Picti means painted one, my grandmother once told me. My ancestors decorated their skin in hues of blue and red and green. The whirling patterns shone so vibrantly that my people were believed to be otherworldly. Only when their blood was spilled did their humanity betray them.
My grandmother remembered it all; she was part of that dying breed – a daughter of druids who had once served kings and princes in the Kingdom of the Picts, before Alba was born and that way of life was buried. She felt the defeat bitterly. Even more so when she and my mother, Ailith, were brought to Scone, to live in the court of the great Alban prince Boedhe, my father. As a young girl, Ailith had visited the court of my grandfather,
King Coinneach, and a betrothal had been agreed upon. Though a believer in the new religion, Coinneach sought to unite those Albans who had not taken to the Christian god – it was an act of considerable goodwill to place a pagan on the throne beside his son.
My grandfather’s cousin, Malcolm, put an end to these aspirations when he killed King Coinneach and took his crown. Many remained loyal to Grandfather even after his death, and so King Malcolm made my father Mormaer of Fife, to pacify those who might otherwise join him in a revolt…
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