by Lily Baldwin
“Do not tempt the Lord’s wrath, Aidan”, Ronan scolded. “Like the rest of us, you are no stranger to sin. Instead, pray the Norse blades are blunt.” Ronan took a swig of ale and passed Aidan the jug.
“Rest now, lads. Tomorrow, we make for Largs.”
Ronan lied down, pulling his plaid around his shoulders. When they were on the move, his mind was on the journey ahead and the threat that awaited them, but at night, when his men slept and his eyes closed, he thought only of Shoney. He wondered if she kept her promise, or if she had already returned to her hut, once again donning the cloak of the Witch of Dervaig. He hoped she stayed and was happy.
It was overwhelming at times, the hurt that gripped his heart if ever he pictured her drowning in the solitude he had pulled her from. Suddenly, his own life was a trifling; something he would gladly trade to ensure her well-being. That is, if his life was his own to trade, but even that mattered little now. He no longer doubted their future together. He would fight his father, and he would fight her for that matter, and he would win.
He looked into the trees and saw her there, staring down at him, her golden hair disheveled, swinging like gilded ropes in the breeze. Stormy eyes, heavy with passion stared into his as she chewed on her bottom lip, trying to resist him, trying not to love him, but it was a fight she always lost. She stretched her arms into the night air as she reached for him. He heard his name float from her lips as she slowly drifted down with the heat of longing in her eyes.
But then one of his men snorted and shifted in his sleep, forcing Ronan to concede to reality. Shoney’s image disappeared, and once again, they seemed a world apart, surrounded by uncertainty.
At first light, Ronan awoke, ready to embark with his men. The air was heavy as they strode into Largs, and the sky overhead was overcast. Despite the warnings of foul weather, the town was bustling with preparations for the upcoming battle. The thriving and growing community was bursting at the seams with the arrival of so many highland warriors. Ronan led his men through the streets toward the church in the village center where he and Nathair had agreed to meet.
The Mull MacKinnons, awaiting his arrival in the courtyard, passed on the laird’s command for Ronan to meet him in the high stone tower above the rectory.
“Taking in the view?” Ronan shouted up to his father. Nathair grinned and motioned for Ronan to join.
Ronan, followed by both Aidan and Guthrie, ducked through a doorway into the priestly quarters. His eyes were still adjusting to the dimly lit and sparsely furnished room when he was approached by an ancient clergyman who did not speak but gestured for them to follow. He led them to the rear of the building and pulled back a dark, heavy curtain, which hid a narrow stairwell from view. Ronan thanked him as he mounted the stairs.
“How old do you reckon he was?” Guthrie said.
“Not as old as you think”, Aidan snorted. “That is what happens to a man when he is denied sunlight and a woman’s touch.”
“Again Aidan, you know I am not the holiest of men, but for the love of God, do not tempt the Lord’s wrath on the eve of battle.” Ronan admonished. “Be silent and do not offend.”
Nathair greeted them at the top with a wide grin on his face. “We have arrived not a day too soon, men. Look to the West.” Ronan gazed out to sea and in the distance saw the gathering threat of storm clouds.
“Aye, it won’t be long”, Ronan said.
“Those clouds are as black as my Una’s eyes”, Guthrie said as he touched the lock of black hair Ronan noticed was tied to his belt.
“Aye”, Aidan agreed, “but not nearly as sweet.”
Guthrie snorted and grabbed a fistful of Aidan’s plaid, “Aidan MacKinnon, you strutting cock, you stay clear from my Una.”
Ronan pushed himself between the two and shoved Guthrie against the tower wall. “Save your fury for the Norse, Guthrie. Una’s sweetness is known to all. Aidan meant nothing.” Guthrie muttered an apology but glared at Aidan as he stomped down the stairwell.
“They are like a pack of hounds hungry for the hunt”, Nathair said under his breath.
“Aye”, Ronan agreed as he stared out the tower casement. The Firth of Clyde stretched out before them, teeming with long ships.
“Look, already the winds stir the waves”, Ronan said.
“Right now every captain is running his men ragged trying to ready their ships for the storm”, Nathair grinned, “but nothing will save them from the hell about to be unleashed.”
As if summoned forth by the MacKinnon’s words, a crack of thunder shook the ground and a flash of lightening spread its fiery fingers across the sky. The black clouds twisted and spread, casting the firth in shadow as the winds thrashed the heavens and lashed out at the seas.
“The storm arrives earlier than predicted”, Ronan shouted over the wind.
“Aye, it will not be long now. Then we will have to take our position on the coast”, Nathair replied. Ronan glanced below and saw warriors from the lowlands who were part of the king’s retainer donning their mail and helmets and preparing their bows.
“The king has ordered archers in place on the slope above the shoreline”, Nathair said just as the rain began.
“Good”, Ronan replied, “The pelt of rain and steel shall tumble from the heavens upon their heads, and they will wish they never set sail for Scottish waters.”
He leaned out the window and closed his eyes, turning his face toward the blackening sky. Rain poured down, washing over him, and for a moment he imagined Mull and the soft harvest moon.
“For Mull”, he muttered as the last light of day was blotted out by the storm’s nightmarish expanse, and it was as though night.
Thunder clapped as Ronan shouted, “How many warriors have gathered, Father?”
“There is a cavalry of a hundred heavily armed men and twice as many archers”, Nathair answered, “and the infantry is greater than a thousand strong.”
“I counted over one hundred ships. King Haakon has more than twice as many men”, Ronan said.
“He will not have so many by the time he reaches the coast”, Nathair grinned.
“Aye, Father, but even with the help of the storm, we still face a formidable army.”
“I reckon so, lad, but I would not have made such a journey if I thought my blade would not shine red with Norse blood.”
Ronan reached behind his back, pulling his blade from its sheath. “Mackinnon”, he shouted down to his men, “Remember the Death of King Alpin.”
Once on the ground, his men sounded their battle cry again, and as they raced the short distance to the coast, Ronan heard the battle cries of other clans. Already the ground beneath his feet oozed with thick mud, and the rain pelted his back. The sky above the tumultuous waters was black pitch and writhed with terrific life. Ronan watched as the waves emerged like cloaked demons from the very depths of the seas. Watery tentacles as sharp as blades cut through the Norse fleet, tearing ships asunder.
The same waves rushed toward land, pounding the shoreline and eroding the sloping earth. Ronan stood in the midst of Scotland’s finest warriors who were primed for battle and standing at the ready up and down the coastline. The Firth stretched out before him. He and his warriors silently beheld the magnificent power of the tempest. Their bearing as unwavering as their conviction that Scotland was their sovereign. But many of the men around them were anything but silent. Their long wet hair clung to their faces in wild disarray as they cheered with triumphant bloodlust. Swords were unsheathed and held high at the ready as the dead of the enemy could be seen tossed upon the waves. The sea hurled them toward the coast, and the bodies that still breathed life would be cut where they lay by a highland blade.
The Norse vessels were no match for the merciless force of the wind and the thrashing of the waves. The sea battered the ships, and in the face of the mounting carnage, Ronan knew the captains would soon be forced to head toward the coast and take their chances against the awaiting army. As the ships grew clo
ser, Ronan could see the warriors standing at the ready. With the exception of the captains, they wore no armor over their brightly colored tunics and most were armed only with shield and axe.
A whistling sound could be heard over the din of the storm, and he turned around to see the archers in formation further up the slope release another volley of arrows. The sky was thick with iron headed shafts, and although many were swept away by the winds, just as many found their targets as Ronan watched the slain Norse fighters fall into the churning sea.
Menacing fanged dragons swam into view, carved into the bows of the Viking ships. They drew closer as powerful winds thrust the boats forward, driving their shallow drafts up onto the shore. The beasts were a weapon of fear used against Scottish innocents only months before. The sight fueled Ronan’s hunger for justice as he imagined terrified children running from the monsters. The sound of cracking timber was deafening as the gale-force winds smashed the ships together at the feet of the highland warriors, but the Norsemen were far from defeated.
They lunged from their vessels, treading on the bodies of their brothers, with madness in their eyes and hatred in their hearts. Their blades were at the ready, and they struck with the strength of those who escaped certain death and now had nothing to lose. Every warrior that charged at Ronan held the gleam of revenge in their eyes. Their battle was no longer about individual riches and land for their king. They craved retribution against the storm that laid waste to their fleet and to the enemy that stood by and cheered their demise.
In the beginning, the seasonal squall was an ally to the Scotsmen, the frontline of their assault. But as the Norse fighters spilled out of their long ships and moved beyond the coast, both sides struggled to hold a firm stance against the wind as they moved over slippery stones and were pulled into thick torrents of mud. The enemy was fierce, but their motives lacked principle; whereas, the Highlanders fought for the sovereignty of their land and the protection of their families. Their virtue was an added advantage against the Viking axe and shield, and Ronan held fast to his conviction as he swung his blade with speed and precision, cutting down foe after foe.
Hours passed into what must have been nightfall and then morning, but the sky never released the sun or stars by which to distinguish one day from the next. Ronan’s mind had become as black as the sky that hammered an unrelenting onslaught of rain upon his back. He no longer heard the death cries of the Norse who crumbled at his feet, nor did he feel fatigue or hunger. He barely perceived the flood of mire and blood through which he trudged. He did not see the faces of his friends or his enemies. He only discerned movement and whether to kill or not to kill.
He climbed atop a high rock formation, slicing his sword through the bellies of the men who gave chase. When he reached the top and stared out across the gruesome expanse, stretching out beneath his chosen precipice, his mind grew keen as if he had awoken from a dark dream, but what he saw could never be conceived even in the foulest nightmare.
The ground was strewn with the wasting bodies of the dead, many of whom were draped in the varied colors of the Scottish plaid. Wounded men from both sides dragged their bleeding bodies over the soulless carcasses and through the thick mud. Ronan turned his head toward the sky and felt the wash of rain pour down his face. All at once, Fatigue clouded his mind and weighed down his bones until he felt as though he might collapse.
But then something wondrous touched his face.
Fingers of warmth spread over his cheeks. He opened his eyes and gazed at a ray of sunshine, pushing its way through the gloom. Golden cascades of light mingled with dark clouds, summoning memories of Shoney’s sun-kissed waves and stormy eyes. It felt as if several lifetimes had passed since he last thought of her, and then he froze as he remembered Shoney’s words:
Storms will rage, casting the land in darkness. Then the clouds will break, and the sun will stream down upon you as you stand on a great precipice.
“God’s blood”, he swore. Her vision was coming true.
Chapter 24
“Sweet Jesus above, what ails you, Bridget?” Shoney lifted her head from her sick pan to look through bleary eyes at Morna.
“Good Morning, Morna”, Shoney muttered.
“Not good at all, it would seem.” Morna knelt down and swept Shoney’s hair back from her face. “You look green, my dear, and you’re as warm as an egg plucked out from under a hen.”
“’Tis nothing, Morna. I must have eaten something that soured my stomach.” Shoney began to stand but stopped as another wave of nausea sent her reaching for the pan. Morna soothed her back. “There, there, Bridget. You will feel better once you get it all up.”
Shoney groaned as she fell back on her pallet. If only it were that simple.
“I’m sure with a little rest, I will be fine”, she said.
“Aye, to be sure, Bridget. Still, I plan to keep an eye on you today.” Morna pulled Shoney’s blankets beneath her chin.
“Rest for now, and I will be back in just a little while to check on you.” She placed a kiss on Shoney’s brow, and then she was gone, leaving Shoney alone with the overwhelming madness of her thoughts.
She was drowning in desolation, and despite how she tried, she could not trudge through the mire of her thoughts to a place of peace. No longer could she discern where her true self ended and her alias began. She felt as much Bridget as she did Shoney. Her sense of self, tradition, and faith, given to her by her mother, were being stripped away, leaving her feeling weak and disloyal. Whether she should honor her mother and her heritage or Ronan was an unremitting battle that twisted her mind during the day and haunted her dreams at night.
Her mother was dead as was her past. Why should she cling to what had already come to pass when she could have a future together with Ronan, surrounded with family and friends, laughter and love? But then her throat closed, and she could not draw breath as her thoughts brought her back to that which she wanted most to forget—her vision.
Over and over again, she saw her love crumble as swords penetrated his body. Nevermore would she see his face, and never would he know his child. She sat up and retched again as her body was racked with sobs. She could not breathe. She could not think. She had to find peace from her fear or, surely, she would lose her baby. Then she imagined her little hut on the cliffs and knew she needed to go home.
She was careful to slip away from the village unseen as she cut through the forest and stepped out into open land. The autumn wind whistled over the moors, rushing through her hair and pulling at her tunic. The stark hills had lost summer’s emerald hue, and the tangled patches of heather, which stretched their fingers over hill and jagged rock alike, had started to fade and wither. Shoney inhaled the crisp air, reveling in the wildness of the land.
When she finally glimpsed her hut and the cliffs beyond in the distance, she quickened her pace as a flutter of excitement pulsed through her. Soon, she was kneeling at the Dervaig Stones in the foreground of her home, hanging her head in reverence. She prayed to the Mother of all for guidance and for help understanding the mysteries of her heart. In that sacred place, she remained for some time, hoping to hear the soft croon of ancestral voices on the wind, but all she heard was the welcoming cries of the Black Backed gulls.
It was at the edge of the cliffs that she felt her strength return. The rich salty sea air assailed her nostrils, awakening her senses. The sharp winds rolling off the sea blasted her core with exhilaration, and her heart matched the pounding beat of the surf against the cliff side. She could not say why or how, but a peace settled over her then. Reaching her hands to the sky, she spun, laughing for the first time in days and days. The answers she sought were near. If she remained mindful and patient, she would find them. Smiling she turned from the sea and entered her home.
Her eyes welled with tears as she gazed about her quiet quarters. She could feel her mother’s presence in the room. Warm memories floated around her, soothing the last of her fear away. She wrapped her arms aro
und her belly, and for the first time, she spoke to her child, telling her that she was loved and welcome.
Everything was just as she left it, except for the dust. With gladness, Shoney went to work, opening the door and window to invite in fresh air and checking buckets outside for rainwater to use for washing. She started with her table, cleaning each earthen bowl and tool. She thought of how useful many of the salves and herbs would be to the village if she decided to return.
Would she return?
Could she really abandon her new home and her beloved friends? Life without them seemed hard to imagine, but she shook her head and let her fear drift away. Somehow she would know what to do. Next, she decided to gather her tunics and kirtles to shake outside. She pulled her clothing from their pegs, including her cloaks, but her hand froze when she reached for what hung on the final peg—the cloak of the Witch of Dervaig.
She dropped the bundle of clothing on the ground, and stared at the cloak. Taking a deep breath, she reached a hesitant hand and warily pulled it off the peg. Overcome by the cloak’s two opposing powers, her hands shook as she held it. The cloak was her greatest protection. By instilling fear into the minds of the villagers, it allowed her to move unharassed over the isle. It represented anonymity and freedom, but that was not all. The dark, tattered fabric was also a prison. It shackled her to life as an outcast and a life without Ronan.
The cloak seemed to sneer at her, mocking her new found resolve. She moved to the center of the room and fanned the fabric out, resting it on her shoulders. Pulling the hood down low over her brow, she hunched her back and limped across the floor. Her friends would scatter with terror if she hobbled into the village, but what would they do if she suddenly stood straight and flung the cloak from her shoulders? It was too terrifying to consider.
“I knew I would find you here”, said a voice.
Shoney whirled around, astonished to see Ronan’s mother standing in the doorway, but Anwen did not seem in the least surprised to find her in the Witch’s hut, wearing the Witch’s cloak.