The Treasure of the Glen (2511 words)
Lochlann mac Aed stood before the timber walls of Gilpatrick’s tavern, looking forlornly over the fields to his own home, Ballaòir Tower. It was occupied by Magnus Flatnose and his men now, although most of them were down in the meadow, digging up the ground around the standing stones.
This circle of twelve man-sized stones had stood on this land for as long as anyone could remember and had gathered legends and wild tales around them, as these things did. As Lochlann watched, one by one the men stopped digging, to lie in the grass and drink. They were warriors, not used to manual labour, and the holes they had dug were shallow and scattered.
Lochlann was about turn and join his men again in the tavern, when he noticed Magus himself, coming up the hill alone in the afternoon heat. He was a big man, overweight from ale, and he laboured up the slope in his expensive-looking chainmail and wolfskin cloak. When the Northman was within ten steps, Lochlann called out.
‘Come no closer,’ he said, his hand going to the handle of his axe.
Magnus raised his hands to show they were empty.
‘Heth of Galloway. I come to parley.’ Magus spoke Gaelic, not his native tongue, but one he gauged that Lochlann would understand.
‘Well then,’ replied Lochlann in the same language.
For a moment the two men looked each other over. Magnus saw the toísech of Ballaòir. A man younger than him, but not by much, dressed in a light wool tunic over which he wore armour that had undoubtedly been handed down from father to son for generations. More a farmer than a warrior, but strong from working the land, with intelligent eyes and long blonde hair tied up under his helmet. Lochlann saw a tall, broadshouldered Northman, grey bearded, but still strong. He had a bulging belly under his mail, indicating he had not pulled an oar in many years.
Magnus cleared his throat and spat on the ground. ‘You did well to send your folk away before we got here. How many of your men do you have in there?’
Magnus made a display of looking over Lochlann’s shoulder at Gilpatrick’s. Not much of the building was displayed beyond the tall wooden palasade that ran all around it. All the Northman could see was its slate roof, not thatch, that suggested Gilpatrick was a man of means. It was a defensible house, perhaps even more so than Ballaòir Tower.
‘Enough to make any attempt to take it not worth your while,’ replied Lochlann. ‘You agreed this peace. You can’t have drank my home dry already.’
‘No, no,’ admitted Magnus. ‘But hear me, mac Aed. Your lord Alan of Galloway has offended my lord Olaf the Black, and I and his other liegemen have been instructed to reave all between Whithorn and Annan.’
‘So I have been told,’ said Lochlann. ‘I heard you landed at St Mary’s Isle six days ago.’
‘You were not misinformed,’ admitted Magnus. ‘And as we reived north, killing cattle and burning fields, the men we slew would plead for their lives by telling us of the treasure that lay further north. That if we let them live, then they would tell us where to find it. They told us of the treasure in the stones of Ballaòir.’
‘Did they?’ asked Lochlann. ‘And did you let them live?’
‘Olaf’s instructions were not unclear to me.’
Lochlann gestured towards the stones. ‘Your men are making a mess.’
Magnus turned to look. All of Magnus’s men had now given up digging and were sitting against a wall, drinking and talking.
‘Tell me which stone the treasure is buried under.’
‘You’ve been digging for a day and a night, you can see that there is no treasure under the stones. If anyone speaks of the treasure of Ballaòir then they must mean our rich soil, our fat cattle.’
Lochlann’s gaze moved from the stones to the fresh graves before the tower. Three of his men, and four Northmen killed in yesterday’s battle. At least these savage islanders had given them all a Christian burial.
Magnus turned back to Lochlann who still had his back to the tavern. ‘Did you move the treasure before we got here? Is it in there?’
‘No.’
‘I have enough men to take that hall.’
Lochlann knew this was true but also knew it was an idle threat. When Magnus and his men arrived, they people of Ballaòir had already been warned. Lochlann had sent his lady wife and the folk north, into the one of the many valleys in the northeast. Not even Lochlann knew where his wife had taken them, but she had a fondness for Dail Righe, and she was likely there. The Northmen would not dare leave their boats so far behind them, or at least Lochlann hoped it. They were already well beyond their range, on this hunt for mythical treasures.
Magnus’s arithmetic was the same as Lochlann’s. There were no more than a dozen men behind the wooden walls of the tavern, and Magnus’s fifty would certainly be able to take it. The cost was too high though; he would end with twenty dead or injured men. Twenty less men to pull oars on their return to the Isles, and twenty widows and their orphan to sort out with inheritances and patronages on his return.
He was not here for war, he was here to please his lord, but also for personal gain. All the way from St Mary’s Isle he had heard of the “treasure of Ballaòir”, from men desperate for their lives. At first he thought it lies born from fear, but when he heard the tale repeated again and again the decision to reave far into the mainland was too tempting to resist. The gold lay within “the stones of the land” he had been told, but now perhaps, he was musing that it may just have been stories all along.
Magnus said no more to Lochlann and went back to his men. ‘Pick up those spades!’ he commanded in Norse. ‘A double share to the man that strikes on the gold!’
…
When Magnus came to speak to Lochlann the next morning he was in a poorer humour.
‘Three days now Magnus. As I told you, there is no gold under those stones.’
Magnus growled and thumbed the handle of his sword that lay strapped to his waist. ‘I could gather folk from your land and have them killed before your walls.’
‘Those that did not go with my wife will be well tucked away by now. All for miles around will know of your presence. It may not be long before my Lord’s men come to winkle you out of my tower.’
Lochlann knew what to say to Magnus to make him worry, who was already itching to be back out to sea again. Keeping the boats in one place for too long invited trouble.
They watched Magnus’s men dig.
‘We are cattle farmers,’ said Lochlann, not for the first time. ‘We have no gold.’
‘You lie. All I heard was talk of it. Ancient treasure, as old as the Romans, handed down from father to son. Carefully guarded and well hidden.’ Magnus gestured at Ballaòir Tower, at Gilpatrick’s tavern, at the looted and burned houses of the village. ‘Look how you prosper. No wonder we pushed you out of your tower so easily. Your men are so well fed they barely fit their mail!’
‘I have not heard these tales.’
‘All of you Scots are liars.’
Magnus could tell that Lochlann was a clever man, be he, Magnus was a clever man too. He tried to read the other man’s face. ‘The stones, the stones, all spoke of the stones. But I assumed buried under them. Perhaps then it is not under, but in? The gold is in the stones?’
He watched to see any change in Lochlann’s expression. Did he flinch just then? He turned and went back to where his men were digging. ‘Search the houses for hammers and mallets!’ he shouted at them. ‘We’ll crack the cursed things open!’
…
Another day passed and when Lochlann stepped through the tavern gates, he saw three bodies hung from the oak tree that stood closest to the walls. They looked like commoners that had unluckily stumbled into the clutches of the Northmen. A man, a woman and a child, a family perhaps, but not one that he recognised.
When Magnus saw him, he came cursing up the hill towards the tavern, red faced and angry, sweating under the summer sun.
‘I’ll keep hanging the bodies of any of your folk I lay hands on until you give me the gold, son of Aed,’ spat Magnus. ‘A fine crop for you to harvest.’
‘I can’t conjure gold from the air, not matter how many of my people you kill.’
‘If the lives of your folk won’t move you, them how about your property? As comfortable as I have been inside your home, I could still burn it to the ground.’
At this Lochlann seemed, for the first time, to be at a disadvantage. ‘Please. If you must do that, then so be it. But first retrieve the reliquary from the chapel.’
Magnus grinned like a wolf scenting blood. ‘Of value to you, is it?’
‘Yes, why yes,’ stuttered Lochlann. ‘For it contains a piece of the true cross.’
‘I’ll see it burnt then, if you don’t hand over the treasure.’
‘And then see yourself burned in eternal damnation for such a crime!’ scoffed Lochlann.
Magnus paused to weigh the promise of gold against his soul. He did not much care for religion, but he was a superstitious man. And although he would not admit it to Lochlann, Olaf had ordered his liegemen to leave any relics they came across unmolested.
‘You want it, come and get it,’ snarled Magnus.
‘I have your word that I may return to the tavern once I have it? None of your Northerner tricks?’
‘You have my word. Come!’
Lochlann hesitated but then leapt forward to stay close to Magnus. There was only one man at the door, who was surprised to see the tower’s previous owner arrive. Magnus barged past him and ushered Lochlann inside. The toísech was dismayed to see his furniture overturned and broken, his possessions scattered everywhere, and rotten food and worse all over the floors.
‘You show little of your wealth in your house. There was nothing worth stealing,’ remarked Magnus as they went through the main hall to the chapel.
‘Does that not tell you I am a man of modest means?’ asked Lochlann.
‘A man of hidden means, perhaps.’ They were now in the small shrine. Nothing here had been touched, much to Lochlann’s surprise. The cross still stood on the altar and all the tapestries remained on the walls. The reliquary sat before the cross, a plain wooden box. Lochlann opened it and saw that the contents had been undisturbed, the splinter of the true cross still lay wrapped in cloth. He let out a loud sigh of relief.
Magnus looked over Lochlann’s shoulder with idle curiosity. Although it was evidently Lochlann’s most prized possession it looked valueless to the Northman. Such things were not worth stealing, in his opinion. A man could be cursed because of it. Lochlann closed the box and stepped to one side. Magnus looked at him with sudden guilt.
‘What, you think me a pagan? That I would desecrate the house of Our Lord?’ accused Magnus, then suddenly changing his tone he asked, ‘is that tapestry worth anything?’
He pointed at the large woven wall hanging behind the altar, so old and faded that its scene was barely discernible.
‘Maybe when my father bought it back from Ghent, but its threadbare and worthless now.’
‘Your lady wife kept a clean house, but this thing is the dirtiest object in the whole place,’ Magnus held up a candle to the tapestry. ‘It’s Christ on the cross?’
‘Indeed, yes, but take care! It’s as dry as tinder.’
Magnus put down the candle and turned to Lochlann. He appeared to weigh the idea of slaying the other man right there in the chapel. Lochlann stepped back and put his hand on his axe hilt.
‘I’ve told you, Magnus Flatnose. The treasure of Ballaòir is our cattle. They’ve all been sent to Dronfres for slaughter though. Every year it is thus. Soon our drovers will bring back another herd to fatten on our bounteous land. That’s where our gold is.’
Magnus continued to study the tapestry. He ran a hand down it then looked at the soot on his fingertips.
‘Please Lord Flatnose,’ pleaded Lochlann with his hand on the box. ‘What I say is true. I swear it here on a portion of the True Cross.’
Magnus sighed, defeated. He had tarried at Ballaòir too long. They already had plenty enough treasure and time was pressing, he told himself. He had no wish to desecrate a church and now only desired to leave. In a sudden flash of frustration he took his sword and slashed at the tapestry. The dusty old object leapt, blowing soot and dust everywhere, into their faces and mouths. Seemingly surprised at his own outburst, Magnus stepped back coughing and waving his hand. Then, ignoring Lochlann, he left the tower, called to his men to pack their things and was gone within the hour.
Lochlann went over to Gilpatrick’s and sent his most cunning man to follow the Northmen to the coast, to make sure it wasn’t a trick. The man arrived back in the morning to tell him that Magnus was gone, having returned to St Mary’s Isle and set sail.
Content, Lochlann made sure the folk that Magnus had hung were buried, and sent word to Dail Righe that his wife might return. As his men began the long process of setting his holdings to rights, he looked over the excavated and broken stones. These Stones of Ballaòir had stood there since the time of the Romans, old but not ancient, built by Lochlann’s ancestors as a ploy, a distraction. Objects to build myths around.
He entered the tower, finding it strange to be the only occupant. It was usually such a busy place, full of noise and activity. Now everything was upset and overturned. He stepped gingerly over splintered wood and rotten food, then entered the chapel. All was as it had been left the day before. The tapestry had a foot long tear in it, a flap of fabric hanging down from Magnus’s angry blow. Lochlann stepped closer and looked into the darkness, at the sooty wall that lay behind the cloth. He saw a glint of gold. How close the Northman had come to discovering the secret, he marveled. Lochlann licked his thumb and reached into the hole to smudge over the mark where Magnus’s sword had struck.
