I had finally become an Engineer….!!!!”
Stopping to refresh himself with a draft of the ubiquitous water of life, Raheidicus resumed his story to the now spellbound listeners.
“Think back to the earliest legends of our people Rory, Irish and Albannach alike. The stories tell how the Egyptian Princess Scotia, refusing to marry her brother, sailed to the land of Alba more than ten centuries ago. She carried great gifts with her, including Jacob’s Pillow, now known as The Stone of Destiny. The Stone the Kings of Alba are crowned upon, including your own father, young Beatha” said Raheidicus with a nod to the young girl sitting open mouthed by his side. The legend says that she travelled onward to Ireland and as well as giving her name to the people who dwelt there, she donated a book of great power to the druid college at Kells, close to where Dublin town now stands. That book became The Book of Kells. Columba, of blessed memory, took it to the new monastery he founded on Isla in the Inner Hebrides. When the Vikings began raiding down the western seaboard of Alba, the book of power was smuggled to Applecross on the mainland where it was kept safe for many years, until this young Lady was charged by her father to make contact with the Scots of Dalriada and bring it to this Fortrenn. And here it is now sitting on King Kenneth’s long table. Harmless looking object isn’t it?”, said Raheidicus poking the said harmless object with a dirty finger.
“But, but,” spluttered Rory, “What’s this power you keep drivelling on about? It looks just like an old book, and surely it would have rotted away by now if it’s more than one thousand years old anyway?”
“Aaah, my friend, you reckon without the foresight of the college Abbot. The book was painstakingly copied every twenty years by the druids so that the knowledge it contains would be preserved down the generations. Clever, weren’t they?”
“And the magic within the book is the power of NUMBERS. With this knowledge we will understand how the ancients could predict the length of one side of a triangle if the lengths of the other two sides were known, or the circumference of a circle if the radius is known, and much, much, more. The power of numbers was what allowed them to build such magnificent monuments to their dead……and when fragments of this knowledge fell into Caesars hands, it allowed the Romans to produce magnificent death machines, such as the ballistae. This is the magic power we are going to turn upon the Norsemen”
His head spinning, Rory stood up, “Master Raheidicus, you build your death machines, Me? I’ll go and practice with mine”, and loosening his claymore in its baldric, he strode purposely from the Great Hall.

Grinning, the King leaned over and tapped Raheidicus on the arm.
“He’ll come around, just doesn’t know about the drawings you’ve shown me. Will this book of power finally allow you to complete the design for a miniature tor, tor, what did you call it in Latin?”
“We’ll call it a crossbow, My Lord, and when Rory sees what massed volleys it can loose on the Vikings? Well, we’ll see what he says then”

“To work then, my friend, let us see what manner of Engineer you are” said Kenneth.
“Yes Sire, the forges of Fortrenn are going to be working day and night over the next ten months or so”


Episode 4; Synopsis
Viking Attack

 

[Harrytheheid]

Dunno what happened to the original Historical Fiction Thread.
Thought I'd start it up again as I thought the original one showed some promise of other people getting involved.

DALRIADA
Episode 4.
766AD, Spring; Early Morning; Mouth of the Great Glen

The early evening mist curled around the galley like some eldritch smoke. Thirty feet away on either bow more galleys could be discerned, but as for the rest, they remained hidden in the gloom, although the creak of rudders and furled masts sounded clearly across the still water.
Here at the mouth of the Great Glen which cuts a diagonal furrow through Alba like the result of some giant axe stroke, the Scots fleet lay off the natural bay and the mountains of the landmass beyond.

“What say you now Rory” asked King Kenneth McAlpin of his Seneschal who stood at his side up by the prow of the galley.
“I say I might, just might mind you, have been a wee bit injudicious in my initial opinions Sir King”, smiled that young man as he fingered the mechanism of the strange weapon he had tucked under his right arm.
“Aa-ha, it wouldn’t be the first time that Eastern science has been misjudged, young man”, sounded a gruff voice from the other side of the King.
“Save us, enough you two. I’ve been listening to the pair of you growling at each other for too many months. Listen, it sounds like Malcolm Ban and Donald MacDonald have decided they can spare time to attend the council I commanded be convened”.
At that both men attending the Scots King, Rory the Kings Seneschal and Raheidicus the Kings Engineer catching each others eye and with an exchanged grin turned to follow Kenneth back to the stern of the galley where a rough and ready shelter of cow hides had been erected.
With several muffled curses, the two Dalriadan Battle Chiefs climbed out of their coracles onto the galley and made their way to the Kings council.

In this year of our lord 766AD, bloody retribution was poised over 25 Viking Dragonships and their unsuspecting crews. They comprised the entire advance guard of the Norse army which was at this moment making its way from their base of Thurso in far Caithness down the Hebridean coast of Alba. They had beached the longships in this natural bay and had spread inland bent on their usual pillage, torture and rapine. Only this time, there had been no innocent country-people, priests or nuns to be found. Only devastated fields, empty granaries, very little livestock and certainly no Albannach inhabitants. Hungry and disappointed warriors, especially Norsemen who believe themselves in safe and deserted territory, do not make for alert sentries. And worse, the weather was unusually unpleasant – West Coast squalls and driving rain increasing the general misery. The Scots fleet had used the weather to tighten the noose around the bay and bottle up the Dragonships. Now, with dawn still some hours off, the final plan of attack was to be agreed.
Back on the Kings galley, all was jubilation as the fruits of an entire Winter of spying and planning were about to be harvested.

“How did that little minx do it? How could she know where the Norse would be, and when?” the speaker taking off his iron bound helmet spat over the side.
“Well, I wouldn’t want to think too much or go too far into her methods Malcolm, but she is acquainted with certain Albannach ladies who’ve been carried off to Thurso over the past few years by the Norsemen – willingly or not. I have a strange feeling that she’s got a line of communication straight to the pillows of the Norse leadership” replied the King.
“Huh, knowing her, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was her pretty head that was on the self-same pillows” Rory responded, only half-jokingly.
“Hmmmm……Aye, just so long as that self-same pretty head doesn’t end up on the block” jerked Raheidicus.
All four men, King, grizzled Battle Chief, handsome Engineer and young Seneschal paused and looked each other in the eye, each grinning ruefully.
The Princess Beatha, only daughter, indeed only offspring of King Brude of Alba, was a firm favourite in the Dalriadan court. Not least for her prominent part in delivering the famous Book of Kells to the King of Scots at Fortrenn the previous year, despite the constant danger of Norse interception while making the rendezvous in Applecross with a Scots rescue party led by Rory.
The Lady Beatha. Nineteen now. Beautiful, but seemingly unknowing of the fact. Long black hair which she had a habit of tossing from one shoulder to the other, and the most curious grey-coloured eyes – which could turn a man to stone with a glance if that man wasn’t careful just like the Medusa of Greek legend. No-one actually knew where she was at present. Back home at the Albannach capital in Blair Athol? In the Kingdom of Fife raising a second army for her father? Or even in the vipers nest, Thurso chief base of the Dragonships? But somehow, she had got word to the Scots fleet of the Viking advance guard here where the Great Glen began its march across the grain of the land.

The final plan made, both Battle Chiefs making their way back to their own galleys with the usual muffled and not so muffled curses at the sheer ungainliness of the transfer, broadswords and axe hafts being liable to fling the unwary into the still waters, Rory was given pause by his King.
“Rory, you’ve been allotted the most important task of all – taking out the Viking Chieftan Thorvald. If you can get to him in his tent before the cock on his midden crows three times this morning, the Norse will be thrown into confusion and our task shall be much alleviated. A lot of good men’s lives hang on your success this day”.
Giving the warriors grasp, hand on each other’s forearm, both men looked into each others soul. King to Seneschal, Seneschal to King – and a wordless pact passed between them. Succeed or die trying.

As the Scots King watched his young friend board the coracle with his small raiding party of six warriors, two each to their own fragile crafts, the small, thickset engineer approached the bow to stand with him.

“Well, Kenneth? You believe he can do it?”
“My friend Raheidicus, if anyone can then that young man can. He knows that by killing Thorvald he can throw the enemy into confusion. After that, its just a case of us getting to him and his party through the confusion”.
“Don’t you think it would have been wise to have let him know who else may be in that tent?” asked the engineer indicating the messenger who had boarded the Kings galley the previous evening.
Turning to look into the mist Kenneth sighed,
“If I had told him, it would have clouded his judgement, I’m certain of it friend Raheidicus. While it is easy for you and me, I being unmarried and your wife still living in some Godforsaken half-mythological world that few people believe actually exists, on this day of all days we simply must succeed in destroying this advance guard of the enemy. In so doing we’ll be sending out a message to this benighted land of Alba that there is hope yet of deliverance from the fury of the Norseman – as their priests like to pray. His mission is dangerous enough without adding that grievous burden”.
“As you wish Kenneth, I’m just happy that all I need concern myself with is the tension on my catapults”, and with that, the engineer turned away to attend to his duties.

TO BE CONTINUED


Episode 5; Synopsis
Night Raid

 

[Eazy]

Good work Harry. You have a very active imagination!
My favourite line was

“Rory, you’ve been allotted the most important task of all – taking out the Viking Chieftan Thorvald. If you can get to him in his tent before the cock on his midden crows three times this morning, the Norse will be thrown into confusion and our task shall be much alleviated. A lot of good men’s lives hang on your success this day”.

I'm really curious what a midden is though?

I wonder what happened to the previous Historical Fiction thread?
it must have been deleted by Brad on one of his weekly hoovering sessions!

 

[aujj65]

I'm really curious what a midden is though?

A big pile of stable sweepings, usually still steaming!

I agree, what a talent, should write a book.

Jeff

 

[Rob]

Nice work Harry,keep it up you are very talented at this.

Rob

 

[Harrytheheid]

I'm really curious what a midden is though?

I wonder what happened to the previous Historical Fiction thread?
it must have been deleted by Brad on one of his weekly hoovering sessions!

A midden can also apply to a person. Like, "Would you look at the state of that Midden?" Meaning he/she possibly doesn't care too much about personal hygene. Or an objectionable person might also be referred to as a midden, like "Aye, as a boss, he's a pure Midden".
(Complicated this lowland Scots dialect, innit?)

As for the previous Historical Fiction thread - I have a cunning plan. I still have all the previous stories on my hard drive, but not unfortunately the ones contributed by other people.

Travel back to Sanaa today then on to Dubai tomorrow. Have some interesting holiday snaps of Yemen that I might post if I get the time.

Travel to Hong Kong from Dubai on 19th Oct. Shopping list has had to be severely curtailed due to several unauthorized payments out of my credit card account (presently under investigation by my bank). Still have a pretty good shopping list though - must have AK Stug & Panzer II and SAS Jeep & LRDG Chevy and a few other odds and ends. Picked up some good diorama material in Germany including some interesting stones (?)

Cheers
H

 

[Harrytheheid]

A big pile of stable sweepings, usually still steaming!

I agree, what a talent, should write a book.

Jeff

A big pile of stable sweepings, usually still steaming! Yup, together with any other accumulated rubbish. Thats why the "Cock of the Walk" is usually to be found strutting his stuff there.


Dunno about writing a book - My managers usually moan that my technical reports resemble "War & Peace" - but that's cos they don't understand what I'm drivelling on about most of the time.
I do though.

Cheers
H

Cheers
H

 

[Harrytheheid]

Good work Harry. You have a very active imagination!
My favourite line was

“Rory, you’ve been allotted the most important task of all – taking out the Viking Chieftan Thorvald. If you can get to him in his tent before the cock on his midden crows three times this morning, the Norse will be thrown into confusion and our task shall be much alleviated. A lot of good men’s lives hang on your success this day”.

I'm really curious what a midden is though?

I wonder what happened to the previous Historical Fiction thread?
it must have been deleted by Brad on one of his weekly hoovering sessions!

To be perfectly honest my own favourite line was;
All four men, King, grizzled Battle Chief, handsome Engineer and young Seneschal paused and looked each other in the eye, each grinning ruefully.


Cheers
H

 

[aujj65]

To be perfectly honest my own favourite line was;
All four men, King, grizzled Battle Chief, handsome Engineer and young Seneschal paused and looked each other in the eye, each grinning ruefully.


Cheers
H

Harry,

Is this based on anyone you know?

Jeff

 

[Harrytheheid]

Harry,

Is this based on anyone you know?

Jeff

Dunno, I have certainly started to believe in reincarnation since I met Missus Heid, so Raheidicus might have been some previous incarnation. He certainly exhibits my liking for "tinkering" with things.
Just wish he'd been a 6-ft Tall, Bronzed Adonis though......

Cheers
H