Chapter One: Tapadh Leat (Thank You)
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Northumberland, north of the River Tweed, year 1018 AD.
The wet afternoon air smelled of newly-fallen rain, which had released the trapped aromas of the pungent forest earth and wild grassy fields, stretching far beyond the skyline of the vast, rugged landscape. Aside from the occasional rush of the wind sweeping through the long grass, all was quiet. The heavens were swollen and of a resigned grey, darker in patches as the threat of another downpour loomed. Sensing it, the lone figure standing atop a rocky ledge jutting out of one of many rough hills undulating to his left as the land succumbed to its true feral nature, looked up. Musky-smelling wind teased his unkempt crimson clusters of shoulder-length hair. He was waiting for something, but it wasn't the rain.
As if on cue, a sharp whistle split the serene yet rough tranquility.
The red-haired figure turned on the source of the sound fiercely, with the manner of one who had been waiting for an unreasonably long time and had long since gotten tired of it.
"Och, thaur yeur, Northumberlain! Ah was afraid Nessie hud had ye fur 'er efternuin tea!" he slurred sarcastically, in his thick accent.
The other, a somewhat battered-looking Northumberland, grit his teeth, fuming. His golden locks were cut as if by savage attack, a far cry from his earlier daintier plait in the previous century, shaggy and teased by the rough northern winds. The man was clad in the dress of the Anglo-Saxon tribe in whose control the large county was in; dark blue tunic reaching down to his thighs and complete with a thick belt of some kind of animal hide, brown wool trousers and dark wool winingas (leg wraps) of herringbone twill, and a brown, square wool cape with a silver brooch with some stamped designs. Covering his otherwise exposed head was a yellow wool Birka-style hat with yellow wool tablet woven trim, as were his pitifully feeble boots totally unsuitable for such wet weather. The outfit was torn in places, and smudged with dirt and dried blood. His face was no better.
The loser of a battle always had the worst of it, naturally, and Northumberland, big as he was, was no exception to this rule. Scotland had won the Battle of Carham, and now Lothian was ceded to him.
He was holding something in his arms, quite large and painstakingly wrapped up in wool and other warm material as protection against the cold and damp.
"So sorry, yer Royal Highness, Ah divvnae knaa yee were planning te hump sheep sharp today!" the Anglo-Saxon shot back hotly.
Scotland sneered.
"Whatever. Sae, Ah don't suppose ye hae whit is rightfully mine?" he asked rhetorically, with a jibe at Northumberland's intelligence. He was trying to peer round behind the stocky warrior to see what he knew the other was hiding.
The blonde county bared his teeth, face purpling, but said nothing. Instead, by way of answer, he reluctantly withdrew the bundle away from his chest and held it out for the highlander to take.
The bundle squirmed and a small whimper of discomfort shivered out from it.
Scotland hastily took it away from the other and pressed it against his own warm forest-green tunic, gathered to his waist by a band, and vibrant tartan mantle. Cradling it, though completely unaware of what exactly he was holding, he used one gloved hand (fashioned from ermine fur) to pull back the folds to see the prize within.
Inside was a baby, now once again peaceful in slumber. Scotland was surprised to find it had reddish hair, as he had, tousled and light on his little head. He had the same thick, dark eyebrows, too, which gave him a somewhat serious demeanour. But even Scotland, lightly brushing the baby's soft head with his index finger, had to admit he was cute. So small and utterly defenceless, just like another such child had been once.
Biting his tongue a bit against the memory, the red-haired nation looked up and gave a curt nod to the waiting Northumberland.
"What's this then?" Scotland asked, coming back to himself.
"Lothian," the other replied stiffly. "Th' town you won."
Scotland stared for a moment, as if the information hadn't registered, or at least he didn't relate any of it to the tiny thing fast asleep in his arms.
"THIS is Lothian?" Scotland shouted, completely flabbergasted. This tiny thing? He had expected at least a young child! His King had ordered him to take the small county from Northumberland without any specific details as to what he was letting himself in for, and so he had naturally made many assumptions as to what Lothian would be like. This tiny baby was not one of them. He was supposed to raise this tiny, whinging, bed-wetting, food-throwing baby-county? Why did Fate have to lump him with these things? Why?
"Aye. Yoors neeo. Congratulations," Northumberland confirmed, lathering each broken sentence with as much brutality as possible, smirking despite his battered pride. At least he could be satisfied that Scotland was just as miserable as he was.
Scotland, recovering himself again, thought the matter through. By God, he suddenly realised, this was perfect! He could raise this child however he wanted without worrying of any split loyalties on his new charge's part, and raise him against Northumberland—no, not just him, but that snot-nosed brat England himself! He would raise a fine lad worthy of the highlands!
To the blond county's surprise, Scotland bowed like any court gentleman would, one arm still firmly holding the baby.
"Thenk ye, mah guid cheil [man]!" he said, grinning from ear-to-ear, the triumphant gleam in his eyes betraying his glee. "I'll make heem intae a braw [fine] toon fit fur mah greatness!"
Laughing heartily in Northumberland's face, Scotland turned and departed with a wave.
Northumberland's insides were boiling. He hated to see the red-haired savage so smug, and would have been more than happy to hack him to pieces and finish what he'd gone out to do that day. Scotland was the reason he kept getting battered, the reason his people had to suffer so much pain. Scotland and his disgusting petty quarrels with his younger brother, England. And despite all that, the bastard still got away with it! His tormentor got to skip home in triumph and glee, while Northumberland had only misery. Beaten, he had to go back and inform his people that Lothian had been taken, and they had yet more years of invasion and violence to endure. Unfortunately, the price for this particular loss demanded he had to be as civil as the civil procedure demanded. He couldn't risk more pain, not for himself or anyone else.
Giving the now-whistling Scot's back a black glare, the seething Northumberland turned on his heel, and set off back from whence he had come, braving the brunt of the icy winds and biting air.
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Now over the sloping hill and wading through the harsh fields of long grass towards his house, Scotland began talking softly, or as softly as his naturally abrasive accent would allow, to the sleeping infant.
"We're ganna git alang wey, aren't wuh, mah wee lad?" he cooed, poring over Lothian's sweet chubby features and beaming with triumph. The only time a man was able to express such enthusiasm over a baby was when completely alone in a field somewhere under the cover of rough, manly affection and wearing a tartan mantle. And even then Scotland had the paranoid feeling some dissaproving eye was on him, and so he played it down a notch. Our Scotty would have been gibbering in baby-talk otherwise (even he was a sucker for babies). "There're so many things ah nee't tuh tell yee, an' so many things fo' yee tuh learn. Ah wey, aaal in good time, Ah suppose!"
A slight squirming of the little body in his arms made Scotland look down.
The infant's shut eyes fluttered as he whimpered awake, and all at once the tiny lashes opened to reveal profound green eyes, dark as the moss that grew softly on the forest floors.
Scotland was momentarily captivated by the child's enraptured gaze, fixed on him with a curiosity akin to another familiar face long ago.
The red-haired nation chuckled lightly to himself, pressed Lothian's button nose, and laughed when the infant whined in response.
"Ey neeo, Ah suppose y'is hungry. I'll myek us sum meat pie, eh?" he asked, jiggling the baby in his arms a little, and smiling until the it naturally mimicked the expression, his tiny mouth curling upwards with such innocent and childish glee that Scotland automatically burst out laughing, and continued thus until they reached his towering stone Edynburgh castle that was his home. The great fortress dominated the foggy grey skyline and the lowland dwellings beneath it, sitting proudly atop the (extinct) volcanic rocky mound of excess magma pressure known as 'Castle Rock'.
The pair both managed to get inside before the torrential rain came again.
And so, the child's—later re-named Berwick-upon-Tweed (or just Berwick for short)—first memory of a red-haired highlander roaring with laughter and talking about meat pies.
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First chap of my Scotland fic featuring my OC Berwick-upon Tweed. Don't worry, there's loads more historical significance of the two than you might think! Loads of drama and conflict-not giving any spoilers away though! ;)
BTW: 'Berwick' is pronounced 'Berrick'. God I'll never know why we put random letters in words when they aren't even pronounced. Like 'gnome' for example. Sigh...
Also, please let me know if the heavy accents I tried to convey (using an awesome online translator software ^^) are irritating or misleading, and I'll edit it so they speak normal English, but with the odd Scots word thrown in. I wanted to try and captivate a heightened sense of actually hearing the accents to, you know, make the experience more real.
HISTORICAL NOTES:
- In either 973 or 1018 Northumbria north of the Tweed (known as Lothian) was ceded to Scotland. In 1018 the Scots defeated the Northumbrians at the Battle of Carham, which occurred across the River Tweed opposite Coldstream to secure possession of Lothian.
- The Battle of Carham was a battle between the Kingdom of Scotland and the Northumbrians at Carham on Tweed in 1018 or possibly 1016. It is also sometimes known as the Battle of Coldstream, from the town of Coldstream. The battle was a victory for Máel Coluim II described as 'Malcolm son of Cyneth, king of Scots' and Owain the Bald, King of Strathclyde over 'Huctred, son of Waldef, earl of the Northumbrians', as he was described by Symeon of Durham. The battle is thought to have strengthened Scotland's hold on Lothian.
-Northumberland was the scene of many wars between England and Scotland. As evidence of its violent history, Northumberland has more castles than any other county in England.
- After Carham, much of present day Scotland was under the control of the King of Scots although Norsemen still held sway in Ross, Caithness, Sutherland and The Isles. The Lords of Galloway remained semi-independent. 'Scotland' was the term used to describe what constitutes present-day Scotland south of the Forth and Clyde. The kingdom north of that east-west line continued to be called 'Scotia' for some considerable time to come. Indeed, it was not until the time of King David I of Scotland that people in the south-east of the kingdom began to think of themselves as 'Scots'. In his own charters (e.g. to St Cuthbert's in Edinburgh), he continued to refer to the men of Lothian as 'English'.
- The origin of the town's (Berwick) name is Norse, or Old English, with the second element "wick" either coming from "vik" meaning a bay, or a "wic" meaning a settlement. The first element is also ambiguous, and may refer to either barley (baer) or the headland ("bar") which cuts across the Tweed estuary. Another interpretation claims "Corn Farm" as the meaning of Berwick.
- Berwick was referred to as 'South Berwick' by the Scots, to differentiate it from the town of North Berwick, in East Lothian, east of Edinburgh.
-The title of this fic is in Scottish Gaelic.