by Amanda Scott
The fragrance of burning peat wafted through the air, mixed with odors of food cooked earlier over the fire, the damp fur of the dogs curled near their masters, and the wet wool smell of rain-damp clothing. Although everyone in the cottage had heard the tale many times, each listened as intently as if it were the first time.
Everyone had brought food to share, and now that they had finished eating and darkness had begun to fall, the ceilidh, or folk gathering, had begun in earnest. While they ate, the conversation had been all gossip, as everyone shared any news gleaned since the last gathering. Then men had heaped the peat higher, and as it flamed and then smoldered, the tales had begun.
Nearly a score of people filled the room, adults and children, most of them sitting close together around the fire, albeit leaving sufficient space between it and themselves for any wee folk who might care to join them and hear the stories. Girls snuggled with family members or friends, and boys perched wherever they found space—three on the solid, square table pushed against one wall and several more in a tangle beneath it.
Near Molly, a man twisted twigs of heather into rope to tie down his thatch while he listened. Another twined quicken root into cords to tether his cows, and yet another plaited bent grass into a basket to hold meal.
At her spinning wheel, their hostess’s hands moved deftly through their familiar motions while her eldest daughter carded wool beside her. Another teased the nap on a piece of finished cloth. Other women sewed, knitted, or tended small children. Babies nursed or slept, and on a bench in the corner opposite Molly, an elderly man dozed, his snores occasionally punctuating the fairy tale.
Molly had no task to occupy her hands, no knee to lean against, and no hand to hold. She sat apart from the others, but even so, the evening warmed her heart and contented her restless soul.
The storyteller had reached the point in his story where the housewife complained to her neighbor about the exasperating fairy women.
“ ‘Get ye inside,’ the neighbor said to her, ‘and tell them to go down to the sea and spin the sand into cloth. That’ll keep ’em busy and out o’ your house.’ And so it did,” the storyteller added. “For all we ken, they be there to this verra day.”
Chuckles greeted the end of the tale, just as they always did, and before they had died away, another man said matter-of-factly, “Me father and grandfather knew a man wha’ were carried by the Host all the way from South Uist to Barra.”
“Aye, then, tell us aboot it, man,” murmured several members of the audience in a chorus.
After that, the old man told the tale of the Dracae, or water fairies, which was one of Molly’s favorites. Even the children were silent, eager to hear what happened to the woman seized by the water fairies and taken to their subterranean depths to act as nurse to their brood of fairy children. Then one small lad, who had been struggling to stay awake, fell asleep and toppled over just at the part where the now-escaping captive acquired the ability to see the Dracae whenever they intermingled with men. The hoot of laughter from the lad’s brothers brought quick shushing noises from their father and several of the other adults. Molly smiled.
As the water fairies’ tale reached its happy conclusion, she drew a deep breath of delight. It did not matter how many times one heard the tales. Knowing how each would end only added to one’s enjoyment. She could even be grateful for the rain. No one would expect her to walk back to Dunakin Castle until it stopped.
Despite the driving black storm from the Atlantic that raged with unabated fury around the flat-bottomed fishing coble, the little boat’s oarsmen moved it with remarkable steadiness from the Kintail mainland toward the looming dense shape of the Isle of Skye. Lightning flashed, revealing the boat’s six occupants, one hunched in the bow, one manning the tiller, and the four others manning the long sweeps.
Thunder rolled and rumbled as driving sleet pelted them. The wind carried gusts so fierce and high that the coble’s square lugsail was useless and was rolled up and strapped tightly to the beam of the mast.
The next flash of lightning revealed white sea foam billowing like snow around them. Then thunder crashed, and darkness enveloped them again.
In the bow, his oiled woolen mantle gripped tightly around him and his head turned away from the wind, Sir Finlay Mackenzie, Baron Kintail, enjoyed mixed feelings about the wintry weather. He was cold, and despite his heavy mantle, he was wet. This was not the way he had imagined restoring stability to his life.
Earlier, horses had carried him and the five others to the village called Kyle from Eilean Donan Castle. From Kyle, they had taken the coble into the teeth of the storm. Normally, the trip across the strait would have been quick, for the distance was only half a mile. However, they headed almost due south, so the full fury of the Atlantic storm blasted them from the right, and with the storm thus trying to force them off course, the journey was taking an eternity.
Fin glanced over his shoulder, ignoring the sting of sleet against his face as he searched the darkness ahead. Through the black tempest, a tiny cluster of lights gleamed—their beacon, Dunakin Castle, perched high on its promontory. They were on course despite the storm’s attempts to drive them back to Eilean Donan.
He hoped he was doing the right thing. To attempt his mission in such a hazardous way was perhaps foolhardy, especially with so few men in his tail. He was a Mackenzie chieftain, after all, a baron with the power of the pit and the gallows, and therefore a man of considerable authority. Perhaps he might have done better to await a calm day and transport horses to Skye along with a full contingent of menat-arms to act as a proper chieftain’s tail.
However, by the time he could mount such an effort, every man on Skye would know he was coming, and not all were friendly to the Mackenzies of Kintail.
Instead, he had decided that the mission he undertook was best done speedily and without warning, let alone any fanfare. He would stir a hornet’s nest, even so, but that did not concern him. In truth, it pleased him that his greatest enemy, Donald of Sleat—the very man who had brought such heavy responsibilities crashing down upon his shoulders—was about to lose one of his most valued assets. The Maid of Dunsithe, greatest heiress in the land, was about to change guardians, and Donald of Sleat—known in the western Highlands and Isles as Donald the Grim—knew nothing yet about the exchange.
The taking of the Maid would stand for little enough in the grand scheme of things, but it was something, and Fin Mackenzie owed Donald the Grim much more. Only months before, in the depths of winter, Donald and others of his clan had murdered Fin’s father in cold blood. Vengeance, in any form, was sweet.
It was hard to tell the difference between the seawater dousing him and the driving sleet, but as they drew nearer, the Isle of Skye began to protect them from the worst of the storm. Now, compared to being on the open sea, they were sheltered, and despite the roar of the wind, he could hear the creaking of the rowlocks and the lashing of water against the sides of the boat. In lulls, he could even hear the labored breathing of his oarsmen. Being men who lived by the sea, they all were skilled at rowing, but they were also experienced men-at-arms.
Lightning flashed again, and his gaze met that of Sir Patrick MacRae, his closest companion and best friend. In the Highlands, the MacRaes were called the Mackenzies’ “shirt of mail,” and Patrick was a true MacRae. Much the same age as his master, he had served Fin since childhood, even accompanying him to St. Andrews University, where they had enjoyed a good many adventures together.
Patrick was grinning, as usual, and Fin automatically smiled back. But when thunder clapped and blackness swallowed them again, his thoughts returned to the Maid of Dunsithe. Specifically, he wondered what he was going to do with her.
His greatest loves were his home and his people. James, fifth of that name and by grace of God High King of Scots, had granted him the right to marry the Maid off wherever she could do him the most good. He could even marry her himself if he chose, but he had no interest yet in marrying anyo
ne.
Fin was more interested in the Maid’s fortune, because it could do much to protect his people and add to Eilean Donan’s fortifications. There was a problem, though. Men everywhere, from the Borders to the Highlands, agreed that the Maid of Dunsithe was the greatest heiress in all Scotland, which, under normal circumstances, would have meant that one of her earlier guardians—and she had enjoyed several—would have married her off long since. The enticement for each, and the greatest deterrent, was her fortune. It was said that no one had actually ever laid eyes on it, but that tale sounded apocryphal to him. If there was treasure, he would find it, but even so, he was certain that over time men had exaggerated the size of it many times over. Still, whatever it comprised, he would see it, touch it, and take control of it before he did anything else with her.
He could not help but wonder at his fantastic luck. After months of uncertainty and concern over whether he would succeed in filling his powerful father’s shoes, he had somehow drawn the King’s notice and could now claim a connection to the powerful Earl of Huntly, chief of the Gordons. Huntly ruled the eastern Highlands and was some sort of cousin to the Maid.
Thus, the heiress had grand connections in Edinburgh and elsewhere, but she belonged now to a Highland baron with few influential connections outside the Highlands. Fin was uncomfortably aware that it would take a miracle to hold her if other, more powerful men discovered what James had done and decided to claim her for themselves. He would have to fight to keep her unless those others, including Donald the Grim, also believed that her fortune was mythical.
Unfortunately, the King was fickle in his choice of friends. He loved pitting his nobles against each other, but if there was trouble, Fin believed he could hold his own. Even without the improvements the Maid’s fortune could provide, Eilean Donan was a stronghold worthy of the name, and he was a warrior, able to guard what was his. With the Maid to strengthen his position, who knew what blessings might follow?
The oarsmen shipped their oars, and the boat scraped on shingle. Atop the steep bank above them reared the lofty curtain walls and angle towers of Dunakin Castle, stronghold of the Mackinnons of Skye. Below the castle, huddling between the steep bank and the shore, Fin could make out the dense shadows of the fishing hamlet called Kyleakin. It comprised no more than a row of cottages, hovels, and tarred shacks used for smoking fish, but here at last the noise of the storm was muted. All was dark and still, for the village seemed already to be sleeping.
A flutter of eagerness stirred. Mackinnon was unknown to him, but Fin loved a challenge. He did not doubt his ability to take what was his.
A lone dog barked when Fin jumped out on the shingle, then other dogs joined in, but no one stirred from any of the cottages.
His men followed him, and together they dragged the coble high onto the shingle, where it would be safe until they returned. Then, savoring the sweetness of winning a hand without his opponent realizing he was even in the game, Fin set his sights on the towering fortress above and strode forth to claim his prize.
“Wake up, Claud! Drat ye, ye worthless dobby, wake up!”
Shaken rudely from his comfortable doze on the settle by the parlor fire, Brown Claud opened one eye and looked blearily at his tormentor. Recognizing his mother and deducing at once that something had stirred her ever-volatile temper, he said warily, “Did ye want summat, Mam?”
“I want ye tae wake up,” snapped Maggie Malloch.
Before he could so much as stir a muscle, two small, plump, but nonetheless amazingly strong hands grasped the front of his tunic and gave a mighty heave. The next thing he knew he was sailing through the air, but his flight was brief. The full length of his body hit the stone floor with a bone-jarring thud, leaving him astonished and winded but certainly awake.
Sitting up awkwardly, he rubbed his aching shoulder and tried to gather his wits. His head swam, but it did not ache. He did not think that it had hit the floor.
His mother stood, arms akimbo, glaring down at him, her plump figure aquiver with anger and some other, less familiar emotion. “The Circle has met,” she said grimly. “They ha’ decided!”
“What did they say, Mam?” he asked. He had meant to sound casual, but the enormity of his recent actions made it likely that his entire future depended on what the Circle had decided. Thus, his stomach knotted painfully, and even to his own ears, he sounded pitifully anxious.
If his mother detected his anxiety, she ignored it, saying crisply, “Ye ha’ only yerself tae blame, Claud, nae one else.”
“Am I tae be broken, then, Mam? Will the clan cast me out?”
“I still carry weight enough in the Circle tae ha’ my say,” she snapped. “For the present, I ha’ prevented the worst, but I canna prevent it forever, lad, if ye dinna pull your legs under ye and do your proper, bounden duty.”
“But I thought I were doing me duty.”
“Bah,” she snapped. Her head bobbed forward to emphasize her next words. “Ye be bound tae look after the Maid, tae protect her from harm. Instead, ye took on summat well beyond your ability, and grave harm may come of it.”
“I meant tae help! So long as she stayed ward tae Donald the Grim, nowt could happen tae do her good. Ye ken that as well as I do!”
She shook her head. “What’s come over ye, lad? Ye were always one tae make mischief now and again, but never were ye so feckless afore this. Is it another woman? Ye never think well when there’s a woman in it.”
He hesitated, but her powers were far greater than his and he could imagine no way to avoid telling her the truth. “Aye,” he said softly, “but Catriona’s no just any woman, Mam. She’s a wee goddess.”
“Ah, bah,” retorted his mother. She moved nearer, adding grimly, “I thought as much, though. I’ll warrant the whole thing were her doing.”
“Nay, then, it were not,” Claud protested. “It were my doing, Mam, all of it.” He did not think it wise to admit that he had wanted to see if he could do the thing, to see if his abilities were great enough to influence even the High King of Scots. He would not let her spoil the amazing success he had achieved, either, certainly not by suggesting that anyone else had had the smallest hand in it.
That Catriona might have put the notion into his head in the first place he would never admit to himself, let alone to his mother.
“Aye, sure, I’ve nae doubt that ye believe that, laddie,” Maggie Malloch said with a sigh. Then her voice grew stern again when she said, “But ye’ve nae business tae be meddling in the King’s affairs, let alone causing him tae do what he might verra well no ha’ wanted tae do. Ye mustna do such a thing ever again, for I’ve given my word tae the Circle that ye’ll not.”
“I’ll thank ye, then, for standing by me, Mam.”
“Ye’re my son, Claud, but I’ll no ha’ ye shaming our good name.”
Her bosom swelled with her lingering anger, and that anger gave her greater size, so that she loomed over him. Hastily, he scrambled to his feet, hoping thereby to ease the fear she stirred in him at such times. “Even them in the Circle canna see the future, Mam,” he said, striving to sound brave and hearing only desperation in his voice. Blustering on, he added, “I warrant it’ll all work out for the best. Ye’ll see. And them in the Circle will, too.”
“Ye’d best hope that we do, lad, for the chief himself said that ye’re tae ha’ but one more chance. If ye overstep again, they mean tae cast ye out, and ye ken fine what will become o’ ye then.”
Cold terror shot up his spine, making it nearly impossible to speak. He tried, but he could manage no more than a whispered, “Aye, I do.”
“Ye’re frightened, and so ye should be,” she said. “But when ye poke your fingers into a stew o’ King Jamie’s brewing, ye mustna weep when ye get burnt.”
He was silent for a long moment, striving to calm himself so he could make her understand that he had done the right thing. However, when he realized that he could not trust his voice, he moved to pass her, to get away.
“Out,” he muttered.
“Where? Ye’ll no be goin’ tae that wretched lass the noo.”
“Nay, there’s a ceilidh,” he blurted. “I like tae hear the stories.”
Pushing past her, he left, feeling her angry gaze upon him like a sharp sword against his back.
Her voice, low-pitched and grim, followed him.
“Remember, Claud—kings, like dragons and clan chiefs, breathe fire when ye poke at them.”
Chapter 2
Fires roared at both ends of the great hall at Dunakin Castle, but the reception of six unexpected late visitors was chilly at best. The Laird of Mackinnon sat in his armchair on a slightly raised dais at the end opposite the main entrance, his lady at his right in a chair almost as elaborately carved as his. To his left sat his two burly sons on armless chairs. The chair at her ladyship’s right was unoccupied.
When Fin and his men were admitted at half-past ten, shortly before the laird’s suppertime, their arrival stirred a buzz of conversation. But the buzz ended abruptly when the laird’s porter banged his staff of office on the stone floor, demanding silence before he announced the name of the visiting chieftain.
Then in stentorian tones, he said, “Sir Finlay Mackenzie, Laird o’ Kintail, declares that he has business wi’ Mackinnon o’ Dunakin.”
“Welcome t’ Dunakin, Kintail,” Mackinnon said affably. “We’ll be setting aside any business till ye’ve taken your supper, though. A man should eat well afore he takes up matters of import. Call in your lads and find places at yon tables.”
Stepping forward instead, Fin said, “I have brought no others with me, sir. An it please you, my business will not take long.”