by Jayne Castel
Once he got to safety, he’d have to spend a few days resting up. He was no use to his people in this state—as weak as a newborn lamb.
Seated there upon the mountainside, staring up at the windy sky, where the clouds chased each other over the glowing face of the moon, Craeg enjoyed a rare moment of solitude. A lot of responsibility had rested upon his shoulders of late. Despite the attack on their old camp earlier in the summer, his followers had swollen in number once more.
Folk throughout MacKinnon territory had heard about the skirmish, and many men—farmers and shepherds mostly—had left their families to join his cause.
Craeg’s jaw tensed as he dwelled upon just how much these men trusted him.
He wouldn’t let them down. Until now, he’d been content to make his half-brother’s life difficult. It had been enough to rob from him, to inconvenience him. But the situation had shifted. MacKinnon had tortured and murdered Craeg’s friend. His guard had killed a number of Craeg’s followers.
It had been personal before, a grudge that followed Craeg like his shadow. But now the need for vengeance burned like an ulcer in his gut.
I’m going to bring him down.
An idea formed in his mind then—one that would require a huge risk. He’d never be able to get to his half-brother behind Dunan’s high walls. Instead, he needed to draw him out.
Craeg’s mouth thinned. This time, when Duncan MacKinnon went looking for the outlaws, he’d be ready for him.
Heaving himself up off the rock, Craeg stifled a groan. Sister Coira had bound his side tightly for the journey, and had given him instructions on how to look after the healing wound once he returned to camp. However, he now realized why she’d looked concerned as she’d secured the bandage one last time. It was too early for him to be exerting himself like this.
It didn’t matter though. Sometimes circumstance was against you. Every day he lingered at Kilbride increased the risk of his discovery by that visiting abbot.
Craeg moved off, gingerly picking his way up the slope. The going was harder now, and his boots slipped on loose shale. Nonetheless, he pushed himself forward. He needed to reach the camp by dawn.
Yet as he walked, his thoughts returned to the woman who’d saved his life. The nun who’d risked much on his behalf.
Coira.
How lovely her face had been in that clearing, her proud features bathed in the soft glow of the moon. For a few instants, he’d forgotten that she wore a habit under that cloak, that a veil and wimple framed her face.
He’d forgotten she was a nun.
He wasn’t sure where his declaration had come from. He certainly hadn’t planned to say anything so inappropriate. The past days, he felt as if he’d strayed into a strange dream.
He and Sister Coira had spent many hours together, and during that time a connection between them had been forged. Those expressive eyes were filled with wisdom and understanding, and often shadowed by a sadness that only served to intrigue him further.
Lord, how he’d wanted to kiss her in that glade.
He couldn’t believe he’d had the audacity to touch her face. A man didn’t touch a nun.
And yet, he wanted to do much more than that.
Reaching up, Craeg scrubbed his hand across his face. He needed to stop these thoughts. It was hard enough scaling this mountainside as it was, without a pole in his breeches.
Ye don’t make life easy for yerself, do ye? Craeg’s mouth twisted. All the women living upon this isle, and the only one he wanted was a Sister of Kilbride. A foolish wish indeed. It was just as well he had other, more urgent, matters to draw his attention now.
The sooner he forgot about Sister Coira, the better.
Dawn was breaking behind the dark bulk of the mountains, when Craeg reached his destination. It was a fiery daybreak, a foreboding one.
Climbing the last slope, this one so steep that he had to virtually claw his way up on his hands and knees, Craeg’s mouth thinned.
A Blood Dawn.
The ancient people of this isle had believed such a dawn was an ill-omen, a harbinger of death and destruction. These days, folk were just as superstitious of such a red sky.
Misgiving feathered in the pit of Craeg’s belly. Over the last few months, all his neatly laid plans had unraveled. MacKinnon had closed in on him. He couldn’t hide forever, and neither could the men and women who followed him. It was definitely time to meet his half-brother in battle.
Breathing hard, Craeg reached the top of the slope and paused. A group of men, leather-clad and bearing drawn swords, awaited him. He wagered the scouts had been observing his journey up the mountainside. Two of them broke away from the group and approached him.
“I knew it was ye.” One of the men, a huge warrior with wild red hair, stepped forward, sheathing his claidheamh-mor. “Although ye climb like a woman … we started to take bets on whether ye would make it by sun up.”
Craeg snorted. It was hard not to pant like a winded carthorse. Holding his flank, he favored his friend with a tight smile. “Ye try climbing a mountain with a hole in yer side.”
Gunn’s gaze narrowed. “How’s the wound?”
“Healing. The nuns at Kilbride managed to stop the festering … and the fever lifted.”
“Ye have been away for days.” The second man also put away his broadsword. Tall and rangy, with a lean, sharp-featured face, Farlan was at least a decade younger than Gunn and Craeg. “We were beginning to think we’d lost ye.”
“Ye almost did,” Craeg grunted. “Come on. Leave the others to keep watch and follow me. We’ll continue this back at camp. I need to eat something, or I’m going to keel over.”
The three men left the mountainside and slithered down a pebbly slope into a narrow ravine. The rock walls of the gorge were so steep that Craeg had to crane his head to see the sky. The heavens looked ablaze now, and Craeg’s mouth thinned.
Blood Dawn indeed.
It had been a while since Craeg had left this place, and the ravine was busier than he remembered. It seemed that even more folk had joined them. Word of mouth traveled fast, even among the sparsely populated villages of Skye. Men, with a few women and children among them, were shaking out their bedding and breaking their fast.
A smile stretched Craeg’s face as he remembered Sister Coira questioning him about the loyalty of those following him. He took great risks letting the folk of this territory learn of his hiding places. He had to if he wanted to rally more fighters to his side. And yet, till now, none but Brochan had betrayed him. As he’d pointed out to Coira, he wasn’t the only one who bore a deep hatred for Duncan MacKinnon.
The rise and fall of voices broke the morning hush, echoing off the surrounding stone, as did the clang of metal. Men sharpened blades as they waited for their bannocks to fry upon iron griddles, and a forge had been built against the valley wall. Craeg passed the smithy hard at work, hammering out glowing splinters of iron that would be fashioned into arrow-tips.
Craeg’s smile widened at the sight of such industry. It pleased him to know that his people hadn’t been idle in his absence. Although he hadn’t announced his plan to face MacKinnon in battle, they had anticipated him.
The folk of this land wanted rid of the oppressive clan-chief as much as he did.
Breathing in the scent of frying bannock, Craeg’s empty belly let out a loud growl. There were few things he liked better in the morning than a freshly baked bannock smothered in butter and honey.
At the heart of the ravine, he came upon a large fire pit. A tall woman with curling blonde hair stood over an iron griddle and was flipping a circular cake over. Her attention focused upon her task, she didn’t see the three men approach.
“Morning, Fen,” Craeg greeted her with a tired smile. He lowered himself down onto a boulder, suppressing a groan as he did so.
God’s bones, he felt eighty winters old this morning.
Fen—Fenella—glanced up, her blue eyes widening as her gaze settled upon him
. “Craeg! We thought ye were dead.”
“I didn’t,” Gunn interrupted, before seating himself next to Craeg.
Fenella ignored her man, her attention remaining on Craeg. “How are ye feeling?”
“Hungry,” Craeg grunted. “How about some bannock?”
“Healed, I see,” she replied not bothering to hide a wry tone. “Thinking of yer stomach, as usual?”
Craeg ignored the jibe and instead waited while she cut the bannock into hearty wedges, before smearing it with yellow butter and heather honey.
Watching her, Craeg’s mouth filled with saliva. If she didn’t hand over a slice of bannock soon, he’d have to beg.
When she did, Craeg flashed Fenella a wide smile.
The first bite nearly made him groan in pleasure. The wedge of bannock was gone moments later, and Craeg had his platter out for another.
“Didn’t they feed ye at the abbey?” Fenella asked, dishing Craeg up another two slices.
“Aye … but no one makes bannocks like ye, Fen,” he replied.
“Still haven’t lost yer charming tongue I see.” Fenella’s voice was stern although she was smiling.
“No … I’d have to be extremely under the weather for that to happen.”
Next to Craeg, Gunn snorted. “Stop flattering my woman and tell us what happened … I take it the nuns won’t tell anyone ye were at the abbey?”
The question sobered Craeg. Finishing his third wedge of bannock, he brushed crumbs off his braies. He then met Gunn’s eye.
“They kept me hidden … although things got difficult when the abbey had visitors.”
Gunn inclined his head. “MacKinnon?”
“No … a meddling abbot sent to investigate the abbess.”
“Ye know, I’ve heard rumors about the Sisters of Kilbride,” Gunn said, his expression turning thoughtful. “Three men from Torrin arrived yesterday. One of them said that he once spied the nuns sparring with blunted swords. One of his companions added that he’d seen them bring down deer with longbows in the woods.”
Craeg went still at this news. He remembered then the iron-tipped quarter-staff that Coira carried. He also recalled how skillfully Lady Leanna had wielded a longbow when she and Ross Campbell had helped defend the outlaw camp earlier in the summer.
“After everything I’ve seen of late, I’d believe such tales,” he murmured. “There’s something odd about that abbey.”
His companions digested this news, before Farlan spoke up. “Ye will note that our numbers have swelled in yer absence, Craeg.”
Craeg nodded, meeting the warrior’s eye. “The tide is turning against MacKinnon now … fear of the sickness has made folk take action. Life was hard enough here as it was, thanks to him.”
“We hear that things are getting worse in Dunan,” Fenella said quietly. “A man arriving from there yesterday said that they’re burning the dead outside the walls.”
A chill settled over Craeg at this news. The Grim Reaper had indeed come to Skye. Things were looking bleak for them all, and yet in times like these, folk looked for a savior.
He turned to Gunn then. “How are our coffers looking?”
His friend smiled. “Healthy … we still have a bag of silver left over from the last raid at Kyleakin.”
“Good,” Craeg grunted. “See that it’s distributed in as many villages as possible in the coming days … make sure everyone knows the silver came from MacKinnon’s purse.” He paused then, his gaze sweeping over the faces of his companions. “That raid was our last though. I’ve had plenty of time to think while I was laid up. I’m done hiding in the shadows. The men who’ve joined us don’t want to rob MacKinnon … they want to fight him. The hour has arrived for us to bring my brother down.”
12
Distracting Thoughts
“FOLK ARE STARTING to flee Dunan, brother,” Drew’s voice, tense and sharp-edged this morning, made Duncan MacKinnon glance up from buttering a wedge of bannock. “They are saying ye have abandoned them.”
The challenge in his sister’s tone was evident, and the clan-chief heaved in a slow, steadying breath. He hadn’t seen much of Drew lately, although this morning she’d honored him with her presence in his solar while he broke his fast.
“I haven’t,” he sneered. “But the good Lord has.”
“A group of flagellants have taken up residence in the market square,” Drew continued. “Did ye realize?”
MacKinnon scowled. His sister’s acerbic tone was starting to grate upon him, although her news came as a surprise. “No,” he admitted.
Across the table, Drew put down her knife. Those storm-grey eyes narrowed. “They’ve taken to beating each other with long leather straps studded with sharp pieces of iron … they do it three times a day as a display of penance and punishment for our sins.”
Duncan snorted. “Best of luck to them.”
“They are saying that our clan-chief is depraved and immoral … that God is punishing Dunan for his wickedness.”
A heavy sensation settled across Duncan’s chest then, and his belly closed. He’d been enjoying his morning bannocks until this conversation. To cover up the chill of dread that now crawled up his spine, he reached for a cup of milk and took a measured sip.
Nonsense, all of it.
His mother had turned him against religion many years earlier. Every time she’d beaten him, she’d shrieked that he was full of sin and that God would one day punish him for it.
A sudden dropping sensation in his belly made Duncan’s fingers tighten around his cup. “And what do ye think, Drew?” he asked finally, meeting her eye. “Do ye blame me as well?”
The woman’s boldness made him itch to take his fist to her face. He’d done so before when she’d overstepped, and she’d minded her tongue for a while afterward. However, now that nearly two months had passed since that incident, Drew had grown viper-tongued and critical once more.
His sister’s mouth pursed, and he watched her slender shoulders tense as danger crackled between them. “Of course not, Duncan,” she replied, her voice as cold as her gaze. “But I thought it worth bringing to yer attention … this outbreak could well put yer position here in danger.”
MacKinnon peered down at the horse’s hoof, a scowl marring his brow. “Damn the beast … it’s got an abscess.”
Carr leaned forward, at where the clan-chief still held his stallion’s fetlock between his knees. Pus oozed from the horn of the sole. “Aye,” he muttered. “That’s why he’s been favoring his near forequarter.”
“Favoring?” MacKinnon replied with a snort. “Curaidh is as lame as a club footed peasant.”
As if hearing his master’s appraisal, the huge bay courser snorted. Curaidh—Warrior—had been the clan-chief’s mount for the past five years. True to its name, the horse was tough. It hadn’t foundered once, but this morning it had limped its way out into the yard.
MacKinnon would have to take another horse out hunting.
The clan-chief released Curaidh’s fetlock and straightened up. He then gave the stallion an affectionate slap on the shoulder. Watching him, Carr marveled how the clan-chief was always gentler with animals than with his own kind.
Bran sat a few feet away. The wolfhound waited expectantly, ears pricked. MacKinnon always took the dog out hunting.
“See to this, would ye, Broderick,” MacKinnon said, meeting Carr’s eye. “I’ll saddle another horse and ride out.”
Carr nodded. He wouldn’t be joining MacKinnon and the others on the hunt. Not that he cared. With half of Dunan ill at the present, he found it difficult to relax and enjoy such pursuits. Tyra, Lady Drew’s hand-maid, had died two days earlier, and the situation was so bad in the village now that folk were starting to panic.
MacKinnon continued to watch him, his gaze narrowing, as if he had somehow read his right-hand’s thoughts. “Have any of the other servants within the broch sickened?” he asked.
Carr’s spine stiffened. He hadn’t been looking forwar
d to this question—although he’d known MacKinnon would ask it eventually. There was only so long the clan-chief could ignore the worsening situation. “Aye,” he admitted softly. “Two of the scullery maids and a stable hand.”
MacKinnon broke eye contact then, his gaze swinging around the yard, at where two lads were cleaning tack in the misty morning light. “Get all of them out of the broch,” he said, his voice tight. “And if anyone else falls ill, ye are to tell me immediately. Is that clear?”
Carr nodded, heaviness settling in his gut. Lady Drew wouldn’t be pleased—she’d told Carr not to bring up the sickness with her brother. She’d known about the three servants who’d fallen ill over the last day, and she’d called Dunan’s healer to tend to them.
However, Carr had just let her secret slip.
The clan-chief’s gaze settled upon one of the stable lads. “Brice … saddle me another horse.”
“Aye, MacKinnon.” The youth dropped the stirrup he’d been polishing and darted back into the stables.
MacKinnon swung around to Carr, a deep frown marring his brow now, his lips parting. Drawing in a deep breath, Carr readied himself for the sharp edge of his master’s tongue once more.
However, the arrival of a man on horseback, clattering into the bailey under the stone arch that led down into the village and the North Gate, forestalled the clan-chief.
Both men watched the newcomer approach. He was a heavyset man of around forty winters, clad in a sweat-stained, dusty léine and braies. Red faced, the man rode upon a swaybacked beast that was lathered from the journey, its thin sides heaving.
“MacKinnon?” The stranger greeted them, his gaze settling upon the clan-chief.
“Aye, who are ye?” MacKinnon barked.
“My name is Gowan,” the man replied, his voice rough with fatigue. “I’m a smithy from Torrin.” He paused there, his throat bobbing. “Ye have sent out word that anyone with news of Craeg the Bastard will be paid ten silver pennies?”