by Carmen Caine
“Ronan, we both have six and twenty years to our credit. We have fought numerous battles and have the scars to prove our bravery, but your da scares me as much now as he did when I was a lad. I’d rather face a fleet of Norsemen than your da.”
“As always I thank you, Aidan, for your encouraging words,” Ronan said dryly. “I feel so much better.”
“I do what I can, my friend,” Aidan chuckled. “I’ll see you on the fields.”
***
There he was, Nathair, Laird of the MacKinnon, standing at the end of the pier, staring out to sea. He had not been Ronan’s first hero; that role had belonged to his brother, Nachlan. In Ronan’s youth, the MacKinnon was always an elusive figure, hard to reach and seldom available. It was Nachlan who first taught him to ride and wield a sword, but he died at sea during a storm off the Outer Hebrides when Ronan was eleven. He dived in to save a fallen brother and was never seen again.
For many days, Ronan stood at the end of the pier where his father stood now, looking out to sea for Nachlan’s ship to return. One day, the MacKinnon came up behind him and rested his hand on Ronan’s shoulder.
“He is gone, lad. Do not look to the sea for your brother’s ship. He died with honor. Turn around and look to the land instead.” Ronan did as he was bid.
“You are next in line to be chieftain.”
“Aye, Father,” he mumbled.
“Look with open eyes, lad. One day you will be responsible for every MacKinnon, every man, women, and child and every field that feeds and sustains the clan just as I am now.”
Ronan remembered feeling awed by the man who stood beside him, and ever since that moment, he had done all he could to walk in his father’s footsteps. Nathair was a great leader and warrior. He was fierce and honorable. Few saw his softer side, but Ronan knew he was also a gentle and loving husband.
Ronan took a deep breath and strode down the pier to stand alongside Nathair. After some time the MacKinnon spoke.
“To be a leader, Ronan, is to be alone.” Nathair turned and looked at him. “Never forget that. The council plays a part in every decision, but the outcome rests on your head.”
“Aye, Father.”
“The clan must always trust that even during the hardest times you are doing everything within your power to aid and not to harm. Do you understand me?”
“Aye, Father.”
“If you were to marry Bridget and her secret be discovered you would lose the trust of the clan. What say you?”
“I do not believe anyone will ever know. Her fictional origins are intentionally vague, and if someone did suspect that she was other than what she claimed, no one would entertain the possibility of her being the Witch of Dervaig. Beyond this, her merit is such that if any doubt regarding her identity were to arise, it would be soon forgotten.”
“If what you claim is true, and she has no sorcery, then she does seem to have all the fine qualities any young woman might hope for, excluding of course the fact that she is a heathen, Ronan. But listen well, my lad. If any mistrust arose or if the truth came out, the clan would never forget. Suspicion’s seed would be planted. If fortune holds, then ‘tis possible you and Bridget might never be called to task, but if sickness were to take hold or crops fail, they would cry out that you brought the wrath of God down upon their heads. Do you ken what I am telling you, lad? Despite her goodness, she is always one tragedy away from being the Witch of Dervaig.”
“It is a risk I am willing to take, father.”
“Your life is not your own to be careless with, son. As chieftain your life belongs first to the clan.” Nathair’s voice took on a foreboding note. “I have tried to appeal to your sense of logic and duty, because, in truth, I am ashamed for raising my sword against you the other night.”
“Father,” Ronan began.
“Enough,” Nathair snapped. “I have been more than reasonable. I gave her a home, and her secret will not be revealed by me. I owe her this much. But you listen well, lad. Do not test me. Debt or no debt, I will tell the priest that the Witch of Dervaig disguised as a child of God is living among us, and he will purge our island of her black soul,” he spat. “You must choose your destiny, Ronan. The laird of the MacKinnon lies with a woman of the MacKinnon—a daughter of Christ. I will have your decision tonight. If you choose Bridget, you will not be laird.”
Chapter 20
“We climb again,” Ronan shouted, “Move.”
He turned to find his footing in the sheer cliff wall. He was several feet in the air when he noticed none of his men followed. He leapt to the ground.
“Something had best have rendered your ears useless, or you will find yourselves paying the penalty for defiance,” he shouted.
“Jesus, Ronan,” Aidan swore. “A word please, if you don’t mind.”
Ronan turned away from his men and released a loud, rumbling growl. He was seething with rage and wanted the world to suffer alongside him or at least his men. His father had given him an impossible choice—his clan and his family or Shoney. He could not live without Shoney, but he would not be the man she loved if he dishonored his family and abandoned his clan.
He turned around. All eyes were on him. He looked at Aidan, “What?” he shouted.
“Let’s just step over here,” Aidan said. Ronan followed him several yards away from the rest of his men.
“We’ve climbed that cliff quite a few times,” Aidan began.
“Aye, what of it?” Ronan growled.
“We’ve done a month’s worth of training already today.”
Ronan grunted in reply and looked away. He was not interested in Aidan’s complaints. He had his own problems.
“And what about poor Cormick. You nigh killed him earlier. And I know it was due to him asking her to dance last night.”
“He shouldn’t have touched her,” Ronan growled again.
“He’d have to touch her if they were dancing, and ‘tis not as if he knew she was spoken for.”
“I wasn’t too hard on him.”
“You were sparring with him like he was King Haakon himself.”
Ronan was losing his patience. “If your rambling has any point, Aidan, then I suggest you make it.”
“I don’t know what your da said, but you just go talk to him and work it out before you kill us all and rob the Norse of the chance.”
Aidan was right. He hated when Aidan was right. His men had tolerated his ruthless orders long enough. Truth be told, he was surprised they had not rebelled sooner.
“Alright, Aidan, I will go to my father. He must be forced to see reason.”
“No, you won’t,” Aidan said.
Ronan grabbed him by his plaid and lifted him in the air. “You push too far Aidan. I don’t know if you noticed, but I am in a foul mood.”
“I was merely pointing out, friend, now may not be the best time to have it out with your da after all.”
“Aye, and why not when you just told me I should?”
“Oh, no reason really. ‘Tis just that a messenger from the king is heading this way,” Aidan said.
“Damn it,” Ronan swore.
He put Aidan down and covered his eyes against the glare of the sun and saw the rider in the distance, carrying the banner of King Alexander III.
He grinned.
His father and Shoney would have to wait. The messenger bore the battle colors of the king. It appeared as though God answered his prayer after all—war with the Norse was at hand.
“Warriors to me,” Ronan shouted. “Aidan, find my father. Guthrie, summon the council to the keep. The rest of you, come with me. We ride out to meet him.”
***
A mixture of unrest and excitement was brewing in the great hall. The food and drink went unnoticed as Ronan’s men shifted about the room impatiently. The day’s gruelling exercises and the overindulgences of the night before were forgotten. His men were ripe for battle. If someone shouted “charge,” the roar of battle cries would fill the air, and the
men would ride out eager to meet the enemy. He sat with the messenger and his father, awaiting the arrival of Argyle who moved slower these days. No messages would be exchanged until the entire council was together.
“If so ordered I could go meet Argyle and carry him the rest of the way,” Aidan said.
“Patience, Aidan,” Nathair reproached, “You disrespect your elder. If our departure is not immediate, you will spend tomorrow’s entirety at Argyle’s service.”
Aidan spoke his apologies and took his seat just as the doors opened, and Argyle shuffled into the room.
The old man sat beside Nathair and asked, “What word from the king?”
“As you know, Haakon rejected King Alexander’s claim over the Western Isles,” began the king’s messenger. “What you may not know is that Haakon arrived some weeks ago with a fleet of long ships and has been pillaging the western coast of the mainland.”
“The Devil take the coward,” cried Guthrie. The hall erupted into chaos as the men stood and voiced their fury.
“Silence,” commanded Nathair. The men were quick to comply. Ronan could tell the king’s man approved of the order the MacKinnon maintained.
“King Alexander,” the messenger began again, “has agreed to begin negotiations.”
“What terms are negotiable?” Nathair interrupted. “We men of the Isles are Scotsmen. We must yield nothing to the Norse.” The MacKinnon’s words were met with cheers from his men.
This time, the messenger called for order. “Please, silence everyone and hear the king’s plan.” The MacKinnon nodded his acceptance of the messenger’s request, and once again the men were silent.
“As we speak, Haakon and his fleet sail for the Isle of Arran where negotiations are to take place. Our King is going to prolong the talks over the remainder of the summer, ensuring the Norse fleet stays anchored in the waters of the Firth of Clyde come autumn. The harvest moon will ensure our enemy faces two foes in battle. The autumnal storms will waylay their ships, forcing them away from the isle to the mainland where they will be delivered broken and battered to an army of Scotsmen waiting on the coast of Largs.”
“Will the storms wreak such havoc upon the ships?” Ronan asked.
“Aye, the Firth of Clyde means certain death for any sailor foolish enough to try its waters during a heavy storm. The fleet will be devastated,” the messenger said. “Their long ships are light and narrow with shallow drafts. The waves will turn them over like twigs. Each one is likely to carry thirty to forty men or even more, but the vessels offer nothing for protection against the pounding waves. Many will drown, never making it to shore alive.”
“But the shallow draft will allow them easy port on the coast of Largs,” Guthrie said.
“Aye, to be sure,” replied the messenger, “but by the time they pull their ships to shore, they will be broken and facing a Scottish army ready for battle.”
“So he plans an ambush,” Nathair said. “What say you, Argyle?”
“’Tis a shrewd plan as was to be expected of our young King. He has already managed to unite this country. He shall lead us to victory,” Argyle replied.
“King Haakon will likely submit during negotiations before the summer’s end,” boasted Dugald.
“Indeed,” Argyle said. “Alexander is clever despite the scarcity of his years.”
Nathair turned to Ronan, “What say you?”
“’Tis a good plan,” Ronan said, “but we will have to march soon.”
“Aye,” the messenger agreed. “You must leave before the summer’s end. Largs is more than a fortnight’s journey on foot, longer depending on the winds when you first set sail.”
Nathair stood and addressed the room. “We must make preparations as we leave within the month. Go home now and rest, for there is much to be done. Meet tomorrow in the courtyard at dawn.” Then he turned to Aidan, “except for you.”
Ronan had forgotten Aidan’s earlier indiscretion, but clearly, Nathair had not. “Argyle, Aidan has offered to be of service to you on the morrow.” Nathair gave Aidan a good natured slap on his back. “Please be sure to give him plenty of work.”
“Why wait until tomorrow?” Aidan said to Argyle affably. “Let me walk with you, and you can decide if there is naught for me to do this very night.”
“Ronan,” Nathair said, drawing his attention away from the pair now slowly making their way from the keep.
“Aye, Father.”
“Let us sup as we consider what needs to be done. We go to war,” he shouted so all could hear. Then he raised his mug, “For Scotland.”
“For Scotland,” the men repeated and downed their ale.
Chapter 21
Shoney was busy, almost too busy to think about Ronan...almost. She had joined ranks with Morna and the other ladies in their numerous preparations for the warrior’s departure. Large numbers of bannock bread were baked over open flame, and the blacksmith’s hammer could be heard from the first light of dawn until the sun dipped beneath the sea as swords and axes were forged or repaired and spikes were added to oak shields. Iron blade heads were also fashioned and given to boys who inserted the tips into barbed shafts as piles of arrows began to form. Shoney and the other women polished the metals until they gleamed in the sunlight. Then they gathered and packed supplies. Every warrior would carry a large leather sack in addition to their usual sporran with dried herring, bannock, and oats.
As they labored, the stores were diminished, which added to their already heavy work load, for the village provisions would be refilled before Gribun was left with only a fraction of its usual defenses. By the end of each day, Shoney was exhausted and fell asleep as soon as she pulled her blanket beneath her chin, and in the morning, it all started again.
Every day before sunrise she awoke to a line of villagers waiting outside her door, each suffering from some ailment or another. She applied alder bark mixed with grease to burns and combined ground ivy and honey to dress open wounds.
That morning had been no different but for one unusual affliction. Just as she was saying goodbye to one of the blacksmith’s apprentices who came early to fetch a supply of her burn grease to keep on hand at the shop, she spotted a small band of villagers making their way toward her hut with Flora in the lead. Holding a boy’s ear in a firm grip, she explained to Shoney what had occurred the evening before. The boy, who was her youngest son, Dugan, had been playing near the Daione Shi Knoll.
Shoney knew the spot well. It was a rocky mound at the foot of a tall, jagged hill some distance from the coastline deep within the moorland. In the summer, it was a lush place. The hill was a steep, verdant green tower, littered with jutting rocks trailing down its surface. At the base of the hill, the rocks gathered in jumbled, moss-covered stacks. The moss was a rich emerald color and out from its shallow depths sprung tall, pink blossoms. How the abundant flowers grew out of the rocky knoll with only a thin layer of moss for a bed was a mystery, but every year they returned.
Giving her son’s ear a good yank, Flora spoke of the clan’s belief that the king of the faeries lived deep beneath the stones. Each year he planted the pink flowers to attract young girls to the entrance of his lair where he lured them down below.
“’Tis a sacred but dangerous site,” Flora explained as the onlookers nodded their heads in agreement.
Dugan turned crimson as Flora insisted he confess how he tripped while playing and fell directly on top of the knoll, crushing some of the famed pink flowers.
“Bridget, he is damned for certain. ‘Tis only a matter of time before the faeries claim him as their own,” she said, her eyes creased with worry.
“Cease your fretting, Flora,” Bridget said as she took hold of her friend’s hand. “He is too old to be raised as the faeries’ own and too young to be of interest to their queen.”
Flora’s yellow head remained downcast as she seemed to consider Shoney’s words. Finally, after several minutes she said, “What you say sounds right and should bring me comfo
rt except for the warning in my heart. I am afraid, Bridget. Is there naught that can be done to ensure his safety?” Flora implored.
“If you wish to protect your son, then plant rosemary and gorse outside your door. The smell will keep the fair folk away. And for the next fortnight light a piece of fir-wood and walk around Dugan’s pallet three times before he sleeps.” This advice was met with murmurs of approval from the villagers in Flora’s company.
She nodded, looking somewhat relieved, “I will do everything just as you have said.” Then the little woman kissed Shoney on the cheek. “Thank you, Bridget. I knew you were the one to ask. We are all so glad you’ve come.” With another hard yank on Dugan’s ear, Flora and party quitted her doorstep with smiles of gratitude.
Remembering the pleading look the boy gave her as he was led away, Shoney chuckled. In the morning, they might be back only this time to mend Dugan’s battered ear. She continued to knead the bannock dough as she stretched the muscles in her neck and shoulders. She could not remember ever feeling so tired or so alive with purpose. She was made an instant member of the clan. The villagers valued her opinions and looked to her for healing and relief.
Or, rather, they looked to Bridget.
She frowned. Despite feeling satisfied that her skills were finally being used, she was filled with sorrow. She had not seen Ronan since the night of the dance. She knew he kept away in order to keep her in Gribun. She would never leave without saying goodbye, and so he refused to give her the chance. Doubtless, he wanted to tempt her to stay by revealing what her life could be like if she became Bridget MacLeod for good. She could not deny that his plan was working, and in a way she was glad he kept his distance. All her life, she watched the village from afar, imagining what it would be like to live amid all the comings and goings, laughter and noise. The reality surpassed her every dream, but she ached for him and dreaded his departure.
