“In gratitude, or perhaps for fear of his deception coming to light, the father kept the inn’s name.” Alex stopped before the establishment’s door, set his hand on the latch. “Now, these long centuries later, legend claims that all who sup, drink, or sleep at the One-Eyed Mermaid shall aye be safe on sea journeys.”
“A last blessing from the mermaid?” Sorley guessed.
“So men say.” The Wolf glanced at him, not yet opening the door. “Superstitious as Highlanders are and given our reason for being here, we might as well gather in a place known to smile on those who take to the sea. It cannae hurt.”
“But the lass wasnae a mermaid.”
“Who can say?” The Wolf shrugged, as if Sorley’s objection was inconsequential. “Perhaps she was. There is a kernel of truth in every tale, even the most outlandish.”
Sorley set his jaw, knowing when not to argue.
There wasn’t time anyway, because in that moment, the Wolf pushed the door wide and they entered the inn’s crowded main room, stepping into a swell of noise and bringing a cold, damp wind with them.
The One-Eyed Mermaid was popular.
Men filled every table and others stood at the long trestle-bar that ran the length of the room. Fashioned of hull planks from a long-forgotten ship and topped with a surface of age-darkened oak, the bar was packed with men who stood three and four deep, all quaffing or hollering for ale.
Smoke haze and kitchen clatter hung in the air, as did the smell of peat, ale, fish, and roasted meats, along with the sharper reek of frying onions. But the stone-flagged floor was swept clean, and if the whitewashed walls were a bit smudged from centuries of hearth fires, the tables that filled the long, narrow room appeared well-scrubbed. The low ceiling’s oak beams glistened blackly, proving the One-Eyed Mermaid was truly as old as legend claimed.
“Our friends are here.” The Wolf started forward, making his way through the public room to the far end where three men sat at a corner table near the fire.
A pile of peat bricks glowed on the hearth stones and the flickering orange-red light shone on the bearded faces of the rugged, plaid-draped men who now lifted their ale cups in salute as the pair drew near.
“Ho, Alex, Sorley!” The largest of the Highlanders stood and came forward to embrace them. Tall, strongly made, with wild black hair and a full beard, he was clearly a fighting man. Heavy silver rings lined his arms and warrior rings glinted in his beard. Mail shone beneath his plaid, and a silver Thor’s hammer amulet hung at his throat.
He was Grim Mackintosh of Nought territory in the Glen of Many Legends. And although he was a man who’d not die in his bed, and was even known to wield a Nordic war ax with greater skill than any Viking of old, his smoke-gray eyes warmed in welcome and his proud face split in a grin.
“ ’Tis good to see you,” he greeted them, stepping back after giving each man a quick, crushing hug. “The One-Eyed Mermaid isnae known for festive spreads, but Hector the innkeeper has outdone himself this night. He’s served up enough good viands to fill our bellies and warm us.”
Taking their arms, he led them to the corner table, already set with platters of smoked herring, sliced, roasted mutton, a large assortment of cheeses, and baskets of fresh-baked bread. “There’s plenty of ale,” he added, nodding to a serving girl as she hurried past, carrying a tray stacked with empty bowls. “Ellice kens to bring fresh jugs as soon as you’re settled.”
At the table, Caelan the Fox half-stood, his dark auburn hair gleaming in the light of a wall sconce. “Praise be, you’re here—we didnae want to eat without you and my stomach’s growling.”
“I can vouch for that!” Andrew the Adder slid him a mock-sour glance as he, too, pushed briefly to his feet in greeting. Dark as Sorley and Grim, he was also a Fenris. Only Grim was a nonbrother of the secret order, although he was trusted by all, as witnessed by his presence.
“If you hadn’t arrived soon, I’d have changed seats,” Andrew added, lowering himself back onto his chair just as the serving wench, Ellice, plunked down two large jugs of frothy heather ale before hastening away to clear another table.
“I swear thon lassie thinks the belly rumbles were mine!” Andrew grinned, already pouring himself a brimming cup of ale, which he tossed down in one swig. “Why else would she cast moon eyes at Caelan when I was sitting right next to the flat-footed, cross-grained lout?”
“Why, indeed?” Sorley and the Wolf exchanged glances, both claiming their own places.
“Truth is it’s a wild night.” The Wolf stretched his long legs to the fire, likewise helping himself to a cup of ale. He sipped slowly, sent a meaningful glance at the inn’s diamond-cut windows where candlelight glistened against the darkness of the thin glass panes.
“There’s a fine north wind blowing,” he said easily, using the code phrase to warn the others that Fenris matters would now be discussed. As aye, in low, casual tones and secret words so none of the other patrons might guess that anything but the night’s rainy gloom concerned them. “Thon wind has been blowing awhile,” he added, refilling his cup.
“So it seems.” Grim lifted his own ale, nodding almost imperceptibly as he gave the correct response.
His assurance that, as a Fenris confidant, he understood the gravity of their meeting—a gathering held largely because of tidings he’d gleaned on a recent sea voyage from Ireland, where he’d visited the in-laws of his Irish wife, Lady Breena.
“Aye, ’tis a foul wind, by its howl,” Sorley agreed, foregoing ale to pile his plate with cold sliced mutton.
“It will worsen before the night is o’er.” The Wolf kept his relaxed pose, his legs now crossed at the ankles, his ale cup in his hand. “Such weather will be fierce out in the Isles. Huge seas and black winds are no’ good for trade. I wouldnae wish to be plying those waters in such conditions, no’ when the currents run so fiercely a ship could tip o’er and sink to the bottom of the sea before a man could blink.”
“I journeyed back through such weather.” Grim set down his ale, dragged the back of his hand over his beard. “Ne’er have I seen such rough waves.”
“How rough?” Caelan and Andrew spoke as one, their gazes flicking briefly to the Wolf before they glanced again at the big, ring-bearded Highlander from Nought.
Grim leaned forward, fixing them with his piercing gray gaze. “So fearsome that the merchant ship I journeyed on lost half her goods when we were hit by steep seas in the dead of night during one of the worst storms. Indeed”—he sat back, his hands flat on the table—“when we made land, we learned of another trader, sailing up near the Isle of Lewis, that sank that night.”
Sorley frowned. “So far north as Lewis?”
The Wolf’s face hardened—a sign to those who knew that talk wasn’t of a trading ship, but a crown vessel carrying men loved and valued by the King.
“Aye, Lewis is what we were told.” Grim looked round at all the men, his smoke-gray eyes earnest. “The ship went down with priceless goods onboard. Talk was of a hull filled with Frankish oils and wine, finest leather from Spain, and sack upon sack of rare spices from even farther afield.
“An irreplaceable cargo, lost to the brine.” He drew a deep breath, his gaze flicking to Alex Stewart.
“So it was, indeed.” The Wolf drew a dirk from his belt, turning the blade in the table’s candlelight. “My brother was grieved to hear of such riches disappearing into the sea, gone before they could reach their destination.”
“ ’Tis a sore loss.” Hector Bane, the innkeeper stepped out of the throng, rapping thrice on the table’s aged, scarred wood, then once again after a pause.
Another coded greeting, his promise that no men possessing long ears or lingering eyes lurked anywhere near the corner nook where the Fenris men had gathered.
Tall, and with a seaman’s weathered face, he wore a long leather apron and had braided his thick rust-gray hair in a thick plait that hung down his back, reaching near to his waist. His eyes were the same color as the ale h
e served, and lined at the edges as if he was fond of smiling, or had spent years squinting into the sun.
“I’m suffering a loss myself,” he declared, setting his hands on his hips. “Though naught so troubling as ships sinking into the sea. My eldest lad, Dougie, has taken himself south to run a friend’s inn down Stirling way. The innkeeper is gone to visit his brother who’s wed some lass out on a Godforsaken rock of an isle in the Hebrides.” He leaned in, lowering his voice, his gaze moving from one Fenris man to the next, significantly.
So tellingly that no one at the table misunderstood.
Fenris friend William Wyldes, who owned and ran Stirling’s Red Lion Inn, was on his way—or soon would be—to join Roag the Bear on Laddie’s Isle.
Wyldes didn’t have a brother.
But he looked on Roag, Sorley, Caelan, and Andrew as the family he never had.
And only one of them was currently keeping himself on a wee spit of rock in the Western Isles.
Roag.
The Wolf leaned forward, his eyes confirming it. “ ’Tis no small thing when a man takes a bride.” He lifted his ale cup, saluting the others, a smile quirking his lips at their astonishment. “Sometimes we’re surprised to hear the like, but it doesnae mean the match isnae a guid one.
“Indeed”—his smile broadened—“his friends ought to be there to celebrate with him, leastways a few of them.”
“My wife, Lady Mirabelle, is in a delicate way.” Sorley put down the forkful of mutton he’d been about to eat. “We’re still staying beneath her father’s roof at Clan MacLaren’s Knocking Tower. Our own home is close by, but no’ even halfway built.
“She wasnae pleased I left her long enough to journey here.” He glanced at the door, as if he should be headingback to her now. When he turned again to the table, a frown drew his brows together. “I dinnae want her fashing, given that she’s—”
“She’ll have you back anon, my friend.” Alex slung an arm around his shoulders. “My Mariota has given me more sons than I can rightly count, but I worried each time she quickened with a new one! Nae man here would expect you to hie yourself off into the wilds of the Hebridean Sea. No’ now, of all times.”
He spoke as if it was settled, then withdrew his arm and looked to Caelan and Andrew. “I’d rather send the errant bridegroom a shipload of gifts to lend comfort to his new home. Truth is, that tower is little more than a cold and windy heap of salt-crusted stones. He shall have a well-made bed and proper sheeting, a richly carved laird’s chair to suit his new station, and”—he grinned—“perhaps a trusted friend to cook for him so long as he’s stuck on such a bleak, sea-washed isle?”
“A cook?” Andrew glanced at Sorley, and then Caelan.
All three men frowned.
“ ’Tis true we were raised in Stirling Castle’s kitchens,” Sorley spoke for them all. “But we spent our youth chasing after serving lassies and laundresses, no’ stirring cook pots.”
“That I ken!” The Wolf didn’t look concerned. “I had another, much more skilled spoon-stirrer in mind,” he added, smiling again.
Hector Bane nodded once, his own expression lightening. “I have heard that a fast-running galley called the Sea Star is anchored off the headland no’ too far from the town’s usual moorings.” He leaned toward the table, lowering his voice. “It could be that a certain Stirling innkeeper didnae journey directly into the wild, wind-whipped waters of the Hebrides.”
He slid a look at the Wolf. “Chances are he’s been using the dark o’ the last moon to gather and load gifts onto the Sea Star.”
“The sort that went down near Lewis?” Caelan lifted his voice a little, for it was raining steadily now, a downpour that beat hard against the windows.
“Supplies any new bridegroom would welcome.” Hector straightened, smoothed down his leather apron.
“Cargo needed in waters where such valuable goods have already been lost.” Sorley spoke what all the men were thinking.
William Wyldes.
Before he became an innkeeper, William was a warrior of great renown. Even now, few men were better in a fight, no matter the weapon. He could throw a spear faster, farther, and with more accuracy than the King’s own spearmen. If he chose to use his bare hands, wise foes would run.
Outside the storm worsened and a gust of damp wind swept down the chimney, causing the peats to spit and hiss, and a plume of smoke and ash to billow into the room. Hector cursed and wheeled about to tend the mess, while Ellice and another serving lass hurried over to resettle the patrons whose table and meals were now ruined.
The ruckus also gave the Wolf and his friends a bit of much-appreciated privacy, with their nearest neighbors now scurrying to another table, well out of earshot.
Andrew leaned forward, pretending to flick invisible ash from the rough-planked table. “I dinnae care for this,” he said, his voice low. “If William is aboard the Sea Star, the trouble in the Hebrides is a greater broil than we’d heard.”
Sipping his ale, the Wolf nodded slowly. “That is so.”
The other four waited, ignoring the chaos in the other corner, the howling wind that rattled the window shutters. Somewhere in the night, a dog barked furiously, but they paid him no heed either, their entire focus on the King’s brother, Alex Stewart.
Head of Fenris, and—so many believed—the unspoken ruler of the land.
“We suspect more than one ship is behind these attacks,” he said now, the fierceness of his expression proving that kingly blood brought more than silver, women, and song, as many less-privileged men liked to claim. “Lewis is too far removed from the other sinkings for us to think otherwise. Especially”—his voice hardened—“as the Lewis attack happened about the same time as the most recent incident no’ far from Laddie’s Isle.”
“No ship can be in two such distant places at once,” Grim spoke in a calm, easy voice, although anyone who knew him would see his anger welling.
Like Alex, Grim was fiercely loyal to Scotland. Any threat to the realm, or her King and those who served the crown, ignited a red rage inside him.
“Well observed, my friend.” Alex nodded to Grim.
“So you’re sending reinforcements.” Andrew took a long sip of his ale and then lifted the cup toward the black, rain-streaked windows. “Men already gathered this night.”
“All has been readied, aye,” Alex added, keeping his voice pitched so that no one outside their table could hear. “Hector Bane’s son will do fine running William’s Red Lion. Wyldes will lose nae trade and we shall have our master spearman and a score of expert bowmen joining Roag on his isle.”
He smiled then, looking pleased. “You didnae think the Sea Star’s oarsmen are just that, did you? They are handpicked from my own best archers—should there be a need for fire arrows aimed at any attacking ship.”
“And now you’ll have a second ship of your own in place on Laddie’s Isle.” Caelan returned his smile.
The Wolf reached for one of the ale jugs, topping off each man’s cup. “I also want you to keep an eye on Roag’s unexpected bride. By all accounting, she’s a quick-tempered lass, known as the Spitfire of the Isles.”
Grim pulled on his beard, making his silver beard rings clack together. “From what I heard she’s an inconvenience, but no threat. She is Lady Gillian MacGuire, daughter of the laird of that clan and keeper of the Isle of Sway.
“Word was, she was betrothed to Donell MacDonnell,” he explained, glancing at the other table where Hector stood ordering about the kitchen lads who rushed back and forth with cleaning rags, brooms, and trays of ruined, soot-covered food. “Our friend will have had no choice but to wed her.
“A handfast, if the tales were true.” A crease appeared between his brows and he returned his attention to the men at the table. He looked at Alex, lifted a hand as if to give credence to his words. “I cannae believe she is more than a complication.”
If he expected Alex Stewart to agree, the King’s brother disappointed him. “There w
as a witness to a recent attack,” he said, his smile gone. “The man lived long enough to tell a harrowing tale. His ship’s attackers had a woman on board—a pitiful creature they’d tied to the rail. Her cries rang out across the water, drawing my brother’s men’s galley.” He leaned forward, his handsome face now hard, his blue eyes like shards of ice. “The poor lass couldnae be saved and the fates only know what became of her.
“I’ll no’ have such a tragedy befall Lady Gillian.” He sat back, slapped the table with the flat of his hand. “Her father is a scoundrel, but he’s well-loved in the Isles. His daughter’s peppered tongue is said to ignite tempers, her spirit untamed and wild enough for her to run headlong into danger.”
“You want her safe.” Sorley spoke low, applying himself to the sliced, roasted mutton before him as if his meal and naught else concerned him.
Hector and his kitchen lads had now cleaned the mess of scattered soot and ash from the floor and neighboring table, and the din from the ruckus was lessening.
Swivel-necked patrons—if any chanced to glance at the Fenris table, would see only men enjoying supper.
“I do, aye.” Alex began piling herring onto his plate. “I want her safe at any cost. I cannae stomach harm coming to a woman. But”—his voice took on a steely edge again—“I also want her kept quiet. She’s said to be clever. Like as no’, she’ll ken that our lad isnae MacDonnell. She might raise a fuss, attracting attention we dinnae need on that isle just now.”
“The Bear would be furious.” Caelan waited as another strong wind lashed at the window behind him. “He cannae bide no’ having all go his way when he’s out and about.”
The other men nodded agreement.
They knew better than to say aloud that “out and about” referred to Roag’s Fenris mission.
It was enough that they knew.
“You’ll have one other task when you reach thon isle.” The Wolf looked past Grim and Sorley to pin his gaze on Caelan and Andrew. “You will stay the night here, in the One-Eyed Mermaid. A room has been secured—two small beds, dry, and a lit brazier to warm you. On the morrow, you’ll sleep late and then claim ale-heads when you come belowstairs.
To Desire a Highlander Page 19