by Carmen Caine
“You destroyed my people,” she said, the words bursting from her lips.
His eyes widened in disbelief, “Your people? Shoney, what is the matter with you?”
“You are a Gael, descended of King MacAlpin.” She stood with her arms akimbo, ready for battle. “Your descendants seized the throne of the Picts, our lands, our way of life. ‘Tis because of your people, Ronan, that my life is spent cloaked in solitude. I am accused of witchcraft because of you.” Her voice broke. She was losing control, but she did not care. “You are the reason why my mother died with fear in her eyes, fear for my safety, for my happiness.”
He backed away from her. “Your people?” he said. “My people? Shoney, you speak of wrongs centuries old, and I’m afraid I must mention that your knowledge of history is somewhat lacking.”
“My mother warned me never to believe your lies,” she yelled.
“The Gaels and the Picts did their share of fighting to be sure, but the Gaels did not defeat the Picts. Both peoples were forced to converge or face annihilation at the hands of the Vikings.”
“You are lying.”
“Believe me or not, but Kenneth MacAlpin was very much a Pictish king as was his son, Aed. A Gaelic king did rule temporarily after he assassinated Aed.”
“So you admit that a Gael stole the Pictish throne,” Shoney interrupted.
“Aye, but his brief reign did not mark the beginning of Scotland or the diminishment of the Picts in history—that, my dear, can be blamed on a Pictish king.”
“Your version of history is lacking in logic,” she scoffed.
“I am not finished.” He snapped, but he composed himself before continuing. “When Aed was murdered, his son, Constantine, and nephew, Dugald, were both too young to rule. They were secreted away to a Gaelic monastery in Ireland. They returned when they were grown to avenge their King and they succeeded. At least according to bloodlines, a Pictish throne was restored. But Constantine and Dugald had spent their formative years within a Gaelic monastery. They were no longer young Pictish princes. They had grown into Gaelic men. Constantine called himself King of Scotland and openly encouraged the spread of Gaelic tradition.”
“Now ‘tis your turn for telling stories,” she sneered. “What fool taught you such lies?”
“In my youth before my brother’s passing, my father sent me to the monastery on Iona to study. My story is backed by volumes of written evidence, by the markings of graves, by ratifications and agreements.”
“Writing is a privilege reserved for the powerful. My mother’s word is worth far more than the words recorded by traitors and thieves,” she replied, raising her chin defiantly.
“Shoney, listen to me,” he said. She turned away, determined to ignore him, but he continued anyway. “It has been many centuries since the days when the Picts and the Gaels were separate peoples. The past cannot be undone, especially one that happened so long ago.”
Madder than ever, Shoney railed at him, “You speak of a time centuries ago, and yet I am this very day shunned and feared by your people.”
Ronan’s voice intensified, revealing his growing frustration. “Not by reason of your Pictish blood, Shoney, for it flows in my veins too. ‘Tis your pagan idolatry the people fear.” He picked up her carving of Taranis, the god of thunder, and thrust it in her face.
“My gods are born of this land, Ronan MacKinnon. I am born of this land.” She shouted.
In a soft voice he said, “My God is of all lands, Shoney.”
She started to reply, but he closed his hand over her mouth.
“Enough of this, please, Shoney. I am no priest. My sins, I’m sure, are many, and I will not feign being holy enough to judge the soul of any man or woman. I have never wronged you.” Then his face reddened as he hastily added, “with the exception of the bruises on your arms, a little jostling, and a few stolen caresses, which you could hold against me for the rest of our days if you wished, but,” he smiled as he removed his hand from her mouth, “I sincerely hope you do not.”
Shoney eyed him with suspicion. “What you are asking for then is a truce,” she said.
“Aye, I suppose I am.” He took a step back and extended his hand for her to accept.
“Shoney, join me,” he said, his voice rich with formality. “Together we can end the blood wars of our ancestors with an alliance of our own. Once, a long time ago, we were sworn enemies. Now, we will be bonded in friendship.”
She turned from him suddenly weary. “I do desire to be your friend, Ronan. I’ll not deny this, but to surrender would cast me under the dark cloak of shame. A darker mantle than even that worn by the Witch of Dervaig, and what’s more, its folds would defile my mother’s rest.”
“I do not ask you to swear allegiance to Scotland or to the MacKinnon for that matter. I ask not for your surrender. We are simply establishing a peace. And Shoney,” his voice beckoned for her to meet his gaze, “there is never shame in peace.”
Her mind raced and her heart pounded. She wanted nothing more than to accept his hand and have for the first time in her life a friend, but her mother warned her about the true nature of men. At their best, she cautioned, they were capricious and quick to make vows that later went unfulfilled, and at their worst, they were foul beasts.
“I am but one of many women who have lived behind these walls, hidden by cloak and full of regret,” she said. “Do you think you are the first man to stand here with hand extended? I had a father, Ronan. So too did my mother.”
“But I have never stood here. Not all men are the same, Shoney. If you wish me to leave, I will. But remember, I do not seek to change you or bend your will. I only wish to be your friend.”
She searched his eyes for some sign of deception, but his gaze held only truth. Perhaps it was wrong to punish him for past crimes. Should he be blamed for the solitary lives the Dervaig women had chosen to lead, swearing never to accept Scottish rule? By taking his hand in friendship, she did not surrender the enduring struggle of her ancestors, the fight even her own mother refused to concede. It only signified a blessed release from the silence and despondency of solitude.
Very slowly, she reached out and took Ronan’s hand, resisting the desire to smile. She had never had a friend before. She blushed as the touch of his strong hand made her think of his powerful grip on her bare waist beneath the surface of her seaside pool. The heat of his touch had warmed her despite the chilly water until she melted into him. She looked from his giant hand cradling hers to his bright amber eyes and lost herself in his lazy, sideways smile. Then she cleared her throat, deciding it would be wise to look elsewhere. She took her hand back and busied herself with replenishing the fire.
“So, you said your village has healers?” she asked, trying to redirect her thoughts away from his golden skin and thickly muscled shoulders.
“Indeed,” he answered.
“And they are skilled in herbs?”
“Aye, perhaps one day you will meet and exchange knowledge.”
Shoney whirled around, “You think I might be welcomed by your clan?” she said skeptically.
“I may remind you, my dear, one day I will be laird.”
“When?” she asked.
“My father has no brothers. I am next in line. When he passes unto heaven, the…”
“No,” Shoney interrupted, “I mean to say, when will you take me to Gribun?”
He threw his head back and laughed, evidently enjoying her enthusiasm. “When the time is right, I promise you, I will take you to the village, but for now the hour grows late. I must return.”
She shook her head to object. She did not want him to leave. She wanted to talk further about visiting the village.
He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Do not fret, Shoney. I will return,” he whispered. “Never forget we are friends.”
She waved goodbye from the doorway until he disappeared over the sloping moors. Evening approached. Its dim light cast the hills a deeper shade of green, and
she could hear the breaking waves against the cliffs behind her. She lingered, enjoying the warm spring air and all the while remembered Ronan’s promise to return and bring her to the village. For the first time since her mother passed she was excited about the future. Having surrendered nothing, sacrificed nothing, she had altered her destiny. Her life could no longer be mapped out as a series of lonely days until she died. She had a friend, and for the first time in her life—at least until she was gifted with a vision—she knew not what her future held.
Chapter 9
Ronan was nervous as he stood at Shoney’s door but for very different reasons than when he last paid her a visit. A fortnight had passed since she accepted his hand in friendship, but not for a moment had she been absent from his thoughts. Longing made for sleepless nights and distracted days. There was no denying that his regard for her went beyond friendship.
He took a deep breath and knocked. She did not answer. He raised his hand to knock again but stopped when he heard a song drifting on the breeze. A voice like dark honey wrapped around him. Its enchanted sound was languid and old, and even though the words were Gaelic, the song’s meaning was unfamiliar. It was a story of the gods and of war and then renewal.
He rounded the corner of the hut, following the plaintive sound, and then he saw her. Golden hair danced about her waist in tangled disarray and gleamed in the low morning sun. Despite the chill in the air, she wore only a kirtle, which revealed her arms to the shoulders. Across her face and along both arms were intricate pictures painted blue to match the summer sky. On each cheek was a large swirling circle. The same circles could be found on her arms, but there were also knots and animals. He saw a stag, birds, a seal, and fish.
He inhaled sharply at the sight of her. Never could he have imagined a woman more alluring or more forbidden. He had lain awake all night with thoughts of her silken skin and soft curves and knew she had to be his. He resolved to rescue her from the solitude she despised, to give her the life she deserved. But as her tousled hair fell back to reveal her painted profile, he knew introducing her to the clan would prove more difficult than he first imagined. If he had thought for a moment their differences were insignificant, the sight of her in all her pagan glory put that assertion to rest. Even if he could convince the clan she was a maid and the Witch was only the stuff of legend, Father Colin would certainly not consider Shoney to be a child of Christ. He suppressed a chuckle as he pictured the good Father’s reaction were he to see her painted, half-naked, and singing to the gods.
She continued to sing unaware of his presence. He longed to remain unseen, to gaze unabashedly at the sensual sway of her hips as she moved, lost in the lulling refrain, but he did not wish to intrude if unwelcome.
“Hello, Shoney,” he said.
She jumped and turned to see who spoke. At first, trepidation constricted her features, but when she saw who stood by, a wide smile spread across her face. He felt an odd gratification knowing it was he who put it there.
“Ronan, welcome,” she said.
“I’m sorry to intrude on whatever it is you are doing,” he said hesitantly.
“We are friends,” she smiled. “You will never be an intruder here. Besides, I pray to the gods today on your behalf.”
“On my behalf?” he said not bothering to conceal his surprise.
“You said your people will soon be at war. I pray for your protection, but I am not finished.”
She moved to stand beside a large rock, which was hollowed out to form a basin. Then she picked up a clay bowl and poured what looked like milk into the rock all the while mumbling an indiscernible chant.
“There,” she said when the bowl was emptied, “I am finished.”
“What did you just do?” he asked.
“The Long-haired one is very powerful. He is a great sorcerer and warrior. I gave him an oblation of milk.”
Not knowing how to respond, he shrugged and said, “to be sure” as though the observance of pagan offerings was a routine occurrence.
“Why do you make war with the Norse?” she asked.
Standing near an oblation stone, next to the hut formerly thought to belong to an evil witch, he was relieved for the change of conversation to something familiar. “I told you of how the Vikings retain ownership of the Western Isles. Scotland’s King, Alexander the III, aims to unite the country, but he was denied purchase of the Hebrides by the Norse King, Haakon.”
“Have you any sympathy for the Norse interest here?”
“Actually, most islanders have Norse ties. In fact, the king is a distant MacKinnon relation through marriage.”
“Then your enemy is also your family?” Shoney asked.
“That was a union befitting the times, but it was a time long ago. Findanus MacKinnon married a Norse princess nicknamed Saucy Mary. Her marriage dowry included lands on Skye together with Dunakin Castle, which are still MacKinnon lands to this day.”
“Saucy Mary is a strange sort of name,” Shoney said.
“Well, she was a strange sort of lass. Mary earned the title after she ordered a chain run across the water from Dunakin to the Scottish mainland in order to halt the passing ships. The chain would drop beneath the water, allowing the ship to pass, but only after the Captain paid a toll.”
Shoney chuckled, “I think I would have liked her.”
Of course Shoney would admire his audacious ancestor. “No doubt you would have enjoyed many foolhardy adventures together, but that was a time long ago. Today, our allegiance rests only with Scotland, and King Alexander plans to seize what he cannot purchase.”
“If war is at hand, Ronan, then you should not delay at introducing me to your father. I can fight. I have the skills of a warrior.”
He threw his head back with laughter. But without hesitation, she seized his dirk from beneath his plaid and pressed the tip just below his waist, silencing his amusement.
“I would not laugh so heartily at my expense, lest you find yourself missing a favored appendage,” she said, smiling sweetly.
She was swift with a blade. This much he had to concede given she wielded a knife that moments before had been securely sheathed against his own thigh, but her foolish warmongering was reckless. Her mother trained her to strike with steel and find her target, but her slight build rendered her skills worthless. Did she not realize he could break her neck with one hand before she drew her next breath? He grabbed hold of her hand, reclaiming his weapon with ease.
“Women are not warriors, Shoney.”
“You are mistaken, Ronan. My ancestors were great warriors,” she said.
“The men, perhaps, but women have never been warriors, at least not for many, many centuries. Adomnan's Law of Innocents disproves your claim.”
“The word of my mother is all the evidence I need. I don’t care if your people outlawed women warriors. The Picts certainly did not.”
“Adomnan’s Law did not exclude women; it protected them. It was a decree by the Abbot of Iona some six-hundred years ago and protected not just women but also children and monks during times of war. The decree was accepted as law by all of the kingdoms, including the Picts. Innocents had not the tools, skills, or inclination to make war but were often its victims.”
“With training anyone may fight, and inclination is found when one’s home is under the threat of the torch and one’s life under the blade,” she replied.
She was like no maid he had ever met. Her spirit and sense of honor were unmatched. She stood before him defiant even in defeat. Her unpinned golden curls were perpetually tangled and the confident and stormy depths of her eyes mesmerized.
“You have some skill, Shoney, but not the strength.”
Her eyes narrowed as she turned on her heel and stamped inside. He could not help but admire how the thin fabric of her kirtle revealed her shapely buttocks and the swing of her slim hips. He followed after, wondering how he would soothe her anger once again.
“I never thought I would meet anyone with a
temper to match my own,” he said as he ducked his head beneath the door frame.
“I apologize, Shoney,” he began. “I did not mean to suggest that I found women lacking. They are sacred. They hold the breath of God in their bodies. They make and sustain life. Their bodies are meant to be cherished, savored not spoiled by war.”
She turned and met his gaze. He walked toward her and reached out to stroke her cheek. She did not flinch at his touch.
“You are courageous, Shoney, but look at how fine you are.” He took a step closer and inhaled the lavender scent of her hair. His finger traced the stag that adorned her shoulder.
“They are beautiful.”
“They are sacred images of the gods,” she said. “The stag symbolizes Fionn who is a great warrior. The knots and circles represent the Mother of all.”
“And what of the seal and fish?” Ronan asked as he extended her arm and slowly traced a large fish painted on the soft skin of her forearm.
“They are to celebrate Shoney,” she smiled, “who is the god of the sea.”
“You were named after a god?” he asked.
“My mother wanted to ensure an abundance of fish at her table,” she smiled.
“The circles on your cheeks are for the Mother of all, but what of the solid expanse of blue on your chest?” His fingers grazed the delicate skin of her neck and above her kirtle where a deep blue, darker than the rest, covered.
“That is for Skatha. She is the goddess of shadows. Whenever I perform a ritual, I always remember Skatha. Each time I pray she removes my fear of the dark.” She cast her eyes to the ground as she spoke, clearly embarrassed of her weakness.
He despised the isolation of her home. She would be imprisoned come nightfall by her fear. He wanted nothing more than to save her from ever being afraid again.
“I am sorry I angered you,” he whispered.
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” she smiled.
“God’s blood,” he swore aloud as he stepped away from her intoxicating scent and exotically painted and partially-clad form.
