Kenneth

by Nigel Tranter

Genres: Cultural Heritage; Historical Fiction

Synopsis

Norse-Slayer and nation-builder, Kenneth, son of Alpin mac Eochaidh, King of Galloway, was the visionary who brought together the ancient kingdoms of Alba, Dalriada, Strathclyde and Galloway to create the country of Scotland. Yet his vision was wider still. He dreamed of a great coming together of all the Celtic people, Scots, Irish, Welsh, Cornish and Manx, united against the Norse and the Anglo-Saxon invaders. Fighting not only his country's enemies but also the fractious, obstinate wilfulness of his own people, his legacy was a nation, with its own patron saint, the apostle Andrew, that would endure from the ninth century to the present day. A gripping historical novel about the origins of Scotland by Nigel Tranter, master of Scottish historical fiction.

Release date: December 20, 2012

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 356

Sample

The young man fretted and frowned. This was neither time nor place to be troubling with cattle. The enemy were at their heels, this land of Lothian hostile, and the man Athelstan a shrewd fighter. They had foolishly given him time and opportunity to catch up with them – and they knew from their rearward scouts that he was doing so, hand over fist, with a large force of West Saxons and Northumbrian Angles. So they themselves should not be going down into these river-levels and flat ground, held up by this vast herd of cattle; they should be holding to the higher ground, mounting rather to this ridge to the south-west, a defensive position where they would have some advantage against attackers, leaving the wretched cattle meantime. But it had been thus all the way northwards from Northumbria, delay, delay, this greed for booty, ever adding to their plunder. Was this what they had come south for – spoil, gear, loot? He had complained, objected. But who was going to heed such as himself, young, unimportant, with three kings present, including the High King of Alba himself? He was a prince of sorts, certainly – but of only a minor sub-kingdom, Galloway, the Land of the Southern Gaels.

Kenneth mac Alpin gazed back whence they had come, down towards the wide valley of the Lothian Tyne. They had returned here from another Tyne, the Northumbrian one, that furthest south penetration of their cautionary thrust into the Anglian kingdom. It had been no major invasion, despite all the kings, for the Northumbrians had been getting aggressive of late, raiding deep into South Alba and Galloway, their pirate longships even assailing the coasts of Dalriada and the Southern Hebrides, taking advantage of the damnable Danish attacks now so frequent, seeking to fish in troubled waters. So they required a lesson. And had been given one, to be sure, the combined Albannach, Scots and Gallovidian army having trounced the Northumbrians no less than three times, as well as laying waste a wide swathe of their land, right down to Tyne. It was just unfortunate that it so happened that this Athelstan, son to King Athelwolf of the West Saxons, was himself raiding in Southern Northumbria at the same time, despite the fact that his mother was an Anglian princess. And little as he cared for the Northumbrian Angles, he hated the Celtic nations of Wales and Alba still more. So, a noted warrior and renowned campaigner, he not exactly came to the rescue of his would-be victims, but saw the opportunity to have a confrontation with the Gaels who happened to be available. He had been coming after them for nearly one hundred miles now – and because of these wretched cattle, over a thousand of the brutes, he was drawing close.

Kenneth had no wish to make himself unpopular with his elders and betters, these including his own father and grandfather. But nor did he wish to be trapped and defeated and probably slaughtered with them down there in this Vale of Peffer ahead, as they might well be. Admittedly, looking back, he could still see no sign of any following host – but from this viewpoint between the Tyne and Peffer valleys, no more than four miles distance was visible, because of the Biel woodlands. So Athelstan could be a mere five miles or so behind – and with their own rate of progress, with this cattle-herd to slow them, they were covering no more than three miles in the hour. The enemy’s horsed host therefore could catch up with them in the next couple of hours. Presumably his seniors realised this; but they did not seem to be as concerned as they ought to be. He felt that he had to do something about it.

He rode forward to where, above the little lochan of Markle, the leadership group sat their fine mounts, approaching a heavily built man of middle years, square of feature.

“Father,” he said, “is not this a folly? To be going down into this Vale of Peffer’s levels, burdened by all these cattle-beasts, with the Saxons at our backs? We would be caught down there, on those flats, and surrounded, trapped. We should be on the higher ground yonder. This ridge. Where we would have the advantage. This Athelstan could come up with us at any time.”

“When we will deal with him,” Alpin mac Eochaidh, King of Galloway, said. “Be not so fearful, son.”

“What I fear is our own foolish carelessness,” the younger man declared. “All, so far, has been over-easy for us, our people become too confident. This Saxon host presses hard. We are saddled with much booty and all these cattle, weakening us greatly . . .”

“Wheesht, boy – wheesht!” his father ordered. “Who think you to instruct? We have been at this game before you were born! Be not so free with your fools and follies!”

Kenneth bit his lip. “At least let me take my own troop along the high ground there. To protect our quarter. Then, if there is an attack in the vale, I could come down, make a diversion against the enemy flank or rear . . .”

“They are not even in sight, boy.”

“We move slowly and they move fast. My scouts reported them last as nearing the Biel Water crossing. They could be halfway from there by now. We can see only so far, because of those woods. They could be on us in two hours. Less. If you will not change direction and make for the higher ground, let me do as I say.”

Alpin shrugged. “It is not for me to say. Not with your grandsire here. And Angus mac Fergus commanding . . .”

They moved over to where three men rode at the very head of the long column, save for the forward scouts, with two others immediately behind bearing aloft colourful banners. Of the trio in front one was old, one middle-aged and one youngish, the last on a much poorer horse than the two fine animals alongside, and bearing himself much less assuredly. King Alpin reined close.

“Kenneth here is fearful,” he announced. “And thinks that we ought to be also. He would have us hold to the higher ground. He fears that we could be trapped in this Vale of Peffer.”

“Ha! A Daniel! A Daniel come to judge us – as Susannah would have it!” the elderly man commented quickly. “The good Susannah! Is that it, boy – is that it?”

Kenneth never knew just how to take this grandfather of his, one of the strangest characters ever thrown up by Gaeldom. Eochaidh the Poisonous, King of the Scots of Dalriada. Now in his late sixties but wiry as he was lean, he was warrior, a devious plotter, one of the most cultured men in Christendom and with a waspish tongue – which was where his nickname of the Poisonous came from, his speech not any proclivity for poisoning.

His grandson drew a deep breath. “As to the lady Susannah I know not, sir. But – this of descending into yonder vale in our present state seems to me unwise, with the Saxon at our heels. We may have to do battle at any time. And that seems no place to do it.”

“No? There speaks the voice of experience! De omni re scibili et quibusdam aliis! Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings! Hear you that, Angus, my friend?”

His middle-aged companion, a big man, handsome, iron-grey of hair and beard, unsmiling, inclined his head and said nothing. Angus mac Fergus, High King of All Alba, was, unlike the other, a man of few words.

King Eochaidh thrust his beaky head on its long stringy neck towards his grandson, distinctly vulturine, as they rode slowly onwards, at the pace of those cattle. “We learn – oh, we must learn. Old, witless as we may be. Instruct us, Kenneth mac Alpin – instruct us.”

The young man looked at his father, and got no help there. “On the ridge here we would be better placed to withstand attack. Down there, with all these cattle, we could be trapped. Outnumbered, we could be surrounded in the levels. This Athelstan comes up fast. Our people are grown careless, laden with booty . . .”

“And on your ridge, boy, they would have more care? Could not be surrounded? The cattle better herded?”

“Leave the cattle, sir. Let them go down into the vale. If we withstand or defeat Athelstan, we can regain the cattle. If not, we lose the brutes anyway. We did not come to Bernicia and Northumbria to collect cows, surely!”

King Angus of Alba barked a brief laugh.

“Alpin, my son – how did you produce such a prodigy as this? You were never so brilliant, so notable a thinker! Nor, I swear, was that woman you were fool enough to marry! Shall we do as he says, Angus? Turn all around? Abandon the cattle? Climb yonder ridge and wait for the Saxon? Or continue with our unthinking foolishness, and pray for the good God’s deliverance?”

None there considered that anything but a rhetorical question.

“God might indeed aid us. Deo favente! After all, He made this vale. He made it something of a swamp of waters, with burns running down off this high ridge beloved of the discerning Kenneth, to flood the plain of it and make the ground soft, too soft for horses to cross at any pace. He made this Peffer stream to wind through all the marshland of the vale, uncrossable – save for the one ford our guide here tells us of. At . . . where was it, fellow?”

The younger man sitting his horse behind, a local Lothian petty chieftain’s son they had picked up at Dunbar, answered, looking nervous. “Prora, Highness. The ford of Prora. The only one in miles.”

“Prora, then. God made the stream and the vale and the bog. And He made stupid dumb brutes of cattle that will bunch and wheel and run amok, given opportunity. And, if in their hundreds, they could block any ford, form a mindless barrier for some men to stand behind and for others to fail to win through, even Saxons! Shall we throw our poor selves upon the mercy of God – or heed Kenneth mac Alpin mac Eochaidh? Dominus illuminatio mea!”

Again Angus mac Fergus laughed as they rode on.

Alpin jerked his head for his son to leave them. “Back to your scouts, lad,” he said.

But that young man, although now flushed of face and humiliated, was made of no wilting stuff, true descendant of the race of Fergus mac Erc who had come from Ireland to found Dalriada four hundred years before. Reining his horse round, he spoke, looking not at his sire or grandsire but at the High King of Alba.

“May I take my own troop of scouts along the high ground, Highness?” he asked. “From there we shall see further, better, watch the enemy’s approach. Send you word.”

“You are captain of scouts,” Angus tossed back, with a shrug. Presumably that was permission.

Kenneth left them, to spur back. What a grandfather to be born with! Captain of scouts for the army he was. And although he had men far back, keeping an eye on the oncoming foe, and a few well forward, both down in that vale and up on the ridge, he still had some forty Galloway men of his own troop, riding with him in the main host. These he now reached, and calling to his younger brother, seventeen-year-old Donald, to bring them on, veered off, to head for the higher ground, south by west.

Up there, quickly the scene changed, for this broad spine of land separated the Tyne and Peffer valleys, and once on its crest the prospect opened out to far-flung vistas. Actually, the drop to the Tyne on this south side was steeper than to the Peffer, the greater river having carved for itself a narrow ravine-like course below the isolated, mighty summit of Traprain Law which rose like a stranded leviathan out of the lower Lothian coastal territory. When this came in view, Kenneth gazed at it, wondering. Its wide summit was deserted now, save for grazing sheep and circling hawks – but three centuries before it had been otherwise, the capital fortress of the Gododdin, the Southern Cruithne, another Celtic people whom the invading Romans had called the Votadini Picts. Their king, Loth, had given name to all this land of Lothian, he whose daughter, Thenew, had been the mother of the celebrated St Mungo, or Kentigern, friend of Columba. Six thousand people, it was said, had dwelt on the fortified top of that hill – and now not one. The Angles and the Lochlannaich, the Viking Danes, had seen to that, these savage incomers from across the Norse Sea, who still so menaced the entire Celtic polity.

But that young man had not come up here to mourn the vanquished and lost people of his own race, any more than to admire the view. Drawing rein beside an abandoned stone circle, some of its monoliths cast down or fallen over now, he turned in the saddle to stare eastwards. From here he could see much further back whence they had come, right to the coast at Tynemouth, and Dunbar beyond. But those wretched intervening woods at Biel still blanketed the plain between, so that it was impossible to see the Saxon host which his scouts reported to be thereabouts. At least they had not yet emerged from the tree-cover.

Leaving one man to keep watch here, Kenneth led his party westwards along that spine, at a trot, his mind still smouldering over his grandfather’s scathing sarcasm. It had been unnecessary, uncalled-for, surely, and in front of the others. And he still believed that he was right, that the wiser course would have been to hold to this high ground and leave the cattle, despite all that of bogland and the ford. Yet he had to admire old Eochaidh, whilst almost hating him, for his learning, his abilities and what he had achieved, the most cultured monarch Dalriada had ever had. But that poisonous tongue . . . !

His resentment did not prevent him from making keen examination of the territory. For a mile or so the ridge ran fairly narrow and clearly defined, but thereafter it widened, with the higher part on the south side and the ground falling away somewhat on the north. This meant that Kenneth’s party had to leave the ridge proper, in order to be able to keep the Peffer valley in view. Which in turn meant that they could no longer watch the Tyne valley, and this could be important. So he sent a couple of men to hold to the high ridge, to keep an eye on that side.

Riding thus they quickly drew ahead of the main army down in the vale. A sort of hanging valley was now opening before them, between the two branches of the ridge, with the slope down to the vale-floor, to the north, ever lessening. At another stone circle, Kenneth halted. He could see, well ahead of the cattle-herd and the vanguard of the army, the roadway through the vale suddenly making a right-angled bend to reach the Peffer itself, and to resume again on the other side. That must be this Prora ford. No point in them going further than this, then, meantime.

They dismounted, to watch the slow advance of their force, strung out for the best part of a mile behind the cattle. Anything less like an army being pursued by a seriously threatening host would be hard to imagine. Yet the leaders down there, experienced men all, knew the situation. Kenneth expressed his doubts and mystification to his brother Donald, but that cheerful youth seemed to have every faith in his elders and betters, and showed little concern.

They could see the cattle and drovers nearing the ford, when the scout Kenneth had left at the first stone circle came up at a fast canter, with news. The Saxon host was in sight, from there, and large, much larger than their own, in his judgment. And not only in sight and coming on quickly, but dividing into two – one section following the Scots-Albannach route up from Tyne towards Markle, heading for the Peffer, the other making straight on up the main Tyne valley, as though to pass below Traprain Law, but keeping to this side of the river.

These tidings set Kenneth urgently to think. Athelstan himself could not know the lie of this Lothian country, so he must also have local guides – and the Bernician Anglian chiefs who now lorded it over this former Celtic province would be apt to favour the Saxons, their own sort, rather than the retiring Gaels. So in making this division of his force, Athelstan must have been given information which could benefit him. Surely it must mean that there was a way by which the southern division, by thus heading up Tyne, could somewhere, ahead cross over and get in front of the slow-moving Gaelic force, west of this Prora ford, and so trap them. Which would make nonsense of his grandsire’s strategy.

Unfortunately, Kenneth himself had no local guide to instruct him – something he ought to have thought of. The one with the kings had said that Prora was the only ford for miles. But that could mean merely that there was none this side for a mile or two, and the same beyond. There could be another ford further on, at no great distance, for this outflanking division to reach, over the hill, to cross and come back behind his own people. That could result in disaster.

“Donald,” he said to his brother, “ride you down to our father yonder, with all speed. Tell him of this – that they could be trapped by this enemy move, this division. That there must be another ford further down Peffer. And that Athelstan is in large enough force to risk splitting his host thus. Tell Father, not our grandsire.”

The youngster nodded and rode off northwards downhill.

Kenneth was tempted to go himself across that hanging valley to the southern and higher ridge, in order to see the advance of this enemy detachment, to assess numbers and progress. But he had two men up there who were quite capable of doing that. What he could do, while they waited, was to go and enquire at some houses he could see in the hanging valley there, as to the lie of the land ahead. They had not come this way on their journey south to Northumbria but had followed the inland route through the Lammermuir Hills.

So, with only two companions, not to alarm the local folk, he rode the half-mile to the nearest cottage. He did not have to go quite so far, for before reaching it they came on a shepherd rounding up his flock with the aid of two barking dogs. They were eyed warily.

Waving reassuringly, Kenneth gave the man good-day and asked whether he was of Anglian blood? The shepherd promptly spat, which was sufficient answer. So then he briefly explained who he was and the situation of the two armies, with this diversionary force coming up the Tyne to the south. Was there any way such Saxon force could cross over the hilly ground ahead and then get across the Peffer further west?

The man nodded. That was simple, he said. Two miles further up the Tyne, before the village of Haydn’s toun, they could turn off and climb the hill of Garmyltoun and so come down to the Peffer near the former chapel of St Pensandus at Druimm. There was a ford there, for pilgrims to the chapel.

So-o-o! Kenneth let out a long breath. It was possible, then – probable. How far? How many miles altogether?

The shepherd shrugged. Four or five to the ford. Not much more than one back to the Prora ford.

Thanking him, Kenneth reined round to head back to his party. The Saxon horsed force, even allowing for the climb over the hill, could be at this chapel-ford in an hour. Then back to Prora, on the far side of Peffer. There was no time to play with.

He was debating whether to hold to his first intention of waiting on this high ground until the battle started and then rushing down to stage a diversion at the Saxon rear, or else to hurry down now and inform the kings of the urgency of the situation, when one of his scouts from the southern ridge came to tell him that the enemy force was heading up the Tyne valley and past the base of Traprain Law. And even as this news was being imparted, shouts from the others drew attention to the appearance back eastwards of the first horsemen and banners of the enemy, coming over the Markle shoulder. It was too late for any hurrying downhill now to be of any value.

Chewing his lip, an alternative tactic occurred to that young man. It would take an hour for the southern enemy to reach this chapel-ford – but he could reach there sooner, without that hill to cross. Could his little band achieve something there? Could forty men hold a ford? Not for long, against a large force, but perhaps for long enough to have some significant effect on the Saxon strategy? Much would depend on the width and length of the ford. But there was a possibility there, surely?

No sooner considered than acted upon. Slantwise, downhill north-westwards he led his troop fast over the braes and hummocks, as the land sank to the vale, their sturdy garrons sure-footed amongst the burnlets and scrub woodland, the gorse and dwarf hawthorns. They did not want to get too far down into the soft ground of the vale-floor, as yet, heavier going. Besides, they would be more likely to see this chapel better from higher ground.

In fact, they discerned it readily enough at least half a mile away, for buildings were few and far between in that undrained Vale of Peffer and the typical Columban stone and thatch little church, surrounded by its cashel of hutments and grass-grown earthen stockade, stood out clearly.

As they drew close they could see that the place was deserted, the thatch largely fallen in, the huts wrecked. No doubt the Angles or the Vikings were responsible for that, as for so much else, this Celtic Lothian a savaged land.

They wasted no time on the ruined fane on its slight rise of ground, fair enough Christians as they were, but headed down for the Peffer. To find the ford was easy, for there was a stone and log causeway leading to it through the soft terrain, no doubt laid down by devoted monkish labour. At the river itself, if Peffer could be called that, it was clear enough as to why there was no crossing for man or beast save at very occasional and special points. For this was no ordinary stream, more of a great drain winding through the levels, with little in the way of clearly defined banks, these mud-lined and reed-grown, sometimes expanding into what were ponds, almost lochans, and seldom less than one hundred yards across, on occasion three times that. A more effective barrier would have been hard to devise.

The ford itself proved to be at one of the narrower parts, naturally, but even so was some seventy yards across. It was not wholly a natural shallowing and firming of the stream-bed, for the monks had gone to the trouble of continuing their causeway under water, widening it somewhat. This bottoming had inevitably become overlaid with mud and silt as time passed, but it still made a fair crossing although not very wide. For Kenneth’s purposes the narrowness was all to the good.

Splashing across, they dismounted, to prospect the possibilities. The width, they reckoned, was no more than a score of feet – which meant that only three horsemen could seek to cross it riding abreast; similarly, of course, only three could line up abreast to defend it. Seventy yards from bank to bank meant that it was beyond the range of effective spear-throwing – that is, save by horsemen already part-way across. It would make a moderately good defensive position.

With no sign of the enemy, was there anything that they could do to improve it? Obstacles to add? Down on these soft levels there was little suitable material to use for obstruction, no large stones, no tree-trunks. And they had nothing to dig with but their swords. All they might do was to go back up to the chapel area, slightly higher set, where a number of these small, stunted hawthorns grew, and try to use these, either uproot them or hack down what they could with the swords.

That did not prove so easy, for although stunted, these little trees were ancient and firm-rooted, the wood very hard. Eventually they had to bring horses over again, and with tethering-ropes tied round the trees, used the animals’ weight and strength to drag out a few. With others they merely chopped off prickly branches.

Hauling all this down, they sought to make an added barrier with it at their far side of the ford. This proved difficult also, for they had nothing very effective to anchor the hawthorns in place. The water was not deep here, no more than three feet, and the sluggish Peffer produced no strong current; nevertheless their desired barricade could drift away. They had to use the tethering-ropes again, these pegged down with wooden stakes on the bank, not very secure but the best that they could do. At least it kept the tangle of brushwood approximately in place.

All this took time, and before they were finished lookouts gave warning. The Saxons were coming into sight over the green ridges to the south, in what seemed large numbers. It would not be long now.

Hastening to drive in the last of their pegs and tethers, they waited. Suddenly their forty men seemed a very inadequate little band. Mounted they might look a shade more effective.

It was hard to judge numbers as they drew near. Kenneth suggested eight hundred, but others said more. Anyway, a daunting host for that band to challenge. They formed up, to line the bank of the ford.

The enemy came on fast, in a hurry to make their long circuit. They looked a tough, well-armed, well-horsed crew, fair-haired in general, with the typical Saxon down-turning moustaches, wearing padded ox-hide waistcoats as protective armour. None wore the multicoloured tartans of the Gaels.

When the leaders reached the far bank, they reined up, to stare across, assessingly. Then a horn was blown, and a man raised his voice, to shout.

What he said was incomprehensible to the Gaelic-speaking hearers, but there could be little doubt as to the meaning. Kenneth did not waste breath in reply, but raised a hand, palm outward to the foe, in clear denial of passage.

There was a pause as the Saxon leaders conferred. Men were sent up and down the bank to inspect and prospect the width of the ford and the possibilities beyond, some urging their horses some little way over the muddy margins and into the water – where they promptly were in trouble, sinking deep and extricating themselves only with difficulty. That lesson at least was quickly learned.

The defenders waited.

There was little delay about the next step. The leaders waved forward a foremost troop to venture the ford, swords drawn and short spears ready for throwing. It was those spears which worried Kenneth mac Alpin. He and his were similarly provided; but once they had thrown theirs, all forty, the enemy would still have twenty times as many. So theirs had to be harboured carefully. They hoped that the Saxons might be more prodigal, and provide some reinforcement. Kenneth said as much to his followers.

That first attempt must be made example of. The horsemen could come on only three abreast, however tight-packed behind. The tighter the better.

Kenneth let them come almost halfway across. Then, with only some forty yards separating them, he raised his spear.

“The horses!” he shouted, and threw.

It grieved him to aim at the dumb beasts, but this was war and lives, many men’s lives, were at stake. The horses were not protected by padded cowhide or shields, and they made much larger targets. Half a dozen spears made short work of those first three animals. Neighing shrilly, in pain and fright, they went down in kicking, lashing turmoil, throwing their riders. And into the struggling confusion of flailing limbs and hooves came the next two trios, pressed on from behind. Three more spears launched brought down one of these, to add to the chaos.

A few spears came back to them from the rear ranks of the would-be forders, but in the rearing, sidling disarray of struggling horseflesh, these could not be aimed with any precision. None did any damage – and provided four replacements for the defenders.

The attackers retired in disorder, leaving the Gaels five spears down. The ford, already showing red, was a litter of injured horses and splashing riders.

Four spear-throwers on the north bank dismounted to collect the Saxon weapons.

There was some more horn-blowing and shouting from across the water, with fists shaken. More horsemen were dispatched up- and downstream, no doubt to look for alternative crossings further afield.

The Saxon leadership tried a new tactic. They knew the depth of the water in the middle now, and that men, dismounted, might wade it – and could cross eight or ten abreast, not three. And these close-knit ranks could use their shields to form an all but impenetrable moving barrier before them.

This proved to be an infinitely more effective manoeuvre. The first few spears cast by the defenders were fended off by the slow-wading shield-bearers, and although one stumbled and fell at the impact, his place was quickly filled from the rear. Some spears came back at them and one of the defenders’ horses screamed in agony, with a gash along its croup.

Kenneth ordered a retiral far enough to get the horses out of range, then dismounted, to hurry forward again, leaving two men with the animals. He saw that now the Saxon horsemen were beginning to cross behind the screen of their dismounted men.

He cursed the fact that they had so few spears. Admittedly more were coming over at them, and one of his men yelled, with an arm wound. He halted his people some way back from the water’s edge.

“Wait!” he panted. “Let them get to those hawthorns. Then . . . !”

Wading through water up to the men’s middles was inevitably slow, and although this gave opportunity for the men behind the shield-bearers to throw their spears, these tended to fall short of the defenders’ present stance, cast from a low position and from unsteady footing.

It was trying to wait there, watching the enemy get almost across. But in the circumstances advisable. And there were extra spears coming, the longer they waited.

When Kenneth saw the first of the waders reach the jagged hawthorn barrier, he burst into action