“There is indeed a story, sir,” she said, “but I don’t think now is the time tae tell it. I am... Neil Gow-Sinclair is my uncle, and I... I have lived long under his protection. There is some connection between Neil and the Earl of Caithness, I don’t know what. But if this Sir Magnus has gone tae the Earl, then I fear very much that all three are in league against us. Should we not flee, now, as soon as we can? Hamish, Ingrid, cannot a boat be arranged for us? I dread tae think that will happen if Sir Magnus or my uncle, or even both of them realise we are here, as they surely must before long.”
Hallam, Hamish, and Ingrid had all sat up straight and gazed at her in wonder when she admitted her connection with the infamous pirate. Now they sat in silence, thinking. Eventually, Ingrid spoke slowly, forming each word carefully as if she wanted to be absolutely sure they understood what she was saying.
“I believe ye are good people,” she said, “and I believe ye have good things tae do. Anne, it horrifies me tae think what a life ye may have lived up to now, as a close relative of that tyrant – his reputation in these parts is evil, as ye must know. But I have said I will help ye, and so I shall. Hamish?”
The old innkeeper nodded his head slowly.
“Aye,” he said, “no one should be judged by the actions of their relations. I do not judge ye. I agree with my wife here – ye are good folk, and we owe ye our help, as best as we can give it. Have ye much gear? I know where we may get a boat and right away.”
He rose, and they all agreed that if possible, they would leave straight away. Hallam sat down and took some food at the insistence of Ingrid Sinclair. The jumpy young priest was pale and worn and looked like he needed it. Anne and Thorvald went upstairs to pack the few possessions they still had – their knapsacks, empty but for the empty waterskins, a couple of blankets, and the brandy bottle, but of good make. They said little as they packed, but stopped to embrace tightly for a long moment before heading back downstairs to the common room.
Hamish came back in through the front door and had with him Seamus McMillan, who had rescued them from the rock just the day before. Seamus looked well, with bright eyes and a ruddy glow to his weathered cheeks. His long grey beard was carefully combed, and he took a shapeless flat cap from his head as he entered.
“Well, good day everybody,” he said cordially, inclining his head to the priest, to Ingrid, and to Anne and Thorvald. “My friend Hamish here tells me ye need passage north tae Orkney, as quickly as possible? It seems that great events hang on this, and Hamish has told me only a little, but I can guess more, I think, and that is enough for me tae be going on with. Hamish tells me that ye are pursued? There is a big sailing ship coming intae the bay as we speak, and I do not like the look of that. I suggest we leave without further delay. Perhaps ye can tell me more of it on the way. The back door, I think.”
Anne and Thorvald made their hasty farewells to Hamish and Ingrid, promising to come again in happier times if fate allowed them that opportunity. Ingrid embraced Anne and whispered in her ear, “ye keep him safe, now, lass!” Anne squeezed her tightly and said nothing.
The little party hurried down toward the shoreline. It was not far, and they could see Seamus’s boat awaiting them on the pier. As they approached, Seamus glanced up with an experienced eye at the sky. It had been clear, but clouds were beginning to gather over the land, and the ever-present sea wind had an edge to it.
“I don’t like the look of those clouds,” he muttered, “but we have little choice. At least the wind is driving north and will speed us on our way. Hopefully, it will not take more than a day for us tae reach Orkney.”
They clambered down into the boat. Sure enough, in the distance, they could see a large ship coming in toward the bay of Harrow under full sail from the west.
“She’s a big one,” was all Seamus said. Whether she had anything to do with their flight or plight, none could tell. Seamus uncoiled the rope from the wooden stake to free the little boat when Thorvald looked back toward the village. He leaned forward, his eyes protruding in horror, grabbing Anne’s arm and pointing back.
“Look,” he cried. “It’s him!”
Anne and Hallam followed where Thorvald’s finger was pointing, and their stomachs turned to water at sight. Maybe half a mile away, outside the big square inn, a monstrous figure sat upon a great black horse. Even at this distance, they could all see the sunlight glinting on his steel plate, and striking notes of blood-red from his magnificent beard.
Sir Magnus Bain saw them at the same time. The horse wheeled, and Hallam clutched at Seamus McMillan in his panic.
“Mr McMillan!” he cried. “Get us underway, quick!”
“Easy, lad,” said the old highlander, seemingly unperturbed, “don’t pinch. Please, stay back, give me room tae work. Don’t fret, we still have a few minutes, even if he comes down at full gallop. With this wind rising, that’s plenty of time.”
Hallam fell back into the boat, clutching at his silver chain. Helpless, the three of them watched as the terrifying figure grew closer as he rode toward them at the fastest speed his tired horse could manage. Seamus worked steadily at his sail, and just as they started to hear the thunder of the horse’s hooves, the sail caught the wind, belled out, and began to draw the little boat along.
“Steady away!” cried Seamus as if he was calling orders to his crew. “Steady as she goes!” He lashed a rope to an eyelet on the side of the boat to keep the sail’s angle stable, then sat down in the stern, his hand on the wooden handle of the tiller. The little boat picked up speed, until, with incredible swiftness, they found themselves racing away from the pier into deeper water.
The three fugitives gazed back at the rapidly retreating pier. Sir Magnus had ridden right to the edge of it, but then he had dismounted, and he stood glaring out furiously after them. They watched his ominous figure as it stood, still as marble, on the end of the tiny wooden pier at Harrow. The first few drops of rain just starting to fall.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“He’s coming back,” cried Hamish Sinclair to his wife. “Get yerself back in the house!”
“Och, hold yer wheesht, man,” replied Ingrid. “Ye’ve as much reason tae get away inside as I do. Stop yer havering and get ready!”
Hamish heard a loud snap and looked around to see his stout wife priming a massive, old-fashioned, breech-loading, double-barrelled musket. As he watched, she loaded big cartridges into each chamber, rammed the powder home and snapped the breach closed. Several other villagers had appeared, and they were holding hay forks or fish-gutting knives, and one or two had pistols or swords.
“Grab yer pistols, man!” Ingrid shouted at him, and he leapt as if stung, running to where he kept a brace of pistols sitting under the bar. It had been so long since he’d put them there that he’d nearly forgotten about them, but they were primed and loaded. Would the charge still work, he wondered? He hoped so. He might need them if the hand-held artillery piece his wife was snapping shut did not frighten the brute off first. Hamish watched with a mixture of disbelief, admiration, and consternation as she swung the monstrous firearm onto her shoulder and stumped out of the door. Pistols in hand, pointing upward, he followed her more cautiously.
In the muddy space that served as Harrow’s central square, Sir Magnus Bain stood facing seven or eight armed villagers. He seemed perturbed, unsure of how to proceed, and uncertain even if their animosity was definitely aimed at him. He made no move for his axe but just stood there, completely still except for his massive head, which moved slowly from side to side, regarding them all carefully.
“Now then,” cried Ingrid in a stern voice, “just ye up and be off back tae where ye came from!”
Sir Magnus’ head stopped swinging and fixed on her.
“I cannot, not without a boat,” he said, mildly. His voice was a deep, carrying rumble, though it sounded rusty, as if from lack of use. A steady, light rain had begun to fall.
“Will anyone sell me a boat?”
&nbs
p; Nobody moved.
“There are no boats for sale here,” called a man from the back of the crowd.
“None?” rumbled Sir Magnus. “Very well. I will go. I can tell where I am not wanted.”
Slowly, he climbed up onto the back of the horse. Ten pairs of wary eyes followed him. He turned his horse’s head to pass the crowd by on the left-hand side, and rode away, back toward the road.
* * *
Out in Harrow Bay, Captain Morton of the Grants’ ship Endeavour was watching the sky as he ordered the sails furled, the anchors dropped, and the landing craft prepared. Iain Grant stood beside him on the quarter-deck, looking toward the land.
“There,” said the captain pointing, “is the village of Harrow. According tae the map, a day’s march on the southward road from Harrow takes ye tae the Castle of Mey, the home of Earl William of Caithness.”
“It’s a good thing ye have decided tae go ashore now, anyway,” he went on, gesturing toward the grey clouds building up over the land. “That looks like a storm brewing. We’re best just tae anchor the Endeavour here for today and tonight anyway, and ye will be better ashore.”
Iain nodded his agreement.
“Look there,” he said, pointing at a little single-sailed craft which was heading away from the pier at Harrow at a good clip. “There’s a boat not afraid to set sail, despite the storm.”
The captain looked where Iain was pointing.
“Aye, right enough,” he said. “Either they’re brave, or foolhardy, or perhaps they are planning tae come back soon. Whatever it is, I don’t think they have much chance of outrunning that storm if they are going far. I’ll give the order tae get the landing craft ready.”
After the disappointment of finding that their journey east had been wasted, Iain, Alice, and John had agreed that the best course of action was to visit the Earl of Caithness at his home, Castle Mey. Benedict’s map was excellent; it was only his guess at which castle was Neil’s base that had been wrong. He could not be blamed for that. However, the chart he had given them had no less than seven castles marked along the Caithness coastline, and so rather than wasting time in going back to Orkney – or risk wasting more time by trying to look at every castle on the map themselves – they had decided to go to the man who had the most chance of having accurate intelligence on the movements of the pirates. Earl William Sinclair had the reputation of being a diligent, systematic man, and a great lover of the rule of law. If anyone were able to help them in their hunt, it would be him.
“We should perhaps have gone to him in the first place,” John had opined, once the decision had been made. They had all been unable to disagree.
The rain began to fall, not heavily, but steadily, as the landing boats were lowered. Iain, John, and Alice were going, along with a picked group of ten men, including Tom Fisher and other representatives from Skylness. Most of the other fighting men elected to stay on board ship despite the storm, but a few asked leave to go on shore, mainly men from Skylness who had people they knew in Harrow – the harbour villages through which traffic passed had their fair share of extended Orcadian family members and friends.
As the little boats made their way toward the pier, Iain became aware that there seemed to be a welcoming party awaiting them on the shore.
“What’s this?” Iain wondered out loud to his daughter-in-law. Alice just shrugged.
When they tied up at the pier and began to disembark, they were met by a solid-looking, grey-haired man of middle years, who introduced himself as Hamish Sinclair, and whom the others in the little band seemed to defer to. Looking around, Iain realised uncomfortably that most of them were armed, if crudely, with farming implements, or sticks and cudgels. Here and there, a drawn sword glinted. Hamish Sinclair, who seemed to be their leader, had a pistol in his hand and another in his belt, though he did not handle the gun like a man who was comfortable or used to shooting.
“Ye will pardon me, sir, but I feel I must ask ye tae name yerself and yer business before I let ye disembark here with a troop of armed men,” Hamish said.
“My name is Iain Grant, and I’m Chief of the Clan Grant, who dwell in our ancient lands on the east coast, south of the port city of Aberdeen. As for my business, that is with the Earl William Sinclair of Caithness. I’m bound for the Castle of Mey. Most of these men with me are my picked guard, though some of them are from Orkney and have people they wish to see here in Harrow. This is my son and heir, John Grant, and his wife, Alice.”
Hamish Sinclair stepped back a pace and flapped his hand in a downward motion at his followers.
“I beg yer pardon, Mr Grant,” he said, “but when ye have heard what has happened with us here recently – even today – ye will understand, perhaps, why we have seemed so hostile. Please, come ashore and bring yer folk. Come up tae the inn. I, too, have words that I might say tae the Earl, and I think that if I may, I shall accompany ye.”
“Very well,” said Iain, intrigued. “But may I ask, who are ye in this town? Are ye a magistrate? An officer of the law? Ye seem tae be the man in charge here, but ye have no uniform...”
Hamish grinned and reddened a little.
“Perhaps I hold more authority by my position than any of those offices, Mr Grant,” he said. “This is a small place. I am the innkeeper.”
Their laughter echoed from the buildings as they walked up toward the town, a pleasant sound in the grey light after a morning of trouble and fear.
After an hour’s delay, it was agreed that Hamish would hitch up the fish cart to Malcolm McRob’s new horse and that he, the Grants, Tom Fisher, and five of their men would ride in the cart out to the Castle of Mey. This way, Hamish assured them, they would get to the castle before nightfall, whereas on foot they would hardly make it before tomorrow morning.
Hamish told Iain nothing of what had been going on in the village, and Iain was equally reticent about his business. Both men liked each other on sight, even felt like they should trust one another, and yet both were so wary that neither was quite able to make the decision to trust the other sufficiently enough to reveal what they knew. Hamish discussed it with his wife in a quiet moment, while the Grants were taking some food and drink with Tom Fisher in the kitchen.
“It seems that their business is connected somehow with the lad and lassie we have just sent away, but how?” he said. “Do ye think I should tell the chieftain? I mean, why would the chief of such a far-off clan be up here, if it was not for such a business as this?”
“I can’t say,” said Ingrid, “but I think ye are right tae be careful. Ye are better tae mistrust him now and learn the mistake later than tae trust him now and learn the mistake later, do ye know what I mean?”
“Aye, I do,” said Hamish. “There’s something else that’s eating me, though, and I can’t put my finger on it.”
“Well, what is it?”
“Grant. His name is Grant. We don’t have any Grants this far north, and there’s none in Orkney either, yet I know the name for some reason. Grant, Grant... what does it remind me of, Ingrid?”
“I don’t know,” said Ingrid, with an exaggerated shrug. “Grant – it means nothing tae me. These are the first Grants I’ve ever come across, knowingly, at least.”
“Ah, well. Perhaps I’ll remember in time.”
They got in the cart and hitched the horse, and Hamish himself sat up at the front of the cart and drove the well-trained horse down the southward road. The horse was nominally Malcolm McRob’s, but he was abed, still drunk from his excess of the night before. After that fateful night when Sir Magnus Bain had come to their village and handed Malcolm £200 in gold, Malcolm had taken to drinking heavily. He had bought a new horse, as he had promised, and so the village’s morning catch was still able to be transported to the nearest large town, but Malcolm himself seemed unable to handle the sudden wealth. Folk in the village had hoped he would use it to improve his lot in life, and perhaps snare the wife he had so long been missing, but so far all he seemed to ha
ve done was delegate responsibility for delivering the morning’s catch to whoever was sober enough to do it, because he so rarely was.
So it was that there were no objections from Malcolm as they strapped up the horse and cart and set off on the bumpy road toward the Castle of Mey. Iain sat at the front, side-by-side with Hamish. They spoke together of inconsequential things, while the rain became slowly heavier and the wind gradually increased, and Anne and Thorvald in their tiny boat got further and further out to sea.
The Castle of Mey was a compact, asymmetrical building with a long central hall which was crowded in on all sides by a mob of squat, forbidding-looking turreted towers. As they approached it, the rain drove steadily at an angle into their faces, Iain Grant found his eye skipping over it, seeing only a jumble of masonry looming at him out of the rain, stubby towers, tall towers, buttresses and lighted windows, and the flag of the Earl of Caithness flying out high above the disorderly mass. There was a smell of woodsmoke in the wet air.
Fighting For A Highland Lass (Defenders 0f The Highlands Book 3) Page 18