03.05 Interlude
The wind wended through the reeds shimmering in summer light. Leaves whispered, as if in snatches of hurried conversation, disembodied. Amongst the Old Stones, a small party of horsemen shielded themselves from the gust and waited. Armed with hunting gear, the riders looked to the return of their scouts.
Their leader was a man in his middle years, flaxen hair crowning his head, left untied but well-kept to reflect his wealth and position. The man studied the weathered runes that covered the megaliths, fingers running through the deep ruts still evident despite years of wear. The stories tell of how his grandfather received his Vision to unite the island from this very spot. Idle times like these made him wonder if legend was more fact than fiction.
“So, Your Highness, I imagine that you have some plan against the Scots?”
“Hmm? What plans?” The pause was a bit too long to be convincing.
“Well, if you’ll excuse me, Your Highness, I’ll be defecting to the Scots now…” Seisyll uttered, catching the slip almost immediately. “No point wasting time. Maybe there will still be a piece of land to call my own in Albain.”
Trian sighed. Sometimes – just sometimes – he wished he hadn’t appointed advisors smart enough to wisecrack.
“Fine. Yes, we have a plan,” Trian muttered, “but one does not simply walk into Atholl.”
“We did it the last time…”
“You know what I mean; in the movements of the world, the Gaellic Wars were nothing but a petty family squabble… attempting something as drastic as to claim the crown of the Scots would be… frowned upon.”
“A squabble? But, we’re attacked! Twice!” Trian would have believed his companion’s indignance, if he didn’t know him better. Or if he didn’t know that Seisyll was born a Welshman first, and sworn Irish general second…
“And how did Eire fare in these wars, Seisyll? Lost any territories, have we?”
“…”
Trian scanned the horizon. Damned scouts. What’s taking them so long?
“If we are to prevail against the Scots once and for all, we’ll need more than the strength of arms. We need the velvet of diplomacy as well.”
“Then I guess the Scot horsemen that called on the royal keep have something to do with that?”
Trian cast a glance at his marshal. Seisyll shrugged. “In times of war, a general relies on his scouts; in times of peace, his spies.” The marshal at least had the decency to look chastised. “Sometimes.”
“Best see to it our Spymaster doesn’t know about this… he’s taken the utmost care – and pride, I might add – to keep those arrivals secret.”
“As you command, Your Highness. Feradach will not know of this.”
Trian breathed, “And no doubt that just makes it all the worse. But you are right – the riders do have a part to play.” No point keeping the plans from Seisyll now. “You may have heard – Robert has been taking out his frustration from the past failures in the battlefield on his liegemen. Annexing territories he had little claim to, enlarging his demesne at the expense of other houses.”
“Aye, a dark deed, that.”
The real reason both knew, of course – Robert’s demesne has become so bloated that he could take on the Irish forces alone if need be, without the support of his vassals. Faced with dwindling commitment for his war against Eire, the Scottish King now prepares to fight alone...
“There are those who would agree with you, Seisyll. Those in the high places of Albain, who fear they would be next on Robert’s list of... acquisitions.”
“Those who will send messengers to Robert’s enemies in Dublin, perhaps?”
The High King smiled. “Indeed. Alone, we won’t convince Roma that the invasion of Albain is just. But with the agreement of the lords of that land itself, we may yet have a chance.”
“Well, it seems that I will have to put off packing for another court for some time yet.” The welsh general nodded to the path ahead – a thin thread of dust on the road suggested that the scouts have returned.
It’s about time. “Your loyalty is appreciated, Seisyll of Cynfyn. Keep with me and I will yet see you rewarded.” Trian smiled. Seisyll for all his cunning is a man of simple needs.
“How do you know the riders were Scots anyway?”
The marshal returned a wry smile to his King, “I don’t, but I thank your Highness for telling me anyway.”