by Sandy Blair
“Aye. He then kissed me and turned away.”
“Ah, you must have been very hurt.”
“I was. To my very core. I’d feared my heart would shatter right then and there.”
“So there you are, ignorant of the truth and naked save for a toweling and staring at his back. What did you do?”
Genny, feeling more heat infuse her cheeks, tucked her chin. “I told him I loved him and wanted him to stay.”
“Did he?”
“He kept his back to me and said…” The tears she’d been fighting spilled as she choked out, “He said, ‘Please, don’t… I beg you’.”
Darby took Gen’s hands in hers and whispered, “But you did, didn’t you?”
She closed her eyes and nodded as the painful truth swelled within her breast, played out in her mind. He had tried to leave, had been bent on doing the honorable thing…albeit without telling her why.
Dear God, forgive her for her weakness and pride.
Britt hadn’t made her an adulterer. She’d done it to herself.
“He that won’t look before him must look behind.” ~ An old Scottish Proverb
Chapter Seventeen
Could he have picked a worse day to cross the channel?
The sudden squall had turned the already turbulent waters betwixt the mainland and Skye into a roiling cauldron. A wave, croft-high, tossed their flat-bottomed boat onto its keel, then heaved it headfirst into another dungeon-deep trough. Britt, struggling to keep his balance, stroked Valiant’s massive neck as the oarsmen fought their way across yet another fast-ebbing current. “We’re almost there, lad. Just a few more heaves and we’ll be aground.”
His destrier, never a good sailor, wrung his tail like a whip and rolled his white-ringed eyes in response, his huge hooves prancing, thudding, nearly drowning out the roar of the surf and wind. If the MacDonalds didn’t make landfall shortly, his wild-eyed mount would pound through the decking, and the Sound of Sleat would be claiming its next victims.
Worse, he had no idea if Genny was safe or not. He could only pray the Turoe’s captain had made landfall somewhere along Scotland’s coast, hadn’t tried to cross the six and twenty miles of open sea to Ireland.
None too soon, the boat surged out of the current and over the breakwater, gliding into the marginally calmer waters below the MacDonald’s southernmost watchtower. Not where they’d intended to land when setting out, but the nearest point of terra firma and better than no landing at all.
Hearing the hull scrape gravel, he slipped Valiant’s ties and vaulted into the saddle. The moment the men hauled up the gangplank cover, his destrier lunged, and they were through the opening, his destrier stifle-deep in surf. Only when they were above the high watermark did Valiant stop and shake like a wet dog.
Nearly unseated, Britt growled, “Are you quite done?”
Snorting, Valiant shook again, gave his tail a final wring, then squared beneath Britt and arched his neck, coming off the bit, finally the picture of obedient patience.
“Humph!” Apparently his having the upper hand in this relationship was an illusion. His damn horse—like Gen—did as ordered only when it suited.
Britt, hunching against the wind, turned his destrier northeast toward the jagged peaks of the Cuillin Mountains which straddled Skye, separating MacKinnon land from that of the MacLean’s to the west and MacDonald’s to the north.
He traveled unchallenged through MacDonald territory—something their absent liege would doubtless find alarming—then crested the final black granite ridge that marked the beginning of MacKinnon territory for centuries. Seeing the softer, rounded contours of home which grew ever greener as they sloped toward the sea and the outlines of Pabay and Scalpay Isles, he swallowed the sudden thickness in his throat. His coming home had taken nine years and yet another loss.
On the headland to his right sat his father’s granite fortress, Dun Haakon, named for the Norwegian king who, through his daughter, gave the MacKinnons their great height. And there too would be Cassandra, locked in the tower, where by now she should have rotted but had yet had the decency to do so.
Taking a deep breath, readying himself for the inevitable, he nudged Valiant forward. As he drew closer to Dun Haakon, scattering lowing, long-horned cattle hither and yon, clansmen and women, hearing the ruckus, peered out doors and windows. The first to greet him was Hamish, his father’s ancient smithy.
“Mo chreach! As I live and breathe, if it isn’t our prodigal son.” The old man, grinning from ear to ear, reached for Valiant’s bridle as Britt dismounted.
Britt clapped the old man’s thick shoulder. “Good to see you, Hamish. I feared you’d be dead by now.”
“Too ugly and bad, lad.” Leading the way to the stable, he looked Britt up and down. “I must say you’ve grown a wee bit.”
Britt nodded. Although battle tested, he’d still been more bone than muscle when he’d left. “Is the MacKinnon home?”
“Aye, but strange he didn’t tell us you were coming.”
“I didn’t know myself until just a few days ago.”
Mindless of the rain pelting them, Hamish came to an abrupt stop and placed a large, calloused hand on Britt’s arm. “Then ye’d best hear this first before going in. ’Tis Cassandra. She’s still as insane as ever, but—”
“Britt?”
Startled by the sound of Keith MacKinnon’s voice, Britt turned. His father stood on the granite steps before the keep’s open door. A smile played at the corners of his father’s lips, yet his eyes remained wary, as if Britt might draw his sword. “I’ve feared I might not live long enough to see you again.”
Had it not been for Genny, he would not have.
Britt bid good day to Hamish and strode toward his sire. The years had not been kind to the man who had chosen his daughter-by-marriage over his son. As the old hate welled within his breast, Britt noted his father’s hair, once as dark and thick as Britt’s, was now the color of ash. The man’s handsome countenance had become gaunt, as was his frame, hunched like a weather-beaten pine bent against the sea.
“Father.” A simple word, which should have been seeped in decades of love and respect, sounded flat to his ear, carried only feelings of betrayal.
The MacKinnon waved toward the door. “Come. We have much to discuss.”
No. They’d said all that needed to be said nine years ago, but tired, hungry and wet to the skin, Britt followed his father into the keep.
The hall, crowded with those waiting out the storm, grew quiet as recognition dawned. A smiling titian took his sodden breachen feile. “Welcome home, Britt.”
He studied the pretty lass, trying to recall her name.
Apparently sensing his dilemma she laughed. “I’m Wee Trisha, Britt, but not so wee anymore.”
“Oh! You’ve changed so…grown quite lovely.”
Blushing, she sketched a quick curtsy. “Why thank you.” As others approached to greet him, she spread his wet breachen feile before the fire.
After the last of his clansmen had welcomed him home, he looked about and saw that the tapestry depicting the coming of Saint Columba to the Isles that his mother had slaved over for years still hung behind the head table and that the massive whale jaw still arched over the east wall’s fireplace, intended as a reminder never to lose faith, that God would provide even when all appeared lost.
He could only pray.
His father motioned toward the high table adorned with the tall Irish candlesticks his mother had adored. “Sit.”
Without thinking, Britt pulled out the heavy chair he’d occupied as a youth.
“Nay, here.” His father indicated the chair to his immediate right, which had once been Ian’s. To a lass Britt again didn’t recognize, the MacKinnon said, “Keita, bring the best wine in the cellar.”
Britt settled in Ian’s chair. When the wine arrived, he took a sip. Italian. “I see you’re still trading.”
“MacKinnon beef, hides and wool still garner a fai
r amount of salt and wine.”
Britt had long thought it a cruel twist of fate that although they were surrounded by the sea, their salt was useless for curing. For reasons beyond anyone’s understanding, isle salt wouldn’t break down their lean Highland beef and ruined their fish. They had to buy salt from the continent in order to preserve their meat and catches. And if memory served, his canny father would also garner a bit of grain, green marble and ornate metalwork, which he would later trade for flax, iron and the like along the way.
His father drained his cup, took a deep breath, then said, “Tell me of Alexander’s passing.”
Britt studied the man who had refused to prosecute Cassandra for killing their firstborn, a son, precious and joyful. At least his sire had not broken the covenant betwixt them…of his agreeing never to be in the same place at the same time with him. Had he, Britt would have been honor-bound to smite the man who had given him life.
Britt poured more wine, then related what he knew of their sovereign’s passing and the political intrigue already underway.
“So we now await an heir.”
“Aye.” And if one wasn’t forthcoming, they would have to prepare for a bloody and protracted war.
Ever the pragmatist, his father asked, “Who do you think will come to the fore as regent?”
When Britt shrugged, his father asked, “So if not to offer advice on whom to support should war ensue, what finally brings you home?”
“With Alexander dead, I’m at loose ends. I’ll take over this year’s cattle drive. Not just to Broadford so the MacDonald can take them to market, but as Ian did, taking the drove the entire way south to the Crieth Fair and negotiating the sales.”
His father’s brow furrowed like a walnut. “We don’t need the coins your doing so would garner. If I agree—and I’m not saying I do, having already lost one son to the drove—what shall you do in the meantime?”
“I shan’t be underfoot, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’ll be scouring church records in hopes of finding sanguinity betwixt myself and Cassandra.”
“Ah, now this makes sense. You’re seeking an annulment.”
An eerie keen issued from the stairwell, and the fine hairs on Britt’s nape bristled. Head snapping around in the direction of the sound, he asked, “What was that?”
His father, also looking toward the stairwell, muttered, “Likely just a shutter torn free in the wind.” He motioned to his squire and growled, “Tend to it.”
Keeping his gaze on the stairwell as the worried-looking lad dashed off, Britt said, “Aye, I wish to remarry, and the only way that can come to pass is through breaking my tie to Cassandra.” When the lad disappeared, Britt turned his attention back to his father and looked him in the eye. “Something I’d have no need of had you done what you should have done nine years ago—namely hang the bitch after she killed”—his voice cracked—“Ian.”
Just saying his son’s name aloud in this place where the precious laddie had lived for only five short months, then died, only served to make Britt’s grief rawer, a festering wound that would not heal.
A crash resounded through the stairwell followed by a second, ear-piercing keen. Britt sprang to his feet. “Who the hell is that keening?”
His father rose beside him. “’Tis Cassandra.”
“What?” Britt had been very specific when he left. The raving bitch was to be kept behind a locked door until such time as she passed into hell.
As he started toward the stairs, his father grasped his arm. “Be reasonable, son. You were gone, and the poor, mad thing would not stop banging her head against the stones. After weeks of it, hoping to distract her, we took her out under guard to the kale yard, where she sat there quiet as you please, talking to herself. We did this for months. When naught went awry, I discussed her release with the clan. In the end, we thought it safe to turn her loose.”
Britt jerked his arm free. “She’s a murderer, Father! You don’t let a frigging murderer loose!”
Discovering what she’d done, mad with grief, Britt had gone after Cassandra, intent on killing her. His father, then younger and stronger, had stopped him. Thwarted, Britt had begged the man to bring her to justice, but his sire had refused, saying hanging Cassandra, mad as she was, wouldn’t bring Ian back, that naught but a war betwixt the MacDonalds and the MacKinnons would be accomplished by doing as Britt begged. Furious, swearing never to breathe the same air as either his sire or wife so long as she lived, Britt had extracted his father’s promise, then left.
That had been then, and his circumstances had changed, but only by a hair.
Blood thundered in his ears. Intent on recapturing Cassandra and locking her away for good if he had to swallow the damn key, Britt took off at a run, his father’s shouts to stop echoing uselessly about the great hall.
He flew up the stairs, running past the hapless squire who was nursing a cut lip and already swelling eye. At the second landing, he caught sight of a blue skirt rounding the landing above.
He had her now. Even if she made it to the solar and barred the door, she was trapped. His father would have to find somewhere else to sleep for the next ten years or however long it took her to die.
Taking the tight, winding stones as fast as humanly possible, he reached the solar. Surprised to find the door open, he raced inside the large chamber. His gaze swept the room. Not seeing her, he whipped aside bed curtains, looked under the bed, inside the massive fireplace, behind the bathing screen and inside his father’s many chests. “Where in hell are you?”
The garderobe! Britt ran into the adjacent privy chamber, fully expecting to find her cowering in a corner. Still not finding her, he peered down the hole. No action would be beyond her sick mind. Discovering the channel too narrow even for her, he returned to the solar.
Hands fisted on his hips and panting, he glared at the tall, canopied bed multiple generations of MacKinnons had occupied. “Damn Father for turning her loose.”
She couldn’t have escaped the solar unless she’d sprouted wings in his absence, which meant she’d somehow tricked him, and he now had to search the five rooms below.
At the second landing, he met up with his winded sire. “Did you find her?”
“Nay, the bitch has apparently grown wily and fleet of foot.”
“Son, go down to the hall. I’ll have the keep searched. She—and the staff—know this place far better than you after a decade’s absence.”
“And then what?”
“I’ll see her locked away in the tower.”
“See that you do. Should I come across her first—”
Without another word, Britt stomped down the stairs and into the hall, where he ignored his clansmen’s silent stares and, with hands shaking, grabbed the bumper of wine, filled his goblet, downed the contents in gulps, then filled the goblet again.
When his father, ashen-faced, finally entered the hall, Britt glared at him. “Did you find her?”
“Nay, but we will.”
Britt knew he couldn’t stay within the keep so long as Cassandra was on the loose. He couldn’t trust that he wouldn’t do her harm and wasn’t about to put his future with Genny at risk. Only his fear of losing Genny forever by imprisonment allowed him to say, “I’ll be in the chapel until such time as you lock the bitch away.”
Britt snatched his breachen feile from before the fire and walked out.
In the dark chapel, a jumble of memories assaulted him. Gazing at the graceful wooden arches supporting the vaulted ceiling, he again recalled his excitement watching their construction, then attending his first mass within, only to fervently wish he could escape after breathing nauseating incense for hours on end.
His footsteps echoed as he made his way down the nave toward the burial alcove as if announcing his loneliness, his feelings of isolation, to the world. Within these hallowed walls, he’d wept for his brother Ian, only to feel the same pain months later at his mother’s requiem mass. Not long after followed Marcus�
�s marriage mass, then his requiem mass, he brought down by war. And then his precious wee Ian’s.
Since the shutters had been closed against the storm, he found the burial alcove blanketed by deep shadows and strode toward the sconce kept burning for any needing to find solace within the kirk. As his hand grasped the torch, he heard whispers and the sound of tearing coming from behind the altar, a great chunk of granite carved from the Cuillin Mountains to the west. He peered behind it and found a squatting crone shredding pages torn from their family bible.
Astounded anyone would think to do such, he bellowed, “Cease that!”
The MacKinnons had served as abbots of Iona since the coming of St. Columba. Two monks—one gifted in calligraphy and the other in artistic renderings—had slaved over the elaborately decorated and priceless tome for more than a decade.
The crone, issuing a high-pitched squeak, jumped to her feet and spun to face him.
He held out the torch to better view her face. “Oh my God…’tis you.”
The woman whom he’d once loved was now barely recognizable. The vibrant hair he’d once so admired was now dull and shot with white. Her once lovely countenance had gone sallow and lined, making her appear two decades older than he knew her to be. Her lush form had also suffered the results of her madness, had shriveled to little more than skin and bone. Only her eyes remained unchanged, were still as dark and defiant as the last time he’d seen her.
Lips curling in derisive fashion over blackened teeth, she pointed to the shredded pages at his feet. “They’re gone, so there!”
He looked down and noticed for the first time that the MacKinnon wood-bound and gilt-edged bible lay face-up. She’d not been tearing out random pages but had torn out the last sheets of parchment, those upon which generations of MacKinnons had carefully scribed every birth, christening, marriage and death for centuries.
“You mad bitch! How dare you destroy my family’s records?”
“How dare I?” She hiked up her tattered skirt, stuck out a muddy foot and stomped on the fragments closest to her, grinding them to little more than dust on stone. “Now try to get your precious annulment!”