They rode up to the gate, and a liveried sentry with a fixed bayonet upon his shoulder challenged them. When Iain declared himself and his companions – with full clan titles – the sentry startled visibly, and then shouted for another soldier to ‘run and tell the colonel.’ He then ushered Iain and his party in through the gates, where they found themselves in a generous courtyard, with the thickset castle turrets looming over them in the rain.
“My Lord Grant?” called a voice. Iain turned to see a stout but upright man in a dress uniform approaching him, hand outstretched.
“I am Colonel Colquhoun, in charge of the garrison here at Mey,” he said. “Please, follow me inside. I will take ye up tae the Earl, and yer folk may wait in the main entrance hall, where they will be fed.”
Once inside the warm and well-appointed entrance hall, Iain stopped Colonel Colquhoun.
“Two things, Colonel,” he said quietly, “first, I am lord of nothing – plain Mr Grant is the only way you need address me. Secondly, my son and his wife are here with me, and a representative from the village of Harrow, and one from Orkney, all of whom desire to see the Earl too. We shall all four come up together to see him, for I believe our business is connected.”
“May I ask,” said the Colonel, after a slight hesitation, “if you are also connected in any way with Sir Magnus Bain?” His voice was low and alive with distaste.
“Bain? No. But we know of him,” said Iain. “Can I take you to mean that he has also been here?”
“I believe I shall let my Lord the Earl answer that question. Please, come with me.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
William Sinclair, 10th Earl of Caithness, was relatively new to his role. He had been the Earl for less than five years, though he had made himself known throughout the region before then, making his mark and cementing his reputation by travelling between the villages and towns and dealing with the problems of the people as best he could. When his elder brother, the 9th Earl, had passed the title and responsibility on, William had felt well equipped to take it. Today, however, he felt less confident than usual.
It had been a bad start. He woke early that morning with a sour gut and a bad taste in his mouth, and the acrid taste in his throat persisted throughout the day. His belly ached, and his head hurt, and over it, all was the sensation that trouble more trouble than usual – was on the way.
The Earl was a big, solid man of middle years, ruddy-faced and with a kindly eye. Though he had no problem enjoying the finer things in life – the good food and excellent drink that were the perks of his position – he was by no means a sensualist. He ate and drank as he lived: carefully, and with thought. William was a practical man, a lover of maps and plans, a man who liked best for there to be a place for everything, and for everything to be in its place.
But now, he sat frowning behind his desk as he watched his papers being hurriedly cleared away. All was no longer in its place, and he felt further disorder brewing.
The day had begun well enough – he went through his drills with a practice sword until sweat broke on his brow, as he always did, despite his protesting gut and aching back. Afterwards, he washed with cold water and took a light meal, with only a small glass of white wine. Then, since the rain was coming down outside, and the land was cold and grey and quiet, he ordered an excellent fire in his principal study, called his chief clerk, Mr Mason, to his side, and began work on a series of huge and intricate ledgers, covering the income and outgoings for his Earldom over the last twenty years.
It was the kind of task he enjoyed – a place for everything, and everything in its place – and his colleague and clerk Mr Mason was a diligent and experienced worker who appreciated William’s attention to detail and desire for order. Together, they had settled to their agreeable task in companionable silence and continued so until mid-morning, when a servant came in, looking somewhat rattled, and announced the presence of Sir Magnus Bain.
“It is vexing,” he said to Mr Mason, who stood by the table now with an armful of papers. “What can the man want?”
Mason, a small, pert, intelligent man in a grey wig, glanced up at his lord with a bright glint of amusement in his eye.
“If I could tell ye that, sir, I’d be more use tae ye as a fortune-teller than a clerk,” he said. They were old colleagues, these two, and the Earl just rolled his eyes and laughed at his clerk's impertinence.
“In all seriousness, though, sir,” Mr Mason continued, “it may be a matter of importance. Sir Magnus Bain is well known in Orkney – a wealthy man, and a man of some power and influence, it’s said. It will be wise tae see him without delay, I’m thinking.”
“Well, well, let us take ten minutes tae tie things up here and then I’ll see him. Is that alright, Mr Mason?”
“Perfectly, sir,” replied the clerk with a bob of the head, and the Earl dismissed the servant who had brought the message. The Earl’s will was, of course, unquestionable in all matters of business within the castle, and they both knew it, but Mr Mason liked very much that despite this, his master offered him the courtesy of checking first. Mr Mason continued to mark the places in the ledgers and clear away the writing things, preparing to leave.
“And send up some refreshment for our guest, and for us,” Earl William called after the retreating servant. “Mr Mason, kindly do not clear everything right away, just move the inks and the working papers out of the way; I desire to continue working on this project once we have seen our visitor. So ye say ye have heard of him? Bain... the name rings a bell. Were they not the Earls of the Orkney Islands once?”
“Aye, sir, that they were,” replied the clerk, “as were your family, the Sinclairs, though in much more recent years than the Bains.”
The Earl made a little ‘humph’ of displeasure.
“Long enough ago still, Mr Mason, long enough. I know nothing of him that I can recall. Tell me what ye know of him?”
“Well, he is, as I’ve said, a man with a reputation, if my memory serves,” said the clerk thoughtfully, searching in his memory as he moved the books and inks to a side table. “A fierce fellow, and one with a penchant for... well, I won’t say for violence, exactly, but for striking fear intae the hearts of folk. He lived on a big estate up in the north of the islands, and many are the servants who leave his service and travel south again. The tales they tell of him would curdle yer blood, and it’s said that the man has few servants, and all of them are of the most unworthy sort; the kind who would get no work elsewhere.”
“Ah, but ye ken what folk are like for making up tales about their betters, Mr Mason, and dismissed servants are the worst of all. Is that yer only source for the man’s reputation?”
“Largely,” said the clerk, consideringly. “He’s said tae have a loathing of the Kirk, and of the Bishops. He will not worship in any of their buildings but has caused a wee chapel tae be built on his own land, on the site of an ancient Kirk from back in the Norse days, which is still considered sacred ground, amid an old heathen burial ground. It’s a fearful place, by all accounts. They say he worships there alone, crying out tae the Lord on bended knees before a great stone altar, but whether anybody is listening...”
“Oh, come, now, Mason,” said the Earl in a chiding tone. “The Lord hears us all, no matter how uncouth our practices may seem tae others, and it’s unworthy of ye tae suggest otherwise, whatever the man’s reputation. He sounds like an eccentric, I’ll grant ye that, but he does not sound like he is doing anything wrong. Anyway, we’ll find out who he is and what he is about soon enough, eh?”
And so they did. When Sir Magnus was announced, the Earl stood, his hands flat on the table, suppressing a painful acid belch from his rebellious gut. When the door was pushed back, and the gigantic armoured figure of Sir Magnus lumbered into the room, the Earl stood up straighter and felt his eyes widen, and he heard his clerk gasp, “Jesus save us,” from his place behind the Earl. Sir Magnus certainly was a disturbing sight. There was the armour, of course, an u
nusual sight in these days, and that, coupled with the size of the man and his great red beard and beady, fierce eyes would have been enough to make any man step back. But the thing that struck the Earl the most was that Sir Magnus looked ill. In fact, he looked as if he were walking near the edge of death. His face was blotchy, and patches of yellow stood out on his skin. The red of his hair had lost its lustre, too, and his hair and beard were rough and dry as straw. The whites of his bloodshot eyes were yellowed, and when he bared his teeth in a grimacing mockery of a smile of greeting, his teeth were stained and outlined with dried blood. Even from that distance, the Earl could hear a rattle in the giant’s breathing, deep inside his chest, and for all his height and girth he was not fat – indeed, his cheekbones looked hollow under his dark eye sockets. Earl William suspected that under the massive suit of armour, there was little flesh to speak of.
The giant man raised a gloved and gauntleted hand to his mouth and coughed, distractedly glancing at his hand and then wiping it on the edge of the vast but much-tattered cloak which wrapped him. All in all, thought Earl William, he looked more ghoul than man, but he deserved no less respect for all that.
“Sir Magnus Bain,” said the Earl, “ye honour us. Will ye sit and take some refreshment with me?”
Sir Magnus seemed to consider this for a moment, but then he nodded and came forward.
“Aye, that would be welcome, thank ye,” he said, sitting carefully in the wooden chair which the Earl gestured to as servants came in and laid little pastries beside wine and glasses on the Earl’s table. Sir Magnus put one in his mouth with his gloved hand and chewed slowly as if his teeth pained him. He regarded the Earl steadily.
“So, what can I do for ye?” asked the Earl. The giant breathed, seeming to consider how to approach a difficult topic. Now that he was closer, the Earl could smell him. He smelled terrible, like clothes that have been slept in for many nights in a row, with an undercurrent of sickness. William put his pastry back down on the plate, untouched, and took a sip of wine.
“Why do ye harbour the pirate, Neil Gow-Sinclair?”
The question caught the Earl off-guard, and he choked a little on his wine.
“Pirate is a bad word, Sir Magnus,” he said when he had recovered himself. Sir Magnus quirked an eyebrow at him, a faint look of amusement on his face despite his obvious pain and illness.
“Nevertheless, I do not withdraw it,” he replied. “The man is known throughout this land as a raider and a bandit for hire, and yet he sleeps in one of your castles and is fed out of your stocks, on your personal authority. Why do ye harbour him, Earl William?”
“Why do ye say this? That he sleeps in my castle and eats my food? What evidence have ye tae back up this accusation?”
“Do ye deny it?”
“No, but I ask ye tae show me yer proofs.”
Sir Magnus drew forth the long envelope he had picked up in Neil’s deserted castle and waved it at the Earl.
“I’ve been looking for Neil on an errand of my own,” he said. “This, I found in the castle which I tracked him to. It’s a list of provisions, under your seal, and signed William Sinclair.”
He cast the envelope onto the Earl’s table, then repeated his question. “Why do ye harbour him, yer Lordship?”
Earl William sat back in his chair and let out a long, noisy breath.
“Well,” he said, “he’s my kin. Neil Gow-Sinclair is my cousin – the son of my poor mother’s sister, who is long dead. Except for my brother, the former Earl of Caithness, who has retired tae the lowlands, Neil is my... only living male relative.”
The Earl seemed to stumble over this last phrase, but then he looked Sir Magnus straight in the face and said, “I harbour him because he is my kin. But Sir Magnus, I know he has a reputation, but I know of no evil deeds of his recently. What has he done?”
Sir Magnus looked at him guardedly.
“Ye have declared yerself kin with him, Earl William,” said Sir Magnus, “and the kin bond is a strong one. I have my own business with Neil, and it may not go well for him. If I tell ye what my business with him is...”
“Do ye not trust me?”
“Sir, I do not. But I wanted to know why ye harboured him. And now that I know why, I have something else tae ask of ye.”
“What would ye ask?”
“I would ask a boat of ye.”
“A boat? I have no boats here. They are at Thurso, the nearest big town.”
“Aye, I know that. I ask of ye papers, signed by ye, that I may take tae the town of Thurso and use tae claim a small, fast vessel that I can sail myself or with one other man, and keep until I see fit tae bring it back.”
“And in return?”
“I offer nothing in return. Ye are harbouring a criminal and a murderer, sir. I will promise ye nothing except... well. I do not want tae act in bad faith. I’ll offer ye this: I promise ye that I shall not reveal this secret of yours. And to show ye my sincerity in that promise, I will give ye my proof.” He pushed the envelope with the Earl’s seal upon it across the table.
The Earl sighed, then turned to his wide-eyed clerk.
“Mr Mason,” he said, “draw up a paper, chartering a small vessel as Sir Magnus has requested, and I shall sign it.”
The clerk scurried to obey. Sir Magnus coughed quietly, wiped his hand, and took another sip of wine.
Once Sir Magnus had gone, Earl William stood and made his way over to the fire. After only a moment’s hesitation, he slid the envelope into the fire.
Several hours had passed since Magnus’ departure when Iain Grant and his companions were announced. This time, his Lordship the Earl had decided that he was taking no chances, and decided to meet these new guests without the informality with which he had honoured Sir Magnus. When Iain, Alice, John, and Hamish were ushered into his presence, he was sitting in his ceremonial chair, dressed in the full red robes of his office, with a dress sword at his belt and a generous, heavily-powdered white wig covering up his short dark hair, and presenting to his new guests the most formal aspect possible.
Iain Grant looked tired and weary, and his companions were little better, save for Hamish, who gazed around the Earl’s formal audience chamber with interest. When the introductions had been made, Iain Grant approached William’s chair and fixed him with his eyes.
“My Lord Earl,” he said, “we have come to speak to you about the pirate, Neil Gow-Sinclair.”
Earl William felt his heart sink. Outside, the rain beat heavily on the windows under a dark grey sky.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“I have tae rest!” shouted Hallam through the gale, falling to the seat in the bottom of the boat.
“Not too long, Hallam!” Thorvald shouted back. “This rain is relentless!”
Anne, Thorvald, and the priest, Father Hallam, were bailing water. For this job, they had big, purpose-built leather buckets, reinforced with wooden framing. They were drenched, and the rain poured relentlessly down, spouting off every surface and splashing all about them. The roar of the storm on the surface of the sea was deafening, and the twin notes of the howling wind and rolling sea added to the chaotic terror of the vast and angry ocean. They bailed water out of the boat, steadily, moving as quickly as they safely could, sweating inside their clothes despite the cold. If they even stopped for breath, the water level inside the little boat would begin to climb visibly before their eyes.
“Are ye alright, Thorvald?” called Anne to her lover. He glanced toward her. Despite the terror of the situation, he found that she seemed to be glowing with the effort, her eyes shining.
“Aye,” he called back, though really he was not sure. “It does me good tae see ye by my side, anyway.”
At the back of the boat, Seamus McMillan stood tall, as still as a statue, his hand on the tiller, one hand shielding his eyes from the driving rain, gazing out the into the formless grey of sea and sky. The water poured from his hair and dripped from his clothes and his grey beard. When Thorvald gl
anced up from his bailing to look at the man, he thought Hamish looked like some ancient, heathen God of the sea. Despite the rolling waves and the chaos of the storm, the little boat was still making good progress. They had left the mainland far behind, and Thorvald was clinging to the hope that if the rain did not increase in intensity and they kept heading north, they would eventually meet the landfall somewhere on Orkney.
“It’s getting worse!” he heard Anne gasp through the tumult a little later. He glanced up at her, and the glow of pleasure in the excitement and danger was gone. Her eyes were wide with fear. She was looking over his shoulder. He turned, looking where she was looking. The sea was changing. Where before the waves had been choppy and chaotic, now they changed to deep, long rolls with a gulf between them that looked like the shadowed valleys between hills. Thorvald glanced over at Seamus. His face was grim.
Fighting For A Highland Lass (Defenders 0f The Highlands Book 3) Page 19