Angel of Skye

by May McGoldrick

  The man yanked her head back roughly and jerked her around to face him. His fist hung in the air, his eyes clouded with fury.

  “I’m going to teach you how we deal with demon bairns where I come from.”

  Fiona’s eyes shot darts of defiance into the Highlander’s face.

  “If you hurt me,” she hissed. “My papa will kill you.”

  A look of shock flickered into the man’s face as his fist opened. Then his black eyes narrowed into a hardness that froze Fiona’s blood.

  “Where you are going, your almighty papa will never find you,” he growled menacingly.

  Dragging her toward the rear door, past Margaret, who had been gagged, the leader flung the little girl at one of his men.

  “Take her down,” he spat. “Now!”

  “Should we wait for you in the courtyard, Torquil?” the man clutching Fiona asked. Fiona tried to jerk her hand free, but her captor twisted her arm behind her back, taking hold of her hair with vicious force.

  “No, I will catch up,” the man responded gruffly. He turned with a sneer toward Margaret. “We have a very sad occurrence that needs to take place here.”

  A look of horror came into Margaret’s eyes, and she cast a final look at her daughter as they dragged the screaming child from the room.

  Lord Gray, Margaret Drummond’s uncle, was the first to discover his niece’s body. The shocking news traveled like a thunderbolt through the countryside.

  From what could be gathered, earlier in the evening a group of strangers had kidnapped Margaret’s daughter, Fiona. On the eve of such momentous expectations, after waiting two long years for the child’s father’s return to them, the shock of this loss had proved too much for Margaret—she had lost all sense. In despair, she had taken her own life, poisoning herself in her daughter’s room. They had found the note she left, professing that life was not worth living without her child.

  People searched high and low throughout the Scottish countryside. But the fruitless effort was curtailed a fortnight later when the worst gale in fifty years tore across Scotland, spreading havoc and destruction from the Outer Hebrides and the Isle of Skye to the Firth of Forth and Edinburgh itself.

  Neither the child nor her kidnappers were ever found, and those who loved her wept, thinking her dead.

  Chapter 1

  The nut’s shell, though it be hard and tough,

  Holds the kernel, sweet and delectable.

  —Robert Henryson “The Fables”

  Dunvegan Castle, the Isle of Skye, June 1516

  He could hardly breathe.

  The bodies of those around him were pressing so close that he felt he could not even lift his arms. And there were faces—faces that looked so familiar but that he could not put names to. Then, just beyond them, he could see King James looking at him with pleading eyes.

  “What is it, m’lord?” he heard himself ask. His voice came from far away, as if from somewhere inside his head. He wondered if the words had even been uttered.

  He tried to move toward the king, but the bodies were now pressing against him even more tightly than before. Then, like the surge of an ocean current, they pushed and carried him with excruciating slowness away from his king.

  Alec continued to look at the king, following his gaze when James turned his face toward the murky shadows beyond.

  Looking past him, Alec could see a door was opening. A cloud of mist streamed through the opening, swirling as it poured through the door. Suddenly he was blinded by the shimmering light of a thousand suns. Then that brilliance was eclipsed by another sight—the vision of an angel stepping through the door. Her red hair flowed about her in endless waves and framed a face of pure perfection. From where he stood, Alec could see her eyes, crystalline, radiating a spectrum of colors. Those eyes found his and drew him toward her with an unspoken promise of fulfillment. Light and warmth swept over him; his eyes were riveted on the dazzling creation.

  Alec saw the king move toward the angel, beckoning to him with one hand and, with the other, reaching for the light.

  But he couldn’t move. Alec tried desperately to fight the current carrying him away, but to no avail. He was carried farther and farther away from the light and the vision. More and more he felt his breath being crushed from his body. Struggling for air, Alec could see the light receding. He could see his angel disappearing.

  He was suffocating. He had to somehow get back to his king—to the light.

  He could hardly breathe.

  Gasping for air, Alec Macpherson sat bolt upright in his bed, sweat running down his chest and back.

  It was the same recurring dream.

  Throwing the covers aside, Alec vaulted from the bed. He looked around at the still darkened room. So cold. So large and cold and empty, he thought. The cool summer breeze flowed over his naked skin from the open slit of the window. The silence around him seemed a tangible thing, pressing on him like a millstone, crushing him.

  Trying hard to rid himself of the dream, Alec walked to the window, stretching and breathing in deeply the misty salt air. Ever so slowly the sense of oppression that had gripped him began to ease. His eyes were drawn to the twin peaks of Healaval across the fog-shrouded waters of Loch Dunvegan. It didn’t seem to matter how long he remained here at Dunvegan; it simply was not home. He missed the noise, the life that existed at Benmore Castle. But then again, he thought, even being home had not been enough...had not helped.

  Looking out into the morning fog, he saw in his mind’s eye the lingering images of the dream. This was the first time that he’d seen the face of the angel. Always before, she’d been nothing more than a light. But this time Alec had seen her. She was flesh and blood. But who was she?

  King James IV had been dead for three years now, and Alec had fought beside him on that bloody day at Flodden Field, the day when the king had ignored all warnings and had challenged the English. The king had been cut down by an English arrow and a swarm of blood-crazed foot soldiers, because Torquil MacLeod and others had held back their troops when they were most needed to save their country. That had been a bitter day for Scotland and for Alec.

  How strange, Alec thought, that after so long his dreams would now be invaded by his king’s ghost...and by the strange vision of the angel. Four months ago, Alec Macpherson had arrived at Dunvegan Castle. And that was when the dreams had started. He had come here, certain that doing the Crown’s work in this faraway corner of Scotland was what he needed. His life and his mind were all cluttered with events and people he just could not shake off. A false promise, a broken engagement, a faithless woman. Alec rubbed his face hard with his hands as if that act could somehow wipe away all thoughts, all traces of Kathryn.

  Forcing his thoughts back to his dream, he wondered what the king could be trying to tell him. Why did he wait three years? Why did he come to him here?

  As the new laird of Skye and the islands of the Outer Hebrides, Alec had hardly rested in his efforts to bring order to this wild and mysterious land that Torquil MacLeod had so barbarously ruled.

  Justice had finally caught up with the murderous MacLeod, but his execution for treason had left a great void in the power structure of the northwestern Highlands. Alec Macpherson, future chief of his own Highland clan as well as a fearless warrior and well known leader, had been given the task of correcting the ills of thirty years of brutal repression and securing the region for the new Stuart king.

  As he dressed for his morning ride, Alec thought over all that he had set out to do four months ago. It seemed to him he had been working night and day, and it was still a bit daunting to consider all that remained to be accomplished. He had arrived here with his own men, expecting resistance, even bloodshed. After all, he had not been chosen by these people to be their leader. He’d been made laird by the nobles of the Regency Council and had been given the Isle of Skye to rule as his own.

  So Alec had been surprised by the reception of the men who had greeted him. The handful of soldiers s
till remaining at Dunvegan Castle were under the command of Neil MacLeod, a warrior crippled at Flodden, one of the few of this clan who it seemed had fought loyally for his king. He and his men had peacefully submitted to Alec’s will and had sworn to aid him in his royal commission. And indeed, Neil and his men had been true to their word.

  It was not long before Alec discovered that the people of Skye—the clans MacDonald and MacLeod—deserved better than they had been getting for so many years under Torquil.

  They were quite different from what he had expected. Yes, there were still small roving bands of rebel outlaws left in the outlying areas of the island. But aside from them, the crofters and the fishermen of Skye were, for the most part, good people. They were solid, common folk with strong beliefs in the old ways—people who, despite their treacherous leader, had somehow maintained a heritage of hospitality and decency and, most importantly, dignity.

  And Alec could see that these people were beginning to trust him, to accept his commands in the spirit that they were given—to better the lot of all who depended on him.

  Alec strapped his sword to his side and pulled open the thick oak door leading from his tower room. The musty smell of the interior stairway assaulted his nostrils. This old tower was said to be nearly three hundred years old. Dimly lit by a few narrow slits in the thick stone walls, it evoked the memory of childhood stories of fairies and sprites, kelpies and sorcerers. It was no surprise to Alec that the history of Skye was a brightly woven tapestry of fact and fantasy.

  But the castle had a proud and well-known history within its walls. It had withstood the assaults of Vikings and Celtic kings from the water and from the land. It had been an outpost of civilization when the Christian faith had first taken hold in this wild land of fairies and those who believed in them. And it had been a center of rebellion against each of the four Stuart kings that had occupied the Scottish throne.

  But that final part of Dunvegan’s history was over, Alec thought.

  Descending the two flights of stone stairway, Alec consciously attempted to shake off the remnants of his troubling dream. This morning hunt was becoming a habit, but at least he knew it was one way to clear his head. Entering the dark Great Hall, he peered at the men who were sleeping on benches around the last glowing embers of the fire in the center of the room. It was all quiet, and the hounds hardly stirred as he strode across the floor.

  “Going hunting, m’lord?”

  “Robert!” Alec started. “How many times have I told you not to sneak up on me?”

  “Just practicing the ways of the warrior, m’lord,” the squire responded in hushed tones. “Someday, m’lord, maybe someday when you find me ready to train with the warriors, I could prove to you that I’ve learned well all you’ve taught me. Remember? You told me that a warrior must be prepared at all times. You told me that stealth...”

  “And I have also told you not to practice on me the things that I teach you.”

  Alec had taken Robert to be his personal squire a year ago. The boy had proved himself eager and hardworking, and in the past year he had shot up like a beanstalk. Seeing how he had grown, Alec smiled to think how often he had been drawn back from the hard-edged world of Scottish politics by the confused and sometimes comical perceptions of the adolescent boy. Though he was often a thorn in Alec’s side, Robert was devoted to the warlord—and not in the least frightened by his moods.

  “Aye, m’lord.” The young man nodded. “But you have also told me to use my judgment and to make decisions. Especially when it comes to the welfare of people that I care about.”

  “That is true, Robert.”

  “And so, m’lord, some of what you have told me I have to practice on you, because if I do not...then you might not be around to tell me more. And if you are not around—”

  “Enough, Robert!” Alec growled, leading the young man through the Great Hall toward a small door on the far side. “It is too early for me to keep up with you. Go back to sleep.”

  “But m’lord. I have your breakfast ready,” Robert responded with concern. “You have to eat something before you go. You don’t eat enough. Even Cook says so. And all this early morning hunting. Your brother Sir Ambrose says you are just looking...”

  “I am fine, Robert,” Alec said, stopping on the iron mesh that covered the open well that provided air to the castle’s subterranean vault. “There is no need for any of you to worry about me.”

  Alec glanced into the darkness of the well, thinking of the horrors that had occurred in that dungeon not so long ago. He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. As he peered down into the darkness, he thought he saw a shadow move in the depths. A rat, he thought with disgust.

  “But m’lord,” the lad continued. “Sir Ambrose thinks that with no ladies of quality to take your mind off your work here, you just—”

  “Robert!” Alec turned his glare on the lanky youth standing beside him. Ambrose clearly needed something else to occupy his mind. But how could Alec even begin to explain what a refreshing change it was to be without those grasping women of the court? To be without Kathryn, his treacherous onetime fiancée. Alec was willing to admit to himself, anyway, that there was something missing in his life, but it was not the companionship of those he had deliberately turned his back on.

  No, he could not explain it to Robert, but Alec would need to make that very clear to his brother before Ambrose arranged for any surprise arrivals at Dunvegan’s doorstep.

  “But all I was saying, m’lord—”

  “Will you shut up?” Alec growled menacingly.

  “I will, m’lord.” The young man flushed, suddenly remembering the reason for his master’s sensitivity on this topic. “By the way, m’lord, I told Sir Ambrose that I would wake him up so that he could ride with you this morning. He is really quite worried about you. We are all worried about you. Why, I was just talking with Cook last night, and he says that...”

  “Robert,” Alec rumbled menacingly. “I am warning you. Ambrose is going home soon. If you say even one more word, I will send you...and Cook...away with him.”

  “Not another word, m’lord. I will not say another word. I promise. And I will stop Cook from talking, too. You will not hear anything. And if you do not want breakfast, it is up to you m’lord.” Robert stopped short, knowing from the laird’s threatening glare that he was doing it again. The last thing he wanted was to be sent back to Benmore Castle. The squire squirmed uncomfortably, thinking of Lord Alexander and how, in the past, he had so very often tried the patience of the old laird. And Robert liked Lady Elizabeth, his master’s mother, but he wanted to be a warrior someday, not a lady’s maid. He stood silently, his eyes riveted to the floor.

  Alec shook his head and turned toward the door. This boy could certainly talk. In fact, his chatter had awakened everyone in the hall. Oh, the lad would pay for that, Alec thought with a smile.

  “I will not starve, Robert. You don’t need to worry,” Alec called back over his shoulder. “I will eat something when I get back.”

  The squire legged it quickly to the door and opened it for Alec as he reached it. Before going through, the warlord paused.

  “Oh, one more thing, Robert,” the laird said, scowling fiercely. “Neil tells me you’ve been shirking your household duties and skulking around the training fields.”

  Robert paled under his master’s withering glare. “Nay, m’lord. I’ve...I’ve kept up with my duties...I...It isn’t true! I mean, I have been going to the fields, but I’m...I’m—”

  “Listen, Robert,” Alec said, taking the lanky lad roughly by the arm. “Starting today...I want you to train full-time with the warriors. Tell Cook to pass on the household duties to one of the younger lads.”

  Robert stood, speechless, trying to fathom what he’d just heard and gawking through the open door after his departing master.

  Alec smiled to himself as he strode out into the murky predawn light. He’d been looking for the right moment to reward Robe
rt for his diligence and effort. Despite his adolescent ways and his gregarious nature, he was maturing into a fine young man. This change in his status would only reinforce his development in the ways of the warrior. Resourceful. Cool. Reserved. Quiet.

  As Robert began to yelp in delight, Alec laughed openly at the gathering sound of curses the awakening warriors in the hall were uttering at the lad capering happily in the doorway.

  A few moments later, the laird nodded to the gatekeeper and ducked his head as he steered his black charger through the ten-foot-thick curtain wall of Dunvegan Castle. Emerging from the gloom of the passage into the only slightly brighter predawn light, the warrior wheeled his horse to the right and galloped along the saltwater inlet dominated by the fortress walls.

  On his left wrist Alec held his prize falcon, the snow-white peregrine, Swift. Hunting with the rare Welsh albino bird had become more than the warlord’s chief exercise and escape. It had become a morning ritual.

  Pounding over the rolling moorland, Alec headed toward a thickly forested valley a mile inland. Surrounded by wild hills and jagged rock ridges, the land was rich with red deer and with the fat pheasant that Swift was so good at plucking from the air.

  Descending into a small dip in the terrain, Alec found himself enshrouded in a pocket of morning mist. His vision was cut to a very short distance, but he knew that the path would rise in just a few short yards.

  This was one of the things he liked best about Skye. Here he had the freedom to ride hard on his own land amid the unearthly rock formations and the heather-covered hills. Here he was free to enjoy the solitude of the morning air, free from the stifling closeness of the court, from its parasites, and from its women.