Isle of Mull 03 - To Love a Warrior (20 page)

Nellore nodded. “Ye’re right, Shoney. This matter will have to wait,” she said before turning to Ronan to give her report. “Your people are safe. No one was harmed. Hamish was able to lead everyone to the caves, and Anna is by his side, helping to keep the people calm.”

“Then the MacLean holds Dun Ara Castle,” Ronan gritted.

“Nay,” Nellore said. “They are right now as we speak held up in the Ledaig House. They must have been drawn to the stores there, for they appear to have done naught but celebrate their victory. When I spied them not two hours ago the few who did not appear to be in a stupor were pouring enough ale down their throats to invite oblivion.”

“I will call for the rest of the men,” Garik said before turning toward the cliffs.

“Let us show the MacLean what happens when they break their word,” Ronan growled.

The Mull MacKinnon, accompanied by forty of the Bruce’s men, marched toward the Ledaig House.

“It is so quiet,” Garik said. “Are you certain they are still inside?”

Nellore nodded. “I am telling ye, these men were in no condition to ride out of Gribun. I doubt they could’ve found their own arses.” She shook her head in disgust. “Look at all the empty barrels of ale.”

Ronan drew his sword and stood before the door, flanked by Duncan and Logan. Pulling the door open a crack, Ronan peered inside. Then he softly closed it.

“They’re asleep,” Ronan said, rejoining the group.

Nellore looked about. Everyone’s face wore the same puzzled expression. “What’s to be done?” Garik said, breaking the silence.

Logan stepped forward. “Let us wake them and end this feud right here, right now,” he said. “We will teach them a lesson they will not soon forget.”

“Nay,” Nellore said. “Ye cannot attack men incapable of drawing their own swords.”

“The folly is theirs, Nellore,” Duncan said, “Logan is right. We can end this feud here. We can silence the MacLean forever.”

“Nay, Ronan, listen to me,” Nellore pleaded. “These men are not fit for battle. To attack will only increase the hatred between our clans. May I remind ye,” she said, eyeing Logan and Duncan, “that our people wait in the caves, scared but unharmed. We’ve already killed the brother who led the attack.”

“Finnean is dead?” Ronan said. “Ye did not tell me this.”

“Aye, he attacked our hut,” Brenna said, stepping forward. “Burnt it out.”

Duncan snarled, withdrawing his sword. Then he stormed toward the door.

“Nay, Da,” Nellore said, grabbing his arm. “If we kill these men in this way, then the MacLeans are sure to retaliate. But they will not be after our land or stores. They will come for blood.”

Ronan paced back and forth, his plaid swinging at his knees. Then he stopped and reached for Nellore. He cupped her cheek in his hand. “What would ye have me do?”

She took a deep breath. She did not have an answer. “I do not ken what to do, only that we need to demonstrate the strength of our position without spilling blood,” she said.

“We are going to lose the strength of our position if we don’t act soon,” Logan exclaimed. Then he turned to face Nellore. “I ken there is no honor here, but what would ye have us do? Wait until they are rested and risk possibly forfeiting the lives of our men. War is an thing ugly, Nellore.”

“Which is exactly why I wish it to end,” Nellore snapped. She released a rush of air from her lungs. Her eyes grazed over the army made up of her kinsmen and the Bruce’s infantry, all standing at the ready with weapons drawn. Despair clawed at her heart. Then she turned and looked at Shoney, and within her lady’s silver eyes Nellore found the answer.

“Logan,” she said. “Go to the wood and cut a branch of the Scottish pine.” Then she called out to all of the warriors. “Each of ye, take up the badge of our clan. Fetch a fir branch from the wood and bring it to me.” Then she turned to her mother and sister who stood nearby. “Today ye struck the enemy down. Ye’re shield maidens of Mull. Take up a branch—we are all MacKinnons,” she cried.

Before long Nellore was surrounded by her kin, each holding the emblem of their clan. “Sharpen the end,” she ordered.

Garik stood before her, his eyes shining with pride. “For you,” he said, handing her a fir branch, the tip as sharp as a spear. She reached for him and pressed a kiss to his lips before she turned away and moved to stand before the Ledaig House.

“This is our land,” she said. “The land of the MacKinnon.” Then she plunged the branch deep into the earth. She looked to Logan. “Will ye stand with me, brother?” she asked.

He stared at her with uncertain eyes. Then he slowly released a long breath. “Aye, Nellore,” he said. “I will stand with ye.” Then he too drove his branch into the ground. Duncan and Cormac came forward, and then the other men followed. Soon countless branches of the Scottish pine rose out of the ground, encircling the Ledaig House.

“Will this do?” Ronan said, showing Nellore a massive branch.

Her lips curved with approval. “A badge befitting a chieftain,” she said.

Ronan drove the point into the ground in front of the doorway, behind which slept their enemy. Then Nellore watched with surprise as Ronan reached up and laid his own sword across the doorframe. He strode back to her side then, and together they surveyed their wooden army.

“Now what do we do?” Logan asked.

“Now we wait,” Nellore said. “And when the MacLeans awaken they will know they were under the knife and yet we showed them mercy.”

“What is it ye hope to gain with this display, Nellore?” Duncan asked.

Garik’s strong hand came around her waist. She turned and looked up into his crisp blue eyes. “Peace,” she said. Garik pulled her close and she breathed in his scent, but the harmony of the moment was cut short as a third army came cresting over the moors.

“Ronan, what is your command?” Duncan asked as he eyed the riders in the distance.

“Do not break from our current formation,” he said. “And lower your weapons.” Then he turned, shouting the same order for all to hear.

“Grandfather, are ye certain ye do not want our men to prepare for battle?” Logan asked.

Ronan clapped his hand on Logan’s shoulder. “I do not know how this day will end, Logan. But I’ve lived long enough to know that peace cannot be made from war. Hold your position and sheath your sword,” he said.

This time without hesitation Logan returned his sword to the scabbard strapped to his back. “Your men, and women,” he added, grinning at Nellore, “stand with ye, my laird.”

Before long Balfour and the remainder of the Mull MacLean rode into Gribun, coming to a halt in front of Ronan. “Where is my brother?” Balfour said. “Where are my men?”

“I did not know ye followed us,” Ronan said.

“I was not going to stay behind and leave the future of my clan in your hands,” Balfour snapped. “Now, answer me. Where is my brother?”

Nellore stepped forward. “Your brother is dead,” she said. “I killed him but only in defense of my own life and the lives of my mother and sister. He attacked our hut, which lies in isolation east of here. We were alone. Forgive me, but he forced my hand.”

“But what of the rest my men?” the MacLean growled, swinging back around to face Ronan. “I’ve been to my keep. Finn had gathered the remainder of the MacLean warriors. Where are they?” Then he took a step closer to Ronan and snarled, “God save ye if ye claim your hand was forced.”

“Our laird has laid down his blade,” Garik said, pointing to the weapon gleaming above the door. “If ye wish him to take it up, then by all means ready your men for battle. I for one welcome the chance to tear your army to pieces.”

Balfour glowered at Garik, but he turned his horse to face the Ledaig House. Nellore watched as he considered the army of fir branches. He winced as he slid from his horse. With his one good arm, he bent over and picked up a barrel of ale. A curse tore from his lips as he threw the empty barrel aside and stormed to stand before the door.

“MacLeans,” he shouted, but no sound emanated from within. Balfour snarled as he strode toward one of his men and grabbed a torch from his hand. He then lit each of the pine branches on fire.

Smoke billowed. The needles crackled and snapped as they burned. Again and again, the MacLean shouted for his men to rise from their drunken slumber.

At last the door creaked open. A man with groggy eyes peered out. His arms flew in front of his face, shielding himself from the fiery blaze of Ronan’s large branch.

“Do ye see, ye spineless coward?” Balfour shouted. The man followed Balfour’s gesture toward the MacKinnon warriors. His eyes grew wide, and he rushed back inside, returning a moment later with sword in hand. He surged forward, but Balfour stopped his charge, bringing his own blade to the man’s throat.

“Fool,” he spat. “Ye were at the mercy of these men, and they spared ye.” Balfour spun the man around and gave him a sharp kick to his rear. “Get the other men up,” he shouted. “Ye can walk home. There will be a high penance to pay for your deeds.”

A string of curses passed Balfour’s lips before he turned back and stood before Ronan. Several tense moments passed while the two leaders locked eyes, and then Nellore’s breath caught in her throat as she watched Balfour slowly drop to one knee.

“Ye’ve won the peace ye sought,” he said. “My clan will be held accountable for damages to your village and for any stores they drained. As for your people, there is little by way of comfort I can bring ye or the families of any who were injured or killed. I can only—”

Ronan put his hand on Balfour’s shoulder. “Rise, Balfour MacLean. No grave wrong has been done. There are none injured and none dead. There is no wrong that cannot easily be made right.”

Balfour stood then and eyed Ronan. “Are we to be allies?” he asked.

Ronan smiled. “It would appear so. I believe a century of fighting is long enough.”

*

When the last of the MacLeans dragged their drunken bodies out of view, Ronan turned to Nellore and grazed the back of his fingers down her cheek. “The night Shoney found ye on the moors was a blessed night indeed,” he whispered. She threw her arms around her laird’s neck.

“Thank ye,” he said. “Ye’ve made the impossible happen.” Then he drew back and pressed a kiss to Nellore’s forehead. She started to turn away, but then she spied Shoney from the corner of her eye. Drawing her lady to her side, she whispered once more in her laird’s ear, “What if there was no such thing as impossible?”

Shoney could not have heard what Nellore said, but she looked at her husband with knowing eyes. Ronan shook his head, wrapping his lady in his arms. “I will not risk her safety or our happiness,” he said. A wistful fire filled Shoney’s silver eyes as she tilted her head to see her husband’s face. “Nellore is right, Ronan. The time has come.”

Nellore sat in the great hall of Dun Ara Castle with Garik at her side. The tables had been removed and benches brought in to accommodate the villagers, and still the walls were lined with people eager to know why they had been summoned. The gathering rivaled that of the twelfth night of Yule. Everyone had come at their laird’s bidding. Shoney stood beside Ronan at the high dais. Even as an older woman, she had always exuded power despite her diminutive stature, and yet a cold chill clenched Nellore’s heart as she gazed upon her lady. Shoney’s wary eyes darted about the room, and her hand clenched Anna’s as if holding on for dear life.

Anna stood proudly at her mother’s side, her silver eyes ablaze with defiance while she too scanned the crowd. Nellore knew Anna was ready to challenge anyone who might speak ill of her mother. Beside Anna stood her sisters, Fiona and Isobel. Their stances were equally resolute, leading Nellore to assume they had at last learned their mother’s secret.

Shoney visibly shuddered, causing Nellore’s heart to race faster. The weight of what she had put into motion settled on her shoulders like an iron yoke. What if she were wrong? What if she had overestimated the capacity of her clan to open their minds and hearts to the truth? What if Shoney were persecuted?

“I have called this gathering to share with my clan a secret I’ve long protected,” Ronan began. “Your lady, who you know as Bridget—a healer who came to us from Skye—has never before set foot away from our shores. Like most of ye, she was born on this island,” he said, turning to look at Shoney, whose eyes glistened with tears. His voice softened as he continued. “In fact, her family lived here long before the MacKinnons came to Mull.”

Ronan’s words honored Shoney’s ancestors and evoked a change in her demeanor. She stood straighter. Courage imbued her stance and penetrated her sterling eyes, which gleamed now with silver fire amid her tears. She nodded to Ronan, encouraging him to continue.

“She is Shoney, my beloved wife and your faithful lady,” Ronan said, turning back to face his people. “’Twas I who deceived ye all these years, and I alone. I was not willing to choose between my loyalty and duty to my clan and the woman I loved.”

He lifted Shoney’s hand to his lips. Even from across the hall, Nellore could see the love pour forth from Ronan’s gaze as he looked into Shoney’s eyes. Surrounded by her family who loved her, Shoney’s strength grew and grew. With the hint of a smile curving her lips, she thrust her shoulders back.

“Her name is Shoney,” Ronan said again, louder so that all might hear. “She is the daughter of Brethia, descendent of Oengus, King of the Picts. Her family—her mother and mother’s mother going back centuries—have lived among us all this while, but they did so with fear in their hearts. Long ago, the women of Shoney’s descent faced persecution at the hands of our kinfolk. To stave off prejudice they hid their identities behind a simple disguise. From out of their ingenuity sprang forth a legend of our own making, the legend of the Witch of Dervaig.”