by Cathy MacRae
“Tell me more of the pirates,” Birk commanded. “I have lost two ships to their thieving, and vow ’twill be the last.”
“Och, the lass dispatched one crew to hell, she did,” the captain rumbled approvingly. “Seemed a mite disturbed afterward, but she dinnae shirk when the time came to defend our ship and crew. They were a slipshod lot at best, eager to challenge us for our cargo.” His lips puckered pensively. “The other crew, though . . . they would have been a different matter . . . but they dinnae catch us.”
“How were they different?” Birk asked, his interest piqued.
Ferguson rubbed his bristled chin. “They were better organized. Two ships—they worked together and would have cut us off from escape had the wind not changed in our favor. And they apparently had a strong leader. Once the lead ship cried off, the other followed.” He shook his head. “I dinnae wish to fall afoul of them.”
“Ye shall have an escort should ye wish it,” Birk assured him.
“That would lift a great burden,” the captain admitted. “Mayhap until we reach the entrance to the strait. Though the bastards came at us near Oban and we mean to pass in the opposite direction, beyond Kilchoan.”
“Headed north on yer regular route?”
“Aye. I’ve a bit of trading to do before summer’s end.”
“I hope ye can remain here a bit. Ye are always welcome.”
“Yer hospitality is legendary,” Ferguson replied. “But we’re behind schedule, no thanks to Edward or the pirates. We will linger another day and be on our way with the next tide.”
“Then we will speak of business,” Birk said, rising to his feet. “I have a store of whisky that will interest ye.”
A broad grin split the captain’s weathered face. “My laird, ye are a man after my own heart.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Three Days Later
The Sound of Mull
“Drop the sail afore the mast snaps and drags us under,” Ferguson shouted over the squall screaming in from the north, catching them off-guard. The wind whipped first in one direction, then another, threatening to drive them onto the rocks of the shores on either side of the sound. The captain swore as the ship lurched and shuddered, tossed about in the furious waves.
Wyn and Tully scrambled to the mainsail blocks and untied the rope at the cleats, releasing both lines, sending the waterlogged sail and spar tumbling to the deck, barely missing the oarsmen seated on either side of the mast.
“Row toward shore. We’ll have tae roll with the waves if we’re tae have a chance,” Ferguson ordered as he pushed the tiller away, sending the ship shoreward.
Carys watched helplessly, hands clenching her rain-slicked oar, as another wave crashed over the side of the Seabhag taking men and cargo with it. Screams and hoarse shouts rent the roar of the storm, none daring to leave their post to search for those who were instantly lost beneath the roiling waves. The remaining crew pulled at the oars, one side rowing forward, the other backward in the struggle to target the bow toward shore.
“Heaven help us,” Carys prayed, knowing the speed at which they traveled would splinter their ship. Her words doubled as a plea for the souls of those now lost to them. She gripped the oar more tightly and huddled over the bench, hot tears of despair scalding her cheeks.
Before the Seabhag finished her turn, a massive wave swept over the boat, sending more of the crew overboard. The powerful frigid sea yanked at Carys to claim her as for its own, but she hooked both arms and legs around her bench and gripped with all her strength. Denied its quarry, the sea retreated.
“Hywel!” Carys shouted, unable to see her brother through the stinging spray.
She rose from the bench, stumbling as the surging ocean again rocked their craft. She worked her way aft, searching for Hywel.
“Lass, what’er ye doin’ here?” Ferguson demanded.
“Hywel. I can’t find Hywel,” she shouted over the wail of the storm.
“I’m sorry, lass. There’s naught to be done but ride this devil out.” Ferguson looped two ropes to the tiller, one from the starboard and one from the larboard side, keeping the rudder aimed toward shore. Carys realized if Ferguson were lost, the ship would continue the journey without him.
“Take Tully and Dewr and rope yerselves to the mast. There’s nae more tae be done and I dinnae need to worry about me boy. Dewr’s too light tae stay aboard if a wave hits her. Make several turns with the rope, but dinnae make a knot as it would mean yer death should we capsize.”
Carys glanced at the dog who shivered, leaning against Tully, and the boy who clung to his da, eyes wide with fear. He was as scared as she.
Carys bent, bracing herself against a rowing bench. “Come, Tully,” she coaxed the frightened boy and dog. “Let yer da work while we stay out of his way.”
Tully and Dewr each took a tentative step toward Carys, then fell in behind her as they staggered midships toward the mast. Taking an end of one of the many coils of rope sprawled across the deck, Carys made three wraps around herself, Tully and the mast, then pulled Dewr to her chest. Lifting an edge of the sodden sail, Carys covered them, providing shelter from most of the deluge. The three of them shivered together while the storm raged. The Seabhag creaked and groaned with the effort of holding together at this speed. The rise and fall of the waves sent the contents of Carys’s supper onto the wooden deck. The old crone’s prophecy flooded her mind and she fervently prayed for all the souls on board, naming each man.
Carys, Tully, and Dewr huddled together for what seemed like an eternity. An abrupt lurch of the ship jerked her painfully against the rope holding her to the mast, and the splintering crack of wood filled the air. The ship hesitated then heaved forward again, water swirling about Carys’s feet. The boat wrenched to a stop, accompanied by the soft scrape of sand and gravel. Carys flung the sail off and unwound the rope. Dewr rose and shook excess water from her coat. Tully remained crouched, hugging the mast, his eyes tightly closed.
The squall blew southward down the coast, leaving as quickly as it had arrived. The golden halo of the afternoon sun peeked from behind the remaining clouds. The cry of sea birds punctuated the end of the storm.
Carys’s heart sank as she turned in all directions. The craft had indeed run aground, and the rocks they’d hit lay a few boat lengths off shore. However, not another soul did she see, neither aboard ship, nor washed ashore. The drenched rocks glittered in the fitful light, black and forbidding—and unforgiving.
Carys dropped to her knees with a wail. “Why God? Why have ye taken everyone and everything from me?” She rocked back and forth, propelled by grief. Afternoon darkened into evening as despair emptied her soul.
Once her tears were spent, Carys curled into a ball, staring at nothing, feeling nothing.
Minutes or hours later, Dewr’s warm, wet tongue roused Carys from her stupor. She slowly pushed upward, her body leaden. Sitting against the mast, she considered what to do next. Tully lay sleeping, still clinging to the mast. The Almighty had chosen to save them, but why?
She rose to her feet and again glanced about. They’d wrecked on the end of a peninsula near the mouth of a narrow bay to the south, and a much wider one to the north. Large rocks barely submerged off the point made entering either inlet dangerous. The great Caledonian Forest Hywel had told her of loomed majestically beyond the rocky crags.
Grief threatened to take her again at the thought of her dear brother. She steeled herself against the bitter bite. She needed to rouse Tully, salvage what they could, and leave this place before pirates or other scavengers spotted their wreckage.
She bent over the boy and gently shook his shoulder. “Tully. ’Tis time to wake. The storm is over.”
The boy blinked a few times as if to gain his bearings. “Da?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, but ’tis only the three of us now,” she answered, her own deep loss echoed in Tully’s eyes.
After a few moments, he rose and took in the wreckage. “My Da wil
l be verra angry when he sees his boat.”
She didn’t have the heart to correct him. “We must to gather what we need before the bad men come looking for the wreckage.”
He tilted his head with a confused expression. “Pirates?”
“Aye, pirates. We must be gone afore they arrive. Help me take what we can.”
He nodded once and fell in behind her.
Carys took a quick inventory of what was left onboard and of what stores they’d require to survive. The sail was constructed of large woolen squares. Using her boot knife, she made quick work of cutting two squares free, then folded them and tossed them overboard onto the beach. She gathered several lengths of rope.
“We can use the wool for a tent, mayhap for a nice pallet. Rope is always handy,” she told Tully. Dewr thought it a game, inspecting each item Carys picked up and watching as Tully threw them over the rail.
Carys cut away some of the cargo netting and gathered a small fishing net. She filled her bag with the rest of the salt pork, then grabbed Hywel’s pack, along with their bows, arrows, and javelins, which had been laced together and bound beneath their bench, adding them to her pile.
“Stew,” Tully said as he heaved the smaller of the two pots over the side of the boat.
“Aye, yer stew pot,” Carys answered.
Two bowls, mugs and spoons went over next as she made her way aft. Rocks had torn a huge hole in the larboard hull, almost shearing the boat in half.
“Easy now, we don’t wish to fall through,” Carys said as they carefully picked their way among the shattered boards.
Lifting the aft hatch, Carys gathered the carpenter’s tools that lay scattered in the compartment. As she felt around for any others, she encountered another box.
“What have we here?” she whispered.
Grasping it by the rope handle, she slid the small but heavy chest to the opening and lifted it onto the deck.
“That’s my da’s,” Tully said, his voice low with a mixture of awe and dread. “We’re nae to touch it.”
Realization dawned as she knew what this must be.
“Yer da said I could take the chest to keep it safe and use the coin to pay for yer care.”
Tully considered her words, his brow furrowed before nodding reluctant approval.
Opening the latch, Carys lifted the lid and saw more silver coins than she’d ever seen in her life. Moving them around with her fingers, a few hints of gold winked underneath. She shut the chest, then carried it through the hole in the hull and laid it next to their collection on the beach.
After going back for the tools, she stuck a hatchet in her belt.
“We’ll need to make a sled, Tully. Ye and I cannot carry all this without one.”
“I’s strong. I can help.”
At the edge of the forest, Carys found what she was looking for. Using the hatchet, she felled three saplings as big around as her arms. She made quick work of lopping off the branches, then created lap joints in the two longer poles to rest three cross pieces she made from the third sapling. Tully held it in place while she tied the parts together. Though it was rough work, with the wool and rope it should prove plenty sturdy.
“What’d ye think, Tully, Dewr? Does it look like ’twill hold?”
Dewr barked and danced around their creation, sniffing every inch.
Tully grabbed the sled and moved it around. “’Tis strong.”
“Does it pass inspection, my lady?” Carys asked with a bow to the dog.
Dewr tilted her head.
“I can pull it if ye like,” Tully offered.
“How about I start and then we take turns?”
He smiled broadly. “Aye.”
Carys stepped between the two long poles and dragged it to the beach. Using the remaining wool and rope, they wrapped the tools and supplies, then tied them to the frame. Once everything was secure, she laid the sled down and they both walked to the shore once more. Tully stopped aft of the Seabhag where the rocks had torn away much of the vessel. Carys stepped to the water’s edge. No sign of their crew or her brother caused her heart to lurch anew with the pain of loss.
“God, please accept my beloved brother, Hywel ap Pedr, a prince of Cymru, into your arms.” She lifted his gold signet ring to her lips and kissed it, then drew the chain holding all three rings from her neck. She walked to the sled and placed the rings in the chest. Standing between the poles, she lifted them then walked into the forest.
“’Tis our new home, Tully. Let’s see what she has to offer.”
* * *
MacLean Castle
Birk stalked the length of the room, his cloak swinging heavily across the tops of his boots as he pivoted on his heel, retracing his steps. He counted his strides in his head, giving himself an opportunity to calm before his next words. … eight, nine, ten ….
“Is there none among ye who can give me an answer? None who has heard where the bastard hides?” He pinned each man with a challenging stare.
The assembled lairds glanced at each other, shaking their heads. Keir MacKern shoved back in his chair. Though he was the only man in the room not a clan chief, all knew he spoke for his father, Bram.
Rising to his feet, Keir captured their attention. “He is known as Colin Dubh for his dark hair and skin.” He fisted his hands on his hips, swaying slightly, mesmerizing each laird. Though five years older than Birk, the dark copper braids framing each side of his face held no trace of gray.
“Some name him Colin Mor, for he is a great hulk of a man.” Keir faced Birk, his glance measuring him from toe to crown as if for comparison. “’Tis rumored he is a MacKinnon, though even his own laird wouldnae claim him.” His stance eased and a sigh settled about the room, such was the mesmeric hold Keir wielded over them.
The man gave them no time to settle into complacency. “He robs the crofters, slaughters them for defending what is theirs.” The pace of his voice quickened. “He shows no mercy, grants no quarter.”
The lairds leaned together, grumbling, nodding, tension building once again as Keir’s voice vibrated with anger.
“The man has preyed upon the weakest of our people for many months. Those we are sworn to protect, he attacks with impunity. Staining our souls with each death.”
Keir swung about, startling the men. “And yet none can stop him? No one has the wit to do more than chase him from one man’s border to the next?” His voice thundered, dripping scorn. With a toss of his head, he turned his back on the assembly.
“My laird.” Keir’s voice smoothed, respectful, his eyes cast downward. “How might we help ye catch this man who plagues us all?”
Birk snorted, impressed with the show. Trust Keir to work the men into a frenzy then shame them into action with the mere cadence of his words. Were he not a laird’s son, he would make an admirable—and useful—bard. Birk picked up Keir’s question.
“See to yer borders,” he barked. “Increase patrols. Follow no set pattern as ye check on the outlying crofts. Notice smoke as it rises through the trees. Can ye speak for it? Do ye know whose fire it is?” Birk’s eyebrows shot together. “Run him down. Make no place safe for him.”
“Have ye considered a reward?” James MacCain asked. Tall and spare, his frame spoke of the hard life he led. Birk wondered again at his sister’s obvious infatuation with the stern man. With the evidence of their affection growing in Gillian’s belly, though she boasted nearly seven years Birk’s senior, and the fond look on her face when she spoke of her husband, he had no reason to doubt their strength as a couple.
His nod severed his thoughts of Gillian and her husband and returned him to James’ question. “An excellent suggestion. I will put up twenty silver pennies.” He glanced about the room. “Anyone care to add to the purse?”
The men glanced at each other. “I will add to it, though I cannae match yer offer,” Ian MacInnis said. His worried gaze met Birk’s. His small holdings would soon be destroyed if Colin Dubh continued his predations unchec
ked.
Birk granted him a curt nod of approval as the others belatedly took up the challenge.
“The purse is heavy enough the man might turn himself in,” Keir noted quietly to Birk.
“As long as someone does, ’twill be enough,” Birk grunted. He grabbed his cup from the table and downed a gulp of strong ale, one eye on the lairds as they spoke among themselves.
“My father wishes to know if ye’ve enough whisky to fill the latest order,” Keir continued in a different vein. He wrinkled his nose as Birk shoved a mug at him. “I’ve better if ye’d care to retire to a private room.”
Birk gave his near-empty mug an appraising glance and decided Keir had the better suggestion.
“Yer da always fills the orders,” he replied. “And with a wee bit extra for sharing.” He set his mug on the table and motioned to the door with a jerk of his head. “’Tis wise of him to allow the captain the luxury of good spirits.”
“Good spirits make for good relationships,” Keir quipped as he tossed his cousin an impertinent grin. Anger slipped from Birk as anticipation of an excellent glass of whisky crowded out his temper. His lips parted in feral answer to Keir’s smirk, his eyes narrowing in rare humor. He tossed an arm about the smaller man’s shoulders, ignoring Keir’s pained look as the weight of his well-muscled arm dropped. Keir jerked his chin to the entry to the room and Birk’s humor fled.
A man hesitated in the doorway before crossing to Birk’s side.
“My laird,” he murmured, his face pale.
Birk’s heart stuttered, but he gave no outward sign. “Aye?”
The man stepped closer. “Word of the Seabhag, my laird.”
Dread unfurled through Birk. The ship had not been seen since the squall two days before. The suddenness and brutality of the storm had prompted Birk to send out a search party for Captain Ferguson’s ship.
“Speak.”
“Wreckage of the ship has been found on the shore west of Kilchoan.” He sucked in a breath. “There is no evidence of survivors.”
