On a Highland Shore (2 page)

J
UNE
1263
A
N
I
SLAND OFF
S
COTLAND’S SHORE

T
he dawn breezes stroked the water as the Norseman helped lay his father’s body next to the mast of the longship. The first rays of the sun were reclaiming the island, but he did not turn to see the treeless landscape behind him, nor at the people who lined the shingle. He did not want to see their grief-ravaged faces. He felt no grief.

His father had been an old man; it was time for him to die. The Norseman had waited years for this day, when he would at last rule over this island, would lead its people into the future. Into glory.

Soon the pretense would be over. In the days since the old man’s death, the Norseman had ignored the mutters of the people, their comments that it was passing strange that Thorfinn, the dutiful eldest son, was not here to bury his father. The Norseman had said nothing in reply, not even when he’d seen his younger brother Ander’s glowering expression, and knew what Ander suspected. He’d kept his silence, and Ander had retreated, as Ander always did. And at last the people had agreed that, even in Thorfinn’s absence, his father must be buried.

The funeral would be just as the old warrior had requested. Nothing had been overlooked. The Norseman had seen to every detail, had watched the old man’s ship being readied, had packed the base of the hull himself the night before. He’d overseen the preparations for the feast to celebrate his father’s life that he would host this evening in his father’s longhouse. And then stay, sleeping in his father’s bed, a symbol of the transfer of command. It was time. The last few years had been lean, the harvests poor, the winters overlong. All that would change under his leadership. Tonight, when the people were sated with food and ale and wine, when all the words praising his father had been said, he would tell them of his plans for the future. And none would gainsay him.

They worked in silence, he and Ander and Ander’s young son Drason, filling the rest of the hull with tightly packed peat and sticks, covering his father’s body and the base of the mast with the mixture so that no wool from his cloak showed through, no glint from the sword and axe that lay at his side could answer the sun’s greetings. They placed the oars against the mast to help speed the flames, raised the red sail, and climbed from the ship.

The priest spoke then, his prayers and the responses of the people flowing out over the harbor accompanied by the waves lapping at the shore. But the Norseman did not hear them, listening instead to his own thoughts. He clenched his fist tightly and endured the priest’s ceremony, giving the correct responses when necessary, nodding when appropriate. He kept his eyes lowered, as though overcome by emotion, thinking of what the people saw as they watched him. His bright hair would catch the sun, his eyes, a brilliant blue, would be sorrowful. He was tall and strong, his shoulders wide, his courage and daring well-known. And no one knew his thoughts.

At the end of the service the priest blessed the dragonship as if it were a vessel of God’s, and the man whose body lay upon it as if he were a hero. The people wiped tears away, talking quietly to each other, saying that it was a fit burial for an old Viking. The Norseman thought otherwise. His father had been a failure in life and now in death. Instead of leading his people to prosperity and glory, he’d been content to keep things as they were. Instead of dying in battle, he’d died in his sleep. There would be no Valhalla for him, only this histrionic and unnecessary sacrifice of a good ship, burnt for an old man’s vanity.

But even that sacrifice had been well utilized, for in the hull of the ship was the body of his elder brother, Thorfinn.

He’d had to remove Thorfinn. His brother was the eldest and would have succeeded their father. And would have kept things as they were, which could not continue. He’d had no choice, he told himself as he helped Ander and the village men ease the ship into the water, stepping back as the sea claimed it.

“Your father is with God now,” the priest said.

Ander thanked the priest, then turned to talk to others. The Norseman did not answer, simply nodded.

With a concerned expression, the priest placed a hand on the Norseman’s shoulder. “I know this is a difficult day for you.”

The Norseman did not answer, but opened his hand slowly, showing the priest the dagger that had been clenched in his fist. The blade had split his palm.

“My son!” the priest whispered. “You have blood on your hand!”

The Norseman smiled. He pressed his hands together, smearing the blood across both of them, then opened them and showed the priest. Blood on his hands. He looked into the cleric’s eyes, saw them widen, and tried not to smile.

“Thank you, Father,” he said, then moved to join Ander.

The priest looked after him, fear in his eyes.

When the ship began to move on its own, they tossed flaming torches into it and watched it glide, borne on the ebbing tide, toward the mouth of the harbor. The fire caught quickly, orange flames leaping from the belly of the ship and flaring up the mast, turning the water around it amber. The canvas of the sail, even oiled as it was, lifted itself out of the reach of the flames and hurried the longship westward, toward the open sea.

Ander leaned close, his whisper harsh. “I know that you killed Thorfinn.”

The Norseman met his brother’s gaze for a moment, then lay a steady hand on Ander’s arm. “It is time for change. Be part of it, and you will prosper. Fight me and…” He looked from Ander to Ander’s wife Eldrid’s pale and worried face, then to the stripling Drason. Then back to his brother. “Who knows which of us will be the next to die?”

He turned back to the sea then. Ander did the same, but Drason continued to watch his uncle. The Norseman considered all that might mean.

There were gasps from the people when the ship paused at the edge of the harbor. The sail burst into flames and the blazing vessel turned, silhouetting the proud profile of the dragon prow, as if to bid them one last farewell. And then turned again, to face the dark water beyond. The Norseman blinked, squinting as the sun suddenly danced on the water, gleaming so brightly that he had to turn away. When he looked back, the harbor was blue once again, the sea beyond cobalt. And empty. He stared at the horizon, his heart thundering in his chest.

It was a sign, an omen. He’d been right to be so bold. His plan would work.

S
OMERSTRATH
, R
OSS
W
ESTERN
S
HORE OF
S
COTLAND
J
UNE
1263

Margaret MacDonald raised her face to the sun and leaned back against a stand of rocks on the shingled beach, sighing with contentment. She was blissfully warm. The dark winter had been overlong, the spring wet, the summer late in arriving. The breeze caressed her face, the water softly lapped at the shore, and the rock was smooth behind her. Crisp white clouds scudded overhead in a brilliantly blue sky. On the shingle below, the water slid onto the rocks, then retreated with a soft hiss. And at her side her best friend Fiona leaned forward, arms wrapped around her knees, looking out to sea.

The peace would not last. Soon her sister Nell would arrive, bringing their four younger brothers—and chaos—with her. There was no escaping it; their mother, who had already borne ten children and was now heavy with the eleventh, expected Margaret, the eldest of the seven who had survived, to bear a sizable portion of the child-watching duties. Most of Margaret’s days were filled with caring for her younger siblings. Nell, at twelve, was a help, but the boys, aged four to ten, were always into something, and it took most of Margaret and Nell’s attention just to keep them safe. She’d hurried on ahead of them to have these few quiet moments with Fiona, leaving Nell to watch the boys linger over every interesting rock, which they would then climb or examine. Or throw.

This might, she realized, be the only calm moment she would have before her wedding, certainly one of the only times she and Fiona would have a chance to talk alone before she left. Next month she would marry Lachlan Ross, and her life would change forever. She’d leave Somerstrath, and her old self behind as well. No longer would she be one more of Somerstrath’s children; she’d be the wife of a cousin of the king, the wife of a wealthy and handsome man.

She’d been a babe in arms and Lachlan just a few years older when their fathers made the marriage contract allying the Rosses and MacDonalds yet again. The betrothal was as much a part of her as the color of her hair, and as unchangeable: the contract could not be undone except by the king. Which was as well, for she was eager to marry, anxious to leave childhood and this small stronghold on the western shore. And eager to discover what life as a married woman might mean. Lachlan had always been pleasant to her, but recently she’d seen the gleam in his eyes when he looked at her. She knew he found her pleasing, which pleased her as well. She slanted a look at Fiona.

“I canna believe I’ll be gone soon,” she said. “Three weeks is all that’s left.”

Fiona tossed her light brown hair over her shoulder. “Lucky ye, marrying and leaving all of us behind. Ye’ll have yer own household full of servants, never lift a finger again. And ye’ll go to court and make new friends and replace me in a fortnight. D’ye ken how fortunate ye are?”

Margaret looked at her in surprise. There was a note of envy in Fiona’s voice she’d never heard before. She felt a twinge of guilt. Life must seem very unfair to Fiona, whose father was a weaver, respected, but far from wealthy. Margaret’s father was the laird of the clan, a landowner, a rich and prominent man in western Scotland, her mother the sister of William, the Earl of Ross. Fiona had never been farther from her home than the next clan and, if her father had any say in it, would soon marry one of the Somerstrath villagers and spend the rest of her life within a stone’s throw of her birthplace. Margaret had already been to King Alexander III’s court twice, and would soon live there, at the center of everything. She’d been taught sums and could read and write in Latin, French, and Gaelic. Fiona could count on her fingers, but never learned to read or write. For most of their lives these differences had never mattered, but now her life and Fiona’s would diverge sharply, never again to merge.

“I do ken how fortunate I am,” she said quietly. “And I’ll miss ye. Ye could never be replaced.”

Fiona said with a wry smile. “Thank ye for that.”

“I wish ye could come with me.” Margaret leaned forward, wondering why she’d not thought of it before. “Perhaps ye could, Fi! I’ll have no one with me from here.”

“What would I be, yer lady’s maid, help ye dress?” Fiona’s tone was brittle.

“Ye could be my companion!” Margaret cried. “It would be so nice to have ye there. Surely Lachlan wouldna mind having ye along.”

Fiona gave a short laugh. “Would that no’ be something?”

“Perhaps we could even find ye a husband among Lachlan’s men so we’d be together always!”

“I’m in no hurry for a husband.”

Margaret nodded thoughtfully. Fiona’s choices were few—the handful of unmarried young men, or the widowers with children—none inspiring. Unless she was successful in bringing Fiona with her, Fiona would eventually marry one of the local lads and live a life just like her mother’s, a life of hard work and repetitious tasks. And the terror of childbirth, which had taken Fi’s mother, and which threatened every woman. Margaret was suddenly filled with determination to change Fiona’s fate.

“I’ll talk to Mother about ye coming with me,” she said fiercely.

Fiona shook her head morosely. “She willna agree. She’s asked me to help with the others after ye’re gone.”

“There are others who can do that. I’ll talk to her. Think of it, Fi! Ye and I among all those English ladies.”

Fiona’s eyes widened. “English ladies! Are ye going to England, too?”

Margaret paused before answering. She’d met the players at court, knew their histories and those of their families, often back several generations. But Fiona had been isolated here at Somerstrath and knew none of that.

“Our Queen Margaret,” she said, “is the daughter of King Henry of England. When she came to Scotland to marry our King Alexander, she brought many of her ladies, and many of their husbands. Almost half the court is English now, or has strong ties to England. They all speak French, of course.”

Fiona nodded, as though she’d already known that. “Of course.”

“So ye’ll have to learn French, too,” Margaret said. “And we’ll have to get ye all new gowns!”

“Like yers?”

There was that note of envy again. Margaret looked at her finely tooled leather shoes with their painted designs, discarded now in the sand, then at Fiona’s bare feet. Their clothing showed the differences in their stations as well, Margaret’s soft linen and wool in stark contrast to Fiona’s coarsely woven gown. The weaver’s daughter wore his mistakes; the laird’s daughter his finest work.

“As my companion ye’d have to dress well. And our hair! Wait until ye see how everaone wears their hair. Ye’ll be unwed, so ye could wear yer hair loose. I will talk with Mother about ye coming with me.”

“Not yet. Wait until yer parents are no’ so angry with Rignor.”

Margaret sighed. “Aye.”

Her brother Rignor, only two years younger than she, often needed to be watched more closely than the little ones. His wild antics and volatile temper had earned their parents’ disapproval often enough, more so recently. Her father often loudly despaired of him; her mother said he just needed a few more years.

“Is he still saying he’s going to marry Dagmar?” Fiona asked.

“Oh, aye, the fool. As though he’ll be allowed to.”

“Yer father canna be pleased with that, and who can blame him? She’s naught but the daughter of yer da’s tacksman from the next glen, willing to lift her skirts for any man.”

Margaret nodded, remembering all the times she’d watched Dagmar lure a man to a quiet corner, returning shortly with her clothing askew and her smile smug.