by Cathy MacRae
The Scot shrugged. “I was not told which to offer. And I doubt the king cares so long as I bring him the land.”
“And what of the items ye have loaded onto your ship?” Hanna asked. “Will ye bring him what little gold we had?”
A smile creased the man’s face, parting his lips to reveal his teeth in a predatory grin that sent a shiver down Hanna’s spine. He closed the distance between them until she nearly gagged on the overwhelming odor of unwashed male and fresh blood. “Neither the gold nor the bounty I see before me will pass from my hands,” he whispered. “Some things I willnae share.”
A gull shrieked overhead. Hanna inhaled a smoky reminder of death. Defiance warred with anger. Anger for the lives wasted in the land struggle between two kings. Anger for the arrogance of the man before her who cared naught for the shame he would inflict on the remaining women of her village.
“Come with me,” the Scot commanded. He waved a hand over the clustered group of women. “Do with them as ye wish,” he called to his men. Jeers of excitement and approval rose, hands grabbed, clutching clothing and flesh. Shrieks rose as the women fought back, making up in ferocity what they lacked in strength. Hanna twisted away as the leader reached for her, stomping the side of his knee as hard as she could, gratified by his grunt of pain and surprise.
He shifted his weight to one side, lightly toeing the ground with the injured leg to maintain balance. Hanna did not give him a chance to settle, but aimed a kick for his groin. He pivoted to the side, but not fast enough. Her booted foot caught him squarely between his legs. With a thin shriek, he crumpled to the ground. With a quick, stabbing motion, Hanna shoved her blade between two vertebrae at the base of his skull, killing him instantly.
She spun about, finding herself outside the melee. One by one, the women were subdued, though the price in gouges, dislocated appendages and one man whose ability to see again was questionable, had taken its toll on their captors. Breathless and muttering uneasily, they cast infuriated looks at the still-defiant women. One woman caught Hanna’s gaze.
“Run,” she mouthed as her hands were jerked roughly behind her back. Hanna shook her head.
Another nodded at her. “Avenge us.”
Taking her chance, Hanna ran.
CHAPTER 3
Alex stared at the royal missive on his desk. He’d known King Alexander since arriving in Scotland nearly twenty-seven years earlier, when the then twenty-three-year old king had married his eleven-year-old bride and Alex was a brash twenty-year-old fresh from the Holy Land. Unlike many living in Western Scotland, or on the Western Isles, Alex and his father had remained true to the Scottish king, though it cost them in war and pirating with their neighbors who swore allegiance to King Haakon of Norway—or the current King of the Isles.
For years, an active push by King Alexander to gain the Isles as part of Scotland had met with resistance from King Haakon. This time, according to the words carefully inscribed on the parchment on the desk, the king did not mean to fail.
Reaching for a map—though he knew the area the king referred to in his missive well—Alex considered King Alexander’s request.
. . . gathering a fleet to purge the Western Isles of those pledged to Norway and make them subjects of Scotland. We require your assistance as your family is most prominent in ship-building, and neighbors with the MacDougall, whom the king of Norway has appointed King of the Isles . . .”
Aid in attacking the MacDougall? Alex snorted. Fondness for the king did not mean he found the man’s current quest to be sane—or easy. He ran a fingertip over the parchment, drawing an imaginary line from MacLean Castle on Lochaline to the MacDougall stronghold at Dunstaffnage. The distance was not great, but the difficulties of what King Alexander proposed lay far beyond the abilities of a mere ship-builder.
“Edan!” Alex knew his captain would be nearby if not training with the soldiers. Over the past months—since his wife had died—Alex had left much of the running of the clan to Edan, choosing to spend his time aboard one of his ships. The trip to Iberia and back had taken the better part of a year, and King Alexander’s missive had arrived only days after his return to Morvern. Just his luck to avoid pirates only to be caught up in the king’s latest broil against Norway.
He rose from his chair and strode from his solar to the great hall. Spying Edan seated at a table alone, he crossed to the long bench.
“Read this,” he said without preamble, tossing the parchment to the table and lowering his body to straddle the bench. “Tell me what ye think.”
Edan wiped his mouth and fingers on a square of linen and swallowed the bite he’d just taken. “Missive from the king?” he asked, an eye on the elaborate seal at the top of the parchment. His slow grin was contagious. “And ye only home these past few days. Ye work fast, Alex MacLean. Are ye in a spot of trouble?”
“Depends on what ye call trouble. If ye mean the king’s plans to besiege Dunstaffnage and end the Norse hold over the Isles and Western Scotland, then, aye. I was under the impression King Alexander was in negotiations with King Haakon for the possession of the Isles.”
Edan glanced up sharply. “His Majesty has tried for the past five years to redeem the Isles and western territories from Norway, but King Haakon appears more interested in expanding his borders than selling to Scotland. King Alexander recently broke ties with Norway, and ’tis rumored he will move soon to gain the land by force. I dinnae know if he has commanded invasions of the Isles or simply turned a blind eye, but raids have picked up of late. Often with severe reprisals from those who willnae submit to Scotland’s rule.”
“Tell me,” Alex invited. “I have been abroad.”
Pushing his trencher away, Edan accepted a refill of ale before he settled to Alex’s question. “King Alexander wishes a unified Scotland. And ye will recall King Haakon raided the Scottish coast not so many years ago. His man, Ewan of Argyll, of Dunstaffnage Castle, now styles himself King of the Isles and refuses to abandon his ties to Norway.”
He took a long sip from his mug and placed it on the table. Hunching forward, he leaned his forearms on his knees, steepling his fingertips together. “The king is amassing both an army and an armada. Ye know his reputation against those who rebel.”
His gaze met Alex’s. Alex’s heart thumped as he considered Edan’s implications. King Alexander, for all the good he’d achieved for Scotland, was noted for his brutality when crossed.
“Dear God. He means to clear the Isles of the Norse one way or another.”
“Aye. Turn their allegiance or bury them. One way or another ’twill soon be Scottish soil at this rate. We have accepted a few refugees here, though I have managed to keep it quiet.”
Alex’s eyebrows rose. “Accepting Norse refugees into a household sworn to the Scottish king?” He smiled to cover the pain Edan’s words brought. The fate of innocents whose only crime was not being on the side of the victorious had plagued him most of his adult life. “Good. I am glad ye did. Have they assimilated into the clan?”
Edan shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “For the most part. Though if ye see a lass with Viking blonde hair tending the tables, ye shouldnae remark upon it.”
“I confess I have been too preoccupied with wrapping up the details of my trip to make note of the serving lasses.”
“And ye’ve yer hands full with yer wee lass. ’Tis plain to see she enjoyed the voyage as well.”
Alex laughed. “She charmed everyone from Ayr to Barcelona. Her nurse is no longer certain what language the lass speaks.” He softened. “I am pleased she went. I dinnae know a wee lass could be such a companion—or a comfort—all at the bright young age of five. And now, a year later, she is quite accomplished.”
“I admit I was shocked when ye announced she was to travel with ye. I’m not certain I would have taken on such a task.”
“I couldnae bear to leave her so soon after her ma died,” Alex admitted, lingering guilt shooting through him anew. He shifted in his seat
against the unwelcome sentiment.
Edan’s lifted brow indicated he noted Alex’s discomfort, but he did not pursue the subject. “I am happy she lifted yer spirits.” He nodded to the missive which lay on the table between them. “What will ye do with the king’s request?”
Alex sighed, the weight of responsibility dropping heavily to his shoulders. “I can do naught but view it as a command. I will order the fitting of one of our merchant ships to hold soldiers, with accommodations for the king, should he care to join me, and make myself available to his whims.” Alex arched a brow. “And pray for Divine deliverance.”
CHAPTER 4
Hanna’s heart thumped painfully in her chest, the sound loud in her ears, overwhelming her hearing. Nausea from the pain in her arm rose, and she swallowed hard. She stumbled to a halt and crouched in the shadow of a large boulder, breathing deeply as she strove to control the pain. Minutes passed before she was aware of the soft chirp of land birds and the occasional screech of a gull. Waves slapped against the shore below the cliff and sunlight sparkled on the water.
She’d reached the hidden entrance to the escape route from beneath the longhouse not long after daybreak, taking care to avoid being followed. But she found no one nearby, not even evidence the rock hiding the opening had been moved. Her last hope dashed, Hanna fell to the ground, her tears of anguish drenching the rocky soil beneath her.
Every muscle in her body ached as if she’d aged years. Her head throbbed with pain and despair. She rolled groggily to a sitting position and leaned against the boulder, knees drawn to her chin, fighting the urge to leave. Her heart was bound to this spot, but her head, unwilling to give up, warned her the men’s hunt for her would be ruthless—and the isle would not hide her forever.
Frida’s last words to her rose in her mind. Avenge us.
Rising stiffly from the ground, Hanna reluctantly trod the path to the cliffs, clutching her arm tight to alleviate even a fraction of the pain. She arrived a short time later at the narrow water separating the island from the Scottish mainland. The scent of smoke and char clung to her clothing, stained the inside of her nose. But only the faintest smudge behind her on an otherwise bright sky attested to the horror she’d fled.
It was time to make a decision. She could not linger on the island.
MacLean or MacDougall? MacLean is closer. Much closer. MacDougall would provide refuge as he has ties with the king of Norway. The cries of the defeated women echoed in her head. She firmed her resolve. MacLean is powerful, and sides with Scotland’s king. I will not seek the comfort of MacDougall’s hall, but rather the cold oblivion that awaits me after I avenge my family’s deaths.
She checked the rough bandage about her upper arm then rose, glancing up and down the coastline for a vessel to carry her across the strait. In fair weather, even a small boat would suffice. She could see the far coast easily and the trip wouldn’t take long if she judged the current right.
They will not suspect I would flee to MacLean. Hanna glanced over her shoulder but saw no hunting party of raiders seeking her. She gathered her skirts and stepped to the edge of the cliff, drawn to a smudge of weathered gray amid the darker hues of the rocks.
A boat! Whether it would bear her across the strait or not, she’d quickly learn. And the Scottish laird would soon discover what it meant to side with a king who slaughtered innocents.
* * *
The walls of MacLean Castle rose forbiddingly from the stone above the inlet. Hanna paused, noting the open gates, the guards at the towers and upon the lofty parapet. The structure could have easily contained her longhouse—perhaps most of her village—its proportions much larger than anything she’d ever seen. For a moment, she was uncertain if she’d chosen wisely. The walls of the MacDougall stronghold were said to be solidly built and impregnable—an admirable refuge. She drew a deep breath as Frida’s face hovered in her mind.
The MacDougall’s alliance might be with King Haakon, but her vengeance lay with the Scots.
Smoke drifted toward her, the aroma of cooking reminding her food had not been a priority in her flight across Mull. She ignored the growl of her stomach and strode toward the village, matching her pace with the people around her, engendering little more than fleetingly curious stares as men and women hurried about their tasks. Now that she’d completed the first part of her goal, she would seek a healer and what shelter she could and begin forming a plan for revenge.
Hanna woke before the sun, stiff and aching from the uncomfortable spot she’d chosen to rest. She’d bartered her finest dagger to the healer who’d cleansed and stitched her wound without question. Bedraggled, limp with exhaustion, and in a strange place, Hanna had decided the darkest corner between two shops near the dock would be as safe as any to seek rest. She’d watched the people from her hiding place until she collapsed into a stupor—sailors who lingered at the tavern until the doors closed, serving women who dodged drunken advances, and women who welcomed the chance at a coin. Exhaustion at last overtook her and she slept, all but dead to the noises around her.
A startled cry grabbed Hanna’s attention. Carefully lifting her head, she peered past the stacked barrels blocking her view. A young girl, scarcely in her teens—reminding Hanna strikingly of her daughter—cowered only a few feet away, her frightened face lit by an errant ray of sun that forced its way into the cluttered alley. From the length of the shadows, Hanna was startled to note the morning well advanced.
Men loomed on either side of the girl, the shaft of sunlight illuminating drunken leers tilting precariously on seamed, weather-beaten faces.
“Give us a sample, lass,” one crooned. “I’m nae so drunk any longer.”
“All the bonny ones were taken by the time we woke,” another complained. “Me cock doesnae work so well after three tankards, anyway.”
“Six!” boasted a third. “Mine requires six before giving up. Limp as a shank of wet cloth I was last night.” He made a rude motion with one fisted hand. “But I’m ready now!”
The girl shook her head violently, causing her pale blonde hair to sparkle in the light. Hanna’s heart clenched. A dagger slipped from its sheath beneath her sleeve into her hand. She tightened her fingers on the worn grip, straining to hear the next words.
“I am no skjøge,” the girl whimpered, her attempt at bravado failing as the men pressed closer.
“But ye are Norse, aye?” the first one asked eagerly, lifting a hand to touch her glimmering hair. He brought a lock to his nose and inhaled deeply. “The scent of a refugee,” he quipped. He grinned. “Yer men are all dead, ye have nae home. Spread yer bonny legs and let a real man show ye what ye’re missing. A little wear and tear for a bit of coin is nae real hardship.”
Fury slammed through Hanna. Ignoring the protest from her bandaged arm, she sprang from her hiding place, sending barrels thudding hollowly to the cobbled path. The three men glanced up, angry at the interruption. The girl drew back in horror, tears streaking her cheeks.
Images of Signy flashed before Hanna’s eyes, igniting her rage at failing to save her daughter. “Let her go!”
“Be gone, auld hag,” one snarled. “We have nae interest in ye.”
“Release the girl and ye shall live,” Hanna growled, forcing her words through jaws tight with anger.
Two of the men guffawed—the third eyed the blade in her hand.
“She has a dagger,” he said, his voice low and worried.
The leader flashed a look of annoyance at the more cautious man. “She’s naught but a woman,” he declared. “This is how ye treat women!”
He grabbed the girl and yanked her against him, ripping the neckline of her gown, smothering her shriek with his mouth. In two swift steps, Hanna was behind him, her dagger plunged deep in his lower back. She jerked the blade upward, severing the large blood vessel to his kidney.
The man stiffened, his head snapped back as a cry of pain warbled from his lips. Hanna pushed the girl away, grasped the man’s chin and jerked
his head firm against her shoulder. With one fluid move, she dragged her blade across the taut skin of his neck, slicing deep. She held his body a moment longer as his life spilled, then let him drop to the ground. Before either of the other two men could respond, she whirled, hands spread wide in anticipation.
“Who is next?”
CHAPTER 5
Alex finalized the discussions with the master builder over refitting the Porpoise for the king’s requirements. He tossed the end of his plaide over his shoulder and left his cabin, the tug to remain and take to the open seas again strong. But there would be days ahead in which the king would require his presence. His responsibility to the crown would have to come first.
Sea spray caressed his face as he crossed the ship’s deck, clinging to the wool of his plaide like sparkling diamonds. Sunlight warmed the air, striping the wood beneath his feet. The walk to the castle was not far, but three soldiers fell into rank with him for protection. Together they strode to the village, responsibilities closing on Alex with every step.
A woman’s shriek split the air, and Alex’s hand flew to the hilt of his sword, his gaze sweeping the area around him.
“There, Laird,” one of his soldiers commented, pointing to an alley between the cooper’s shop and a small, disreputable tavern.
Alex strode into the passageway, his soldiers spreading out behind him, thwarting the possibility of a trap. To his shock, a woman faced him, rising out of the carnage at her feet like a wrathful Valkyrie.
Blood spattered one sleeve of her gown and trailed in a vivid slash across her skirt. Her hair straggled about her face, golden tendrils lifting about her head in the breeze. Her age was uncertain, but piercing green eyes blazed from her face. Her hands waved gently before her as if seeking their next target, a long slender blade winking dully in the dappled light. The man at her feet did not appear likely to rise again, his head tilted at an angle that bespoke death, the blood at his neck soaking liberally into the cloth of his filthy leine.
