Isle of Mull 03 - To Love a Warrior
Read Isle of Mull 03 - To Love a Warrior Online
Authors: Lily Baldwin
Excerpt from A Jewel in the Vaults, A Scrolls of Cridhe Novella
Excerpt from To Bewitch a Highlander (Isle of Mull Series, Book One)
Excerpt from Highland Thunder (Isle of Mull Series, Book Two)
To Love
a
Warrior
by
Lily Baldwin
To Love a Warrior
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2014
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Tiger Lily Collaborative Publishing, LLC
DEDICATION
To Dan
Thank you to my amazing husband. Your support and love are everything to me. Thank you to my beautiful and loving mom and to the fabulous Kathryn Lynn Davis. This book never would have happened without your care and assistance. Thank you to all of the readers who have accompanied me on this journey. And to Susan~I love you.
Isle of Mull, Scotland
Winter 1294
A deafening clap of thunder rebounded off the stones of Dun Ara Castle pulling Shoney from her slumber. Then a white light flashed before her eyes, warning her that a vision was forthcoming.
She saw a cloaked figure, holding fast to a small bundle, shielding it from the fierce storm, which pounded the moors with stinging rain and blazed the night sky with white lightning. Still, the figure pushed onward. Then the rain ceased and blackness fell but only for a moment. The clouds parted and a full moon revealed the figure standing amid moss-covered stones at the foot of a hill. But the bundle was gone.
When her vision dissipated, Shoney cast aside her cover, and in one fluid movement, she rose from the bed, leaving its warmth and Ronan behind. She yanked the brown folds of her tunic over her long, silver hair and settled it over her linen shift. Not bothering to belt her waist, she put on her leather slippers and grabbed her thickest cloak. Then, with neither hesitation nor fear, she stepped out into the night and into the storm.
Trudging inland to the open moors, she looked to the heavens just as a bolt of lightning spread its luminous fingers across the sky, revealing bleak, wintry hills that stretched out endlessly before her, but only for an instant; then the light was gone, replaced once more with murky darkness. She was soaked through to the skin, her body stooped from the weight of her water logged cloak and tunic, but she was not deterred. Something powerful had beckoned her, needed her—and she would answer its call.
There were only two things she knew for certain. First, she had to make haste to the hill she had glimpsed in her vision, and second, whatever it was that waited for her there would unequivocally change her life.
At last, Shoney arrived at the base of the hill. She moved along the stones, certain they held a treasure that was meant for her. Hidden among the tallest of the rocks, she spotted the tiny bundle the cloaked figure in her vision had been carrying. She bent low and folded back a piece of sodden wool, exposing the face of a sweet babe. It was tiny and icy cold to the touch. Even with the wind howling, Shoney could hear the baby’s raspy breaths.
Wasting no time, she scooped the infant into her arms, wrapping the folds of her cloak tightly around them both. But before she began their journey home, Shoney crooned, “Everything is just as it should be.” Then she dipped her head, placing a kiss on the baby’s brow. When her lips touched the infant’s forehead a white light flashed in Shoney’s mind. She prepared herself for yet another vision.
The badge of the Mackinnon, a Scottish pine branch, was suspended high against the starry sky. There was a stillness in the air and an eerie silence, which was broken suddenly as the branch burst into bright flames, and in the distance, Shoney heard a single warrior sound the battle cry of the MacKinnon.
Shoney snapped back to full awareness
.
She did not understand the significance of her vision, but divining the truth would have to wait until both she and the babe were warm and dry. As if to hasten her onward, the storm intensified. Lightning cut once more through the clouds and thunder shook the ground, creating a din like that of an army on the move.
As silent as she could, Shoney entered the great hall and sat with the child by the fire. She wrapped the babe in a clean plaid, then cradled her close and fed her some goat’s milk.
“Ye will be called Nellore,” Shoney told her as she drank hungrily, “feral one.”
At dawn, Shoney awoke still seated in the chair with Nellore cradled in her arms.
“Ye’ve been busy, my dear.”
Shoney looked up to see Ronan staring down at her with a bemused, and slightly bewildered, look on his face. She spoke of how she came to find Nellore and gave her husband an account of her vision of their clan’s badge, the pine branch, bursting into flame.
He paced the length of the hall, clearly needing time to absorb all she had said. After a while, he looked at Shoney, his face strained with frustration.
“But what is the significance of your vision? What does it mean?” he asked.
Shoney laid the sleeping infant on a pallet and walked over to where Ronan stood, wrapping her arms around his waist.
“I know not the fullness of meaning. The only thing I am certain of is that the destiny of our clan and the destiny of Nellore are somehow crossed.”
Isle of Mull, Scotland
1306
“I feel as though I’ve come home, Logan,” Garik called out over the din of the blistering coastal winds that barreled off the Sound of Mull and tore across the moors. “Too long has it been since I’ve seen these shores.” His appreciative gaze scanned the sea as they rode parallel to the edge of the north cliffs. Rising in his seat, he peered down past the steep ledge to the breaking waves below.
“Ye
have
come home,” Logan replied.
Garik nodded, realizing his friend was right. Neither Logan nor he had been born on Mull, but both had spent their formative years on the Isle. Logan’s silvery eyes crinkled with pleasure. “We are both blessed to have two homes: the homes of our fathers,” Logan said. Then dropping his reins and raising his arms as though to encompass the surrounding moors and rocky cliffs, he said, “and here, the Isle of Mull.”
“We are losing one of the horses,” Garik said, pointing to a grey palfrey that had stopped to graze at some brittle autumn grasses. Logan turned his horse around, trotted over to the lagging beast and grabbed hold of the reins, urging him to rejoin the five other horses they had brought along on their journey.
When Logan fell in line with Garik once more, they continued forward. Garik inhaled the salty air. Seven years had passed since he had fostered under the care of Ronan, the chieftain of the Mull MacKinnon. He had arrived on Mull when he was seven, just a few short months after Logan had arrived from his home on Skye. For five years, they had trained together and had become like brothers. As much as Garik had missed his birth home on the Orkney Islands, he had regretted leaving Mull on his twelfth birthday when his fostering years had ended. Logan, as the heir to the MacKinnon chiefdom, had remained on Mull. Garik was not certain whether Logan had ever returned to Skye. As the future chieftain of the MacKinnon, Logan’s place was beside his laird.
As he once more stared out over the grey, choppy seas, Garik’s mind drifted toward his birth home off the northeasterly tip of Scotland. His people celebrated their own unique culture, carved out of centuries of exposure to two powerful nations. The Scots and Norse had collided on the Orkney Islands, merging the peoples and cultures together over centuries, and from out of that mix had sprung forth, Norn, a language spoken only by those who dwelled on the Orkney Islands.
Garik laughed out loud remembering how his strange accent had always been a point of interest to his Scottish family on Mull. To someone who might not know better, the sing-song lilt of his voice sounded like he was a Viking, which would not be entirely wrong. Like most Orcadians, he considered himself to be both Highlander and Viking, although loyalty to Scotland had grown ever since King Haakon of Norway had been driven out of the Hebrides at the Battle of Largs.
Garik’s grandfather, Aidan MacKinnon, hailed from Mull and had fought alongside his clansmen at that bloody battle where the winds blew with fury and storms ravaged both armies. Scotland had been the hard-won victor in the end, sending the Viking king home with a broken and diminished fleet of warships. Garik’s grandfather had spoken often of that fierce battle, instilling within him a deeply rooted loyalty to Scotland.
Like so many of his kin on the Orkney Islands, Garik’s heart longed for the day when Scotland would claim their small cluster of islands within its boundaries. England, however, stood in the way of that dream, and more than that, it threatened the well-being of his Scottish family, which was the precise reason he had arrived on Mull yesterday, along with ten other warriors from his small village of Kirkwall. They came to join with the Mull MacKinnon in their support of Robert the Bruce, the newly crowned King of Scotland.
“We are nearly to the Cave MacKinnon,” Garik said, observing the softer lay of the land as the cliffs diminished in height, bringing the narrow, rocky coast below into closer reach. “Angus Og MacDonald’s secrecy is enough to drive a man to madness.”
“Aye,” Logan agreed, “but his message was clear. He planned to make port in the Cave MacKinnon and wait for escort to Gribun. I do not ken why he guards this particular visit to Mull with such secrecy. In the past, he has always sailed straight into port.”
Garik knew Angus Og MacDonald only by reputation. According to Ronan and every other warrior from Mull for that matter, a more level-headed warrior Garik would never meet. Angus Og had begun life as the youngest son of Angus Mor MacDonald who was reputed to have been a fierce warlord in his day. All of Angus Og’s brothers had met some dark end, however, leaving Angus Og to inherit his father’s title. He was now Lord of Islay and the wealthiest and most powerful chieftain in the west. A longtime and staunch supporter of Robert the Bruce, Angus Og had been made one of the Bruce’s lieutenants.
As they neared the Cave MacKinnon, Garik found himself growing increasingly excited. He once again wondered about Angus Og’s secret mission. Little could be gleaned from the missive he had sent in the hand of a messenger, who Logan had described as having been as tight-lipped as the parchment he had delivered with its few vague scribbles. A day and location and a request for extra horses was all the letter contained.
He remembered from his exploration of the isle as a boy that the Cave MacKinnon was tall and deep and teemed with ocean waves, even when the tide was at its lowest. Already he was impressed by Angus Og’s cunning. Hiding a ship from view was no easy matter, but Angus Og’s plan would no doubt work. Whatever he transported on his ship that he wanted to remain a secret would be well concealed within the deep cavern.
Logan reined in his horse and slid from his mount. “The horses cannot follow where we go,” he said.
Garik dismounted and peered down the ravine to the wisp of shoreline, which had been swallowed up by the ever encroaching and then receding waves. The rest of the shore he assumed had been consumed long ago by the rough seas that beat the coast of Mull in winter.