On a Highland Shore (4 page)

“Found a head? What d’ye mean?”

The boys all talked at once. Father frowned as he listened, then met Margaret’s eyes over their heads. “Get yerselves upstairs now, laddies,” he said when they finished. “Ye too, Nell.”

“Is it a war, Father?” Ewan asked.

Their father shook his head. “I’ve heard nothing of one. Off with ye now.”

Nell sighed as she gathered the boys, her long-suffering glance at Margaret letting her know that Nell resented being told to leave with the children. There was silence in the hall as the sounds of the boys’ excited chatter faded up the stairwell, then Father, his expression darkened, turned to his men.

“Find the head. Bring it to me.” He waited until they’d left, then turned to Margaret. “Tell me again what happened.” He listened silently, with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes dark, but made no comments.

When at last the men returned with the head, her father unwrapped the bundle and stared at it for several long moments. He touched it only once, to rub a strand of blond hair between his fingers before he pushed it away.

“It’s a Norseman, isn’t it?” Margaret asked.

Father nodded. “Bury it,” he told his captain, then called for his war chieftain and stalked across the hall and out the door, his men in his wake.

Margaret waited, and as expected, Rignor returned, slumping to sit opposite her. He took a deep drink of Father’s whisky.

“What was it the two of ye were arguing about this time?” she asked.

“He says I’m not doing enough to learn how to be a chieftain.”

“Did ye tell him ye’d try harder, Rignor?”

He glowered at her.

“Ye’ve only to try,” she said, leaning forward. “Ye’ll be a good chieftain when the time comes. Just tell him ye’ll try.”

Rignor grunted and rose to his feet. “I’m weary of him always telling me I’m not good enough. And of ye agreeing with him. Some sister ye are, not even defending me. Like when they tell me not to marry Dagmar. Ye dinna help me at all! I’ll not be dissuaded no matter what they say. And dinna tell me I need to look elsewhere, or that we need any more alliances with the Rosses or another clan. I’ve heard it all a’ready. He’s talking about the Comyns now, as if the most powerful family in Scotland would need a marriage with us! I’ll not talk to ye of Dagmar and who I will marry.”

“I wasna going to say anything of it,” she said, and in truth she was not. Her parents had exhausted the subject, telling their oldest son many times of his responsibility to the clan to marry well, that they would never accept Dagmar as his wife.

Nor was Margaret about to say what else she knew, that several attempts at betrothal between Rignor and a desirable match had been quickly terminated by some rash action of Rignor’s. He’d insulted the father of one of the most important MacDonald families, a disaster that had yet to be remedied. And had been found in the bed of a maid of another possible match. Father had tried to make light of it, but the father of the lass under consideration had not. There were no further discussions. Rignor had, like she, been betrothed shortly after birth, and again a few years later, but both lasses had died in childhood. There was talk among the clanspeople that Rignor had been cursed, that he would never have a wife, and there were times that Margaret wondered if they might not be right.

“Rignor,” she began, but he interrupted her with a wave of his hand.

“They love Lachlan Ross, of course. Everyone loves Lachlan. And ye’re happy to marry him.”

“I am,” she said, but again he did not let her continue.

“But Lachlan is not the prize they make him out to be, ye ken,” Rignor said, leaning forward. “I’ve heard of the complaints of his people, that he neglects them, that he spends all his time at court and all his coin on clothing for himself. It will be difficult for him to find room in his life for a wife, Margaret.”

“That’s not true!” she cried. “He’s always been kind to me. And to you. He went hunting with ye last visit.”

“And what was it he caught, aye?”

She frowned at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I dinna like him, Margaret. That’s what it means.”

He left the hall again without a backward glance. Margaret sighed.

Her father ordered the patrols around the borders of his land increased, sent word to the neighboring clans of the find, spent hours in deep conversations with his war chieftain that halted when anyone else came near. He told the rest of them nothing. No other heads were found. No news of unrest came from the runners who arrived from other clans, and people stopped looking over their shoulders and worrying. All of Somerstrath waited, but as the days passed without incident, everyone calmed. Except for Margaret, who continued to feel unsettled, as though her body had felt a shift in the air that her mind had not yet recognized.

She told herself it was simply bridal nervousness, that she was uneasy because these were her last days at Somerstrath. She’d done some traveling; she’d been to the MacDonald and Ross holdings, and to visit her Aunt Jean’s family, the Comyns. She’d feasted with nobles and clan chiefs and a king, but most of her life had been spent here, on her father’s small part of the Clan MacDonald lands. Her discomfort, she told herself, was nothing more complicated than that she was leaving everyone and everything she knew. As eager as she was to wed, part of her heart always would be here at Somerstrath.

She would not be here to see the winter storms come in from the west, to feel the wind lift the salt spray high above the water and sweep it into the keep, would not be here to see the rainbows that curved from the mountains or disappeared behind the blue islands offshore. Would not be here to listen to the stories told on winter nights, of mighty Somerled, from whom her family descended. Of the great warriors gone before who had risked all for honor or for love, of selkies and banshees and giants. She would not be here for the birth of her new brother or sister, would not know the child at all, would not see her brothers grow and change. She’d be married, living inland, surrounded by luxury and mountains and burns that mimicked the sea, but far from home and family. Of course she felt unsettled.

But she shouldn’t, she scolded herself. It wasn’t a stranger she was marrying, it was Lachlan. Their life together would be splendid. She could visit Somerstrath; Lachlan did often enough. Nell and her brothers could visit her. And Fiona would be with her, for she’d convinced her parents of it. And she still had time here, a fortnight, before everything would change.

In that, she was wrong.

J
UNE
1263
F
ERMANAGH
,
U
LSTER
, I
RELAND

M
y lord.”

Gannon MacMagnus looked up from the letter he was writing to Patrick Maguire, his stepfather, and leaned back in the chair provided by the croftholder in whose home they’d spent the night. He’d been about to write Patrick that all was well on his western lands, that the perimeter ride Gannon and his younger brother Tiernan had been on had proved uneventful. But one look at the man who now stood in the doorway made Gannon suspect that those words would never be written.

It was Alban Maguire, his brother at his side. Both men were tacksmen of Gannon’s stepfather’s and Gannon had known them for years. Alban’s face was lined with grief, his manner shaken. His brother was pale and grim. Whatever this was, it was serious. Across the room Tiernan looked up from the bridle he’d been examining and the brothers exchanged a glance.

“What is it, Alban?” Gannon asked.

Alban twisted his hands together before him. “My lord, d’ye remember me telling ye just yestereen what happened when my daughter went to Sligo, that the man offered for her, and she turned him down?” At Gannon’s nod he continued, his voice shaking. “They must have kent that ye’d been at our home and left, for in the night, almost at the morning, they came.” He paused to take a shuddery breath. “They killed my wife, sir. And took my daughters, both of them. I tried…I tried, my lord, but I could do nothing to stop them. I told ye, do ye remember, that he’d threatened his revenge on her? But I never thought…” He put his face in his hands and could not continue.

“Aye. I remember,” Gannon said. He’d not been surprised that the man from Sligo had offered for her; she was very lovely. But he’d also not been surprised she’d refused him scornfully; she’d always had a high opinion of herself. Most men suffering such a rejection would have been bitter. But not violent. Gannon rose to his feet, gathering the papers together, feeling his anger rise.

“He came to me at dawn,” Alban’s brother said, gesturing to Alban. “And I told him to come to ye. I canna believe men would behave so, to kill a woman and steal my nieces. God only kens what’s happened to them already.”

Gannon thrust his paper and quill into the wooden writing box, letting the top close with a thud. “Ye want us to go and bring them back, aye?”

Alban’s brother looked at Tiernan and the four other men in the room. “No. There’s not enough of ye. But we thought, kenning as ye are cousin to the great Rory O’Neill, laird of all Ulster, that ye could send word to him and ask him for help. He’d like as not send some men if ye were to ask him…”

“That would take three days,” Gannon said. “How many of them are there?”

“Fifteen, my lord, all large men, and fearsome.”

Gannon raised an eyebrow. “There are six of us, sir, and two of ye. And I assure ye we are far more fearsome than they are. D’ye ken where they went?”

“We tracked them to a glade not far from here, my lord, but, sir, ye canna think to take them on without help.”

Tiernan came to Gannon’s side. The brothers exchanged a look, then Gannon nodded. He turned to his men. “Get yerselves ready, lads. We’ve a task to do. Let’s go and get the bastards.”

Gannon leaned down closer to his horse’s neck, whispering to the stallion, whose ears flickered in response. The horse, as highly trained as its master, kept silent. Gannon turned his head then to look at Tiernan, astride next to him, both of them dappled with shadows from the trees that surrounded them. In the glade before them the lasses huddled together, the younger one sobbing. The older one stared into the distance as the Sligo men tended the horses or talked with each other and passed a wineskin. They’d obviously been drinking. And more, from the looks they threw the lasses.

He gestured for Alban to come forward and signaled for him to be quiet. When Alban had joined him, Gannon parted the leaves. “Are these the ones?”

Alban nodded, his fear visible. “But, my lord, ye’ll never…”

Gannon put a finger over his lips. “We’ll get them back,” he whispered.

He turned to the men behind him, gesturing for two of them to flank the glade. Then he nodded at Tiernan. His brother nodded in return and raised a hand to signal their men. Gannon gave his men a moment to get into position, then straightened and slowly drew his broadsword from its sheath, careful not to make a sound. He’d give the bastards one chance. He lifted his reins and rode into the glade.

The Sligo men leapt to their feet, a few reaching for weapons, then pausing, watching him. Gannon gave the men who stared at him now a moment to see his raised sword, letting his horse dance in a tight circle while he looked them over. Hardened men, most of them, hired, no doubt, for this attack. They looked at him with a mixture of contempt and amazement.

“Ye are accused of stealing these lasses and killing their mother,” Gannon said. “I am here to bring ye to justice before Patrick Maguire.”

“Alone?” one of the men asked with a sneer.

“Will ye come?” Gannon asked.

“Like hell,” the man said, and started toward Gannon.

Gannon was waiting. The man fell at once and Gannon turned to the next one. Behind him he heard Tiernan’s shout and the sounds of horses smashing through young trees as his brother led the charge into the camp, the others behind him roaring their battle cries. Most of the Sligo men never lived to grasp an axe or sword, but some fought madly.

Gannon mowed his way through a small cluster of them, then whirled his horse to plow across the camp again. One of the men thrust Alban’s elder daughter before him, using her as a shield. The noise around him disappeared as Gannon looked into the man’s eyes, then at the young woman with tears streaming down her face. There were marks on her neck already, bruises showing where she had been abused. She clutched her torn tunic across her breasts and closed her eyes, cringing in terror as Gannon raised his sword. He never touched her. The man behind her fell writhing to the ground and a moment later stopped moving. Gannon did not spare him even a glance, but turned to see how Tiernan and the others were faring.

It was over. Across the glade Alban was embracing his younger daughter. Their uncle met Gannon’s gaze and nodded fiercely.

They spent the night in the walled village where Alban’s brother lived, where they listened to Alban’s brother and Gannon’s men tell the story of rescuing the women, embellishing it each time. Gannon did not mind. He drank their whisky and accepted their thanks, but tried not to look at Alban and his daughters, whose suffering was tangible. The bed the villagers provided Gannon was warm, the woman who shared it more than willing, and he was grateful to have both.

He dreamt of water closing over his head, of limbs too heavy to raise toward the light that beckoned above, of sinking, slowly, toward the depths. Of knowing that he’d failed and that death was at hand. He could feel the water seep beneath his clothing, heartless liquid fingers that sucked the breath from his lungs and caught at his legs and pulled him relentlessly down, down, while the life left in him floated to the surface. He looked up at the light one last time.

And then there was nothing.

Gannon woke with a start, tremors still running through him, to find his hands clenched, his heart pounding, and his body soaked with sweat. It was a dream, he told himself. Not a memory. Not a foreshadowing. Merely the aftermath of the day’s events. He slipped from the bed, careful not to wake the woman, and walked quickly from the house into the night. He stared into the sky, calming himself by naming the constellations. Leo, the lion. Draco, the dragon.

The whispers, then the dreams. It was always the same. The whispers arrived first, sounding like wind rustling through the trees, speaking words that he could almost hear, faint fragments of sentences. He’d be riding through a wood, or standing on the shore, thinking of something far different, and the whispers would find him, telling their half tale, bringing memories he’d suppressed. And then the dreams, nightmares so real that he could swear he was there, seeing the deaths, or witnessing his own, the images still lingering in the air when he woke. Next came relief that death had not claimed him, swiftly followed by the realization that one day it would.

He was not afraid to die. He was afraid to fail, and in the dreams he always failed. He’d wake each time, his body in turmoil, and think himself calm again by reminding himself of who he was, of all he’d learned, of the blood he carried in his veins. All men faced death, and someday he would as well. He could not change that any more than he could change the tide.

The whispers and dreams were warnings, he knew, that the time of his testing was at hand, the time that he’d always known in his bones would come, the time that he was born for. He would face whatever was coming. And he would triumph. There was no other choice. Change was coming, and he was ready.

It came sooner than he’d expected, for he and Tiernan had only just returned to their stepfather’s stronghold when the summons came.

Nell MacDonald hummed as she swayed her skirts, watching their shadows on the plastered wall of the room she shared with her sister. She’d grown too quickly, her mother had complained when they’d hunted for something for Nell to wear at Margaret’s wedding and found nothing was long enough, as though Nell could control her own height. Or anything about her life.

She’d received her new gown yesterday, both skirt and overskirt of a lavender silk, and a new bodice of a slightly darker shade. Together they made an exquisite, extravagant, elegant gown. She’d been trying it on constantly ever since, proud of her growth, proud that her body was changing, that she was leaving girlish clothing behind. Margaret was marrying an important man, a man who would take Margaret to court—and perhaps her sister—and simple clothing would no longer do. And although no one had told her, she knew there’d been talk recently of her own betrothal. It was time to look like a woman. Like Margaret, who’d had all of Somerstrath busy making her new clothes, bodices of silk and side skirts held back with ribbon, a woolen cloak lined with soft fur. At last Margaret’s wardrobe was complete, and attention had been turned to the rest of the family, and Nell was most pleased.

Margaret’s wedding was almost upon them, and her mother was all abuzz with the preparations, with trying to make her home and her family look their best for the guests. Nell had told her mother that no one would mind if things were not perfect, but her mother had irritably waved her words away and told Nell she didn’t understand. Which was certainly true. It was supposed to be a happy occasion, but one would not know it from her mother’s demeanor. Nell hoped her mother would be calmer when it was Nell’s turn to be married. Whenever that would be. To whomever that would be.

“Watching yer skirts again, are ye?”

Nell spun around at Margaret’s voice, then swirled her skirts again. “Laugh at me if ye will, but I’m going to enjoy it before I grow out of this one, too.”

Margaret did laugh. “I came to tell ye that Mother’s sending me to the shielings instead of going herself.”

Nell nodded. Every summer her mother went to the shielings, the small huts in the foothills, to check on those clansmen who lived there year-round, and to make sure the unlived-in huts were ready for the villagers who would spend their summer there, taking their children and other animals with them, fattening their cattle on the lush pastures, not returning until the Lammas feast in August. But this year Mother was heavy with child; it was only sensible that Margaret went in her stead.

“Rignor’s going, of course,” Margaret said. “D’ye want to come as well?”

“Oh, aye! I’d love that.” Nell smiled, delighted. A day with Margaret, away from the village, even with moody Rignor, would be wonderful.

“Good. Now all we have to do is convince Mother. I’ll have ye try that. I dinna seem to have much success pleasing her these days.”

Nell nodded. Their mother was sharper with Margaret than with anyone else. It was, Nell had told herself many times, simply that Mother wanted everything so perfect for Margaret. Her sister went to stare out the tiny window, her expression so serious that Nell stopped for a moment and watched her.

“Margaret? Mother will be happier soon, when the wedding’s over and the baby’s here. She’ll be herself again.”

“But I willna be here to see it, will I, Nell?”

Nell felt a lump rise in her throat. “Are ye sad about that?”

Margaret turned, her eyebrows raised, dark crescents against her pale skin. “No, no, of course not. But I’ll miss ye, Nell. More than anyone here, I’ll miss ye. Ye’ll have to come and see us, aye?”

Nell smiled, thinking of the clothes and shoes and fascinating people she’d meet. Her smiled faded as the door banged open and their mother entered, her face creased with frowns.

“Are the two of ye deaf? Did ye no’ hear me calling ye? Get that gown off, Nell. Ye’ll have it ruined before the day’s out. Come, the both of ye. I canna do everything. Margaret, ye’ve been gone half the morning. Yer brothers are underfoot again. I dinna ken why yer father canna ever take them with him instead of leaving them here for me to deal with, and me trying to get this keep looking like a palace, not that it ever would no matter how much time I spent, and yer brothers undoing everything the moment I have it done. Och, will ye look at the mess of this room? Ye need to set it to rights.”

“It’s only a few things,” Margaret said.

“A few things! Is that what ye call all the lovely clothes we’ve prepared for yer wedding? A few things!”

“I meant only that it’ll be simple to clear them, not that they aren’t lovely.”

“Aye, well, see that ye care well for them. There’s no more coming for ye, lass, and I dinna want ye disgracing us when ye’re at court, though how we could be expected to compete with all those women with their fancy clothing when we’re out here at the edge of the world I’ll never ken.”

Nell interrupted before her mother’s tirade grew more heated. “When Margaret and Rignor go to the shielings, may I go with them? Please, may I go?”