Elizabeth McBride (27 page)

Nila took the lead. Mhoire, Drosten, and Gormach followed, along with most of the other women and some of
Drosten's soldiers. They tramped across the rough fields
and through the dark woods, and finally arrived at the
grounds of the ruined chapel.

Silently, they passed through the grove of cherry trees
that encircled the sacred building. When they reached the
low hillside that protected the chapel on three sides, Nila
headed up. The others followed.

They found themselves inside a grove of small, gnarled
trees. "These are oak trees," Mhoire whispered, with wonder in her voice. "Dun Darach-'Fort of the Oaks.' "

Their trunks grew thick and solid. Their limbs, twisted
by the wind and their own natural yearnings, reached out
like sinewed arms. And in the center of the grove, in a
patch of bright green moss, stood a monolithic stone, twice
the height of a man and covered with intricate designs. Nila
stopped beside it.

Tentatively, Mhoire approached the stone, and ran her
hand over the carvings. She recognized a falcon and a lightning rod. Below them was an image of a sword and, next
to it, a boat. Sitting in the boat was a woman with her arms
crossed over her breasts.

"What does this mean?" Gormach asked. "This is a Pictish stone."

Nila watched Mhoire. "Shall I tell you about your real
father?"

Mhoire nodded, her hand still tracing the designs.

"He was badly wounded in a battle with the Britons that
took place a few miles from here. He needed care, but he
was far from home and only a few of the soldiers he commanded were alive. Fearing he would not survive a journey
back to Pictland, his men brought him here to the chapel,
and asked for sanctuary. The monks called upon your
mother to help tend him because she was skilled with
herbs."

Mhoire turned to Nila and stared. "You are saying my
father is a Pict?"

Nila touched Mhoire's arm. "Was a Pict, my child. He
died."

"Those are our clan symbols," Gormach said. He pointed
to the falcon and the lightning rod. "But what do the other
carvings mean?"

"Mhoire's mother and the Pictish leader fell in love,"
Nila went on. "They intended to slip away, to go back
together to Pictland, as soon as he was well enough to
travel. One of the monks married them."

Mhoire gasped. Her eyes flew to Drosten. He cocked a
brow. "And what happened?" she asked.

"Your grandfather didn't know that the young man your
mother was tending at the monastery was a Pict. And, of
course, their marriage was a secret. But she became pregnant. And, contrary to what Colman believes, your grandfather found out about it. He sent his men to the monastery
and they killed your father in cold blood."

Nila paused. The leaves of the oak trees whispered.

"Shortly after, Colman came through with his band of
men. They had sailed from Ireland to help in the war
against the Picts. Your grandfather gave Colman shelter,
and the day after Colman saw your mother, he asked for
her hand. To her credit, your mother told him the truth, that
she was carrying another man's child. But Colman married
her anyway. I believe he thought the pregnancy wouldn't
matter. He didn't realize the strength of your mother's love
for her Pictish warrior."

"She was miserable with Colman."

"Aye. But what choice did she have? No man here would
marry her. And she did not want her child to grow up in
shame."

"Did Colman murder my mother? One day she was fine,
and the next ..."

"I don't know, my child," Nila answered quietly. "It's
possible."

Mhoire looked at Drosten and bit her lip. "We are not
brother and sister, I hope."

Gormach peered at Nila. "What was the Pictish man's
name?"

"Aed mac Domnall."

Gormach shook his head. "No close relation."

"And so Dun Darach is ours," Drosten said, his eyes
gleaming. He walked up to the stone. "The Pictish leader-"
He traced the falcon with his fingertips. "-marries the Scottish princess." He touched the figure of the woman in the
boat. "Who is sent across the sea to Ireland."

He turned to face Mhoire and rested his hands lightly on her shoulders. "They have a daughter, who under Pictish
law inherits her mother's property." He lifted a hand and
rubbed a rough thumb along Mhoire's cheekbone. Then he
looked over her shoulder at Nila. "Is there proof of this
marriage, old woman?"

"Aye," she answered with a chuckle, the first bit of
laughter Mhoire had heard from her lips. "It's in the monastery's record book. And we hid that in the cellar so the
Danes wouldn't burn it."

"Well, then," Drosten said, with a slow smile. "There's
no denying this."

"And all of you women knew this secret but me?"
Mhoire moaned. She turned under Drosten's hold and
scanned the faces of the others. The women looked sheepish. Drosten's soldiers seemed to be in shock.

Drosten's hands tightened on Mhoire's shoulders. "Who
carved the stone?" he asked.

"My husband," Nila answered, chuckling again. "He was
one of Aed's men. Instead of returning to Pictland, he
stayed here and we farmed."

Mhoire gaped at Nila. "You married a Pict? That means
that Elanta ... and Oran ..."

"Are somewhat Pictish. Aye."

"No wonder you didn't object to having rough Pictish
men around the fort."

Drosten bent close to her face, his eyes dark and serious.
"And you, mo milidh? Do you object?"

Mhoire smiled up at him. "Nay." She drew his lips down
to hers. "I believe I'm turning a bit rough myself."

The age of the Picts ended before the close of the ninth
century. What happened to this powerful society? Did the
Scots overcome the Picts through treachery or force during
a vulnerable time when they were under attack by Vikings?
Or did intermarriage and succession lead to a transfer of
power? With no written historical record to guide us, we
can only guess.

What historians do know is that the Picts suffered a century of genocide by the Vikings. History also tells us that
by 845, Kenneth mac Alpin, a Scot with a supposedly Pictish mother, was ruler of both Dal Riata and Pictland. He
became the founder of a new dynasty, one that was neither
Irish nor Pictish but was henceforth known as Scotland.

And the Picts entered the realm of mythology. Their language disappeared, along with their rulers. They might have
become a forgotten people, except for the images they left
behind, engraved on magnificent standing stones that still
grace the glens of their homeland.