Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

[Theodotos I]

Chapter XVII: The Priest

Over the weeks that followed, I learned little about Father David, though I spent most of my time in his company. He was a quiet, enigmatic little fellow, meek to the point of the seeming sheepishness.
Men seemed to enjoy pushing him around, and he seemed to take it with the patience of a reincarnated Job.
Yet there were times—like the moment after my discovery of his knife—times when that essence of pious patience would peel away like a veneer, revealing a very different man beneath the tattered robes and cassock.
Very different indeed. The type of a man who could be the truest friend—or the most ruthless enemy.
Work continued on the breakwater, hard, treacherous work. Fights broke out among the men over the slightest matters as nerves frayed and tempers wore thin. At times the guards intervened, other times they allowed the fights to continue, seeming to enjoy watching the fray.
Every morning we descended to the breakwater. Every evening we hauled our weary bodies up the serpentine path to the citadel, bathed in the blood-red glow of the setting sun.
Thus it was.
Men broke under the pressure, their bodies pushed far past the breaking point, worn down by the work and the humiliation of their captivity.
I watched over Father David with a sympathy and feeling of protection that I had not known I was capable of. He was small and physically weaker than many of us. Every day he seemed at the breaking point.
I was young—it would take me many years to realize that strength does not come from a man’s body, but rather from his mind, from the innermost depths of his being.
And his will kept him moving, kept him alive when others died. And in the end, I broke first. But that was yet to come.
I remember the day well, as a day my life changed forever. A day among many such days. We were finishing up the day’s labors on the breakwater, passing the last few rocks to the water’s edge when it happened.
One of the prisoners suddenly dropped his rock, his mouth falling open in surprise. The rock splashed into the water below, splashing water upon us, but he heeded it not, staring to the south.
Men cursed him for his negligence, but he ignored us, his cracked lips openly in a shout of what could only be described as glee. “Ships! Ships!”
He pointed, and my eyes followed the line of his finger, seeing his object. There they were, ships on the horizon, coming from the south. Cogs, I could tell by their tubby shape. Father David dropped his shovel and moved to my side, murmuring a prayer. His eyes flickered to my face. “Do you think, Ewan?”
I didn’t know what to tell him. I knew not whether our eyes were playing tricks upon us, whether what we gazed upon were real, or whether they were ships of a yet uncertain enemy. One thing we knew for a certainty. The fleet of the MacLeods was anchored at harbor near their capital, harbored for the winter. Whoever was approaching, they did not belong to our captors.
The response of the guards served to confirm this. They closed fast around us, herding us off the breakwater and up the path toward Dunscaith. One of our clansmen put up a fight, endeavored to wrest the halberd from one of the guards. He was run through with the sword. I saw his body fall from the path and go hurtling over to fall on the rocks far below.
I turned, my face ashen, to find Father David behind me. He seemed unruffled, his hand on my shoulder, his lips against my ear. “Do not resist them, Ewan. Now is not our chance.”
I started to speak, but he cut me off, his voice a powerful whisper. “Wait!”
And on we hurried up the path, our hearts, so long depressed, now beating high with hope. All of our toil, all of our trials.
Deliverance was nigh at hand.
We reached the summit, near the street of Dunscaith, looking down into the bay. The ships were coming on fast, their sails filling with the wind. The longships of the Norse, our allies. A ragged cheer rose up from our parched throats.
The guards ranged along our front, frantically trying to keep the desperate clansmen back, their halberds brandished and shining in the evening sun, blood already dripping from some of the sharp tips.
I sensed frenzy about to break loose. I looked over at Father David, his thin lips pressed together in a tight line.
They pushed us back into the streets at the points of their polearms, between houses of the town. I caught a glimpse of people looking out from their windows and doorways as the confrontation escalated into a riot.
“Now!” a voice hissed into my ear. I turned without hesitation, the slim back of Father David already disappearing into the crowd. We pushed our way through the press, through the struggling mass of our clansmen. Several guards had already been thrown to the ground and were being beaten to death. I saw another in our midst. A hand rose behind him, a long dirk flashing in the sun before plunging into his back. Blood stained his garments as he fell to the ground, his scream lost in the cacophony of noise surrounding us.
“Ewan! This way!” I looked and saw David in the crowd, wiping his knife clean against the brown folds of his cassock.
I started to move toward him. My foot caught against the upturned edge of a cobblestone and I stumbled. A body struck me and I fell to the ground, caught off-balance. A foot trampled upon my chest and my head struck the stones. For a moment, a galaxy of stars exploded in my brain. Then everything faded away. Light replaced by darkness. . .

[bamff]

Bravo Theodotus!

Please keep the updates coming!

[Theodotos I]

Thanks much.

[Captain de Noir]

Hey, I've yet had a chance to read through this but it is great that you are writing another aar man keep up the good work.

[julius_caesar_the_first]

I'm starting to worry that this great AAR is dead. I hope not.

[Theodotos I]

No, I've just been very busy the last few weeks. I've updated over at TWC, but hadn't here, but I will get around to it. Perhaps tomorrow. Thanks for the comments.

[Theodotos I]

Chapter XVIII: Landing of the Norse

The world seemed to swirl, my mind floating upon an ever-rippling tide of sea. My eyes flickered open, a haze seeming to surround my body. I blinked, willing my eyes to pierce the fog. What had happened? Where was I? How had I arrived here? Where was here?
My rags were gone, bandages swathing my head and chest. My left arm was in a sling—I couldn’t move it. I tried once more, fiery pain shooting through the damaged limb. A moan escaped my lips as I leaned back against the blankets, struggling against my weakness. My head swam, the room circling around me. Where was I?
“Lie still,” a feminine voice commanded gently, a soft hand on my shoulder. I blinked, forcing my world into focus, staring at the dim, shadowy figure that hovered over my pallet. A young woman emerged from the mists of my mind, her hair long and flowing, raven locks dancing down her back.
“Marion?” I asked, my heart catching in my throat as I sat bolt upright upon the bed. It seemed impossible. It was. And yet. . .
Her face came into focus, revealing dark, liquid eyes set above high, elegant cheekbones. It was not Marion. Someone else. . .
“Who are you?” I asked, my voice failing to rise to its full strength. She ignored my question, turning from my pallet.
“Mother! He has awakened.”
Footsteps. The sound of a door opening and shutting as a tall, matronly woman entered the room from another part of the house. House. Yes, that was it. I was in a house.
She sat down upon the edge of my bed, pressing her hand against my brow. “Good,” she said, clucking her tongue like a mother hen. “The swelling has gone down.”
“Where am I? How did I get here?”
The woman smiled at my outpouring of words. “You fell at our door in the press. You were nearly trampled by the mob, knocked unconscious and stepped upon. My husband says your arm is broken and your right ankle is terribly swollen. You may have sprained it.”
“You saved my life,” I whispered, conscious of a sudden sense of gratitude. “What is your name?”
“Sarah MacLewis. This is my daughter, Jane.” The girl acknowledged the introduction with a slight curtsy, but her mother continued. “We did not save your life, however.”
“Oh?” I asked, pain shooting through my head and neck as I endeavored to rise from my pillow. I sank back, wearied by the exertion.
“One of the men brought you to our door and knocked until my goodman made haste to open unto him.”
“What did he look like?”
Sarah MacLewis shook her head. “He had turned away by the time we opened the latch. I never saw his face.”
“A small man?” I asked persistently.
She nodded slowly, dawn breaking across her face. “Yes! Much smaller than you. I remember wondering at the time how he had mustered up the strength to drag you to the door. You know him?”
I ignored her question, a smile creasing my lips. Father David. He had risked his life to save my own, to ensure that I would be cared for. Had I gone back to our cell in my battered condition, I must sure have died. As it was, the guards probably thought I had gone over the cliff. . .
“Does anyone know that I am here?” I whispered with sudden intensity, my eyes fixed on the face of the older woman.
She shook her head. “Only my husband. He is in the plain with Brian MacCreild, fighting the Norse.” I saw the shadow of fear flicker across her face, fear for the safety of her husband—and the town.
“They have landed?” I asked, hope in my voice, sickening guilt at the realization that hope for me brought only despair for this woman and her daughter. For me to secure my freedom would mean the loss of everything they held dear.
One must win. One must lose. Such was life. . .
Sarah MacLewis rose from the side of the bed, brushing her hands on the front of her apron. She looked over at her daughter and then down at me. “I am going to the market. Jane will remain here and make sure you are comfortable. If you need anything, call her.”
“Thank you, my lady.”
Silence fell over the room as the matron left, her skirts rustling in the corridor outside. The girl stood there awkwardly for a moment, then walked over and opened the door to what appeared to be a balcony.
I heard a small gasp escape her lips and I raised myself up on one elbow, straining against my wounds. “What is it?”
“The Northmen. . .” she whispered, her words barely audible. “They have landed.”
I heard sounds from below in the plain, wafted up the Cliffside by the morning breeze. “Help me,” I exclaimed, frustrated at my inability to get up on my own. I swung my legs to the side of the bed, determined to see the situation.
Jane rushed over to the bed at my movement, her hands planted firmly on my bare shoulders. I winced as she pressed against bruised muscle. “You musn’t move.”
I stared into her eyes. “I have to see the battle. I can make it to the balcony.”
“You’ll damage your foot,” she protested.
“I can lean on your shoulder.” She hesitated and I pushed the matter. “I’m going with or without your help.”
She nodded, taking my uninjured arm and draping it around her slender shoulders. I stood, clad in a baggy pair of her father’s breeches, my chest wrapped in dirty, rust-red bandages. Pain shot through my injured ankle as I put weight upon it, her frail form little enough to support me. Together we hobbled to the balcony and I looked out upon the plain below. I released her and gripped the rail with all of my remaining strength.
The Norwegian ships had been pulled up on the beach, men spilling over their sides and assembling on the sand.

I saw the banner of Brian MacCreild assembling from down the serpentine path and hatred mixed with the pain streaming through my veins. What of Duncan? I thought of him for the first time in days—of his enigmatic words just before we were parted.
Movement beside me and I looked down into the girl’s face. Fear was clearly etched into the lines of worry on her forehead, her cheeks white and drawn. I feared too, but for different reasons, reasons that had nothing to do with the Norse winning. Rather, I feared their defeat. . .