Fighting For A Highland Lass (Defenders 0f The Highlands Book 3)

by Kenna Kendrick

  “If there’s a lesson learned, then it’s never an opportunity wasted,” she said.

  “I don’t see any lesson learned here!” he said bitterly, and a sudden sob choked him.

  “Perhaps I have learned the lesson, Iain. Perhaps John has, or your daughters, eh? Look up, Iain, look at the whole picture. There is always more tae it than one’s own folly.”

  He cried a little, his head bowed in his hands. After a short while, he took a deep, shuddering breath and sat up, wiping his eyes and laughing shakily.

  “Ye are right, Alice. And I thank ye. I think this landlord’s beer is stronger than I expected!”

  “Shall we have another?”

  “Aye, why not!”

  They were just about to call the ruddy-faced landlord over when the door opened. A gust of cold wind blew in and slammed the door back against the frame, harder than the newcomer had intended because he jumped at the noise and then peered into the dimness of the tavern.

  “Put the wood in the hole, lad!” called the landlord from behind the bar, where he was drying a mug. The newcomer hauled the door to and slammed it shut again. He leaned over, his hands on his knees, working hard to try to catch his breath.

  “Well, what’s the matter with ye?” said the landlord, coming out from behind the bar and walking toward the panting youth. And he was a youth – barely fifteen by the looks of him, and drenched with rain and spattered with mud from the road. The lad looked up at the landlord.

  “Skylness has been raided. A shipload of men has attacked and taken prisoners. I’ve come from there overland, as fast as the horse would carry me!”

  Alice and Iain looked at each other. Skylness. The village where Thorvald was fostered. A cold weight settled in Alice’s heart. Iain leaned over to speak quietly to her.

  “If this is a coincidence, then I’m a priest,” he muttered, and Alice nodded. It seemed that their mission to Orkney was not going to be so simple after all.

  Chapter Eight

  Thorvald was leaning dejectedly from the open tower window when the guards came for him. He had been looking at the sea view, and wondering where he was in this castle on the cliffside. There was nothing to be seen from the window to help him identify the location. It was on the mainland, that was clear – there were no castles like this on the Orkney islands – but beyond that, he was at a loss. He could see nothing from his high tower window but the ever-shifting sea.

  The lad had spent an uncomfortable night. He had made a hopeful beginning by lying on the bed but quickly began to itch. A rustling, rattling from inside the straw suggested mice, and probably fleas and other vermin as well. Scratching his chest and belly, he rolled off, groaning, and settled himself on the hard floor. It was damp and cold and comfortless, and a draught howled down the chimney and through the ill-fitting warped shutters. Despite this, he had fallen quickly asleep, waking to the thin morning sunlight breaking through the window, a stiff back, and the realisation that a snail had dropped into his water jug and drowned in the night. He drank what was left of the water anyway.

  Now, as he leaned despondently out of the window, his thoughts kept drifting back to Anne. He had known women, of course, even been interested in one or two of the lasses who lived in Skylness and had privately entertained thoughts of settling down with a certain fair-haired lass from another village, the daughter of a baker. But he had never met a woman like Anne before. Her quick and thoughtful eyes, her messy, short-cut hair, even the obvious physical strength of her sinewy arms and legs were new to him. And what a fighter! Over and over again he replayed the speed of her sword in the little boat, wondering at her grace, her power... her ruthlessness. He was breathing the sea air and thinking about this when the key rattled in the door. He expected it to be her, and turned expectantly, a smile beginning on his face when the door swung open, and he realised it was not her. At least, not just her.

  Anne was there, but she stood back, her arms crossed, not looking pleased with the situation. Four men bulled into the room before her, making a display of hauling him about and binding his hands, before marching him smartly out of the room. His eyes met Anne’s as they passed, but her expression was inscrutable. She turned away from him and set off in front of the party and headed down the stairs.

  The march down the narrow, winding stair was not easy with his hands tied behind his back, and if he stumbled, the men pulled him back with more force than was necessary. By the time they reached the bottom, he was sweating, and his empty belly was making him feel sick. His head began to swim, but he took a deep breath and held himself together. Anne led them down a long corridor and into a larger hall where at one end of a large table, Neil Gow-Sinclair sat. Thorvald was drawn up sharply before him.

  “Let him go,” said the captain, “and stand back a way. I want tae look at him without having tae look at you ugly lot.”

  The guards obeyed, moving away into the shadows at the edge of the great, dim hall. Anne was nowhere to be seen.

  “So,” said the captain after regarding his prisoner for a long moment, “who are ye? And why are ye wanted?”

  Thorvald thought fast, this man did not want Thorvald for himself. He had been hired. Interesting. They had heard of Neil Gow-Sinclair in Skylness – a notorious pirate and drunkard, but little was known of his more recent exploits. Thorvald decided to stick to the truth.

  “Sir, I am Thorvald Fishersson of Skylness. My father is Thomas Fisher, and my mother is Freida. We are a simple fishing family from a simple fishing village, and I tell ye God’s truth when I say that I know not why anyone would want me for anything.”

  “Yer father...” said Neil. “Yer step-father, surely?”

  Thorvald blinked. It was right, of course, though he never thought of it.

  “That’s true, Sir,” he nodded. “I was taken in as an orphan by my parents when I was very young. They made no secret of it, but as I have lived my whole life with them, I do not think of them as anything but my true parents.”

  “Well, ye may be forgiven for that. A man who raises a child has the right tae be thought of as its father and accorded the respect which that status entails.” Neil’s words were laden with a meaning which Thorvald could not quite catch, and his eyes flickered away over his prisoner’s shoulder. Thorvald wished to turn and see what his captor’s eyes were looking at but did not think it a good idea. Neil seemed in a thoughtful mood – probably, thought Thorvald, due to the lack of drink this early in the morning – but he had no desire to awaken the rage and madness which he knew lurked under the surface of the captain’s terrible countenance.

  “I agree with ye, Sir,” said Thorvald, honestly.

  “Ah, ye do, do ye?” said the captain, and his voice dripped sarcasm. “How reassuring. Well, ye are lucky that I believe ye. I can tell when a man is lying, and ye are not. I believe that ye do not know why I have been asked tae take ye and keep a hold of ye. But tell me this, Thorvald Fishersson, how came ye and yer village tae be so well-armed and well-equipped that ye fought off my men so fiercely?”

  So Thorvald told him that men had come regularly, a few times a year, to the village, training and equipping them to fight.

  “And does that not seem... unusual tae ye, lad?”

  Thorvald thought for a moment.

  “Tae tell ye the truth, Sir, I never thought of it until now. But yes, I suppose it does seem unusual. I never heard of such a thing happening in any of the other villages.”

  Neil sat back in his chair, looking well-pleased.

  “Well, well, laddie, ye are a valuable prize tae someone, and there’s no mistaking that. I desire that ye should be comfortable here and that harm should not come tae ye. I’m glad that yer wound has been seen tae, and ye shall be fed as well as can be managed. Ye have not lied tae me, and so I will not lie tae ye – I will keep ye and await word from my... patron what is tae be done with ye. When I hear what that is, I shall do it, make no mistake. Until then, I shall keep ye alive, and if ye do not cause me t
rouble, I shall keep ye comfortable too, as befits a noble prisoner. Fair enough?”

  Thorvald thought of the itching bugs in the straw mattress, and his empty belly, but he did not like the look in the man’s eyes. His words were kindly and reasonable, but in his small, pinched eyes, a demon lurked. Thorvald nodded once, “Yes, Sir.”

  “Very good,” Neil smiled. “Men, take him away.”

  They marched toward the hallway again, and he saw Anne standing by the doorway, and she lead them back up the stairs. Of course, he thought – she held the key. He remembered Neil’s eyes, looking past him when stating that a man is due respect when acting as a parent of a child. Had he been glancing toward Anne? Thorvald thought he was close to solving a puzzle but missing the last few pieces – tantalising and absorbing.

  As he began the long walk back up the stairs to his tower cell, his thoughts drifted towards the girl. Anne. Who was she? Where had she learned to fight so? Could he trust her? And behind it all was the unexpected warmth of her soft lips on the edge of his mouth.

  Because I could, she had said. The guards bundled him round the last corner onto the landing, and she ducked her head as she worked the key back in the lock again.

  He smiled.

  * * *

  “Ye must go, of course,” said Benedict, the Bishop-in-waiting, his voice full of concern. Iain and Alice had brought him the news of the raid on Skylness immediately, leaving the lad with the innkeeper, who had promised to keep an eye on him.

  Benedict had seemed shocked at first but had gathered himself, offering help and horses, and fighting men in his employ to ride with them. A runner had been sent to Alice’s husband John, to tell him to be ready to ride. Benedict admitted that he knew of his predecessor’s indiscretions, but it was equally clear from his talk that he did not know the full story. He knew there was a goodly inheritance, and that Rognvald’s dying wish had been for his son to inherit. It seemed clear he had no idea that the legacy could threaten the immense power of the church.

  Benedict swirled his robe about him and set off at a brisk pace along the hall, issuing orders to Father Hallam, trotting at his side. He seemed to be disturbed by the fact there had been a raid – something not seen in Orkney for a long while.

  “Not since the bad old days,” he had said, shaking his head.

  Deep coughing sounded from the cathedral doorway.

  The grand double doors to the cathedral had been closed, but the smaller side doors remained open. As they peered through the gloom, they saw framed in the doorway a man, doubled over with his hand to his mouth. As they got closer, he straightened up, looking around, and both Iain and Alice slowed in their tracks.

  “Good God,” Alice heard her father-in-law breathe, as if to himself. “Would ye look at that?”

  Framed by the light of the small doorway was, by far the biggest human being either had ever seen. Alice’s brother Callan like their father was a very big man, tall and broad and strong, but the figure in the doorway was on an entirely different scale. They looked upon a man who appeared to be modelled on the cathedral itself– he was so large that he seemed barely human, built to the scale of buildings of stone and timber, not a man of flesh and bone.

  His great red beard bristled like tree roots, spreading across his massive chest in three enormous plaits. His shoulders spanned the door, and the top of his large, close-cropped head nearly brushed its lintel. He was dressed in chainmail, steel plate and at his belt hung an axe fit for a giant. He towered up over them, a mountainous man of shadow and insurmountable weight. From the depths of his face, two beady, angry eyes glinted and sparkled. He coughed again, a rattling sound like stones being flung down a well.

  Benedict and Hallam pulled up short, as the giant began to stride toward them, one hand resting on his axe-head as if it was its habit to rest there.

  “Who are yer friends, Benedict?” asked the mountain, inclining his head just a little toward the bishop-to-be. His voice was deep and sonorous, like the mythical woodwind instrument of a sea god. Benedict stopped, regarding him warily.

  “Sir Magnus Bain,” said Benedict, then turned to his guests. “This is Iain Grant, chief of the Clan Grant, and brother of our lately beloved bishop. This is his daughter-in-law, Alice. My friends, allow me to present Sir Magnus Bain, an Orcadian nobleman of the line of the old Earls.”

  “Jarls,” Sir Magnus corrected him fiercely, pronouncing it ‘yarls’.

  “The old Norse title,” explained the bishop. “Sir Magnus is a proponent of the old ways of the Norsemen who ruled Orkney for many years.”

  “And would do still,” the giant growled, “if not for ye and yer damned preachers...”

  “Sir Magnus, I am sorry tae brush ye off, but my friends and I have an extremely urgent matter tae attend. Now is not the time for us tae discuss politics

  From within the shadows of Sir Magnus’ face, the small, bright eyes flicked back and forth between the Grants and the bishop.

  “Ye have had... tidings?” he said, and the interest in his deep growl of a voice seemed avaricious.

  “We have received a message, yes,” said the bishop, “but just at present, I am not able tae speak about it. Sir Magnus, please, ye must excuse us now.”

  With that, the bishop stepped forward, and Sir Magnus was obliged to either step back or actively restrain the smaller man. After a moment, he stepped back. As Iain and Alice passed, the big man was tugging thoughtfully at his plaited beard with one steel-gauntleted fist, as his eyes followed them, drinking them in greedily. Following Benedict from the hall, Alice could feel the small, intent eyes on her back, focussed as hot coals. She glanced back, but Sir Magnus was in shadow, silhouetted against the light of a flickering torch.

  They pressed on, out of the dimness of the cathedral, and into the pale light of the late afternoon.

  Chapter Nine

  By the time they reached the village of Skylness, darkness had settled over the land. The ever-present sea wind whipped at their clothes and tugged their hair loose from their hoods to flap about their faces, in their mouths and around their eyes.

  The smell of woodsmoke and wet ashes rode the air as the party crested the ridge and looked down upon the twinkling lights of the village of Skylness, framed against the star-pricked blackness of the night sky and the inkiness and silver of the moon-reflecting sea.

  “That’s not the smell of a cosy peat fire,” said John darkly.

  “No,” said his father. “That’s the smell of burned homes. It reminds me too much of the old wars. Come on.”

  They had ridden the high road from Kirkwall to Stromness, fifteen miles at a steady clip, going carefully not to exhaust the horses. John was with them again, and two guardsmen in the employ of the bishop, but Iain had politely but firmly refused the presence of Father Hallam.

  “For I wish tae be free of these priests and their politics just for the present,” he had muttered to Alice in a quiet moment. “I feel like I cannot think clearly with always a cleric hovering at my elbow. We do not know who we can trust and who we cannot, and until the motivations of these men are clearer, I will choose tae follow the advice of my late brother, and trust no one.”

  Alice had managed to update John with everything that had happened in his absence, while she had been in their room hurriedly packing supplies into a knapsack. Their ship had made it into the harbour now, but their gear had not been offloaded, and Alice resigned herself to the thought of an evening’s hard riding in her already well-worn travelling clothes. Then she laughed. When had she become so fond of home comforts? Not that many years ago Alice MacPherson (as she had been then) had been a hard campaigner and a tough, resourceful fighter, leading men into battle, even into the teeth of a full bayonet charge on one occasion. Was she really grumbling about a change of clothing?

  She shook her head as she strapped on her sword-belt and tested her access to the grip.

  “Ye expect trouble?” said John, quietly, from behind her. She drew the fine bla
de from its sheath, and it came free with barely a whisper, death kissing the air as she stepped, lunged, and parried an imaginary opponent. John sat on the bed, carefully checking a shining brace of pistols.

  “Trouble? Who knows? I feel like a blind woman, walking through an unfamiliar house. Let us go and find out what’s happening first, and if there is trouble in store, let us be prepared.”

  John nodded, grimly at her wisdom.

  They were met in the village by a group of men and women carrying torches against the night’s darkness. Francis Harcus, the head man of the village, led the group. Once they had introduced themselves and made known the reason for their visit, he took them immediately to his house and sat them down at a big table, putting men to look after their tired horses. His home was the biggest in the village, long and open like the old traditional Norse longhouses that had once been ubiquitous in Orkney. The warm, peat-scented darkness of his house was welcoming after the sharp, damp cold of the night.