by Cathy MacRae
“It isnae a corpse, and the man is nae ghillie,” Ranald growled.
Kinnon gave him a puzzled look. “Then who is it?”
Ranald’s face was bleak. “MacEwen and yer sister.”
* * *
How could I be so useless? I couldnae protect Ree when she was attacked by MacEwen five years ago, and I can do nothing to help now. MacEwen had kidnapped her again, likely to use her as a hostage. The healer had remembered a secret passage from the castle—the only way MacEwen could have escaped—and led the three men to its hidden entrance in the store rooms below. Ranald had darted down the dark, damp stairs, leaving the others to defend the castle. Kinnon slammed his fist into the stone wall, taking the pain that shot up his arm as scant punishment for his inability to act.
Damn my leg! Damn my ribs! It was unfair to blame his injuries, but they rendered him worse than inadequate to face the difficulties at the castle. Worthless. Unfit to be a man. He returned from the store rooms and halted at the entry to the hall, his breaths coming hard and fast.
A small hand tugged his sleeve. “Do ye know my ma?” Gray eyes bored into his, and Kinnon could not look away.
“Aye. Yer ma is my sister,” he replied.
Gilda tucked her hand in his. “Ranald will bring her back,” she told him with the matter-of-factness of youth. “He can do anything.” She led him back to her seat. Kinnon sat and Gilda climbed into his lap. She patted his plaide draped across his shoulder.
“I havenae seen ye before. Ye look like my grandda.” Her face rounded solemnly. “He is an angel.”
Kinnon’s heart lurched. “Did ye know him?”
She nodded, red curls bouncing across her shoulders. “Aye. He was verra sad when the men told him his son was dead.” She tilted her head at him. “Was that you?”
“Aye. ’Twas me,” Kinnon choked. The lass settled against him.
“I’m glad ye arenae an angel.”
Her simple words touched something inside of him. A warmth he had never felt before seeped through him, promising healing. “I am, too, lass.” And for the first time, he meant it.
Chapter 19
Tension heightened. High-pitched voices resonated with apprehension; movements about the room appeared furtive and disjointed. Kinnon did his best to entertain his niece, and welcomed her tales of the kittens she and her friend, the lad who’d apparently helped her escape the pirates, had discovered in the run-down stables. From time to time, he stood and paced the room, anxious to learn what happened to his sister and the MacEwen. With calm perseverance, Gilda brought him back to her story, forestalling his return to the storerooms below.
He was uncertain how a day could last so long, but his prayers were answered just before nightfall as his sister and Ranald returned victorious to the great hall, wet, disheveled, and with the glow of renewed promise on their faces.
The next sennight was spent in feasting and gaiety, even amid the hard work to repair damage to the castle and grounds, though the evening of the funerals for the brave, deceased Macrorys was somber enough. Kinnon found himself surrounded on every side by well-wishers, and plumped with more food than he’d eaten in the past three years. He escaped in much-needed rest, wherein he was assured he would wake on the morrow among friends, neither wet nor cold nor hungry, and without fear of sudden execution.
Kinnon shifted uneasily in his seat, still uncomfortable in company after many long months alone in his cell. People cast speculative looks his way, and the room was abuzz with questions. Ranald, Finlay, his captain, and Riona lingered at the high table after supper. It had been over a week since the MacEwens had been routed and the castle set to rights, and it was time to firm his plans.
He addressed Ranald’s question first. “I have nae desire to be laird. Though ’tis within my right to ask it, I believe ’tis best left in yer hands.”
Ranald’s face was uncertain, his brow furrowed as he considered Kinnon’s response. Riona turned worried eyes on her brother.
“But, Kinnon, ’tis yer birthright,” she said.
He gave her a tight smile. “I cannae tell ye how much it grieves me to have been absent when Da died. I know how much my presumed death hurt him.” Damn ye, Hervé, now and forever for yer lies! “Though I dinnae wish to speak much of it, my time as a soldier produced many doubts in my mind. For a time, I thought I could be a laird who could bring peace to the clan, but ’tis not the reality of life here.”
Ranald spoke up. “I dinnae think I understand. If ye are so determined to have peace, why would ye not wish to give it to yer people as their laird?”
Kinnon took stock of the room, so different from the shock of the battle with the MacEwens. “Did ye not notice the day I arrived, how ye were at war with yer own people? There will always be those who covet Scaurness and its pivotal role protecting the firth. Ye need a strong man as laird, not someone who has seen too many atrocities and has trouble sleeping at night.”
Riona’s pale hand covered his, and he felt a measure of comfort.
“What will ye do?” she asked softly.
“As I mentioned before, I will retire to a monastery and seek absolution. And mayhap healing.”
“Where?” Riona’s voice caught on a tremor, and Kinnon winced.
“I have chosen Iona.”
Ranald gave him a sharp glance, clearly startled. “’Tis a desolate island with harsh storms. Ye’d live completely isolated. Are ye sure?”
“Why there?” Riona chimed in.
Kinnon felt his chest empty of all emotion. “Because it is said the sanctity of the soil can dissolve one’s sins.”
* * *
Kinnon sprawled in the chair, alone in his room. Riona had turned on him furiously at his mention of the soil of Iona. It dissolves yer sins if you are buried in it! she challenged him. It was true many kings of Scotland had chosen the isle of Iona for burial in order to be sanctified, and Kinnon felt the pull of the holy island.
It took a bit to calm her down when anyone could see he stood closer to death than he did life. He understood Riona hated to lose her brother again so soon. She wished him to remain at Scaurness, where she could nurse him. He cringed at the thought of being venerated as the long-lost son, and did not wish to be a hinge-point on any plan to replace Ranald as laird. Well and whole or feeble and infirm, as the auld laird’s son he could be used by anyone who wished to usurp the leadership at Scaurness. He had more respect for Ranald than to allow himself to be a distraction or a tool for those who wished to stir up trouble.
In the past several days, it had become clear Ranald and Riona were on their way to a reconciliation of whatever had caused their earlier rift. Kinnon knew, from the little Riona had confided, that her protectiveness of Gilda had led her to believe Ranald could not love the child as his own. Kinnon had yet to see evidence Ranald was anything but besotted with his adopted daughter—and quite possibly his wife—and Riona admitted he was a considerate and caring father.
’Tis good to know they will likely soon present me with another niece or nephew. He sobered. One I will likely never meet. It was the only unresolved problem with his plan, and after spending the sennight in Gilda’s presence, one that tore at his heart.
“Are you going to be an angel?” A tiny voice at the door to his room jerked him out of his musings. He pulled himself up in his deep chair, hiding a cough as he turned to his niece.
“Not any time soon, lassie. I believe I have some time left on this earth.”
Gilda crossed the room and climbed into the seat next to his. It was late and she wore a night shift that would soon need replacing if the sight of her ankles was anything to judge by.
“How many summers have ye?” he asked, eager to redirect her questions.
She curled her feet beneath her and leaned against the chair’s high back. “I have almost five summers, and ye look tired.”
Kinnon grinned. “If that is a polite way to say I look old, I thank ye.”
She cocked her head at
him. “Nae, not old, but verra tired. And ye breathe strangely, too.”
He nodded soberly. “’Tis one of the reasons I will go to Iona. Mayhap they can heal me.”
“Tavia is a good healer,” Gilda offered. “Ye could stay here.”
“Nae, lass. I need more healing than she can provide.”
Gilda’s lower lip quivered. “I dinnae want ye to go.”
“Ye hardly know me, lass.”
She nodded vigorously. “Aye. But ye are my uncle.”
He ruffled her red curls. “Aye. I am. I willnae leave for a few more days, and after that, mayhap I can visit from time to time. Would ye like that?”
A smile split her impish face, instantly replaced by an outlandishly large yawn.
“Should ye not be in bed, lass?” Kinnon regarded her skeptically.
“Aye. Ma willnae like me running up and down the halls.” She cast him a narrow, pleading look. “Ye willnae tell her?”
“Not if ye hurry off. I will walk ye to yer room.”
She shrugged carelessly. “Och, I willnae get into trouble. I know all the good hiding spots—should someone see me.”
Kinnon smothered a laugh. “I am sure ye do. But, as yer uncle, ’tis my job to see ye safe abed.”
Gilda hopped off the chair and took his hand, hauling him to his feet, her wee body angled far backward as she pulled. She leaned heavily against him as they ambled the length of the hall to her room, the torchlight no match for her brilliant red-gold hair that bounced across her shoulders with each step.
“Here ye go,” Kinnon said, holding the door to her room open for her.
She faced him with a winsome look. “Tell me a story?”
Kinnon hesitated, racking his brain for a tale fit for his young niece’s ears. Then, with a nod, he followed her inside. Eyes bright, Gilda settled herself in her narrow bed and Kinnon took a seat in the comfortable chair beside her. He held his fist to his forehead.
“Beira, the queen of winter, had only one eye, but it was as keen as an eagle’s.”
Gilda giggled and squirmed beneath the covers.
Encouraged, Kinnon continued. “One day she took for a servant the beautiful young princess, Bride. Nothing Bride did ever seemed to please the grumpy old queen, who was jealous of Bride’s youth and beauty, and Bride was often in tears.
“One day, Angus, the youthful king of summer, dreamed of a beautiful young princess who was crying, and he resolved to find and marry her. But ’twas the depth of winter, and the weather was uncertain and often foul. Borrowing three fine days from summer, he flew over the ocean from the Green Isle of the West and found Bride at the foot of a mountain with snowdrop flowers in her hands. She was as beautiful as his dream, and he begged her to marry him. She shed tears of joy, and where they touched the ground, violets sprang up. Everywhere, the birds began to sing, and flowers raised their faces to the warm sun, welcoming spring.
“Without a word to Beira, her mistress, they were wed by the queen of the faeries. Beira was verra angry, and to this day, each year she sends winds and storms to keep spring away. But everywhere Bride dips her fingers in the water, the auld hag falls into a deep sleep and doesnae wake until after the harvest.”
Gilda looked at him from beneath heavy lids. “’Tis almost harvest, Uncle. Will ye return like Bride?”
He rose and placed a soft kiss on her forehead. “Aye, lass. I will return in the spring.”
* * *
Kinnon stood beside the standing stones on the Isle of Mull, awaiting the boat that would carry him to his new life. The wind whistled through the stone, whipping his plaide about him, whispering in his ears.
Do ye deserve to be saved? Will the rest of yer life atone for the atrocities of war?
Kinnon scowled and huddled deeper into his plaide, pulling a corner of it over his head. It kept out most of the wind, but not the voices.
Why do ye think ye should be forgiven?
“Och, damn voices. Be gone!” He peered about, but the others near him were too concerned with keeping warm to pay attention to his words. One man peered at him briefly from the depths of his cowl, then turned away. The men of his guard, sent on Ranald’s insistence, made no remark.
The boat from Iona slipped into its moorings, bouncing lightly on the waves. Silently, people climbed aboard, settling the craft deeper in the water. With quiet words of thanks to his men-at-arms, Kinnon bid them farewell. Within moments, the boat was loaded and the ship’s captain urged it out into the bay.
The trip was no more than half an hour’s duration, but it was several minutes before the single peak on Iona appeared from the fog. It crept closer and closer, until the large stone boulder marking the port at nam Mairtear, Martyr’s Bay, was clearly visible. The boat slid to the shore and the passengers disembarked as silently as they’d entered. Heads bowed, they disappeared like wraiths to wherever their paths led.
A monk stood nearby, his black robe and tonsured head marking him as a man of God as clearly as his patient demeanor. A smile crossed his face as he noticed Kinnon’s gaze.
“Failje a Eilean Idhe, my friend.” He swept his hood over his head against the cold and motioned for Kinnon to step forward. Picking up his small bag of belongings, Kinnon obeyed.
“I am Brother Padraig. We will get you inside the abbey and then talk, aye? ’Tis a dreicht day and not one to stand about in longer than necessary.”
Kinnon agreed wholeheartedly. Indeed, his left leg ached abominably in the cold dampness, and he sensed a round of coughing was imminent. Something warm to drink would not go amiss.
They filed up the Street of the Dead, past St. Oran’s chapel and the Reilig Odhrain—burial site of Scottish kings—and approached the abbey. Brother Padraig opened the door, and Kinnon was relieved at the soothing warmth inside.
“Set yer belongings along the wall. We will take them to yer room in a bit,” the monk instructed. “Then come warm yerself by the fire.”
Kinnon placed his bag on the floor, then hesitated. His face heated. “I have a small request,” he began.
“Only a small one?” the monk rejoined with a smile. “What is it?”
“My niece gave this to me as I left her three days ago. She said it was to be my friend and remind me of her.”
Brother Padraig strolled to Kinnon’s side, curiosity on his face. “What could the lass have given ye that has ye confused?”
“Not confused, just unsure of its welcome.” Reaching inside the worn bag, Kinnon pulled forth a small bundle of orange fur. It stretched and looked about cautiously, its tiny mouth emitting a squeaky meow.
The monk drew back, startled, then laughed. “A wee ginger tabby! Though even the rats are God’s creatures, I believe I speak for all of us if I say it would hurt no feelings here if the rats chose to live elsewhere—out of respect for our new friend.”
Kinnon grinned. “I hoped ye would feel that way. My niece is a charming lass of four summers, and it would have broken her heart if I had turned her gift away. And once I was on my journey, it became difficult to give wee Angus over to another family to raise.” He lifted his gaze to Brother Padraig. “I have had no family to speak of for the past three years, and only recently met my niece, Gilda. I am happy to dedicate this lad to the greater good of the abbey, but ask that we take good care of him.”
Brother Padraig clapped Kinnon’s shoulder. “Dinnae fash! He is a welcome addition to our family.” He waved to a young man nearby. “Warm a bit of broth for our wee new brother. He can eat with us until he is old enough to hunt on his own.”
Within a short time, Kinnon found himself seated next to the hearth, Angus contentedly full and asleep on his lap. Brother Padraig took his seat.
“Tell me, my friend, what brings ye to our fair isle? I have read yer missive, but wish to hear from yer lips what ye believe God has put upon yer heart.”
With some trepidation, Kinnon told his story.
Chapter 20
The days grew shorter, the winds mo
re fierce, roiling the seas on the western coast of the island. And the voice in Kinnon’s heart disturbed the peace he wished to find. He’d entered the daily life of the abbey, praying and working as he was able. He was content to help with cooking, a skill he’d learned as a lad when away from the hall for more than a day. He adjusted to their fare of mostly vegetables with only a wee bit of longing for a bite of mutton or fish during the week, as Sundays and special occasions were the only days meat was served at the abbey. Prison had taught him that all sustenance was to be valued.
There was little work to do on the grounds. The gardens had been harvested and food preserved for the winter before Kinnon arrived. Though fair days often interrupted the winter tempests, and the more intrepid souls ventured out of doors, Kinnon found his health did not allow him the freedoms he was used to.
He spent much of his time in the scriptorium St. Columba had established many years ago, reading the ancient works collected carefully by the monks. Much had been lost in previous years during Viking raids, and the marvelous Book of Kells had been transported to Ireland for safekeeping. But in the scriptorium, Kinnon could for a time lose himself in thoughts of pious men long dead and ignore the unrest in his heart.
The long winter evening hours were set aside for respite and many of the brothers enjoyed the company in the main hall. Most were engaged in mending clothes and other minor chores or quiet reflection, though Brother Padraig rarely left Kinnon to his own thoughts. As his mentor, Brother Padraig often engaged Kinnon in deep conversations on a variety of subjects, many of which contributed to the restless sensation Kinnon harbored inside.
“I understand yer attraction to our simple way of life, Kinnon. Do ye believe it to be a true calling to a deeper commitment to the Lord here on Iona? Or is it a distraction from God’s greater calling for yer life?” Brother Padraig leaned back comfortably in his chair in the main hall.
Kinnon struggled with the question as he stroked Angus’s orange fur. “Am I pursuing God, or hiding from Him?”
