THE FAERIE HILLS (A Muirteach MacPhee Mystery Book 2)

by Susan McDuffie

  Mariota nodded and wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand.

  “Indeed, Muirteach. I am glad you did not let me go without a kiss.”

  For a moment I had the mad thought of kissing her again, and not so gently this time. But I hesitated, for if she was truly wanting to take holy vows what would be the point? The moment passed. Mariota stood and straightened her back with resolution.

  “Well, I should just be getting these herbs together. I am not wanting to go empty-handed up there, and I am thinking the sisters will be able to use these. I have some tincture of poppy I can bring them. That is costly, and hard to come by.”

  I nodded.

  “Such a strange dowry!” she added, laughing a little bit. But I fancied her voice had no real mirth in it.

  “Well, what would you expect from one of the famous Beatons?” I said, also trying to joke about it. “I will take you when you are ready to go to Balnahard.”

  Mariota nodded tightly. “Good. I am thinking it will not be until tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow, then.”

  I left her and went down into Scalasaig with Somerled to Donald Dubh’s, and got myself very drunk on uisgebeatha. Then I staggered the short distance to my house in the village and collapsed in a stupor on an old pile of rank bracken. I did not return to the dun but slept at my own house in the village that night. But my sleep was troubled by unpleasant dreams.

  * * * * *

  It was mid-morning the next day that Mariota and I set out for Balnahard. I brought Somerled along, for I surmised I would be glad of the dog’s company after I had left Mariota with the nuns. I felt awkward after our kiss in the storeroom the day before, and perhaps Mariota did as well for we did not speak of it. In fact, we spoke little at all. Somerled chased rabbits ineffectually and lagged behind our horses much of the way, leaving the two of us riding quietly towards the north end of the island. I felt I was riding to my own funeral.

  Despite our silence the miles passed, and soon enough it was we had reached the nunnery. The abbess was surprised to see Mariota, but admitted her willingly. Once again I was left outside the gates, alone except for my dog.

  Some clouds rolled in and it began to rain in earnest. I cursed the weather and then cursed Mariota and then, feeling no better than before, I began the ride back to Dun Evin, leading the horse Mariota had been riding behind me. It threw a shoe, and I was forced to stop near old Àine’s cottage, near the Tràigh Bàn, and look for a smith. I did not find one, at least not one who was able to work—Mochta was ill, his wife told me, and the coals in his smithy were out and cold. By now the rain was coming in sheets, almost sideways, blowing in on the Tràigh Bàn from the water and the direction of the Sound of Mull and the mainland. Somerled and I took shelter under a tree, although we might as well have been in the wide open for all the shelter it provided. My dog began to whine as rain dripped off our noses.

  I stood forlornly on the cliff overlooking the Tràigh Bàn, but then I remembered old Àine. Surely she would not begrudge me some shelter on a day like this.

  I made my way towards her cottage. She heard the noise of my horses and the whining of my dog and came to the door. At first she did not seem to remember me and looked at me in a puzzled way until I mentioned Fergus, and then she nodded with more recognition and bade me come in out of the wet. Although my mood was sour and my head somewhat aching from my overindulgence of the night before, my mood improved once I was under a dry roof. Somerled also seemed content and lay down at my feet, a wet bundle of smelly dog. Àine gave me some fresh oatcakes and for all that her memory was failing, her baking abilities had not failed her in the least. I shared a cake with my dog and, after wolfing it down, he promptly fell asleep at my feet by the hearth.

  Despite the pangs of hunger in my stomach and the sadness in my heart, I found I also felt better out of the wet. As the rain drummed on the thatch, I listened drowsily to the old woman’s stories—the least I could do, I mused, in return for her hospitality. But I paid scant attention until she mentioned the sithichean again.

  “And so have you been seeing their lights again?” I asked her.

  “And who was telling you that I had been seeing their lights?” demanded the old woman, apparently forgetting the stories she had told us a few weeks earlier.

  “Why, you yourself were, Granny. You were saying you had seen lights on the hills above the Tràigh Bàn.”

  She looked at me blankly. “I am not remembering that. It is that woman from near the Beinn Beag. She is the one that deals with the sithichean.”

  “What woman would that be, Granny?”

  “The one that lives there in that hut, near the Beinn Beag it is.”

  Now I was totally confused, for I had combed over that area time and time again, searching for Niall. There was no hut there, although there were a few ruins. But perhaps Àine had lost her sense of the years and was speaking of someplace long gone. And I was a guest in her home, so I humored her.

  “And what does she have to do with the sithichean?” I asked.

  “Was I not telling you of it that time you came with Fergus? She must have dealings with them, for they took her child and left a changeling in its place.”

  “And how were you knowing this?”

  “It was easy enough to see. The child did not speak, but grew large and strong and ate everything she gave it. But he was never speaking.”

  “And where are they the now?”

  Àine looked confused. “Are they not there now? They were living there, just near the Beinn Beag with her parents. It is a fine steading. Indeed it is.”

  “What of her son’s father?”

  Àine shrugged her shoulders. “I am not knowing. Perhaps he himself was of the sithichean, and that is why the child is a changeling.” She crossed herself. “They can not be bothering me,” she continued with some emphasis, “for do I not have that fine rowan tree growing just by the door of the house there outside? And I am never forgetting to leave some milk for them down in the gulley. Good milk with fine cream on it.”

  “Have you ever seen their treasure?”

  She laughed. “Now what would an old woman like me be knowing of their treasure? No, I have never seen it.”

  I persisted. “But, Granny, I am thinking you must have seen many strange things in your life. Why should you not be knowing of their treasure, since you are knowing so much of the sithichean?”

  “It was for that I was planting the rowan tree outside, as a young girl just married, when I came here with my Angus. It was to keep them away, it was. Angus was saying we must plant the rowan to keep them from coming back for their own. And they have never bothered us for all these long years. But I should not speak of it. Angus would be angered if he was to know.”

  “But, Granny, is not your Angus buried in the churchyard these many years?”

  Àine looked confused, then laughed in embarrassment. “Aye, so he is indeed. It was a fever he was getting that took him away from me. And what is your name?”

  I had told her my name many times before. “I am Muirteach,” I repeated with some impatience in my voice. “I am a friend of Fergus’s, your nephew.”

  “Oh, so you are not knowing the other man, then?”

  “Who would that be, Granny? When I came your way before, it was Fergus I was with. What other man?”

  “Och, I can not remember his name. But he was here, asking about the faerie.”

  “And what did he look like?”

  “He was tall, and with blond hair. And he rode a fine horse.”

  That sounded like Liam.

  “But when was he here, Granny?”

  “A long time ago it was.”

  “And what was he wanting?”

  “Oh, the same as you. It was full of questions he was, about the sithichean and their gold. But I was not telling him all that I know. For Angus would be angry if I was speaking of it at all, at all. You should see my Angus,” she continued. “A fine, braw man he is, with tho
se broad shoulders and that red hair he has. And a fine hunter he is as well. He will be coming back soon,” she continued. “And I am thinking he will be bringing a deer with him.”

  With that, Àine began speaking of her long-dead husband as though she expected him to walk in the door at any minute, and try as I might I could not be getting her to speak more of the sithichean or of their treasure. By this time the rain had diminished to a mere drizzle and so, after listening to a few more stories of Angus, I roused my dog. I bade the old woman farewell and made my way back to Dun Evin, leading the lame horse behind me, leaving the old woman standing in her doorway sheltered by her rowan tree.

  Chapter 13

  I arrived back at Dun Evin to find great excitement. A ship had put in from Islay, with a message from His Lordship. He was wanting both my uncle and myself for a council, which was to take place in his hall at Finlaggan. We were to leave at once, and I quickly made my preparations, gathering my writing materials and putting them in my satchel. I had learned to read and write as a child at the priory, and I had often acted as scribe for my uncle even before the events of last summer that had brought me to the notice of His Lordship and left me with the title of “the Keeper of the Records.”

  I left Somerled with Seamus and Aorig, much to my little half brother Sean’s delight. He fancied Somerled as a substitute for a horse of his own and often tried to ride the great lout of a dog.

  We left the next morning and crossed to Islay with no difficulty. A small council convened the next day to deal with some matters regarding the MacRuaris and the amount of fighting men and galleys they were expected to supply to His Lordship; Himself was wanting it increased somewhat, while the MacRuaris were saying the original agreement should stand. However, the matter was easily settled and, not surprisingly, in favor of the Lord of the Isles.

  The agreement duly decided, I finished the notes in the record book, made a copy for the MacRuaris, and sealed the book in its richly carved wooden chest. Then I left it with His Lordship’s librarian.

  The two MacRuaris who had been on Colonsay had accompanied their chief to Finlaggan. Gillespic’s man had not found them in Benbecula, so I took this chance to question them over some claret in the great hall. From the look of them, the two men had already been at the drink some. There was not a great deal else to do in November, and the weather this day was gray and rainy.

  “And so you have not been finding whoever it was that killed the young boy?” asked Griogair. “A great pity that is, indeed and indeed. Not the least of it that the Benbecula MacDonald is still thinking we were killing the lad. He has demanded an honor price from us, and I for one will not be paying it. After all, was it not Raghnall’s own son he was shooting so long ago? And we are innocent in this matter. So he will not be getting an honor price from me for this. It was not I who was killing his son.”

  “Indeed,” I agreed, attempting to sound sympathetic. Privately I thought if Griogair had not killed the boy, well, that said nothing as to what Raghnall might have done. “No, we have found nothing of the murderer. Perhaps it was truly the sithichean,” I answered. “For he was killed with a faerie arrow.”

  “Shot with a faerie arrow?” Raghnall crossed himself. “Dia! I have never heard of the sithichean making wounds that draw blood with their arrows.”

  “Aye,” added Griogair. “Usually you find them beside you, and then you are struck by the arrow. But there is no blood nor any wound that you can see. They must have been aye angry with the lad to shoot him like that. Poor boy, to anger them so.”

  Raghnall poured himself more claret. “He minded me of my son. I would never have harmed the lad.”

  “You are not knowing the half of it.”

  “Indeed?” asked Raghnall, draining his glass of claret and setting it down on the table. “What is the other half of it, then, Muirteach?”

  “It is that Liam MacLean. He was found sore injured, also up near the Carnan Eoin. They are saying he fell from his horse and was hitting his head.”

  Either the MacRuaris were good actors, or they had known nothing of Liam’s misadventure.

  “And is he dead then?” asked Raghnall.

  “No. He is up at the dun, but he lies there senseless, like a dead man. Yet he still breathes.”

  “That is a great pity,” observed Griogair, his lean face thoughtful. “I pray he recovers well. But he was a wild rider, always taking chances he was.”

  “He was ready enough with his silver,” interjected Raghnall. “It’s many the times he was treating us down at that wee ale-house in Scalasaig.”

  “And where was he getting that money from? He was only a younger son, just running the odd errand for Lachlan Lubanach MacLean. Perhaps the MacLean was just paying him to adorn the hall, with his looks as good as they are. But I am not thinking that the MacLean is all that generous with his silver,” mused Griogair. “Well, I am sad to hear the news for all that. And I am thinking there will be many women on Mull who will be sad to hear of it, as well.”

  “And not on Colonsay? Sure, he was there often enough to have a woman there.”

  “He was never speaking to me of any women on Colonsay,” said Griogair. “Just of the hunt. He was a man for the hunt, he was.”

  “Aye. Well, let us drink to his health then,” said the older man, and we drank a toast to Liam.

  Just as we were draining the last of the claret, one of His Lordship’s henchmen called me over.

  “Himself is wanting to speak with you. He is wanting to know what has been happening over there on that small island.” I bristled at this offense to Colonsay but controlled myself. “That MacDonald from Benbecula is all wroth about it, and he is son to His Lordship,” explained the man as he walked with me to the solar, as if I did not know that. Inside I found Gillespic and the Lord of the Isles seated at a small table while a brazier warmed the room, taking November chill away from the stone walls.

  “And so it is Muirteach,” observed His Lordship evenly. “Your uncle was telling me some of what has been happening on Colonsay. So they are saying that young Niall was spirited away by the sithichean? Now would you truly be expecting the boy’s father or myself, his own grandfather, to be believing that?” His voice was not so even now.

  I explained about finding the boy’s body with the faerie arrow embedded in its back.

  “Yes, well, for all the stories I have heard of the sithichean, they are not leaving the corpses behind them,” observed the Lord of the Isles dryly. “He was my grandson,” he observed, as if we were not already all too cognizant of that fact.

  “Indeed, your Lordship, I am thinking the cause of his death is something else entirely.” I explained about the gold bangle Gillean had found and the faerie ring Euluasaid had shown me. “I am thinking that someone found gold there, and the boy got in the way of it all and was slain over it. He was a curious lad, and brave,” I added, hoping to defuse a little of His Lordship’s anger. “He was always investigating here and there. He could have found the gold and been killed by someone for it. But I am not knowing who that person is yet.”

  “And what of the islanders? Are they in a panic?”

  “Indeed no,” my uncle assured the MacDonald. “They are saying that Liam fell from his horse. If they are believing that young Niall was killed by the faerie, well, perhaps they are worried about that. Who would not be? But it is common knowledge the lad was headstrong, what with his digging into the sithean, and all. So I am thinking most folk believe the good folk were within their rights to be stealing him away and left his corpse there, killed with one of their own arrows, as a warning.”

  His Lordship looked intently at my uncle. “But that is not what you are believing.”

  “No. I am agreeing with Muirteach. Someone is on the trail of some gold, and young Niall paid for it with his life. And Liam nearly so.”

  “What of this Liam? Are you thinking he knew of the gold?”

  “We are not sure,” I told His Lordship. “But he was
free with his money for a landless younger son and an errand boy of Lachlan Lubanach’s. Still, he was attacked and nearly killed. He can not be the killer we are seeking.”

  “Well, find the man, Muirteach,” admonished the Lord of the Isles. “And if you are finding some gold as well, well, that is all to the good. I respect the good people, but I would be willing to take a bit of their gold for all the trouble this is causing me. That son of mine will make mischief if he can over this with the MacRuaris. They are not liking each other well, and even without the death of his son, there has been constant trouble. As if those MacRuaris were not enough trouble on their own,” added His Lordship. In this I believe the MacDonald referred to his first wife, that Amie MacRuari whom he had put aside some years earlier. She still vexed him at times.

  “So find the killer, Muirteach,” he repeated, swirling the dregs of the wine in his silver goblet, “and the gold as well. The sooner it is done, the better it will be.”

  And with that, he dismissed us, turning to some other chieftains who had been ushered into the solar by his retainer.

  We exited the solar. I smarted from the abrupt dismissal. My uncle took it in his stride, being more used to dealing with His Lordship over the years, and took himself off to speak with one of the MacInnes he spied lounging on one of the benches in the hall. I looked around and groaned inwardly when I saw a slightly stooped man, slender, with a kind face and yellow hair now going to gray. Fearchar Beaton. How would I tell him of his daughter’s decision to take holy vows?

  Fearchar saw me and approached.

  “Muirteach,” he said, his blue eyes sparkling. “It is good to see you. It has been too long. And so how are things on Colonsay? You were sending that message and Mariota was all for coming to take care of it all herself—where is she, by the by?”

  “She stayed on Colonsay,” I answered foolishly.

  “Did she indeed?” asked her father. “When is she meaning to return to Islay?”