The Highlander's Stronghold (Searching for a Highlander Book 1)
Page 11
“Oh, noooo, there are many Morrisons. My uncle told me that there are Morrisons in the lowlands, in Glasgow as well, but they are from a different clan.”
“Hmmm,” I murmured. How little I had known about Scotland before I came to the archaeological dig on Dun Eistean. Having spent a bit of time in the sixteenth century, did I really know any more? I thought not.
“I think I’ll go exploring on the island,” I said.
“I will accompany ye,” Andrew said.
I looked at him in surprise.
“I’m not going anywhere, Andrew. I’ll be all right.”
“Still, I think I should go with ye.”
“Are you determined, Andrew?”
He chuckled, a quiet laugh.
“Aye, mistress, that I am.”
There really wasn’t much to explore, and it took very little time to circumnavigate the tabletop, but I enjoyed the outing and stretching my legs. If I had ever wondered what people on Dun Eistean did to while away the time, I saw that afternoon that they repaired their homes, worked on small vegetable gardens, wove tartans on looms, baked corn in several large kilns, mended fishing nets, scrubbed down the boat, guarded the island from yet another raid and tended to their children.
I didn’t know if they were busier because they were trying to repair the damage from the raid the previous night or whether I bore witness to otherwise normal routines, but I was surprised to see that they appeared to have little time to relax and stare out to sea.
We returned to the keep in a few hours. I eased open the door, and Andrew slipped in to pick up the tray. He carried it off. As I shut the door behind him, I heard John’s voice.
“There ye are, lass,” he said, raising himself to his elbow. “I fashed that ye had gone with no farewell, but saw the dagger on the floor.”
I took my chair and pulled it over to the bedside.
“Nope, I’m still here. I just walked around with Andrew.”
“Ah! He is a good lad,” John said.
“How do you feel? Are you in pain?”
“Aye, a wee bit. Is there whisky?”
“Yes, I think so.” I got up and poured out a cup of whisky. “For medicinal purposes, right?” I said, handing him the cup with a smile.
“Aye, of course,” he said. I wasn’t quite sure he understood that I was joking.
John gulped the whisky and held out his cup for a refill.
“Don’t drink it too fast,” I cautioned. “You don’t want to get drunk.”
“There is little fear of that,” John said with a wry expression, “though I may wish to find myself inebriated. This night will no be a joyous one, as we must tend to the dead.”
I swallowed hard. It was one thing studying ancient bones, quite another to deal with the violence that had brought about their demise.
“Do you burn the bodies?” I imagined Viking-style funeral pyres, given the heavily Nordic immigration to the Outer Hebrides.
John looked up in something akin to shock.
“Och, lass, no! We are no pagans! But we canna bury bodies here on the island. We dinna have the room, so we must carry our kin to the mainland.”
“Tonight?” I asked. “Why wouldn’t you do that in the daytime? When you can see?”
He sighed heavily.
“We must bury the bodies quickly, but more importantly, we must bury them under cover of darkness lest the Macleods or Macaulays have scouts about. Angus probably suspects we will bury our dead soon.”
“So you think they’ll be waiting for you?”
“It is possible.”
“But why would you go? What about burying them at sea?” Again, I channeled what little I remembered of Viking funeral practices from my studies. I regretted paying little attention in the class now, my focus having been on Colonial funerals. “Send them out to sea in a boat.” Having seen too many movies apparently, I imagined an arrow shot into the boat, burning as it drifted off into the mist.
As soon as I spoke, I regretted my foolish comment. Not only would an unmanned boat probably be thrown back onto the rocks by the rough surf, not only had I not seen bows or arrows on the island, but they only had one boat, and a very large one at that.
John reared his head and eyed me curiously.
“How do ye think of these things? We canna lose our only boat.”
Now, I sighed heavily.
“But, John, you can’t just carry two bodies onto the mainland and take time to bury them if the Macleods are out there. Which sort of raises another question. Since they have Mary and the children, why would they still be hanging around up here?”
“Did ye forget? That the Macleod wishes to take ye for himself?” He bent over with care, picked up the dagger and sheathed it behind his back.
“Noooo,” I said. “I’m sure that was some sort of spontaneous ‘Here, I’ll take her even though I don’t know what to do with her,’ sort of thing. If anything, he probably would have tossed me over the cliff edge and into the sea in no time at all.” I tried to smile to diffuse my comment, but the image I invoked actually frightened me. I had landed in a turbulent and unsettled time where laws were capricious at best. Life and liberty were controlled by the fickle edicts of the powerful.
“I dinna think he would do so, but it is clear that he wanted ye and was thwarted by young Andrew. However, that as it may be, Angus is bent on destroying us, and he has the king’s permission to do so. We were lax in our guard last night. It will no happen again.”
“Well, no, because you’re heading over to the mainland, so you’ll be easy pickings.”
“Easy pickings?” He tilted his head, thrusting his feet into his boots.
“An easy mark, easy to find, to slaughter, to kill.”
“Och, aye, I ken we will. But we have no choice. My kinsmen’s bodies must be buried at once given the warmer weather. If winter were upon us, perhaps we could wait, but we canna.”
“So that’s it? You’re just going over there anyway? Why can’t you just toss them over the cliff?” My voice rose to a high pitch, and I crossed my arms in frustration. “Desperate times call for desperate measures!”
John pushed himself from the bed with obvious pain. I was so angry that I resisted helping him. I regretted my callous words though.
John came to me, but instead of addressing my heartlessness, he put his hands on my shoulders.
“I ken ye dinna mean to dishonor the dead, Ann, and ye a student of history. Ye have told me yerself that ye have studied the bones of those who died. If we were to throw my kinsmen into the sea, they might wash back up on the rocks below, or some great water beastie might make a meal of them. Their wives and bairns suffer for their loss already. We can no treat their loved ones with such disrespect.”
I hung my head.
“No, of course you’re right. I’m sorry. That was a stupid thing to say.”
“No stupid,” John replied with a crooked smile. “A sensible solution, but no one we can condone. When the Macleods and Macaulays are long gone, and I pray that one day they will vanish from the face of the earth, we will visit the burial sites of those who have died, and we will mourn them properly.”
I looked up at John, debating. But never one for knowing when to keep my mouth shut, I spoke.
“The Macleods and Macaulays will not ‘vanish from the face of the earth,’ John, but clan warfare will cease after the eighteenth century, as I told you before. You will all coexist in peace and prosperity, if a little bit of peaceful rivalry.”
“Under English rule.”
“Yes.”
“Under the verra king who commissions Letters of Fire and Sword to set the clans against one another.” His tone was sarcastic.
“No, I guess not this king, but in the future. King George II, I think.”
“We shall see,” John said skeptically. “Until then, I shall do whatever is necessary to protect my clan.”
“Yes.” I knew he would. I took one more chance. “You said you
are going after Mary in the morning. Can you take your kinsman then and bury them on the way?”
“Nay, lass. We do no follow the Macleods over land but by sea. Though I am told the Macleods took Mary and the bairns to the mainland, I feel certain they came by boat, perhaps anchoring farther down the coast. We will bury the lads tonight and return to take the birlinn out at first light.”
I really couldn’t understand why I was presuming to advise John on burial practices and strategy. I was clueless about how to deal with kidnapping, violence, burials and death—unlike a sixteenth-century clan chieftain.
“I’m sorry. I’m just tossing out ideas without a lot of thought. When will you leave tonight?”
“Soon. When darkness falls,” he said.
I bit my lip at the obvious answer.
John put his hands on my shoulders again and lowered his head to peer into my eyes.
“I ken ye mean well, Ann, but there is much ye dinna understand about our ways and life here on the island. Thank ye for yer counsel.”
My cheeks flamed, and I couldn’t hold his beguiling blue gaze. I dropped my eyes and shrugged.
“Can I go with you tonight?”
Chapter Twelve
John shook his head, dropping his hands. I missed his touch, though I was sure he’d meant nothing particularly romantic in his gesture.
“Womenfolk do no attend burials. Do they in yer time?”
I reared my head. “Really? Why not?”
John appeared to think for a moment.
“I dinna ken. It has always been thus.”
“Well, for goodness’ sake!”
“As ye say.”
Apparently, he wasn’t about to change that custom for me either.
“Come with me now though,” John continued. “Sunset will soon be upon us, and I wish to share the beauty with ye.”
“Oh!” I said, suddenly flustered. I moved in to support him, but he took my hand and tucked it into his arm.
“I will no have ye to lean on in the future. I had better learn to walk on my own.”
I said nothing but allowed him to guide me out of the keep and around to the back of the tower to face the sea to the west. The sun was low in the sky, and the clouds highlighted a brilliant orange. A dazzling peach streak extended from the setting sun toward us.
We sat down and watched silently as the sun set. Acutely aware of John’s nearness, I resisted the yearning to take his hand in mine. Peeking at him out of the corner of my eye, I inhaled deeply in an attempt to calm my pounding heart.
John seemed enthralled with the sunset and didn’t turn to look at me. Thankfully. I didn’t want him to know how lovestruck I was. Was this the last time I would be alone with him?
The sound of voices caught my attention, and I looked over my shoulder toward the crofts. A flurry of activity showed six men emerging from one of the houses, carrying the two bodies of their kinsmen. Women and children crowded around them, some crying.
I jumped up.
“Already?”
John looked over his shoulder and nodded. He pushed himself off the ground before I could bend over to pull him up.
“Aye. The light is fading. By the time we reach the mainland, darkness will cloak us.”
“How long will you be? You haven’t even eaten.”
“I will take something when I return. I ken Mistress Glick will be pleased to give ye some supper.”
“No, I’ll wait for you.” I turned to follow him. “Are you sure I can’t go with you? The men appear to have their hands full. Won’t you need help on the cliff path?”
John took my hand and slipped it under his arm as we crossed the tabletop.
“Andrew will see to me, lass. Nay, no women.”
The women and children now lingered outside the complex of crofts, watching the men walk toward the gate. I ducked my head self-consciously as they turned as one to look at us.
John stopped near the houses and released my arm.
“Go now to Mistress Glick.” He nodded toward the older woman, who stood with the group.
“Okay,” I said in the spirit of not arguing. I moved away from John but stopped when he turned and walked toward the gate. I really didn’t want to visit with anyone.
John looked over his shoulder as he joined the men waiting for him. He made a motion for me to join the women, and I took two steps sideways to appease him and waved back. I could see Andrew in the group.
John shook his head as if frustrated with me, before turning away to follow the group through the gate. I watched until they disappeared into the gathering darkness.
Mistress Glick startled me when she appeared at my side and took my arm.
“Come, lass. John wished me to feed ye supper.”
I didn’t resist as she led me to her croft.
“Why can’t the women accompany the men to the cemetery?”
“To the cemetery? Och, lass, we have no such here. Our burial grounds and kirk are farther down the coast on Morrison land, but we canna take the lads there just now. They are to be buried in an auld Viking cairn. We canna even give them a proper headstone at the moment, no coffin, as we have no wood, no proper sending off with a wake.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
She escorted me inside her cottage, where she had a fire burning. She moved straight toward the pot hanging from an iron hook in her fire pit.
“But I dinna ken why ye ask about the women,” she said, turning to look at me with a sharp eye. “Women dinna attend burials.”
“Can I ask why not?” I settled into a chair at her table, where a single candle burned. I eyed a plate of oatcakes but resisted taking one before supper.
Mistress Glick had returned to stirring her pot but stilled and looked over her shoulder at me.
“Because we are no allowed, I suppose. I dinna ken. That is the way it has always been. If we were home at Ardmore Castle, we could visit the burial site later. But we canna leave the dun now. Do English women attend funerals?”
I smiled gently. Neither John nor Mistress Glick really knew the origin of the custom of denying women access to the funeral. I would probably never hear an explanation.
“Yes,” I answered, though I wasn’t really sure, but I couldn’t very well say so. Had I truly been a citizen of the sixteenth century, I would probably have known more than a few people who had died.
“A strange custom,” she said, echoing my words. She spooned the usual soup into bowls and brought them to the table, taking a seat across from me.
“The lads are off in the morn then,” she said, slurping her soup with apparent enjoyment.
I had almost taken a bite but paused and dropped my spoon into the bowl.
“Can’t you stop John, Mistress Glick? Can’t the rest of the men go? John’s wounds are way too severe for him to be traveling.”
She slurped some more soup, and I wondered if she was just going to ignore my plea.
“Nay, I canna stop John from going, lass. I ken he should no travel, but there is naebodie to tell him no. The lads will look after him. They dinna wish to lose their laird.”
I sighed and shook my head.
“And what if he has to fight? How could he possibly wield a sword, engage in hand-to-hand combat?”
“Hand-to-hand combat is it now?” she said with a broad smile. “That sounds verra serious.” She bit into an oatcake and pushed the plate toward me. I took one but set it down beside my bowl.
“It is serious, and so am I. John cannot win in a battle. Angus will kill him this time.” My words came out in a bit of a sob, and I cleared my throat.
“Och, lass, I hear the tears in yer voice. Dinna fash. John carries a pistol. All the lads do. Hopefully, he will just shoot the Macleod for once and for all and be done with the man.
“Still,” she continued, “John is one of those who still prefers the auld ways of swordplay. He considers it much more honorable. Yer ‘hand-to-hand combat.’ Torq is one of those as well.”
“Aye, he is Torq’s nephew after all.”
“I know,” I said. I’d developed quite a fondness for the teenager. I sighed heavily, lifted my spoon to eat and set it down again.
“I’m afraid I’m just not hungry. And the soup smells so lovely.”
“It is lovely,” Mistress Glick said with a wry smile. “Hear me, lass. Clan feuding is a way of life. It has always been so. Good men die. Women and cattle are stolen. Land is taken. John’s father, the auld chieftain, protected us well, but he was no able to stop his brother from stealing away with the Macleod’s young wife. John inherited this current feud, and there is naethin we can do about it. Maurice does no intend to give up his wife, and even if he did or could, Angus would no have her back. He has already taken a new wife that he likes just as well. Angus just wants his revenge. And his grandchildren.”
“What more revenge does he want? He already has the Morrison home.”
“I ken he has found a way. He must have decided that ye are important to young John, and I believe he means to have ye.”
The dark expression on her face chilled me, and I drew in a sharp breath.
As if Mistress Glick had called terror down upon us, the door flew open, and Angus Macleod strode into the croft, his sword in one hand, his pistol in the other. He shoved the gun into his belt, freeing up one hand.
“Ah! There ye are,” he said in English, directing his attention to me. I jumped up, grabbed Mistress Glick and pulled her to far end of the room. Where was John? Where were the men? How had Angus gotten back on the island? Surely the guards had been extra watchful, had they not?
Angus advanced into the croft, backed by two additional burly Highlanders.
“Stay back!” I yelled, as if that would stop him.
“Come, lass. Ye have no choice,” he said as if we were having a reasonable conversation. I tried to push Mistress Glick behind me, but she was having none of it.
“Angus Macleod, do no think for one minute that I will let ye take this lass. Where are Mary and the bairns? I demand that ye return them at once!”