The Pirate’s Redemption

by Casie, Ruth A.

  Ye learned well, Moira. Ye make decisions as effortlessly as ye sail my ship. In all things mind ye, hold yer course. There will be storms aplenty, but ye have th’ knowledge ta weather them.

  Her father was her closest friend and biggest supporter. She never had the heart, or was it strength, to tell him she didn’t want to be chieftain. Instead, she buried her dream and learned all she could to make him proud.

  When the moment came, the transfer of power was smooth, though bittersweet.

  Moira sat on the dais as the councilors addressed her from the trestle table below. Now, from the chieftain’s chair, she had a different perspective. The room was empty without her father’s booming voice, his hearty laugh, and his trusted guidance. The ship held its course, but she was without her guide, her North Star.

  These men had been her father’s advisors for as long as she could remember and remained the trusted heart of the clan. She called them the Gilmar rainbow. Each wore the colored scarf of their position. Aymer, her bodyguard, wore blue, while Colban, her historian, wore gray, Nigel, her strategist, wore green, and Lyall, her armorer, wore red.

  “Word has arrived from th’ clan on Luing Island. An English ship prowls th’ waters,” Nigel said. As her strategy and protocol councilor, he wasn’t easily ruffled. He was cordial but detached. He was the calming force among the small group.

  “Th’ ship entering our bay may be the Fair Wind. We will soon find out,” Nigel said.

  “Are we relieved a pirate ship rather than an English one is near?” she asked.

  “Moira, I do think it a good idea to trade wi’ th’ English,” Colban said. The historian provided the facts, drew parallels to the past, and told how they were dealt with. “We’re traders and buy and sell from those who come ta our shores or travel our roads. How can we hope ta survive if we turn them away?”

  The idea of the clan and their enemy working together painted a pretty likeness. Colban had been with her father at his last parley. With the current political climate, she thought welcoming the English was the same as allowing a wolf to mingle with a herd of sheep, although Colban’s point was well taken.

  “They are no’ here to establish a trade route through th’ isles,” Lyall said. “Wi’ Magnus, King of Mann and th’ Isles, dead, they’re in our waters ta vie wi’ Norway, th’ winner ta expand their kingdom. Th’ English will no’ give us a thought other than conscript us for their cause.”

  Her broad-chested armorer was perceptive. He voiced what she and her father had discussed, but what to do about the Fair Wind?

  “The English are no’ th’ ones who harass th’ coastal villages. MacAlpin and his pirates sail th’ channel,” Colban said, rubbing his hands together.

  “Cináed had a different opinion. He always held th’ pirate king, MacAlpin, in high regard. MacAlpin believes in Scotland’s independence and takes steps ta safeguard our sovereignty, even if that means clashes wi’ th’ English,” Nigel said. “Perhaps we should keep both th’ English and pirates close.”

  No, no, no. She didn’t want the English in the village.

  “And ye, Aymer. What do ye say?” Colban asked as he fidgeted with his gray scarf.

  Aymer, now her bodyguard, stood with the others, his sword arm not fully recovered from the attack that had killed her father.

  “Trust no one,” he said. “But stay alert and observe what they’re up ta. Watch them carefully so ye know how ta plan.”

  “Then tis settled, we extend a hand of greeting ta th’ English,” Colban said as the four got up, and walked toward the door.

  “I…I dinna think that’s a good plan,” Moira said, her voice a bit hoarse.

  Her councilors turned toward her, a look of surprise on their faces.

  “Moira, ye dinna understand these issues. We will see ta them for th’ clan,” Colban said.

  Her gaze went from man to man. Their certainty was as strong as her apprehension.

  “Why would we welcome th’ men who attacked and killed our chieftain? Aymer still recovers from his wounds,” she said, strength returning to her voice. Her finger ran over the clan motto carved into her chair, victory or death.

  “What would ye have us do? Fight a great sea force? Wi’ what? We have sixteen fighting men,” Colban said, taking a menacing step forward, his voice laced with sarcasm. “We would have a very different answer if yer father had succeeded. He said he knew of a weapon that would keep us safe, weapon of god, but ’twas only a dream.”

  Had it been only a month since her father died? It seemed like a year. The shock of the brutal attack still haunted her. Gilmar was a peaceful village. Nevertheless, raiders attacked her father and Aymer while they hunted in the forest.

  She sat with him in front of the fire in the great hall as he struggled for each breath. He spoke of many things that day, mostly about battles and family losses.

  “I’ve been thinking of yer mother and brother.” His weak smile faded into a painful expression. “And the raid.”

  “Dinna speak of it now. Every time you mention th’ raid ye git upset,” she said.

  He struggled for a breath. As he managed through a coughing spasm, he waved her concern away with the flick of his hand.

  Three years ago, the English had swarmed Gilmar on a killing spree. She fought next to her brother until she was knocked senseless.

  Ethan wouldn’t retreat to safety without her. He stood over her, holding off the attackers as she lay on the green unable to move. She was aware enough to watch in horror as the English surrounded them and cut him down. Moira closed her eyes and tried to rid her mind of the scene, but her head was filled with the sounds of swords and screams and the smell of blood and sweat.

  If she hadn’t fallen, the two of them would have made their way back to safety, and he would still be alive. Ethan would be sitting in their father’s chair, where he belonged.

  Her father glanced at her. His breathing ragged and fitful.

  “There are things you need to know about the Battle of Largs,” he said, still struggling for air.

  The battle between the Norse and the Scots happened four years ago. What did it matter now?

  “Largs wasna a pretty sight. Th’ Norse had retreated ta their boats. In th’ morning, th’ Scots gave them one opportunity ta scour th’ battlefield for their dead and dying.”

  “Th’ battle had been brutal. I was eager ta start back ta Laird Ewan, so we helped the Norse on th’ battlefield. Och, th’ clan on th’ mainland got along wi’ the Norse in th’ isles, but young Alexander III had it in his mind to take it all.”

  His eyes never wavered from the flames in the hearth. War was not new to her father or his crew. This battle bothered him more than others.

  “We turned a blind eye on th’ countless bodies of men, women, and wee bairns that choked th’ land. We trudged through th’ field and searched for th’ bodies of th’ Norse warriors. Those that were dead, we piled onto a wagon. But every now and again, we’d find a warrior who still lived.

  “Those that could be saved were bandaged as best we could. We took them along with us. But some were near death. They begged ta be put out of their misery. That’s how I found Torsten, an old friend. No’ all th’ Norwegians were devils. We raised a tankard together and shared stories. And secrets.”

  He took a small roll of parchment out of his shirt and gave it to her.

  “Torsten entrusted this ta me. I entrust it ta you now.”

  She looked from the document to her father.

  “Before ye ask any questions, he dinna tell me how he got it, and I dinna ask. Keep it safe, and only use it when ye’ve lost all hope, he said ta me. Moira, promise me, ye won’t tell or give this to anyone.”

  “What is it?” she asked as she unrolled the scroll and stared at rune symbols.

  Another fit of coughing doubled him over, this one longer and deeper than the other. He covered his mouth with a cloth. Moira rushed to his side but stood helplessly. The fit eased and he sat back
, the blood-soaked cloth on his lap.

  “It’s the weapon of god. Promise me, Moira. Tis th’ reason th’ English massacred our clan.” His eyes burned bright with authority even though his voice was soft and laced with pain. “Promise me ye’ll keep this secret.”

  “I promise,” she said.

  He closed his eyes. They sat without speaking. His breathing became more shallow.

  “Promise me,” he whispered, his eyes open. She watched as his eyes clouded, and he took his last breath.

  “I promise.” She laid her head on his chest and cried.

  “It was a dream, I tell ye,” Colban said, bringing her back to the present.

  She may be unsure how to deal with the English, but she was certain about keeping a promise.

  Colban waved his hand in dismissal. The others whispered something to him.

  Her anger flared over his disrespect. “And what would ye do for th’ English? Invite them ta dine at my father’s table? Take them ta our cemetery, so they can dance on th’ graves of those they killed?”

  Aymer pulled Colban back. The councilor tried to shake off his hand, but her bodyguard held him in place.

  “Councilors.” A messenger stood at the door.

  Nigel walked over to the man.

  “Hold yer tongue, Colban,” Lyall said, then turned toward Moira.

  “Madam, th’ answer is complicated, much like a negotiation. No one gets all they want, but everyone gets something. There are times ta stand firm and times ta stand down. Yer councilors say this is no’ the time ta fight.” He dipped his head in respect.

  She nodded at him. He was right. There was no correct answer.

  “No need for alarm.” Nigel rejoined the discussion. “Th’ ship is somewhat English. Tis the Sea Diamond.”

  Relieved, her resistance vanished.

  “It will be good ta see Wesley. There are some supplies I need him ta bring us on his next visit. However, when th’ time comes ta let an English or pirate ship into our village, there will be no special greeting, no celebration. They will understand they are no’ welcome in Gilmar.”

  Chapter Three

  Glensanda Island, Scotland

  September 19, 1267

  Morning

  Wesley Reynolds climbed down the Sea Diamond’s ladder and carefully dropped into the bobbing rowboat, joining six of his best men. The drizzle mixed with the driving wind on Lock Linnhe left a fine sheen on his face.

  He hadn’t planned to stop at Glensanda, then again, neither had he planned a second trip to Gilmar. After his brief visit with the MacDoughall clan a fortnight ago, he offered to sail to Inverlochy and bring back supplies they needed. Now, sailing close to Glensanda, he decided to stop.

  “The waters between the mainland and the isle are rougher than usual. As many times as we’ve been here, it’s always in a storm,” his man said. “Was it this way on the island when you were a boy?”

  “The weather is not kind to the isle in the autumn. It’s as if the place fights the change of the season and becomes more inhospitable. Glensanda was never a place that people sought to visit. I remember sunny days running along the cliff and watching the sea birds, wishing I could fly in the wind like them.” Wesley smiled at the memory, and let out a deep breath as the wind whipped at his cloak.

  His man was right. The swift current in the channel made it difficult for ships to dock. Those memories may be youthful dreams more than reality. The sun hadn’t smiled in some time on his annual visit when he stood by his father’s grave to pay his respect and once again ask for his forgiveness. But that was a story for another time.

  His men pulled on the oars. The small boat raced on the white caps toward the shore beyond. The wide beach blended into the ribbon of thick foliage and led to the cliffs that bordered the island.

  “We won’t be here long. We sail on the tide first to Gilmar, Luing, then on to Dundhragon Castle.” He traveled a long way from his home at Glen Kirk Castle in Northumberland to give comfort to Maria, the queen consort of his friend Magnus Olafsson, King of Mann and the Isles.

  “Someone is on the island.”

  Drawn out of his reverie, Wesley strained for a glimpse through the sea spray. A small boat covered by a tied down sail lay abandoned on the beach. Visitors were not common on the remote place. There was little here to entice anyone. All that remained was an old house, and family cemetery.

  The sailors brought the boat through the surf. As they reached the shore, they jumped out and pulled it onto the beach. Wesley nodded to a crewman standing next to the covered boat, knife in hand. His man sliced the rope, peeled away the sail, and looked inside. Water and sand filled the bottom.

  “The boards on the bottom are damaged,” a sailor said.

  “Captain,” his man called. “Whoever is here is trying their skills at shipbuilding.”

  Wesley trudged up the wet sand to where the beach met the foliage. The sailor pulled back the growth and exposed a crude raft.

  He started to move away when something caught his eye. Wesley reached onto the raft and retrieved a metal button.

  “English,” his man said in disgust, looking over his shoulder.

  “It looks that way.” He clutched the button, then put it in the bag hanging from his belt. Wesley glanced at the top of the cliffs. Why would the English be visiting?

  “You go that way.” He pointed to the right. “That path leads to the garden at the back of the house. Find the intruders and bring them to me. I’ll go by the path near the cliffs. Stay alert.”

  He waited until his men disappeared up the path, then began his hike. He climbed the stone steps and arrived at the top. All the pleasant thoughts of his youth were gone. He searched the field in front of him. Nothing, not man or beast. He scanned the water and saw only his ship anchored in the channel. Curious. The rowboat wasn’t washed on shore, but neatly covered. He pushed on.

  He listened to the thunder in the distance, and the roar of the angry waves mixed with the gust of wind that swept along the shore. Nothing appeared out of place. Wesley continued across the open meadow.

  Over the last six months, coastal villages reported brutal raids. His long-time friend, Gareth, and his ship, the Fair Wind, were mentioned, but he found that hard to believe. He met the man in London. They quickly became fast friends and decided to go to sea together.

  Rumors ran rampant through the ports. The English accused the pirates of raids even though one of the men injured, with his last breath, said it was the English who destroyed his village. Whoever had attacked didn’t take prisoners. They torched the village and killed every living thing, beasts and humans alike.

  As a trader, he visited many of the ports and witnessed the aftermath of the slaughter. The destruction was on a small scale for now, but if these raids became more intense, a full-out war was bound to happen.

  The Scots were bold, brawn, and brutal. However, he had concerns about them going against the full force of organized English soldiers. An Englishman married to a Scottish lass, he worried about the future for both their people.

  His mind settled when he came to the low, stone wall surrounding the family cemetery. The path through the graveyard was a short way to the house beyond.

  He made a pilgrimage to the island whenever he traveled this route. The pain and anger of his father’s death softened over time. His visits here served three purposes: to remember his father, reflect on his own life, and focus on his future.

  He passed through the familiar gate. A shiver rippled across his shoulders; he was not alone.

  On high alert, he moved through the yard, toward his father’s grave. He stopped, startled to see someone by his father’s tombstone with a bottle in his hand.

  “Come, Wesley. Drink to your father with me.” The man raised his head.

  Wesley, his mouth agape, tried to make the connection. The man’s self-confidence was out of place with the unkempt person before him.

  A warning cough from the stranger made Wesley
close his mouth and come to his senses. Letting out a deep breath, a slow smile lit his face.

  “Gareth. This is the last place I would expect to meet you. Where have you been?” He stepped forward, and took the offered bottle.

  For the moment, Wesley was back at his pirating days when he and Gareth worked as a team and sailed for King Henry III out of the Cinque ports in the south of England, their actions replenishing the king’s treasury as well as their own. Although the man was a soldier at heart, Gareth was loyal to him, and together, they went to sea.

  “I stayed on after you left, but pirating for good King Henry wasn’t the same. Some English took their letter of marque to heart, and not only stopped Spanish ships but English ones as well. It was one thing to taunt the Spanish, another to terrorize your own people. I encountered a friend of yours at sea. He asked who I sailed with. Your name was like magic.” That made them both laugh. “You’d have thought I was his long-lost, wealthy relative. He hugged me close and gave me a position on his ship.”

  “I heard rumors you sailed with MacAlpin. It appears we both signed on with him at one time.” Wesley took a gulp of whiskey.

  It seems like only yesterday your father gave us a ship, each a gem, and sent us off with his blessing.”

  “Father called the gems our North Stars and said they would point us in the right direction. Mine was cool to the touch and warmed when I met Darla.”

  Gareth held up his hand. Between his forefinger and thumb, a gem caught a ray of sunlight that slipped through the gray clouds.

  “Mine is as cold as the snow on Ben Nevis Mountain. I still search. I may be destined to search the rest of my days. Not everyone is as fortunate as you,” Gareth said and put the stone back into the bag hanging from his belt.

  “I, too, gave up hope and found my salvation when I least expected. You will find your North Star, but first you have to trust a woman before you can love her.”

  Gareth’s amiable expression quickly turned stormy.

  “I’m surprised to see you here. This is the wrong time of year for you to sail these waters,” Gareth said.