“Goodbye, my son. Stay strong. Live strong. And continue the MacLeod legacy. Protect Dunvegan and Skye Isle.”
And as Alasdair whispered his goodbye to his father, the natural hum of the forest changed. A wolf’s howl fractured the rhythm of the woodland creatures.
Alasdair quickly got to his feet and walked briskly back toward camp with his sword drawn.
Walking through the woods wasn’t difficult with the moon lighting the way, but when he arrived, the sight of Gordon’s men on the ground had his blood turning cold.
Alasdair rushed to the first soldier, knelt down, and flipped the man over.
Blood. Blood everywhere. Cut through the chest with something more violent than a sword. An axe?
Alasdair clutched under his arm. The wound was burning. The memory of the axe strike in his back vivid now.
Whoever was responsible for this, this massacre of innocent men, would pay for what they had done.
Before he rose, however, Alasdair glanced warily over his shoulder and around the perimeter of the clearing. This part of the forest was still. Dead. As if the night creatures had been frightened away by the violence.
Waiting, listening. Alasdair was mortified by the actions of the men who were responsible. Gordon’s soldiers had posed no threat to the clansmen who’d slaughtered them.
Alasdair rose slowly. The men who were responsible were gone. His feet resisted movement, but Alasdair dragged them reluctantly around the bodies, each step a painful reminder of a life lost.
When a groan came from his left, Alasdair spun around with hope in his heart. Had one of Gordon’s men survived?
Racing to the spot where he’d heard the sound, Alasdair stood between four fallen bodies. Although it was almost pitch black in this part of the forest, some moonlight made its way through the branches, illuminating the fallen men.
He sheathed his sword, then crouched down in the middle of the morbid circle around him. One man was missing a head, but the one farthest from him moved.
Scuttling over to his side on all fours, Alasdair peered into the eyes of the man who’d moved.
When Gordon’s soldier raised a sword, Alasdair jumped to his feet. Shuffling backward, he almost tripped over a body behind him as he tried to protect himself.
“I am friend, not foe,” Alasdair said from a safe distance. “I’m your captain, Laird MacLeod.”
The man dropped the sword immediately. “Sorry, mate,” the soldier said. “I took you for another one of the MacDonalds who’d come back to finish you off.”
“Me?” Alasdair asked, not surprised to hear the bloody massacre was at the hands of his enemies but stunned they’d have known he was in Glen Shiel. The contingent had yet to come close to the MacDonald’s protected lands. Why were they so far south?
“Aye,” the solitary soldier replied. “The MacDonalds surprised us after our meal and ale. We were a wee bit tipsy when they arrived, and that compounded our inability to defend ourselves.” Then the man leaned up on one elbow as if he was about to get up. “But even if we’d been sober, there were at least two of them to every one of us.”
Alasdair rushed over and extended a hand to the man. “What be your name, lad?”
“Gavin,” he said, accepting Alasdair’s gesture with his left hand. Once he was on his feet, he sheathed his sword.
Alasdair had not gotten to know the men. Once the contingent had left Invergarry Castle, they’d ridden religiously from dawn to dusk on a trek toward Kyle of Lochalsh with little interaction. Alasdair knew very few of the men by their surnames.
“How do you know they were looking for me?”
“It was blatantly clear, my lord. When they burst into our camp with axes raised and war paint covering their faces, the only words the leader said were, ‘Where’s Alasdair MacLeod? He’s a dead man.’”
Chapter 29
Ethan was his usual impatient self the next morn when Ursula’s family and close friends met them at the manor gate to see them off. The weather was quite blustery, but that wasn’t unusual for Scotland in the Highlands this time of year.
Ursula tugged her red traveling cape tighter around her neck to keep the whipping wind from stinging her skin, then gave each of her loved ones a generous hug.
She promised herself that morning when she’d dressed for the short half-day ride to Kyle of Lochalsh she wouldn’t cry when she said her goodbyes. But leaving was more difficult than she’d ever imagined.
She bit on her lip to distract herself from her swirling emotions and to keep herself from snapping at Ethan, who was back to his old nasty self. She was out of the herbs that made his company bearable.
His behavior was a good reminder of why he’d never be a match for her. As charming as he’d been after he’d taken the concoction made of mandrake root and damiana, she could nae spend her life drugging her husband so she could tolerate his company and prevent him from poisoning her if she crossed him.
After she’d mounted Tempest and waved goodbye, she followed Ethan and Conn’s soldiers out of the gate and into Glen Shiel’s countryside, a piece of her heart breaking.
Although Ursula had been apprehensive about returning home, part of her was content with the visit, even though the questions posed by her family would haunt her thoughts in the days ahead.
As much as she fretted about her relationship with Alasdair, after she’d talked with her aunt about him further this morn at breakfast, she admired him all the more. Alasdair was a well-respected leader despite his handicap.
Ursula had a close look at the wound the other night. Healed on the outside, but not on the inside. She had worked to remedy that, but the pain was still there. She’d witnessed it. The pain that festered in his mind, where he imagined he was less worthy, less competent as a leader. As a laird. As a loving man.
She’d sensed the pain when she’d first met him. It had been as if he’d wanted to apologize for the slight stoop in his stature, as if he’d stand taller for her if he could.
It had continued when they’d been together cooking in the galley on the Merry Maiden, after he’d eaten the herb-spiked stew then had to excuse himself.
And the most pain of all—when he’d shown her the physical scar. As if revealing the wound had laid him more bare than exposing his naked form.
He’d cringed before she’d even touched his scar, as if she had somehow triggered the memory of the axe coming down on his back, making him relive the weapon tearing through his body.
Aye, as she rode in between Conn’s clansmen through the heather-covered Highland hills, she thought more and more about Alasdair. What he stood for. What her aunt had said about his love of the arts. Ursula found herself missing him even as she was full of so many questions for him.
But when she remembered he wanted an heir, she almost lost her balance. She was a good rider, but the jolt of memory almost made her slip off her saddle.
Without thinking, she reached down to rub her belly. Could she be with child? She had lost track of her monthly rhythm. Had she been fertile then? Was the moon waxing or waning?
Och! It has only been three days. And even if she was with child, the telltale symptoms would not surface for some time.
Ursula sighed and blew out a shaky breath, keeping her eye on the back of the warhorse in front of her, working to steady herself inside and out. What if she was pregnant with a girl? There would be no heir, and she’d have a daughter to raise alone?
She shuddered at the possibilities of how her life could change. Just when the commitment she’d made was about to overwhelm her, a vision burst through her musings to scatter her worries away.
Rosalyn. Her heart warmed as she was reminded she would always have a home at Fyvie Castle with her sister of the heart. Beyond Aberdeen, she’d have her family in Shiel Bridge if she wanted t
o live at Spurr Fhuaran manor as her aunt had insisted.
A sly smile crossed her lips. If a child was in her future, she would welcome it as proof destiny can triumph over doubt.
Rosalyn was the woman she was striving to help, the gentle soul who trusted in Ursula. Trusted she would return with the guelder rose from Skye Isle to make sure not only did Rosalyn’s twin babes enter this world safely, but that she would fare well, too.
In Ursula’s vision, Rosalyn sat in the garden at Fyvie with two maids by her side. The sweet pregnant woman, her belly swollen with twins, was smiling as the handmaidens gathering flowers in a basket for her.
The scene made Ursula smile broadly, happy to find her friend in a state of grace and acceptance. She hoped Rosalyn’s twins had become accustomed to the cramped space they shared and were no longer being disruptive, knowing they had a mother who would love them unconditionally.
The thought strengthened Ursula’s resolve even as the vision of Rosalyn faded just as they reached the peak of the foothills.
When Ethan raised his hand, the horses slowed, then those in the party gathered by his side, forming a strong united line across the top of the hillside.
Ursula gazed down upon the glory of the three lochs. The waters reminded her of aquamarine velvet, with Eilean Donan Castle glittering like a jeweled broach in the center.
Her view from the foothills made the castle appear tiny, like a toy. As much as she had let faith guide her this far, she had to trust Ethan had a plan for approaching the castle. But it did occur to her, as she waited, the arrival would require a ceremonial approach.
Where was the MacLeod laird waiting?
As she glanced about the countryside from her high vantage point, her eyes strained for some movement. She had hoped to find Alasdair’s white warhorse and dazzling smile close behind them. He’d plan to meet them here.
What had he said? Then she could decide?
But with Gordon’s men as a liability, did he even make it this far? Or had he abandoned the mission and returned to his lairdship at Dunvegan, never to look back? Perhaps the cost of the Faery Flag was too high for an heir after all?
Ursula became so distracted by all the possibilities she didn’t notice the contingent had begun their decent toward the tidal castle until one of Conn’s men gave her horse a smack on the rear as he passed.
Eilean Donan not only resembled a shining broach among the sea lochs, it was the royal jewel of the Highlands. Tales of the legendary landmark had filled her childhood, but she’d never set foot before its grand entrance and looming parapets. She’d only dreamed of what it would be like inside, not sure she could believe the stories of its grandeur.
Ursula glanced over her shoulder and up the mountain to the pass from where they’d traveled, still hoping for some glimpse of Alasdair and Gordon’s men. But nothing.
As Ursula scanned the countryside, she was surprised to find the distance they’d traveled so far was deceiving. It was taking much longer than she expected to get to the lip of the land where a boat waited to carry passengers to the sea gate.
Once they finally arrived, Ethan instructed most of Conn’s men to set up camp in a large clearing secluded from the shore. After the work was done, six chosen clansmen and Ursula climbed into the longboat with him.
The soldiers found oars at the bottom of the craft, and in a few short moments, Conn’s men were pushing the paddles deep into the dark waters as the boat surfed toward the tidal island.
Eilean Donan loomed before them like a fortress rising out of the sea. The stone walls shone golden in the bright rays of sun that peaked through a mostly gray sky.
The weather this close to the sea changed rapidly, rain and sun coexisting, producing rainbows as a result. For now, it appeared the sun would win the battle and triumph over the clouds. But the tall curtain wall that surrounded the castle appeared unyielding to weather or traveler.
Even up close, the parapets were foreboding. She imagined MacDonald warriors, faces painted, longbows in hand, ready to take aim at their party through the open spaces in the parapets.
But her neck could only crane so far, until they were directly in line with the castle’s main gate off the seawall, where they’d docked the longboat.
After their party disembarked and made their way up the main path, Ursula’s noticed on their approach a Gaelic phrase carved in stone panels above the main entrance. She read to herself: Cho fad ‘s a bhios MacKenzie a stigh cha bhi Friselach a stigh.
Ursula gasped and, unfortunately, drew the attention of the men. She shook her head to signal she was all right, but the translated words haunted her, for the sign said, As long as there is a MacKenzie inside, there will never be a Fraser inside.
And as much as she’d begged her mother to see Eilean Donan up close, even go inside, she now understood why she hadn’t. The Frasers were not welcome here. Her mother had always promised it would be another day.
Her day had come.
Ursula shuddered from the shock of the warning above the Eilean Donan castle entrance. But there was no turning back. Whoever ruled, MacKenzie or MacDonald, she’d have to keep her identity secret. Yet, by now either clan would be preparing for their visit. No one approached a castle undetected or unexpected. Especially one so well fortified for Norse invasions from the sea.
She looked ahead through three gothic arches that lay in successive recesses. The last housed the barrier to their entry, a massive wooden gate, cross latticed with iron strips, held in place by giant, round iron nails.
Although the last recess held the visible door, Ursula was certain the other two would not be there if they did not hide additional doors capable of crushing unsuspecting visitors.
Unwilling to be deterred, Ursula squared her shoulders as the porticus gate began to grind open, the iron teeth rising up like a wolf opening its mouth to bare its fangs. Someone inside had to know there were visitors wanting to get in.
Chapter 30
Ursula must have entered Eilean Donan Castle without his protection. Alasdair cursed under his breath.
They were late. He assumed she was already inside as he waited for some sign of activity. If only he hadn’t been hunting for game, he would’ve been able to cross over with the group in the longboat that was tethered to the tidal island’s secluded wharf.
With his hands clenched together behind his back and his attention focused on the castle’s entrance, Alasdair paced beside his warhorse, hoping for some movement in or out of the fortress.
Gavin swore. “God’s teeth, man. You’ll dig a ditch in the ground with your pacing.”
Gordon’s only surviving soldier had Alasdair laughing at himself. “Aye, ’tis time for action.” And without another word, he mounted his warhorse and started down the hill toward the sea lochs, ready to talk with Conn’s men.
He wasn’t about to leave Ursula in the hands of the MacKenzies or the MacDonalds, and he was finished with letting Ethan have his way.
~ ~ ~
Although they’d made it this far into Eilean Donan under a civil reception, the largest of the Highlanders walked forward to greet them. The man’s hands were as almost as large as Ursula’s head, and he towered above the tallest of Conn’s men.
“I am Ian MacDonald, laird of this castle, of this fiefdom”—then he pounded one of his enormous fists on top of his open palm—“of the Highlands.”
Ethan behaved himself. She was sure he’d bit his tongue to resist saying the words that were on his lips, nodding his head instead.
“I am Ethan Luttrell, Duke of Somerset, and these are Lord Conn MacDonnell’s clansmen from Glengarry.”
When Ian’s gaze moved to Ursula, she spoke up, “I am Lady Luttrell, your lairdship.” Then she curtsied and bowed her head.
“Come”—Ian gestured with a sweeping arm—�
�let us talk in the great hall.” He turned and started across the grand expanse, darting around empty trestle tables. Servants rushed in from behind the dais with pewter pitchers to fill the goblets.
Their group was invited to sit at the head table while golden mead was poured and freshly baked breads were served.
Once Ian was seated in the center in a throne fit for a king, Ethan took a regal, but less formal, seat next to his host. A MacDonald clansman sat beside Ethan and another sat on the end, putting Ursula in between two of Ian’s clansmen.
The rest of Ian’s men positioned themselves on the other side of their laird, and Conn’s six soldiers filed in the front trestle table.
Ursula relaxed a little as she gulped the sweet golden liquid from her goblet, pleased Ethan had introduced himself as a Luttrell.
Until they found out more about why the MacDonalds had full reign of this castle, he’d have to tread carefully. The consequence of Ethan claiming lairdship as a MacKenzie clan member, through a gambling debt award, could be catastrophic.
As Ethan and the MacDonald laird began an intimate discussion, Ursula studied her surroundings.
Indeed, the reputation of the grandeur of Eilean Donan hadn’t been exaggerated. The grand hall, breathtaking.
Vibrant tapestries in Jacquard weaves, no doubt stitched with thread made of gold, each as large as the castle entrance, were displayed on the walls without apology.
Just to her right, a stone hearth dominated the wall, no doubt the most magnificent she’d ever laid eyes on. It was capped by a white marble mantle decorated with black iron candelabras full of burning tapered candles.
Ursula marveled at the intricate hunting scene above the fireplace that was carved in the stone. It depicted a Scotsman on horseback chasing a fox. Underneath the mantle the carved motto spelled out the Gaelic phrase, Nec Curo Nec Caro. She murmured the translation. “I want not, I care not.”
The Secret of Skye Isle Page 20