The Pirate’s Redemption

by Casie, Ruth A.

  Her opponent seized the advantage and aimed the tip of his blade at her heart.

  “One moment.” He never looked away. “You are fortunate today.” He lowered his weapon in a false salute, then grabbed the jewel pin holding her cloak. Her cap fell off, freeing her hair to tumble down her back.

  “My prize…” His mouth gaped open as the cloak dropped and revealed the curves of a woman in a man’s shirt and breeches.

  In one quick movement, she sliced the air, catching his cheek.

  “A kiss ta remember me by,” Moira said.

  The whistle sounded again, this time panicked and shrill.

  “Now. There’s another ship entering the harbor. You mustn’t be seen here,” de Montfort said.

  The intruder, gripping his sword hard enough to turn his knuckles white, hurried away.

  Moira didn’t move. She waited for her heartbeat to slow. In the heat of the fight, she went through the prescribed motions as if she were training. Emotion was just as much her enemy as the pirate. She blocked strike after strike, then moved to an aggressive offense. Now with the fight over, she let her emotions consume her. She sagged onto a nearby stool, her sword across her lap. Her stomach in knots, it felt as if she wouldn’t be able to keep down her morning meal. She had never faced a true adversary before, and had only trained with her father.

  “Moira,” a man called as he barged into the room.

  She jumped to her feet, her blade ready for the next attack. The man came to an abrupt halt.

  “Moira, it’s me. Wesley. I returned as soon as I could,” he said, his hands up, palms facing her.

  “Wesley.” She lowered her weapon. Neither moved nor said anything for several moments. “How did ye get here? Ye sailed two days ago ta Luing.”

  Wesley put his hands down, but didn’t move toward her.

  “I finished my business in Luing and was sailing to Dundhragon. My basket man called down he saw smoke coming from Gilmar’s direction. We changed course and came as fast as we could. I’m here to help you. I’ll do anything you ask.”

  Gareth came in behind Wesley.

  In a swift motion, Moira pushed Wesley to the side. She lifted her sword, the point touching Gareth’s throat.

  “Yield, Moira. Gareth is with me. He’s not a threat.”

  She turned to face Wesley and gave him a cool stare. She took a deep breath.

  “That’s Guy de Montfort and two Gareths in one day,” she muttered uneasily.

  At last, she lowered her sword. Though the two men said nothing, their expressions spoke for them. She righted a turned chair. With a gesture, she offered it to Wesley, then returned to the stool. She didn’t offer Gareth an explanation for her actions or a chair.

  “Two Gareths?” Gareth asked.

  She looked at him. Now she had a name to go with the man who boarded the Pir two days ago. He appeared much different from the other man with the same name. Tall and straight with muscles that rippled under his shirt, he was a man who did hard labor. His hands caught her interest. One was scarred, but they both looked smooth, and for a heartbeat, she wanted to feel his touch.

  She was flustered by the thought, and crushed the momentary desire.

  “You mean the pirate we saw running from here with a bloody face?” Wesley asked.

  “As one of MacAlpin’s captains, I know every pirate. He is not one of them. That was Bridgeton,” Gareth said.

  “Who is that?” she asked, directing her question to Wesley. She wasn’t in a mood to be friendly although her stomach was a bit more settled.

  “A disgraced nobleman from King Henry’s court, Halsey Bridgeton,” Wesley said.

  “What is he doing calling himself Gareth and playing th’ pirate king?” she asked.

  “He wants me to be blamed for his mischief. He isn’t careful about who he threatens or steals from, Englishman or Scot. He plans to capture the real MacAlpin for the bounty the English crown is offering with the intention to show King Henry his value,” Gareth said.

  “I dinna find him of much value,” she observed, emphasizing the last word. “He couldna even tell I was a woman. So much for Brighton.”

  “Bridgeton,” Gareth corrected.

  She nodded, and gave him a dismissive wave.

  “If ye will excuse me, I must attend ta the villagers.” She rose and started for the door but hesitated. “Ye have my thanks for coming at the right time. Now, I need ta put someone in charge before I leave.”

  “Leave?” The two men looked at each in question. Wesley turned back to her. “Where are you going?”

  “Ta Dundhragon in order ta speak wi’ Laird Ewan. I must tell him about Brighton.”

  “Bridgeton,” both men corrected her at the same time.

  “Bridgeton,” she said. Even she could hear the irritation in her tone. “Wesley, you were here when we buried my father. Laird Ewan swore ta protect us. I will remind him of his pledge.”

  “Yes, I remember.” Wesley paused for a moment.

  “Ye thought his lordship meant th’ remark as a gracious token ta th’ new chieftain of th’ MacDougalls of Gilmar,” Moira said.

  “I’m aware of your responsibility, but you’re needed here with your people. That is more important. Send someone else to plead your case.”

  Surely Wesley understood her position required her to speak directly to Laird Ewan.

  The English were gone, but she still could hear the screams and crying of the villagers. How could she leave her people? How could she not? They needed protection. What if this Bridgeton came back, what could she do?

  “I’m afraid I canna do that. As th’ clan chieftain, tis my responsibility. More ta th’ point, he made th’ pledge ta me. We may be few in number, but Laird Ewan will remember his responsibility once I speak wi’ him.” Her overlord may doubt her ability, but she had to make him understand. “No one can explain our needs as I can.”

  She continued toward the door.

  “Who will you choose to remain here and help your people while you’re gone? They look to you for leadership. Who will your people trust to help them recover from this tragedy?” Wesley asked.

  Moira turned and smiled at him sweetly. “Ye, of course. Everyone in Gilmar knows and trusts Wesley Reynolds. And ye pledged ta do anything I asked.”

  “I did.” He rubbed the back of his neck, then looked up at her, smiling.

  Sure Wesley would help, she felt confident she’d find success with Laird Ewan. Wesley had been her father’s trusted friend, and he did make good sense. Her first responsibility was to her clan’s recovery.

  “I will honor my pledge. I will stay here,” Wesley said. “But you have made a powerful enemy. The mark you gave him will scar. Bridgeton is an arrogant man driven by his vanity.”

  “I leave as soon as I attend to my people.”

  Wesley gave her a gracious nod and said nothing.

  “Join me. Together we can take measure of what needs ta be done and put some plans in place. If Bridgeton is as angry as ye say, he may return. I willna leave my clan defenseless. This, too, I can share wi’ Laird Ewan, explain what happened and what actions we’ve taken.”

  He stepped beside her. “Your father would be proud. Not only for seeing to your people, but how well you did against Bridgeton.”

  “That’s small comfort. I was aiming for his throat.” She turned, and this time, made it to the manor door.

  Chapter Seven

  Gilmar, Scotland

  September 21, 1267

  Later that morning

  Moira stepped under the covered entrance of the manor house, unable to move. From its location on the rise, she scanned the village. Her heart ached. To the north, the wheat field smoldered. The five cottages around it had been burnt to the ground. To the west, the wooden buildings and kirk by the green were on fire. Her people and Wesley’s crew had picked through the debris looking for anything that could be salvaged. To the south, the blacksmith’s building and barn still stood. The vegetable ga
rden had been trampled, not a stalk left.

  Earlier this morning, she put on her cap and fastened her cloak over her breeches and shirt with her clan pin, then threw open the curtains and was surprised to find a ship approaching. Men clambered at the rail as they rowed toward their dock. As the boat drew closer, the hair on the back of her neck stood up.

  Moira grabbed her sword, rushed down the stairs, and into the village to alert her people.

  “Raid,” she shouted.

  The response was immediate. Chaos prevailed.

  “Quick, git th’ children ta th’ cave,” she ordered, standing in the middle of the green.

  The older children gathered the younger ones and rushed away from the village. The shepherds gathered the flocks and drove them to the woods.

  “Lyall, go house ta house and make sure everyone is out.”

  He hurried away.

  “Moira, you can’t stay here,” Aymer said as he surveyed the area for any threats.

  Her father’s weapon. She looked toward the manor. Torsten’s scroll. There was private information in it that no one could see.

  “Git everyone ta safety,” she said to Aymer. “I’ll meet ye on th’ other side of th’ woods.”

  She raced back to the house before he could object. Every piece of parchment had to be burned.

  The rest was a blur. Now she stood here, assessing the destruction and death that surrounded her. It was all her fault. She hadn’t protected them.

  Wesley and Gareth came to her side.

  She didn’t hear the sound of the surf, the call of the sea birds, or laughter of the children running along the green. Women and children crying out for their husbands and fathers filled the air. Angry tears slid down her cheeks and vengeance filled her heart.

  “I know looking on the destruction is difficult. Gather your strength. Now more than ever, your clan needs you. Keep moving forward. Revenge comes later,” Gareth said.

  “How do ye know what I need? Doona lecture me about my duty. I am well aware of what I must do and must be. I doona need instructions from ye.”

  From the corner of her eye, she noticed the sudden anger that lit Gareth’s face. Wesley pulled him away, and after a word, he stalked off. Best for him to leave her and her people alone. Wesley remained at her side, and had the good sense to remain silent.

  Finally, after what seemed a long while, she acknowledged his presence again. “And what do ye have ta say ta me?” she asked.

  “I never thought you to be callous.” His reprimand set her teeth on edge, but she did her best to hide her annoyance.

  Moira turned toward Wesley, his face a mask of stone. A warning voice echoed in her head. She was more shaken than she wanted to admit.

  “Gareth spoke from experience. He, too, was a leader who became bent on revenge. He had to learn the hard way that nothing would ever be the same. Anger isn’t strength, quite the opposite. That was a difficult lesson. He merely wanted to share his knowledge and spare you the painful experience. But as you say, you are the leader here and understand duty.”

  She held her tongue, not wanting to offend Wesley with her retort.

  “There is much to do before nightfall. The supplies on my ship may be of use. I’ll attend to my ship and crew.”

  She nodded and was relieved when he left her alone. Didn’t he understand?

  Nothing would ever be the same. Wesley’s words burned deep inside her. Was that how her father felt three years ago when Gilmar was attacked? There was no going back. She would learn the way. There would be time for revenge later. Gareth was right about that.

  Her encounter with Gareth two days ago plagued her with thoughts that had nothing to do with keeping Gilmar safe. Never had the nearness of any person sent her mind in turmoil. She watched him board and examine her ship. In response, she provoked a confrontation to protect the clan. But that wasn’t the entire truth. She was drawn to him, and that both thrilled and worried her.

  Moira set out for the green where the families were being reunited.

  “How many are injured?” she asked the first person she encountered.

  “No one came away unharmed. Most have scratches. Fifteen are seriously wounded or have burns,” Fiona, the baker’s wife, said.

  “Moira, ye are safe,” Hamish the blacksmith said, obviously relieved. “Wesley and th’ crew are helping wi’ th’ injured.”

  “How many are lost?” she asked, and braced for the answer.

  “Five,” Hamish whispered. “Gavin, Isla, and their two wee babes, as well as Lyall. He fought alongside Gavin. We willna be able to lay the bodies for th’ traditional four days. It may be better to mourn this evening and bury at sunrise.”

  Moira nodded, unable to speak. She went among the people and did her best to help ease the pain of those who suffered.

  Gareth and the ship’s crew worked side-by-side with the villagers to remove debris from the kirk. A good part of the east wall of the chancel still stood. The other walls were mostly rubble. Open to the wind and rain for the first time in centuries, Moira and several others swept and washed the chancel floor.

  By evening, candles from the manor lit the chancel where five wrapped bodies were laid out for all to see.

  Moira, now in her ceremonial dress, was the first inside. She silently prayed for those lost as well as those who survived. Her prayers completed, she stepped back and waited while the villagers paid their respects.

  A familiar cough sounded behind her.

  “Fiona has a remedy for that cough,” she said.

  “It was intentional. I thought it best to warn you I was near rather than feel your blade at my throat.”

  Moira turned and smiled. She gestured for Gareth to stand beside her. “I dinna know—”

  He put up his hand to stop her. “I would have done the same. In the heat of a battle, you don’t stop to ask questions.”

  “I’m glad ye’re here.” Gooseflesh flared up her arms at the small smirk that lit his face. She responded with a broad smile and heard his quick intake of breath.

  He said nothing, simply stood at her side. Everyone said their final farewell. It wore her down to see them grieving and, toward the end, she realized Gareth’s arm was around her waist, propping her up.

  “That’s done, but tomorrow willna be any easier,” she said.

  “No, I don’t think it will.” They walked out of the kirk, toward the manor.

  “I’m sorry ye got caught up in this. I appreciate yer help.”

  “You should be dancing and singing, not burying your clan,” he said.

  “Aye, that would be nice. It seems so long since…” Since her father died last month. It seemed he’d been gone much longer. “Has it been long for you?”

  If he was taken aback by her question, he didn’t show it. He looked down at the ground for a moment, then lifted his head. “Some years. I still feel the grief and anger. It’s an old story. My father had the title, and his younger brother decided it was his. In the end, the land was lost and I’m the only survivor. Nothing has ever been the same.”

  “We have that in common,” she said.

  “Did ye have a brother?” She hadn’t been to the cemetery to see Ethan since her father died, and she wasn’t looking forward to going in the morning.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “We have that in common, too,” she said.

  “Ethan was my twin. Ye would have liked him. Ye remind me of him.”

  Gareth leaned close to her. “Ah, he was tall and handsome.”

  A laugh escaped her lips. “Aye, he was.” She stopped and looked at him up and down. “Taller I think, and definitely much more handsome.”

  They continued on.

  “But was he a pirate? Sailing the seas, going from port to port, bringing you back his treasures?”

  “No, no’ a pirate.” A smile lit her face. She was lost in a memory. “Ethan was a knight, and I was his squire.”

  “Did he show you how to defend yourself?”<
br />
  “Some I guess. Th’ rest my father taught me.”

  “I had three older brothers. There were enough of us to play war. We divided into two armies. My oldest brother always chose me. Richard said nobody would miss me if I was killed, but he took care of me when I got hurt. I would do anything for him. I was close to all my siblings, but Richard was special.”

  Moira understood Gareth’s feelings. She had shared a similar closeness with her brother.

  “So ye and yer brother always won?” she asked.

  “Almost always,” he said, a faraway look in his eyes. “I have my scars.”

  “Is that how ye got the scar on yer hand?”

  “No,” he said.

  Moira noticed the muscle along his jawline tense. How could she be so thoughtless? She had gotten too comfortable. “Forgive me.”

  “There is nothing to forgive. Even grown men make foolish mistakes. But I’ve learned my lesson. It’s the scars we have inside,” he pointed to her chest, “those are the ones that are the most difficult to heal.” They walked through the manor gate.

  “You’re not alone,” he said. “There are others who can help you with your burden. My mistake was keeping everyone away. I never realized they needed to grieve as much as I did.” They reached the manor steps. “It’s been a long day. Sleep well. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Aye,” she said, and went up the stairs and listened to his footsteps as he left.

  The people of Gilmar spent the night in the manor’s great hall. Wesley and his crew stayed on their ship. Finally, as the quiet talking and crying stopped, the people fell into a restless sleep.

  Nothing would ever be the same. Gareth’s words swirled in her head as she paced until she had memorized every crack in the stone floor and every stitch in the tapestry on the wall. She wasn’t looking forward to tomorrow. Too exhausted to think anymore, she finally curled up on her bed.

  Keep moving forward, revenge comes later, Gareth repeated inside her mind. Ethan and Gareth would have been good friends. Staring at the coffered ceiling, she stretched and let Gareth’s voice comfort her. She closed her eyes and finally fell asleep.