‘We scattered the Invaders at the Old Glen,’ he went on, ‘while Angus Og and his men killed many good warriors and took a deal of their provender as plunder.’
He broke off and looked round at them all.
‘But the Invaders are like lice. If you do not kill them all, they will simply return.’
There were nods and grunted agreement at this – then a man stood up and held out his hand. Dog Boy knew him as Gillespie a small chief from somewhere that was barely in the Kingdom at all. He did not like the man, the way he did not like strange dogs.
‘I am Gillespie, known as Erkinbald of the True People of Auld Burn in Cawdor,’ he said, sibilant slow. ‘I have listened to His Honour and seen the Lothian lord who stands with him. It is all very fine that this Lothian lord has come to defend the birthright of the True People of Auld Burn and very fine that we are gathered here to do the same.’
He stopped and looked round at the others while Neil Campbell muttered the meanings to Hal and the wind flared into the silence, flurrying snow and flattening the flames.
‘I did not see anyone here defending the birthright of the Auld Burn folk when the Irishers raided, even though they had to cross some of your lands to get to us. Nor do I hear the Lothian man telling me how he and his wee handful will kill all the lice.’
Again he paused and folk stirred, some eager to reply but bound by the conventions of the oak branch. Others had their hands out, but were silent still.
‘My father’s father,’ Gillespie went on with maddening slowness, ‘fought against your people, Grann. Seventy-four different battles. My father never passed a day without shedding the blood of either Grann’s folk, or of less than kindly neighbours to us. I myself have fought the Invaders fourteen times. You claim we are all of one blood, but if the Invaders had not come to these lands, we would be fighting each other, or even the lowland men from Lothian, who send priests to turn us to their way of God and away from the old way of our own saints and Christ priests.’
There was a flurry, like a shadow of wind and, suddenly, Grann had the stick and was almost nose to nose with Gillespie, who took a surprised step away from the man snarling at him. He spat out the words like the sparking of wet wood, looking round the fire-blooded faces.
When he had finished, he waited, standing stern as an old tree, while Neil Campbell spoke the English of it to the Lothian lord. Then he went on, with the same bitter rage as if he had not stopped.
‘There is Gillespie, whose father’s father fought mine and lost as much as he won. Whose father fought all his neighbours and gained neither land nor honour from it. Who himself fought the Invaders – who still burned him out. Until he came here with all the rest of us, he has never won.’
He broke off and slashed them with his feral stare while Neil Campbell bent to murmur the translation only in Hal’s ear, glancing uneasily at Grann, for he felt the tension coiling in the snow wind.
‘I know my father’s deeds and his father before him,’ Grann spat, the Gaelic liquid as flowing fire, ‘but I also know what I myself have done. I have fought these English and everyone who supports them, be it MacDougall or MacDonald, every day of my waking life since good king Alexander died.’
There was a half-angered, half-shamed shifting among the MacDonalds at that, for there had been a birling of politics beyond The Mounth since Bruce had taken the throne.
Before it, the MacDougalls had been patriots and the MacDonalds pro-English; now the reverse held true, though Hal was black in his thoughts that it could all change, just as easily. No matter which of them supported Bruce, Hal knew, the other would take the opposite stance, for old feuds would not suffer a MacDougall and a MacDonald to stand shoulder to shoulder.
‘There has never been a day I did not take a head to preserve in oil,’ Grann went on and folk shifted uneasily at that, which was altogether too heathen for Christian men to hear.
‘But Gillespie is right in one thing,’ Grann went on, ignoring them. ‘Not all blood is the same. These English have blood that is black, like the belly-blood of slaughtered hogs, fat with the best of our own land. The blood of the Lothian lord’s people is red, but flows thick and slow. The blood of the Auld Burn people is thin and clear – like water.’
There was a howl at that and Gillespie hauled out his only weapon, an eating knife. There were yells and growls and, eventually, Neil Campbell signalled to his own men and they waded in, dragging people apart.
Neil himself took Grann by the arm and led him out of the circle, taking the stick from him as he did so. He handed it to Hal and then called for silence; the Dog Boy saw the Lord of Herdmanston, slightly embarrassed, turning the stick round and round in one grimy hand.