Chapter 4
Balduur's Head
Thin columns of smoke rose above the rooftops, wispy and white in the early-morning light. In the narrow alleys below, barefoot boys ran yelling, trying to round up the cattle that had escaped from their charge. They wore short leather cloaks and, despite the cold, this was their only garment. Armed with sticks and throwing stones, they did their best to drive the reluctant beasts to the slaughter yard at the end of the market place.
The buildings were of stone and timber. Most had two stories. The ground floors were for animals and the upper for people. Here and there, larger structures poked up above the roofline. The Great Hall was one of these. A massive wooden building with a towering shingle roof.
In the market place beside, the Great Hall, women in brightly coloured dresses crowded against walls and sheltered in doorways, trying to avoid the stampeding cattle. As the pandemonium died down, they made their way back into the open, carrying baskets piled with produce: cheeses, bundles of herbs, freshly ground flour, small birds trussed on sticks, onions, beans and other vegetables. They exchanged their wares, haggling over the number of hen's eggs to a hare and how many marsh fowl were needed for a suckling pig.
Through this seething mass of humanity, an old woman walked, flanked by two heavily-armed young women. The crowd parted and hands reached out to kiss the hem of her flowing cloak and touch the image of the mother goddess that hung about her neck. She made her way forwards with the aid of a stick and came to the centre of the market place where the herdboys were gathering to warm themselves around a fire.
She halted and one of the girls of her guard banged her sword on her shield and told the boys to be quiet. The old woman looked from one to another and waited for the boys to fall silent. When she had their attention she spoke.
'May the Holy Mother be with you, my children.'
'May the Holy Mother be with you, Majesty.'
The boys returned her greeting and waited for her to continue.
Her eyes wandered amongst them.
'How many of you are preparing for warrior training?'
Some of the older boys stepped forward.
She called out their names and tears formed in her eyes.
'You remind me of when I was young. I and my companions were cursed by being born in a memorable age ... and this is your fate.'
The boys exchanged glances and waited for her to continue.
'I was born when Balduur was War Master of Gorm. It was he who invited the Duideth here. The foul priests came into our land, bringing the images of the one they call the Lord Sun. They destroyed the shrines of the Blessed Mother and murdered the Sisters of Rebirth. They sowed their poisonous seed and what they could not gain by sorcery, Balduur took with the sword, laying waste our land and killing our people.
The boys hissed.
'Then my father gathered together the defeated warriors and took them into the marshes to lick their wounds and grow strong again.'
The boys cheered.
'Balduur brought a great army against us. My father prayed to the Holy Mother and a cold wind ripped through the marshes. The ground froze and land that had been impassable could now be crossed. As the sun rose the wind died down. The Grand Master of the Duideth was conducting the dawn ceremony. All of Balduur's army was gathered about the golden disc. Their drums beat to welcome their Lord Sun ... and that was our signal.'
She pointed to one of the boys.
'What happened then?'
'The chariots drove over the marshes and killed all the Gorms.'
'Not all of them,' the old woman said. 'Some ran away.'
'But you killed Balduur and cut off his head.'
'That's right,' another boy said. 'You keep it in a box.'
'Why do you do that?' a tiny voice asked.
'Tell him.' The old woman pointed to the older boy.
The lad stood rigidly and began to recite. 'The heads of our principal enemies are removed and preserved by smoking and the application of special oils. They are taken to a place of safety and closely guarded. This is done to ensure that their soul lights do not escape and enter the bodies of the unborn.'
'How might they escape?' the old woman asked.
The boy stiffened. 'The soul light remains trapped so long as the head does not decay or be consumed by fire.'
'Very good, Dugan son of Dugan.'
She patted his head. 'You have learned your lessons well. The soul light remains trapped and will not escape to cause further pain so long as the head does not decay or be consumed by fire.'
For a moment it seemed she would continue the discussion. Then she turned abruptly and strode towards the Great Hall with her guard as if a thought had suddenly entered her head.
***
A covered flight of stairs led up the outside of the huge wooden building. The old woman plodded up it, followed by the girls of her guard who kept close, ready to catch her if she fell, but not daring to offer assistance. After many stops for breath, she halted before a massive door and took a key from a chain about her waist. After several attempts, her arthritic fingers managed to engage the mechanism. The bolt slid back and the door opened.
Inside, the air was thick with the rancid smell of burning fat. Tallow lamps hung from iron hooks. Their feeble light illuminated the blackened walls and arching roof of a long chamber. Grotesque faces peered down. Carved into the wall panels and inlaid with mother-of-pearl, they shimmered in the darkness as if suspended in space.
A table stretched the length of the chamber. The surface was polished with fresh beeswax and covered in wooden boxes. Some were of plain wood. Others were carved. She sank down on a bench and cast her eyes amongst them. Her gaze flitted back and forth and finally fastened on one that stood out from the rest.
A black box with a golden disc.
'Balduur … Balduur ...'
She muttered the name softly and removed the lid.
A dark face stared up at her. The close-cropped hair retained some of its ginger but little else remained. Mould covered the lips and eye sockets. Decay was evident throughout. She picked up the head and held it in her hands.
'Balduur ...' her voice fell to a whisper.
The tallow lamps flickered as if in recognition.
'Balduur ...' She repeated the name. 'You who called yourself High King. For all these many years I have held you captive. Now, by some trick, you are slipping away. Soon your soul light will escape into the Void, ready to be reborn. No one can foretell what misfortune that will bring.'
Her mind strayed back to when, as a young girl, she had plucked the head from the frozen ground on Baddon Plane and fresh blood had sprayed onto her white dress.
A knock interrupted her thoughts.
'Majesty, Thunder son of Lightning is here.'
She returned the head to the box and replaced the lid as a sandy-haired man was ushered in by the girls of the guard. He was dressed as a warrior: blue cloak, red tunic and tartan pants. When the door was securely closed, she pushed the box towards him.
'Take a look at that.'
Thunder scrutinised the contents.
'Maggots, Majesty ...'
'Aye,' the queen grunted. 'They're eating away at the back of his skull. His soul light will soon escape.'
Thunder pointed a finger at a gaping eye socket. 'With any luck he'll be reborn as one of those nasty little creatures.'
'That's not what the oracle foretold.'
'But we don't believe in oracles, Majesty'
'What we believe doesn't matter. It's what the people believe that counts.' The queen adjusted her shawl. 'At the battle of Dunavon, it wasn't force that defeated our enemies. They weren't beaten when my father met Balduur in single combat. But, when they saw their War Master struck down and his head in my hand ... they lost heart.'
She pointed to the box.
'For these many moons we've held Balduur prisoner. Now we've failed in our duty. What alarm will that breed in the hearts of our people when they next see him?'
Thunder fingered the waxed ends of his moustache.
'We'll have to make sure they don't.'
'There's no way.' The old woman banged her stick on the floorboards. 'At the next moon, at the Festival of Rebirth, we'll have to exhibit the head as we always do.'
'Then we'll get a repair job done.' Thunder grinned. 'I know a cobbler who can do very clever stitches. We'll kill the maggots and let him have the head.'
The queen nodded ...
'Very well. That's the first thing. The next is to find out how the maggots got into the box. You had occasion to question the loyalty of our Head Master ...'
‘I warned you not to raise Red Hand son of Red Cloud into that esteemed position, Majesty.'
‘Aye. So you did. And I explained that I did it at the insistence of my clan chieftains. Anyway, your doubts were based on rumour ...'
'I have further evidence, Majesty.'
‘Hgh.' the old woman grunted.
'Your daughter, The Princess Adrina, has supplied useful information.'
'That black-haired vixen.'
‘The princess has a young friend who encounters Lord Morgon when he visits Gorm.
'Aye. Morgon likes young boys. What's new about that?'
'What's new is the company he keeps when he likes them, Majesty. The princess claims that Red Hand joins Morgon in these little get-togethers.'
'My daughter is claiming that our Head Master goes into the camp of our enemies and meets their War Master … that is high treason.'
'It is, Majesty.'
The old woman sat in silence. Thunder stood beside her, staring at the crawling maggots, waiting for her to speak. When she did, her voice was hushed.
'Do you think my daughter is telling the truth?'
'Aye, Majesty.'
She nodded thoughtfully.
‘Adrina is sparing with the truth. Have you any idea why she might be telling it now?'
'There can be only one reason.'
'And what is that?'
'It is in her interests to tell the truth.'
The old woman's face wrinkled into a smile.
'Aye, Thunder son of Storm Cloud. You have the measure of my daughter. She is telling the truth because it serves her purpose. When we know why it serves her purpose, we shall know something of the plot the little vixen is hatching.'