Castles, Kilts and Caresses

by Carmen Caine

  “Father, please, ‘tis done now,” Ronan whispered but Nathair fought to continue.

  “Tell her that her father died in my arms just as I will die in yours, but he did not curse her. Alec MacKinnon begged me to watch over his woman and his child. He made me promise to bring them to the village and make them part of the clan,” Nathair said, trembling.

  Panic seemed to grip Nathair as his hand seized hold of Ronan’s plaid, straining to lift his head as he stared into Ronan’s eyes.

  “Listen to me. I thought she was evil. I thought she would bring about our ruin.” He collapsed, gasping for breath as his chest heaved from the strain.

  “I was wrong. I see now that I was wrong,” he whispered. “She was a woman alone and with a child. I should have helped them.”

  “I will tell her, father.”

  “Tell her—thank you. Thank you for saving my Anwen.”

  “I will, father.”

  Nathair closed his eyes. “Ronan,” he whispered.

  “Aye, Father.”

  “I see your mother’s face. She is smiling…Anwen…my love.” His lips curved into a smile, and then he was gone.

  Ronan rested Nathair’s head on the ground. He swallowed the tears that rose in his throat. There was no time to grieve. He took up the MacKinnon’s sword and laid it on his father’s lifeless chest before joining his clansmen in their endless battle against the Vikings. He stood back to back with Aidan and Dugald, forming a defensive circle around Nathair’s body. With their backs protected by each other, they were impenetrable, stronger than any armor.

  As the battle raged on, Ronan saw the clouds dissipate and the wind die down. The storm that raged and fought on behalf of the Highland warriors had passed. The din of crashing waves and rumbling thunder was gone, replaced by a new sound. The blare of the Norse horn called the Vikings back to sea.

  “They are retreating,” Aidan exclaimed.

  The remnants of the Norse army raced toward the battered long ships. Those that were still sea worthy were pushed from the beach and into the surf. As the square sails unraveled and the oars dipped into the waves, Ronan remembered the once mighty fleet that had filled the Firth of Clyde just the day before. King Haakon was going to return to his homeland with a shadow of the glory with which he left.

  And so were they.

  Ronan’s heart filled with sorrow as he stood witness to their own depleted numbers. Some of the warriors sounded their battle cries in triumph while others collapsed, overwhelmed with fatigue and heartache for their fallen brothers. Despite the Norse retreat, Ronan knew that neither side could be hailed the victor. From his vantage point on the rocks, he could see the dead choking the coastal waters and covering what seemed like every space of earth. Both sides had suffered agonizing loss.

  “Now what do we do, Ronan,” Dugald asked, his eyes glazed and red with exhaustion.

  “We push on, Dugald,” he said. He encircled his mouth with both hands and called out to his clan, “Remember the Death of King Alpin.”

  Over and over, he shouted as his surviving kin gathered around him. So few assembled, less than half the number that set out from Mull. He continued to holler with the hope that someone had not heard his call. Finally, he reached behind his back and withdrew his sword. Brandishing it high in the air, he sounded the cry one last time to honor the dead. One by one, the men raised their swords and cried out, “Remember the Death of King Alpin.”

  Ronan stared down at his father as he listened, feeling the sorrow that imbued every call. When there was silence Ronan spoke.

  “Our grief must wait, for there is much to be done. Go now. Search for the wounded and bury the dead.”

  “What about the MacKinnon,” Aidan whispered as he stared down at his fallen laird.

  “You will stay with him, Aidan, while I decide what should be done. The rest of you spread out and pray for our fallen brothers.”

  ***

  Ronan carried bodies draped in sodden plaid folds to the fresh earth beyond the shadow of the fray to await burial. A priest moved through the lines of the dead, blessing their bodies and praying for their souls. Beyond the dead were the soldiers receiving their last rites whose wounds ran too deep to mend. Ronan stopped to rest, gazing further inland toward Largs where the wounded were being tended to by the village healers.

  Two woeful days had passed since the Norse retreat. Ronan’s thoughts turned to his clansmen’s families who at that moment did not know that their cherished sons, brothers, and fathers were waiting to be placed deep in the ground forty leagues away from their home. They had managed to save some of the Mull MacKinnons. A few lucky souls would live to see their beloved isle again.

  “Look, ‘tis the banner of the king,” a maid called out.

  Ronan looked south toward Kelburn Castle and saw a dozen riders heading their way. Each soldier carried the banner of Alexander III, all but one. As they grew closer, Ronan had his first glimpse of the young king. Wide dark eyes and brown curls made his youthful face seem even younger, but his long straight nose hinted at the man he would grow into.

  “Chieftains, to me,” the king called. Men split away from their clans as they moved to kneel before the king.

  “Ronan that means you,” Aidan said. “Go on.”

  Ronan looked to where is father lay. Nathair had been blessed by the priest and shrouded with a length of clean white linen.

  “Nay, Aidan. The king called upon the Mull MacKinnon, and it was my father who answered his call. ‘Tis my father who will answer his call now.” Ronan directed his men to encircle the MacKinnon. They lifted his body upon their shoulders and carried their laird to the king.

  “What man is this?” Alexander asked.

  “He is Nathair, Laird of the Mull MacKinnon.”

  “And you are his son,” Alexander said knowingly. “Your name?”

  “I am Ronan.”

  “Ronan, you honor your father here today. I mourn his passing as I mourn the passing of all those who have fallen for the sake of Scottish sovereignty. Ronan MacKinnon, take your father’s sword to Iona and let it be buried amid the great Kings of Scotland.”

  Ronan bowed his head, overwhelmed by the honor Alexander bestowed upon his father and his clan. His eyes burned with tears as he raised his head and met the young king’s gaze, “We are truly grateful, your Majesty.”

  King Alexander stepped forward and placed his hand on Ronan’s shoulder. “It is I who am truly grateful, Ronan.” Stepping back, he motioned to all of the warriors surrounding him.

  “Hear me, chieftains of Scotland. You have fought bravely and have rid our shores of the Norse invaders. Their army is broken. Their ships do not sail back to Norway—they crawl.”

  The king cast his gaze to the ground and did not speak. Ronan could tell that he too was shaken over the heavy losses, but when Alexander III raised his head, he was once again the composed leader.

  “Many of our warriors have died—your sons and brothers, fathers and kinsmen. Go home now to your clans and soothe your women with the knowledge that the fallen have not died in vain, but that Scotland is strong, and the Western Isles are now safe.”

  Ronan’s mind drifted to Mull with its rolling moors and towering cliffs. He longed for home and for Shoney. He could not wait to feel her, to smell her. Only she could remove the dark sight of death from his mind. He pictured her then, standing near the port at Gribun, waving to him as their ship neared. But then doubt enclosed his heart in its menacing grip, and her image vanished from his mind.

  What if he returned, and she was gone?

  Ronan grunted aloud. Given the underhanded way he obtained her promise to stay, he could not think her dishonorable if she had fled. And what if she had stayed? The war against the Norse might be over, but his struggles with Shoney raged on. When he left, nothing had been resolved. He still had yet to convince her to leave behind her past for the sake of their love, and maybe he never would. Perhaps she would leave him once and for all to take up
the legacy of her lineage and become forever the Witch of Dervaig.

  Chapter 26

  “Your eyes are heavy with sadness,” Anwen said to Shoney, “Come with me, child, into my rooms. No one will disturb us there.”

  Shoney followed Anwen from the great hall within the keep, up the stone staircase to her rooms. Upon entering the bedchamber, Shoney strolled aimlessly around for a moment. She stood before the bed, remembering the first night she’d come to the village when Anwen had almost succumbed to illness. Her hand touched the turned posts. They were carved in the shape of large thistles, which made her long for Ronan.

  “Sit by the fire, lass, and tell me what troubles you,” Anwen implored.

  Shoney expelled a weary sigh as she sat down. “I believe that Morna and Una are suspicious about my condition. It will not be long before everyone will know that I am with child.”

  “’Tis true. Even if you don’t tell, your stomach will,” Anwen chuckled. “You will grow fat, and you will think there is simply no way you could grow any larger, and then somehow fatter still you will be.”

  “I know this, Anwen, but what will everyone think when the truth is discovered?” Shoney asked.

  “I do not know why you wish to keep your condition a secret. I told you already. The clan will rejoice.” Anwen stroked Shoney’s cheek and smiled. “Bridget, understand that you carry the future laird of the MacKinnon.”

  “If I may remind you of a few things, Anwen,” Shoney snapped. “My name is Shoney. This child may be a girl, and whether she will be a MacKinnon remains to be seen.” Shoney was in no mood to be handled, and she knew that was what Anwen was trying to do—keep her happy and in Gribun until Ronan’s return.

  “I’m sorry, Shoney, but you will soon know what it is to have a mother’s heart, and then you will understand why I shall always carry hope for you and Ronan. Although, I don’t mind telling you, I’m certain you two will be together in the end. Love has a life of its own—a power,” she whispered. “It is gentle and ferocious all at the same time. I know what it is to love and to be loved. Very little in life would I argue is certain, but one thing I am sure of is that Love, once it claims you, is impossible to deny.”

  “You have a love match with Nathair then?” Shoney asked, curious to know more about Ronan’s parents.

  “Aye, to be sure.”

  A sudden glow radiated from Anwen at the mention of Nathair’s name, erasing the lines from her face and transforming her into a besotted maid.

  “I tried to resist Nathair. Unlike most of the other girls, I had no desire to bind myself to the future laird. I knew that I would have to share him with everyone else, and that his duty to the clan would always come first.”

  “However did he win you?” Shoney asked.

  “Persistence,” she laughed. “He told me that I was the sun in his sky, and in time he became the sun in mine, but still I refused him when he asked me to be wed.”

  Anwen stood up and stared out the casement. When she spoke, her voice was distant and dreamy. “Aye, I was stubborn and set against Nathair despite how much I wanted him…needed him. Then one day, the MacLeans attacked,” she looked at Shoney. “It was dreadful.”

  “They were a greater threat in those days,” she continued. “Their laird was a ruthless man. I remember father preparing for battle as my mother begged him to stay. I realized then that every man was duty bound to protect the clan. After a short while, my mother started helping da make ready, and I will never forget what she said. She turned to me and said that a clan was a gift worth fighting for, and that everyone must put the good of the clan first. After her words sunk into this thick skull, I ran out of our hut as fast as I could in search of Nathair. And when I found him, I pledged to love him, then and there, until I drew my last breath. And then he kissed me,” Anwen blushed and again her voice became wistful. “And I will never forget that kiss.”

  “You speak of romance and love like it is so easy when it is anything but. My love story is filled with betrayal and deceit. How can I trust what is so dishonest. I spend my days lying to these good people. I have come to love many of them, and they look at me with such confidence, but little do they know that I am the same cloaked figure they have glimpsed limping in the distance, the same woman from which they have cast away their eyes in fear, the very witch that haunts their children’s dreams.”

  “All that proves, Shoney, is their fear is unwarranted and always has been. Their hearts blinded by a prejudice, nurtured only by custom. And you know there are those women among us who secretly revered your mother, your grandmother, and so on…and you my dear. It has been in the spirit of deceit that they have sought your tender healing. They have secreted away in the night, lying to their husbands and their fellow sisters in order to feel the healing touch of the Witch of Dervaig.”

  Shoney was again amazed by Anwen’s awareness. It seemed that she had no secrets when it came to Ronan’s mother.

  “How did you know about our midnight visitors?” Shoney asked.

  “I hold the confidence of the women in the village. They have all come to me in private to reveal their true hearts and minds, and I have never betrayed a trust before, not even to Nathair.”

  Anwen reached out and gently took her hand. “But what else bothers you, Shoney, I feel you are not telling me something.”

  Shoney stared into Anwen’s unwavering eyes. Sometimes, Shoney was convinced that Anwen had the gift of sight as well, because she always seemed to know Shoney’s heart. Or, perhaps she had a different gift.

  “Anwen,” Shoney whispered, “can you hear other people’s thoughts?”

  Anwen laughed out loud. She seemed delighted by Shoney’s question. “Nay, lass, I am just getting on in years. What is in another’s eyes is clearer as you age—a small consolation given everything you lose as you get older,” she chuckled again. “No, Shoney, I do not share your gift.”

  Shoney’s mouth dropped open. “How did you know about my gift?”

  “I didn’t until now, but your mother told me of her visions when we were girls. I’ve been wondering for some time now whether you shared this gift.”

  Anwen leaned closer, her eyes seemed like daggers, cutting through the barriers of Shoney’s mind, seeking the truth only Shoney could reveal.

  “Is this what weighs on you, lass? Have you had a vision of what may come to pass?”

  The image of Ronan’s proud strong back ripped open by the enemy’s sword tore through her mind, but she chased the vision away. She could not bear to tell Anwen of her son’s demise—possible demise. Shoney still clung to the slightest shred of hope, that Ronan would indeed make his own fate. Besides, that morning she had collapsed by the overwhelming force of a new vision, a new terror. The vision had left her breathless and stricken with grief.

  Shoney closed her eyes, “There was a lone slender billed Curlew flying high over Gribun. Its plaintive song reverberated through my ears, twisting my heart with sorrow. The faces of your kinfolk were contorted with anguish. Many collapsed, sobbing with grief. Then the bird too began to cry. Its tears fell like sheets of rain that soon overwhelmed the village and flooded the crops.” Shoney’s eyes flew open as she suddenly became aware of her own freshly shed tears. She felt as though she were drowning in misery.

  “Go on, Shoney, what follows?” Anwen implored, her eyes were wide with apprehension.

  “’Tis all, I’m afraid,” Shoney replied.

  “But what does it mean?” Anwen urged.

  “The significance of a vision is sometimes very plain. Often, however, they are symbolic and require interpretation. In this case, all that can be divined for certain is that misfortune flies this way.”

  “But what form does this calamity take?”

  “I know not, nor do I know how best to prepare,” Shoney said.

  Anwen, who had slumped in her chair, suddenly sat straight and hardness gleamed in her eye. “We shall prepare in every way.” She rose and strode to the door
<
br />   and threw it open as she called out, “Flora, bring to me, Bhaltair.”

  “What do you intend, Anwen?”

  “We shall take no chances. We are going to double the watch on the stores and the grounds. Also, I want you to examine every villager in order to prevent an outbreak of disease.”

  Anwen passed through the door, leaving Shoney still sitting with her mouth agape. Anwen could be a formidable woman when required, she decided.

  “Come, now, Shoney. There is much to be done.” Shoney jumped to her feet and did as she was bid.

  They entered the great hall. Straight away, Anwen began giving orders. She sent Bhaltair off with instruction to double the guard against the MacLeans. She put Morna in charge of ensuring the harvest was completed ahead of schedule. Then she ordered Shoney to return to her hut and await the first villagers to be examined.

  Shoney marveled at the bustle of activity that awaited her in the village. Everyone was doing Anwen’s bidding as though it were the command of the laird.

  By the next afternoon, she had examined almost all of the inhabitants of Gribun. At least a dozen people still waited outside her door, but one stubborn little boy was holding up the line by refusing to stick out his tongue. She was about to ask Una, who was acting as her assistant, to tickle the lad until he surrendered when the bell sounded.

  Una inhaled sharply. “’Tis the alarm,” she whispered.

  “Do not panic,” Shoney instructed as they bustled outside. “Come along, everyone. Perhaps, Anwen summons us.”

  Shoney led the villagers through Gribun’s winding paths, passing huts and workshops, and meeting others along the way. They arrived at the baily where they found Argyle standing alone.

  “What is happening,” Shoney asked the elder.

  “The watch spotted a small vessel sailing this way.” Argyle’s words swept through the villagers like a happy breeze. The baily hummed with hopeful chatter of the men’s return. “Anwen and the others have already headed down to port to meet him,” Argyle added.