Settled at his long table, Francis told them the story of the raid; how the ship had come in the morning, and how they had fought, and the lad, Thorvald, who was adopted in the town, had been taken. As they had fled, one of the raiders had flung a burning torch into the thatch of a smokery, and it was this which had burned. No homes had been lost, but the smokery would take time to rebuild.
“They got moving pretty quickly after they had him,” said Francis. “There’s no doubt that they came for him and had a description of him. It was not like any raid I’ve ever seen. They showed no interest in plunder, only in fighting, and then capturing the boy. It was an extraction mission, pure and simple, and they put their lives on the line tae do it. They had their orders, alright, and they stuck to them. Somebody wanted your nephew out of the way,” he said, looking at Iain.
“My... nephew?” said Iain.
“Yer brother’s son, aye, the bishop’s son. That’s who Thorvald is, is it not? Is that not why ye are here?”
The shock and surprise must have shown plain on the faces of the Grants, for Francis Harcus and the other elders laughed aloud.
“Come, Mr Grant,” Francis said to Iain. “Orkney is a small place. Ye did not think such a secret could be kept quiet, even among those who fostered him, in a place like this? Oh, we were never told outright, but it was plain enough for those with eyes who the lad was... Ah, but here’s his foster-father, Tom Fisher.”
The door opened to admit a tired-looking man, who came up and greeted them before sitting down.
“He is a good lad,” said Tom, “and though we have been well paid to keep him, we love him like our own son, my wife and me. So, it’s true, then? He’s the son of the old bishop? Well, we always knew really, and this only confirms it. But what are we going to do now? Do ye know why he was taken?”
“Not for sure,” answered Iain, “but we know that there is an inheritance.”
He looked around the table, sizing up the men who sat there, the solemn village elders.
“My friends, I’m going tae tell ye something which I have kept tae myself. Something which my late brother told me and my son and daughter-in-law before he died. I’m trusting ye, for I believe ye are good men of integrity who only want the best for the lad.”
They all nodded, and Francis spoke for them.
“It is as ye say, the boy is one of our own, and we would do much tae get him back.”
Iain took a breath. “Well,” he said, “before the end, my brother told me that he considers Thorvald’s inheritance the key to power in the Orkney Islands. He used the words: ‘the key to the Earldom.’ From what I’ve seen so far, this key is a prize for which many men might play a dangerous and desperate game.”
There was a long silence while the elders digested this new information. After a while, Tom Fisher spoke quietly into the silence.
“Neil Gow-Sinclair.” All the men around the table nodded.
“What?” asked Iain. “Who is Neil Gow-Sinclair?”
Francis answered him.
“He is the only man about these parts with the gall tae do what was done here this morning. The only man who still calls himself a pirate. He is some kind of bastard relative of the Earl of Caithness, but the Earl will have little tae do with him these days. Neil’s ancestor is the famous pirate John Gow, who was hanged in Stromness, oh, it must be fifty years ago now. Like his ancestor, Neil is an Orkney man by birth, but also like his ancestor got into trouble here and fled west over the great sea, pirating around the Americas and building up quite a fortune and a reputation for bloodthirstiness too. He should have stayed away, but he came back, and instead of using his fortune tae settle down quietly somewhere and stay out of trouble, he set up in a castle somewhere on the north coast of the mainland, and hires himself out tae anybody who wants dirty work done.”
“Ye think he has been hired then? Someone has paid him tae do this?”
“Who can tell? The Sinclair family were long the Earls of Orkney. Perhaps Neil himself covets the title and learned somehow about the lad’s inheritance? Perhaps he wishes tae use Thorvald for his own ends? He has a niece, they say, a beautiful girl he has raised like a daughter. Perhaps he hopes to marry her tae Thorvald and so secure the Earldom for his family?”
“But surely,” added John, “it’s impossible this pirate should know the importance of the inheritance?”
“Who can tell?” said Francis. “And, of course, there is always Magnus Bain...”
“We met him, just before we left,” said Iain. “What can ye tell us about him?”
“It’s well known in Orkney that Sir Magnus Bain hates the church,” said Francis, “and it’s suspected that he covets the Earldom for himself. His family held that honour once too, ye know. Perhaps he wishes tae hold it again. Perhaps he has decided tae take action. He has the money enough to hire the pirate, that’s for sure, and his reputation is... well...”
Tom thumped his hand on the table in exasperation, interrupting Francis’ speculation.
“This is getting us nowhere,” he said with some heat. “What we need tae do is figure out how tae get the boy back. That’s what matters. We could speculate on the pirate’s motivations until the dawn comes, and it won’t get us any closer tae getting Thorvald back!”
“Easy, Tom,” said Francis in a soothing voice. “All this has value. But I agree that we must think of the practicalities. So,” he held up a hand, counting out the points of his logic on his big fingers. “The first point: they came in hard and fast, with a full complement of fighting men, but they kept their sails ducked and ready, and left immediately after their transport boats were back aboard. That means they must have had a full crew on board too. That’s nearly a hundred men all told, and for a ship that size, that’s a big number.”
“And what can ye tell from that?” asked Alice.
“That they were not planning a significant journey. Ye cannot carry enough supplies for a long voyage with that many men on a ship that size. So they left their home port and come straight here, and they will go straight back. The lad is no use tae anyone far away from home, whether it’s Sir Magnus Bain who wants him or Neil Gow-Sinclair. And they want him alive, that is clear from his method of capture. They lost men of their own tae take him alive, and that speaks of the importance of Thorvald’s safety tae their mission. So, they can’t have gone far – probably tae some base or outpost either here in Orkney, or on one of the smaller uninhabited islands, or more likely, back tae their castle on the mainland. Ye have a ship, Mr Grant?”
“We do.”
“Then my advice is this. Sleep here tonight if ye will, then go back tae Kirkwall and see yer friend Benedict, the bishop-in-waiting. They have maps and charts aplenty in the bishop’s palace, and I’ll be surprised if Benedict cannot point ye toward Neil’s hideout. He will furnish ye with soldiers too, no doubt, but there are men here in the village trained for fighting who would willingly accompany ye on yer mission. What do ye say?”
Chapter Ten
“Damn this cold and draughty hall!” grumbled Neil, slamming his empty mug down on the table in front of him. Juarez huffed his agreement and refilled the captain’s cup from a pitcher. Anne sat ignored, picking at the remains of her food. She had a cup of beer at her elbow, but it was mainly for show; Neil would not sit with those who could not enjoy a drink, and failing genuine enjoyment, he would accept pretence.
“And damn this rat’s piss of a brew, too!” he swore, swilling a mouthful of the beer back and then spitting some of it onto the floor. It was terrible, she had to admit. It tasted like damp and mildew, more like the smell of the hall than the taste of beer.
“Some rum, that’s what I’d kill for now,” said Juarez gloomily.
“Aye,” said the captain. “Some rum, like we used to get back in the old days, eh? Back in the Caribbean seas, Juarez, those were the good days, eh?”
“Those were the good days, Captain,” echoed the first mate.
For all that the
beer tasted foul, it was strong enough. They might miss rum, but were drinking enough of the beer to make up for it. Neil, who had the kind of capacity for drink that only comes with long, committed practice, was knocking back mug after mug of the foul stuff, and his drunkenness was approaching the dangerous stage. Soon he would roar and curse, and Anne only hoped he would get enough of it to send him into oblivion.
“Why doesn’t my damned cousin send us something decent tae drink, eh?” Neil complained. “Up in his fancy new house, and most likely with all the drink and food he could wish for too, and a roaring fire, and women, too, eh? And here I am, drinking bad beer and freezing my tackle off in this draughty cavern, and what do I have for company? You!”
His eyes turned to Anne, and she glanced down. Long ago she had learned to accept her uncle’s tirades. There was little else she could do, and verbal abuse was better than the physical violence which could quickly develop.
“Why don’t ye go see yer boy, eh? All cold up in his tower, I’ll bet. Maybe he needs ye tae go warm him up. Ye’d like that, wouldn’t ye, eh?”
He sat back in his chair, making a disgusted sound when she did not respond to his taunting.
“Take him up some gruel, why don’t ye, and a mug of that foul beer. See if he likes it any more than I do. Ach, go on, I’m sick of the sight of you.”
Anne said nothing, but bobbed her head and rose from the table, eyes down. The hall was vast and cold and draughty, smelling of mildew and rotten wool. It had perhaps once been a happy place. Anne could almost imagine the roar of conversation, the bright lights of many torches, the rich smells of roasting meat filling the space when it had been the dwelling place of her uncle’s cousin, the Earl of Caithness. Now that this castle was partly ruinous, the Earl moved to his new house further inland, and this place was fit only for the Earl’s drunken, morose, disgraced old pirate cousin and his brutalised niece.
Neil and Juarez were sitting by the flickering light of the mean little fire dwarfed by the large grate. She left them, retreating with her uncle’s curses as she made her way toward the door that led to the kitchen. There she found Peter, the old cook, morosely stirring a pot over a small fire. A cold wind seeped around the cracks in the shutters.
“Peter…”
“Yes, miss?”
“The captain has asked me to take a bowl of gruel up to the prisoner, and a mug of ale.”
“Ah. At his cups, is he?”
“Aye.”
They had an understanding, these two. Unlike many in those days, Captain Gow-Sinclair did not disdain Peter for the colour of his skin. Instead, he resented him for much the same reasons that he disliked his young niece – he could sense behind those dark and patient eyes a quick wit, an intelligence that he did not possess. He resented, too, the natural respect which the wise old cook garnered with his crew, as was often the case with Alice also. Neil Gow-Sinclair was a dangerous man, a cruel, violent, cunning man, but he was not an intelligent man, and he did not understand the difference between respect earned and fear instilled.
The dull, ill-formed anger of the stupid man rose to choke the captain when he looked at his cook, and while everyone was given leave to sleep, old Peter was here, stirring a pot for his drunken captain; much like Anne. And so, the two, old and young, understood one another in ways that could not be expressed easily in words.
Peter dolloped a spoonful of gruel into a bowl and pushed it into her hands.
“Beer?” she asked. He nodded to where a huge jug stood beside a pile of recently washed mugs at one end of a long table.
“Thanks.”
From the draughty hall came the raucous sound of the captain’s drunken laughter, and the amused murmur of Juarez. Anne took her burden and fled.
It had quickly become apparent that no one wanted to regularly climb the long stairway up to Thorvald’s room, and so Anne, already burdened with the task of caring for his wound, had automatically taken over the responsibility of bringing him food and water at regular intervals. She did not mind that, and liked the lad, though she did not yet realise that he was the most exciting thing that had happened in her life for a very long time.
“Thorvald?” she called through the door. “I’m coming in. Don’t try anything, alright?”
Silence. He had been docile enough when the captain had wanted to see him earlier, and though she had got the better of him twice in a fight, it never hurt to be wary.
“Thorvald?” she called again.
“On my honour, lady,” came the voice from the other side. “I have no wish tae be beaten around the head by ye again.”
She had to smile as the key creaked in the stiff lock, and the door swung inwards. She crabbed in through the gap, carrying the gruel and beer.
Thorvald was sitting cross-legged on the floor by the hearth. Around him, splinters of wood were scattered. Stacked on the hearth was a neat pile of sticks, and in the grate, a small but merry fire was burning. There was no sign of the chair which had stood by the window, and the table was leaning against one wall, missing its legs. The bedframe was gone, too, just a pile of straw lying in the corner.
“I thought I’d leave the shutters,” he said, by way of explanation.
“Probably a good idea,” Anne said doubtfully. “But ye... ye burned the furniture?”
“Woodworm riddled most of it,” he said and shrugged. “I tried to sit in the chair, and it just about split itself into kindling. That’s what gave me the idea at first. And that straw mattress didn’t deserve the name. It was foul with mouse-droppings, and God only knows what else. The captain said I was tae be treated well,” he reminded her coldly.
She put the gruel and the beer down before him.
“I’ve brought ye food and drink.”
“So I see.” He eyed it dubiously.
“It’s as good as any in the castle have had this night,” she said with a flash of irritation in her voice. His dark eyes flickered up and met hers for the first time.
“And better than many have had, too, no doubt,” he relented.
“Aye, well...” There wasn’t much to say to that.
By comparison with the dank corridor outside, Thorvald’s little room was cosy and snug, and Anne found that she was not eager to leave it. She stood awkwardly, watching the handsome youth as he took up the soup bowl and drank, grimaced, then drank again.
“That’s actually not too bad,” he said with a grudging surprise, taking his time over the last few mouthfuls.
“Our cook knows how tae do a lot with very little,” she said by way of explanation. Suddenly a thought struck her.
“How did ye kindle fire?” she asked. He gave her a long look, and a slow smile spread across his face.
“Easy enough tae create a spark, my lass, when ye have one of these...”
He shifted his knee and reached down to draw forth a small, sharp knife, identical to the one she had confiscated from him after their fight on the ship. She took a step back and quickly drew in a breath.
“Never carry just one boot knife,” he said, his smile broadening as he slipped it away again. “Ye never know which side ye may need tae draw from!”
He laughed aloud at the consternation on her face as the glinting thing disappeared back into his boot.
“Yer folk were rank bunglers not tae have searched me from top to toe!” he said jovially. “I could have had all kinds of things secreted about my person, and nobody would have been any the wiser. Lockpicks, gold, who knows! But, unfortunately, I am not a foresighted man. I did not expect any of this, and here I am now, with only my boot knife on my person, and handy as it may be for starting fires I do not fancy fighting a whole troop of yer pirates with it. No, for now, I choose tae remain here and see what comes. And what should come up the stairs but ye yerself, once again, come tae check on me and bring me food and drink? My fair jailor...”
He raised his mug to her in a mocking salute and drank deep. Then he gasped and made a face.
“Ugh, t
hat’s foul! What is that?”
“The only beer in the place,” she replied. Shaking his head mournfully, he put it back down.
“Ye people,” he said. “Ye’d think ye would do better for yerselves from a life of thieving and kidnapping. The only beer in the place? Good God. I’ve tasted three-day-old fish with more savour than what’s in that mug.”
“My uncle said much the same.”
She found that she had drawn close to the fire now and, without really meaning to had begun to warm her hands. A moment ago, she had been painfully aware of the closed-door at her back and the lack of a weapon in her hand, and the sharp little knife in his. Now, those feelings had vanished, and all she felt was the cold and his eyes on her. My fair jailor...
Fighting For A Highland Lass (Defenders 0f The Highlands Book 3) Page 7