David Gemmell - Morningstar

I shrugged. ‘The conquerors make the laws, my lord. Should they judge it treason for a Highlander to breathe mountain air, then it is treason.’

‘How great is the Morningstar’s army?’

‘It has not yet lost,’ I said carefully, ‘and therefore is in better order than the one you left.

‘But can it stand against Edmund?’

‘Time will answer that, my lord.’

‘You are being evasive. How many cavalry do you have? How many knights? Men-at-arms?’

‘I am but a humble bard, Raul Raubert. These questions must wait until you meet the Morningstar. You have ridden far. Rest for a while.’ I cast a spell of Drowsiness; it is not one of my better enchantments, being a variation on the spells of Contentment and Warmth, but Raul was already weary and he yawned and stretched out on his side, his head pillowed on a rolled blanket.

‘Wake me… when he returns,’ he said.

‘Of course, my lord,’ I told him, my voice low and soothing.

I rose and moved outside where the men-at-arms were sitting together on the grass. One of them stood and approached me. He was a burly fellow with short-cropped, wispy black hair balding at the crown.

‘Where is my lord?’ he asked.

‘Sleeping. Have you come far?’

‘Far enough, by God! We’ve had our arses kicked from the northern sea to the edge of the forest.’

‘You took part in the battles?’

‘Aye — for what it was worth. Is there any food here? We haven’t eaten for three days.’

‘Of course. Wait here and I’ll bring you some broth.’

I ate with them, learning their names and their background. The man who had first spoken to me was called Scrymgeour. He had served the Arkney family for twenty-two of his thirty-seven years, first as a stableboy and then as senior herdsman to their vast herds of cattle. The other two were Cearus and Ciarhan, brothers who had been part of the Arkney contingent. Two hundred men had marched from the north — these three remained.

‘How did you escape?’ I asked Scrymgeour.

‘Blind luck. Lord Raul is not the brightest of men, but he’s a bonny fighter. They hit us from both sides, having knights hidden in a wood on our flank. Lord Raul charged at them as they charged at us. We followed, and somehow we cut through them. Some of them swung their mounts to give chase, but as we entered the woods a mist came up and they lost us. By the time it had cleared the battle was over, if battle it could be called. God’s Teeth, you should have seen the bodies. As far as the eye could see! So we headed south-west. God knows why! But he has this dream now, that the Morningstar will free the land.’

‘You don’t think that he will?’

‘Ain’t likely. Look at the stories. He robs a tax column, rescues a witch. What else? I don’t doubt he’s a hero, but he’s not an army, is he?’

‘Not yet,’ I agreed.

He shook his head. ‘This Edmund is a great warlord, no question. His troops are well-disciplined, his captains know their trade and his tactics are brilliant: hit hard and fast. He’s never lost. I’ve seen three battles now, and believe me there’s no stopping him.’

‘Why then do you stay with the Earl?’

‘His father asked me to look after him. A great man, he was, and good to me and mine. Fair, you know? Two years ago I was gored by our sire bull — laid up three months. My wage was paid, food was brought to my wife, and the old earl’s own surgeon came to tend my wounds. You don’t forget that.’

‘No, I imagine you wouldn’t,’ I agreed. ‘He died, I take it?’

‘He was hanged by Azrek. They had to carry the old man from his sick-bed to do it.’ His face darkened, his eyes narrowing. ‘Doubt he knew what was going on. Paralysed, he was. Couldn’t speak.’

‘Why did they hang him?’ I asked softly.

‘Said he was supporting rebellion, we were told. The news only reached us a fortnight past. That Azrek is the worst kind of scum. The old Earl was his uncle, you know. Many’s the time he came north as a boy to play in the estates at Arkney. He virtually grew up with Raul. Twisted little swine he was then. I caught him once torturing a puppy. Said it bit him, lying little toad!’ He cleared his throat and spat. ‘But he can fight too. Good swordsman, best I ever saw. Gilbaud Azrek. I hope I live long enough to ram six inches of steel into his guts!’

It was coming on towards dusk when Mace and Wulf reappeared, their bows across their shoulders. The brothers, Cearus and Ciarhan, were asleep. Scrymgeour was sitting with whetstone in hand, his back to a tree, sharpening his sword with long sweeping strokes.

‘What took you so long?’ I asked Mace.

‘Once we saw you were in no danger we decided to backtrack them, to see if they were alone.

’And they were?’

‘Of course. You don’t think we’d have come back if it was a trap.’

‘Nice to know,’ I told him.

Grinning, he walked past me and approached Scrymgeour. The man-at-arms stood and sheathed his knife.

‘You know who I am?’ Mace asked him.

‘I’d guess you to be the man called Morningstar.’

‘And that doesn’t impress you?’

‘Should it?’

‘No, it shouldn’t, my friend,’ said Mace. ‘I don’t want dreamers around me, men with their heads full of legends and fables. I want men who know how to keep their swords sharp and their wits sharper.’

‘Good enough,’ said Scrymgeour. ‘They say Azrek has offered 2,000 gold pieces for your head.’

‘The price has some way to go, I think,’ Mace told him.

‘You’re not Angostin. You sound like one, but you’re not, are you?’

‘I am the Morningstar,’ said Mace. ‘I am the mountains and the forest. I am the voice and heart of the Highlands. With all of this, do I need to be Angostin?’

‘I am not the man you have to convince,’ said Scrymgeour at last. ‘My lord lies sleeping in the shelter. Convince him and you’ll have me.’

‘I like loyalty in a man,’ said Mace easily, though I could sense his annoyance. He had turned his full power and charm on Scrymgeour but to no avail, it seemed. He swung away and we walked towards the shelter. In the few brief strides before we reached it I told him of Raul and the vision Megan had sent him. He nodded and asked no questions.

Inside the ruined cabin I awoke the nobleman. Seeing Mace, he scrambled to his feet, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

‘Welcome to my camp, Raul Raubert,’ said Mace, his voice deepening, the accent sharpening and becoming more Angostin.

‘You are…’

‘I am the man the vision sent you to find.’

‘To which of the noble houses are you connected, sir?’

‘All that is past, Raul. Dead. Burned to ashes. Here I make no distinction between Angostin and Highlander. You understand? Here we are all men, and we will be judged by our actions. Once you were the Earl of Arkney. Now you are a young man abroad in the forest with nothing more than your armour and your weapons. It matters nothing that you are Angostin. Out there you are less than nothing, for you cannot catch a rabbit for your supper — and if you could, I doubt you’d know how to prepare it. You would starve in the summer, freeze to death in the winter. How will being Angostin save you? From this moment you are a Highlander — nothing more and nothing less.’

The young man blinked and swung his gaze, first to me, then to Wulf and Piercollo and finally back to Mace.

‘I… don’t know what to say. I am Angostin and proud of it. I don’t know if I can put that aside.’

‘There is always more than one choice in life, Raul,’ said Mace sternly. ‘You can, if you wish, ride from here and seek a ship to take you across the sea. You can sign on as a mercenary knight in foreign wars. Or you could put aside your armour and seek employment in the south, under another name. Perhaps you could be a scribe, or join a monastery. But I hope you will stay here and fight for your country and your people.’