An Unworthy Lord
1/8/1096
Screaming, shouting and the stench of blood and death washed over Gregor Mac Gregor as he charged once again into the thick of battle. As he and his men crashed into the skirmish, for the fifth time that day, Gregor couldn’t help but wonder when the battle would end.
“
Christ.” He thought as he hacked at the exposed neck of a surprised enemy, “
This battle has gone on for over 6 hours.” 6 hours. 6 hours ago Gregor and his son-in-law Alv Crovan, the rightful Lord of the Isles, had engaged the armies of Gydrid Crovan, which were led by the imposing Irish count Maèl-Patraick Ua Ímair, count of Clydesdale and the Isle of Man. As Gregor and Alv had prepared for battle, Gregor promised his Lord that he would personally oversee the defeat of the Irish Count.
A gloved fist colliding with his nose caused Gregor to stumble, losing his train of thought. “
I’m getting too bloody old for this.” He thought darkly. Gregor then swept his sword upwards, cleaving it into the soldier’s groin, resulting in a very gratifying scream. Smiling grimly Gregor tugged his sword out and in one quick motion, loped off the right arm of the wailing man. As his men continued to clash with the enemy, Gregor took this brief moment of respite to scan the battlefield. The dead lay scattered everywhere, their blood making the once green field a reddy-brown hell. Already the carrion birds circled overhead waiting for their chance to feast.
Suddenly a large figure on horseback entered Gregor’s sight. Gritting his teeth, Gregor recognized the gaunt features of the Irish Count, Maèl-Patraick. The Count seemed to spot-out Gregor, despite all the action going on around them. Pointing his sword at the huge Scotsman, the Irish Count charged. Shifting his stance, Gregor prepared himself for the attack as men dived, jumped or were crushed underfoot by the giant stallion of Maèl-Patraick. However Gregor noticed something strange about the Count. His face was not one of confidence or courage, but rather was filled with fear and foreboding.
Just as he was about reach Gregor, the Count reigned in his horse. Staring at each other the two commanders examined their adversaries. Gregor noted how the man dressed foppishly, not looking the part of a commander, or even a soldier. The man didn’t appear to be a worthy adversary. However the man’s imposing stature reminded Gregor that he must be careful. Pride begets fall after all, regardless of how unworthy a Count the man appeared to be.
“Well met Scotsman.” Murmured the hulking Irish Count.
“If you say so Irish.” Gregor laconically replied.
Shifting around nervously the Irishman continued to stare at Gregor.
“Will you surrender? You have already lost the battle you see.”
“Dismount Irish, or I will pull you off that damn horse.”
His face reddening Maèl-Patraick nodded acceptance. Dismounting cautiously his hand never left the sword at his side.
“I didn’t realize all you Scots were so ill-mannered.”
“And I didn’t realize you Irishmen were so lily-livered that you’d prefer to dance around words rather than fight.” Gregor spat. “Fight me Irish, so that I can take your castle for myself.”
“What?! This castle is mine! It has always been with my family! This dispute is between Alv and Gydrid Crovan! My land must come back to me!” Maèl-Patraick stammered, “You have no right! This land is mine!”
Grinning evilly, Gregor chuckled “Sorry Irish. Me and Alv have made a deal. Clydesdale goes to me and the Isle of Man goes to him. Alv feels sorry for his sister so she gets to keep Galloway. She’ll even be allowed to continue to call herself the Duchess of Galloway! My son-in-law is a generous man!”
“What about me?! What am I left with?”
“Oh, about six feet of dirt.”
Panic swept across the pinched features of the Irish Count. “No! You can’t do this! I won’t let you!” he yelled desperately grabbing his sword out of its scabbard.
“Now finally we can fight!”
As a battle cry began to scream out of Gregor’s throat, he noticed Maèl-Patraick swinging his fist towards his face. Smirking, the Irish Count opened his hand and threw a handful of dirt into Gregor’s face. Shouting obscenities Gregor fell to the ground, desperately trying to get this vision back.
“You bastard! You filthy fucking Irish bastard! I’ll kill you! I’ll fucking kill you!”
“Now now Gregor.” Maèl-Patraick chided, “It’s not my fault you weren’t clever enough to realize I had a back-up plan. You see we Irishmen are just naturally smarter than you Scots. We…”
As Maèl-Patraick’s voice droned on Gregor frantically felt the ground for a weapon he could use to shut the arrogant man up. His fingers touching something cold and heavy Gregor quickly grasped it.
“Take this you Irish fucker!” he screamed, swinging the heavy object towards the voice. The sound of Maèl-Patraick talking suddenly stopped and the weapon Gregor was holding seemed stuck. Rubbing most of the dirt out of his eyes, Gregor glanced towards where the Irish Count had last been. Lying backwards on the dirt, his face turned towards the sun was Maèl-Patraick Ua Ímair. However his eyes still flicked around and his chest continued to rise and fall, despite the weapon, which turned out to be a mace, being embedded in his skull.
Looking around Gregor noticed the forces of Gydrid Crovan in full retreat, and several of his own men were running towards where he lay. As they approached him Gregor heard a sonorous voice say “Good job Gregor. You truly have proved your worth today, and have earnt the county of Clydesdale!”
Turning towards the voice Gregor squinted trying to make out the figure outlined by the Sun. “Gregor?” The voice said, concern entering its melody, “Are you alright?” Suddenly the world came into focus and Gregor saw Alv standing above him, worry spread across his face.
Grunting Gregor sat up, “I’ve never felt better Lord!”
“Ha! Don’t scare me like that!” Alv said a relieved grin breaking out “We’ve won the battle! After this Gydrid can only hide in her castle at Galloway, right up until we break the doors down and tell her to get her gluttonous arse off my throne!”
“As you say sire!”
“Such formality! I’m your son-in-law Gregor! Just call me Alv.”
“Very well… Alv. What should we do with Maèl-Patraick here?” Gregor said, mentioning to the limp body of Maèl-Patraick.
A cruel glint appeared in Alv’s eye. “He’s crippled is he?”
“Yes, he can only look around and breathe. He’s alive, though I wouldn’t call that living.”
“Well Gregor I have an idea…”
An hour later a large hole was dug and all the dead were piled in it. As Alv’s men began to shovel the dirt back in the booming voice of their Lord called out to them, “Stop! I have need of it still.”
Gregor and Alv approached the dug pit with the drooling body of Maèl-Patraick held between them. With a toss they threw the body straight into the hole, where it landed with a soft thump atop the putrefying corpses of the dead. Horror apparent in the eyes of the immobilized Irish Count, Gregor spat upon the body and shouted at the soldiers watching. “Well? What are you waiting for?! Fill it in!”
Within 10 minutes a mound of dirt covered the bodies of the recently deceased and the soon-to-be deceased. With that done the armies of Alv Crovan and Gregor Mac Gregor set off to Galloway, to end this bloody war once and for all.
A Romantic Era Painting of Death