On a Highland Shore (37 page)

He had his men bring the women forward, one by one. He said something about each of them, in incomprehensible Norse. The women were divided into two groups, Margaret put amongst the younger women, as was Dagmar. He rose then, saying something to the Norsemen and gesturing at the door. As the men herded the separate groups into the courtyard Margaret steeled herself, and it was needed. She’d known many of the Inverstrath men must be dead, but she was unprepared for what she found. She closed her eyes, but it was too late. She’d already seen Rufus, his body hanging from the fortress wall, his head at an obscene angle. And a moment later, she could see a group of Norsemen raising a body to hang next to him. A tall man, dressed like a Scot, with long blond hair that hung down his back.

Tiernan
.

One of the Norsemen ripped the torque from Tiernan’s neck, holding it high like a trophy. Margaret screamed at him and lunged for the torque, but was grabbed by her clothing and shoved forward while the Norsemen laughed.

There were more dead outside the gate, only a few of them Vikings. The Norsemen were bending over bodies, taking anything of value, killing those who had been only wounded. Some of the women tried to break free, to run to their husbands or fathers or brothers—or sons—but each was prevented, shoved roughly back into the group. Dagmar, pale and looking frightened, met Margaret’s gaze. Both turned at the sudden screams behind them, from the older women in the other group, terrified screams that would haunt her forever.

“Dear God,” the women next to her said. “He’s giving them to the Vikings.”

Nor’s men were grabbing at the other women, tearing at their clothing, throwing them down on the ground and forcing themselves on the women, who thrashed and screamed. The women around Margaret began to scream as well and struggled to escape, but the men guarding them pushed them closer together.

And then she smelled it. Smoke.

She looked, past the dead on the ground, past where the women were being violated, past Tiernan’s battered body. Inverstrath had been set ablaze.

Margaret was pulled forward. She twisted, trying to free herself from the man’s grip. He yanked her toward him, spinning her around. She had a glimpse of women’s frightened faces, of flames claiming Rufus’s home, of the calm sky above it all. She screamed, flailing at the man who held her. He grunted as one of her blows hit home, then shook her hard, knocking her to her knees, and slapped her, then again. She tried to stand, sensed his arm drawing back.

The world went black.

Nell watched with the others until the Norsemen were gone. As their ships cleared the harbor the rains came, drenching the survivors, who clambered back down the mountain. Steam rose from the fortress as the rain competed with the flames for Inverstrath, but Nell did not look. She knew what they would find.

When she stepped out of the forest, she paused, looking at the charred fortress walls. The people separated then, some going to the village, others, like Nell, to the front of the fortress. She gasped in horror as she rounded the corner.

The field before Inverstrath was littered with its dead. She knew every one of them. Some of the women near the shore were cradling themselves and moaning, some not moving at all, some alive but staring at the sky as though senseless. But none of them Margaret. Nell left them in the care of others and turned her back on the sea, moving inland again, saying the names of the dead aloud as though somehow that was important, to say their names one last time. Here and there a dead Norseman could be found, but very few of them. And Margaret was nowhere.

When she heard the cries of the people at the fortress gates, she looked up, dreading what she would see. Rufus was dead, hanging by his neck from the fortress wall. And next to Rufus…was Tiernan.

Many of the women lived, some with addled wits that the older people said might never be healed, but some, although battered and aching, were able to tell what had happened. Margaret, they said, had been taken by the Norsemen, while they’d been left behind to be used here. Nell was sick when they told what had been done to them, sicker still when she realized what Margaret might be facing.

“They wanted Gannon’s woman,” the women said.

When one of the men tried to comfort her by saying it was a blessing that those who had died had died quickly, she could not talk to him, could not listen to his words. She stayed alone, her anger and grief threatening to engulf her. Tiernan was not in a better place. Rufus had not lived a full life. There was no blessing in their quick deaths—and no assurance that their deaths had been quick. They’d died, painfully, horribly, trying to keep others alive—and in vain. There was no comfort possible, just as there had been none when her family had been killed. How could a just God let these things happen?

She looked out to sea, wondering if Margaret were still alive, if Davey were still alive, what her family had done to deserve such fates. How long she would miss Tiernan. If this chain of death would ever stop.

And what she would tell Gannon when he returned.

The sky was clear and the wind brisk as they passed Somerstrath, the rain that had bathed them on the way now passed to the west, and while the day was waning, the evening was still bright. Gannon did not even spare it a glance, although he saw the others pointing to the destroyed village and heard the Somerstrath boys talking about it.

He’d questioned them for a good part of the journey home, asking them how many men Nor had, how well armed they were, how many ships he had with him. They were very young and could tell him little he had not known or guessed before. What was new information—which made his blood boil—was that Nor had bragged about attacking Somerstrath to his visitors, several times dragging Davey and the other boys from the huts in which they were kept, parading them before the visitors like trophies. One, the boys said, had been a monk. Another had been one of Leod’s sons. On reflection, Gannon decided, he’d gotten what he’d wanted from the trip—knowledge of the man he would hunt.

Almost there. They would be in time for the evening meal. He felt his spirits rise. There was the beach where Margaret had seen the dragonships. There the last headland, where he’d kissed her before they warned Inverstrath. He dreaded telling her about Davey, but at least he could tell her that her brother had been alive not too long ago. She’d cry, of course, and perhaps he could find a way to comfort her. He stroked his hand along the smooth railing of his ship as they rounded the last headland and sailed into Rufus’s harbor, trying to find the right words to say.

He knew at once what had happened.

Rufus’s galleys were burned hulks on the shingle. And beyond them, the remains of the fortress of Inverstrath lay in charred heaps. There were two ships here, neither of them belonging to Rufus, both guarded by Scots who warily watched his approach.

He paid no attention to his ship as it slid high onto the beach, nor to the dead that lay on the bloody ground, except to glance at the blond men among them. He did not hear the cries of distress from the others behind him, did not look long at the women who had been slain. None of them were Margaret.

He moved on, seeing the bodies hanging from the remains of the fortress wall, telling himself he was wrong, that it could not be. He did not listen when Nell ran toward him from somewhere, her small face ravaged, her eyes red from weeping. He gripped her shoulders.

“Where’s Margaret?” he cried. “Where’s Tiernan?”

“They took her, Gannon! The Norsemen took her!”

“No. And Tiernan?”

“Oh, Gannon!” Tears streamed down her face as she pointed.

He did not hear what the others were telling him; the roaring in his ears was too loud. He did not turn to see who it was who clutched at his sleeve, which men were telling him not to look, saying things he could not understand. He walked forward, stopping only when he reached his brother’s body, staring at what was left of Tiernan.

And then he sank to the ground with a cry of despair.

Margaret woke in a heap in the bottom of a ship. Some of the other women were piled around her, huddled together, some weeping, some simply watching, terrified, as the Norsemen plied the oars next to them. Her head throbbed, her neck ached. Her entire body felt pummeled. Her mind was filled with what she’d seen.

Nor was not here; Dagmar was not among the women. The sky beyond the men was blue and cloudless, and the ship rocked beneath her; they must have reached the open sea, she thought, for the men were putting up their oars, and the sail was being lowered.

“They’re taking us away, Lady Margaret,” a girl said, “Aye,” she said.

The girl bit her lip and began to cry. “They killed my mother.”

Margaret had no answer. She patted the girl’s arm. “They’re going to kill all of us, aren’t they?”

“I dinna ken,” Margaret said woodenly, not saying the obvious. If Nor had wanted them dead, he would have killed them already. Which meant he had another plan for them, and that one she could guess. She closed her eyes, ignoring her roiling stomach and her aching body. There were only two things to concentrate on: Nell was not here with her. And Gannon was still alive.

Nell. Gannon. Tiernan. Rufus. Dear God, let me wake from this nightmare
.

She did not know how long they sailed, nor which way they went, for she could not see over the shields that lined the railing. It seemed like forever, and she closed her eyes, letting the motion of the ship lull her into a trance. She opened her eyes occasionally, but could only see the red sail, stretched full with wind above her, and the men who watched her and the women around her. No one touched them; no one spoke to them. She searched the men’s faces, but saw no compassion, no kindness, only a tense excitement that terrified her. She expected no mercy from them, not from men who could kill as they had, who could rape and murder and plunder and laugh at it. They talked among themselves; she could not understand their comments, but realized what had been discussed when she heard the low, predatory laughter that followed.

The ship was not alone. There were others with them; she could occasionally see the top of masts and the banners that flew there, banners she did not recognize. From Orkney, she wondered? Or had that been a ruse? And was Drason’s story a ruse as well? Had he lied, luring Gannon away from Inverstrath with stories of knowing where Davey was, while Nor waited out of sight, ready to pounce? Was Davey even still alive? And was she now the bait to bring Gannon and the rest of his men—and hers—to their deaths?

Gannon, love, I am so sorry. When you find Tiernan…

The men hurried to adjust lines, and the ship turned suddenly, swinging to the right, shivering before leaping forward. She could see the tops of cliffs, barren and dark against the sky, on both sides of the ship, as though they sailed down a long narrow channel. Then nothing but sky as the men lowered the sail and raised their oars. And then cliffs again, these manned, the men on them waving and calling greetings. Dozens of men, it seemed, all Norse. The ship slowed, then stopped. A Norseman gestured for her to rise, and she stood unsteadily, grasping the railing as she looked around.

They were in a sea loch, surrounded by tall cliffs except for directly before her, where a rocky meadow led up to a crude sort of camp. She could see tents and two wooden structures. The loch was filled with longships, dragonships, galleys, and shore boats of every size, not enough to be Haakon’s fleet, but more than she’d expected. Nor was no lone marauder; he was a warlord.

Milling on the shore, catching lines to the arriving ships, were more Norsemen, grinning and whistling as the women were lifted from the ships and deposited on the shingle. The women huddled together, casting fearful glances at each other. Only Margaret looked around her. And Dagmar, who appeared now, in the ship that was next to them. With Nor.

Nor leapt gracefully from his ship to the ground and called to the Norsemen, who listened intently as he swept his hand to indicate the women, then said “Gannon.” The men cheered. Nor then pointed to her, unmistakably saying that she was Gannon’s woman, and the men cheered again. What else he said was lost on her; she was watching his glow of triumph and the hungry looks his men were giving the women.

Nor stalked over to her, offering her his elbow and smiling. “Welcome, Lady Margaret MacDonald.”

She glanced behind him, at Dagmar, who no doubt had supplied her name.

“I trust you’ll find it interesting here,” he said.

He led her up the gentle slope, talking as though they were at a social gathering, as though he were not leading her to a barren stretch of flat land, as if he were not stopping before a grimy wooden hut and gesturing for his man to push the low-slung door open. The wind was brisk here and behind him, towering above his encampment, the majestic Cuillins rose high, dwarfing all beneath them, the unmistakable mountains of Skye.

She looked into his pale blue eyes, then away before he could see her sudden excitement. She was on Skye. In a small boat she could sail home. There were people here on this island who might help her, who might send word to Gannon or to Uncle William of all that had happened. She kept her gaze averted from him, looking instead at the encampment. It looked recent, but was well supplied, for there were horses and pigs, and cattle penned at the far side of the camp. There were women, too, a few at least, brazen camp followers, dressed in the Norse fashion, strutting among the men and watching the new arrivals.