On a Highland Shore (27 page)

He narrowed his eyes against the sudden glare off the water as the sun came from behind the clouds. It was bad enough that others were emulating him, some said even to have the backing of King Haakon of Norway. The good part of that was that he no longer feared royal censure. He might have to share some of his plunder with the king, but no one would stop him.

He smiled as the wind freshened.
Let it come, whatever lies ahead, let it come
. He glanced behind him, to find his nephew watching. He tossed the gold cup in his hand into the water, laughing at Drason’s shocked expression.

“There’s more where that came from! Stay with me, boy, and see things you’ve never imagined. Gold, silver, jewels. Women. Whatever you dream of will be yours. All you need is the courage to take them.”

He turned his back on Drason then, letting the wind sweep his hair over his shoulders. Overhead the sail snapped as the wind shifted and strengthened.
A sign. We’re being sped to our goal. Even God wants us to succeed
.

Lachlan had nothing to say to Margaret when they met at the morning meal. He nodded when she and Nell appeared, and watched her while he ate oatcakes and cheese and drank ale, but said nothing to her. Nor to anyone. Rory O’Neill told William that Gannon and Tiernan had left at dawn for Skye, that they should be with Leod shortly. William had little to say, only that the priest had not yet arrived. Rignor, like Lachlan, spoke to no one; Rufus talked enough for them all, his tone cheerful. But Margaret heard the undertone of worry in his voice, saw him note how many oatcakes were eaten at breakfast and count the cups of ale consumed and the worried glances he threw at his daughter, who did not look up once.

The priest had not arrived by midday, nor by the evening, so there was no wedding. There was a brief flurry of excitement when a hooded figure was seen approaching, but it turned out to be a monk, not the priest. He came, dusty and barefoot, explaining that he was on a pilgrimage. The others were gone; it was Margaret, Nell, and Rory O’Neill who joined Rufus in welcoming him. They settled at the table as Rufus plied the monk with food and ale, asking for his news.

“Ye should see everyone along the coast,” the monk said, his mouth full of food, “building walls and training men. Everyone thinks that these are just the first raids, that the Vikings are going to invade, that these are tests of the new king.”

“New king?” Nell asked Margaret. “He’s been king since he was eight.”

Margaret shook her head. “Officially. But he’s only just begun to rule in his own right in the last year.”

“Aye, that’s right, lassies,” the monk said, his gaze sweeping from Margaret to Nell. “Any sign of the Vikings here?”

“None,” Rufus said, “but Somerstrath is verra close. It could have been us.”

The monk took a deep drink of the ale. “Ye were blessed to be ignored. I assume ye’ve been watching out, aye? Keeping yer men on their toes? Of course, how does one prepare for a Viking raid?”

“I dinna ken. Do our best to escape their notice.”

“Ye’ve seen naught of them since? No strange ships passing?”

“The only strange ships we’ve seen are yers, aye, Lord O’Neill?”

Rory O’Neill looked from the monk to Rufus with a slow nod. “Aye.”

The monk looked at O’Neill with interest. “O’Neill? Irish?”

“Ye’re talking to the overlaird of Ulster, sir,” Rufus said proudly.

The monk’s eyebrows raised. “Am I now? What brings ye here?”

“There were raids in Ireland,” Rufus continued. “They came to tell Ross of them and found Somerstrath.”

“And they’re staying here?”

O’Neill stood abruptly. “A word with ye, Rufus.” He strode quickly away, leading Rufus halfway across the hall, talking in a low and intense manner.

The monk watched them, then turned to Margaret. “Frightening times, eh?” He turned his attention to his food then. The evening passed quietly, and in the morning the monk left, walking south, clutching the pack of food Rufus had sent with him.

The hours passed slowly for Margaret; the day felt three days long. Rignor disappeared. Dagmar was silent, speaking to no one. Rufus took Lachlan, William, and Rory O’Neill hunting and on a tour of his lands, including the glen to the south, the one Gannon had showed her, the one she now thought of as Gannon’s glen. Lachlan’s men played dice in the courtyard, underfoot when Rufus’s staff tried to work. William’s men had retreated to the shingle, where they talked with the Irish or among themselves. All of Inverstrath waited for one man to arrive. Margaret felt deadened, her limbs heavy. She worked through the afternoon in the village with the Somerstrath women, repairing and washing clothing, coming back to the hall only when the men had returned with their prizes. She found her uncle and asked for a moment alone, which he granted with a wary expression.

“Ye canna change my mind, Margaret.”

“I have accepted that. But I have a question.” At his arched eyebrow she went on. “If I refused to marry Lachlan, would ye withdraw help from Rignor? He said you would.”

“Yer brother’s an idiot, Margaret. And yer parents were fools for allowing his behavior to go unchecked, but I’ll not speak ill of the dead. No, I would not withdraw support from him. And no, he dinna mention the marriage to me at all. We talked about his behavior and the argument with the Irish lad and the damage it did to the peace ye had here. And by the bye, whatever it was that happened between ye and Gannon is over, lass.”

“Nothing happened.”

“Ye are still…?”

She raised her chin. “I am still…intact, William.”

He colored. “Of course ye are, of course ye are. Forgive me.”

“Is there nothing I can say to dissuade ye from this wedding?”

“Nothing, Margaret.”

Her eyes filled with tears and she left him quickly before she began to beg.

At sunset she walked on the beach with Nell, letting the wind surround them. In the evening she sat with the others and pushed her food around, but could eat little. And when at last it grew dark, she stood in the courtyard alone, looking up at the darkening sky and wondering how Gannon MacMagnus was, how soon he would return. Whether he would return. And if the priest would ever come.

Leod’s ale was delicious. His whisky was even better. The older man poured Gannon another cup of the amber liquid, then himself the same. Gannon swirled the whisky in the cup, wishing he could just toss it back and enjoy it, but he was drinking sparingly. He’d given his greetings and his name to Leod’s men at the dock, waiting while the message was delivered up the hill. A short while later he’d been invited to join Leod and had left Tiernan with the ship.

“If I dinna return or send word by dusk, leave. Never mind the tide, nor what ye think is happening with me. Get out and tell Rory what happened.”

Tiernan’s jaw had thrust forward. “I’ll no’ leave without ye.”

“Aye, ye will. I’m counting on ye to go and get the others and get me out of here. Like as not, none of this will be needed.”

Tiernan’s reluctance was obvious, but he’d nodded.

Gannon had been shown up the hill and within the first set of walls. The gates were guarded even here, the gatehouse full of armed men who silently watched them pass. Leod was a cautious man, and his men wary. Inside the fortress he was shown not to a spot in the spacious hall but up the stairs and down a hallway, then through a wooden doorway. The room was large, richly decorated with tapestries, a faded rug on the floor, and pillared iron candelabras flanking the tall fireplace. Two windows, uncovered now, let in the light breeze and the view of the loch below. Leod’s fortress, high on the cliffs, looked out from its perch like a sea eagle. And like that bird, Leod saw everything that happened in his territory—and probably much beyond. Their approach would certainly have been noted by anyone watching from this room.

The large man who sat at a desk in the middle of the room looked up from the sea charts before him, then leaned back in his chair, a Norman design but decorated with Celtic and Norse artwork. He folded the vellum partially onto itself and rose to his feet. Leod was an imposing man, tall, with wide shoulders and the manner of a man accustomed to being obeyed. It had been fourteen years since Gannon had seen him, and the years had taken their toll. His hair, once blond, was gray now, silver actually, pulled back from a strong face that showed both the signs of age and weathering. His hands were scarred across the top, sure signs of a man who had been in his share of battles. He stretched out one of those hands now, clasping Gannon’s in a firm grip and gesturing to a chair in front of the desk.

“Welcome, Gannon Magnusson. It’s been a very long time. You were not quite up to my knee the last time I saw you.”

“That would have been my brother. I was up to yer elbow at least.”

Leod laughed. “I’ve not thought of Magnus in years, not since his funeral. You have the look of him.”

“I’ve been told that.”

“I’m sure you have. The women loved him, wouldn’t leave him alone, even after he married your mother. Do you have the same problem?”

“No.”

Leod chuckled. “How is your mother?”

“She died last winter.”

“Another one gone. So what brings Magnus’s son to me? Have you come to claim the land I offered him all those years ago?”

“No.”

“You look surprised. You didn’t know about that, did you?”

Gannon shook his head.

“Years ago, when your grandfather ruled Haraldsholm, I tried to get your father to come to Skye. I know a valuable man when I see one.”

“Obviously he didn’t come.”

“Obviously,” Leod said dryly. “Of course, if he had, he’d be alive now.”

“Aye.” Gannon watched the older man and took a sip of the whisky, turning the stone cup to see the striations of the rock. It was carved from one piece, with spiral designs from the stem to the lip, the possession of a man who appreciated fine things. As his home showed. If Leod took sides, he might risk this home and all the fine things it held.

“So why are you here?”

“I’ve come to get ye to tell me things without ye kenning that that’s what I’m doing.”

Leod stared at him for a moment, then roared with laughter. “Is that so? Is that so? And what is it you want to know, Gannon Magnusson?”

“There have been raids in Antrim, near Haraldsholm. And in Scotland, at Somerstrath and Torridon. Orkneymen were seen in Antrim; the men who raided Somerstrath were Vikings.”

“And?”

“And Rory O’Neill and William Ross want to ken what ye ken about that.”

“Ah, Rory O’Neill, who smiles and makes jokes but misses little. A lion of a man. And William, the Earl of Ross, who covets my island as much as King Alexander.” He leaned back. “I heard of the attacks.”

“Do ye ken who did them?”

“I’ve heard it was Vikings, perhaps Orkneymen.”

“Aye, I just told ye that. Who else has?”

“The seas are busy, Gannon. Men stop here from many places.”

“And the seas are wide, Leod. Where do these men come from?”

Leod grinned.

Gannon put the cup down and leaned forward. “They attacked three of my uncle’s villages, killing everyone who was there and stealing from the churches. In Scotland they killed Somerstrath and most of his family. They took his son, along with four others, all boys. Everyone else was killed. They nailed heads to doors, men, women, children. Almost every woman was raped. They spitted babies and cut dogs in two. The village was torched, and Somerstrath’s ships were burnt to cinders. Now we’ve heard that there’s been a raid up at Torridon.”

The older man’s expression did not change, but his tone was thoughtful. “I’d not heard that any captives were taken. Are you sure they’re not hostages?”

“No ransom demands have been received.”

“Who does your uncle think did the raids there?”

“Orkneymen were seen.”

“Or those masking as Orkneymen.”

“Aye.”

“And in Scotland?”

“Some of the Scots are calling for revenge on Norsemen. All Norsemen.” He did not have to tell Leod that that included not only men from Norway and the Orkneys, but also the Hebrides and the Isle of Man. And of Skye. “Which is understandable. Somerstrath’s wife was the Earl of Ross’s sister. His daughter is married to a kinsman of King Alexander. If they’d not wanted retaliation, they should have chosen another target.”

Leod looked thoughtful. “And Ross says?”

“Ross is verra angry.”

“Which is why you’re here.”

Gannon took another sip of the whisky, then put the cup down on the table before him. It would be easy to relax and forget how important this conversation was. And how powerful silence could be. Leod was watching him; appraising him, he knew. Gannon kept his gaze on the older man’s face. Leod steepled his fingers and bounced them. The guards by the door exchanged a glance. Leod’s dog, stretched out at his feet, scratched his ear, then chewed on a paw. Gannon did not move. He knew he had to be disciplined, to be wily, in order to be successful. Leod knew something of the raids; he could see it in the man’s face, in his manner. Which side would he choose? Or would he try for a middle course?

Rory’s words echoed in his mind.
Find out what Leod kens, and whether he’ll harbor these raiders. If this becomes a war between the Norse and the Celts, a contest between the kings of Norway and Scotland, it will be long and bloody. If it’s simply civilized men against a group of renegades, it will be quickly handled
.

Gannon waited. The chart on the desk between them was of the Minch, the waters around the island. On the shelf behind Leod was a model of a dragonship, the kind shipbuilders used to sell their wares. Was Leod building a new ship? Or had someone visited, leaving the model behind as a gift, or a reminder of how powerful a war weapon a dragonship was? If Leod joined the raiders, his base on Skye would provide shelter and easy access to much of Scotland’s coastline, a dangerous situation for the Scots. And far too close to Antrim for the Irish to feel safe. If Leod was one of the raiders, Gannon had already told him too much.

Leod bounced his fingers. “Orkneymen, you say?”