Melcorka nodded agreement. She saw the rugged horsemen of the border clustered in their family groups, the footmen of the Lowlands with their long spears, the lightly armed caterans and heavy axemen and swordsmen of the Highlands and the dark-headed Picts of the northeast. “Not all four quarters,” Melcorka said. “There are no Hebrideans.”
Leaning on his staff, Bradan ran an experienced eye across the fighting men of Alba. “You're right, Mel. There are no men from the islands.”
Melcorka raised her voice. “Tell me truly, Thomas, why is the army gathering here and where are the men of the islands?”
Thomas stood a little apart, with the breeze failing to ruffle his long cloak. The oystercatchers continued to circle his head. “The enemy is to the south of the kingdom, Melcorka, while the Hebrides no longer form part of the realm of Alba.”
Bradan frowned. “Why is that?”
“Somebody assassinated the Lord of the Isles, and during the confusion over a new Lord, the Norse moved in.”
“The Lord of the Isles was my half-brother,” Melcorka said. “And the queen? Did Queen Maelona have no say in things?”
“Mael Coluim the Second is king now.”
“Mael Coluim the Second?” Melcorka said. “I didn't even know there had been a Mael Coluim the First!”
True Thomas did not answer as Melcorka continued to study the gathering army. Among the grey-bearded veterans and confident champions were many fresh young faces, youths who had never experienced the horror of war, with the usual number of camp followers exploiting the warriors. She found it interesting that, in such a diverse collection, the various groups did not fight one another. The only reason for that, she considered, was a leader with sufficient force of character to bind them all together. Mael Coluim must be a strong king.
“Why have you brought us here?” Bradan asked.
“Watch,” True Thomas said.
“Are we to fight Alba's enemy?” Melcorka struggled to contain her increasing impatience.
“Watch,” True Thomas repeated.
“Over there.” Bradan touched Melcorka's arm. “Something is happening in the west.”
Climbing to the summit of the ridge, between two suspicious sentinels, they watched as another army marched towards them. About half the size of the army of Alba, it was also more homogeneous, consisting of one group of people with similar weapons and clothing. They marched in a compact formation, with horseman guarding the flanks and rear, spearmen in disciplined clumps and stalwart captains leading each formation. Under a broad green banner, three men rode at the head of the army.
“Is that the enemy?” Melcorka asked the nearest sentinel, who shook his head.
“No – where have you been hiding, swordswoman? That is our ally, Owen the Bald, and the army of Strathclyde.”
“They look a handy bunch,” Melcorka said.
“Owen is a good man.” The sentinel eyed Melcorka”s sword without comment.
As the Strathclyde contingent approached, a group of men from the Alban army rode out to meet them, with a tough-looking, clean-shaven man in his thirties at their head.
“There goes the Destroyer.” The sentinel sounded satisfied. “Now things will start to move.”
“The Destroyer?” Melcorka asked.
“The King himself. Mael Coluim.” The sentinel eyed her with growing curiosity. “Who are you? You don't know Strathclyde are our allies and you don't recognise the king; are you Alban? From Fidach perhaps? Or are you a spy for the Northumbrians?” He shifted his stance so that his spear was ready to hand. His companion came closer, frowning.
“We are Alban,” Bradan said, “but we've been out of the country for many years. When we left, Maelona was queen, with Ahern the Pict of Fidach as her consort.”
“These days are long gone.” The sentinel continued to eye them with suspicion. “Mael Coluim is king now, the Norse have returned to the Isles, and the Danes have conquered the Angle lands to the south.” He turned a twisted smile to Melcorka. “Enemies surround us, woman-with-a-sword, with Angles and Danes to the south, Danes over the Eastern sea, and Norse to the north and west. King Mael Coluim is fighting a war on all fronts.” He lowered his spear. “We can thank God for Owen of Strathclyde, a loyal friend when we need one most.”
“Bad days, indeed,” Melcorka looked towards True Thomas. “Is that why you summoned us? Do you think my single sword can turn the tide in this clash of kings?”
“You will find out soon enough,” True Thomas said. “Wait, watch and learn.”
Owen halted the Strathclyde army and dismounted. Straight-backed, he walked, light-footed as a youth, towards the group of Alban horsemen. When he threw back his hooded cloak, the sun gleamed from a shaven head.
“King Owen the Bald of Strathclyde,” Bradan murmured, “and his overlord and High King Mael Coluim the Destroyer. I wonder what our part will be in this drama.”
The two kings embraced, and then the two armies merged, without any of the usual tensions between fighting men, only mutual welcome and a forming of small groups around the campfires. Harpers began to play, sennachies told their stories, bards sang their songs while the ubiquitous women who followed armies flitted from man to man, seeking protection, companionship or money.
“We have an allied army,” Bradan tapped his staff on the land, “yet we do not know our part in this, Melcorka.”
“There is darkness ahead,” Melcorka said. “I can feel it.”
The blast of a horn echoed around the bowl of the hills as Mael Coluim mounted a small knoll. Men of both armies gathered around, waiting to hear what the Destroyer said. Three warriors remained close to the High King, watching everybody. One was slightly above average height, with calm eyes above a neat beard. The second was dressed all in black, with a long black beard and 12 darts in his broad black belt. The third was slender, with laughter in his eyes, twin swords strapped crossways on his back and clothes of the Pictish fashion.
“These will be the king's champions,” Bradan murmured, “the pick of his army.”
Melcorka nodded, taking note of their stance and bearing, wondering if it was her
