On a Highland Shore (33 page)

She laughed softly.

“Margaret, I love ye, lass. Whatever happens, ken that I love ye.”

She stared at him. “And I ye, Gannon Magnusson. I’ve been waiting all my life for ye.”

“What madness to find ye in the middle of all this,” he said. “I kent, that first day I saw ye, the worst day of yer life, that ye were something special to me. But I dinna ken how special ye’d become. I need ye to breathe, Margaret.”

She touched his cheek. “As I do ye. I love ye, Gannon. Whatever comes this day, I’ve had that.”

“It’s not enough. I love ye, Margaret. We’ll grow old together.”

She felt tears gather in her eyes. “I will hold ye to that, love.”

He lifted her chin and kissed her again, his touch so quickly gone that she had no time to respond before he released her.

“God keep ye safe, Margaret my love. I’ll see ye when all this is over.”

“Come to me then,” she said, but did not trust herself to say more.

He left her. She stayed where she was, wondering what this day would hold, was still there when Gannon walked through the gates with his men. He did not look back. Tiernan raised his hand to her in farewell, but leaned to place a hand on Nell’s head and whisper something to her. Nell nodded, then stepped back with Margaret and Rufus into the courtyard as the gates were slowly closed and barred. She would, Margaret knew, remember that sound, of wood on wood, closing with finality, for the rest of her life. She was locked within the walls and the man she loved without, facing the enemy with only a handful of men and his determination.

As though hearing her thoughts, Rufus nodded. “It’s in God’s hands now. And Gannon’s.”

They waited then, for dawn, for the fog to lift, for death to come to them from the water, borne on the wind and carried by dragonships. The waiting was the hardest, for the mind had leisure to think and to fear.

And then the cry came, and the word spread. The men who had been lying on their stomachs all night on the beach, watching, had reported back.

The Norsemen were moving.

It was the sun that heralded their arrival, streaming through the fog as though holes had been poked in a gray blanket. And then the wind lifted the tattered mist from the land, leaving the earth steaming, and returning colors to the fortress and to the sea beyond.

Margaret, standing amid the handful of Rufus’s men atop the fortress walls, shaded her eyes against the glare off the water and shifted her weight. These few men would be the only ones visible, pretending to be the normal contingent of guards that any prudent leader would have on duty. Crouched at their feet were many more men hidden from view, bows in hand, ready to rise and fight when the signal to show themselves was given. But far too few. Had they gone mad, thinking to repel the barbarians with only this many men?

The silence around her was unlike anything she remembered, alive with shivers of emotion and unsaid thoughts. She prayed, for Nell, for Rufus and his people, for Gannon and his brother and the volunteers with him outside the gates. They would be the first to face the Norsemen, the first to fall, the last to be rescued if it came to that.
May God be with him. And us all
.

The ships came through the glare one by one, huge, magnificent, malignant, their red and yellow sails vibrant, their prows and sterns rounded and topped with painted creatures. Their hulls were full of men whose shouts melded together into a deep roar. As they neared land, they lifted their shields from the railings, raising them high and roaring again. The wave of fear that passed through the men around her was almost tangible. Four ships, she counted, and swallowed. Each ship could hold a hundred men. How were they to stand against such a force?

“Dear God, protect us,” the man on her left whispered.

“And those we love,” she whispered in return.

“Go inside now, Lady Margaret. We’ll ken soon enough what this day holds.”

“I’ll stay, sir. Look around ye. The women are all here, including my sister. We’ll stay with ye. We’ll be wrapping the arrows.”

“If they break through the gate, lass, we willna be able to protect ye.”

She gestured at the wooden doors to the hall. “If they break through the gate, that willna stop them either. We’ll be here with ye.”

He nodded and turned to look at the shore. She followed his gaze. The Norsemen’s ships did not slow as they approached the beach, but seemed almost to leap ashore as though alive, one by one, a line of dragons, their hulls scraping along the shingle in a tearing sound that shivered up to where she stood. Before she could even take another breath, the Norsemen were pouring from the ships, their axes glinting in the sunlight, their shields raised high. They were giants, these men who gathered now in lines and waited for orders, tall men with blond and silver and reddish hair, helmets of bronze and steel. They wore leather vests, like Gannon’s, or breastplates of steel, or chain mail, or pelts of animals sewn together. They carried long swords and axes and round shields of wood, some studded with long spikes. They walked like men who expected to prevail.

They roared again as they spotted Rufus’s men atop the fortress walls, and Margaret shrank against the timber next to her as though it could hide her. She’d not thought of what it would feel like to face Vikings with nothing but far too few yards of beach and slope between them.
Gannon
.

Rufus’s men played their parts well, running now along the ramparts, waving their arms as though surprised and horrified. The Norsemen’s answering roar was mixed with laughter this time.

“Bastards,” said the man at her side. “Beg yer pardon, lass.”

“Ye dinna need to. Ye’re right. Bastards they are.”

“We’ll get them,” he said. “Now get ye down so they dinna see ye.”

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and scrambled to the ground, to join Nell and the other women. Some ran inside, the door to the hall banging shut behind them, closing the rest of them in the courtyard. She turned to look at the walls, where the men waited; they had once seemed so solid and secure, but now she knew they would not hold the enemy for long. If the Norsemen made it past Gannon, there would be no escape.

No one spoke as they waited. She hoped she did not shame herself when her time to die came, and she hoped God would forgive her for letting Nell stay. She thought of her parents, facing their own deaths, and of her brothers, but she could not imagine what small boys would have felt facing such men. Perhaps soon she would. From the beach there came another low roar, sounding less like men this time than a great beast. The roar came closer, and Margaret began to pray.

Gannon leaned forward, peering around the corner of the fortress, his hand stretched behind him to still his men. Four ships, but lightly loaded, carrying far fewer than the four hundred they could have brought. Still the odds were in their favor, not his, and these were Norsemen, dangerous and well skilled at war.

He glanced behind him at one of Rufus’s men, who was having trouble keeping his horse still, his glare enough to make the man double his efforts. Tiernan was at the opposite corner of the fortress with his own band of men, Irish and Scots mixed together.
Wait
. He sent the thought to his brother again.
Wait
.

The Vikings were moving now, clambering up the hill in a mass of weapons and will. A tall fierce-looking man led them, his blond hair streaming behind him as he ran, his voice louder than the others. Gannon noted him, the leader; he’d find the man.
Cut off the head and the body will follow
. He gestured again to his men, waving his hand lower, and silence fell behind him. It was Rufus’s turn first.

The Vikings were running toward the fortress, their voices raised together, weapons above their heads. Wait, he thought, this time aiming the command at Rufus.
Wait. Almost
.

Now
.

The Norsemen ran directly into the hail of arrows that Rufus’s men unleashed. Several fell, but far too few, and when the next volley came, the Vikings were already gathering together in their phalanx, their backs to each other and shields held before and above them. They moved toward the fortress again, slower now, but steadily.

The third volley of arrows was even less effective, and Gannon straightened and turned to give the signal. By the time the fourth volley of arrows was launched the Vikings would be at the gates. It was time.

Gannon raised his sword arm high, settled his shield on his arm, then spurred his horse forward, his own battle cry loud in his ear. They rounded the corner running, and smashed through the very middle of the Vikings, killing many who had been caught off guard. Men shouted with alarm, fell back, knocking others off their feet. Some were trampled by the horses, others leaving themselves open to the arrows that would come next. And then the horses were gone, rounding the corner, where Tiernan and his men waited to repeat the maneuver.

Gannon’s men cheered each other and shouted encouragement to each other and to those on the walls above. And then it was their turn again.

They did it twice more, the slash-and-run attacks, forcing the Vikings to protect their rear and flanks. It worked. The Vikings’ phalanx was disintegrating, and the arrows that rained from above were more effective. Gannon pulled his men back, his horse dancing beneath him, as Rufus’s men poured burning pitch on the Norsemen at the gates. They fell, screaming, but were soon replaced by more. Gannon waited for the next phase.

This was the trickiest, for it took timing and daring from horses who were accustomed to pulling plows and many men who had never seen battle. Ten horses, pulling burning piles of cloth and rags and hay, ran through the disarrayed Vikings, forcing them farther apart and rendering them even more vulnerable to the blows Rufus’s men were doling out.

Rufus shouted something from the ramparts and pointed to the fortress gates, which were bursting open, expelling men who attacked with surprising savagery. And he’d worried whether the Scots were up to this. Had there ever been men more valiant?

He left his men to do the next pass on their own and took the burning torch that was handed to him, waving the handful of men who would join him forward. They skirted the Vikings and raced for the shore, striking down the men who had been left to guard the ships and dumping their loads of tallow-soaked cloth and hay into the first three ships. Gannon waited until the sticky mass settled into the bottom of each ship, then leaned to set the pile aflame before moving to the next, but at the fourth ship he stopped. A man was tied to the mast, his head covered by a hood.

“Free him,” he called to his men, then whirled to face the battle again.

Already the Vikings were scattering, many being run down by Tiernan’s men, and he joined them to reinforce their strength, slashing through the enemy, looking for their leader, but could not see him in the maelstrom.

Behind him three of the ships caught fire, the flames stretching quickly to engulf the still-lowered sails. The Scots who had hauled the bound man off the ship now faced the Norsemen who had held him. Gannon spun his horse around and slashed through the Vikings, which allowed the Scots to get away.

He found himself at the edge of the fray and caught his breath, then laughed fiercely. Dozens of Norsemen were retreating now, running for the shore, more joining them as they saw their ranks thin. Gannon whirled his horse, looking once more for their leader, and, finding him at last, standing on the beach, waving his men toward the only ship not afire. He cursed himself for not seeing that one destroyed as well and spurred his horse toward the beach to do just that.

He did not get there. He was at the top of the rise, surrounded by frantic Vikings running for the ship, when one of them spun around and thrust his axe into the belly of Gannon’s horse. The horse screamed in agony and went down heavily, rolling onto Gannon as it fell, pinning him to the ground beneath it.

The world seemed to spin, then settle as the Viking raised his axe again. Gannon, powerless to move, put his shield between himself and the axe. The Norseman’s weapon thudded against the wood, splintering part of the shield but not going through. Gannon slashed beneath it with his sword, but sliced through only air. The axe was raised again. The second blow shattered the shield, and Gannon stared into the man’s pale blue eyes. He lifted his sword and prepared himself.

T
here were roars of victory from outside the gates and Margaret stood frozen. Were those shouts from the Scots or the Norsemen? Her question was soon answered as the gates swung open. Margaret and Nell ran through the gates and onto the battlefield with the others. Around her the women scattered to search among the fallen for their own, or to meet the embraces of the men who rushed to meet them. Many bent over a loved one who would not rise again, still more found their men among the wounded, of which there were many, especially among those who had ridden with Gannon through the throng of Vikings. But most of the dead were Norsemen. She paused on the rise to take it all in, amazed at how few of the defenders had been harmed. And to look for Gannon.

The victory was premature. Men were still fighting on and above the beach. The Norsemen’s ships were aflame, all except one. And though that one was crowded, more Vikings tried to clamber aboard. Some were being beaten back to fall on the shingle, or meet their deaths at the hands of the Scots who waited for them. She saw a man on the ground, pinned under a horse…Her heart stopped.

Gannon’s sword met the Viking’s axe, the blade ringing against blade, the impact numbing his arm. He could not hold out much longer. He forced his arm up again to meet the next blow.

Nothing happened. Instead of striking him, the man held his gaze, his eyes wide and surprised, then jolted forward and crumpled to the ground. Tiernan pulled his sword from the Viking’s neck with a satisfied expression.

“Close,” Tiernan said.

Gannon, unable to speak, fell back onto the ground and stared at the sky.

Margaret screamed when she saw him fall and his sword arm thump to the earth beside him, screamed again when Tiernan kicked the Norseman away and called for help, pulling at the horse atop his brother. She ran forward, calling Gannon’s name, heedless of those around her. She reached him as he was being pulled free of the horse and lifted to his feet. His leg buckled under him and she could see his wince of pain, but he was alive and whole. When she screamed his name again, he looked over his shoulder and grinned at her.

“Gannon!”

“I’m a’right, lass! We fought them off !”

“Ye did it! Ye fought them off, Gannon!” she cried, rushing into his arms, feeling him solid in her embrace, his heart beating, as hers was again now. “Look what ye’ve done! They’re leaving!”

He wrapped an arm around her, kissed her, then turned her to look at the harbor. Three of the Viking ships were well ablaze, but the fourth, full of men, was afloat and being rowed out into the harbor. More Norsemen were running into the water and being pulled on board, but even more were stranded on the beach, turning with grim faces to meet the Scots and Irish that now rushed toward them.

“Dinna kill them!” Gannon shouted. “Dinna kill them yet. We’ll question them first!”

The men on the beach slowed, surrounding the last of the Norsemen, who withdrew into a circle and watched warily.

“Look,” Tiernan said, and pointed to the mouth of the harbor, where
Gannon’s Lady
had just come into view, on a tack to block the dragonship’s escape. The Vikings raised their sail and rowed even faster, trying to outrun her. At first it seemed
Gannon’s Lady
would catch the Viking ship, but it was the dragonship’s sail that caught the air first. It was all she needed. She glided into the open sea, where the wind was stronger, leaping forward as her sail filled, and the gap between the two ships widened.
Gannon’s Lady
gave chase until it was obvious she’d not catch the Norsemen, then swung around and headed for the harbor.

It was over.

The Scots went wild with joy, shouting their victory to the sky, whooping with delight. They poured past Margaret, lifting Gannon onto their shoulders and parading him around the field, shouting his name. He laughed, raised his sword arm high, and laughed again when they at last deposited him before Margaret like an offering. When he smiled at her and pulled her against him the people cheered wildly as if it were a new victory. Gannon’s kiss was deep, that of a victor, a man who knew nothing would be denied him now. He held their joined hands up between them and faced the people, who cheered anew. The sound seemed to echo off the mountains.

Nell felt stunned as she walked past the pile of dead Norsemen being buried in mass graves, past the heap of their armor and weapons and clothing, sickened when she had to hold her skirts high to keep them out of the blood and gore beneath her feet. On the beach three of the dragonships were burning. A group of Inverstrath men were leading the Norse captives, bound and well guarded, past their own dead; some of the prisoners were defiant, but most looked around them with faces filled with dread. Their fear was well-founded. The people of Inverstrath were vengeful, many spitting on the Norsemen, or calling out suggestions of what should be done to them. Most of the captives were men of middle years, but there was one much younger, a tall thin stripling with golden hair and intense blue eyes, who seemed out of place. He alone met her gaze when he passed; she could see fear in his eyes. And something more: a calm acceptance of his fate. She watched him being led within the fortress with the others and wondered at his manner.

Margaret and Gannon were surrounded by Somerstrath people who were now clapping Gannon on the shoulder and praising him. Gannon’s arm was around Margaret as though he had a right to put it there. There was little doubt of their feelings for each other. Nell smiled to herself, then screamed as she was picked up and spun around.

“We drove them away, Nell!” Tiernan cried with a whoop of triumph. “Did ye see them run? We lost twenty men, only another forty or so wounded! They lost hundreds!”

He kissed her, leaving her gasping, then left her to join the Irishmen. She put her hand on her mouth, knowing she would never forget the moment.

Inside the fortress all was madness. The women were returning and families reuniting with cries of joy. Dogs were barking, children were running through the throngs of people. The wounded were being treated, the Scots and the Irish who had died were being taken to a village house to be prepared for burial. Ale was being handed out to anyone who did not already have a cup. On the sand the dragonships were burning to their bones, and the dead Norsemen were being placed in rows on the ground.

Rufus leapt atop a table, raising his hands for silence and at last his people obeyed. “First we need to thank God for this victory,” he said and led them in a short prayer. “Then,” he continued, his voice rising with triumph, “we need to thank Gannon for his plan and leadership!”

The people cheered again, the noise deafening as they stamped their feet and pounded on tables and shouted. Rufus gestured for Gannon to join him. When Gannon jumped up beside him, Rufus slapped him on the shoulder and raised his cup high. “To the Irishman who fought like a Scot!”

The cheers were louder. Gannon grinned and raised his cup again. “To the Scots who fought like Irishmen!” The cheers were filled with laughter this time. “I thank all of ye for yer courage and determination. I’m proud to have been here today with ye!

“Yer plan was brilliant, brother!” Tiernan shouted.

“It’s ye who was brilliant, Tiernan,” Gannon said. “If ye hadna killed the Norseman who had me pinned down, I wouldna be here. I thank ye for yer courage. And yer timing.”

“As I do,” Margaret said, drawing many smiles.

Gannon lifted his arm in a toast. “To ye!”

“To Gannon!” the people shouted back and cheered again when he bent Margaret over his arm and kissed her.

Gannon stood with Rufus before the prisoners. He could hear the music in the hall, exultant and loud, could hear the laughter and talking, and he longed to be there, celebrating with Margaret, rather than here with the prisoners. Thirty-seven captives, large, hostile men, stared at them with cold, sullen expressions, taking his measure when he spoke to them in the Norse language. They looked at his clothing and his hair and the torque around his neck and recognized him for what he was. Among the men was a boy whose eyes revealed more than they should. There was fear there—it was in all the men’s eyes despite their pretense to the contrary—but there was also a fierce pleasure in the boy’s eyes that confused and intrigued Gannon. Why would this boy be pleased at the Norsemen’s defeat? He stopped before the boy.

“This is the one who was bound to the mast, sir,” Rufus’s men told him.

Gannon looked at the boy with even more interest. “Who are ye, lad?” he asked in Norse.

The boy met his gaze but did not answer. Gannon repeated the question, then turned as the door opened, revealing Margaret in the doorway. She was pale, but calm, and Nell was behind her.

“Margaret,” Gannon said, “ye shouldna be here.”

“Are these the same men who attacked Somerstrath?”

“I think so.”

“Ask them if they ken where Davey is.”

He did, but the captives simply glared at him, or looked away sullenly. He asked a second time, but there was still no answer. He could see Margaret’s anger as she stepped closer to the men.

“I want to see what men who can kill small boys and a woman large with child and destroy an entire village look like. Before ye kill them, I want to look into their eyes.”

She didn’t know what she’d expected, horns growing from their heads, or blood-red eyes. They looked like ordinary men. Large men, but still ordinary, one a mere boy. She wondered as she met his gaze how someone his age could have chosen this path. Some wore wedding rings, and the thought of them having wives and children of their own and still choosing to murder her family renewed her rage. She stood over them, feeling her chest constrict and her fingers itch to do them harm. And yet at the same time she felt nothing. Men who could do the things they had done would not be moved by words. There was no way to reach through their defenses and find minds that would feel remorse. And even if they did, what difference did that make now? No amount of sorrow would bring her family back, no penance, no forgiveness would change what had been done.

Nell, her arms wrapped around herself, looked from one to the next with wide eyes that brimmed with tears, and it was her sister’s visible grief that moved Margaret to speak. She put an arm around Nell and looked at the men crowded together on the floor.

“May God have mercy on ye, for we will not. I ask no more than that ye be held accountable for yer deeds, for they are so foul as to have no defense possible for them. And when ye take yer last breath, ken that ye’ve been cursed for all time, for that is what I do to ye now. May every one of ye who murdered my family at Somerstrath live in eternal Hell. And should there be no such place, may ye live forever as ye are right now, trussed, defeated, and stinking of fear. I curse ye, and yer children, and yer children’s children for a thousand generations. May the men ye’ve spawned be forced to watch the end of their kind. And may ye take every breath left to ye thinking of facing God and explaining what ye’ve done.”

She watched the Norsemen’s faces while Gannon translated. A few of them looked away, their faces uneasy, but most of them watched her with no change of expression. What had she expected, that men who could do such things would have souls to risk or consciences to be bruised? She spun on her heels and blindly made for the door.

“His name is Nor Thorkelson.” It was the young boy who spoke in Gaelic, his manner calm and his words clear. “From Ketelsay in the Orkneys. It was he who attacked Somerstrath. Many of these men were with him.”

Gannon leaned forward, his gaze intent. “Nor Thorkelson? Ye’re sure?”

“I am. He is the man you seek. He is the man you must stop.”

Margaret retraced her steps to stand before him. “What is yer name?”

“I am Drason Anderson, the son of Ander, whom Nor murdered.”

The man next to the boy spit at him and spoke in Norse, his words bitter and harsh. Gannon raised his eyebrows. The boy pressed his lips together and looked away from the Viking.

“What did he say?” Rufus demanded.

“He said,” Gannon said, looking from Rufus to Margaret, “that Nor Thorkelson is the boy’s uncle.”