“Bail the water out! Bail out the boat! Go on, bail for yer lives!”
They bailed. The sea roiled under them, and the wind drove them on through the rain, a tiny, bobbing presence on the monstrous sea.
After an hour, all trace of exhilaration was gone. Exhausted to the point of fainting, the young people sat in front of the little boat with their arms around each other, while Seamus stood as still and grim as ever, his eyes to the north and his work-scarred hand on the tiller. There was a break in the rain, and Anne and Thorvald were able to cease their endless bailing for the moment. Seamus guided the boat skilfully across the vast and rolling waves. In her exhaustion, Anne Gow had fallen asleep, her head pillowed on Thorvald’s shoulder. Father Hallam, sick, soaked, and exhausted, sat in the bilge water in the bottom of the boat, his head in his hands, saying nothing.
“Seamus,” called Thorvald, his voice rough and parched with the salty air. The old man looked at him but did not reply.
“Do ye ken how much further we have tae go?” Seamus shook his head, his mouth a grim, set line.
“No,” the old man admitted reluctantly. “I’m all out of my reckoning. The wind has been so strong that it has been all I could do to just tae keep us upright. I’ve never sailed so fast in my life as we did just now, but now I do not know how far we have come, nor even if we are still heading north. I hope so – the wind was northerly when we left Harrow, and I don’t think it’s changed much, but... well, look over there.”
He indicated with his head off to the right. Thorvald twisted to look in that direction and felt his blood run cold.
“It’s another storm,” he said.
“Aye,” said Seamus, “and it’s heading straight for us, coming from the northeast. This respite will be brief. And it’s coming from the wrong direction for us. If it does not sink us with rain and wind, it will blow us to the south-west, out into the great Atlantic ocean where there is no land until a sailor hits the American coast.”
Thorvald gazed across the sullen green water at the new storm front. The long cloudbank hung low under the foul grey sky which loomed across the horizon in the fading late afternoon light. Undercover of this latest storm, the sky was utterly black. As he watched, Thorvald saw far off the flicker of lightning.
“What can we do, Seamus?”
“The wind has not changed yet, but it’s changing,” said the old seaman. “All we can do is to try to make the most of the northerly wind while it lasts. I’m fairly confident that we are still heading mostly north. If we can get in sight of Orkney and, God willing, if we don’t end up smashed against a cliff, then we will be able to...”
“Look!” cried Thorvald, jolting Anne awake as he started up, pointing away off in front of them.
“What?” said Seamus, scanning the horizon. “What is it? My eyes are not what they once were, lad, what do ye see?”
“Seabirds!” said Thorvald. “Look, gulls, away off in the distance! We must be nearing the land!”
“Ah, I see them! I see them now!” said Seamus, and his weathered face shone with relief for a moment before darkening. “But I can’t see the land through this murk! We’ll just have tae hold on and pray that the wind doesn’t change before we see somewhere we can put ashore!”
As they sailed on, the wind began to change.
“Anne,” called Seamus, “help me tae adjust the sail, here.” She leapt to help him, but the boat was small, and there was only so much the single sail could do in such a strong wind. They did their best, but mainly they were forced to sail in the direction of the wind, and this was inevitably changing, bearing west.
After a time, Father Hallam, who had recovered himself a little, called out from his post at the front of the boat.
“Thorvald,” he cried, “come and look at this.”
“What is it, Father?” said Thorvald, coming forward. Hallam pointed.
“There, see? Is that what I think it is? Is that land?”
It was. After a little more time had passed, even Seamus could see the water breaking against the land in the dull light, but it was not an encouraging view. Instead of the hoped-for beach or green tableland running down to the shore, they saw only massive, overhung cliffs stretching off into the distance on either side, and no sign of any living thing save thousands of gulls, calling and diving to each other in the rolling waves.
“Do ye know where we are, Thorvald?” said Seamus. “Ye know this coastline better than I do.”
“No, no, I do not,” said Thorvald. “But I know we cannot land there. We’d be dashed tae pieces on those cliffs. “The water here is deep and open – if we get too close to the cliffs we shall be smashed tae bits!”
The wind was rising, and he had to shout to be heard. As he spoke, the first drops of driving rain began to fall.
“What’s that over there?” It was Father Hallam, speaking from his place at the bottom of the boat. While the others had all been peering toward the cliffs, he had been scanning the waters around and behind them. Now they all looked where his shaking finger pointed.
“It looks like a little islet, jutting out of the water,” said Thorvald. “It’s tiny. There are hundreds of little islands like that around Orkney.”
“Is it big enough tae land on?” called Seamus from the back of the boat, where he wrestled with the tiller as Anne hauled the sail.
Thorvald peered out through the gloom.
“I cannot see any shoreline, can ye?” he asked doubtfully, and the priest reached up and used Thorvald’s arm to pull himself up to the edge of the boat.
“There,” he said, “there at the side. The land comes low enough that we might be able to land.”
“We’re heading straight for it at any rate,” said Seamus. “It’s our only hope now. The storm’s hard behind us. Anne, pull the sail around this way. We need tae bring the boat around on the left-hand side, where Father Hallam sees the shore. That’s it! A little more!”
Working together, Seamus and Anne were able – just – to get the sail at the right angle to bring them around the left side of the tiny islet.
“Aye, aye, we’re in luck!” Thorvald shouted back. “Hallam was right. The shore comes down tae the water close enough for us tae land!”
“Ye’ll have tae be careful!” Hallam added. “It is rocky and treacherous, but I think ye can land us there without the boat being dashed tae pieces – at least I pray it may be so!”
A high wind was joined by driving rain and an approaching roll of thunder as their little boat approached the shoreline. All was going smoothly, until, at the last moment, a huge wave rolled unexpectedly up and flung them back, away from their destination.
“What is that?” cried Seamus, glancing around in fear and confusion. The water below them and around them began to churn, and froth and Seamus and Anne both instinctively hauled the sail in and grabbed for the oars.
“Something is breaking through the surface of the water!” cried Anne.
“God save us!” Father Hallam wailed. “A monster from the deeps!”
The priest fell to his knees in the bottom of the boat, praying loudly and fervently, but with words that made little sense to those around him.
“Haul the sail!” yelled Hallam. “We have tae get the boat under control! It’s a whale coming up for air. She means us no harm, no doubt, but she’ll sink us in her wake if she dives!”
Anne and Seamus tried desperately to get the little boat under control and move it toward the rocky shore, but Thorvald stood at the side, gazing out into the water, transfixed in terrified fascination. He had seen one of these before, from the cliff-tops when he was a boy on a calm day. But now he was a man, and he felt tiny as he leaned out and looked down into the water at the colossal form rising beside him.
It was a great whale with her calf swimming next to her. The calf was twice the size of the boat, and the mother seemed as big as the cathedral in Kirkwall. They were uninterested in the affairs of people, but their sheer bulk churned th
e water up around the boat, tossing it like a cork and keeping it from making an easy landfall on the rocky little beach.
“Look out!” cried Seamus. “Here, she comes! Take care for yerselves!”
With a suddenness that took Thorvald’s breath, the enormous creature smashed through the surface of the water, a high plume of spray blasting up from her head, and the smaller whale following suit with its own spray. They made a great noise, and Thorvald could hear Seamus yelling, “Pull! Pull!” and Father Hallam’s unintelligible terrified prayer. As it passed, the grey barnacled wall of the whale’s scarred and pitted hide sluiced seawater and glistened in the wan storm-light. Thorvald came face to face with its enormous eye. For what seemed like a very long moment, the huge eye slid past him, and he looked into it. He saw something there – awareness? Or perhaps merely the native wariness of a wild animal.
Then the monster reared up and thundered back down, and a large wave, created by its descent flung their little boat clean up out of the water. It sailed up into the air in a great arc, the sail billowing out loosely behind it like a streamer, before crashing down onto the rocks in the breaking surf and shattering into pieces.
Thorvald lay stunned and gasping on the slick, weedy round stones amid the shattered remnants of the boat. Around him, the scattered figures of his companions lay senseless, but he could not yet move to look for them. A short distance away, where the whale had dived, the seawater still frothed and churned the water like a boiling pot.
Above them, as Thorvald lay panting and looking up, the new storm slid smoothly across the sky, lashing cold rain upon them and blocking the day. The wind howled, and there was a great flash as lightning split the air between cloud and sea.
The storm was upon them.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Iain Grant, the chief of his clan, sat opposite William Sinclair, 10th Earl of Caithness, at a little carved oak table beside a roaring fire in a small private study away from the main audience chamber. There was wine, cheese, meat, bread, and dried fruits on the table, and Iain had eaten to satisfaction and drank a glass of wine, and was looking much better.
Earl Sinclair sat nursing a glass of wine, watching his guest eat. His formal wig hung on a stand in the shadowed corner of the room beside the shuttered window, and his great red cloak of office hung there too. The Earl himself was now dressed in a simple white shirt with a bit of lace at the collar, brown britches, and the black riding boots that he favoured. His short black hair stood up around his head where the wig had ruffled it when he had pulled it roughly off.
When Iain pushed his plate back and leaned back in his chair with a satisfied sigh, the Earl raised an eyebrow at his guest.
“Better?”
“Much,” replied his guest. “And I thank ye.”
“Well now,” said William. “Ye have told me your tale, and I suppose ye shall want tae hear mine now.”
When his troublesome guests had first entered, William had begun by trying to keep a tight barrier of formality up between them. But when Iain had stood forward and told the whole story, clearly and in full, of the lad Thorvald and his inheritance, and of Neil’s raid on village, and of their quest to find the boy and deliver him back to Orkney to his legacy, William felt sick. He knew his cousin was a bad lot, but he had his own reasons for sheltering the man and his crew. But now it seemed that Neil was involved with the dreadful Sir Magnus in some way, and the innocent Thorvald, unknowingly, was caught up between them. Whatever Neil thought he was up to, William wanted no part in it. He could not stand back and let it happen.
Once Iain had told his story, Hamish Sinclair, the inn-keeper at Harrow, stepped forward. He had kept his knowledge to himself until then, but when he heard Iain’s tale and realised that he had sent the very lad off in a boat with Seamus McMillan not half an hour before the Grants landed, he decided to put the whole matter in other hands, and he spoke out. When he told of the priest’s presence there, Iain seemed relieved.
“Father Hallam!” he said. “So he has been out searching for the lad too! And Thorvald has taken up with Neil Gow’s niece – that is a strange turn-up!”
“They introduced themselves as man and wife,” said Hamish, reddening, “and my wife gave them a room together, taking them at their word. They seemed very... close.”
William Sinclair gave a sickly laugh. He had turned a rather sickly shade of green.
“My friends,” he said, in as steady a voice as he could muster, “I wonder if I might impose upon ye tae leave me for a while with Iain Grant. Ye have told me yer tale, and ye are tired and in need of refreshment, and I much desire tae speak a little with Mr Grant in private.”
“I will have a word with my son and his wife before agreeing tae this,” said Iain politely, and the Grants retreated a little way from the Earl’s high seat. After a quick conference, they agreed to the Earl’s request.
“Thank ye,” said the Earl cordially. “My servant will show ye tae a room where ye may eat and drink. Mr Grant, let us go intae my private study.”
Alice, John, Hamish Sinclair, and Tom Fishersson were led off by the servant to take some refreshments, and William led Iain to a small side chamber where he had removed his formal attire and called on a servant to bring food and build a fire up. In the time it took Iain Grant to eat, William had thought over what he would say, and how he would say it. It had not taken him very long to decide to come clean to this stern, grey-haired clan chief.
So, he admitted to Iain that Neil Gow-Sinclair was his cousin and for the sake of familial bond, he had sheltered the pirate, allowing him to use a dilapidated castle as a base, and send him supplies.
“It was on the condition that he did not get up to any mischief within the region of Caithness or the Orkney Islands,” said William. “I should have known not tae trust the man, but most of our correspondence was done by letter and by messenger, rather than face-tae-face. It was easy for me to put him out of my mind...”
“There’s more tae this tale, though, is there not, Earl William?” Iain Grant prompted him.
“Aye, there is that,” said the Earl, and he told of how Magnus Bain had come, asking questions, and how he, William, had sent Magnus away with a signed paper ordering that a sailing boat be given to him at Thurso. By the time he was done, Iain sat grim-faced on the other side of the table, feeling cold despite the blaze that warmed the room beside him.
“We have no time to lose, surely!” he said. “I do not know what Sir Magnus Bain’s part is in all this, but he is pursuing the lad, and if he means well, then my name is not Grant! We must set off at once. My ship, the Endeavour, is anchored out in the bay at Harrow. Let us go there now and set off for Orkney, for that’s where Hamish Sinclair said the lad were headed.”
“Aye, I agree. Ye must go, and I will go with ye, for I feel responsible for this. Does yer ship have soldiers? Cannons? Neil may fight us if we cross paths with him.”
“Aye, my ship is armed, and Captain Morton is an experienced sailor.”
“That’s all tae the good. Well, then. Let us go. I have tae say, Mr Grant, that it’s a relief tae admit my folly tae an equal. The role of Earl can be a lonely one, but in ye, Mr Grant, I see a man worthy of my trust.”
They stood and clasped hands, looking one another sternly in the eye, and finding mutual respect.
Two hours later, the whole party clattered down the rough road into Harrow. The storm had passed over, but it had left a steady falling rain behind. When they rode in, they found the place in an uproar. There was blood in the churned up mud of the street outside the inn, and frightened faces peered out of the windows. As Hamish dismounted, the door opened, and Ingrid rushed out, the enormous gun levelled at the newcomers.
“Easy, now, lass!” cried Hamish, and his wife lowered the considerable weapon and then eased it to the ground as she recognised him.
“Oh, ye are back!” she cried and rushed forward to embrace him. Other villagers came warily out of the inn, looking at the new
comers, but the Orcadian men who had stayed in the village came forward, gladly greeting Tom Fisher and the others. The first officer of the Endeavour, an active little man named Sickert, came forward to welcome Iain formally.
“I’m very glad tae see ye back, sir,” he said. “There’s been bad trouble here while ye have been away, but no doubt ye’ll hear all about it now.”
And so they did. They sat around the biggest table in the common room, while the curious inhabitants of Harrow crowded around, adding various supporting nods and exclamations, as Ingrid told how, not long after Hamish and the Grants had left to find the Earl, a team of rough-looking, oddly-dressed men had come into the village on foot.
“Very poorly done up they were, too,” said Ingrid, “all dressed in clothes that might suit a ship’s deck, but ill-fitted for working on the land. Heavily armed, they were, so we were not likely tae be criticising their clothing. They came up tae the inn, demanding tae know what had happened tae the lad, Thorvald Fishersson. They knew he’d been here, they said, and though we said nothing, they figured out easily enough that we’d sent him away on a boat. They threatened tae set fire tae the inn so I... I shot one of them with the big musket.”
Fighting For A Highland Lass (Defenders 0f The Highlands Book 3) Page 20