by Lora Andrews
“My clan was attacked yestreen. You’ll be happy to know we weathered the storm, thanks to the quick thinking of my first in command.” Donald spread his legs and clasped his hands behind his back. “If the evidence is to be believed, then it appears I have you to thank for the ambush.”
Alan’s nostrils flared. Behind him, his men stiffened.
Ewen waited. One beat. Two—
“Is that an accusation?” The Cameron chief’s voice cut like a sharpened blade. He glanced at the birlinn then eyed Donald suspiciously. “What is the true meaning of this visit?”
When the muscles in Balfour’s sword hand twitched, Ewen fought the urge to reach for his own weapon.
“Ten men infiltrated our grounds coming up the River Gour,” Ewen said, watching Alan’s guards. “They traveled in a southeasterly direction to the keep. Each man was armed, working in pairs or groups of three. After the skirmish, we found crowberry pinned to several léines. Ian identified your tanner’s mark on the jerkin worn by one of the slain.”
Strolling past Donald, Alan covered the short distance to the galley and climbed aboard. With his dagger in his hand, he lowered himself onto one knee and cut away the cloth covering the dead man’s face. His lips pressed together. A muscle ticked at his jaw.
Recognition.
Ewen lowered his hand to his sheath.
Bowing his head, the Cameron chief touched the body. “He was a good friend to many.” Then he stood and slowly turned in their direction. “This man is one of mine, but I did not order the attack against your people.”
“I believe you,” Donald said. “Were you to plan such an atrocity, you’d ride in waiving your banner like the fool that you are.”
His brother didn’t know when to shut his mouth.
Snapping his head to Balfour and Cruim, Alan ordered the men to fall back. With disapproving frowns, the two acquiesced and backed away, stopping when they were out of hearing range.
Grim faced, Alan climbed out of the birlinn and approached Donald. “I’ve known you all my life. You’re a wily bastard. You arrive here with my man and enough evidence to pin me to an unprovoked raid against your people. You have motive to break our alliance and enough sympathy from my enemies to rally their support. Yet you stand unarmed with the body of the man who attempted to kill your brother, shrouded as is our custom and returned to his kin, a mercy not given to many of our warriors, as you well know. I’d say impending fatherhood has changed you, Donald.” Alan laughed, the sound bitter. “But I know better. Something has you spooked, and I’m man enough to say that notion scares me more than the fact someone is trying to blacken my name for a wrong I haven’t committed.”
Donald grunted, the muscles in his shoulders relaxing. He’d seen the proof he needed in Alan. “We’ve another prisoner.”
“Not one of mine. All of my men are accounted for. All but Jamie.” Alan gestured to the corpse.
Ewen ignored the rain pelting his skin. “The other man goes by the name of Randal Macquarie. Claims no allegiance to any clan. Lives on the shores of Gleann a’ Bhearraidh, and like Jaime, he told us he had no memory of arriving on our lands, nor of his participation in the attack.”
Rupert’s head jerked to Ewen. “Gleann a’ Bhearraidh?”
“Jaime told you that?” A look flitted from Alan to Balfour and Cruim.
Ewen scratched the burning spot on the back of his neck. “Aye, before he died. Macquarie recalls fetching water from the loch but nothing more until he awoke in our dungeon.”
Flicking his fingers against the side of his leg, Alan stared in the direction of the river for a long time before re-addressing Donald. “There’s something the three of you need to see.” He spun on a heel. “Follow me.”
Wordlessly, they fell in tow behind him, trudging up the path leading to Tor Castle. Ewen took up the rear behind the monk, with Donald at Alan’s back. Cruim and Balfour were last, carrying their clansman’s body with downcast eyes.
Alan navigated around several homes in the village nestled by the river. Three women seated around a pail of dye paused, the sight of the shrouded corpse stealing their attention away from their daily chores.
“He was a good, hard-working man. Never one to be in his cups. Even when youth gave him the right to rile the heavens, Jaime walked a straight path. His wife and two sons are—were—the center of his world.” Alan stopped before a thatched hut with a brown door. “He was last seen on the loch. My scouts searched east and west of the shore, going as far as your northern borders.”
“How long ago?” Ewen asked. With no signs of struggle or evidence to point to foul play, Alan would have assumed the man had drowned. The family would hope and pray for his return while everyone else watched the loch for the body to resurface.
“Three moons.”
Three moons? Christ, that was before Ewen had discovered the first body.
Alan delivered four firm knocks to the door.
Ewen didn’t envy the task that awaited the chieftain. Cruim and Balfour stayed back a respectable distance while Ewen, Donald, and Rupert waited behind Alan. Several moments passed before the door creaked open.
A white-haired man poked his head through the opening. Tired gray eyes widened at the sight of Alan and the three large men at his threshold. “Laird?”
“Fingal, this here is Donald, chieftain of the MacLeans of Ardgour.” Alan pointed to Ewen next and the old man’s eyes grew wider, “His first in command, Ewen, son of Lachlan, and…” Alan frowned as he moved his finger from Ewen to Rupert. “I’m afraid I’m at loss for your name, brother.”
“Rupert of Iona.”
Fingal’s jaw dropped as he dragged his gaze from the monk, to Donald, then back to Ewen.
“We’re here to see Hamish. Will you invite us in?” Alan asked.
Donald frowned and glanced at Ewen. They were expecting to see Jamie’s widow, not a villager by the name of Hamish.
The old man nodded. He grasped the door with bony fingers. “Please, enter at will.”
Ewen stooped to avoid hitting the upper door casing and stepped inside the one-room hut. Droplets of rain rolled off his body, hitting the dirt floor. The group gathered around a small fire built in the center of the room. A pot sat next to the open flame with a dirk and cut vegetables on a board left waiting for the man to return to his task.
Two feet away, a pallet lay on the floor against the wall. Beside it, sitting on a wooden bench, rocked a pale man with a thin blanket wrapped around his gaunt frame. Sweat and sickness mingled with the smoky peat scent of the fire. Brown unkempt hair curled in damp clumps against his head. With everyone else accounted for, Ewen assumed this man was Hamish.
Fingal closed the door and shuffled his hunched body to a spot by the man.
Donald waved a hand. Hamish didn’t blink. His gaze didn’t waiver. He stared ahead into the fire with vacant eyes, as if no one stood in the room beside him.
“Fingal,” Alan said, “go on down to the keep and fetch yourself a hot meal. A worthy source tells me our fine lady will be serving venison stew and I’ve been told ’tis one of your favorites, no?”
Surprise flicked through the old man’s eyes before his gaze fell to the ingredients by the fire. Then, as if filled with regret, he glanced at Hamish before shaking his head. “It would be best if I stayed.”
Hamish chose that moment to moan, and then gibberish poured from the sick man’s mouth.
Alan laid a gentle hand on Fingal’s shoulders. “Fear not, old friend. We will watch over him. You have my word. Go on, now. Eat and rest by the fire. I’ll see to your son’s needs.”
With a reluctant nod, Fingal slowly moved his bent frame to the door, glancing one last time at his son before leaving the hut.
Hamish rolled his head back, mouth slack, and stared at the ceiling overhead.
“What happened to him?” Ewen asked. The man seated before him was no more than a shell of his former self.
“Jamie was not alone when he disappe
ared. Hamish was with him. From what we can tell, the two rowed out together. We found the currach beached along the loch’s shore.” Alan shrugged and made a clicking sound with his tongue. “He was left for dead in a field half a furlong from the beach. Both he and Jamie are able-bodied men. Men who’ve spent their lives working the fields. Securing our borders. Men who are more than capable of defending themselves. Yet, there was no sign of struggle. No drags marks upon the earth. He was left atop…”
Alan’s voice shook. His nostrils flared and he clamped his mouth shut before finishing his sentence. “A cleared section of the field.”
Rupert moved closer to examine Hamish. “What do you mean by a cleared section? Can you describe what your men saw when they found him? No detail is unimportant.”
“I found Hamish.” Alan’s mouth twisted. “He’d been stripped of his clothing, laid on his back upon soil that had been freshly tilled and plucked of all heather and grass. I found him in the condition you now see him.”
Ewen’s heart thudded against his chest. Despite the heat, the temperature in the small room seemed to drop. “You found him alive upon a circle in the midst of a field?” Questions sped through his mind. Was he bound? Were herbs sprinkled to mark the circle’s outline from the rest of the field? Did he find any evidence of a ritual performed on site?
Alan cut him a suspicious glare. “And how would you know he was laid out in a circle?”
“Because two months ago a woman in my village was killed in a similar way.” Donald ran a hand down his face and pulled at his beard before dropping his hand. “She was found with her arms bound over her head, neck slit. Then, a fortnight past, Ewen was called to Mull to investigate another death.”
What happened to Hamish and Jaime couldn’t be a coincidence, but how on god’s green earth did this atrocity connect to the other deaths and the raid?
Ewen swallowed. “A lad of ten and six was found in a ritual circle, arms bound over his head. He’d been drained of blood.” Ewen glanced at Hamish. He had no scarring on his neck. “He wasn’t cut?”
“No, nor was he bound. At least not when we found him. There were signs candles had been lit at four points of the circle. He was marked.” Alan took two steps to Hamish and lifted the sleeve on his left arm to reveal a symbol carved into his flesh. Two angled lines with a jagged line through the center.
Ewen briefly closed his eyes. When they’d interrogated Randal Macquarie, he’d seen the same symbol etched on the man’s left forearm, and he’d bet his best sword the symbol was carved somewhere on Jamie’s body, too.
“Pardon me,” the monk said with a quick nod of his head followed by a swirl of his robes as he made his way to the door.
Donald angled his head and flicked an eyebrow in the monk’s direction. Rupert knew more than he was letting on, and it was high time he came clean. Acknowledging his brother’s subtle command, Ewen excused himself and quickly set after the monk.
Outside, Cruim and Balfour waited near a small alley between Fingal’s hut and another house. Jamie’s corpse lay on the ground.
Rupert made a beeline to the guards. “May I see the man’s arm?”
“Allow it.” Ewen approached Rupert from behind. “It is important, or we would not disrespect the man in death.”
Balfour hesitated then stepped back to give Ewen room to cut the shroud.
Rounding the body, Ewen pulled the jeweled dagger from its sheath and crouched beside the corpse. When he cut the fabric, his eyes weren’t on his task. Instead, he scrutinized the reaction of the man he’d known and respected for most of his life.
Resignation flashed across Rupert’s features. Then his expression went blank.
Carefully, Ewen rolled the damaged flap of fabric over the peculiar symbol on Jaimie’s arm and stood. For once, why couldn’t his gut be wrong?
Rupert turned and walked the path leading to the river.
“My sympathy,” Ewen said to Cruim and Balfour. “From what I’ve been told, he was a good man.”
“His death will be avenged,” Cruim said, his voice thick.
“Aye,” Ewen agreed. “It will.”
The monk stood by the edge of the river, his back to Ewen and the guards. Excusing himself from Balfour and Cruim, Ewen made his way to the river’s edge.
When he reached Rupert, the monk acknowledged his arrival with a tight frown and said, “We must leave for Iona immediately.”
God help him. Ewen’s arse might burn in hell, but he wasn’t letting Rupert out of his clutches until the man confessed every last detail, beginning with what he knew about the markings on the bodies and ending with what he’d seen the morning of the attack.
“We go nowhere until you tell me what that symbol means.”
“All will be revealed in due time,” Rupert said.
Ewen pivoted and grabbed Rupert’s arm until no more than an inch separated their bodies. “No more riddles, Rupert. Three people lay dead, and another sits in that house without the mercy of death. If you were any other man, I’d have my dagger to your throat, demanding answers.”
“And if I weren’t a man of the cloth, you’d have my sword pierced through your heart.” Rupert yanked his arm out of Ewen’s grip then wiped the spittle from his mouth with the back of his hand. “This goes deeper than oaths made to men or kin, Ewen. You must trust me on this.”
“Before the attack, you said there was a civilization that lived before the time of the Druids. Do you remember? You made the connection to the crux ansata. And now you clamp your mouth tighter than a clam? What’s changed, old man?”
The monk didn’t answer.
Ewen pushed on. “You recognized the symbol on that man’s arm, did you no’? Don’t bother denying it. You know what the crux ansata represents.” Rupert also knew why the murderer mimicked the pattern. “And you know what these symbols mean. Tell me.”
“Or what, lad? Eh?”
“Don’t force my hand,” Ewen growled. “Where my kin is concerned, we both know I’ve no soul.” Guilt lodged against his throat, swelling until he couldn’t swallow the spit in his mouth.
Rupert sighed. “And still the past haunts you? When will you forgive yourself, lad?”
It took all of Ewen’s resolve to not shift his eyes away from the monk’s hold. “Tell me what it means.”
“It means the world and all we know hangs in the balance,” Rupert snickered ruefully.
I’m going to kill him.
Ewen ground his teeth and counted to three. “The other bodies weren’t marked. Why this particular symbol? Why change the ritual?”
“Because one represents the magic of a god and the other a darkness beyond anything we know.”
More riddles, yet Ewen’s nape stung. He decided to change tactics. “Tell me what you saw when you crested the hill the morning of the raid.”
Rupert’s voice dropped. “You know what I saw.”
Aye, but Ewen needed to hear him say the words.
Crossing the path to the other side, Rupert looked out to the winding river. A cool breeze blew against his body. “She is not of this time.” He pierced Ewen with his golden stare. “You must accompany us to the abbey. We cannot tarry. We may already be too late.”
Us?
Did he mean her?
Rupert had lost his bluidy mind. If he thought Ewen would leave Donald or his kin unprotected to ferry his arse across the loch to Iona with a woman who was most likely a witch, then—
“You have no choice.” Rupert rushed back across the path and grabbed Ewen’s shoulders. “Listen to me, boy. We are both bound to a course of action set in motion ages ago. You want answers? Only one man has the knowledge we both seek. The answers she must seek.”
Ewen shrugged off Rupert’s hold.
“Don’t you feel it, lad? Don’t you feel the change in the air? Don’t you feel your destiny?”
Destiny? Ewen snickered, but the laugh died in his throat, the familiar tug in his chest festering like an old wound.
Ewen looked away. He’d found the tiny corncrake near a grassy peat bog, its wing broken. Filled with such faith, he believed these mighty holy men possessed a link to god that he didn’t have.
But the creature had died. And no amount of praying had changed its fate.
Just like his mother.
“No. My destiny—my place—is in Ardgour by my chosen people.”
“Then stand by and watch your people bleed, for no mortal man alone can stop the destruction that will engulf our race. But if you change your mind, then seek out the only person who can aid you in your quest to stop these deaths.”
Ewen cast Rupert a wary glance. “And who would that be?”
“The Comarba of Colum Cille. The Abbot of Iona, Dominic Mackenzie.”
It would have to be him, wouldn’t it?
Ewen rolled his eyes. Damn the bluidy fates.
NINE
ON DAY THREE of her Highland adventure, Caitlin sat on the edge of her bed and quickly wrapped a fresh dressing around her neck. She didn’t have a mirror to check the bite, but she could feel the new tissue growing over the wound Deidre had stitched. Weeks’ worth of healing didn’t happen in two days’ time. Granted, she’d always been a fast healer, but this wasn’t normal.
Nor was the absence of excruciating pain in her supposedly broken wrist.
Caitlin blew out a breath, mildly impressed she wasn’t freaking out or curled in a corner blowing air into a non-existent paper bag. Who would have thought a little time-travel would cure what years of therapy couldn’t?
A knock sounded on the door.
