But Neil Gow-Sinclair was not finished. Suddenly enough to startle even her steady nerves, he lunged forward across the table and caught her by the wrist, hauling her forward, so she bent uncomfortably across the table, smelling his reeking breath.
“But now,” he growled, “the boy is your prisoner. And ye shall have the caring of him, d’ye hear me? I won’t have my men take on women’s work, bandaging and coddling a sickly boy who cannot even fight off a woman half his size. And ye should remember it as a lesson, girl. Ye should have left the taking of the prisoner tae men more capable than yourself. I won’t have ye getting above yer station, d’ye hear? Now go. Go and see tae the snivelling whippet ye have captured. I want him alive when we reach the castle, and if he’s not, it’ll be ye that I’ll be looking tae for explanations. Get out of my sight!”
With a disdainful sweep of his hand, he dismissed her, and she fled, her cheeks burning. His rebuke was so contradictory and so petty that it churned her insides up with anger and rejection, causing a sick sensation in her belly. The man was mad, she thought. He must be. It was the only explanation she could think of for him being angry at her for taking the prisoner, and seemingly mad at him for being taken, all the while acknowledging that it was Neil’s own efforts to make her train hard as a fighter that had allowed her to do so. Neil had taught her how to fight. The achievement was his as much hers.
Hating the tears that came unbidden to her eyes, she wiped them roughly away and climbed down the ladder and moved away from the quarterdeck, approaching her prisoner.
Thorvald was tied to the mainmast with a stout rope wrapped around his torso, another round his ankles and neck, his hands bound up to the sides of the thick post. Anne did not think he would be left there long. Already it was clear that he was getting in the way of the crew’s smooth operation of the vessel. She could see the first mate, Juarez, regarding the prisoner from a distance. Anne did not think it would be long before he plucked up the courage to ask his captain for permission to move the boy. At the rate the captain was drinking, Juarez would have to do it soon.
Anne approached Thorvald from behind, getting a good look at the bruise on the side of his head before he noticed her. It was ugly; purple swelling around a small cut on his cheekbone, his left eye swollen almost shut. She took two more steps.
His head snapped around, and she saw him wince in pain.
“Easy,” she said without thinking, as she might to a skittish horse, and he narrowed the one good eye at her. It was not hot, but the afternoon spent tied to the mast had taken most of the fight out of him. The jocular banter, so apparent earlier, had vanished.
“I’m not here tae hurt ye, I just want tae look at that eye.”
“Well, ye see it.”
“Aye, and I don’t like the look of it. Will ye let me bathe it?”
“Anne,” he spoke softly, taking her in surprise.
“They called ye that in the boat.”
“Aye, and what is your name?”
Thorvald coughed.
“Thorvald Fishersson of Skylness. What do ye people want with me?”
“I don’t know,” she replied honestly. “I’m just a member of the crew. The captain has his orders.”
She had been watching Juarez, the first mate, from the corner of her eye. Now she saw him move away toward the quarterdeck where the captain was sitting, bottle in hand.
“I think they will move ye from here tae somewhere more secure, somewhere out of the way. I’m... sorry about the blow tae yer head. But believe me, it’s better than what they would have done otherwise.”
Thorvald managed a laugh.
“Well, I accept yer apology – for all the good it’ll do me. Will they let ye treat this wound once I’m moved?”
“Yes, I think they’ll let me. If I don’t, nobody else will, that’s for certain.”
Their eyes met, and without either of them meaning it, a smile blossomed between them. Where before they had only exchanged words, now they were sharing something. It wasn’t much, just a smile, but something happened, like a lock snapping shut as a door closes or a line that pulls tight when a fish is hooked. Inevitable. They shared the smile. She did not blush but looked away from his face. Thorvald felt his heart skip.
“Here they come,” she said. “Now just take it easy and don’t make it harder for yerself.”
Mercifully, he did as she suggested. When Juarez returned with four of the largest members of the crew, Thorvald allowed them to untie and lead him away below deck. They placed him in a small cabin usually reserved for crewmen too drunk or unwieldy; a tiny space with no window, only a low wooden bunk bolted to the floor. They manacled his ankle to the foot of the bunk on a chain which was so short he could not even raise it to put onto the bed.
“Cap’n has given ye the care of him?” Juarez asked, locking the door behind him.
“Aye.”
“Ye had better take this then.” He proffered her the key, and she took it quickly. It was a clumsy, iron thing, heavy in her hand.
“What about the key tae the manacle?”
“I keep that, Captain’s orders.” Then he turned on his heel and walked away, his crewmen hulking away in front of him.
Anne went back up on deck. The sun was setting, and a spattering of rain made her shiver. Finding a bucket and cloth and fresh water, she begged a little hard bread and sour wine from the cook for her prisoner. The cook was an old, grey-haired man named Peter, who had been sailing with Neil since his days in the Americas. Peter’s hair was fluffy grey, and his skin was dark as the sea on a moonless night. He was grumpy and short-tempered as a rule, but he had a soft spot for the captain’s niece and gave her what she asked for with only a token protest. She thanked him and returned to her hammock in the cramped sleeping quarters below decks. Fetching a spare blanket and her own heavy cloak, she made her way aft toward the prisoner’s room and banged loudly on the door.
“Get back,” she called through the panelling. He laughed sourly, and she remembered how tightly manacled he was. Her face reddening in the musty darkness, the key rattling in the crude lock as she pushed open the door.
Thorvald sat stiffly on the bed, his arms crossed on his chest and back braced against the bulwark of the ship. His left foot was drawn to an awkward angle against its restraint, unable to rest properly whether he was seated or lying down. Anne held up her candle and surveyed the cramped and unpleasant scene with distaste.
Thorvald gave her a twist of a smile.
“Nice work, this,” he indicated his ankle, and she rolled her eyes.
“Nothing I can do about that, I’m afraid.”
“How long will I be here? How far are we going?”
“Not long.” She set the bucket down with a thump. “Not far. Now, let me see yer face.”
“Ye see it.”
“Are ye going to be stubborn? Am I going tae have tae clout ye again just tae get ye tae let me dress it? Come on. What harm can it do? Let me bathe the damned wound.”
He huffed in exasperation, but uncrossed his arms and moved forward a little on the bed. She smiled and, taking it as permission, brought the bucket forward and sat down next to him. Placing the candle carefully in a nook on the wall, she saw the glint of the knife. It was in his right hand, concealed by his sleeve, and he moved quick as a striking snake, the small blade glinting in the candlelight as it flashed toward her throat.
Chapter Four
“No...!” she heard herself cry, and then she was upon him, straddling him, yanking his knife hand up by the wrist with a practised jolt that made him clench his teeth in a spasm of pain.
“Stop it! Stop it, ye fool!” she hissed at him. He was no match for her, even with his advantage in size. He was a fisherman, she was a practised brawler, brought up among the hard men of Neil Gow-Sinclair’s crew. Before he knew what was happening, he was pinned back against the bulkhead, one arm twisted up high, his other pinned beneath him.
“Drop it!” she cried, “dro
p it, or am I going tae break yer arm?” She twisted his wrist a little higher, and he grunted with pain and dropped the knife as she caught it in her free hand. It was a nasty little blade, shining sharply in the dim candlelight, a boot knife. She flung it toward the door.
“Nobody searched yer boots?” she asked in disbelief, still on top of him, her face close to his. Her lips close to his, she thought suddenly. The thought of kissing him flashed through her mind, a vivid, powerful image, sharp and sudden. Anne had never kissed anyone before and could feel his warm breath on her face. With a quick lunge that she almost managed to avoid, he snapped his head forward, trying to hit her in the nose. Jerking her head backwards, just a moment too late, his brow caught her a stinging blow on the jaw instead. Kissing was now clean out of her mind, and she allowed his own momentum to raise him just enough to be off-balance, and then slammed him back down onto the bench, driving the wind from him. Pushing her knee firmly into his belly, she smacked him hard on his bruise with the flat of her palm.
“Ah, God damn ye tae hell, ye bloody harpy!” he gasped, as the renewed pain made him crumple and go weak in her arms.
“Alright, alright,” he panted. “I can tell when I’m bested. Let me go. I won’t fight ye. Oh, man, but that hurts...”
She held him there a moment longer. He met her eyes and then glanced away.
They regarded each other across the little cabin in the flickering candlelight. Both were breathing heavily, but the silence in the tiny space seemed a liquid thing, pooling into the gaps around their ragged breathing, the mall creaks of rope and timber, the thud of waves against the bow, and the long shushing sounds of the sea beyond.
Anne straightened up and put a hand to her hip. Her other rubbed her jaw where he had clipped her. “Well, I suppose that we’re even?”
He laughed bitterly. “Even? I think not. But ye have certainly made it clear what our positions are here. Come, I’m sorry. I won’t try tae fight ye. Please, bathe the wound.”
They did not speak, but as she worked, she could feel the tension easing between them. It was painful for him, and she tried to be as gentle as possible, but when she was done, the ugly cut clean and wrapped in a linen bandage, it felt as if they had gone through something difficult together. He thanked her stiffly, and she smiled at him.
“Let’s just leave it there, shall we?”
Anne did not sleep that night. Neither did Thorvald. He sat in his cell in the dark, his head bowed, brooding on what was to come. She sat up in the bows of the ship, watching the cold February moon as it sailed over the churning waters, turning the seascape to flashing tones of black and silver.
In the wee small hours of the night, Anne saw their destination. The double towers of the castle that was her uncle’s base coming into view, rearing up as towers of a darker night against the inky sky. The moon stood behind the towers, and a light burned high up in a window. The sight gave her minimal comfort.
With practised skill, the night crew began to move around her, preparing to bring the Caithness Seal toward the anchorage.
* * *
That same morning, as the Caithness Seal was preparing to land on the shore at Skylness Village, Alice Grant stood with her father-in-law, Iain, and husband, John, on the busy pier at Kirkwall harbour, the main dock in Orkney. Alice was a tall woman with blazing red hair, inherited from her mother, and a sturdy, fighter’s build, inherited from her father.
It had been a long journey, but at last, they had arrived
“It’s not much o’ a welcome,” she commented, and her father-in-law laughed.
“Well, lass, my brother never was one for courtesy when it came tae family matters. But look, here is someone.”
He pointed up the crowded wharf toward a harassed man in his early thirties hurrying toward them.
“Iain Grant?” called the young man. “Iain Grant, chief of the Clan Grant?”
Alice’s father-in-law stepped forward and put his hand out in greeting. The young man was dressed in the long, flowing smock of a priest and had a gleaming metal crucifix on a great chain around his neck. His hair was cut roughly around his ears, his fringe shaved back at the hairline, making his forehead exaggerated and strange.
Alice looked at her father-in-law as he greeted the odd-looking priest. Iain Grant, chief of his clan, was a powerful man even in his later years. He was old but still strong, with a full head of iron-grey hair, and a neatly trimmed full beard still holding a bit of black around the mouth. He towered over the small priest, who bowed over Iain’s hand and seemed inclined to kiss it.
“I am he,” Iain said with dignity, “and this is my son, John Grant, and his wife, Alice Grant, originally of the Clan MacPherson.”
“My name is Father Hallam,” said the priest, one hand toying with the chain around his neck. “The bishop has sent me. I hope ye had a... pleasant crossing?”
“My brother has sent for me. I understand that there may be little time in which I may see him.”
“Yer brother, the bishop, sir, yes, of course,” the priest stammered. Alice exchanged a look with John, who raised an eyebrow in reply. Iain Grant pinned Father Hallam with a look.
“Of course,” said the priest. “Forgive me. We must go tae him at once. Will you follow me, please?”
They followed, winding their way through the crooked, narrow streets, away from the harbour with its sharp smell of iodine and cries of gulls. People stared as they passed or called to each other from upstairs windows to come and see the bishop’s brother, come and see old Rognvald’s kin. Not all the calls were kind, and Iain and Alice began to wonder what was going in this strange town, so many priests bustling from place to place, eyes down, and so many barefooted children and drawn-faced men peering at them from doorways and alleys. Alice felt distinctly out of place in her elegant garments; heavy wool from the productive looms and lands of her neighbours and allies in the estate, which neighboured her homelands, a beautiful silk neckcloth and gloves of sable. It had been a cold crossing and at times, a hard one. But looking around at these poor-looking folk, she wondered if she had forgotten what real hardship looked like.
Her husband, John, seemed to be thinking along the same lines as the priest led them up a slight incline, farther and farther from the harbour. He leaned over and spoke quietly.
“The priests move through them like peacocks among pigeons,” he murmured, and Alice saw that it was true. She had been focussing on the civilians, but now she saw the men of God among them, moving to and fro on business, singly or in pairs. The laypeople nodded and bowed as they passed, and on first glance, the priests did not look so different, but then she looked again. Simple as their robes were, the fabric was luxurious, the dyes dark indigo, or the deep blue of a summer night. Here and there a rich autumn brown or dark forest green, and their faces were well-fed, bright-eyed, with glossy hair and ruddy skin.
“Aye,” Alice replied. “A picture of health, indeed...”
Kirkwall Cathedral was a magnificent building. As they stepped out from the crowded wynds and into the wide-open plaza in front of the cathedral, all three stopped and gaped up at the magnificent stone facade. Father Hallam stopped and glanced back, a little smile on his face.
“Ah, ye have not seen it before?”
“Only once,” replied Iain. “Many years ago. I came here tae see my brother invested as the bishop of this place, oh, twenty years ago or more.”
“Twenty-two,” said Father Hallam crisply. “Shall we proceed?”
“Where is my brother?” asked Iain. “Not in the cathedral, surely?”
“No, indeed!” replied the priest, with forced joviality, and they began to move on. “He lies in his bedroom at the bishop’s palace. Ye see the tower yonder? That is where he is. Let us hurry.”
The Bishop’s Palace – the residence, but also the administrative centre of the powerful bishopric of Orkney – lay across an open space a little way north of the cathedral. It was a very different building, no less impressiv
e but less high and remote, more human than the magnificent cathedral. There were many windows, some fitted with glass, and smoke rose from several chimneys. Green grounds surrounded it, and there were trees, sturdy sycamores and beeches, and one or two noble oaks. Alice didn’t realise how much she had missed trees until she saw them.
“These are the first trees I have seen since I arrived here,” she said, speaking her thoughts aloud in her surprise. Father Hallam gave a small laugh.
“It’s the wind,” the priest replied as they stepped off the paved plaza and onto the clean, raked gravelled path that wended its way across the lavish lawns. “The wind here is too strong and too constant for any trees tae grow unless they are carefully sheltered and tended, as these are.”
Fighting For A Highland Lass (Defenders 0f The Highlands Book 3) Page 3
