On a Highland Shore (17 page)

Nell turned from the window; Margaret had been gone a long time. At first she’d dozed, then woke fully as she’d heard the sounds of men moving in the courtyard. Perhaps Margaret had already returned, was even now busy below. Nell dressed quickly and peered through the window slit another time. She could not see Margaret, or Rignor, only Irishmen moving about in the courtyard, but that was to be expected since her view was so limited. She would go down and find out.

The first thing she saw when she opened the remains of the door was Tiernan. He leaned against the opposite wall and smiled at her, as though waiting outside her door was an everyday occurrence.

“Good morning,” he said cheerfully.

She threw him a doubtful look as she stepped into the hallway. “Good morning. Have ye seen Margaret?”

“Not today.”

She thanked him and started for the stairs. He followed. She stopped and he stopped. She frowned at him, not bothering to hide her suspicion. “Are ye following me?”

He nodded. “I am guarding ye.”

“Why?”

“Well…Rory O’Neill told me to.”

“And ye always do what he says?”

“I do. Rory is the chief of all Ulster. He’s like yer uncle William. If William told ye to do something, ye’d do it, aye?”

Nell nodded slowly. “Aye.”

“And before Rory told me to guard ye, my brother had done the same.”

“And ye always do what Gannon says as well?”

“Not always. But he’s a fair bit older than me, so usually I do what he says or pay the price for it.”

“Does he beat you?”

The corner of Tiernan’s mouth curved upward. “Oh, aye, something fierce.”

Nell gave him a look of disdain. “He does not.”

Tiernan laughed. “No, he doesna beat me. I’m a bit old for that, aye?”

“Then what does he do to ye?”

“Makes me feel bad about not doing what he asked.”

Nell sighed. “Margaret does the same.”

“And so ye do what she says, aye?”

“Usually. Do yer parents make ye obey him?”

Tiernan’s expression sobered. “My father was killed years ago. My mother died last winter. Neither of us has married, so it’s only me and Gannon left.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“So, ye see, we ken, Gannon and me, some of what ye’re feeling.”

Her eyes widened. “Aye.”

“It’s frightening, isn’t it, to have yer world change so quickly?”

“Aye.”

“Rory will see that ye get to yer uncle’s safely.”

“Rignor says we should stay here.”

“Aye, well, yer brother says a lot of things when he’s drinking.”

“Margaret wants to wait to see if Davey or the others come back.”

“We canna stay, and ye’re not safe here without us, Nell.”

“But we canna leave until we find Davey!”

He said nothing, but she could see his pity, his obvious belief that they would not find her brother. She stared at him for a moment, her mind in a whirl, then started down the stairs. “I have to find Margaret.”

He followed her silently.

The hall was almost empty, but Rignor and Rory O’Neill were there, leaning over the table, looking at a map spread before them. Rignor pointed at something, then looked up as Nell and Tiernan approached.

“Where’s Margaret?” Rignor demanded.

“She went looking for Davey. A long time ago,” Nell said.

“She’ll be fine,” O’Neill said. “She’s being guarded.”

Rignor spun around. “Why was I not told?”

“Because ye were sleeping,” the older man said briskly, rising to his feet. “This map helped. Now, show me where ye buried the head ye found.”

Rignor was sullen, but he did as O’Neill asked, leading the Irishman, and Nell and Tiernan, from the keep to the graveyard where O’Neill’s men were busy digging long shallow graves. O’Neill did not need Rignor to point anything out; his men called him over to an open shallow hole.

O’Neill reached into the ground and pulled the head out by its hair, holding it high for all to see. Nell, her stomach roiling, turned away. If the head had been hideous then, it was a thousand times worse now.

“Norseman.” O’Neill spit the words.

“What does it mean?” Tiernan asked. “How did he get here?”

Nell heard a thud, and O’Neill walked past her, wiping his empty hands on his thighs. His men shoveled dirt back into the hole.

“That man did not die in his bed; he died in battle, and not too long ago. I think that they took their dead from Antrim out to sea and dumped them there.” O’Neill moved away, giving orders as he left.

Rignor moved to Nell’s side. “Dinna be fooled by him, Nell, nor by Gannon. Somehow they plan to gain from this.”

“What would they gain?”

“My land. Who wouldna want Somerstrath? Ye’re young, little sister. I think they lie with every breath.” Rignor stalked toward the gate.

Tiernan’s voice behind her was quiet but firm. “Gannon doesna lie. Rory doesna lie. And none of us want Somerstrath.”

Nell whirled around, realizing that he’d heard their conversation. His gaze held hers for a moment, then she looked away.

Margaret spun around. Just outside the glade, in the shadow of the pines that towered over the pathway, stood Rufus of Inverstrath, a circle of his men, weapons drawn, around Gannon. She’d had no idea anyone was following her.

“We caught the bastard,” Rufus said. “He was following ye, Lady Margaret, the Viking swine. God only kens what he meant to do.”

Gannon’s gaze met hers, his eyes a deep blue. If she said the word, Rufus’s men would kill him, or try to. She could see his knowledge of that in his eyes—and, of all things, impatience. But not fear. How could he be so calm? Who was this man, who did not cringe with a blade at his throat, who watched her with such intensity? She moved closer to him, to be sure Rufus’s men did not harm him.

“Put up yer weapons, Rufus,” she said, more calmly than she felt.

“Have ye gone daft, Margaret MacDonald? Somerstrath has been attacked and this Viking was following ye and ye want us to put up our weapons?”

“He’s not a Viking,” she said. “He’s Irish.”

Rufus gave Gannon a skeptical appraisal. “What’s an Irishman who looks like this doing here just the now? If he’s Irish, I’m an elephant. I dinna believe it.”

“He’s here with Rory O’Neill. Put yer weapons down, Rufus.”

Rufus ignored her, turning to Gannon. “Why were ye following her?”

Gannon’s tone was calm. “I followed her to protect her.”

Rufus snorted. “It’s ye who needs protection, Norseman. Ye might notice that it’s ye at the wrong end of the sword. And who are ye protecting her from?”

“The likes of ye. How d’we ken it wasna ye who attacked Somerstrath?”

Rufus’s men exchanged looks. Several moved closer to Gannon.

“That’s absurd, Gannon,” Margaret said. “This is Rufus MacDonald, from Inverstrath; he’s my father’s tacksman. Rufus, how is it that ye’re here?”

“Some of yer people came to us in the night, telling tales of Norsemen.”

“Was Davey among them? How many came to ye?”

“Twelve is all, lass. And no, he wasna.”

“Twelve.” The word hung in the air between them. Only twelve people had escaped to Inverstrath? “Who?”

As Rufus said the names, Margaret did the tally in her head. There were the twelve at Inverstrath. Those at the shielings. And the Somerstrath dead. All were accounted for—except five small boys.

“Did they tell ye aught of Davey?” she asked.

“Aye.” Rufus’s mouth twisted but he met her gaze. “The Norsemen took him with them. Some of yer people saw them. They took him and a few others and put them in the dragonships.”

“Dragonships.”

She looked at Gannon. Rufus’s man leaned closer to him now, the tip of his sword against Gannon’s neck. Gannon’s stance shifted, and his fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword. He turned his gaze from Margaret to Rufus for a long moment, then, without warning, whirled on the man behind him. Margaret gasped and stifled a scream. One twist, one swift kick and the man was on the ground, his sword in the dirt. Gannon put a foot on the man’s chest and held his sword at the man’s throat, staring at the others, his blue eyes cold, his gaze calculating, his body ready.

She’d known that Gannon was a strong man and assumed that he could defend himself quite ably; but she’d been unprepared for the swiftness of his attack, for the murderous look that had come into his eyes, for how easily he’d subdued Rufus’s man, who lay on the ground, his eyes bulging as he looked up at Gannon. There was a nervous muttering among Rufus’s men, but none moved.

“Get back,” Gannon said. “Margaret, get yerself behind me.”

She shook her head. “I ken these men. They willna harm me.”

Rufus was unshaken. “Irish, ye say. Interesting time for a visit.”

“There were raids in Antrim,” Gannon answered, “smaller than here, but still brutal. We came to tell Ross and discovered he’d had raids of his own.”

“On Ross land?” Rufus asked.

“Aye.”

Rufus nodded to himself, as though verifying something. “I’d heard as much. Let my man up.”

“Tell the rest of yer men to back away.”

“Not until that one is safe. Ye canna escape all of us.”

“I’m no’ trying to escape.”

“Let him go, Gannon,” Margaret said. When he ignored her, she turned to Rufus. “His name is Gannon MacMagnus. Between them he and O’Neill have over two hundred men at Somerstrath and three ships on the beach. Ye must have come overland or ye would have seen them.”

Rufus heard her warning. “Aye, we did.”

“Let him up, Gannon,” she said.

Gannon gestured to Rufus’s men, who still held their swords at the ready.

“Rufus,” she said.

There was a long moment in which Rufus and Gannon stared at each other, then Rufus gestured for his men to lower their weapons; they did so with obvious displeasure and distrust of him. Gannon watched them for a moment, then sheathed his sword, the blade sliding into place with an icy sound that made her shiver. The man on the ground scrambled to his feet, his face gray.

Rufus put out his hand to Gannon. “No harm done, aye?”

“No harm done,” Gannon said as he took Rufus’s hand.

Rufus turned to Margaret then. “Come, lass, let’s find yer Rory O’Neill.” He led the way toward the village, his men at his heels, moving quickly away from Gannon, but with glances over their shoulders at him.

Margaret stared at Gannon for a moment, thinking of the man who had wrapped his arms protectively around her in Fiona’s house. Who had followed her this morning. Who could kill as easily as he could walk.

Rufus cleared his throat. “Come, lass,” he called.

She did, leaving Gannon where he was. She had not intended to turn to see if he followed; but of course she did. And of course he was there, his gait sure, his gaze on her.

The Irishmen’s horns sounded hollow in the sudden mist that swept over the village, closing the graveyard from the sky and muting the sounds of shovels digging into soil. Margaret stood with Nell and Rignor, her hand in her sister’s, unmindful of the moisture collecting on her clothing, watching through a tunnel of regret as the bodies of her parents and brothers were carried by strangers, her heart matching the slow beats of the drums. The horns sounded again, and the bodies were carefully placed on the ground.

They would be buried in the same grave. Her father was first, the thane of Somerstrath no more, just a broken man who had died violently and in vain, his sacrifice not enough to protect his family nor keep his people safe. The Irishmen lay him in the middle of the hollow, handing his sword to Rignor, the simple motion conveying the title of Somerstrath and all that meant. Her mother was next, her swollen body still discernible beneath the coverings.

A brother or a sister I’ll never ken. And there’s Ewan, brave lad, still a boy, but dying with a sword in his hand. And Cawley, just learning about the world. And Fergus, only four years on this earth, a bairn still, who died in terror, cringing in a corner while the world went mad.
She looked up at the sun, hiding behind the mist as though it could not face this task either.
And somewhere out there, God kens where, is Davey
.

The drum beat again, slowly, the sound curling through her body and up the side of the ruined keep, to soar, finally, into the heavens, taking with it, she prayed, the souls of her family, to reside at last at the right hand of God. Rignor stood stiffly at her side, and Nell sobbed loudly, but Margaret felt nothing, just a numbness that made it all feel like a dream, as though she watched this happening to someone else. It was not real. It could not be real, for if it were, she did not know what next to do.

She tried to listen as Rory O’Neill said a few prayers, but her mind wandered, remembering small moments. Fergus handing her a flower before she left. Father, holding Nell as an infant, her tiny finger wrapped around his, telling Margaret that she’d looked just the same when she was a bairn. Fiona’s face, twisted with anger when they parted. The day Ewan had been born and she’d first tasted whisky, her father so delighted with his second son that he’d stood on the parapet and sung to the moon. Cawley dancing in the waves, his head thrown back and arms wide with delight. Her mother, large with child, leaning into the light to finish the hem on one of the gowns Margaret would bring to her new life. The hall, full of music and laughter while the rain pounded on the roof and no one heard. Was that all that life was, a series of images, threaded together by a common cord, whether of blood tie or love?

She did not hear the drumbeats end, but suddenly realized that Rory O’Neill was watching her and Rignor and Nell, waiting for them to do something. Rignor stepped forward, lifted a handful of soil, and dropped it slowly onto the bodies, then took a shovel from an Irishman and began to fill the grave. As Margaret bent to lift another shovel, Gannon stepped forward, taking it from her without a word. She met his gaze briefly before he looked down into the grave. She stepped back. The wind rose, from the sea this time, bringing the smell of the water, clean, untainted by death, the sun just behind it, warming the air quickly, steam rising from the ground and their clothing.