On a Highland Shore (18 page)

She could not bear to watch her family disappear from her forever. She looked at the trees that lined the graveyard instead, at the mountains visible between the boughs. At Gannon’s bright hair, spilling across his shoulders as he lifted the dark soil in rhythmic strokes that matched Rignor’s. She would remember this all her life, she knew, the sound of the scrape of the shovel through soil, the soft tumbling of the dirt, Nell’s anguished sobs, and her own tears running unchecked down her cheeks. She would remember Rignor’s face, harsh with grief. Tiernan’s shaky breathing, Rory O’Neill wiping his eyes. And Gannon’s hair catching the sunlight.

He will be golden
. She shook, as though she’d been touched. The old woman’s voice had sounded so clear, so near. She looked around, sure that others had heard it, but no one seemed to have. Except for Gannon, who paused to look at her as though he, too, had heard the words. She looked away, but the echoes lingered.

He will bring life after death
.

They buried Inghinn and her babe next, her father’s bastard tiny in the ground. The prayers were fewer this time, and again Gannon helped fill the grave. She watched him again, unable to tear her gaze away from his golden hair, from the golden wristbands he wore, to the woven armbands revealed when he’d shed his shirt, bands that tightened on the muscles of his arms as he worked.
He will be golden
.

Hours later, when they’d buried all the Somerstrath dead, Margaret walked numbly through the village toward the harbor. They would sail with the tide to Inverstrath, where Rufus had vowed to provide them with a decent meal and a safe bed. She tried not to look at the empty houses they were passing, not to name those who had lived behind each door, not to remember running though these streets as a girl, when death had only been a word talked about in low tones by adults. At Fiona’s door Nell paused, her face ashen, but Margaret kept walking.

She let one of O’Neill’s men carry her from the shingle and hand her to the waiting hands that brought her aboard O’Neill’s ship, while behind her another carried Nell. Some of Rufus’s men would travel overland to Inverstrath with the ponies, but the rest climbed into O’Neill’s second ship, Gannon and Tiernan into their own.
Gannon’s Lady
, his ship was named. She could not look at the Norse runes that decorated his ship’s railings, tried not to see the mixture of Celtic and Norse symbols carved into the wood.

She stood in the stern of O’Neill’s ship with Rignor and Nell while O’Neill’s men pushed the ship deeper into the water. She shivered as a cool wind came suddenly from the west, pushing clouds forward to cover the sun and drain the very color from Somerstrath, leaving it gray and silent, as though the wind that raced through the homes and into the mountains had come simply to take with it the last traces of life.
How can we leave?
She glanced at Rignor, whose expression was ravaged.

“We’ll be back,” she assured him. “We’ll rebuild it all.” Her words sounded thin and false. He did not respond.

O’Neill’s men rowed the ship away from shore. The sail was being raised now, the canvas fluttering, then filling as the wind lifted it, but Margaret looked only at her home, not even turning when at last the tide caught the ship, gliding it through the arms of the harbor and to the open sea. The men rested on their oars, staring with her at the remains of Somerstrath. First the trees at the foot of the glen faded from view, then the houses, one by one melding into a gray mass. Only the keep and the burnt bones of her father’s ships on the beach were visible now, the ribs of their hulls dark and naked, as though they’d died on the strand like beached whales.

You’ll be torn from your home…

The girl who had scoffed uneasily at an old woman’s words was gone. This was what the woman had meant, this time, these deeds.
You’ll face dragons
.

Margaret looked across the water to Gannon’s ship. A dragonship. A man with golden dragons around his neck. As though she’d called him, Gannon turned to meet her gaze. The sun caught his hair again, lighting it and the gold of the brooch at his shoulder.

You’ll face dragons. You need to prepare yourself.

Margaret crossed herself. This was only the beginning.

T
he Norseman sailed home with his ships full of plunder and his mood triumphant. Six raids, the one on Somerstrath the most successful of all. As he entered the harbor he raised his hand and made an obscene gesture to the sky. Then beached his ships and strode ashore.

His men bragged that they’d left no one alive in Somerstrath. Which was true, except for the five small captives they’d taken. He was pleased. A few more raids and all of Ireland and Scotland would know of him. The Scots and Irish would have one summer of terror, then a winter of worry. And next spring, when he sent his men to demand gold in lieu of a visit from his dragonships, they would all scramble to pay.

The scheme was not new. It was as ancient as men; he was simply one more in a grand line of warriors, stretching back to the dawn of time, who took what they desired from those too weak to prevent them. Men would flock to join him and soon, when the gold came to him with no effort but transport, he’d be powerful and noteworthy. The leaders of these islands, the thane of Orkney, even the kings of Ireland and Scotland and Norway, would know he was a force to be reckoned with. His bloodline of Vikings and warriors would be carried forward by the children he would father, mixing with those of the women he chose to receive his seed. His name and his blood would live forever. Who could ask for more? His success was sweeter than he’d expected, not the least for the discomfort it brought his brother. Ander had watched his homecoming with a sour expression.

That night the Norseman had slept in his father’s house, and no one as much as commented, let alone tried to stop him. He slept well, enjoying the comforts of his father’s bed as much as the symbolism of his presence there. He was joined by one of his favorite women, the wife of a man who had accompanied him on the raids, and none gainsayed him there either. She told him that sharing his bed was now a goal for many of the women; he gave her a necklace for it.

The next evening he hosted a great feast that most on the island attended, some delighted to be included, some fearful of declining the invitation. Throughout the evening, he dispensed gifts to show these people he could be as generous as he was ruthless. His nephew Drason received a woolen cloak lined with fur that had been taken from Somerstrath. But before his nephew could do more than unfold it, his brother ripped it from Drason’s hands and threw it across the room, shouting that neither he nor his family would accept gifts from a murderer.

“Calm yourself, Ander,” the Norseman said, his tone disdainful. He smiled to hide his anger. “I have simply done what you were unwilling to do—brought your son the finery he deserves. When he’s old enough to grow a beard he’ll get his own. Until then he must rely on me, for you’re too timid to do it.”

“Finery!” Ander shouted, holding the cloak high. “This was stolen from a man who never did you harm, whose only sin was to live close to the shore.”

“Those foolish enough not to protect themselves lose what they have.”

“Including their lives?”

“Including their lives. I do not set the laws of nature, Ander. I merely observe them and act accordingly. Some of us are brave enough to face the world; others risk nothing and wait at home in safety. Which are you, brother?”

“You twist words! What you have done is not brave, it is barbaric.”

“Someone must feed our people. I don’t see you doing that.”

“We are not starving.”

“We are one bad harvest from it. One needs to plan for the future, Ander, not simply let it come. Unlike you, I am thinking of more than my own household. Someone must keep our people well fed and safe. And if, in doing that, we also bring our own people some small luxuries, who are you to oppose it?”

Ander made a disgusted sound and stormed out of the building. His son, with a glance over his shoulder, followed. The Norseman called for music and more wine, his tone untroubled, as though he were not seething inside at his brother’s opposition.

But Ander was not the only one openly to oppose him that night. When the island’s priest arrived, fresh from seeing a soul into the afterlife, the Norseman offered him Somerstrath’s golden chalices and the priest’s vestments embroidered with golden thread found with them.

“I will accept none of these things.” The priest glowered at those who had taken part in the raids. “What you have done is wrong; you must repent and return these whence you have stolen them, then ask God to forgive you.”

The Norseman pretended not to hear the murmurs of his guests. “Does God not give us each tools with which to live our lives, Father?”

“He does.”

“So, if God has given me the mind and the will to take these things from a priest who did not keep them protected, are my actions not God’s will? How do you know He did not wish me to do exactly as I have done, to bring them to you to treasure and protect? If God had not wanted me to raid Antrim and Scotland, He would have stopped me, Father. He did not; I cannot think that He wants me to do other than what I have done.”

The priest’s face grew scarlet. “What you have done is not God’s will.”

“How do you know? Perhaps God has provided them for you, through me. God did not smite me down, Father, nor did Christ protect the former owner of these. You may have misunderstood God’s intent. Perhaps He meant for me to do exactly as I did, and perhaps you are very wrong in not accepting these as His gifts through me.”

“You risk the fires of Hell.”

“I am doing God’s will.”

“Blasphemy! Heresy!” the priest cried, drawing himself taller. “You will be punished for your sins. You will all be punished. I beg you, in God’s name, to stop the killing. I demand it! God demands it!”

An uneasy murmur ran through the people.

The Norseman laughed. “If God wants me to stop raiding, He will stop me. Until then, I will do as I wish.”

“Perhaps God will be more merciful with you than you have been with those poor souls you have murdered. I cannot stay to see any more of this.” The priest rushed from the building.

The Norseman clapped his hands. “More wine! We have much to celebrate!” He ignored the looks the people exchanged among themselves. Fools! The course was set; this was no time for hesitation. He felt no remorse, only a sense that he was fulfilling the destiny set out for him. In time, they would see how correct he was; they’d praise him for his forethought and wisdom; his name would be listed among the great leaders of his people.

In the morning the priest was gone.

The next few days were calmer, as the men of the island returned to their usual tasks. Life returned to normal. Almost. Ander’s glowing anger did not diminish with time but burned brighter. The Norseman knew his brother talked behind his back, and that, as the glow of triumph from the raids faded, his words would have more impact. He needed another successful raid. And he had to silence Ander.

Those who had accompanied him on the raids swaggered through the village and talked of future trips. Those who had stayed behind were divided into two camps—those who wished they’d gone and those who were horrified by what had been done. Arguments were becoming commonplace. The Norseman ignored them. Let them argue, he told himself. And fight each other if they would. The strongest and most ruthless would win and they were the ones he wanted with him. These voyages were not for the faint of heart. Which was why neither of his brothers was here with him now.

To those who muttered comments criticizing him, those who were brave enough to make their distaste public, he showed contempt and his men followed his example. Some left, abandoning homes and farms, and he gave their holdings to others. He told himself he was a man of vision. He wore fine linen, new bands of gold on each arm and a thick Irish torque around his neck. His home was decorated with the rugs and chairs they’d taken on the raids. He feasted on olives from Sicily and oranges from Spain, courtesy of the laird of Somerstrath. At night his bed was shared and his body well served. These rewards were rightly his.

Men came from other islands to talk, some to join him, some bringing with them stories of others now planning similar attacks. His fame had spread, and his followers increased threefold, and he pointed this out to his brother with a self-satisfied tone. Ander glowered, and the brothers argued again, loudly and publicly, their shouts ringing through the hall. It could not go on, this public opposition.

And it did not. He killed Ander. He’d had no choice.

It had been so very simple. Late one afternoon he called his brother to him, greeting Ander warmly and offering him wine, saying that they needed peace between them. Ander would have none of it at first, telling the Norseman that he must stop the raids, send the men from the other islands home, and call back the priest. The Norseman had agreed to all, pretending that he regretted what he had done, telling Ander that he now understood that he had offended God with his actions, that the priest had been right in damning him. And begging Ander’s help in setting it all right. Ander had believed him. And paid with his life.

His brother should have been wary—his accusations of murder had been correct, after all—and yet Ander had been so easy to fool. The Norseman, on the pretense of going to talk to the priest, had lured Ander on to his small boat. On the way out to sea Ander had said that the priest would not be easily found. The Norseman amused himself by agreeing—the priest, his body weighted and probably already eaten by sea creatures—would be very difficult to find.

Ander never saw the blow that struck his head. He died without a sound. It had been so simple then, to tie the ropes around the notched stones he’d thought to bring, then around Ander’s body, to push him, heavy and awkward in death, over the railing and into the water. He sank quickly, silently, only the slightest disturbance of the water to mark his passing, a circle of ripples that were soon caught by the current and torn apart.

The Norseman watched the water until the surface was calm, then raised his fist to the sky. “Take that, old man,” he roared. “And you as well, brothers.” He smiled at the thought that his father and Thorfinn might know what he’d just done. His father might have understood. The old man had mellowed in his last years, faltered, but he’d once been a formidable warrior; he might have embraced his plan and seen in it the future of his people, the reclamation of his own legacy. But his brothers? The Norseman spit into the water. Good riddance.

No one ever spoke of seeing them leave the village together. The hue began at nightfall, when Ander’s wife Eldrid came to him, asking for Ander, saying the last time she saw her husband he was coming to the Norseman’s home. He spread his hands wide and shrugged, saying that he and Ander had argued and Ander had left a short time later. None of his guards said otherwise, though they exchanged glances with each other. He’d chosen his men well.

One day passed with no trace of Ander, and while Eldrid wept and shouted that he’d killed his brother, the Norseman stayed calm. The next day he called her to him, sending his men away. When she began her foul accusations, he slapped her, once, then again across her mouth. She gasped and held her hands before her. He slapped them away, then shoved her against the wall and leaned heavily against her, keeping his voice very quiet.

“Listen to me carefully,” he said. “If you accuse me again of killing Ander, by word or deed, or even by so much as a look, Eldrid, I will kill Drason.”

Her eyes grew wider and her mouth fell open. “You wouldn’t. He’s your nephew.”

“It’s your choice.”

“I’ll tell the world.”

“Then you will mourn your son as you now mourn your husband.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but he covered it with his, and slowly, with great care to detail, ripped her clothing from her. She fought him, but he was stronger and when he took his knife and ran it along her shoulder, she stopped moving. He watched the thin line of blood, vivid against her pale skin, roll from her collarbone to her breast. He dipped his finger in the blood and stroked it along her lips, looking into her eyes.

“A token, Eldrid, of what’s to come if you talk.”

She whimpered and fell limp against him. He took her there, brutally but quickly, leaving her in a crumpled heap on the floor when he was finished.

She did not accuse him again.

Gannon shaded his eyes against the glare off the water, scanning the horizon for sails. Nothing. He’d not expected to see any sign of a dragonship, but he looked anyway, enjoying the empty sea. He let his gaze drift along the shoreline; they were almost to Inverstrath. The journey had been short and uneventful; Somerstrath’s children had sailed with Rory, and Rufus and his men on Rory’s second ship. He’d tried not to look at Margaret as the ships pulled back from the shore, but he’d not been able to resist watching her. It had been a long time since a woman had kept his attention for more than a few hours, but Margaret of Somerstrath did. She was so lovely. She would, he decided now, still be beautiful despite the passage of time, like his grandmother had been. Like his mother, had she lived long enough, might have been. Like few women were. Something in the way she moved, in the way her hand would rest at her throat, such a feminine gesture. In the way her gaze found his as often as his found hers.

But nothing would come of it. She was promised elsewhere. And he had better things to do than stay in Scotland longer than Rory needed him here. He and Tiernan would go home to Haraldsholm, to become part of their uncle’s retinue, or to join Rory O’Neill elsewhere. And soon he’d forget her dark eyes and darker hair, the way she looked at him. Let the Scots take care of their own. He was sure they could. Margaret MacDonald would wed her Lachlan Ross, and they’d never meet again.

And yet…
Will he keep her safe?

It was not his concern. The raids were extensive, sure to garner the attention of King Alexander and Scotland’s powerful lairds. The Scots would soon be guarding their coastline, as Erik would be at home. Margaret MacDonald’s uncle was a powerful man; she would be protected.

Rory’s ship drew abreast of his, and Gannon sought her out without thinking, her soft body in sharp contrast to the men around her and the sea beyond. He willed her to look at him, and as though she’d heard his thoughts, Margaret turned and met his gaze. The sounds of the sail overhead and the water slapping the bow faded from his notice. He smiled. She lifted a hand in a small wave, then brought it to her throat as though displeased by her own gesture and turned away. He fought the emotions that swept over him. She was a lovely woman. Of course he noticed her. He lowered his hand and checked the lines, concentrating on sailing, on the changing coastline, and, as they passed what proved to be the final headland, on his first sight of Inverstrath.