The Death of a King
9th September 1076
The wind howled along the battlefield as the rain pelted down onto the bodies of the dead. Gregor Mac Gregor, Count of Argyll and Marshall of the Isles, lay amongst the bodies of fallen friends and foes. A hard slap across the face brought Gregor back to the land of the living.
“Wake up! Come on Gregor, wake up! I know you’re not dead!”
His eyes fluttering Gregor dimly made out the shape of a short, broad-shouldered man.
“Eh? Was’ goin’ on? Did we win?” Gregor muttered as he struggled to sit up.
“Yes, we did. Your planning really paid off my old friend. That bastard Malcolm never knew what hit him!”
With a final push and grunt Gregor finally sat up. Looking around blearily he took in the details of the carnage surrounding him, and tried to remember what happened. There had been that damned red mist again! People just as often called him ‘the berserker’ rather than ‘the strong’. He dimly remembered swinging his sword around, hacking the limbs of those in front of him, unable to recall whether those in front of him were friend or foe. Then there had been a heavy blow to the back of the head and then… Darkness.
“Wait a moment… Who are you? I remember you!”
“The hell is that supposed to mean? You know me Gregor! We’ve been comrades-in-arms for over a bloody decade!”
“I can’t remember…” Gregor groaned, “I can’t bloody remember anything!”
“For Christ’s sake! Gregor look at me and tell me you don’t remember me! I’m your bloody best friend, and second in command! Hell, I’m Irish not a Scot! That ought to ring a bell! It’s me! Kenneth Mac Neill!”
Blinking furiously, Gregor’s memories came flooding back. “Shit that was a bloody close call!”
With a relieved laugh Kenneth said “Don’t do that again”
“Yeah… I’ll try not to. You know how I do it for fun.”
“Prick.”
Laughing the two friends began to walk. A point from Ken showed where the command tents of Gudrød Crovan had been erected. As they approached it Gregor knew something was wrong. The sombre faces of the guards and the panicked expressions of the servants caused Gregor and Kenneth to break into a sprint.
Bursting into Gudrød’s personal tent, they saw the captains of the army standing around a table that held the lifeless body of the King of the Isles.
“What? How? How did this happen? He wasn’t meant to participate in battle!” Gregor managed to say, as his friend stood there in shock, his mouth opening and closing.
Glancing at one another an unspoken agreement was reached and the chosen spokesman of the captains stepped forward.
“He caught an arrow to the throat near the end of the battle.” The captain muttered, “The priests and surgeons tried to save his life but there was too much blood. He died before getting to his tent.”
“Dammit!” shouted Gregor suddenly, “Without him who is to rule the Isles? I swore an oath of fealty to his house! An oath I will keep! But with him gone there is only his daughter! That little girl is just one year old! The Isles need a man to rule her, not some little girl!”
“Well sir, with all due respect, your wife has a legitimate claim to the Isles. Since she is married to you, she would most likely receive the support of the other counts of the Isles if she decided to push her claim.”
Gregor paused, thoughts racing through his mind. “
I could rule the Isles, without breaking my oath! Yes, but the shrew would probably try to have me killed. Hells, I wouldn’t be able to be with Adela anymore! No the sow will not rule as long as I draw breath. She has no right to. Replace the child with one in an adult’s body? A stupid idea. No she cannot be lady of the Isles!” It took only a few seconds for Gregor to reach a conclusion. “No, my wife will not rule the Lordship of the Isles. She is not capable enough.”
His face reddening one of the older captains stepped forward, “You have no right to prevent your wife from ruling! She is the best possible successor! You are just a fool, more suited for the battlefield than politics.”
With a snarl Gregor stepped forward and smashed his fist into the face of the upset captain, just before Kenneth snapped out of his shock and restrained his friend.
“Enough! Do not be disrespectful, by fighting around the dead!” Kenneth yelled, causing the men in the tent to pause as their hands hovered over their swords.
Spitting on the ground, Gregor nodded. “He’s right. The last thing I want is to be struck down by a vengeful spirit.”
Sighing Gregor looked at the body of his liege. “Get one of the boats ready. This man is a Viking and his body should be treated like one.”
A chorus of agreements signalled the end of the dispute. As the captains filed out, getting ready to inform the men about their loss and to prepare a funeral pyre for the late Gudrød Crovan, Gregor shook his head. “I fear that the next decade is going to be very dangerous for the Isles, and my family, Kenneth.”
“Well Gregor, politics isn’t my strong point but I will say this. You’ll have more to fear from the people at young Gydrid’s court than you will from those on the battlefield.”
“I’m worried that you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right. I’m Irish.”
“Ha! Come-on then. Let’s get this funeral ready.”
With that the two friends walked out of the tent, leaving the coruplent remains of Gudrød Crovan alone.
The painting of the funeral ship of Gudrød Crovan