The aged warrior enjoyed spending his hours in the little room with its dazzling colored walls, every inch and cranny filled with life-sized murals of fanciful Celtic beasts and pagan deities.
Just now, moon-silvered light from the windows lit his weathered profile and not for the first time, Alasdair wished for Malcolm’s dignity in age. He wore his gray hair pulled back into a thick plait that fell just below his still-broad shoulders and was fastidious about keeping his salt-and-pepper beard well-trimmed. Alasdair’s dog, Geordie, a beast surely as old as Malcolm in canine years, sat hopefully by his side, his milky eyes trained unerringly on the tray of thickly sauced pork ribs on Malcolm’s knees.
It was a familiar sight and one that usually warmed Alasdair’s heart.
This night, the cagey glint in the old man’s eyes was only irksome.
“Coira Mackinnon would make you a good wife.” Malcolm tore off a bit of pork for Geordie, offering it to the dog on an outstretched hand. “She is known to be comely, has hips-”
“Lady Coira’s hips do not interest me.” Alasdair clenched his fist against the window ledge.
“They should.” Malcolm leaned forward, his expression turning even more annoying. “From what I hear, she carries a broad enough spread to not split apart the first time she slips a bairn for you.” Sitting back, he looked pleased by the prospect. “The same cannot be said for Marjory Mackintosh. She’s much too tall and lithe to breed well. And” – he gave Geordie another bit of rib meat – “Lady Coira doesn’t have tainted blood in her veins.”
“Lady Coira’s bloodlines mean even less to me than her girth.” Alasdair shot a glare at Ewan, who was rubbing his chin to keep from laughing. “Lady Marjory’s is none of my concern either,” he lied. “And she has a fine, shapely form if you haven’t seen her lately. She’ll give strapping sons to the man lucky enough to wed her.”
A man he’d love to tear apart with his hands.
“As for Lady Coira, I thanked the Mackinnon for his generous offer and told him I am no’ looking for a wife.” Alasdair hoped the finality in his tone would dissuade his uncle from pursuing the matter.
“Such a maid as the Mackinnon lass would bring high honor and great wealth with her dowry.” Malcolm proved his persistence. “You needn’t love her.”
“We have riches and glory enough.” Alasdair turned fully to the window, splaying both hands on the cold stone of the ledge. “I needn’t wed to increase either.”
Across the room, Malcolm mumbled something unintelligible. Any further grumblings were stayed as he munched noisily on another pork rib. Ewan shifted on his chair before the fire, for once knowing when to hold his tongue.
Ignoring both men, Alasdair kept his gaze on the loch.
The night was too quiet.
And the same ill ease that sent him up to Drangar Point that morn plagued him still. The sensation sat deep, riding the back of his neck. Shrugging it off wasn’t easy.
Nor did he think he should.
He also didn’t care for the dark mist slipping down from the high moors to drift across the loch. It was an unholy mist, sure as his name was MacDonald. Stepping closer to the window, he trained his gaze on the hills edging the far side of the loch. He also watched the long curving strand at their base and the low stone causeway that ran from the shore to the castle gates, an access dependent on the tides.
When the loch rose, the causeway vanished.
Only a fool – or someone unaware of the speed and strength of the currents – would dare to cross to Blackshore until the waters receded.
Just now, silver-glossed wavelets were beginning to lap at the causeway stones.
Nothing else moved except the shifting tendrils of fog.
It should’ve been a bright night. The moon had risen early, hanging full and clear over Drangar Point and the long, indented coastline that marked the Glen of Many Legends’ southern boundary. Still wet from the rains, the land had gleamed in shades of silver and black.
Yet the mist came as swiftly, turning the night uncanny.
Now, the shadows among the rocks on the foreshore were dark and deep. And they were worse atop the high moors. There, the rolling mist blurred the familiar landscape, giving innocent outcrops the look of crouching beasts and letting clusters of thorn and broom appear menacing, like a gathering of ghouls waiting to pounce.
More like the Viking from the harvest fair, along with his bloodthirsty, grasping friends.
Hoping he erred, Alasdair caught a whiff of the sea on the incoming tide. Soon the causeway would sink beneath the water. The moment wouldn’t come too soon.
He was sure strange shapes moved in the mist.
Forms that drifted rather than walking as a flesh-and-blood man would do.
“Looking for Drangar, eh?” Ewan joined him at the window. “I knew this was a night he’d be about.”
“He isn’t anywhere except in the songs of the storytellers.” Alasdair wasn’t about to admit he’d imagined black shapes floating along the cliffs. “Drangar the Strong is a fable.”
“Say you.” Malcolm challenged him.
“I do.” Alasdair met his belligerent stare.
Malcolm made a great show of setting down his tray of pork ribs, leaving the remainder for Geordie. Straightening, he wiped his hands on the linen napkin he’d spread across his knees.
“Say what you wish.” He leaned forward again, his eyes gleaming in the glow of the dying fire. “I say Drangar walks on nights that are chill and damp.”
“Then he’ll have no rest for that’s how most nights are hereabouts.” Alasdair kept his gaze on the loch, the dark shoreline beyond.
He knew what was coming.
“I saw him myself when I was nine summers.” Malcolm didn’t disappoint. “Up in the high passes behind the Camerons’ Castle Haven, it was,” he began, telling the old story Alasdair had heard a thousand times. “I earned my first battle scar that day.
“I’d snuck into Cameron territory hoping to catch a glimpse of that clan’s Maker of Dreams, Grizel and Gorm. But instead of finding the legendary Bowing Stone said to mark the magical entry to that pair’s hidden moor, I found a band of rowdy Cameron lads several years my senior.” He paused, rubbing Geordie’s ears as the dog chewed a pork rib. “They were armed with dirks and short swords. And each one was double my size in muscle.”
“Indeed?” Alasdair pretended he was hearing the tale for the first time.
Ewan shot him an amused glance, proving he was still a bit too young to know when tact mattered more than denting an old man’s pride.
“Aye, so it was.” Malcolm’s voice rang sage.
Alasdair bit his tongue to keep from arguing that a Drangar the Strong visitation seemed to herald all MacDonald youths into manhood.
Only he had been spared.
It was a lacking that didn’t concern him.
Malcolm appeared bitter earnest. Pushing to his feet, he crossed the solar, his gait as swift as any man three times younger than his own redoubtable age.
Joining Alasdair and Ewan at the window arch, he rested a hand on each of their shoulders. “You’d be wise not to doubt me, laddies.”
“No one does.” Ewan spoke for them both.
Alasdair held back a denial.
“It’s so clear in my mind it could’ve been this morn.” Malcolm released his grip on them and shook his head. “I’d been foolish and paid the price. Standing my ground against the Cameron lads, I stepped into a rabbit hole, snapping my ankle.
“Thon devils could’ve ended me then and there.” He leaned in, indignation sparking. “They drew their blades, came in for the kill.”
“It was then that Drangar appeared, eh?” Ewan nudged Alasdair with his elbow.
Thankfully Malcolm didn’t notice.
“Aye, so he did.” The old warrior stood straighter, his chest swelling. “Came out of nowhere he did. One moment I was alone, glaring down a band of bloodthirsty Camerons with naught but a dirk to have at them w
ith, and the next, there was Drangar the Strong, looming before me in all his battle glory.”
Alasdair pulled a hand down over his chin. “He would’ve been impressive.”
“That he was.” Malcolm nodded. “His eyes blazed like hot coals and the long sword that hung at his waist screamed when he whipped it free as the first Cameron darted forward and drew blood, slashing my arm.”
As he always did at this point, Malcolm rolled back his sleeve, displaying the thin slivery scar halfway between his elbow and wrist.
“It was then that Drangar raised his blade. The fury on his face was terrible.” He gave Alasdair a quick glance, as if he expected him to argue. “He stepped before me, guarding me when my leg buckled and I went down on one knee. He kept his sword aloft, holding it high above his head as if to strike if any Cameron who dared to take advantage of an injured foe.”
“But they didn’t.” Ewan grinned, leaving the window to pour a measure of ale. “Ran like all good cowards do, eh?” He tossed back the ale, and then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Camerons were aye-”
“Camerons are now our staunchest allies.” Alasdair shot his cousin a warning look.
“Aye, right.” Ewan shrugged. “So long as the wind blows fairly.”
Alasdair ignored him.
Camerons, at least, could be trusted. Kendrew and his Mackintosh Berserkers were an entirely different kettle of fish. A pack of unpredictable wild men who loved bloodletting more than peace and order, they kept their wits in the well-sharpened blades of their war axes.
“I did see Drangar that day.” Malcolm reclaimed his stool, the set of his jaw showing he wouldn’t argue his claim. “Of course” – he stretched his arms over his head, cracking his knuckles – “if he hadn’t come, I would’ve beaten the Camerons on my own.
“I couldn’t do that once he’d appeared.” He lowered his arms, slapped his hands on his knees. “One must aye respect an elder.”
“To be sure.” Ewan grinned.
“Indeed.” Alasdair turned back to the window, fighting his own smile.
It was good that Malcolm didn’t see himself as aged. And it was equally fine that his oft-told tale took Alasdair’s own thoughts in another direction. Namely away from Marjory as he’d last seen her in the wood at the Harvest Fair, her eyes sparkling and her cheeks flushed by the cold. How she hadn’t resisted when he’d deepened their kiss, even welcoming the sweep of his tongue into her mouth. He absolutely refused to recall how she’d melted against him. Aye, he should thank his uncle for putting other images in his head. Myths and fables that wouldn’t steal his sleep and make him crazy.
Except – his eyes rounded – there was something moving on the foreshore.
“Look there, a rider!” He gripped the window ledge and leaned forward, his gaze on the lone horseman silhouetted against the dark bulk of the cliffs.
The man was bent low across the horse’s neck, his plaid billowing out behind him as man and steed raced along the strand, making straight for Blackshore’s soon-to-be-submerged causeway.
“Thon’s a fool – or else his arse is on fire.” Ewan nudged Alasdair aside, craning his neck to peer round the tower wall when the rider thundered onto the causeway, sending his horse splashing into the rising water.
“Nae, thon lad is Gowan.” Malcolm spoke from behind them, demonstrating that his eyesight was still sharper than any other man’s.
“Gowan’s on watch no’ far from the Warriors.” Alasdair frowned. “He’s up there with Wattie. They’re our best spearmen and most trustworthy guards. Neither one would leave his post-”
The blare of a horn signaled that the rider was indeed one of the lookouts.
“There’ll be trouble.” Alasdair flashed a look at Ewan and Malcolm as they left the solar, Alasdair striding ahead to reach the hall door. He threw it open to see Gowan spur his horse the last few yards through the tossing waves and into the arched gatehouse. Riding into the walled courtyard, the guard reined in just feet from the hall’s low steps.
“Norse longships, lord!” Gowan swung down from his panting beast. “Two of them, and huge. I’d say twenty-four oars each, maybe more.” Coming forward, he stopped before Alasdair and bent forward, bracing his hands on his thighs. “Came from different directions, they did. We thought they’d clash, fighting each other. But they raised oars at the last minute and flashed up side by side, before tearing off alone again.
“One went south” – he paused, taking a long, deep draw of air – “and the other shot inshore, passing our loch’s entry, but skirting the coast, more than suspicious.”
Alasdair waited until the guardsman straightened, then slung an arm around his shoulders, drawing him into the warmth of the hall. He nodded to Ewan, indicating he fetch Gowan a mug of ale.
“Longships are aye about in these waters.” Alasdair led Gowan to a bench, settling him at a table near the fire. A few women were still about in the hall and he didn’t want to alarm them. “Our own galleys often ply the coast, as do those of Hebridean chieftains, and a few from the scattered Norse enclaves still in the Outer Isles.
“They could’ve been from anywhere.” Alasdair didn’t believe it.
The way Gowan shook his head proved him right. “Nae, I dinnae think so.” He was adamant. “Not these longships. They were up to no good, sure as I’m sitting here.”
“Were they armed, arrayed for battle?” Alasdair frowned, again seeing the big, scar-faced Norseman who’d been at the joy women’s encampment.
He’d known the man was trouble.
“Nae, that wasn’t it.” Gowan nodded thanks when Ewan brought him a cup of ale. “The ships were black.”
“Black?” Alasdair looked at him.
“Aye.” Gowan drained the ale in one long gulp and then tossed aside the cup, dragged the back of his hand across his lips. “The devils must’ve painted pitch on their hulls and even the oar blades. Far as we could tell, the sails were black as well. And” – he shook his head, his brow creasing – “so were the men in the ships, every last one o’ them. We saw their black mail and cloaks by the light o’ the moon, no mistaking. Even their helmets were dark.”
“Black Vikings?” Malcolm folded his arms, his voice doubtful. “Such fiends haven’t been seen hereabouts in years, not since Clan MacConacher banished them some” – he paused, scratching his beard – “fifty years or more ago, it must’ve been. The Black Vikings sank the Merry Dancer, a merchant cog that was carrying a daughter of the House of MacKenzie. The great Duncan MacKenzie’s eldest girl, I believe.”
He looked around, seeming satisfied when a few men nodded, showing they remembered. “Darroc MacConacher found the lass washed ashore on his isle and saved her, even making her his bride. His vengeance on the Black Vikings who rammed her ship is legend. Bards still sing the tale.
“The MacConacher made sure the last Black Viking was swept into the bowels of hell. Those who didn’t perish beneath his sword or meet a watery grave were forced to flee to Brattahlid in distant Greenland, a frozen wasteland beyond the Ocean Called Dark as the Vikings call those northern seas.” Malcolm spoke with authority. “I remember MaConacher’s wrath. He vowed to rid these waters of Black Vikings, and did.
“That I say you.” Malcolm lifted his voice, making sure everyone heard him.
“I ken what I saw.” Gowan stood his ground. “Wattie will tell you the same when he comes down from Drangar Point in the morn.”
“Humph.” Malcolm set his mouth in a hard, tight line, saying no more. He also curled his hand around the finely-tooled leather belt slung low about his hips, where his sword would’ve been if he’d worn one.
Alasdair’s frown deepened. Vikings weren’t welcome in these waters. Not with Kendrew offering Marjory’s hand to any Norse warlord willing to bid on her.
Shoving back his hair, he strode away from Gowan and the men who’d gathered round him, badgering him with questions.
He couldn’t think with their babble in his ears.
Whipping back around, Alasdair closed the space between them in three swift strides. “Dinnae tell me you saw Drangar. If you do” – his voice was low, deadly earnest – “I’ll wonder if you and Wattie were into your cups rather than keeping watch.”
“What you think won’t change what was.” Gowan spat into the floor rushes. “Why do you think I rode so fast to get here? No’ because the two Viking ships flashed round to attack our coast, be sure. It was because old Drangar swooped at us from the mist, his long black cloak flying behind him like a shroud and his spear shooting flames from his spearhead. His eyes shone, too.
“Red as coals, they were.” He shuddered, rubbing his arms as if chilled. “And his scowl-”
“Was no more than the rainclouds sweeping in from the sea. The shooting flames will have been lightning. There was thunder earlier.” Alasdair looked up at the smoke-blackened rafters, praying for patience. “And Wattie? Was he no’ too frightened to stay on the cliffs alone?”
Gowan touched an iron charm that hung around his neck. “We drew straws to see who’d stay up at the Warriors, watching to see if the Black Vikings returned. Wattie lost.”
“Humph.” Alasdair went to one of the hall’s arrow slits, looked out at the weird mist still curling across the loch’s gleaming surface.
He’d seen the alarm on the faces of some of his younger warriors when Gowan burst into the hall, ranting about heathen Vikings and then, almost in the same breath, announcing the clan ghost was shrieking along the cliffs. If he didn’t squelch such blether swiftly, his most promising fighters would be reduced to quivering women.
“Drangar is a legend, no more.” He raised his voice, not hiding his annoyance. “The next man who claims he’s seen a bogle shall scour the cesspit until it shines brighter than his arse.”
“Aye, lord,” his men answered as one.
The silence that followed held more than a few grumbles.
Alasdair pretended not to hear.
Highlanders were a superstitious lot. Much to his regret, MacDonalds held an unpleasant penchant for trusting in charms, omens, and myth. The magic of the amber in his sword’s pommel was different, of course. Mist Chaser was an exceptional blade.
Seduction of a Highland Warrior (Highland Warriors Book 4) Page 9