Sword Dance

by Marie Laval

  For a while at least.

  Chapter Six

  It took two nights and two days of gruelling riding across snow-covered moorland and rocky tracks full of potholes to reach the outskirts of Wrath. Wallace insisted it was safer to keep off the main roads to avoid Morven and his men. Cutting across moors and farmland also enabled him to stop at various hamlets or isolated farms where he found a few of his former comrades from Bruce’s regiment who had come back to the Highlands.

  All were giants, with wild hair and weather-beaten faces and the weary eyes of men who’d seen too much and remembered everything. All welcomed Wallace with a mighty roar and a slap between the shoulder blades hard enough to topple a pine tree, greeting Rose with a curt nod and a baring of teeth which could pass for a smile. And all listened in silence as Wallace told them about McGunn and the dangers he faced. It only took a few minutes for them to tuck a pistol or a knife into their belts, slip ammunition, a few coins or a pipe and tobacco pouch into a sporran or the pocket of their riding coat, and climb onto a horse to follow Wallace and Rose on the track to Wrath.

  There were eight of them by the time they reached a small loch overlooked by rugged peaks late one afternoon. The loch was so blue it looked like a piece of sky fallen down to earth – a piece of sky with one single cloud, since a snow-covered island floated in the middle of its smooth waters.

  ‘You look mighty pale, Miss Rose,’ Wallace said as he helped her from her horse when they stopped for a rest.

  ‘I’m fine, don’t worry about me,’ she replied with a smile.

  She wasn’t fine at all. She was dirty and smelly. Every single muscle in her body ached from riding all day and lying down on rotting, scratchy hay in old barns or on the hard, cold ground of a bothy to snatch a couple of hours sleep at night. None of that mattered. They would soon reach Wrath Lodge, and Bruce.

  ‘What is that gloomy-looking building on the island over there?’ She pointed to a small tower on the island, where ravens perched and cawed.

  ‘The ruins of an old Norse hunting lodge. People say it’s haunted.’ Wallace turned to her and winked. ‘Aye, it’s haunted all right. It’s always been a favourite haunt for lovers, and the moans and whimpers you can hear in summer nights have nought to do with ghosts, believe me!’

  His booming laugh was contagious, and Rose couldn’t help but smile as she watched the sun sparkle on the water’s surface. It seemed an oasis of peace and a beautiful place for a clandestine assignment between lovers, and a beautiful place to dream about love.

  She would have liked to sit on one of the large boulders scattered on the banks but Wallace and the others were already walking away, leading their horses to a farmhouse nestling in a copse of pine trees.

  Rose pulled on the bridle and spoke words of gentle encouragement to urge her horse along, but the animal was exhausted by the hard riding.

  The door opened and an old woman stepped out, pulling a grey shawl tightly around her slim shoulders.

  ‘What is it ye lot want?’ she called, waving a cane around. ‘I’ve nothing to steal and no food for ye.’ As she spoke warm, mouth-watering aromas of soup and warm bread drifted from the open door, and she turned round and pulled the door shut with a sharp tug.

  ‘Well, not much food anyhow,’ she corrected. ‘I’m expecting me lads back any time now, and ye dinna want to mess with them.’

  ‘We don’t want no trouble with you or your sons, woman,’ Wallace declared. ‘We’re on our way to Wrath and we’re after a place to stay tonight. A barn will do us fine.’

  He pointed to Rose. ‘But we’d be grateful if you could offer the young lady a bed and some refreshments.’

  ‘I am perfectly capable of sleeping in a barn tonight, Wallace,’ Rose objected. ‘In fact, if I had my way, we’d carry on to Wrath and wouldn’t waste any time sleeping. I can’t wait to reach Bruce – Lord McGunn, I mean – since we don’t know what kind of danger he’s is right now.’

  The old woman turned her small, inquisitive eyes towards her. Her lips thinned and stretched into a smile.

  ‘Now that’s a brave lass,’ she said. ‘My name’s Graham – Eilidh Graham. Ye can all come in for a bite to eat. I’ll sort ye out with somewhere to sleep after.’

  Wallace and his friends gave the woman a resounding chorus of thanks, but she only shrugged and told them to stable their horses in the barn at the back of the farmhouse and hurry back for their evening meal.

  By the time they returned to the house, daylight was fading and the sky had turned a deep sapphire, making the snow-tipped peaks glow incandescent in the distance. Ravens circled over the ruined tower, their cawing a sinister echo in the cold and still evening. Inside the farmhouse, however, the air was thick with smells of food and so hot it made Rose’s cold fingers and face tingle.

  ‘Sit down, all of ye.’ Eilidh gestured towards the solid table where bowls stood empty, and wooden trenchers displayed an appetizing offering of bread and crumbly yellow cheese and, as far as Rose was concerned, a far less appetizing pile of smoked fish.

  Eilidh didn’t need to say it twice. The men slipped their coats off, slung them on the backs of their chairs and took a seat around the table in a raucous scraping of chair legs against the floor.

  She brought a steaming pan to the table. Rose took her cloak off and helped her serve the broth before sitting down herself. Dinner was a quick and mostly silent affair and soon everybody reclined on their chairs and pushed away their empty plates with contented sighs.

  ‘Now for a drop of me finest whisky,’ Eilidh declared, pulling a large earthenware bottle and some tumblers out of a dresser.

  When everybody was served, she raised her glass and toasted in a quivering voice, ‘To our dear own Lord McGunn. May God grant him a long and happy life.’

  The men shouted back in unison, so loudly they made the walls tremble. Rose’s heart tightened and tears filled her eyes. If only Bruce could see how much loyalty he inspired, how much people loved and respected him. If only he stopped believing that he wasn’t good, honourable or courageous enough. His father may be Donald Robertson, a coward and a murderer, but he was nothing like him.

  For the first time since she arrived in Scotland, Rose drank her whisky in one gulp and enjoyed the taste.

  ‘Now for the second toast.’ The old woman walked from one man to another to refill their glasses.

  ‘This one is for Lord McRae.’

  A chorus of boos and protests interrupted her.

  ‘I ain’t drinking to that bastard’s health!’ Wallace growled.

  ‘Who said I was drinking to his health?’ The woman raised her glass again. ‘This one is for you, Lord McRae. Go-n-ithe an cat thu, is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat!’

  The men burst out laughing as she said the last word and repeated her toast in unison.

  ‘What did she say?’ Rose asked Wallace, curious.

  ‘May the cat eat you, and may the cat be eaten by the devil.’ He winked. ‘And that’s nothing less than he deserves.’

  ‘Come on now ye lot, time to go to bed now.’ Eilidh handed the men a pile of blankets and two jugs of ale and told them to make themselves comfortable in the barn, then she turned to Rose.

  ‘Ye’re staying in here, lass, to help me tidy this mess. I’ll give ye some bedding later.’

  When the men had left and the farmhouse was empty and quiet, except for the hissing of the flames in the fireplace, the two women washed, dried and tidied the crockery away.

  ‘Come and sit near the fire,’ Eilidh said when they had finished, ‘and I’ll make us a nice cup of tea.’

  As Rose’s hands curled around a hot mug of black tea, her eyelids started drooping, her body felt hot and mellow from the heat of the fire, and she let out a yawn.

  ‘Don’t ye fall asleep on me now, lass,’ the woman said, ‘I want ye to tell me what’s wrong with our laird and what kind of bother he’s in. That man’s worked so hard for us all these past few months, I’m glad to see he’s
got good, strong friends to look out for him and a pretty wee lass to love him.’

  Rose’s cheeks became even hotter. ‘Lord McRae and his men have taken him. We think they’ve gone to Wrath Lodge, but we don’t know why. All we know is that Lord McGunn isn’t well.’

  The old woman frowned, shook her head, and let out a deep sigh.

  ‘I guess it must be something to do with his ma – Bonnie. I’ve been dreaming about her a lot these past few weeks. She used to come here and sneak onto the island with her sweetheart, ye know.’

  She chuckled. ‘They thought nobody knew they were there, but me husband and I sent old Doughall on a false trail more than once when he came sniffing and looking for her.’

  ‘She came here with Donald Robertson?’ Rose asked in a weak voice.

  Eilidh frowned. ‘Donald who? No, lass… Young Bonnie’s sweetheart was Niall McRae – now that one was a charmer. He had such a beautiful, deep voice. How many times that summer I heard him sing to her on the island – there’s one song I’ll never forget as long as I live…’

  Rose felt the blood drain from her face. ‘Was it ‘My Fair Love’s Lament’ by any chance?

  The woman arched her eyebrows and nodded.

  Feeling dizzy, Rose leaned forward and put her hand on the woman’s forearm.

  ‘Are you saying that Bonnie and Lord McRae were lovers and wanted to wed?’

  ‘Aye, only Niall wasn’t Lord McRae then. His father was the laird, and like Doughall McGunn he was a tough, miserable and cruel old fool. When they found out Niall and Bonnie were courting, they did everything they could to stop them. Bonnie became a virtual prisoner in Wrath Lodge until her confinement. Niall was made to marry that harpy Patricia. Rumours were that they’d never let him see his baby if he didn’t do as told.’ Eilidh drank her tea and shook her head.

  ‘If only he’d resisted his father a wee while longer… One week after the wedding, old Marcus collapsed and passed away. I remember folk saying it was his new daughter-in-law’s poisonous tongue that killed him.’

  She snorted and gathered her tatty woollen shawl around her shoulders.

  ‘After poor Niall was killed in battle, young Bonnie used to wander around the cliffs or come here and spend hours on the island alone, weeping. She didn’t want to live any longer, it was plain for all to see. Even her bairn wasn’t enough to hold her back.’

  Rose’s heart tightened. ‘So Bruce is really Niall McRae’s son?’

  Of course, it all made sense now. Bruce was the first born. Even if he was born out of wedlock he might have some right to the vast McRae estate, but for that he had to prove that he was indeed McRae’s son and now Cameron had her father’s diary, it would be impossible to do so.

  Unless… She lifted her hand to the necklace tucked under her dress and felt for Bruce’s medallion. Bonnie must be the woman Niall had sent his half of the medal to, together with that third letter her father mentioned in his diary. If these were to be found, Bruce may be able to argue his case and save Wrath from ruin.

  ‘If people knew about Bonnie and Niall McRae,’ she started again, ‘then why did nobody ever tell Bruce who his father was? He had the right to know.’

  Eilidh shrugged.

  ‘What good would that have done? The lad grew up loathing the McRaes. He would probably have knocked down anyone suggesting he was one of them. And, should he ever believe it and try to claim his due, that witch Lady Patricia would have ordered Morven to get rid of him. Nay, lass, it was better all round that things were left unsaid.’

  The implications of what Eilidh said dawned on Rose.

  ‘It’s so sad… Cameron and Bruce are brothers, and yet they hate each other so much all they can think about is destroying one another.’

  A fracas of angry male voices and the thumping of horses’ hooves outside almost made her jump out of her seat.

  ‘That’ll be my two lads back from Durness.’ Eilidh got up and walked to the door. ‘They’ll be wondering about yer friends in the barn.’

  As she finished her sentence the door opened on a large man all wrapped up against the cold night.

  ‘Maither, are ye all right? Who are those men sleeping in the barn? They claim ye told them they could stop over.’

  ‘I did, son.’ Eilidh gestured to the door. ‘Ye’re letting the cold in. Close that door and wipe the muck off yer boots, I’ve no intention of scrubbing the floor again.’

  The man did as he was told and stepped inside. Only then did he notice Rose standing near the hearth.

  ‘Who is she?’

  He stared at her open mouthed and Eilidh gave his arm an angry slap.

  ‘Show yer manners, Duncan, or I’ll have to tan yer backside to remind ye how to. This is Rose, a friend of our laird. He’s in trouble and she and her companions are trying to get to him before McRae and Morven do him any harm.’

  He nodded. ‘Sorry, miss, but my brother and I have heard so many tales of farms and crofts being torched down today we thought our mother and our farm were in danger and we came back as fast as we could.’ He rubbed his ruddy face and sighed. ‘MacBoyd and his men left Wrath this afternoon to chase after the gang who’s doing it. We swung past the Lodge before coming back. Just looking at it gave me shivers. It’s empty and dark – except for the beacons on top of the towers as usual.’

  Rose gasped as images of Wrath Lodge standing cold, dark and deserted on the misty cliff top sprung into her mind, like in her nightmare.

  ‘We must leave at once,’ she declared, taking hold of her cloak and slipping it on. She pulled her blue bonnet out of her pocket and tried to fasten it but her hands shook so much she couldn’t even manage the ties under her chin.

  ‘Where do ye think ye’re going, lass?’ Eilidh asked.

  ‘Wrath Lodge. How far is it from here?’

  ‘About eight miles, but ye canna go now – not at night.’ Eilidh’s son shook his head.

  ‘I must go! Don’t you see? They’ll kill him when there’s nobody to help, nobody to see what they’re doing! The fires are just a diversion to lure MacBoyd and his men away.’ She looked straight into Eilidh’s eyes and added in a shaky voice. ‘I dreamt about it. I saw him plunge to his death. Please. I know Bruce is there, and that he’s in danger.’

  The old woman nodded slowly. ‘Fair enough. Duncan, go tell yer brother and all those fine men in the barn that ye’re leaving for Wrath at once.’

  Her son looked at her, astonished. ‘But we’ve only just come back.’

  ‘Don’t ye argue with me, lad. I’ll pack ye somethin’ to eat.’

  Less than half an hour later, they rode alongside the loch and past the shadowy silhouette of the tower where Niall McRae sang his lament to young Bonnie. The thud of the horses’ hooves echoed Rose’s heartbeats. Her fingers gripped the reins tightly. Would they get to Wrath Lodge in time?

  ‘I don’t know how you can bear living in such a dreary, stinky place,’ McRae snorted as two of his men pulled Bruce across the hall.’ He shook his head, slid a finger along the top of the hall table and grimaced. ‘And it’s dusty. You should get rid of your housekeeper. Dear Morag is clearly too old and frail to carry out her duties these days.’

  Bruce looked around. The Lodge was empty and dark. Morag must still be at Kilroy’s, but where the hell were MacBoyd and the rest of his staff?

  ‘Move faster.’ One of the men punched Bruce in the back, the other gave him a kick to trip him and Bruce almost fell to his knees onto the floor.

  McRae grinned. ‘Oh dear, you’re still a little wobbly, aren’t you? Let’s find somewhere more comfortable to talk, if such a place exists in this pitiful excuse for a castle. I have a proposal to put to you… not that you have much choice, mind you.’

  The men half dragged, half shoved him along the corridor to the dark, cold drawing room. One of them lit an oil lamp and made a fire. As soon as the flames rose in the hearth, Fergus’ claymore gleamed softly on the wall.

  Struggling to stand upright, Br
uce gripped the back of an armchair to prop himself up.

  McRae must have decided he posed no threat to him whatsoever because he ordered his men to leave and stand guard outside the Lodge.

  ‘Here is what I suggest,’ he started as soon as they were alone. He patted the breast pocket of his smart grey jacket. ‘We do a straight swap. I let you have the affidavits our two madames signed against you and forget all about alerting the Procurateur Fiscal, and you hand over the letter my father wrote to your mother.’

  Bruce closed his eyes. Malika. The women from the Inverness brothel said he hurt and killed her. Were McRae and the two women from the brothel right? He just didn’t know. If only the dream-like images he’d been chasing after these past few days made any sense, but each was more elusive than the last.

  Yet there were so many things that didn’t add up in the two madames’ story. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t work out how he could have managed to carry two women out of the brothel when he could hardly stand, and how the hell was he supposed to have taken them back to Wrath?

  What’s more, if he had indeed killed them both that night, why bother to take their bodies back with him only to leave them on the beach two days later? His memories of the journey back to Wrath might be hazy, but he would damned well remember travelling with a dead woman’s body – or two – strapped to Shadow! And what about McNeil? Surely he would have stopped him from killing the women or asked why he was bringing a body back to Wrath.

  Another thought struck him then – a thought so horrid it made him want to be sick. If he had indeed killed Malika and Fenella McKay, maybe there were others too. Had he become so mad he didn’t remember raping, torturing and killing lasses?

  He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. His head ached, his heart gave a few hard thumps again and a fresh wave of nausea rose inside him. It took a few deep breaths and all his willpower to remain standing and gather his muddled thoughts about what to do next.

  ‘Perhaps I want the truth to be told,’ he said at last in a low voice and his eyes still closed. ‘I’m not the kind of man to run away from what I’ve done. If I am guilty, I should be tried and punished. And if I’m not, then…’