by Cathy MacRae
Her cheeks warmed. “I should have asked about Colyn sooner.” Her gaze darted to Phillipe. “Much has happened since we arrived.”
“Nae worries, m’lady. He’s glad of the honor.” Balgair moved to a sturdy wooden gate bound with iron bands and studs. He pulled a chain hanging over the top of the panel. The click of metal indicated he’d released the latch, and he pushed the heavy gate open.
“This allows us to open the gate from this side, though the chain can be pulled to the opposite side should we need to keep an enemy at bay.”
They entered the open field where the abbey lay. Clusters of wind-stunted trees framed the meadow, the hives at their feet swarming with busy bees. On the far knoll stood the abbey, apple trees waving gently above the walls. Gone were the ragged bits of wall and roofing. Piles of stone sat ready to be added to the repairs. The garden at the foot of the wall was gone and clumps of dirt lay scattered about. Scaffolding and cranes rose high into the air. A curved, cobbled path led them to the massive double doors.
She gestured to the walls. “Ye’ve not only increased the height, but the width as well. And dug up the garden.”
“’Twas necessary, mon coeur,” Phillipe said. “The added height increases the weight, and the broader base helps keep the wall from leaning.”
“We’re able to build atop the stone of the isle itself with verra little digging, which helps as well,” Balgair added. “We harvested what was ready, but will likely have to rely on foodstuffs from the mainland this winter.”
He gestured to the abbey. “The men have also completely cleared the rooms which had become cluttered with debris, and will whitewash the interior walls once all repairs are made. The rooms will be yers to finish soon.”
Maggie’s gaze traveled the length of the abbey. “Ye’ve accomplished all this in little more than a sennight? Well done!”
“I’d nae have the baron’s men sitting idly about.” Balgair grinned, her compliment clearly pleasing him.
A volley of barks announced visitors. Serkan bounded up the path. Narfi and other children followed, the falcon on Narfi’s wrist.
“Colyn can hunt, freya!” Narfi announced, his face beaming with pleasure. “I dinnae let him fly when the weather was bad. But he hunted a wee bird right from the sky a few days ago. He’s a rare one!”
“Ye dinnae ken how proud I am of ye, Narfi, and how grateful for the care ye’ve given Colyn whilst I was away. My mind was eased to know he was with ye.”
Narfi’s face reddened and he glanced away, but the smile on his face broadened.
“May I ask ye to continue with yer care—for a time, at least? Phillipe and I will be verra busy with the work here and at our new home on the peninsula. ’Tis important his training continues without interruption.”
Narfi’s eyes glowed. “Aye! Ye can count on me, freya! And I can care for Serkan, as well. He’s a good dog and will help Gerdur with the sheep one day.”
“Ye have an excellent hand with the animals, Narfi. I thank ye for yer help.”
Maggie turned back to Phillipe and Balgair. “I am verra pleased with the progress. ’Tis beyond my hopes, actually.” She beamed, her heart full despite the lingering shadow of the pirates. “Beyond my wildest hopes.”
* * *
Phillipe sent Maggie to bed with a lingering kiss and a promise to join her as soon as he could. His head throbbed, his neck and shoulders ached, and objects often appeared fuzzy or faded about the edges. But he was too worried to rest.
He paced before the watch fire, gathering his thoughts. “MacDonnell is their master?”
Balgair shifted his stance to follow Phillipe’s gait. “Mayhap. He is lord over these isles and loyal to Norway.” He glanced over his shoulder to the longhouse where Maggie and the other women had retired an hour or so earlier. “My guess is he sent them to kidnap Maggie, thinking her an easy target.”
“Ye believe they were sent to only capture her?”
“If MacDonnell wanted her to hand over possession of the isle, he would have treated her well—at least until she capitulated.”
Phillipe guarded the spurt of anger at the thought of Maggie as a pawn. “When should we expect MacDonnell’s man to arrive?”
Balgair shrugged. “Mayhap a day—two at the most. He wouldnae leave her in the hands of drunken pirates long, lest they forget his orders.”
Phillipe did not trust himself to respond. He increased his pace, noting the scent of brine and decay as his boots trampled deeper into the sand.
Balgair remained silent a moment, then turned from the fire. “It has occurred to me a chain across the harbor opening might deter ships from arriving unannounced.”
“It might.” Phillipe bit off the words, then changing direction abruptly to settle in the sand, his back against a boulder.
Balgair raised his eyebrows. “Ye are perturbed—beyond thoughts of yer wife.”
“Maggie said the islanders fear the change we bring.”
“They fear being protected?”
“They fear the violence of warriors who are strong enough to hold the isle. Fear how much of their way of life will attract the young men and turn them from their heritage of peace.”
Balgair snorted. “Young men are attracted to protecting what is theirs, nae standing about whilst their fathers bow to the rapacious greed of pirates whose only claim to the isle is that they have swords.”
Phillipe slid a questioning gaze to Balgair at his outburst, but the burly Scot shook his head. Silence filled the minutes as the fire crackled.
“We will proceed with the precautions ye and I discussed earlier,” Phillipe said. “’Twill be no surprise to find MacDonnell on our shore in the next few hours. We must be prepared. Set a schedule, but work must continue through the night. Children below the age of twelve are exempt. Women will work alongside the men.”
“This had to come to a halt sooner or later, ye ken. The pirates wouldnae have been satisfied with a mead tribute much longer. The slave trade escalates as tensions rise between Scotland and Norway. Become one of us or lose yer life. The caves made the islanders feel safe, but ’twould be too easy to smoke them out or simply kill them and take the isle. Ye have done naught to bring this about. Pirates were here long before ye set foot in Scotland.” He paused with a low harrumph. “The islanders should be thankful to have men with our experience to provide for them.”
Phillipe smiled, but without humor or happiness. “If I could leave Hola an idyllic isle with sheep the only blight on its hills, and the barks of seals the harshest sound, I would. I pray what we do is enough to give its people the opportunity to live in peace.”
Maggie collapsed onto her pallet, exhaustion dulling the pain of muscles she knew would protest mightily in a few hours when she next rose. She hadn’t wished to retire, but everyone clung to the schedule Balgair had set, knowing they needed rest as much as they needed to maintain the grueling pace.
Ingrida sank to the floor next to her. “Is it true ye and Lord Phillipe willnae remain here?”
Lord Phillipe? Such a change from the man who’d arrived on Hola with her less than a month prior. Maggie allowed herself a tired smile. If Ingrida only knew the real Phillipe.
“Aye. Baron MacLean has offered land and provisions on the northern edge of the Ardnamurchan peninsula. We are to provide a buffer against Lord MacDonnell’s encroachment.”
Ingrida twisted the wool of her kirtle between work-roughened fingers. “Will ye take Soren?”
“Who?”
“My son. The children call him Narfi because he is so skinny.” She gave a low indulgent laugh. “Like his father.” Ingrida drew a deep breath. “He is clearly enamored with yer falcon and wee dog. He is verra clever and has naught to look forward to here but raising sheep and making mead.”
“Ye thought that was enough, last we spoke,” Maggie reminded the woman. “Ye dinnae invite change.”
Ingrida shrugged. “I have come to realize change will occur, whether I will it or
nae. For generations, this isle was all our people knew. We were peaceful and traded occasionally with others from nearby islands. Then, the priests came, spreading word of their god. A few lingered and built the abbey, and then began making mead, changing Hola from a Viking outpost to a Christian settlement. The world is changing, freya, and our ways, while I still believe they are the best, willnae protect us from those who dinnae hold the same peaceful values we do. If Soren wishes to see more of the world, will ye take him?”
Maggie placed a hand on the troubled woman’s forearm. “If he so wishes, he will have a place in our home for as long as he desires. But ’twill be his decision to make, not ours.”
“Thank ye.” Ingrida rose. “I have been neither fair nor honest with ye. Ye are a good woman, and Hola benefits from yer care. We should have told ye about the pirates sooner.”
“Maggie. Wake.” Someone shook her, whispering sharply in her ear. Maggie blinked and tried to sit, but her muscles groaned in protest. She wobbled then pushed to a seated position and shoved her hair from her eyes.
Phillipe’s gaze met hers. The skin around his eyes was dark, bruised-looking, utterly exhausted. “A ship has been sighted. We believe it belongs to MacDonnell.”
Panic drove Maggie to her feet. She stared at her husband, noted the mail beneath his cloak. Without a word, she sought her weapons, sheathing the daggers before laying her crossbow over her shoulder, quiver filled with bolts.
“We must be in place before the ship docks.” Phillipe turned, but Maggie caught his shoulder and pulled him back.
“Naught is more important than this.” She leaned forward and kissed him, all of her longing, fears, and trust, bundled into the brief caress.
He caught his arm about her waist and pulled her close. “I love ye, mon coeur. Never doubt it. We will see this through together.”
Chapter Thirty Six
A longship rounded the point like a ghost against the pearly morning sky. The pristine sail flapped gently against the mast. Oars visible in the ports appeared locked in place, allowing the breeze to push the ship down the channel to the dock. Three men stood at the prow, but Maggie did not doubt many more sat below the row of shields lining the rail.
Dressed in trews and a thick tunic, Maggie stood next to Phillipe at the edge of the water, careful to remain a step beyond a stack of small rocks marking the range of arrows from the dock which had been determined the day before.
At the alarm from the promontory, the women and children had been sent ahead to their appointed places. Those capable of handling rocks and crossbows settled about the defensive positions, while those too infirm or young had fled to the abbey. The small number of islanders and MacLaren soldiers had been greatly increased by Baron MacLean’s generous support, though the Mar had departed with a skeleton crew at dusk the day before. Maggie shuddered to think of the two dozen untrained islanders facing alone whatever the ship brought to their shores alone.
The three men climbed over the rail to the dock then halted. Their gazes swept the shore, populated with fewer than ten men, though all were warriors and carried their weapons in plain view.
One of the men took a step forward. “Ahoy, the shore!”
Phillipe mirrored the movement. “What brings ye here?”
The man spread his arms wide, his cloak sweeping clear of his sword hilt. Metal-studded leather bands encircled his wrists. A thickly-woven plaide draped his waist, falling to his knees. Two braids framed his face, the ends blending with his close-cropped beard.
“I seem to have misplaced a birlinn.” He tilted his head at the black-sailed boat. “Much like this one. Permission to come ashore and discuss the errant crew?”
“The three of ye only,” Phillipe concurred.
Within moments, the trio stood a few feet away. A gull swept overhead and a sheep bleated in the distance. Tension on the beach rose. Hands drifted to sword hilts, caught in the nick of time, then lowered.
Phillipe eyed the man directly before him. “Ye are . . .?”
“I am Hugh MacDonnell on behalf of the Lord of the Isles. And ye?”
“Phillipe of clan MacLean.”
Hugh’s eyes narrowed as if the information puzzled him. “And the woman next to ye?” His gaze raked Maggie head to toe and back. “Ah, such hair. She could be none other than the lovely Maggie MacLaren.”
Maggie bristled.
“She is my wife.” Phillip’s voice hardened.
“Yer wife? The earl dinnae mention she’d remarried.” MacDonnell raised a brow then shrugged his thick shoulders. “It matters not. I came to recover something which was lost. Do ye have knowledge of the men sailing this birlinn?”
Maggie stepped to Phillipe’s side. “They are dead.”
“Indeed? How is it ye come by such knowledge?”
“I killed them.”
Hugh glanced at his men then back to Maggie. “’Twas a bit harsh, m’lady, was it not? I wished to meet with ye, ’twas all.”
“I dinnae like the way they asked.”
“Lord MacDonnell would like to regain possession of this isle. We would prefer ye be in agreement.”
“Nae.”
Hugh swore under his breath. “Sign over Hola or I will take it by force.”
Maggie stiffened. “Ye can try.”
His gaze swept the beach. “A handful of men willnae divert me from my path.” He faced Maggie. “Nor a willful wench who doesnae know her place.”
“Ye will speak to Lady MacLean civilly or learn better,” Phillipe warned, his gaze narrowed, jaw set.
“My most abject apologies, m’lady,” Hugh effused, eyes glittering with malice. “Yer former husband was less than kind with his opinion of ye, and words do have a way of lingering.” His thin smile stole no warmth from the baiting glint in his eyes. “In fact, he is the one who suggested we send ruffians to bring ye to heel before I spoke with ye. A terrible thing, to be certain, and no less than I’d expect of a man who discarded such a lovely as ye.”
“Ye are finished. Do not speak to my wife again,” Phillipe growled.
Maggie caught her breath. He’d never looked so dangerous.
Phillipe’s brow lowered. “Not even to ask her blessing with your dying breath. Your time is up. She will not surrender title to the isle, and if ye do not depart immediately, ye will be killed where ye stand.”
Hugh gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “I dinnae fear such as ye.”
Balgair stepped forward, beard bristling. “Mayhap answering to Baron MacLean is more to yer liking?”
A feral grin spread across Hugh MacDonnell’s face. “Once ye are dead, what difference does it make?”
Movement at the pier caught Maggie’s attention. She touched Phillipe’s arm. “Men. Coming ashore.”
Phillipe’s slight nod told her he’d noticed. “The Mar was dispatched yester eve, sending word to Baron MacLean of the troubles on Hola. He will not take kindly to the mistreatment of his new daughter by marriage.”
Hugh frowned. “Baron MacLean’s son is Lord Alex. He’s been at Morvern three years and more.”
“I am Baron MacLean’s other son. I’ve just arrived.”
Phillipe dropped his hand to Maggie’s shoulder. “Go!”
She whirled and darted up the path to the abbey. Two MacLaren warriors followed at her heels. Three MacLean men stood poised, heavy swords in their hands, as MacDonnell pirates waded ashore. At a shouted signal, the MacLeans hacked at ropes not easily visible by the invaders, and a section of sewn together fishing nets stretching across the flattest portion of the beach snapped into the air, strung taut on the frames used to dry fish.
Men cursed as the nets and ropes fouled their legs and dumped them into the surf. Hugh MacDonnell advanced on Phillipe and Balgair, sliding his sword from its sheath.
“Ye shouldnae have involved yerself. For this, ye will die.”
Balgair grinned, clearly enjoying himself. “This day ’tis as good as any other.”
As rehearse
d, Phillipe and Balgair closed on the three, engaging them to give the rest of the MacLeans and MacLarens time to retreat to the abbey. Swords clanged. Small stones rolled treacherously beneath their boots. Pirates freed from the nets charged up the beach. With a final parry, Phillipe and Balgair sprang to the trail in Maggie’s footsteps. At Balgair’s shout, Narfi and his band of archers loosed a round of crossbow bolts. Most landed on the ground between Phillipe and the MacDonnells, but a few found more deadly marks.
Shouts of huzzah lifted in the air. Now exposed to the pirates against the wind-swept slopes, Narfi and the archers joined the others fleeing up the path to the abbey. Their unexpected volley gave the men precious seconds to pass the protected bridge spanning the trail. Agile as mountain goats, the lads sped to their next line of defense.
At the head of the trail, Phillipe whirled to a halt. “Now!”
At his shout, burly carpenters pulled against ropes attached to timbers supporting old doors scavenged from the abbey, topped with dozens of boulders plucked from the isle. With a groan, the supports gave way and the boulders flew down the hillside, some partially occluding the path, others bouncing in a deadly melee over the pirates who followed too close.
Another cheer rang out.
Phillipe motioned impatiently at the carpenters. “Hurry! Join the others. Balgair and I will support the lads on the bridge.”
He and Balgair raced up the trail and through the gate. They quickly engaged the latch, then leapt up the hastily carved steps to the shielded bridge above. Narfi and the others awaited, eyes wide, crossbows at the ready. Maggie stood in their midst. Phillipe caught her gaze and grinned.
“We shall hold them here. We will not remain beleaguered long.”
Maggie’s tense composure relaxed and she gave a nod before turning her attention to the apertures in the wooden barbican. Peering through the slits, she and the others watched as the pirates approached.