by Amanda Scott
“Aye, sure, but what will please me most is t’ take my supper first, and in peace,” Mackinnon said less affably than before. “Sit ye down, Kintail, as I bade ye—ye and your lads—and enjoy your meal whilst I enjoy mine. There be naught ye could say that can be more important than food, lest ye’ve come t’ beg urgent assistance against a common enemy. Will it be battle, then?”
“Nay sir, ’tis naught o’ the sort.”
“Then sit down, man, sit down. We’ve salmon and fresh lamb roasted whole on the spit, and I’ve a hunger on me grand enough to eat it all m’self.”
Left with no other choice, Fin and his men sat down and took supper with the laird and his household. But although Mackinnon’s servants offered them much food and drink, the six ate sparingly and drank less, speaking civilly when addressed but otherwise remaining silent.
Fin noted that his grizzled host watched him through narrowed eyes and doubtless noted his impatience, but when the servants had set fruit and sweets on the tables, instead of permitting him to state his business, Mackinnon called for one of the Dunakin men to give them a tune on the pipes. When that was done, he called on another to tell them a tale. Then one of her ladyship’s women took up a small harp and played a tune while servants bustled about, clearing tables and beginning to dismantle the trestles in the center of the hall. The high table remained as it was.
Fin, sitting on the hard bench and watching the table before him be taken apart, had to exert stern control to suppress his growing frustration. Only the suspicion that Mackinnon hoped he would press again to have his business heard, and would then counsel more patience, kept him silent. Exerting patience of any sort was foreign to his nature.
The hour had advanced considerably before at last the laird made a slight gesture and said, “Step forward, Kintail, and state your business. Ye be Sir Ranald Mackenzie’s lad, be ye not, the one they call Wild Fin?”
“I was called so before my father’s death,” Fin admitted in a commendably calm but carrying voice as he stood up. He saw no reason to add that many who knew him still referred to him by that appellation.
Mackinnon nodded somberly. “ ’Twas sorry I were t’ learn o’ his passing.”
“It was a sad day,” Fin said curtly. Taking the roll of parchment that Patrick MacRae held out to him, he added, “With respect, sir, I have come not to speak of past events but to present this document to you and to collect what is mine.”
“What sort o’ document would that be?”
“ ’Tis a writ of wardship and marriage from King James, sir, vacating an earlier writ of the same nature, granted a dozen years ago to Donald of Sleat.”
“Indeed?”
“Aye.”
“Then it seems t’ me that it is t’ Sleat that ye should present your document.”
“As to that—”
Cutting him off with a gesture, Mackinnon said, “I expect I can guess the ward named in this writ of yours, Kintail, but ye’d best tell me all the same.”
“One Mary Gordon, sir, known also as the Maid of Dunsithe.”
A surprised murmuring broke out in the hall, but it stilled quickly when Mackinnon glowered at all and sundry and said gruffly, “Doubtless yon writ includes her estates and fortune, as well.”
“Aye, it does,” Fin said steadily.
Mackinnon grimaced. “I’d like fine t’ ken how ye persuaded Jamie t’ make ye such a gift, lad. Ha’ ye become one o’ his favorites o’ late? Because if ye have, I’d counsel ye t’ take special care. In my experience, any man who trusts Jamie’s word takes a fearful chance.”
“I have no knowledge of how the King came to transfer the writ to me, sir,” Fin said evenly, adding, “A special messenger brought it only yesterday to Eilean Donan. On that, you have my word, and you have no experience that can lead you to mistrust me, because when I give my word, I keep it.”
At Mackinnon’s side, Lady Mackinnon looked troubled. Her hands clutched one another tightly on the table before her.
After a pause, during which Fin could hear angry winds outside hurling themselves against the castle walls, Mackinnon said gruffly, “I still say that ye be presenting your writ t’ the wrong man, lad. The Maid be ward t’ Donald of Sleat. He be chief o’ all the Macdonalds, and they dinna call him Donald the Grim wi’out cause. Forbye, ye must appeal t’ him, although I’m thinking that will do ye nae good at all.”
“With respect, sir, I’m told you foster the Maid here at Dunakin, and the writ directs that I may collect her from her present dwelling place and take her to Eilean Donan. It explains his grace’s wishes quite clearly if you’ll only read it.”
Mackinnon smiled wryly, saying, “D’ye expect t’ collect her mythical fortune, lad? Did our conniving Jamie promise ye riches?”
“As to that, sir, his grace promised me naught, although the writ includes custody of her estate and that which was willed to her by her late father. I come only to collect the Maid. I know little as yet about her fortune.”
“Aye, as little, I dinna doubt, as any man in Scotland. Ha’ they no told ye, laddie, that cleverer men than ye ha’ looked in vain for the lassie’s grand fortune? For m’self, I believe ’tis nobbut a golden gleam in Jamie’s fertile imagination— aye, and in Angus’s afore him.”
“I know from the writ that the Maid is kin to Angus, but all it mentions of her personal history is that James granted Donald of Sleat a similar writ of wardship and marriage years ago, which Donald has failed—”
“Och, aye, but then ye must ken that Jamie were nae more than a lad himself when Angus became his stepfather by marrying the sister o’ that scalawag Henry of England. Queen Mary soon got shut o’ Angus, o’ course, but he kept young Jamie under his thumb for two years after that, and it were during that time that Angus forced Jamie t’ grant him the Maid’s wardship. Her father, Gordon o’ Dunsithe, had but just died, ye see, and he were a man o’ parts. ’Twas said he were worth more than any o’ the King’s gentlemen, more even than his cousin the Earl o’ Huntly.”
“I have heard such tales, of course,” Fin admitted. “Still, I thought they were most likely untrue, since no one can claim to have seen any part of her fortune other than the castle and its lands.”
Mackinnon shrugged. “They do say there were gold and jewelry, chests full of the stuff, but ’tis true that nae man ha’ laid eyes on it since Gordon’s death. I, too, doubt that it exists. Still, some do, and nae one who wants the lass cares a whisker about her welfare. Why, I heard that when Angus abducted her—”
“Abducted?”
“Och, aye, did ye no ken that, either? Angus rode t’ Dunsithe not a fortnight after Gordon’s death and snatched her and her wee sister from their mother’s arms. The Maid were nobbut five years old at the time.”
“But Angus did not marry her.”
“Nay, for he were burdened wi’ troubles of his own even then, and the King heaped many more on him when he won free o’ Angus’s care. The Maid’s wee sister had died by then—bairns being ever a fragile lot—and one o’ Jamie’s first acts as King were t’ collect the Maid from the kinswoman into whose care Angus had put her. He didna keep her long, though. He gave her to Donald o’ Sleat.”
Resting his elbows on the high table, Mackinnon tented his fingers under his chin, frowned a moment in thought, and then went on. “Many men ha’ sought her fortune since, including Donald and Jamie himself, but nae one has found it, so ye’d best leave her be, lad. Ye’ll never find it, and nor will anyone else.”
“That may be so,” Fin said, his jaw muscles tightening. “Nevertheless, the Maid is mine now. Will you transfer her custody to me peaceably, or will you not?”
“Well, as t’ that, I canna do it straightaway,” Mackinnon said glibly. “Forbye, she isna even here at present.”
“Where is she?”
“Aye, sure, ye’ve the right to ask if yon document be what ye claim it be, but I doubt ye’ll like the answer. She’s away t’ the north end o’ Skye at Dunvegan.”
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bsp; Lady Mackinnon’s eyebrows twitched, and she glanced quickly at her husband as if she would speak. Then, as casually as if the moment had not occurred, she took an apple from a basket on the table before her and began industriously to polish it on her sleeve.
Mackinnon did not look at her. His steady gaze held Fin’s.
Fin said evenly, “Perhaps you can send for her, sir.”
“Lad, I dinna mind telling ye, ye’ve put me in a bad place wi’ this demand o’ yours. There be three chiefs on this island, ye ken—MacLeod o’ Dunvegan in the north, Donald o’ Sleat t’ the south, and m’self here in the middle. I’ve my good relationship wi’ Donald t’ consider and that wi’ MacLeod, as well. I suggest, therefore, that ye take this demand o’ yours t’ MacLeod.”
“It is devilish late to be leaving for Dunvegan,” Fin said, thinking swiftly. That the Maid was at Dunvegan was a blow, for the MacLeods were unfriendly to the Mackenzies as often as not. Moreover, Dunvegan nestled in a distant, easily defended position on a sea loch. “It lies nearly fifty miles north of here, and we cannot go by sea on a night like this.”
“Aye, that be fact,” Mackinnon agreed, “but I’ll gladly lend ye ponies, and the track be plain enough. Ye look t’ be stout lads, so I warrant ye’ll make the distance easily afore midday tomorrow. Then ye’ve only t’ wait for low tide. Ye can approach the sea gate then wi’out difficulty—if MacLeod welcomes ye, and all.”
Kintail gazed steadily at his host for a long moment, then nodded curtly. “I thank you, sir, and accept your offer to mount us. Come, lads. We’ll take our leave now, since we’ve no reason to claim further hospitality here.”
Turning on his heel, he walked away, his companions following quickly after him. As he passed through the tall doorway, Fin glanced back and felt his temper stir when he saw Mackinnon exchange a look of profound relief with his lady.
Inside the croft, Molly realized the rain had stopped. Knowing, however, that it might begin again any moment and continue through the night, she got reluctantly to her feet and picked up the cloak upon which she had been sitting.
“Mun ye go the noo, mistress?” the crofter asked, standing at once.
“Aye, Geordie. I do not want to leave all this warmth and good cheer, but it must be nearly midnight by now, and someone is bound to remember that I’m away and come to fetch me if I do not return soon.”
“Ye mun let me walk wi’ ye,” he said, turning to look for his cap and cloak.
“Nay, then,” she said, smiling as she laid a restraining hand on his arm. “You need not miss the stories. Wee Hobby has not yet told the one about Joseph and his wondrous coat, and I know that you always enjoy that one.”
“Aye, well, ’tis a good one, that,” he agreed.
“The path is clear, and I know it well,” Molly said, smiling again when she saw others getting to their feet to bid her farewell. “The rain has stopped, and there is no one out and about now. I shall be perfectly safe.”
“Ye may be safe enough,” one of the other men said, “but the laird will ha’ summat t’ say if ye walk home all alone.”
“If he does, he will say it to me,” she said calmly, whisking her dark cloak over her shoulders and putting up the hood. Then, to the entire gathering, she said, “Thank you, all of you, for inviting me to share your ceilidh. ’Twas a fine night, storm or no storm.”
“Och, lassie, that were hardly a storm, that one,” scoffed the one who had worried about what the laird would say. Shaking his head, he added, “Only two or three thunderclaps and a few wee bolts o’ lightning afore supper. A storm be when the waves from the sea lash over the mountaintops and swords o’ lightning stab at every door and window. Why, I mind, in the autumn o’ twenty-three, when—”
“Hush ye now, Lachlan!” cried several of the others. “Wee Hobby’s going t’ tell us about Joseph’s fine-looking jacket!”
As Lachlan muttered apologies, Molly moved to thank her hostess and to speak proper words of farewell to each of the others. By the time she had spoken to them all, the storyteller had begun. Her host hovered over her until she reached the doorway. Then, holding the flap back for her, he bade her good night.
As she stepped into the cold, she heard the storyteller’s voice behind her, saying, “Aye, sure, it didna help that Joseph were a wee villain and told his father about all his brothers’ bad habits when they were out working wi’ the sheep!”
The landscape sloped uphill between the croft and the promontory where Dunakin Castle overlooked the strait, and the track was rugged. To warm herself, Molly walked at a good pace, but she took no chances. She did not want to twist an ankle. Being alone did not bother her. She was accustomed to solitude.
Although the rain had stopped, the night was too dark for good visibility, and the wind still blew in great, noisy gusts. It was a high wind, though, roaring through the tops of trees while barely stirring her cloak. She could hear and smell the seawater to her left, and despite the wind—or maybe because of it—the hoarse cry of an errant seabird drifted to her ears.
Looking around at the eerie, shadowy landscape, she was reminded of some of the stories she had heard. Throughout history, strange things often seemed to have occurred on dark, stormy nights. That thought brought another on its heels, and she looked up at the sky just as the moon peeped through the clouds, spilling silvery moonbeams down to dance on the foamy waves.
“A perfect night for heroic deeds,” she murmured to the moon as it showed more of itself, nearly full and lighting the landscape. “In a more interesting world,” she added, “ one would know of heroic deeds to accomplish and a proper hero to accomplish them—a fine, upstanding man, capable of slaying fiery dragons.”
Since the moon made no reply and the wind’s song did not alter, she told herself to stop being a ninny and to get on home before someone came in search of her. No one would be angry, of course, but she would feel guilty at having caused any man to leave a warm fire and ride into the night merely to remind her that she should go to bed before morning.
Had Dunakin been her real home, teeming with brothers and sisters to squabble with and her own parents to look after her, perhaps she would not feel so beholden to minions who did her a kindness. But she lived there only because Mackinnon and his lady had been kind enough to take her in when Donald the Grim hadn’t wanted her, and although they had continued to be very kind over the years, she felt a distinct obligation not to be more of a burden to them than necessary.
They knew where she had gone, though, and they knew that ceilidhs frequently lasted into the small hours. Perhaps no one was looking for her yet.
A cloud sped across the moon, causing the night to darken and then grow lighter again. Ahead of her on the track, six riders appeared.
They seemed to materialize out of thin air, because with the wind blowing toward them from the west, she had not heard their horses’ hoofbeats. Nor had she heard voices, if any of the men had spoken. She could not see them clearly enough to recognize them, but there were too many to be searching for her. Rarely was more than one man sent out on such a mission.
A tingling stirred at the base of her spine. Normally, she did not have to concern herself with safety. The three men who ruled Skye knew her. Donald of Sleat, the most fearsome, was her titular guardian. Mackinnon of Dunakin was her foster father, and MacLeod of Dunvegan was friend to the latter if not to the former. None of them would harm her or allow his clansmen to do so.
Likewise, though, she could imagine none of them sending a mounted party into the night for any good purpose. Had Mackinnon planned to do so—a remote likelihood at best—she would surely have learned about it before leaving the castle that evening. And had either of the others sent out such a party, she would have heard about it at the ceilidh. The most likely explanation, therefore, was that the riders had come from the mainland and were up to no good.
These thoughts sped through her mind in the blink of an eye as she clutched her dark, hooded cloak more tightly around
her and stepped off the track to the right, away from the water, toward nearby trees and shrubbery. With any luck, the riders had not yet seen her against the dark, hilly landscape. Moving as swiftly as she dared and hoping that any movement they detected they would credit to wind through the bushes, she made for cover, finding it quickly amidst shrubbery at the edge of the tree line.
The men rode nearer. Now she could hear the hoofbeats, a steady drumming that made the ground vibrate beneath her. They were not riding swiftly, so it was likely that they did not know the track well. They were strangers then, but they seemed to be riding away from Dunakin rather than toward it. Shivering fear shot through her. What if they had attacked the castle?
As quickly as the thought struck, however, she dismissed it. All was quiet behind them, and Dunakin was well fortified. The three chiefs on Skye protected themselves well, and Mackinnon was the least likely of the three to suffer attack.
Donald would attack MacLeod, or MacLeod Donald before either would attack Mackinnon. Men called Mackinnon two-faced, but not as an insult. The tutor she had shared with Mackinnon’s sons had told them that Mackinnon was like the two-faced Roman god Janus. Just as Janus looked forward and backward, at beginnings and endings, Mackinnon kept an eye on MacLeod and Donald, and existed on peaceful terms with both.
The riders rode two by two and were too few to be a raiding party.
She wished that the moon would dive behind another cloud; but perversely now, it shone brightly on the riders and the surrounding landscape, revealing that the leaders’ horses had strayed from the track. To her horror, she realized that they were riding straight downhill now and would pass within a few feet of her hiding place, but until another cloud hid the moon, she dared not move.
She could hear voices now but could not make out what they were saying, because the wind’s song through the trees had grown louder. The leaves around her danced and rustled, and the wind was cold against her cheeks.
They were drawing nearer, too near. Tension filled her. She felt as if she should shut her eyes lest her gaze attract someone else’s, but no sooner did she shut them than they popped open again. She had to see.