On a Highland Shore (16 page)

Wouldn’t he?

Before they found their beds, Gannon and Tiernan checked on the guards posted around the village and at the ships. The men had seen nothing, but reported hearing noises, as though people walked through the village. They talked of other Vikings who might still be lurking, of the bodies all around them. Gannon reminded them that they’d searched the entire glen and coastline and only found one man, and that they would give the Somerstrath people a decent funeral on the morrow. His calm manner seemed to reassure them, but their reports unsettled him. And Tiernan, apparently, for his brother looked over his shoulder more than once as they walked through the village. They returned to the hall to find many of their men settling on the floor. Rignor was already asleep near the door, snoring noisily. They gave him a wide berth and joined Rory at the table.

The older man poured each of them a cup of ale. “All’s well?”

“Aye,” Gannon said, “but they’re hearing things.”

“Their imaginations’ working. To be expected after what they saw today,” Rory answered, rubbing his forehead. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Death at home, death with Ross, death here. Has the world gone mad?”

“I dinna have a better explanation,” Gannon said.

“What d’ye think? Same men as in Antrim, or do we have more than one group of raiders?”

Gannon took a long swallow. “They’ve used the same tactics. It could well be one group of raiders. Or one leader.”

“Ye found that knife,” Tiernan said, looking from one to the other.

“Aye,” Gannon said, “but why would Leod do it?”

“D’ye think it’s the Norse, that perhaps Haakon of Norway is still angry that King Alexander tried to buy his islands?” Tiernan asked.

Rory nodded. “Could be.”

“So he sent men to raid the coastlines of both Ireland and Scotland?” Gannon asked. “Kenning that would start a war?”

“Maybe that’s what he wants,” Tiernan said. “Alexander’s only been ruling in his own right for two years, and he’s already tried to buy the islands. Maybe Haakon wants a war. Maybe he thinks he can bully Alexander into releasing more land to him to prevent a war. He’s done that before.”

“Listen to ye, spouting history,” Gannon said. “Where’d ye learn all this?”

Tiernan grinned. “I do listen, ye ken, and God kens ye all talk on it a lot.”

“Ye could be right,” Rory said. “It could be that Haakon’s testing Alexander, to see his strength. If he’s found wanting, Haakon will grab what he can. Maybe Haakon’s sending these raiders; maybe he’s just looking the other way. It doesna matter much which. They have to be stopped. And it doesna explain the attacks in Ireland.”

“Don’t we need to get home?” Tiernan said. “What if they go there again?”

“I sent over five hundred men to Haraldsholm to help yer uncle Erik defend the coast,” Rory said. “He’ll be fine. And if there is a war, we’ll need allies, so it’s good we came here.”

Tiernan snorted. “From what I’ve seen so far, it’s the Scots who’ll need us.”

“Dinna underestimate them,” Gannon said with a grin. “Originally they were Irish. The blood canna be that diluted.”

The others laughed.

“So who d’ye think it is?” Tiernan asked. “Leod?”

“He’s capable of it,” Rory answered. “But why, that’s the thing? Unless Haakon’s bent on starting a war. When’s the last time ye saw Leod?”

“At Da’s funeral,” Gannon said.

“Fourteen years, then,” Rory said, “Even if Leod and Somerstrath had a falling out, would Leod risk bringing the wrath of the Earl of Ross—and perhaps the king of Scotland—down on himself? I doubt it. Leod’s many things, but not a fool. Yer uncle Erik would have told me if he and Leod had had a falling out.”

“Which leads us back to whether this is a new invasion from Norway,” Gannon said. “And if it is, they’ll strike again.”

Rory nodded.

“We’ll fight them off in Ireland,” Gannon said. “Look what Erik did last time.”

“Yer uncle was fearsome, aye,” Rory said somberly, “but he was against a few hundred. If they invade, it’ll be thousands, then thousands more as the word spreads through the Norse lands. The Danes will join in, perhaps the Swedes.”

“Which means we have to repel them immediately before it grows,” Gannon said. “Someone wants us to think it is Leod. Twice now they’ve left weapons that can be easily traced to Skye, in Antrim and here. And they left nothing else behind, except for the one man. If Erik’s men had not been at sea and seen the ships leaving, they wouldna have seen the Orkney banners, and we all would have thought Skyemen were responsible. The Orkney Islands belong to Norway. Do ye suppose that now Skye does as well? Which means Leod does? But why?”

Rory nodded again. “That’s what we need to find out. Leod plays a cagey game, is friendly with all who might be of aid, a true friend to none. I canna believe he has put himself under Haakon’s yoke. Leod always did like his independence.”

Gannon put the knife he’d found on the table.

Rory picked it up, looking at it closely. “Could it have belonged to one of Somerstrath’s sons?”

“Margaret said she’d never seen it before,” Gannon said. He thought of her standing next to him on the beach, small but defiant, her dark hair blowing back from her face, her cheeks soft and pale under those blue eyes. And thought of how often he found her watching him, how often he found himself watching her.

“Did ye ask Rignor about it?”

Gannon’s mouth curled with distaste. “No. Nor will I.”

Rory pushed the knife across the table. “Perhaps the raiders hit Skye on their way here. We’ll throw it all in William Ross’s lap and let him sort it out.”

Gannon nodded. He’d gained some sense of the man when they’d met; Ross, even weary from the long ride from court and confronting the destruction of two of his coastal villages, had been reasonable. He seemed a moderate man, not prone to rash decisions. His only immediate action had been to have his wife and two young sons head inland for his wife’s family’s lands. And then he’d toured the villages devastated by the raids and listened to their stories of the same in Antrim.

“Ross is shrewd and dependable,” Rory said. “That’s why we’re allies.”

“What about Somerstrath? What was he like?”

Rory poured more ale. “I met the man many times and thought him reasonable, but it’s possible that he was more like his son than I kent. He might have made enemies and not been able to control what came next.”

“But that doesna explain the raids on Antrim and Ross.”

Rory took another sip. “No.”

“What are the other local chieftains like?”

“There are no chieftains near. Rufus at Inverstrath, the next bay over, was Somerstrath’s underling. He’s a loyal and decent man but not strong enough to replace Somerstrath. His daughter Dagmar might, though. Watch yerself with her. She’s been widowed twice, and I hear she’s looking for a third husband. Ye might just suit her, but don’t let her suit ye.”

Gannon snorted. “She’d not even look my way. I’m not a rich man.”

Rory gave him a long look of appraisal. “Ye have a ship.”

“Oh, aye, one ship that I’ve owned for a month. And it was a gift.”

“It was no gift. It was yer da’s money that funded it. Ye do ken that Erik wants ye to go back and stay with him?”

“Aye.”

“Waste of yer talents, but I ken what Erik’s thinking, that if anything happens to him, he’ll need someone he can trust to step forward and help his sons rule. That’s why he called for the two of ye after the raids, to see what the two of ye had become. Neither Erik nor I wanted ye to stay in Fermanagh, fond as we are of yer stepfather. Patrick has sons of his own, and there’ll be no place for ye there when he’s gone. Ye cannot deny it.”

“I don’t,” Gannon said. “Erik’s summons came at a good time.”

“It did not just happen. Erik and I planned it.”

Gannon raised an eyebrow. “Did ye now?”

“We did, long before the raids. Those we dinna plan. Erik wanted ye home.” Rory paused. “None of us who lead men have the luxury of only thinking of ourselves. Death is always only a heartbeat away. What will happen to our people after we’re gone must be settled long before we expect to go. Erik and I have talked about what will happen when he dies. He wanted ye back in case he doesna live to see his sons grown. And that was before the raids. He’s told me he’s pleased with the both of ye and wants ye to stay. He’s even picked a bride for ye.”

Gannon shook his head. “I’ll pick my own woman. It’s the one luxury a poor man has.”

“Ye’re not poor anymore.”

“I own no land.”

“Easily solved.” Rory leaned back. “Ye are descended from kings on both sides, the two of ye. Did ye think ye would not be asked to serve yer people? Ye must have kent when I became chief last year that I would call upon ye. I let ye have a few months to mourn yer mother, but now I need ye. Antrim must be kept strong, or we’re vulnerable on that coast, and if anything happens to Erik, we’re vulnerable at Haraldsholm. Half of ye is Irish; I want the leadership in Antrim to be held by someone whose loyalties will be aligned with mine.”

“So how is it we’re here in Scotland if yer plan is to keep Antrim strong?”

“Originally I’d planned only to get Ross’s help in finding whoever committed the Antrim raids—someday it may be important that ye and William have met. But hearing of the raids on his lands and finding Somerstrath like this…it changes everything. Now I think I’ll need ye here in Scotland for a bit.”

“Why?”

“With Somerstrath gone, Ross will need to have this part of the coast secured. Rufus is not strong enough to gather the other clans to him; and after meeting Rignor, I’m quite sure they’ll not follow him either. Which means William might well put someone else in here, and I want whoever it is to be friendly with us. So I think ye’ll be staying.”

“And if we don’t agree?” Gannon asked.

Rory’s grin was wolfish. “I’m yer overlord. What is there to say? Ye’ll stay here while I need ye here. And if ye need more convincing, well, laddie, ye’ve kent me a long time. What d’ye think I’d do?”

Gannon laughed. “Make our lives difficult.”

“Ye can count on it.”

M
argaret! Wake up!”

She opened her eyes with a surprised gasp.

“Ye were asleep, Margaret,” Fergus said. “In the day.”

Margaret laughed and sat up, pulling the boy into her arms. “So I was.” She hugged him, enjoying the little body curling against her, the smell of sunshine and earth in his hair
.

“I get tired, too,” Fergus said, dropping his head to her shoulder
.

“Of course ye do,” she told him. “We all do.”

“Mother should take a nap. Like ye did.”

“She should indeed.”

“Let’s go and tell her, Margaret. Let’s go! Hurry. Hurry!”

Margaret heard the rain as she dragged herself from her warm bed, pulling her cloak tighter around her when the cool wind sought her skin. She had to tell Mother something. But why was she sleeping in her cloak? And why was the mattress on the floor instead of the bedstead? She was too sleepy to think why, and climbed over some obstruction to get to the door.
Mother will be furious at Nell for leaving such a mess. In the morning I’ll tell her to clean it all up
.

She brushed her hair back from her face, surprised that she’d not braided it before she slept, and pulled the door open. But the door was already open, or part of it, was, hanging down in splintery pieces. She put a hand on the doorjamb as her mind cleared.

Dear God. It was a dream. But so real, as though Fergus…
She tightened her grip as her body swayed.
They’re all gone. The mattress is on the floor because the bedstead was chopped like firewood, and I’m sleeping in my cloak because I was too weary
—
and too afraid
—
to change into nightclothes because the keep is full of strangers and we have no real door on this room
—
and part of me is terrified that the Norsemen will return. The wind is pouring in because the window covering is gone, too, as though the raiders had been frenzied, taking things that could do them no good, or simply destroying for the sake of destruction. It was a wonder they’d left the bedcoverings
.

On the mattress behind her, Nell slept on, one hand under her cheek, the other tucked under her chin. She looked like a child. She was a child. Or had been, for what they saw yesterday had aged them all. Margaret backed from the doorway, hit her ankle on the debris on the floor, and stood, frozen, while her mind tumbled. It had seemed so real, so important…Or was this the dream? Would she awaken from the nightmare to stare into the gloom of near morning, wondering what monster had sent such visions? She felt a wave of hysteria, a wildness, threaten to overcome her. She fought it so that she wouldn’t tear her hair and throw herself on the ground writhing, wouldn’t rage at God and demand an explanation, wouldn’t insist that He return Davey unharmed, wouldn’t remember that she’d refused to do the last thing her parents had asked of her. How simple a request it seemed now, to carry out the promises made at her birth. But she’d parted from them, and from Fiona, in anger. She took deep breaths, willing her heart to stop pounding and her hands to stop trembling, and closed her mouth tightly so she wouldn’t scream. And eventually the wildness withdrew.

The hallway was empty, the silver sheen of rain lit from behind as she passed the thin window slit on the stairs. It must be closer to morning than she’d thought. Her room faced west, and it had been dim there, but here, twelve steps up the stairway, outside her parents’ room, the light was better. It was here that the sun usually announced its presence each day, one of the reasons her mother had kept this window uncovered in the summer, refusing to let the oiled leather be lowered until the winds of autumn arrived. But no sun greeted her this day. She pushed open the door of her parents’ room.

She did not know how long she cried, or how long she lay there afterward, staring into space, shorn of all emotion. Eventually she slept. When she woke, stiff and weary, she rose, and without a backward glance, left the room, closing the door with a finality that seemed to ring through the keep. She climbed the stairs, past the room that had been her brothers’, past the smaller room that Rignor had shared with no one.

But there she stopped, for the roof was gone and the stairs crumbled with ashes. And in the space where there had once been a door leading to the parapet, a man stood, silhouetted against the rain.

Gannon turned at her cry, a shuddering, horror-filled noise that was little more than a gasp. Margaret stood there, her hands clasped over her perfect breasts, her eyes wide, her face gray in the dim light. She put a hand against the stone wall as though to steady herself.

“Margaret. Dinna fear, lass. It’s only me, Gannon.” When she did not move, he climbed down the few steps that separated them. “It’s just me.”

Her voice was a harsh whisper. “Why are ye up here?”

“I’m looking at the rain is all. I couldna sleep.”

“Nor I…I keep wondering where Davey is this night.”

“Ah, lass, ye need to face it. The boy’s gone.”

“Ye’re so certain! All of ye, so certain that he’s dead! Or taken by them. But what if ye’re wrong? What if he’s out there, in the rain? What if he’s huddled under a tree, wondering when all of ye will leave? Did ye ever think of that? Did ye ever…?” She paused, as though a sudden thought had struck her, then continued, her voice calmer. “He could still be here.”

“All right. Let’s say he could be. There are a score or so missing, right?”

“Aye.”

“If ye’d been here and escaped…where would ye run?”

“To Inverstrath. The next village. Rufus would take us in…”

“Then we’ll go there and look.”

She studied him, wondering how one moment he was a foe, then suddenly an ally. And how much she wanted to let her fear and antagonism go. “Ye would do that for us?”

“I would do that for ye, Margaret.”

His words shook her, but she tried not to let it show. “Thank ye. Rignor will be himself in the morning; he’ll thank ye as well.”

“I’d prefer he dinna.”

Anger flashed in her eyes. “He’s no’ the idiot ye make him out to be. Anyone would do as he did. It’s naught but a bit too much to drink.”

“He wasna drunk when he killed the Viking. And not everyone would do as he did. Ye dinna.”

“He was overcome with grief.”

Gannon raised an eyebrow. “And ye’re not?”

“Grief takes people different ways.”

“I heard ye crying when I passed yer mother’s room.” He watched her realization that he had seen her huddled on the floor, sobbing. “Ye fair broke my heart, Margaret. That’s what grief sounds like. I’ve seen Nell’s tears as well, and the way she seems so lost. That’s what grief feels like. I’ve seen nothing like that from him.”

“He is grieving!”

“The first thing he thought of when he saw yer father’s body was that he had inherited the title. That’s grief?”

“He was drinking when he said that.”

“So which am I to believe, then? His unguarded words with a head full of liquor, or his guarded words when he’s sober? Which will tell me he’s grieving?”

“Perhaps ye dinna ken what grief feels like.”

“I…” He stepped back from her, his emotions far too close to the surface. He waited until he could speak evenly. “When they raided Antrim they attacked two villages, both on my uncle’s lands. I kent everyone who died. I helped to bury them. I was five when both of my grandfathers died on the same day, ten when my grandmother died. Years ago I buried my father and my brothers, and last winter I buried my mother. I do ken what grief feels like. And I ken what’s before ye, the years of wondering ‘what if,’ of wondering why ye were the one to live and they the ones to die. The times ye’ll start to tell them something, only to realize ye’ll never tell them anything again. The times when a song, or a color, or a torque on a Norseman, will bring back memories ye’d thought ye’d forgotten and make ye long for times that will never come again…”

He stopped, furious with himself. All these years, all the people he’d talked to about his father and brothers…he’d never let his emotions rule him like that. Margaret was staring at him, her mouth partly open. Why her? Why now?

“I’m sorry,” he said, feeling like a fool.

“No,” she said. “No. Dinna be.”

She reached to stroke his cheek, her touch soft, then gone. How long had it been since a woman touched him in simple tenderness? He had a sudden urge to clasp her to him, to feel that soft body against his. To stroke his hand over her curves and to touch that skin. To let her comfort him. Instead, he simply looked at her.

“It is I who am sorry,” she said. “I had no idea of yer losses. I’ve only been thinking of ours. I should have kent ye’d lost people in the Antrim raids. I’m sorry.”

He nodded, afraid to say anything more. Behind them the rain slowed, then became mere drops falling on the stones. He could see her better now, could see where streaks of tears had crossed her cheeks. They had both faced death. He had done it before, but he suspected this was her first brush with it.

When she spoke her tone was calmer. “Were the Antrim raids like this?”

“They were much smaller.”

“Were ye there?”

“No. I was away. Inland. If I’d been in Antrim…”

“D’ye think ye could have made a difference? Ye’re just two men.”

“We might have made a difference.”

“Ye canna know that.”

“No,” he said. “I will never ken that.”

She did not try to sleep when she returned to her room. The conversation with Gannon kept repeating itself in her head. Who was this man, who could be cold one moment, flaming with emotion the next? Who talked of death easily, yet, as he’d done in the village, averted his eyes from the body of a woman or child, his eyes haunted? Who watched her every movement with hunger in his eyes? And was kind to Nell, yet made no attempt to hide his contempt for Rignor?

Her brother was suffering, of that she was sure. And yet…he’d not cried, had not talked of the horror of what they’d seen. His first thought had been that he’d inherited Somerstrath. She shook her head, sure she was being far too harsh on him, concentrating instead on what she’d remembered while she’d talked with Gannon, that there was one place at Somerstrath that Davey might yet be, one place he might run to seek shelter.

She should go now, while most slept, before anyone else was about. She touched Nell’s shoulder. “I’m going to look for Davey. I willna be long.”

Nell’s eyes flew open. “Don’t leave, me, Margaret!”

“I’ll be back. I promise ye, I’ll be back. And God willing, with Davey.”

“I’ll come with ye.”

“No, I’ll need ye here, to tell them I’m still asleep, or in the garderobe…whatever ye need to tell them. Just dinna let them come after me.”

Nell nodded then, and Margaret slipped out of the room, pulling the remains of the battered door closed as though it could protect her sister. She paused, listening; all was quiet in the keep. No one stopped her as she descended, no one saw her pause outside the hall. Rignor was here, near the door, his snores letting her know she could expect no help there. Downstairs, on the ground floor, the men on guard merely nodded to her; no one moved to block her passage. She did not pause for more than an instant, did not look at them or at the bodies of her family. But she had seen the pity in their eyes. She looked only straight ahead as she walked through the village, not down when she needed to step over an obstacle, telling herself it was not a person she’d known all her life but an obstacle.

In the upper village, hidden from view from the keep, she called Davey’s name as quietly as she could, then stood listening, her skin prickling with the sensation of being watched. Last night she had been disdainful, would not even listen when O’Neill had talked of human ravens, scavengers who would come and pick the bones of Somerstrath clean. But this morning, in the half-light of dawn, she thought of the Viking they’d found. She’d been a fool to think, even for a moment, that she and Nell and Rignor could stay here.

She headed southeast, quiet now, not calling for her brother, but hurrying, knowing it would not be long before she was missed. She turned from the wider path onto a much smaller one that wound through the trees and up a gentle slope, not slowing her pace at all. Nor did she pause when she parted the branches of a huge fir tree and scurried beneath it.

The glade was just the same as Margaret had remembered it, even after years of absence. There was the pool, water spilling into it from the burn above, and there the opening of the cave. She stood for a moment at the edge of the small space, inhaling the fecund mixture of rich soil and luxuriant growth, while images flowed over her, of being a child here, playing with Fiona, making dolls of sticks, with clothing of leaves. The houses they’d made from branches, and wreaths of flowers for their hair. Of Davey’s excitement, his whispered delight, when he’d told her of the secret cave he and Ewan had found. She’d never told him that she already knew the spot, that probably countless generations of Somerstrath children each thought they were the first to discover it.

She called Davey’s name, then waited, hearing only the murmur of the water, the wind sliding through the pine branches above her head, and through the ferns that grew as tall as her waist. She pushed them aside and peered into the shallow cave. “Davey,” she whispered.

There was no answer. The cave was empty, its stone floor covered with moss. No footprints had disturbed that surface to give her hope, no small voice answered hers. Grief overwhelmed her, and she retreated to stand by the pool, trembling, then sank to the ground. Some part of her had believed that he would be here, that she would find him safe. She lowered her face into her hands, but before she could let her tears claim her, she froze with fear at the unmistakable sound of a sword being unsheathed.

“Dinna move, ye filthy Viking!” a rough voice shouted angrily.