by Cathy MacRae
Brody handed the weapons to her without fuss. He knew Carys could fight. He’d learned of her skills firsthand that day in the forest, and again when she’d bested his laird in the yard at Dairborrodal.
I should be protecting them. Birk raked a hand through his hair, grudgingly recalling tales of Hanna in years past. With a grunt, he acknowledged the pair was far from helpless, and possibly better fighters than many of the sailors. He did not have time to worry. The pirate ship, larger than the one that had threatened them near Morvern, drew closer.
“This is not the same ship,” Carys remarked as she stepped to his side.
He nodded. “And ’tis too far south. My men have scoured the coastlines from Dairborrodal to Oban and not discovered their lair.”
“Mayhap the question is not, why are they so far south, but rather, why was the other ship so far north?”
Birk struck his forehead with the heel of his palm. “Shite!”
Hanna leaned close. “I’ve told him to improve his vocabulary, but I’m afraid my pleas fall on deaf ears.”
Birk whirled. “Iain, who lays claim to Jura?”
“Angus Mor MacDonald claims much of these isles.”
“He pledged allegiance to King Alexander, aye?”
Iain tilted his head. “Aye. But he fought with Haakon against the Scots at Largs.”
Birk waved a hand in the air. “’Twas nearly twenty years ago.”
“Scarcely eighteen, and there are Norse in the Isles who do not agree with his change of allegiance.”
Birk gripped the rail as the Már plunged into another trough. He glanced at Hanna, her face pale, eyes fixed on some long-ago memory. “Enough to pillage the Scottish coast?”
“Aye,” she murmured. “There are those who have not forgotten the treachery at Scottish hands.”
Carys jerked her chin toward the approaching ship. “I would attempt flaming arrows, but the sail would not light for long with the spray kicking up as it is. And the angle is wrong for the ballista—most of the time, at least—to aim over their rail. The shields are well-arranged, and they take care to sail just out of our range.”
Birk rubbed his chin, startled to realize he took Carys’s observations—and Hanna’s—seriously. But both women made perfect sense and their comments helped him make up his mind.
He turned to Captain Aklen. “Alert the crew. We have no option but to find wind and current to take us out of this strait. ’Tis too narrow and we could be too easily run aground.”
“Ye mean to sail between Jura and Scarba? The strait there is narrow as well and we sail a flood tide. The full moon was last night and the cauldron will be boiling.” He shook his head. “We could round Islay and head for the open sea, but their ship is fast and I dinnae know if we could outrun them. Mayhap we could aim for Crinan on the mainland instead. ’Tis not so far. There’s a port there and the bastards arenae likely to follow us.”
Birk shook his head. “This is a sturdy ship, but we must get out of these waters.” He stared at the Norse vessel gliding easily across the waves, maintaining a steady distance. “We will head into the Gulf of Corryvreckan—and hope the westerly wind fails.”
* * *
“He means to force the pirates to abandon the chase through the witch’s cauldron.” Hanna’s voice stretched thin, her face strained. “The langskip sits too high and they would be fools to challenge the whirlpool.”
“Why do ye fear it so?” Carys followed Hanna’s gaze—not to the following ship, carved dragon head riding high above the waves, but to the shore of Scarba as it slipped past, rocks at its base partly hidden by mist and sea spray.
“The tale is an old one,” Hanna said. “A prince of Norway loved a princess of Jura. Her father would only allow them to wed if the prince showed the skills and courage to anchor his ship within the fury of A’Cailleach for three days. ’Twas an impossible task, but he would not give in. To secure his ship against the witch’s wrath, he wove three ropes—one of hemp, one of wool, and one from the hair of a maiden of pure virtue.
“He sailed alone into the maelstrom as the tide rose. His ship struggled against the pull of the whirlpool, and the first night, the woolen rope broke. The hempen rope fell apart the second night, and the third night, to his horror, the rope woven from the hair of his less-than-virtuous princess also parted. His body washed ashore the next day, and he was buried in a cave nearby—as was his beloved who died of a broken heart not long after.”
“Am I to understand few ships make it through the corryvreckan?” Carys asked.
Hanna turned bleak eyes to her. “If the cailleach is angry, none may pass.”
Carys shifted her gaze to the rising sea, hearing the strain of the ship’s boards as the current battled beneath them, forcing its way up the narrowing strait.
Mayhap the pirates will abandon the chase before we are committed to sailing through these waters. Her heart raced, a thready tattoo fluttering in her chest. I prefer open battle to this. Her thoughts turned to the children sheltered in the cabin. Nae. They must be protected. The longer we remain out of reach, the less chance the pirates have to overtake us.
“Waiting is not easy,” she murmured. “I learned to endure it whilst hunting Edward’s soldiers in the mountains. Battle is decisive, quick. But once committed, there is no turning back.”
Hanna nodded. “We have bairns to consider. Running is our best option. For now.”
The waves leapt higher, pitching the ship about. The langskip kept pace, its mast dipping and swaying as it danced up and down the tossing seas. Clouds pulled tighter overhead and sunlight dimmed. Carys tugged her plaide snug about her, noticing the new sharp edge to the wind.
“’Tis growing colder,” she remarked.
Hanna nodded. “Such a change in the weather bodes ill.”
Carys gripped the rail as the sea fell away beneath the hull. The Már tipped forward, sliding down the wave, leveling its mast like a jousting lance. The sail fluttered as it momentarily lost the wind. Birk shouted commands Carys could not understand and the rigging creaked with strain. The ship righted itself and rotated slightly, lurching as it once again caught the wind.
In tandem, the two ships entered the strait.
“Why do they pursue us?” Carys asked.
Hanna shook her head. “Much wrong was done to my people and has not been answered for. And there is potential treasure to be gained from capturing a merchant ship—especially a MacLean ship.”
The waves dropped and the seas churned. White-capped swells boiled about them, and the current sent the ships bolting through the strait.
“Hold to the south edge of the waters,” Hanna murmured. She glanced at Carys. “The strait is less than a mile wide. The waters are shallower on the northern side and create standing waves that would dwarf the Már.”
Carys nodded, her throat dry. This was no wind-and-rain storm. This was something created within the waters themselves.
The pirate ship fell back, clearly aware of the dangers of running parallel to the Már.
“I will check on the bairns,” Hanna said. “I am of little help here.”
Carys lingered a moment more at the rail, then followed Hanna to the cabin, her feet slipping on the wet deck. Tully’s face loomed pale in the darkness of the small room, flanked by the anxious eyes of Eislyn and Abria.
“Are we gonna sink?” Tully swallowed hard.
“Nae. We are taking a route that is not pleasant, but I have no fear of sinking,” Hanna replied. “I wondered if my granddaughters remembered how to keep the blue men from attacking a ship?”
Carys stared at Hanna. A story? Yet, Abria nodded vigorously as Eislyn scooted forward on her knees.
“Och, ye must answer a question with a rhyme,” Eislyn replied, clearly no stranger to the tale of the blue men—whomever they might be.
“Good lass,” Hanna said. “Do ye know the words, then? Here is my question. O, ye of the Már, what do ye say, as yer ship sails over the sea?”
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Eislyn tilted her head. “My sailing ship takes the shortest way, ye’d do well to follow me.”
Hanna ruffled Eislyn’s hair. “Excellent. We will finish when Carys and I return. Remain inside and do not let Dewr be afraid.”
Abria grabbed the dog’s ruff and pulled her close. Dewr licked the child’s cheek. Dropping a kiss to each child’s head in turn, Carys and Hanna closed the door securely and walked back to the rail.
“Another Norse tale?” Carys asked.
“Nae. Celtic. But it may keep them busy thinking up rhymes rather than reasons to be afraid.”
Carys smiled. “Ye are a wonderful woman, Hanna. I am honored to be your daughter by marriage.”
A loud pop sounded over the water. Carys jerked to one side, scanning the sky for a bolt from a ballista, even though she knew the enemy ship did not carry one.
“Look.” Hanna pointed ahead. The white-capped water swirled about, boiling upward from the center of the eddies. Spouts burst upward, taller than the mast of the langskip that shied like a frightened horse. As the water shot skyward, another clap sounded.
Carys’s heart raced, caught between fascination and horror.
The green water churned and roiled, slapping the sides of the ships with angry force. The Norse ship hit a wave broadside and slipped about, its bow reeling to the side. Caught in a large whirlpool, it pitched and yawed, caught in the relentless waves. The water swirled as if brewed in a giant cauldron, powered by a sea god’s wrath.
Despite her eagerness to escape the pirates, Carys leaned against the rail, gaze fixed on the floundering pirate ship. Oars strained against the current and slowly the ship righted. It bobbed once more, then, instead of tipping to the center of the maelstrom, the langskip nosed away from the vortex. Now on the outer edge of the swirling sea, the ship caught the rushing current which shoved it out of the cauldron—and directly into the Már’s path.
Birk’s shout sent the Már yawing toward the shore where rocks held firm against the slap of angry waves. Carys’s heartrate tripled, memory of the rocks that had broken the Seabhag rising in her mind. She wanted to close her eyes, but a macabre fascination held her gaze as the langskip slid past the Már’s bow, close enough to read the determination on the faces of the pirates. Correcting the surge toward the shore, the Már came about, drawing alongside the langskip, forcing it closer to the rocks.
Birk’s jaw clenched tight as the langskip slid gracefully around the giant boulders that rose without warning from the foaming surf. Her captain’s sailing skills wrung Birk’s reluctant admiration. He saw the rock as the waves receded before the langskip’s captain did, and he watched in fascinated horror as the bow slid up the slippery rock and poised, keel out of the water, before plunging with bone-snapping force back to the waves.
Carys and Hanna raced up the steps to the aftcastle and joined him as the langskip broke up on the rocks.
The crack of fractured timber ripped through the crash of waves. Shouts from the foundering ship rose and fell, but there was no possibility of getting close enough to search for survivors. With the children to protect, Birk was hardly in the position to bring pirates aboard. If anyone made it to shore, it would likely be a long walk—or swim—home.
He ordered Captain Aklen to bring the ship out of the strait. The sail for home would cross a bit of open water, but the dangerous water was past. The ship swayed as her bow turned a bit to starboard and caught the westerly breeze. They would follow it along Scarba’s coast and through the Firth of Forth, skirting a few small islands until they reached the Firth of Lorn and rounded the coast of Mull.
The last of the roil of the whirlpool died away as they turned north, entering the Gulf of the Corryvreckan. Jura lay aft, Scarba just off the starboard bow.
Straight ahead, appearing from behind an outcrop of Scarba’s coast like a predator, lay a smaller langskip, its bow curled high above the row of shields that gleamed colorfully in the midmorning light.
They had survived the witch’s caldron—and sailed into a trap.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Peering from beneath the bladed palm of her hand, Carys flinched as the langskip sailed into view. Incredibly fast, it was inside ballista range before the cumbersome weapon could be brought into play. The Már rocked as Captain Aklen sent the ship reeling away. But the langskip was faster. Its nearly flat hull skimmed the waves, bringing home to Carys exactly why the Norse had ruled the Isles for so long.
She swallowed the fear that clogged her throat and snatched the spear from the deck. One hand tapped the bow slung over her shoulder, deriving a measure of reassurance from its presence. The pirates would attempt to board the ship. All weapons would be needed. The fight would be hard and fast. Her heart raced.
“I will protect the children,” she stated.
Hanna nodded. “I will be in the cabin with them.” Her eyes sparked. “None who enter will live.”
Birk sent Brody down to the main deck with Hanna. Brody’s stout form braced before the cabin door as it closed behind Hanna. He would allow none to approach.
The langskip’s bow scraped the Már’s side, a screech of challenge. The Már reeled to port, absorbing the strike, an attempt to put distance between them. But the shoreline was too close, and rocks threatened to send the Már to the same fate as the first pirate ship.
“They will board us,” Birk said, his voice low, harsh.
The ship listed hard to starboard. Carys shifted her weight against the roll.
“I am sorry.” Birk’s jaw clenched, the set of his shoulders full of anger.
“We will do what we must. And apologize for naught.”
The two ships’ hulls grated together and grappling hooks thudded onto the Már’s rail. Men raced about, releasing the hooks they could, but the pull of the pirate ship caused the metal tips to bite deep into the burnished wood.
Birk sent Carys a last look, and she read the regret in his eyes. Before he could turn from her, she rose on her toes and kissed him, needing one last touch to center her before the battle. Dropping back to her feet, she placed her fingertips on his chest.
“Go. May God be with ye.”
Birk hesitated. “And with ye.”
Without a backward glance, he left her on the aftcastle and bolted down the steps to the main deck, pausing to give orders before joining Captain Aklen, now at the bow. Carys drank in a final sight of him, dark head above those around him, broad shoulders accepting the command of a battle whose outcome was uncertain. Soldiers along the rails grabbed the buckets of sand and tossed their contents onto the deck, anticipating spilled blood that would create treacherous footing. A ripple of unease slid through Carys as she remembered the children’s earlier innocent question. Had it been a premonition? Or mere curiosity?
She shoved the superstitious thought aside and faced the starboard bow where pirates clung to swinging, knotted ropes. Fingering the feathers on the arrows in her quiver, she selected one and pulled her bow from her shoulder. From her perch atop the aftcastle, she surveyed the deck below and marked her first kill.
Pirates boiled over the side of the ship despite the attempt to repel them. Carys nocked an arrow, setting it firm against the bowstring. She let it fly and instantly nocked another. The first arrow dropped a pirate to the deck who had escaped the line of MacLean soldiers at the rail. More pirates invaded the ship, but Carys held back, afraid of striking a MacLean.
The ship pitched, the wooden planks slippery with sea spray and blood despite the sanded deck as swords and daggers did their work. The men grappled, hand-to-hand, the fighting fierce. They swarmed the deck, shouts underscored by the clang of steel. The stench of death filled the air.
Carys searched the deck below her, using her arrows to help Brody as he defended the cabin door. Two pirates died, an arrow in each black heart. Another stumbled as the shaft slammed into his shoulder, giving Brody a chance to defend himself against a second attacker before delivering the killing blow. There was scarce
ly time to draw breath before each dispatched pirate was replaced by another, their battle cries and the shriek of steel on steel adding to the din. Carys nocked arrow after arrow, the deck around Brody fouled with bodies. He took a blow from a Norse battle axe. His right arm hung at an unnatural angle, blood dripping from his fingertips. He switched his sword to his left hand, hunched his shoulders, then straightened and met the next pirate.
Carys reached for another arrow but found the quiver empty. The spear lay at her feet and she exchanged her bow for the long wooden shaft, the throwing string caught in her fingers. She peered anxiously over the seething mass of men below her on the deck, painfully aware she had lost her position of power and safety once the last arrow had sailed from her bow. She could regain her ability to fight if she dropped to the deck, using the spear much like she would a javelin, but it would put her in the midst of the fighting.
Her body trembled with frustration, fear. Skilled she was, but not foolish. Hand-to-hand combat with this many men would not last long. She had one distance weapon remaining, one last chance to help. When the spear was gone, she would be left with only the short sword and dagger at her belt, and whatever time given to her before she ran out of options—and died.
She stared at the deck of the langskip, nearly empty, the last of the pirates clambering aboard the Már. How much longer could the MacLean soldiers repel the boarders? The dead and wounded massed on the deck, the fighting fast and brutal, making it difficult to predict the outcome of the battle. Her heart thudded against her ribs and she choked back agony for the children hidden away in the cabin below.
The scrape of wood behind her caught her ear and she whirled, startled to see a man she did not know levering himself over the port quarter rail. Blue eyes met hers, sparkling above a dark red beard. The blade of his short axe bit into the deck of the aftcastle, and an instant later he was on his feet. He was only an inch or two taller than Carys, but his bulk bespoke hours of hard work, and the easy familiarity with the axe caused her heartrate to double. He drew a long dagger from his belt and grinned at her.
