The bird call came again.
Not the long, sweet trilling of a curlew, but the harsh, agitated squawks of a bonxie.
Auk, auk.
“Gregor!” Hardwick grinned and grabbed Bran’s arm when his friend drew to a panting halt in front of him. “He’s found something—look!”
Thrusting his sword tip toward the sky, Hardwick indicated the fierce-looking bird. Gregor sailed past high above them, his great wings spread wide.
“Come!” Hardwick started running. “Gregor’s the second soul who’s called a warning. Our ghosties are beyond yon hill!”
“Barra!” Bran pounded after him, waving his sword.
Auk, auk!
Gregor’s cries grew louder as the men burst into the birchwood. Some threw off their plaids as they stormed past trees and crashed through underbrush. All drew weapons and shouted their slogans. They glanced upward frequently, using the circling, swooping bird as their guide until other men’s voices—shouts and curses—blended with their own.
Bloodlust high and hearts pounding, they ran on, swinging steel and eager for the fight. But the sight that greeted them when they charged out of the wood set them to laughing.
“By all the wonders!” Bran rammed his blade into the earth, gaping.
Hardwick stared, too, but held fast to his sword.
The Islesmen, now naked to a man, jigged, hooted, and jeered.
Their foes, guised indeed like store-bought Vikings, stood in the middle of an excavated longhouse, overflowing boxes and bulging sacks of silver artifacts littering the up-churned, peaty ground.
They huddled in a tight circle, clutching one arm over their heads and using the other to thrash the air above them.
The reason was plain to see.
“The bird is well trained, my friends.” Hardwick strode forward, grinning broadly when Gregor made a particularly splendid pass. “One word and he’ll be after more than just your heads.”
“Call him off!” A quavering English voice rose from the huddle. “He’s already drawn blood!”
“If you think a bird’s talons are sharp”—Hardwick looked round at Bran’s Islesmen—“wait till you taste the bite of our steel.”
“Swords?” The man twisted to face Hardwick, taking care not to leave his head uncovered. “You can’t be serious. We’re unarmed. You can see our weapons there, in the pile by the trees. They’re made of wood or plastic. Toys—no more! We aren’t here for sword fights.”
Hardwick folded his arms. “Why you’re here is obvious. As for us”—the naked Islesmen drew near, forming a stern-faced circle around the ruined longhouse—“my friends and I relish a good and bloody round o’ swording. Truth is, it’s been too many years since we’ve enjoyed one!”
Beside him, Bran lifted his blade and ran his thumb lightly along the edge. When a bead of red appeared, he whooped and leapt forward, whipping the steel just beneath the nose of the nearest “Viking.”
When he swaggered away, laughing, Gregor swooped down to perch on his shoulder.
“Be glad it was me what done that,” he called to the trembling man. “Had it been one o’ my lads here, your nose would now be kissing your toes!”
“What kind of crazy heathens are you?” Another man grew bolder now that Gregor no longer grazed their heads. Older than the others and with tatty, well-worn tweeds showing beneath his furred Viking vest, he aimed a superior stare at Hardwick. “I could have you arrested for threatening us.”
Bran gave a contemptuous snort.
Hardwick sheathed his blade and went to stand toe-to-toe with the man, clearly the group’s leader. “I’ve no time to discuss your first comment. Though”—he let his gaze sweep the little clutch of costumed Englishmen—“there’s plenty hereabouts who’d wonder more at a Sassunach guised as a Norseman than a Highlander carrying a sword!”
The man glared at him, his mouth pursed tight.
“As for arrests, ’tis you who ought be fearful of the like.” Hardwick bent to pick up a piece of black peat-stained wood that was clearly part of an ironbound oak chest. Holding it reverently, he turned back to the Viking “ghostie.” “There are many witnesses to your nightly charades. Now that we also know the reason behind them, and where you burgled your guises, ach, well . . .”
“No’ to mention that you’re doing your foul deeds on Mac MacGhee’s lands.” Bran plucked his dirk from beneath his belt and used its tip to pick at his fingernails. “There’s some would hang a body for what you’ve done.”
That silenced the man.
But the first one seemed to have recovered his courage. “Oh, I say! There’s no law in Scotland against trekking across free moorland, no matter who owns it. We—”
“There’s always been laws against thieving.” Hardwick spoke over him. “Especially in the Highlands.”
“We weren’t stealing.” The man jerked his head, glancing at the other “ghosties” for confirmation.
When no one said anything, he blustered on, clearly improvising. “We . . . we’re Viking scholars. Reenactors, if you will. We chose these moors for our training because they’re so isolated and—”
“Filled with treasure?” Bran turned to one of the overflowing boxes of artifacts, scooping up a handful of silver amulets and necklaces made of brightly colored beads.
“In my . . . er . . . travels, I’ve heard of such men as you.” He returned the Norse jewelry to the box. “ ’Tis history thieves you are! Men who rape sites such as this and sell the plunder to the highest taker.”
The tweedy man cleared his throat. “Now, see here. We’ve been researching this treasure for years.” He whipped out a map board from beneath his Viking vest and waved it before him. “No one knew of it until we stumbled across a fleeting mention in the Icelandic Sagas. Only through painstaking study and searching did we find its location.”
He continued in an authoritative voice. “We plan to turn over every last artifact to the proper archaeological authorities.”
“As you surely mean to return Erlend Eggertson’s red devil mask and the other Up-Helly-Aa costumes to the Galley Shed in Lerwick?”
Hardwick wasn’t surprised when the man flinched at his words. Avoiding Hardwick’s gaze, he looked down at his map board, his expression mulish.
He said nothing.
Not that he had to. Guilt stood all over him.
Hardwick grasped the man’s tweed-and-leather-patched elbows, gripping tight. “Be glad this is no’ an earlier time, my friend. You’d have already breathed your last if it were.”
The man spluttered, his color draining.
Hardwick released him, needing every shred of his strength to marshal his temper.
For two pins, he would have flicked his fingers and conjured a few lanterns and a cook fire, transforming the tumbled stones and churned earth of the ruined longhouse into the camp of a hard-riding party of wild and bloodthirsty clansmen. He’d make the air heavy with the tang of woodsmoke, onions, and rabbit stew, toss in the moist fug of spilled ale and damp evening mist. Above all, he’d summon a hanging tree with a rope slung round its stoutest branch.
Instead, he forced himself to remember where and when he was. He flashed a warning look at Bran’s Islesmen, who looked more than eager to forget.
Even so, he drew his dirk. But unlike Bran, who was again using his to whittle his fingernails, he held the finely honed knife with just enough menace to jelly the knees of a man who didn’t know him well enough to realize that if he’d meant true harm, he’d no longer be living.
“I’d hear the tale of this treasure,” he said, his voice deceptively soft.
Tweedy glanced up, wetting his lips. “It’s a great treasure. A Viking-age hoard to rival any found in Great Britain to date.”
Hardwick frowned at the man. He didn’t need to be told that. Just the goods visible at the top of the many brimming boxes and the overflow spilling out of the bulging sacks bespoke the find’s worth.
Not to mention the treasure of the
longhouse itself, which looked remarkably preserved, considering.
“Well?” He eyed the Englishman.
“Er . . . h’rr’mm . . . I told you. There was a brief notation in the Icelandic Sagas.” The man clutched his map board to his chest. “Something about a Viking noblewoman named Gudrid who lived near Tongue and had fallen in love with a man her father considered beneath her.”
He paused, shot a nervous glance at his companions.
“Go on.” Hardwick’s tone was stern.
“There isn’t much else!” The man’s face reddened. “Only that she determined to run away with her lover despite her father’s disapproval. The sagas hinted that the young man, called Sea-Strider, was a great Viking raider and would bring plundered wealth to Tongue, which he and Gudrid hid at the longhouse of a trusted friend. It’s believed they planned to use the treasure to finance a journey to Iceland to settle there, far from Gudrid’s father’s wrath.”
“But they never made it.” Hardwick frowned. It was an easy guess, the treasure still being here.
Tweedy shrugged. “The sagas fell silent on their fate. We supposed something happened and Sea-Strider was lost at sea. We did”—the man’s eyes brightened for a moment—“find mention of a Gudrid at Castle Varrich in the time period in question. That clue is what led us here.”
“I see.” Hardwick slid a look at Bran.
But his mind was on the tall blond Viking who’d appeared to him. His heart clenched at the man’s fate. He looked around, half expecting to see Cilla peeking at him from behind a whin bush, but she was nowhere to seen. His chest tightened at her absence. He felt a sudden need for her, thinking of the star-crossed Vikings.
Remembering the Vikings, he flashed another look at the motley little group.
“Why did you burgle the Galley Shed?”
Tweedy flushed. “That was . . . unfortunate, but—”
“Eh?” Bran edged closer, hand on his sword hilt.
“We didn’t have the funds to purchase such costuming on our own.” The man’s chin lifted and his eyes glinted defiantly. “We only wanted to scare off any possible long noses until we recovered the treasure. We would have returned the costumes before Up-Helly-Aa.”
“Indeed?” Hardwick exchanged a glance with Bran. “I’m thinking you ought to return them sooner.”
“Aye.” Bran nodded vigorously. “I’d say right now.”
“Now?” The man’s voice went squeaky.
The first man pushed forward, eyes bulging. “What do you mean now?”
Bran’s Islesmen hooted and slapped naked thighs.
The “ghosties” blanched.
“You can’t expect us to strip?” Tweedy’s eyes rounded. “We’re Englishmen, not Highland heathens!”
“Ach, you shouldn’t have said that.” Hardwick shook his head. “Now you’ve left us no choice. It’s an honor thing, see you.”
Stepping back, he spread his legs and crossed his arms. He made sure a wicked heathenlike glint lit his eye. “Truth is, we can’t carry all this treasure back to Dunroamin. We’ll have to leave it, and you, until I make it back to the castle and tell Mac we’ve found his ghosties. He and the local authorities can decide what to do with you.”
“He won’t be able to keep the treasure!” The first “ghostie” pushed forward. “Not all of it. We can make a deal with you, cut you in—”
“I am in.” Hardwick glared him, not about to tell him that his treasure was Cilla. “My reward is catching you. And knowing that whate’er Mac gets out of it, he’ll have enough to patch his roof and then some.”
“We never meant the MacGhees any harm.” Tweedy tried to wheedle.
Hardwick ignored him. “My friends here”—he jerked his head at Bran’s Islesmen—“will keep you company as you wait for Mac.”
“You can’t leave us here . . . naked!” Another English voice rose at the back of the ghostly cluster. “We’ll freeze.”
Hardwick shrugged. “You should have thought of that before you garbed yourselves in stolen clothes.”
“If you’re leaving these . . . er . . . men behind to guard us, why do we have to strip?” Tweedy tried again.
“Because”—Hardwick grinned—“it just might be that when they see Mac and the local constabulary heading this way, well . . . it could be they’ll disappear.”
“Run off?” Tweedy slid a look at the naked Highlanders.
“Nae, disappear,” Hardwick repeated, drawing much mirth from the Islesmen.
“And wouldn’t that be something?” Bran laughed.
Then he clapped a hand on Hardwick’s shoulder, pushing him away from the Viking “ghosties” and toward the little wood of birch and whins.
“See you to it, then,” he urged Hardwick. “Go fetch Mac and see to your lady.”
A short while later, Hardwick walked swiftly up to Dunroamin’s massive double oak doors, amazed by two things. One, although he hadn’t realized, it was well into morning. The day’s sun was already burning the mist off Dunroamin’s lawn, the bright, slanting light almost hurting his eyes.
And that was his second revelation.
He was almost certain Mac was right.
That he’d indeed caught a fever or chill or some such bane while out patrolling the peat fields each night.
Either that, or, as was likely the way of it, the damnable dizzy spells he’d had since visiting the Dark One were growing worse. In all his centuries, nary an illness had plagued him. Indeed, he’d thought one of the advantages of ghostdom was always feeling fit.
Yet his head ached and throbbed with greater frequency. The odd ringing in his ears had bettered, but wasn’t completely gone. He also felt like sleep. A desire he hadn’t really experienced since Seagrave days, when his life had been just that.
A life. A human life.
He reached for the door latch and paused, another thought stopping him in his tracks. He’d walked the entire way back from the Viking longhouse.
An unthinkable botheration for a ghost, unless the ghost chanced to be a ghost in love and bearing tidings that would surely please his lady.
He’d simply forgotten to act ghostly.
His news was too important for his mind to have noted the long trudge across the moors.
The instant he let himself into the castle, he did note Mac’s booming voice coming from the conservatory. Heading in that direction, he followed the delicious aroma of fried bacon, eggs, and sausages, eager to impart his news.
His heart thumped with the glory of a victor.
He quickened his pace.
Already, he could see the admiration in Cilla’s eyes.
But when he reached the little glass-walled conservatory and burst into its sunny, greenery-filled space, hers were the only eyes not to flash in his direction.
Everyone else eyed him hopefully.
Even wee Leo, who opened one eye to peer at him from where he sprawled in a patch of sunlight falling in through the tall windows.
Flora Duthie set down her teacup and angled her head, tipping her ear his way. Honoria paused in arranging packets of muesli on the sideboard near the door. Dusting her hands on her white starched apron, she turned his way. Like Flora, she tilted her head, her gaze expectant.
Others appeared equally keen.
It wasn’t every day he strode in on their breakfast, after all.
Mac broke off a lively discourse with the colonel to jump to his feet. “I see the gleam in your eye!” He came forward, almost knocking over the potted coffee bean tree in his haste.
“Heigh-ho!” He grinned, grabbing Hardwick’s arms. “Say me you caught my ghosties!”
“Aye—indeed!” Hardwick smiled back, distracted.
Cilla always breakfasted with the residents. He knew her days better than his own.
Mac shook his arms. “Did you toast their feet on a wee bit o’ dry sticks and bracken?”
“Nae.” Hardwick brushed at his sleeve when Mac released him. “But swords and dirks were dr
awn.”
“Were they in Viking costumes?” Violet Manyweathers slid a told-you-so look at the colonel. “Caught red-handed?”
“That and more, my lady. Not only—”
Hardwick caught a shadow shift outside and thought it might be Cilla walking on the terrace. But it was only the sun nipping behind a cloud.
He turned back to Violet. “Not only were the miscreants garbed in stolen Up-Helly-Aa trappings, they were looting a longhouse they’ve excavated in a hidden corner of Mac’s peat fields.”
Mac’s eyes rounded. “Faugh! A longhouse?” He flashed a glance at his wife. “Why, my moors have enough strewn rubble from ruined longhouses to re-pave half o’ Inverness! The stones are from the houses of the Clearances. ’Tis the same all o’er Sutherland—”
Hardwick cleared his throat. “This isn’t a Clearance-era longhouse. It’s a Viking longhouse, fairly well preserved, and”—he couldn’t keep his lips from twitching—“filled with what just might be the richest hoard of Celtic- and Viking-age treasure to e’er be found in Britain.”
Mac’s jaw dropped. “Treasure?”
Birdie launched herself at him, nearly knocking him down in her excitement. “Mac! We’re saved! Dunroamin is secure!”
Colonel Darling yanked a hankie from his pocket and loudly blew his nose. “I say! Who would have thought it?”
Violet began to cry.
Hardwick swallowed, his throat too tight for words. He stepped back, struggling against the ridiculous urge to throw his arms around every soul in the room and hug them tight, glorying in their triumph.
A victory that would be perfect if only Cilla shared it.
He glanced at the windows again, hoping he’d been mistaken about the sun shadow. But he hadn’t erred. The terrace was empty.
“Looks like I won’t have to cane my way past drip buckets much longer!” Flora Duthie’s twittering voice rose from a corner table.
Hardwick turned back to the room.
The tiny woman sniffed. “Is it really a great treasure?”
Hardwick nodded. “The greatest I’ve ever seen.”
Tall, Dark, and Kilted Page 27