by Cathy MacRae
Maggie stepped forward. Gunn faced her expectantly. The MacLaren soldiers formed about her. Balgair landed next to Phillipe and nudged his arm.
“I will wait here against unforeseen actions if ye wish to go with her.”
Phillipe moved to Maggie’s side then slipped a half-pace behind where his view of the men and the isle was unrestricted. He trusted Gunn to have ensured the men were unarmed, but he could not refrain from watching for surprises.
A woman stepped from the longhouse and moved to stand next to Asatrus, her gaze on Maggie.
Maggie halted next to Gunn. “I am Maggie MacLaren. I hold title to the Isle of Hola.”
The woman inclined her head. “I am Ingrida, Asatrus’s wife. We’ve lived here for generations, my lady. We are honored to have ye on our shores.”
“Thank ye, Ingrida. I am pleased to be here.”
Maggie drew on her recollection of protocol from her da and from the earl as she spoke to the people of Hola. After a time, she and the others were invited into the longhouse, the holding shared by all who lived on the isle.
The odor of sheep, smoke, and fish greeted Maggie. She swallowed against the heavy onslaught of scents. Faces expressing varying degrees of interest, expectancy, and apprehension followed her as she entered the crowded space. A dog barked. Sheep bleated. Maggie noted the pen at the far end of the house held a number of fleecy animals. A black and white dog slipped through the crowd and sniffed Maggie’s boots.
“Steðja, Gerdur.” Ingrida waved the dog away. “Kleppr, return Gerdur to the pen with the sheep.” She motioned to a fur-covered bench. “Please sit here, m’lady.”
Maggie sat. The seat was warm, as if recently vacated. She glanced about. Small fires glowed at intervals down the length of the room. Benches much like the one she sat upon lined the center aisle. To either side lay sleeping areas, raised beds piled with furs shrouded in comparative darkness. Low bits of shelves with bowls and other bits of pottery divided the spaces. An old woman, her chair tucked beside a post near the fire, bent over a piece of cloth, plying a needle. Her sparse white hair hung about her. A cat curled atop her feet.
Ingrida waved a hand about the room. “Welcome to Eyrrhús. Whatever we have is yours.”
“Thank ye, Ingrida. I wish to learn to know ye and yer ways. What ye do here. How ye make yer living. ’Tis of great importance to me that ye live well.”
Ingrida’s eyes flashed, but she maintained a calm expression. “As ye see, we are few in number and poor in the wealth of the world.” She settled a hand atop the head of a young girl who slipped from behind her skirts to peer at Maggie. “But we are quite blessed in other ways.”
Maggie’s heart swelled. She would make this place her home.
Phillipe shook out a woolen blanket and spread it near the fire on the beach. “The captain will maintain watch aboard the ship. We will set a watch here as well.”
Balgair passed close, his shoulder brushing Phillipe’s. He halted, drawing a deep breath as he surveyed the area. “This isle isnae the inhospitable rock I envisioned. Even in the moonlight ’tis a fair place.”
“I believe there is a legend attached to the isle.”
“A legend? Of what?”
Phillipe’s lips twisted in a grimace. “Pirates.”
Balgair’s eyebrows shot upward. He glanced at the two MacLaren soldiers readying their sleeping pallets then jerked his head to the side. “Come with me.”
Phillipe cast another glance at the longhouse where Maggie, Leana, Gunn, and three other MacLaren soldiers remained for the night. No hairs prickled on the back of his neck. Nothing seemed amiss. After a slight hesitation, he fell into step beside Balgair.
They strode into the darkness, boots hissing softly on the wet sand. They swished through grass that reached their knees as their path took them inland, their eyes adjusting to the moonlight guiding them past boulders and to the sweep of mountain beyond the huts.
They climbed the steady slope, the wind rising as they ascended to a promontory point overlooking the northern shore. Far below, their ship rocked at anchor, a dark smudge against the water. Moonlight lit the white-crusted peaks as swells dropped into ebony depths.
Balgair halted. “There is a pirate legend of this place?”
Phillipe shrugged. “Would ye find it less usual to learn a pirate legend had not been attached to this isle?”
Balgair’s grunt acknowledged the probability. “When did ye hear of this?”
“Maggie spoke of it yester eve. The innkeeper’s wife at The Hound in Morvern mentioned it to her, though she could not recall if the tale was of this isle or another.”
Balgair nodded thoughtfully. “The Norse claim many of these isles, though most owe allegiance to the Lord of the Isles or the King of Norway himself. Asatrus and his clan appear to be undefended and left to their own charge. However, their names and home suggest at the very least a Norse heritage.”
Phillipe quirked a brow. “I know naught of the Norse.”
“If memory serves, Asatrus means faithful to God.”
“The lands may have a tie to Norway, but Maggie’s late husband won possession of Hola in a game of chance. ’Tis now a Scottish possession.”
“Late husband?” Balgair chuckled. “Makes it sound as if he has passed into the afterlife.”
Phillipe considered this. “’Twould not be an unwelcome happenstance. I will refrain from killing him myself, but only as long as I do not knowingly meet the man.”
“Ye mean to remain here long?”
Phillipe shrugged. “I do not have a clear thought on remaining. I only know I cannot leave her unprotected.”
Balgair slanted him a look. “She has eight MacLaren soldiers.”
“Eight soldiers her father could ill-afford to send. How long before he recalls them?”
Balgair shrugged. “I dinnae know. Ye make a valid point. Ye and I are the only ones not tied to MacLaren. Yet, I have little desire to remain on a tiny isle in a longhouse packed with people, waiting to see if pirates come ashore.”
“I would ask ye to remain only until we have some manner of fortification built.”
“A fort? Ye are talking months if not years of work, laddie. I’ve nae the skills for it.”
Phillipe scowled. “Something should be done. She cannot remain here unprotected.”
“Why do ye think her da allowed her to come?”
“Allowed?” The question caught Phillipe off guard. He chuckled softly and stared over the ocean. “Though I do not believe my lady is overly reckless, I am well aware she is stubborn. After what has happened in the past weeks, mayhap she was right to move away for a time.”
Balgair nodded and shifted position, placing his back to the stiff breeze. “If men sought her as fair prize after her marriage was dissolved, she was right to be concerned.”
“Concerned?” Phillipe’s voice rose with indignation. “Offended, mayhap? Angry? She has survived actions from men that would leave another woman reeling.” Phillipe examined the tide of fury sweeping through him. What would he contemplate if such had befallen Arbela? Zabel? Murder? War?
Guilt pricked him. Did Zabel enjoy Konstantin’s protection—and that of her rank? Or had calamity befallen her? He would likely never know, and there was naught he could have done to protect her once his death was demanded. ’Twas in God’s hands now.
Balgair sighed. “I shall help for a time. Mayhap on the morrow we should check the length and breadth of the isle. Mayhap there is more to this isle than a longhouse, a few fishing boats, and a small flock of sheep.”
Chapter Seventeen
Wind whipped across the promontory overlooking the harbor, shredding the morning mists. Pale sunlight pierced the clouds. A small crowd included two men of Hola, two MacLaren soldiers, Phillipe, and Maggie clustering on the edge of the cliff. Maggie’s skirts whipped about her legs and her hair, strands pulled free of its braid, danced wildly about her head. Ignoring the disarray, she held her breath as the
mysteries of Hola were revealed.
Far below, fat seals wallowed on the rocks, their barks rising on the wind. They wrestled their ungainly bodies into the sea with a splash. Birds reeled against the blue sky, their cries echoing above Maggie’s head. Distant blurs of white and gray roosted in nests tucked in precarious perches up and down the edges of the cliffs. Waves crested white, dashing foam against the black rock. Tiny pink and blue and yellow flowers bloomed at her feet.
“’Tis beautiful!”
Asatrus ducked his head against the wind. “We have little use for this bluff, as the soil is verra thin, and the wind buffets everything relentlessly. However, ’tis a strong look-out site and ye can see the seal cove from here. We hunt them when necessary, but the sea rarely gives us easy access to the rookery. ’Tis dangerous waters on that side of the isle with the rocks rising from the sea. Currents are strong as well. Though the seals dinnae seem to mind and their cove is well-protected from predators.”
Maggie could not imagine hunting the rollicking, funny beasts, yet remembered the seal hides in the longhouse. In the cold months, the hides—and meat from the seals—could mean the difference between life and death for the people of the isle.
Asatrus turned and headed back down the slope. The others followed. Maggie caught sight of several giggling children as they scampered ahead.
“Get back to yer chores,” Asatrus shouted, though with little heat in his words. “Without bait for the fishing, we willnae have supper.”
The children scattered to the shoreline near the longhouse, laughter fading in their wake.
“What do they seek?” Maggie asked.
“Peelies, m’lady. Fish cannae turn them down, and flatties are easily caught near the shore.”
Maggie blinked. “Peelies?” She glanced at Phillipe. He shrugged.
Asatrus halted. “Crabs as they begin to shed their shell and grow another are called peelies. They’re soft and attract fish. If the shell is hard, the fish willnae bother.”
“And flatties?”
“Flat fish. I dinnae know another name. They live close to the beach and the bairns fish for them. The men use nets farther out to sea to catch saithe and haddock.”
“Thank ye. I have much to learn.”
Asatrus sent her a curious look then continued down the path.
They walked the length of the isle. Seals and cliffs on the northern shore, marshland to the south. The beautiful harbor swept across the western beach, framed by cliffs. A few trees dotted the landscape. Short and twisted by the wind, they clustered near the foot of the cliffs. One tree clung to a ledge at a seemingly impossible angle, its seed dropped there many years ago with just enough soil to take root.
Sheep grazed the hillsides to the north and south. Ewes due to lamb were kept close to the longhouse, some had even shared the space inside the night before, and the flock likely would return to the shelter of a nearby shed or even the longhouse when the winter storms came. Lambs frolicked in the waving grass, leaping small stones with clumsy grace.
“What lies there?” Maggie pointed to a path that wound east beyond the longhouse. A swell of land hid the eastern shore.
“Saint Martin’s Abbey, m’lady. The monks are nae longer there, but they grew apple trees and made mead. We still use their trees and recipe.”
“Show me.”
The path meandered over a hill, then down to a wide, wind-swept area. The abbey’s ruins lay to one side, mere feet from the edge of cliffs which fell a short distance to the sea. Its ancient stone walls encircled an orchard of perhaps thirty trees, protecting them from the winds that seemed to never die. On the leeward side of the abbey walls, a well-designed garden grew. Large red and green cabbages lined the edge of the long rectangle and vines trailed against the wall. Tufts of what were likely carrots and turnips sprouted from the ground. To one side, an herb garden grew.
Sheltered against an upsweep of rock were a half-dozen bee hives. Insulated against the wind and rain with a wattle and daub mixture, they resembled tall, muddy, upturned baskets.
“Ye have a beekeeper?”
“Aye, m’lady,” Asatrus replied. “To make mead.”
Phillipe appeared at her shoulder. “I know of mead. May we taste it?”
Asatrus inclined his head. “Come with me.”
They entered the abbey ruins through a wide opening in the courtyard wall. The height of the wall blocked most of the wind. Maggie instantly noticed a change in the air. Peace fell in soft sunlight in the protected garden. The apple trees swayed gently, their upper branches extending above the wall and caught in the wind. White flowers flashed among green leaves and carpeted the ground beneath the trees with fallen petals.
Wide, shallow pottery bowls sat along the wall. Maggie approached, halting at Asatrus’s cry of caution.
“The honey was recently harvested, m’lady. ’Twill remain here until ’tis blessed and must remain untouched.”
“Blessed?” Maggie glanced at Phillipe who arrived at her side.
“When the honey begins to ferment, which is necessary to produce mead,” Phillipe replied.
Asatrus bobbed his head. “Each bowl is stirred once with the blessing staff, then it must be allowed to rest undisturbed until the fermentation begins. If ’tis interrupted, the flavor will go bad.”
“Blessing staff?”
Asatrus nodded to a gnarled rod leaning against the wall. “It has been used for generations and the mead couldnae be prepared without it.”
“How long does this take?”
“A night or two, mayhap longer. We harvest the honey thrice yearly, but only create mead twice per year. The apples are picked before Samhain and stored over the winter to ripen the flavor. Some are pressed in late winter, another batch in late spring.”
“I see. Thank ye.” Maggie stepped carefully away from the open bowls of golden honey, and the entire abbey seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. She followed Asatrus into the building. Sunlight fell through the open roof and windows long open to the elements, making patterns on the swept floor.
They continued through the vaulted main hall and into a series of separate rooms.
The storage room was dark, but not terribly cold. Thick walls protected the multitude of vessels which lined the floor, shoulder to shoulder, from the changes in the weather.
“The pots are beautiful.” Maggie gently touched her fingertips to the decorative grooves. Each pot, flat-bottomed and wider at the top than at the bottom, held a different pattern. Most appeared to be very old, grooves and raised portions worn almost smooth in places.
Asatrus removed a lid and set it aside. A narrow ridge just inside the neck of the jar held the lid in place when closed. Using a wooden dipper, he carefully withdrew a measure of clear, golden liquid from the jar and offered it to Maggie.
“’Tis ready to bottle. It has ceased bubbling and any impurities have settled to the bottom of the amphora.”
Maggie accepted the dipper and gently inhaled the aromas wafting from the liquid.
Apples. Crisp. Sweet. Her mouth watered in anticipation. She took a cautious sip. The mead rolled across her tongue with a hint of honey sweetness blended with a full range of the bright flavor of apples. Heat blossomed in her belly when she swallowed, warmth tingling into her arms, fingers, and toes. She made a note not to over-imbibe lest she lose her senses. This was a potent drink.
Phillipe quirked an eyebrow. She handed him the dipper. His nostrils flared at the scent. His eyes widened appreciatively at the taste. Then widened more as the impact of the alcohol landed in his stomach.
“’Tis amazing. My father has offered meads at his table, but naught to compare to this.”
Maggie flicked a startled gaze at him. Who was his father? Phillipe appeared not to notice. He took another sip then handed the dipper to Asatrus.
“What do ye do with your mead?” Phillipe glanced about the room. A quick calculation put the stock at thirty to forty amphora of varying sizes. Perhaps eight
to ten gallons each.
“A ship from Morvern will arrive in a few weeks and purchase our entire stock.” Asatrus waved a hand over the pots. “God has been good to us.”
Morvern. He flashed a glance at Maggie who responded with a questioning look. He gave his attention back to Asatrus.
“This is how ye tithe to your liege?”
The man’s cheeks flushed. “Aye. Some years are better than others. Two years past, only a third of the trees bore fruit. Many were planted by the monks over a century ago. It took us several years to raise trees to begin to replace the ancient ones. This autumn, the young ones bore fruit.”
“The earl wouldnae have appreciated only a few gallons of mead,” Maggie murmured.
Phillipe gritted his teeth. He could see to it the people of Hola received fair payment for the mead—but he would be forced to trade with Donal MacLean, Alex’s father—the Baron of Batroun and once his fostering lord. His self-imposed exile risked exposure.
He could help Maggie and the people of Hola. But he would be required to bare his soul to the few people on this earth he cared about. People to whom he did not wish to make his past conduct known. He wanted to speak the words, to assure Maggie her island with its ancient monastery and orchard was definitely of worth—and with careful curating, could increase in value.
But the words would not form. He forced a smile.
“I am glad ye have restocked your trees. My lady, ye shall do well here.”
Coward. Keeping services from her impinges upon honor. Honor I abandoned more than a year ago.
He pivoted on his heel and strode from the room. Entering the vaulted hall he halted, hands at his hips, breathing deeply to clear his head. Maggie’s footsteps sounded behind him. He bolted forward, forcing his stride to an even pace. Maggie grabbed his arm.
“What is amiss?”
