Angel of Skye

by May McGoldrick

  “Can ye feel it, Laird? Do ye remember the rain?”

  Alec’s eyes swept the sky. The clouds were ominous, gray, and full.

  He remembered.

  Chapter 9

  They call me Death, in truth I declare,

  Calling all men and women to their biers

  Whenever I please, what time, what place, or where.

  None is so strong, so fresh, nor yet so fair,

  So young...

  —Robert Henryson

  “The Reasoning between Death and Man”

  The scream cut through the wind like the shriek of a gull.

  “Help me!” Robert cried.

  “You move and you’re finished,” Fiona said through clenched teeth. She had done all she could to coax him up the cliff edge. Encouragement had not worked, so maybe threats were what he needed.

  “I’m going to die anyway!” Robert moaned.

  “You won’t be hurt if you don’t move.” The words were sharp. “But listen to me. You stop your whining or I’ll kill you with my own hands.”

  Beneath Robert the bluffs fell away fifty feet to the crashing surf. The steadily increasing wind had whipped up the waves into a roiling, foaming beast, throwing itself against the shore in a turbulent display of violence and fury.

  Fiona swept her thick hair back over her shoulder as she looked over the edge of the narrow promontory jutting out from the line of cliffs. Her fiery red locks had torn loose from the braid, but she had more immediate things to worry about than her hair. Malcolm stood beside her, dismay clearly written on his young face.

  “What do we do now, Fiona?” he whispered loudly through the roar of the gale.

  “We need to save him,” she whispered, glancing over at the boy.

  “Do you really think we can?” the lad asked.

  “Aye, we can,” Fiona responded, knowing that Robert could climb up as easily as he climbed down, were he not so frightened. “Do as I told you before, Malcolm. Run for the horse.”

  The lad leaped up and scurried to Fiona’s waiting mount. The rope they had brought for the hawking snaked across the grass to the place where the horses were tethered beyond the narrow neck of the promontory.

  “For God’s sake, Robert, take hold of the rope,” Fiona shouted when she saw Malcolm had the horse’s bridle securely in hand. She removed her cloak and dropped it at her feet. Again her command was curt. “If you move either way, you’ll fall. And it’s a long way to the bottom.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?”

  “I don’t know how you would. You’ve kept your mouth open and your eyes shut the whole time you’ve been stuck out there.”

  She was getting exasperated with the lanky squire. She figured he’d be afraid of heights. But it also figured he’d be too much the adolescent male to admit it until he was on the narrow ledge so far above the rocky shoreline.

  They had seen the goshawk return to a ledge not far from where Robert stood hugging the cliff wall. He had even volunteered to try to get a closer look. And now Fiona glanced out at the mother goshawk, which was continuing to circle threateningly not fifty feet from the paralyzed squire.

  “Just move your hand and grab the rope,” she commanded again. “It’s only a few feet to the top, and my horse can easily pull you up.”

  “You won’t drop me?”

  “Grab the rope, Robert!” she commanded.

  The terrified squire inched his hand toward the dangling loop of the rope. With a last quick movement, he snatched the line and trapped it between his palm and the rock wall of the cliff.

  “Slip your hand up through the loop, Robert.” She watched as the young man obeyed. “Now hold on!”

  Leaping to her feet, Fiona took hold of the rope and turned to Malcolm.

  “Lead her directly away from the cliff, Malcolm. Now, Malcolm,” she shouted over the howling wind. “But slowly!”

  A yelp came from the cliff face as Robert was lifted from the ledge. Gradually the squire rose to the top, and in a moment lay sprawled, still shaking, on the grassy peninsular knoll.

  Fiona quickly retrieved the satchel and jug of water from her horse. She was back at the young man’s side before he even knew it, holding the water to his trembling lips.

  “I am so sorry,” Robert whispered, working himself into a sitting position. “I am such a coward. Such a disappointment.”

  “Hush, now. You are none of those things.”

  “Aye, I am,” he cut in.

  “Robert, we all have fears,” she comforted. “And some of them we simply can’t control. Being afraid of heights is—”

  “Lord Alec has no fears,” Robert asserted gloomily, his face reflecting his feelings of inadequacy.

  “You can be certain he does. Some people just hide their feelings better than others.”

  Robert looked up at Fiona gratefully. He took a deep breath and looked around.

  “All the same, the laird will have my hide for this,” he said, smiling hesitantly.

  “He’ll do no such thing,” Fiona countered, crouching beside the recovering squire. “What happened there was purely accidental.”

  “He won’t see it that way. I was left behind to protect you.”

  “Robert, we don’t need protection.”

  “That doesn’t really matter,” he responded seriously. “I failed at the task he gave me, and he’ll be displeased.”

  “Are you really so afraid of him?” Fiona asked in surprise. “He doesn’t punish you, certainly.”

  “He does, mistress. He will.”

  Of all the mean things. How could Alec Macpherson punish this young man for a fear that he could not control? She would certainly let him have a piece of her mind about this!

  “Alec punishes Robert at least once a day. And it doesn’t matter if he needs it or not,” piped up Malcolm, who had just joined them.

  “How do you know of this?” Fiona turned abruptly in his direction.

  “Why, I saw him do it,” Malcolm said proudly.

  “In front of you? He punished Robert in front of you?” she gasped. The madman! How could he do something so outrageous in front of a mere child? Her eye was drawn to a small, leafy branch that blew up over the edge of the narrow point of land, past them, only to disappear again quickly over the other edge. The wind was continuing to pick up, and between gusts Fiona could hear the restless neighing of the horses beyond the neck of the peninsula.

  “Aye,” Malcolm said uncertainly, noting the anger flashing across Fiona’s face. He had seen this look before.

  “Mistress Fiona, it’s not really as bad as it sounds,” Robert broke in hesitantly.

  “Robert talks too much,” Malcolm said bluntly in Alec’s defense.

  They were all speaking loudly, trying to be heard over the gusting sea wind.

  “Aye, mistress. I talk too much.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Fiona said, still furious about the laird’s totally unacceptable behavior. Punishing a squire in front of Malcolm, indeed!

  “That’s my punishment!”

  “What’s your punishment?” Fiona asked, momentarily bewildered by the squire’s words.

  “`Peace and quiet,’ he says. No talking!”

  “I don’t understand. What `peace and quiet’?” she asked.

  “One meal a day, Robert gets punished,” Malcolm explained. “That means he has to keep quiet. Alec says he’ll go insane if he doesn’t punish Robert at least once a day. Fiona, what is insane?”

  She couldn’t help but smile at the lad’s question. But, honestly, even in the short time she’d spent in the company of the garrulous young squire, she had a feeling she could appreciate and commend Alec’s disciplinary methods.

  “Insane?” she responded. “That’s exactly what you two are making me right now!”

  Fiona glanced about her. The sky had turned a grayish green that matched the white-capped waters below, and she thought it looked like the lid of a pot had been clam
ped down over them. “If you’re feeling better, Robert, perhaps we’d better be getting back.”

  As she spoke, four riders stormed over the nearby rise and descended upon the bluffs like characters out of the Apocalypse. In the blink of an eye, the horsemen blocked the narrow strip of turf at the end of the precipice, cutting off any chance for escape.

  Instinctively, Fiona grabbed Malcolm by the wrist and pulled him behind her as Robert leaped to his feet, drawing his sword in defense.

  There was no question these men intended harm. All had their swords fully drawn, all were looking at the group before them with malice in their eyes.

  There was not enough room on the projecting point of land for the attackers to continue comfortably on horseback, so three of them slowly dismounted, swords in hand. The fourth sat back smugly, catching the loose reins of the others’ mounts and eyeing the two horses and the pony tethered to a shrub nearby.

  The three advanced deliberately, and Robert took a half step forward.

  “Stop right there and state your business,” he demanded in a commanding tone that startled even Fiona.

  The attackers stopped short, but only momentarily, and then the leader half turned to his cronies.

  “Well, lads,” growled Crossbrand. “We’ve a young warrior to deal with before our...fun begins.”

  Fiona shuddered, recognizing the men. They hadn’t left Skye after all. She broke into a cold sweat as Malcolm tried to free his hand from her viselike grip.

  One of the thugs grinned evilly as his eyes raked over her body. With unconcealed lechery, the brute licked his cracked lips, while the other just stared, menace etched in every feature of his scarred and bloated face.

  “Come on, boy,” Crossbrand taunted, waving his sword back and forth in the gusting wind. “Let’s see what a sniveling brat from the Macpherson clan can do.” Fiona felt Malcolm pull himself free of her grasp and, as she glanced over, saw him pull his own tiny dagger from the sheath at his waist. Fear rushed through her at the thought of her own precious one falling prey to these outlaws. Frantic, she considered for a moment telling them that Malcolm was the rightful MacLeod heir, but she dismissed the impulse, realizing that these cutthroats cared for nothing but their bellies and their lecherous bloodlust.

  Fiona looked around her wildly. They were hemmed in by the sheer drop of the cliffs. There was nowhere for them to go. Malcolm stood beside her, his little knife in his hand. Oh, Blessed Mother, she prayed, panic flooding her senses.

  “You drew your sword, now use it,” Crossbrand spat, gesturing for those behind him to move forward. “Unless, like the rest of the Macphersons, you just carry it for show.”

  Like lightning, Robert sprang into action. The squire’s lanky limbs took on the grace of a deer as he crossed the short distance separating him from the attackers. The sweeping arc of his sword crashed in a shower of sparks on the leader’s upraised weapon, sending Crossbrand sprawling to the ground. Moving back a step, Robert drew his long sword back again as the other two thugs cautiously advanced on him.

  First one, and then the other swung their swords at the squire, and the lad’s quick reflexes helped him avoid the slashing path of one while deflecting the blow of the other. Without pausing, Robert wheeled where he stood, whipping his sword around, cutting through the leather buckler and into the shoulder of one of the outlaws.

  Clutching his arm, the thug fell to one knee, and the other came hard at the squire, his sword slashing at the lad and driving him backward. But Robert fended off the attacks, and soon the two were exchanging blow for blow at the edge of the cliff.

  Fiona watched in horror as the fourth outlaw climbed off his horse and moved past Crossbrand to the side of his injured friend, who stood up, grimly wiping blood from his hand.

  And then the sky exploded.

  A bolt of lightning detonated in a deafening crash not yards from where Fiona stood. Frozen momentarily by the sudden violence of the blast, the figures on the promontory gaped at one another. Robert’s opponent took advantage of the distraction to push the squire closer to the ledge.

  Then Crossbrand and the other two turned to Fiona and Malcolm, advancing on them and spreading into a half circle like wolves closing on their prey.

  Malcolm leaped at the closest attacker, slashing at the man with his knife. With the back of his hand, the thug sent the boy sprawling toward the edge of the precipice, where he shook his head groggily.

  “Malcolm!” Fiona screamed, running toward him.

  From behind a hand grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking her to a halt. Another hand took hold of her wrist, and she twisted around, finding herself so close to the scarred face of the attacker that she could feel his foul breath on her face. Behind her Malcolm cried out. With a hard kick that connected with the outlaw’s crotch, Fiona turned back to the boy as the man released her hair.

  Lurching out of his grip, Fiona caught a glimpse of Malcolm standing terrified at the edge of the cliff. The injured outlaw was moving toward the lad, and Fiona, screaming, leaped toward his back.

  Crossbrand caught Fiona’s dress at the neck with one hand, and her wrist with the other. Jerking her toward him, he tore violently at the dress, rending it to the waist. Seeing her white skin, the outlaw’s eyes gleamed for only an instant before the look was replaced by one of surprise, and then they took on the dull luster of the eyes of a man at the moment of death.

  As Crossbrand sank with a moan to the ground at Fiona’s feet, the blade of the dirk slid out from between his ribs.

  The dagger was clenched in her hand, and Fiona felt the numbness move quickly up her arm and into her body. As the feeling spread, she could see the room, the men, her mother. The past was there before her eyes as real and as focused as the drops of blood rolling with excruciating slowness to the end of the dagger. Fiona felt the present being pushed swiftly from her by the spreading numbness—she felt her spirit melt into the ground at her feet.

  The outlaw angrily straightening himself up from Fiona’s kick half turned and watched his leader crumple to earth. The red-haired woman stood motionless, beaten and waiting. His eyes riveted on her exposed shoulder and breast, and a sneer crept across his face as he stepped toward her. He would have her first.

  Alec paused at the top of the rise, his eyes scanning the shoreline before him. The wind was whipping his blond hair across his face, and he pushed it aside. He should have met them as they returned to the Priory. Where were they?

  Fiona’s scream pierced the air. Following the sound Alec’s eyes focused on a point to his right. Wheeling his horse, he charged down the rise toward the narrow neck leading out to them.

  Before the sneering outlaw could reach Fiona, the crashing blow from Alec’s sword cleaved his torso from shoulder to rib, and the brute’s twitching body was dead before it hit the ground.

  The thug looming over Malcolm spun to face the approaching warlord and, with a quick look for help, saw that Robert stood panting over the dead body of the other outlaw. He was alone, and sheer terror caused him to step back from the terrible glare of the advancing giant...and off the cliff edge into space.

  Alec whirled toward Fiona. She stood as if in a trance, her torn dress hanging from her waist, the blood dripping from the dagger in her hand. Her face was pale, and tears silently streamed from her eyes.

  Malcolm ran to her, throwing his arms around her. Absently, her free hand went to his hair, stroking his soft locks.

  Alec removed his tartan, and his hand shook with anger as he gently wrapped the plaid around her bruised ivory skin. His throat was parched and his blood was pounding in his veins as he gathered Fiona to him. Holding her, he knew he would never let go of her again. Never. Taking Malcolm’s hand, he gestured for Robert to take the boy. His hand reached down and tried to remove the dagger from Fiona’s fist, but she clutched it in a death grip.

  “It’s over, Fiona,” he whispered softly. “It’s over, my love. You’re safe now.”

  She looked up into
his eyes and released the knife.

  “My mother,” she whispered, tears rolling steadily down her face. “They were hurting my mother. I was there...but I couldn’t stop them.”

  Alec wrapped his arms more tightly around her as Fiona began to sob. He held her close and felt his eyes well up at the sound of her wrenching anguish. If he could kill these men again, he would. He held her so tight that she felt a part of him.

  Standing there as the wind whipped around them, Alec swore to himself that as long as he had breath in his body, no man would ever lift a hand against this woman again...and live.

  Fiona looked up at him as he gently pushed a strand of hair from her face.

  “I couldn’t stop them,” she said, burying her face against his chest once more as her body shook with waves of sorrow.

  Chapter 10

  Belief does leap, trust does not tarry;

  Authority flies, and courts do vary;

  Purpose does change as wind or rain:

  Which, to consider, is a pain.

  —William Dunbar “To the King”

  It had been a full week since the incident at the bluffs. A difficult week during which so many questions had not found answers. From what Alec could ascertain, Iain, the slain MacLeod warrior, had been seen with the outlaws. It appeared he had supplied the attackers with horses and swords. But with all of them now dead, the motives behind Iain’s actions were baffling. There was still the matter of the gold found in each man’s possession. More gold than Iain could ever have paid them.

  And Neil was gone, as well. Fearing reprisal from others of the MacLeod clan, Neil told Alec he was going to the Isle of Lewis in the Outer Hebrides and left immediately. He had done his job in finding the traitor, as Alec had earlier directed him to do. But with his maimed arm, Neil felt that he would be an easy target for revenge.