Ragna nodded. 'I thought if you kept it inside your siarc it would help keep you safe.'
'Thank you.' He looked at the knife for a moment, and then at Ragna. 'I have nothing for you,' he confessed.
She lay her hand over his. 'I have everything I want-at least, I will when you return. Promise me you will come back for me, Murdo.'
'That I will, Ragna.'
'Promise,' she insisted.
Murdo nodded solemnly at the young woman who held him with her burning eyes. 'With all my heart, I promise: I will come back to you. Murdo Ranulfson makes this vow.'
She put her hand to the back of his head, drew his face near, and kissed him. Her lips were warm and he wished he might linger there forever. Never had leaving seemed such a bleak and daunting prospect as it did then.
After a moment, Ragna pulled away and held her cheek against his. 'I will wait for you, my love,' she whispered in his ear. 'Pray God, let not that wait be long.'
Rising, she turned and stepped from the bed, casting a last glance over her shoulder. She hesitated, and Murdo, seeing the hesitation, reached out and caught her by the hand. 'Stay,' he said.
She looked at him, her eyes wide, then glanced towards the door hesitantly.
'Please,' he said, swallowing hard.
She came into his arms in a rush. They fell back onto the bed together, their bodies entwined, mouths searching, kissing hungrily. Murdo's hands stroked her body, feeling the warm and willing flesh through the thin stuff of her nightdress. He gave a groan and sat up all at once.
Ragna rolled away. 'What is wrong?'
'Nothing,' he said. 'Wait.'
He slid off the bed and went to the chest where he had placed his belt and pouch. Taking up the belt, he unfastened the pouch and withdrew the small silver pilgrim's coin the merchant Dumas had given him for the gattage at Jerusalem. Returning to the bed, he took up the knife Ragna had given him and pressed the sharp edge into the small disc of silver.
Ragna, on her knees now, watched him, her heart beating so fast and hard in her breast she could not speak.
Laying aside the knife, Murdo took the silver coin between the thumb and first finger of either hand, bent it and, bringing all his strength to bear, tore the coin in two. He offered one of the halves to Ragna, saying, 'As this is torn, so shall our souls be torn when we are parted.'
Ragna took the coin and, holding it out towards Murdo's half, reunited the two pieces. 'As this is joined, so shall our souls be joined.'
They then clasped hands over the coin and said together, 'From this night, and henceforth, forever.'
Murdo drew her to him once more and they kissed to seal the vow. Ragna threw aside the bedclothes, and pulled Murdo down with her into their marriage bed. Their first lovemaking fled past Murdo in a blind frenzy of heat and aching need. Afterwards, they lay panting in one another's embrace.
'They might -' Murdo began when he could speak again. 'They might try to challenge our vow -
'Hush,' Ragna whispered. 'We are hand-fasted, and joined in the eyes of God. No one can separate us now. When you return we will confirm our vows before the altar.'
'I will never set foot in that cathedral again.'
'In our chapel, then,' Ragna suggested.
'Very well,' he agreed, 'in your chapel.' He bent his head to kiss her once more. ‘I wish I did not have to go. But it will be morning soon and-'
She placed a fingertip to his lips. 'Speak no word of leaving. This is our wedding night.' So saying, she sat up and, taking the hem of her nightdress, lifted it over her head. Murdo saw the exquisite fullness of her breasts and the supple curve of her hip as she bent to extinguish the candle. And then she was beside him again, kissing him, caressing him, guiding his hands in their discovery of her body. Their second lovemaking was slower, and sweeter, and Murdo wished it would never end; but it did, leaving Murdo's heart cleft in two for the beauty of Ragna's giving of herself to him.
They slept then, their faces close, breathing one breath, their bodies sharing one space, one warmth. Ragna rose and slipped from his room just before dawn, and Murdo knew he would never be whole unto himself again. Part of him would remain with Ragna forever.
Later, after breaking fast, Niamh, Ragnhild, and Ragna walked down to the cove with Murdo. Peder and two of Lord Brusi's men were waiting at the boat. The early morning sun had burned away the low-hanging mist, and the day was coming clear. 'A good wind out of the north,' Peder called as they approached. 'We shall have a fair run to Inbhir Ness.'
Niamh halted on the path. 'You will turn back if there is trouble,' she said.
'As I have told you.'
'Or, if you cannot get a place on one of the ships,' she added.
'Mother,' answered Murdo with gentle, but firm resolve, 'we have talked about this a hundred times. I am no pilgrim. I will not fight. I mean to find my father and bring him home. That is all.'
'And your brothers,' added Niamh.
'Of course.' He gave a gently exasperated sigh.
Niamh halted on the path. 'It's just that you are the only one left to me. If anything should happen to you, Murdo, I do not think I could -'
Embarrassed to be overheard by Ragna and her mother, he turned and quickly reassured her. 'Nothing is going to happen to me. I am not going alone. I will be travelling with a large warband, after all. Nothing will happen. I promise.'
They started walking again. 'I will be home again before you know it,' Murdo said, trying to lighten the sombre mood settling around him. Now that the moment of leaving was upon him, he was far less eager for it than he had been even the day before. Indeed, after his night with Ragna, he wanted nothing more than to stay in Orkneyjar and for the two of them to remain together always.
If he stayed, however, that would never happen. The way Murdo saw it, his only hope of making a life for himself and Ragna was to regain possession of Hrafnbu. The only way to do that was to find his father and bring him home.
If his zeal for the journey had waned, these thoughts reminded him that there was even more at stake than recovering stolen property, his future happiness was at risk so long as intruders held their lands. So, Murdo put iron to his resolve and set his face to the sea.
His mother continued to offer advice and elicit his promises to be vigilant and careful, but Murdo was no longer listening. The sooner he was away, the sooner he could return, and his heart was set on a swift returning.
Upon reaching the shingle, Murdo turned at the water's edge and thanked Lady Ragnhild for her continued care and hospitality of both himself and his mother, and thanked her, too for the fine new clothes he was wearing-a handsome red-brown cloak of wool; a pair of sturdy breecs of the same cloth and colour with a wide belt and soft boots of new leather; and a long siarc of yellow linen. He also thanked her for the money she had given him to aid his travels, and promised to repay it at the first opportunity.
'It is nothing I would not do for my own blood kin,' Ragnhild told him; her emphasis on the last words, along with the lift of her eyebrow and not altogether approving gaze gave him to know that Ragna must have told her mother what had passed between them during the night. 'Your mother and I are more than sisters,' Ragnhild continued, 'I do welcome her company, all the more so with the menfolk away. We will be safe here, never fear. Look to yourself, Murdo, and God speed your return.'
He then embraced his mother for the last time while Ragnhild and her daughter stood a little apart, looking on. When Niamh had finished her farewells, she moved aside and Ragna stepped quickly before Murdo and kissed him chastely on the cheek. 'Come back to me, Murdo,' she whispered.
'I will,' he murmured, longing to take her in his arms again, and crush her willing body to his own.
'God speed you, my soul,’ Ragna said, already moving away. Before he could reply, she had rejoined her mother. There was so much he wanted to say to her, but that was impossible with everyone looking on. So, pressing his hand to the dagger beneath his siarc, he silently pledged his love
to her; she saw the gesture, and answered him with her eyes.
Promising yet once more to return with all haste, Murdo stepped into the sea and waded out to where Peder was waiting at the oars. He pulled himself up over the rail and took his place at the prow, while the two servingmen turned the boat in the water and gave it a push to send it off. Murdo shouted farewell one last time as Peder plied the oars and the boat moved out into the bay. He did not take his eyes from the figures on the shore, but stood and watched them dwindle away to mere coloured flecks against the grey rock of the cove.
Presently, Peder called for him to raise the sail, which he did. When he turned back, the cove had disappeared behind a rocky shoulder and the watchers could no longer be seen. Still, he lifted his hand in a final farewell, and then returned to his work.
BOOK II
January 12, 1899: Edinburgh, Scotland
I was born in the Year of Our Lord 1856, in the tidy industrial town of Witney in Oxfordshire, to parents of good old Scottish blood. My father, who had left his beloved Highlands to further the family interests in the wool trade, eventually put the business on a solid footing, hired a manager and moved back north to 'God's ane countrie,' as he liked to call it.
Thus, on the cusp of my sixth year of life, I was yanked, roots and all, from the humming bustle of a prosperous Cotswold town, and transplanted to a rude hamlet in what to my inexperienced eye appeared a drizzly, heather-covered moor in the remote Scottish wilds. Surrounded by sheep and gorse, I began my education in the tiny village school where I found both the teachers and my fellow classmates not only brusque to the point of rudeness, but incomprehensible. I spent the whole of my first year's lessons in a state of teary agitation, vowing at the end of each day never to return to that accursed school.
It fell to my patient grandmother to soothe my schoolboy woes. 'Niwer fret, laddie buck,' she would say. 'All will be well in God's good time.' She was right, of course. I finished my schooling and graduated from St Andrews University, having pursued a double course of study in History and Classics.
Favouring a life of professionary indolence over the blustery routine of a work-a-day wool purveyor like my father, however prosperous and thriving, I hastily signed on as a clerk at one of Edinburgh's reputable legal firms, and was plunged straight away into an amiable, yet tedious, drudgery copying drafts and opinions, writs and grants and summary judgements, for my learned superiors. After a few weeks of this occupation, I began to suspect that the life I had chosen did not suit me as closely as I had imagined. I began to drink-only in moderation, and only after hours with others of my ilk-frittering away my evenings with good talk, cheap whisky, and cheaper cigars in one of Auld Reekie's many excellent pubs-which would have horrified my dear old Gran no end.
Still, I was young, unattached, and reckless. My needs were simple, and easily met. One of my fellow scribes and imbibers, it soon transpired, was an inveterate walker who thought nothing of sailing off down the road to one distant destination or another with nothing more than a stout stick and half-a-sixpence. He was a true Son o' the Heather through and through, and gloried in the name Alisdair Angus McTavot. A splendid fellow, Angus-he detested the name Alisdair and would allow no one to use it in his presence-possessed an absolutely infectious enthusiasm, and I soon found myself tramping around the damp countryside with him at week's end and holidays.
We spent many a squall huddled in the doorway of a cow byre waiting for the rain to move off, and as happens on such occasions, we began to speak of our families. It turned out that the McTavot clan enjoyed some tenuous connections with the lapsed Scottish aristocracy. His father was a baronet, whatever that is, and though the title was no longer a sinecure for great wealth, there was yet a modicum of prestige to be wrung from it. If nothing else, his uppercrusty heritage had given Angus a taste for pomp and tradition of an obscure kind. He revelled in all manner of old fashioned notions, and indulged a penchant for the arcana of Celtic history, especially as it touched primitive royalty.
It was through Angus that I was introduced to the Ancient and Honourable Order of the Highland Stag-otherwise known as a gentleman's club. In its prime, the Old Stag as it was affectionately known to its intimates, boasted such illustrious members as Cameron Brodie and Arthur Pitcairn Grant, and such notorious brigands as Drummond 'Black' Douglas, and Judge Buchanan. Sir Walter Scott was an honorary member, as was Robert Louis Stephenson, and Captain Lawrie of Krakatoa fame. Although still eminently respectable, the club had come down somewhat in latter years and no longer attracted the blue-bloods and patricians in the numbers it once boasted-which, I suppose, is how Angus and I were able to gain entrance. Some few of our legal brethren were also members as it was considered a good way for a young man of discreet ambition to advance himself.
I found in the Old Stag a refuge from the increasingly dissipate life of the smoking and drinking set. It was easier in many ways to beg off an invitation to a Friday night's binge with a smile and a 'Love to, chaps, but I've a do at the club. Sorry.'
So it was that I found myself sitting alone in the smoking room one rainy Friday night. It had just passed eight, and most of the other members had gone through to dinner by the time I arrived, so I had the place to myself. I was nursing a pre-prandial single malt, while waiting for a very late Angus, when a tall, distinguished -looking fellow in a quietly expensive suit sat down in the leather armchair directly opposite me. He had a newspaper with him, but it remained folded on his lap while he passed a perfunctory eye over my rather ordinary person.
I assumed he was waiting for me to offer my name-a thing routinely expected of younger members as it allows the elder a chance to vet the newcomers without waiting for a proper introduction. No offence is taken; we are all members, after all. Before I could present myself, however, he said, 'Excuse me, I have no wish to intrude, but you are a friend of young McTavot, I believe.'
'Precisely,' I replied. 'Indeed, the very fellow I am waiting for now.'
'Yes,' said the stranger, 'he will be detained a few minutes. I thought we might take the opportunity to talk.'
This aroused my curiosity, I confess.
'Allow me,' said the man, extending a gold cigar case towards me.
I selected one of the fellow's panatellas, thanked him, and sat back. 'You know Angus, I take it?' I inquired, trying to sound nonchalant.
'Know his father,' answered the man. 'I knew your father, as well. A fine, upstanding man he was, too. Admired him tremendously.' He struck a match to light his cigar. 'I don't mind telling you that I miss him very much.'
'I beg your pardon, sir,' I said, 'but I think you might have me mistaken for someone else. You see, my father is still very much alive-at least, he was last time I checked.'
The man froze, the match hovering in the air. His eyes grew keen as he looked me up and down. 'Good Lord! William Murray still alive? I attended his funeral… or thought I did.'
The mistake came clear. 'William was my grandfather? I explained. 'Thomas is my father.'
The man slumped back in the chair as if he had been walloped on the jaw. He waved out the match, and stared at me, lost, his eyes searching.
'Oh, I am sorry,' he said, coming to himself once more. 'I seem to have got myself into something of a muddle. You are his grandson… Of course! Of course you are. Do forgive me. It is, I fear, one of the burdens of old age. Truly, it is all I can do to remember which century I am in, let alone which year.'
'Think nothing of it,' I offered. 'Happens to me all the time.'
He lit another match, touched the tip of his cigar, and puffed thoughtfully. 'Thomas… yes, of course,' he murmured to himself. 'How silly.' He extended the box of matches to me.
'You knew my grandfather, then.' I selected a match, struck it, and occupied myself with my smoke, giving him time to reply as he would.
'Not half as well as I should have liked,' he answered. 'Met him once or twice at business functions, social wrangles, and the like. William was the friend of a
friend, you see.' He paused, puffed, and added, 'McTavot was more in my circle of influence.'
'I see.' We talked of the McTavots and he asked me how Alisdair and I had come to be acquainted. I explained that we laboured in the same law firm, and how Angus had taken me under his wing and introduced me to some of Edinburgh's finer points. 'I'd never have known about the Old Stag, if not for him,' I concluded.
'That's much the best way,' the gent replied amiably. 'Friends of friends.'
Angus arrived in a lather just then, bursting into the room, shaking rainwater all over the expensive leather upholstery. 'Dreadfully sorry,' he apologized. 'I've been trying to get a cab for a half hour. The least little whiff of rain and they all run for cover. I'm soaking. What's this?' He picked up my glass, sniffed, and bolted down the contents. 'Whew!' he puffed out his cheeks. 'That's better.'
'Sit down,' invited the old gent. 'Care for a smoke?'
'Thanks.' He took one of the slim cigars, lit it, and said, 'I see you two have met. Good.' He rubbed his hands together. ‘I’m starved.' To the older gent, he said, 'We were about to go in to dinner. Would you care to join us? There's haggis stalking the moors tonight, I'm told.'
The tall gentleman stood. 'Very kind of you, but I'm afraid I've made other arrangements this evening. Some other time, perhaps.' He bade us both good evening and walked away, quiet and confident, like a cat having got the cream.
'What a strange man,' I remarked, when he had gone.
'Pembers?' wondered Angus. 'Why do you say that?'
I told him about the misunderstanding over my father, and how he had made light of it. 'The strange thing is, I had the distinct impression he really didn't know which century he was in, if you can believe it. He seemed completely lost for a moment. And another thing: I did not give him my name-he already knew it.'
The iron lance cc-1 Page 13