by Lily Baldwin
“Did the faeries come to claim what they regard as theirs?” Brenna said.
“’Tis possible, but I believe if the faeries wanted her, they would have her. There is little you or I could do to stop them.”
“Then who? Her family? Her birth mother? Is there some way to know who abandoned her? Surely, you know every MacKinnon from here to the border of our lands.” Then Brenna froze as a new realization filled her with apprehension. “The Daione Shi Knoll is sacred to all who inhabit this isle. ‘Tis not so far from our border to the south.” She looked at Bridget and Anna who both nodded their heads, their mouths set in grim lines.
“She could be a MacLean,” Brenna said as she hurried to Nellore’s side and scooped her in her arms. “And mayhap they want her back.”
“Stay calm, Bridget. I do not believe ‘tis as simple as that. If the MacLeans wanted her, why not take her? Why give her a flower?”
Brenna released a slow breath and nodded, trusting in the logic of Bridget’s words.
Anna wrapped her arms around Brenna and Nellore. “What is to be done?” Anna asked her mother.
Bridget shook her head. “I can discern little with certainty other than what I hope brings you some comfort, Brenna. The thistle is not a bad omen. It stands for courage in the face of treachery.”
“Mayhap, if Brenna is afraid, she and Nellore might stay here in the keep,” Anna suggested.
“Aye, Anna, and she would be welcomed, but to do so fixes nothing. Therefore, unless she intends to relinquish her land and her home and move to the keep permanently, your suggestion only delays discovering the truth.”
Brenna threw her shoulders back. “I will not be driven from my land.”
Bridget smiled and kissed Brenna’s cheek. “You are a fierce woman, Brenna. Your strength and courage fill me with pride. Come. Follow me to the kitchens, and I will tell you what must be done.”
The ladies followed the stairs to the great hall and then continued down to the kitchens. Garlic and rosemary scented the air. The cooks, bustling about preparing the midday meal, stepped aside, allowing the ladies passage to the herb cupboard.
Bridget threw open the double doors. Without hesitation, she reached for a small vial sealed with wax. In a low voice, she said, “Brenna, this is an oil made from Red Verbena and Hogweed. You will anoint Nellore’s eyelids at night and again in the morning. Red Verbena wards off evil while Hogweed defends children against the faeries.”
After handing Brenna the vial, Bridget turned back to the cupboard and crouched down to pull something from the bottom shelf. She stood holding a large bundle of sticks.
“The branches of the Rowan tree are very powerful. Place this bundle outside your door along with a sprinkle of raw oats. You must also encircle Nellore’s pallet with oats as well.”
Anna reached inside and withdrew a long string of seeds. “A necklace of peony seeds will also protect Nellore from the fairfolk.”
Bridget smiled, “Indeed, you are right, Anna.”
Anna added the necklace to a large satchel stuffed full with the other items Bridget selected.
Bridget stared for a moment longer at the contents of her cupboard before shutting the doors. Then she turned to face Brenna. “You must also rid your home of lavender and thyme. The fey will only be drawn to their scents. Anna will continue to stay with you. Does young Liam still make his bed in your barn?”
“Aye,” Brenna confirmed.
“Good. Now, if you do not remember my instruction, fear not. Anna will be able to assist with the herbs.”
Brenna looked to Anna who was nodding with a bright smile.
Bridget embraced Brenna and whispered in her ear. “Hold tight to your courage. Things are not always as they appear.”
Brenna carried Nellore and followed Anna toward the stairs, but just as she was about to cross into the great hall, she turned around and looked down at Bridget.
“How did you know Nellore had been abandoned on the moors? How did you know where to find her?”
A glint of silver fire lit Bridget’s eyes, but then she shrugged. “I’ve already told you, Brenna, things are not always as they appear.”
Chapter 12
The Trinity sailed into the Sound of Islay, a narrow strip of water separating the isles of Islay and Jura. Duncan manned the rudder as they approached the Port of Askaig, which sat nestled beneath the shadow of towering cliffs. A small village comprised mostly of peat huts with thatched roofs unfolded before them. The twilight hour revealed quiet streets, but the many empty market stalls told of a bustling village center in the light of day.
They secured their ship and made their way through the docks onto dry land. Duncan’s eyes surveyed the small village with the intention of securing accommodations.
“You there,” he called out to an ancient fisherman still laying his nets to dry. “Is there an inn or tavern where we might find a meal?”
A grin stretched across a toothless mouth as he pointed further down the coast. “The Inn of Islay is along there. ‘Tis easy to find being the only stone building in the lot.”
Duncan smiled at the old man and bid him rest while he made short work of the last of the nets. “I remember when my back was strong like yours,” the old man said, clearly grateful to sit for a spell.
After finishing the task, Duncan stood and gazed across the docks, over the Sound of Islay to where the mountains of Jura towered against the darkening sky. Brenna’s spirit would have soared at the majestic sight. As he stared, the mountains and sky disappeared, replaced by deep blue eyes and a stubborn jaw graced with a sensuous mouth.
“’Tis a fine view, lad, but you’ve lost your kinsmen,” the old man said.
Duncan shook Brenna from his thoughts and looked about realizing the other men had indeed gone ahead.
“’Tis no matter,” Duncan said. “Would you care to join us this night for a meal?”
“I thank you, lad, but nay. My wife waits for my return with a warm meal and a smile a good deal prettier than yours.”
Duncan chuckled as he bid farewell to the old man hurrying off home. The two-story stone inn came into view as he rounded the windy village road that hugged the imposing cliffs. The inn boasted several guests, but owing to Ronan’s great height, Duncan easily spied his kinsmen sitting near the hearth.
No sooner had he sat down next to Ronan then a pretty lass placed a heaping plate of fish and cabbage in front of him. Ravenous, he shoveled the food into his mouth without ceremony.
“What sort of man is the Lord of Islay?” Cormac asked of Ronan.
“I know not,” Ronan replied. “I’ve never met the man. Our fathers were enemies.”
Duncan’s fork froze halfway between plate and mouth. “You plan to enter an enemy’s fortress with only three men and as many swords. Are you mad, Ronan?”
“Nay, Duncan,” Ronan said, “I am hopeful.”
Duncan’s fork dropped to the table. “When I jested before about wishing your age would catch up to you, I didn’t mean it, Ronan. For pity’s sake, what addle-minded plan is this? We are no better than Daniel walking into the lion’s den.”
“Take up your fork, Duncan and calm yourself. Messengers have passed between me and Alexander MacDonald. I believe he is a different man than his father, Angus Mor.”
“What reason did your fathers have to quarrel?” Cormac asked.
“Every reason,” Ronan answered. “The feud began long ago when the Viking king, Haakon, still laid claim to the Scottish Isles. Angus Mor MacDonald pledged allegiance to Haakon while my father, Nathair, fought on behalf of Scotland’s king, Alexander III. I was a young man at that time and fought alongside my father at the battle of Largs. For two days the world was coated in blood and darkness, but in the end the Viking fleet was broken. And soon after King Haakon himself died, bringing an end to the days of the Norse control of the Hebrides.”
“As chieftain, you’ve never sought to end the bad blood between you and the MacDonald?” Duncan
asked.
Ronan shook his head. “I never forgave him for standing against my father, but Angus Mor is as dead as the Norse claim to our lands. England is our enemy now, and the new MacDonald’s power grows. It would be unwise to not mend the rift between our clans.”
“Should you not have secured our safe passage first with a marriage?” Duncan asked.
“I could not in good conscious send even the daughter of the lowliest cottar to a clan whose merit I questioned. We shall travel to Finlaggen castle on the morrow, the cradle of Clan Donald. Pray the son has more honor than the father.”
***
Finlaggen castle was built on an island nestled close to the shores of Loch Finlaggen, a mere three mile trek from Port Askaig. Jutting mountains with smooth rock faces loomed in the distance, providing an ominous background for the towering MacDonald fortress.
Protected by the loch on all sides, Duncan admired the natural fortification as he followed Ronan along the narrow bridge, which would allow them passage through the castle’s single entry. As they passed through the gate, Duncan noted with satisfaction that Dun Ara Castle boasted thicker walls, but when they entered the great hall, he could not help but observe the lavish mantle above the hearth and the fine weave of the tapestries. The wealth of the Clan Donald was displayed at every turn, but the man himself awaited their approach clad in a simple plaid and bare feet.
“Welcome, Ronan, laird of the MacKinnon. Welcome to Finlaggen.”
Duncan stood alongside his laird as Ronan greeted the chieftain. “Greetings, Alexander, Lord of Islay.”
Much to Duncan’s surprise, the man smiled and bowed to Ronan. “MacKinnon, you are mistaken. I am Angus Og MacDonald, the youngest of Angus Mor’s sons. My brother’s arrival is expected forthwith.”
Just then a tall, richly clad figure entered the hall from behind an ornate screen, which Duncan assumed concealed the passage to the castle’s family rooms.
“That is enough, Angus,” his voice boomed. “Come, Ronan and bring your men.” He motioned to a large table near the hearth, which was laden with fresh fruit, bread still steaming with the oven’s heat, and large pitchers of wine.
“Long has it been since a MacKinnon stood in this hall. I believe ‘twas before either of us was born,” the MacDonald said.
“’Tis true,” Ronan said. “My father came here as a young man. The friendship between our families, however, could not be nurtured at that time.”
“And you are here now because allegiances have changed, which of course could not be truer. Vikings have fled our shores, but now new forces abound.”
“What news have you from the mainland?” Ronan asked. Duncan leaned forward anxious to hear of Edward’s campaign.
“You are aware then of the attack at Berwick?” the MacDonald asked.
Ronan nodded and motioned to Duncan and the others. “These men were there and were lucky to have escaped. Many of my men were not as fortunate.”
The MacDonald met Duncan’s gaze for the first time. In that instant, Duncan made his assessment about the current laird of the MacDonald, an intelligent but crafty man, one not to be trusted. Duncan did not turn from the laird but remained impassive under the MacDonald’s scrutiny.
“You were indeed lucky,” the MacDonald said. “I’ve heard that fifteen thousand men, women, and children died at Berwick during the massacre, which lasted longer than three days.”
“But what followed?” Jamie asked.
The MacDonald sat back in his seat evidently enjoying an audience. “After securing Berwick for himself, King Edward went on to Dunbar. John Comyn, Earl of Buchan; the earls of Atholl and Ross, and Andrew Moray of Petty were all taken prisoner. They rot even now as we speak in the Tower of London. John of Balliol, the contemptuous coward, shares a similar fate, although Montrose Castle is his prison. But Edward should have taken his head for all the trouble he caused me.”
Duncan raised a curious brow. “What ill-turn of fate did John bring to the Clan Donald?”
The MacDonald’s fist thundered on the table, sluicing wine from his goblet that a passing maid saved from falling.
He cleared his throat and thanked the lass he called Maggie. “Forgive me, MacKinnon. The subject vexes me greatly. Mull undoubtedly did not feel the effects of John’s distribution of authority, but I felt it like a dagger to the gullet. He bestowed three regions of land under the authority of three of his most notable supporters, two of which impinge on my lands, James Stewart and the bastard, MacDougall.” He took a long draught of wine before continuing.
“Stewart is finished now. Following John’s demise, I gained Edward’s support to reclaim my lands. I have seized control of Kintyre, and the MacDougalls shall suffer the same fate.”
“You have allied yourself to Edward of England,” Ronan said, his voice impassive, but Duncan noted the whitening of his laird’s knuckles as he gripped the table.
“Nay,” the MacDonald said. “I am for the Bruce and always have been, but I will use Edward to secure my current interests.”
Angus Og cleared his throat as he joined them, taking the seat beside Duncan.
“We are for the Bruce,” he said in a sure voice. “There are stirrings and rumors of his return. When the Clan Donald’s interests are assured, we shall stand by the Bruce once more and see the rightful king of Scotland crowned on the Stone of Destiny.”
Duncan felt his blood warm at the mention of restoring the Scottish throne.
“When a Scottish army arises ready to vanquish Edward from these lands, we shall join and fight,” Duncan said. Then he turned and faced the MacDonald. “Had you been at Berwick and seen Edward’s treachery first hand, you would not make agreements with him so easily.”
The MacDonald stared Duncan in the eye, but when he spoke he addressed Ronan. “Your man speaks out of turn.”
“My man speaks of what you and I do not ken. We were not there. John of Balliol was a fool to be sure. The seizure of your lands is but one of his crimes, but Edward is a villain who spills the blood of Scottish innocents.”
The MacDonald stood. “I am a MacDonald first and Scottish second. Do you ken? I have done best by my clan.”
Angus Og stood beside his brother and placed a hand on the MacDonald’s shoulder and his other hand on Duncan’s shoulder. “’Tis time to form alliances, not to enflame dispute. After Dunbar, Edward marched to Elgin where most of our Scottish nobles swore fealty to the English king. But many did so only because they had no one to throw their courage behind. Too long has this nation been denied its true king, but a time will come when we will be given the chance to fight. We must stand together now or else the chance shall pass us by.”
Duncan looked up and met Angus’s gaze. His steady, blue eyes were free of duplicity and shone with courage and conviction. Here stands a true leader, Duncan thought.
Ronan stood beside him. “Truer words have never been spoken, Angus Og.”
The MacDonald poured a fresh chalice of wine for Ronan. “Remain here at Finlaggen for a time, and we shall at last nurture a friendship between our clans.”
As Ronan nodded and drank from the cup, Duncan’s body tensed. He promised Brenna his absence would span little more than a fortnight. He pictured her in her lonely croft as worry laid claim to his thoughts. The watch was expanded to include her land, but still she was vulnerable. Each passing moment would be torture while he awaited their return to Mull. Until then, he could only pray she remained safe from every evil.
Chapter 13
A creeping hum like a dark lullaby inched its way into Brenna’s dreams. She felt its refrain like branches snaring her clothes. She was racing through the woods while darkness thundered at her heels, but she could not outrun the eerie melody. It surrounded her, dripping from her ears, coating her body in thick misery. It was a cold song, a hungry song, a blind, anguished song that filled her eyes with stinging tears. She collapsed to the ground as lightning sliced the air.
Brenna’s eyes flew open, ea
rs still ringing with the nightmarish refrain from her dream. Sweat coated her skin like a thin blanket of mist, chilling her body to the bone. She drew a deep breath as she tried to regain control. Then pressing a kiss to Nellore’s cheek and confirming Anna still slept, she rose and crept to her cooking table and filled a mug with ale. Several long sips later, her pulse quieted and the anxiety began to dissipate, but then she froze. A noise sounded just beyond the confines of her hut, outside but very close.
She pricked her ears in anticipation. Something was out there. It shuffled and dragged the earth like a wounded animal, circling slowly around the side of the hut.
Step…drag…step…drag…
Frozen, unable to draw breath, her heart quaked the closer it drew.
Step…drag…step…drag…
Then a low moan sounded over the footsteps, draining all the warmth from Brenna’s body. The faint cry seeped into the walls like flood waters, threatening to drown her in fear. Her hands shook, rattling the cup in her hand until her fingers gave way and it dropped, clanging on the table. She stared in horror as it bounced and then clamored to a standstill. She glanced at Anna and Nellore. They continued to sleep undisturbed, but the shuffling had stopped.
Had it heard?
She stood frozen in sick misery. The only noise she could hear was her own heartbeat. Then the shuffling began anew, slow and steady. She followed the noise with her eyes as it rounded another corner, now creeping along the side of the hut with the door. Suddenly its pace quickened into a rabid scurry. Brenna opened her mouth to scream, but the sound remained trapped in her throat.
It was at the door. She could hear breathing, harsh and strangled. She could not scream. She could not move. Boney, white fingers eased inside and, one by one, wrapped around the door in a spidery grip. Brenna recoiled in terror, but as the door began to coax open she surged forward, at last finding her voice.
“Be gone,” she shouted with all her fire, all her strength. The words tore from her throat like a volley of arrows unleashed upon the unnatural intruder. Anna’s and Nellore’s screams joined her thundering assault as the hand shrank away, disappearing into the night. Guided by instinct alone, Brenna continued her charge and threw open the door. A cloaked shadow, bent and shuffling, retreated into darkness. Its howling wails rent the night. Anna stood at her side, trembling with fear.
